Mad Hatter

Want to see where I hang out all weekend? Check out this super cool site owned by a Richard Lowe Jr. Pretty awesome photo's.

Yes, I probably COULD get a bigger hat. Shut up.

Imaginary Friends

Look! My imaginary friends aren't ALL imaginary! That's KWR221, me and Kristin's daughter hanging at Dave&Busters.

Relatedly, waiters? Not photographers. Although, to be fair, I am not particularly photogenic, so I suppose I can't blame him. But I'm going to.

Also relatedly, Cherry Berry Mojito's are DELICIOUS. Like, really, really DELICIOUS.

Next up, stalking the Blogslur girls in August...I'll bring the prickly pear syrup and we'll hail cabs using our bras and then pass out on Lorrie's floor.

It's going to KICK ASS.

Troll

I'm sure that very few of you will believe this, but I'm actually not at ALL out going in person. I am awkward and shy until I am comfortable. Which usually works out fine because I'm a total eaves-dropper and not talking allows me to listen much more effectively.

However, being shy? And working in what essentially amounts to a nine hour improvisational play in front of between ten and twenty thousand people a day?

Yeah.

EXCELLENT PLAN, KIKI.

Especially when any number of thousands of cameras are around. It's pretty much like being a Disney character, but with out the big foam head for protection.

Not to mention that I? Am Crazy. Therefore, I'm always at least half convinced that I'm the subject of a photo so that later, they can be like OH MY GOD! This lady was HOMELY! She's TOTALLY the troll from that bridge! (I sit at the end of a bridge most of the day)Yes, I know. I understand that's Crazy. But still. That's why it's The Crazy. Because you think things that don't make a whole lot of sense. Unless, they really ARE thinking that and then I'm not Crazy! I'm right! HA!

It should also be noted that as part of being Not Brave, random bits of flattery leave me...flabbergasted. Yesterday (which was a Really. Long. Day. at the end of a Really. Long. Week.) I was kissed; cheek or hand, by no fewer than twenty random people. Not other players either, which I've come to accept at least some what gracefully (though there are no doubt other opinions about this) but random patrons, both costumed and not. One? Might have been a woman, which, I can't lie, was a little MORE flattering even.

Speaking of women. OH MY GOD. I don't know how many times I have to say this but, Fat Girls? There are flattering clothing options out there, I promise. There is no reason to wander around with your under butt dangling from beneath your cut-too-short sweat shorts. There is NO REASON for you to allow underbelly either. Skinny bitches? You're not exempt here either. Frozen Iguana invented mirrors for a reason. That reason is so I don't see you and have to physically suppress the need to shout OH HONEY, NO. NO. NO. NO.

Because I have to shout other very important things like "If you wish to continue to the joust, you will find easier passage to the right! The Right! No, M'Lord YOUR RIGHT" seventeen thousand times in five hours.

I seriously can not fathom why people feel the need to stand in a line when they can step TEN FEET and pass freely. Is there some sort of sub conscious need to line up behind others? I wonder, if I were to stand in front of a closed door alone, would people line up behind me?

I smell a new Operation Obnoxious....

(PS. Finally met Long Time Commenter Eric's lovely NEW fiance!)
(PPS. Having drinks with KWR221 tonight! Woot!)
(PPPS. No, I'm not REALLY Crazy. I'm insecure. But Crazy sounds far more dangerous and therefore hotter)

Done

I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.

It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.

But this is my blog. And this is my side.

We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.

But.

For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.

When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.

A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.

He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.

What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.

But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.

It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.

And also?

I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.

Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.

I told him that I am done.

But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?

HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.

But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?

What can I say?

There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.

Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.

Seriously.

How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.

NONE.

The one where I whine

For the last four years, my husband has spent at least one day, usually two and sometimes more hunting.

For the last three years, he's also spent an entire week at hunting camp. Some years two.

For the last seven years, he's spent at least one evening a week competition shooting. At least one other night a week preparing supplies. Every few weeks he goes to a meeting about the club or a special event or something.

And I? Have encouraged every minute of it. I think it's good to have separate interests.

Apparently, he disagrees. Well, not exactly. He thinks it's FINE for him to have things to do that take up his evenings and weekends and don't involve me. But GOD FORBID I am not spending every waking moment attending to him.

For the last week or so, I've spent part of each evening getting ready for Faire to start. Either sewing or packing or mending or what have you. My sewing machine is in the dining room which is at one side of the the great room that includes the entry way and living room and leads to the kitchen. Basically, I'm in the middle of everything. Usually while I'm sewing I'm also doing laundry or making dinner and I'm always with an ear to what's going on in the living room, whether it be the program on TV or whatever he's talking about to whomever is there, interjecting my opinion about whatever it is (you know how I do). I've also made dinner every night, baked cookies, done laundry, cleaned the house and done the maintenance my car needed like topping off fluids and airing the tires. In short? I've been BUSY.

Then, as scheduled, as discussed for the LAST TWO MONTHS, Faire started and M and I were gone from Friday evening to Sunday night about nine.

Before I decided to commit to working seven days a week for two months, I asked him if he would mind. Not because I wanted permission, but because later, when he started to whine, I wanted to be able to rightly point out that he'd had his chance to object. He didn't. He said he thought it was a good idea and that I should go and have fun.

Only, apparently? He either didn't mean it, or didn't think I'd actually DO it. Because he's been a complete and utter ass about the entire thing.

The first thing he did when I got home Sunday, bubbling over with what a good time I had, the people I'd met, the things I'd done and seen (and OH MY GOD DO I WANT A ROBOT CAMERA EYE) including six separate Jack Sparrows on one day; he started complaining about how I'd ignored him.

Excuse me? What the fuck? For twelve years I've never ONCE said anything about the time he spends on his hobbies. The thousands of dollars we spend each year to support them. Well, that's not totally true. I do say things about it, but I don't complain. I encourage it. Because that's what you SHOULD do when someone finds something they enjoy, right?

Last night, exhausted from nine straight days and knowing that it was just going to get worse, I stopped at the grocery on the way home, made dinner (steak and gourmet mac & cheese with a ceasar salad), did the laundry, shampooed the carpet, worked on a few little costuming items that I'd agreed to make or repair and stripped and re-made the bed. All while engaging in a conversation from my corner of the room.

At 9:30, as I waited for the dryer to finish so I could toss in the final load? He starts complaining AGAIN.

What do I say to that? I'm sorry for ignoring you? Because a) I'm NOT ignoring him and b) even if I was, I wouldn't be sorry.

What is so terribly hard about being happy that I've found something I enjoy? Is it necessary to poke holes in my little happiness bubble? And if so why?

I know, I know. Complaining to you guys doesn't fix anything. It's not like I don't KNOW what needs to REALLY be done to ultimately stop the complaining.

I just don't understand why he can't be nice.

The Man

It's not that I believe in ghosts so much as that I don't disbelieve. There are things, I think, that are inexplicable. Unless they can be explained by the presence of an energy that feels the need to hang around.

The house that my parents live in was built in the mid 1920's and was purchased by my great grandparents for a shockingly expensive $20 a month. To make ends meet Grandma Fred (yes, Fred) sold eggs and chickens and kept a garden. Back then, the suburb was an apple orchard and the trains ran through the valley on coal fueled steam. Great Grandpa raised fighting chickens (I know. But it *was* the 20's and they had a very different view) in the back yard and Gram was charged with feeding them. To this day, she won't touch chicken skin.

Grandma Fred lived in that house for about 60 of her 86 years and so it's really no surprise that from time to time the attic that had been her bedroom and then was mine would grow cold. No surprise either that when you were sick, you'd feel her sit down beside you and lay a hand on your head. It wasn't scary, it was just Grandma. It was her house and that's all there was to it.

So, too, when Grandpa Jimmy (Grams husband) passed did it make sense that he would return to his home to pass the time knocking around in the basement workroom or sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood go by.

It's just the way things were. Are.

When I was a very little girl, just slightly more than six, our little family took a road trip through the northwest in a red Volkswagon van. It had one of those pop-up roofs and a wee adorable kitchen. We camped in it at night, Mum and Dad on the folded down seat, myself tucked up underneath it and CK nestled in the stairwell (she was three).

Near the very end of our trip, as CK, Mum and I dozed, Dad drove us through a twisty mountain pass on a two lane road. Around a blind corner, a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck us head on, rolling the van into the side of the mountain. We were lucky, the other side was a cliff.

I remember nothing of this trip, save for the this.

When I woke up, dazed, the side of my face destroyed by gravel, my arm was trapped under the vehicle. I had no idea what had happened, just that I was stuck and I was scared. I recall pulling my arm from the window (I think I broke it myself doing that) and then looking around for someone; an adult, to tell me what to do.

The roof of the van had come off when we rolled and through where the top of the van should have been, I had a clear view of the side of the highway.

God, was I grateful to see The Man. The Man (because that's how I've always thought of him) was in his sixties, grey haired and bearded; dressed in Levi's, boots and a work shirt.

He called me by name and told me to take off my seat belt. I did and then I dropped to the ground. He didn't come any closer, but that he was there was enough. He told me to unbuckle CK and I did and together we crawled (her femur was broken, but crawl we did) out on to the gravel. The Man stood a bit aside and he told me we needed to get far away from the van, it was going to explode.

It's eerie how quiet chaos can be.

By now, though, I could hear the horn blaring, I could hear Dad shouting, his pants burnt off, his tennis shoes melted to his feet, he was screaming for us, for Mum. I shouted back, but I doubt he heard me.

In the most serendipitous stroke of fate, the next vehicle on the scene was a motor home driven by a retired EMT.

They bundled CK and I into the motor home, the wife of they EMT's friend rocking CK back and forth and plying me with juice. Neither of us cried, there would be time for that later. Who were we? Where were we going? How old was I; was CK; were our folks? Where were we from? Whom could they call? It was a pretty boring game. I watched through the window as they led my father away from the wreckage, watched him hit the pavement only after they pulled Mum out on a backboard made of the table and laid her away from the smoking van.

"My mom is dead" I told them in the implicit logic only a child can conjure and of course, they assured me she wasn't. "Yes, she is. She's allergic to bees. If she wasn't dead, she wouldn't want them near her." The ladies looked at one another and one left to shoo the bees away with a white paper plate.

The roadway was scattered with nickles and Choc-o-dials. I could see one of my shoes on the yellow line. The hillside was scattered with poppies. There was a skid of red paint on the black top. The doors of the cabinets on the wee kitchens facade hung open, the plastic contents tumbled into a heap in the gravel.

Several minutes later, though it's hard to say how long, the van did indeed explode and I turned to the woman that had stayed with us and told her The Man had said it would.

"What man, lamb?" she asked

"THE man," I looked around for him then, but he was gone.

Much later, when I was grown up, my Mum (who had indeed died) told me that she too had seen The Man, she had seen him in the Summerland before she decided to come back. The man told her that he would watch me. Watch us.

From time to time, as I grew up, The Man came back. Never to the degree he had that day, but back still. In the corner of my eye, I'll see him in the hallway. I'll catch his scent, a mix of pipe smoke and the ocean, in a breeze. I'll turn around and expect to find him.

Am I crazy? Yes. But that's not the point. The point is that some time, some where in my past, The Man has come to see me as his. In times of great stress, I feel him more.

The day that M had her accident, I was sure The Man was on the porch.

I'd say he's not a ghost. Not exactly an angel (I rather get the sense that he was a bit of a trouble maker. And he's definitely a jokster. I hope he reads the interwebz, and if so I NEED MY DAMN EARRINGS BACK and I better not find them in the kitchen cupboards again) but something close. Some sort of other. The sort of other that makes a bump in the night.

It's not so much that he portends disaster, but rather that he shows up to stand just behind and beside me to remind me that I am strong enough to sail a stormy sea. So too, does he show up when things are about to change. Just before a move. Right before I make a big decision. When I need a push because I refuse to just leap.

This morning, I thought I smelled the ocean.

Keeping Him in the dark

At risk of being repetative, one more Operation Obnoxious story.

Scene: Sitting on the tailgate of my truck in the driveway drinking a glass of $5 wine.

Door to Door Jesus Lady: How're you today miss?
Me: (holds up glass of wine) Exxxxxcelllllent
D2DJL: I'd like to talk to you about God.
Me: Okay
D2DJL: Do you know God?
Me: Yes, we're on a first name basis. I call out to him from time to time*
D2DJL: That's wonderful. Let me ask you one question though.
Me: Okay, but just one. This wine isn't going to drink itself!
D2DJL: Will you go to Heaven?
Me: Only if He doesn't look under my bed. **




*during sex. Obviously.
**No, I don't actually have that under the bed. It's in the top dresser drawer.

Operation Obnoxious

I almost never make New Years resolutions, but I did this year. Rather than follow the trend of making a resolution to do something I know I should but don't really want to do because it's torture, like quit drinking or work out more; I decided to make one about something that I tend to not do, but really DO want to. Thusly, I resolved to have more fun.

Being a severe type A kind of person, I tend to forgo fun in favor of things like cleaning the bathroom and alphabetizing the DVD's. Because, you know, that's what I SHOULD be doing. At least in my version of The Crazy.

Also, in spite of my loud mouthed interwebz alter-ego, in person I am not terribly outgoing and that too tends to curb my ability to have fun.

It's been a month and I was pretty much sucking at this resolution. So Saturday, instead of doing laundry, I took M to a movie and Sunday, instead of arriving on time (I KNOW) for a dinner party, I stayed and hung out with some friends.

Yesterday, I decided to ramp it up with a little project I'm calling Operation Obnoxious. My theory is this; people will go out of their way to be polite when put into an uncomfortable situation. So, I'm going to introduce the situation for my own amusement. I'm sorry, minimum wage workers of the world. It has to be done.

Mission Number One.
The Post Office

PO Lady: How're you doing today?
Me: I have a headache
PO Lady: That's too bad.
Me: Can I ask you a quick question?
PO Lady: Sure
Me: Does this hair color make me look too much like a zombie?
PO Lady (pause)
PO Lady: No! Not at all. It looks great.
Me: Well, if you're sure
PO Lady: I am. It's great with your skin tone.

Mission Two
Walmart

Checker: Did you find everything you need today?
Me: no
Checker: What can we help you find?
Me: Quick lime?
Checker: Is that something you cook with?
Me: No, I need to dispose of a body.
Checker: Um. Maybe hardware?

See? It's not TOO terrible, but it's VASTLY entertaining.

Yeah, yeah. I'm going to hell. I know.

Three Awesome Things You're Going to Want

Some things are made of awesome.

For example, this wine glass necklace.

which can be found here. Sure, it's a bit tacky and a bit less than elegant, but COME ON. It's a glass of wine ON A NECKLACE. It comes in a set of two, which is a good thing because since CK suggested it, I imagine she'll call dibs on the other one.

And how cute is this?

It can be found here. Be sure to check out all the other UBER CUTE robots!

Or, your ass will hate you but your mouth will LOVES you, you can spring for the cupcake of the month club! Which is brilliant on any number of levels. I've not tried them, but the concept of a pair of cupcakes arriving in the mail every month is pretty awesome. AND they come in a jar, so they're not all squashed. Which I suppose makes them "jar cakes" or maybe more of a parfait.

But ain't nobody don't like parfaits, am I right?

Bet I'll get some interesting Google Searches from THIS one.

M is very joiny. She signs up for EVERYTHING. Which would be fine except she can't drive and *I* wind up driving her all over town. (That's a lie. Usually I make her ask other people for rides because I have things to do).

This year, after many years of begging I finally consented to let her work as a cast member at the local Rennaissance Faire. And by local? I mean AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES AWAY EACH WAY.

Anyway, the Faire entertainment director holds cast workshops on Wednesday night (a scant 45 minutes away). They're a good way to bond with the other cast members and we usually go.

Except this week, I was pretty sure I had maggots eating my brain (or that I was turning into a zombie. Could go either way.) and so I just dropped her off and holed up for the two hours they did dancing and singing and whatever else it is they do fully costumed on the play ground of a school.

As we're driving home M cheerfully announced

" I learned how to FLUFF!"*

Um. What. The. Fuck.

I assume that some of you are thinking something wholly innocent** and if that's the case I urge you to click here . Unless you're at work. Or around children who can read. Or don't like porn.

If you don't like porn what the fuck are you doing HERE though?



(* she meant arranging your lady lumps so they're properly supported and presented in your corset. But that's far less interesting. So I'm not telling that part of the story)

(**I know, right? Who doesn't know what fluffing is? Some people are so repressed. I bet they still wear white underwear, too!)

(PS. Sorry about the soda you just spit onto your key board)

(PPS. No, I'm not.)

Hell Bound

See that girl in the center? That's Mich. She was raised in a strict Mormon household in a mostly Mormon small town. Which is not a BAD thing. I was raised Mormon and *I* turned out mostly fine. Except for that lingering need to torment Missionaries. But I think they like it when you answer the door topless, it gives them something to pray about later.

Where was I going with this? Oh. I remember. Mich.

I have ALWAYS been an advocate of good underwear and even back in the day, I spent my allowance on it. One day, as we're standing around in the ladies blow drying our bangs so that they stood at least six inches high, I whipped off my shirt (for whatever reason. Who knows with me. I took my shirt off a lot back in the day. And by "back in the day" I mean "yesterday") and Mich let out a yelp of surprise.

I was wearing a RED LACE BRA! Oh my God! The scandal! The horror!

Mich, at 19, had never EVER in her ENTIRE LIFE worn colored underwear. Ever. EVER. White Hanes briefs, white cotton bras and white socks were all she'd ever known. Because colored underwear? WAS FOR WHORES.

I'm not kidding. That's exactly what her mother had told her. WORD. FOR. WORD.

See, this is the road to hell:

1) colored underwear

2) Holding hands with a boy

3) kissing a boy

4) letting him touch your boobs

5) sleeping with a boy before marriage.

6) hell

So I did the only thing I could do. I took her to the mall and bought her colored panties!

Then, about a month later, she was sleeping with three different boys, then engaged to another one, then dropped out of college, then broke her engagement because she met an all together different boy and then met another boy. I think she married that last one. But we lost touch for a while, so I'm not totally sure.

So maybe there was something to that theory.

I prefer to think of it as encouraging sexual liberation as a way to come to terms with a repressed upbringing.

I also believe all those boys owe me at LEAST a beer for explaining the finer points of giving oral pleasure. Which I learned from my friend Staceys drunk ass mom who used a banana as a cock and giggled as she told us that done right, a blow job will get a boy to do just about anything for you. That's the same night she taught us how to do tequila shots and the proper way to roll a joint. She was an excellent roll model. I miss her.

Rest in Pieces

I have not always been the sweet, kind girl that y'all have come to know and love.

When I was in college, my roommate Nadira (in the center) was an exchange student from Turkey. English was her third, or possibly fourth language. She was completely fluent, but the nuances of American slang were lost on her.

Like many colleges ours had legends that passed from year to year. One of which being that if your roommate died, you automatically got straight A's for that semester. It was called the "Grief Rule".

Some one told Nadira this and she asked me if it was true. Of course I said that it was.

Then, I turned evil.

Every night before she went to sleep I'd tell her to "rest in peace". For months, she thought that this meant simply "sleep well" and so she began saying it to other people. Who looked at her oddly, but no one said anything, figuring, I suppose that it was some idiom that failed to translate correctly from Turkish to English.

We had one class together, Abnormal Psychology. On Halloween, the class loaded into a yellow school bus and took a two hour trip to Well Springs. The local asylum for the mentally ill. While there we toured the grave yard. As the professor lectured about how the insane are often abandoned by family members Nadira spotted a head stone. That said "rest in peace".

It took me three weeks to convince her that I wasn't ACTUALLY trying to kill her, I was just teasing her.

(semi-relatedly: Those hula hoops? OMG did we have fun with those. Looking back, it's a wonder we weren't repeatedly sent to the RA's office for screeching as we tossed bottle caps tiddlywinks style down the hallway and into the hoops as a drinking game. Or hula hooping in the elevator (harder than you'd think), or rolling them with chop sticks while someone pushed us in rolling office chairs in a race to the end of the hallway (also a drnking game). Mostly at about 2 in the morning.)

Public Service

I find my analytics endlessly entertaining. And a leeeetle disturbing. But! In the interest of assisting the world in their quest for knowledge, I've chosen the repeat searches to address here. So search no more, Kittens!

Q) bio fit bra + transgender
A) Yes, sugar, you CAN wear a bio fit bra. Even if you're a man. We don't judge here. One must be fabulous mustn't one? Maybe order on line though. Just saying.

Q) Blogger + granny + saggy
A) What the fuck, man? Are you referring to my granny panties? Because shut up! They're comfortable. Until they get so big that they blouse around your buttocks and then scrunch up until you've got panty lines that would make Stacey London fall down dead. Then it's time to buy new ones. Or go with out. If that's what you're in to. Not me so much. Ever zipped your pubes? Then you know why. Not that I've ever done that. I tend to...well never mind what might or might not have happened when my waxer went away for the holidays and I tried to use J's hair clippers for a bit of maintenance and wound up looking like a mangy porn star.

Q)Dumification
A) I have nothing to do with the dumification of the interwebz. I place blame for that solely on the likes of Perez Hilton and his propensity for drawing white dribbles down every "celebrities" leg. See how I just used "propensity"? Proof I'm not at fault.

Q)Fear of Outhouses + snake phobia
A) Yes. Very much. Have you ever USED an outhouse? I rest my case.

Q) SriLankan homely aunties with bra and panties still photos
A) So are you offering me these or asking me for them? Because I don't care WHAT you've heard I don't hang with exhibitionist sri lankan aunties. Very often.

Q) Turd farming unflushed toilet
A) Might I refer you to the fear of outhouses reader? I suspect you two have much to talk about.
Also? Gross.

Q) Why don't the British fix their teeth?
A) Beats me. Perhaps they're less obsessed with the superficial implications of popular standard of beauty than Americans? Or maybe it's just too expensive? Or maybe they don't want to offend the Queen who may or may not have British Teeth Syndrome because if they did she'd chop off their heads and then where would they put their hats?

Q) Shamwow Party with Xanax
A) Oh. My. God. Yes. I am so there. There is nothing in the world I enjoy more than a party that involves hooker punching, disturbing weasel faces pitch men, absorbent material and legally prescribed narcotics. Unless it's a party with ILLEGALLY prescribed narcotics, hookers wearing absorbent material while punching weasel faced overly loud pitchmen.

Defense Exhibits A, B, C & D

I understand that I have a touch of The Crazy. I understand that it makes me a bit difficult to deal with.

But COME ONE, PEOPLE. You're killing me here.

Exhibit A

As you can see, we have a small kitchen. This kitchen has a designated location for refuse. You know, so we don't wind up on Hoaders.

Exhibit B

See? I bet YOU can figure out where the trash belongs, can't you? Perhaps in the TRASH CAN, for example? The trash can that has been in the EXACT SAME FUCKING PLACE FOR ELEVEN MOTHER FUCKING YEARS, for example? The trash can that I empty daily? The trash can that is FOR FUCKING TRASH?

Exhibit C

Which leads us to this:

Exhibit D

I had no choice. It was that or this