This is why I can't have nice things

See that? That is my husband driving my $40,000 (new, retail...now probably about $25,000 BUT STILL) truck down a dirt road so jacked up that if he stuck his hand out the window he COULD TOUCH THE GROUND.

Ten Things

This is a tag from Larry the Cheeto, who has a blog and it has a link, but I don't remember it, so don't be a lazy ass and just find it on the blogroll, MKAY?

1) When I'm having a very shitty day, I go out of my way to be extra funny. Because laughing is contagious. So is herpes. One I'd like to get from you, the other? Not so much.

2) I hit the snooze three times every morning. Not because I fall back to sleep, but because getting motivated to leave a warm and comfy bed is the hardest part of my day.

3) I'm SLIGHTLY (a lot) addicted to those idiotic games on Facebook. I can't help it! My little Farmville calfs are so cute!

4) I don't match my husbands socks on purpose. He accuses me of such behavior and I deny it.

5) Twice last week instead of buying food, I spent my money on clothes.

6) I wish that one of my eyes was a camera. If I was going to have any part of my body be robotic, it wouldn't, contrary to popular belief be my hoo-ha, it'd be my eye. And it would also shoot lasers. Obviously.

7) I haven't washed my car in four years. I do vacuum the inside though. Why I care that the inside is clean if the outside isn't, I'm not sure. But I do.

8) I believe cake is a completely acceptable breakfast. It's not that different from a doughnut or a muffin when you get right down to it. And wouldn't a slice of cake just be SO MUCH BETTER?

9) I am very bad at planning things. In fact, I shouldn't ever be allowed to plan anything ever, because I'm not going to actually ever finish planning it. I am the idea girl, people, not the planning girl. See also: why there's never any food in my house because the grocery store requires that I plan what I'm going to cook and HELLO! not happening!

10) My favorite song right now is the Timbaland/Justin Timberlake song "Carry Out". It's completely filthy and totally catchy.

Don't judge me, Frozen Iguana.

I'm supposed to tag some people, but remember what I said about the planning? Yeah.

JRP = CRAP

I simply don't understand why people want to make me screamy. I'm not a shouty, lathered up kind of girl. I have a wicked bad temper, yes. I get snappy, true. But all out DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR? Not so much. There is very little in life that to me, is worth getting myself all worked up about. Shouting almost never solves anything.

Except when it does, apparently.

M, as you know is full of The Drama. The child lives to be on stage. Or at least with an audience. In October, she was accepted to an acting school. The school runs sessions and the next session started in November. so I paid her deposit and we waited. When it came time to start class we learned that the adult class she was meant to be placed in was doing "love scenes" and because she's not yet 16, she couldn't participate. No big deal, we'll just start after the new year when the class schedule resets.

Classes were set to resume on 1/6. So I called on 1/5 to confirm that she was in fact scheduled for Wednesday at 7pm and that classes did indeed start the following day. This is how the conversation went:

Me: I need to confirm that M is scheduled to start classes tomorrow.
Hunan: Yes, that's correct, Saturday at 1pm
Me: No, Wednesday. She has prior commitments on Saturdays
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: Okay, yes. I moved her to Wednesday, she can start on Saturday.
Me: No, she can't. She can't come on Saturday, that's why she's in the WEDNESDAY CLASS.
Hunan: Oh, yes, I see.
Me: So class starts tomorrow?
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: No, class will begin on 1/13
Me: So not this week, next week?
Hunan: yes.

Seems fairly straight forward, right?

OH BUT NO.

Last Wednesday we drove all the way to the other side of town during rush hour traffic.

And found the office dark and locked.

Apparently they had MOVED. And did they put the new address on the door? NO. Of course not. That would just be silly! Instead it said "we've moved to the x mall!" Which, as you can guess is NOT HELPFUL. Like AT ALL.

So I start calling their office number and high tail it the 20 miles to the general area of where they may or may not be. And does anyone answer the phone? NO. OF COURSE NOT.

About call number 6 I get a poor guy in ANOTHER STATE that not only has NO IDEA where they are but has no idea if there is even a class that night. And has no contact information for anyone that MIGHT have it.

Awesome, right?

About that time the battery on my phone dies.

And that's when I get all shouty.

I call them back on M's phone and find out that not only is class canceled, but that THEIR OWN OFFICE (granted in a different state) has NO IDEA where, exactly they are.

I express that this? This is wholly unacceptable. I firmly insist that I get a call back, from a manager the following business day.

It's been a week. Guess how many call backs I've gotten even though I've called every single day? If you guessed NONE you're completely right.

Now this isn't an inexpensive class. This is college tuition expensive. This is used car expensive.

This? Is complete an utter bullshit. At this point, as far as I'm concerned John Robert Powers acting school in Scottsdale Arizona is a sham. Their utter lack of customer service and professionalism is so complete that I caution ANYONE who has any dealing with them whatsoever to seriously consider finding someone else to give their money to.

Even Frozen Iguana Poops

I told ZDub I'd blog this week so y'all can blame her for the fact that I'm tormenting the interwebz with my rambling again.

I've been super busy at work, but not SO busy I can't twitter 250 times in five days (not even exaggerating) and in those five days I have declared the following:

* "Vagina" is the new "Aloha"

* Frozen Iguana is the new Baby Jesus

* Sunday is Eat Like an Asshole Day (with credit for the idea given to @biddymcbidson)

* I shouldn't be left alone in a house that contains fabric dye. See also: green stained kitchen counters and washing machine that remains slightly hot pink tinged.

*Pickle Ball isn't the name of a sex game. But it should be.

*White Cheddar Pirates Booty and Barefoot Wine Riesling = white trash nirvana

* Nichole Richie ALWAYS looks high. Or bored. Although she sounds fairly intelligent (or did on Runway) she just looks like she's ready to start making that hang mans noose motion with her arm.

* Zombies are bad conversationalists.

*"Yes Ma'am" is the new "Roger that". "Roger That" of course being radio code for "fuck that and fuck you!"

* as unacceptable as Crocs already are they are infinitely MORE SO when worn with capri pants and black socks

* "Extra-legal" is the new "illegal"

* I need a Purse Monkey. Which is like a Trunk Monkey, except in my purse.

* There aren't enough people in the world named "Shirleen"

I know. I'm incredibly profound when I am having a complete mental break down that stemmed from making FIFTEEN HUNDRED separate pages of photocopies after being told that I suck and should be fired and getting several paper cuts and THEN? Then finding out that they don't need the copies!

I expect this week to be slightly less shouty and slightly more snarky.

If only because my husband is back in town.

sheesh

I leave you kids alone for like FIVE SECONDS and y'all write one billion blog posts.

How am I supposed to get caught up? I have WORK to do. Allegedly. My boss keeps saying I do, but really, what does HE know anyway? Oh. How to sign my paycheck. There's that I guess.

Anyhoodle.

I have had the last ten days off and guess what I did? If you guessed "nothing" you'd be partially right. For example, I did not vacuum even ONE TIME. Which is probably why the dining room, which is currently been transformed into a costume shop looks as though a wee little thread cloud exploded. There's seriously about one billion eensy-weensy widdle thread scraps in drifts around the dining room table. It's actually a pretty good look in a "I'll be on the next episode of Hoarders" kind of way.

Speaking of Hoarders. OMG. Are you kittens watching that show? Because it's both fascinating and horrifying. Much like the skin of my belly. Which I assure you that you do not want to see because EW. But anyway. I've learned some very important things from Hoarders. For example, Hoarders are often single. Or maybe not, but the people they lived with are buried in the trash. Also, Hoarders often times have food issues. I wonder if that's related? And EVERY SINGLE ONE of them is all "It's not THAT bad" right up until the point when someone is ready to condemn their house. Then they're all "Oh, I just don't know HOW it got like this!". Um. Dude. Remember the 52,894 times that you put down that thing instead of putting it away and were all "I'll just pick that up in a minute? Yeah. That's when.

Also? um.. yeah. Don't look in my closets.

Let's see...what else did I do?

Oh! My daddy came to visit and let me tell you one little thing: My next husband? WILL BE USEFUL. Because holy cats, does it make a difference when TWO people attack a project. Especially when one of those people has some clue what they're doing. Partially, I suppose it's that my Daddy like to putter. He puttered about my house fixing little things and I tried to lock him in the closet to keep him from going home but he started to cry and then I felt bad and let him out and also gave him some chocolate chip cookies that I made from scratch. That's a lie. It was Pillsbury dough. But I cooked it and that counts.

Which reminds me. Chocolate chip cookies you make at home.; crunchy or soft? I say soft. Crunchy cookies are too store bought-ish. But some people that I'm married too whined and whined about how they should be crunchy and so I made them crunchy and you know what? I'm totally right, they should be soft and he's stupid.

The only other thing of note I did this week is...um. Nothing, I guess. Because my life is pretty much exactly like Days of Our Lives except without Stefano DiMera kidnapping my baby, only it's really not my baby or IS IT? And my mother has never been possessed by Satan and my dad isn't an impostor who looks nothing like my real dad but nobody notices because HELLO he has the same name! so it MUST be him! Or is he?

I better go do an investigation.

And then Kiki died laughing

Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day

Nervous looking Man: My girlfriend wants the big boob bra in purple. She's...um...a size small?

Sales Girl: Okay, great! Do you know what cup size?

NLM: Um. I....I don't know (scopes girls around him looking for similar boobs)

SG: Okay, are they more the size of apples, oranges or grapefruits?

NLM: (thinks hard)

NLM: Lemons.

Ten Confession Thursday, Christmas Style

Confession: I ate Christmas Cookies for dinner last night.

Confession: I have no intention of buying presents for people I won't see before Christmas until after Christmas.

Confession: I bought all my own gifts this year.

Confession: When I was ten I asked for a bra for Christmas. I got a stuffed bear. I was wicked pissed. But not as pissed as I was about the fact that CK ate the head off the reindeer cookie I specially decorated for Santa. I distinctly recall that there were many tears shed on both sides as CK was convinced that now Santa wouldn't leave her anything and so we wrote a special note and left him a headless cookie and some cheese and summer sausage on Ritz crackers. Because we thought he needed some protein. Apparently.

Confession: I sometimes listen to Christmas CD's in the middle of summer. I especially like Rockin' Eighties Christmas because it's got the Waitresses "Christmas Wrapping" which is my favorite Christmas song.

Confession: I regift. One time, I spent WEEKS shopping for a gift for a friend. She gave me one of those stupid scarf/hat/glove gift sets from Kmart. So the next year, I gave that exact set back to her and she loved it and I felt like a total bitch.

Confession: The thing I'm most excited about this year is the fact that I don't have to cook Christmas dinner.

Confession: Possibly my all time favorite story about M (aside from the Fried Chicken Incident) is from the Christmas she was two. There were seventeen people in my parents house and she comes out of her room stark naked and wearing my Daddy's black leather motorcycle boots and I said to her "M, I don't want you to be a naked baby" and she looked right at me, cocked her little curled head to the side and said "Too late!" then laughed maniacally and clomped off.

Confession: Christmas is the only time of year I wish I had more children. Just because I miss their ability to believe in Santa.

Confession: I still kind of believe in Santa.

(PS. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I'm not totally dead. Just down with that wretched chest nonsense that's going around. Which is basically just an excuse to be completely high on codeine cough medicine and drink a shit ton of whiskey. It's like Santa and Baby Jesus teamed up to ensure that I got exactly what I wanted. Except for the coughing. That I could do with out.)

Cosmo Girl

When I was 13 I begged my mother for a subscription to Cosmo magazine. The campaign lasted days. Even though it's all ads for liquor and reproductions of 1960's Playboy layouts my Mormon mother caved provided I paid half.

I was a prodigious babysitter back in the day, so I readily handed over the $16 (four hours worth of snot-wiping, I'll have you know!) and filled out the little fall away card with my information.

It took FOREVER before the first magazine arrived and I eagerly devoured every page. Was I a Bad Girl? how well did I know him (him who? are you kidding me? Boys = cooties) should I buy the Calvin Klein or the Ann Taylor? Which better suited my lifestyle a chic urban condo or a sweet little cottage? Suddenly the world was more than ZumZum dresses and Brass Plum shoes. I cut up the pages and made huge collages of things that I would have in the great someday of the future. A vacation house! A BMW! A walk in closet full of shoes! An array of men with delicious accents!

Yeah. So. I live in a cookie cutter house in the suburbs, drive a 15 year old Ford Bronco (the OJ Simpson model) and have been married since I was 21.

But.

Some things have stuck with me in the intervening twenty years. Things that I didn't realize until just the other night as I stood in front of my (non-walk-in, overly crowded, messy) closet deciding what to wear. My choices include a collection of jeans and black shirts. Literally dozens of each.

Then, it hit me.

Cosmo.

In 1992 numerology was the Big. Thing. and Cosmo did a whole ten page spread about it. My number is a seven. Which is kind of awesome since my birthday is also the seventh (probably the only reason I remember it) and I've always considered that a profound number in my life. Not a lucky number, exactly, but certainly a portent of good luck. My happiest years have been lived in homes with a seven in the address. Some of my best years have had a seven in them. It's silly, but whatever. Anyway, this numerology article had things like "your best color" (navy), your best career (something creative (I'm an accountant...HAHA)), your best mate (bookworm), and so on. At some point the article said "people remember you for your unfailing ability to dress in a black teeshirt and perfectly fitted jeans every day and still look smashing" or something along that line.

I remember pawing through my drawers, tossing pastel after pastel into the pile for Goodwill that afternoon. Trying on all my jeans, pinning and hemming until they looked custom made (hello, we was poo' folks.) and counting out my wads of one dollar bills. From that day on I've always chosen black when faced with which shirt to buy. I've gone through dozens of cuts and brands of jeans.

It's funny what sticks with you. The little one-off things that wiggle into your life and shape you.

I bet my mom is glad I chose that one and not the Why It's Okay To Be a Slut! article instead.

(ps. here's a link to a "100 things to do before you die" list similar to the one I tore out of Cosmo and carried around until that one time when I got really drunk, spilled Wild Turkey on myself, stripped to my skivvies in the communal laundry room and threw everything else including my wallet, keys (the washer locked during the cycle so I spent 30 minutes hiding behind a door while everyone else went to class), and six Jolly Rancher "fire" candies into the washing machine. The list never recovered, but I still ate the candy.

GigiBella

December 6, 2008

December 6, 2009

What a difference a year makes! It's so awesome to watch a baby change through their first year. Especially when you're not the one that has to get up with her in the middle of the night. Or change her shitty nappies. All *I* have to do is buy her things that her mother doesn't want her to have (like a box of Kleenex...then showed her how to pull them out one by one. She LOVED it!) and feed her things she shouldn't eat (like nacho cheese...what? She liked it!) and snuggle her as she sleeps. Watch her first drunken-staggery steps and applaud as she figures out how to stand up on her own without immediately falling back down and smacking her head. It's almost enough sweetness bundled up in one tulle tutu to make me want another one.

Almost. Then, I remember that mine? Is three years from moving out. YES!

Klassy Khristmas

When my sisters and I were young, our mother worked for the Seattle Indian Center (now renamed something less offensive like Northwest Center for Native American Heritage). It was, as indicated in the name, primarily dedicated to social services for disenfranchised Natives. They had day cares, work centers, etc.

They also frequently hosted pow wows, pot latches and other cultural events.

At the dedication of their new building, the room was packed with elders and members of all the local tribes. We were, I'm sure, the only pale faces in the crowd. Our blond or red hair shown like beacons and KL, who was three and both very loud and very precocious was holding court amid a group of grandmothers resplendent in their very nicest clothing and beaded jewelry.



As the ceremony is ready to begin a hush fell over the room and a dancer dressed in full regalia entered the room.

And then my loud ass sister shouts out "OH MY! Mommy! Look! It's a REAL INDIAN!"

Now, if you've ever taken a toddler to church you know that anything they say that is inappropriate is going to be crystal clear and loud enough to embarrass you.

Every pair of brown eyes in the room turns to look at us. CK and I begin surveying escape routes, but my mom says to KL

"You know Axl (my mothers Aleutian drunk bush pilot work boyfriend)?" and KL agrees she does know him. "And you know Rosemary? (the stunningly beautiful receptionist)" and KL agrees that she does "Well, what do you think they are?"

KL, little fists on her hips doesn't miss a beat and in the tone that children reserve for their parents when they're being especially retarded says;

"They're your FRIENDS"

Later, when Robin the transgendered ex-con got drunk and tried to sell Mum her shoes, she slurrily told her how glad she was that my mother had raised such lovely, classy children.

Which is why today my sisters and I will be posing like this for our holiday cards.

Because NOTHING says Klassy like posing in lingere with your sisters, am I right?

Ten Confession Thursday

Confession: I sometimes stuff my bra. I have these "chicken cutlet" thingies that I stick in there to extend the time between buying ever smaller bras.

Confession: I sing to my dog ALL THE TIME. I don't think he likes it, but I don't like that he pees in the house, so THEMS THE BREAKS.

Confession: I tell my husband that we can't afford his stupid hunting crap, but really I just intend to spend that money on getting my nails done.

Confession: I have no idea how to ride a bicycle. That phrase "It's just like riding a bike" is a dirty lie. If you don't ride for 20 years, you forget.

Confession: I pluck my stray eyebrow hairs at stop lights.

Confession: I compose blogs in my head every night before I go to bed AND THEY ARE AWESOME but I never remember them by the time I actually get to the computer.

Confession: I kind of believe that you guys are imaginary. It's disconcerting when someone I know in real life comments to me about something I have done here. It's like, WAIT? What the hell? Does. Not. Compute. Interwebz interface with real life? SO WEIRD.

Confession: The only reason I let M have my iPod after hers got stolen is so I'd have an excuse to buy an iTouch.

Confession: I am horrifyingly bad at video games. That's why I never play. Because I suck so embarrassingly much. I play like a monkey wearing mittens.

Confession: I remember my phone number from 1980 (283-1138), the combination to my freshman locker (14-27-39), the zip code to my college dorm (59715), I remember what I was wearing when I met my husband (Lee jeans, Doc Martins, blue/white/yellow striped shirt) and what I ate for dinner the night before M was born (spaghetti) but I will be completely unable to remember the name of the person I met five minutes ago about five minutes from now.

Polished Toes Are The Keynote of Good Grooming

Hey. Did y'all know that some people on the interwebs AREN'T imaginary? Weird, right?

Today, the blogging world is a bit sniffly and on edge as we wait for news of Anissa Mayhew, a fellow blogger (fellow. Ha. She totally kicks my ass at blogging. And also at tweeting) who was struck down by a stroke. Anissa is in a coma right now and she and her family could really use your positive vibes/prayers/whatever that she recover as quickly and as fully as possible.

Secondly, one of the very first blogs that I started reading and one of my favorites is She Just Walks Around With It. Seriously, Kristy cracks me the hell up and is one of the major reasons that I moved to blogger in from Spaces. Also? She has an adorable new baby named Eve. And those cheeks? OH MY GOD. Kristy also write as site where she reviews products. She doesn't even use the F-word in her reviews. I KNOW, that's some talent right there. And you know what ELSE? She give stuff away. WAY better stuff than I give away. I love her blog. I love that she laid out everything from a gut wrenching divorce, to a new life on a different coast right down to a brand new baby and joys and trials that come with her in a way that you can related to and laugh with because you know exactly what she means when she tells you that the biggest accomplishment some days is managing to shower. It's one of those rare mommy-blogs that isn't a mommy blog at all, but rather a blog that just happens to be written by a mommy. A mommy who puts her baby first but isn't defined by her. The kind of mommy you want to invite over for wine and cupcakes.

And I? Love wine and cupcakes. I also love winning stuff. Like that time in 1986 when I won the Spelling Bee because I could spell "chief" and Bevin couldn't and I'm pretty sure it's only because I was wearing my awesome Little Orphan Annie knickers. (the short pants kind, not the slang-for-panties kind. I imagine my panties were probably Underoo's. Remember those? I loved mine. I had Wonder Woman.) What the hell was I talking about? Oh yes. Winning stuff. Apparently Kristy's contests aren't imaginary because I won a pretty awesome prize from her last give away. Which means that YOU could win the next one which includes a $100 Visa gift card. So go over there and enter.

Lastly, apparently not imaginary interwebz peoples, I thought we'd do something interactive today that may or may not include a prize that I may or may not remember to mail to you in a timely fashion.

The other day I mentioned that a major deciding factor in my life is how my Gram would do or handle something. My Gram, in addition to being hilarious, a kick ass party guest and a gracious hostess is a font of knowledge and I was lucky enough to grow up down the street from her. She taught my sisters and I all kind of important things. Like a girl should always have a red bra in case she needs to flag down a train. That you should always name a child something that makes an easy nickname or they'll wind up called something horrible like Lumpy. That you can get past forgetting anyones name by calling them honey, and that if you can't be nice you better at least be polite.

So that brings us to what may or may not be our contest, but is definitely going to be a blog entry.

What piece of wisdom would you give to a child? What one little thing, simple or not, do you think that everyone should know? What is you version of WhatWouldGramDo?

Tippy Tuesday

Yeah, I know. That title is annoying. Suck it.

Since several of you girls asked about what kind of bra I was modeling yesterday, I figured I'd do a post on a few of my favorite pieces of clothing. Pieces that you can afford. Not in the way that Glamour espouses the frugality of a $300 winter jacket, but in the use-your-lunch-money kind of way. Well, maybe two weeks worth of lunch money. I guess it depends if your lunch budget for the week is $50 or less.

I am extremely anal retentive about my bra's. I hate the ones that give you elbow boob, or wall eyed boobs, or quadro-boob or cone boob. I hate the ones that dig at your shoulder or have under wires that poke you in the armpit. But also, I'm cheap. So while I have in the past found a lovely $96 bra that fit perfectly, I didn't buy it because I'd never wear it for fear of wearing it out. I know, it doesn't make sense. But that's how I roll.

What I have found thanks to Cousin Bunny's recommendation, is the Victorias Secret Bio-Fit line. They come in a good range of sizes (32B-40DD) and HOLY TITTIES BATMAN do they look good! The cups are rounded in a natural looking way and they keep the twins up in a natural, but lifted place. If you buy the "Full Coverage UpLift" you can do pretty much anything without worrying about popping out. I bowl in mine and never have to readjust. But if you want some HELLO TITTIES cleavage, I liked the Demi. That's what I was wearing in yesterdays picture. If you've got good sized girls, you won't want to do a whole lot of bending at the waist, but who wants to do that ANYWAY? They are a little expensive, with an on-line price of $50, though I swear the one I bought was only $48 in the store.

This is the part where you need to pay attention kittens! Go to their web site and sign up for the catalogue and email updates. Yeah, yeah, spam, whatever. Once you're on their mailing list you'll begin to get their promotional mailings about once a month. The email is a little annoying at about 3x per week, but that's what Baby Jesus made Delete for. You'll likely get a coupon for free panties in the mail. USE IT. When you do, be sure to enter the email address you used when you signed up. You don't have to buy anything. Just hand them the coupon and walk out with panties. By putting in your email address at check out, they see you're an active shopper. The more you shop, the more often they send you free stuff. I get a free $9 pair of panties EVERY SINGLE MONTH. The coupon usually includes a $10 coupon for bra's also.

AND AND AND! Twice a year they have a HUGE sale. All the previous seasons colors and styles go on clearance. On average you'll find bra's about 1/2 of their retail price. BUT if you wait to the end of the sale (while the selection is of course not as good) they'll mark them down even further. I'm talking down to $9! I KNOW, RIGHT? You can't even get some crappy disposable Wal-Mart brand bra for that price!

However, speaking of Wal-Mart, did you know that they now carry BabyPhat silver label jeans? Before you even start, yeah, I know, GHETTO. But these jeans are made for the long legged! AND they go up to a size 18! All the stores in my area seem to carry them, so if you're looking for jeans it might be worth searching your local store. They run $25 and have two washes, distressed and dark. All the jean are boot cut. The only problem I have with them is that the juniors cut rides low and I feel like my ass crack is playing peek-a-boo with the world if I don't wear a longer shirt. Oh, one other slightly odd quirk, the available sizes are 0-15 juniors and 14-18 women's. I don't know why. They wear well and wash with minimal shrinkage and have perfect sized pockets to compliment your ass. I hate jeans with teeny-little pockets, don't you?

Lastly, liquid eye liner. First of all, WHAT THE FUCK, man? Do you have ANY IDEA how long it took to learn to apply that stuff? I'm giving mad props (that's how we talk in the ghetto) to the Emo kids for their eye-lining skills. Those little brushes are ridiculous. BUT I found an easier solution! The Revlon ColorStay liquid eye pen! I paid $7 and it's exactly like using a Sharpie. Hey. I bet I COULD just use a sharpie!

That would be a look.

(PS. There's no pictures because I'm lazy. Click the links.)
(PPS. These aren't paid reviews. Although if someone would like to pay me to review there stuff either with cash or with free stuff, I'm totally down with that. Unless I have to say I like it even though I don't.)

Reveler

Recently my Monday posts have been effervescent with venom bottled up from Weekend Drama. Not today. I had a great weekend. Doing nothing. Hanging out on the couch talking with friends. Eating WAY too much guacamole (is there such a thing? No? I suspected not) in honor of National Guacamole Day on Saturday. I bowled a good game and didn't get bitched at (or maybe I did, but I was too busy sneaking drinks of Cosmo and playing with my Gigibella. (CAN NOT believe she'll be one in three weeks! Craziness!))

To top off a fantastic weekend of lazy, my bestie is in town all week and I'm going to skip out of work early so we can hang out every afternoon.

All this KikiGlee is probably the harbinger of some sort of getting hit by a bus like drama to come. But for now? I revel.

Not to mention I got a new bra and my boobs look AMAZING. Seriously. Like I HAVE boobs again.

PS. You're welcome interwebz. I know you haven't seen enough pictures of my boobs recently. It's a result of The Crazy. The more that people tell me how "skinny" I've gotten, the more self conscious I become. I never really thought about my weight in relation to my looks before surgery. I was pretty, The End. Fat or not, I work at it. I don't leave the house in my sweats and pony tail with no make up. Ever. Not even when I was on-my-death-bed sick dragging myself to the store for NyQuil. I still put on jeans and combed my hair. Partially it's my Grams fault. I don't think she's ever once left the house with out lipstick and partially it's just that I'm pretty much as vain as humanly possible (despite my POS car) and partially it's that I believe Fat Girls, like drag queens have to Bring It. Sure, skinny girls looks adorable in their little yoga pants and tank top, but us fatties? Not so much. So I worked at it. From the time I was 12. I never doubted that I was pretty until about thirty pounds ago. It's weird to realize how invisible I really was. Now people LOOK at me. Hard. Which, of course, has fueled my obsession with my appearance in a somewhat unhealthy way. Not that I WANT y'all to stop commenting on my hotness...HELLO, VANITY, it's more that now I start to doubt my assessment abilities. How is it possible I looked amazing before only to find that I look both totally different and amazing now? Did I not look amazing before? Was I deluding myself then? Am I doing it now? Whatever. I'm hot. And my boobs look FANTASTIC in my lipstick-red bra. And that's enough.

Damn.

I think those pills for The Crazy are starting to work.

Or maybe it's all that guacamole I ate.

Who cares?

Party on, bitches. Party on.

Derailed

Earlier this week, when I was getting coffee at that exclusive little shop that I love *coughQTcough*, a man turns to me and says "you smell fantastic". It completely made my day. There is nothing quite like a genuine and unexpected compliment, is there?

Then, I had a super shitariffic week.

BUT THEN.

As you are all well aware, I have a tiny little addiction to my Blackberry. The first thing I do in the morning is turn it on and check my messages. Unlike Saint Dolly, who claims the first thing she does in the morning is get dressed and go home. (I want to BE Dolly Parton. Seriously. I love her. Probably more than I love that wicked temptress Oprah.) Where was I? Oh, yes, my Blackberry. The first few messages kind of set the tone for my day. For example today, Ash told me that I was an evil whore for telling him that Emily Deschanel is a vegan and then mentioning scary porcelain headed clown dolls come to life and kill people at night. This is why I love my friends. Especially the imaginary ones that live in my computer. Because who else would call you an evil whore but mean it with LOVE? Oh. Right. My sisters.

And then there was this comment left on a post I wrote back in April;

Anonymous said...
I found this site using Google And i want to thank you for your work. You have done really very good site. Great work, great site! Thank you!Sorry for offtopic

Thank you Anonymous, you totally made my day.

So here's what I think we should do today, I think that we should all make a conscious effort to give someone, a stranger maybe, a sincere compliment. I think we should all remember the courtesy wave. I think we should all remember that Nice Matters.

There you go.

I'm done being all preachy.

Now I want to know WHY THE FUCK I am the only person in my household that can fill the dogs water dish? SERIOUSLY. It's not that fucking hard. You put the bowl in the sink and fill it up. It's not like you have to milk a penguin or anything. It's water.

Also, my dogs are assholes. The puppy, who at two and a half probably isn't a puppy anymore but WHATEVER, has terrible dry skin, and our vet recommended that I put a tablespoon of olive oil on his food to try to alleviate it. It works, I don't know why. Now? Not one of those little fuckers will so much as touch their retardedly expensive dog food until I drizzle it with olive oil. What a bunch of fucking princesses. For the record? Rottweilers and Pit Bulls are a bunch of babies.

Don't you think that Facebook should have an "I hate you" button? or maybe a "stop bragging you bastard" button? And why do people do things like post a message to dead person? I've seen "Rest in Peace, Uncle Bob, you will be missed" or something similar more than once. Do you seriously think that Uncle Bob is sitting in Heaven checking his Facebook alerts? Basically, what you're saying is LOOK AT ME! SOMEONE I KNOW IS DEAD! I'M FUCKING SPECIAL! No, you're not. You're just as bad as the people that post updates that say things like "Betsy wonders why you did that?" Why who did what, you bitch? FUCKING SAY WHAT YOU MEAN. If you mean that Larry stole your boyfriend say "Betsy wonders why Larry is a such a back stabbing man stealing anus eater?". By leaving open ended, vague updates, you're CLEARLY just begging for people to comment and ask you why so that you can tell your victim story. I hate you.

Lastly, as I lay awake at 3:30 in the morning, it occurred to me that if you say the name "John" enough times in a row it stops sounding like a word and sounds like some kind of made up alien language. So do "prom" and "referee". Try it. Say each one like ten times in a row. Not even words anymore, right?

Wow. This post has just gone totally around the bend. Just like me. HIGH FIVE!

Xanax wishes and Buttercream dreams for a happy weekend, my kittens.