- shoes
- tootie fruity
- pickles
- eel nose hair thingies
- rain clouds
- metal brackets
- sawdust
- lawn mowers from hell
- brain cells
- eyelets
- Pokemon
- armpit hair
- line at the Statue of Liberty
- methane
- sombreros
Get Boned.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Random Tuesday
Monday, June 29, 2009
Moving Bonus
We finished cleaning the apartment on Saturday, and while I was cleaning, I did what any self-respecting woman would do and I took off my pants.
What?!
Bleach STAINS people, this is not exactly new information here.
At one point, a friend (who is also going through the hell that is moving) came to borrow the truck, so Gray met the guy outside to hand over his keys.
So there I was, wiping out the oven in my blue underwear, bra-less in my used-to-be-white tank top, complete with latex gloves, jammin' to something on my ipod (I forget what song, you'll understand why in just a moment), when I look up and see both Gray and his friend STARING AT ME from the entryway.
This is where I died. The End.
***
What actually happened was that I see Gray give me a once-over, and then I see his friend do the same, and then their expressions simultaneously changed from "casual disinterest" to "what the fuck is going on here", the realization dawned in their eyes at the same instant: SHIT, SHE'S PANTS-LESS. Which would have been funny. You know. If I had been wearing pants.
Meanwhile, I was standing frozen in place, like, maybe they wouldn't see me if I just held real still, with my steel wool in one glove, my dignity in the other, ipod still blasting in my ears, completely unable to remedy my predicament because my pants were laying on the floor in the other room and that I was standing in the middle of the kitchen with nothing to hide behind.
Upon the realization that, SHIT SHE'S PANTS-LESS, Gray's friend backed quickly out of the apartment door and into the hallway, presumably to save his eyes from further corruption, and Gray (helpfully) burst into laughter, apologizing that he hadn't realized I was sans clothing, despite the fact that I'd been walking around like that all.day.long.
"WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAND ME MY PANTS?" It seemed like an appropriate question, but it took me a moment before I could form actual words. I was that horrified.
When finally he handed them over I yanked them on and called out to the friend, "Ok I guess you can come back in now." Which he did. And then I continued to clean the oven whilst making small talk with two guys who had just seen me singing in my underwear, all of us pretending that THAT? Did not just happen.
All I could think of was, "I wonder how my ass looked?"
What?!
Bleach STAINS people, this is not exactly new information here.
At one point, a friend (who is also going through the hell that is moving) came to borrow the truck, so Gray met the guy outside to hand over his keys.
So there I was, wiping out the oven in my blue underwear, bra-less in my used-to-be-white tank top, complete with latex gloves, jammin' to something on my ipod (I forget what song, you'll understand why in just a moment), when I look up and see both Gray and his friend STARING AT ME from the entryway.
This is where I died. The End.
***
What actually happened was that I see Gray give me a once-over, and then I see his friend do the same, and then their expressions simultaneously changed from "casual disinterest" to "what the fuck is going on here", the realization dawned in their eyes at the same instant: SHIT, SHE'S PANTS-LESS. Which would have been funny. You know. If I had been wearing pants.
Meanwhile, I was standing frozen in place, like, maybe they wouldn't see me if I just held real still, with my steel wool in one glove, my dignity in the other, ipod still blasting in my ears, completely unable to remedy my predicament because my pants were laying on the floor in the other room and that I was standing in the middle of the kitchen with nothing to hide behind.
Upon the realization that, SHIT SHE'S PANTS-LESS, Gray's friend backed quickly out of the apartment door and into the hallway, presumably to save his eyes from further corruption, and Gray (helpfully) burst into laughter, apologizing that he hadn't realized I was sans clothing, despite the fact that I'd been walking around like that all.day.long.
"WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAND ME MY PANTS?" It seemed like an appropriate question, but it took me a moment before I could form actual words. I was that horrified.
When finally he handed them over I yanked them on and called out to the friend, "Ok I guess you can come back in now." Which he did. And then I continued to clean the oven whilst making small talk with two guys who had just seen me singing in my underwear, all of us pretending that THAT? Did not just happen.
All I could think of was, "I wonder how my ass looked?"
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Because I Care About Your Private Parts
Drew G. from Eden Fantasys is a total pimp.
When he asked me to review a sex toy on this blog, I was like, "Where have you been all my life?" and he said that he was busy rockin' mullet in New Jersey and trying to get into girls' pants, and he was also really into stamp collecting, and then I told him that I used to collect stamps too, and since we were like long-lost twins, that he should surprise me and send me something he thinks I might like, but then I clarified that I didn't want anything butt-related because I only like watching anal porn and would prefer to retain my "exit only" status, so he sent me the Bnaughty to try for myself, and basically proved that the Internet knows way too much about me, because it's exactly what I would have chosen for myself, which means he knocked it out of the park. Or, to put it into stamp collecting terms, his selection hadn't even been licked yet, or anything.
Hi, I'm Cat. I over-share in a public venue, and then I tell Jesus that he's boring. Welcome to my blog.
When he asked me to review a sex toy on this blog, I was like, "Where have you been all my life?" and he said that he was busy rockin' mullet in New Jersey and trying to get into girls' pants, and he was also really into stamp collecting, and then I told him that I used to collect stamps too, and since we were like long-lost twins, that he should surprise me and send me something he thinks I might like, but then I clarified that I didn't want anything butt-related because I only like watching anal porn and would prefer to retain my "exit only" status, so he sent me the Bnaughty to try for myself, and basically proved that the Internet knows way too much about me, because it's exactly what I would have chosen for myself, which means he knocked it out of the park. Or, to put it into stamp collecting terms, his selection hadn't even been licked yet, or anything.
Hi, I'm Cat. I over-share in a public venue, and then I tell Jesus that he's boring. Welcome to my blog.
So I got this bullet-style vibrator last week - it was delivered to the management office at our apartment building while I was at work, and for those of you who enjoy your privacy (obviously I have no concept of such a thing), I'm happy to report that the package was unrecognizable for what it truly was, and very well could have been a sheet of vintage Sinatra stamps that I bought on EBay. As funny as I think a giant cock-n-balls would be, stamped on the front of the box, shocking and awing everyone it encounters from NJ to MN, the package was very discreet.
Inside the Bnaughty box, I found an instruction pamphlet, which was disappointing in that it was not product-specific, which can be confusing as fuck to morons such as myself, and said something along the lines of, "If your product is waterproof, take care to dry the vibrator thoroughly after use and remove the batteries," which sparked a 30 minute panic attack over whether or not it would actually electrocute me to death if I took it into the bathtub. The box clearly said water-proof, but the instructions didn't back that up, and I tend to dwell on insignificant details like the possibility of electrocution.
Once that was all sorted out, I found the enclosed drawstring storing pouch which is awesome because I never know exactly where to store my vibrators but this one was like STORE ME HERE, DUMBASS, and also because it's like Crown Royal for your clit.
So I think the purpose of a vibrator with a remote control is probably so that you and your partner can play together, and there's an element of surprise because you don't know if he/she will kick the level from 1 up to 2, or jump all the way up to 4 but bring it back down to 1 at just the right moment to drive you crazy. It's like playing the lotto with a guaranteed cash prize. I've never had a "two can play" vibrator before, so this one was a lot of fun. I think it would be better if it were wireless because the cord is slightly constraining, but Gray didn't seem to mind because he loves anything that comes with a "clicker".
It, in fact, did not electrocute me in the tub. Which is, you know, a plus. It also gave me my first completely submerged 'gasm, which is also a plus.
We're moving right now, and it doubled as a kick-ass egg scrambler when I couldn't find my whisk the other day. Fluffiest damn eggs I've EVER had. I've also been using it to massage my aching rib at night. It's the perfect size to really get into a specific knot and go to town. I'm not sure that's what BSwish had in mind when they created the Bnaughty, but they might consider marketing this sex toy to athletes and physical therapists. They could call it the Bknotty.
OVERALL RATING: Four stars out of five!
I'm more of a "manual" kind of girl because vibrators tend to make me itchy afterwards, but if you're a fan of the battery-operated orgasm, this is a really fun one that would travel well and could probably be used in public pretty easily. Hmmm, that's an idea...I'm writing this from a coffee house right now....
Anyway, now for the BEST PART! Drew the pimp and Eden Fantasys are going to send one lucky reader their VERY! OWN! BNAUGHTY! You want it, I know you totally do! Bow chicka bow wow...UH!
Ok, so you have to live in either the U.S. or Canada to enter this giveaway, and you must be at least 21 years old. Them's just the regulations for this kind of thing, like it or like it. If you're foreign and young...NO SEX TOY FOR YOU!
Everyone else, leave a comment on this post and tell me: What's Your Favorite Sex Toy? If you don't have one, you're lame, but you can still enter the giveaway. I'm going to take entries from today, June 28th, until midnight (Minnesota time) on Sunday, July 5th, 2009.
(Also, please keep in mind that if you're one of those people who's profile is set to No-Reply Comment? You will need to be sure and include contact information in your comment/entry. If I can't find you? Your entry will be DELETED, even if I know who you are, because I'm lazy like that.)
Until then, you know what I'll be doing. I un-earthed my box of porn yesterday.
Good luck!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Hickory Smoked, Please
Let's pretend just for a moment that I'm not on a blog "hiatus" (aka: snowboarding and kinky tantric sex with Jon Gosselin in Utah while Kate celebrates their 11th wedding anniversary with a pint of Starbucks ice cream and a vibrator) so I can tell you about my physical therapy appointment yesterday.
First of all, the receptionist? Is a total bitch. But that is neither here nor there.
The therapist guy sat patiently, feigning interest whilst I regaled him with the details of my malady: sudden flares, stabbing pain that wraps around my ribs all the way to my breast bone, difficulty breathing, loss of ability to wipe myself. He nodded politely and wrote everything down in my chart.
Then he had me look at the ceiling, slowly, three times. Apparently, I am a dexterous prodigy because I passed the "ceiling looking" test with FLYING colors. Then I had do a series of equally boring maneuvers before he told me to lay on the table on my stomach. NAP TIME!
It was at this point that I said, "Gosh, I kind of hoped the pain would be acting up when I came to see you today so it would be easier to figure out what is going on."
That's when he told me, basically, that he's a terrorist who plans to torture me until we caused the pain to flare up, that it was sort of the POINT of the session, so I realize that not only is my back totally fucked, but I also have the pleasure of paying someone to make it hurt more. Call me crazy, but I generally prefer leather or latex involvement in this type of situation.
After much poking, rib and vertebrae counting, head turning and arm lifting, at which point I was beginning to worry we wouldn't find anything at all and I'd be sent away from yet another doctor's office, he pushed down in a certain spot and I nearly screamed from the pain, which would have been embarrassing because my pain noises sound like sex noises.
The offender? A lower rib, which he thinks may have been jammed at some time in the past which "set it up for the possibility of pain", which as I understand it means that I had a ticking time bomb RIGHT BESIDE MY LUNGS, and suddenly the idea of a rib exploding through my chest and impaling my eyeball is not so out of line. How's that for chilling?
He also said that all the muscles in the area of my wayward rib are inflamed, including the vertical back muscle that runs sort of over the top of it (I'm picturing pork ribs as he's describing my very own ribs, and am horrified to find my stomach churning in hunger.)((I swear to fucking god, that movie Fried Green Tomatoes turned me into a cannibal. Or at the very least, "set up the possibility for cannibalism."))
The next twenty minutes of my session were spent with me laying face down on the table while he. pushed. on. my. rib. Apparently the cure for dislocated ribs is BREAKING THEM OFF ALL TOGETHER. The worst part was that at some point I developed a need to fart, and his face was basically at butt-level, so I knew I absolutely COULD NOT fart, but he was pushing and pushing and it was all I could do to relax my upper body while my lower regions were clenched for dear life. When I left, I realized I no longer needed to fart, so there's no telling what actually happened - if I totally reversed the direction of the advancing gas bubble, or if it escaped in the tiny therapy room, aimed at the poor man's face.
I have to go back on Friday for another rib-pushing session because there's no exercise I can really do on my own at home to help fix this "rare" type of problem. Usually ribs don't move, he says, because everything in there is "packed together and bound tightly", so I think what he was trying to tell me is that my ribs are "loose" but even if it's true that they get around, at least they're not HIV positive because then NOBODY would be able to eat them and that would be a total waste.
First of all, the receptionist? Is a total bitch. But that is neither here nor there.
The therapist guy sat patiently, feigning interest whilst I regaled him with the details of my malady: sudden flares, stabbing pain that wraps around my ribs all the way to my breast bone, difficulty breathing, loss of ability to wipe myself. He nodded politely and wrote everything down in my chart.
Then he had me look at the ceiling, slowly, three times. Apparently, I am a dexterous prodigy because I passed the "ceiling looking" test with FLYING colors. Then I had do a series of equally boring maneuvers before he told me to lay on the table on my stomach. NAP TIME!
It was at this point that I said, "Gosh, I kind of hoped the pain would be acting up when I came to see you today so it would be easier to figure out what is going on."
That's when he told me, basically, that he's a terrorist who plans to torture me until we caused the pain to flare up, that it was sort of the POINT of the session, so I realize that not only is my back totally fucked, but I also have the pleasure of paying someone to make it hurt more. Call me crazy, but I generally prefer leather or latex involvement in this type of situation.
After much poking, rib and vertebrae counting, head turning and arm lifting, at which point I was beginning to worry we wouldn't find anything at all and I'd be sent away from yet another doctor's office, he pushed down in a certain spot and I nearly screamed from the pain, which would have been embarrassing because my pain noises sound like sex noises.
The offender? A lower rib, which he thinks may have been jammed at some time in the past which "set it up for the possibility of pain", which as I understand it means that I had a ticking time bomb RIGHT BESIDE MY LUNGS, and suddenly the idea of a rib exploding through my chest and impaling my eyeball is not so out of line. How's that for chilling?
He also said that all the muscles in the area of my wayward rib are inflamed, including the vertical back muscle that runs sort of over the top of it (I'm picturing pork ribs as he's describing my very own ribs, and am horrified to find my stomach churning in hunger.)((I swear to fucking god, that movie Fried Green Tomatoes turned me into a cannibal. Or at the very least, "set up the possibility for cannibalism."))
The next twenty minutes of my session were spent with me laying face down on the table while he. pushed. on. my. rib. Apparently the cure for dislocated ribs is BREAKING THEM OFF ALL TOGETHER. The worst part was that at some point I developed a need to fart, and his face was basically at butt-level, so I knew I absolutely COULD NOT fart, but he was pushing and pushing and it was all I could do to relax my upper body while my lower regions were clenched for dear life. When I left, I realized I no longer needed to fart, so there's no telling what actually happened - if I totally reversed the direction of the advancing gas bubble, or if it escaped in the tiny therapy room, aimed at the poor man's face.
I have to go back on Friday for another rib-pushing session because there's no exercise I can really do on my own at home to help fix this "rare" type of problem. Usually ribs don't move, he says, because everything in there is "packed together and bound tightly", so I think what he was trying to tell me is that my ribs are "loose" but even if it's true that they get around, at least they're not HIV positive because then NOBODY would be able to eat them and that would be a total waste.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Under Construction
Did I mention there are boxes everyfuckingwhere? This can be a problem for OCD freaks like me. Boxes on top of boxes, next to other boxes, all full of shit you have to PUT SOMEWHERE, and the pressure of knowing where to put things, things that you just figured out where to put in your old apartment, things that no longer fit the same way because the closets are longer and the shelves are taller and storage is located on entirely different floors of the house now and FUCK! Where do I keep the spare toilet paper!?
It's like a life-sized game of Tetris, except I can't just shut it off when I'm tired of playing. Instead, I lay in bed listening to the different night noises of the new house, and I continue to play mental Tetris with regards to the spoons in the second kitchen drawer and try to decide if my socks should go in a drawer or on a hangy shelf thing because the drawers are prime real estate, and I should really use things that close to house my knife collection.
I tried the whole "one box at a time" method, but inevitably there's this one thing in the box that can't be put away until I find this one other thing in another box, and by the time I find that second box and dig through it to find the needed accoutrement, I've forgotten what I was doing in the first place, but I noticed that the floor board needs to be wiped off, and OH DEAR GOD did you see the spider nest located INSIDE the cover of a book of canvas paper? And then I realize it's 1:30 in the morning and I still have to make fudge.
So yeah, we're under construction.
Not to mention I am without computer access at home for the moment until we mount the giant task of Figuring Technological Shit Out (you would think that the Satellite DVR situation is matter of national security), so I'm going to stop posting for a few days because I'm tired and sore and the number of cardboard paper cuts on my arms are uncountable and I have nothing to say except WAH WAH WAH, and oh yeah, Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Also we fucking LOVE the new place.
FYI: There are also BIG CHANGES! taking place here at Zipbag of Bones, and what goes better with big changes than big orgasms? That's right, all of that coming up in the next week, so stay tuned because YOU. DON'T. WANT. TO. MISS. THIS.*
*Unless you don't like orgasms, in which case: Stop reading my blog, Jesus.
Monday, June 22, 2009
My Deductible Has Not Only Been Met, It's Been Wined and Fucking Dined
Wahhhh. Seriously. My back is totally fucked. I went to the orthopedic specialist last week because I've been in some serious back pain and was convinced that either one of my ribs had detached and was carving my initials into my left lung, or I had a massive tumor growing right up against my spine, making it difficult to breath and/or move in any way, and if this was the case, I was going to name it Squid and keep it in a jar if I survived the surgery.
Both X-rays revealed absolutely nothing, which should surprise me exactly zero because nothing is ever wrong with me, according to modern medicine, I feel like there's a problem with my pregnancy and they tell me it's just too early to see the fetus, it's too tiny, everything is fine, and I have acne literally erupting from my back and chest and neck like some kind of pissed of Hawaiian lava-wielding deity and they tell me it's just stress and it will go away on it's own and then when it doesn't go away on it's own they tell me there's nothing they can do to make it better because it's "truncal" and therefore unresponsive to topical treatments, and I should just wait some more. And then I up and stop pooping. For, like, two months. And they tell me that it happens sometimes and they tell me horror stories of city bus drivers who get massive anal leakage and can no longer run their routes and other stories of women who are in the ER every three days for emergency enemas because they haven't pooped in, well, about the same amount of time as me, and that maybe I should stop taking calcium supplement and schedule a colonoscopy that probably won't tell us anything useful about why I'm not pooping, but holy fuck do they think it's fun to shove cameras up ass holes.
And now my back hurts so badly that I can't sleep, and I can't really breathe when I'm laying down, but during the day it comes and goes (thank god) because like right now it doesn't hurt AT ALL (kind of like when I was at my appointment with the orthopedic specialist and he asked me to bend and crouch and twist and show him where I felt the pain, but because it wasn't acting up, I could do all of those things just fine except show him exactly where the pain was because I couldn't remember EXACTLY where it was), so I'm going to physical therapy on Wednesday because he thinks maybe it's a muscle and/or ligament issue and feels we need to "stop the cycle" of pain before it gets worse.
And I'm pretty sure I'm going to go to physical therapy on Wednesday and they'll ask me to do back flips and even though I've never done a back flip before in my life, I'll somehow be able to crank them out like freaking Paul Hamm, and they'll say that I "seem to be fine" and to "let them know if I'm still having trouble in 30 days" and then the instant I walk out of the clinic, my entire body will seize up and my rib will explode from my chest and impale my left eyeball and they'll find me writhing around on the sidewalk and the doctor will come down and rub his chin and furrow his brow and say, "Hmm. Maybe we should make a follow up appointment."
Both X-rays revealed absolutely nothing, which should surprise me exactly zero because nothing is ever wrong with me, according to modern medicine, I feel like there's a problem with my pregnancy and they tell me it's just too early to see the fetus, it's too tiny, everything is fine, and I have acne literally erupting from my back and chest and neck like some kind of pissed of Hawaiian lava-wielding deity and they tell me it's just stress and it will go away on it's own and then when it doesn't go away on it's own they tell me there's nothing they can do to make it better because it's "truncal" and therefore unresponsive to topical treatments, and I should just wait some more. And then I up and stop pooping. For, like, two months. And they tell me that it happens sometimes and they tell me horror stories of city bus drivers who get massive anal leakage and can no longer run their routes and other stories of women who are in the ER every three days for emergency enemas because they haven't pooped in, well, about the same amount of time as me, and that maybe I should stop taking calcium supplement and schedule a colonoscopy that probably won't tell us anything useful about why I'm not pooping, but holy fuck do they think it's fun to shove cameras up ass holes.
And now my back hurts so badly that I can't sleep, and I can't really breathe when I'm laying down, but during the day it comes and goes (thank god) because like right now it doesn't hurt AT ALL (kind of like when I was at my appointment with the orthopedic specialist and he asked me to bend and crouch and twist and show him where I felt the pain, but because it wasn't acting up, I could do all of those things just fine except show him exactly where the pain was because I couldn't remember EXACTLY where it was), so I'm going to physical therapy on Wednesday because he thinks maybe it's a muscle and/or ligament issue and feels we need to "stop the cycle" of pain before it gets worse.
And I'm pretty sure I'm going to go to physical therapy on Wednesday and they'll ask me to do back flips and even though I've never done a back flip before in my life, I'll somehow be able to crank them out like freaking Paul Hamm, and they'll say that I "seem to be fine" and to "let them know if I'm still having trouble in 30 days" and then the instant I walk out of the clinic, my entire body will seize up and my rib will explode from my chest and impale my left eyeball and they'll find me writhing around on the sidewalk and the doctor will come down and rub his chin and furrow his brow and say, "Hmm. Maybe we should make a follow up appointment."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Fungus Amongus
BEHOLD: Nipple mushrooms. Mushboobs. Niprooms. Titmush.
Whatever these are, I need to know one very important thing: CAN I EAT THEM?
Because not ONLY do I love mushrooms, but I also love boobs, and together they are a totally irresistible fungal delight.
Longfellow Deeds
Please come tour our new place, and then send us gifts and shit.
We call it Longfellow Deeds because we're a couple of short bus graduates with degrees is dumbassedness and tomfoolery, and we name inanimate objects, as well as make up our own words for tracking time, like "two grapes ago" and "three grapes from now". Also, remember that part in Mr. Deeds where the sneaky guy stabs the black foot with the fireplace poker? Yeah, this house has a fireplace. So it all works together like Billy Ray and mullets and pimping your daughter. See what I mean?
We don't technically move in until the end of the month, but we have keys now, so therefore the possibility exists that we might accidentally burn it down, so therefore our landlord should consider us a liability, which means we technically live there now. Maybe I should put out a flier warning the neighbors, too.
Although, I've been drunk in this house before - drunk with pockets full of lighters - and didn't burn it down then, so we're probably ok. No need to worry. And I have a renter's policy in case anything should happen, although it only covers the loss of my shit, so you might want to make sure your home owner's is current.
I'm just sayin'.
We call it Longfellow Deeds because we're a couple of short bus graduates with degrees is dumbassedness and tomfoolery, and we name inanimate objects, as well as make up our own words for tracking time, like "two grapes ago" and "three grapes from now". Also, remember that part in Mr. Deeds where the sneaky guy stabs the black foot with the fireplace poker? Yeah, this house has a fireplace. So it all works together like Billy Ray and mullets and pimping your daughter. See what I mean?
We don't technically move in until the end of the month, but we have keys now, so therefore the possibility exists that we might accidentally burn it down, so therefore our landlord should consider us a liability, which means we technically live there now. Maybe I should put out a flier warning the neighbors, too.
Although, I've been drunk in this house before - drunk with pockets full of lighters - and didn't burn it down then, so we're probably ok. No need to worry. And I have a renter's policy in case anything should happen, although it only covers the loss of my shit, so you might want to make sure your home owner's is current.
I'm just sayin'.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Amusement
at the movie theater
Me, eyeing a poster for this upcoming flick: "Hmmm, I've never heard of this movie before."
5 Head, with authority: "You wouldn't like that. It looks scary."
Me, incredulous: "I like scary movies sometimes."
5 Head: "No you don't. Gray is the one who likes scary movies."
Me, laughing: "True, but I like them too. It's fun to be scared sometimes."
5 Head, to himself: "You like scary movies AND you don't like sour cream. HOW ARE YOU RELATED TO ME!?"
***
in the kitchen
Me, to 5 Head, hovering in the vicinity of the food prep: "Hey, do you want to help me make cookies later?"
5 Head: "No, but when you're at the store, don't forget to buy a fire extinguisher."
Me: "Why do I need to buy a fire extinguisher?"
5 Head, sassy: "You just can't be too careful with YOU in the kitchen..."
Me, offended and amused in equal parts: "WHAT? I've been cooking every meal for you for a week! I haven't needed a fire extinguisher yet!"
5 Head, clearly not convinced, shrugs his shoulders and exits, stage left.
***
via text
5 Head, "texting" me at work from his Yahoo email: "Text me when you get home so I can come let you in the front door."
Me: "Okay, I will be leaving in half an hour."
5 Head: "ARE YOU DRIVING NOW? Because you shouldn't text me back if you're driving."
Me: "No, I'm still at work. For another half an hour."
5 Head: "Okay, good."
Me: "Did you go swimming today?
5 Head, matter of factly: "Yep! Angel Butt nearly drowned."
Me, freaking the fuck out: "WHAT?! IS SHE OKAY?!"
5 Head, taking his time: "She was on the top step and tried to jump to me, but I was too far away so she went under the water for 2 to 4 seconds."
Me, resisting the urge to murder him: "So she didn't 'nearly drown', she just went under the water for 2 to 4 seconds."
5 Head: "Right. She came up laughing."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Smoreguessboard
Angel Butt, in the bathtub playing with her toys when it's time to dry off and get ready for bed: "NO! Play toys! No bed!"
Me: "You can take a bath tomorrow, but right now it's time to dry off and sit on the potty!" I pull the plug in the tub, and it makes a violent sucking sound, like the drain is hungry for blood.
Angel Butt: "NO! NO TOYS!" She frantically shoves each of her bath toys behind her body, eyeing the drain as it sucks and swirls. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes.
Me: "It's okay, your toys are too big. They won't go down the drain."
Angel Butt: "No water, no!" Try as she might, the pull of the drain is too strong and she isn't big enough to block all of her toys from advancing towards the whirling tide. In a fit of desperation, she begins stacking each toy on the side of the tub, out of harms way, working feverishly and glancing at me with frightened eyes.
Me: "Good idea, love. The toys will be safe up here." The water has now all drained from the tub, and she sits staring at the few toys left clustered around the silent drain.
Angel Butt: "Bye bye, water! See you later!" Grinning, she stands and extends her arms towards the waiting towel.
***
I am a sad, pathetic nerd. I googled "Forks, Washington" and squealed with glee when I saw it was a real place on Google maps. And La Push. And Port Angeles.
I'm going to go weep for my pride now.
***
Today is birthday party #3 of the Ark-Invasion (like the British Invasion, but with fewer shoes) and I'm pretty sure that Angel Butt is going to associate Minnesota with Birthdays forever going forward, and will always be disappointed by the lack of trick candles and chocolate cake on future visits.
***
I was hoping my mother would forget all about her request, but last night as I kissed all of the family goodnight and walked towards the safety of my bedroom, I heard her call after me, "Maybe TOMORROW you can help me set up my Facebook page..." I pretended I didn't speak English.
Me: "You can take a bath tomorrow, but right now it's time to dry off and sit on the potty!" I pull the plug in the tub, and it makes a violent sucking sound, like the drain is hungry for blood.
Angel Butt: "NO! NO TOYS!" She frantically shoves each of her bath toys behind her body, eyeing the drain as it sucks and swirls. She looks at me, pleading with her eyes.
Me: "It's okay, your toys are too big. They won't go down the drain."
Angel Butt: "No water, no!" Try as she might, the pull of the drain is too strong and she isn't big enough to block all of her toys from advancing towards the whirling tide. In a fit of desperation, she begins stacking each toy on the side of the tub, out of harms way, working feverishly and glancing at me with frightened eyes.
Me: "Good idea, love. The toys will be safe up here." The water has now all drained from the tub, and she sits staring at the few toys left clustered around the silent drain.
Angel Butt: "Bye bye, water! See you later!" Grinning, she stands and extends her arms towards the waiting towel.
***
I am a sad, pathetic nerd. I googled "Forks, Washington" and squealed with glee when I saw it was a real place on Google maps. And La Push. And Port Angeles.
I'm going to go weep for my pride now.
***
Today is birthday party #3 of the Ark-Invasion (like the British Invasion, but with fewer shoes) and I'm pretty sure that Angel Butt is going to associate Minnesota with Birthdays forever going forward, and will always be disappointed by the lack of trick candles and chocolate cake on future visits.
***
I was hoping my mother would forget all about her request, but last night as I kissed all of the family goodnight and walked towards the safety of my bedroom, I heard her call after me, "Maybe TOMORROW you can help me set up my Facebook page..." I pretended I didn't speak English.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Trouble With Facebook...
So my grandmother and I said our goodbyes before work this morning, as she's heading back home to Arkansas (insert banjo here) to get ready for her knee replacement surgery on the 24th. She's having some sort of mechanical, synthetic knee inserted into the place that is currently occupied by old, disintegrating knee, and I wish I would have known this was coming because I gladly would have offered her one of the totally human knees from out of my chest freezer, but now it's too late because she's going to be part-cyborg and I just can't get comfortable with the idea of eating a Thanksgiving dinner that was prepared by a robot. I'm old fashioned like that.
The real reason for this post is and EMERGENCY CRY FOR ASSVICE from you, the creepy Interwebnet strangers, because last night I attempted to set up an email account for my robot-neigh-grandmother, and my mother piped in from the kitchen and said, "Maybe tomorrow night you can help me set up a Facebook page," and then I had a stroke and died right there on the couch, with Landers by my side.
In lieu of flowers, Cat asks that a donation be made in her name to her name. Cash, if possible.
Because, um, I'm guessing if my mother has a Facebook page, she'll want to add me to her friend list and, well, I'm not exactly ok with that concept. In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely ANTI THAT CONCEPT, because the Facebook bone's connected to the Blogger bone, and I'm guessing that she might follow the trail to this here website and, subsequently, die from a stroke herself.
Now...my mom knows that she and I do not believe in the same variety of higher powers, or in higher powers at all, and she knows that my lifestyle is...less pious than her idea of what a pious lifestyle should be, and she knows that I write things for school that make her cringe.
What she doesn't know is that I have a website that basically amounts to a giant FUCK YOU MOM, and even though that is not my intention here (you won't be surprised to know that I never even consider my mother or her feelings when carrying on about my business), she will most definitely view the content of this blog as a personal affront, if not to her, then at least to her friend Jesus, and I love my mother (crazy though she may be) and I don't want to hurt her.
On the other hand, this is MY blog, not hers. When I was a fourteen, I "dated" the youth pastor's little brother (he was nineteen, but this didn't seem to be a problem for our families because he was a "man of god", or whatever), and at one point we made out a little and he basically dry-humped my stomach for 45 minutes, then apparently god spoke to him and told him he was DIRTY FILTHY EVIL, so he felt the need to tattle on himself. That's right, TATTLE. So when my mom heard from our pastor who heard from the youth pastor who heard from Mr. Dirty Filty Evil, she did not come directly to me, but instead went into my bedroom and read. my. diaries. ALL of my diaries.
And then grounded me and stuck hot cattle brands on my eyeballs and peeled my skin off. Or at least it seemed that bad at the time.
And he? Was forgiven because he was repentant, or some bullshit.
So ever since that massive violation of what little privacy I had to begin with, I've never EVER since been able to keep any kind of diary or journal. I break out into cold sweats and my hands clench up and I punch the walls and then I get drunk and have unprotected sex in exchange for drugs. Or something like that. It was traumatic, what can I tell you?
This is why I have a problem with the idea of my mother finding this blog vicariously through Facebook. I would, once again, feel the need to censor MY truth in order to pacify her, and I am not okay with doing that.
On the other hand, I'm already going to hell, so I doubt that the degree to which I'm going to hell is really going to make any difference to her god.
Interwebnet, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?
The real reason for this post is and EMERGENCY CRY FOR ASSVICE from you, the creepy Interwebnet strangers, because last night I attempted to set up an email account for my robot-neigh-grandmother, and my mother piped in from the kitchen and said, "Maybe tomorrow night you can help me set up a Facebook page," and then I had a stroke and died right there on the couch, with Landers by my side.
In lieu of flowers, Cat asks that a donation be made in her name to her name. Cash, if possible.
Because, um, I'm guessing if my mother has a Facebook page, she'll want to add me to her friend list and, well, I'm not exactly ok with that concept. In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely ANTI THAT CONCEPT, because the Facebook bone's connected to the Blogger bone, and I'm guessing that she might follow the trail to this here website and, subsequently, die from a stroke herself.
Now...my mom knows that she and I do not believe in the same variety of higher powers, or in higher powers at all, and she knows that my lifestyle is...less pious than her idea of what a pious lifestyle should be, and she knows that I write things for school that make her cringe.
What she doesn't know is that I have a website that basically amounts to a giant FUCK YOU MOM, and even though that is not my intention here (you won't be surprised to know that I never even consider my mother or her feelings when carrying on about my business), she will most definitely view the content of this blog as a personal affront, if not to her, then at least to her friend Jesus, and I love my mother (crazy though she may be) and I don't want to hurt her.
On the other hand, this is MY blog, not hers. When I was a fourteen, I "dated" the youth pastor's little brother (he was nineteen, but this didn't seem to be a problem for our families because he was a "man of god", or whatever), and at one point we made out a little and he basically dry-humped my stomach for 45 minutes, then apparently god spoke to him and told him he was DIRTY FILTHY EVIL, so he felt the need to tattle on himself. That's right, TATTLE. So when my mom heard from our pastor who heard from the youth pastor who heard from Mr. Dirty Filty Evil, she did not come directly to me, but instead went into my bedroom and read. my. diaries. ALL of my diaries.
And then grounded me and stuck hot cattle brands on my eyeballs and peeled my skin off. Or at least it seemed that bad at the time.
And he? Was forgiven because he was repentant, or some bullshit.
So ever since that massive violation of what little privacy I had to begin with, I've never EVER since been able to keep any kind of diary or journal. I break out into cold sweats and my hands clench up and I punch the walls and then I get drunk and have unprotected sex in exchange for drugs. Or something like that. It was traumatic, what can I tell you?
This is why I have a problem with the idea of my mother finding this blog vicariously through Facebook. I would, once again, feel the need to censor MY truth in order to pacify her, and I am not okay with doing that.
On the other hand, I'm already going to hell, so I doubt that the degree to which I'm going to hell is really going to make any difference to her god.
Interwebnet, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
No Diving, Or Reading, Apparently
My grandmother leaves for home tomorrow, which means I can finally bust out the booze again, as I know my mother is a closet wine drinker but would fain have her mother know it. Or Jesus. Apparently Jesus can't see anything that happens north of the Mason Dixon, which actually works out really fucking great for me.
I called home from work to check up on the clan and see what they were up to - the shitty, cold weather has persisted and we're quickly running out of Disney movies (apparently nobody else thinks it's a good idea to broadcast Knocked Up with the kids around)((although, Angel Butt is going to have to learn about her "whoopsie-doo!" conception sooner or later)), but this afternoon my mom and 5 Head decided to brave the mild temps and misty skies and stake out a claim at the apartment pool.
They are the only people out there, my mom informed me in a surprisingly surprised tone of voice, so my brother can splash and hog the ladder and generally be bored and talk to himself. But at least he is outside.
While I was quizzing my mom about their day and our plans for the evening, she paused to converse with 5 Head, and then relayed the conversation to me: 5 Head was scolding her for wearing her reading glasses in the pool area, which, according to the clearly stated Pool Rules, is strictly prohibited.
She assured him that the glasses are, in fact, made of plastic. His righteous indignation was sated.
Apparently, he chose not to read the rule which states that guests must be accompanied by a resident of the apartment in the pool area. That rule must have been a the bottom of the list, and therefore, was optional.
I called home from work to check up on the clan and see what they were up to - the shitty, cold weather has persisted and we're quickly running out of Disney movies (apparently nobody else thinks it's a good idea to broadcast Knocked Up with the kids around)((although, Angel Butt is going to have to learn about her "whoopsie-doo!" conception sooner or later)), but this afternoon my mom and 5 Head decided to brave the mild temps and misty skies and stake out a claim at the apartment pool.
They are the only people out there, my mom informed me in a surprisingly surprised tone of voice, so my brother can splash and hog the ladder and generally be bored and talk to himself. But at least he is outside.
While I was quizzing my mom about their day and our plans for the evening, she paused to converse with 5 Head, and then relayed the conversation to me: 5 Head was scolding her for wearing her reading glasses in the pool area, which, according to the clearly stated Pool Rules, is strictly prohibited.
She assured him that the glasses are, in fact, made of plastic. His righteous indignation was sated.
Apparently, he chose not to read the rule which states that guests must be accompanied by a resident of the apartment in the pool area. That rule must have been a the bottom of the list, and therefore, was optional.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Contentment
My niece (Angel Butt) and my little brother (Five Head) are in Minnesota along with my mother and grandmother this week. They're staying in the spare bedroom in our apartment until Saturday, and of course since the kids have been excited to go swimming in our pool for weeks, now the weather is cold and rainy and generally shitty, which means that all 6 of us are cooped up in the apartment watching Disney movies and eating cake.
Did I mention that yesterday was my mother's birthday and today is my grandmother's birthday and Thursday is Angel Butt's belated birthday party? We have an overage of cake.
Every time I see Five Head (the brother who was born when I was 15 and, for years, felt more like my child than my sibling)((the brother who has the world's biggest head))(((literally, not figuratively))), I'm struck by how "adult" he is. He talks like an adult. He behaves like an adult. He's very clearly grown up around a LOT of adults, and that is simultaneously awesome and freaky, because he watches both his local and national evening news because, he says, he finds it "interesting", and he is currently attempting to teach Angel Butt to say "antidisestablishmentarianism" because he thinks all kids should know the biggest words.
In the car with him on Saturday, he very politely asked me if I'd been stung by a bee on my nose. I assured him that it was just my giant rhino bone, the reason I refer to my nose as The Honker, and that it was a family trait passed down from generation to generation on my mother's side. No, he insisted that indeed, it looked as if ATOP the giant bone, there simply had to be some form of bug bite protruding. I finally just told him to touch the damn thing and feel for himself, so he reached his hand forward towards my extended face and felt my nose.
"Huh," he said. "I guess it really IS just the bone." Thanks little brother, for that.
Angel Butt is currently potty training, and doing rather well with it so far as I can tell. She informs us of her need to "potty" and willingly runs into the bathroom, preferring the big toilet to her little potty chair. She happily perches on the over sized seat, hands on either side for balance, and begins pointing to everything in sight, asking, "Wus dat?" until I've completed an inventory of the bathroom no less than 40,000 times. Then she grins and asks me, "Wuh YOOO doin?" and I tell her that I'm waiting for her to go potty. She grins bigger still when the rush of pee pee hits the bowl, and proclaims herself, "all done".
After one such victory in the Kwik Trip bathroom in Ames, Iowa, Angel Butt burst out of the purple bathroom door and proclaimed to the entirety of the gas station patrons, "I DIIIID IT!" They were all very proud, I can assure you, and I find myself wishing that I could be as excited about anything in my life as this child is about taking a piss.
I'm at work this morning, and so my family is left to fend for themselves for the day. When I arrived here and pulled my cell phone from my purse, I found it coated in a dried film of saliva and snot (two molars have made an appearance on the top half of Angel Butt's jaw), and I realized that dried saliva on my cell phone is exactly what has been missing from my life.
Did I mention that yesterday was my mother's birthday and today is my grandmother's birthday and Thursday is Angel Butt's belated birthday party? We have an overage of cake.
Every time I see Five Head (the brother who was born when I was 15 and, for years, felt more like my child than my sibling)((the brother who has the world's biggest head))(((literally, not figuratively))), I'm struck by how "adult" he is. He talks like an adult. He behaves like an adult. He's very clearly grown up around a LOT of adults, and that is simultaneously awesome and freaky, because he watches both his local and national evening news because, he says, he finds it "interesting", and he is currently attempting to teach Angel Butt to say "antidisestablishmentarianism" because he thinks all kids should know the biggest words.
In the car with him on Saturday, he very politely asked me if I'd been stung by a bee on my nose. I assured him that it was just my giant rhino bone, the reason I refer to my nose as The Honker, and that it was a family trait passed down from generation to generation on my mother's side. No, he insisted that indeed, it looked as if ATOP the giant bone, there simply had to be some form of bug bite protruding. I finally just told him to touch the damn thing and feel for himself, so he reached his hand forward towards my extended face and felt my nose.
"Huh," he said. "I guess it really IS just the bone." Thanks little brother, for that.
Angel Butt is currently potty training, and doing rather well with it so far as I can tell. She informs us of her need to "potty" and willingly runs into the bathroom, preferring the big toilet to her little potty chair. She happily perches on the over sized seat, hands on either side for balance, and begins pointing to everything in sight, asking, "Wus dat?" until I've completed an inventory of the bathroom no less than 40,000 times. Then she grins and asks me, "Wuh YOOO doin?" and I tell her that I'm waiting for her to go potty. She grins bigger still when the rush of pee pee hits the bowl, and proclaims herself, "all done".
After one such victory in the Kwik Trip bathroom in Ames, Iowa, Angel Butt burst out of the purple bathroom door and proclaimed to the entirety of the gas station patrons, "I DIIIID IT!" They were all very proud, I can assure you, and I find myself wishing that I could be as excited about anything in my life as this child is about taking a piss.
I'm at work this morning, and so my family is left to fend for themselves for the day. When I arrived here and pulled my cell phone from my purse, I found it coated in a dried film of saliva and snot (two molars have made an appearance on the top half of Angel Butt's jaw), and I realized that dried saliva on my cell phone is exactly what has been missing from my life.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
I Could Say This Is Relevant To Something, But That Would Be Misleading
I'm thinking of putting $2 on Mr. Hot Stuff to win in the Belmont Stakes this Saturday. Because he's a long shot. And because I have no concept of how to gamble successfully. Also, if I ever own a race horse, she'll be named either Inappropriate Joke or Racial Slur. Because I'm pretty sure the FCC wouldn't let me name her Fuck Face. I just googled it, and nobody in the history of horse racing has ever named one Inappropriate Joke or Racial Slur. Or Fuck Face, for that matter.
Plantains sounds disgusting, but really they're just fancy bananas.
I went to the Bone Doc this morning for my 6 week post-cast-removal check-up and, as I suspected, my arm is indeed still attached to my body. Seriously, what the hell else was this guy going to tell me? Oh, except that my new x-ray looks "reasonable" just like my last x-ray looked "reasonable", and by the way, it's possible there might have been some ligament damage that we didn't know about because we've taken 8,000 x-rays but no MRIs. Come back in 6 to 8 weeks if your wrist still doesn't work right, and by "right", I mean "bend in the manner that wrists are generally known for bending".
Gray and I are driving to Iowa on Saturday to watch my mother graduate from Jesus' school*, and I'm really wishing I had a Bible-shaped flask for the occasion. It would be like my wildest fantasy come to life, sitting at the Holiday Inn Airport Conference Center, getting schnockered up in a room full of people just like my mom, humming Christ Illusion and throwing communion wafers at the dude who's dancing around with his hands in the air (all 40,000 of them). OR eating hundreds of communion wafers to see if it's possible to get full from eating communion wafers. OR getting drunk enough to do a dramatic reinactment of The Exorcist scene where that chick crab-crawls backward downs the stairs.
Sometimes I like people more than I generally do. Sometimes, I don't even want to punch them in the neck.
The best thing about the process of moving? Is that you get to see those boxes full of shit that you haven't seen since the last time you moved and you can't remember what they're full of, but it must be important shit because you keep moving them everywhere you go, and then you can reminisce about that time when you had to use 1/2 inch masking tape instead of packing tape because you were poor and all you had was masking tape. And then you can reseal those same boxes (because of course the masking tape has disintegrated) with sticky tack because you're even more poor now than the last time you moved.
A good buddy of ours, The Feather, just turned 40 yesterday. It's on these types of big milestones that I like to stop and think about my life, consider where I'm going and what I'm doing, because compared to that guy, I'm going to be alive for fucking YEARS to come and should probably pace myself. Plus, I have to make sure I don't run out of money for schnapps.
Speaking of money, this TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER is going pretty well for me so far, although the fact that I no longer eat food has been a great boon to the savings endeavor. Part of The Plan is to follow a a Nazi-strict budget in which every dime of my income is "spent" before it's earned, so that any disposable income (HA!) is paying down debt, and my expenses and my income cancel each other out penny for penny at the end of the month. Tomorrow is payday, and I have exactly fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents in my bank account. Normally, this would give me a stroke because HOLY SHIT THERE'S ONLY $15.23 IN MY ACCOUNT and OMG WHAT IF I FORGOT ABOUT SOME RANDOM AUTOMATIC PAYMENT FOR $16.00 THAT IS SCHEDULED FOR JUNE 4TH?! But since this is part of the TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER and, therefore, is part of The Plan, I'm all zen about it. Which basically proves that you could light me on fire and I'd be totally cool with it so long as you wrote ,"I'm going to light you on fire," on a piece of paper and showed it to me first.
Why is that all audio books are possessed by Satan and no matter how meticulous I am about remembering where I paused the disc the night before, I always end up fucking lost in a maze of chapters I don't remember and characters that came from nowhere, three chapters ahead of where I was last time, and the part I last heard is no longer on the disc because apparently while my car was parked overnight, someone took the disc out and swapped it with a version of My Sister's Keeper doesn't include the part I was listening to when I parked my car the night before?
Joyce Carol Oates fucking rocks.
*It's not really Jesus' school, he's dead and doesn't own any schools, it's actually (so far as I know) a real, accredited university, and she's graduating with a bachelor's degree in Theology, which is awesome and I'm super proud and all that jazz. Now her next step is to become a certified minister, and that's the one I'm really looking forward to mocking.
Plantains sounds disgusting, but really they're just fancy bananas.
I went to the Bone Doc this morning for my 6 week post-cast-removal check-up and, as I suspected, my arm is indeed still attached to my body. Seriously, what the hell else was this guy going to tell me? Oh, except that my new x-ray looks "reasonable" just like my last x-ray looked "reasonable", and by the way, it's possible there might have been some ligament damage that we didn't know about because we've taken 8,000 x-rays but no MRIs. Come back in 6 to 8 weeks if your wrist still doesn't work right, and by "right", I mean "bend in the manner that wrists are generally known for bending".
Gray and I are driving to Iowa on Saturday to watch my mother graduate from Jesus' school*, and I'm really wishing I had a Bible-shaped flask for the occasion. It would be like my wildest fantasy come to life, sitting at the Holiday Inn Airport Conference Center, getting schnockered up in a room full of people just like my mom, humming Christ Illusion and throwing communion wafers at the dude who's dancing around with his hands in the air (all 40,000 of them). OR eating hundreds of communion wafers to see if it's possible to get full from eating communion wafers. OR getting drunk enough to do a dramatic reinactment of The Exorcist scene where that chick crab-crawls backward downs the stairs.
Sometimes I like people more than I generally do. Sometimes, I don't even want to punch them in the neck.
The best thing about the process of moving? Is that you get to see those boxes full of shit that you haven't seen since the last time you moved and you can't remember what they're full of, but it must be important shit because you keep moving them everywhere you go, and then you can reminisce about that time when you had to use 1/2 inch masking tape instead of packing tape because you were poor and all you had was masking tape. And then you can reseal those same boxes (because of course the masking tape has disintegrated) with sticky tack because you're even more poor now than the last time you moved.
A good buddy of ours, The Feather, just turned 40 yesterday. It's on these types of big milestones that I like to stop and think about my life, consider where I'm going and what I'm doing, because compared to that guy, I'm going to be alive for fucking YEARS to come and should probably pace myself. Plus, I have to make sure I don't run out of money for schnapps.
Speaking of money, this TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER is going pretty well for me so far, although the fact that I no longer eat food has been a great boon to the savings endeavor. Part of The Plan is to follow a a Nazi-strict budget in which every dime of my income is "spent" before it's earned, so that any disposable income (HA!) is paying down debt, and my expenses and my income cancel each other out penny for penny at the end of the month. Tomorrow is payday, and I have exactly fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents in my bank account. Normally, this would give me a stroke because HOLY SHIT THERE'S ONLY $15.23 IN MY ACCOUNT and OMG WHAT IF I FORGOT ABOUT SOME RANDOM AUTOMATIC PAYMENT FOR $16.00 THAT IS SCHEDULED FOR JUNE 4TH?! But since this is part of the TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER and, therefore, is part of The Plan, I'm all zen about it. Which basically proves that you could light me on fire and I'd be totally cool with it so long as you wrote ,"I'm going to light you on fire," on a piece of paper and showed it to me first.
Why is that all audio books are possessed by Satan and no matter how meticulous I am about remembering where I paused the disc the night before, I always end up fucking lost in a maze of chapters I don't remember and characters that came from nowhere, three chapters ahead of where I was last time, and the part I last heard is no longer on the disc because apparently while my car was parked overnight, someone took the disc out and swapped it with a version of My Sister's Keeper doesn't include the part I was listening to when I parked my car the night before?
Joyce Carol Oates fucking rocks.
*It's not really Jesus' school, he's dead and doesn't own any schools, it's actually (so far as I know) a real, accredited university, and she's graduating with a bachelor's degree in Theology, which is awesome and I'm super proud and all that jazz. Now her next step is to become a certified minister, and that's the one I'm really looking forward to mocking.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Wondering How To Apply This To A Bad Hair Day
Ok, so you know that term "beer goggles"? I have this theory that this phenomenon doesn't just cause members of the opposite sex to appear increasingly sponge-worthy in direct proportion to the amount of malt liquor you've consumed over the course of an evening. Self-esteem seems to be affected by booze, as do sounds (hip hop is no longer obnoxious, it's the best dance song EVAH)((that guy's super high pitched voice isn't faggy, it's Robin Thicke-y)). You see what I mean.
Case in point: Friday in Wisconsin, I was one bloody mary and two grapefruit-vodka's into my evening when I stopped into the bathroom (again) and realized that DAMN I LOOKED HOT TONIGHT! And then I wondered maybe if it was the lighting in the room, kind of dim and forgiving, making the camel nose appear softer, more streamlined and gave the dark circles under my eyes a sexy glow.
Each subsequent trip the pisser left me more convinced that not only was I having an extremely good hair day, but I'll be a monkey's giant asshole if my teeth weren't just a tiny bit straighter and more pearly white, and my boobs were rockin' too, now that you mention it. I fully intended to snap some shots of myself to document the hotness, but when I went to get my camera, I was distracted by a bowl of guacamole on the kitchen counter. And another grapefruit vodka.
Next morning, same bathroom, my reflection in that same mirror induced a bout of appearance-induced depression that I couldn't kick until we hit the cheese store in Comstock on the way home. Thank heaven for pepper jack and beef sticks, man.
Another piece of evidence to back up my theory: Gray stayed up one night last week, drinking beers and jammin' on his gee-tar while I sawed logs in the other room (or possibly finished reading Eclipse, though I'll never cop to that)((or tried to block out the sound of a certain Metallica song being played over and fucking over again. again)). He later confided in me that he quite innocently, mind you, ended up "kind of hammered", and had a hard time standing up when he undressed for bed.
Apparently he hadn't realized the effect of the alcohol on his razor sharp senses and his crane-eqsue balance because THE GUITAR PLAYING! OH GOOD LORD, the magical, wonderful guitar playing. He was NAILING those solos, he claimed. He was playing better than he had in weeks, and he had the booze to thank. He wished I could have heard it. He wished ANYONE could have heard him. He felt like a rock star. A really under-rated one.
So I asked if perhaps the booze may have been responsible for making him THINK he was playing awesome (i.e., DKS, or Drunken Karaoke Syndrome), and he declined to comment.
Case in point: Friday in Wisconsin, I was one bloody mary and two grapefruit-vodka's into my evening when I stopped into the bathroom (again) and realized that DAMN I LOOKED HOT TONIGHT! And then I wondered maybe if it was the lighting in the room, kind of dim and forgiving, making the camel nose appear softer, more streamlined and gave the dark circles under my eyes a sexy glow.
Each subsequent trip the pisser left me more convinced that not only was I having an extremely good hair day, but I'll be a monkey's giant asshole if my teeth weren't just a tiny bit straighter and more pearly white, and my boobs were rockin' too, now that you mention it. I fully intended to snap some shots of myself to document the hotness, but when I went to get my camera, I was distracted by a bowl of guacamole on the kitchen counter. And another grapefruit vodka.
Next morning, same bathroom, my reflection in that same mirror induced a bout of appearance-induced depression that I couldn't kick until we hit the cheese store in Comstock on the way home. Thank heaven for pepper jack and beef sticks, man.
Another piece of evidence to back up my theory: Gray stayed up one night last week, drinking beers and jammin' on his gee-tar while I sawed logs in the other room (or possibly finished reading Eclipse, though I'll never cop to that)((or tried to block out the sound of a certain Metallica song being played over and fucking over again. again)). He later confided in me that he quite innocently, mind you, ended up "kind of hammered", and had a hard time standing up when he undressed for bed.
Apparently he hadn't realized the effect of the alcohol on his razor sharp senses and his crane-eqsue balance because THE GUITAR PLAYING! OH GOOD LORD, the magical, wonderful guitar playing. He was NAILING those solos, he claimed. He was playing better than he had in weeks, and he had the booze to thank. He wished I could have heard it. He wished ANYONE could have heard him. He felt like a rock star. A really under-rated one.
So I asked if perhaps the booze may have been responsible for making him THINK he was playing awesome (i.e., DKS, or Drunken Karaoke Syndrome), and he declined to comment.
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