Earpanties. Wet ones.

Another thing about my freakshow cousin is that he's always handing me new music. Every other sentence out of his mouth is, "Ya heard the band ---fill in the blank---?"

How he hears this shit in the first place is beyond me - apparently I need to get out more - but holy christ. Everytime he sends me something (like Job For a Cowboy [LUHV, though a bit heavier than my tastes usually run] and Horse the Band) my heart gets all...flustery.

The flustery feeling is part eargasm, part guilt for not knowing about the awesomeness already.

Because seriously, how could I not have heard of Skrillex before? He was just fucking here in Minneapolis last month. And I missed that shit.

I had no idea how to describe this genre of music when I heard it the first time. My cousin was all...oh, it's...shit, I forgot what he said. He explained it with a lot of words that I've never heard used together before.

Then a guy I met at the San Diego airport bar tried to explain it to me (probably in sympathy of my mangled hand) by waxing poetic about the mix of genres that comprise music like Skrillex, and I was all: "DUDE. Blood. I'm blood-ing all over. I cannot remember this shit."

So he wrote down some stuff on a receipt like "dub step" and "house music" and gave me some other bands to check out, like Widespread Panic and Rick Preston.

And I was like: "Great, so now there are a MILLION bands/people in a genre I don't understand or remember. Awesome."

Although I will say neither of those others sound quite like Skrillex. I want to use this guy's hair as a toothbrush.








Then there's this other band I'd never heard of before, and my cousin was all, "YOUR EAR PANTIES! THEY WILL BE WET!"

Which, frankly, is one of the most interesting things that anyone has ever said to me, and then he started playing this song (below) and it was super jazzy and intricate and I almost said, "Doode, my dad would love this shit!" because my dad plays some mad guitar, but then around the 50 second mark, I was super glad I hadn't said that out loud because FUCK.

No, no he wouldn't like it at all. But I fucking DO.



PSYOPHUS!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE!??!?!

Apparently they're "mathcore" style, which...mathcore...dub step...does anyone else think they're just making shit up now? Ima start calling Coldplay's style "suicide core step."

Lastly, I met a dude who swears he-a-be mad famous someday, and since I don't like hiphop music but he convinced me to buy not one, but two of his CDs...I'd say there's a good chance. Say olah to A.P.P.L.E. M.A.R.T.I.N.I. (an acronym which stands for something super enlightening about power to the people and death to ignorance or something, but I can't remember what the fuck it was).

If you end up famous man, I better get an actual apple martini. Just sayin.

Clearly, music is better in California.



BlogHer '11 or bust. Or bust in general.

So.

My hotel bed sheets are all...leaky. Black and ishy.

Probably should back up and explain that.

I um...well, I don't know what I was expecting from the conference this year, but it wasn't even close to what I was expecting, whatever that was. I got here on Thursday afternoon and I spent about two hours at the conference. Then Friday I went to twenty minutes of one workshop.

And I was done.

I left the convention center and walked around downtown, got some lunch and drank some beers, then went back to my hotel and waited for my cousin to show up. When he did, we drove around through Balboa Park and then went to somewhere (La Mesa?).

And then these happened:

I only cried a *little* around hour forty-million of the needles.

Then we crashed at my cousin's house, played with his crazy fucking kitten, and then came back to the hotel where I got hit on by a bum, met Jessie James, learned how to open beer with a lighter, and fell asleep for houuuuuurs.

I never returned to the conference, not even for the parties. I only used one of the ten drink tickets they gave me. Hell, if I were expecting something from this trip, it's probably that I would have been hung over AT LEAST half of the time, but no. Not even once.

And now I'm packing all my shit up for the return trip to Minnesota, where I've never been so happy to live at the moment.

Did you know that chicks here in San Diego are, like, BLINDINGLY gorgeous? It's kinda painful to look at. And then it makes looking in mirrors just that much more awful.

Airplanes are my best friend now, apparently. If they kill me, I'm so going to unfriend them on facebook.

Packing is for pussies, except that it's not for me, and I'm definitely a pussy, so really...packing is for *other* pussies

So my former BlogHer roommates have been emailing back and forth for CENTURIES about what to pack for the conference, one even going so far as to lay our her outfits, photograph them, and send them all for our admiration. Or approval.


I don't know which it was, but I have not stopped making fun of them. Because, look:

"A thought that has crossed my mind: Do I need sparkle for Sparklecorn? I don't like costumes."

In my experience at Sparklecorn, you can wear (or not wear) whatever the fuck you want to wear (or not wear), so I replied, "No you don't. Not even a little bit."  Just bring your boobs.

So while this entire month-long exchange has been entertaining, I woke up this morning and realize I have to get on an airplane. Like, TOMORROW. And with me must come clothing and shit.

Now I'm frantically reading the archived emails from my former roommates, trying to decide what to bring, what not to bring, challenging my shitty memory to decide what I took last year that was non-necessary and what I forgot to bring, all the while forcing myself not to panic that I am getting. On. A flying DEATHTRAP.

On purpose, and with purposeful intent.

So I'm also regretting how I let the laundry pile up for days and days now because UNDERWEAR?!?! does not seem to exist in my household at the moment. And skirts? are all fucking M.I.A. Which means I'll be one of the dykes at BlogHer, baggy jeans and my home-grown mullet, which means I'll be a predator: a horny dyke in a sea of thousands of awesome vaginas, and frankly, people are already scared to meet me. Being a dyke predator is NOT going to help my case.

Haircut? Might be the easiest solution.

Anyhoodle, bon voyage and wish me luck because I'm pretty sure I'll be dying in a flaming, airplane-shaped inferno tomorrow.

::UPDATED:: Newsflash: I am really really good at fucking everything up, ya'll.

So I decided we can't afford to send my pretty little self to BlogHer. Too much else going on. Too many bills. Too many weeks without paychecks (for Gray AND me). Too many real things to justify going on a fancy, self-indulgent whim of a trip for a writing career I don't even have.

BUT.

They don't offer refunds.

ANDOHMYGODMYROOMMATESFOUNDAREPLACEMENTBECAUSEITOLDTHEMIWASN'TCOMINGBECAUSEOFCOURSETHEYDIDWHOWOULDN'TBUTNOWI'MGOINGTOBESLEEPINGINADUMPSTERWITHTHATGUYFROMALLTHEMOVIESWITHTHEBADHAIRANDAPETPARAKEETBECAUSEOHMYGODHOMELESS!

What I'm trying to say is...if you're going to BlogHer and you have a spare bed in your room that you'd like to fill up with 100% AWESOME...CALL ME.
I need you.

::UPDATED:: I decided that the only way to avoid homeless parakeet guy was to book a room all by my very own self. Roommates might follow, they might not. So I went to the Marriott website and found that there aren't any rooms available, and I must say this is probably the only time I've EVER encountered an over-population of vaginas.

If you're a dude, or a lesbian, or have a shoe fetish, this is probably a really awesome time to visit San Diego.

So instead, I booked a room at another, cheaper hotel about a mile from the convention. Which means I spent the same amount on one room with one bed and no roommates as I would have paid to split a room at the Marriott with three other chicks, and by "chicks" I mean gigantic suitcases of shoes and 45 shirts per day and lots LOTS of face cream.

So really, the solo room should work out nicely.

Except for the whole "walking back a mile to the hotel in the middle of the night by myself when I'm drunk. And probably naked" thing.

Look out, San Diego. I will be farting there for at LEAST three days. Depending on whether or not I lose my plane tickets.

I am happy to report that I'm leaving in a couple weeks for BlogHer '11. You dont even know how exciting this is for me. Because.

Oh lord.

Just look at what last year was like:

Someone I don't remember, Ultra Hungover Me, and Kristine from Wait in the Van, and contributor to at least four other online publications. I am so excited to be rooming with Krristine this year in San Diego, although she has kids AND a better body than me, so I will be force-feeding her burritos and churros before we head to the beach.

This is how we spent our spare time: drunkenly perusing the streets of NYC and taking photos with strangers. Or sitting on their laps. Or having them buy us drinks. Or petting their dogs. Or handing them our business cards. Or, in Susan's case, phone-sexing their co-workers.

From the left, Random Gay Dude #1, Incredibly Drunk and Friendly Me, Random Gay Dude #2, Susan Mercedes from a blog she no longer even PRETENDS to write, but also of the Incredible Honkers Club, Random (think so) Straight Guy #1, and Summer from Blogfully Yours. The three physically female ladies in this photo were roommates last year and instant BFFs, and I now have a standing invitation to visit Utah. Not until they fix the Alc by Vol shortage, ladies. Not until then. 

The view from our hotel, aka Fucking Heaven.

Speakers on the Humor Panel: Lizz Winstead, co creator of for The Daily show and  actress/comedian Jessica Bern from Bernthis.com, also a dear friend and one of my favorite Jews on earth. She's good, funny people.

During this panel, I was so hungover that I had to keep getting up (from the front row) to speed-walk to a bathroom. To puke. With a chick wearing a superwoman costume in the room. That right there is what BlogHer is all about. Well, that plus vagina jokes.

I don't quite have it in me to "empower" my vagina, so the artist went with "empowing." Makes a lot of sense, if you ask me.

Me and my favorite Jew again, Jessica Bern.

This was a panel in which they spoke about the fine line between telling the straight truth and telling an interesting story, as well as deciding where to draw the line between ROFL and TMI.

Clearly, I didn't learn a fucking thing.

And I'm a terrible person because from left are Woman I Don't Remember #1 But I'm Pretty Sure is One of the Co Creators of BlogHer, Woman I Don't Remember #2, and my motherfucking hero incarnate: Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. Jenny is the most deranged - and therefore lovable - person I've ever read, and her blog is sick and wrong and funny as shit. I want to unzip her skin and wear it like a cloak.

I may or may not have licked the entire side of her face last year, chin to temple. It may or may not have been awesome. She may or may not have a bodyguard this year.

 

Me and Susan and Summer, partying at Sparklecorn on Summer's 30th birthday...just before shit hit the fan.

This was me at CheeseburgHer. Best party of the weekend, if you ask me.

Me, decorating a dildo with googly eyes and glitter at the EdenFantasys party. At the next table was a jewelry-making station. Using condoms.

These people really *get* me.

***

This year, I'm shacking up with some new friends, and I'll be sure to write much more about them soon - especially about how they're already obsessively emailing photos of their planned outfits for the weekend - and how I'm like, "Um...I don't remember pants being a requirement."

It feels exactly the same so I'm pretty sure my reproductive organs are staging a bloody coup

Well I'm not pregnant, so that baby bump musta-could-be attributed to the burrito I ate.

I'm most upset because that blows my "burritos are slimming" theory all to hell.

In a grand gesture of Impatience, I went to the doctor and had them perform a blood test to confirm what I already suspected - that Gray's little swimmers aren't so much "swimming" as they are "wearing water wings and splashing each other" - but the results of that blood test proved to be the difference between one margarita with dinner and three margaritas with each course of dinner, so it turned out to be well worth the trouble.

Then OF COURSE I started bleeding like a stuck pig in the middle of that night.

I guess when my uterus realized I was onto its mind games, it decided to wave the red flag and go back to business as usual. Which is fine with me because I've been dying to use those PH balanced tampons ever since BlogHer last year, but I kept forgetting I had them because the package looks like my box of Sponge Bob band aids, and while I've been tempted to use Sponge Bob on my vag before (excuse me, but aren't band aids MADE for things that are bleeding?)...I never did.

I remembered my PH balanced tampons this time because I'm hyper-conscious of my vagina's emotional state this week, but also because I abstained from buying regular old imbalanced tampons in the hopes I wouldn't need them for a while, and so when the blood gushed, it was either 1) Wear the PH balanced tampons or 2) Shove in an old wine cork and hope I don't need the corkscrew to get it out. Then I realized my wine comes with screw tops these days, and that option seemed like unnecessary vaginal torture.

We're trying to make amends, my vag and me.

It wouldn't be a normal "time of the month" if I didn't experience some of the horrifying "chunks down the shower drain, holy god, did my uterus maul a small rodent, what the fuck WAS that?" and then I decided it must have been my remaining shreds of dignity that plopped out.

I'd been looking for those.

Despite the Medical Bullshit

July 17th, 2010 was the best day of my entire life. Everything else that has happened pales in comparison. Despite it all, 2011 will be hard pressed to top this year in which I got engaged, adopted our doggy son, married my best friend, went to BlogHer, bought our first home together, and celebrated it all with friends and family from all over the country.

Happy New Years, you losers.

Apparently brains are important and skull fractures are bad

Hey there Internet. Bad news...this is not Cat. It's Cat's blogging friend, Summer. You might remember me as the girl who broke her foot while attending BlogHer in New York with Cat (boy, what a fucking great thing to be remembered by).

So, why am I writing on Cat's blog? I'm afraid I am the barer of some not so great news. By now I am sure you have noticed that there has not been a new post here in about a month. Normally that is not a cause for concern. Bloggers go silent all the time. It happens. Unfortunately this silent period is not due to Cat's crazy move, school, or marriage. This silent period is because Cat has done gone n' cracked her head open.

I am not even kidding.

Maybe Cat felt the need to out-klutz/out-injure me, maybe my bad luck transferred over to her, either way, Cat suffered a major injury. She fell down a flight of stairs at her new house and was unconscious for around 20 minutes. She was rushed to the hospital and put in the ICU due to immense swelling on her brain and a small skull fracture. After about a week in the ICU they downgraded her to the trauma unit and shortly after that released her to go home. I believe her total time in the hospital was just under two weeks.

Right now Cat is home resting. She is not allowed to have visitors outside of her parents and family members who are helping to take care of her while her hubby works. She is in a lot of pain and on both pain and seizure meds. Right now she has a giant list of no's that she has to follow: no loud noises, no work, no internet, no movies, no driving, no shopping, no cooking, no stair climbing, and worst of all, no alcohol for six to nine more months! She has lost all taste and smell and may or may not get that back. I have not had the opportunity to actually talk to her (only via text messaging) but she told me that she is getting a pixie hair cut because "having hair hurts."

I have to tell you that Cat is absolutely one of my favorite people. I had been reading her blog for close to two years before I actually got to meet her in real life. After spending less than a week with her I knew she was one of the most caring bad-ass chicks to walk this earth. When I broke my foot in New York she totally took care of me and even after I got home she was continuously checking up on me, sending me illegal care packages, and finding ways to make me laugh. There are not many people who will go to that much trouble for someone they just met, but Cat is just that type of fucking amazing.

So there you have it. It kills me that there is literally nothing I can do to help. The only thing I can do is to informing her readers and friends of her situation and ask all of you to send her words of encouragement in the comments.

PS - I am in no way an official spokesperson for Cat, her family, or her condition - but if you have any questions I will do my best to answer them. Just email me: blogfullyyours at yahoo dot com.

Rest In Peace, Old Friend

Landers is dying of a broken vagina.

Basically what happened was on my way home from BlogHer, I was forced (by Super Shuttle) to sit at the La Guardia airport for four hours before my flight was scheduled to board, so I removed Landers from my bag and set him on my tilty, bar-stool angled lap...AFTER consuming the biggest Guinness ever poured after a bloody mary and the worst chips and salsa ever served...and he slid off of my lap to crash noisily and with much noise onto the floor of the really super awful airport bar/restaurant.

Pieces of plastic flew.

Several nerds wept.

Someone joked about how he never dropped his desktop computer...

I picked Landers up and brushed the shredded lettuce off of him.

The poor boy seemed to be fine, if only a little embarrassed, which was nothing I couldn't cure by drinking another bloody mary, and we continued on our merry way home.

But then he developed raised welts on his genitals. Then the welts started oozing. Then a colony of fire ants took up residence in his underwear. Which is to say that when I dropped him, the DC-in jack must have been yanked loose because Landers will no longer charge without the help of some very sturdy walls and an incredibly heavy cord-pusher-inner.

My laptop has an STD and it's killing him.

All of this to say that I missed my two-year blog anniversary on Saturday because I don't have internet access at home anymore, at least that I can use without laying upside down on the floor with one leg wedged in between Landers and the wall, simultaneously wiggling the AC power cord and trying to search for porn.

So today is my blog anniversary, I just decided. Hooray! And in honor of the occasion (as well as to calm our broken-hearted tears of loss and regret), you should go check out these links from the past:

2008 - "That one time when I was knocked up"
2009 - "The last time I forgot my blog anniversary"

Who Doesn't Love Cheeseburgers?

Gray and I went to a Chinese restaurant for our one month anniversary last Saturday (although technically our anniversary is TODAY, we waited four Saturdays and then decided we wanted to eat our frozen wedding cake, and the only way to really justify that was to say that Saturday was our anniversary, and therefore today is just the calendar anniversary. The logic of impatient sweet teeth.) Anyway, because we're so broke, we used gift cards to pay for our dinner, which was kind of the point of the gift cards, but still made me feel cheap.

Apparently Jesus agreed, because we got two fortune cookies but only one fortune: Gray's cookie was empty of everything except calories, like someone was saying, "You broke motherfuckers only get ONE and you have to SHARE." Or maybe now that we're married, that's how it goes with everything from herpes to credit card debt to fortune cookies.

In any case, the one fortune we got said, "If you continually give you will continually have." Which is kind of like kicking us when we're down, if you ask me, because clearly we don't have anything to give at the moment (THE RAMEN IS ALL MINE), but that's when I remembered that I have a coupon for a free burger meal at Johnny Rockets, and even though I could go to the Mall of Hysteria and use this coupon for myself, I'd probably better appease the fortune cookie gods and just fucking give it away. So I can have.

Also, the Chinese word on the back of the fortune was "mouth" so it's kind of appropriate. Plus, since BlogHer I've been working on Empowing my Vagina (yes, I said "empow"), and therefore should share my cheeseburger with all of you, right?

Right.

So if you'd like to win this fabulous coupon for Johnny Rockets (single hamburger or any sandwich, American fries and a soda pop), be sure to comment below and LEAVE A CONTACT EMAIL so I can let you know if you win. I'm not sure how long I'll wait to draw names, and I'm not going to give you any rules whatsoever.

Just leave a fucking comment, is that so hard?

Services Rendered

So I've started my new career as a newspaper columnist / slash / professional dog walker, and I have to say that it's awesome so far. Of course, I've only written one column for the University's paper and I've only walked one dog. One time. But still, I couldn't help but day dream last night as Libby and I strolled through the darkening SE Minneapolis streets...I could walk dogs all day long and maybe write a little in between "clients". That would be the life.

I believe I mentioned we're broke. I believe you'll remember that we started doing the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! thing with Dave Ramsey and that it worked pretty fucking well (I paid off a small fortune in about nine months), but then we got engaged and every last cent *plus some cents we didn't have* went into paying for the wedding and associated festivities.  Then there was BlogHer. Did I mention shit is expensive in Manhattan? Plus there was luggage to check ($20/bag) and airport bars to support ($9.99/bloody fucking mary) and now we're just flat out broke as a couple of Summer's foot bones.

Here we are, post-expensive occasions and stuff, and I'm frantically trying to pull money out of my ass so we can get back on track with our budgeting and debt-paying and, oh you know, EATING.

Enter The Metropolitan. It just so happens that the editor of the paper is a member of my writing group and the production manager was the flutist in our wedding, and they were interested in adding a student lifestyle column, and what was that? I can make $30 an issue, you say? I'M IN.

Then I realized they were also in need of a business manager to do some paperwork for a total of two hours per week and I basically knocked over anyone standing in my way and demanded that I be given that position as well because A) I FUCKING LOVE PAPERWORK and B) bigger stipend, so here I find myself as the new business manager and contributing staff writer for The Metropolitan, student newspaper for Metropolitan State University. My first paid writing gig.

It just so happened that on the same day I heard about the newspaper gig (I totally just typed "jewspaper"...must be thinking of Jessica Bern today...), I also placed an ad on Craigslist for my dog-walking services, thinking if I could find one or two clients who needed me to walk their pups a few times per week, it would be a great way to make a little extra money AND get some exercise, especially while the weather is still warm and sunny.

Yesterday, I met my first client: Libby, the Australian shepherd mix. Her person works overnights and has a long commute, so Libby needs to be let out and walked between 7:00 and 10:00pm several times per week. She is super adorable and teeny tiny, but has some socialization issues and isn't very friendly with new people so her person tells strangers to stay away because she bites (which she doesn't), so I actually am getting paid to scare children and play with dogs.
 
Since I think I would love walking dogs full-time, I wondered what it would take to quit my job and walk dogs full-time like Jennifer Lopez in Monster In-Law, except my apartment will always be organized and mothers-in-law love me, except when I divorce their sons. Don't worry Sharon, your son is too awesome. So far.

I calculated would need to walk fifteen dogs every day to make the equivalent of my current hourly wages, not to mention I'd have to pay for private health and dental insurance. But then again, I wouldn't have to pay taxes, which is awesome in and of itself, and even if I get audited it would be like Will Ferrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger than Fiction and my auditor would end up falling in love with my bra-less boobies and my incredible home baked goods. I would have to pick up a whole lot of dog shit, but I'd also be able to drink all day long because I could just ride my bike around from house to house.

Plus, I could steal enough dog treats for Bampa that we'd never have to buy them again.

It's like I'm scamming The Universe.

I Think She Likes Me, Too.

Nothing makes me happier than making other people uncomfortable (except marinating cats in the trunk of my car) so hanging out with Susan at BlogHer last weekend may very well be one of the best things that has ever happened to me (besides the cat marinade recipe).

Susan does things like start up a totally inappropriate conversation just as a complete stranger gets onto the elevator she's riding. It's like she does it just to see if they'll change their mind about which floor they reaaaaaally want to stop on. "OH MY GOD that woman is talking about ANAL PLUGS?!?! I'll take the stairs." *exit stage door*

Saturday night, Susan, Summer and I were on our way down to the lobby from a sex party hosted by Eden Fantasys up on the 31st floor of the Warwick Hotel, and Susan told a guy in the elevator (and his WOMAN) that even though we'd just come from a sex party, the only way Susan would be interested in him at that moment was if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt because she was starving.

And then she asked him if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt.

And then she asked if it was inappropriate to ask him if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt.

My answer is that it's never inappropriate to ask for pizza.

One of my favorite lines lately is to tell people I just spontaneously ovulated because their baby is so cute of that stranger's baby is so cute, or because it smells like baby powder or because somebody mentioned babies or possibly because I just saw a woman with a super big rack. "I'm squirting eggs all over the place!" usually gets a chuckle (or horrified gape) out of most women, so I tend to pull that out when I'm at a loss.

I should warn you now that A) your baby just made me ovulate and B) Susan never posts to her blog. Your best bet would be to google "puppy in my pants" and scroll down to the hottest old broad you can find.

Oh my god, I did not just say that.

PS - She's taken, assholes. Put it back in your panties.

The Trouble With Coach...

...is sitting next to other coach passengers.

On my flight to New York, I was seated next to a loud middle-aged guy on a cell phone. The first thing out of his mouth when he hung up was, "Oh thank god you're not *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*" Just so happened my simultaneous thought was, "Fuck, he's *hand gesture that indicates chatty*" And then Dick - because of course that was his name - told me all about his kids and his life and his rules for dating women (nobody in diapers, nobody into Jesus, nobody *hand motion indicating fatter than fuck*). Then he told me about the lady he formerly dated who did not allow him to use the word "awesome" to describe anything other than jesus christ himself, so he now uses "awesome' IN PLACE of jesus' name, and frankly the whole thing was almost too much for me to take without a cocktail, so the first thing I did when I got to the Milwaukee airport was get a cocktail. And hide from Dick.

Then on my flight home from New York, I sat next to this cute kid (christ, did I just refer to a early-twenty-something as a "kid"? Hand me my Metamucil!!) who seemed very interested in striking up a conversation with me, which was confusing because A) hadn't showered that morning and B) hadn't even pretended to shower that morning, so I was wondering what the hell he was all whipped up about, but then again I had grown accustomed to men buying me drinks in NYC and somehow convinced myself it was my dazzling good looks winning all the free booze (was I hotter in NY?!), so I answered all his questions about where I had been (in NYC bars) and what I was doing there (drinking and helping my girls get laid) and what my blog was about (poop and getting laid and making fun of jesus), and because I was still in Pitch My Blog mode from the conference and was talking a million miles an hour, I didn't even notice what must have been a visceral reaction from the kid.

When I finally shut the fuck up and asked him what HE does, he said something like, "I run a Christian outreach program for youth in the Ames, Iowa community" and then something about how he came to be "saved" in high school and grew more passionate about his faith when he reached college, and something about how he wants god to use him to change other people's lives, and that's when I realized what he was thinking...

This kid was thinking that Jesus sat his ass next to mine with the sole purpose of saving my heathen soul. Because that's why everything happens when you're an evangelical Christian, including (somehow) your youth pastor's impure thoughts about Ryan Seacrest. To save souls.

While I thought our seating situation was funny and ironic, this kid definitely interpreted it as divine intervention, and he spent the next forty minutes asking me questions about my relationship with jesus and listening to my answers about that Jew people seem to like so much, and when I found myself more exhausted than amused by the debate, I said, "Well, I'm going to take a nap now..." And then I took a nap.

Oddly, that's how church used to end, too.

I Also Smoked In NY, So I Sound Like Kathleen Turner

Well, I totally fucked up on the ramen project, mostly because I forgot to pack ramen in my suitcase that was otherwise filled with expensive vodka in plastic bottles and condoms I intended to inflate and Scotch tape around the hotel room as a welcome surprise for my roommates, none of whom actually slept in our room during the trip except for Elizabeth was is pregnant and therefore doesn't count, except on the census, and then she counts double. I also didn't really pack flat shoes that were comfortable for walking further than 18 feet (coincidentally, the length of Summer's thighs) so I hobbled around Milwaukee and LaGuardia and Manhattan and the Hilton New York for two days until I reached into my Skittle duffel bag and found that I had indeed packed TWO pairs of flats and had therefore lost three of my toes for no reason.

Farewell, little friends, you served me well until I severed you on my stilettos.

I also forgot to inflate the condoms, but that's probably because my roommates beat me to the hotel by an entire day which made surprise decorations impossible but which also made the busboy at Seraphina's on 57th and Broadway a very happy man who said he will think of me when he uses them. If none of this is making sense, it's because I still haven't slept since I got home late on Sunday night because of a few little things called Having to Work and Financial Crisis and Five Head Got A Laptop and Must Skype 24/7 or Die of Boredom (aka Time To Go Back To School, Kid).

By the time I realized I forgot to bring ramen, I was so drunk that I butt-dialed Alaska and then I told several strangers about my ingrown cooter hair, and I guess my point is that in comparison with all of the things that I could have forgotten to pack, the ramen isn't really such a big deal and I'm sure you all will forgive me for starting this project over now that I'm back (and even more destitute than before I left). The funny thing about NYC is that I spent a small fortune on the hotel room but I don't think I ever once had to pay for my own drinks, even after telling all the men at the bars that I'm newly married. They would all shrug their shoulders and make a noise that sounds like "meh" and then keep buying my drinks anyway, which is basically what my idea of heaven is except I didn't run into Tom Hanks in a towel and I didn't get to watch the circus in my pajamas.

So generous with the drinks were said New York men that I threw up at 4:00 p.m. after a full night's sleep, two naps, and a big lunch, and I NEVER throw up, especially not from booze, but the really weird thing was that I went into the same bathroom about forty-five minutes before then and had the whole place to myself (except for the chick in the superwoman costume) but when I returned with my lunch in my esophagus, there were women swarming everywhere and all I could think was A) I have a vomit audience and B) there must be free cupcakes in here.

I guess it's probably good that I wasn't eating ramen when I hurled because then I might have a vomit-induced aversion to ramen noodles and that would make the Month of Ramen into a Month of Memories of that Time I Hurled in New York, and as much as I want never to forget that moment, I also want to be able to enjoy my MSG in peace.

And at least I can say that I came home with all of my bones intact.

PS - So I don't hear about it later, I'm mentioning Susan. Hi Susan! Do you see me mentioning you? Great tits, by the way.

To Be Fair, It Used A Condom

Ok, so do you remember the time you got hit by a Mack truck with that hood ornament that said, "Fuck You," but said it good-naturedly like it was winking at you instead of flipping you off, and then you peeled yourself up off the freeway and were groping around in the ditch, looking for the rest of your brains or, at the very least, your left eyeball, when suddenly you're falling backwards into an hour ago which should mean you weren't really hit by the Mack truck anymore because it didn't happen yet, except somehow both realities existed at the same time and you were both road kill AND just about to be road kill, and then you got out of bed and went to work anyway because you were out of vacation days?

That was BlogHer '10.

I might still be drunk, but at least I didn't break any bones in my tarsal area, although BOY DO I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU, and yes, it involves broken bones, but at the moment it's all I can do not to put my head down onto this stack of papers on my desk and take a little nappie-nap because New York City took me from behind in the shower and banged me up against the conference faucet until I was covered in bruises and craving pretzel dogs.

Can't wait to share.

Please Hug Me When You See Me Crouched In A Corner Breathing Into A Paper Bag

So...BlogHer.

I'm already ready to punch myself in the face. There is nothing worse than, for two weeks in August, reading about this stupid conference on every.single.blog. on the face of the planet. Especially if you're not attending the conference. ESPECIALLY if you don't give a fuck that you're not attending the conference. Which is probably most of you.

My reader base isn't exactly known for embracing organized events.

Yet here I am: blogging about BlogHer. Because I'm going. Tomorrow. By myself. TO NEW YORK CITY. I would be lying if I told you that I am not so fucking nervous that I shit in my pants a little bit when I realized I would be taking two trains from La Guardia to Manhattan during rush hour. By myself.

Did I mention I'm a nervous flyer? I never used to be - that was the benefit of having divorced parents: I flew all over the damn country most of my life and could draw the terminal layouts of every airport between Kansas City and Los Angeles (and denote each McDonald's within those terminals with giant hearts and smiley faces). Something about growing older (and watching airplanes fly into giant buildings ((IN NEW YORK WHERE I AM GOING BY MYSELF))) amplified my fear of heights and morphed it into a fear of flying. Lets just say I'll be drinking heavily, but I have a layover in Milwaukee, so nobody will be able to tell me apart from the locals.

Although I'll be lucky if I don't end up in Guatemala.

There is one detrimental effect of the BlogHer conferences on the Blogging Community, if you ask me, is the incessant Linking To Other Blogs and Name Dropping Other Bloggers. Nobody wants to read about the friends you made, and unless we're talking Heather Armstrong or Jesus Christ himself, THESE PEOPLE MEAN NOTHING TO US. So Snuggledybumpkin from sadcatlady.com can suck my dick because I really don't want to read about who you met in the elevator on Day 1.

There are simply too many bloggers who write in waaaaay too many different genres for name-dropping to be effective. It's a numbers game, and it's safe to assume most of you have never heard of the women who I'm dying to meet this weekend, and therefore it's safe to say that you want me to just shutthefuckup already.

JENNY LAWSON!

Ok, there - got that out of my system. And now that we're clear about how I feel, let me contradict myself straight away and introduce to you the poor things who must share a hotel room with me at BlogHer, and I'd be lying again if I told you I've caught up on any of these (I'm sure) awesome blogs because I've been far too busy reading Under the Dome and picking my nose:

Elizabeth writes over at Her New Deal. I'm pretty sure she'll be my favorite because she's pregnant and that means A) BABIESOMFGSCREELEMMETOUCHBELLY and also B) more booze for me.

Summer hails from Utah. You might know her as that chick who always comments on Kel's blog, or the one that Sarah Neilson always blames for shit.  I know her as Summer. She writes at Blogfully Yours.

Finally, there's Rachel. She doesn't poop, but she does write at Live It, Love It.

And now that I'm officially part of the Obnoxious BlogHer Order, I shall leave thee (to hyperventilate into a brown paper sack because OMG CAN I BRING M&Ms ON AN AIRPLANE OR WILL THEY ARREST ME FOR THAT?).

PS - Please pray that Gray doesn't die of a coronary from all the fruit pies, Mountain Dew and Reeses Pieces he'll be eating for "supper" while I'm away. Or from the pictures I text him.

Because 830mgs of Sodium Per Serving HAS To Be Good For Your Budget

Because I Know You're All Dying To Know

So we just got married.

I'm going to use that as the excuse for every single thing that I fuck up in the next six months. "Sorry for running over your toddler, Mrs. Anderson - I just got married." It's totally fair, too. Something about planning a wedding and then actually going through with the wedding...well, it messes with your sense of equilibrium. ESPECIALLY if you go on a honeymoon right away. I've been sans reality for, like, three weeks which results in me giving the big double fuck you fingers to the Universe and all that is considered "normal". Including showering.

Gray & Mrs. Gray, just after he made an honest woman of me.

And the cops weren't even called. THAT'S HOW FUCKING MAGICAL IT WAS.

So now we're home and we're back to the daily grind of work, eating cheese puffs by the fist-fulls, searching for homes to buy, going to BlogHer, fighting over who gets to masturbate while the other walks the dog, selling our used crap on Craig's List...

I think our normal may be a little different than yours.

Satan's. I Checked the Label.

It's safe to say I just ate my weight in mushrooms. And by "mushrooms", I mean mushrooms, not *mushrooms*. Don't worry, I had bacon for lunch. No, I just hosted my first writers' group meeting, which is not meant to imply that it's MY writers' group, no indeed, it belongs to the six of us equally as per the custody agreement.

What?

Exactly.

Wow ::ree ree reeeee:: this fucker is RUSTY.

I'm sitting here on the couch after having cleaned TWICE today, once because my friends were coming over, once because my friends have left, and I'm listening to a song about the stitches sewn in a fake messiah's eyes, and that's when I realized that my dog is farting and also that I had to spell check "messiah".

Which actually explains a lot about my so-called "karma".

And then I lied to my entire writers' group about cleaning. Because I WILL CLEAN. It's genetic. Don't try to stop it. You could host this fucker at your house and somehow I'd find a way to clean first. There has got to be a way to harness this power.

If none of this is making sense, it's because I'm gearing up for BlogHer '10 where I will meet my destiny, also known as Jenny from TheBloggess.com (SHAMELESS LINKAGE), and who everyone knows is exactly the opposite of what people think of when they say "making sense", but who everyone ALSO knows has a great rack and a fucking huge wig collection.

Ok, I'm actually sitting here typing. Typing here on this thing. INSTEAD OF MASTURBATING. That's how serious I am about my craft. I'm forcing my itchy fingers to remain above the waist band, which eerily reminds me of my middle school Valentine's Day dance where the teachers walked around the dance floor with wooden rulers and actually measured the distance (in inches, thank god)((for the middle school boys)) between Crotch A and Crotch B. And in hindsight, I'm kind of wondering what the fuck those teachers were actually thinking, like, "Is this what my life has come to? The inches between Crotch A and Crotch B? At work? ON A TUESDAY? Where is the nearest bridge and hand me that rope just for good measure."

My dog just traded up his fart smell for a beef-flavored hoof smell. I'm not sure if it's actually a cow hoof or if it's a different kind of hoof soaked in beef bullion.

QUICK - What's the cheapest kind of hoof?

Whatever the cheapest kind of hoof is, that's probably the kind of hoof it is because the bag says "Made in China". And isn't it funny that I go out of my way to feed this dog holistic, organic dog food that is made with chicken bits instead of Styrofoam, and is fully of unicorn jizz and Obama juice, apparently, because it costs more than my health insurance, and then I buy $36.00 bags of blueberry-flavored, glucosamine-filled nibble treats. And then I hand that same dog a dead animal's foot to chew on.

And I don't even know what kind of animal it's from.

AND I ONLY SPENT $4.99 ON THE BOTTLE OF WINE I JUST FINISHED.

My priorities are officially fucked.

Or How To Tie Ties.

On Tuesday, I began a post like this:

Holy moly, I'm exhausted. And a little bored, believe it or not. All I have left to do for now is hire a photographer I can't afford and find a whole bunch of addresses for people we haven't seen in multiple years, and who (hopefully) will not be attending our wedding. Oh, and find a dress that (hopefully) costs negative three thousand dollars. I need to find somebody to pay me to wear their gown like I'm hoping is true for Lady Gaga every single time she puts on pants. Or, more accurately, latex g-strings, suspenders, and a bolo tie.

Well, here we are at Thursday I am still down a photographer, but now my DJ has backed out due to a "prior event" (WHAT THE FUCK, DJ? Who cares about those other people!), I'm beginning to panic a tiny bit that the invitations won't get printed in time to mail them in time to get asses in the seats at the church on time all because the invitations weren't printed on time, and I still don't have a yea or nay from the "cook" at the KC "event hall" about whether or not they'll make my totally off-menu menu and how much that off-menu menu might cost, and now I've sent out so many email inquiries to so many vendors that when I get replies to my email inquiries, my initial response is the drop something and run away.

So basically it's going well.

I know I should probably refocus my attention and get around to actually doing homework and shit, and people are expecting me to clean the bathrooms at home, and by "people," I mean my delicate lady bits, who are afraid of the boy pee on the toilet seat, and my co-workers are plotting to strangle me with one of those stupid, $4 chair sashes because I can't shut up about the stupid wedding plans and OH MY GOD MAKE HER STOP.

The good news is that I also need to choose and order (expensive) custom favors/slash/promotional items for my ill-timed trip to NCY for the 5th Annual BlogHer conference. In New York City. Where I'm flying. By myself. To New York. Alone. Maybe 350 custom condoms would send the wrong message to the NYC mugger crowd, although it sure would be awesome to see their faces when I hand over my purse (which was duck taped to my torso and disguised by the pillows I shoved into my shirt to appear less desirable to the NYC rapist crowd) and all that's inside are rubbers that say "Get Boned." and my blog URL.

The muggers would either be so confused that they hand back the purse full of condoms and walk away and find somewhere to wash their hands pronto, or they'd pass the purse and myself along to the rapists standing nearby, sort of like a peace offering for encroaching on their turf.

I've heard that NYC rapists are comparatively educated about STDs, which is great and all, but what I really hope they know is how to make boutonnieres.