I'm remodeling four or five rooms in my house. At the same time. Technically by myself. With almost no first-hand knowledge of what I'm doing and a hell of a lot of tools I can't ever find.
HAS ANYONE SEEN MY PHILIPS HEAD DRILL BIT?!?!?!
I figure I've watched enough This Old House, DIY Network, Bath Crashers and Design Star to have a PhD in Remodelology, including installing new door hardware (which is simple, right?! WRONG. Try installing 2011 lock hardware in three separate 1915 doors and you tell me how simple it turns out to be. Fucking non-standard widths and original hardware that left the core of the doors empty.)((IT WAS HAIR-RIPPING MADNESS).
So my porch is done, and two bedrooms, and my bathroom is down to plywood subfloor.
My ONLY bathroom has been reduced to plywood and screws and sharp tile shreds.
Oh the panic: I have until November 1st to replace the vanity with a pedestal sink, have the toilet moved, repair the subfloor (because some DUMBASS laid tile directly on top of plywood and used CEMENT to adhere it, so it was no shocker when the tile came up and the subfloor under the toilet is rotting and discolored, SO SO WET), install a new toilet over the new plumbing, move an electrical outlet from over the sink (still not sure if I *need* to do that or not), install an exhaust fan and figure out if it can be recessed between the joists of the ceiling or if I need to build a soffit, lay waterproof barrier down and install a new floor. Oh, and paint everything. And cut/install floorboards and trim. And reinforce the heating vent, which is basically just floating over a huge hole because it's not attached to any kind of stud or wall support.
I CAN HAZ LOTS OF SHIT TO DO, YA'LL.
But this huge Fail of a project honestly isn't the biggest change happening right now. Our families have been more or less updated now, so it's relatively safe to tell all you Interweb strangers.
Gray and I decided that we make better friends than spouses. We decided to make a split, and he has moved out of the house.
Divorce #2 by the age of twenty-eight! If it weren't for Brittany Spears, I'd have the world record of Really Big, Expensive, Hurtful Mistakes.
It's a much, MUCH longer story than I'm going to share here, mostly because it's a private matter (you know I don't consider much sacred here, so I must mean business) and I have no desire to rumor monger when it comes to one of the best men I've ever known in my life. He didn't do anything wrong to cause any of this.
As it is, Gray and I aren't angry with each other. We're not fighting, nor are we blaming each other, nor pushing our friends and family into choosing sides. Gray and I will always be very, very good friends. He will always be Uncle Jeremy to Angel Butt. I'll always call his mother Mama. Our mutual friends (and there are MANY) will always be mutual friends. Our dogs will always belong to us both.
It's just that I've learned (via therapy and an excruciating trial and error process) that I am not the type of woman who is cut out for marriage. Or monogamy, for that matter. So we're reverting back to our original status of really good friends.
And I'm praying to gods I don't believe in that I won't ever be stupid enough to make the same mistakes a third time. It's okay to hurt myself, but not other people.
They must have a Divorcers Anonymous somewhere, no?
So to Gray, my best friend and the man who has been there with me, by my side every day, for more than four years as a partner, and before that as a rock-steady confidant and friend, through months in the hospital, through more changes of address than I can remember, through our miscarriage, our family dramas, through my staggering, life-shattering bouts with depression and anxiety and suicidal thoughts.
Thank you Jeremy for everything you've done for me, all of the memories we built together, and all of the ways you helped me to find who I really am.
You taught me to be my true self, even if I don't know who exactly she is. You're taught me how to search for her.
I love you and I'll never regret any of our time together, not for a second. You stepped back from something you love so that I could be free to follow my own path, one that was hurtful and doesn't include you in the same capacity that you'd hoped. You selflessly gave me back parts of my life that I've never truly had: independence and the promise/fear of an uncertain future.
I hope more than anything we still have decades of memories to build together. We will always be family. You'll always be my lobsta.
And I hope that you find the happiness that you are so over-qualified to enjoy. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me in so many ways.
I'll never be able to thank you sufficiently for that.
And so we're off to start new chapters of our lives, embarking on some not-necessarily-welcomed adventures of our own, and altering our world views to include a future that doesn't involve growing old together as husband and wife.
It's terrifying and sad. It's also hopeful and liberating, at least for me.
There will be a long period of adjustment for us both, as well as our friends and family who know us as happy and well-suited for each other. In the end, I believe we've made the best decision for us both.
And that, ya'll, is really all we can do.
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label Knotty Girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Knotty Girl. Show all posts
Thursday, October 06, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Leftovers (alternately, "I never smoked enough weed to justify my memory loss")
When taken all together, though, they do form a bit of a picture of how my fucking cracked mind works, and
Let's start with saved drafts that LITERALLY CONTAIN NO MATERIAL WHATSOEVER, only titles:
- Tinsel
- The toilet saga
- Her Lipgloss is poppin
- We've been boo'd
- Words
- My personal favorite, Ted Stevens fails to report gift of life, finds justice in fiery airplane crash
- Teeth dream
- Where has my libido gone?
- Okay, but sometimes shut up
- Sex talk with my mom (okay, unfortunately I do remember this one)
- Fungal love
- I don't miss you right now
- Furry bandit stakeout
- Jon Gosselin abused by Kate's hair
- And let's not forget the all-important Ingrown cooter hairs
::elevator music while I check to see if there were any actual words in the body of that draft::
Okay, so the entirety of the (BRILLIANTLY TITLED) post "Words" is below:
C'est la vie
Donezo
Yes We Can
I don't know whether I was trying to convince myself that the two years of high school French were, in fact, NOT a ginormous waste of time or if I was trying out different slogans for the Obama '08 campaign, in which case I'm pretty sure the third option would be considered plagiarism.
Okay, so now check out this post titled "I've got all my eggs in twin baskets":
Being the worrier that I am, I have spent a lot of time mildly freaking out about the possibility of losing my job. I got laid off in March last year, although they kept me on until July. But with the current financial crisis and the fact that every single person in the world is getting laid off right now, I feel it's prudent to make a Plan B.
Not only do I have no idea why I was freaking out about losing my job, I should mention that I never bothered to come up with a financial Plan B. Unless you count hooking, but in the event of a layoff, that's already my Plan A.
This one illustrates my laziness to a T, meaning I never got around to blogging about Gray's proposal to me: "Be very afraid. Marginally afraid is acceptable."
Holy cannoli-balls people, I'm back from vacation and I am ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED. Where do I even start?
"At the beginning" is not an option because I'm stuck in epic poetry mode and I must begin in medius res or the entire world with implode in a cloud of bad cologne and hornyness. And I just learned that spell check does not recognize "hornyness" as an actual word, therefore I claim it.
Can you say I'm a douche? Because that's basically what the entire previous paragraph relays.
How about the much anticipated "The trouble with trusting a fart, Part II"...This one simply says, "Yes, it's happened again." WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AGAIN and exactly how many pairs of underwear did I have to trash that day?
The world will never know.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
More of me. Just what the world fucking needs, eh?
So I'm obsessed with making babies.
This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.
Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.
So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.
Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.
We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.
Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.
Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.
I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.
My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!
My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).
Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.
You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.
I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?
And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.
And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.
This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.
Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.
So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.
Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.
We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.
Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.
Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.
I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.
My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!
My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).
Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.
You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.
I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?
And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.
And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Perfect Time To Have Kids, No?
I'm considering a return to talk therapy, and holy christ, I was unprepared for how awkward that sentence would sound out loud: the verbal equivalent of that couple who walks around with their hands in each other's rear pants pockets, regardless of how impractical that may be when they're also, oh I don't know, trying to cross the street while making out and talking on a cell phone.
I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.
I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.
Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.
After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.
I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.
I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over severalglasses cases of wine.) Regardless of this ridiculous time schedule, I find myself scanning the domestic "gigs" listed on Craigslist, searching for part-time cleaning jobs to make a little extra money because I have fifteen spare minutes every other Tuesday evening and I'll be damned if I spend that time enjoying myself. Plus, two people have told me I'm "crazy" since yesterday. Maybe I should look into that.
I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.
I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.
I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.
Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.
After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.
I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.
I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over several
I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.
Monday, August 30, 2010
House. Also, Poor.
So. We bought a house.
That's what we've been up to. Gray and I have been searching for the perfect property since March, and this is the third time we found "it," the difference being that this time, the buyer agreed with us.
I was thinking our life would slow down after the wedding, but I was wronger than wrong, because now we'll be packing and moving (did I mention this marks the fifth time I've moved in three years?), and Kylie is moving in with us at Longfellow Deeds for a couple of weeks before she leaves to spend her autumn months with her hot boyfriend in Europe (I know, FUCK YOU KYLIE, is right) and I'm starting over with The Month of Ramen coming up this Wednesday. I thought we were broke before, and now we're exactly $House Amount of Dollars more poor than before. Lucky for us, Top Ramen doesn't discriminate. And also, we own all our porn.
I was thinking our life would slow down after the wedding, but I was wronger than wrong, because now we'll be packing and moving (did I mention this marks the fifth time I've moved in three years?), and Kylie is moving in with us at Longfellow Deeds for a couple of weeks before she leaves to spend her autumn months with her hot boyfriend in Europe (I know, FUCK YOU KYLIE, is right) and I'm starting over with The Month of Ramen coming up this Wednesday. I thought we were broke before, and now we're exactly $House Amount of Dollars more poor than before. Lucky for us, Top Ramen doesn't discriminate. And also, we own all our porn.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Hit It While You Still Can, Guys
Somewhere between the church and the courthouse, the United States Postal Service lost our signed marriage license, which means that Gray and I aren't *technically* married yet. He argues that we're married in the eyes of god, but he forgets that I don't BELIEVE in god, so to me it's the same thing as him saying we got married on the playground. The pretend playground. In front of invisible people. Goddamn if that wasn't the most expensive recess EVER.
At first I was upset about it because I was just in NYC and there were hot guys everywhere - and Susan's tits were awesome - but I was all like, "BACK OFF, MISTER. I'm a married woman." and now I find out I totally could have both gotten laid AND gotten a free Mr. Potato Head, which means it would have been the best Thursday of my ENTIRE LIFE, except instead I was relegated to explaining that I was married, yes, but not to the Mr. Potato Head I was toting under my arm. If I'd have known I was still single, the toy would have made more sense. Then I decided it was okay because there's not a fucking thing under the sun I can do about it.
Plus, you know, BLOG POST and shit.
Apparently, they are unable to accept our souvenir copy of the marriage license even if we also produce PHOTOGRAPHS OF US SIGNING THE ACTUAL MARRIAGE LICENSE...
...so we're going to the county service center (and if USPS would like to reimburse me for the time I'll spend NOT at work because I'm busy fixing their mistake, I'm pretty sure you know my address...)((maybe...my birthday card from my dad was post dated April seventh but didn't show up until June, so maybe not...)) and we have to apply for a replacement license which must then be completed by ourselves, our pastor who officiated the ceremony, and two witnesses from our wedding, and then per Gray's brilliant suggestion, we're going to walk that shit into the county offices ourselves and stand there while we watch them enter it into the computer because SERIOUSLY MOTHERFUCKERS? LOST?!?!?
At first I was upset about it because I was just in NYC and there were hot guys everywhere - and Susan's tits were awesome - but I was all like, "BACK OFF, MISTER. I'm a married woman." and now I find out I totally could have both gotten laid AND gotten a free Mr. Potato Head, which means it would have been the best Thursday of my ENTIRE LIFE, except instead I was relegated to explaining that I was married, yes, but not to the Mr. Potato Head I was toting under my arm. If I'd have known I was still single, the toy would have made more sense. Then I decided it was okay because there's not a fucking thing under the sun I can do about it.
Plus, you know, BLOG POST and shit.
Apparently, they are unable to accept our souvenir copy of the marriage license even if we also produce PHOTOGRAPHS OF US SIGNING THE ACTUAL MARRIAGE LICENSE...
...so we're going to the county service center (and if USPS would like to reimburse me for the time I'll spend NOT at work because I'm busy fixing their mistake, I'm pretty sure you know my address...)((maybe...my birthday card from my dad was post dated April seventh but didn't show up until June, so maybe not...)) and we have to apply for a replacement license which must then be completed by ourselves, our pastor who officiated the ceremony, and two witnesses from our wedding, and then per Gray's brilliant suggestion, we're going to walk that shit into the county offices ourselves and stand there while we watch them enter it into the computer because SERIOUSLY MOTHERFUCKERS? LOST?!?!?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, August 16, 2010
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 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.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Pandora's...Nope. Can't Say That Word Without Laughing. In ANY Context.
I haven’t had a fucking thing to write about for months. More accurately, I've had thousands of things to write about (getting engaged, adopting the world's most decrepit dog and making him fat, decided to buy/shop for a house and looking at several dozen ((mostly mold-infested)) of them, debating the hotness of Prince Albert piercings on hairy guys, surviving the acquisition of the new Transformers PS3 game ((WE ARE CAPTURING MOTHERFUCKING B)), getting married, getting published, starting/joining a writer's group that I nicknamed SOMETHING INCREDIBLE ((after someone else called it that)), surviving pavement ant infestations, tolerating scorpion-cricket infestations, having both of my ((estranged)) parents in the same state AT THE SAME TIME)) lately but am too lazy to actually put those things into the form of a blog post. Or a tweet. In fact, I'm pretty sure Twitter dumped me back in June, although I still have it's mixed tape and a few condoms in my night stand. I have been completely preoccupied with the wedding.
I know, I know...you're all thinking, "Enough about the stupid wedding, we're sick to death of hearing about the wedding, I got married once and I don't suck, so stop sucking,shove your fucking wedding IN MY EAR," but here's what happened: On the morning of my last day of work prior to our wedding day, I was sitting at my desk Attempting to Get Shit Done so that I could miss eight days of work without the threat of returning to find a robot doing my job - or a chimp - and that's the moment when I realized I was DYING to write.
And not just write, but actually blog. I was brain-firing material for TWO DIFFERENT POSTS. Awesome ones.
Brilliant crap just kept popping into my head and I was sitting there like, “DUDE, Catherine. Can’t you see I’m trying to work? BE AWESOME LATER.”
Turns out my material wasn't as awesome as my sleep-deprived Bride Brain had my Funny Bone thinking, but it was SOMETHING, nonetheless. One of the topics that gave me Brain Orgasms that day was the complicated joy that is Pandora.com.
I'll just warn you now that if you don't use Pandora.com to listen to music, then not only will you find this post to be overwhelmingly NOT funny, but it probably won't make the slightest ounce of sense, either.
I made the mistake of trying out the Pandora material on one such friend. Verbally. Without the luxury of ALL CAPS. Let's just say that she was not impressed.
Another friend - this one a faithful listener of her personal Show Tunes!! station, but only when she's not tuned to GLEE!! - sat in her office next to mine and read my one-liners and she laughed until I could feel the spray of her urine on my face from around the corner. So that was encouraging.
Later, I tried it out on another friend who took it upon himself to counter my jokes with his personal jihad in the name of Guarding Pandora's Honor, and repeatedly told me I was both not funny and totally not getting It. Like he thought I might hurt Pandora's feelings.
BUT...IT'S JUST...BUT I.....well FUCKSTIX. I think this shit is funny.
I use Pandora, and while I agree that a web-based radio station that I can change at the click of a button is awesome, I find myself laughing loudly when an overwhelmingly NOT MY STATION kind of band starts to play.
The whole premise of Pandora is that you type in the name of a band or a song that you like, and this Internet software will create an entire playlist based on your choice of that first band or song. It attempts to determine what songs you A) like and B) want to hear, and it attempts to do so without the benefit of your personal Itunes library at its fingertips. This is not like putting your MP3 player on "shuffle" - Pandora has EVERY SONG IN THE WORLD to choose from, and boy... most days are like a game of auditory roulette.
This is why it is imperative that you remain calm at all times when listening to Pandora.com. You must never click the Thumbs Up button without the strictest of prior self-examinations (Do I REALLY like this song?) because that "Thumbs Up" gesture isn't just saying, "Hooray for Pandora," my friend. Hooooooo no.
It's saying, "YES! HARDER! FASTER! Fucking DO me, Pandora!"
If you, in your excitement over hearing a Tool song you love, hastily and without proper consideration of the entire collected works of Tool in mind, click Thumbs Up when Pandora plays Sober, well then...rest assured you will soon find yourself listening to a fourteen minute track of the sound of a spoon being dropped into a bucket full of worms. On Pandora.com, Tool is malware to your ears, as is Dave Matthews Band, Led Zeplin, Metallica, Coldplay, etc. Once they've been Thumbs Up-ed, you will never be rid of them. And I'm also pretty sure they're secretly video taping you in the shower. They're THAT insidious.
Not following?
Pandora's song selections are like shopping for clothes with your mother in law: You make the mistake of telling her you like the little embroidered flower on the butt of a pair of jeans at Nordstrom's and she'll take that to mean that you think the faux-denim button-up blouse with the dogs and cats stitched along the button holes over at Talbot's is something you'd like to try on. "Oooh look at the stitching!" she'll say. "I think you'll love the stitching."
Try as you might, you'll never be able to explain the difference between the two very different versions of embroidery, and therefore you will be forced to listen to all thirteen of Jack Johnson's songs every single day for a week because you once gave a Thumbs Up to a Santana song.
Another example: Lamb of God fan knows that the difference between metal music and emo bullshit is a very thin, smoking-red line. Puddle of Mud is unacceptable, as are Godsmak, Nickelback, and Linkin Park. Unfortunately, Pandora does not share a metal fan's sense of discrimination. Or EAR DRUMS, apparently.
Once, on my Lamb of God radio station, I was subjected to the opening bars of Jay-Z's "Hollywood." I'm not sure exactly what it was about my speed core music selection that led Pandora down the TEENAGE GIRL HIP-HOP path, but there I was: befuddled and bleeding from the ears.
I'm considering litigation.
Sometimes I wonder what songs Pandora vetoes when you click the Thumbs Down button, an equally risky move. The answer is probably "all the good ones", because I'm pretty sure Pandora uses the 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon method to determine musical similarity. And when you do frown on a song selection, the way Pandora apologizes for picking that song is just creepy. Giving a Thumbs Down to Pandora is like shoving your way to third base with your clingy, fifteen year old girlfriend, and then telling her it's over.
Inevitably, she'll IM you saying, "We're so sorry! We promise never to play that song again if only you'll just LISTEN TO ME! I'll even touch your penis!"
Sometimes, though...sometimes the damn computer gets it right. During those days when Pandora is on a roll - when it's actually picking songs that you want to hear and that make sense mushed together in the same genre - then you must walk softly and tiptoe around like a sleeping baby. My advice to you is DO NOT PRESS PAUSE. DO NOT GET UP FROM YOUR DESK TO TAKE A PISS. DO NOT COMMENT ALOUD THAT YOU'RE DIGGING THE PLAYLIST THIS MORNING. If you do, beware the "Little Bubbles" guy, and don't say I didn't warn you.
I know, I know...you're all thinking, "Enough about the stupid wedding, we're sick to death of hearing about the wedding, I got married once and I don't suck, so stop sucking,shove your fucking wedding IN MY EAR," but here's what happened: On the morning of my last day of work prior to our wedding day, I was sitting at my desk Attempting to Get Shit Done so that I could miss eight days of work without the threat of returning to find a robot doing my job - or a chimp - and that's the moment when I realized I was DYING to write.
And not just write, but actually blog. I was brain-firing material for TWO DIFFERENT POSTS. Awesome ones.
Brilliant crap just kept popping into my head and I was sitting there like, “DUDE, Catherine. Can’t you see I’m trying to work? BE AWESOME LATER.”
Turns out my material wasn't as awesome as my sleep-deprived Bride Brain had my Funny Bone thinking, but it was SOMETHING, nonetheless. One of the topics that gave me Brain Orgasms that day was the complicated joy that is Pandora.com.
I'll just warn you now that if you don't use Pandora.com to listen to music, then not only will you find this post to be overwhelmingly NOT funny, but it probably won't make the slightest ounce of sense, either.
I made the mistake of trying out the Pandora material on one such friend. Verbally. Without the luxury of ALL CAPS. Let's just say that she was not impressed.
Another friend - this one a faithful listener of her personal Show Tunes!! station, but only when she's not tuned to GLEE!! - sat in her office next to mine and read my one-liners and she laughed until I could feel the spray of her urine on my face from around the corner. So that was encouraging.
Later, I tried it out on another friend who took it upon himself to counter my jokes with his personal jihad in the name of Guarding Pandora's Honor, and repeatedly told me I was both not funny and totally not getting It. Like he thought I might hurt Pandora's feelings.
BUT...IT'S JUST...BUT I.....well FUCKSTIX. I think this shit is funny.
I use Pandora, and while I agree that a web-based radio station that I can change at the click of a button is awesome, I find myself laughing loudly when an overwhelmingly NOT MY STATION kind of band starts to play.
The whole premise of Pandora is that you type in the name of a band or a song that you like, and this Internet software will create an entire playlist based on your choice of that first band or song. It attempts to determine what songs you A) like and B) want to hear, and it attempts to do so without the benefit of your personal Itunes library at its fingertips. This is not like putting your MP3 player on "shuffle" - Pandora has EVERY SONG IN THE WORLD to choose from, and boy... most days are like a game of auditory roulette.
This is why it is imperative that you remain calm at all times when listening to Pandora.com. You must never click the Thumbs Up button without the strictest of prior self-examinations (Do I REALLY like this song?) because that "Thumbs Up" gesture isn't just saying, "Hooray for Pandora," my friend. Hooooooo no.
It's saying, "YES! HARDER! FASTER! Fucking DO me, Pandora!"
If you, in your excitement over hearing a Tool song you love, hastily and without proper consideration of the entire collected works of Tool in mind, click Thumbs Up when Pandora plays Sober, well then...rest assured you will soon find yourself listening to a fourteen minute track of the sound of a spoon being dropped into a bucket full of worms. On Pandora.com, Tool is malware to your ears, as is Dave Matthews Band, Led Zeplin, Metallica, Coldplay, etc. Once they've been Thumbs Up-ed, you will never be rid of them. And I'm also pretty sure they're secretly video taping you in the shower. They're THAT insidious.
Not following?
Pandora's song selections are like shopping for clothes with your mother in law: You make the mistake of telling her you like the little embroidered flower on the butt of a pair of jeans at Nordstrom's and she'll take that to mean that you think the faux-denim button-up blouse with the dogs and cats stitched along the button holes over at Talbot's is something you'd like to try on. "Oooh look at the stitching!" she'll say. "I think you'll love the stitching."
Try as you might, you'll never be able to explain the difference between the two very different versions of embroidery, and therefore you will be forced to listen to all thirteen of Jack Johnson's songs every single day for a week because you once gave a Thumbs Up to a Santana song.
Another example: Lamb of God fan knows that the difference between metal music and emo bullshit is a very thin, smoking-red line. Puddle of Mud is unacceptable, as are Godsmak, Nickelback, and Linkin Park. Unfortunately, Pandora does not share a metal fan's sense of discrimination. Or EAR DRUMS, apparently.
Once, on my Lamb of God radio station, I was subjected to the opening bars of Jay-Z's "Hollywood." I'm not sure exactly what it was about my speed core music selection that led Pandora down the TEENAGE GIRL HIP-HOP path, but there I was: befuddled and bleeding from the ears.
I'm considering litigation.
Sometimes I wonder what songs Pandora vetoes when you click the Thumbs Down button, an equally risky move. The answer is probably "all the good ones", because I'm pretty sure Pandora uses the 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon method to determine musical similarity. And when you do frown on a song selection, the way Pandora apologizes for picking that song is just creepy. Giving a Thumbs Down to Pandora is like shoving your way to third base with your clingy, fifteen year old girlfriend, and then telling her it's over.
Inevitably, she'll IM you saying, "We're so sorry! We promise never to play that song again if only you'll just LISTEN TO ME! I'll even touch your penis!"
Sometimes, though...sometimes the damn computer gets it right. During those days when Pandora is on a roll - when it's actually picking songs that you want to hear and that make sense mushed together in the same genre - then you must walk softly and tiptoe around like a sleeping baby. My advice to you is DO NOT PRESS PAUSE. DO NOT GET UP FROM YOUR DESK TO TAKE A PISS. DO NOT COMMENT ALOUD THAT YOU'RE DIGGING THE PLAYLIST THIS MORNING. If you do, beware the "Little Bubbles" guy, and don't say I didn't warn you.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Douchebags, Wedding Style
We have not one, not two, but FIVE separate dramas going on at the moment, and I'm not even counting the two dramas that wrapped up in March, nor the Neverending Short Sale (Atreyu Buys a Split-level). This is more drama than I've ever seen in my entire life, including Twilight I - VII and The Babysitter's Club series books. COMBINED. More drama than should be capable of existing on one plane of reality at a time.
WHAT THE FUCK, GOSSELINS. Jon's tattoo is NOT DOING THE TRICK. Help a bride out.
Seriously, where the fuck is Jon Edwards when you need him?
Douchebags seem to crawl out of the woodwork for two occasions: weddings and big lottery wins, and unfortunately we haven't hit any jackpots lately, unless you count the indecent number of brand new lubrication products I've received this week. Oh, and the candy bra. Gray was so fed up yesterday with one particular drama that he threw his cell phone like a little girl. I think he realized at the last minute that it might break more than it's already broken, and THEN how would friends and family contact him to bitch?
This is why people elope, we realized last night. Not the expense. Not the hassle. Not the stress.
IT'S THE DOUCHEBAGS.
This is also why weddings are called off because brides suddenly realize what they're marrying into and grooms suddenly realize who they're going to be related to and they both consider the implications for every future holiday and they both go, "Um...let's just keep fucking each other dishonestly." Because THAT?!?! Makes more sense.
I need Xanax, ya'll. And a punching bag.
WHAT THE FUCK, GOSSELINS. Jon's tattoo is NOT DOING THE TRICK. Help a bride out.
Seriously, where the fuck is Jon Edwards when you need him?
Douchebags seem to crawl out of the woodwork for two occasions: weddings and big lottery wins, and unfortunately we haven't hit any jackpots lately, unless you count the indecent number of brand new lubrication products I've received this week. Oh, and the candy bra. Gray was so fed up yesterday with one particular drama that he threw his cell phone like a little girl. I think he realized at the last minute that it might break more than it's already broken, and THEN how would friends and family contact him to bitch?
This is why people elope, we realized last night. Not the expense. Not the hassle. Not the stress.
IT'S THE DOUCHEBAGS.
This is also why weddings are called off because brides suddenly realize what they're marrying into and grooms suddenly realize who they're going to be related to and they both consider the implications for every future holiday and they both go, "Um...let's just keep fucking each other dishonestly." Because THAT?!?! Makes more sense.
I need Xanax, ya'll. And a punching bag.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Buy Slim Fast Stock. Trust Me.
Well, here I am. I am here. What a relief, right? I KNOW. You'll all sleep soundly for the first time in
*checking last post date*
twelve days.
*checking my math*
Yes, twelve days.
We're officially within a month of the Big Event (and no, I am not referring to my first Brazilian wax because that would be UNPROFESSIONAL), and my brain is officially doing kickboxing drills. Just for fun. When it needs to relax.
This whole planning a wedding thing is a contradiction of emotions because HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO EXCITING and OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO BE MRS. GRAY, but also FUCK THIS IS A LOT OF WORK and FUUUUCK THIS IS EXPENSIVE and DO I REALLY HAVE TO MAKE ALL OF THESE DECISIONS because TEALIGHTS OR VOTIVES, PEOPLE?!?!?!
I am having so much fun. Hell, WE are having so much fun, Gray and I and my friends and family and probably the criminals who have stolen our life savings in exchange for satin bows that we HAVE TO RETURN, but damn. This is fun. And also exhausting.
Not physically exhausting because despite my desire to slim down for the wedding, I'm absolutely opposed to actually moving from my spot on the couch which is conveniently located by my personal stash of Chex Mix and Pinot Grigio. My brilliant scheme for last-minute slimming down is to pile so many dozens of mental minutia onto my plate that my body forgets that it's hungry for actual food and doesn't eat for a week. It's actually killing two birds with one stone, if you ask me, in that I'll be losing those last couple of pounds at the same time that I'm losing my last couple of brain cells, and then I'll be a happy-go-lucky zombie bride, which everyone knows is Gray's Ultimate Fantasy.
My brain hurts like somebody removed it via my ear, kneaded 4,000 tiny glass slivers into its mass, and then shot it back into place with a potato gun. There are so many details I hadn't anticipated (where is everyone staying? when do they arrive? have I remembered to send everyone invites to the rehearsal dinner? do I rent mirror squares or tiny mirror tiles for the tables? how long will it take to get my hair and makeup done? when should everyone arrive? HOW DO I KNOW IF I'M GOING INSANE?) and I've decided that the entire wedding day is going to last indefinitely, that I am going to stretch it out for at least the next dozen years, and everyone will keep dancing and eating cake and complimenting my breathtaking beauty and giving us vodka shots and handing us cash...this will last forever because the only way I'm going to get my money's worth is if our wedding day NEVER ENDS.
Our wedding will be like the Hotel California, except with more polka and fewer courtyards.
It's going to be everything that Gray and I ever hoped or dreamed it could be, and thankfully we figured out a way to do it all without having to sell our kidneys or our hot, hot sex, but wow. I must say I'll be a little relieved when the whole thing is over and I am Mrs. Gray and Gray is Big Papa and we pack up our camping gear and gently lift our old dog on the backseat along with his very own doggy Radio Flyer wagon and head out on the open road to All Points West for a week of R&R, not knowing where we're going or what we're doing, only that we're a family and we're under no obligations and we're on vacation and we're happy.
It's a lot of pressure, throwing a party for everyone you've ever known. Which explains, if you haven't yet heard, why Trader Joe's opened a new liquor store in my area funded solely by my patronage.
You're welcome, Charles Shaw.
*checking last post date*
twelve days.
*checking my math*
Yes, twelve days.
We're officially within a month of the Big Event (and no, I am not referring to my first Brazilian wax because that would be UNPROFESSIONAL), and my brain is officially doing kickboxing drills. Just for fun. When it needs to relax.
This whole planning a wedding thing is a contradiction of emotions because HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO EXCITING and OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO BE MRS. GRAY, but also FUCK THIS IS A LOT OF WORK and FUUUUCK THIS IS EXPENSIVE and DO I REALLY HAVE TO MAKE ALL OF THESE DECISIONS because TEALIGHTS OR VOTIVES, PEOPLE?!?!?!
I am having so much fun. Hell, WE are having so much fun, Gray and I and my friends and family and probably the criminals who have stolen our life savings in exchange for satin bows that we HAVE TO RETURN, but damn. This is fun. And also exhausting.
Not physically exhausting because despite my desire to slim down for the wedding, I'm absolutely opposed to actually moving from my spot on the couch which is conveniently located by my personal stash of Chex Mix and Pinot Grigio. My brilliant scheme for last-minute slimming down is to pile so many dozens of mental minutia onto my plate that my body forgets that it's hungry for actual food and doesn't eat for a week. It's actually killing two birds with one stone, if you ask me, in that I'll be losing those last couple of pounds at the same time that I'm losing my last couple of brain cells, and then I'll be a happy-go-lucky zombie bride, which everyone knows is Gray's Ultimate Fantasy.
My brain hurts like somebody removed it via my ear, kneaded 4,000 tiny glass slivers into its mass, and then shot it back into place with a potato gun. There are so many details I hadn't anticipated (where is everyone staying? when do they arrive? have I remembered to send everyone invites to the rehearsal dinner? do I rent mirror squares or tiny mirror tiles for the tables? how long will it take to get my hair and makeup done? when should everyone arrive? HOW DO I KNOW IF I'M GOING INSANE?) and I've decided that the entire wedding day is going to last indefinitely, that I am going to stretch it out for at least the next dozen years, and everyone will keep dancing and eating cake and complimenting my breathtaking beauty and giving us vodka shots and handing us cash...this will last forever because the only way I'm going to get my money's worth is if our wedding day NEVER ENDS.
Our wedding will be like the Hotel California, except with more polka and fewer courtyards.
It's going to be everything that Gray and I ever hoped or dreamed it could be, and thankfully we figured out a way to do it all without having to sell our kidneys or our hot, hot sex, but wow. I must say I'll be a little relieved when the whole thing is over and I am Mrs. Gray and Gray is Big Papa and we pack up our camping gear and gently lift our old dog on the backseat along with his very own doggy Radio Flyer wagon and head out on the open road to All Points West for a week of R&R, not knowing where we're going or what we're doing, only that we're a family and we're under no obligations and we're on vacation and we're happy.
It's a lot of pressure, throwing a party for everyone you've ever known. Which explains, if you haven't yet heard, why Trader Joe's opened a new liquor store in my area funded solely by my patronage.
You're welcome, Charles Shaw.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
What I Did Over Summer Break.
My dog farts a lot. Like...A LOT, a lot. And somehow I ended up watching 27 Dresses tonight. I fucking HATE Katherine Heigl. I'm literally hoping I choke on my parmesean & garlic potato chip so I don't have to watch her wear her 28th dress. Although I kind of want to make out with the obnoxious, cynical reporter guy.
The truth is, really, that I'm sitting here AGAIN. Talking about how I'm doing everything except writing, which is true, but holy god, is it ever the most boring fucking thing in the world to read about. Right?
I could talk about the fact that there is something desperately wrong with my urethra, but that's just a titch too relevant at the moment.
How about the fact that I'm hosting the very first meeting of my new writer's group (which is not to imply that I began this writing group because I, in fact, did NOT create this writing group, but I was on the sidelines chanting BOOZE! BOOZE! BOOZE!) next week, and I haven't exaaaaaaaaaclty lived up to the hype of what a writer's group is all about which is, of course, WRITING. What I'm hoping happens is that I can pass of my sloth (which is really brain fatigue and wavering self-esteem) as business due to the upcoming wedding (44 days!) and ... well ... that's about it.
If you've single-handedly planned your wedding before, and that wedding (like mine) was meant to be a reasonably low-key event and instead, morphed into 380+ people invited, PS3 involvement, and a custom menu with a custom price.
Have you noticed all the "(" and ")" marks in this post? That's called STALLING.
I have an idea. I've had this idea for over a year. I don't know what to do with this idea, where to start. I know the general idea of what I hope to accomplish, if not the actual plot (which every writer knows, plot isn't exactly something you can plan ahead of time, unless you're a shitty writer).
Help. Direction. A swift kick in the vagina.
That's what I hope comes of this first writer's group meeting.
Well, that, and a good buzz. Of course.
~PS~ I just turned off the television and it sounded like a freshly-poured cup of Sprite or a bowl of talkative Rice Krispies. Should I be worried?
The truth is, really, that I'm sitting here AGAIN. Talking about how I'm doing everything except writing, which is true, but holy god, is it ever the most boring fucking thing in the world to read about. Right?
I could talk about the fact that there is something desperately wrong with my urethra, but that's just a titch too relevant at the moment.
How about the fact that I'm hosting the very first meeting of my new writer's group (which is not to imply that I began this writing group because I, in fact, did NOT create this writing group, but I was on the sidelines chanting BOOZE! BOOZE! BOOZE!) next week, and I haven't exaaaaaaaaaclty lived up to the hype of what a writer's group is all about which is, of course, WRITING. What I'm hoping happens is that I can pass of my sloth (which is really brain fatigue and wavering self-esteem) as business due to the upcoming wedding (44 days!) and ... well ... that's about it.
If you've single-handedly planned your wedding before, and that wedding (like mine) was meant to be a reasonably low-key event and instead, morphed into 380+ people invited, PS3 involvement, and a custom menu with a custom price.
Have you noticed all the "(" and ")" marks in this post? That's called STALLING.
I have an idea. I've had this idea for over a year. I don't know what to do with this idea, where to start. I know the general idea of what I hope to accomplish, if not the actual plot (which every writer knows, plot isn't exactly something you can plan ahead of time, unless you're a shitty writer).
Help. Direction. A swift kick in the vagina.
That's what I hope comes of this first writer's group meeting.
Well, that, and a good buzz. Of course.
~PS~ I just turned off the television and it sounded like a freshly-poured cup of Sprite or a bowl of talkative Rice Krispies. Should I be worried?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Trouble With Studying Creative Writing...
...are the writers themselves. They say you're supposed to write every day and they tell you to write about anything at all, just so long as you're putting words on the screen, and Anne Lamott gets even more specific, saying you should write 300 words every day, even if all you can write about is how much you hate writing. Just write. Every day. It's like weight training for your imagination or, at the very least, your typing skills.
Lamott also says you should accept the fact that you may be in a "dry spell" creatively, and instead of beating your head against the keyboard in frustration, you should write your 300 words and get out, because "Your Unconscious can't work when you're sitting there breathing down it's neck." True, but also not true, because in the case of my unconscious mind, I have to stand over its desk and monitor its progress if there is any hope of getting anything done. As far as creative dry spells, also known (horribly) as writer's block - a term that always reminds me of a public decapitation in medieval times - I seem to have more of these than the Mojave desert.
It would seem that in order to have a proper dry spell, I must first have a wet spell, a period of time when I'm leaking creativity from every orifice, just squirting it at everything I see, but I don't seem to have these wet spells, and I'm starting to think that may be because I only ever write things down when I have all the basics of a piece worked out in my head, at least to the extent that I feel like my ideas are going somewhere, as if the destination is what's important when I know really it's the interstate and the truck stops and the road construction and the flat tires and the fart wars and the battle for the CD player that matter. The problem with waiting to write until I have well-formed ideas is that I can't ever fucking remember anything unless I write it down, and now you should be picturing a snake eating its own tail because HELLO DYSFUNCTION and WELCOME SELF-DEFEATING HABITS. Catch-22 on a stick - the newest Minnesota State Fair food.
But I'm buuuuuuusy, I whine. Or, I'm sleeeeepy. Or huuuuungry. But the wedding! And what about the laundry? THERE MUST BE CLEAN UNDERWEAR, I declare, ignoring the obvious, that there are 30 to 50 minutes between times when I am actually needed to do anything to the laundry, it's not like I'm out there by the river beating my thong against a rock or anything, so how do I justify the not writing then, huh? The truth is that I don't justify it at all, I simply tell myself that I write for fun and fun alone, that I shouldn't force myself to do anything that isn't fun, don't push myself because maybe it will stop being fun, and that wouldn't be any fun at all.
There is also the small matter of me being drunk all the time, and there is something about being tipsy that somehow reinforces the FUN ONLY policy, and then I wake up and it's morning and I forgot the idea I had meant to write down, can only remember that it had something to do with octopus taxidermy, and now not only have I not written anything, but with the flight of my brilliant idea goes my inspiration followed closely by my discipline, and lastly my brain, and I'm left with the stale vodka sloshing around in my otherwise empty skull. And I need to pee.
And then something comes along which reaffirms why I write in the first place - something like a great comment on my blog or an attagirl from a classmate or an award from the university - and suddenly I'm propelled (almost against my will), limbs flailing helplessly, back into the make-believe world in my head, and when I arrive in my personal Wonderland, I'm greeted by the shadowy people who live there and the pre-possibilities which sometimes become real in that place, and I remember the ideas that I'd lost to late nights and reality television. I remember why I came here in the first place, to this strange and incredible home.
Goddamn 300 words.
Lamott also says you should accept the fact that you may be in a "dry spell" creatively, and instead of beating your head against the keyboard in frustration, you should write your 300 words and get out, because "Your Unconscious can't work when you're sitting there breathing down it's neck." True, but also not true, because in the case of my unconscious mind, I have to stand over its desk and monitor its progress if there is any hope of getting anything done. As far as creative dry spells, also known (horribly) as writer's block - a term that always reminds me of a public decapitation in medieval times - I seem to have more of these than the Mojave desert.
It would seem that in order to have a proper dry spell, I must first have a wet spell, a period of time when I'm leaking creativity from every orifice, just squirting it at everything I see, but I don't seem to have these wet spells, and I'm starting to think that may be because I only ever write things down when I have all the basics of a piece worked out in my head, at least to the extent that I feel like my ideas are going somewhere, as if the destination is what's important when I know really it's the interstate and the truck stops and the road construction and the flat tires and the fart wars and the battle for the CD player that matter. The problem with waiting to write until I have well-formed ideas is that I can't ever fucking remember anything unless I write it down, and now you should be picturing a snake eating its own tail because HELLO DYSFUNCTION and WELCOME SELF-DEFEATING HABITS. Catch-22 on a stick - the newest Minnesota State Fair food.
But I'm buuuuuuusy, I whine. Or, I'm sleeeeepy. Or huuuuungry. But the wedding! And what about the laundry? THERE MUST BE CLEAN UNDERWEAR, I declare, ignoring the obvious, that there are 30 to 50 minutes between times when I am actually needed to do anything to the laundry, it's not like I'm out there by the river beating my thong against a rock or anything, so how do I justify the not writing then, huh? The truth is that I don't justify it at all, I simply tell myself that I write for fun and fun alone, that I shouldn't force myself to do anything that isn't fun, don't push myself because maybe it will stop being fun, and that wouldn't be any fun at all.
There is also the small matter of me being drunk all the time, and there is something about being tipsy that somehow reinforces the FUN ONLY policy, and then I wake up and it's morning and I forgot the idea I had meant to write down, can only remember that it had something to do with octopus taxidermy, and now not only have I not written anything, but with the flight of my brilliant idea goes my inspiration followed closely by my discipline, and lastly my brain, and I'm left with the stale vodka sloshing around in my otherwise empty skull. And I need to pee.
And then something comes along which reaffirms why I write in the first place - something like a great comment on my blog or an attagirl from a classmate or an award from the university - and suddenly I'm propelled (almost against my will), limbs flailing helplessly, back into the make-believe world in my head, and when I arrive in my personal Wonderland, I'm greeted by the shadowy people who live there and the pre-possibilities which sometimes become real in that place, and I remember the ideas that I'd lost to late nights and reality television. I remember why I came here in the first place, to this strange and incredible home.
Goddamn 300 words.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
This is (kind of) a PSA
I put on too much bronzer this morning and now it looks like a fairy came all over my face. Which is funny because that's how I thought my dermatologist was going to remove my moles. Not by coming on my face, but with fairy dust. You know, magically. I thought perhaps she would dissolve them or pull them out by the roots or pop them like gigantic zits. Like this, minus the scalpel. Who needs cream cheese?!
As it turns out, my dermatologist DID use a scalpel and she didn't even give me a beer first. I know, what a bitch, right? Then she used a soldering iron and MELTED THE WOUNDS. That's right...melted. The whole room smelled like that time I accidentally shot that kid at my school and had an unexpected bonfire. So I've learned that humans are not edible. They don't smell delicious like basically every other mammal on earth. And even though my mole removal was voluntary, the doctor still stuck the corpses in these little plastic jars like the ones in Saw III, and then she shipped them off to the lab for testing.
First of all, can I just say I am so relieved I don't examine bloody, mutilated (sometimes hairy) growths for a living. HOLY FUCK. That has got to be worse than a horse inseminater. Secondly, despite never having concerns that my moles might be "abnormal" and despite the fact my dermatologist has checked them out and given them her blessing in the past, now I'm totally positive I'm going to die of melanoma. Because that's what happens when they remove moles.
If that's true and my days are numbered, I should be whooping it up while I still can, which for me means switching from speed to crack, porn to hookers, and burritos with no sour cream to burritos with sour cream. Instead, I've put Gray on a strict 2,000 calorie, pre-wedding diet and I joined him because I am physically incapable of cooking for just one person. Even when I cook for both of us I'm still really cooking for six because there are always so many leftovers that by day four of Leftover Chicken we're ready to puke.
It wasn't even my idea. Gray looks like he's eight months pregnant. I'm pretty sure his hips have spread. He wants to get in the "best shape of his life" in time for our wedding. IN EIGHTY DAYS. I'm to fucking busy right now to do the whole make-special-meals-every-damn-day-and-be-sure-he-has-a-healthy-lunch bullshit. It's seriously way too much work, and I'm already relatively bogged down.
Did I mention we're buying a house? And don't forget about my semester finals. Oh yeah, and there's the small detail of THE WEDDING. You know, the three day extravaganza which involves organizing a twenty-three person bridal party and two hundred of our closest friends and family and making sure they are all comfortable and entertained and eat fucking well, and then I have to be sure I'm more gorgeous than on any other single day of my twenty-seven years on this planet and I have to beware that I don't have a surprise break-out and I need to ensure that the backne scars on my neck, back and chest magically disappear. DID I MENTION THE HOUSE?
So yeah, no fucking way am I cooking for a big man on a diet.
We're ordering meals from a healthy-eating place in the area - breakfast, lunch and dinner - and it's awesome because I don't have to cook a damn thing and I don't have to put the leftovers into lunch-sized Tupperware and I don't have to wash dishes and I don't have to grocery shop and I don't have to think. I'm on the 1,200 calorie plan and I've already lost a pound.
Everyone freaks out when I tell them I'm on this diet. They're all like, "WHAA? You're already little!" and I'm like, "Dude. This is my WEDDING. I am a BRIDE. SUCK MY WILLIE." The truth is that I'm fucking starving to death at the moment. Apparently I was used to eating about 5,000 calories per day because I look at these portions and think, "Oh my god. I must have robbed a gnome." This diet is a short-term solution. Don't worry about me. I don't have an eating disorder.
TRUST ME. I've tried before.
In junior high I'd go as long as I possibly could without eating, which was usually lunch to dinner, but eventually I'd break down and shove a bunch of olives and crackers down my gullet, which inevitably made me feel ishy and fail-y, so I'd hustle into the bathroom and attempt to puke. It turns out that I'm physically incapable of vomiting on command because I don't have a gag reflex, a blessing for Gray. I simply cannot make myself throw up. I could shove a fireplace poker down my throat and all it would make me do is swallow a fireplace poker. Even when I'm hammered and it would be in my best interest to throw up, I can't. That's how much my body hates puking. It would rather DIE.
I don't really remember where I was going with this whole alcohol poisoning story, but what I DO know is that I'm hungry (and also in the mood for BBQ), so I'm going to round up the three raisins and fork-full of eggs that they gave me for breakfast, and afterwards, I will fill up on butterscotch candies when nobody's looking.
The moral of this story is that moles can kill you. You're very welcome.
As it turns out, my dermatologist DID use a scalpel and she didn't even give me a beer first. I know, what a bitch, right? Then she used a soldering iron and MELTED THE WOUNDS. That's right...melted. The whole room smelled like that time I accidentally shot that kid at my school and had an unexpected bonfire. So I've learned that humans are not edible. They don't smell delicious like basically every other mammal on earth. And even though my mole removal was voluntary, the doctor still stuck the corpses in these little plastic jars like the ones in Saw III, and then she shipped them off to the lab for testing.
First of all, can I just say I am so relieved I don't examine bloody, mutilated (sometimes hairy) growths for a living. HOLY FUCK. That has got to be worse than a horse inseminater. Secondly, despite never having concerns that my moles might be "abnormal" and despite the fact my dermatologist has checked them out and given them her blessing in the past, now I'm totally positive I'm going to die of melanoma. Because that's what happens when they remove moles.
If that's true and my days are numbered, I should be whooping it up while I still can, which for me means switching from speed to crack, porn to hookers, and burritos with no sour cream to burritos with sour cream. Instead, I've put Gray on a strict 2,000 calorie, pre-wedding diet and I joined him because I am physically incapable of cooking for just one person. Even when I cook for both of us I'm still really cooking for six because there are always so many leftovers that by day four of Leftover Chicken we're ready to puke.
It wasn't even my idea. Gray looks like he's eight months pregnant. I'm pretty sure his hips have spread. He wants to get in the "best shape of his life" in time for our wedding. IN EIGHTY DAYS. I'm to fucking busy right now to do the whole make-special-meals-every-damn-day-and-be-sure-he-has-a-healthy-lunch bullshit. It's seriously way too much work, and I'm already relatively bogged down.
Did I mention we're buying a house? And don't forget about my semester finals. Oh yeah, and there's the small detail of THE WEDDING. You know, the three day extravaganza which involves organizing a twenty-three person bridal party and two hundred of our closest friends and family and making sure they are all comfortable and entertained and eat fucking well, and then I have to be sure I'm more gorgeous than on any other single day of my twenty-seven years on this planet and I have to beware that I don't have a surprise break-out and I need to ensure that the backne scars on my neck, back and chest magically disappear. DID I MENTION THE HOUSE?
So yeah, no fucking way am I cooking for a big man on a diet.
We're ordering meals from a healthy-eating place in the area - breakfast, lunch and dinner - and it's awesome because I don't have to cook a damn thing and I don't have to put the leftovers into lunch-sized Tupperware and I don't have to wash dishes and I don't have to grocery shop and I don't have to think. I'm on the 1,200 calorie plan and I've already lost a pound.
Everyone freaks out when I tell them I'm on this diet. They're all like, "WHAA? You're already little!" and I'm like, "Dude. This is my WEDDING. I am a BRIDE. SUCK MY WILLIE." The truth is that I'm fucking starving to death at the moment. Apparently I was used to eating about 5,000 calories per day because I look at these portions and think, "Oh my god. I must have robbed a gnome." This diet is a short-term solution. Don't worry about me. I don't have an eating disorder.
TRUST ME. I've tried before.
In junior high I'd go as long as I possibly could without eating, which was usually lunch to dinner, but eventually I'd break down and shove a bunch of olives and crackers down my gullet, which inevitably made me feel ishy and fail-y, so I'd hustle into the bathroom and attempt to puke. It turns out that I'm physically incapable of vomiting on command because I don't have a gag reflex, a blessing for Gray. I simply cannot make myself throw up. I could shove a fireplace poker down my throat and all it would make me do is swallow a fireplace poker. Even when I'm hammered and it would be in my best interest to throw up, I can't. That's how much my body hates puking. It would rather DIE.
I don't really remember where I was going with this whole alcohol poisoning story, but what I DO know is that I'm hungry (and also in the mood for BBQ), so I'm going to round up the three raisins and fork-full of eggs that they gave me for breakfast, and afterwards, I will fill up on butterscotch candies when nobody's looking.
The moral of this story is that moles can kill you. You're very welcome.
Monday, April 26, 2010
#NotKnot **UPDATED**
This is getting ::kind of:: ridiculous.
Something wacky is up with TheKnot.com 's guest list tool. There appears to be some kind of server error going on with the website.
Brides all over the country (world?) are freaking the hell out because they are unable to print or export their wedding invitation guest list from the website which claims to allow brides to print and export a wedding invitation guest lists. Holy christ, most of us have spent months compiling addresses and phone numbers and everyfuckingpersonI'veevermetinmylifeplusmygrandma'sboyfriend.
Attention robots at TheKnot.com: Shit happens. We get it. You're a free website. We appreciate all of your helpful tips and community boards and the ability to obsess over the minutia of our weddings because YOU SAY SO. Honestly, we understand.
BUT WE ARE BRIDES, yo. We are fucking already psychotic and now THIS?! I don't mean to sound harsh, but I'm pretty sure there are at least a dozen women out there who want to kick your website in the balls, TheKnot.com. Haven't you ever watched Bridezillas? You might want to check that out.
Now that I think about it, you must already know that we're bridezillas because you've chosen to shield yourselves from a barrage of bridal demands. You leave us no way of contacting you to report the guest list problem. You haven't taken the time to respond to all of the frantic brides and their pleas for assistance in the "Help" section. In fact, some of the comments I read last week are now missing from the page. Did you delete them? Are we playing the Hide & Seek game now? Because I am unable to leave a comment on that page and I am displeased. Do you feel my displeasure? You are getting the Nose Thrust of Death at this very moment.
You haven't bothered sending a mass-email to inform your users of the problem. You have not offered any type of explanation, assurance, or even acknowledgement of the guest list server error debacle. Hello *tap tap on the mic* Is this thing on? Can you hear me, TheKnot.com? I NEED TO KNOW WHO CHOSE "PICKLED HERRING" AND WHO CHOSE "SAUERKRAUT HOT DISH", like, yesterday.
I will continue to barrage @theknot with my brave, Twitter protest. And you, faithful readers, help a bride out! Join the campaign! Ask a million questions @theknot on Twitter and tag it with #NotKnot.
Or pass the bacon this way. You know, whatever.
**UPDATED** Well, it seems I'm a fucking hero. I single-handedly pestered @theknot on Twitter so relentlessly to goddamn answer me already that I think they responded just to shut me the fuck up. Fahmida at The Knot was able to give me a temporary solution to the problem. The awesome part about this is that I don't even need to print or export my guest list yet, I was just pissed off on behalf of all the other brides who left panicked questions on The Knot message boards and vented frustration in the "help" section. Yeah, fat lot of "help" that did anyone. Also, I look for excuses to be obnoxious. I'm like motherfucking ROBIN HOOD, ya'll. Except instead of stealing from the rich to give to the poor, I'm acting as a liason between bridezillas and MIA customer service agents, all of whose names appear to be Indian. I'm not sayin, I'm just saying.
Well, I guess we also have the feather in common.
Something wacky is up with TheKnot.com 's guest list tool. There appears to be some kind of server error going on with the website.
Brides all over the country (world?) are freaking the hell out because they are unable to print or export their wedding invitation guest list from the website which claims to allow brides to print and export a wedding invitation guest lists. Holy christ, most of us have spent months compiling addresses and phone numbers and everyfuckingpersonI'veevermetinmylifeplusmygrandma'sboyfriend.
Attention robots at TheKnot.com: Shit happens. We get it. You're a free website. We appreciate all of your helpful tips and community boards and the ability to obsess over the minutia of our weddings because YOU SAY SO. Honestly, we understand.
BUT WE ARE BRIDES, yo. We are fucking already psychotic and now THIS?! I don't mean to sound harsh, but I'm pretty sure there are at least a dozen women out there who want to kick your website in the balls, TheKnot.com. Haven't you ever watched Bridezillas? You might want to check that out.
Now that I think about it, you must already know that we're bridezillas because you've chosen to shield yourselves from a barrage of bridal demands. You leave us no way of contacting you to report the guest list problem. You haven't taken the time to respond to all of the frantic brides and their pleas for assistance in the "Help" section. In fact, some of the comments I read last week are now missing from the page. Did you delete them? Are we playing the Hide & Seek game now? Because I am unable to leave a comment on that page and I am displeased. Do you feel my displeasure? You are getting the Nose Thrust of Death at this very moment.
You haven't bothered sending a mass-email to inform your users of the problem. You have not offered any type of explanation, assurance, or even acknowledgement of the guest list server error debacle. Hello *tap tap on the mic* Is this thing on? Can you hear me, TheKnot.com? I NEED TO KNOW WHO CHOSE "PICKLED HERRING" AND WHO CHOSE "SAUERKRAUT HOT DISH", like, yesterday.
I will continue to barrage @theknot with my brave, Twitter protest. And you, faithful readers, help a bride out! Join the campaign! Ask a million questions @theknot on Twitter and tag it with #NotKnot.
Or pass the bacon this way. You know, whatever.
**UPDATED** Well, it seems I'm a fucking hero. I single-handedly pestered @theknot on Twitter so relentlessly to goddamn answer me already that I think they responded just to shut me the fuck up. Fahmida at The Knot was able to give me a temporary solution to the problem. The awesome part about this is that I don't even need to print or export my guest list yet, I was just pissed off on behalf of all the other brides who left panicked questions on The Knot message boards and vented frustration in the "help" section. Yeah, fat lot of "help" that did anyone. Also, I look for excuses to be obnoxious. I'm like motherfucking ROBIN HOOD, ya'll. Except instead of stealing from the rich to give to the poor, I'm acting as a liason between bridezillas and MIA customer service agents, all of whose names appear to be Indian. I'm not sayin, I'm just saying.
Well, I guess we also have the feather in common.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel (or mole bed) *UPDATED*
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Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Happy Mummiversary & Other Tuesday Bullshit
I use Keeley for my own selfish ends and then I discard her without a second glance. You're welcome.
But also, I'm sorry, because I am so totally off my writing game that I cannot even pretend I've *got it* right now. WHAT THE FUCK, ME? This wedding is sucking on my creativity like a whore on overtime, what with all the decisions about linen colors and WHAT SIZE THE CHEESE SLICES SHOULD BE. I am not even kidding. That is an actual question my caterer asked me. CHEESE SIZE. What the hell options do I have? Round cracker sized? Square cracker sized? Toothpick sized? ARE THERE VITAL CHEESE SIZES I AM UNAWARE OF?
Imagine how many brain cells I must have popped just thinking about thinking about something so mundane. And don't even get me started on the poker tables (the green felt does not match the apple green of our "accent table" linens, thus creating a major dilemma for my design guy at the linen rental shop, who ironically seemed totally unconcerned by the color of my face when he gave me the quote for his services).
Also, I am hooked on Etsy.com and I cannot stop buying handmade wedding crafts. CANNOT. The good news is that I single-handedly funded an in-ground pool for the backyard of some lady in Belfast who is hand-stitching my silk and organza flowers. By hand. With her hands. Oh, and if anyone tries to get you to pay an exorbitant amount of money for shipping overseas, you tell them that if Belfast can do it for $6 then so can motherfucking they.
I wrote this post over one year ago on February 11th, and to this day it remains the most-visited page of all time. In fact, my post is #10 when you google "I want 18." Now, if you're wondering why anyone would google "I want 18," just think about it for a second. Roll your mind right off your shoulders and into the filthy gutter. Think.........YES! PORN! Ok, so I get dozens of hits on this post every month and that makes me ever so proud because it means that I completely disappoint every single one of those googlers who are searching for barely-legal porn, probably to the point when they give up masturbating entirely and just have a sandwich instead. I am curing the world of perverts. And also boosting the deli meats industry. Christ, I'm a hero.
(WAIT! I just checked my google analytics and found that my Onion Breath post about Kate Gosselin's custody battle with her hair has exceeded the "I want 18" post by more than 40 hits since AUGUST, which means that the Gosselins are even more powerful than PORNOGRAPHY, people. I am not sure that's the kind of world I want to live in.)
((I just googled "kate gosselin's hair" and got over 6.7 MILLION results. *slits throat*))
Well, today is my very first Mummiversary. Many of you may be scratching your heads and wondering what the hell I'm talking about. I just want to tell you that it makes you look like apes when you do that. I confess that I would have totally forgotten about the anniversary of the de-tombing of Mummy Hand had a co-worker not reminded me, and by "reminded me," I mean that she walked into work and the first thing out of her mouth was, "I thought of you this weekend with all the melting snow and figured it was about a year ago that you broke your arm. Dumb ass." I may have inserted the dumb ass, but I know she was thinking it. Would you like to know how many people have cracked a bike-riding joke at my expense this year? I stopped counting, that's how many.
In addition to the ribbing, I also get many earnest reminders to be careful when riding my bike and to always wear a helmet and to never go out when it's icy. To those people, I say thanks. And suck it. But mostly thanks. And now I must confess that I have NEVER gotten back on the bike since my accident. Not once, not for a second. I promised my dad that I wouldn't ride without a helmet, so that has been my excuse for not riding the bike when really I'm not riding the bike because of the negative fucking association, if you don't mind. But in one way I'm grateful for the experience, and that is because it allowed me to make a bunch of useless shit like this video:
...and it's videos like these that prove useful when I have nothing substantive to write here on this blog and I resort to words like "substantive" simply because they are long and take up more space on the page, which can also be said of some of my other favorite words which are "exsanguinate" and "crustacean" and "compunction" and "conflagrate" and "antidisestablishmentarianism." And "motherfucker."
But also, I'm sorry, because I am so totally off my writing game that I cannot even pretend I've *got it* right now. WHAT THE FUCK, ME? This wedding is sucking on my creativity like a whore on overtime, what with all the decisions about linen colors and WHAT SIZE THE CHEESE SLICES SHOULD BE. I am not even kidding. That is an actual question my caterer asked me. CHEESE SIZE. What the hell options do I have? Round cracker sized? Square cracker sized? Toothpick sized? ARE THERE VITAL CHEESE SIZES I AM UNAWARE OF?
Imagine how many brain cells I must have popped just thinking about thinking about something so mundane. And don't even get me started on the poker tables (the green felt does not match the apple green of our "accent table" linens, thus creating a major dilemma for my design guy at the linen rental shop, who ironically seemed totally unconcerned by the color of my face when he gave me the quote for his services).
Also, I am hooked on Etsy.com and I cannot stop buying handmade wedding crafts. CANNOT. The good news is that I single-handedly funded an in-ground pool for the backyard of some lady in Belfast who is hand-stitching my silk and organza flowers. By hand. With her hands. Oh, and if anyone tries to get you to pay an exorbitant amount of money for shipping overseas, you tell them that if Belfast can do it for $6 then so can motherfucking they.
I wrote this post over one year ago on February 11th, and to this day it remains the most-visited page of all time. In fact, my post is #10 when you google "I want 18." Now, if you're wondering why anyone would google "I want 18," just think about it for a second. Roll your mind right off your shoulders and into the filthy gutter. Think.........YES! PORN! Ok, so I get dozens of hits on this post every month and that makes me ever so proud because it means that I completely disappoint every single one of those googlers who are searching for barely-legal porn, probably to the point when they give up masturbating entirely and just have a sandwich instead. I am curing the world of perverts. And also boosting the deli meats industry. Christ, I'm a hero.
(WAIT! I just checked my google analytics and found that my Onion Breath post about Kate Gosselin's custody battle with her hair has exceeded the "I want 18" post by more than 40 hits since AUGUST, which means that the Gosselins are even more powerful than PORNOGRAPHY, people. I am not sure that's the kind of world I want to live in.)
((I just googled "kate gosselin's hair" and got over 6.7 MILLION results. *slits throat*))
Well, today is my very first Mummiversary. Many of you may be scratching your heads and wondering what the hell I'm talking about. I just want to tell you that it makes you look like apes when you do that. I confess that I would have totally forgotten about the anniversary of the de-tombing of Mummy Hand had a co-worker not reminded me, and by "reminded me," I mean that she walked into work and the first thing out of her mouth was, "I thought of you this weekend with all the melting snow and figured it was about a year ago that you broke your arm. Dumb ass." I may have inserted the dumb ass, but I know she was thinking it. Would you like to know how many people have cracked a bike-riding joke at my expense this year? I stopped counting, that's how many.
In addition to the ribbing, I also get many earnest reminders to be careful when riding my bike and to always wear a helmet and to never go out when it's icy. To those people, I say thanks. And suck it. But mostly thanks. And now I must confess that I have NEVER gotten back on the bike since my accident. Not once, not for a second. I promised my dad that I wouldn't ride without a helmet, so that has been my excuse for not riding the bike when really I'm not riding the bike because of the negative fucking association, if you don't mind. But in one way I'm grateful for the experience, and that is because it allowed me to make a bunch of useless shit like this video:
...and it's videos like these that prove useful when I have nothing substantive to write here on this blog and I resort to words like "substantive" simply because they are long and take up more space on the page, which can also be said of some of my other favorite words which are "exsanguinate" and "crustacean" and "compunction" and "conflagrate" and "antidisestablishmentarianism." And "motherfucker."
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
I Fucking Suck.
Well, the title says it all. Where the fuck have I been, huh? There are dirty old men all over this great nation who've had to yank it to Miley Cyrus for a week because I'm too busy planning a wedding to be bothered by you people. I am single-handedly responsible for a sharp rise in pedophilia.
And let me be completely unclear: pedophilia is not funny. Unless it's cartoon pedophilia, like when that baby gets laid on Family Guy. Which reminds me...how the hell is FOX okay with a baby getting laid on TV but they have a hard time with the concept of safe-sex education? NOT EVERYONE CAN STICK IT IN A CARTOON, FOX. Jesus christ, it's like that network's being run by conservatives or something.
So. I'm planning a wedding and I'm so busy talking to everyone on the face of the planet (and Jesus) about planning a wedding that I'm really just about ready to punch myself in the face. Nobody cares about my fucking photographic style, Me. Shut the front door or one of your coworkers is likely to shut it for you.
But I can't shut the front door. I am physically incapable of shutting the front door. Which means that I've officially turned into my fiance, and now the cycle of becoming exactly like your partner is complete. I double checked this morning, and we're all systems go on the chest hair. THAT is how incapable of shutting the front door I actually am, and so you people should be prepared to read volumes on the wonder that is my choice of shoes and the beauty that is my spreadsheet of duties for each member of the (EFUCKINGNORMOUS) wedding party.
However, for now I will simply tell you something that my future mother-in-law told me last night: Gray was born ass-first. And somehow that's not surprising to me at all.
And let me be completely unclear: pedophilia is not funny. Unless it's cartoon pedophilia, like when that baby gets laid on Family Guy. Which reminds me...how the hell is FOX okay with a baby getting laid on TV but they have a hard time with the concept of safe-sex education? NOT EVERYONE CAN STICK IT IN A CARTOON, FOX. Jesus christ, it's like that network's being run by conservatives or something.
So. I'm planning a wedding and I'm so busy talking to everyone on the face of the planet (and Jesus) about planning a wedding that I'm really just about ready to punch myself in the face. Nobody cares about my fucking photographic style, Me. Shut the front door or one of your coworkers is likely to shut it for you.
But I can't shut the front door. I am physically incapable of shutting the front door. Which means that I've officially turned into my fiance, and now the cycle of becoming exactly like your partner is complete. I double checked this morning, and we're all systems go on the chest hair. THAT is how incapable of shutting the front door I actually am, and so you people should be prepared to read volumes on the wonder that is my choice of shoes and the beauty that is my spreadsheet of duties for each member of the (EFUCKINGNORMOUS) wedding party.
However, for now I will simply tell you something that my future mother-in-law told me last night: Gray was born ass-first. And somehow that's not surprising to me at all.
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