Fetishes have come up again, but in a very unexpected way.

Maybe you can help settle this for me.

Daylow and I cook. We cook a lot. It's wasteful, really. We need to open a soup kitchen or something, because even though we eat like pigs and feed our roommate sometimes, there are a lot of leftovers. I need to start taking them all to the neighbors.

Food waste doesn't seem to bother us as much as it should, though, because Daylow and I love to shop. At the grocery store. Basically, the grocery store IS my Bloomingdale's. If you ask me what kind of gift card I'd like, the answer is ALWAYS to the grocery store. Or the gas station, I guess. Or the liquor store.

We basically always shop for food together because it's more fun and also because our menu is very rarely pre-planned. We just kind of browse around and get an idea, trying to use whatever meat or produce looks best. And cheapest.

Anyway, here's the only difference between Daylow and I on the matter of grocery shopping:

• When I put fruit and veggies into a produce bag, I just kind of "twirl" the bag and plop the weight down on the loose bag end. It's quick, it's easy, and it leaves the produce bags in perfect condition to be re-used as dog poop bags. Sometimes, for stuff like garlic and limes, I don't use bags at all. I just throw produce in the cart and onto the checkout belt. Twist ties multiply like rabbits. I have a quart sized bag full of different sizes and types of twist ties, and I have another bag in my camping gear. I don't need more twist ties. I don't use them that often because, of course, I never re-seal the food once it's in my fridge. Bread doesn't need that stupid white contraption to keep it fresh. Just twirl the damn bag and lay the end of it underneath the bread. VOILA!

• Daylow...well, he not only ALWAYS uses a produce bag, but he also always uses twist ties to close the bags. No joke, there was a time when I ended up with an entire pocket full of  twist ties because he was worried I would keep forgetting to use them and, say, we'd be in the dairy aisle when Daylow would realize I didn't use a twist tie (even just one!), and of course we'd have to go back to the produce department to get a twist tie, and so my pocket being full of twist ties makes perfect sense. He's practically preventing my stupidity. PROACTIVELY. Amazing.

I was shopping for food by myself the other day and when I arrived at the check out, I realized I'd subconsciously tied ALL of the produce bags shut. No twist ties, no, but I'd done a loop knot to seal them.

First of all, WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO ME? I'm all of a sudden...tying produce bags for someone? He must be really good in bed or something. I don't like to compromise on my morals like that.

Secondly, I found an ideal compromise to our twist tie debate completely by accident. The loop knot is perfect because you just kind of...pull the knot out, and the bag stays poop-ready, but the produce stays properly...piled? Contained? What the hell is the purpose of using a twist tie? Maybe it's about vegetable safety or something.

Or perhaps Daylow has a twist tie fetish. I googled it, it's a real thing. Explains why he's got a twist tie cock ring.

I honestly have no idea why I'm compromising in this situation, but since I didn't realize I was doing it, I guess I'll let it pass.

This is why compromise is necessary.

I still don't understand how the Internet works

Every once in a while, I get curious about visitors to Zippy. What kind of freaks are you? Fortunately, there's a way to find out.

These are my Google Analytics scores going back to the beginning of this blog:

 

17,099 unique page views

2 mins 52 seconds average time on site
77.03% bounce rate

 

At first, it seems like a lot of page views, but then I look at the Content stats, which show that I've drawn lots of readers who had no interest in my blog, so they left right away.

 

The same is true when I check out the keyword search terms, because I'm pretty sure the guy who came to Zipbagofbones by googling, "Labia weights" didn't intend to find this post.

 

Naturally, I like to try to imagine which of my content pages got pegged by Google search to pull up a result which led a stranger to my blog. Labia was an easy guess, but what about "activia and anal fissures"? What about "how to break my arm"?

I MUST KNOW.

So now, we're going to play Let's Match That Google Search Keyword To A Post From This Blog!

To start us off, please welcome My Most Common Google Search Term:

• i want 18 (and other variations like iwant18, iwant 18, 1 want18.com, et. al.)

Variations of "i want 18" has been my number one search traffic generator for as long as I've had access to a computer. Which, if you read the post that started it all, makes you realize exactly how long and how often I irritate horny teenage-lovers everywhere. Awesome.

Here are some others. I literally searched these terms in my blog dashboard, and I had exact matches for all of these. I really should pay more attention to what I'm saying...

• eating feces
• kanye west toilet
• xxx
• kate gosselin pink cowboy hat
• midget joke
• christmas wedgie
• really sick shit This post also explains the search keywords "fursuit fetish, fursuit fetish story, and fursuit fetish gang bang.
• una's dwarf
• i smell bad
• "a mean meatball"
• i wear my sisters clothes
• scary bush baby (bush baby scary)

As I discovered last time, clearly, I am NOT what you people are looking for. And that makes me feel complete inside.

I'm also awesome at sleeping

Well.

Today was my first day at a "real" job in about 3 months. CULTURE SHOCK. By 2:00, I had a pounding headache and a very serious disdain for the fluorescent lighting.

Interestingly enough, although a bit overwhelming, it was a really fun day. I met a ton of people whose names I'll try desperately to remember tomorrow, and all of them were very nice and welcoming. After one day of training, though, it's obvious that I am completely fucking clueless about how to do my job. But my entire department is in the same boat, so we're going to learn together.

I came straight home after work to check on Scary, who is now eating enough bread for me to get her meds in her belly. She seems to be feeling a little better today. Good news for good pups.

Unfortunately, after work I had to address an issue between myself and a friend, and it was incredibly unpleasant, as such things usually are. It seems my habit of broadcasting EVERYTHING to the internet (including my preference in vibrators and the epic shits I take) has come yet again at the cost of hurting others.

Inadvertent? Yes.

Icky, guilt-induced belly feeling? Double yes.

It seems, yet again, that I am a complete failure at life.

But on the plus side, I'm still awesome at ruining everything.

Doooooode.

I start my new job on Monday, which is, like, in less than five days.

Five days is kind of my default "Oh shit, this is coming up soon" measuring stick.

Anyway, I'm very much looking forward to it because although I quit my job that was boring as fuck, I discovered that Unemployment...it's nothing but a new boring job.

No joke, my house is torn apart, I have new pets, I rearranged our bedroom, I made beef pot pie from SCRATCH. Except the crust, but fuck making crusts from scratch.

Unemployment is boring as fuck.

So it seems I'm starting a job and seem to vibe well with management, which means all of my coworkers will all be fun. I can only assume the entire department was hand-selected to be super awesome like myself.

Or, super insane/brain injured like myself.

Could go either way.

Because part of unemployment involved selling all of my work clothes, business casj, as they say, my fairy godmother Veronica treated me to lunch and some mad Elite Repeat consignment clothing swag. This place is so fun because they have a wide range of sizes and styles, all in pretty exceptional condition, many brand new or with dry cleaning tags, and very well made brands like Tahari silk tops, Banana Republic khakis, and tailored wool pants, satin-lined, and made in Romania. And all of these items are reasonably priced. And they're soft like bunnies.

It was so nice to see Veronica and have a happy afternoon, because it was after I attended a memorial service for a dear friend's fiance. That was tough, for a lot of reasons. But it was lovely, and there were peacocks and balloons, so basically it's the kind of memorial service I want, except at mine there will be kegs instead of ministers.

Irish style.

I also scored big at Goodwill on Thursday, several pairs of like-new business casj pants and lots of tops that are both A)Work Appropriate and B)Cover my "Fuck" tattoo.

Good luck I'm having, right?

HA.

Today, I was out in the yard and I was smoking because I was walking Scary, so basically it was selfless smoking. (I resolve to tackle my resolutions in a REASONABLE time frame. That is why in lieu of smoking cessation in 2012, I set a more reasonable goal of Learn to Smoke with Left Hand.)

Anyway, I was outside with Scary and a big dog charged at Scary like WHAT, and there was screaming and kicking and biting and people yelling.

It was like watching UFC, if Brock Lesner (big dog) was fighting Papa Smurf (Scary).

In that case, someone DEFINITELY forgot to weigh those fuckers in before fighting commenced. The big dog had her in his mouth, and at one point I was terrified she was a goner.

Fortunately, she's gonna be fine, one trip to the ER Vet later. She's just bleeding all over my house and stoned on doggy drugs. And half bald. And terrified of her own yard so won't go potty.

She's refusing to eat. And I'm not talking dog food, I'm talking slow-cooked beef roast. This fat girl has gained a lot of weight this winter, and let me assure you it's because she bases her entire life motto around somehow earning or stealing a tender, juicy cow muscle.

In the fray, I got bitten.

Once we FINALLY got her out of Scary out of his chompers, I scooped her up and tried to get to my back door - granted, I was straight up panicking by that point, partly because I was having Cujo flashbacks, and also because I saw my mother nearly get mauled to DEATH by a dog she knew once, and partly because I thought Scary was dead or dying. She screamed at first, but towards the time we got her away from big dog, she'd stopped making much noise.

So I started foggily towards the back door with her in my arms, and immediately, the big dog charged me, lunging up to the level of my outer biceps, trying to get his teeth on Scary. I was bitten on both upper/outer arms, and while the punctures were more "scrape and bruise" than "House of 1000 Corpses, I can assure you that they still hurt like a motherfucker.

Fortunately, I know the dog's shots were current, so as long as I keep my wounds clean, I can continue boldly on into the Land of No Hospitals in 2012.

Hopefully, the soreness in my arms abates before I report to duty on Monday. Accounting departments are extremely arm-use-centric kinds of places, thanks to the modern marvel known as a ten keypad.

Wish us luck and non-infected puncture wounds!

Erm.

So it's kind of late for dinner, but Daylow* is outside grilling the most bizarre, delicious looking chicken I've ever seen.

It's chicken breasts stuffed full of crushed pistachios wrapped in an entire package of bacon. The sides are just about every vegetable known to man, slathered in butter and grilled in tin foil.

He's a culinary pot head. This is either going to be completely devoured in less than five minutes, or it's going to be an epic, totally inedible FAIL.

Based on prior experiments of his, my money's on YUM YUM GIMME SOME.

And because we roll like this, our rats are hanging out on the kitchen counter while we prep the food. Super duper sanitary, I'm sure, but they fucking LOVE the pistachios and got dirty on them like it was their last meal.

We're kind of celebrating Daylow's decision to leave a super abusive job behind, an we're also stoked about my highly successful job interview this morning, which (PLEASE DEAR GOD) may land me the best job I've ever had with a company I am really digging so far working with people who were cool enough that I'd hang with them voluntarily, and hopefully will.

I quit my job with Canterbury Park in October, partly out of laziness, mostly out of frustration. Ever had a job where you get paid to do nothing? It sounds fucking sweet, right? And it totally was...for the first two years. After that, I decided I was being treated like a wasted commodity, and with no hope of change, I gave my dad (and most of my friends) a stroke when I quit with no alternate position lined up.

There are only so many videos of baby monkeys riding on tiny pigs, you know?

Why would anyone think I'm nuts for ending my marriage, getting three new tattoos (one of which is a GIANT profanity, stamped across my upper back), quitting my job, ripping out my bathroom floor, adopting (then un-adopting) a third dog, and falling in love right away?

It all seems perfectly rational to me.

Which is why I'm not allowed in 23 of the United States without supervision.

And now I'm off to eat some really bizarre food with my new love and probably practice some clicker training with the rats (we found a new home for Rachel Ray) and then maybe watch the first installment of Bag of Bones on demand.

I'll probably also drink a liter of Jag and remove a few of my ribs with my jumbo toenail clipper.

You know...for self-sufficiency reasons.

If you don't hear from me soon, I'm either dead from eating weird food, or I'm unable to type because I accidentally removed my hand instead of my ribs.

*In case you're wondering the extent to which my life has changed in he last four months, Daylow is the man I am engaged to marry, but not until after Gray and I are no longer married, which (in my [sadly] extensive experience) will take quite a while.

Now with 100% more rodent incest

Well, I'm back and I can honestly tell you that I don't have a fucking clue where to start.

I've wrestled back and forth for months now about how to approach the future of this blog, in light of the face that when I began writing here in 2008, I was blissfully pregnant and madly in love with Gray; but now, about three years later, I'm not pregnant (nor am I a mother), Gray and I are in the process of ending our marriage, I have two completely new men living in my house, I quit my job, I lost many, many friends, and I worried the hell out of almost everyone who knows me.

So what to do?

Speak the balls-deep truth about my failed marriage and risk hurting Gray even more than I already have?

Pussy-foot around the truth and kind of...phase my new life into the blog and just hope nobody notices?

Start over with a completely new blog?

Seriously complex first-world problem, right? Boo to the hoo and suck a toe, right? More specifically, CAT, suck on the infected toe of reality and find something more important than this stupid online journal to worry about, like keeping your house and not being psychotic?

Here's the thing though: This stupid online journal is part of what keeps me from going psychotic. It's like therapy. Really, really unethically based therapy. And I'm starting to need this therapy again. It's mid-December in Minnesota, and snow or no snow (currently, it's looking like a shit-stain Christmas), I have my annual SAD flaring up, otherwise known as My Perilous Grasp on Sanity, or My Single-handed Funding of Kleenex Factories World-wide.

I need this blog to survive another life or death battle with my personal Interloper.

But using this blog as an anti-depressant isn't going to do a damn thing, I've decided, if I don't continue writing my real story. The things nobody wants to hear me say. The truth.

Plus, when I look back into my archives, I realize I don't remember 99% of the stories I tell you, which means that in the last few months I've spent on hiatus, I've forgotten at LEAST fourteen separate instances of drinking myself stupid, seven of my Epic Shits, and many other small, ridiculous fluffery that I consider far too closely and then write about here.

Like the tampon vs. the chapstick. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?

Thank christ I wrote it down.

So here I am, Lolita Razzle Dazzle, resuming my life's work of offending and humiliating other people.

And it feels so good to be home.

PS: I now have two fancy hooded rats named Lucky and Rachel Ray, and they're going to fuck each other soon if I don't separate them. We thought Lucky was a girl, and so we bought a female from Lucky's litter to be a companion, but then giant testicles appeared on Lucky, and Rachel Ray is most definitely rocking a vagina, and they're almost old enough to mate. But I can't justify two separate cages because WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT ME, plus the ball python Raven is already irritated that she didn't get a chance to eat Lucky and Rachel Ray, and I don't like pissing off snakes if I can help it.

So either one of the rats becomes snake food (which I cannot do, no fucking way, they're my bayyyybeeeeees), we split them up and get two completely different companion rats that they cannot fuck (unless they swing that way), or we allow these little bastards to have incestuous rat sex and produce up to fourteen separate baby rats, which would then need to be hand fed because Rachel Ray is too young to nurse her babies properly, and then I'll end up living in a house full of rodents because all the babies are my grandchildren and I am insane.

So here: Have some cute rats

Please hold

I got rid of Internet at home, and I quit my job which, let's face it, is where I did all my blogging, so here I am, trying to type on an iPhone, and my friends? IT IS NOT GOING WELL.

I'm escaping reality for a few days, going camping up north with Daylow, the man I blame for my new obsession with snakes.

I will return to blogging soon, but I cannot guarantee I will be funny. Something about my shortage of vodka and my abundance of dogs seems to have sucked the hilarity right out of me.

Although... I DO have a few new epic poop stories.

Some are even about the dogs.

Greetings, earthlings.

Where have I been?

DID I FALL DOWN THE STAIRS AGAIN?!

Well, yes techinically I have fallen several times recently, but nothing *too* major resulted.

Huge, earth-shattering changes happening in the Zipbag household, both good and bad, and I'm not quite at liberty to discuss those things yet, but I may have mentioned before that I am terrified of every single snake on the planet, as well as any snake-shaped animals and objects. Like eels. Or squid. And don't EVEN get me started on octopi. THEY ARE EIGHT GIANT SNAKES ATTACHED BY A VENGEFUL MOUTH-TYPE HOLE.

Well...

Voluntarily holding her, no joke. She's...cute. Or something. I have no idea, maybe I was drugged.

Raven makes the best coffee EVAH.

Well THAT'S new.

I know they're sideways, but my computer (and Blogger) is being a total cunt, so you're going to just have to tilt your head today.

The party you are trying to reach is playing with unicorns

I'm here, I'm here.

It's just...well...it's probably good that I'm not in school this year because it turns out I have a lot of shit going on.

Since last weekend:

• Somebody gave me a dog. Another one. No joke.
• Somebody else gave me a flooded basement. Twice.
• Somebody tormented me with pictures of SPIDERS RIDING ON SNAKES, and gave me a stroke. I have to say, if I'm going to see any animal riding on any other animal, it has to be baby monkey. That video? Never gets old.
• Somebody gave me a new tattoo. More on that later. Fair warning, Dad. YOU WILL HATE IT.
• Somebody else gave me a unicorn. A Webkinz unicorn. I don't know what that means, but my mother-type friend says that means it's alive. I named her Galdalf because I'm reading The Hobbit for the millionth time.
• Somebody gave me the keys to her house. And permission to carry her dogs in my pocket.
• Somebody else gave me Halloween Dots that look like black licorice flavor but are really blood orange flavor, and I know this BECAUSE I CAN FEEL CITRUS. Winning.
• Somebody gave Klout perks, which I don't understand exactly, but they are sending me things in the mail, so I don't really care. Unless I open the box and it turns out to be a cobra. Then I'll probably file a Klout Komplaint.

In addition to all of these new acquisitions, I'm also trying to edit a bunch of videos of me playing Beatles Rock Band - POORLY, I might add - for a really ridonk vlog to post here. Because there isn't enough ridonk in the world.

So as you can see, it's been a busy week. In fact, I missed my 3rd Blogaversary on Sunday. This time, I didn't even post about how I didn't post about it.

(My first real post in 2008. My first blogiversary post in 2009. My second blogiversary post in 2010.)

Clearly, I'm regressing back to my teenage years. When you see my new tattoo, you'll agree. I'm about 14. And I'm a boy.

I'll be back here when I feel like it.

All right, all right. I get it. I'm weird.

People keep giving me random, awesome shit.

For example, I keep a bowl of candy in my office to lure unsuspecting flies into my personal paperwork hell. I sometimes take requests for specific types of candy, or if I overhear someone talking about some they like, I'll look for it. One guy loves Warheads, those little sour hard candies, but I couldn't find them, like, ANYWHERE. I was beginning to think they weren't being made anymore.

Someone heard my Warhead dilemma, and said, "Don't worry, I gotcha." I assumed that meant he knew where to buy a bag of them, but a couple days later, a giant package was delivered to the office with my name on it. I had a moment of panicking, thinking maybe I'd drunken ordered a sex swing and mistakenly shipped it to work instead of home. Then I panicked again, wondering how the hell to assemble a sex swing.

Turns out, it was a giant case of Warheads, shipped from New Jersey.

Another friend of mine, who happened to give us the best wedding gift of all (a framed, autographed Lamb of God album) knows I love spicy food. He does too. Every so often, he just shows up with habanero kettle chips or spicy sardines or hot chili flavored Ramen. Once, he even gave me a jar of pickled eggs, but that is decaying in my kitchen cabinet. I AM AFRAID OF PICKLE-CHICKEN HYBRIDS.

Last week, a friend walked into my office and said, "Oh, I was just at Target and I saw these and I just HAD to get them for you because...it's just too perfect. You had to have them."

These really are the most appropriate note cards I've ever gotten. People see the word "crazy" and they think "CAT!"

Another co-worker was at the dollar store and saw this Wooly Willy. He thought it was something I needed to have, which is true, because I REALLY needed a wooly willy that day.

This thing turns out to be a bigger draw than the candy bowl. People are sitting down to draw metallic mustaches ALL DAY LONG, and now I just realized why Klout says I'm influential about "mustaches." It makes perfect sense.

Aaaaand then there's the giant rubber band. Totally not that exciting, right? WRONG. People love this fucking thing, and let me tell you, it gets some serious air around the office. It can go halfway down the hallway, no problem. Again, this was something a friend saw and said, "Catherine. She can haz giant rubber bandzzzz."

Nobody seems to realize that what I REALLY need is a motherfucking unicorn.

I would post a TMI warning, except if you're here at all, you already know.

Well now. Remember waaaaaaaaay back in June when we were hot in the middle of Operation: Baby? And I posted that although I wasn't pregnant, I also wasn't experiencing anything even remotely resembling a period?

Yeah. Well it's arrived. THREE FUCKING MONTHS LATER.

Seriously, three months (almost to the day) since my last period. Since then, we've put Operation: Baby on hold and I've gone back on the pill because I have some personal shit I need to address (via Dr. Crazy Palms, who is still kicking my ass and taking my name every session) before I feel like I'm really ready to successfully damage my own children the way I've been damaged.

For most of my life, when I'm on the pill, I "suppress" my period, meaning I skip the week of placebo pills and just go straight back to the hormone pills, which means I usually only have one or two periods in a year, which means I WIN!

Except now that I'm suppressing again after MONTHS OF NO UTERINE ACTION AT ALL ANYWAY, of course this is when the fucking shittiest part about being a woman decides to come and fuck with my life.

Welcome back tampons, you have not even been a little bit missed.

Feel like a fuckin bottle of wine, stuffed with a cork, laying sideways in the fridge, dripping all over the place anyway.

Toys, yes. For kids? Not so much.

I've gotten several product review/giveaway offers from companies recently. The most offensive offer I received was from Fisher-Price.

I say offensive because...SERIOUSLY? CHILDREN'S TOYS + THIS BLOG = A VERY ICY, FROZEN HELL.

Dear Cat ,

                       Fisher-Price® is inviting the readers and followers of Zipbag of Bones to enter into The Little People™ Animal Sounds Contest calls on parents to submit a video of their child demonstrating his or her best roar, grrrr or squawk (oh my!) for the chance to win a $10,000 cash prize and a trip to Fisher-Price headquarters in East Aurora, N.Y. for a special photo shoot!

Fisher-Price is thrilled to launch a contest of this magnitude that also gives people the chance to submit their entries via an iPhone® or Android™ mobile device and taps into social media trends by encouraging consumers to share their video links on Facebook and ask

 their friends and families to vote.

Thank you for your kind consideration and I look forward to

working with you on this exciting contest!

Best,

Ariel

Abramowitz Freeman Public Relations

An email to which, of course, I replied:

Deal Ariel,

You've never actually visited my blog, have you?

That is such a nice offer, really it is, but any parents who might read my blog are the kind who would sell their kids' toys for drugs. Or sex. Or possibly DVDs.

As much as I love the little ones making animal noises, I'd be laughed out of the B-o-sphere.
--
Yes, that smell is me,
Cat
***

I didn't get a response.

So that was unfortunate. But you WILL be interested to know I'll be doing another product review for EdenFantasys soon. Sex toys! WOOT! It's been a long time since I've reviewed one of their toys, and I'm thinking it's time to mix it up...maybe something I've never tried before. Maybe something Gray has never tried before. Maybe even something I'm...gulp...afraid of.

OR maybe I'll review one of the free toys they gave me at BlogHer. Only time (and my vagina) will tell.

And, of course, with the product review will be a product giveaway to one very sick, twister reader of mine. So stay tuned for that.

Earpanties. Wet ones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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








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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Clearly, music is better in California.



Well, I'm home now. Most of me, anyway.

I left a lot of blood in San Diego between the tattoos and the fact that an escalator at the San Diego airport tried to eat me.

Human flesh. OMM NOM NOM.

I am officially banned from using stairs of any kind for any reason at any time, including the self-propelled variety.

I won't say that I had a horrible time on this trip because I actually had a lot of fun. It was just a different kind of fun. My cousin is a total freakshow, which is probably why we get along so well. Best voice impersonations EVER, wears a beanie when it's 80 degrees outside, and dances. A lot. It was pretty awesome getting to hang out with him for the first time in my adult life.

I did meet some interesting people, got a lot of surprises, and ate a lot of really good tacos. Oh, and I tried Thai food finally. So there's that.

I am, however, so so so so so happy to be home. My bed, it was magical. Sleeping beside my husband was something I missed for a long time. The Scary dog flung herself onto me and refused to detach, sleeping all night long ON MY FACE. I was even looking forward to work today, although typing without three fingers is kinda tricky.

I can't wait to unpack and do laundry. Go grocery shopping. LAY AROUND ON THE COUCH. I have so much planting to do in the yard now that our windows have been installed. Millions of putzy little projects and I am so excited to be home so that I can sit around thinking about them for so long that I never actually get around to doing them.

I'm also happy I don't have to get on a flying death trap for a long, long time.

BlogHer '11 or bust. Or bust in general.

So.

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

Probably should back up and explain that.

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

And I was done.

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

And then these happened:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time. Flying. And also not. I don't know, I'm fucking JETLAGGED. Cut me some, okay?

Remember that time I said that life is weird? TOTALLY LEGIT, ya'll.

So first of all, I voluntarily hung out at the airport on Monday from like 9:15 a.m. until my flight boarded at 3 p.m. Mostly because that's when Gray could take me and I'm too cheap to pay for long-term parking. But also because airport bars are like the nirvana of the traveling man. 

Early morning booze is totally acceptable. 

So I caught a buzz by 11 and then I took a nap. Loudly and with loudlyness. Except I was wearing headphones and listening to  Mastodon. Because yes, sleeping is better if you're slightly paranoid.

And also I didn't want to know if I A) farted or B) snored. 

Another reason airports rock: anonymity is almost guaranteed, if you ignore the guy who pretends to feel your boobs for explosives.

Yeah, in your pants, Mr. TSA.

Anyway, so on the flight I sat directly behind a guy I'd been eyeing all morning in between sleeping it off. So at first I was like BUMMER but then I realized I was sandwiched behind Jock Man and Super...Something Man, and both were cute. And, I was reasonably sure, of drool-legal age.

HI HENRY! HI BLAKE! Although I'm pretty sure you burned my business cards during a seance to rid your soul of toxic contact.

So we all totally napped for takeoff like every sane person does and then we realized they were serving food.

DID YOU HEAR ME? EDIBLE STUFFS ON AN AIRPLANE. I think Blake said he was having a flashback to the 90s or something. So true.

So then I decided to order a cocktail and Henry agreed, so then I knew for sure he was legal, except we didn't get carded, so apparently airplane rules are different that Safely On The Ground Rules. 

Then we ate the totally free food and Henry and I got to chatting, then I started interrupting Blake while he was totally studying some very intricate drawings of the human anatomy (Jack the Ripper, for sure) so I basically inserted myself into his head, too, then before we landed, we were all laughing (I with glee, them with uncomfortable fear) and then the end. 

It was the best plane ride in memory.

***

On another note, here's a pic of me at my dad's Mac. And, can I say, WHY THE FUCK DON'T THE BROWSER WINDOWS COVER THE WHOLE SCREEN? I cannot stand to see desktop behind it, my mind is literally twitching right now.

And here's me at my dad's same Mac in 2007. 

Holy shit, can you say DIVORCE PLUS WEDDING PLUS PLUS DOGS PLUS TWO LAYOFFS PLUS MORTGAGE PLUS BRAIN INJURY = GRUMPY OLD FACE?

Anyone know how to get 24 back? I'd love to know.

***

About one day to BlogHer and I'm still not ready for the sea of vaginas, but I'm trying. 

Good thing I can't smell.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

On purpose, and with purposeful intent.

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

Haircut? Might be the easiest solution.

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

This message is brought to you by psychosis. And also insomnia.

So.

I'm going to see a new shrink today, mostly because I saw a new phychiatrist last month (the kind with pills) and he read through all of my past therapy files and summarized their contents out loud to me - all of the things in my past that have been done to me, all of the things that I've done, all the fucked up stuff that I'm afraid most people have dealt with, but apparently they have a gene that I'm lacking, the one that instructs them to move the fuck on already, it's in the past, something I've never been able to do - and after reading the notes, the psychiatrist looked up at me and said something like, "No wonder you're depressed."

And all I can say to that is HA. HA HA HA HA HA. Yeah, no shit.

So the main problem I've encountered with talk therapy is that my previous shrinks take a lot of notes and nod their heads a lot, occasionally asking questions, but mostly just waiting for me to blurt shit out. Anyone who's "met" me knows that BLURTING IS NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME. So while perhaps getting patients to discuss their sexual abuse or their history of self-mutilation is a major break through, for me it's like DUDE. Save us both some time and just read my fucking blog.

What I need is a shrink who will grab me by the throat and shove my face into the sentence I just said, hold me underwater and scream at me, "LOOK AT THAT SHIT. WHY DID YOU DO THAT. That's what you need to figure out, dumbass."

I need someone to push me.

Someone to call me out.

Someone to actually HELP me.

So this morning, I have the very typical (for me) Patient's Remorse, the feeling I get when I'm at the point of no-return before a therapy appointment, when it's too late to cancel without paying for the session anyway, and I'm all, "But see? I'm not even that depressed today. This is like going to get a manicure after pulling all of my nails out with pliers. KIND OF REDUNDANT."

The psychiatrist I saw last month upped my dose of the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for two years with fairly remarkable success, and it seems the slightly higher dose is helping because now I feel like I'm normal again.

Except.

Except this feeling is something I've experienced before a bajillion times, and what it means is that I'll be peachy-golden-sunshine-and-unicorn-farts for about two weeks and then all of a sudden, I'll feel like the entire world is spinning, the color will drain out of everything and I'll watch it slip away like shit down the toilet, and I'll be like, "Fuck. Shoulda kept that therapy appointment." But then, I'll be too depressed to pick up the damn phone, so I'll suffer through it until I'm feeling better.

Lather, rinse, re-fucking-peat.

Defeats the whole purpose of therapy, really. I'm tired of using crutches. I want to fix the fucking break inside of me. Forever.

It's exhausting, always trying to decide if living is worth the trouble.

So.

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

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

Oh lord.

Just look at what last year was like:

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

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

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

The view from our hotel, aka Fucking Heaven.

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

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

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

Me and my favorite Jew again, Jessica Bern.

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

Clearly, I didn't learn a fucking thing.

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

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

 

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

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

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

These people really *get* me.

***

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

Fursuit fetish and other really sick shit we love

Well now.

Quite a good showing for our last anonymous confessions post. I was impressed with the number of commenters, both anon and non-anon, although some people close to Zippy felt the confessions were pretty damn run-of-the-mill slash vanilla.

So.

Here's something I've been fascinated by for years, thanks to an episode of CSI: Miami - There are people who only get off on the idea of or actual act of fucking inside of or to a person in a fur suit. Like a mascot.

I've never been able to look at the Twins T.C. Bear the same.

So I've been thinking. What is my sexual fetish?

I'm not sure that I have one, to be honest. Certainly nothing that I obsess over. I don't like feet that much; I'm not really into dead bodies or threesomes. Asian chicks are hot, but so are lots of other women. Dick size doesn't seem to make much of a difference in porn, although GIANT does seem to equal more screaming than moaning. That's kind of a turn-off, actually.

Hurt so good, in my opinion, didn't mean hemorrhaging and vaginal wall tearing.

So.

I DO enjoy watching sex I'd never actually have myself. For instance, you may have noticed my many references to Taboo Anal Pleasures 5000. I don't want anything in my pooper except poop, but it's fun to watch. Seems the more porn one views, the more desensitized one becomes; therefore, the more out-of-the-box ones viewing must become if one is to attain...the Ultimate Goal.

Having met some people with fetishes, however, I think it must be much more common than we think.

Therefore, spill it.

I want to know your dirty, nasty secrets.

Ever wanted to do a chicken? That's called: Avisodomy

Ever got off by watching someone freeze to death? That's called: Psychrophilia

Find yourself "accidentally" sticking your junk in your partner's nose? That's called: Nasophilia

We don't judge here. You don't have to worry about people calling your a pervert. Actually, you should be more worried that my freaks will want your phone number for a booty call after this one. So go ahead: spill the beans.

Unless you have a thing for beans. Then you're just sick.