My laptop is no more. I'm far behind on all my blog reading, and I am in serious, embarrassing withdrawal. Need to write 4-paragraph comments: overwhelming.
Be back soon.
Sucks to your hard disk, Piggy.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
"Oh, this is the biggest one I ever had. You hear that, Elizabeth?"
I'm coming to join you, honey!
Seriously, like Fred Sanford, I am actually having a heart attack. I've been having it since midday yesterday. They symptoms are classic. Tightness in chest, just to left of center. Today, it's central, though.
Anyway, the Internet told me it's a heart attack, so it probably has nothing to do with enormous amounts of stress exacerbating my preexisting anxiety.
But, enough about me. Let's talk about other people, shall we? It is, after all, C. U. Next Tuesday.
On our list: John Edwards.
Now. I've been planning a John Edwards post for quite some time. What do you say about someone who is naturally so hilarious? It's all so obvious.
For those not in the know, John Edwards, a vice presidential candidate in 2004, learned, just days after losing the election, his wife, Elizabeth, had breast cancer. A couple days after that, he was on the horn with his buds, making plans for a Presidential run in '08.
During his run for President, he had an affair with videographer Rielle Hunter. He later admitted the affair, but said his wife's cancer was in remission while he was poking Hunter.
He also denied Hunter's daughter was his, even though she looks exactly like him. (This is altogether creepy, because it just brings to mind a little golden-haired sperm cell smiling and winking its way up the birth canal, wiggling its way inside the egg, and then taking over the whole process of developing into a baby. And the egg looks kind of like John Kerry's head.)
So, then Elizabeth Edwards, who was (is) dying of the breast cancer that returned, wrote a book and did an emotional interview. She believed the lovechild is not his kid.
I'll wait while you go Google the pictures.
*****muzak*****
Right. So.
Now, Elizabeth Edwards looks all sad and pathetic, believing her philandering, self-impressed, deluded husband, thereby making John Edwards look like an even bigger dickhead. Which he deserves.
At this point in the story, we are all just sick of John Edwards. We forgot about him last year. No one gives a flying fuck about him, and we've all written him off as a lying sack of shit.
Then, last week, in the wake of the devastation in Haiti, John Edwards surprised everyone by admitting the lovechild is his, which means he was (is?) cheating on his dying wife. As if we all didn't know already.
It is here where I decided I would blog about it. I started a few entries. Didn't seem worth it. I mean, everything that can be said has been said, right?
Well, I'm glad I waited because the latest news just has me in a pickle.
John Edwards made a sex tape. With his mistress. While he was running for President.
Then, Edwards and Hunter were so careless with this video, they left it on an unmarked DVD. That's how Edwards' aide found it. That aide wrote a book.
The kicker?
Apparently, everyone who has viewed the tape has said, "Whoa." Edwards has a big Johnson - and I'm not talking about an inappropriate T-shirt marketed to middle-schoolers on the boardwalk.
That makes me angry, for several reasons:
A. Obviously, no one that idiotic or mean should be blessed with a large dick.
B. Look at that pretty boy hair, the lame tie, the dorky sweet Southern boy act. You see that package, you're thinking a rating of pity fuck, at worst, or - at best - a rating of maybe after a few bong hits and a 3 a.m. Royal Farms turkey sub run. At 3 a.m., after a night of partying and a large turkey sub with pickles, you are not expecting something large and in charge, am I wrong? No. I'm not. You're looking for something mildly pleasant to lull you to sleep. The second worst kind of false advertising. (The worst obviously being the hot guy with the good conversation and hilarious anecdotes who is really into you turning out to be - um - disappointing.)
C. If you get a gun permit, you have to know how to use the weapon. God gave you a large weapon, and that's how you use it? Really?
D. HE MADE A FUCKING SEX TAPE WHILE HE WAS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. THIS MAN COULD HAVE BEEN MAKING DECISIONS FOR THE ENTIRE FUCKING COUNTRY.
Jesus. Even Bill Clinton didn't make a sex tape. They had to prove it with a jizz stain on a blue dress.
Anyway. Now, how do you like the title of this post? *scroll up* I really am having chest pains, but I might make it after all. This whole saga was like taking a nice, cold shower.
Seriously, like Fred Sanford, I am actually having a heart attack. I've been having it since midday yesterday. They symptoms are classic. Tightness in chest, just to left of center. Today, it's central, though.
Anyway, the Internet told me it's a heart attack, so it probably has nothing to do with enormous amounts of stress exacerbating my preexisting anxiety.
But, enough about me. Let's talk about other people, shall we? It is, after all, C. U. Next Tuesday.
On our list: John Edwards.
Now. I've been planning a John Edwards post for quite some time. What do you say about someone who is naturally so hilarious? It's all so obvious.
For those not in the know, John Edwards, a vice presidential candidate in 2004, learned, just days after losing the election, his wife, Elizabeth, had breast cancer. A couple days after that, he was on the horn with his buds, making plans for a Presidential run in '08.
During his run for President, he had an affair with videographer Rielle Hunter. He later admitted the affair, but said his wife's cancer was in remission while he was poking Hunter.
He also denied Hunter's daughter was his, even though she looks exactly like him. (This is altogether creepy, because it just brings to mind a little golden-haired sperm cell smiling and winking its way up the birth canal, wiggling its way inside the egg, and then taking over the whole process of developing into a baby. And the egg looks kind of like John Kerry's head.)
So, then Elizabeth Edwards, who was (is) dying of the breast cancer that returned, wrote a book and did an emotional interview. She believed the lovechild is not his kid.
I'll wait while you go Google the pictures.
*****muzak*****
Right. So.
Now, Elizabeth Edwards looks all sad and pathetic, believing her philandering, self-impressed, deluded husband, thereby making John Edwards look like an even bigger dickhead. Which he deserves.
At this point in the story, we are all just sick of John Edwards. We forgot about him last year. No one gives a flying fuck about him, and we've all written him off as a lying sack of shit.
Then, last week, in the wake of the devastation in Haiti, John Edwards surprised everyone by admitting the lovechild is his, which means he was (is?) cheating on his dying wife. As if we all didn't know already.
It is here where I decided I would blog about it. I started a few entries. Didn't seem worth it. I mean, everything that can be said has been said, right?
Well, I'm glad I waited because the latest news just has me in a pickle.
John Edwards made a sex tape. With his mistress. While he was running for President.
Then, Edwards and Hunter were so careless with this video, they left it on an unmarked DVD. That's how Edwards' aide found it. That aide wrote a book.
The kicker?
Apparently, everyone who has viewed the tape has said, "Whoa." Edwards has a big Johnson - and I'm not talking about an inappropriate T-shirt marketed to middle-schoolers on the boardwalk.
That makes me angry, for several reasons:
A. Obviously, no one that idiotic or mean should be blessed with a large dick.
B. Look at that pretty boy hair, the lame tie, the dorky sweet Southern boy act. You see that package, you're thinking a rating of pity fuck, at worst, or - at best - a rating of maybe after a few bong hits and a 3 a.m. Royal Farms turkey sub run. At 3 a.m., after a night of partying and a large turkey sub with pickles, you are not expecting something large and in charge, am I wrong? No. I'm not. You're looking for something mildly pleasant to lull you to sleep. The second worst kind of false advertising. (The worst obviously being the hot guy with the good conversation and hilarious anecdotes who is really into you turning out to be - um - disappointing.)
C. If you get a gun permit, you have to know how to use the weapon. God gave you a large weapon, and that's how you use it? Really?
D. HE MADE A FUCKING SEX TAPE WHILE HE WAS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. THIS MAN COULD HAVE BEEN MAKING DECISIONS FOR THE ENTIRE FUCKING COUNTRY.
Jesus. Even Bill Clinton didn't make a sex tape. They had to prove it with a jizz stain on a blue dress.
Anyway. Now, how do you like the title of this post? *scroll up* I really am having chest pains, but I might make it after all. This whole saga was like taking a nice, cold shower.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
No C-U-Next-Tuesday; Duggar time!
No C-U-Next-Tuesday. Crappy, crappy, crappy day. Don't feel like getting into it.
Phubby and I are eating Domino's out of the boxes on our laps and watching bad Tuesday night television.
Phubby's comments on "20 Duggars":
On JimBob and Michelle's flirtation:
"Born Again perverts."
On Michelle needing a C-section:
"It's her 18th kid! She should just be able to shake her leg and drop that thing!"
"Seriously, she should be like a hooker with a ping-pong ball. You know ... pop ... pop."
On J names:
"Is his name really JimBob?"
"It took them until kid 15 to get to 'James?' What the fuck?! Jim Bob? His name is James."
On being pregnant again (and inexplicably wearing a white wedding dress for her 25th wedding anniversary):
"Is she pregnant again?! Duuuude. What's the matter with a blow job?!"
Term for JimBob's "seed":
"Duggar butter"
On carrying Duggar butter:
"Woman must be like a custard eclair walking around that house."
On me blogging:
"Now I'm just being mean. Don't type all this. C'mon."
On baby making:
"Wait a minute. How do you have sex when you have, like, 12 kids? When the fuck do you have time to fuck?"
Phubby and I are eating Domino's out of the boxes on our laps and watching bad Tuesday night television.
Phubby's comments on "20 Duggars":
On JimBob and Michelle's flirtation:
"Born Again perverts."
On Michelle needing a C-section:
"It's her 18th kid! She should just be able to shake her leg and drop that thing!"
"Seriously, she should be like a hooker with a ping-pong ball. You know ... pop ... pop."
On J names:
"Is his name really JimBob?"
"It took them until kid 15 to get to 'James?' What the fuck?! Jim Bob? His name is James."
On being pregnant again (and inexplicably wearing a white wedding dress for her 25th wedding anniversary):
"Is she pregnant again?! Duuuude. What's the matter with a blow job?!"
Term for JimBob's "seed":
"Duggar butter"
On carrying Duggar butter:
"Woman must be like a custard eclair walking around that house."
On me blogging:
"Now I'm just being mean. Don't type all this. C'mon."
On baby making:
"Wait a minute. How do you have sex when you have, like, 12 kids? When the fuck do you have time to fuck?"
*Shit. We only have two kids. I think he's on to me.
"If we had 12 kids, I'd make them play 'Bomb Shelter.' We'd have an alarm go off, and I'd send them down there to sit and be quiet until the drill was over. That's when you and I would have our 'happy time.'"
On the kids saying JimBob and Michelle are very much in love and 'are always holding hands or always kissing':
"You know what else they're doing?"
On Michelle saying the 25th anniversary/vow renewal kiss was a lot bolder than the first wedding kiss, when he was shy and nervous:
"Then you let him bone you 50 thousand times, and he sorta got some confidence out of it. What a shocker." I RULE EVERYTHING! (A gloat)
"Winners get to do what they want."
- Will Ferrell, Taladega Nights
Do you know what's awesome?
First, let's just get this off the table right away: shoe shopping with an adorable, curly-haired 3-year-old who loves shoes a little bit more than she loves her mommy, which is saying a lot because the kid? She fucking worships me.
I'm Catholic, and I'm pretty sure it's a sin that she likes shoes that much, and I don't care - for two reasons:
1. When you take your adorable, very cheerful, curly-haired 3-year-old who loves shoes to the shoe store, and she tries on shoes way too big for her, and gives you recommendations, and then tells you your choice is "fabuyous," and insists on carrying the box for you, she kind of draws a crowd and makes the crowd fall in love with her. And that means? I'm an excellent breeder.
2. See #1.
Next, let's move onto another reason I'm awesome and you all should be blowing me.
(^^I kill at transitions, in case you didn't notice.)
When you're crazy fucking nervous about asking for letters of recommendation from three people you respect enormously, and you fret as you fall asleep, and then one of them e-mails back and is all "of course..."
... And then, after that, you still have to ask for two more, and the people you ask for recs are amazing, and you want them to know how awesome you think they are and you sit in one of their offices and talk to both of them for, like, an hour, all the while breaking little wooden stir sticks from Starbucks into little pieces in the pocket of your puffy vest.
Until, finally, one of them needs to go back to her office to edit the obits, and then you're all "wait, can I ask you something?" And she's all "Sure."
So, you tell them about this really competitive program you want to do, and they're all "Of course we'll write you letters of recommendation. You'll definitely get in."
And then one of them tells you you're a good writer, and you kind of want to cry at the compliment, and then you say you've never even taken a writing class (even though you write for a living) and then she says ...
"You could probably teach them writing."
That. Right ^^ there. That? That's when you know you're so awesome, you can rewrite the rules of writing (which is my way of saying, "Dude. I know I don't follow the rules of decent written English on the blog, but that's because bloggy-blogueing is diff than real writing so get off my dick about it already.").
Furthermore, when you go to this little meeting, and you're wearing the shoes your adorable 3-year-old helped you choose this morning at the shoe store, and your editor is all, "Those are cute shoes," you've realized that you're not only the most brilliant writer EV, you're also incredibly well dressed and
Aaaaand, I'm still going to write a C-U-Next-Tuesday post today, because really, I wrote most of this post on Saturday, and I'm just getting around to publishing it now, and I have a kvetch. Surprise, surprise, surprise.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
My loves, my joys, my dear children, Mommy loves you.
But shut the hell up and go to sleep.
I hear you yelling. Yes, yes, but you went down for your naps an hour ago.
You whimpered and sighed for a half hour. Then, you were asleep ... or so you led me to believe.
Now, you're yelling "Heeeelllllllp! Mommmmmm-yyyyyyyy! Iiiiiii'm awa-aaaaaake! Mommy!? I'm awake! *pause* MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM-YYYY!! I'm A-WAKE!"
This is what I hear: nothing.
Just like what you hear when I say, "Dear loveys, please pick up your Legos and put them in the bin" and then sing you the happy pick-up song I just invented.
Just like what you hear when I say, "Babies! It's lunchtime; come to the table, please." (You know, until the part where I declare that I will be eating all of Mommy's homemade mac-and-cheese all by myself, and you come running into the kitchen, your tiny little stocking feet sliding on the linoleum, screaming, "NOOOO! That's MY mac-and-cheese!")
You are adorable, and you are the loves of my life. But, if we're being frank with each other?
I did not get split open in the middle of the night and nurse two children in two different hospitals two hours away from one another for two weeks and take a huge step back in my career and work from home with no adult interaction just to get one-hour naps out of you two.
So, this is how it's going to work: You are going to shut your adorable 3-year-old pie holes for at least the next 45 minutes, or I swear on all that is pure and good about motherhood that this house will never again have lollipops.
Do we have a deal?
I'm glad we understand each other.
I hear you yelling. Yes, yes, but you went down for your naps an hour ago.
You whimpered and sighed for a half hour. Then, you were asleep ... or so you led me to believe.
Now, you're yelling "Heeeelllllllp! Mommmmmm-yyyyyyyy! Iiiiiii'm awa-aaaaaake! Mommy!? I'm awake! *pause* MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM-YYYY!! I'm A-WAKE!"
This is what I hear: nothing.
Just like what you hear when I say, "Dear loveys, please pick up your Legos and put them in the bin" and then sing you the happy pick-up song I just invented.
Just like what you hear when I say, "Babies! It's lunchtime; come to the table, please." (You know, until the part where I declare that I will be eating all of Mommy's homemade mac-and-cheese all by myself, and you come running into the kitchen, your tiny little stocking feet sliding on the linoleum, screaming, "NOOOO! That's MY mac-and-cheese!")
You are adorable, and you are the loves of my life. But, if we're being frank with each other?
I did not get split open in the middle of the night and nurse two children in two different hospitals two hours away from one another for two weeks and take a huge step back in my career and work from home with no adult interaction just to get one-hour naps out of you two.
So, this is how it's going to work: You are going to shut your adorable 3-year-old pie holes for at least the next 45 minutes, or I swear on all that is pure and good about motherhood that this house will never again have lollipops.
Do we have a deal?
I'm glad we understand each other.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
C-U-Next-Tuesday because I suppose I should finish something
I'm not feeling particularly cunty today. Thought you should know.
Grad school app prep, trying to read some important nonfiction. God, Joan Didion is tops. Also, she kind of makes me want to jump off a bridge - figuratively. Let's not have some well-meaning assholes calling hotlines on my behalf, because seriously? I don't answer calls from 800 numbers or anything with "Assoc" in the identification.
(You can fuck off, alma mater. In the same way I didn't "need" climate control in my dorm room, you also don't "need" butt warmers for your multimillion-dollar lacrosse stadium.)
I digress.
So, like I said 14 paragraphs ago, this book and my overwhelming diligence are making me mellow, reflective, serious.
*Stares out window, dramatically contemplates meaning of bluebirds*
When this is all over and I obviously get accepted on my first try to this ridiculously competitive program, I'll be very busy sewing elbow patches onto all my corduroy blazers. I might even sew some onto the curtains, so everyone walking by the house will know how smart I am.
Then, I'm going to go to all your blogs and correct all your spelling and grammar mistakes. No need to thank me. Really, that's why I am going to graduate school.
Well, that, and to lose the ability to use a fax machine.
See? I'm so boring.
Good thing Phubby is entertaining. On with the funny!
Background: discussing funny story BFF told me about watching Paranormal Activity, wherein the word "demon" is mentioned, and BFF declares to her hubby, "Peace out. I'll be in the living room. Come get me when it's over." Later, BFF's hubby says to her something like, "It's not too bad. The only part that is a little scary is when you kind of see the demon."
PHubby: Kind of see the demon?
Me: I know, right?!
PHubby: (imitating BFF's hubby) "Oh, honey, it's not scary. You just see a demon eating some babies ..."
Me: "...Peeing on pictures of Jesus, making children's heads spin ..."
PHubby: "Torturing the disabled."
*pause*
Me: "Torturing the disabled?!"
PHubby: What?
Me: (laughing at him by now) How does that just pop into your head?
PHubby: (too defensively) What?! Torturing the disabled is really mean! *pause* (gives me condescending "duh" look) Like something a demon would do?
How could I argue with that?
Grad school app prep, trying to read some important nonfiction. God, Joan Didion is tops. Also, she kind of makes me want to jump off a bridge - figuratively. Let's not have some well-meaning assholes calling hotlines on my behalf, because seriously? I don't answer calls from 800 numbers or anything with "Assoc" in the identification.
(You can fuck off, alma mater. In the same way I didn't "need" climate control in my dorm room, you also don't "need" butt warmers for your multimillion-dollar lacrosse stadium.)
I digress.
So, like I said 14 paragraphs ago, this book and my overwhelming diligence are making me mellow, reflective, serious.
*Stares out window, dramatically contemplates meaning of bluebirds*
When this is all over and I obviously get accepted on my first try to this ridiculously competitive program, I'll be very busy sewing elbow patches onto all my corduroy blazers. I might even sew some onto the curtains, so everyone walking by the house will know how smart I am.
Then, I'm going to go to all your blogs and correct all your spelling and grammar mistakes. No need to thank me. Really, that's why I am going to graduate school.
Well, that, and to lose the ability to use a fax machine.
See? I'm so boring.
Good thing Phubby is entertaining. On with the funny!
Background: discussing funny story BFF told me about watching Paranormal Activity, wherein the word "demon" is mentioned, and BFF declares to her hubby, "Peace out. I'll be in the living room. Come get me when it's over." Later, BFF's hubby says to her something like, "It's not too bad. The only part that is a little scary is when you kind of see the demon."
PHubby: Kind of see the demon?
Me: I know, right?!
PHubby: (imitating BFF's hubby) "Oh, honey, it's not scary. You just see a demon eating some babies ..."
Me: "...Peeing on pictures of Jesus, making children's heads spin ..."
PHubby: "Torturing the disabled."
*pause*
Me: "Torturing the disabled?!"
PHubby: What?
Me: (laughing at him by now) How does that just pop into your head?
PHubby: (too defensively) What?! Torturing the disabled is really mean! *pause* (gives me condescending "duh" look) Like something a demon would do?
How could I argue with that?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
On Notice
Apparently, "Shut your whore mouth" is not dirty talk.
Is it just me, or is Phubby kind of sensitive?
Is it just me, or is Phubby kind of sensitive?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I'm too friendly
Uncomfortable Adventures in Holiday Shopping, part 2
One time, I heard somewhere that the best place to find love is the grocery store. It's the new (or old) Myspace. It's the offline anonymous booty call of the real world, right?
Apparently it is, because I got hit on hardcore at the grocery store over the holidays, but seriously, yo, I didn't realize it until I told the story for the second time. (By the way, Phubby and BFF I'm pretty sure think I'm a complete fucking idiot for this.)
For those of you following along at home, I'm awkward.
I have an overwhelming urge to make friends wherever I go, especially with surly people, couples having private conversations, people who look like they have nothing in common with me whatsoever and any other types of people who do not want to talk to me.
I really like people, and I like making friends with people who do have different life experiences. One time, I met this really cool guy on a train who had been a political prisoner and had this amazing life story and was headed to New York to plea for help for his country, and SHUT UP! I'm just fucking friendly, OK?
The scene: The grocery store, late at night, after a meeting for work. At the register. The light is on, but the cashier isn't there yet. My inner monologue in red.
The cashier strolls up.
Oh, I've never met this checker before. She must be new! I should be nice to her! Whoa - and it's Christmas! I should be extra super nice to her!*
Me: Really? :( That bad, huh?
Checker: Yeah.
Me: Well, it must be the holidays! :D It will be better soon, right?! ;D
Checker: Yeah. It was busy earlier. Now nobody's here.
OMG. I'm a pervert. And she's figured it out. Cover my tracks. Cover my tracks! Play naive! Dreams of board game night slipping from my firm but friendly grasp!
Me: You should because if you play the numbers and you win, you'll be really psyched (DUH), but if you don't and the numbers hit, you'll be super mad, right?
Checker: *nodding* I'm thinkin' about it. I'm reaaaaally thinkin' about it.
Me: *seeing another customer behind me in line* Oh. Great! Well, I hope you get off soon! *Shit* Work. I hope you get off work soon. OK. Good night! Hahaha! Play those numbers!
Everyone knows you were thinking about oral sex. Just get out of here. In fact, run. Like you're suddenly in a hurry to get to your car. And don't make it a cool run. Just go ahead and do the fat-middle-schooler-in-gym-shorts jiggle all the way to the car, pushing your cart with the three bags you could easily carry.
It's amazing I ever got a date in this world.
* OK, fine. I know she's new. I know because I go to the grocery store too much. It's my home away from home, my peaceful getaway. It has a Starbucks and a good newsstand and a book-and-DVD section. Also, free balloons for kids AND they always give the kids cookies or little samples of cheese. So maybe I know the people who work there by name. And maybe my favorites are Cheryl and Mary. And maybe I clip out the "top banana" cards from the mailers to give to the grocery store employees who are extra-special nice. (Tip: keep them with you in your coupon organizer! You'd be amazed how grateful the employees are.)
One time, I heard somewhere that the best place to find love is the grocery store. It's the new (or old) Myspace. It's the offline anonymous booty call of the real world, right?
Apparently it is, because I got hit on hardcore at the grocery store over the holidays, but seriously, yo, I didn't realize it until I told the story for the second time. (By the way, Phubby and BFF I'm pretty sure think I'm a complete fucking idiot for this.)
For those of you following along at home, I'm awkward.
I have an overwhelming urge to make friends wherever I go, especially with surly people, couples having private conversations, people who look like they have nothing in common with me whatsoever and any other types of people who do not want to talk to me.
I really like people, and I like making friends with people who do have different life experiences. One time, I met this really cool guy on a train who had been a political prisoner and had this amazing life story and was headed to New York to plea for help for his country, and SHUT UP! I'm just fucking friendly, OK?
The scene: The grocery store, late at night, after a meeting for work. At the register. The light is on, but the cashier isn't there yet. My inner monologue in red.
The cashier strolls up.
Oh, I've never met this checker before. She must be new! I should be nice to her! Whoa - and it's Christmas! I should be extra super nice to her!*
Me: Hi there! :D
Checker: Um, hey.
Oh, she seems a little grumpy. Maybe she's mad she has to work late. Or she might be mad about her spiky haircut. I'll cheer her up!
Checker: Yeah.
Me: Well, it must be the holidays! :D It will be better soon, right?! ;D
Checker: Yeah. It was busy earlier. Now nobody's here.
Wow. Poor checker. It must be her first day, and she's so stand-offish. She's acting all cool, like Danny Zucco when Sandy spots him at school for the first time, and Sandy's all "HEY! Remember when I gave you that hand J under the boardwalk," and Danny's all, shrug, "Just anotha pussy that I had to tame."
But Sandy, she doesn't give up, and neither do I.
Plus? I'll lay it on the table, on the principle of frankness. The checker? Definitely lesbyterian.
Which? Is totally cool, but I'll admit makes me feel a little sorry for her because we live in a really rural, conservative area, and I'm assuming, maybe incorrectly (but not because people can be real assholes here), that perhaps not everyone around here is very nice to her. BUT, she's about my age, and maybe we could be friends forever and she could come over for board game night and we could drink wine and sometimes go hiking and I could totally, like, be at her wedding and give a really touching toast about how we met at the grocery store and became friends for life and how I'm so happy that my dear friend has found this beautiful woman with whom to share her life (and - let's be honest - my board game nights, because once I get around to organizing them, they will be legendary.)
So, I must. make. friends with her.
Me: Aw. I'm sorry. Has everyone else gone home for the night? *perky face*
Checker: Yeah, I'm pretty much the only one here.
Me: Aww. Shouldn't be too much longer. When is your shift over?
Checker: *cocks head, looks up at clock, looks at me directly for first time, half smiles* 10:30
Me: Oh, great! That's pretty soon! See?! Your night is looking up! :D :D :D
Checker: *slow nod* I'd say it is.
I am the Christmas spirit fairy. And I have just delivered this lonely, tired checker from grumpiness. We're totally going to be friends. I can feel it.
Smiling, I bag some groceries ... she bags some groceries. She hands me a filled reusable bag (because I am an environmentalist and you should be, too). She hits a button on the register ... and FREEZES.
She stares at the screen, not even blinking.
Checker: *with amazement* That. is the second time that's happened. TODAY.
Me: Hmm? What's that now?
Checker: *slowly turning toward me* The total? Is S i x-t y-n i n e. 99. *pause* Exactly.
*uncomfortable pause*
Oh, no! I'm pausing too long. This is awkward. I'm such a pervert! All I can think is 69-oral-sex, 69-oral-sex. What is wrong with me?! Say something normal, or else she'll think you're a pervert! Do it. Say something! You're still not talking. Speak! Now!
Friendship making skills failing you! Why are you such a pervert?! Get your mind out of the gutter and make a fucking friend!
Me: *pulling it together* Har-har-har. That's so weird. You should totally play those numbers tonight. *pause* In the lottery!
Checker: I'm thinkin' about it. *boring hole in my skull with her eyes* I'm reaaaally thinkin' about it.
Checker: Yeah, I'm pretty much the only one here.
Me: Aww. Shouldn't be too much longer. When is your shift over?
Checker: *cocks head, looks up at clock, looks at me directly for first time, half smiles* 10:30
Me: Oh, great! That's pretty soon! See?! Your night is looking up! :D :D :D
Checker: *slow nod* I'd say it is.
I am the Christmas spirit fairy. And I have just delivered this lonely, tired checker from grumpiness. We're totally going to be friends. I can feel it.
Smiling, I bag some groceries ... she bags some groceries. She hands me a filled reusable bag (because I am an environmentalist and you should be, too). She hits a button on the register ... and FREEZES.
She stares at the screen, not even blinking.
Checker: *with amazement* That. is the second time that's happened. TODAY.
Me: Hmm? What's that now?
Checker: *slowly turning toward me* The total? Is S i x-t y-n i n e. 99. *pause* Exactly.
*uncomfortable pause*
Friendship making skills failing you! Why are you such a pervert?! Get your mind out of the gutter and make a fucking friend!
Me: *pulling it together* Har-har-har. That's so weird. You should totally play those numbers tonight. *pause* In the lottery!
Checker: I'm thinkin' about it. *boring hole in my skull with her eyes* I'm reaaaally thinkin' about it.
OMG. I'm a pervert. And she's figured it out. Cover my tracks. Cover my tracks! Play naive! Dreams of board game night slipping from my firm but friendly grasp!
Me: You should because if you play the numbers and you win, you'll be really psyched (DUH), but if you don't and the numbers hit, you'll be super mad, right?
Checker: *nodding* I'm thinkin' about it. I'm reaaaaally thinkin' about it.
Me: *seeing another customer behind me in line* Oh. Great! Well, I hope you get off soon! *Shit* Work. I hope you get off work soon. OK. Good night! Hahaha! Play those numbers!
Sarah, you are half the grocery store away from the line. Stop talking. You look like you're yelling at yourself.
Everyone knows you were thinking about oral sex. Just get out of here. In fact, run. Like you're suddenly in a hurry to get to your car. And don't make it a cool run. Just go ahead and do the fat-middle-schooler-in-gym-shorts jiggle all the way to the car, pushing your cart with the three bags you could easily carry.
Later you can tell the story twice before realizing the funny part of the story is not that you thought about a 69 reference with a stranger but that the stranger WAS HITTING ON YOU and you were too self-involved and neurotic to realize it.
It's amazing I ever got a date in this world.
* OK, fine. I know she's new. I know because I go to the grocery store too much. It's my home away from home, my peaceful getaway. It has a Starbucks and a good newsstand and a book-and-DVD section. Also, free balloons for kids AND they always give the kids cookies or little samples of cheese. So maybe I know the people who work there by name. And maybe my favorites are Cheryl and Mary. And maybe I clip out the "top banana" cards from the mailers to give to the grocery store employees who are extra-special nice. (Tip: keep them with you in your coupon organizer! You'd be amazed how grateful the employees are.)
EDIT: I just remembered how mad I was that my parents wouldn't let me have a summer job selling knives door-to-door. They were so unreasonable. It paid $12 an hour, but all my mom said was "No. You will not be selling the implements of your destruction." She's so jaded. I'm totally streetwise.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Actually related to cupcakes
Why would one bake a giant cupcake?
Better yet, why would one purchase a giant cupcake pan?
I really need to know, because last time I checked, if you want a giant cupcake, you just bake a fucking cake, yo.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Au gratin or scalloped?
I should post on my other blog. It's about healthy lifestyles. I haven't been going to the gym because the holiday season was too busy, and now just because inside my house is warmer than outside my house.
Also, I have a cold.
And?
I ate bacon and peanut-M&Ms for lunch. I wish I were lying.
I take that back. It was delicious.
I started playing around with Mr. Potato Head and realized I want a lot more pieces - and a Mrs. Potato Head, for sexism's sake!
Also, this might have gotten into my head a little bit. I didn't initially intend perversion.
Young, virile Mr. Potato Head.
Osteoporosis Mr. Potato Head
Oops. Caught-behind-the-elementary-school-again Mr. Potato Head.
Mr. Potato Head's first ever lap dance.
Mr. Potato Head's fifth lap dance ... tonight.
Back door man Mr. Potato Head.
OK, that's it for Mr. Potato Head.
Now, for the E True Potato Head Story - Ms. Potato Head.
Mr. Potato Daddy's little princess.
Little Bookworm Potato Head's first day at school.
State College Potato Head becomes a drunken sorority whore.
Paying-her-own-way Community-college-mother-of-two Potato Head.
(Comes with rear access for stashing coke.)
Try not to think about how this photo session happened in my kids' playroom.
Mad, mad blogger love
I love you all. Well, those of you that posted. And what a set of posts!
Hilarious, insightful, drug-fueled, vaguely suicidal. Well done, well done. *Slow clap*
*Slow stand*
*Looking around*
*Standing ovation*
You rock.
For this reason, Mr. Potato Head and I will be having a little photo session while the kids are napping.
The results will be posted here.
AND I will still try to come up with something cunty to write today for C-U-Next-Tuesday.
A thank you to you, my ones of readers.
*slips you all the tongue*
Hilarious, insightful, drug-fueled, vaguely suicidal. Well done, well done. *Slow clap*
*Slow stand*
*Looking around*
*Standing ovation*
You rock.
For this reason, Mr. Potato Head and I will be having a little photo session while the kids are napping.
The results will be posted here.
AND I will still try to come up with something cunty to write today for C-U-Next-Tuesday.
A thank you to you, my ones of readers.
*slips you all the tongue*
Monday, January 4, 2010
I'm running out of shit to read
Seriously, bloggers, entertain me! No one is posting. Everyone is all "I'm bloated and hungover and I don't have the inspiration to be interesting/funny/whatevs."
Sucks to your asmar!
I've had about enough of your ennui.
Here I am, in my pajamas, in charge of a house with two cats and two preschoolers, which is like being the only human in the house with four unreasonable, stingy elves who do things like tear up your furniture, wipe snot on you, and demand food and hugs. Also, there's a lot of excrement to be cleaned, and more than once I've been accidentally head-butted in the crotch.
Phubby is at his Grandma's funeral, half the continental states away. He read me the poem he wrote to read at her funeral, and it's heartcrushingly sweet and sad.
I need the entertainment, peops. There's only so much "Clean House" I can watch before I actually clean my own.
I'm going to go make a bowl of iron-rich mussels. When I get back to the Internetz, I expect to see something good. Or the Internet is getting a timeout.
And I do not fuck around with timeouts.
I will set the timer, and the Internet will stay seated on the step, or I will start it all over again.
Sucks to your asmar!
I've had about enough of your ennui.
Here I am, in my pajamas, in charge of a house with two cats and two preschoolers, which is like being the only human in the house with four unreasonable, stingy elves who do things like tear up your furniture, wipe snot on you, and demand food and hugs. Also, there's a lot of excrement to be cleaned, and more than once I've been accidentally head-butted in the crotch.
Phubby is at his Grandma's funeral, half the continental states away. He read me the poem he wrote to read at her funeral, and it's heartcrushingly sweet and sad.
I need the entertainment, peops. There's only so much "Clean House" I can watch before I actually clean my own.
I'm going to go make a bowl of iron-rich mussels. When I get back to the Internetz, I expect to see something good. Or the Internet is getting a timeout.
And I do not fuck around with timeouts.
I will set the timer, and the Internet will stay seated on the step, or I will start it all over again.
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