No, I'm not in a fucking MFA writing program, I was baked and I wrote down some stuff, all right?

Advice: If you are in an MFA program for writing and your husband asks you to read some thoughts he wrote down when he was inebriated, just tell him it's really good and so amusing, really, and don't act like a dickhead in a workshop with a Pulitzer winner. FYI.

Reminder: Pay your quarterly water bill. Just because the city bills on paper doesn't mean the bill doesn't exist.

Advice: If you are wearing really cute shoes in a really boring meeting, so as to draw attention to your feet, please, please refrain from removing one of those shoes and scraping your fucking toenails. Especially if you have kind of a big-time job. But mostly just because it's skeevy.

Advice: Eat a good amount of chocolate.

Advice: Also, maybe still eat a good amount of chocolate, but not quite as much as you're eating now, and also don't be afraid to spend a little extra time at the gym. Go ahead. I'll take care of the kids a few extra nights a week.

Reminder: Have you picked up your prescription, yet? Did you call it in? Go ahead and do it now. I'll wait ...

Advice to self: Start Good Advice and Reminders Service. Become instant millionaire. Lose it all buying taffeta jackets and satin pill box hats with webbing and going to random funerals of strangers to sob like a mysterious mistress just to see what people do. Then, laugh, laugh, laugh at those stupid idiots. Write a book. Get a reality show gig and, the day you think you'll be eliminated, flash your vagina a bunch of times and also call someone a racist name so no one in America will forget your face, baby, ever. Do a bunch of interviews, and then talk about how you got sober and got healthy and then have a serious reality show to redeem your image. (self-made Drew Barrimore!)  Sell some stuff on QVC. Be millionaire again. Also wear lots of makeup and 80s power skirt-suits.

Like this:

Or even:

But don't blow a guy in a clown dog car:

Awwww, burrrrrn:

So, is it just me, or has the Good Advice and Reminder Service become Your Basic Life Planning Service? Open for business.


Reminder to self: Move stuff from washer to dryer before bed, so you don't have to get all dressed up again tomorrow because all you have is another pair of control-top pantyhose you know has a run in the toe, and there are only so many times you can use the excuse that you got a run that morning, even though you got it last time you wore them, and everyone knows no two runs are exactly the same.

It Happened Again.

OK, so y'all remember everything about my life, right? Because someone said to me once, "Yes, dear, because it is all about you."

So, of course you remember last time, when the husband was interested in a show he thought was about a Jew-eating whale.

I thought he was a nice guy before he started talking about genocide-by-marine-mammal and drawing diagrams of water caves he titled "Amphibious Lair of Inter-species Aryan-Whale Power."

But really, now he's watching TV and I'm not really paying attention because it's a football game between two teams I could give less than a shit about, and I'm a couple glasses in to the Beaujolais-Villages, if you catch my drift, which I think you do because I'm drunk.

Anyway, he says, "It happened again."

I'm like, "What?" kind of huffy, because I was looking at anthropologie.com and thinking of straight skirts that would look really fabulous on me if I was four inches taller and my thighs looked and acted less like an advertisement for Anemic Jello Molds Gone Wild. (Seriously, I need to stop wearing skirts on windy days. My thighs are whores.)

The programming guide is on the TV, and he's pointing toward the screen with the remote control, staring at me all, "Eh? Eh?" So, I look up and see MTV is playing "World of Jenks," and I shrug and say, "It looks like 'World of Jerks.'"

And then he's giving me the "I know, right!?!?" look, and my mind is scrambling and scanning wildly to figure out what the hell I've missed, and suddenly, his eyes pop wide open, and he's like, "I'd watch that!"

I swear he wasn't like this before. He said he's sorry. He promised it wouldn't happen again. He'll change, right?

Sunday Sunday

Last night, PHubby was flipping channels, searching in vain for something to watch.

He stopped on something.

"Whoa!" he said. Then, "Oh."

"What," I asked.

I looked up and saw he had highlighted a program on NatGeo titled "The Whale that Ate Jaws."

Then he said:  "I thought that said, 'The Whale that Ate Jews.' I'd watch that."

"WHAT?! You would watch that?!" I asked him, horrified.

"Well, yeah!" he said, with wonder. "Because how would he know?"

To summarize, I married a man who would be willing to watch a show about a whale that ate Jewish people because he'd be fascinated to know how a whale would know what religion people are.

P.S. Of course, it was important for me to research names of Nazi Party members, so I could come up with a name for the whale. This is what I came up with: Whalehelm Frick.

But, more importantly, I feel it is imperative to share with you the actual name of the senior SS officer in charge of genealogy (seriously, I want to vomit just at the thought of it.)

His actual, real-life, hand-to-God name?

Helmut Poppendick

So, logically, I drew this:

And then, PHubby came downstairs, saw me working on the computer, and interested in my life and work said, "What are you doing, honey?"

...

Have you ever found it hard to explain exactly what you're doing without some sort of a misunderstanding?

So, anyway it's 8:30 in the morning, and I have come up with a punny name for a Nazi whale and drawn a picture of a Nazi with a funny name. Nazi sea mammals and penis jokes before 9 a.m.? This will be the most productive day ever.

NOT ADVISABLE

Maybe don't send your ex-boyfriend-from-before-your-boobs-were-fully-formed a funny little response you let your asshole blog readers choose for you.

I'm not going to get into specifics, but I believe Miss Yvonne suggested *crickets.*

Well. I must publicly admit that she was right.

I responded like the rest of you a-holes wanted me to, and I'm the one who has been *crickets*ed.

He obviously didn't get the outrageous hilarity of the response, so now I look like the creeper sending inappropriate Facebook messages.

AND the only thing that would make me weirder now is if I wrote another message.

"Oh, hahaha. J/K. Funny story. That wasn't a real response. I just let my blog readers decide how I would respond to you. Not that I blog about you regularly. It's a humor blog. Not, like, one of those journals or whatev ... Um, some people have read it, but I don't really like to just give out the address. It could ruin my career. Not because I rant or anything. Because I talk about genitalia. Not your genitalia specifically. Really, I don't remember anything about it. Not because it's not memorable, because I'm sure it's quite grand! I'm sure it looked very nice in the light of the movie theater in 10th grade, but it was a long time ago, OK? Just because ... you know what? Here's the blog address: http://nakedcupcakes.blogspot.com. Please don't tell my boss or my old teachers. Sorry I'm an asshole."

So, awesome. Now, I'm on the bad side of the most awkward Facebook exchange ever.

Rating: Not well played.

This Is How You're Going to Improve My Life

So, I just left a really sad rant of a comment over at The Bloggess and probably should have thought better of it. I mean, The Bloggess is not my therapist.

You guys are!

So, I'm going to recap some recent events for you, and then you get to vote on my future behavior. I'm pretty sure I should stop kicking puppies, because things are not going well.

I don't actually know what I did wrong because I'm not very self-reflective. I'm mostly driven by anxiety and impulse, which is a huge surprise to regular readers who find me very classy and self-contained.

I told The Bloggess in her comments that I hate her because her pee looks "fantastic," according to her doctor, and I kind of mean it because my pee still has "signs of infection," and my doctor put me on my third antibiotic in a month, and my kidneys probably look like that chick who got her face torn off by the Chimpanzee - either like that or like that kid from Mask, who was a much less attractive person than Cher, but you could still sort of make out a resemblance, which in my opinion, is just damn good casting - but anyway, I took a day off work, which I really did not want to do, and I went back today even though I still have a fever, because I had to pick up my car from the mechanic this morning, so I was already in town.

S'anyway, even though I wound up not having back cleavage for the wedding, which was cool, I'm still struggling because I still have a fever, but at least my brake isn't almost catching on fire anymore, and also yesterday, I left my pinkeye medication at the doctor's office, where I went to deal with the fucking kidney infection, and the girl who sits across from me who gave me the pinkeye has pinkeye AGAIN, and also when I went in to work on Monday, the electric outlet behind my desk was crackling even after I removed all the plugs, and the building maintenance guy was all "Good thing you called us to replace it because it was already burning,' and I was like "awesome," and also this weekend, while I had pinkeye and a kidney infection for our dear friends' wedding, I ran into this guy I dated in, like, 9th grade and this week, he sent me a message that was all "You have a nice personality" instead of "Hey, sexygirl. You're looking great! No way you gave birth to twins! I kick myself daily for being so lame when we were 14 and also for telling everyone that I felt you up, even though we both totally know you let me."

Which?

Should be the form letter for any ex-boyfriends who send private messages on Facebook, even if you had a young, meaningless relationship, because otherwise, what the fuck is the point?

It's called protocol, people.

/rant

So, here's where you guys come in. You get to vote on my response to 9th grade loverboy (whom my friend's yo-boy (remember those?) ex-boyfriend called Wonder Boy, for some unknown reason)*.

Some of these responses I came up with on my own. Some were courtesy of hilarious coworkers and/or PHubby.

(Oh - and it's possible, but not probable - that this guy has seen my blog. I'm pretty sure some mutual friends read it, but they probably wouldn't tell him about it, but just in case, disclaimer:  Um, you're totally cool, ex-boyfriend from 18 years ago, and I'm glad we can chill sometimes (every 6 to 8 years), even though you're kind of creepy quiet and I awkwardly don't know what to say to you because I really don't know you as an adult, even though you seem pretty nice.)

(Oh! and pretend Gwen Stefani's "I Know We're Cool" is playing.)

Back on point. The context of the message from Wonder Boy was something like, I forgot you're funny and sarcastic. Glad to see you. Be in good health.

*pause with closed eyes and lips, finger to chin, letting it sink in*

*aaaaand, sharp inhale*

I KNOW, RIGHT?!

I'm glad you're as incensed** as I am about the lack of ass compliments and sweaty, feverish angst that obviously did not go in to this note and which my undying beauty and grace so obviously call for.

Where is the pining and groveling?

So.

The responses are (and whatever you pick I'm using for real (God, I'm an asshole)):

A. Thanks. You have a nice personality, too.

B. You remain as exciting as a bucket of wet cement.

C. Thanks! I am funny and sarcastic. But seriously? Go fuck yourself.

D. This is super nice, but you forgot to compliment my youthful good looks. Please edit and resubmit.

E. Kind of you to say. Your girlfriend has a nice "personality," too.

F. Remember that time we dry-humped under a bridge and you came in your pants?

G. What was it that charmed you? When I made my Cesarean scar speak or when I snorted down the Alabama Slammer and shot it out of my mouth like a fountain?

Leave your votes in the comments!