Embrace the Old

Forgive me for a moment while I show my age, but what the heck are kids listening to today?

I'm pretty sure 90% of today's "music" is meant to be enjoyed under the influence of drugs, preferably ones that make you think your hands are fluffy kittens with which you use to pet your face while purple daisies tap dance in front of you.

Funny thing is, most of the young people (you know you're old when you refer to teens, as "young people") I come in contact with don't seem to be hallucinating, and yet, they seem to enjoy this "music." Which means that either they are so often under the influence of hallucinogens that soft cat hands and tap dancing daises are no big deal or they truly, genuinely, cross their heart hope to die, like this crap.

I don't take issue with the lyrics (mainly cuz I don't understand them -  more on that later), it's the sounds I have a problem with. I'm pretty sure when someone says, "These beats are sick, yo," what they are actually trying to say is, "This beats make me want to projectile vomit, yo."  The cocktail of noises assembled by recording artists will bring you to your knees faster than the combined alcohol content of six of New Orleans' famous Hurricane drinks. In fact, I'm pretty sure if you listen to this stuff long enough, you will die.

These "songs" sound as though someone unleashed three monkeys and a recording device into a kitchen, pressed record, and ran away. Except the only "instruments" in the room are one pot and a wooden spoon that the first monkey uses to tap out a "sick" monotonous beat, while monkey number two shrieks at random, all of which is interrupted by an occasional "splat!", which is, of course, monkey number three flinging his poo against the wall.

Flipping through the dial the other day, it was one poo flinging splat after another. I had to turn the radio off before I drove my car over the embankment and into the canal where I was welcomed into the sweet release of death by the heavenly melody of a 1,000 angels and St. Peter's harp.

As previously mentioned, the lyrics don't bother me. It's pretty hard to be offended by something you don't understand. Rap is some of my favorite music (because its beats do not have an affect on my upchuck reflex), but in order for maximum listening pleasure to be achieved, all songs should come with a Rapper to English Dictionary, because these guys are clearly speaking a different language.

Apparently a monkey (pronounced moan-key) is not a poo flinging animal, a lollipop is not a hard piece of candy on the end of stick, and a whistle is not something a referee wears around his neck. I'm not entirely sure what the real meaning of these things are, but one day I'll probably find out and be supremely offended. Or maybe not. When I was little I went around singing, "She don't eat meat, but she sure likes the bone." And my mom was all, "don't sing that." And I was all, "why not?" And she was all, "just don't."

Fast forward 20 years and I finally understand what Deadeye Dick was talking about. But instead of being outraged I was all, "hahahaha. that's clever."

Personally, I like songs that have meaning, are full or reflection or convey important messages. No song does a better job of conveying my message to the world right now than Icona Pop's I Love It.

I'll be honest, the beats of this song are borderline nauseating, but they make up for it when they shout I DON'T CARE!

This song would have come in handy a few years ago when my boss would plop down in my office and bother me with the most inane crap. Instead of all the nodding and brow furrowing and pretend note taking, I could have just played this song and left the room.

Can people's lives have anthems like countries do? If so, this song is totally my anthem, and I will order John Cusack to follow me around with a boombox over his head and every time I do something stupid (like superglue my finger to my face), or embarrassing (like give hugs to people who don't want them), John will press play and we will shout "I DON'T CARE!" and life will be grand.

In fact, maybe if I listen to this song long enough I won't care that most of today's music makes me want to weep for humanity, and that today's youth are in a constant state of hallucination, and that because of my scrupulous morals, I will never see the dancing daisies.

I'd really like to see the daisies. 

Comment gem!

Larks: Yeah, why can't we see bacon tell off a kid? I mean, we can put a man on the moon and make Franken-salmon but we can't figure out reanimated sassy bacon with a penchant for juvenile discipline? Priorities, people.

You Googled What?! - Italians are Confusing

Whenever I'm having a down day, the weird people of Google know just how to cheer me up. It's time for another installment of You Googled What?! Let's find out what weird things people googled that led them to my blog.

hey, nobody told me there be math
I hate it when nobody invites math, but there it be anyway.

Never marry an italian girl
Husband, is that you?

Marry an italian girl
Google is at odds with itself.

italian women love on stage
You wish. 

monkey stairs banana cartoon
Is this a real cartoon? Because I would totally watch it.

you googled what
Google is starting to mock itself

All I want is sleep and food
Pretty much.

how to marry an italian woman         
Hmm, maybe watch The Godfather for ideas. Whatever you do, do your best not to end up with a horse head in your bed. 

ryan gosling sees you eat bread it makes me sad
I'm sorry, but I don't care how you feel. Ryan is looking at me.

hey girl did you know my boobs asian girl
I don't even know what to say. And it's possible I'm offended on behalf of girls. And boobs. And Asians.

for the love of the dog 
is now my new favorite saying

making love to an italian woman
is awesome

how make italian woman love you
Honestly, are we that confusing?

Bacon telling off kid
Why can't these things happen in real life?

what to expect from an italian woman
Loud talking, passionate gesticulations, food, more food, guilt, even more food, guilt for not eating food, passionate talking, beating a dead horse, food, lots of guilt. And also? Guilt. "Why aren't you eating? Don't you like it? If you loved me you would eat."


Comment gem!

Whoa! Susannah (Formerly Write, Rinse, Repeat):

And there's nothing worse than sand in your vagina.
Unless it's a small dingle in your vagina.
Then I'll take the sand.
Maybe.

   

The One With All The Sand

Last weekend I was at the beach when two young lads walked by brandishing fishing poles and a bad attitude. One was particularly unhappy and it was all the sand's fault.

"F*ck the sand. I hate this f*cking sand. Stupid, f*cking sand."

I totally understand his annoyance. Nothing is more offensive than sand at the beach (the nerve of nature). Seriously, someone should have prepared him for that. Like maybe with a sign or giant banner.

Truthfully, I used to share his sentiment. When I as a kid (as in a small child, not a baby goat), I hated the beach. Partially due to the severe anxiety it created within me (caused by nothing other than my brain is an asshole), but mainly due to All. That. Sand.

After recovering from the grave injustice that was my parents forcing me out of bed before noon to enjoy the great (offensive) outdoors, I would plop my sulky butt on a towel and go to work on my vendetta against the millions of teeny tiny piece of crushed shell.

As an eight year old with little knowledge of the carnal sand - man relations, I did not eff the sand as the angry teen so desired to do today. In fact, I desired the exact opposite of such intimacy and began the highly scientific process of frenetic hand movements, whining and intermittent shrieking to remove every last speck from my body. Between the toes was the hardest and although I don't have an exact recollection, I'm pretty sure I came up with my own colorful words  to describe my feelings about the sand.

By the time I had de-sanded myself, my parents would declare it was time to go. Trust me when I say this, it is impossible to walk from the beach to the boardwalk without getting covered in sand. Not just your feet, but your entire body. Your sandals launch the sand into the backs of your thighs where it explodes against your skin like a thousand tiny missiles. And those 47 towels you laid out in an attempt to carpet a two mile terrycloth radius to protect you from "the nasty"? Are now covered in the stuff. And no matter how you fold them, there is no keeping the side that came in contact with the sand away from every square inch of your body.

By the time you reach the boardwalk, you resemble a dog who broke free from its owner, flopped on his back and wiggled wantonly about. Only without the googly-eyed look of joy.

As an adult, I've come to embrace the sand, but the whole Sand Coverage Upon the Leaving the Beach Phenomenon still annoys me. As an eight year old girl who spent the last seven hours digging it from between my toes, this downright pissed me off. And so I did what any eight year child would do and proceeded to have a temper tantrum. But only inside my head because my mother frowned upon children acting like whiny little turds.

I have to wonder why those teens were at the beach if they hated it so much. They looked old enough to drive so I'm pretty sure they were there voluntarily. However, considering their attitude, it wouldn't surprise me if their mother, who'd had enough of their complaining about the "Stupid, f*cking chicken," she had so lovingly prepared, forced them in the car, drove to the beach, shoved them out and yelled, "don't come home until you catch some stupid, f*cking fish!" as she drove away.

I suspect they won't be home for awhile. Not only did they miss the sign alerting them that the beach now has sand, they also missed the one that said NO FISHING ALLOWED.

Comment gems!

momnextdoor

Aaaaaand now I want a cream filled donut. Yes, that's what I got out of this post. Thankyouverymuch.

The Blue Grumpster

When I read Sweaty McJudgy I just had to stop by.

I'd say the husband is a very wise man. That said, how come you're the only one who produces Salt Lake City at that gym of yours? Are you sure those looks aren't involuntary expressions of jealousy, because spandex looks so good on you? I get those looks a lot too and I don't sweat, so.... One problem solved. Let's tick it.

Some women have eyelashes the size of an elephant. That makes winking to themselves in the mirror pretty hard work. I'd call that fitness. Are you sure they don't sweat ninja style? If they're standing in a puddle, it might be because they're not pissing their pants when they see you coming. Do you know what I mean? ;)

Sweaty McJudgy

The very last place you should go on a day when every darn thing under the sun grinds your gears is the gym. Against my better judgment I went there the other night. Night, as in, 11:00 p.m. As in, one hour before midnight. As in, the time when I should have been watching Friends reruns and eating Dove dark chocolate. But instead I decided to work out because it has recently come to my attention that if you don't want your ass to touch the backs of your knees or your arms to flap about wildly in the wind, you actually have to do something about it. You can't just bitch about not looking like a Victoria's Secret model while simultaneously shoving a block of cheese and a cream filled donut into your mouth.

Typically, I prefer running around my neighborhood, but given the late hour the husband thought it unwise to jaunt about with the rapists and murderers (one time I ran by the creepy creepers who hang out at the Taco Bell and the husband was not pleased).

On a regular day, the gym pisses me off. Primarily because I am the only one who sweats there. (If I owned a gym our motto would be, "If you don't sweat, you're doing it wrong. Also? Get out.") You should see the looks people give me. Disgusted, they are. Absolutely disgusted. Granted, I have no idea how I manage to sweat 10 times more in an air conditioned building than I do in the Florida humidity (just blessed, I guess), but are the looks really necessary?

It's a little (okay, a lot of) sweat, people. Not a spontaneous outbreak of leprosy. You can relax. I'm not going to get any of my disgusting salty drippings on you (though I am tempted to ring out my hair over your pimple-bedazzled back. Lay off the 'roids dude. Haven't you heard what they do to your jewels? We're talking raisins. RAISINS.)

Tonight, I came to a startling realization. The sole reason some women join a gym is to meet a man (yes, I realize I am the last person on the planet to become aware of this). It's not that I judge them (yes I do) or something I wouldn't do too if I were single (no I wouldn't), it's just that come on. At least try to make it look like you're there to work out.

They could start by removing the fake eyelashes. I have to believe that all that lash impedes their ability to appropriately assess the bicep situation in the free weights area. Just imagine what would happen if
the glue came loose, causing the lashes to dangle from Lashy McLasherton's lid and partially obstruct her view. She could end up selecting a guy whose brain is bigger than his deltoid.

*shudder*

Listen, I understand that if you're in the market for a guy, you don't want to reach the level of DEFCON disgustingness that I so effortlessly achieve. But is it too much to ask to tame ALL. THAT. HAIR.? And is it really necessary to have SO. MUCH. BOOB.? This isn't an attack on well-endowed ladies. Big or small, I take issue with boobs that are IN. MY. FACE. If I'm distracted by it (and I don't even want to get with it) I don't know how the men are even able to function (I think I just realized the actual reason for all the grunting).

Also, can the employees please stop molesting each other while behind the front desk? I haven't taken a gander at your employee handbook but I'm pretty sure it says that all shoulder rubs must be done during your fifteen minute break (actually, it probably says 'don't touch your coworkers because it's sexual harassment and AGAINST THE LAW.)

Honestly, I should just stop going to the gym. Clearly I can't handle it. On my way out, the girl behind the counter said, "See you later, girl." To which I responded, "Thank you."

Because the appropriate response when someone says, "bye" is to thank them.

No sound actually came out when I said the words, because what? people are supposed to hear us when we talk?! I'm not sure if it was a good thing or not. On the one hand, she didn't hear my stupid response. On the other hand, I resembled a fish who had the unfortunate experience of being introduced to oxygen.

Next time, I choose the Taco Bell creeps.

I realize this makes me sound like a big bitter bitch, and I promise I'm not. I was just in a SUPER bad mood that day and everything was pissing me off. Two days later I went back to the gym and was all, "look at all these amazing people trying to get healthy and better their lives! look at how effortlessly they climb those stairs and lift those weights. and not a drop of sweat! how beautiful they are. I LOVE ALL THESE PEOPLE!"

***
A huge special thanks to TriGirl for her guest post! If you haven't read It's Genetic, DO IT NOW!

Comment gems! 

Pickleope

Tri-Girl is the best! I think I would get along with your dad, for, as much as I'd hate to admit it, I'm a sucker for puns. 

Jaime S

those drawings are amazing... thanks for a new great blog to follow!

It's Genetic

It's time to announce another member of the Super Secret Society of Awesome Goddess!

What is this society, you ask? Read here to find out! Basically, it's a society of bloggers who are totally awesome and are each a goddess in their own right.

Today's member is a goddess for many reasons, but her drawings? They. Complete. Me. Like I might actually leave the husband and marry one of her drawings. That's legal, right?

Without further rambly ado, let's welcome TriGirl from Tri-ing to be Athletic! Please show her some love.

It's Genetic

Hey there, allow myself to introduce...myself. I stole that line from Austin Powers.  It just really helps to introduce you to my awkwardness right from the start.  My name is TriGirl. The awesome, one and only SARCASM GODDESS asked me to guest post and I was very excited to do so!

But, what to blog about? In my own blog, I talk about my attempts at being sporty.  However, I didn't want to do the same ol' same ol'. I was at a loss. And then, I met up with my parents in Florida for a little vacation and it hit me.  I'll write about them!

Ok,  me and them.  Because really, they're the tree and I'm the apple. Let's start with my dad, shall we?  He's punny.  I believe his goal in life is to see how many times he can cause people to groan at his punchlines.  Especially my mom.

Did I mention we were in Florida?  Land of the hurricane?? One day we were planning our daily events.  I jumped in quickly with some input.

I'm very helpful. And this might seem weird and random, but my husband is always pulling things out of my wallet that I "don't need" in order to make it smaller.  During our visit I noticed my dad's wallet and sent a photo of it home.

Whoa nelly.  (I posted it on Instagram.) Now let's move on to my mom.  I spend a lot of time laughing at with her because I can see why I inherently do the things I do. For example, the first day of our vacation I couldn't get out of our place, no matter how much I pulled the front door.

Not to be outdone, my mom struggled with the gate at the pool.

Like, every day. Sadly, clothing is a regular challenge for me.  I have a hard time getting in and out of shirts.

This was me trying to take off my long sleeve shirt at a race last year. I witnessed my mother having this dressing problem as well while we were getting ready to head out the door.

A couple of months ago, my ankle hurt for a week after I tripped over absolutely nothing, other than my shoe.

I do this often, by the way. Guess who also did this as we were sight seeing on our trip?

So, if you ever find yourself with me and my parents, you might want to walk on the other side of the street.

It's for your own safety. Thank you SARCASM GODDESS for letting me spend the day here!  I'm so glad you invited me!

***
 Aren't her drawings the bomb diggity? You know you want more of Tri Girl's awesome goddess goodness. Be sure to follow her blog and give her a lick on facebook and don't forget the twatter!

Comment gem!

Ken:

Apollo 13! Are you kidding me?

and there's the part, where Ken Mattingly is in the cold, dark simulator with only a flashlight and a notepad, trying to come up with the start up procedure for the command module without going over the amps they have left in the batteries!!!

Don't get me started on Apollo 13! There's absolutely nothing wrong with you at all!

Houston, I Have a Problem

I have an unhealthy obsession with Apollo 13. As in, the movie. I could watch it once a day, every day for the rest of my life and still not get enough of it. (I suppose I could remedy that by watching it twice a day every day for the rest of my life, but then people might think I'm weird.)

I'm not sure what it is about that movie that draws me to it like a bug to a bug zapper (thankfully my fate is not the same as that of those stupid insects; although sometimes I think my mental capacity is on par with theirs).

Perhaps it is the cast:
Bill Paxton? Yes, please.
Tom Hanks? Yes, please.
Gary Sinise? Yes, please.
Kevin Bacon? Did someone say BACON?!!!!!! Please sir, can I have some more?
Ed Harris? Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes

Maybe it's because it's not just a story but a story that really happened. It's truly a miracle that we (you know, cuz I had a lot to do with the success of the mission 12 years before my conception) were able to bring those guys home.

I don't doubt those things play a part in by obsession. But honestly? I think I'm turned on by all the intelligence. I'm not trying to suggest that I get all hot and bothered (yes I do) when they create a filter for the carbon dioxide scrubbers from the Command Module to work with the ones on the LM (and with that statement, everyone just stopped reading). I'm just saying that I appreciate a man with a big, huge brain who knows how to use it.

If I was in the command room when all that mess was going down, I would have thrown my arms in the air, shaken them wildly about while running from one end of the room to the other screaming, "What are we going to do! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DOOOOOO!" until I exhausted myself and collapsed in a heap on the floor and peed my pants (clearly I'm good to have around in a crisis).

As soon as I finish watching the movie, I think when am I going to get to watch it again? Sometimes the answer is, right now! And I start it over again.

This is embarrassing. Why am I telling you guys this?

Lately, the urge it watch has been overwhelming. Last night, even though I was very, very tired, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided I had to watch. There was one small problem...I couldn't find the DVD.

I looked in the cabinet under the T.V.

Not there.

I looked in the DVD stand in our bedroom upstairs.

Not there.

The panic that had started in my stomach began to spread throughout my whole body. Where could the DVD be? Did someone steal it? Did the dogs eat it? In a fit of cleaning frenzy did I accidentally throw it away? (This possibility was quickly rejected due to my lack of cleaning frenzies ever.)

The husband was already in bed and asked me if I could turn off the light on the fan.

"I'm sorry but I cannot help you. I am dealing with a crisis right now. Much like the astronauts on Apollo 13."

Suddenly, I knew exactly how Jim Lovell, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert felt when that Master Alarm went off. The only difference in our situations was that they had a room full of engineers and rocket scientists helping them work the problem and I had two dogs (who took advantage of my absence in bed by laying on my pillow) and the husband who was more concerned with the bright overhead light impeding his ability to drift into dreamland than my state of duress.

Thankfully, he's smart enough to know that sleep would forever elude him if I didn't locate my beloved movie so he offered a helpful, "When was the last time you watched it?"

"I don't know! I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

*cue sobbing*

Finally, I decided to check the DVD player (which is actually a Playstation 2) and there it was, Apollo 13. My precious.

My relief was short-lived. I pressed play and there was no sound.

*cue hysterics*

The husband, realizing the only way to fix this very traumatic situation was by taking a more active role, got out of bed and began fiddling with cords.

This is what the astronauts must have felt like when they realized they'd lost two of their fuel cells.

I, very helpfully, assisted the husband's efforts by unplugging the red, yellow, and white cables and very forcefully shoving the boy parts back into the girl parts (not recommended with humans, by the way) to ensure a proper connection. It didn't fix the problem, but thanks to the husband's big, huge, smart brain (or maybe just basic knowledge of cable connecting) the sound was restored.

Halleluj-

Just like the astronauts, I couldn't catch a break. Now the controller wasn't working. Instead of the solid red line indicating a properly functioning instrument that would allow me to press play, there was a flashing red line. Just like the Master Alarm!

My breaths started to come faster and were more shallow. My vision became cloudy and I started to feel dizzy. 

This is what the astronauts must have felt like when the level of carbon dioxide started to rise.

This time, unplugging and forcefully re-plugging the cord worked and the sweet taste of victory was mine! I could finally watch my dearly beloved Apollo 13.

I pressed play, moved the dogs off my pillow, settled into bed and thought I'm going to enjoy this even more because I had to work so hard for it. I'm going to be filled with so much more tension now that I know exactly the fear they experienced. This is going to be THE BEST VIEWING OF APOLLO 13 EVAH!

Fifteen minutes later, I was a sleep.

Comment gem!
 

Marianna Annadanna

Oh my god trumpet horn guy is for sure after you. Please be safe. Answer me. ANSWER ME.

Go Ahead, Run With Scissors

It has recently come to my attention (by way of me) that I have a boring life. I have no one to blame for this but myself. I am too conservative (not in thought or philosophy- in fact the husband recently pointed out to me that I was a liberal, in which I think I doth protested too much, to which he pointed out that many of my beliefs were consistent with that of liberals, to which I was all, “Huh. I guess so.” I’m not sure yet how I feel about this but I’m pretty sure I don’t care.). It is my actions that are too conservative. I don’t take risks because OMG what if I get hurt? And also, I don’t like getting in trouble.

My single greatest act of rebellion was probably the time I threw a bouncy ball in chemistry class. Maybe they’re called Super Balls? I don’t know. They’re those super bouncy balls that you get out of vending machines at grocery stores (and depressing 24-hour diners). The boys in my class would take turns bouncing one or two a day off the walls, beakers, and lab desks (with the occasional rebound off Miss V’s head). Surprisingly, Miss V was not amused by this and confiscated them every day and tossed them her top desk drawer. That’s a far as her punishment went though, so maybe she did have a sense of humor about the whole thing. 

Until Dark Day happened.

Dark Day was the day the boys decided to purchase the entire world’s bouncy ball supply, turn off the lights and unleash them all at once. All the girls knew what was coming but none of us did anything to stop it. In fact, some of us might have participated. And some of us might have been me.

I grabbed one of the bouncy balls and when the lights went out, I threw it.

Ha! Like I would actually be so daring.

What I actually did was let it fall from my hands where it bounced off the floor and hit my shin and rolled under the cabinet. At least, I assume that’s where it ended up. I don’t actually know because true to its name, Dark Day was dark, yo. I didn’t need my sight, though, to know that what was happening was epic. I kept my head ducked while a thousand orbs of rubber bounced off every surface of the room and every part of my private-school uniformed body with the skirt exactly two inches above my knee because following rules completes me.

The balls pinged off my body with the fervor of a bullet from a gun, but not before making deep impressions in my flesh. It was mildly traumatic, and I still have the dimples in my ass as a constant reminder of that day.

No wait, that’s just cellulite.

Miss V’s shrill voice cut through the mayhem as she screamed for someone to, “turn the lights.” Any humor she previously had about the bouncy balls was now gone. She was not happy. In fact, she looked like she wanted to cy. Which made me feel really badly about the part I had played in Dark Day.

Poor Miss V. She didn’t deserve this. She was so nice. She was always willing to stay late the day before a chemistry test to tutor me and a friend because we couldn’t be bothered to pay attention in class in the weeks leading up to said test.

In our defense, Chemistry was really boring.

Dark Day was a good reminder that it’s okay to play it safe in life. Okay, but mind-numbingly boring.

It’s not so much that I am unhappy by the ennui which fills my days. It’s just that I’m a writer (or at least trying to be). And in order to write about life, you have to live life. And not just any life but life that is Interesting! and Exotic! and Spectacular! Call me crazy, but I don’t think journaling the accounts of which 500 piece puzzle I purchased from the Dollar Store for my Friday night activity falls under any of those categories (I went with Wonders of Nature in case anyone is curious.).

Any writer worth her salt has a good imagination. Perhaps what I need is not a more exciting life, but a greater ability to imagine.

The husband would tell you that I'm perfectly well-equipped in that department. For awhile now, I’ve suspected that the neighbor who stands on his balcony and plays three notes on his trumpet (the husband says it’s a French horn. I say trumpet. Potato, Potahto.) every few weeks without ever getting better, is not, in fact, practicing as he would have you believe, but is, in fact, announcing that he has captured yet another female and locked her is dungeon to torture and kill her – a three note victory cry, if you will. 

The husband argues that I am insane. I argue that this is a perfectly logical assumption and why is it exactly that we haven’t called the police yet? There are lives at stake!

He also thought it was ludicrous of me to think that our very attentive, overly polite waiter last night was a psychopath.* ( I’m sorry, but people just aren’t that nice.) (Also, the husband is right. Being overly-polite less implies psychopath and more expresses sociopath.)

A few weeks ago I sought to remedy my dull existence by running with a pair of scissors. There are few activities known to be more greatly forbidden than trotting about with sharp pointy things. Especially if those pointy things are facing in the general direction of up, as in toward your eye.

 

Violating this law must be a real thrill! A real heart thumper! A real vein-busting surge of adrenaline!

To make it even more of a thrill ride, I waited until the husband wasn’t home. Nothing amps up the excitement like knowing it will be hours before you are rescued should your jaunt with recklessness go horribly wrong.

I grabbed my favorite pair of blue-handled scissors (when breaking the rules, I recommend selecting only the finest of instruments with which to do it) and ran from my kitchen to my living room. And back.

You guys? It was not thrilling. I did not have to pee from excitement, nor poo from nervousness, nor did I excrete even one drop of sweat. (Nothing says danger like an adventure that ends with an ass-clenching run to the bathroom).

It’s possible that the experience fell short of my expectations because instead of actually running, I walked fast. Well, kinda fast. Because running with scissors? OMG I could get hurt!

Sometimes in life, you just have to call a spade a spade. And this spade? Is lame. And likes to do puzzles. So off I shall go to put together the 500 pieces of wondrous nature.

Rest assured, I will detail every unspectacular minute of it upon my return.

*For the record, I am an excellent judge of character and more often than not, my concerns are justified. It's called Woman's Intuition, ladies. Don't ignore it. And the next time you hear the strangled cry of a brass instrument, lace up those shoes and start running.

Comment gem!

 

Ducky:

Mountain woman ape hair blowing in the wind is sexy. At the very least it provides traction.