Friday, July 30, 2010

Letter to Rose Winnie

Internets, you will never believe what happened to me!  The best news ever!  I am about to be a millionaire.

No, I didn't win the lottery.  No, I did have a streak of luck at the Craps table.  No, I didn't go on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and get all the questions right.

In fact, I didn't do anything.  Well, anything other than check my email.  And there it was, an email from my dear friend rose winnie telling me she is going to make me a millionaire.  And I don't have to do anything except give her a little information.

Sounds too good to be true?  Well it's not!  Look, here is the email she sent me.

Hello my dear,

I am Mrs rose winnie, a banker and manager of Audit & Accounts department in our Bank. I used to be a personal account manager to the late Mr. Peter Nelson, our Bank customer who was recently involved in the ill fated Kenya Airways crash in Africa.

As his account officer, hearing the report of his death, I made many inquiries to trace the extended family relatives to come forward to claim their inheritance but my efforts were aborted. It was during one of my research I came across your email address and now decided to appoint you as the next of kin in order to claim said deposited fund with our Bank which is at a summary of US$8.5 millions United States Dollars.

I am giving you this vital and confidential information in order to make a deal with you and get this fund transfered to you as the recipient and beneficiary since you are a foriegn person. You will take 60% and give me 40% after the transfer to your account.Therefore, if you are ready to cooperate with me, then please email me back with the necessary particulars below;

Your full Name:

Age:  Sex: & Marital Status:

Address with contact telephone and fax numbers:



A Copy of your pass-port or driving licence.

To enable me introduce you to the bank as the new beneficiary/ recipient of the funds.If you can handlle this, then reach me back urgently.

Thank you for your anticipated cooperation Regards, Mrs rose winnie

Awesome, right?  Here is what I wrote back to Mrs winnie.

My dearest rose winnie,

No. Effing. Way. You just made my day. $8.5 millions dollars!! You are making all my dreams come true.

It was so nice of you to appoint me the next of kin to the dearly departed Mr. Nelson. I must confess, I did some research and found no information on that ill fated Kenya Airways flight. I also find your methods of determining a beneficiary quite unusual and find it curious that you have the authority to dispense of his funds in such a manner. However, I have never been to Africa, so perhaps this is standard operating procedure when a millionaire dies and there are no relatives to receive the inheritance. And you do sound most official with the capitalization of the word Bank and Audit & Accounts, which gives me great confidence that you, my dear rose, work for a legitimate institution and are in no way trying to scam me.

I hope you do not take any offense to my initial suspicions. I was not trying to imply you are anything other than a most ethical and upstanding citizen, it’s just that us foreigners have to be careful! There are so many crazy emails floating around out there asking for our personal information, and if it were to fall into the wrong hands our identity could be stolen and our funds completely wiped out.

But I am confident this is not one of those emails and I will gladly supply you with ALL my information. Please process this as soon as possible as I have already quit my job and taken out a loan to purchase my own personal island in the Caribbean. I look forward to the day you can join me on my island rose, where we will sip Mai Tais and bask in our new-found wealth (and maybe even work on your spelling and punctuation a little – you know, for a little mental stimulation.)

Your full Name: My name is slightly unusual and often confuses people, so I’ll break it down for you.
First Name: Ivant
Middle Name: Mai-identiti
Last Name: Stowlen

Age: Old Enough to Know Better

Sex: Doggie Style. All day. Every day.

Marital Status: Married, but we have an OPEN marriage, wink wink

Address: 1234 I’m An Idiot Street, America

Contact telephone: 1 800 753-273-7253-255-696-0639. Whew! That’s a long one. I’ve come up with this acronym to help you remember
1 800 PleaseTakeAllMyMoney 

Fax numbers: I don’t have one fax number let alone multiple fax numbers. I do hope this won’t be a problem. If it is, please let me know. I will gladly run out and get a fax machine and as many fax numbers as you need.

Occupation: Goddess of Sarcasm

Nationality: Ooh – I don’t feel comfortable giving this out. A little too personal for me. Surely you can proceed without this information.

A Copy of your pass-port or driving licence: Sure, no problem. While I’m at it, let me give you my bank account number and social security number. You know, just in case you need it. I really don’t want anything to hold up this transaction.

No need to thank me for my cooperation dear rose. It is I who should be thanking you. And I do. From the bottom of my stolen identity.  I mean, heart.

See you in paradise!

Mah Book Progree: 4 New Pages!!  Woo Hoo!

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

If I Twittered...

It should come as no surprise to you that I don't Twitter. Mainly because I don't get it. But also because when Twitter first came out I was like, "Seriously, could there be anything more narcissistic? Are people so in love with themselves that they think other people care that they just test drove a car, or dyed their hair blue, and peed four times in one hour, or are about to jump off the empire state building?" (By the way, if you're about to jump off the empire state building, you should call me. I care. But don't text me. Texting isn't a part of my plan, so it costs, like 18 cents, every time I receive a text. I don't care that much.)

(I'm also pretty sure Twitter is the government's latest conspiracy.  Like walking on the moon and Lindsey Lohan.)

The first time I heard about Twitter was from this crazy homeless bag lady (is that redundant? Can you be a bag lady and not be homeless? It is questions like this that make me think I should Twitter or tweet or twat or whatever it's called. But I'm getting ahead of myself.). I was in a meeting with my colleagues and I honestly don't remember what we were talking about, probably solving all the worlds problems or something, and this lady jumped up and shouted "Twitter!" and I naturally assumed she was having a seizure, because twitter isn't even a word, but everyone else was like, "Who let the crazy homeless bag lady in here?" And I said, "People have some compassion, she's having a seizure. Roll her on her side. Just cuz she's homeless doesn't mean it's okay if she chokes on her tongue." But everyone just ignored me and got back to solving the world's problems. But she just kept saying "Twitter!" "Twitter!" "Twitter!" And then I was like, "Yeah, someone get her out of here."

Right before we threw her out the room, she screamed, "Twitter! It's the next big thing!"

Yeah. Right.

Flash forward a few months and people are twatting all over the place.

And that's when I was like, "Could these people be any more in love with themselves? I am never going to do that."

Apparently I like eating my words (remember that whole bridesmaid dress pregnancy thing?) and now I'm like, "Yeah Twitter, I still don't get you, but I'm starting to understand the need for you."

Example: If I twittered/tweeted/twatted I could pose the question: Can you be a bag lady and not be homeless? And I would get thousands of responses. It would also come in handy when I'm at Target and staring at two different brands of Four Cheese Pizza: Red Baron and one I already forgot the name of. I could ask the Twitter world which one I should choose and get instant advice. But I don't Twitter and was left to my own devices and chose the Red Baron. And guess what? Red Baron pizza tastes like gross cafeteria pizza. Thanks a lot Twitter.

(Note: Red Baron did not pay me for that endorsement of their pizza. Dear Red Baron, I will totally accept money for that endorsement. Please send the check straight away.)

Over the last few weeks I have found several occasions when I wish I did, in fact, Twitter. But me figuring out Twitter is like asking really smart doctors and scientists to come up with a cure for polio. Aint. Gonna. Happen.

Soooooo, I will use my blog to tell you what I would Tweet if I did in fact Twitter.

P.S. Whenever I see people writing about what they tweeted or they copied a tweet exchange from their Twitter account, there's always that at symbol in front of their name, you know, this one: @, but that is ridiculous and stupid and I refuse to participate in Twitter's shenanigans, so I will not be including the @ in my Twitter posts.

SarcasmGoddess: I just had a Krystal Burger for the first time. Krystal Burgers are not food.

SarcasmGoddess: I just took a bite of a Krystal chicken sandwich and bit into hair. Lots of hair.

SarcasmGoddess: Where's the support Twitter community?! I just said I bit into hair!

SarcasmGoddess: Can you get lice in your mouth? Because I think I have it.

SarcasmGoddess: If I swallow the lice will they die or should I spit them into my hand and put them in my hair and then go buy that lice killing shampoo and make my husband comb through my head?

SarcasmGoddess: There is a white stain on the sheets of the dirty hotel we're staying in. It's probably dried vanilla ice cream and not semen, right?

SarcasmGoddess: I should probably find friends other than my dogs. Their behavior is starting to wear off on me. The other day at work, I heard a siren outside and I almost started howling. It wasn't a conscious thing, more like a visceral reaction. My dogs howl every time a siren goes by, but I am at work and it's not bring-your-dog-to-work day so my dogs aren't here. So there was no howling. My body must have sensed that something was missing, hence the wanting to howl. Have I reached Twitter's character limit yet?

SarcasmGoddess: This one's for the ladies. When did it become fashionable to grow boobs on your back?

SarcasmGoddess: That last tweet will make more sense when I post my "I Don't Get Fashion" story on my blog.

SarcasmGoddess: Hey, you should check out my blog! It's

Um. That's it. If I twittered I would use it to get advice on getting rid of lice, identifying white stains, talking about boobs and whoring out my blog.

Aren't you sad I don't tweet? Maybe if you ask really nicely I'll start. But probably not. Remember? Me and Twitter is like doctors and polio.

Update: The husband just informed me that really smart doctors and scientists did come up with a cure for polio, so that wasn't a very good analogy for saying I will never figure out Twitter. Um...okay - me and Twitter is like schizophrenic squirrels and polio.

That doesn't work either.

I'm pretty sure schizophrenic squirrels caused polio. So that's like saying I caused Twitter. Which I didn't. Just wanted to clarify in case there was any confusion.

Oh! I've got it! Me and Twitter is like a Star Trek crazed teenage boy and sex. That one works on so many levels. Not only are both of those things never going to happen, but teenage boys shouldn't have sex (sex is for marriage, you horny teenagers) just like I shouldn't Twitter. If I did, I'm pretty sure the world would implode. So basically, by not twittering, I'm saving humanity. You're welcome.

I'm feeling rebellious today and am not going to provide you with an update on mah book progress.  But I will tell you this, I wrote twice as many pages today as I did yesterday.  That's called being on a roll.  Not a roll as in a Kaiser roll or a poppy seed roll, but as in...oh forget it.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Honestly, It's Like Target *Wants* You to Crap Your Pants

Today I went to Target and purchased:

Twin pack of deodorant
A pair of sandals
Canine Carry Outs
A Pair of Thong Underwear
A Four Cheese Frozen Pizza

First of all, let me say I was forced, against my will, to choose the pizza. I wanted Bagel Bites. Target doesn’t sell Bagel Bites. Here’s a fun fact for you: Apparently your husband is the only one who cares when you want Bagel Bites. Target doesn’t. No matter how much of a piss fit you throw, they’re not getting you Bagel Bites. And you can be all “but I’m starving” and “how dare you eat without getting me food first” and “here’s the part where you’re supposed to throw your keys in exasperation and say ‘you drive me crazy’ and then, even though you are completely ticked off, go get me Bagel Bites because you love me.” But all they’ll say is “what the hell is wrong with you?” Except they won’t actually say that because they consider their customers to be guests. I know this because when I was nineteen I applied for a job at Target and the manager made me wait for forty-five minutes before he would see me, and I think the only reason he did was because I picked up the red phone in the little application booth and said, “where the hell are you?” And then he came down and asked me what does the word “guest” mean to me and I, of course, supplied some fabulous answer, and assumed he was asking because Target considers their customers to be guests which is why they would never ask, “what the hell is wrong with you?” because that would be rude to say to your guests. But I may have been wrong about that whole thing because I didn’t get hired (yeah, that’s right, I got rejected from Target. Beat that, losers of the world). Now that I think about it, maybe the manager was asking my meaning of the word guest because he considered himself to be one and did not think it was appropriate that I asked him, via the little red phone, “where the hell are you?” But that wouldn’t even make sense. You can’t be the guest of your own store, Target. I think maybe you need to call a staff meeting and work that shit out. You are confusing your customers and potential employees. Oh, and I know it was a hundred years ago, but I’m still pissed about not being hired. I would have rocked the red shirt and khakis. And also, did you see the ra’tard working behind the snack counter? Are you saying I’m not as good as him? I can be as ra’tarded as the rest of ‘em. Maybe. You should have at least given me the opportunity to try. My therapist told me I should forgive you and let it go. I’m working on that. You know what would help? If you had gotten me the damn Bagel Bites. (The whole Bagel Bites thing makes a lot more sense if you’ve read about the time Mark got mad.)

Second of all. Pair of underwear? Pair? The Internets gets all judgmental when I confuse two and too, but saying a pair of underwear, when in fact, there is only one underwear, is okay? How is this acceptable? That’s like saying, “I have a pair of cough drops,” and your friend is like, “I have a wicked cough. Can I have one.” And you’re like no, I only have one and I’m saving it for later. I’m anticipating a really sore throat around 3:00 .” And your friend is like, “but I thought you had two.” And you’re like, “no, moron. I said I have a pair.”

Third of all, it occurred to me as I was making my way to the check-out line, that my items comprised of the most random shopping list in the history of ever. And then I thought of that guy who became famous, even published a book, about shopping lists. Actual shopping lists. That he found. Or people sent him. Or that he made up. He claims he didn’t make them up. But seriously, Jay Leno, or Jimmy Fallon, or Jimmy Kimmel - one of the late night show guys - had him on to share some of his lists and I totally know how that conversation went.

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Hey person who books the talent for Jay Leno, or Jimmy Fallon, or Jimmy Kimmel or whoever is desperate enough for talent to have me on your show, you should have me on because I collect shopping lists.”

Person who books talent: “Shopping lists you say? Why would anyone care about shopping lists?”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Because they are totally awesome.”

Person who books talent: “Okay, read me one.”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Salsa, chili, cream cheese, shredded cheese.”

Person who books talent: “That sounds like the recipe for dip. Call me when you have something funny, or at least mildly entertaining.”

Forty-five minutes later:

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Hey person who books talent. You’ll never believe what I just found. The funniest shopping list ever.”

Person who books talent: “Go ahead."

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Cucumber, condoms, KY Jelly.”

Person who books talent: “Got any more like those?”

Guy who collects shopping lists: “Um…Yeah! Lot ’s more. I could write these all…I mean, people send me funny lists like this every day.”

Person who books talent: “See you next Friday.”

Seriously, Internets. He got a book deal for shopping lists? The world is full of injustices. Think of all the talented, creative, artistic people, who were neither appreciated nor famous until after they were dead. People like Leonardo DaVinci. He painted on a freakin’ ceiling and nobody even noticed until, like, thirty years after he was dead. And then one day someone was at the Sistine Chapel and looked up and was like, “oh my gosh, there’s a painting on the ceiling. It must be some sort of miracle.” And the ghost of Leonardo was like, “no dumbass it was me.” And people were like, “ooh Leonardo. He’s so multi-dimensional. We thought he only created anatomically correct armless statues.” And then Leonardo was like, “yeah that wasn’t me, that was Rembrandt. But what about that code I wrote? Tom Hanks gets millions of dollars and I don’t even get a mention in the credits? That’s f’ed up. I wish I had cut off my other ear so I don’t have to keep hearing about all the credit I’m not getting for my work.”

Never have the words of my husband been more true: Life’s a crap shoot.

If Leonardo DaVinci were here, he would completely agree. He has to die for people to take notice of his work and shopping list guy gets famous for digging through people’s trash. Crap. Shoot.

It has occurred to me that it’d probably be a lot easier for me to get published if I were dead. All, okay most, of my friends and family would be sad I was gone and they’d compile all my unfinished works into a book called The Totally Awesome Unfinished and Unpublished Works of Kelley Williams. And it will contain the dozens upon dozens of stories I started writing, and outlines of stories and story synopses and that beautiful poem I wrote about The Woods, and that sex scene I wrote. The scene wasn’t part of a book, I just felt like writing it.

I know what you’re going to ask, but don’t. I can’t post it on my blog. It would give my blog an X rating and then I ‘d have to make people sign a waiver before viewing it and I already have a hard enough time getting people to my blog without restricting it to the eighteen and up crowd. Or do you have to been 21 to read erotica?

And don’t bother trying. Begging will get you nowhere. I’m not going to share it. But I will say this, the scene is awesome. It will make you want to do it.

To compensate for not sharing the writings of my dirty mind, I will share my incredibly poignant poem of The Woods.

The Woods
By Kelley Williams

The woods are dark.
The trees are creepy.
I am scared.
Oh, look! Cupholders.

The End

Um, it’s possible I may have gotten The Woods confused with my husband’s new truck.

Now that I’ve given you a little preview of the works that will be published after my demise, back to the random shopping list.

As I approach the check out area, I try to determine who will be the least judgmental cashier. Why, you ask, would the cashier be judgmental? Uh, did you read my shopping list? Who purchases all those things together?

Twin pack of deodorant
A pair of sandals
Canine Carry Outs
A Pair of Thong Underwear
A Four Cheese Frozen Pizza

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out my plans for the night. Sit around in my thong underwear and snazzy gold sandals whilst eating pizza, coating myself in deodorant and feeding my dogs Canine Carry Outs like Princess Leia fed Jabba the Hut grapes. If she did that. I haven’t seen Star Wars in a really long time. I mean, I’ve never seen it. I’m not a dork.

I select the line of the less judgmental cashier, meaning she’s older and more saggy than the teenage Barbie doll tending the other line, and wait with my goodies.

And then the unthinkable happens. The teenage Barbie doll finishes with her customers before the old saggy cashier. And she’s like, “I can help you.” And I’m like, “No that’s okay.” And she’s like, “But I’m open. I can ring you up.” And I’m like, “no I like to wait. I’m practicing patience.” And I start looking around for someone, anyone, who’s about to check out, so I can wave them down with my pair of underwear and usher them into the teenage Barbie doll’s line.

But no one comes. So I walk. Ever. So. Slowly. To her line. Hoping some crazy pimple-faced teenage boy with no respect for his elders will push me out of the way to purchase Battlestar Grand Theft Dungeons and Dragons Madden 7. But apparently all the teenage boys are poppin’ wheelies in the parking lot, or whatever it is teenage boys do when they’re not purchasing Battlestar Grand Theft Dungeons and Dragons Madden 7, and I finally reach the teenage Barbie doll’s line and she’s all smiley and perky, but inside she is judging me. I know it.

I begin to place my items on the conveyor belt and suddenly I realize how silly I am. My shopping list isn’t all that strange. And even if it was, I’m sure there girl has better things to do, like thinking about her next Twitter tweet, than care about what I’m buying.

I’m starting to feel better.

And then. It’s time. To place the Pair on the belt. And suddenly, I realize. I have been worrying about the wrong thing. I should be stressing over buying one pair underwear.

Who buys one pair of underwear? One?

People who just peed their pants. Or crapped them.

No one just sits around thinking, “Hmm, I think I’ll go to Target. I need some deodorant and my dogs are out of treats so I should probably pick those up too. And let’s see, what’s in the fridge for dinner? Nothing. Might was well grab a pizza while I’m out. And I’ll probably impulsively buy a pair of shoes. Oh, and underwear. I think that too. But just one pair.”

You either need underwear, or you don’t. You don’t need just one pair. Unless you just peed or crapped your pants. This is exactly what is going through my mind as she is ringing them up. And it is on the tip of my tongue to say, “I crapped my pants.” Because if I had the choice of her thinking I’m buying underwear because either I peed my pants or I crapped them, I am going with crapped.

In case you fail to see the logic in that, allow me to explain.

Have you ever been sitting in the car, or in a work meeting, or shopping at Target, and you feel that familiar pang in your stomach, followed by severe cramping, followed by intense panic, followed by the dire need to locate a bathroom ASAP? You make it to the bathroom just in time. For the explosive diarrhea. And you think, “that was a close one.” And you are so relieved you didn’t crap your pants. Because that is gross. But guess what folks, sometimes explosive diarrhea happens. And sometimes you don’t make it to the toilet in time and you crap your pants. And yes it is gross (didn’t we already cover that?), and yes you will be shunned from society, but as they are shunning you, they give you sympathetic smiles and nod their heads as if to say Explosive Diarrhea. It happens. (Oh shit! (no pun intended) I think I just found my tag line). Because everyone knows when the diarrhea comes, you have no control. Sometimes the diarrhea will warn you with that first pang and you know you have ten seconds to find a bathroom before the explosion begins. But sometimes just for funsies, the diarrhea skips the pang and the cramping and goes to straight panic and then you are pretty much screwed. Hence the pants crapping and shunning and nodding of the sympathetic heads.

Explosive diarrhea happens. But explosive peeing? That never happens. No matter how much you’ve had to drink, no matter how long you’ve been holding it, no matter how hard your friend makes you laugh, people expect you to hold in your pee. Take it from these girls I know who, throughout their lives, even into their late teenage years, periodically peed their pants. Not for fun or anything. Just when something was really funny. They did their best to keep this fact a secret, but sometimes people found out. And when they did, never once did those people smile sympathetically, nod their head and say, “explosive peeing. It happens.” No. They said, “what is wrong with you? That is so gross.”

So the next time you’re faced with the decision of telling someone you either peed your pants or crapped your pants. Go with crapped. It’s, surprisingly, much more respectable. And, if like me, you have an aversion to lying, do what I do. Keep raw chicken in your purse, and right before you say, “I crapped my pants,” lick the raw chicken. I promise you, you will be crapping in no time. Or you could just stay away from Target. They’re really to blame for this whole pee vs. crap argument. Or you could buy your underwear at Victoria ’s Secret. Those two options are probably better than licking raw chicken.

Now I'm going to experiment with tag line designs.

Explosive Diarrhea.  It happens.

Explosive Diarrhea!  It happens.


Now, here is a banner you can put on your own blog, or website or facebook page.  Better yet, print it on a label and wear it as a sticker.  Or blow it up and hang it as a banner in your office.  The possibilities are endless.

Mah Book Progress: 0 Pages Written.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Blogging Awards

Did you know they* give out awards for blogging?

Well they do.  And I think it's about time I received one.

I have a feeling that's not going to happen any time soon.  I think you have to have more than 12 followers.  Yes, I know it only says I have 9, but I have a sneaking suspicion there are at least 3 people***** who are not publically following me.  The only reasosn I can come up with for that, is that those people are afraid of awesomeness.  They know that by publically becoming a follower, their awesomeness status will increase by, like, a thousand fold, and that scares them.  And I understand that.  I too, was once afraid of being awesome, but every day I kept getting more and more awesome so it really became much easier to embrace than ignore.

There is also the possibility that those people are not publically following because they're like what's in it for me, besides awesomeness?  And those of you that do follow me (you're my favorite, by the way) are like, what more could they want besides awesomeness?  And to you I say, there, there, let's not judge them.  I say this because I understand their overachieving ways.  I too used to be an overachiever, but then I was like I'm awesome.  I'm done.  Example: my economics teacher said, "ooh Kelley.  You got a B on your economics test.  What happened?"  And I was like, "Uh, I'm awesome, that's what.  Awesome people don't need A's.  We make up our own grades.  And I got a grade of awesome.  Suck on that." 

Where exactly was I going with this?



Oh, right.  Blogging Awards.

I want one.  I deserve one.  But I'm probably not going to get one. Because I think you have to have more than twelve followers.  I know, I know.  The number shouldn't matter.  But I think the people** who give out blogging awards are more concerned with quantity than quality.  If they did care more about quality, I would totally win, because my followers are THE BEST followers.

Also, I think someone has to nominate you for an award and then a bunch of people have to vote for you.  So, I guess they**** have a legitimate arguement for the whole numbers are important thing.

And I'm not really sure when they*** give out the awards.  It's probably awhile from now, and I've never really been the patient type.

Thankfully my friend and fellow blogger The Bloggess has created awards for those of us deserving of awards, but probably aren't getting one any time soon.  (I use the term "friend" loosely.  I have never met The Bloggess.  She does not even know I exist.  She is my favorite blogger and I am obsessed.  So if obsession equals friendship than we are best friends forever.)

I'm having trouble picking just one of The Blogess's awards.  I covet them all.  And this is my blog, so I can pretty much do whatever I want. 

So drum roll please... here are the blogging awards I have thus far received (I have only been blogging for six months - give or take April when I didn't post at all - and I'm already receiving awards?  I'm pretty sure that's some kind of record.).

It's so hard to pick a favorite award.  I'm so honored to receive them all.  But if I had to pick, I'll go with the last one.

Which one's your favorite?  Go ahead, pick one.  You deserve it.

P.S. I tried to link each of these pictures to The Blogges's website, but no dice.  Once again technology, you win.  So if you want to visit her website click here.  Or you can access it on my sidebar.

P.P.S.  If the "F" word offends you, you should probably stay away from her site.

P.P.P.S. If you do not find her hilarious, there is something wrong with you.  Read this and this (again, if the F word offends you, DON'T READ IT), and if you do not laugh, get thee to a morge.  You are dead, and it's time to accept that so the rest of us can begin the greiving process.

*Who are "they" exactly?

**How do you get to be one of "the people"?

***Seriously, who are "they"? And why do "they" think they're so much better than us?

****Elitist a**holes.

*****There.  I've offered you awards for following me.  What more can you want!?!?!

P.S. If you become my follower, I will create for you your own personal award.  Yes you read that correctly. PERSONAL award.  As in you, and only you, will be the winner of the coveted honor.

Just to show you how serious I am, here is a award bestowed upon follower number nine, Sarah.  Please take a moment to congratulate her on this award.  She freakin' earned it.

Sarah's Award

Just to clarify - the fact that Sarah has probably never contracted rabies means she is almost as awesome as squirrels.  The award is NOT saying that rabies is almost as awesome as squirrels.  Honestly, Sarah and I should not have to clarify this.

Mah Book Progress:

0 Pages Written.  But I thought really really hard about writing.  That's gotta be worth something, right?

What?  It is?  Another award you say?  Can this day get any better?

Friday, July 9, 2010

The CIA Will Not Tell You How Many Bones There are in the Human Body. The KGB? Maybe. As Long As Their Bumper's Not Getting Busy With Your Bumper.

Today I was tailed by a black Mercedes driven by a big burly man when I was on my way to get a sandwich from the most amazing deli that, immediately upon walking in, you are flooded with the most delectable smells and it takes every ounce of strength, and the desire to not be arrested, not to jump on the counter and scurry behind the glass displaying the delicious food inducing aroma and shove every last morsel in your mouth like a schizophrenic squirrel on crack.

Seriously, the KGB is after me.  Except I'm not entirely sure what the KGB is.  I'm pretty sure it has something to do with Russia and the mafia, or maybe the police, possibly the U.S. equivalent of the CIA, except that I don't think you can text the CIA during a party and ask them how many bones there are in the human body.

You go your entire life assuming that if you were ever tailed by the KGB it would be terrifying, but you have no idea exactly how terrifying it is until you are in that situation.  As I was turning the corner, the black Mercedes practically bumped my bumper and I said out loud, "get off my ass Mercedes," and I didn't even follow it with "that's what she said."  That's how terrified I was.  And then I was like, maybe it's not the KGB, maybe it's a spy (unless the KGB are spies, then it's pretty much the same thing, like if I said "a frog just jumped on me, but maybe it's not a frog it's a Rana Areolata," which, as it turns out, is a crawfish frog, not a frog with prominent areolas, but a frog nonetheless.)

And then my brain started hyperventilating because normally it would be ridiculous to think you are being followed by spies, except that we, as in the United States of America, recently arrested some Russian spies which coincidentally coincides with the movie Salt starring Angelina-I-kissed-my-brother-and-used-to-wear-a-vile-of-my-boyfriend's-blood-around-my-neck-and-stole-Brad-Pitt-away-from-Jennifer-Aniston Jolie.

And you are like oh my gosh you are such a genius for realizing that.

However, I cannot take credit for noticing this coincidence.  The only reason I even know Salt exists is because I was checking my email the other day and Yahoo informed me that Ashley commented on an article about the Russian spy thing.  Yahoo informed me.  Not Ashley.  Which means Yahoo is spying on us.  All of us.  I had no idea I would be alerted every time one of my fellow Yahooers commented on an article, which would have been nice to know before I made all those comments on those articles about clown porn.  I thought I was commenting anonymously, but apparently my entire address book was being alerted.  If I had wanted people to know I had an interest in clown porn I would have told them, but it's a secret that I prefer to keep secret.  Except that I think I may have just informed at least nine people that I'm interested in clown porn.

After I turned the corner, the black Mercedes changed lanes and sped off.  It's possible that the big burly man was not a spy or the KGB (same difference?) and maybe he was just running late, or liked to drive fast, or his wife was at home in labor and he needed to get her to the hospital.  All of those are probably more likely than being tailed by the Russian mafia.  Probably.  Which means I needlessly revealed the fact that I like to comment on clown porn.  You win again, clown porn.

Update:  For those of you that have an aversion to clowns.  Or porn.  I never commented on clown porn, nor do I have an interest in clown porn.  That's disgusting.  So for all those who've been reading my blog, but never commented because you've been waiting for a post worthy enough to comment on and were like, finally! clown porn, and are in the process of writing "clown porn rocks" stop immediately, hit the backspace button, and keep hitting it until your screen is blank and then get up and walk away from your computer, go sit in the corner and think about what you were about to do, you sicko.  Wait!  Before you walk away from your computer type the words I. Love. Your. Blog. You. Are. So. Awesome. in the comment box, and then walk away.  Even though you are a sicko who likes clown porn, you also enjoy reading my blog, which means you have at least one redeeming quality; ergo, your existence is not completely useless.

Update 2:  Wikipedia, the most reliable information source there is, just informed me that the KGB is the common abbreviation for the Russian Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti.  Ahhhh, clarity.

Wikipedia also said  This article may require cleanup to meet Wikipedia's quality standards. Please improve this article if you can.

First of all, I was not aware wikipedia had quality standards.

Second of all, I can think of no better improvement to their lamo article about the Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti than to add my blog to the further reading section.

Update 3: I do not have the ballz to add a link to my blog to the further reading section.  I'm pretty sure the Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti arrest you for that.  Whenever possible, I try to avoid being arrested.

Update 4:  I don't have a fourth update.  I just don't want to say good-bye yet. I miss you when we're not together.  Except for you, clown porn freaks. You still disturb me.

Update 5:  This whole blog was based on a dare that I could not say "clown porn" at least ten times in my blog.

Update 6.  No it wasn't.


Mah Book Progress :

1 new page.  But it was about clown porn.  So it's probably not going to make the final cut.

Mah Book Progress Update:

I did not write about clown porn in my book.  What is with you people and clown porn?  You're really starting to creep me out.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Puppet Industry, Disturb Me You Do

I'm baaaaaaaaaack. 

Where have I been?  In the depths of exercising hell.

Exercising wasn't the hellish part.  It was the exercising, eating healthy -soooo healthy - for two weeks, and not losing weight.

You're like, what?  You did all that and didn't lose weight?  Most people, no all  people, would lose weight if they did that.

Well in case you haven't figured out yet, I am not most people, and apparently my body hates me.  Not only did I not lose weight, I gained it.  Let me tell you friends, there is nothing more depressing than eating nothing but carrots, and fruit and nuts and fish, cutting out carbs and soda and chocolate and running and running and pushing yourself to run a little more, with sweat dripping in your eyes, mixing with your mascara and making them burn, your ankles and knees screaming in pain because you have the joints of an eighty year old, coming home completely drenched in sweat, stepping on the scale and weighing MORE THAN YOU EVER HAVE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!! 

Yes, I managed to reach my all time heaviest weight whilst exercising and eating healthy.

Why is this happening to me? I said with much wailing and looking longingly at the Oreos.

But I pressed on - running and sweating and carrot eating.  And bring on the weight.

I came to the only logical conclusion there was.  I am pregnant.


I am so thankful for that bridesmaid dress.  This baby is growing fast and it is the only thing that fits me.

We went to the doctor the other day.  Mark found out the sex, but I don't want to know because I like surprises.

That makes it a little difficult to decorate the nursery, but...

Is anyone buying this?

If you are, I am sorry.  I am not pregnant. 

I would not announce my pregnancy on my blog...Or maybe I would.  It all depends on what the voices in my head tell me to do on any given day.

N-E way.  I did attribute the weight gain to pregnancy.  But actually, the thinking I'm pregnant part came before the exercising.  It was actually the catalyst for the-starting-of-the-exercising-for-the-first-time-in-like-four-years.

It was a Sunday night.  I walked into my bathroom, looked at my stomach and freaked out.  I was preggers.  Apparently six months or four months, or whenever you start showing, pregnant.  I'm really not being sarcastic here.  I really, seriously, honestly thought I was pregnant.

And  my emotions were mixed.  On the one hand, I was like at least I'm not just getting fat.  Now I can eat as much of everything that I want.  On the other hand, I was like uh yeah, I really don't want a baby.  And I don't want to get bigger.  If I'm just getting fatter I can exercise and make the fat go away (oh how naive I was).  On the third hand, I was like my baby is going to be an alcoholic because I've definitely imbibed in the last four months.

I declared to my husband that I was pregnant, or possibly just fat, and that I was going to start running to make it go away.

And run I did.  And get fatter I did.  Or possibly more pregnant.  As the weight kept going up, I became more and more convinced I was preggers and begged the husband to go buy me a pregnancy test.

Husband:  "Aren't you about to get your P.E.R.I.O.D.?"

Me: "NO!!  How dare you say that!  Why are you always judging me?!!  What!  We're out of ice cream!  If I don't have ice cream I'm going to die.  Life is so unfair.  I'm so sad.  I love you honey.  Want to snuggle on the couch?"

Husband: raised eyebrow

Me: "Okay, maybe."

Husband: "You think maybe that has something to do with the TEMPORARY weight gain?"

Me:  "No.  Buy me a pregnancy test."

Husband: "No.  Exercise the rest of the week and if, on Friday, you do not get your P.E.R.I.O.D., you can take a pregnancy test."

So I continued to run my fat a.s.s. off at a snail's pace.  Seriously, the walkers were walking faster than I was "running."  And yes, it was embarrassing.  But I had my defense ready for when someone commented on my slow pace.

I told the husband, "If someone says anything to me about how not fast I am running, I am going to say 'you try running when you're three months pregnant.'  They'll feel like a total jerk for saying anything to me."

The husband replied, "why would anyone care how fast you run?"

"Becuzzzz," I said exasperated, "running is all about comparing yourself to other people, and finding those who look more pathetic than you and feeling better about yourself."

The husband: "No it's not."

Me: "Clearly you are not an exerciser.  Will you please buy me a pregnancy test?  If I am pregnant, I am killing our baby with all this running and raising of my body temperature to one hundred and fourteen thousand degrees."

Husband: "Friday."

On Friday I got my period.

So continue to run I did to see if maybe, now, I would start the losing of the weight.

The only reason I'm sharing all this with you is to explain why I haven't been writing.  Because running, and being pregnant, and then not, and running some more, made me soooooo tired.  For two weeks I pretty much worked, ran, made a bland dinner, ate, showered, collapsed in bed.  Running also made me weepy and emotional and all cry-ey and "why do I even write?  I am a crappy writer.  No one cares what I have to say.  Why did I even start a stupid blog?"  I was not prepared for this.  Running was supposed to make you happy, what with the releasing of endorphins and all.  Endorphins make you happy.  Happy people don't kill their husbands. (Quick!  Name that movie!*)

Oh, I know what you're thinking.  It wasn't the running that was making me all sad and weepy, it was my P.E.R.I.O.D.

And to that I say, NO IT WASN'T!!!

I've stopped running now.  I'm back to writing.  And I feel much happier.

Now, on to what I really wanted to talk about...What the blogger handbook says about having seven followers!  Allow me to read to you.

Once a blogger has reached seven followers he/she is now allowed to talk about puppets.

Puppets!  PUPPETS!  My friends, you are in for a treat. And possibly some therapy after you are finished reading this.

Do you like coming up with quippy little stories for snails, and fish, and cross eyed children, and a creepy man-boy?  Would you like to get paid for coming up with them? 


Well then, you are in luck. The puppet industry has a job for you.

It all started with an email from my friend Ashley. Our friend Juli told Ashley she wanted to buy finger puppets for her baby, Camilla. Being the good friend that Ashley is, she did some research.

And what she found, my friends, is, well, odd, and slightly disturbing.

She sent photos of these puppets to me in a series of emails. And you have no idea how happy I am that I am now, according to the blogger handbook, allowed to share them with you. Gems like this should not be kept under a rock. Or wherever it is that gems hang out until they are discovered.

I will share the subject of each of her emails, the story accompanying each puppet created by the puppet industry weirdos, and, of course, my thoughts on each. Pay particular attention to the stories the puppet company created. The puppets themselves are odd and some even disturbing, but the captions really seal the deal on the weirdness factor.

Number One
Ashley's subject line: BLAAAAAA

Story from puppet makers: N/A

My thoughts:  Aww, cute horse. I mean cow. I mean bull? I've looked at this picture, like, ten times and just now realize it is not a horse. Unless horses have horns. Which I'm pretty sure they don't. However, that does not necessarily mean they did not intend for it to be a horse. You will later see that, according to the puppet industry, any animal can have horns.

And oh my gosh, Beth, I totally now get how you were confused by horses, cows, and bulls. They are much more similar than people realize. You are wise beyond your years, young grasshopper.

Number Two

Ashley's subject line: Is it bad that I find this hilarious…sheesh, blind WITH glasses & hearing aids, Billy really got the short end of the…cane?

Story from puppet makers: Billy is disabled and using a cane. The harsh comments from a schoolmate makes it even worse. Use this puppet to help teach children how to treat others with disabilities.

Set contains: 1 full body puppet, hearing aids, glasses and cane

My thoughts: The harsh comments from his schoolmates make his disability worse?  Uh take out the hearing aid  Billy.  This isn't rocket science.  And also, if he needs a cane, doesn't that mean he's blind? So are the glasses really necessary?  It seems to me Billy's biggest disability is that his mother is a moron. - Just reread the subject of this one and I see Ashley also noticed what an idiot his mother is.  This is why we are friends.

Number Three

Ashley's subject line: Hey Brian Fellow...I'm gonna punch your mom!

Story from puppet makers: Puppet amazingly realistic.

My thoughts:  Really?  Amazingly realistic?  Really?
P.S.  I love Brian Fellow!!

Number Four

Ashley's subjet line: wtf...seriously, read the

Story from puppet makers: Trevor has a thin sprig of hair that looks like a bow tie, but he doesn't care. He dresses in Christmas colors and plays in a tree. He says, "I like being a kid and I like being me."  Lilly likes singing and lemons and yellow. She's jumps, laughs and dances. She's anything but mellow.

My thoughts:  Trevor doesn't care that his hair is a bow tie? Really? Has anyone ever asked Trevor? I'm pretty sure he has an opinion about it. Then again, maybe he likes his hair as a bow tie cuz it distracts from his lazy eye.  And speaking of lazy eye, WTF is up with Lilly's eyes? Two lazy eyes? Is that really necessary?

Number Five

Ashley's subject line: Ahhhhh!  So this is where chicken fingers come from!

Story from puppet makers: This barnyard beauty could be Chicken Little.

My thoughts: So do you have to shove your hands up the chicken's ass to use this puppet? Also, is it an optical illusion or does that chicken have giant hands?

Also, I want chick fil a for lunch.

Oh and Chicken Little?  Yeah, no.

Number Six

Ashley's subject line: Caption is awesome and perhaps a bit...I'm not sure if I should share the rest of her subject, because I'm not exactly sure what she means.  I thought it meant one thing, but Mark was like, no, that's not what she means.  But if it is what she means, then maybe I shouldn't share it.  Cryptic, I know.  Ashley, I'll call you.

Story from puppet makers:  Billy the Chimp loves to laugh. He's social and funny, but not good at math. He is great for teaching about the environment, conservation and nature. Children love him.

My thoughts:  A monkey who's not good at math.  You don't say?  Well shoot, I was really hoping my monkey puppet could teach me a little trig, perhaps some calculus.

At least children love him.  Until he rips their face off, that is. 

Chimpanzees are not pets, people!

Number seven

Ashley's subject line:  Is this getting old yet?  What a fiend!

Story from puppet makers: Bob the Monkey is a break dancing fiend. He does handstands and spins and loves to be seen. He is great for teaching about the environment, conservation and nature. Children love him.

My thoughts:  Break dancing?  Handstands?  Spins?  Loves to be seen?  I hate it when my  monkey puppet is an attention whore.

Number eight

Ashley's subject line: hmmmm, this fish reminds me of someone.....Trevor!?! is that you!!??

Story from puppet makers: James is a funny looking fish but he doesn't care. He swims in the sea and says, "I like being a fish and I like being me." He is great for teaching about the environment, conservation and nature. Children love him.

He is 16 inches in length and is very easy to operate by youngsters as well as adults.
My thoughts: He's easy to operate? Did all the other puppets come with an instruction manual?

Serioulsy, he's a puppet. Insert hand, move fingers.

P.S. in case you don't remember who Ashley is referring to, Trevor was the bow tie haired, lazy-eyed, Christmas loving, I like being me, puppet.

Number nine

Ashley's subject line: Seen any dejected gastropods lately?

Story from puppet makers: He may be slow, but at least he's not slimy! This expressive Snail puppet, as well as being soft and cuddly, also has workable horns and mouth. With these features, he can show surprise, remorse, joy, dejection, and numerous other emotions, and he also retracts into his shell if things get too overwhelming.

My thoughts: Horns!!! Horns! Let me say it again. HORNS! Since when do snails have horns? Also, dejected Snail, you have a fungus growing in your mouth.  And remorseful?  What did that snail do?!

Number ten

Ashley's subject line: Get ready to shit your pants...seriously...and I'm OUT!

Story from puppet makers: This young boy Dan doesn't have a lot to say. The only thing he wants to do is eat cookies and play. He plays at the beach and lays in the sand. He needs extra sunscreen. He doesn't tan.

He is 28 inches from top of his head to tip of his toes. He has a sculptured face and finely detailed clothing including shoes. He comes with with a pack of cookies that teaches numbers and letters.His expressive face and large size makes him especially good for ventriloquist use before large audiences.

You can insert your own hands into the puppet for very expressive action.

My thoughts: Ashley warned us.  She did.  But nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared you for young boy Dan.  I cannot comment on the picture.  I just can't.  If I share what I first thought when I saw him, I will sound like an evil person.  So I will go with what Ashley and Juli thought when they saw him:  Young boy Dan is a child molester.  The first paragraph of his story creeps me out.  I can't say why, exactly.  I feel like they are implying something disturbing by saying he lays in the sun.  He needs sunscreen.  He doesn't tan.  Why would you come up with that for a puppet?  Why?

And if there was any doubt he is a child molester, his pack of cookies to teach children letters and numbers confirms it.  More like lure children into his creepy van with his cookies.

And what's up with the last sentence of his story?  I can insert my own hands?  You mean I don't have to cut off someone else's hands to use young boy Dan?  Normally that would relieve me.  I am not a fan of amputation.  But, in the case of young boy Dan, I'm all for it if it means I don't have to INSERT MY HANDS INTO HIS CREEPY BODY.  Which is exactly what he wants.  What. A. Perv.

Well, that's it folks.  This post has exhausted me.  More than running and my P.E.R.I.O.D. and possibly being pregnant.

Puppet industry people, you are weird.  But guess what?  I happen to like weird.  So I guess you're okay by me.  Except for the creepy child molester puppet.  Stop making those, okay?  Seriously.  Stop it.


*Legally Blonde.  Did you guess right?


Mah Book Progress:

Let's not discuss it.


Puppet photos and stories credit: