Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Well Deserved Awards

Guess wha -at?



Internets, please join me in welcoming Carrie and Ashley.

Welcome ladies.  We lover you lots.  You are my favorites.  Here are your well deserved awards.

Carrie is a super cool chick, as her award reflects.

Ashley has mad interior design skills, as her award reflects.  Or not...

Seriously though, she's good at the designing of the interiors.  You should check out her blog Smitten Design.

Internets, did you know they have trophies for practically everything?

Need a trophy for superior bull riding?  Here you go.

Need one for the biggest baby?  The trophy world's got you covered.

How about one for the ass in your life?  No problem.

However, if you're in need of a bl*w j*b award, well, too bad.  They don't make those.

I'm disturbed...


Bull rider, baby and rear end award from funnyemployeeawards.com

Mah Book Progress: A few new pages a few days ago.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Adventures in Traveling

Strap yourselves in folks.  This is a long one.

That's what she said.

Sorry.  Couldn't help myself.


The husband and I love to travel.  I'm not exactly sure why.  We don't have the greatest track record.

For our honeymoon, we went to Jamaica.  We got to the airport at five in the morning for an eight o'clock flight, only to find out it was delayed due to mechanical problems, to later to find out the flight was canceled indefinitely.  "So you're never going to Jamaica?" I said.  We took turns sleeping on the floor, were herded on a bus to the Miami airport, and were solicited by swingers.  We finally boarded a plane bound for Jamaica and arrived seven hours later than we were supposed to. 

The rest of our honeymoon was pretty uneventful.  I did confuse a hot towel with an egg-roll.  I was pretty pissed about it.  We arrived at the resort and I was STARVING.  A woman came up to us with a tray of rolled things and said something that I didn't understand, you know, because they don't speak English in Jamaica.  I believed the rolled things to be egg rolls, because, what else would a resort in the Caribbean serve guests upon arrival than Chinese food?  I think I don't really like egg-rolls, but I am starving so gimme gimme.  I pick it up and guess what?  It's a hot towel.  What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

So other than a canceled flight, a confusion over egg-rolls, and oh yeah, a raging UTI, our honeymoon was amazing.

A month after our honeymoon, we traveled to Alabama for our friend's wedding.  We were once again leaving our hotel room at an ungodly hour when the husband said, "I can't find my wedding ring."  We tore the room apart.  No dice.  "We have to go," I said.  "But it's my wedding ring," the husband said.  "We'll get you a new one.  We are not missing this flight.  The tickets were $500 a piece.  Let's go."  The husband was all torn up over the fact that the symbol of our love is gone forever, but we made our flight.

P.S.  We did end up finding the ring, but flash forward three years and he loses it again.  This time is stays lost for two years and counting.  I, of course, wear both my engagement ring and wedding ring at all times.  Nothing adorns the husband's finger that shows he is a taken man.  When we go out, we like to pretend I am married to someone else and he is my lover.

Let's see, what else?  Oh yes.  There was the time we went to New Orleans.  The husband is a huge Saints fan.  HUGE.  His uncle, who lives in Louisiana, got us tickets to a game and mailed them to us.  This time we were flying out of the Orlando airport.  We were sitting in the airport, humming with excitement. Our plane was about to board when I turned to the husband and said, "Did you grab the tickets?" 

"What tickets?" he says. 

"To the game," I said.

Have you ever seen a grown man go from looking healthy and vibrant and full of life to looking like death?  I literally watched the life drain from his face.  I went into survival mode while the medics resuscitated the husband.   I called my poor mother, who lives an hour and a half away from our house, and asked her to drive to our house, get the tickets and overnight them to our friend's house in New Orleans.  She did, because she loves us way too much, but when she gets to FedEx they are closed.  So is UPS.  She drove three hours round trip for absolutely nothing.  Love you, mom!

It almost didn't matter whether we had the tickets or not, because our flight was thisclose to death.  We pretty much flew through a hurricane and I was sure our plane was going down any second.  We survived, but our friend who was picking us up from the airport, almost did not.  He hydroplaned across four lanes of traffic and crashed into some bushes.  He didn't tell us this and when we got to his car and saw that it is completely covered in leaves we said, "What'd you do?  Drive through a jungle to get here?  Har. Har." 

"No.  I almost died," he said. 

Oh. Uh, oops?

In case you're wondering, we managed to get tickets to game.  The Saints lost.

Then there was the time we got to the airport two hours early - I don't remember where we were going - and decided to eat at one of the delectable airport restaurants.  We finished eating, decided to hang out for awhile.  The next thing we know, we hear our names over the loudspeaker.  “Paging Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass.  Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass, please come to the counter.  You got to the airport two hours early. Your plane is a hundred yards away and you’re about to miss your flight.  Hurry up Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass or we’re leaving without you.  Dumbasses.”

And who can forget New Orleans part two?  We once again got tickets to the game.  But there will be no leaving them behind this time.  We checked and double checked and triple checked that we had them.  We once again flew out of Orlando, which is a good deal away from where we live.  We left the house with, what we thought,was plenty of time to catch our flight.  We stopped on the way to get some coffee, some breakfast, use the fine facilities at the Seven Eleven, take our sweet ass time.  We finally got on the road again.  Twenty minutes later, we checked the clock, did a little math, and realized there was no effing way we were making our flight.  Well, technically we'd make the flight.  But we were checking baggage.  You have to arrive forty-five minutes before departure in order to check baggage.  We arrived forty-three minutes before departure. 

For just a mere $50 per ticket (in addition to the cost of our original tickets) we caught the next flight out.

In case you're wondering, the Saints lost.  Had they won, they would have gone 14-0.  But the Dumbasses showed up and ruined their perfect season.  We are pretty much banned from the Superdome.

That leads me to the most recent traveling mishap.  Our five year anniversary to the Turks and Caicos.  This story deserves its own title.

The Wrong Side of the Airport

We have a very early flight out of Miami for our non stop flight to the Turks and Caicos.  We decide to drive to Miami the night before our flight and stay in a hotel close to the airport where we can leave our car for the week.  The husband books a room at the Days Inn.  We don't need luxury, we just need clean and convenient.  The husband says he wants to get to Miami by 11:00 p.m. so he can get a good night's sleep for our flight and the first day of our fabulous vacation.

Well, work catastrophes ensue.  I get home around eight, finish packing, drop off the dogs and we get on the road at 10:30.  Um, yeah, I'm not a rocket scientist or anything, but I'm pretty sure we aint gettin to Miami by 11:00.

Other than being tired, and getting more and more tired, the trip goes smoothly.  We arrive at the Days Inn and are confused. You could say we were Days'd and Confused. Ha.  Haha. Hahahaha.  I should do stand up.

There were cars.  And people.  Lots of cars and people.  Everywhere.  The people are hanging out by the cars.  Sitting on the trunk.  In beach chairs.   Um, Miami's version of tailgating?  Possibly.  But tailgating for what?  It's one thirty in the A.M. and they're at a hotel. 

We finally maneuver into the parking lot of the Days Inn, which looks like a retrofitted gas station with a bunch of rooms stacked on top. There is nowhere to park.  Because of all the cars.  And people.  And tailgating.  A futile conversation ensues between the husband and the security guard aka shriveled eighty year old man, in which the husband says, in English, "Where should I park?"  The security guard responds in Spanish.  The husband responds in English.  The security guard responds in Spanish sign language.  The husband:???

I tell the husband just to leave the truck in front of the lobby door, which is pretty standard protocol.  If we're wrong, well, we'll just look like we're here for the tailgating.  

It is during the where-do-I-park/what do-I-do/what-did-you-say conundrum, that we realize the reason for all the people is that the Days Inn is attached to a night club.  Duh. How could we forget that Days Inn are known for their bangin nightlife?

As the husband goes inside to check us in, I try to figure out what kind of club it is.  They offer valet parking and security, so, obviously a high-class, up-scale establishment, right?

Oh look, there are a bunch of men.  Aren't they...pretty.  And look at those clothes!  Impeccably dressed.  Ooh, those two are a little flashy.  Maybe even a little...flamboyant?  Hmm, I think those two are fighting.  Is one of them crying?

Oh, I get it.  It's a gay night club.

Wait, here come some ladies. Hmm, that's an interesting outfit.  Did she skin a leopard and hot glue its epidermis on top of hers? 

Oh look, some of them are going to stop in front of the hotel window that also serves as a mirror.  How lucky for me, sitting behind them in the truck, that I get a view of both the back and the front. 

Excuse me miss, you forgot your pants.  Oh. That's not a shirt, it's a dress?  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize.

Pardon me ma'am, but your nipples are showing.  What?  They're supposed to?  I'm so embarrassed.  I really should keep up on the latest fashion trends. 

How about I just sit here, keep my mouth shut and watch you all dig your underwear out of your butts, (honestly I'm surprised you're wearing any) fluff your hair and adjust your boobs for maximum nipple exposure. 

I'm starting to think this might not be a gay club.  Ladies, and I use that term oh-so-loosely do not spend this much time primping to attract a token gay friend.  They're here for...um...there!  Those men.  The ones who forgot their shirts.

I guess this is just your average Days Inn night club. 

Wait, is that girl with her parents?  Is it family night?  I am seriously confused.

I go into the lobby before my head explodes.

"They booked us at the wrong hotel," says the husband.  The husband is not pleased.  "I knew this was going to happen.  When I made the reservation, I confirmed with the guy at least ten times, that our reservation was at this hotel."

We get back in the truck, and before we pull away, I look through the window (that the “ladies” were using to adjust their boobs), at the stain-covered purple couch, a variety of arcade games, pin ball machines and pool table.  Cool games room, right?


The sign on the wall?


Sure.  Why not?

The drive to the other Days Inn Airport Hotel was just lovely.  Broken bottles curbside, sketchy characters posted up against chain link barbed wire fences, bars on windows, dilapidated buildings good for only two things: drugs and sex of the lonely perv, streetwalker variety.

Suddenly there is a loud pop and the truck wobbles, interrupting our picturesque ride.

Great, I thought.  Flat tire in the ghetto.  Bring on the robbing and raping. 

Normally there would have been much more hysteria to my thoughts: Oh my gosh!  What was that?!  We've been shot!  Aliens landed on the roof!  We ran over a dead body!  What?  Just a flat tire?  What a relief!  Wait, no.  That's even worse!  Now we'll be stranded here and we'll be robbed and raped and murdered.  Must find paper to write final note to loved ones!

But I was much too tired for that hysteria, so it was more like a very deadpan: Yay.  Flat tire.  Robbing.  Raping.  Good times.

The husband and I quickly realize we do not have a flat tire; we are dragging something.  Even better!  Now we get to pull into the parking lot of one of buildings of ill-repute and remove said object from vehicle.  I look around in the car for a sharp object to ward off the robbers and rapers as the husband removes the ginormous vacuum cleaner box that is lodged all up in the business of the front right tire.

We survive with minimal robbage and raping and are on our way.

"No!  No!  This is not what I wanted!  That is why I wanted the other place.  I specifically asked for the opposite of this!"  There is much yelling and fury coming from the husband as we pull into the new Days Inn.  All the doors of the hotel rooms open to the outside world, which is not exactly the safest thing, even in non-sketchy environments, but considering our surroundings, we're pretty much guaranteed some amount of rapage and stabbage to the throat.

Once again, there is no where to park.  We ask the "security guard" where to park.  I say "security guard" because in order to understand the caliber of this guy you need to imagine the dumbest person you know, cut that person's level of intelligence in half, then remove half of that person's brain.  That is the level of wherewithal we are dealing with.

The husband: Where should we park?

"Security guard": (stares at us and waits a full thirty seconds before answering.  Lest you think thirty seconds is not a long time, the next time someone asks you a question, look right into their eyes count to thirty and then answer) Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I'll spare you fifteen lines of h's as long as you understand just how long the "uhhhhhh" went on before he finally says, "you can leave it right there."  He then turns his attention back to his iphone, or blackberry or whatever it is in his hand that has him so mesmerized.

"Don't worry honey," I say, "with him on the job, we'll be okay."

The husband laughs, but not that ha ha-that-is-so-funny, kind of laugh, but that ha ha-is- this-honestly-my-life-right-now, kind of laugh.  He goes inside and I wait in the car. 

An aforementioned lonely perv and streetwalker walk by. 

Two men with slicked back hair and glittery shirts walk by.  (Can anyone tell me at what point it becomes okay for men to where glitter on their shirts.  You wear that in the fifth grade, I'm pretty sure you get beat up at recess.  But ten years later, a skin tight black shirt with a glittery serpent is perfectly acceptable attire for a walk in the ghetto at two in the morning?  What. Ever.)

A man and woman walk by.  The man carries a 32" flat screen tv on his shoulder.  Did you know Best Buy was open at two a.m.? Yeah, me neither.

The husband finally returns with one of those baggage cart thingys.  "Good news," he says, "they have rooms inside this building."  Yay!  Our chances of being raped and murdered have dropped significantly, but are probably still pretty high.  I'd say on a scale of one to ten, our chances were now a seven as opposed to a ten point infinity.  We load up the cart and I wait outside while he parks the car.

He returns a few minutes later.  There's nowhere to park.  Shocking.

I go inside and ask the "security guard" what we should do.

He says, "Uhhhh.  Did you... Uh.... Did you see..."  And then he walks away and out the front door.  I follow him out. The husband sees him, looks at me and starts pointing at him.  "Ask him," he says. 

"I did.  I think you're supposed to follow him."

The "security guard" disappears into the abyss of the parking lot and the husband follows.  I am certain he is being led into a trap of rapists and murderers.

The husband finally returns sans truck.  "There were no spots.  I parked on the side of the road.  I told him we were leaving it here for a week and asked him if that was okay.  He said we should probably move it in the morning."

I look at my watch.  "What, four hours from now they'll be tons of parking?"  I sincerely doubt this and believe our only hope for finding a spot is catching the prostitute shift change, but I'm not entirely sure when that is going to happen, so the chances of us being able to move our truck in a few short hours are less than good.

We enter the lobby and look for the elevator.  There isn't one.  We have to carry our luggage up the stairs.  What, pray tell, is the point of the baggage cart thingy if there isn't an elevator?

The husband yanks our two suitcases, each weighing fifty pounds each, and stomps up the stairs.  This is the point where my extreme exhaustion turns to extreme giddiness and I can't stop laughing.  I try to get the husband to give me my suitcase. I can pull it up the stairs.  I was a pro at doing this during my two week senior trip to Europe.

The husband won't give it to me.  I worry that he'll hurt his back.  I try to get him to pull them up the stairs.  “Don’t talk to me,” he says.  I begin maniacal laughter.  We are both beyond done.

We get to our room.  Open the door.  There are fliers for restaurants all over the floor.

There is a smell.

Imagine the smell of the absolute worse bathroom you have ever been in, gas station, rest stop, whatever.  Imagine the stale moldy urine smell.  And multiple that by a gazillion and you will still not come close to how bad our room smells.

I begin gagging and have to breathe into my sweatshirt to keep from vomiting.

The husband and I stand in the room and immediately catch four different STD's.

"We can't stay here," I say.

The husband gets a pained expression on his face.  "I'm so tired.  We only have four hours until we have to get up."

I'm not sure why but I venture into the bathroom and flip the switch.  Nothing.  There's no light.  I pull the cord in the closet.  No light.  And no iron. 

Deal.  Breaker.

"We HAVE to go.  There's no iron. Go down there and demand our money back.  They booked us at the wrong hotel.  There’s nowhere to park.  It smells like pee.  There is no electricity.  And THERE IS NO IRON."

The husband gives a heavy sigh.  He knows we can’t stay here. But he’s so tired.  We both are.  “If they won’t refund our money, don’t argue, we’ll just call the credit card company and get it taken off our bill,” I say.

We leave the room, but before we go down to the lobby we decide we should reserve a room at another hotel first.  The husband begins looking up places to stay on his iphone. A poor bedraggled girl in a fast food restaurant shirt walks by. “People live here,” I hiss.

We wait for the iphone to load.

“This a by-the-hour hotel,” I say

The husband’s eyes go wide, “It is?!”

The husband begins scrolling through the list of hotels near the Miami airport. 

“Why are we doing this in the hallway?” I say.

We go back in the room and begin gagging.  “Oh right, the smell.”

The husband sits in the chair and begins dialing.  I lean against the dresser, the place I determine to have the least amount of semen.  It’s really not a question of whether it has semen, but rather, how much; the entire room, is no doubt, covered in it.

He calls hotel after hotel after hotel.  All are booked.

Finally, he reaches the Hilton.  It’s a regional call center.  After the guy on the phone asks us our name, address, social security number, date of birth, weight, favorite ice cream and plugs our information into a complex mathematical equation, he says, “Okay, we have a room.  It doesn’t have a king bed though.  Only two fulls.”

“That’s fine, we’ll take it.”

“Okay.  Ooh, but it has a handicap bathroom.”

“Uh, sir, we are currently sitting in a pool of stale semen and our bathroom doesn’t have electricity.  A handicap bathroom will be just fine.”

We gather our stuff, only have to put up a minimal fight to get our money back, and at the instruction of the husband, RUN to our car.

“Hurry,” he says, “Come on, run.  We have to get the bags in the car as quickly as possible.”  Now in order to understand just how funny this is, you have to know the husband.  He is the calmest, most rational, never has he feathers ruffled, kind of person.  So any time he appears slightly, uh, ruffled, it is hysterical to me.

So as we are running to our car, dragging our luggage over an uneven, potholed parking lot, I am laughing hysterically, but inside I’m also slightly terrified because it’s basically like we’re wearing a sign that says please rob and stab us and leave us for dead.

We get to the car and the husband can’t get the suitcases in.  It was like one of those cheesy horror movies where the dumb girl is being chased by the crazy killer and she runs up to her house and is fumbling with her keys and she drops them and picks them up but can’t find the right one, and then finally she does, but it won’t go in the hole. 

Well that’s exactly what was happening, except the keys are luggage and the hole is the truck and instead of a killer coming after us a car is slowly driving up to us.  This is it, I think.  This is why you shouldn’t joke about being raped and stabbed and robbed and murdered, because then it will actually happen.
The car and my heart simultaneously stop.  The window rolls down. 

You know how, in the cheesy horror movie, the dumb girl stares right at the killer coming toward her and she doesn’t run? She’s frozen.  And she’s like. “Oh hai.  Are you here to kill me?  How about I make it easier for you and just stand here?”  Well that’s what I am like.  I stand there, ready for men in glittery shirts with mean tattoos to run out and take our stuff and stab us.

But, instead of killers, a man and woman are in the car.  I am too terrified to speculate whether they were a lovely couple or a lonely perv and streetwalker.

“Are you leaving?” asks the boyfriend/husband/lonely perv.

I breathe a sigh of relief and say yes.  Thankfully, the husband has gotten the luggage in the truck and we can be on our way.

The neighborhood continues to get worse.  We turn a corner and it gets a little better.  And then worse again.  We turn again.  And it’s better.  Much better.  We are on the other side of the airport.  We turn down a palm tree lit drive, and the heavens literally part and angels begin singing.

However, I am not excited yet.  We booked our reservation through a “call center.”  I’ll believe we actually have a room when they hand us a key.

We go inside the lobby.  We meet Albert.  Albert, I will forever remember.

The husband says we have a reservation.  I am ready for a fight.  I am ready to scream at Albert that the guy on the phone said we have a room.  With two full beds.  And a handicap bathroom.  But I refrain from screaming, because I’m polite like that, and thankfully, Albert says, “yes, here we are.”

He begins doing whatever it is you do when you’re checking guests into a hotel and starts chatting it up.

“How’s your night going so far?”

Me: Just peachy.

The husband: This is the third hotel we’ve been to.

Albert: Oh, did you go to the Hilton West and the Hilton Garden Inn first?

Me: Ha, I wish we had started there.  The hotel we just came from didn’t have electricity.

Albert: Oh.  Well we’ve got a great room for you.  It’s a really nice room.  You’re going to love it.

Me: If it has a bed, we’ll love it.

Albert continues solving complex equations on the computer.

Albert: When are you checking out?

The husband: Uh, in three hours.  We’re catching a flight.

Albert: Oh where you going?

The husband: Turks and Caicos. It’s our five year anniversary.

Me: So far it’s starting out just like our honeymoon.  They canceled our flight to our honeymoon.

Albert with big smile: Well we’ve got a great room for you.  It’s the Presidential Suite.

Me: Uh, huh, yeah sure.

Albert: It overlooks the Lagoon.

Me: I’m sure it does.

Albert continues to go on about how great the room is.

The husband: Are you serious?

I give the husband a look: don’t believe him.  He’s messing with us.

Albert: I love it when they unlock this room for me.

He hits some buttons on the keyboard.  “Yep, we’re at ninety percent capacity.”  He writes our room number down: 1332.

The husband and I exchange a look.  Maybe Albert isn’t bullshitting us.  If we are staying in the Presidential Suite then it would be on the top floor.  The 13th floor could be the top floor.

Albert continues to talk.  “You’re going to love this room.  It has two stories.”

Me: Are you serious?

Albert: No.

Oh well.  No Presidential Suite. Would have been cool, but who cares.  We have a room where we won’t be raped and stabbed, won’t smell like urine, and will only be mildly covered in semen, because let’s face it, all hotel rooms are covered in some amount of semen.

We go to the car, grab our bags and head to the elevator.

“Do you think he was serious?” says the husband.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think he was.  But then I did.  But then he said he was kidding.  I don’t know.”

We get in the elevator and see there are fourteen floors.

Definitely no Presidential Suite.  We don’t blame Albert for joking around with us.  He’s at work at three in the morning.  He’s allowed to have a little fun with the guests.

We get to the 13th floor, go left down a hall of dark wooden doors.  As we walk down the hallway, we see that there are no wooden doors at the end, just a big white panel of wall.

Finally we stop at room 1332.  There are double doors. 

The husband and I look at each other.

The husband inserts the key.

He opens the door.

There is a coffee table surrounded by cushy chairs.  To the left there is a sectional.  To the right there is a dining room table.  Further to the right is a kitchen.

We continue left to the business center.  One that, shockingly does not contain a pinball machine nor pool table. 

Across from the business center is a bathroom with a shower.

We continue further left to the bedroom.  King size bed.

On the other side of the bedroom is another living area.

We go into the bathroom “area.”  To the right is a walk-in shower.  For two.  With more shower heads coming out of the wall at various heights. That can be turned and manipulated in any direction to hit any part of your body.  ANY part, ladies.

To the left of the shower is a sink. And to the left of that is your “traditional” bathroom with a sink, shower, toilet, and, of course, a phone.

Um, so, yeah.  We gots the Presidential Suite. And yeah, all four of its balconies overlook the lagoon.

I immediately call the front desk and ask for Albert.

“Albert, this is really unacceptable,” I say.  “We were expecting something much  nicer.”

He laughs, “If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

“Albert,” I say, “this has been a horrible night.  The hotel we were supposed to be at didn’t have our reservation, we had to pull over in the ghetto to remove a box that was lodged in our car, we gasped for air in a semen covered room and were nearly knifed on our exodus from the Cum Hotel.  We are completely and utterly exhausted.  The only thing we could possibly want right now….

…is a threesome.”

That is where I will end the story.  But let me just say it was a wild three hours before we had to leave to catch our flight.



But seriously, it was one of the wildest nights of our lives.

As we sank into the plush sheets of our clean bed and breathed in the urine-free air it was hard to believe that just one hour ago we were faced with the rare but coveted opportunity to curl up in a bed once enjoyed by prostitutes and drug addicts.

We were only mildly disappointed.

Friday, August 27, 2010


If there are any men who read this blog, you're going to want to stop reading after the second letter.  If there are any vampires who read this blog, skip straight to the end.

Dear Feet,

It’s been fun.  Really it has.  Tripping in Publix Every. Single. Time. we go in there.  Tripping in Panera, in the parking lot, at the mall.  Really it’s been a blast, but all good things must come to an end, and I think the end has come, don’t you?

Yes, I realize there was a rug in front of the door at Panera, and technically, you shouldn’t be blamed get credit for that.  But you did manage to insert yourselves under the rug, and not just any rug, but one of those industrial, non slip, rubber around the edges, not even old ladies will trip on this rug, rug. Thankfully there was a door there to catch me when I flew forward or, feet, you and I would be parting ways.  I can get prosthetic feet.  Best of luck to you finding a prosthetic body.

I’m sure you want all kinds of recognition for yesterday, when you managed to get the toe of my super cute Ann Taylor heels caught in the tile grout at the mall, but guess what?  No kudos from me.  Big freaking deal is what I say.  Yeah, yeah, thousands, (millions?) of people walk through that mall in a given year and not one person has managed to trip over the grout, but, really, there’s nothing amazing about the fact that you did.  The grout was deeper than your ordinary household tile grout.  Anyone could have tripped over it. 

I suspect you’re doing this to satisfy, what you think, is my ever constant need for attention, what with my constant begging of people to follow my blog and leave comments.  Attention from the internets I want.  Attention from everyone in Publix, every single day, as I fling my shoe across the store, I could live without.

Like I said, it’s been fun.  But it’s over.  I will cherish the memories.  Laugh about them every once in awhile.  Maybe ten years from now, you can throw me down a flight of stairs for old times sake.

Best wishes,

Dear Boobs,

What is your deal?

I suppose you think I’m going to be ecstatic over the fact that you’ve grown a cup size.  But I’m not, for two reasons.

Reason 1: I no longer measure my self worth by the size of you.  I’m not thirteen.  I don’t wake up every morning, run to the mirror, yank off my shirt and hope that you grew over night.  I’m not going to invite my friends over for a party, take out all my bras and say, “You guys want these? They no longer fit me.  My boobs got BIGGER.”  I’m in my twenties now.  I have more important things to worry about than how big or small you are.  Like the cellulite on my ass and my ever slowing metabolism.  If you really want to be useful, figure out a way for me to still eat all the crap I used to in college without gaining weight.

Reason 2:  I don’t believe your growth is permanent.  I think you’re doing this just to mess with me; therefore, I will not remove the tag on my new bra for one month.  If after said month has passed and you are still the same size, then maybe I will believe you are here to stay and remove the tag. At which point I don’t doubt you will go back to the size you’ve been since I was twelve.

What I find most annoying about this whole thing is the hour, HOUR, I spent in Victoria’s Secret yesterday trying to find a bra that fit you. 

Bra after bra after bra and nothing was working.  You decided to spill out of every one of them.  And not in that sexy cleavage spillage way.  You oozed from every area where fabric was not.  It was like you were allergic to it and trying to escape it at all costs. 

In case you forgot what happened, here’s a recap.

How about this pretty turquoise one?  No.

How about the Sexy T-Shirt bra?  Two for thirty dollars?  That’s a steal.  I really hope these work…Oh no.  That is just awful.

How about this pretty Dream Angels one?  Holy pushup and padding Batman!  My boobs just grew six sizes!

How about this PINK one?  No.

What about this one?  No.

And this one?  No.

Ad nauseam.

If, in addition to being a twenty something year old woman, I was also a twenty something year old guy (or a guy at any age for that matter), well, that would be weird, but it would have also been awesome.  What with all the taking off of the bras, and massive cleavage and boobage runneth over.  But alas, I am just a girl and the sight of all that did nothing but annoy me.

I spent all night trying to figure out what, after all these years of being the same size, would possess you to get bigger now.  And finally I realized.  Envy.

You are jealous of some of my friends whose boobs have suddenly gotten ginormous.  But you shouldn’t be.  Their boobs have been called to a higher purpose.  They are sustaining life for another human being.  They are selflessly sacrificing themselves even if it means being sore and raw and cracked, in order to provide food and nutrients to their baybee.  You will never understand that kind of love.  I know for a fact that, if I ever have a child, you will not let the little rug-rat anywhere near you.  So in addition to being annoying and covetous, you’re also kind of a jerk. 

To give you some credit, I could have kinda maybe sorta had something to do with you thinking I wanted you to get bigger.  The other day, when I was wearing that low cut shirt and was like, ohmygosh cleavage! and spent ten minutes watching myself in the mirror as a crossed my arms in front me to achieve boobage of gargantuan proportions and then ran upstairs to the husband and was like, “honey, look, I have boobs!  Look how big!”  And was he like, “yay!” and I was like, “yay!”  Well that was just for fun.  Sometimes it’s fun to pretend you guys are big, but that doesn’t mean I want you to be big. 

We, me and the husband, like you just the way you are.  Yes, I realize the husband has to say that because he is the husband.  And yes, he would like you if you got woah big or itty bitty.  But, really, it’s not about him.  It’s about me.  And you’re pissing me off.

Peace Out,

Dear Victoria’s Secret,

I understand what you’re trying to accomplish.  I even appreciate it.  It’s nice that those of us with the wee boobs can appear to have the double d’s.  But Ms. Secret, let me share a little secret of my own:

Sometimes, we ladies don’t want our boobs pushed into our throats and spilling out of our clothes.  Sometimes, we just want to find something that supports the girls that we can wear under a nice work shirt.

Going to the club? Bring on the cleavage.  The more cleavage, the more free drinks.

Going to work?  Regular boobage will suffice.


Dear Pottery Barn,

I love you.  I could spend my whole life’s savings in your store.


*Dear Ladies Who Work At Pottery Barn,

Thank you for being so nice and helpful.  For running all over the store, chasing after my every whim.  For getting plates and stemware and replacing stemware for stemless wine glasses.  And checking in the back and measuring things.  And for telling me to be careful on my three hour trip home in the dark.  And for telling me where the Starbucks is, and where to get food. 

You were so sweet.

So. Very. Sweet.

Which makes what happened so very very awful.

I sincerely hope your responsibilities don’t include cleaning the bathroom.  Please please tell me you have a cleaning person.  Not that I wish that mess on them, but well, it’s their job.  They’re probably a little more prepared to deal with stuff like that.

In case you, my dear sweet ladies, were the unfortunate ones to clean the bathrooms, let me just say that no, I did not kill a small animal.  Nor did I give birth.  I know you’re thinking that’s the only way to explain all the blood.  But unfortunately, it’s not.

I did my best to clean it up, but toilet paper only goes so far.  If you'd kept bleach in the restroom, I would have gladly removed all evidence of the horrific scene.

Please don’t take it personal.  It’s not the first time this has happened in a public restroom. 

Again, I am incredibly sorry.  My uterus is an asshole.  I don’t know what else to say.

With Regrets,

*Before you think I am a total disgusting jerk who bled all over the place for someone else to clean up, let me just say that sometimes, I tend to exaggerate.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

This One's For the Kids

You all know that I started this blog because I want to be a writer and I’m trying to get over my fear of people reading what I write.

Well my love of writing has taken me down a new road.  Writing children’s books.  I’m even more insecure about writing children’s books than I am about writing adult novels.  “Adult novels” as in novels for adults, not trashy romance novels.  Although, I do think writing smut, under a penname of course, could be kinda fun.

I recently completed my first children’s book and I know I have some mommy followers, so I thought I’d post the story on my blog and see what they think of it.

Now mommies, you can’t just tell me you love it and would read it to your children because you are my friend and you don’t want to crush all my hopes and dreams.  You must honestly tell me if you would read this story to your precious baybee, when they’re old enough to understand it, of course.

A Fairytale
By Kelley Williams

In a land faraway where children play.

The sky is blue, flowers dotted with dew.

There is a monster who lurks and who stalks.

He waits for children to stray from their walks.

Run! Run! As fast as they can!

Before he fries them up in his pan.

A story so sad, but true.  A creature who eats, boys and girls too.

The End.

What do you think mommies?  Pretty good, right?  Not only is it entertaining, but it also teaches a lesson.  Kids, if you stray away from mommy, you will get captured by an evil creature, fried in a pan and eaten.

I pretty much just saved your kid’s life.

No, that isn’t necessary.  No really.  You don’t need to name your next child after me.  It’s all about the children.  My way of giving back.

Okaaaay, fine.  The correct spelling is capital S.a.r.c.a.s.m. capital G.o.d.d.e.s.s.


My mom is so cute.  When I read this story to her, she was like “and then the hero could come and rescue them!”  And I was like, “no, mom.  The story’s about real life.  How am I going to save children’s lives if I give them a false sense of security that there’s this hero out there just waiting to save them from an evil creature.”

It broke my heart to kill her youthful optimism, but she is….thirty, after all.  It’s about time someone taught her about the evil ways of the world.

All words and pictures copyright of Kelley Williams.  If you steal my stuff I will stab you in the face.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Rebellion, Tallies, Special Talents, and oh yeah, Cheerleaders

So I recently read somewhere that if you want to attract more followers to your blog, you shouldn't talk about how awesome you are.

Uh, oops.  I haven't counted or anything, but I'm pretty sure at least 50% of my posts talk about how incredibly awesome I am.  It's even in my profile.

I suppose if I really want more followers, I could put a stop to my awesome talk and from this day forward never mention again that I one of the most fan-freaking-tabulous people on the planet, but...I've always been a rebel.  It's pretty much what I was known for growing up.  Like in school, we weren't allowed to walk on the grass.  Walking on the grass was pretty much the equivalent of murder.  In fact, you'd probably get in less trouble if you murdered a fellow classmate than if you stepped on a patch of grass trying to get around students clogging the hallway so you could get to class on time.  Because being late to class was the second worse thing you could do.  No wait, make that the third.  Wait, I mean the fourth.

Now that I have completely digressed, I might as well share the hierarchy of crimes at my school.

In order of worst to least worst (but still pretty freaking bad)

1. Walking on the grass

2. Having your skirt shorter than two inches above the knee (this obviously only applied to the girls, which was like double punishment for us, because there was no male punishment equivalent to getting in trouble for inappropriate dress.  Looking back, it's no wonder so many girls at my high school were whores.  The way  they determined if your skirt was too short?  They made you GET ON YOUR KNEES so they could measure.  This happened at least once a week.  It's like they were training us on how to give proper blow jobs).

3. Talking

4. Being late to class

There.  Those are pretty much the worst things you could...oh crap, screw the whole list.  I forgot about the absolutely, positively most horrible thing a student could do: Come in contact with a member of the opposite sex.

There was an unspoken, unwritten, but completely understood rule that six inches must be kept between boys and girls AT ALL TIMES.  If you committed this heinous crime, accidentally or on purpose, you might as well buy a gun, pull the trigger and end your life because the teachers were just going to do it for you.

But back to walking on grass.  Like I said walking on grass = murder.  And being the goody goody rebel that I was I never always disobeyed their rules and stomped all over their stupid grass.  I was such a rebel that to this day, ten years, later, I totally do not stick to sidewalks and do not walk around large patches of grass and do cut across fields, and totally do not have an anxiety attack when the establishment I need to get to via walking is not accessible any other way than by stepping on grass.  My husband totally does not have to wait at the entrance to the building as I try to construct a bridge over the grass so I don't have to walk on it.

I was so rebellious in high school that, if a teacher had to leave the room for a minute, they would  put me in charge.  You know, because I was such a bad student.  I was supposed to tell the teacher if anyone talked while she was gone.  Of course kids talked, and of course when the teacher got back I always never told on them.  I totally was not like, "John, Joe and Mary talked.  And Sally thought about talking.  You should punish her too.  Give them all tallies.  Heck, make it fives."  I totally never did that.  And all the other kids totally loved me because when I was in charge, I let them do whatever they want.  If the me today could go back and meet the me ten years ago I totally would not call her a bitch who needs to lighten the f*ck up. 

Back to the point.

What?  What's a tally?

Oh, shit y'all.  I could probably write a whole post devoted to tallies.

Let’s see, in elementary school tallies were worms with smiley faces or pipe-cleaners or something else super awesome that, on the surface, seemed like something you would totally want to put in the little pouch on the bulletin board with your name on it.  And they were all different colors, making eight year olds who liked rainbows and pretty colors want to collect them. But tallies were bad.  Especially the red ones.  One red tally was equal to FIVE of any other color tally.  If you got three tallies before lunch, you were punished with silent lunch.  That’s right, they took away your one opportunity to talk the entire day.  Four tallies in one day and you got lunch detention the following day.  And your mom would make you write an apology note to the teacher and give him a box of chocolates.

There were seven things evil little children could get tallies for.  SEVEN! you say.  How is a child supposed to remember seven different evil, horrible, despicable behaviors they were supposed to never ever do for fear THE TALLY?

The answer: ACRONYM.  That’s right.  The administration at my school loved punishment so very much they created a happy little saying to help us remember.  HOW I ACT.

H is for Homework (yellow tally)
O is for Out of Order (orange tally)
W is for Written Communication (green tally)

I is for INTENTIONAL.  This is the evil red tally also known as a FIVE.

A is for Attitude (dark blue tally)
C is for…um…oh no!  I don’t remember.  Fellow TKAers help me out! (light blue tally)
T is for Talking (pink tally)

(TKAers, did I get all those colors right?)

As you got older, the tallies became yellow cards with boxes next to the letters so you could check off what evil crime you committed.  But that wasn’t enough.  To the left of the acronym were blank lines where you had to describe what you did.  Most of us would just write “talking” or “forgot homework”, but the really, er, creative kids would write, “didn’t do my homework because I refuse to conform to your Nazi communist ways.”  Writing that on a tally almost always got you at least one more tally.

All of us thought tallies were stupid and annoying, which they were, and I’m not entirely sure how affective they were.  The good kids hardly got any because they were good.  And the bad kids got a lot because they didn’t give a shit.  I think we were all pretty happy when we graduated and commenced a life without tallies.

However, now that I’ve had a few years away from it all, I wish the tally system were implemented in the real world.  You know, when people annoyed you, or cut you off, or messed up your order, or didn’t do their job, or took forever to bring you your drink, or were rude, or stole your boyfriend, or were out of your shoe size in the totally cute stilettos you just had to have, you could give them a tally.  Except the adult tally system would look like this:

H is for Humongous Bitch (yellow)
O is for OMG would you shut the hell up (orange)
W is for Whiny Pathetic Jerkoff (green)

I is for Incompetent Idiot (red)

A is for Asshole (dark blue)
C is for Cunt (light blue)
T is for Total Douche (pink)

If the tally system were implemented in the adult world and your coworker took credit for your idea, you could give her light blue tally.

She’d be like “what the f*ck is this?”

And you’d be like, “it’s a tally bitch.  Ten more of those this week and you’ll get detention.  A few more detentions and you’ll be suspended from the cheering squad.  And your squadmates are going to be hella pissed because they can’t do this stunt without you and this stunt is a critical part of the Nationals routine and your squad is totally going to place this year, but they can't unless they master this stunt, which they can't do without you, so you better get your f*cking act together and stop stealing my ideas.”

And she would totally never take credit for your ideas again, because everyone knows you don’t f*cking mess with cheerleaders going to Nationals.

I’m pretty sure I just digressed on my digression.  The point of this story is that I’m a rebel.  Well, the original point was to (once again) tell y’all how awesome I am, but then I read how doing that is exactly the opposite of what you should do to get followers.  And then I was like, f*ck that, I’m rebellious.

So in keeping with my rebellious nature, I'm going to write yet another post about how awesome I am by telling you about my special talents.  However, after all that talk of tallies, and instilling a fear of grass in small children, and teaching teenage girls how to give blow jobs under the guise of measuring the length of their skirts, I think my special talents might be a little anticlimactic.  But I am not one who doesn't finish what she started, so here they are.  My special talents.

Special Talent #1
I have the ability to fall both down and up stairs.  For absolutely no reason whatsoever.  Big deal, you say, anyone can fall down stairs.  This is true, but no one can fall down the stairs the way I do.  I take a step down concrete stairs and my shoes, which have absolutely no traction and have contributed to no less than four near death experiences when wearing them, slip out from underneath me.  I bet you're imagining I fall backwards and slide down the stairs on my ass.  But remember, I have special talents.  Which means my foot slides forward off the stairs and somehow manages to fold underneath me, taking the other one with it so that I am sliding down concrete stairs on my shins where I finally crash into the railing, which saves me from the sidewalk where I would have landed face first.  I am so good at this supernatural feat, I end up only mildly shaken up, scrape the skin off only one shin and get a, relatively, small bruise on the other.

I first discovered my ability to fall down stairs in such an awesome way when I was in college. I was leading my psychology class down a flight of stairs and my foot slipped out from underneath me.  In front of the whole class.  I fell on my ass (because I hadn’t yet mastered the art of falling forward on my shins).  IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE CLASS.  And I had this out of body experience where I saw myself fall, but I didn’t know it was me and I was like look at that poor girl falling on her ass in front of her entire psychology class.  And then I was like, omg that poor girl is me.  And a nice girl next to me asked if I was okay.  And I answered by laughing.  Not because I was embarrassed or anything.  No. Definitely not.  But because I was giddy with excitement over my newly found talent.

I am equally good, if not better, at falling while walking up stairs.  This, my friends, requires super skill, as walking up stairs is pretty much THE EXACT SAME as walking, but with higher knee action.  How I usually like to do it is step forward, place only the upper 1/3 part of my foot on the stair, and then step forward with my other foot.  This makes my weight completely dis-proportioned causing me to lean backwards.  I usually like to wait until I have leaned really really far back before I grab onto the railing and save myself from imminent death more awesomeness.

But, sometimes I fall up stairs, because I just can’t help myself and incorporate special talent number two.

Special Talent #2
I have the ability to trip myself just by walking.  No fancy walking.  No supermodel-on-the-runway walking.  Just plain ole normal person walking.  The way it works is I take a step with my right foot and then bring my left foot forward and use it to kick my right foot.  Every time I implement this maneuver, I am successful.  But the most impressive part is that I never know when it’s going to happen.  My left foot acts of its own volition, forcing me to be prepared to trip at any moment.  This talent is so finely tuned that, no matter how often my left foot tries to catch me unawares and trick me into not tripping, I still trip Every. Single. Time.

Special Talent #3
This talent is the special talent number two upgrade. It starts out the same.  I step forward with my right foot.  My left foot comes forward and kicks the right one, only this time it kicks my shoe completely off my foot.  You can just imagine how impressed people are when I do this at work, in the middle of Publix, at the mall, walking into a meeting.  People are literally amazed.  They never say it, but I can totally see it on their faces.

I suppose it is possible that those looks of amazement are actually looks of omg what is this girl’s deal?  She is such a f*cktard.  But they would never say that because then I’d whip out a yellow or pink tally, depending on the gender, (if you don’t remember what the colors stand for, refer back to the adult tally system) and they totally don’t want that because tallies lead to detention.  Which leads to suspension from the cheering squad.  Which leads to not being able to practice the stunt in the Nationals routine.  Which leads to not placing at Nationals.  Again.  Which leads to pissed off cheerleaders.

And nobody f*cking messes with cheerleaders.

Mah Book Progress: no new pages

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

My Dearest Tabitha

I failed.  I was going to post my super fabulous story so you'd have something super fabulous to read at 4 a.m. when you are feeding your precious baybee, but suddenly I feel like death and for the first time in the history of ever, my mind completely stopped.  And I couldn't write another thing.  Which is probably a good thing since I'm pretty sure I started talking about a spaceship fueled by a toaster.  And although it was brilliant, I'm talking nobel prize worthy, it was also kinda weird.  Or maybe just awesome.

Most likely awesome.

So I do not have a story, but I can't leave you with nothing (is that a double negative?) so I offer you, and all my followers, anonymous or otherwise, some tips on a happy marriage.

Marriage Tip Number Five:

You must be willing to compromise.


Mark: This house is always a mess!  I want to live in a clean house.

Me: Get a maid.

Mark: How about I just clean up my stuff and you clean up yours?

Me: This entire mess is my stuff.

Mark:  How about you just clean up half of your stuff?

Me: I'll think about it.

Tip number Six

It is important to recognize and appreciate your spouse’s natural talents.


Mark: What do you want for dinner?

Me. Hungry Howie’s Pizza.  There’s one in (name of scary town that is due south of the town we live in.)

Mark: I want to go bowling.

Me:  We don’t have a bowling alley here.  There’s probably one in (name of scary town.)  We could get a Hungry Howie’s Pizza, grab our nine and go bowling.

Mark: Our what?

Me: Our nine.

Mark: What’s that?

Me: A gun.

Mark with a look that says I are crazy: I don’t think so.

Me: Uh, yes.  You know, like, I’m going to take my nine and bust a cap.

Mark with thought bubble above his head: No…

Me: Seriously?  I’m way more gangster than you.

Mark with face of recollection: Oh yeah. (starts singing like 20 songs with the word “nine” in them.)  You are more gangster than me.

Me: My brain works so much faster than yours.

Mark: It does.  It’s like I’m on dial-up and you're on Comcast high speed.

Me: You’re so poetic.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Conversations with My Dad

From an early age, my parents suspected I was a cut above the rest.  It is clear from the following conversations that their suspicions weren't unfounded

Scenario: Taking a walk with my dad in my grandmother's neighborhood. There is a turtle in the road.

Me: Daddy, what does that sign say?

My Dad: It says STOP.

Me: Why isn't that turtle stopping?

Scenario: Staying at a hotel with my dad.

Me: Daddy, why do we have to show these passes to the hotel people.

My Dad: If we don't, they won't let you by that table.

Me: Well I don't wanna buy that table.

Scenario: Driving in the car with my dad.

Me: Daddy, why is that car red?

My Dad: I don't know.

Me: Why don't they have the same color car as we do?

My Dad: I don't know.

Me: Why not?

My Dad: Kelley, I just don't know.

Me: Where are they going?

My Dad: I don't know.

Me: Why aren't they going where we're going?

My Dad: I don't know.

Me: Why does their car have a stripe on it?

My Dad: Kelley, I don't know.

Me: Why are they slowing down?

My Dad: I don't know.

Me: You don't know very much, do you?

Mah Book Progress: Yeah, about that.  Instead of adding pages to my book, I wrote 4 pages of a NEW book.  This is why I will never be published!

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Completely Unrelated, But Totally Awesome, Thoughts

1.    Have you ever suddenly had an incredibly intense pain in your stomach that was more like your side and it kept getting worse and you thought oh my gosh, I’m going to die.  Not as in, I’m-being-dramatic- I’m-going-to-die, but as in I’m actually going to die.  And the pain gets worse and you are about to scream your head off, but you hold it in because your husband is sleeping and you’re considerate like that, but then you think that maybe he should know you are about to die because that is information he could find useful?  But then you get up from the toilet (did I mention you were peeing? Probably not.  It’s not really all that relevant to the story) to wash your hands, because you totally don’t want to be known as the girl who died with dirty pee hands, and then the pain goes away.  And then you’re really glad you didn’t scream bloody murder and wake up your husband.  But then you think you should wake him up to tell him how considerate you are for not waking him up when you were about to die.  But somehow that seems counterproductive so instead you make yourself a kick ass awesome wife award, print it out and tape it to the bathroom mirror so he sees it when he wakes up in the morning.  But instead of being able to print it, your stupid printer decides now would be a good time to run out of ink. And then you’re like, well f*ck.  Now what?  Oh, I know.  I’ll blog about it.  This story is very interesting and everyone will be thoroughly entertained.  Good idea me.

2.    Dear Eminem,
Please stop singing.  I’m sure all your new songs are really super duper great and full of suicidal fans and wife beating and what-knot, but you are about to get me fired.  Instead of doing all my important work things at work, I spend my days trying to engineer a device to extract my eardrums from my head so that I no longer have to listen to your songs.  Like I said, I’m sure they’re just dandy, but Sirius plays them every fifteen minutes.  Literally.  I timed it. Every. Fifteen. Minutes.  All effing day. I suppose you’re going to say that I should probably blame Sirius, but the way I see it, they’re just the messenger.  They are your songs, after all, so I’m going to blame you.  I don’t suspect this letter will do me any good, cuz the last time I checked you weren’t very good at writing back your fans, so by the time you read this I’ll probably be sitting in my car at the bottom of the lake, or something like that.

the girl with soon-to-be no eardrums if you don’t shut the hell up

3.    Have you ever written a letter to a rapper with a race identity crisis, who seems like he might have some anger issues, criticizing his music and then get really scared he’s going to find out and track you down and write a really violent song about you even though there is no way in hell he’d ever find your blog to know about the letter, but you’re still kinda terrified about the whole thing? And by “kinda” I mean a whole freaking lot.  That, my friends, is an extreme case of paranoia.

4.    Remember those pair of pants you bought that never fit you even though they seemed like they did in the store?  You totally would have returned them, but you’re lazy and throwing money away is sort of a hobby of yours.  Then one night, at 1:15 a.m. you are digging through your closet to find something to wear to work when you stumble across those pants and you think, maybe, and you try them on and they totally fit.  And you’re not sure whether you should feel elation over not having to do laundry at one in the morning or depression over finally being fat enough to wear the pants that never fit you.

5.    Sometimes I am inspired by an old couple at the airport, sometimes by a song, sometimes by the light peeking from the garage.  And sometimes I’m inspired by my husband.  Here is a story based on one of those times.

Unlikely Love
By Kelley Williams

In the dark I reach for you.
I am half asleep but I need to feel your touch.
I hold you.  I caress you.  I kiss you.
Together we make magic, create moments reserved for Hollywood.
I drift back to sleep and let you go, but you are never far from my thoughts.
My love.
My life.
My lamp.

6.    I have reached the pinnacle of my writing career.  Someone googled diarrhea pants and found my blog.

7.    I sit here writing with the sounds of football in the background.  Life is good.

8.    In the honor of the impending football season, I leave you with some marriage advice:

You and your husband must be die hard fans of the same college football team.*  Nothing says divorce like a Gator and a Seminole living in the same house.  Or a Gator and Bulldog.  Or a Gator a Tiger.  Seriously, if you’re not a Gator why bother?  It’s as if you want your spouse to call you a loser.  A Gator and a Buckeye in the same house are okay as long as the one of you that’s the Buckeye doesn’t mind answering the question ‘what the f’s a buckeye?’ on the daily, and is cool with being totally dominated, in a completely non-sexual way, by your spouse over and over again.

*Those exempt from this are my married friends who are living in a house divided.  Their marriage will totally last.  The rest of you are screwed.


Let the celebrating commence!  I have 12 followers!!!  Everyone, let's welcome Amylicious!

Amylicious, here is your award.

Mah Book Progress: approximately 5 very painful sentences

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

100 Word Story

Today's prompt: Candle

Out of Time
By Kelley Williams

A candle burns on a bedside table.
Her breathing is shallow, her health unstable.
"How much longer?" I ask the doc.
"Probably no longer than twelve o'clock."
Why is this happening?  Life's unfair.
There's still so much more we want to share.
I hold her hand as the minutes tick by.
I cannot help it, I start to cry.
She opens her eyes and looks at me.
"I'll see you in eternity."
Her voice is soft and then she's gone.
I don't think I will ever move one.

Mah Book Progress: 0 New Pages

Monday, August 9, 2010

The Special Kid

Okay, so my story made it on the site.  (I think all of them do, but I'm not sure.  I'm going to pretend that they go through a selection process so I can feel like I won something by making it on the site.)  Here is the link: http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/ so you can read my story and vote for it.  (Scroll down a little til you get to weekly challenge 224.  Mine is the fourth story down.) But only vote for it after you've read all the stories and decide mine is the best or one of the best.  (You can vote for more than one.)  Please pay particular attention to Zachmann's story.  I'm not entirely sure what he was trying to say, but (other than anything I've ever written) it is one of the greatest things I've ever read, and not just because I felt drunk after reading it.  The last time I checked, he only had one vote, so if you get the same euphoric, slightly intoxicated, think you fell down and hit your head feeling that I did after reading it, then you should vote for him, but definitely not in place of voting for me.  You can vote for both us, because you can vote fore more than one story.  Didn't I already say that?  Try to keep up, please.

And now...more awesomeness from me.

The Special Kid

The husband and I have been faced with a little dilemma, and we are hoping, dear Internets, that you could help us.

The other night we were sitting on the couch having a delightful conversation, you know, talking about our hopes and dreams, our plans for the future, when suddenly he says: “I was so upset I was absent the day the special kid masturbated in the corner of the room.”

Me: Excuse me?

The husband: When I was in school we had this kid in our class that should have been in the special class, but for some reason he wasn’t.

Me: And he masturbated in class?

The husband: Yeah

Me: We have been together for almost ten years and you are just now telling me this?

The husband: I’ve never told you this before?

Me: Uh, no.  Please continue.

The husband: Well he covers himself with his jacket and puts his head on the desk like he’s sleeping.  But then this other kid notices his hand going up and down and tells the teacher.  He gets sent to the guidance counselor and she calls his mother and asks her to come to the school.  She tells the mother that her son was masturbating in class. 

The mother says, “What?” 

Guidance counselor: He was masturbating in class.

Mother: He was what?

Guidance counselor: Masturbating.

Mother: What?

The guidance counselor finally realizes the mother has no idea what masturbating means so she says, “he was spanking his monkey.”

Me: Woah, what?  Who said ‘spanking his monkey’?

The husband: The guidance counselor.

Me: The guidance counselor at the school actually said, ‘spanking his monkey’? 

The husband: Yes.

Me: Why didn’t she say jacking off?”

The husband: I guess spanking his monkey was the only thing the mother understood.

Me: That is crazy.  What grade were you in when this happened?

Now this, dear internets, is where we need your help.  We need you tell us what the husband meant when he answered the question.  It’s not the answer that we don’t understand, but the way he said it.  Which is going to be kind of hard to convey in writing, but I’ll do my best.

In case you forgot, I said: What grade were you in?

The husband: SEVENTH GRADE!

He said this rather incredulously, which left me stymied. 

I was like, “what do you mean, ‘seventh grade’!  Do you mean, seventh grade! that‘s so old, he should have stopped masturbating in class years ago?  Or do you mean, seventh grade! that’s so young; he’s ways ahead of his years?

The husband: I don’t know.

Me: what do you mean, you don’t know?  You said it.

The husband: I know.  I don’t know what I meant.

Which brings us to you, Internets.  What did the husband mean?  Is seventh grade too old or too young to be masturbating in class?  Or perhaps neither answer is correct.  Perhaps no grade is the appropriate grade to be masturbating in class.  This is one of the reasons why I should not be a parent.  I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to know the answer to questions like these.  I do know what the word masturbate means which is more than special kid’s mom knew.  So that’s something, I guess.

I could just pose that question to you and end this post, but there is something else I feel I must share.  However, if you are tired of reading about masturbating, you should stop here.  However (part 2), if you continue reading, I might just learn* you something, so you should probably continue.  Or not.  It’s really up to you.

Okay.  Here we go.  Whenever someone says the word “masturbate” to me (which, unfortunately, - or fortunately, depending on how much you like talking about masturbating -  is more often than you would think) I think of the word masticate.  Which means to chew.  Did you know that?  If not, I just learned you something.  You’re welcome.  If yes, well then you pretty much continued to read about masturbating for nothing.  You’re welcome.

My point is, masturbate and masticate are such similar sounding words, and, I don’t think that may people know what masticate means, which makes me want to say at a staff meeting, or at the dinner table with the proper grandparents, or at a funeral, or at a wedding or really anywhere it would be inappropriate to talk about ‘spanking the monkey’, “oh my goodness, I am dying to masticate.  I haven’t masticated since lunch.  Watching you eat that cookie makes me want to masticate so badly.”

AHAHAHAHA!!!  I could continue, but I’m laughing too hard.  Awesome idea I’ve got, don’t I?  You totally want to do it, don’t you?  Please do it.  I don’t have the bawls to do it.  If you are going to do it, please send me a handwritten invitation to the occasion.  That is one event I don’t want to miss.

You know, if you had told me a few months ago, when I started my blog, that one day I’d write about masturbating, I’d have never believed you.  I would have told you such topics were reserved for more experienced and established writers.  I am truly proud by how much I’ve grown.  There are times I’ve had my doubts about this whole blogging thing, but then I write a thought provoking post such as this, and I can’t help but feel good about my craft.  I am confident my book deal is write around the corner.  Write around the corner.  Get it?  Write.  I slay me.  I’m too witty for my own good.

I try to end every story with a concluding paragraph that circles back to the opening paragraph and ties the whole story together, but I’m not exactly sure how one concludes a story about masturbating, so instead I’ll tell you one more masturbating related factoid.

In college, the husband and his friends (all male) were on a softball team.  The name of their team?  The masterbatters.  Pure.  Genius.

The End.

P.S. Don’t forget to weigh on this important topic.  Masturbating.  Seventh Grade.  Too old or too young?

*Remember in school when they taught you the difference between your, and you’re and you were like, “okay, that makes sense.”  And then they taught you the difference between to, two and too and there they’re and their.  And you were like, “yes, this is all good.  Very valuable information.”  And then they were like now we’re going to teach you the difference between teach and learn.  And you were like, “really, is that necessary?  I think I can figure it out.”  But no, they had to spend a whole day learning you the difference between teach and learn and finally you were like, “I can’t take this anymore.  I’m going to watch clown porn.”  Remember that?  Anyone?  Just me?  Okay then.

P.P.S. Don’t drink and blog.  This is something someone should learn you before you start blogging.  Consider yourself learned.

And now, for the most exciting part of the day!  I have a new follower!!!!!  Internets, please join me in welcoming Kinsley.  Welcome Kinsley!  We lover you lots.  Please give her a huge round of applause for her award.  She earned it.  Literally.

Mah Book Progress: Remember last time when I was like, "0 new pages, but as soon as I hit publish, I'm off to write."  Well if stalking facebook equals writing pages in my book, then I wrote, like10 new pages.  Yea me.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Overcoming A Fear

Today I did something that absolutely terrifies me.  I submitted a story to someone's website. Someone that I don't even know.

Laurence Simon has a 100 word stories podcast site.  Every Sunday he posts a new weekly challenge.  To quote directly from his site: "I'll offer up a topic or theme which you will use as the inspiration to write and record your own 100 word story."

The process is pretty simple and straight-forward, but I read the instructions no less than ten times.  I had to email him:
    * The text of your story.
    * Your site's URL.
    * What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #225 to be.
    * A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

Normally I would be like, this is a great idea.  I'm totally going to do it.  Then I'd agonize and obsess, call myself a failure, and then totally not do it.

But this time I was like, a story in 100 words.  That's so hard.  Okay, why not.  And then I wrote something, amazingly didn't think it was pure crap, and hit send.  But I didn't provide a recording of my story (he says it's not a requirement; he'll have someone read it for me), and told him I'm technologically challenged and also that my voice is annoying.  I could have just been like, "okay, thanks, bai."  But I decided to add a P.S. and say something along the lines of  "If you don't like my story, no biggie.  I'll probably only cry a little while."  He probably read that and was like, wow, this girl sounds really stable.

He posts the stories/pods on his site and then people can vote for the best stories of the week.  So...if I make it on the site, will you guys vote for me?  But you can't just vote for me because you're my super awesome friend or because you want me to make you a kick-ass award (I totally will).  You have to read all the stories and if you like mine the best, or think it's one of the best, then you can vote for me.  I hope at least one person votes for me though, or else bring on the fetal position, rocking in the corner, down a bottle of Xanax chased by my dear friend Captain Morgan.

This week's topic/theme was Everyday.  Earlier, when I said I didn't think my story was pure crap, it implied that I thought it was partial crap.  But actually.  It's sooooo good.  Best 100 word story ever.  Or possibly total crap.

Anyway, I'm totally loving this 100 word story idea and I've decided that every Friday, give or take six days, I'm going to give myself a prompt and write a 100 word, or less, story.  And I'm inviting you to get in on the action.  Leave me a prompt in the comments and I'll crap* a delightful tale.  I can't promise it will be good.  It is very likely it will be pure and utter fecal matter.  But it'll be so much fun.  Probably.

The prompt I gave myself today is Ship.

No Rescue**
By Kelley Williams

Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
As my ship beings to fill, this all that I can think.
Here and there my raft is tossed.
I hold on tight, my hope is lost.
Will I die by shark or water?
My last thoughts are of my daughter.
But wait!  What's that I see?
A ship has come to rescue me?
I wave my arms above my head.
How much longer can I tread?
I watch it turn, go out of sight.
And so I sink into the night.

I think in the future I should write a bunch of words on pieces of paper and put them in hat from which to draw my prompt.  Otherwise, I'll probably totally manipulate the process and come up with the story first and then be like, today's prompt is Clown Porn.

If I make it on the site, I'll post the link so you can vote for me read it. 

*I meant to say: I'll craft a delightful tale.  But I think crap is much more fitting.

**If you say this is a poem and not a story, I will punch you in the throat.  Love you!
Mah Book Progress: 0 New Pages, but as soon as I hit Publish, I'm off to write.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Juli's Award

Juli, you are totally right.  You are completely deserving of an award because you are the champion of all things awesome and that one other thing...

 Congratulations, Champ!  You are totally my favorite in all things Butt Baby.


The lovely baby butt cast in Juli's award is from http://www.lifecasting.net/baby_butt.html

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Conversation with the Husband

Conversation with the husband last night:

Me: So I found this new blog today.

The husband: Busy day at work, huh?

Me: And this guy wrote a letter to frozen peas.

The husband: Frozen peas?

Me: Yes.  Frozen peas.

The husband: What's that?

Me: Fro-zen peee -eezzzzeee.

The husband: ?

Me: I'm not sure how else to explain it to you.  They are peas that are frozen.

The husband: Oh. Frozen peas.

Me: Isn't that what I said?

The husband: Why would anyone do that?

Me: Serioulsy. If you don't understand why someone would do that then you don't understand me.  I knew this was never going to work.

The husband: I don't get it.

Me (exasperated sigh):  You know.  Like Dear Table.  Dear Chair.  Dear Carpet, why are you so soft and fluffy?

The husband: Oh, okay.  So why was he writing to frozen peas?

Me: He got a vascectomy and was using the peas to ice his junk.

The husband: ?

Me: Did you fall and hit your head today?  The point is, in one of the comments, a guy said he had to undergo the surgery twice because the first time the doctor cut the the same tube twice.  How do you not realize you've already cut the tube and cut it again?

The husband (uncomfortable squirming): I don't want to talk about this.

Me: Do you think the peas in this pot pie once iced someone's junk?

This is my second post for the day.  If you haven’t read the first one, scroll down and watch as some kick ass people get some well deserved awards.


Mah Book Progress: one new paragraph

Epic Day

If you were at my house right now this is what you’d hear: (Please read with a high pitched piercingly loud voice reminiscent of a four year old girl on Christmas morning who just unwrapped Tickle Me Elmo, or whatever it is that gets four year old girls really excited on Christmas morning.)




That sound?  That’s the sound of my excitement over having a new follower.  Internets, this is an epic day.  Not only am I in the double digits, but the new follower is none other than Beth.  Did you hear me, Internets?  BETH!

As promised, here is your well deserved award for becoming a follower, Beth.

But, the excitement doesn’t end there, dear Internets.  My (newly appointed) favorite follower Tabitha responded to my desperate, pathetic, attention starved whore request to leave a comment.  So for that, she earns an award.  And also because, this one time, she grew another human being.

Want to know what the scariest thing to google on the internets is?  Cellophane.  Below is a sampling of what I found.  There were others, but I’m honestly afraid to post them.  I’m pretty sure it would start the rabies apocalypse.

Bag of Crack?

Simply Disturbing

Is it just me, or does this demonic little child look way too eager to eat the blood her mommy is spreading on the bread?

And my personal favorite...

What the f*ck, Du Pont Cellophane?  Seriously.  What. The.  F*ck.

I plan on writing two posts today, so check back in a little bit for another awesome story by yours truly.  Leave a comment, get an award.  You know you want one.

Giving props where props are due...

Bag of Crack? photo from guidestobuy.com

Photo in Beth's award comes from Gerald Stephens via google images.

I think the baby with X boobs is an album cover.

Photo of demonic child?  Not sure where it came from.  If I had to guess, I'd say hell.