Monday, December 19, 2011

It's Baaaack!!!

It's Sunday and you know what that means... It's Award Show time!!

Today's host is none other than Pepe the Singing Christmas Tree. 



Pepe doesn't know he has a terrible voice, so please don't tell him.

In case you're new here or it's been so long and you've forgotten, The Sarcasm Goddess Award Show is the most awesome sausage award show because...it's all about you guys!  Yay!

And maybe a little about me.  Or possibly a lot about me.

Since it's been so long since we've had a show, I'm going to try really really hard to make it all about you guys.

In case you're wondering, I still have super glue on my eye lashes, my hand is recovering from its Crock Pot burn and I didn't catch my oven on fire again.

Oh, didn't I tell you guys about that?  One night, approximately midnight, I was on the twatter, obviously, and I decided to make a pizza.  The fact that it was my second pizza for the day is irrelevant.  Probably.  After the oven alerted me it had reached 400 degrees, I opened it to put the pizza in and low and behold IT WAS ON FIRE!

First, I tweeted about it, of course.  And then I was like, "should I wake the husband and tell him about this fire, or deal with it myself?"

I decided to deal with it myself so later I could be all, "remember that time the oven caught on fire?"  And he could be all, "no," and I could be all, "that's cuz you were asleep," and then he could be all, "you seriously need to be supervised," and it would be the best conversation ever.

You guys should know I feel like I have a fever, but it could just be from remembering the fire.  Seriously, though, if I'm sick for Christmas someone is getting stabbed.

You probably think, that because of my anxiety disorder, I totally freaked out about the fire.  But that would be logical.  And my anxiety is very not-at-all-logical.  Actually, I was quite pleased about the fire.  True story.

You see, when I quit my job, the husband and I re-wrote our vows.

He vowed to be the sole financial provider and I vowed to clean the house, get published and put out any and all fires. I haven't done so well on fulfilling my first two vows so I was all, "Yay!  Fire! Time to pull my own weight."

Putting the fire out required a combination of turning off the oven, nearly climbing inside, catching my hair on fire, and a spatula.

I think something may be wrong with me.

Are you guys loving how this show is not about  me at all?

Before we start the show, allow me to show you the new features on my blog.  You'll see I've added a twitter button so you can be my twat.  Usually the "t" button is accompanied by a facebook and email and RSS button.  However, it took me two hours to get that twitter button on my blog - true story - so the other buttons can kiss my caboose.

If you want to know more about the Award Show, you can click here, here and here, but basically it's where I make kick-ass custom awards for my new followers, or in this case, people who followed me a long time ago but I've spent the last six months eating bacon and cookies and was too lazy had no time to make a show.  Also, all the hosts were kidnapped by alien pirates.  It's tragic, I know, but we don't have time to be sad.

So grab a drink - I usually recommend wine, but since it's the holidays I suggest egg nog or spiced apple toddy (I have no idea what that is, but it sounds fun so you should drink it).  There's a very good chance it's Monday  morning and you are reading this at work.  You should still drink away.  I'm sure your boss won't mind.

Please note: The Sarcasm Goddess Award Show assumes no responsibility if you lose your job for drinking whilst working.  Please drink responsibly.  I'm pretty sure that's good advice for everyone.

Let's get on with the show, shall we?  First, I must WELCOME and say THANK YOU to all my new followers.  You guys make me pee like an un-potty trained puppy. 

Okay, Pepe, are you ready to announce our first award recipient?


You have a very lovely voice Pepe, but we have a show to do.


Apparently Pepe's dipped into the egg nog.  Good help is so hard to find.

I guess I'll have to give out the awards myself.  You've heard me talk about our first recipient many times.  She has guest posted for me and we are eagerly awaiting her to knit legwarmers and wear them.  In public.  Everyone, please put your flippers together and join me in congratulating... Just Jennifer!



Congratulations Just Jennifer.  You inspire us all to be a little more awesome.

Our next award goes to a woman who is away ahead of her time.  Or possibly behind.  Either way, she inspired one of the greatest twitter conversations in the history of ever.  Please raise a glass and toast...Coffee Lovin Mom!


Way to go Coffee Lovin Mom.  No one rocks a thong onesie like you do.

And now to acknowledge some Awesome Sausage Commenters.  Just to be clear, Every. Single. One. of the comments every one of you leave, make my whole day.  My whole life.  I'm not sure if you all read the comments, but you should, because they're amazing.  Your comments are often better than anything I could ever post and I've contemplated not even posting and just reading the comments, but there seems to be something flawed with that method.

So in case you guys aren't reading the comments, here's a little of what you've  missed:

In response to my Someone Hide the Knives Post:

Annie said: Can't stand Walmart. Last time I was there this "hot" (in her own mind) middle-aged woman asked me where I got my headband. First, I WASN'T wearing a headband...that was my head. I wish someone would tell me they liked my eyelashes and I'd probably return for more abuse.

"First, I WASN'T wearing a headband...that was my head.Bahahahahaha, those Walmartians be crazy!

Rob Adams said: Shopping at WalMart = Bad Idea.  Shopping at WalMart during the Christmas season = Worst. Idea. Ev-ver.

I love a man who tells it like it is and kicks me when I'm down.  Thank you Rob!

And finally, yvonne@attractedtoshinythings said, in response to A Watched Turkey Doesn't Thaw:
"I FEEL LIKE I'M TUGGING ON HIS WEINER!!!"  *sigh* If I had a nickel.....

I don't think I need to explain why this comment is awesome sausage.

I would love to hi-light more comments, but I seriously think I'm getting sick. Which is making me pissed.  And when I get pissed, I throw things.  And the only thing in my hands right now is the husband's computer and the last thing he says to me before he goes to bed every night is, "whatever you do, don't throw my computer."

If you'd like to check out past award recipients or find out how you can get your own award, click here.

Happy Monday!

Friday, December 16, 2011

It's Official. I'm a Hooker.

My Mama would be so proud.  No really.  She would.  I'm not a street-walking hooker.  I'm a Helping Hooker.

And what, pray tell, is a Helping Hooker?

I'm so glad you asked!  Helping Hooker is the illegitimate love child of the Mama Bear Hookers Lydia and Kate at Rants From Mommyland.  They have started the most fabulous thing where people who really need help providing a nice Christmas for their family, whether its food or a few presents under the tree, can email Lydia and Kate who will match them up with people who want to be Helping Hookers.  Like me!

I've been trying to think for awhile now how I can makes someone's Christmas a little brighter.  You see, I am really blessed.  Like super blessed.  No I don't live in a mansion, or drive a fancy car or roll around in diamonds, but I don't think I've ever wanted for anything a day in my life.  But there are others, so many others, who are in need.  And I really really want to help, even if in just small way, so I was so excited when I read MommaKiss' blog who wrote all about the Helping Hookers program.  She's a Helping Hooker too! I hopped on over to Rants from Mommyland and signed up.

Now, for most people it's probably a very simple process: go to the store, by a gift certificate it, put it in the mail, make someone happy.  But not for me!  I was assigned a job and I take my jobs very seriously.

I got home from a Christmas party tonight and tiptoed into the bedroom so as not to wake the husband.  I located my hooker dress, the one from C's Bachelorette Party, and slipped it on.  And by "slipped it on" I mean danced and jiggled and hopped and wiggled my way into it.  It was tight when I bought in March, but now, after I've eaten 147 thousand cookies, well... let's just say the zipper doesn't go all the way up.

I grabbed my knee-high pleather hooker boots and slipped one on.  I hopped and nearly fell over as I tried to slip the other one on, which woke up the husband.  He looked at me, said nothing and went back to sleep.  Apparently there's nothing unusual about his wife putting on hooker boots in the middle of the night.

I'm sure you're all supremely disappointed to know I didn't go to the store dressed like this. I was planning to do my shopping online, but I wanted to take a picture first to prove that I fulfilled my Helping Hooker duty.  Plus, I've been wanting to give you all a Sarcasm Goddess Christmas card, and well, two birds one stone.

I lined up my camera, set the timer, and then everything went to shit.

You know those days when you're too dumb to function?  You know, like when you do something so idiotic it makes you wonder how am I even alive?  It happens to me more often than I care to admit.  Like last night when I was cooking a delicious Crock Pot meal.  The chicken had been in for a whole forty minutes and didn't look like it was cooking.  Instead of thinking, duh SG, it's a Crock Pot, the whole point is to sloooow cook,  I thought, my Crock Pot must be broken and touched the side of it to see if it was hot.

Guess what?  It was.  Like, really hot.  In case you've never had the pleasure of doing this, it's like reaching into the oven when it's on and grabbing one of the racks.  DO NOT DO IT!  It will not end well.

I try to limit my dumbf*ckery to once a week, but tonight my mask was looking a little rough.  Like, it was falling apart.  I think its been doing some hooking without me.  So, I super-glued it, waited five minutes and put it on.  It took approximately 3.2 seconds before my eye started to burn.

I immediately yanked off my mask and closed my eyes.  When I tried to open them my lashes were stuck together.  I had also jammed my finger in my eye, which actually landed on my brow.  When I tried to pull it away from my face, I couldn't.  That's right folks, I F*CKING SUPER-GLUED MY FINGER TO MY FACE and also nearly glued my eyes shut.

I am the worst hooker ever.  I think that's the first thing they teach you in hooker school, whatever you do, don't glue your eyes shut, dumbass.

I started flushing out my eye, but had mascara on my lashes.  Soon it was hard to tell whether my eye was burning from the super glue or the pools of mascara in my eye.  When I finished flushing my eye, I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my face, trying to keep as much of my Helping Hooker makeup in place as possible.  Apparently, there was still some glue on my eyebrow because when I pulled the tissue away much of it was still left on my face.

This is exactly why I should not be left unsupervised.  Ever.

I finally said, "screw it," and left the bathroom.  But you should know, I've already gotten up three times while writing this to repeat the process and I no longer have mascara or makeup on the left side of my face.  It seems more appropriate, somehow, that I only have half of my face done up.

I consulted the back of the super glue tube and it said in case of eye contact I should flush with water and call a physician, but honestly, that just seems like a really awkward conversation.

Me: Hello, I was getting ready to take my Helping Hooker picture and I got super glue in my eye.

Physician: Um...Helping Hooker?

Me: Yes, it's just like a regular hooker, but with more helping and less sex.

Physician: I see...and where does the super glue come in?

Me: I had to fix my mask.

Physician: Your mask?

Me: Yes, my mask.  I'm The Sarcasm Goddess.  I wear a mask because I'm paranoid.

Physician: Ma'am, I believe you've called the wrong number.  Let me give you the number for the Mental Help hotline.

Wow, this post really did not go according to plan.  But then, I'm a hooker.  I must be prepared for everything.  I'm pretty sure that's the second thing they teach you in hooker school.

And now without further ado, proof that I am a Helping Hooker.

The Bag of Knives are in case anyone tries to stop me from doing good deeds.  Obviously.

And now, the most bestest Christmas card you'll ever receive:

I originally wanted to give you guys a photo from the whole family, but the husband and Sweet Riley are sleeping. 

Guess what?!  The fun's not over. I'm super excited to link up my Christmas Card with Jamie at Chosen Chaos.  Go check it out and link up your card.

The point of this post, which has no doubt gotten lost in all of my tomfoolery, is that I have the chance to make someone's Christmas a little brighter and I am so happy about it.  If you'd like to be a Helping Hooker, check out the post at Rants From Mommyland and contact Lydia and Kate.  Let's make this the most magical Christmas EVAH!

This post is also linked up with Where's My Glow for FlogYoBlogFriday.  WOOT!

FYBF

Monday, December 12, 2011

Calling All the Mamas and the Papas

I’m so glad I have so many moms, and maybe even a few dads, who read my blog, because I need your advice.

I do not have kids, well not human ones anyway.  I have dogs.  If you’re one of those people who hate when people compare human kids to dog kids, then you might want to skip today’s post.  But you may also want to read it because I’ll probably give lots of examples of why I’d be a really terrible parent and then you can all ban together to form a coalition and create flyers and mail them to all the storks that say “Don’t ever bring this woman a baby.”  And the storks will listen to you and you’ll feel like you just saved the world from the zombie apocalypse or a rabies outbreak or the very viral and deadly goat flu.

And then the rest of the world will think you’re a hero and tell you you’re pretty and buy you presents and it will be the best day of your whole life.

I hope you appreciate the things I’m willing to do for you.

The husband and I are planning a trip.  It could be in the next week or sometime in the next year, or possibly the next ten years.  My extreme paranoia prevents me from telling you when, or where, we will be going, but we’ll most likely be staying at the Ho-tel Mo-tel Holiday Inn.

We are thinking of boarding Evil Cody.  He’s not really evil.  He’s just high energy.  If he were a person, he’d be on Ritalin, or maybe forced into a drug induced coma so the rest of the world can have five seconds of peace.

I found the Canine Country Club online, which is a place that lets the dogs run free all day long.  They even get to sleep in a giant living room on blankets and beds or couches or anywhere they want.  That’s right, NO CRATES.  I love this idea because no woman will ever be good enough for my baby boy!  Wait…I think I mean that crates aren’t good enough for my dog.  That previous sentence is what I’d say if High Energy Cody were a human child and grew up and got married.  Yeah, I’d be a terrible MIL and criticize my DIL’s cooking and cleaning, and the way she got her hair did. (Which by the way, MY MIL has never done.  Ever.  It’s like she never got the memo on how to be a terrible MIL.  Or maybe she did, threw it away and decided to an awesome MIL.  She’s a rebel like that.)

I called the Canine Country Club and spoke with the owner.

Me: So they just get to run around all day?

Owner: Yep.

Me: And what happens if there’s a fight or two dogs don’t get along?

Owner: Oh in nine years I’ve never had a problem.

That’s cuz she’s never met High Energy Cody.

Owner: But I don’t take just any dog.  They have to pass an interview test.  We’ll let Cody play with a few of the other dogs and see how they get along.

Awesome. I hope those other dogs like non-stop jumping in their face, and nearly getting knocked over and having their rest on the couch disturbed by another dog coming up and talking, “nnmm, ohmnb, onmenm.” That’s Cody talk for, “get up; I want to sit there. well actually, I don’t want to sit there, I just don’t want you to sit there.”

Mah baybee’s such an angel.

Or maybe he’s a brat.  (But really, he’s an angel.)

This is where I need your advice, moms and dads.  What should I do to prepare Cody for his interview?  Should I sit down and have a talk with him?  Bribe him with bacon to be good?  Implement a rigorous don’t-annoy-the-other-kids obedience training in the next twenty-four hours?  Or should I just let him be himself?

And what about during the interview?  What should I do if he’s really high-energy, aka annoying, and all the other dogs are like, “dude, get this psycho outta here”?  Should I make excuses for him?  Scold him? If he starts peeing on everything should I laugh and say, “boys will be boys”?  If he starts humping all the pretty girls, should I smile proudly and say, “he takes after his father”?

And what if he fails the interview?  I don’t think I can handle failure.  Not because we won’t have a place to send Cody and therefore won’t be able to go on our trip (I’m sure there’s some place that will accept him, like Canine Boot Camp).  But because I was a perfect child.  I never failed at anything.  Ever. 

If he fails, does that mean that I failed?  Does it make me a bad mother?  And what about Cody?  Does that mean he’s a terrible child because he “does not play well with others”?  Should I use this as a teachable moment and explain to him what he could have done better? 

Will his self-esteem be shattered?  Will he start using drugs and listening to angry music?

Should I tell him he did nothing wrong and all the other dogs were just jerks?  Chances are, that’s what I’ll do.

Sometimes we take High-Energy Cody and his brother Sweet Riley to the dog park.  Sometimes skirmishes break out.  After we separate the dogs, I’m all, “those other dogs were terrible.”  And the husband’s all, “it wasn’t the other dogs’ fault, Cody was trying to jump all over them and Riley was barking in their faces for twenty minutes.”

And then I’m all, “don’t say that about mah baybees! they’re perfect angels!”  And then I tell them they are THE BEST DOGS EVAH! and to just keep on being them.

Which is probably exactly what I’d do if I had human kids.

Teacher: Your son Johnny punched Tommy in the face today.  He’s a terrible kid.

Me: What?! No he’s not.  I’m sure Tommy did something to deserve it.  I mean seriously, just look at him sitting there quietly, minding his own business, drafting a memo to the President on how to accomplish world peace.  That’s a troublemaker if I ever saw one.  Come on Johnny, let’s go see who else you can punch in the face.

I’m trying to determine how many anxiety meds I can take and still be coherent enough to drive to the interview.  I’m guess twelve.

Should I give Cody some of my anxiety meds?  Should I dress Sweet Riley up as High-Energy Cody and try to trick the interview-er?  Should I borrow another dog that looks just like Cody for the interview and then the day we drop the actual Cody off, hand the owner the leash and run away real fast before, in his excitement, Cody rips a six inch gash in her leg or causes her to punch a co-worker in the nuts?

I’m freaking out!  Please!  Tell me what to do!!!

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Someone Hide the Knives

First, I love you guys. Seriously.  Many of you suggested I make BOTH kinds of cookies and I was all, "duh, me, of course you should make BOTH; your bloggy friends are so smart."

The chocolate ones came out as the winner and I would totally make them, but I don't have all the ingredients.  I would go to the store and get the missing goods but I can't.  Cuz I'm lazy.  And also?  I already went to the store.  Wal-Mart to be exact.  And I've spent the last 4.5 hours bashing my head into the wall.

Seriously, WTF is up with that store?  I'm convinced that in order to shop there you are required to have your brain surgically removed from your head.  Yes, I shopped there which means I must also be missing my brain, and I don't disagree with that, because seriously What. Was. I. Thinking?

In a fit of temporary insanity I decided to go to the land of Walmartians because I needed to get grocery things and non-grocery things and I thought I would save time by going to one place (Wal-Mart) instead of making two stops.  Save time by going to Wal-Mart?  Ha! Haha! Hahahahaha!

How I did not stab someone, I do not know.

Walmartian #1: Hey, I'm going to cut you off with my cart and then give you a dirty look for getting in my way.

Walmartian #2: Hey, I'm going to stop in the middle of the aisle and dig my underwear out of my butt for ten minutes and as soon as you try to go around me I'm going to body-check you into a shelf of canned goods.

Walmartian #3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8: Hey, we're going to celebrate our family reunion in the middle of the frozen food section.

Every time, EVERY TIME, I go, the cart I get has a jacked up wheel and I end up fighting with it the entire time like a mental person, which actually makes me fit right in with the other nutbags.  And as soon as I touch it I feel like I've instantly contracted 427 STDs.

Oh and here's a newsflash, lady with the unfortunate fashion sense and 1980s hair cut.  The express lane?  You know, the one that says 20 Items or Less? Means you only get to go through this lane if you have a TOTAL of 20 items or Lessssss.  It does not mean you get to do FIVE different transactions of 20 items.  It also does not mean you get to hold up every single item to your husband or boyfriend or sugar daddy and  say, "I got this for Bobby.  Do you think Mary Sue will like this?  These wings are for Lisa."  And please don't say, after ever transaction, "I've been a naughty girl."  It makes me feel like I need to hose myself off with bleach.

I was on the brink of losing my shit by the time it was my turn to check out with my four items, but shockingly the salesgirl was NOT a total moron.  She also told me I had really pretty eyelashes and then I was all, "all shucks, thanks, Wal-Mart really isn't so bad."

And I kinda didn't want to stab anyone any more. 

But then, on my way out, the exit was blocked by the I-Don't-Know-What-20-Items-Or-Less-Means Lady who had teamed  up with the Geriatric Wheelchair Gang and was all,"Heyyyy, you guys want to see what I bought my Ex-Mother-in-Law?"  I managed to maneuver around her and get out of there before I saw what the gift was, but I can say without a doubt the best gift this woman has ever and will ever give her Ex-Mother-in-Law was becoming her Ex-Daughter-in-Law.

The next time I decide to "run into Wal-Mart real quick," please stab me in the kneecap or entice me in another direction with a batch of cookies.  Thanks.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I Don't Actually Have Anything to Say

So I'm still recovering from NaNoWriMo which is taking way longer than I thought it would.  Apparently I used up a year's worth of motivation in one month, so now all I want to do is sleep and watch Christmas movies.  And get fat.

Technically, I don't want to get fat but I'm just accepting it's going to happen. It's the holidays.  There are cookies.  I'm eating them.

Also, you should know I'm losing feeling in my right big toe. It started last night at about 1 a.m. and has continued ALL DAY LONG.  I'm actually too freaked out by what this could possibly mean to check the all-knowing WebMD, so if anyone has any idea of what is happening to me, please let me know.  Unless it means I'm dying.  In that case, don't tell me. Cuz I really like surprises.  But if it means I'm dying in the next 24 hours, I think I want to know so I can shove as many cookies in my fat face as possible.

I made my first ever chicken pot pie today.  It's so good you'll want to rub it all over your body.  Or maybe just eat.

Or!  You could do both!

Wow.  I just blogged about what I made for dinner.  This blog is going to some really lame places and I am not pleased. I blame my toe.

I could go on about how I could use my unfeeling toe as an excuse for all kinds of despicable acts, like not showering for six days and running over old ladies in the supermarket, but honestly, shoving toothpicks in my eyes sounds more appealing.

Before I go, I need your advice: which batch of cookies should I make next?  The snowballs with mini chocolate chips or the chocolate cookies with peanut butter and/or white chocolate chips.  Please be sure to answer; the cellulite on my ever-expanding ass depends on it.