Thursday, May 31, 2012

You Googled What - The Poor Grammar and Other Horrors Edition

It's time for another edition of You Googled What?! Here's the latest and (not so) greatest searches that have landed people on my blog.

I hate when I'm studying and a velociraptor throws a bar
Ok, now you guys are just making shit up. When has a velociraptor ever thrown a bar? And while you're studying? Come on.

Peed pants:
The words "peed pants" were actually followed by my URL. On purpose. There was no accident here. Well, except for the peeing your pants part. You guys do know that it's an accident, right? It's not like I intentionally go around wetting myself.

Also? It's great to know I've become the authority on pants peeing.

Sarcastic cat pics
Those cats and their sarcasm...

Vomiting trophy
Stop it. Just, stop it. You're being gross now.      

I'm sorry for being a brat
This was much funnier the way I read it the first time: I'm sorry for being a bat.

Gangster Interior Design
I've heard those gangsters are known for their mad interior design skillz, but where is the proof?! Those gangsters are all talk. 

What to write on love dice:
I'm not a love expert or anything but I'm pretty sure these are guaranteed to spice up your sexy time:
- Make me a sandwich
- Massage my feet
- Refill my wine
- You know what? Just leave me the bottle.
- No talking during dance moms
- Does this look infected?

The most embarrassing moment buying condoms
I'd actually love to hear this. Do share.

Boobies when your naked.
Honestly. Guess what, dude? YOU'RE not going to see my boobs cuz YOUR grammar sucks. I have standards, you know. 

Excuses. Let's hear yours again
Yes, let's. And it better not involve a velociraptor. No one's buying that shit.

Mom blog anal bleaching
Oh please, no.

Normal looking vagina
I am so sick of society and its unrealistic standards of beauty! Just what exactly is normal, anyway? Hmmm? Short, fat, tall, skinny. They're all beautiful! Wait...I think that's people. All PEOPLE are beautiful. Vaginas? Well, vaginas I honestly don't have an opinion about this. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

Satchel afraid of vacuum Get Fuzzy
Excuse me?  

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Fifty Shades of Oh Jeez and Other Redundancy

I did it. I read Fifty Shades of Grey. And the experience was Fifty Shades of Someone Please Shoot Me and Put Me Out of My Misery.

Some of you may be saying, "If it was so bad, why didn't you just stop reading it?"

The answer is, quite simply, curiosity.

And now all of you are saying, "Yeah, right. You wanted to read some kinky sex."

But let me share a little secret with you guys. Fifty Shades of Grey is not the first book of its kind. That's right, erotica is everywhere. Even in my small, sleepy, geriatric, conservative town one can walk into the Books-A-Million, order a caramel latte and slurp it down while perusing an entire aisle of sexytime books, complete with throbbing manhoods and quivering innocents.

In fact, you can even check them out at the library. For reals, yo. You don't even need to shamefully lower your head and ask for the key to the secret naughty room. They're just thrown right in with the rest of the romance. Unbeknownst to me, the Dewey Decimal System does not have a special code to differentiate between erotica and romance, which  means one minute I was reading (what I thought) was another silly romance and the next I'm all, "huh, well that's an interesting use of pearls."

So you see, I was curious. What made this book so different than the others in this genre? How did a book like this become "acceptable" to the masses? Why are people talking about this book and not the hundreds (thousands?) like it?

After reading it, I realize there is only one answer to this question: I Have No Freaking Idea.

The most shocking thing about Fifty Shades of Grey is the lack of editing. My editor yells at me for using the word "and" too many times, yet every other word in Fifty Shades is either oh my, holy crap/shit, or jeez.

What, did the editor get so hot and bothered that she slipped into a sex-induced coma rendering her physically incapable of editing? Or perhaps she desperately wanted to edit it, but Mr. Grey has her tied up in his Red Room of Pain beyond the reach of her computer, the holy craps, oh mys and jeezes mocking her poor eyes.

As a reader, the repetition was annoying as hell. As a writer, I just don't get it. How did this get published. How?????

He kissed my neck, oh my!

Holy crap, he's hot!

Jeez, he's mad!

The protagonist is supposed to be a twenty-one year old college student. She sounds like a preteen girl in a constant state of surprise. And it's not just the sex stuff that has her perpetually gasping. Ev-a-ree-thing shocks her. Everything.

I don't blame E.L. James for this. I blame her editor. Sometimes, writers write crappy books. In fact, a lot of times we write crappy books. And we have no idea. We are so in love with our hot mess of words we can't see the redundancy, inconsistencies and in-general craptastic-ness of our labor of love. In other words, writers are like parents who have no idea their child is ugly. Or, if they do, love them no matter what. As they should. Every child deserves to be loved. However, every child also deserves a brutally honest beauty consultant. "Your unibrow is starting to take over your whole face and unless you want to be known as the wolf-lady you need to wax that shit."

Editors are the beauty consultants of the literary world. Unfortunately for Ms. Anastasia Steele, it's going to take more than a little waxing to make her, her inner goddess and her subconscious bearable.  Mr. Grey is supposed to be the one with the issues -what, with his proclivity for handcuffs and flogging - but if you ask me, Ms. Steele is the one in need of a shrink. That woman suffers from multiple personalities disorders, each one more unlikeable than the next.

I've heard that some men are buying the book in the hopes of getting their wives in the mood. I hate to break it to you, husbands, but the chances of this happening are not good. Last night, the husband and I were each reading on the patio. Fifty Shades of Frustration for me and The Book Thief for the husband.  Within minutes, I am ranting.

Me: What the...holy crap! oh my! Jeez! Every. Single. Paragraph. Nay! Every sentence! Where's the editor?!

The husband (glancing up from his book): Not good, huh?

Me: How did this get published?!

Me: There it is again! Holy crap!

A few seconds later...

Me: Oh my!

Me: Jeez!

Me: Oh my!

Me: Oh look, some more righteous feces.

Me: Oh my!

And on and on and on I ranted until the husband looked up in annoyance. "You don't have to point it out every time, you know."

In case anyone is curious, 1 frustrated wife + 1 annoyed husband does not equal happy, sexy, fun time. Instead of getting it on, we were about to fight over which one of us could throw the book over the balcony first.

And also? I know we all have our sayings when we are in the throes of passion (yeah baby), but oh my? Really? Oh my? Every time I read those two words I heard the voice of my 86 year old grandmother, followed by an uncomfortable giggle. I'm sure we can ALL agree that "sex" or any words relating to sex and your "grandmother" should NEVER be uttered, thought about or even considered in the same sentence.

And while we're on the topic of things that aren't sexy, apparently Mr. Grey has long fingers. Like really long. So long, in fact, that they are described as such no less than fifty thousand times. Oh my, his long fingers ran through his hair and then holy crap his long finger pressed the elevator button, jeez his fingers are loooooong.

Every time I read about his long fingers, I pictured this guy:

Screw Ryan Gosling. E.T. is America's new sex symbol.

Let me be clear, I am not criticizing James. I don't take issue with the content. I don't think the book is utter trash. I'm not annoyed that it's flying off the shelves. In fact, I congratulate James for writing a best-seller. If the market likes it, who cares what the critics think? (And in truth, I feel bad for criticizing it. Writing is hard. Putting yourself out there to be criticized is even harder. Writing a best-seller is even more harder <-- hey, hey, hey look at that good writing! So, Ms. James, if you ever happen upon this "review" please feel free to comment along the lines of "you think my writing's bad? how many books have you published?")

But as a writer, I just don't get it. Someone, please explain to me how James got away with breaking the rules. All the rules! Over and over and over and over again. I don't care the genre or the subject matter, there is NO EXCUSE for sloppy writing.

I repeat, where was the editor?! This book would have been infinitely better had just half of the holy craps, oh mys, and jeezes been cut out. Yes, there were other problems with the book, but I could have overlooked them and even enjoyed the book (yeah baby) if not for the blatant redundancy.

After tweeting about my bafflement, some people have asked me if they should bother reading it. My answer? It depends. If you are a reader, how much patience do you have for bad writing? If you are a writer, I implore you to read it. It's a great example of what not to do. Unless, of course, I am missing something. Maybe I wouldn't know good writing if it chained me to the bed and flogged me.

Someone, please. Explain it to me. I am Fifty Shades of Confused.

P.S. If my editor is reading this, I love you.

P.P.S. Keep writing, Ms. James. Ignore those critics. Unless one happens to be your editor, in which case...never mind. Congrats on the bestseller!

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Is This Really Necessary?

Some of you may have noticed the husband's comment in the last post...that I scored the game winning kickball run.

Although that is true, don't let that delude you into thinking things are fine. Things are totally not fine and kickball is the devil's sport.

A few days after our first kickball game (in which I almost busted my face) we went to Sports Authority to buy bikes. Because why should my humiliation be reserved only for the kickball field? Let's spread it all around town!

I was in the dressing room trying on bike shorts.  That's right folks, bike shorts. Or is it biker shorts?


The point is, when I decide to ride a bike, I fully commit. No half-assing it for this biker chick. There's no full-assing it either. I opted out of buying the bike shorts with butt/vagina padding. Which, in retrospect, was a very terrible idea. I guess you could say I'm a three-quarter-asser. Or something.

While I was checking out which pair of shorts made my ass look the best, the husband shouts at me, "What size shoe are you?"

Me: Six

The husband: Are you sure you're not a three?

Me: Uh...yeah. Totally sure.

When I exited the dressing room the husband shoved a pair of cleats at me. "Here, try these on," he said.

Me: These are a size three. A child's size three.

The husband: They might fit.

Me: I'm a six!

The husband: Just try them on.

Me: I'm a six!

The husband: They're only ten dollars!

Me: Well, then, by all means, cut off part of my feet. Do what ever is necessary to make them fit. We must get those shoes!

The husband (dirty look): grumble, grumble, grumble.

We walked over to a giant mountain of clearance shoes and the husband began tossing shoes around trying to find a pair of size six cleats.

The husband: Here try these.

Me: Those are a five. I need a six.

A few minutes later...

The husband: Try these.

Me: Those are a six and a half. I need a six. Say it with me. Siiiiiiiixxxx.

The husband: Just hold them up to your foot to see if they feet.

Me: (heavy sigh)

The husband: Perfect!

Me: Perfect? There's an inch of room at the top.

The husband: That's how shoes fit.

Me: Are you kidding me? Look at your shoe right now. Do you have a whole inch of room after your toes?

Guess what? He did not.

The husband: Fine.

He takes me over the wall of cleats. The non-clearance wall of cleats.

The husband: Here, these are a six. Try these on.

Me: They're seventy dollars. I'm not paying seventy dollars for a stupid pair of cleats. You can't even wear them with a dress.

The husband: They'll help you run in the clay!

Me: I don't care! After this season, I'm never playing kickball again!

The husband: But it was fun!

Me: (evil glare)

The husband: Ooh, try these on. They're only thirty dollars.

Me: Those are boys'.

The husband: Try these. They're girls.'

Me: They're pink. I'm not going to prance around the field in pink shoes.

I would just like to take this opportunity to point out this is exactly why you should never go shoe shopping with a man. If I'm spending seventy bucks on shoes, they better be cute boots or sexy stilettos.

The husband: Here, this are girl's size six non-pink shoes. Try them on.

Me: I don't have socks.

He picks up a pair of socks from a basket on the floor.

Me: Ew, I'm not putting those on. Do you know how many feet have worn those?

The husband: (sigh) You don't need socks. Just put your feet in the shoes.

Me: EW!!!! Do you know how many...

The husband: Just do it.

Me: You want me to try on these shoes so badly that you're willing to listen to me obsess for the next five days that I've contracted some sort of foot fungus that will travel all the way up my body resulting in my entire lower half being amputated?

The husband: ..............No.

Good choice, husband. Good choice.

We left the store cleat-less. I spent the next game running around the bases like a spaz while the husband looked on oh-so-proudly.

Kickball: Making Marriages Stronger...Or Something...

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

There's No Coming Back From That

I joined a kickball team.

Let me rephrase that. Under protest, I joined a kickball team.

Last "season," the husband joined a team with a bunch of people he didn't know. When it was time for the new "season," he was all, "let's get a bunch of our friends together and form a team! you'll play, right?"

Me: Um, no.

The husband: But it'll be fun!

Me: Um, no.

I'll spare you the back and forth and say that, because I am the best wife in the history of ever, I finally agreed.

And it is not going well.

Our team isn't completely hopeless. We have some guys who can kick it far and catch it. And some girls who can bunt and run really fast. If we had a team motto it'd probably be something like: Kick Some Balls, Run Around, Have Fun.

The other teams, however?

Well their motto goes something like this: WE MUST WIN AT ALL COSTS! ALL COSTS!!!

Basically, kickball is their version of the Hunger Games.

There can be only one survivor and I'll give you guys a hint: It ain't gonna be me.

It's not that I'm totally unathletic. It's just that I fold under pressure.


At our very first game, our team was up to bat kick first. And I was the first one to kick for our team. When I joined the team, I had one major concern: Don't Let Me Be The Reason We Lose the Game. Oh, and also, it'd be nice if I didn't embarrass myself.

Clearly, my priorities were out of order.

The pitcher, who is your teammate (kickball has weird rules) rolled me the ball...



Kicked it!

Yay me! I am awesome!!! Except...not.

I started to run and then something happened to my legs. I didn't trip. I didn't stumble. My legs just started to crumble, driving me to the ground. But at the same time they were still propelling me forward. So while I was getting lower, I was also getting faster. My body was doing everything in it's power to ensure that when I landed face-first in the dirt, I did it at bash-your-nose-into-your-brains speed.

I screamed out, "MY LEGS!" And watched myself get lower and lower while thinking, this is really happening. I'm going to flop to the ground like a rag doll thrown from a second story building and eat dirt. In front of all these people. IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE. This is my nightmare.

Magically, like a Christmas miracle in May, I stayed upright. My legs started to function properly and I made it to first base. I was out, of course. But I didn't care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I ran for cover in the dugout and replayed the horror over and over in my mind.

Those of you who are glass-half-full kinda people are all, "there's no horror! you didn't embarrass yourself. everything is ok!"

And to you I say, "Shut up. Please."

I had trouble running, something most people have mastered by the age of three. I don't care how you slice it, that shit's embarrassing. Also, I'm pretty sure everyone would agree that if you fly to the ground with nothing to break your fall but your face, there's no coming back from that. You can kick a home run or catch a fly ball to end the game, but you will forever be known as the girl who ate shit trying to run.

From then on, my only concern was: Don't Embarrass Yourself.

When it was time to play defense, I was put in the outfield because of course I was.

No one was more grateful for this than I was. I spent most of my time looking for butterflies, watching birds fly overhead and praying the ball wouldn't come anywhere near me.

The husband would turn around every few minutes to check on me.

The husband: Every time I turned around you were closer to the fence.

Me: Huh. That's weird. The fence must have moved.

There was no happier person on earth than I, the moment the ump declared the game over. Until every muscle in my body began to ache and I realized that I am no longer a spring chicken but rather an old gray hag with malfunctioning legs. It is not the most uplifting revelation to come to, folks.

Our games are on Friday evenings. Every Friday I wake up and think, this is the worst day of my life. But then next Friday comes and I think, no THIS is the worst day of my life.

And sure enough, it is.

read to be read at

Sunday, May 20, 2012

And Then I Was Eaten By A Spider

Last night the husband and I went to dinner. After dinner, I noticed a spider on the door of my car as I was about to open it.

No big deal, I thought. I can open it really fast, jump inside, close the door and all will be safe in the world.

And that's exactly what happened. Except for the part about all being safe in the world. Because before I could close the door, the spider fell inside the car.

Me: Eeeee Aaaaa!!!

The husband: Shh!!!

Me: There's a spider in the car.

The husband: Where?

Me: I don't know! Get it!!!

The husband: Well if you can't see it, I won't be able to see it.

Me: Well I'm not getting in the car. It's going to bite me on the vagina.

As I said this, a drunk Santa Claus looking man walked by. Except he was less Santa Claus-like and more just fat and drunk-like.

The husband: You just told that guy you were going to be bit on the vagina.

Me: No, I said I was going to be bit on the vagina as he happened to walk by.

The husband: Right now he's, all "did she just say she got bit on the vagina? No, that can't be right. But it really did sound like she said something was going to bite her on the vagina. Does she want me to bite her on the vagina?"

Me: Are you going to get the spider or not?

The husband: I can't see it!

Me: Fine.

And so I got in the car. Against my better judgment, mind you.

Approximately fifteen seconds later we were about to pull onto the main road when...

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The husband (slamming on the brakes): What the...


The husband: You kill it! Hit it!


The husband: Hit it with your hand!

(Seriously, the husband? My hand? SERIOUSLY?!)


This is the point where the husband's version of events differs from mine. He claims that instead of saying, "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOE!!" I said, "OPEN THE DOOR!" Which is just ludicrous, because why would I want him to open the door? What good would that do? I wanted the spider dead. Which is why I needed his shoe. Obviously.

But instead of giving me his shoe, he's thinking, why does she want me to open the door? And instead of receiving the shoe, I'm thinking  why won't he give me his shoe?

Meanwhile, the spider is thinking, what a bunch of assholes. this is the easiest kill ever.

The husband: Hit it!


Finally, the husband takes off his shoe and whacks the spider.

Me: WHERE'D IT GO?!!!!!!!!! WHERE'D IT GO?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The husband: I don't know, but it guts are on your door.

And then he pulled onto the road and was all, "it's a good thing you didn't scream when we were on the road or we'd be dead right now."

And then I was all, "yeah, good thing." But I didn't say what I was really thinking. I was really thinking that the danger hadn't passed. That we didn't have a body. All we saw were a few guts. Spiders can totally survive with a few missing guts.  How many times have you squished a spider thinking it was good and dead only to have it suddenly spring back to life? All the freaking time. That's how many times.

So as we were driving all I was thinking was that the spider was probably springing to life on the bottom of the husband's shoe. And was slowly making its way up his leg to bite him on the penis. Or maybe, it was going to crawl in his penis. Like those fish in the Amazon, on wherever, who swim up men's penises when they pee. And the pain is so bad they wish for their penis to be cut off.

I didn't mention any of this to the husband. Partly because I'm thoughtful and partly because I think that would have made him slightly hysterical. And I'm pretty sure the first thing they teach you in driving school is don't make the driver become hysterical by mentioning animals crawling up his penis.

We drove to Blockbuster (the actual store, not one of those box things outside of a sketchy 7-11), rented a movie, and had a very nice non-eventful evening.

However, the husband and I will always remember it as the night I was almost eaten by a spider. And I, alone, will always remember it as the night the husband almost lost his wiener. I carry that burden alone. Because that's what love it.


Don't you love it when a horror story turns into an accidental love story?

Me too.

Friday, May 11, 2012

In a Funk

You may have noticed I haven't been around here lately. That is, if you haven't forgotten about me. I'm in a funk. I've lost the will to write.

That's not entirely true. I just can't seem to find anything interesting or funny to say. Every idea I have seems completely and utterly stupid. To top it off, I hate my writing. As in my novel writing. I haven't worked on my WIP or edited John and Darcy in days.

Having your novel edited is like being stabbed in the eye. Repeatedly. It's necessary, but painful. Except, I guess being stabbed in the eye isn't really necessary. But it sure is painful. I assume.

You know how when you were younger and would say negative things about yourself and your parents would stand you in front of the mirror and make you say how great you are? Like, you is kind, you is smart, you is important, from The Help.

Having your novel edited is the exact opposite. All that work your parents and teachers and mentors did to build your self-esteem goes right down the drain. You is dumb, you is unoriginal, this story sucks.

I'm not trying to say my editor is mean or unfair. It's her job to tell me like it is. And she certainly doesn't hold back. I appreciate her honesty. Really, I do. If anyone needs thicker skin, it's me. And if my book ever gets published, readers and reviewers will be way harsher.

Not that my story sucks. Heck no! It's awesome and you should totally buy it. Someday.

It's just that...well, you know what I'm saying. Or not. Whatever. I'm already tired of writing and this is sounding mopey and woe-is-me and I don't mean it to. I don't feel that way. I'm just stating a fact. Editing sucks and right now I hate my writing. This too shall pass.

I hope.

You guys remember the Jerry Springer show? Of course you do. You're lying if you said you never watched it. Remember how, after an hour of fighting, and hair pulling and spitting and "oh no you didn't!" Jerry would impart words of wisdom in his final thought?  Well here's my final thought: It's okay to end sentences with a preposition! No seriously, it is. The world will not end. Puppies will not be mauled. You will not contract an infectious disease. Write the way people talk! And most people in 2012 America do not say, "About whom are you talking?" They say, "Who you talkin' about?!"

Now go forth and break grammar rules. Except using your and you're properly. You just look stupid otherwise (unless I misuse them; then I'm just being rebellious).

And Grandma? Go ahead and eat her. I hear she's delicious.

This makes me stabby.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

It's Like Fight Club...But Not

 The A to Z Challenge is over! Yippee! I bet all of you who participated are breathing a sigh of relief. 
I am too. Except I'm not really, because I didn't get to finish. So instead of being the Sarcasm Goddess I'm more like the Sad Goddess.
But being sad sucks, so I decided to make up my own rules and continue the challenge where I left off. Which means you guys have to pretend it's still April and I'm right on track. And you have to keep commenting and cheering wildly when I finish.

According to where I left off, today is "P" day. Today's story is one for the children, specifically gullible little girls. So go get your kids, settle in and listen to a tale from your Auntie SG.

I have always wanted to be one of the cool kids.

Okay, that's not actually true. But if I had to choose between belonging and being a total outcast, I'd go with belonging. Unless, of course, being an outcast involved shaking it like a Polaroid picture. Then I'd totally be an outcast. But still, shaking it is always more fun when others are shaking it too.

Ah, dilemmas.

When I was a wee lass, a group of boys came up to me and asked me if I wanted to be in their club. Their Pen Fifteen Club.
I had no idea what a Pen Fifteen Club was, but I was so excited! Had I been invited to be a part of clubs more often I would have known to ask questions. Like, what kind of club is this? What do you do? Where are the other girls? Is there an initiation process? Am I going to end up crying?

But no. I squealed, "YES!" and started hopping around the room like a bunny on crack.

Finally, one of them grabbed my arm.

Me: What are you doing?

Him: Making you a part of the club

Me: Yippee!!!

I waited with excited anticipation while he wrote this:

But it didn't matter what I wanted. I already had penis on my arm, and once you've had penis on your arm you can never not have penis on your arm. That's how life works.

So gather 'round little girls and listen to your Auntie SG very closely. One day a group of boys is going to approach you and ask you to join the Pen Fifteen Club. They may have cookies. They may even have bacon. They may be cute with dimples. They may promise you fame and fortune. But it's all a lie. Turn and run away!

If you learn nothing else from me, learn this: The Number One Rule of the Pen Fifteen Club is Don't Join the Pen Fifteen Club!

And now...the best part of every post: Comment Gems!

Meredith: It is amazing the things that people will search for. One time I was Googling "is it okay to shower during a thunderstorm" and I got search results for "is it okay to put a centipede in my vagina".

A Daft Scots Lass: I detest the new interface. It sucks balls!