Saturday, June 30, 2012

You Googled What? -The Baffling As Ever Edition

Fasten your seatbelts and hold on to your buttcheeks, folks. It's time for another edition of You Googled What? The monthly feature that sheds light on the sick, disturbing and downright baffling google searches that land people on my blog.

Does your UPS guy know you
If he does, he probably wants to kill you

Ecards – shove it up your ass
When Hallmark isn’t enough to say how you really feel, send an ecard.

hey mom someone from the gyna colleges office called
Well aren't you a clever little vagina.

i think i'm a hooker
Did you receive something in exchange for sexy time? Then you're a hooker. It's really quite simple.

ryan gosling pissing 
Congratulations, you're officially a stalker. Also? Disgusting.

ryan gosling penis
honestly, people! He’s a person, you know. Not just a piece of man flesh.

Peeing cheerleader
It happens to the best of us.
 
“forgot how to walk” “my diaper” bottle
Ugh. Please tell me the adults with the Imma Baby, Wipe My Poopy Butt Fetish haven’t found my blog.

Brown cow goddess
Sarcasm. Cow. Same difference.

Marrying an Italian woman
All I can say is, good luck.

Shove it on your ass
When shoving it IN your ass just won't do.
 
How to have sex with the UPS guy

Invite him inside. Take your clothes off. You'll be surprised how easily the rest will follow.
 
The word penis
Is not as awesome as the word vagina.

"50 shades" redundant 
Don’t even get me started

"massage my feet" brat humiliation
Uhh...I don't even want to know.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

This is Why I Don't Follow the Rules

Guess what? I got another bloggy award.

I know. It amazes me too that you people like this stuff enough to nominate me for anything other than a lifetime membership to the Society of Crazy People Who Need to Be Medicated.

At least I assume you like it. I choose to believe you're giving me these awards of your own free will, not because someone has a gun to your head.

Today's award comes from Susannah of Write, Rinse, Repeat. If you are not reading her stuff, you are missing out on some serious awesomeness. She has me cracking up on the daily.



As per usual, the award comes with rules. You guys know I normally shun the rules, but since I have nothing noteworthy to blog about I will play along. Kinda.

THE RULES:
1.  Thank and link back to the awarding blog.
2.  Answer seven questions.
3.  Provide 10 random factoids about yourself. 
4.  Hand the award on to 7 deserving others.

I plead the fifth on number two. But here's my attempt at number three. It will soon be clear why I should avoid the rules entirely. For my sake and yours. Especially for yours. Also, math was never my strong suit, so I may provide 10 facts and I may...not.

1. Sometimes I wish I was (were?) Canadian. Or Australian. Cuz I like the way they spell things. Like behaviour and uh, other words that I can't think of right now.

2. I had something else to say here, but I forgot. So just pretend I said something funny and laugh uproariously.

3. You know what else is fun to say? Water closet. I work for an organization whose abbreviation is WC and every time I type it (as in, "are you interested in learning more about WC?") I feel like I'm asking them if they'd like to know more about the toilet. And then I giggle for fifteen minutes. Cuz I'm mature like that.

6. I just ate 87 Reese's and they were delicious. Tomorrow I'll cry and throw the scale and wonder why I'm not losing weight.

13. This post is awesome.

15. You know how when it's late at night and you really want someone to play with but your husband's asleep so you turn on a computer and start blogging instead and maybe you've had a glass or twelve of wine and you think you're witty and hilarious but really you just sound idiotic?

27. Me too.

27a. But then you're like, "no big deal, it's not like I have to post this." But you're not fooling anyone cuz you know you totally will because blogging is hard work and material is hard to come by and when genius strikes you go with it.

67b. And by "genius" I mean crap.

100. This is embarrassing.

127. One time the husband woke up from a dead sleep and started analyzing the pass/play strategy of Family Feud. It was riveting and quite insightful and I started to take notes but then he began yelling at the contestants on t.v. for playing when they should have passed and vice versa and I got scared and hid under the table.

135. I try never to watch the news. But one night, it happened by accident, a.k.a. the remote was too far away for me to reach. They reported that a new study reveals drinking during pregnancy isn't bad, including binge drinking. Really, scientists. I'm pretty sure binge drinking is bad for everyone. You guys better check yourself before you wreck yourself.

188. It was actually Amy Robach who was doing the reporting and she was wearing the most adorable wedges. I tweeted ABC News declaring my love for her shoes and asking where she got them. They never responded. Way to go, the news. Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be helping people. I'm pretty sure telling pregnant women to drink and denying women access to adorable footwear is like the least helpful thing ever. Get it together!

Alright, that's enough shenanigans. Time to pass this on to some bloggers (slightly) more stable than I am:

Mom Next Door
Catie's Chaos
Fox in the City
Chicken Noodle Gravy
Classic NYC Story
Mayor Gia
Snappy Surprise

Comment gems:

Leanne Hawn: My own mother ate a brownie in front of me the other day and I wanted to claw her eyes out. You are not alone.

Classic NYer: Has it ever occurred to you why the first three letters of diet are d-i-e? It's because if you go on a diet, somebody is going to DIE! (And from your tales, I'm thinking it's going to be the unsuspecting Frito-Cheeto-Dorito queen.)

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

I Sleep So I Don't Eat Your Face

It's that time of year again when I decide to get all sexified, a.k.a work out and eat healthy. Yes, you did read that right. I said time of year, as in it only happens once a year, like Christmas and Flag Day.

Why only once a year? Because getting sexified blows the big one, despite what that whore Jillian Michaels* and that short-pants enthusiast Richard Simmons say.
You gotta admit, the dude has nice legs.
I am hungry ALL THE TIME. I am so food deprived, I want to eat things I've never once considered putting in my mouth.

Trips to the grocery store are pure hell. I alternate between crying over all the food I can't eat, and being really pissed off every time I see someone put a carton of ice cream or a block of cheese in their cart.

"Way to taunt me, asshole!" I want to scream at them.

On my way to the check-out I passed a container of Oreo brownies. My head did that whole swivel over my shoulder as I walked away thing, much like men do when they spot a nice pair of mammaries. Oh, who are we kidding - when they spot any pair of mammaries.

Those Oreo brownies were the ogling equivalent of a surgically enhanced pair of double D's, and drool on myself and adjust my crotch I did.

But I stayed strong and continued straight to the check out without so much as an "accidental" knuckle caress. And then, as if the food gods were conspiring against me, I encountered the chip whore.

The woman in front of me purchased, not one, not two, but FIVE bags of chips. Two bags of cheetos, one bag of fritos, and two bags of doritos.

I was like a lion in the wild ready to pounce on her prey as the chip whore handed over cash and dangled her bags of salty, crunchy goodness in my face.


This diet is all about eating protein. Chicken and fish and chicken and more chicken and chicken, chicken, chicken!

I have eaten so many damn chickens lately that I've started to sprout feathers and grow talons. I can't wait until my beak grows in so I can peck to death the people who piss me off. Which is everyone, apparently.

Seriously, I am one angry girl.

But it's not my fault.  It's the hunger.

I did cave a little on my trip to the store. I bought a bag of Wild Blueberry Walnut Granola with Flax Seed. As soon as I got to my car, I ripped open the bag. Inside were more bags! My food deprived brain went insane. Instead of buying granola, I had bought a bag of bags! What kind of sick joke was this?

I actually yelled, "What the f*ck!" before I realized that inside the little bags was the granola. Apparently, the health gurus at Back to Nature anticipated their buyers would be so starved for a little bit of grain and dehydrated fruit that they'd poke a whole in the bottom of the bag and shotgun the granola like a frat pledge does a can of Natty light.

So they implemented portion control. Imagine that.

Food consumes my every waking thought. I go to bed so I won't eat. But instead of sleeping, I just lie there and contemplate eating the husband.

But then it occurs to me that he probably tastes like chicken.

And I've had enough damn chicken.

***

P.S. Don't worry, soon I'll realize everything tastes better than skinny feels and go back to being a nice person.

*I don't really think Jillian Michaels is a whore. I'm just dealing with some misplaced rage right now.

***
And now...comment gems!

Angel Shrout: yeah I have that problem. Mainly because I have huge boobs and they tend to pull me forward. Meaning I lean over with them.. on a positive side they are big enough to cushion me fairly well...

Note to self: get bigger boobs 

Kim @the G is Silent: Been there. Done that. On concrete. Main street. Watched by my dogs.

I bet they bring it up all the time, don't they?




Sunday, June 24, 2012

It Was Only A Matter of Time

On Friday, I sent out a tweet asking you guys to pray for rain. Apparently, some of you guys prayed to the humiliation gods instead.

Our last kickball game of the season was on Friday. Well, I was hoping it was the last. Miraculously, we had made it to the playoffs. If we lost the game, our season was over. If we won...the hell would continue.

I'm not saying our team sucks, but I was pretty confident in our ability to lose. One more hour, I kept chanting. One more hour to potentially humiliate myself.

Truthfully, I wasn't really worried about it. Other than the first game where I almost face-planted, I hadn't come close to embarrassing myself. I assumed I could go just one more hour without branding myself the worst kickballer in the history of ever.

But you know what they say about assumptions: they make you look like an asshole in front of everyone.

My first kick didn't go so well. It rolled over the top of my foot and out of bounds. Not my finest hour, but no face-plant, so, WIN!

On my second kick, I made good contact! It rolled between second and third base and I took off toward first. Now, I may not be the most athletic person to ever set foot on the field, but I. Am. Fast. Which was a good thing because a defender scooped up the ball. From the corner of my eye I could see he was going to throw it to the first base girl. Now this girl wasn't a "ah-there's-ball-coming-my-way-ew-balls-are-icky-I'm-going-to-drop-it" kinda girl. She was a "Imma-dominate-this-ball-and-catch-it-with-my-bear-hands-rawr!" kinda girl.

So I knew that in order to be safe I was going to have to outrun the throw.

I bet you guys think this is where the humiliation comes in, but allow me to remind you: I. Am. FAST!!

It was close, but I made it! My foot touched the base a millisecond before she caught it.

Yay! I made it!! IN YOUR FACE!! I'm so fast! I am the winnnnerrr!! I'm...still running. Okay, legs, you can stop running now.

No, seriously, stop running.

My legs: No way, bitch. We hate you!

And so I was at the mercy of my fast, forward-moving legs. But not only were they going forward, they were also driving me down. To the ground. To humiliation town.

No! I've been here before and I recovered. There was no way I was going to face-plant. Miraculously, my legs started to recover. My body started to go vertical again.

Oh praise the lawd! I have saved myself aga...

The next thing I knew, I was airborn.  Both of my legs left the ground and I was flying horizontal through the air. And then, as if my body didn't hate me enough, I started to turn, in midair, the kickball equivalent of a triple salchow (that's sow-cow, for you non figure skating enthusiasts).

I was powerless to stop it. I was powerless to do anything other than ride the oh-my-shit-what-the-hell-is-happening-I-hate-my-life! train.

After making a quarter turn, gravity took over and slammed me to the ground where I landed on my hip. 
I'm honestly not sure which is worse, a mouthful of dirt, or flopping around like a fish out of water.

Everyone was like, "Oh my gosh, are you okay!?"

I was all, "What? That? Oh I planned to do that."

The truth is, when you experience something that humiliating, your mind doesn't even know how to process it. It's like you float above yourself and watch the whole thing thinking, "Wow, look at that poor girl embarrass the crap out of herself."

It's not until hours later that you realize "that girl" was you.

Needless to say, we lost the game and our season was over. Everyone was all, "let's go to the bar and drown our sorrows." But I was like, "sorrows? are you kidding me. it's time to celebrate. it's over!"

Another season starts in six weeks. I am happy to report I will be cheering on my team from the bleachers with a box of wine. 

Friday, June 22, 2012

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Exploit 'Em

Remember when I wrote a post about how Fifty Shades of Grey was one giant crap fest?

Well, I may have been a little harsh. Judged it a little unfairly.

Just kidding.

That book sucks balls.

But that doesn't mean we can't learn something from it.

If you want to write a best seller, write about and/or allude to kinky sex. Your audience will be so sex starved and stupid to notice the crap that runneth betwixt the pages.

As true as that may be, that's not what I'm talking about. I've heard a lot of rumors about this book. Some I believe to be utter hogwash (in my mind, there is absolutely no connection to Twilight), but there is one I choose to belief. Perhaps some of you can confirm its veracity.


I've heard several times that E.L. James never claimed to be a writer. In fact, she wrote the books (or at least the first one) without the intention of it ever being read by another soul. In other words, she wrote for the pure joy of writing. She wrote a story she wanted to read.

Imagine that.

Say what you want about her books (they sucketh), but you've got to admire a writer who writes for herself first and the market second.

Or you don't. Whatever, it's your call.

I've been bashing my head against the wall for weeks trying to figure out how a book like hers even gets published, but somewhere amidst all that bashing, a light bulb went off. Or maybe my brain just exploded and it was the ethereal white light beckoning me heavenward. Either way, I realized that in my effort to get published (hahaha!), in my effort to write the best book evah! (hahahahahahahaha!) I have become paralyzed. Paralyzed to write. Paralyzed to let go. Paralyzed to lose myself in the story.

I worry about what my editor would think. I worry about what readers would think. I worry about what people -people who will likely never read my book - will think. And I don't write. I'm so worried that I'll write crap that I don't write at all.

My blog is called For the Love of Writing, but truth be told, I have grown to hate writing. Every time I think about sitting down at my keyboard or bringing pen to paper, my face curls in disgust, my stomach turns and bile rises in my throat. I know I tend to have a flare for the dramatic, but I promise you guys I'm speaking the truth when I say the thought of writing literally makes me disgusted.

I am "friends" with a self-published writer on facebook and twitter. He has published more books in the last year than I could ever dream to in my lifetime. As I read an excerpt from his latest book I thought, "Wow, this guy must really love to write." It wasn't until then that it hit me how much I have grown to loathe writing.

And that makes me sad.

So, I came to a decision.

I am writing a book for me. Just for me. The plot is ridiculous. The characters are cliche. But I. Don't. Care. Because no one is ever going to see this book but me. I'm not worried about beautifully crafted sentences, or believability, or pacing, or character development or N-E-THING! I'm just writing. Heck, I may even insert a "throbbing manhood" just because I can. 

My goal in doing this is to re-discover my love for writing. To rekindle a flame that has been doused by criticism and self-doubt.


I'm 3,600 words in and it's amazing what it's done for my writer's block. Every time I think I have nothing to write, I say "Write anything! Who cares! No one is going to read this but you!"

The story may end up to be pure, unadulterated crap. Or it may be the next bestseller (hahahhahaha, omg I think pee just came out). Either way, I'm writing. And right now, that's good enough for me.

Speaking of pure, unadulterated crap, not only did Fifty Shades inspire me to start writing again, it inspired the next new phenomenon in bloggy awards...

Yes, that is grey sausage. Appetizing, isn't it?
I created a Fifty Shades of Awesome Sausage blog award, oh yes I did. Because if you can't write a best seller, you should totally exploit it. I'm pretty sure that's the first thing they teach you in writing school.

I still have a couple more bloggy awards to accept and pass on, but I thought I'd take a break from that and create my own.

Here are the rules of the award:

1. Accept the award with Fifty Shades of Excitement (aka post it on your blog whilst squealing and in general waking the neighbors with your shrieks of delight)

2. Be Awesome

3. Pass the award on to at least one other blogger you catch being Awesome Sausage.

People, I expect this award to infect the bloggy community like an STD from Mr. Grey himself.

I bet you're all dying to know who is going to receive this coveted award. You're probably about 50 Shades of Peeing Your Pants From Excitement right about now. Don't be ashamed; let it flow, because guess what? I have it on good authority that if you follow my blog you are AWESOME! So...every follower receives the 50 Shades of Awesome Sausage Award!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow, I can feel your excitement from all the way over here. It's overwhelming. And inspiring. So inspiring, in fact, I just might make more awesome sausage awards.

*and the crowd goes wild*

And now for some awesome sausage comment gems:

Reinventingrobin: Mojoshmojo...You are a rutless coward. Ok maybe bot cowards, but I couldn't find a good word for a play on gutless. Sigh. It's less funny when I explain it. Regardless. Awesome funny post. Love!

I have no idea what half of this means and it made me feel a little drunk...I'm pretty sure that's the key to a good comment.


Jana: Quilting just looks like a good way to kill a case of wine and pass out in a heap of scrap fabric.

My sentiments exactly. 

***
P.S. If the blog is full of typos or is more of a mess than it normally is, it's not my fault (of course not). Blogger is being an asshat right now. *sigh* The trials and tribulations of being a blogger. 

Monday, June 18, 2012

No One Told Me There'd Be Math

Remember when I said I was making a quilt?

Well I am. And as per usual, I am awesome at it. And by "awesome" I mean I have become the Crazy Quilt Lady. It's like the Crazy Cat Lady but with more fabric squares and a greater possibility of sewing your finger to your forehead.

I know as much about making a quilt as I do about removing someone's small intestine. Not that I want to remove someone's intestines, I'm just saying that should intestines ever need to be removed, I would most likely suck at it. Which is probably a good thing. It'd be a little weird if at the top of my List of Accomplishments was "Intestines Removal Champion 2012."

Unless, of course, I was a doctor who was competing with other doctors to see who could remove the most intestines in a pre-determined amount of time. However, I think that would land me on the "Worst Doctor in the History of Ever" List and I promised myself I would never end up on that list.


I don't know. Remember when blogging was simple and all we talked about was anal bleaching?

Speaking of anal bleaching, I'm making a quilt!

See what I did there?

I may have started out a novice, but in the days, weeks, months it's taken me to make a very small quilt, I've learned quite a bit. The rules of quilting are really quite simple:

1. Cut four hundred thousand fabric squares.

2. Spread them all over your house.

3. Freak the f*ck out.

I tried to enlist the help of the husband, but he was all, "This soccer game won't watch itself!" and proceeded to be absolutely useless.

Me: What pattern should I make?

The husband: I don't know.

Me: Should I do it like this?

The husband: It's your quilt.

Me: BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!!

The husband: This is your project. You figure it out.

Me: What's 15 x 27.

The husband gives me the answer without using a calculator.

Me: What makes a square?

The husband: Seriously?

Me: If I do four rows of five with five inch squares...Carry the one...I need some paper! Help meeee!

The husband: This is your project. You're smart. You can figure it out.

Me: Your faith in my abilities is admirable. Laughable, but admirable.

A few minutes later...

Me: Oh! I know. I'll lay them out like this.  Fourteen rows of eleven. Yes, that's it! Yay, I am the quilting winner! I...Crap! Now there's two blues next to each other. What the hell am I doing?

The husband: Ooh! Did you see that kick? It was awesome.

I did not see the kick, but I can assure you, it was not awesome. Nothing about soccer is awesome. Except when it's over.

Me: One, two, three, four...No, wait...one, two, three, four, five...

The husband: Good job, baby. What comes after five?

Me: Shut up.

Me: Oh look! I've got it! Purple, peacock, blue, stars. Repeat the pattern. Yay!

The husband: You're just talking to hear yourself talk, now. You know that, right?

Me: Crapdammit! It didn't work. It's because of the math! It all comes down to math. No one told me quilting would involve math!

I then proceeded to stomp, curse and throw stuff for the next twenty  minutes.

A word of warning: if you throw pins all over your house, it will take months to find them all, and sometimes you find them in rather painful and, uh, unfortunate ways.

The more you know.

Finally, I screamed with triumph and much boasting, "The diagonal! It's all about the diagonal! This is how math works."


The husband: I'm pretty sure someone who says 'this is how math works' has no idea how math works.

Honestly, what the heck does he know? He does math without a calculator.

Pretty soon my house looked like this:

The husband was super excited to have quilting squares take over the house.
Here's some more math for you: Quilting crap all over your house + annoyed husband = quilting crap relegated to the downstairs bedroom.

I whined to he husband that there is inadequate light down there. My sewing machine weighs forty-thousand pounds and there's no way a wee little lass like myself can haul it up the stairs. He replied that any time I wanted to work on my quilt to just tell him and he'd bring my sewing machine upstairs.

Any time? Really? It's currently two fifteen in the a.m. I'm pretty sure when the husband said any time, he especially meant two in the morning when he's sound asleep.

Let's find out, shall we...

...
...

As expected, that did not go well.

You know what does go well at two in the morning? Giving out a bloggy award!

In my last post I mentioned that over the last few months, a few super-fab bloggers have graciously awarded me the most coveted of all bloggy recognition - A Bloggy Award. It's taken me so long to pass along the award because they usually come with the condition that you must reveal seven things about yourself. And that makes me so nervous, I poop my pants. And as much as the husband dislikes being woken to haul my sewing machine around the house, he really hates to be woken to the news I've crapped myself.

So in order to maintain my sexiness, I've decided to skip the whole seven things thing and just hand out the award. (In case anyone wants to lecture me on this, you can save it. I preceded the whole award thingy with a very awesome post, which takes care of the whole seven things thing.)

Today's award is the Very Inspiring Blogger Award, given to me by the uber chic Blogdramedy. Not only is she tres cool, but in high school, she was also voted Most Likely to Never Crap Her Pants.That's probably a total lie. Not the never crapping her pants part, but the part about being voted on for never crapping her pants.

Hey! Here's a thought. Do you think people who crap their pants are more likely to undergo anal bleaching?

You guys ponder that while I show off my award and pass it along to fifteen, that's right, FIFTEEN, bloggers.


And the award goes to...

The Southern Norther
Just a Lil Blog
Dads Who Change Diapers
Dad of the Decade
it's so Fuzzy!
The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom
Kelley's Break Room
Shut the Front Door
Contemplating Happiness
Rubber Chicken Madness
Time Out for Mom
Dude of the House
My Suitcase Full of Tricks
the robot mommy
A Working Woman's Guide to Dinner Or...If I Cook Chicken A La King One More Time I'll Kill Myself

For those of you who like to follow the rules, share seven things about yourself and pass the award on to fifteen bloggers.

And now, it's time for Comment Gems! Remember, every comment is a treasure to my heart, but here are a few highlights.

Klahanie: ...Just realising this has brought a joyous tear to my eye and I shall sing and dance and let the whole world know!... Your starstruck fan, Gary

Every time he comments, I can't help but feel he is mocking me...and I kind of love it.

Jen Has A Pen: ...Sometimes, you really DO just pee in your underwears. Same goes for nip pinching.

There was more to her comment, but this part spoke to me on so many levels.



  


Sunday, June 17, 2012

The New Golden Rule

When the husband and I were in the city of vomit aka New Orleans, a scantily clad, slightly cracked out bartender/shot girl asked the husband if he would like to buy a rainbow-colored test tube shot.

The husband declined, probably because he's classy and likes to take his shots from a plain ol' shot glass served by a non-cracked out girl. Or maybe because he hates rainbows. I don't know.

The shot girl responded with, "Just because you don't want a shot doesn't mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples."

Uh...I had no idea there was any connection between the two, but I'm pretty sure that's EXACTLY what it means.

At first glance it appeared this girl had taken one two many of her rainbow-colored libations, because the hell? But upon further examination, I realized this girl has her shit together in ways most of us can only dream of.

We grow up believing the key to life is "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." In other words, don't be an asshat and people won't be an asshat to you.

It's a beautiful sentiment, really, it is. But unfortunately, it's a load of crap. The truth is, no matter how nice you are, sometimes life is one giant asshat.

And thanks to the cracked out shot girl, I now know the key to life (or at least the key to not ending up in the corner eating your hair) is "how to handle rejection with grace."

If you think about it, "Just because you don't want a shot doesn't mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples" is the perfect response to every rejection life throws your way.  Just replace "don't want a shot" with the rejection of your choice and you'll never be disappointed again. It's all about finding the silver lining.

Examples:

Guy: I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore.

You: Just because you don't want to be my boyfriend doesn't  mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples.

Guy: Excellent point! Rub and pinch away.

*
Server: I'm sorry madam, but we are all out of the duck confit.

You: Just because you don't have duck confit doesn't  mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples.

Server: I was going to suggest the beef wellington, but this is a much better solution!

*
Blog Follower: I'm sorry, but I don't want to follow your blog anymore:

You: What?!!?!?!??!? WHYYYYYYY?!?!!!  Why don't you love me anymore!! What can I do to win you back?!??!?! I know! I'll pinch you and rub your nipples!

Blog Follower: You know the key to my follow button.

*

Interviewer: I'm sorry, but I just don't think you're the right person for this position.

You: Just because you don't want to hire me doesn't  mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples.

Interviewer: Security!

Okay, so maybe it doesn't work for every situation, but I think we can all agree that approaching life with a little pinching and nipple rubbing will lessen the sting of rejection. However, it may increase stinging of the nipple region. Proceed with caution.

And now for something sweet... Over the last few months, several of you have given me the greatest honor a blogger can receive...a bloggy award!!  I'm sure I look like an ungrateful asshat by not posting them on my blog and passing the honor along, but I'm not ungrateful.  I promise. I just have issues. In order to accept and pass along the award, the recipient usually has to answer a series of questions about herself. To most people, this is no big deal. For me? Cue the shakes, a cold sweat and curling into the fetal position.

And so, I have made a bold decision. Screw the questions, I'm just going to pass on the award. 

I know. I'm such a badass.

Many, many moons ago, the amazing Rory Bore of Time Out for Mom bestowed upon me the Irresistibly Sweet Blogger Award.

It is with great pleasure that I pass the award on to the following bloggers:


For those of you interested in playing by the rules, the Rules of the Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award are:

   - Post 7 random facts about yourself.
   - Pass the award on to 10 more wonderful bloggers.

Get ready for an explosion of bloggy love. In the coming weeks I will be accepting and passing along lots of bloggy awards. I may even get back to making some of my custom awards.

You're excited, right?

No?!

Well don't worry, just because you're not excited doesn't mean I can't pinch you and rub your nipples.


 


Monday, June 11, 2012

If You Think It's Vomit, It Probably Is

The husband and I recently returned from a trip to New Orleans.  As per usual, we almost died. And by that I mean the turbulence was a real asshole. The husband delighted in telling me I was being dramatic and hysterical about the whole thing, to which I pointed out that people actually screamed as the plane was tossed about and then plummeted. To which he pointed out that the only screaming going on was from the voices inside my head. To which I was all, touche.

The children sitting behind us were giggling and saying it was like a Disney World ride. I really really wanted to turn around and scream, "Yeah, except this ride ends in death!" But I refrained because I think one of the hallmarks of being an adult is not destroying the wide-eyed, life's a Disney World ride, innocence of children.

You're welcome, children.

I was more than a little relieved when our plane touched down, because although I've never died in a fiery plane crash, I'm pretty sure it would suck. And call me dramatic if you must, but I'd even venture to say it would ruin your whole damn day.

This was our fourth trip to the city and therefore I am now an expert on all things Nawlins. Following are a few important things to note to make your trip truly enjoyable.

Packing: If the reason for your visit is to attend the wedding of a college friend and you ask your husband before you leave if his suit needs to be dry cleaned, DO NOT trust him when he says, "no." It always needs to be dry cleaned. Men can't be trusted to be responsible for the cleanliness of their clothes. This is not a character flaw, it's a fact of life. They spend their days slaying dragons and saving us from castles, they don't have time to worry whether their suit of armor is shiny while doing it.

Hygiene: Don't bother showering the entire time. It's a colossal waste of time. You're going to get puked on, peed on, or step in feces as soon as you step out of your hotel. Yes, it's disgusting. But if it happens right after you've showered and got your hair did all fabulous like, it's disgusting and irritating to the point of stabbyness.

Drinks: The city is famous for a drink called hand grenades. The bartenders won't tell you what's in them, but here's a hint: it's poison. It's not the alcohol that will make you wish for death, but the sugar. After three sips you'll feel like your stomach is being ripped apart by razor blades. Honestly, this stuff makes drinking an entire bottle of moonshine sound refreshing.

Fashion: Me: Should I wear these shoes or these? These hurt my feet.

The husband: You should definitely not wear shoes that hurt your feet.

Me: But the hurty ones are cuter.

The husband: *sigh*

If you have a choice between hurty shoes, and non-hurty shoes, go with the non-hurty ones. Maybe. It depends on how cute they are. In order to decide, determine the hurty/cuteness ratio, plus your tolerance for pain, divided by your husband's patience for whining, multiplied by the likelihood that one of your friends will take pity on you and carry you. If you're too drunk to figure out the answer, you should wear the hurty ones.

Shopping: Ladies, there is a store called Pop City on the corner of St. Phillip and N. Peters. The clothes there are the most adorable in the history of ever and upon seeing them you will instantly fall in love and want to buy them all. However, before stepping foot inside you should either rob a bank or bring your Sugar Daddy. Otherwise, you'll have to leave them behind and spend the rest of your days pining for the dress and the cuteness that could have been.

Transportation: If you get in a taxi and yell NACHOS AND NAKED SHOW! the driver will not take you there. Probably because you didn't give him an address, but also because that makes no freaking sense.

Awesomeness: And, of course, the best thing about New Orleans is the opportunity to increase your awesomeness factor.
New Mask = Increased Awesomeness

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go wash three days worth of other people's vomit out of my hair.