Victoria's Secret is touching my cocktail where it's bathing suit covers...

I found this in my drafts folder. Apparently I made this in February...and then had enough drinks that I forgot to post it...

There are some drinks I am proud of. This is not one of them...



This is pink lemonade vodka and diet lemon-lime soda. It was fucking delicious, I can't lie...But it left me feeling ashamed and dirty. The walk to throw the little bottle away could definitely be classified as a "walk of shame." I tried to capture the color, but that feat was beyond my phone and the poor kitchen lighting. Suffice it to say, it made me think of the line "Pink" from VS. And I think that fits well with the drink.

The "Pink" line is essentially trying to repackage skanky lingerie so that it can be marketed to underage girls in a manner that they will still be able to convince their mothers to let them wear it (or even buy it for them). And that feels a lot like this drink. An adult idea that has been inappropriately modified to suit the tastes of underage girls, while not totally offending the sensibilities of those adults who may happen to see them.

Take home message: Don't tell frat boys about the pink lemonade vodka. Or underage girls, for that matter.

P.S. Don't think I am hating on the skanky lingerie. I'm not. I am not a big fan of VS, but I have drawers and drawers full of corsets and stockings and the like. I just find it creepy when lingerie is marketed towards girls in their mid-teens. They already have WAY too much of a skank-urge. You do not need to be leveling lingerie marketing campaigns at them.

Narsty Mystery Moisture

Am I the only one who overly distresses herself  by wondering about what new sponges (fresh from the package) are moistened with? It creeps me out. Why can't they just sell me a dried damn sponge? It would be lighter and smaller (and therefor cheaper) to ship--and then I wouldn't have to spend time sniffing and poking and feeling disturbed as all get out.

I don't care that it came sealed in a package...it is similar to the feeling I get when someone hands me a moist dollar bill, or when I rest my arm on a table only to discover there is something sticky on it. It is not as bad, however, as accidentally touching the underside of a public table to find a variety of crusty "treasures." And not nearly as bad as plunking yourself down too fast on a public toilet, only to feel unknown moisture seeping through that flimsy paper to your tender rump region.

You know, just in case you forgot any of those gross feelings. So, what about you? Sponge moisture creep you out? What is your least favorite unexpected substance experience?

It's like peeing on stuff, but with tassles.

I still have fantasies of proper posts...but for now we will stick with random facts.



That's a lot of peeing all over your boyfriend's house.
Source
(Who interestingly asserts you can never have too many throw pillows...so clearly we have different feelings on the matter.)

 FACT: Throw pillows are the girl equivalent of peeing on stuff to mark your territory. Seriously. Think about it--if you walk into some guy's home and he has throw pillows, you know there is a highly involved woman in his life. Whether mommy is still a bit too involved, there is a friend who doesn't realize she wants to be more than a friend, or there is a flat out girl friend or wife. Or, he's gay. Regardless, it lets other women coming into the space know that they should not count on this gentleman as a viable partner. It is one of those gender stereotypes that tends to pan out. (And I hate those, because I hate to think of myself as in any way stereotypically feminine. I'm not saying that makes sense, but just that it is my gut reaction.)

Also? No one really likes throw pillows. I am pretty sure. I don't. I have them, I put them around--but for the most part I find them vexing. Which is another way they are like peeing on stuff to claim it. While an effective method, no one really enjoys it. So the next time someone pisses you off, just rub a throw pillow on them and know that, secretly, it is just like you are rubbing piss on them.

From Toothpaste for Dinner

 FACT: Cucumbers are nasty, but tsatziki is delicious. I don't know how this works out, but I was reminded of it over the weekend when I made super delicious tsatziki (to go on the spanikopita and dolmas I also made) from super-nasty cucumbers. (I just mean that cucumbers are super-nasty, not that there was anything wrong with the ones I used. They were perfectly good, as cucumbers go.)



From Toothpaste for Dinner

 FACT: This comic is both hilarious and accurate. Also, if you did not already know about Toothpaste for Dinner, you should go check that shit out. How could it not be? The little neurotransmitters look like dinosaurs!

Science is spicy (Also known as, "Really, me?")

Spicy food digests easier. It's Science. If I eat eggs, I HAVE to eat hot sauce, or else I feel sick for hours. I prefer to chase that with some diet Pepsi, which I also believe helps kill the food in my stomach. If I have a nasty hangover, I can treat it like a pro: 2 ibuprofen and a glass of water, followed by a bloody mary or beer consumed with eggs, melted cheese, and LOTS of hot sauce. Follow that up with 2 hours horizontal in front of crap tv or movies and I am ready to drink take on the world again.

_______________________________________

Found this in my draft file. Not really sure how in the skull-fuck I thought this was going to be an actual post, as it is crap, pointless, and short....Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now I'm posting it. I blame it on the bossa nova rain moving. Honestly, it is like I am trying to scare away the few of you that are here. Sure, most of you are here by accident, but that's not the point.

Seriously, though. I am getting really curious: Could whoever is coming here after googling "the question" PLEASE tell me what the hell it is you are looking for? I could not be more curious. There is more than one of you. Or you are a creature of habit.

Okay. I am going to try to make this slightly less sucky with a 1-minute anecdote:

When I was about 10 my best friend and I were eating top ramen together. We were being silly and trying to make each other laugh. I thought I had totally won when I got her to laugh scalding broth out her nose, but then it was so funny that I laughed scalding broth AND a noodle out my nose. Which of course only made me laugh harder. Hurt like hell, though.

I will be back with real posts soon, pinkie-swear. In the mean time, what is the most awesome thing you have ever laughed out your nose?

Itty-bitty-titty-committee

Hello imaginary friends! That title is kind of irrelevant. Which means it mostly to completely is. I love that saying, though. It is just terribly satisfying to say. I have a tiny notebook computer named the itty-bitty-computer-committee (aka, babybot). Which is as bad a name as the title of this post--but almost as relevant. All of this to say: Short Story Time! I want to come up with an alliteration that uses "anecdote," but it didn't really work. All I came up with was Abbreviated Anecdotes Anon (which sounds like there won't be any drinking) or Abbreviated Anecdote Hour (which really only works when spoken). So! In the absence of a real post (due to ongoing chaos), random short stories!

I had totally forgotten about this movie. As I recall, it wasn't fantastic--but it definitely had it's moments. Source

• I was gonna tell you that the reason the title phrase just amuses me but doesn't offend me was that I was never teased about having small boobs. But that would be a lie. I was just never teased using that phrase. I was the first girl in my school to get boobs (at around 11-12), and as a result was constantly teased about how flat chested I was. While at the same time the boys kept trying to touch the boobs they said didn't exist. People are confusing. Particularly middle-schoolers. They are also assholes. Particularly middle-schoolers.



This comes up on the first page of images if you google "middle school assholes." I think middle schoolers are evil, but hippos rock my socks. So I went with this. Source

•  When I was about 5 or 6, I got in trouble for some damn thing (it was always something) and my parents sent me to my room. I tried to argue with them, to no avail. I felt this was a terrible injustice. I brooded and stewed in my room, until finally I stormed out to the living room to give them a piece of my mind. I apparently delivered some wee tirade about my rights, only the conclusion of which I recall. I summed up my point by saying something to the effect of, "You can't just treat me like that! I have rights! I am a human bean, you know!" My precociousness was no match for the hilarity of calling myself a "human bean," and so of course my parents burst out laughing. Not realizing my error, this only enraged me further. My efforts to have them brought up on charges in The Hague were unsuccessful.



This is NOT what I MEANT! Source

• The only time I have been to Honolulu (it was just overnight, on my way back from Samoa) I had a very hung-over breakfast drinking a li hing mui margarita listening to the two prostitutes at the table next to me talk about the guy that got thrown out of a 5th story window that morning at the hotel where one of them was turning a trick that morning. Her nipple kept popping out of her shirt, and all I could think was that I would be really pissed if I was a prostitute and had to work the morning shift. I can't imagine it helps with tips.

This really was the sexiest (and most photogenic) part of the story. Source

• I ran a 5k Saturday morning, but then basically spent the rest of the weekend getting smashed on vodkarade and watching/hanging out at a bike polo tournament. I have to say, bike polo is kind of the balls.

Hopefully I will get around to finishing the post about the pimp I was drinking with later this week. But, seriously, who the fuck knows!? (Damnit. I need and interrobang. Where is an interrobang when you need one!?)

P.S. Speaking of interrobangs...THIS just makes me laugh too hard. I have done my fair share of "walks of shame," but I think having specific clothing for that really takes the fun out of it. I never really saw the "shame" in it, either. But I suppose if you make it a regular enough occurance that you need a special wardrobe...that is probably outside my area of expertise.

A day in the monkey-trucking life...

Good morning imaginary friends! I am in a super-cheerful mood today. Last few days actually. Believe it or not, I think the blog-vomit of my last post may have loosened up my mental constipation. (I so deserve a prize, puke and poop metaphors in the SAME SENTENCE!)

Anycow, for whatever reason, people occasionally think they should argue with me about my choice not to have children. Now I am not saying you would ever do such a thing, because you are all kind, decent people who only ended up here accidentally because you were googling asshole tattoos or "fuck me in my bathing suit." I am pretty sure swanky people like you understand that arguing with someone that they should have children when they don't want to is among the stupidest uses of time ever imagined. (Incidentally, if you have a more stupid one, I'd love to hear about it.) Some people do this, and to them I offer up "A Day in the Monkey-Trucking Life of Messy." (Incidentally, this is actually from Monday.)

5:45 am Smack phone repeatedly because you're a bit hung-over and there is no way in hell you're getting up, plead with JSun to feed the dogs so you can sleep more.

6:15 am Realize it is actually Monday, and that "one last drink" last night did nothing to change that fact. Hit snooze.

6:20 am Realize you need to leave for work in 10 minutes. Engage in some morning snogging.

6:25 am Drag your ass out of bed and thank "before" you for making sure there was clean laundry. Get dressed, brush hair, put in contacts, and brush teeth.

6:30 am More light snogging (Yes. All of the getting ready, responsible morning stuff happened in 5 minutes)

6:35 am Go downstairs. Pray to Jeff there is Diet Pepsi in the fridge. Thank "before" you again when there is. Thank "before" you for grabbing something out of the freezer for lunch. Remember you are supposed to eat breakfast with the steroid you had to take this morning from the time pineapple tried to kill you. Decide to eat cookies.

6:40 am Time warp where the clock magically says it is later than it could possibly be.

6:50 am Leave the house, a mere 20 minutes late. (This actually isn't too bad for me.) Commence with a big blah, blah, blah of work, errands (mostly going to 4 grocery stores so you can get the sparkly nail polish that you have decided will bring you the magic luck that will sell your house--never mind that you won't actually paint your nails until it sells--though I did get a couple groceries while I was at one store, and some booze), and 3 hours of commuting (seriously, we are not talking about that now--probably won't until it is over--but it is some crazy-sauce).

I think we can actually just stop here--it is clear that there is no room for children in here. The evening part of my day is a hell of a lot more fun, but it is NOT child friendly. Booze, blow-jobs, and cookies for breakfast. That's how I like my life. That's why I live it this way. I guess when it comes down to it, that's what bothers me about people arguing with me about the choice to never have children: It feels like they are implying I am incapable of figuring out what makes me happy and then living my life in a manner that achieves that. It implies that they believe they are more knowledgeable about what will make me happy or content than I am. And that's just rude.

P.S. I am sure I don't have to explain the concept of "before" me--many people talk about it--but just in case: There is the me that is now. There is this other person that is me "before" and yet another person that is "future" me. Now refuses to accept responsibility for before, because before is often an asshole. And now fails to recognize that I will eventually be future, so often fails to make necessary arrangements. Hence why before is such an asshole. There is even some science (not just Science) to the idea. One time I worked really hard to be as nice as I could to future for the following day. Laid out clothes and packed snacks and planned and went to bed early and didn't drink too much that night. It was really awesome. I have never loved before so much in my life. Usually now is too busy, though. Just monkey-trucking along. So now, before, and future live in uneasy amicability--each doing the best they can. Now is getting more considerate, though--both in terms of looking out for future, and forgiving before.

P.P.S. No. I am sorry. I don't know what my deal is with monkey. You are not the first to wonder. A few weeks ago at brunch I just yelled out "MONKEY!" When my friends looked at me with the standard, "Please tell us what the skull-fuck you are doing" look, my only explanation was, "I thought we were just saying stuff." It is a fantastic word and the animal conjures so much whimsy. And if you don't have room for more whimsy in you're life, you're probably doing it wrong. (See what I did there? I was rude.) Also, I think I have some form of voluntary Tourette's.

Sparkle Monkey-on-Payday Crack-Whore Steroids

Once upon a time, writing used to be a way that I released tension, worked through distress, and unearthed the perpetually delighted part of my soul from day-to-day drudgery. Sadly, I am so deep into the stress-worry-shame-guilt-worry-stress spiral  that I can barely move mentally. (Why yes, imaginary friends, I DO feel shame and guilt for feeling stress and worry, then worry about the shame and guilt. Thank you for asking. It makes a lot of sense, I know. Helpful, too.) Sine I can't actually write anything, I thought I would just vomit thoughts for your reading indifference, and hopefully that will lead to just enough movement that maybe I can write something soon. (Maybe I should write a treatise on precisely how--to the best of my knowledge--my particular brand of crazy works. I pull off some impressive mental contortions sometimes.) Also, the google searches leading to my blog have ceased to amuse me, so before the end of this I am going to have to try and toss something skull-fucked up in that title box. (Don't ask me what the skull-fuck is up with skull-fuck. I nunno. My brain has decided that skull-fuck can and should be inserted anywhere the word fuck is used.)

I think we will go with bullet points. Because they are fun. And they cut down on my need for mental organization. Paragraph bad. Colon good:

• I am trying to sell my house. It is showing like crazy, but no offers. (Even if I do get an offer, I may not be able to afford to sell it. [That is a really stupid sentence. I should've made the smart move.] I'm not underwater, but real estate agents want a lot of fucking money I don't have. But that shit is boring and I am not looking for this to be a bitch-fest. Unless it is the kind where it is just a festival of hot bitches, but the kind that are only bitches because they are bad-ass, not because they suck.) The point is, if WHEN my house sells, I know exactly how I will celebrate. There is a $2.50 bottle of cheap-ass nail polish at the grocery store. For whatever reason, it stole my heart. It is precisely the right shade of balls-to-the-wall red and it is glitter-as-fuck. So when my house sells, you will know because I'll be the sassy bitch strutting around with $2.50 sexy-as-a-monkey-on-payday glitter nails.
• Random note: I was once interviewing a crack-whore (I apply no judgement here, that was just her job [whore] and preferred means of payment [crack])--it happens more than you might think--and she was telling me about how she "never did it for less than five" except for one really odd time when she did it for "three-sixty." Now I am not a naive duck, and I was not then either, but for some reason (probably a desire to maintain some shred of respect for society) my brain said, "Wow she's not bad looking for a 40-something crack-whore, but who in the hell would pay $360 to fuck her?" My brain spent a few seconds wondering if she had extra holes or tongues in places I hadn't heard of before it crashed in on me that she meant she once fucked someone for $3.60. And it made me sad. And kind of amazed.
• But, really, who am I to judge? I just give that shit away for free.
• In my defense, I only have the standard issue holes and singular tongue (in the normal spot).
• Even more in my defense, I also really like to fuck--so waiting for people who will pay for it isn't practical.
• Also, I hear that if you turn your hobbies into work, sometimes they become less fun. That would blow. And not in a good way.
• Also, I have a different kind of job. People pay me to do other stuff. I gotz skillz.
• What the skull-fuck? Apparently blogger thinks it only needs three levels of bullet-points before it can just use further indenting. It is like they don't even want me to ramble on senselessly. Assholes.
• But not you. It's totally cool if you don't want me to ramble on senselessly. You are in the exact wrong place, but it is still totally understandable.
• Too far?
• Not yet.
• Too far.

No. THIS is too far. Scary pageant children of the corn. Because I can.

• Sometimes a Russle Stovers assortment box can teach you valuable lessons. Lessons like, "Sometimes you don't know what the fuck you want, so maybe just try random crap sometimes." I was in the store a couple weeks ago and boxes of chocolates were on sale. I was having an annoying day so I decided to get myself chocolates in the hopes that I would put out, and that would make me feel better. The majority of the box is now in my office. (If several week old chocolate grosses you out, you really need to buy some big girl panties. Aside from the knowing the science of how long chocolate lasts, I also have the Science of my own damn opinion based on my own damn experience.) So earlier I waited way too long for lunch, but then when I went to the kitchen there was a co-worker I really didn't want to talk to--especially while all sleep-dep-and-low-blood-sugared out--so I high-tailed it back to my office. Looking for a snack before I passed out, I decided to have a chocolate. Russle Stovers really just doesn't have much to offer in the first place, and the best ones were gone. What to pick? Surely not a molasses chew. That shit sounds gross. No one would ever ask for that. But nothing else sounded good, so why the fuck not. Guess what? Delicious. Seriously. The kind of tasty surprise that makes just enough of a positive shift in the trajectory of your day that you can still feel it hours later. Good stuff. The moral: I have no idea what in the skull-fuck I am doing. But sometimes I get it right anyway.
• Random note: The reason (one of the reasons) I know so much about how long chocolate lasts is that I am a candy hoarder. Not like the "Hoarders" kind. I don't have a ton of it. But at any given time you can bet your boots I have about 2-3 candy bars worth of candy in my office, and 5-6 candy bars worth of candy in my home. I hide it (harder in the office, but it can be done...do I file that under "D" for delicious or "H" for hidden?), because no one can stand to see my candy sitting around, so then they eat it, and I get more candy, and they eat that, and then they get pissed at me for making them eat candy. You'd be surprised how many people do this. Anycow. I hide the candy. Because the thing is--I don't really want to eat it. I eat candy pretty rarely. I like candy that comes in small pieces because I only want 1 or 2 bites at a time, and I only want that once every 1 to 2 months. But when I want candy? I WANT IT NOW OR THE WRATH AND THE DOOM OF ALL YOUR WORST FEARS WILL BE MAGNIFIED BY THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS AND AND SHALL DESCEND ON THE EARTH AND CLOAK IT IN IMPENETRABLE MISERY FOR ALL OF ETERNITY--AND THAT SHIT WILL BE LOOOOOONG! So, having candy on hand ensures that I don't have to suffer that feeling on the odd chance I want candy. Hiding it means it will be around (because trying to predict when I want candy is like trying to make sense of what I say when I get need-to-go-the-skull-fuck-to-sleep-but-gonna-cry-a-bunch-instead-drunk: nigh on impossible) when I need it, but don't have to get yelled at for making people eat candy. And the fact that I rarely eat it means it stays hidden for a long time. Hence, I know a lot about how candy ages. Wow. I think I have reached the seventh-circle of rambling. Shitsome.
• Hidden candy is also good, because sometimes people are all gloomy-gus or sad-face, and you want to cheer them up, but none of the stupid voices you make or the silly things you say help. So then you can be all, "TA-DA! Magic candy present from nowhere!" And that makes most people surprisingly happy. Just don't tell them it's been in your [I'm not telling my hiding spots!] for the last three months. If you don't tell them, they'll never know. Pinkie-swear.

This doesn't fit here, but it made me laugh.

• To follow-up on the fantastic success of "dayrinking," I recently invented "morunking." Morunking is harder to get away with. Fortunately, JSun says it is only morunking until 11am, then it's dayrinking until 4 or 5. After that, it's just cocktail hour. And a good hour it is.


Sounds good.


• So, the other day my mouth randomly decided to become incredibly painful and my lips swelled up until I was making involuntary duck-lips. 'Twas seriously suckage of the bad variety. So I go to the doctor and say, "I think I am having an allergic reaction to pineapple." I ate some, the skin fell out of my mouth, my mouth became painful as hell, and now my lips are swollen and itchy. I realize this is a bit of an extreme reaction, but my body has a track-record of "freaking-the-fuck-out" over minor insults or injuries in times of great stress. (I once had to go to the doctor, then the ER on doctor's orders, twice--and almost was hospitalized--because I scraped my gums with my tooth brush and my body decided to try and kill me in response. Lesson: Don't brush angry.) My doctor did give me the appropriate steroids for an allergic reaction, but also decided to come up with a bunch of other crazy-ass shit it could be and tests that needed to be run. Helpful. Adding imminent demise from ebola to my list of worries is helpful.
• (Like I said, I don't want this to be a bitch fest, but if my imaginary friends are curious: moving, selling a house, watching my financial resources evaporate and hoping things fall into place before I am literally out of money, transitioning jobs, negotiating contracts, starting a new business, and navigating the fall-out of a sexual encounter with friends that ended badly. Nobody's fault but my own--these are all choices I made--but I just couldn't help it. If it works out, my life will fall so neatly into place that I will be delirious with glee. The stress is hard--but big rewards are worth big risks. Except the last thing. That was just a lark. And a poor decision. Ah well.)
• Anycow, so the reason I am telling you this story, dear imaginaries, is so that I can tell you that ONCE, in ONE place, at ONE time...WebMD convinced someone they WEREN'T dying of ebola-brain-cancer. My doctor scared the shit out of me, and then I go to WebMD and it says, "Ummm...no. You are having an allergic reaction. Also, you may be dehydrated." I decided to go with WebMD on this one. Turns out, apparently aside from the normal "fucking ow!" reaction some people have to pineapple, there also seems to be a correlation between strong oral allergic reactions to pineapple and having an existing allergy to latex. (Guess what I'm allergic to?) Also, this can be made worse with exposure to sodium lauryl sulfate. (Guess what was in the mouth wash I started using the morning this started--which I also suggested to my doc as a possible cause [just the mouthwash, because it was new--I didn't know about the sodium lauryl sulfate]?) I realize that was quite a text wall, but I wanted you to know that it is possible for WebMD to make you feel better. That way you have a means of justifying looking up your symptoms the next time you want to but your brain says, "No! Don't do that! It will just tell you that you have ebola-brain-cancer and then you will feel worse." You can retort, "Shut up brain! Sometimes WebMD makes you feel better and tells you that you AREN'T dying! So I have heard it told!"
• I am doing much better now. Damn close to fine the steroids cleared it right up, though they do make me feel thirsty as fuck.

Because I am a romantic at heart.

Wow. So this turned out to be really long. I don't know if it was worth it, but maybe it will get something that is worth it percolating.

UPDATE: Oh fuck. I forgot to name this monstrosity. I just want to reclaim the joy of people finding my blog after searching for things like "fuck me in my bathing suit." (I don't know why you would search that, or how it would bring you here, but I love it.) I try to leave the word fuck out of titles, though. I usually don't give a leper's dildo, but I try not to be a total dick-nickle to people whose blogs I comment on that might. I think we get collage title.

This shit is gold. Or just shit. Whatever.

Still busy as fuck with moving and other insane life crap, but I thought I would share a glimpse with you of why you are glad you don't get emails from me. This is why:

[Actual email I sent on facebook yesterday. Except for the orange parts. I edited those. Because I can.]

Sorry. I suck at correspondance. It is on my list of things to work on about myself...but it hasn't made it to the top of the list yet. I am just a cad like that, I guess.

Thank you for the "no pressure" email. It's much better than a "put out or I'll never speak to you again" email. I've never gotten one of those, but I bet they're awkward as fuck.

I do not have an ANTI-tomfoolery policy. I am a big proponent of hanging out, having fun, and seeing what seems and feels right in the moment. In part that may be because when I make sweeping broad statements, I usually end up contradicting myself. (My god I am immature today: as I was just typing that, some part of my brain started snickering at "broad" "-dicting." Really brain? Penis jokes from that? Whatever.)

So why are you so all over the place lately? I gather it is for work, but I guess I did not realize you travel so much for work. Is this an abberation, or sort of the norm?

Do you guys know when you are coming down? No big deal, JSun and I just realized we didn't know.
Later, it was a seriously lack-luster conversation (on IM) with JSun:

1:10 PM me: Do we know when [innocent people who really shouldn't be subjected to my blog] are arriving/leaving?

1:14 PM JSun [who also probably shouldn't be subjected to my blog, but is not at all innocent]: nope

1:53 PM me: we should totally figure that out at some point...

2:10 PM JSun: yup.

So you can see, we are pretty up in arms about it. (What the skull fuck does that even mean? "Up in arms." It is weird how much shit we say that we have no idea what it means. Especially me. Or perhaps only me. I dunno. I find myself saying at least once, almost every day [in response to the question "what does that mean?" or, more often, "what in the hell does that mean?"] "how the hell should I know? I just say stuff." And it's true. And it almost bothers me/sounds like a bad idea...but not quite. It works for me. I just say shit and see what comes out. Like this message. Which is long and rambly and seriously tangential and rapidly approaching the "too long" point. It is probably already too long. But I'm not erasing it. This shit is gold. If gold were long rambly fb messages. I wish it was. I would be fucking rich. And this message would be an awesome gift. From me to you. So, in that awesome alternate universe where long, pointless email messagas are gold: You're welcome. And don't worry, I'm pretty gracious in that alternate universe too, so no need for a thank you note. BAM! Saving you time. And stationary. Point of fact: this is a run-on paragraph. Or, really a run-away paragraph. And all of it except for the first sentence is in parenthases. I bet you forgot. I didn't. Well, okay, I did. But then I remembered again. Because I am a bad ass mamma-jamma, and I don't forget close parentheses. Which is why I would make an excellent computer programmer. I am pretty sure that's all it takes.)

I think I am getting punchy and tired of being at work. Good thing I get to leave soon.

Yours until bacon strips,
Messy [How bad-ass is it that even my alter-egos have nicknames? Seriously bad-ass. Or seriously suggestive that this is turning into multiple personality disorder. Whatever. Potato, potato.]

And THAT, my imaginary friends, is why you are glad I don't email you. It's even worse if I've been drinking. Yeah...those people who contacted me on Craigslist about furniture I was selling probably didn't see that coming... 

Arson was a missed opportunity

I thought I might go ahead and make a lame-ass post explaining to my many imaginary friends, and the three real people, who read my blog why I have not been here. And why I am likely to be gone a bit longer. You see, I did a very stupid thing. I decided to move. I also decided to sell my house. (Of course buying the house was the first, and most, stupid thing--but that's another story. For that one I would have to explain that I have an ex-husband, and I bought the house to try and make him happy [shut-up, I know how stupid that sounds NOW], and he said he wanted out 2 months later, and honestly--the whole thing is just too fucking ridiculous. At least for today.)

Tirades about moving are ubiquitous, and no one runs around talking about the joys of cramming your belongings into boxes or finding mummified mini-marshmallows under furniture. (Of course they are under the furniture, mini-marshmallows are for throwing NOT eating.) I am nearing the end of my slog of misery, though. Everything is packed. Everything is painted. The heavy lifting is done. All I have left is some minor contract work to get some cleaning and painting done, and then it should be over. And this is bittersweet.

It is good because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it is bad because I am so close I am beyond the point of no return. Arson is no longer an option. The time when it really might have been worth the hassle to set everything I own on fire and watch it burn while I toasted marshmallows has passed. (Again, toasted marshmallows are for setting on fire and launching like gooey, napalm blobs of sugary doom--NOT eating.) And while, ultimately, I am glad I took the non-felonious route--I still feel a little remorse. For one thing, I don't think immolating my possessions would have left me nearly as exhausted as I am now. (I literally had to call in sick to work the other morning because I could stay awake well enough to drive to work.) I also don't think it would have been as stressful. Sure, evading detection would be worrisome--but that is mostly passive stress. You can't do anything about it, you just have to wait and see what happens. As it stands now, I have this really annoying ache in my chest that I am 90% sure is just from stress. (Either that, or I am dying of heart attack brain cancer Ebola. One of the two.)

Besides, I think it could be fun to be a fugitive. AND! I have lots of insider knowledge that would help me out. For example, did you know that many jurisdictions will let you keep your own underwear in jail if it is plain white cotton? It's true. So if you ever think you are going to be arrested and booked, be sure you are wearing plain white cotton panties. That way you don't have to wear jail panties. And, really, are there any more terrifying panties than communal jail panties? No.

So there you have it. Your reward for listening to me whine is learning how to succeed in jail and what the scariest panties are. Edu-motherfucking-cational, bishes. I await your tuition check.

Britt, I Plead No Contest...to the Charge of Starting My Second Manhattan Before Dinner

Okay. I made up a new word. And I am really excited about it.

Dayrinking.

Drinking during the day. I fucking love it. The word AND the act. Kismet.

Okay, you may think it originated on Polka dot Clovers, but that's only because I uttered it there first. Granted, Britt deserves some credit because she gives me gigglegasms and is super-duper-splendorific and makes me want to say things like dayrinking--but it was all me. Incidentally, she also makes me wish she wasn't so far away--we could have fun. If she let me get smashy-squiffy with her, I would owe her a humongo favor--but not porn. I wouldn't do porn for her. I'm not that kind of girl.


(Okay, I might be that kind of girl...But I am also the kind of girl who would want to retain all royalty rights.)


Um. Shit. Conclusion: Brittacular no longer references Brittains. Britt has usurped it. Well played. Let's celebrate. You bring the fruit, I'll bring absurd amounts of liquor. And the gatorade. Because I care.














P.S. Blogged evidence of stalking love-letters besotted tributes mentions of you are cool, right Britt?

















P.P.S. My use of links to you doesn't taint my love of adoration of fixation with enthrallment with interest in you, does it? I just want to justify my love. (Holy shit. Point for Madonna reference. Totally accidental. Still--POINT!)

Tossing salad...with LETTUCE, people!

I am very food oriented. I love to cook it, eat it, read about it, daydream about it. When I get particularly stressed out or anxious, I often have fantasies about carrying one of those boxes of tiny oranges around (satsumas, cuties, mandarins--whatever) and just beaning people in the head with one when they piss me off. That, or carrying around a bag of fresh cherries and spitting the pits at people when they get on my nerves. Sometimes, when I am bored, I imagine getting a garbage bag and filling it with shredded lettuce, then going up to people in the air so it falls on them like confetti and shouting, "Lettuce have a party!" Because I'm bad at puns. (You're just going to have to cope.) The fun thing with the lettuce is that they wouldn't really have grounds to get all that mad. It doesn't hurt, it isn't THAT much of a mess. It's just fucking confusing. Especially if you are at work. Or the proctologist's. Whatever. Maybe you work in a proctologist's office, I don't know and it's not my business. What I do know, is that you're not expecting to have lettuce thrown on you. And that is what makes it fun.

My vivid food imagination plays out in other ways as well--some good, some gag-inducing. When I am at Costco or one of those bulk stores and I walk by the vats of "Extra Heavy Mayonnaise" (who in the name of crack-loving-kittens tasted mayo and was like, "This is good--but not heavy enough! Could we possibly add some more fat to this whipped vegetable oil? Because it just isn't leaving a slimy enough coating on my mouth and throat."? If you find out, let me know. I'd like to smack them with a knee sock full of cat-pee jello.) I cannot help but imagine sticking my arm in the monstrous jar up to the elbow and swirling it around. (Have you gathered that I don't care for mayo? Because you're wrong. That is a serious understatement. I detest mayo, and so of course can smell it from 10 feet away.) This grosses me out to no end (which amuses Jsun to no end), so all it takes is Jsun tickling the back of my neck and I involuntarily shriek from the sheer ickiness. Which, I am sure, makes everyone around think I am a freak--but they probably already thought that if they watched me while away 5 minutes determining which economy size bottle of pills makes the best maraca, or if they noticed that I periodically punch or kick random grocery items in the store, or if they saw me try and start a marshmallow bag pillow fight, or...

Occasionally my food visualization is more ambivalent. At same said bulk-stores, I often find myself standing in front of the ginormo cans of nacho cheese, pondering. I know I am game to sit in a bathtub of nacho cheese. And I strongly suspect warm would be the nicest, but I think cool/room temperature would be nice too. I'd like to get other people's opinions on the matter, but no one else seems to think about this shit.

Most of the time my tactile food proclivity just leads to disappointment. I desperately want to swim in a pool (full size, in-ground type pool) filled with whole milk, but that will never happen. Aside from the wastefulness, where would I get that much milk? And who is going to let me ruin their swimming pool? I would also very much like to sit in a claw footed bathtub filled with either creme anglaise or warm melted chocolate. All of this had led me to believe that I should try to attain a pornstar-type body and start a sploshing website and find people to pay for me to do these things. Because, really, I can't figure out where to fit a bathtub full of chocolate into my grocery budget.

There is one long time food fantasy that I did live out. Since I was in high school (maybe even before then) I have wanted to do pudding wrestling. Not in a sexual way, I just wanted to play in a wading pool full of pudding. Finally, in my mid-20's I decided that I had better get off my ass and get it done. So I did. I got a big ole inflatable wading pool. I took measurements and did the math to figure out how much pudding was needed for the desired depth (gleefulest math ever). I bought 66 gallons of tapioca pudding (the kind that comes pre-made in cans). Some people did not understand the choice of tapioca over chocolate. I do not understand some people. Tapioca has a bajillion little fish eyes in it! It was the ideal tactile choice. Ultimately, a great time was had by all. After everyone else got tired of playing in the pudding, I spent about an hour lying in the pool making pudding angels. Despite repeated showerings, I smelled like pudding for 3 days. There are not words for how much that delighted me. (I was like one of those Strawberry Shortcake smelly-dolls!)

There is a whole world of tactile food experiences most people never even think about, example: cornstarch massages. (These are spiffy, but messy. Maybe that makes them miffsy.) The fact that I frequently involuntarily think about coating myself in whatever food substance I happen to be looking at (or thinking about) means I may be disappointed a lot (like how I can't imagine how to set myself into a jello mold without getting hypothermia), but it also means that if I ever find myself with a tanker truck full of milk, I will have some very good ideas what to do with it.

I get the impression my blog is inappropriate...

I realize I am a dork, but I can't help it--it's too much fun. So this is the latest list of searches that have led to my blog. Awesome. It's all naked sexpots and asshole tattoos here, all the time. Though I don't think I am going to be much help teaching people not to touch where the bathing suit covers, because bathing suits cover some of my favorite parts to have touched.


Anycow, I just thought I'd share--because it seems that if you are here, you sure as hell didn't mean to be.

Shit I might be making up: Dinner table edition!‏

I'm actually at the table with Chaseycakes, Jsun, and others, so I'll be brief (though this post is actually relevant to the point of this blog, as improbable as that may be). 

Scientific Fact: Gin must have juniper in it. In order to be a premium gin, it must have at least 12 aromatics.

Hot damn! Actually blogging on topic. Don't let it go to your head, though.

Naked Scarlett Johansson in a bathtub full of bourbon

"He is more awesome that a bathtub filled with bourbon and Scarlett Johansson." I am pretty sure that was the sentence that did it. I was trying to explain how awesome Jsun is, and that was the first good metaphor that popped into my mind. Because bathtubs are the best place in the world, bourbon is the sweet southern nectar of the gods, and Scarlett Johansson is achingly beautiful (but also seems like the sort of person you'd like to get a beer and shoot the shit with...or sit in a bathtub full of bourbon with while you both drink manhattans and tell stories about the most embarrassing place/time you ever farted/dropped the f-bomb...you know, whatever).


A bathtub, sans bourbon and Scarlett Johansson source

(Though, and this just adds to my amusement, in my mind I thought I had written "a bathtub filled with bourbon and a naked Scarlett Johansson." I later tried to explain this to Jsun, so he would know just how much of a BAMF I find him to be, and he said the nudity was implied by the bathtub. I don't know about you but I have had clothes on in the tub--not to mention having been naked just about everywhere else--so I am not as confident that bathtub implies naked. It could just be that he spends more time inferring people are naked than me, I don't know. And this has gotten wildly off topic.)

Bourbon, sans bathtub and naked Scarlett Johansson source

Anycow, I was looking at my blog analytics a day or two later and discovered that someone had found my blog by googling "Scarlett Johansson naked." It just freaking made my day. Then Jsun had to actually google it to see where my blog came up, but after 4 pages he got bored. But I am going to assume google analytics wasn't lying. It just makes me wonder how many pages of results they combed through before finding my blog. They must have really wanted to see Scarlett Johansson naked. Though, I can't say that I blame them. I suspect my blog was a disappointment. (I didn't even SAY naked Scarlett Johansson. Before.) And now with this post, I will likely disappoint more people. So I should probably just stop...but it amuses me too much so I won't. But I also won't show you Scarlett Johansson naked. I respect her too much for that.

Scarlett Johansson, sans bathtub, bourbon, and naked source

P.S. Though using a popular search or celebrity is a pretty common SEO tactic, I totally wasn't going to do it until I read about it from my Aunt Becky--and while she may not have invented it, it is always more fun to give credit to people who tickle your imagination than to be a leper's dildo and pretend you live in a vacuum and never get inspiration from anywhere. But really what made me do it? I read that post and later that day found the search for naked Scarlett Johansson that found my blog. So, really? Not even my fault. It was fate. Or coincidence. Or whatever you want to call it. But it isn't my fault. And I call it Science.

P.P.S. What is the point of all of this? A) it is entertaining as shit how people find your blog sometimes, and B) I am tired because I am moving and packing and house repairing, but wanted to post something. I have some story ideas percolating, though.

P.P.P.S. C) A point? Really? From me? I think you are confused. I just say stuff.

Harvey Milk Day, in a rare burst of seriousness

This is Harvey Milk. If you don't know, he was the first openly gay elected official in the U.S. He was also assassinated--shot 5 times while sitting at his desk. May 22 (his birthday) is Harvey Milk Day. A day for us all to try and figure out why in the hell we allow discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation to continue, and to do what we can to bring about the demise of this absurd bigotry. You can clicky-pants here to learn more about Harvey Milk, his day, and some other LGBT (or LGBTQQ, or whatever the acronym is these days) equality and support resources.

Heterosexism is bullshit, people. That's fucking Science.

The Enemy Within

Apparently my brain is both bored and intent on torturing me. Do you ever find yourself thinking about something, but you don't know how or why, and all you want to do is make it stop but it's really hard to NOT think about something? Yeah, me too. Which is why I just found myself pondering what spots a person would troll if they had a fetish for listening to other people in public restrooms take a loud, sloppy shit.* Of course I immediately wanted that train wreck of a thought to stop, so I decided blogging about it was clearly the best solution. I'm still thinking about it, but now so are you. You're welcome.

P.S. Turning on email and mobile blogging may have been a bad plan. Facilitating my impulsivity rarely yields anything but shenanigary and mayhem.

*This relates to the FACT that if you can imagine it, it is somebody's fetish. And it is true. The most bizarre one I have heard that was substantiated and documented was a guy who liked to masturbate by rubbing up against road kill he had dressed in lingerie. This blog is terribly educational, in that it educates you about terrible things you didn't want to know. Welcome to my brain.

P.S. THAT's why you have to be careful in negotiations. With crazy people.

Okay, some background. I work a bajillion light years away from where I live. It sucks. I have to find a wormhole to get to work every morning, and I think worms are gross. I also have a job with rules that were crafted by sadists, and apparently some people think there is no such thing as too damn early in the monkey-trucking morning. Net result? I get up really early. Too early. Painfully early. It would be painful if I didn't stay up too late and drink too much. Both of which I do, so my drive to work is a time of contemplating the destruction of all mankind. (Okay, it actually isn't that bad. I kind of enjoy driving, and the drive is pretty, and it gives me time to think. And I don't really stay up THAT late or drink THAT much...at least not on school nights...but bitching and moaning is funnier that being happy-clam, especially with the judicious use of hyperbole. So go with it. Plus, it does actually suck.) I am just not a morning person.

Jsun, on the other hand, is a morning person. He, however, works within crawling distance of the house. He, also, can show up pretty much any damn time he pleases. Bastard. (I mean, I love him and all. He is more awesome that a bathtub filled with bourbon and Scarlett Johansson. But still.)

So this is the IM conversation we had this morning:

 JSun:  k, I'm at work..
 me:  Damnit. Why can't I work 15 minutes from the house and have a job I
        can roll into at 9:30?
 JSun:  Well, hopefully sometime soonish you can.
 me:  Someday, I'm gonna make my own job--and then? Some days I am
        gonna schedule SPECIFICALLY so I can get out of bed later than you.
        It'll be like a game of chicken, only with not getting out of bed.
        I'll probably be late. But that's to be expected. It is me, afterall.
 JSun:  don't you do that on the weekends?  except i want to get up?
 me:  Not the same.
        But yeah, that is kinda how it works. Which is why there is a
        negotiated "get up and do everything time."
 JSun:  I think we negotiated it for one day.
           I didn't realize I was negotiating forever and ever.
 me:  We can totally negotiate to move it later, if you want.
        P.S. THAT's why you have to be careful in negotiations. With crazy
        people.

So why am I tell you about the IM conversation we had this morning? Mostly because I suck at blogging and am kind of rambly and way too amused by myself. My EXCUSE however, is so that I can brag about the most awesome negotiation in the world. (Wow. I think my excuse is even worse than the reason. I am so winning this morning. Fo realzies.*)

On the weekends, JSun wants to get up--and by "get up" I mean get out of bed, go on a bike ride to Egypt, rewrite the tax code, build a pony, take a picture of the boson higgs, and then break for brunch while we decide what to do with the afternoon. And he usually starts wanting to do this around 7:30 or 8 in the morning. No shit. I, on the other hand, want to sleep until 10 or 11, then lounge in bed till 11 or 12, then leisurely mosey towards brunch, then maybe lay in the hammock while I figure out what cooking project I want to do that day, then stroll through the store, maybe have a cocktail (or 4), and make some tamales (or dumplings, or pie, or meatballs, or arroz con pollo, or whatever). By then it is booze o'clock and I have dinner and commence with evening debauchery. Clearly, there was going to have to be some compromise.

One way or another it was decided that 9:30 is a reasonable time for Jsun to wait until to get up, and in exchange I will go do a bajillion things all day. This is known as "get up and do everything time." Despite his claims it was CLEARLY negotiated for all time and intended to be observed throughout the universe. That part is good--but the by-product is even better. If he wants me to get up earlier, he has to use sex to try and wake me up. (Okay, he doesn't HAVE to, but it really is the only most effective means.) The net result is that I either get to sleep in, or I get laid. And sometimes both! (He gets kinda cranky if he lays me really well and then I try and roll back over and go to sleep, though. Who knew? Stand-up comedians had led me to believe that men find this to be ideal. What else might they have led me astray on...Maybe I'm not a freak because I hate shopping and don't give a leper's dildo** about shoes!)

Hmmm. You know, that wasn't as entertaining as it was in my head. To make it up to you I will show you a video that is so fan-freaking-taboulously cool it makes my mind hurt and share another stupid hilarious IM conversation I had with Jsun while writing this:

[talking about someone being "LESS GEEKY" on OKC]
 me:  That's unfortunate...I like me some geeky.
        Unless you are talking about the original meaning--then less geeky is
        good. I bet biting the heads off live chickens gives you bad breath.
 JSun:  Depends on if they are mint chickens.
 me:  That might be better. But I bet chicken mints make your breath worse.
 JSun:  BAGAWK!
 me:  Step away from the chicken!
 JSun:  I can't, the cock is attached.
 me:  Your cock is attached to a chicken? That must be really
        awkard for Q [his officemate]
        ...(you know, if he's in the office with you)
 JSun:  He's the chicken.
 me:  Wow. Now it's kind of awkward for me.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I cannot help but love him. (Must...resist...urge to make stupid jokes...about nuts...and shells...) Also, we usually don't talk about chicken so much. Except when we do, I guess.

*Yes. I know. It is a horrible, horrible saying. But it keeps popping out lately. I think it's like the hiccups. You just have to keep apologizing and excusing yourself and hope it ends soon. Maybe if someone startles me or I drink a glass of water while holding my breath it will stop.

**This saying just occurred to me...but I like it instantly. Because, really, who wants a leper's dildo?

Damnit. Now I feel all guilty for harshing on the lepers.

Naked Insecurity. Well, at Least It's Naked...Everybody Likes Naked. Everybody.

This post is about revealing a list of my secrets as a blogger, and was inspired by Lauren from Filing Jointly...finally and is an attempt to address #B1 (or B#1? #1B? Or should it be HL#1? Whatever...I think I am stalling...hey, did I ever tell you about the time I broke my foot playing frisbee?)

Okay. I am going to do an easy list first, and then try and work up to a list of more challenging secrets. Deep breath. Here we go...

First the super easy list:

1. Methodique Boisson is not my real name. She is a persona (both in the virtual world and the real world) that I adopt to express a part of myself that cannot be associated with my professional life. (Though I would add the caveat that this is really me—the me I am with friends and family and even complete strangers—just not a me that I can have a google-able record of floating around for professional adversaries to have. I feel slightly embarrassed about the use of a pseudonym, because I am a pretty open person—but pragmatism dictates I pretend to be more inhibited than I am. But I suppose that is more affecting a level of inhibition that is more stringent than I am comfortable with, rather than pretending. Hmmmm. This wasn’t as easy as I thought.)

2. Redacted. In it's place I will confess this: I ruin stuff all the time. It isn't "intentional," exactly, but in hind sight it sure looks like I did it on purpose. I am not sure if this is the clarity of hindsight, denial about my culpability, or a combination of the two.

3. I am simultaneously convinced that I am “too much” and “not enough.” I am too loud, too smart, too needy, too distant, too independent, too intense, too emotional, too vibrant, too complicated, and too strange. (Holy shit the word “too” looks dumb after you use it that many times.) I am not smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, strong enough, fun enough, kind enough, friendly enough, a good enough daughter, a good enough friend, a good enough employee, a good enough professional, or a good enough partner. And the fact of the matter is, I have a lot of objective data to dispute all of that. But sometimes, I believe it anyway. I used to believe them all at once (as amazing and contradictory as that is—the brain can pull off some amazing contortions), and I have gotten to the place where that only happens once in a very great while. But they are sneaky, these thoughts, and they have split up so as to better infiltrate my defenses. They pop up just one or a few at a time now. But I am calling that progress.

4. I have really horrible nightmares. Some of them are just scary in the normal sort of way. Some of them are really gruesome. Really. The other night I spent the entire night sinking in and out of sleep, and every time I fell asleep I was in the middle of being stabbed and tortured. Sometimes I just have to watch the gruesome stuff happen to others. My brain has come up with some bizarre terrible things. How terrible you ask? Meat hook roller coaster. That is all I have to say about that. As a result, I do not like horror movies or really gory films (unless it is intentionally campy—then I sort of like those). I see enough of that crap in my nightmares. Plus, I think I am afraid of making it worse. I have had these nightmares in some form or another since I was a kid. When I was in high school, I had dreams about any person I was dating killing me. Fortunately, those have stopped. Other than me, (nearly) everyone in these dreams is a stranger now. I have started writing some of them down with the notion of trying to flesh them out into short stories or a horror novel. Maybe putting that shit on paper will get it out of my brain.

5. Related to #4 (as well as some stuff from my past), I suspect, I hate going to bed. When I was a baby, I apparently slept 8-12 hours a night and napped as well. When I was a kid I was a serious insomniac, I remember not sleeping at night as far back as about 5 or 6. Sometimes I just couldn’t sleep, the rest of the nights it was really difficult. In my teens, 4 hours of sleep was a good night. This came in handy in college, as a 20 hour day was old news to me.

Then, in my mid-20’s, I got really sick. I actually got a couple of kinds of really sick at once. As in, aside from doctor’s visits I didn’t get out of bed for 3 months (except to use the bathroom) or leave the house for 6 months. As in, my family started taking pictures of me in my sleep because they thought I might be dying. As in, doctors sent me to the ER several times a week, and no one knew what was wrong for months but everyone agreed it was serious. It sucked. I slept 20+ hours a day and was in constant pain. Even my dreams were about how tired I was and how much pain I was in. Dreaming of being gruelingly exhausted is one of the cruelest experiences I have had. Eventually I got better. I had to sleep more for a long time, but I learned to respect my body better. I slept better. Then I went to grad school, and apparently forgot every last damn thing I had learned about my body. I worked as many as 12-16 hours in a day and then read/studied at night. Sleep has been a problem again ever since. I can’t fall asleep. I can’t stay asleep. A few years ago I went 2 ½ months without sleeping more than 2 hours in a night, and most nights I got no sleep. I was hallucinating and had trouble functioning. I was barely able to scrape by at work.*

So all of this background is to say, between the nightmares and the insomnia, laying down to go to sleep is a daunting task. As a result it is difficult to get me to go to bed. (This in turn likely contributes to why I so enjoy sex that is anywhere but bed.) There is an extent to which the more tired I am, the more I need to go to bed, the harder it is to get me to go. Any number of friends and relatives can attest to this. It is not conscious avoidance, though. In the moment it just feels like I am having too much fun or I am too busy to be bothered with sleep. I just keep going…and then I collapse. I wake up on the sofa sometimes because I refuse to go to bed, but then just pass out.

I think it is getting better, though. I have a great DRP (pronounced “derp,” and standing for domestic romantic partner**), and he actually holds me all night long. That all but eliminates the nightmares, and the few I have are milder and I don’t feel scared when I wake up. It is also a really great time when we talk and connect, so I love going to bed with him. It is far from resolved, though. I am still working. Writing about it has given me some new ideas…so, I guess, thank you.

Well fuck. That was supposed to be the easy list. That was not easy. And I had a hard list and everything! How about this: Because that wasn’t easy, I’ll only post the hard list, but not explain. Deal? Deal. (Is this emotional exhibitionism? Is emotional exhibitionism a thing? I think I just like to really tackle a challenge if I am going to take it.)

The hard list:
1. I really want to be a writer and want people to read this blog, but also am embarrassed to share it with anyone.
2. I sometimes throw temper tantrums. Not as many as I used to, but I do.
3. I reflexively eavesdrop.
4. I used to use a lot of drugs.
5. I have been assaulted multiple times and by multiple people, and secretly (irrationally) worry it is something about me that caused this.

Just like ripping off a band-aid.

*Interestingly, this episode was resolved by my first visit to an acupuncturist. She said it was no wonder I could not sleep, I had flaming bucket loads too much yang (as in the component of yin and yang associated with speed, fire, masculinity, and aggression). I don’t know if it was the acupuncture or not. That night I had a huge bonfire (not recommended—seemingly coincidental), and it was just so appealing. I stood so close my face was stinging from the heat. That night I fell straight to sleep and woke 9 hours later. The streak was broken.

**There is no good word for this. We settled on derp because it is short and easy to say…and just god awful. If it can’t be good, embrace the crapiness.

Some things just need to be said out loud, like "dick-nickle"

So I actually have two Sciencey thoughts I came up with recently.

1) I bet that crap about needing to brush your hair 100 strokes a day goes back to when everyone had those natural/boar bristle hair brushes. They are kind of awesome (my hair is super fragile and easily breaks with other kinds of brushes), but you have to give yourself a repetitive stress injury in order to accomplish the task of actually getting all the hair brushed and detangled. I bet back then, if you didn’t brush your hair 100 strokes a day you looked like a matted yeti. If you were lucky. That is totally Science. Yetis = Science. Yetis iff Science. I can go all day people. I don’t know why I would, but I totally could. Merry Christmas, I’m a freak.

2) Shit. I forgot. THIS is why it is useful to have an attention span. Thanks a lot TV. You’re a dick-nickle*. (I don’t know haven’t made up yet will explain later what that means. Suffice it to say, I don’t want to be called a dick-nickle, so I suspect it works as an insult. It kind of reminds me of ass-pennies. If you don’t know what ass-pennies are, you might want to spend some time pondering why you are so sheltered. I suspect that if you don’t know The Upright Citizens Brigade, unlike me you probably have the attention span to spend time doing things that would qualify as pondering, because you haven’t eroded what tiny bit of focus you were born with by watching exorbitant*** amounts of ridiculous—if awesome—sketch comedy. I can help you with that. And help you get the edge that ass pennies provide.****)

Upright Citizens Brigade
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*YES! That is how it is spelled. SCIENCE SAYS SO!**

**It is possible that I misspelled that on accident but took the attitude, “Fuckit. I’ll leave it, and then maybe it will add to the entertainment when I get around to making up explaining the meaning of it.” And it could have transpired that I then looked up “nickle” and discovered that it is an alternate name for the European woodpecker and thought, “Fuck yeah! A dick-woodpecker. That shit makes itself up!” Plus, I like saying “dick-nickle.” But I’ll only admit to that last thing.

***Holy crapknuckles. I have been saying “exorbinant” my whole life, but there is no such word. It is exorbitant. I feel like a bit of a dick-nickle now. But you know what is a word? Shitsome. I know because I just made it up. It is when something is kind of awesome and kind of shitty. Here, I’ll demonstrate its use in a sentence:
Writing this post was shitsome: on one hand I learned something new, but on the other hand I made myself look like a total dick-nickel.
This shit is educational. You should be paying me tuition right now. By the by, where is my cut of the pee-ramid profits? I’ll assume the check is in the mail. Thank you.

****By educating you about ass-pennies. I’m not gonna shove pennies in your ass for you. That would be weird. Plus it probably diminishes the edge provided by ass pennies. See educational again. You’re welcome, from Science.*****

*****This asterisk thing has seriously gotten out of hand. I think I got them all, though. There are few things that churn my butter (in a bad way) more than an asterisk in text without the accompanying explanation. I suppose I could write normally (as in, without all the asterisks), but I’m not sure I know how to do that—SO STOP BEING ALL JUDGEY AT ME! +

+I’m sorry I yelled. To make it up to you, here’s another video. This one is from Viva Variety, with my Cool-Ass Pal Johnny Blue Jeans!




P.S. Thanks to this comic I sometimes think of Johnny Blue Jeans as my Cool Ass-Pal. Which is just different.

I promise the next post will be fun...and this one is short!

I wish I could remember how to be myself. I catch glimpses, but it has been a little while. I am a bit in the hole just now, though, so it probably hasn't been as long as I think it has. Either that, or it has been longer...

The Balance

I am a difficult woman to love. This is a fact. Like saying I have brown hair. Or nice tits. (Arguably the latter is subjective, but mine are nice enough that I will assume I could get the sort of consensus necessary for it to be passed off as fact. Besides, this is Science, not science.) My point is that this is simply so. I can be more accommodating in certain directions, but I cannot change it.

Nor should I. Much of what makes me difficult to love is also what makes me so lovable: I have great spirit and passion, I am fierce, I am (almost) always up for fun (even when it is time for bed), and I almost always find it. My emotional life is rich and deep, varied and nuanced. And I have a near (or actual) compulsion to share it. I am pathetically broken, and astoundingly whole. I am impulsive, which means you never know what to expect, but there are lots of fun surprises.

There is an interesting balance I must undertake in accepting this about myself, though. Err too far one way, and self-deprecation creeps in...I devalue myself and make concessions I never should. I feel myself in debt to my partner for tolerating me, and resent that person for being so much better, so much easier to love, than I am.

Err too far the other way, and I am likely to do even more of a disservice to my partner and the relationship. I will take that person for granted. I will forget to try to be the best me I can bring to them. I will forget that I can be trying--and I need to be patient when their patience is tried. I might forget the whole universe of need and want that lies on the other side.

If I am brutally honest, I can see that this has happened. All of it. Sometimes separate, sometimes all at once. Throughout my past, and even recently. And I cannot change what has been. And this is another balance: Remembering the errors of my past, so I do not repeat them, but not beating myself into despair with my prior short comings.

All I can do is try. Because I am a difficult woman to love, but I am very worth loving. I am very worth loving.

It isn't Science. It isn't drunk. And it sure as hell ain't funny...but sometimes my voice isn't funny. That is what I am trying to find here. My voice. Because sometimes the sad, or the angry, or the just plain complicated get tied up in the funny. So this is part of my voice, and I have to find a way to incorporate it.

I am worth loving.

Late(ish...for me) musings...

Downer. For realsies. Skip it.






Okay, fine. You asked for it.





Again.






Take a moment: What is the worst thing you have ever done? What is the worst thing you have ever done professionally?

Can you live with it? Why are you in (this) business?

I convinced a young man to try and turn his whole life around. He trusted me beyond reproach. I let the system tell me what to do. I never lied. I never violated the technical ethics. From a certain perspective, I made the most benevolent choices for him...I still cannot count what I would give for the chance to have been truly honest with him.

That is the basic problem with my job: I digest the sewage of society, and I serve a high ideal when I do so--but a lot of human compassion gets set aside in respecting the basic humanity of all. (Or one's closest approximation.)

A post-it note makes a very good mask

I want to be on the interwebs! But I don't. Fortunately, group efforts at documenting our drunkenness have helped.



Point 1: Yes. I have lovely boobs. Sometimes I kiss them myself, they are so yummy.

Point 2: That is a horrible facial expression. (Not sure why I am posting this, other than I decided to when I was REALLY drunk, and I tend to post ALL drafts on this blog.)

Point 3: Though you (sadly) cannot read the diagram above, the post-it note on my face is diagramming the plan of myself and Chaseycakes to create a pinata filled with BBQ sandwiches (as befitting of the American south).

Point 4: My twin posts dirty pics of herself all over the internet. I have advised against this. She has advised against my cocktail enthusiasm. I guess we all have our limits.

Point 5: Are you reading anymore?...Or are you just running your eyes over the text while you think of my slattern twin?

I think Gin and I may need to have a talk...

Gin and I have never seen eye-to-eye...but I am contemplating calling an international peace summit. With Gin.



So this is a Gin Fizz (with the egg white...TRUST ME, I know it is terrifying and we are all  going to die [I have had food poisoning an unreasonable number of times and am subsequently terrified of it every time I eat even a Butterfinger], but it is both delicious and worth it). Even better (and I do love the basic/"Ramos" gin fizz), this is a Damson Gin Fizz...meaning it is a gin fizz made with Damson Gin, a gin flavored with damson plums. It makes me want to touch my boobies, it is so tasty.

Anyway, this in conjunction with my experience of liquor tasting (which is just not the same damn thing as wine or beer tasting--WATCH THE FUCK OUT!) at the Ebb+Flow distillery...They had a lot of tasty stuff, but the gin was so exquisite and refined that it made me think. One of these days, gin and I need to have a reckoning.

Naturally, I do not particularly care for gin. I actually think it smells like medicine sometimes (yes, I understand the pragmatic reasons why that is so--doesn't matter if you can't manage/ignore the association). But I am starting to think she is the sexy librarian, and I need to spend some time with her so she will unbutton her blouse, take off her glasses, and shake down her sexy hair...

Also, it seems like a good excuse to spend a day getting insanely drunk and blogging...It also is inspiring me to look into what it would take to turn this blog into a business...How awesome would it be if I could write my booze receipts off? I actually don't have a word for that level of awesome.

Damnit, if I could get the baba ghanoush I used to get in Madison, Wisconsin (at The Casbah), I would have to say life was damn near perfect. I am not sure what it means when pureed eggplant stands between you and perfect happiness, but I think it is a damn good thing.

Because no holiday is complete without a penis cookie...and I forgot to post it earlier

I love the holidays. I know it isn't cool...but I do. I have always been a dork, if it means I get egg nog, I am willing to stay one. Happily. I'm not into a specific holiday, it is just that everyone gets a winter holiday, and so I am willing to accept whichever one is available and convenient.



For a long time, my mom had rules (RULES!) about how cookies could be decorated...I left for awhile, but by the time I came back, I decided there could not be COOKIE RULES (that is CRAZY TOWN)! Now I (sadly) live very far away, but I get to make whatever the fuck cookies I want. And I want penis cookies. I think it is because I like cock. But that isn't the sort of thing you can actually say. Unfortunately.

P.S. I am sure this relates to Zombie Jesus somehow...so it is probably totally appropriate that this winter holiday post is being posted for the Spring Sexytime holiday. (Spring...eggs...fertility...the ubiquitousness...it is the SEXYTIME holiday...which means it should probably be my favorite...)

Ectoplasmgasm

I don't think this post worked out so well. If you are new here (which everyone is--if there was anyone...which there isn't), I would try this, or this, or maybe this. Hmmm...Maybe you should just come have a drink. Then you would know I am funny. I am much funnier with a lot of context...and the ability to use hand gestures...and facial expressions...and to flash my boobs at the audience if the whole thing goes south...

I...don't exactly remember this. Not that I was so drunk (possible), but it was just awhile ago and I found this picture I forgot to write about (true).



My biggest question is, why is there no damn cherry in there? We were putting limes on goddamned everything for awhile, all the colors of the rainbow--why not a cherry when the drink is green? Or at least a damn lime? Or some curtains...Or SOMETHING! Though perhaps I should just be thankful there was nothing on the drink to stab me. Even though the last drink stabbing made me exquisitely happy. So I shouldn't be thankful after all. Great. We are right back where we started, and the journey wasn't even entertaining. Unless you've been drinking. Which, of course, I have not. I don't go in for that sort of thing.

Oh yeah. I was going to say something about this picture. (I swear, I have the attention of a chimpanzee on crack.) So, it's defining characteristic is generic, store-brand Kiwi-Watermelon soda. To be honest, I didn't want to get involved...BUT THEN IT WAS ECTOPLASM GREEN!!! I still didn't want to drink it, but I sure as hell wanted to watch someone else drink it. That is the best part about making drinks for a lot of your loved ones: You get to see people drink shit that fascinates you, but you don't want to drink.

I don't know what booze was in there, but does it matter? Let's call it vodka. Who cares. Unless you are offering. Then I totally vote for vodka. Unless you have bourbon.

I think it may be time for bed again. DAMNIT! I WILL DEFEAT YOU ONE DAY, INSOMNIA! AND THEN I WILL BE FUNNY AGAIN!!!


P.S. I am stupidly watching "Toddlers &Tiaras" again...I like the "crazy," but it has gone well beyond that...I think this may be the last time I watch it, as it now seems a bit evil...A mom is pitting TWINS against each other, and is obviously on the side of one over the other...I am seriously debating whether I need to call DSS...I don't/can't...but some people are evil bitches. Just saying.

P.P.S. I may be sensitive to this...My little sisters (twins) used to insult each other as "ugly" or "fat"--even though just about anyone looking at them would call them identical. Breaks my heart, and always had.

P.P.P.S. Damnit! That isn't fun! How about this: I just took my top off. Topless blogging.

P.P.P.P.S. I was just going to say it--but I couldn't. I don't like to lie. Especially about nudity. NUDITY IS MY FAVORITE!

P.P.P.P.P.S. (I just said "pee-pee" more than twice! *giggle*) This post is a total patchwork--if that wasn't obvious--I totally jumped from beginning, to end, to middle, to middle of the end, to end of the beginning, to end of the middle...and so on. There was a lot of variance in...um, carbs? Does that cover it? (We all know I am drinking, I am just trying to find a good euphemism...)


This was clearly GASMIC.

(new) P.S. I once tried to get the license plate "ORGA" on a custom state plate that had the automatic suffix "SM". No dice. Party poopers. I went for "MIA." I found it hilarious, but I spent the year explaining that my name was not "Mia" and that I did not have an acquaintance in the military who was "M.I.A." Apparently no one was familiar with the concept of the miasmic theory of infection...and thus did not get why it was HILARIOUS to call my car a "miasm."

What I learned that year: No matter how funny you find a joke, if you have to explain it to EVERYONE--maybe it isn't all that funny.

Random MONKEY-trucking!

Okay...so there are a half-dozen partial posts (by which, I mean pictures with at least half-interesting titles, if not decent text...or any text...) in my drafts folder, but instead--I think I will post some bullshite stream of consciousness cram. (That was a total accident, I meant to say "crap," but it made me think of the cramberries and giggle--so I am leaving it. We have covered the stubborn bit. Plus, until someone else is reading this, I figure I can be a self-indulgent ass...Like I usually am.)



Alright, so not related to anything: “Toddlers & Tiaras” is one of the most messed up things I have ever seen…It is almost enough to make me think booze and Netflix is a bad thing. Almost. My only consolation is that it is not the kids who look nutso in the buttso on the show. That--and apparently it is educational. I will admit to being 3-deep tonight (I always giggle when I say that, but I mean drinks), but I am LEARNING shit.

A) There is/was a little 6-year-old girl in West Virginia simultaneously participating in wrestling and pageants. Each is creepy to some. Some find both creepy. But still--it shows breadth. At age 6.

B) According to this documentary (that sounds SO much classier than “reality show”), I have discovered that child pageants are a gathering place for gay (or pseudo-gay) men in West Virginia. It isn’t anything pervy! I want to be clear on that. But, apparently, they aren’t allowed to gather elsewhere in the state. As a result, they seemingly marry, have children, then coach those children in pageants, so they can finally achieve a more comfortable social setting.

C) The word “personality” is said no less than 24.78 bajillion times per pageant. “Personality” is a stand-in for everything from physical attractiveness, to expensive clothing, to dance skills.

D) Apparently, it is legal to dress a small child up as a dominatrix, have her dance provocatively in front of an audience, and then televise it.

E) Competition has become this bizarre mélange of speaking well of the competition, trying to cut everyone else down, taking any advantage you can buy, and awarding everyone a prize regardless of performance. My cow. I find this shit confusing, what the hell do little girls make of this? “Stab her in the back, but then give her a ribbon for taking it like a champ!’?

I don’t really have any Science. (But neither do most of the people who claim “Science”…one more shampoo telling me it is “Scientifically improved” and I am going to make some ad executive out there a shampoo pudding for dessert.) Here is what I do have: How many of these lessons have we not already learned from Disney? (How do I make the “registered trade-mark symbol”?)

Wow. I was going to tell you about how awesome mint juleps are…but clearly I need to go to bed. Insomnia (last night) is a bitch, and I will cut that bitch the first chance I get. (But I’ll give her a present if she takes it well.) In the mean time, I will publish this nonsense, take a shower, use my partner’s armpit as a hair-styling tool (I will explain later…maybe), and go the fuck to bed. Which is good. Now I have to have a mint julep again soon, so I can explain how awesome they are.

P.S. That picture is of a mint julep.

P.P.S. My initials are engraved on that cup.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I am a bad-ass-monkey-trucking-madam of an imbiber.