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.