BEANIE TO THE WEINIE

Because it's my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want to, I would like to take a moment to introduce you to my youngest sister, Bean. (That's not her REAL name. It's just a nickname. Her real name is Jaymison McSnottypants-Buttheadface.)

She's a brat.


That face isn't so much the exception. It would be much more of a rule.

Oh yeah, she's also married... and younger than me. All at the same time, but whatever. I'm not bitter. She's taller than me, thinner than me, better endowed in the chest area, and bitchy to the extreme (WHAT?! You are!) BUT! to the untrained eye, we totally look like twins.

See:

SLRd (me)	Bean (her)

Ohhh! Guess who's sluttier! GUESS! (If you said me you're a prick.)

I know what you're thinking. THAT IS THE EXACT SAME IMAGE! However! It isn't true. I'm sure if I hadn't labeled our pictures and told you she was the married one you wouldn't have known. You would have accused me of such wrong-doing as using... the.. exact same picture. This is because I know you, Internet, and you are a harsh and judgemental bitch. Petty even. But I promise you on all this bloggity holiness that those are two drastically different individuals in those pictures. And I purport that I am the better dresser. I'm just saying.

Also, a side note to her husband, this is NOT a face you can ever hope to see again:


See, because she's married she doesn't have to do that anymore. Tiff said so.

But I digress.

The reason I went through all the trouble of giving you an intimate look at the Beanie to the Weinie is because she has provided us with an unpresidented opportunity. An opportunity to go on an adventure, dear reader(s)! An adventure THROUGH TIME. Would you do that with me? Would you like to travel back a few years to the ONLY NIGHT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I may not entirely remember? The only night that when regaled by hilarious quotes and reminisced witty banter I routinely laugh heartily before asking, "who said that?"

The answer is always me.

Now, rather than spending the last 300+ words making fun of her, I could have just rewritten her blog entry over here, but she used such pretty (obnoxious) colors, I thought, "what the hell?" Not to mention this was so much more fulfilling.

SHE'S A LADY WHOA WHOA WHOA

When I got back from working out you know what I wanted? Huh? Can you guess? Water, you say? Um, well, yes, but after that. A massage? Oh. Oh, you are good. Well played my dear adversary, but you're still wrong.

I decided I wanted a good, ole, steaming cup of tea.

But not just any tea. No, because last time I went to the grocery store I splurged. Because it was free. And I bought myself some Lady Grey, because sometimes an Earl is just too much. No, sometimes you just need a delightfully robust Lady to really get the juices flowing.

Me. Ow.

IS IT THE WEEKEND YET?

The weekend was a bust kids. I sort of feel like it didn't even happen.

I didn't go into this weekend thinking it would suck great big donkey balls. No, I went into this weekend thinking I had plans Saturday. Plans that involved a bar and some shameless, drunk flirting and a designated driver in the form of the Distraction, because it was his best friend's birthday.

There was no bar.

(There wasn't really much flirting either. Bastard.)

No, instead we went to the Distraction's best friend's (here after known as DBF) coworker's house. Where they talked about work. THE WHOLE TIME. Which, um, yay beer? But HOLY FREAKING GOD PEOPLE. Nobody, absolutely nobody in the history of the world is that interested in what they do and what they "do" is work for Macy's in the credit department or some such shit.

Now, I would LIKE to be liked by the Distraction's friends because to be such increases the chances of hanging out, but I find DBF frustrating in that he's a very one-sided conversationalist. If we aren't talking about him or if he isn't the center and the glory of the conversation, he glowers.

This annoys me. Particularly since I know that to be a good conversationalist, it is recommended you ASK THE OTHER PERSON SOME QUESTIONS or, at the very least, appear somewhat interested when they do dare to open their mouths.

I'm just saying.

And I have tried to engage him. I really have. The first night I met him I was content to ask question after question and listen raptly as he told me of his bouncer hijinks but come Saturday, even the Distraction was bored as evidence by the text he sent me that said, quite simply, "boring."

A TALE OF TWO MATT'S

"Men can lactate."

"No."

"Yes. It's a sympathy reaction in some men."

"No way. No man is that sympathetic."

"Not a straight guy at least. I wonder if that is a sign you're gay?"

"No. I think liking men is a sign you're gay."

A WORK IN PROGRESS/UPDATING AS IT HAPPENS

After drinking really expensive scotch:

"It's like if a briquette had a rectum and you licked it."

* * *

"Fanny in England means vagina."

"So why does it mean butt here? How did we get that so screwed up?"

"Knickers means underwear."

"No, that's bloomers. No wait. Those are those things with the elastic around the knee women used to wear under their dresses."

"And those were underwear."

"Roomy underwear!"

"What? You don't like roomy underwear?"

"I do! Heh. Wouldn't it be funny if I just dropped trow and was wearing bloomers?"

* * *

"You know what would make you feel better, Matt? If A had some scotch."

"But I don't want any scotch."

"But look at it. It likes you. It doesn't swirl like that for just anybody."

"It's trying to seduce you."

* * *

"Ohh! What if you soaked a steak in the scotch?!"

"It would no longer exist."

* * *

"Okay, what are you doing? I'm bored."

"We're sitting around talking about UFC and how my sister shamed me."

"Um.. yeah.. fun."

"Well, if you come over you have to drink scotch."

"DEAL. Wait. Let me ask Not Girlfriend."

"Oh my God, you're whipped!"

* * *

"It tastes like they distilled a tire fire."

* * *

"You should pet my fuzzy thing."

AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O

Tonight I skipped working out to go to the grocery store. This seemed like a good idea, particularly because the ingredients used in the last four meals I've "made" myself consist of bread in varying degrees of toastedness and peanutbutter.

There may even have been jelly used on one occasion but, alas, that too was in short supply.

So to the grocery store I went for the first time in numerous days (10. Ish.) and oh. I was a greedy little shit. I got just over $100 in groceries. Guess how much I paid? Just over $1. NO, I DIDN'T STEAL IT.

You see, this weekend my work had a really boring employee picnic. At said picnic there was BINGO and I did my damnedest to make my Grandma proud. At the picnic I won an envelope full of gift certificates to Krogers and while they were probably supposed to go to more than one person, their loss was my gain.

God, this post is going no where fast.

BUT! I did find out that Zanarans black beans and rice is some tasty shit. Even if it did pass it's use by date a couple of months ago.

Uch. Alright, I'm bailing now before this can get any worse. Maybe you should suggest topics again. Like "most embarrassing moment" or "first kiss" or "when can I take you out for a romantic rendezvous". Yup.

ISH

Friends, family, and stalkers. Dear, sweet, gentle reader(s) of my blog, I need your help to prove a point.

A good few of you have already weighed in on this debate but alas, it still rages. You see, the Distraction, he has this pesky little belief that is WRONGWRONGWRONG. And I, being the good and gracious person that I am, want to rub his nose in it.

The Distraction believes to the very fiber of his being that if he tells me he'll be somewhere at, oh lets say 11:30, and then throws an "ish" onto the end, that gives him leeway to be upwards of 40 M-I-N-U-T-E-S late. FOURTY. Four. Zero. I ascertain that "ish" equals 20 minutes, tops. Twenty. Two. Zero. As in HALF of what he thinks it should mean.

And that, dear reader, is where you come in. How much time does "ish" really give you?

Also, the Distraction has started to tell me that UFC is fake (WHICH IT SO TOTALLY IS NOT) because he likes watching me snivel and whine about it and also, he's an asshole. And now I have to go take a nap so I'm in a (somewhat) pleasant mood when he comes over to hang out after he gets off work tonight.

FOR MICHAEL DIAL 001# NOW ON YOUR TOUCH TONE PHONE

As fate would have it, I owe Michael a blog entry. Among other things. And, truth be told, a blog entry from me is like sexual favors because one mention on this bad boy and the lady friends will be lining up DOWN THE BLOCK, that is the sort of clout I have around up this joint.

Word.

And you know what potential lady friends of Michael the Great, the Stud, the MAN? It is a well known fact that smart is the new sexy and the Man? He has brains out the ass. He probably qualifies for MENSA but don't let that fool you. He's not one of those assholes who has to prove himself to others by talking down to them. No, no, the man is suave. He's smooth like butter without the greasy feel.

And easy on the eyes! He's tall and lean, like a love machine and Michael the Magnificent has a face that could launch a thousand ships, which, lets be honest, wars have been started over less ladies. But fret not. The man has time for all of his new beautiful girlfriends. Able to satisfy ALL of his charges with just enough time left over for cuddles and talking about his feelings.

And does he ever have feelings. He's open and sweet and caring and he'll make you feel like a queen.

Did I mention he's loaded? Oh, don't you let that grad school persona fool you. He's recently come into a multi-billion dollar inheritance and he would love nothing more than to spend the money on you and saving the penguins.

His tears cure cancer and he can stop global warming with his smile. The sun shines because Michael the Luxurious says it should be so.

And he could be yours for the low, low price of five easy payments of $19.99 each.

REINVENTING BRAND LOYALTY

I want to marry whoever came up with this website. I have not laughed this hard in a long, long time.

NOTE: This is NOT work appropriate. That means you, dear sister.

LONG STORY SHORT, I HURT MY FOOT

It is not unusual for me to drop things. My keys mostly but I've branched out. I've even dropped things like my cell phone, cups, eggs, and knives and usually quite close to my beloved tootsies. Yet, despite quite the list of sharp and/or dangerous falling within a hair's-breath of my feet, I am thankfully without scarring or a pronounced limp.

This is because as a sort of necessity against my own apparent lack of coordination, I, subconsiously, have developed a defense mechanism against such folly. I'm a very freaking quick to get my foot the hell out of the way. Seriously, though. It's almost comical to watch me kick the impending victim my leg out of the way the instant something begins to slip from my grasp.

Unfortunately, I found out on Thursday, I apparently have to be watching it fall to beget the required reaction.

Now close your eyes and come on a magical journey with me through time to Thursday morning as I was all naked and wet in the shower. The water cascaded down in thick, steamy streams as I lathered my hair as is my wont. Having had AT LEAST 15 years experience taking showers, it isn't common that something as trivial as soap gets in my eyes, nor did it this day because I closed them. "Go you", you might be saying to yourself (either that or "big freaking deal") but alas that was only the first is a not-so-long line of cause and effect.

It was about the time that I shut my eyes tight that I discovered I had not the significant amount of lather in my hair. So I reached out, clumsy and blind to grab at the shampoo.

Yeah, I knocked my conditioner off the shelf. Demon bottle landed TIP DOWN on the top of my innocent foot, causing a slight welt and a bruise that I have since developed the annoying habit of knocking into with my other foot while I sleep.

I know you all think I have this rough and tough exterior and that I could probably take a bullet without so much as flinching, but it's just not true (and really, this super hero worshipping has got to stop). I whined and whimpered like the sissy little girl I am and I even created this LONG ASS BLOG ENTRY over something as dumb as dropping something on my foot. While I was naked. In the shower.

What? Why are you looking at me that way? Ew. Stop it. STOP LEERING AT ME! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT IS OKAY BEHAVIOR BEFITTING OF A LADY?!!! Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!!!

Pervs.

LAME BUT UPDATED

My apartment is FAH-REE-ZING. Why don't you turn on the heat you suggest? Because my heat is connected to the whole building so the landlord has to do it and he informed me Wednesday that on Thursday they would either turn it on for the year or DETERMINE IF IT NEEDED REPLACED.

Blink. Blink, blink.

And now I ask you, why was this not done BEFORE it got to be 41 degress IN MY APARTMENT?! My appendages might FREEZE. OFF.

WTF, dude?!

Oh, also, one of the screws that holds my toilet seat on is broken.

* * *

Last night my buddy's wife was making us all cake when his brother showed up and spewed this little gem: "Oh, you want that butter soft? I'll make it soft for you.... You won't still want it."


And then later, this one: "I gave you a perfectly good tag line and--"

"It was dirty!"

(Shocked, gapping-mouthed silence) "It was dirty?! Coming from you?! You're one towel away from becoming a pornographer!"


Asshole. I used a pink heart to cover up his cash and prizes, too.

* * *

This made me giggle. I heart the hat.

MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE FOR RIGHT NOW

I'm giving up men.

Not entirely, mind you. I'm thinking a month to start off with. Because as much as I want to be okay with things, I'm not completely okay. And I know I will be but right now? All of this? It makes me angry. And it makes me frustrated and I feel hurt and yeah, even used.

Part of it might be hormonal. Actually, you know what? Yes. Yes, I can guarantee you part of this is hormonal, which bahh. WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS.

I think the biggest thing driving this decision is that I haven't been making the best choices for ME, right now, at this moment. And they haven't been BAD choices, just not the right ones or the best ones, and I'm emotionally drained from being angry at the outcome and angry with the people involved.

So for now I'm retreating, rallying the troups, regrouping for another charge. Because it's the smart thing to do. And it's the right thing to do. But it really sucks to do because temptation is an ugly bitch, and god am I tempted.


(On the plus side, I'm actually allowing myself to get angry rather than hiding how I feel and letting it fester and infect me until it presents itself as depression, so... go me.)

AND THE WEINER IS...

Michael!

You realize that with the w(e)inn(er)ing of my contest, you will be blessed with good luck and lots of amorous, pert women who will litter your bed with conquests?

OR

The OTHER great prizes you were promised for participating which are (in order of importance):

1. My love and adoration


2. Use of tagline on THIS VERY BLOG for the rest of THIS VERY MONTH


3. A nice entry written about you (that doesn't involve the earnings of college moneys in raunchy ways) that you can print and frame and hang on your wall so people realize you are friends with ME


4. An autographed dollar in the shape of an armadillo

All of which will happen later. Except the tagline usage, which is actually already happening. See: above.


So, yay Michael and thank you everyone else for playing along! For those of you distraught about not winning, there shall be more games later. Because I'm an attention whore.

IT WASN'T A DATE

We crept through the haunted house (themed with clowns, which, ew) with obnoxious 3D glasses that made the Distraction look like a lame superhero. I was so intent on making my way through the warped mirrors I didn't notice the Distraction mouthing to the creature sneaking up behind us to get me.

I screamed bloody murder, startling the older women ahead of us, before doubling over into a fit of giggles.

Those same older women also laughed at me for saying, and I quote, "Hold my hand, goddamnit," to the Distraction about halfway through. Right about the same time we were accosted by a CREEPY-ASS CLOWN, and I am not a fan of the clown in the BEST of circumstances, thankyouverymuch.

I also clung to the back of the Distraction's shirt as we felt our way through a choking, smoke-filled shack where he almost whacked his head on, well, a decapitated head hanging from the ceiling.

Ohhh! And there was definately the having of the cotton candy. Which he paid for.

But it wasn't a date. I asked.

"No." He glanced quickly in my direction. "Yes? I don't know! WHY DO GIRLS ALWAYS HAVE TO LABEL EVERYTHING?!"

I laughed maniacally, "Well, I have to know, because if it IS a date, it would be a first date, and that means I can't put out."

He eyed me suspiciously.

I punched my leg in self-righteous indignation. "It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing," I declared. "Besides, that would make me a whore."

I think it was about that time he realized I was kidding.

He looked at me, a bemused smile on his face. "So you can put out if it's not a date?"

I laughed.

"Yup," he said, "definately not a date."



The coolest thing I saw all night was a skeleton doing a keg-stand while his decomposed buddy bonged a beer out of a spine. HIGH CLASS.

ICKY-CREEP-OUT-FREAK-OUT

Yeah, yeah. I know I said I was going to leave the TAGLINE post up until Friday but I LIED! I realize you're shocked and appalled but I'm fairly convinced you'll get the hell over it.

Now, many, many, many, as in most if not all of you are WELL aware that I am easily startled. So easily, it isn't really even a challenge. So easily, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO BE TRYING. So easily that if you MERELY STANDING where I do not expect you to be, I WILL scream and do my icky-creep-out-freak-out, which may or may not involve jumping in the air and the flailing of arms and legs because, when I'm startled, I seem to lose control of fine muscle movements and SPASM. It's an awesome party trick. See: Back when I was in the old house, and Eric and I used to hang out a lot more than we do now, he was talking to me in my bedroom before I kicked him out so I could change. Like any NORMAL PERSON would, I assumed he WENT THE HELL DOWNSTAIRS AND WAS NOT GOING TO JUMP OUT AT ME UNEXPECTEDLY (even though after the fact, I'm fairly certain I could HEAR HIM OUT THERE).

He jumped out and then collapsed to the ground as I screamed BLOODY EFFING MURDER and swung my shoes into his chest.

It's a shame they weren't heels.

Ahh, but here's the rub. I actually LIKE being startled. It's a jolt to my system, it gets the juices flowing, it makes me feel alive in a way that normal life just doesn't. And.. it's funny, which you know I'm all for.

And that, my dear reader(s), is why I'm so bloody, freaking excited. Not only is this wonderly delicious month the month of ghoulish horrors, when it's permissible and sometimes even encouraged to creep and scare and lose your shit, but tomorrow night the Distraction and I are going to the Halloween Haunt at Kings Island. Roller coasters and haunted houses all rolled into one and delivered to me in the shimmering darkness and (hopefully) crisp chill of a brilliant October night.

I am nearly orgasmic with excitement.

TAGLINE

EDIT: This post isn't going away until Friday so you might at well leave me a comment. Particularly if you ever have or ever want to call yourself my friend again. I'm looking at you and it isn't pretty.


Hi kids. You see my new masthead? The one where Jennith is viciously attacking me with what appears to be blood dripping down her face?

That so totally happened.

Now, you also see that blue box across the bottom of the masthead? That is where the tagline should go. The one I can't think of, so I'm asking for suggestions because I'm not thrilled with the one I came up with. So I'm taking requests and I will unceremoniously choose the winner on FRIDAY.

And the winner will win nothing but my love and adoration and I'll use the winner's tagline in the masthead you see above and I will write a VERY nice entry about how much this person means to me and how my life would be a worthless void without then and some other meaningless dribble. SO SEND IN YOUR ENTRIES TODAY! IN THE COMMENT SECTION!

Woo!


EDIT: In case you were wondering, if you DON'T play along, I'll cry. And besides, those prizes? ARE AMAZING! You would rue the day you didn't enter this FREE contest and win those totally awesome, cooler-than-cool prizes. Did I mention this contest is FREE? Ohhh! Ohh! AND! And if the winner lives in Cincinnati, I WILL BUY THEM LUNCH. And if the winner doesn't live in Cincinnati I will... send them a dollar in the shape of an armadillo? Autographed?

I WANT MORE ENTRIES THAN TWO!!! And for the two who have already entered, I LOVE YOU!!!! XOXOXOX!!!

TAKE A HINT ALREADY

Allow me to make a suggestion.

If you're looking to find yourself a distraction, might I recommend one who doesn't work 70+ hours a week? Because then, when he doesn't call when he says he will or is stupid enough to believe that you DON'T want to be invited out because you'd rather play a VIDEO GAME? (even one as cool as Guitar Hero), you'll know for absolute sure it's because he might not be all that interested, DESPITE all the flirtation and other less than subtle signs that you may want to cling to.

And to think, after our conversation on Friday, I thought we were making progress. Damn dude. No wonder your ex-girlfriend bailed out of this.

But it isn't all for broke. Last night, for the first time in almost a year, I went to an event my fraternity (Yes, I was a member of a fraternity. I've also been the best man in a wedding. AND THAT MAKES ME MORE OF A MAN THAN YOU.) and one of my brothers spent nearly the entirety of the evening hitting on me, only to yell after me as I was leaving, "If things don't work out with that 70 hour a week guy, you let me know because I'm only taking 13 credit hours so I'll have plenty of time for you."

Which is sweet, really, but I'm just not interested. No. No, really. I prefer my men to be helpless causes.

Around midnight I called 70 hour guy to tell him of my evening thinking he was still at work BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HE TOLD ME HE WOULD BE DOING, only to find he was drunk at a bar and not really into taking my hints to invite me along.

Moron. Unfortunately, I'm not sure who is the bigger one though, him or me.

MEDICINE HEAD? YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN SUDAFED

Not that this will come as a surprise to most of you but I think I'm sick in the head.

No. Really. I think I have a sinus infection. The simple act of breathing has become laborious. Only one of my nostrils is working. When I'm lucky. And it wheezes. I sound like a sad, pathetic kazoo. You don't want to know what I coughed up this morning.

And the thing is, I PREDICTED THIS. From the very instantaneous moment I got my first noseful of overly chlorinated, yet disturbingly sludgy water I KNEW. But did I let that prevent me from swimming in the freaking freezing water and probably dropping my core body temperature dangerously low before some genius decided to check to see if the INDOOR POOL was heated?

Of course not.

AND did getting a second and then a THIRD noseful of questionable water prevent me from attacking the boys just to get an indian rug burn and one U-G-L-Y ass bruise, which... happens to... be on my ass?

Yeah, definately not.

Am I dumb enough to hope this goes away on it's own?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Bring on the cherry flavored NyQuil (What?! Sudafed makes me jittery).

GUITAR HERO II

I've been postponing writing this entry. It isn't something that happens to a girl every day. I mean sure, we all hope it will happen. Most of us day dream about it since the time we are little girls though, really, you can never truely plan for this day.

You see, gentle reader, I... am in love.

And his name is Guitar Hero II.

Our relationship had quite the rocky start. At first, I was hesitant. I didn't want to join in. I didn't want to be judged because of my lack of experience. You see, I'm not every good at coordinating my hands and Guitar Hero can be a cruel master. I knew deep in my soul that I couldn't stand his scorn should I fail to satisfy his every expectation.

And lo. I was right. That first night I attempted to please Guitar Hero was a disaster! I only made it part of the way through before being booed and mocked. I think there might even have been some crying and gnashing of teeth and I swore I would never touch his smooth, plastic casing and colorful, rainbow buttons again.

But, thankfully, that was not to be.

Friday, Guitar Hero and I ran into each other at a party. It was awkward at first. Particularly since he was hitting on everyone there. A player if ever there was one, that guy will do it with ANYONE. When I walked in I was determined to stick to my guns. I wasn't going to go down that route with Guitar Hero again. But then the peer pressure started and I had a couple drinks and my will power and morals went out the window.

Again, it wasn't good.

I fumbled, miserably, and didn't make it through before a repeat of my first time. But this time, rather than hanging my head in shame, it lit a spark of something deep within me and I decided I would be the one to change Guitar Hero's ways. I would be the one to win him.

I tried again and failed. And finally, on my forth attempt, I DID IT! Not well, mind you, but I could tell Guitar Hero respected my gut and determination. He even was so bold as to ask me back the next day to play. For hours. Despite Guitar Hero's roommate leaving and HAVING TO LEAVE A KEY BEHIND SO I COULD LOCK UP AFTER MYSELF.

I mean, it must be love. I can't stop thinking about him. I long for him throughout the day. I think I might even dream about touching his velvety keys. It pains me to not call him because that would totally give me away and I don't want to crowd him and scare him away. I'm even seriously considering having him move in with me even though he doesn't have a job and couldn't help me pay the rent.

But I NEED him. Okay, and maybe you don't understand. Maybe you think I'm moving too fast. Obviously, you've never been in love or you would STOP JUDGING ME!

I think Guitar Hero's roommate might read this. If you do, tell him to call me. XOXO!

IT'LL ONLY BE UP A WEEK... IF HE'S LUCKY

"I used duct tape across the top of my screen so I wouldn't have to look at your new masthead. That was just mean. I don't know how I'm going to get that tape off now."


I still hold to the conviction that he asked for it.

THE EVOLUTION OF A PROJECT

4.5 weeks before due date:
"Put these two massive projects on your to-do list. They both need to be done in 4 weeks."


3.5 weeks before due date:
"Take off one of those massive projects. We're going to save it until January."


2.5 weeks before due date:
"My bad. Put that project back on your to-do list. How are you coming with that other massive project?"


2 weeks before due date:
"Remember that project I had you remove but then we added it back on? I need three or four examples. Tomorrow. Oh, and I'm sure you have plenty of time to add two more massive projects to your list along with all the other little things you are required to do every week."

"Ohhh. Yeah. That other pain in the butt project you work on regularly is due now too, isn't it? It's due in four weeks? Make it two. What? Why would you think I hate you?"

ATTEMPT THREE AT THIS STUPID POST

I need a distraction. I need something, someone maybe, possibly, perhaps to keep my mind off of things.

I also say that knowing full well that I am not ready for a new relationship.

A distraction, I just need someone to go through the motions with me. Someone to think about, and yeah, maybe obsess over a little bit. Someone willing to make just a little bit of an effort, enough to keep me interested but not enough to be anything other than just that. Something fun that will keep my mind off of other things because yes. I decided, finally, in what may turn out to be not all that long ago, that I'm done. I'm over it. I'm moving on because this isn't healthy for either of us and I'm not helping by sticking around. And deep down, I KNOW this is the best thing for both of us. And I know now, having looked back on it with a clarity that wasn't there a few months ago, that we were broken and we were tattered despite my best attempts to think otherwise.

We weren't ready. We may never be.

I know all of that. I know it and I believe it. But then my favorite memory slips into my morning coffee and it gets under my skin. And it chafes and clings uncomfortably and I know I reek of it because I can feel it seeping out of my pores.

But I know. This isn't where either of us need to be or should be or any of the other psycho babble bullshit that people spout. But that doesn't make me any less lonely. Knowing doesn't make this any easier when I get like this, when my mind wanders despite my best attempts to thwart it.

I miss Man Friend.

I can't tell you the exact reasons because that is a memory I just don't want to share. I know I'll get better and I know in a couple days this feeling will pass. I know in a little while I won't feel so lonely.

It would just be really helpful if I had a good distraction because the one I thought I might have isn't working out so hot.


EDIT: Okay, it might be working out a little better now. Maybe. We'll see.

NOT AN ATYPICAL PHONE CONVERSATION

Me: "So what are you doing tonight?"

Asshole Friend: "Oh shit. I forget I need to call you about stuff."

Me: "... You people suck."

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART DEUCE

"Bastard! How does it feel being the first person I've ever hit THAT I WORK WITH?!"

'You aren't supposed to hit coworkers. Didn't you watch the video?"

"Hit ON. I'm not supposed to hit on coworkers."

* * *

"Do you even know what my title is?"

"I know what we call you when you're not around."

"Harsh!"

"Come on! You walked right into that!"

* * *

"So how is your son?"

"... My son? What?"

"You know, he's 26. Lives in Alaska. Needs a good woman."

"Oh, ohhh. My son. He's good. He'll be home for Christmas."

"Really? So are you going to invite me to your family Christmas party?"

"Oh, definately."

* * *

"Did you get my text..?"

"7 a.m.!"

"Wait. What?"

"You texted me at 7 A. M.!"

((maniacal cackling))

"I picked up the phone and looked at the time and YELLED AT MY PHONE so that it might send the message back to you saying I cannot receive text messages until AT LEAST 8 a.m."

((choking giggles))

"My roommate even asked me who the hell I was talking to because 7 a.m.! I was all curling up hugging my pillow. You know what it's like to be hugging your pillow? I was all nice and warm and ASLEEP."

((chortle)) "I was eating breakfast."

"I wasn't!"

"Hah. I won't do it again."

"I'm texting you at 6 tomorrow!!!"



It will have been worth it.

* * *

I sent the link to my bloggity to a sort of, not really family member who I LOVE because she likes to be mean and catty with me but I only get to see her at special events which makes me sad in my pants (I may or may not have stolen that saying (number 30)). She wrote me back to tell me I'm not right. And that MADE ME PROUD.

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

My teeth ache. Specifically, my two front teeth. (Shutupshutupshutup*)

I am LOVING this. Let me tell you how much I am loving thing. I am loving this SO MUCH, I could die for joy of it all.

No, seriously. DIEDIEDIE!

Because guess who doesn't have dental?!

Ohh! Ohhh! ME!! ME!

And guess who could PROBABLY afford to go to the dentist but won't because a) I ain't spending that kind of cash to be told to take some advil**, and b) I HATELOATHEDETESTHATE the dentist?

MEEEEEEE! Oh God, it's meeeee!

Now guess who will be sitting here just sucking it up?

I think you get the point, but in case not: MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ((inhale)) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


*I swear to all you hold holy that if you EVEN start to sing that song to me, toothache or no, I will bite off your lips THAT is how serious I am. I have had that Goddamn song in my head ever since I thought up this post. At work. I DON'T KNOW WHICH PAIN IS WORSE!

**Unless, of course, they give me something stronger like vicodin, which would probably mean the trip AT LEAST pays for itself***.

***Note to those of you about to LOSE YOUR SHIT: (Like my mother, HI MOM!) I do not sell nor condone the selling of drugs under the table for spare cash. If I need spare cash I'll simply whore myself out for it. BECAUSE I AM CLASSY.

TEMPTRESS

Seriously kids. I need to work on my charms and wiles because my career as a seductress is NOT off to a good start. I mean damn fellas! Look at that picture up in the masthead. LOOK AT IT!! Who WOULDN'T want to bite off a piece of that? WHO?

I HAVE PRINCIPLES

In a tragic turn of events, today I found out that the lead singer of All American Rejects looks eerily similar to my asshole ex-boyfriend. And seems to have about as much emotional range. Which means I have to hate him now on principle.



Good thing their music isn't that good.

FRIDAY NIGHT LASAGNA

(Alright you damn vultures! Here's your freaking post!)

Friday evening on my way home from work I receive a call from Matt of the E pursuasion (this may or may not matter later).

"Let's do something," he said as is his wont.

"Okay," I responded wittily. "What?"

"Dinner at my place?" he asked hopefully and the stars aligned and planets collided and it was decided BY THE GODS that there would be an O-R-G-Y of cheese and sause and noodle and veggies.

We ventured to the local Kroger to pick out way more squash than was necessary as well as an eggplant that, sadly, was not used for sexual favors.

Back at his place we began the arduous task of cutting all the freaking shit we bought. Okay. Okay. Let me rephrase. Matt:E and D.O. began the arduous task. I got to mix up the gooey, cheesey spread that I may or may not have smeared all over my body in a fit of orgasmic lust.

While it was going quite well, what with all the boys playing with sharp knives and the startling lack of blood, D.O. seemed to lack... form, shall we say? And as he cut his pepper, his wrist was held at such a painfully awkward angle that Matt and I were obliged, no COMPELLED, to point out just how big of an idiot D.O. looked. Specifically:

"You look like a gay guy with palsey." ~Matt:E

Others arrived and it was decided by Matt:E's smokin' hot Not-Girlfriend Kalie (because I spelled it wrong last time) that our little get together was seriously lacking some wine. So she bought some. And all us pansy ass light weights drank it all BEFORE gorging ourselves on lasagna.

That is the only reason I have for why the rest of this shit happened:

Me: "Did you say pants down?"

Matt:E: "No, I said hands down."

Me: "Oh. I guess I heard what I wanted to hear."

* * *

Jennith: "Show us the alien!"

Me: "Do you even know what it is?"

Jennith: "It sprouts out of his stomach?"

Me: "Oh sweetie. That's not his stomach."

* * *

It was somehow determined that D.O. was a god among men and could satisfy two women at the same time. Not merely because he is just THAT good, but because he's packing twice your typical standard regulation (he has two penises).

Me: "Would that make you a hermaphrodite?"

D.O. and Matt:E (in disgust): No! (Because seriously? My comment? Not the stupidest thing said folks)

Matt:E: It makes him more of a Double Dudite... Double Dude Delight!"

Me: "You could be in double mint gum commercials."

* * *

Now, you would think after the BRILLIANT conversations you just witnessed above that NO ONE WOULD EVER WANT TO LEAVE. That's what we thought, but D.O.? He had different plans and apparently, stupidly, thought he would go to bed early. Like at 11, which, L-A-M-E.

That's when someone threw out the idea that maybe, just maybe, D.O. would LOVE IT if we all piled on top of him.

And we did.

And then all hell broke loose.

Matt:E dove on first, slipping across D.O. like he was butter. Kalie, the Not-Girlfriend soon followed, pushing Matt:E further to make room. Only thing, D.O.'s bed doesn't reach the wall. There's about a foot gap between the bed and the wall, which Matt:E promptly fell down and Kalie on top of him.

She cried out for my assistance and was quickly shushed at Other Matt (or Matt:VD) slammed his door at us in anger. Heh. Oops. I giggled at her thoroughly, tickled pink at the sounds of Matt:E's groans of discomfort, before reaching an arm around her skinny waist (bitch) and hoisting her back up onto the bed.

Only to find her yelping in pain because her leg? It was stuck between the wall and the bed. Tipsy as she was, she continued her half-whispered pleas for help until I finally had the wherewithall to pull her leg free and clamor down the steps where we collapsed back on the couches in a fit of drunken giggles.

THE END.

JUST CALL ME TITS MAGEE

Why yes, this IS another post about my boobs. Because apparently THEY JUST CAN'T BE RESTRAINED.

This was never a problem I expected growing up. As a young girl it just isn't something you think will ever happen to you though I'm sure plenty of little girls in their training bras are wishing for the day that their full and buxom chests SNAP THE UNDERWIRE OF THEIR BRA IN HALF. AT WORK.

BEAT THAT, VOLUPTUOUS SISTERS! Not. To. Be. Restrained. Bras tremble at the mere sight of my cannons. BOOM.

RANDOM CONCERT ANNOUNCEMENT

Dropkick Murphys
November 13
Bogarts

Now, I haven't heard much by the Dropkick Murphys HOWEVER I do like their style (I'm a HUGE fan of Flogging Molly), but at the same time, I feel like for me to go to that concert I would be an enormous poser.

Besides. It's on a school night. I realize I'm lame. No need to point it out.

IT'S BECOME AN ENTITY ALL IT'S OWN

Self-righteous bitch. You would think after all our years together that mah Hair? She would know better. She wouldn't pick fights with entities that are bigger than she is but nooooo. She got up all in Humidity's face like she has a hope in the world, acting all big and bad, puffing herself up a pissed off cat.

Behold. Exhibit A:


Courtesy of Sarah Cool who doesn't yet know how courteous she's being. (HI SARAH!)

Now, I have to give my Body credit. She tried to talk Hair down. Body? She KNOWS. She done got knocked on her big ole ass by Humidity. She knows better than to mess with that crazy-eyed loon again. But Hair? She hasn't learned her lesson yet. Ohhh no. She goes right at Humidity who's just standing there with a smug "the hell" look up on her homely face (just sayin'). And I have to imagine that Humidity didn't mean it to be such an insult, but she ruffled Hair like Hair was 10 years old, and really? Can that be considered anything OTHER than condescending after you pass the age of 10? And see, that shit right there just pissed Hair off more and she ended up calling Humidity an ugly name (it may or may not rhyme with "lucking punt") and BAM! God, it was horrible. Humidity was all over Hair like a drunk prom date and Hair? I fear she may never be the same again.

But seriously! Hair is getting WAY too old for this shit. Bitch still acts like she's 12 with all that natural shine. YOUR SHINE HASN'T BEEN NATURAL SINCE YOU GOT DYED RED FOR THREE YEARS IN HIGH SCHOOL. I don't get it Hair. You just don't seem to appreciate that these things take effort or that that blue elixor from the gods I dantily brush through you every morning does NOT just grow on trees! NO! IT DOES NOT! And I know you waited (not quite) patiently for YEARS for me to finally pay you some mind and to care and put forth some effort but where do you get off acting like such a damn drama queen and attacking Humidity like that? HUMIDITY IS BIGGER THAN YOU! HIDE YOUR SHAME! You will behave properly or I shall be forced to take DRASTIC measures. SUBMIT! I RAISED YOU BETTER!

Gah. If it isn't the humidity it's the wave. WE DO NOT ATTEND SPORTING EVENTS! YOU WILL LAY YOUR ASS DOWN FLAT and you will like it or so help me God! You'll go the way of my Dad's hair but it won't be natural or gradual.

PURPOSEFULLY VAGUE

It REALLY sucks that something was so fun and (relatively) innocent that happened so long ago can still cause so much guilt and self-doubt.

I don't think I'll ever be okay with this.

VEXED AND HEXED

I may have had a conniption at work today. No one was involved and THERE WERE NO WITNESSES, so really. The chance is only slight. I mean, can you really see me, as cool, calm, and collected as I am, having a conniption? Most people, and I'm sure of this, when they think of me, the first word that comes to mind? Is unfazed. Unfazed by the hubbub of everyday life, unfazed by the stresses you masses so typically succumb to.

Cough.

OKAY, FINE! FINE!!!! I am not like that AT ALL and I really did have a conniption at work. We're talking full on toddler-like trantrum, only without the noise. I didn't yell. I didn't scream. I didn't kick or throw or hit, but I did spasm in UNBRIDLED RAGE while hexing my computer with voodoo and willing it to SUBMIT! NOW! TO MEEEEEEEE! MY WILL, YOU PIECE OF JUNK! MINE!!!

Ohhhh, what, ass?! WHAT?! Do you have a PROBLEM with that? Because I'll cut you. Don't even think I won't.

Of course, I maintain the entire situation was NOT my fault. I didn't decide to highlight every damn thing on the screen even when I was only CLICKING ON ONE THING YOU BLOODY FREAKING BASTARD! And I didn't decide to mock and abuse me with not restarting but OH! You'll work when it says SHUT DOWN you cheap jezebel! Have you been cheating on me with another computer?! You found a better operating system, haven't you? HAVEN'T YOU?!!!! Tell me the truth! I bet you even have a virus now, don't you, even after I was so careful. WE USED PROTECTION YOU DIRTY SLUT!!! Don't you even accuse me of being involved in this! I....

I.. Oh. Hah. I see. Um, so you're working again? Heh. Okay, well... Carry on then.

Cough.

(I may have forgiven the bastard for now, but I'm still vexed about the clicking thing.)

PS - I told myself after being H-U-N-G the hell O-V-E-R Sunday that I was never drinking AGAIN! That lasted until TODAY. IT IS TUESDAY, PEOPLE! Stupid job.

PSS - I was sitting at a light when I saw some guy STOP IN MY LANE, exactly were I was going, and his buddied leaned out the car to holla at some chick. After a few moments the playa got out so he could talk to this girl and his friend? The one in my lane. He threw on his hazards. Then the light changed and right about the same time I was going to lay on the horn, the guy in the car took off. WITHOUT playa, who ran UP HILL chasing after him.

I thoroughly laughed my ass off. Tonight better be a good night.

DEFINATELY MY FATHER'S CHILD

When I got up to my uncle's house on Friday he gave me the grand tour. Dad tagged along.

Uncle: And this is the master bedroom.

Me: This is where the magic happens, huh?

Uncle: Sure is.

Dad: Yeah, because it's a miracle if he gets any.

Me: I was going to say it was a miracle if he could get it up.

Uncle: Did I mention how happy I am you two are here?

* * *

Upon denting my shoe.

Dad: Which shoe did you scuff up?

Me: The right one.

Dad: No, smartass. Which pair?

Me: (Maniacal giggles) The black pair.

Dad: Sigh. You really are my kid.

MIGHT BE A SIGN OF DEMENTIA

I was busying myself by shoving clothing and accessories into our luggage when someone rapped at the door.

My dad went to open it and in walked my uncle. "You guys ready to leave?"

"Give us ten minutes," my mom replied. "We'll meet you in your room."

He nodded his assent and left. Mom and I went turned back to check the hotel room for anything we'd missed.

Someone rapped at our door again. I opened the door to my uncle, again.

"What the hell room am I in?" he asked, a look of confusion hiding any embarrassment there may have been.

Mom and I giggled maniacally as we lead him to his room.

This is the same uncle who this weekend lost his pitching wedge when it slipped out of his hands and into a swamp when he was golfing in the pouring rain.

I love my family.

TURNING BLUE

WE HAVE HAD A CASUALTY!

Okay, maybe not a casualty. BUT WE HAVE DEFINATLY HAD A MAIMING. A heinous, horrible maiming, and what a tragedy it is for us all.

Today, I scuffed my new shoe. By running a cart into the heel of it. Do not ask me how.

Grief has befallen my fair city, friends.

Oh sure, you might be saying, silly girl is making a big deal about a pair of shoes. But they were ONE OF A KIND! So special in fact that you can by me another pair here and here and probably a few other places like DSW where I originally got them but wins a prize for the SHITTIEST WEBSITE AROUND. Also, if you feel the need to assuage my grief even further, I would also accept these as a consolation prize.

Size 9.5, please. I wait with bated breath.

NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS

In my high school days, you might be surprised to find out, I was NOT one of those girls who was interested in the bad boys.

I can tell you're in shock. I'll give you a minute to compose yourself (bastards).

No. No, I was much more interested in the guy who ended up being one of our three valedictorians. The only time I was ever interested in a bad boy was because he could draw. See, I was always attracted to the guys who were good at the things I wanted to be good at.

Nick was freaking brilliant. James was an amazing artist. Jamie could write what, at the time, I considered to be fantastic poetry. Not to mention he was my co-editor and we awkwardly smiled and flirted when no one was around to catch us.

And then there was Matt. He wasn't one of the trifecta, but he still had some potential. He could draw. Hell, I met him in sixth grade art class. He was smart enough to be in AP classes with me my junior year. And I'm pretty sure he might have had a crush on me.

Here's the stupid thing. I have never, EVER been good about realizing if someone is into me. And this hasn't gotten better with age.

There was a project we did our junior year for our History/English class. Everyone in class got to dress up in 20s attire and we had a Gatsby party (as in the Great Gatsby). We were so cool, in fact, the band nerds in class were playing us some big, bad swing. It was while the girls and I were cutting a rug when Matt walked up.

And he took my hand. And he asked me to dance. I assumed he meant he wanted to dance with all of us so I started to pull one of the girls along. And he said no. He just wanted to dance with me.

I was shocked because I didn't even think he liked me as a friend let alone asking me to dance IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE. With him. Just us.

The embarrassment! The humiliation! No, I'm not even kidding!

The poor bastard. I was stiff and awkward and terrified. I didn't say two whole words to him the entire time we danced our clumsy swing and it had nothing to do with me not being interested. Rather, it was because at that point in my life he was the first guy to ever show ANY interest in me at all. To top that off, I was always terrified of misinterpreting someone's intentions and making an ass of myself so I went with what was safe. I just never thought anyone was interested.

And that brings me to today.

I am still unassuming. I just don't think guys are into me. So it surprised me when a co-worker said we should hang out sometime, first getting a drink, then offering to go see a movie I (innocently) expressed interest in.

My mom told me not to take my clothes off on the first date. She's a real bitch sometimes.

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS

"How old are you now?"

"24."

"Yeah? I have a son about two years older than you."

"Oh? Is he single?"

"Yes, he is. He could really use a good woman."

"As in, not me, you mean?"

"I DIDN'T SAY THAT!"

"No, no. You're right. I'm sorry. So what does he do?"

"Actually, he lives in Alaska."

"Oh! I've always wanted to visit Alaska."

"He's currently living in a cabin with no running water."

"Yeah, not so keen on visiting that part of Alaska."

KINKY EXPERIMENTATION

Oh Lawdy was my weekend wild.

Uncouth. Uncivilized. An exercise in futility.

You see, fair reader, I hate my hair. H-a-t-e. HATE-HATE-HATE-LOATHE-DETEST-HATE.

"But why?!" you might be screaming at your computer screen. Who WOULDN'T want thin, fine, oily yet frizzy, slightly wavy (but not in a good way) hair?

I made a decision this weekend that rather than fight with that oh so slight wave in my hair I should just accept the fact that my hair is just not pin-straight (or even at all managable) like Bean's. I should try to work with what God has given me.

"I don't mean to start any blasphemous rumors/but I think that God has a sick sense of humor." (not sure about the name of the band)

After spending a shit ton of money on "product" for my hair, I made an attempt to curl it.

Sigh.

I KNOW better. I know better than to think my hair will do ANYTHING AT ALL FAVORABLE when confronted with a heated chunk of metal.

So then I made an attempt to let it air dry.

With mixed results. Yeah, it sort of curled, but it was also sort of crunchy and looked like it needed brushed. Badly.

And now? Now I'm just looking for suggestions. HELP ME!

A LITTLE OFF THE TOP

I have two checking accounts. They're through the same bank and the entire reason I even have two is because I was the treasurer for my senior capstone college project.

There is about $45 left in that second account.

I graduated a year ago.

My mother has suggested I embezzled the money. Skimmed a little off the top, which is entirely unfair. I didn't skim from the top. I simply forgot to return from the bottom.

I HAD PLANNED TO! Honest! But things got hectic! And there was going to be a fee to close the account so soon after opening it! And really, everyone was only going to get back $1.25 and that just wasn't worth the effort. I only had the ONE CHANCE to get everyone together in ONE PLACE, and I failed.

Mom called it blood money.

I hold firm that I bled PLENTY for that God forsaken major and those pretentious pricks. I'm just saying.

So I made a decision. I am now going to take $50 from every paycheck and put it in that account. I'm considering the $45 a starter fee, restitution, blood money. AND MY CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR MOTHER!

With that money I'm going to buy myself a camera. Probably a Rebel. You know, a little something pretty.

Because I deserve it.

MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKERS

Monday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon an older neighbor of mine. She was standing on her stoop and watering her flowers from a gallon jug. Not so much watering, actually, as DOUSING THEM AS IF THEY WERE ON FIRE.

She glanced at me, assessing my sweat stained tank top, and smiled warmly.

"You walk this hill every day you'll lose it."

Tuesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon another neighbor of mine, this one the father of a young child. He seemed to be tarring the roof of his garage.

"You're dedicate," he said, looking down at me as he slide the broom (or squeegee or whatever the hell they use to tar roofs) gracefully back and forth.

"Pardon?"

"I said your dedicated. You're out here no matter how hot it is." (Which is not ENTIRELY true since I most certainly was NOT out there when the temperature was 102.)

Wednesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, a young woman in a van happened upon me.

"You're working out, aren't you?"

Why, yes. I suppose I am.

"I teach free, they're free, aerobics classes at the Mt. Auburn Recreation Center. You should check it out."

And I did.

And it'll cost me $15 to become a member FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR (which is less than HALF of what I paid A MONTH at the PLACE I WORK FOR).

And they have a pool.

(( jig ))

ROLY POLY

"I win the Best Kid award."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I called grandma."

"You're right. You win. Mom will be thrilled."

"Grandma mentioned to me she'd lost a bit of weight."

"Did she take off her shoes?"

WRITING ABOUT NOT WRITING

Yeah, I'm definately going to watch Pan's Labyrinth tonight instead of blogging for you idiots charming and productive members of society.

I AM NOT YOUR PUPPET!

(I'll be back tomorrow.)

THINGS I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL MY NEIGHBORS

"Would you guys tell your friends to CALL YOU if they can't find your apartment rather than just picking a door and walking on in?"

Now, I've been a good neighbor. I haven't bitched and moaned about the guys upstairs running down the steps like they weigh 3 million pounds. Or reminded them that, typically, Sunday through Thursday nights are considered WORK NIGHTS.

But last night I made the egregious error of forgetting to lock my front door. (SHUT UP)

It was 1 in the morning. I was asleep. I SLEEP NAKED.

I woke up right as the dumb bitch stumbled into my room, looked at me, and turned around NEVER APOLOGIZING OR EVEN SHUTTING THE GOD DAMN DOOR BEHIND HER STUPID, COKE WHORE SMELLING ASS.

I helpfully yelled after her to "get the f*ck out."

I dressed so I could go lock the door behind her only to discover that my entire apartment REEKED as if she'd chain smoked an entire carton in my living room before wandering around in search of SOMEONE in the pitch black apartment.

Moron.

MELODRAMATIC

Alright.

Fine.

So hanging out all by myself Friday night wasn't so bad because you know what? I? Am an excellent conversationalist. And I'm pretty damn cool.

I know. I hide it well.

And you know, just between you and me, I am also a fabulous kisser. I mean, really top knotch. And if THAT weren't reason enough to hang out with me, I do that thing with my tongue. And I have REALLY freaking hot lips. Me. Ow.

Also, I give REALLY good bl... um... back rubs? Yeah. Back rubs. I give really good back rubs.

You're jealous. It's understandable.

I would be, too.

TONGUE TIED

It migth be common knowledge but I'll say it again anyway. I like living alone. I like it so much that I'm pretty damn sure I just might love it. In fact, I know I do. I love it. I LOVE living alone. And do you know why I love living alone? Because you see that mess over there? That's my mess, which is SO VERY MUCH EASIER to clean up than your mess.

Also, I like my time to myself, whether it be idly wasted or enthusiastically spent because, see, it takes quite a lot of effort for me to be charming and lovely all day at work with people I like. It is exceptionally taxing if I don't like them.

That means that at the end of the day, I'm generally not in the mood to make "small talk" or "chit chat." That means, generally, my brain, she is on auto-pilot and that annoyed expression accompanied by glazed over eyes is not exactly a sign of rapt attention.

But that is only most days.

Then there are some days when I'm feeling lonely. Some days when I'm in serious need of someone who can take my mucusy, vomit-like expulsion of words. But not only take them. What I need is someone who won't judge me for them. And as much as I love my group of friends, it is for that reason that I feel spent and tired and used. I'm not particularly in the mood to become gossip fodder.

Despite that I dont want to be alone tonight.

Yet here I am, home alone tonight renting movies, Pan's Labyrinth and My Super Ex-Girlfriend. Oh, shut up. Don't judge me. I'm in a wee bit of need of some guy bashing tonight, because not only did my plans fall through but every freaking one of you available to hang out with is doing bachelor party stuff, which, yes, I'm happy for you but it's a well documented fact that I DON'T LIKE WEDDINGS and I could definately use to not be by myself tonight.

And that really sucks.

DISENFRANCHISED

It shouldn't be this hard.

LITTLE KNOWN FACTS

Sometimes, I say dumb things. Unfortunately, I spend an overwhelming majority of my waking hours at work. I think you see where I'm headed here.

And while at work, it isn't exactly uncommon for my friends and me to get bored. It also isn't uncommon for us to alleviate that boredom by thinking of dumb things to say to entertain each other. Or by making up nicknames.

Hello, everyone. My (nick)name is Bobby Jean. (And, yes, there is a voice to go along with the persona. Also, I may or may not have blackened out one of my teeth to add to the realism. BECAUSE I'M DEDICATED.)

This week, in order to stave off the boredom, IT guy got it in his head that he was a crazy mad Photoshopping genius and he made computer background bling for the other two members of our foursome.

I, UNDERSTANDABLY, was miffed. I mean, where the hell is my bling, bitch?!

So after pointing out his error (whining) and requesting (demanding) some super fine bling of my own, I got it in my head to make suggestions of what my background bling should say. Because my real name? That's just too boring. And why bother with your REAL name when you have a totally-crazy-cool-and-not-dorky-at-all nickname like Bobby Jean? WHY BOTHER?

And those suggestions, they just started rolling. We started off innocent enough with a boring ole Bobby J, or B Jean, or NERD but then it struck me! Idiot's disease! (Thanks A LOT, Dad, ya bastard.)

My name should be Bobby J-izzle!

I AM AWESOME COMEDIC GENIUS! BOW BEFORE MY GLORY!

Except I'm not. And you shouldn't. Because Idiot, thy name is Bobby Jean.

Now, keep in mind I was typing this all in an email and, IN MY HEAD, I was pronouncing it Jay. Izzle. NOT jizzle. So as I was standing in IT Boss' office proclaiming of my brilliance in nicknamed background bling, I realized exactly what I had been spelling. Right about the same time her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she did that uncomfortable laugh she does when I say something inappropriate (yeah, not the first time that's happened).

And, folks, because of where I work, our emails are PUBLIC RECORD.

Let me spell that out for you. If Johnny Q. Public walked into our office and demanded to see all of Bobby Jean's emails from 6 months ago through today, WE ARE REQUIRED BY LAW TO GIVE THEM TO HIM.

Luckily, chances are good that won't ever happen.

BUT IT COULD!

I have to think, dear reader(s), that this was PROBABLY WORSE than that time I was telling them in a definately not indoor voice about my college professor who was, "gayer than gay," as we were walking through the atrium. That echos. And my dumb ass definately got overheard by a person with small children. Small children with perky ears and absorbent brains.

Now, in all fairness, that college professor REALLY WAS gayer than gay. You remember Jack from Will & Grace? Yes.

No really. I am deadly serious. THEY EVEN LOOKED ALIKE. Go watch a rerun on WE and you just might realize why he was my favorite professor EVER.

THE PROTECTOR

Over the weekend, after my friends had consumed nearly $30 in tiny, breaded mystery meat (AND only half of a steak, prick), we headed over to (one of the) Matt's house to watch a movie.

But not just any movie.

A Thai martial arts movie. The uncut, international version.

Now, I LIKE this kind of movie. Despite some initial tribulation, I've since grown to appreciate the artistic beauty of such movies as House of Flying Daggers and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

The Protector was only kinda like those movies.

Don't get me wrong. It WANTED to be like those movies. Artful. Coherent. Tolerable.

It gave the artful a damn fine attempt what with the beautiful backgrounds and Thai dancers to tribal (?) beats and I guess, in the end, I GET what happened so THEY WERE TRYING, but there is only so much disbelieve I am willing to suspend towards any one venture and THEY CROSSED THAT LINE.

They bid their time, however. I was totally into the guys fighting style and I'm fully accepting that no wires were used. I'm willing to believe he managed to climb down four stories using not much more than a drain pipe, IF THAT. I'm apprehensive of his ability to stop, dead in the air, two guys on bikes who ALONE had more mass to them than this little Thai guy. I am COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY unwilling to believe that some Russian-looking dude, huge though he may be, could EVER, in the very slender whisp of reality in which I live, THROW A FREAKING BABY ELEPHANT THROUGH A WINDOW.

Now, I did my research folks. Baby Asian elephants weight over 200 lbs WHEN THEY ARE BORN and the one they were using in this film was not nursing so it had to have been at least 2-3 years old. These things reach sexual maturity at 9 years old. As in, not so much baby as adolescent. YOU DO THE MATH!

And, yes, I get what they were trying to do, showing the big, bad guy's disrespect toward elephants that are considered like brothers to the people of Thailand. BUT HE THREW IT! LIKE A DISCUS!

I can't wrap my head around it. He t-h-r-e-w a baby freaking elephant. GAH!

I just.. GAH!

GOT MA BRAINS FROM ME PAW

My mom thinks my dad is an idiot.

Oh, she may not say that exact word but if you listen carefully to the tone of her voice and see that specific gleam in her eye, it is pretty safe to infer that goofy and idiot roughly translate to the same thing.

Let's take today for example.

My dad, in a fit of brilliance, decided rather than wait until someone else was done with the lift, that he would simply climb the shelves in the warehouse where he works. He made it up there no problem and was a good story off the ground before he teetered, realized he was going down, and jumped for it.

And tore up his middle finger in the process.

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call my dad a clutz but this certainly isn't the first time he's lost his balance. As he turned, his finger got caught on something above him that he'd initially reached for to steady himself, and tore a jagged slice through the meat of his finger. It's somewhere between a scratch and disfiguringly maimed (and only required 8 stitches and no vicodin).

He yelped, "Jay fall down!" and tucked and rolled (or tripped on his cape) to end up back on his feet to the amazement of his four coworkers.

He drove himself to the urgent care and had to get a tetanus shot. The nurse told him it would hurt a lot less if he relaxed his arm when she gave him the shot. He told her it was relaxed. He just works out.

She laughed.

Then he did relax his arm.

She laughed harder.

Mom went to pick him up and he said on the way home they bought her a little nurses outfit. He said it's cute but rather short and he doesn't know what's the matter with him but he just becomes such a clutz when she's around and he keeps dropping things. He's also requesting sponge bathes.

Apparently, that is where Mom draws the line.

* * *

I woke up last night at 11:30, groggy and confused. I stared at my clock for a long while and thought, "I am REALLY freaking late for work. Wait. Why is it still dark outside?"

STUPID FREAKING INTERNET

Hi.

My internet crapped out on me last night. Expect a post later.

Like tomorrow later.

XOXO

SUPERBAD

In about a half hour there will be God knows how many people in my tiny, one bedroom apartment demanding mini corndogs because I'm an idiot. Who, yes, drank again last night only a measly little week after saying never again.

(BUT! I am not hung over because I had ONE. And it was a little one. Only a half-liter as opposed to the FRIGGIN HUGE liter mugs Hofbrau is known for. I am awesome with the restraint and willpower. BOW DOWN BEFORE MY AWESOMENESS AND WEEP AT MY GLORY!)

There will also be a steak for McLovin, the Artist Formerly Known as DO (which, seriously, Superbad... was HILARIOUS) because, apparently, I owe him a steak from YEARS AGO when I said something funny.

At a very inappropriate time.

And, being the jerk that he is, rather than nurture my comedic genius and guide it to it's climactic fruition, he demaned I repay my tactless remark with a steak. Actually, with several steaks.

But he'll take what I give him, damnit.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOYS

"Trying to exterminate an entire race of people is only SLIGHTLY worse than masterbating in a public restroom."

PRIZE TO BE WON

It was decided as we began trolling about campus looking (unsuccessfully) for an open pool table that I would be the prize up for grabs.

Because Matt? He thinks he's funny.

Matt's Lady Friend who we shall call Cailie, because that is her name, asked what I would have to do for the winner. I stared lustily at her and told her anything she wanted. Bitch decided she would pimp me out. Whore.

It was then decided I would belong to Cailie and make outs were suggested because boys are clever. Really. We didn't see that one coming.

But then she lost me to Matt in a thumb war. Whore.

So what would you think Matt would want to put me to work doing? Huh? Huh? Sexual favors, you say? Not even. No, Matt demanded I PAINT HIS APARTMENT! I KNOW! That's what I thought! Wasting a perfectly good opportunity with this? Hah!

But fear not, dear reader. I rescued myself from oppression, bought my freedom you might say, by SPANKING Matt and Cailie a euchre. It was BRUTAL. There may even have been weeping and gnashing of teeth.

At least there should have been for losing me. TWICE.

Whore.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

After all the bitching and whining and begging for me to NOT use that blond wigged and Warrent t-shirted picture, apparently DO was "kinda disappointed" (and exceptionally eloquent) when I changed it out for the month of August.

He will live to regret that.

THIS CAN'T WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW

"Oh my freaking God," you might say.

"Who is that hot, blond chick," you might query.

But alas:


That is not some hot, blond chick.

That is my best friend, Dan.


In all his majestic, lily neon white, hippy boy glory.


Seriously. Dan. If you love me AT ALL, you will so let me shave your head when you come home. I THREW YOU TWO PARTIES! It is the LEAST you can do.

(AHHH!!! Are you wearing your man-purse in that last picture?! Seriously? That thing is still alive?)

I'LL ANSWER ANYTHING, PART 3

Michael sounded like he could use a sexy dream and a pick-me-up (And he made comments on my bloggity. If you make comments I just might do nice things for you, too). So rather than your regularly scheduled programming, I'm going to answer Michael's question from way back in July. Because I'm nice like that.

Michael says: Tell me about a golden land of milk and honey where grad students are (adequately) funded and the True Academic (tm) is a heroic, respected figure in society.

Y'know, fiction.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away - let's say Mars for the sake of argument - there was a wonderful, not assholish university. Only the brightest of the bright got to go to the WNAU located mere lightyears from the Martian colony of Red Rock.

Our young hero, Michael, was a fresh faced and happy lad of 23 who had just graduated from Ass Rape U. They were not so kind to sweet Michael at ARU but they had not broken his spirit. Despite what everyone said, he knew he had a chance and he applied for the grad program at WNAU.

Oh, what a happy day it was when Michael received his acceptance letter to WNAU. Here was finally a school where SOMEONE might finally appreciate his wit, charm, and brilliance.

But young Michael had a problem. WNAU was on Mars and, as such, cost a whole freaking butt-load of money. How was he possibly going to pay his way?

But fear not, young reader. A plan soon presented itself, for Michael soon found himself a sugar daddy who really appreciated his boyish charm and after only a few nights of life scarring and humiliating debouchery, a tear-stained faced Michael got a fond pat on his sore rump and off he went to better horizons.

WNAU was everything our hero ever dreamt of. He felt a true nurturing of his talents and an appreciation of his ideas and hard work. And, joy of joys, he met someone. She was young, smart, and demure with flowing red hair and fiery blue eyes and she though our hero was brilliant and funny and she liked to do naughty sexual favors to him in their hover-bed in the hazy red light of the Martian sunrise.

Our dear Michael had never been more happy.

Upon graduation, Michael received not one, but 13 offers to do whatever the hell it is he wants to do with his life, four of which offered at least six figures and benefits out the wazu. Of course, no matter if Michael was rich or poor, his lovely, arm candy girlfriend was so desperately in love with his she would have married him no matter what.

So he took the job where he was appreciated and respected and absolutely swimming in the money and never did he speak of that one time, before college, where he was ass candy for some dirty, dirty old pervert.

The end.

* * *

There Michael. I hope that made you feel better! You got two times the sexy dream. Yeeoowww! You stud you.

* * *

Do the rest of you who bother to read my bloggity realize what that means? DO YOU?! It means I am out of story ideas for when I'm out of bloggity ideas which means you buttheads are slacking and you need to ask me more questions. Anything goes.

And I DO mean ANYTHING.

DAWN OF THE DEAD

All day I have been unable to shake this heavy, comatose feeling. All day I've felt as if I was hallucinating, zoning out, and thinking things that were not true. (What? You mean I'm not... well, shit!). And that, my gentle reader(s) (<-- ambitious), should not be the case. Because I went to bed at 8 last night. Eight. The one that comes after seven, which is BEFORE IT IS COMPLETELY DARK OUTSIDE.

But then my alarm went off.

Startled, I reached out and flipped to switch from buzz to off. To no avail.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Ahn. Ahn. Ahn. I. Hate. You. Death. Die. Kill. Beep.

Growling slightly, my brows furrowed, I punch the snooze.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I punch it again, this time more forcefully.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I've officially reached the pissed off stage and I bash at the offending snooze button with all the restraint of a stampede.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Swearing obscenities under my breath (or not because we all know I live alone) and fuming, I yank the damn thing from it's spot on my window ledge and rip the cord out of the wall.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

SONOFABITCH! I am so frustrated I'm crying at this point as I flip the damn thing over and tear out the battery because THE BEEPING MUST EFFING STOP. STOP IT. STOP NOW!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I throw down the alarm in defeat feeling spent and annoyed beyond anything I've ever felt before IN MY FREAKING LIFE.

And then I woke up. To find out I'd overslept and needed to leave the house in five minutes if I was going to make the biweekly staff meeting on time.

Now, why, I ask you, do I not have cool dreams? Crazy dreams? Sexy dreams? I mean, damn. I could use a really good sexy dream. One with someone tall, dark, and handsome and preferably not bovine. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?! Because this fake alarm from hell shit IS NOT CUTTING IT.

Someone. Anyone. Tell me a sexy dream.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Exhausted. To bed now. Night.

BACHLORETTE MEETS HUSTLER

Okay, so since she's actually received my bachlorette party presents, that means I get to tell you all of my brilliance.


Present 1: Big ass, white granny panties.

This went much along the same lines as getting Christina a maternity bra for her party a couple years ago (Really? That long? Damn). There was also some of the single person lore involved with this choice seeing how wimmins never seem to get laid when they're wear the sexy panties, it's only when they have on embarrassing underwears that the men folk seem to want to go downtown.

I'm just doing my part.


Present 2: A thong that states, "You may now f*ck the bride."

You know. In case he forgot.


Present 3: A thong for him in the shape of an elephant, wherein he gets to "fill out" the trunk.

Bean was very emphatic in her demands that Bob wouldn't fit in said trunk. I choose to feel pity at such remarks.

Bob was disgusted by this gift. I'm not sure why. It's a perfect chance to show Bean his animal magnatism. He gave it three strikes. The first was the dental floss string that had to go up his butt. The second is the effort it takes to "fill out" the thong (lazy bastard). The third was the elephant googly eyes, which I think just adds to the realism of the whole effect.

Now, here is the difference between Bean and myself (among many, many, many other things). Anyone I'll end up marrying would not have shied away from such manties. Nor would he have left them on the coffee table (because, ew). No, he would have proudly stuck the thing down his pants with the ears hanging out. Because that is classy.


Present 4: Flavor "BJ" drops.

Did you know they make flavored drops to make giving head a whole lot more pleasant? Well, they do. And now Bean is the proud owner (well, I'd be proud) of a four-flavor variety pack.

Because I figured Bob needed all the help he could get.

ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID

Well. It's finished. Bean and Bob have become united as one soul together forever.

Or, as we've been so tactfully putting it, she's his problem now. (HI BEAN! Just kidding! It's a joke!)

I'm tired and hung over and, after this weekend, I am never going to drink again. Okay, fine. I might drink again, but not for a long time. ALRIGHT! Give me a week back at work. I'll change my tune.

Two nights in a row of the drinking, and two nights in a row of the taking a (couple) shot(s) when I really should have known better. I think I've figured out a system (if you can call it that) wherein I keep a good buzz going for most of the night. Last night that consisted of ordering a beer and a water every time I went to the bar.

But then, against what would be better judgement if I did not have the buzz, I agree to take a shot with whoever made THAT dumb suggestion (Rico, Trini, Bob, and Trini, I'm looking at you).

I've felt not quite awful, but not quite right all day.

And my teeth hurt. For no good reason I can discern.

BUT! I had one hell of a time and without further ado I present you all with:


MY HIGHLIGHTS OF THE EVENING

• Grandma trying to get in Grandpa's pants. They've been divorced for 17 years. (Mom: "Are you writing something for your blog?" "Yeah, the highlights, including Grandma hitting on Grandpa." "Honey, if you think that's a highlight you need to get a life.")


• Clomping down the stairs at the church before the wedding and yelling, "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER!"


• One of Bean's old high school friends walking up to me after the wedding and saying, "I heard you were upset about Bean getting married before you and I just wanted to let you know I understand." Um. The hell? Tell me, exactly, which one of the voices in your head told you that?


• The running commentary from Trini in the video ("Aw. Isn't the bride pretty? I really need a beer.")


• The fly that got drunk in my glass of champagne for the toast. (Yummy, yummy protein.)


• I definately made a toast and the theme song from the Love Boat may or may not have been dramatically quoted.


• Chasing after two of my nine-year-old cousins around and around and around the tables while double fisting it and nearly wiping out. This and the fact that I couldn't take a full breath in that damn dress consisted to my flushed appearance for most of the night, much to the concern of the best man.


• Mom having to get practically naked EVERY TIME she had to use the bathroom


• Having dad hold my beer so I could go to the potty and then stealing his when he had to go. Because it was cold and had more in it. And then I got it up my nose.


• Wayne pointing out JUST how white my legs are. Bastard.


• Spitting out the car window on the drive home and hitting Trini.


• Contributing to the whole "something old, something new, something borrowed, somthing blue" superstition by being the "something blue". By taking a picture of my butt. With my skirt tucked into my underwear. For Bean to keep in the bouquet as she walked down the aisle.

Now, before you ask, yes, I did bring my camera, but I didn't take any pictures because, well, everyone else had cameras. I did, however, get what I consider to be the MOST IMPORTANT WEDDING PICTURE OF THE WEEKEND:





That's right folks. That is EXACTLY what it looks like. Ribs. Better yet, Trini ribs. Mouth-watering, fall off the bone, oh my God where have you been all my life ribs.

And those alone would have totally worth the drive.

AND IT HAS TO HAPPEN REPEATEDLY

Y'all. I suck at being a girl. I lose all of my merit badges and pillow fight/makeout privileges (Yeah, guys. Your fantasies? They're true. Every slumber party leads to a pillow fight which leads to curious touching which leads to chick on chick makeouts. But you didn't hear it from me).

See, what happened is this. I changed purses today because my old black one, which never gets used anymore since I have red and blue and tan to choose from, MATCHES MY BRANDY NEW SHOES (coincidence you ask or PURE UNADULTERATED GENIUS?) and I forgot.

I forgot I've been ravenous. I forgot I've been moody and bloated. I forgot that I CRIED this week while reading Harry Potter 7 because waaa! My poor Weasley twims get MAULED! Mauled I tell you!

I forgot all those things so why are you looking all shocked and surprised that I forgot to pack something absorbent. Like a diaper.

A curse upon my loins!

I don't understand why my body feels the overwhelming need to prove to the world I'm not getting it on. I am fully aware of my lack of makeouts (because you can TOTALLY get pregnant by tongue kissing. I heard it from Jenny who heard it from Dan who heard it from his cousin whose sister totally got pregnant that way. IT'S TRUE!).

I guess I could forgive my body this obsession if it weren't for the most annoying of grievences. Cramps. Better yet. Cramps that pulsate. Betterer yet. Cramps that migrate.

Oh, it may start to one side. And that might not be so bad. But then it starts to think that my lower back? Much better residents. I mean, what with the room and the view (of my bum, people, and WHAT a bum). And my cramps, see? They're about as hard to evict as coachroaches. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain my cramps could survive a nuclear holocaust and the ensuing winter, too.

It's been a pity in my life that I haven't ever really dated anyone who was good at/liked to give back massages. Because that would be THE SHIT right about now.

AND THEN

I almost called you today. It wasn't any conscious decision. I walked to my car after spending an extra 2 1/2 hours at work and my finger started moving of their own volition...

And then I hung up the phone.

A POST ABOUT MY BOOBS

I went to see Harry Potter 5 this weekend. I totally wish I was 12 so I could crush on the Weasley twins. I think I just like their characters.

Yeah. That's it. Their characters.

Before the movie, Eric and I were getting some snacks. He thought it best to let me pay with my card and he would just give me cash, and lets face it folks, I NEVER carry cash so any opportunity to garner some is welcomed.

"How much is popcorn?" he asked riffling through his wallet.

"Four dollars, plus gratuity."

He paused, and glared at me. "I'M NOT GIVING YOU A GRATUITY."

"Why not?" (I may or may not have pouted at this point.)

"Why should I?"

"I'll let you look at my boobs?"

"Oh! So ten dollars sound good? What does that make it now? Grape slushies and money to get to look at your chest?"

For the record, I didn't take his money.

I should have. But I didn't. It might teach his dumb ass a lesson, because SERIOUSLY guys. Why pay for something that, given you don't get caught, YOU CAN DO AS MUCH AS YOU WANT FOR FREE?!

I mean, I know I have wonderful boobs. And they certainly have served me well over the years (and, between you and me, I always get a shit eater grin on my face when I find out that people I had previously thought had failed to fall victim to the boobs admit their defeat), but to go so far as to let me hold them for ransom?

And I wasn't even wearing a low cut top. Unlike Friday night. Friday night I had on my cute, little, pink, strappy tank top. While standing at Kroghetto. Waiting for one of the Matts.

And I felt very much like a prostitute standing on the corner waiting for a trick to drive by. And that shirt? Doesn't even show the amount of titty that this bridesmaid dress is going to put up there on display. NOT EVEN CLOSE.

ALTERCATION

Everything you are about to read it true. Despite that, I'm assuming a number of you might need to suspend your disbelief for what I'm about to tell you:

I went shopping today. Alone. Because I wanted to.

(I KNOW!! Don't worry. Stay with me. It gets much more believable later on, I SWEAR.)

I bought three things for myself.

(SHUT IT. I didn't say it got more believable IMMEDIATELY.)

At Bed, Bath, and Beyond I bought myself a new loofa (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!) and a hanging mirror for my door (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!), and then, at DSW, I bought myself new shoes (Are you still nakey if you're wearing shoes?).

I have to say, after all that I was pretty thirsty. Also, kind of hungry. And because I am brilliant, I thought a smoothie will be just the thing to thwart both these ailments.

So I drove to Smoothie King.

As I pulled into a spot, I noticed the spot directly ahead of me was open so I pulled forward. I got out. That is when he got my attention. And he shall be known as Self-righteous, Pretentious, Pricky Person or SP3.

Mr. SP3 was just stepping out of his LOVELY man van to my right as I got out of my car. He looked perturbed.

SP3: "Hey! You almost hit me!"

Now, take notes here, dear reader, for I am peacemaker extraodinaire.

I fixed upon him my most sympathetic gaze. Something that might have been misinterpreted as incredulous with a hint of disgust.

SP3: "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

Now, I HAD been paying attention and when I made the decision to pull forward, he was NOT opening his door. Not only that, but he could have been ALL THE WAY OUT OF HIS CAR AND STILL HAD PLENTY OF ROOM BETWEEN HIS BODY AND MY CAR. I'm just saying.

Also, SP3, you may not realize this, seeing how it's our first meeting, but I? Am awesome. At everything. Especially driving. My driving could soooo kick your drivings ass. Yeah, huh! That is so even possible!

By the way, this wouldn't even be a problem if you never existed. I'm just saying.

Me: "Sorry?" I said with UTMOST sincerity.

I turned to leave. And ran into my side view mirror, so when I heard Mr. SP3 call me an asshole, I couldn't quite stop myself.

Me: "Oh, bite me."

SP3: "F*UCK YOU!"

You'll forgive me, dear reader, but I was overwhelmed... no, no I was COMPELLED at that very moment to share with Mr. SP3 my brandy new manicure. Specifically, a particular finger of that manicure. This was merely because the manicure on that particular finger is BEAUTIFUL and I was still under the misguided hope that this guy was at all rational and might be calmed by the sheer beauty held before his gazing (glaring) eyes.

He was not.

SP3: "Why don't you sit on it and rotate, bitch."

Son, please.

Me: "That WOULD be more fun that doing it with you."

SP3: "GO F*CK YOURSELF!"

I was kind, guys. I let him have the last word. Mostly because I had just walked into Smoothie King as this point. I composed myself, smiled brightly at whoever was in the store, and walked to the counter.

And then I promptly turned and walked out of the store and back to my car.

Why? you might be asking yourself. Because my car? It was still parked next to his sexy man van. And there was no reason why someone who is as much of a prick as Mr. SP3 would not, if he left his store before I left mine, key my car. And I'm just not okay with that.

I mean seriously folks. It isn't my fault that Mr. SP3 is socially awkward enough to bitch out a COMPLETE STRANGER for some perceived wrong THAT DID NOT ACTUALLY HAPPEN. He must not have been raised right because I would NEVER bitch out a complete stranger for any reason ever. Amen. Except maybe under my breath or, ironically, while driving, because, DUH! Quick get away.

Not that I've ever done that (yeah, about a month ago and the F-word may or may not have been thrown out at the beginning of that little spat but he shouldn't have been walking on a DON'T WALK signal and getting all up in my way).

Now, you may be wondering why, but I DID take to heart what this guy said to me folks. Next time, I'll pay attention. So I don't miss.

I'm just saying.

I CONCUR

BJ: "I slept from 4 to 9 then went back to bed at midnight."

Bubba: "I tried to take a nap but my mom woke me up to show me my stupid horiscope."

Hazel: "What did it say?"

Bubba: "I don't know. Something about 'there will be luck in your future.'"

BJ: "You'll get lucky in the future?! Hot damn, that's specific."

Hazel: "God, I need mine to say that soon."

ONLY SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT RESPONSES

Co-worker:

"OHMYGODWEHAVEACRISIS!"

"Oh, Jesus! What happened?!"

"Um, well, I broke a nail."

"..."

"What?! That's a crisis!"

"You have got to be kidding me, kid."

"BUT THE WEDDING IS IN A WEEK!"

* * *

Ma:

"Mommy! I have a crisis! The perfect, happy wedding has been thwarted."

"Alright. And exactly how is that?"

"I broke a nail."

"SONOFABITCH! So, are you going to need a tip put on?"

"Probably not. I figure my nailbeds are long enough she can just cut the rest and fake it."

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

* * *

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEAN (also known as Baby Butthead Brat Face)!!!

I'LL ANSWER ANYTHING, PART 2

Time now for the next installment of "I will answer ANYTHING you ask me!" (Sparkly lights! Cheesy music! Jazzy hands!)

This episode is brought to you by Anonymous (if that is your real name) who says: Tell us about your love of anchovies.

Um. Well. See, here's the thing. I don't like anchovies. Or sardines for that matter. I'm not entirely sure where you got your informaton, Anonymous, but I'm not terribly fond of tiny fish and their horrible smell.

BUT! As luck would have it, I DO have an honest to life story about tiny fish (sardines rather than anchovies but really, close enough, right?).

Once upon a time, I was in high school. I know, I know. Hard to believe. But, alas, it is true. And during that time of my life, my dad had an ugly old truck. This was not the black truck he later gave to Tiff but a two-tone blue monstrosity with no power steering and the meanest clutch the land has ever seen.

But that's not important.

What is important is that SOMEONE broke into the back window of this truck (which wasn't exactly hard since the latch had long since broken) when it was sitting in the driveway and threw in an (open, obviously) can of sardines into the truck. Not only was that a pleasant smell, but it stained wherever it touched a stange sort of neon green.

I can't say with any certainty that that even expediated the sell of that truck but it is sufficient to say I was always afraid to drive the truck after that because I didn't want to turn neon green.

And that was how I saved Christmas.