Archive for the ‘FML’ Category

Things I’m likely to buy whilst drunk

May 3, 2010

Today I got an e-mail from my friends over at PerpetualKid.com.  Well, “friends” is a liberal term; I bought some crap from them at some point (possibly while drunk, or at least buzzed) and apparently gave them permission to beg me to buy more crap from them in the future.  I doubt they’re concerned about how my divorce is turning out (fine, thanks) or are planning to invite me to their son’s wedding (I wouldn’t go anyway, so there).  I wouldn’t add them on Facebook since I’ve never met them in real life or on a Twilight blog.  They aren’t my friends, is what I’m saying.

I feel like this has gotten off to a defensive and weird start.  The marketing department at PerpetualKid.com has me on a list to which they sent a mass e-mail about their new product, THE WORLD’S LARGEST GUMMY BEAR.  I’m not yelling, they just caps-locked it right through their product description.  I understand why, though.  Check this bastard out:

Five pounds. Bigger than a football. I've given birth to smaller things than this.

I read the e-mail three times.  Who would buy this thing?  I’m going to go ahead and make the assumption that anyone with thirty spare bucks laying around has no need for a giant, sticky, 12,000 calorie anything. Thirty bucks is a night out at Applebee’s.  Thirty bucks is a big bottle of Patrón for you plus a tiny bottle of Patrón that you can photograph your baby holding and hope child services never finds the picture.  Thirty bucks is a pair of last season’s Anne Klein pumps.  Why would someone drop thirty bucks on a single piece of candy?

If that someone was, say, me, and that someone was, say, drunk, this question would be moot.  I have no ability to turn down something I want while intoxicated.  Irish men, deep fried snack cakes, free puppies, I will invite them all into my life without question after three Stellas.  With the advent of internet shopping, iPhones, and single-click purchase features on shopping apps, I find that on Mondays more often than not the UPS man introduces me to some item I found irresistible while straddling a barstool at Buffalo Wild Wings on Friday night.

I’ve found that these purchases occur in two major ways, the DARE and the WANT.   The DARE is how I ended up with my most recent purchase, the GeMagic Deluxe Kit.  How else was I going to make my What What Pants?

The DARE conversation goes something like this:
ME:  Yes they do make those.  I totally saw it in an infomercial.
THEM: No way do they make a dog bark translator.
ME, pulling out iPhone: Wanna bet?
THEM:  Holy shit.
ME:  Told you.
THEM:  I dare you to buy it.
ME:  I totally bought it.

I love a good dare.  When I play Truth or Dare–which doesn’t happen as often in the life of a thirty-something divorcee as you’d hope it would–I always pick dare.  I’ll do just about anything.  It’s ridiculous, and the more drunk I am, the more ridiculous stuff I’ll do.  It’s honestly a miracle I’ve never been arrested for public nudity or trespassing yet.

The WANT is usually a visceral, infantile drive to purchase something because I have to have it. The WANT purchases are usually made when I’m alone, and my inner monologue goes something like this:
ME:  I want that.
ME:  You don’t need it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t afford it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t fill your life with material things.
ME:  Watch me.  Or you.  Whatever.  I’m fucking buying it.

Actual things I’ve bought while drunk:

Not one, but TWO sets of Twilight trading cards. In my defense, the second set was signed by Peter Facinelli, so it’s NORMAL.
NKOTB’s “The Block”. There are no explanations for this one. I didn’t just download it either, I bought the actual damn CD.
I watched this on television in 1985. Twenty five years later and four beers in, I decided I needed perpetual access to it. Ringo Starr is in it. Yeah.
Twilight vehicle window decal. If I’d been drunk when I’d received it, it would probably be on my car right now.
2003 Volvo XC90 on eBay. Fortunately I didn’t meet the Reserve Price, or I’d be wheeling around in this bitch right now.

Things I found in my history that I must have passed out or gotten distracted before I managed to buy them:

Autographed photo of Don Knotts shaking hands with Andy Griffith on the set of “Matlock”. Obviously, I probably should actually own this.
Dog socks with little suspenders to help them stay put. I can’t decide if this is adorable or sad.

Wow. They weren't cheap, either. I think that my low Visa limit gets the credit for me not buying these shoes.

I hate Christmas music

December 14, 2009

Except for these songs. WordPress has provided this nifty player, so you can listen by just clicking the little arrow. Or not, since you’ve probably heard each of these songs several times today if you’ve left your house, or turned on your television, or spent more than two minutes awake and not wearing noise-cancelling headphones.

“Last Christmas” by Wham!

Yeah, we're totally straight.

Easily my favorite Christmas song.  Firstly, you have to love a musical act that finds it necessary to include punctuation in their name. Wham!, Panic! at the Disco, . . . And You Will Know Us By the Trail of the Dead–these are all my people. Secondly, the lyrics make it sound like maybe someone carried around a year-long grudge after their crappy gift was returned. Last Christmas/I gave you my heart/but the very next day/you gave it away. Was that a gold-plated heart on a cheap chain that you bought at the Gold Connection kiosk at the mall? Because I would have returned that garbage too. Thirdly, I imagine George Michael singing this to a guy, which makes me feel really progressive.


“Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano

I don’t know the words to this song.  I’m under the impression that “feliz navidad” is the Spanish equivalent to “Merry Christmas”, but I like having the rest of it shrouded in mystery.   I’m worried that if I Google the lyrics I might find out that Spiro Agnew is not actually mentioned, and this will RUIN CHRISTMAS FOREVER.


“Mele Kalikimaka” by Bing Crosby

Last year I had to have a root canal a week before Christmas.  This sucked in a way that I can only describe as falling somewhere between “flat tire in an ice storm” and “sitting on a public toilet seat you thought was fairly clean but realizing too late that it was wet”.  I decided I wasn’t going in bareback for this event, so I coughed up the thirty bucks for the N2O.  I highly recommend this.  In fact, if you have a dental care regimen that is keeping you away from procedures requiring nitrous oxide, you may want to stop doing that.  I had a high old time on this stuff.  I was in the chair for two and a half hours, during which time “Mele Kalikimaka” played three times.  True to its reputation as laughing gas, the nitrous oxide elevated the mildly enjoyable song to absolute hilarity for me, and the dentist had to stop every time it came on so I could degiggle myself.  At one point, the entire staff came in to watch me, I was so entertaining.  Really, stop brushing.  The N2O is worth the pain and dental bills.


“Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt

What on Eartha Kitt . . . ?

Once upon a time, there was a miraculous claymation program called “The PJs”, subtitled, “The Last Funny Thing Eddie Murphy Ever Did”.  Every now and again, Thurgood Stubbs would break out a ridiculous statement of surprise or exasperation, my favorite of which was, “What on Eartha Kitt?!?”  At the time I didn’t know who Eartha Kitt was, but I assumed based on her name that she was a giant woman whose girth rivaled that of the planet.  Later I was introduced to the tiny goddess who sat right down at a White House luncheon and had the balls to tell Ladybird Johnson that her husband was fucking up in Vietnam.  Eartha died last Christmas, but she did “Santa Baby” in a way that Madonna and Marilyn only wished they could.


“All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey

Normally, Mariah Carey at the microphone sends me running for the earplugs, but she owns this song.  Also, this song is pivotal in “Love Actually”, my favorite Christmas movie that’s not really a Christmas movie, even though Carey didn’t sing the version on the soundtrack.  It makes me want to show up at some guy’s door with a boombox and a series of posterboards telling him I will love him until he’s a rotted corpse, but I’m guessing that move doesn’t work in reverse.


“Do They Know It’s Christmas” by Band Aid

When I was nine or ten years old, it was en vogue for bands to do massive concerts and put out compilation records for charity.  Live Aid, Farm Aid, Band Aid.  Pick a noun and add “Aid” to the end and you’ve got an instant 80s fundraiser. This song is like “We are the World: Christmas Edition.”  The participating artists reads like an eighties who’s who:  Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club, George Michael, Kool and the Gang, Sting, Phil Collins, Jody Watley, Bananarama.   Actually, I don’t love this song as much as I love to hate it.  The lyrics are steeped in privilege:  “Well tonight thank God it’s them instead of you.”  Yes, this is the point of altruism, to feel superior to people dying of hunger and disease.  Who approved that line?  I’m looking at you, Bob Geldof.


“Christmas in Hollis” by Run-D.M.C.

This song has it all:  illin’ and chillin’, a morality story about returning dropped wallets, collard greens.  I thought I was a real badass with this song.  My budding white girl brain thought I was getting a peek into the holiday customs of African American families.  I felt quite diverse.  Since then I’ve experienced several Christmases with black members of my own family, only to find out they do pretty much the same boring crap that white people do; discovering this was worse than finding out about Santa.


“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by U2

This is the first song I knew was a U2 song, and I decided right then and there that I would spend at least one Christmas with a man begging me to come back to him.  This has yet to happen.


“I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” by Gayla Peevey

The only song on earth that could make me overlook the painful grammatical inaccuracy of "rhinoceroses".

You love this song too.  I know you do, because only two kinds of people say they don’t love this song:
1.  Liars
2.  Robots

So which one are you, huh?  Liar or robot?  That’s what I thought.  Besides, this song resulted in an actual hippo being purchased, which blows my mind.  Immediately following this post I’m sitting down to pen the lyrics and music for “I Want a Gorgeous Young Guy to Move Into My House and Clean it All Day Until I Come Home at Which Time I Want Him to Pleasure Me and Feed Me Tasty Things”.
 


“Blue Christmas” by Porky Pig

The first time I heard this I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard.  Since then, I’ve become somewhat immune to its LOL-inducing abilities, but come to my house in a week and I guarantee you’ll find me full of tequila, splattered with chocolate and powdered sugar, giggling through mouthfuls of Muddy Buddies while this song plays on a loop in the background.  Not because of Christmas, it’s just what I do every Monday night.


“You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft

You're as charming as an Orc

Holy shit.  I just found out the name of the guy who sang this song.  He sounds like a World of Warcraft character.  This is based completely on my uninformed bias, since I don’t follow World of Warcraft and have no idea what the character names are like.  Bonus: the song is completely constructed of insults you can use year-round.  “I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole” is my personal favorite.


That’s it.  All the Christmas songs I can tolerate.  Basically, you’ve just been subjected to an elaborate public compilation of my holiday mix tape.  Merry Christmas.

The letter that will keep me from becoming President of the USA

December 3, 2009

In the ongoing and not very interesting but for some reason all consuming story of my pee money–which, by the way, is still wrapped tight in paper towels and a Ziploc baggie–I’ve written a letter to the U.S. Treasury to ask what to do with it. Of course, my actual plan is to toss the cash into my next load of laundry, but I want to see what response if any I get from our fine government. I was bewildered to see that there is no e-mail address to send inquiries for damaged money; I didn’t realize that anyone still functioned without electronic communications. Determined as I am, I dusted off Microsoft Word and tapped out this highly professional missive:

November 25, 2009

Chief, Office of Compliance
Bureau of Engraving and Printing
Currency Residue Request
14th & C Streets, S.W.
Room – 321A
Washington, D.C. 20228

RE: Damaged Currency

Dear Sirs and/or Madams:

This is a little embarrassing. Yesterday, I had an accident that resulted in me urinating on a five (5) dollar bill. The accident was of the “money fell in the toilet” variety rather than the “I wet my pants” variety.

My question is, does urinating on paper currency render it “damaged”? Without going into the gory details of its retrieval from the toilet, I did rinse the bill thoroughly and it shows no signs (staining, water damage) of its ordeal. But considering the ick factor here, I would feel better knowing your opinion of how I should proceed with the cash. Money laundering jokes aside, can I throw it in the washing machine? Should I send it to you for replacement?

Until I hear back, I will keep the money quarantined in a zipper sealed sandwich bag.

Thank you for your time,

Tiffany ******

P.S. I tried to find the answer to my question on your website, but could only find this address and a telephone number. If you have time, could you explain why there is no e-mail address for your department? I am admittedly biased toward “modern” technology, but even my grandmother has an e-mail address, though she doesn’t know how to check her inbox, bless her heart.

Now I wait.  I anticipate at least six to eleven weeks, being that this is the United States government I’m waiting on.  I tried to walk the line between “boring letter that gets ignored” and “letter that gets my name put on a government watch list”.  I’m guessing I might even see this again should I try to run for public office in the future, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to all my naked photos and drunken Tweets floating around out there.

I saw this video about Howie Mandel washing all of his money.  Smart dude.

A reminder why you always wash your hands after cash transactions

November 24, 2009

A couple of hours ago, I had to pee.  I could buffer this confession with a euphemism, like, “I had to use the bathroom,” or “I had to do one of my little jobs,” but the “pee” is the crux of the story.  So I went to pee.  We have a lovely bathroom at work; matte pewter fixtures, purple walls, a large basin sink.  It’s very clean.  You see, “clean” is also important to the story, which is why it is being emphasized.  I went to “pee” in the “clean” bathroom.  We are all on the same page.

I settled in, content with my lot in life that I get to pee daily in such a clean, purple bathroom.  Mid-pee, I heard something rustle behind me, sort of like a leaf gently shaken loose from a branch in fall, and wondered what that could be.  I turned to look, and to my horror, that the neatly folded five dollar bill I’d had in my back pocket was now floating in the same toilet bowl into which I was relieving myself.  There was nothing I could do.  The pee had hit the bowl, as the saying doesn’t go.  I briefly said a prayer of thanks that this was not a “big job” I was turning out and finished my business.

Dramatic Recreation of events

Dramatic Re-Creation of Events

I wiped, stood, then considered my options with my pants pooled around my favorite black high heeled boots.  Flush the bill?  Throw out the money with the peewater as the saying doesn’t go?  Maybe if it were one dollar, but this was a five, and I’m a cheap bitch.  I was afraid to leave the room, lest someone come in and pee on my money*.  Like MacGyver, I searched the bathroom for something with which I could extract the money from the potty.  Unlike MacGyver, I came up blank and made a decision I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy:  I went in with my bare hands.  Actually, first I did a dance I like to call “I have to stick my hand in peewater”, which looks a lot like the “I just found a spider in my comforter” dance, only with the “I just did a shot of cheap tequila” face.  Then I went in with my bare hands.

I think at that point I blacked out, because the next thing I remember was washing the money in the sink.  My pants were up, the toilet was flushed, and the only indicator of my crisis situation was the cash being rinsed.    I grabbed a stack of paper towels, laid the bill on them, then covered it with another stack of paper towels while I washed my hands for twenty minutes, then soaped up and washed the sink, then washed my hands again before putting on half a bottle of hand sanitizer.

So the question is this:  what do I do with the bill?  Clearly I can’t touch it again without gloves; it’s currently still wadded up in the paper towels inside of a plastic bag.  I would also not feel comfy pawning it off on the kindly Indian woman at the Subway, half because I like her and half because I don’t want her to make anyone’s sandwich after she’s touched that five.  I’ve agonized over my options, and I’m polling on what it’s come down to:

*If I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to say this–well, I probably wouldn’t have to fish pee-covered bills from the toilet.

I might have OCD

October 22, 2009

At least the O part. The jury is still out on the C part. I’m too lazy to be compulsive. Obsessive doesn’t seem to require any extra effort from me.

A few days ago, I notice that we have crayons in many different parts of the house. We have our regular vat of crayons on the desk, then some stray boxes of new crayons, then a couple of random bags of crayons that the kids brought home from school at the end of last year when they cleaned out their desks. I know it’s October. I realize the bags of crayons came home in June. I’ve already mentioned that I’m lazy; what more do you want? I need to consolidate these crayons.

Let me pause to say that I can’t see the tops of my living room tables for all the stuff piled on them. I haven’t dusted anything since March. There are more clothes on my bedroom floor than in my closet. Food is starting to vacate my refrigerator of its own accord, out of sheer disgust. But my real problem is with the status of the crayons.

Back to the story. I situate myself in the middle of the kitchen floor and divide the crayons into four categories: new, used but still good, off brand, and broken. I really only need two categories–keep and toss–but morbid curiosity about my personal crayon statistics makes me create four. I start sorting. I notice that at some point in my past, I’ve dated some of the crayons. DATED THEM. As though they might expire. I don’t get this. I did this myself, but I don’t get it. I laugh a little at my previous insanity, as though my current crayon procedure is any less ridiculous.

genericcrayon

You're not fooling anyone.

I start getting pissed at the off brand crayons. I didn’t buy them. I will use a generic deodorant, I will buy a Coby television, I will serve store brand tuna, but I’ll be fucked if there is any other acceptable crayon than Crayola. What is this Rose Art shit? What happened is I bought the Crayolas for my kid last year, carefully labeled the box with her name, and the teacher put them all in one storage cabinet and doled them out like the effing coloring lottery. Some bastard kid brought cheap imposter crayons and walks away with the real thing while my kid toils away with a half-assed waxy crayon that provides no coverage. The damned things have “Crayon” written on the side in the same font as “Crayola” and someone hopes no one will notice. I notice. I decide that next year, I’m labeling every single crayon with her full name.

I need to be more careful what Internet sites my kids are looking at.

I need to be more careful what Internet sites my kids are looking at.

I get the crayons sorted. Broken ones in the trash. Who is busting these things up? Some of these crayons appear to have been involved in an IED explosion. My kid starts crying that I’m throwing away her crayons. I’m tossing what amounts to forty crayons out of the 500 or so that have accumulated in our home. She’s screaming she can use them for something. She wants to chop them up and melt them into new crayons like Martha Stewart does. Why? You can buy a new box for a quarter at Wal-Mart in August. She’s losing it over the idea that I’m throwing out the crayon nubs. I deposit the broken crayons into a paper bag to appease her. When she’s not looking I throw them out, an act I’m sure to pay for later when she goes looking for her precious broken crayons.

I’m considering carrying the off brand ones to last year’s teacher and asking her what gives. I imagine she’ll say it doesn’t matter which crayons they get, since they’re all pretty much the same. Okay, Ms. First Grade. Why don’t we just throw all the teacher’s paychecks in a hat and let you pick one at random? It doesn’t matter, it’s all money, dollars and cents you know. I decide I’m too lazy to actually go to the school and hand her the generic crayons so I throw them out. The kids don’t complain about this because they hate the cheap things as much as I do. I’ve raised them to be crayon snobs.

You will be spared, Bittersweet of 10/19/09.

You will be spared, Bittersweet of 10/19/09.

So I’m left with the “used but good” crayons which are dated and the new ones which are not. I know it is going to bug me forever if I don’t date the new crayons and they’re in there touching the dated ones. I also know I can’t make this decision later because it has to be today’s date on them. I can’t go back through and sort them again and just date them for whenever, especially if my kids have used some of them. How will I know which Carnation Pink is the oldest? I might be faced with a do-or-die decision in which I have choose which Bittersweet to keep and I’ll have no basis for my choice. So I date them. About a hundred of them. I might have OCD.

What kind of psychopath doesn’t like a long walk on a beach?

September 17, 2009

I have a confession to make:  I’m a masochist.  Not even one of the fun ones who likes to have her nipples clamped with Chip Clips or spend time on the correction bench.  I seem to own a special kind of masochism that makes me post my profile on Internet dating sites.

This would be the paragraph where I explain why I need to resort to the lowly world of Internet dating.  I would first assert my status as a non-loser, rattle off my killer schedule that proves it’s impossible for me to meet people in real life, and try to differentiate myself from the masses of drooling losers who pay $30 a month to have a computer set them up with a social reject like some sort of electronic shadchen.  I’m not going to write that paragraph, because you already know I’m a loser, and also because I don’t pay $30 a month; I use a free dating site.  Admitting to online dating is awkward, and there’s just no getting around it.  We’ll just push through and get to the point of this post.

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

So every few months or so, I realize it’s been a while since I got laid asked out on a date, and I go to my trusty free dating site.  I update my profile, check carefully for spelling errors, make sure there are no nipples showing in any of my profile pictures, and cast my line.  Is that the right terminology?  To cast one’s line, like when you go fishing?  If it’s not, what I’m trying to say there is that I am metaphorically throwing my pole over my shoulder, thrusting it forward [God, it really has been a while, hasn’t it?], and hoping my hook goes not into my leg but into the water where it will catch a manfish.  Wow, totally non-creepy.

The next hour or so is wrought with anticipation as I watch the replies roll in.  Some sick Pollyanna voice in my head tells me that one of these unread messages in my inbox could be the man who will change my future into a tandem-bike filled reverie.  As you can imagine, this has not happened in the history of online dating, no matter what the commercials might tell you.  I’m not sure if I would want it to, since any bike that requires my legs to coordinate with another person’s is destined to end up mangled in a ditch, as my legs barely coordinate with each other.  I’m watching the responses rolling in, and this is when reality jumps up and says, “HA!  You stupid bitch!  Do you think if Prince Charming existed he’d spend his nights browsing for single white women between the ages of 25 and 35?”  No, these are the motherfuckers who are looking for me:

HI

HI

My God, where to begin?  With the message subject lined “hi”?  How about the one that says, “hi”?  Ooooh, there’s the guy who says “HI”–I bet he’s a take-charge kind of dude the way he uses ALL CAPS.  In this particular set, I managed to only open two:  “wow” and “for real..”.  Let me just say, it only gets worse when you open them.  The message inside of “wow” turned out to be a run-on sentence.  It wasn’t like a simple mistake, either; he took what should have been four or five sentences, jammed them together, then removed all traces of punctuation.  “for real..” at least used punctuation.  Unfortunately, that punctuation was the disturbing “/////” between every sentence.  For some reason those look like Norman-Bates-kills-blonde-chick-in-shower punctuation marks.  I read between the lines.

His message:   Hi.  ///// Saw ur profile. ////// What u doin this weekend? //////////

What I read:  Hi.  /slash/murder/scream/blood/ Saw ur profile. /want/to/wear/your/skin/ What u doin this weekend? /I’ll/keep/you/in/a/crate/in/the/basement/

Yeah.  Sorry Charlie.

I’m going to give these guys some helpful online dating tips because I am a nice person.  I really am.  I flip over beetles who have gotten stuck on their backs so they won’t die on the sidewalk.  When I see turtles on the road I’ll stop and move them so they won’t get hit by cars.  This is the same reason I give rides to my alcoholic neighbors walking to the convenience store for their evening 12-pack of Coors.

This post is my way of giving back to the community of men who will never have the pleasure of spending an awkward evening at a restaurant with me because their profile/message makes them look like a moron.  We’ve already addressed the subject line; let’s cover some other topics.

flymoneyguy4u

flymoneyguy4u

Your user name: You do not need to include the word “guy” in your user name; this is a given. If it contains a number in place of a word (e.g., “4” instead of “for”), it has 2 go. <–See how irritating that shit is? Should also not read like a rap nickname, particularly if you are white and not Eminem.

Your tagline:  You are not looking for “the love of a lifetime”, or “someone to snuggle with in the winter”.  You are trying to get into my pants.   One of you mentioned trying to fill a missing void, which came straight from the Department of Redundancy Department, but at least it’s on the right track.

Your profile:  Use a picture that was taken this century.  If your profile says you are 38 but your photo is clearly your “casual pose” from your high school Senior portrait session, I am going to assume you haven’t been attractive to humans since 1995.  Include information about your actual lifestyle.  There is no way all of you prioritize “long walks on the beach” on your lists of interests.  I’ve been to the beach–there were no roving packs of men enjoying long walks on the beach, and according to your profiles, there should have been thousands of you.  Maybe you were all inside having a candlelit dinner in front of a fireplace at the time?  For serious, tell me what you actually enjoy.

My profile:  Read it.  It will give you insight into who I am as a human being, and thus, directions into my pants.  If you are not interested in anything below my picture, you are thrusting your pole in the wrong direction, bud.

Addressing me:  Don’t use the words “darlin'”, “sweetie”, “angel”, “lady” or any combination thereof.  I will know you did not read my profile, because if you had, you would have gathered that I am none of those things.   Men who use these words without irony will not find my feminist theories endearing.

how u doin

how u doin

Your message:  “How u doin” is not a message.  Neither is “u hott”, “hit me up on IM” or “great tits”.  I’m thinking you should have at least three sentences in there, one about what you thought of my profile, one that makes me want to go to your profile, and one inviting me to make the next move.  Don’t forget the punctuation.

I’ll be honest here.  I’m not trying to help these guys out.  I’m trying to help me out.  A week of reading these horrifying messages from men who spend two seconds putting their profile together, and I’m done.  The profile comes down.

This is when I usually I remember that I like being single and having the freedom to surf the internet topless in the living room while eating Kit-Kats for dinner and listening to Mickey Avalon at top volume.  After all, the Internet is rife with sites that sell sex toys whose spelling abilities I could give two shits about.

P.S. Nipple

I’m going to be a slut for Halloween

September 2, 2009

I’m starting my search for an amazing Halloween costume.  My original plan had been to go as “Honeymoon Bella” but some bitches at TwiCon beat me to it and I’ve had to start from scratch.  Apparently, the Halloween Industrial Complex has decided that I’m going to be a slut for Halloween.  If you have a vagina, they’ve also decided that you will be a slut for Halloween.  There are infinite variations of this theme, but they all come back to the same thing.

Exhibit A:  The Firefighter

firefighter

The revered firefighter.  It should call up images of rescued babies and kittens, not thigh high hooker boots.  The image on the left is of a firefighter costume, the one on the right is of a slut in a plastic hat.

Exhibit B: The Football Player

football
Okay, I’ll concede that the male football player is pretty sexy, even though he is inexplicably barefoot.  But at least he gets to have a whole shirt.   Bonus points if you noticed the number on both jerseys.

Exhibit C:  The Referee

referee

A close relative to the slutball player, this may be the most blatant double standard of the post.  I think with this one, it is the high-heeled Chucks that pushed my ass over the edge.

Exhibit D:  The Hobo

hobo

When I first saw this, I was terrified that I’d stumbled across a slutty clown; I’m not usually afraid of clowns, but for this I was willing to make an exception.  The reality is that these are hobos, or at least one of them is.  The other is a hoboslut, a term I swore I’d never use again.   I don’t know what the hobos look like where you’re from, but around here, they almost never sport a keyhole cutout in their flannel.

Exhibit E:  The Hogwarts Student

hogwarts

I don’t know what offends me most:  the bastardization of a beloved literary series, the sluttification of the female costume, or the fact that the female Hogwarts model is supposed to be plus-sized.  If she is plus-sized, then I am too large to be seen with the naked eye.

Exhibit F:  The M&M

mandm

Come on.  The female costume isn’t even shaped like an M&M, unless you count those freaky disfigured ones you run across every so often (I never eat those–it just seems wrong).

Exhibit G:  The American Indian

nativeamerican

I’m not even going to get started on the cultural inaccuracies here, because I don’t have time and I’m not an expert on Native Americans.  The guy on the left may look stupid, but the poor woman on the right is called “Pocahottie”.  I couldn’t make this shit up.

Exhibit H:  The Soldier

soldier

No wonder there’s been so much hullabaloo about women in the military.  I would imagine they do have trouble fighting like men if they’re wearing hot pants and knee boots.  That’s not the standard issue uniform for a female soldier, you say?  That’s right, that’s the slut uniform.  You understand the confusion–the site had the costume on the right labeled “Soldier”.

Exhibit I:  The Nutcracker

nutcracker

Okay, which of you sick fuckers has the nutcracker fetish?  Wait . . . Rule #57 of blogging: don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.  But a nutcracker?  You’re defiling the very sanctity of the most capitalistic of our religious holidays with a slutty toy in a weird hat.  Too far, costume people.  Too far.


Costumes can be found at:
www.costumeexpress.com
www.halloweenexpress.com
www.buycostumes.com

Flying to Hawaii: A Love Story

August 27, 2009

This is going to be the first of several recounts of my trip to Hawaii earlier this month; I’d post them all at once, but I don’t want to inadvertently kill you with all the awesome.

Seriously, the whole effing state looks like a postcard.

Seriously, the whole effing state looks like a postcard.

I have a friend (who shall remain nameless, lest you all try to steal her from me) who invited me to come spend a week with her at her home on a Marine base in Hawaii. Believe it or not, I balked at first; I’m pasty white, I don’t fly well, and I’m not even getting into the amount of bikini grooming I haven’t done this summer.  Then she mentioned something about having access to 19-year-old Marines who were away from home for the first time in their lives, and I caved–I like them young and scared.

Not just for breakfast anymore.

Not just for breakfast anymore.

At the Atlanta airport, I did four a couple shots of Patrón at 9 a.m.  This made me even more amiable than usual, and I was loving everyone on that airplane, including the retired Chicago cop I was seated next to, who will be lovingly referred to as Flashback Joe for the remainder of the post.  By the time we were over Arkansas, Flashback had asked me to marry him, and I agreed to give him my phone number when we disembarked.  I gave him my freeze-dried meat product they served us, and he gave me his stale roll.  Mind you, this man was close to forty when I was born.  But I loved Flashback Joe, and he loved me.  And then the Patrón started to wear off, and as happens with all romantic affairs, I began to notice his flaws.  Like the fact that he was seventy years old and looked fourteen months pregnant.

Mmmm, Colorado-y.

Mmmm, Colorado-y.

When we were over Colorado, he accused me of having poor housekeeping skills and lusting after other men (I was totally doing that, since I was watching “Twilight” on my iPhone).  Just before California, I met his daughter, a petulant young woman seated three rows ahead of us who took an instant dislike to me.

I'd ship this to Flashback if I had his address

Somewhere over the Pacific, I’d had it; the attendants had served us some sort of cheese bread as a snack, and Flashback ate his with open-mouthed enthusiasm as he prodded me to discuss my cooking abilities. Short experiment: sit very close to someone who has trusted you up to this point. Wad up a piece of cheesy bread in your mouth and chew it a little; then turn to your trusting partner and say “fettuccine alfredo” a couple of times. If your formerly trusting friend is not covered in flecks of your wadded up ABC cheese roll, I’ll send you seven dollars. I sure as hell had Flashback Joe’s snack speckling the entire right side of my body and I was OVER IT.

I turned my body and pretended to look for Hawaii on the horizon, even though there was at least two hours of flight left.  This did not deter Flashback, who took to grabbing my arm every ten minutes or so to introduce me to another of an indeterminate number of his offspring who were scattered about the aircraft.  I was appalled to be engaged to such a man, and announced that I didn’t plan to remarry until I was in my fifties [and he was dead].  He assured me that I would change my mind, and when I rejected that theory, he spat (literally, he was a champion spitter) that I would be dried up when I was fifty.  I stuttered and blinked like Kristen Stewart trying to be dramatic, and then I had an IQ jump, an idea sure to definitively snuff out the dying embers of our relationship.

I pulled out Pocket Edward.

Edward welcomes you to Honolulu.

Edward welcomes you to Honolulu.

Yes I, a full grown woman on an airplane with 400 strangers, pulled out my miniature plastic vampire and started to pose him in various ways, some grotesque, some obscene.  I dangled him from my fold down tray.  I put him in the barf bag.  I tried to situate him in a meditation pose, airline peanut in each hand, but that motherfucker DOES NOT BEND.  By the time Pocket Edward humped my travel pillow, Flashback Joe was pretending he did not know me.  Indeed, he didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, and when we landed, I don’t even think he retrieved his luggage, so eager he was to get away from me and my freaky toy fetish.  This knowledge I now impart to you:  pull out a tiny plastic dude on a flight, and no one will fuck with you.

Note:  While making sure I got my descriptions of Pocket Edward correct, I pulled up the Amazon product page for same.  I was shocked to find several errors, including the assertion that P.E. is fully poseable (I can attest that he is most certainly not) and a description of Edward Cullen as a “shining” vampire when he clearly does not shine, but sparkle (P.E. disappointingly does neither).  I nearly died when I read under “Choking Hazards” that Pocket Edward contains a small ball and/or a marble, and may have a balloon concealed on his tiny person; I am now obsessed with finding all three.

Does anyone have a DeLorean I can borrow?

July 22, 2009
America's preferred mode of time travel since 1985

America's preferred mode of time travel since 1985

Perms.  Just Say No.

Perms. Just Say No.

There are so many things I’d like to go back and tell myself when I was in high school.  Some are minor, like “never get a perm at the Hair Cuttery” and “no one thinks you’re a bad ass just because you have a wallet chain”.  And some are of greater import:

Uncle Mullet.  Have mercy.

Uncle Mullet. Have mercy. Just because they do it on TV doesn't make it right.

That boy is not worth your tears. You know which boy I’m talking about.  The one whose folded up picture you’ve been carrying in your wallet for two years.  The one with the crinkly blue eyes who sounds just like Bon Scott when he sings and only dates cheerleaders.  In fifteen years he’ll hit on you at the grocery store, not knowing you spent four years mooning over him, and he’ll be buying a six pack of Schlitz and he’s going to still have that early 90s mullet and you are going to vomit a little in your mouth.  Dodge that bullet now, love.

Your parents are wrong. Not always, but a lot.  Don’t listen to them when they tell you that you can’t or shouldn’t do something you want to do–they’re wrong.  They are afraid because you are lovely and sensitive and they don’t want the world to eat you up and spit you out.  What they don’t know is that you are smarter and stronger than they’ve allowed themselves to believe.  Listen to your instincts first and their advice second.

Don't forget the J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, yo--I need a body bag.

Don't forget the J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, yo--I need a body bag.

Use condoms. Every time.  Even if you’re on the pill.  Even if he complains.  Even if you don’t have one with you but you’re really horny and he’s really cute.  Keep the junk under wraps, because you are one fertile bitch.

Just read the fucking books. When you read the Cliff’s Notes, you pass the test but miss the point.  The books are good, and you’re going to end up reading them anyway.  Do it now before you have a toddler clinging to each of your thighs.

Were mullets really this ubiquitous in the 90s?  I'm amazed we survived.

Were mullets really this ubiquitous in the 90s? I'm amazed we survived.

Your music collection sucks.  Seriously. New Kids on the Block?  Wilson Phillips?  C+C Music Factory?  Okay, you’ll still be listening to Nirvana in fifteen years, but don’t bother replacing your Michael Bolton tape with a CD–pick up some Leonard Cohen instead.

You are beautiful. And it has nothing to do with what you look like.


Bonus Uncle Jesse.

Bonus Uncle Jesse.

Half Blood Prince: drunken sex romp

July 15, 2009

hpI may, of course, be overstating the case with the title of this post, but there was a definite surplus of intoxicated and hormonal teenagers in “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince”.  Undoubtedly, the movie will be woefully under-reviewed, so here’s mine, including spoilers, because I have no filter:

My favorite part of the movie:  the “New Moon” trailer.  I wasn’t expecting it, because I thought Warner Brothers would promote WB movies only.  So when I saw the now familiar sweeping ocean panorama that marks the opening of the trailer, I went all Linda Richman at a Streisand show.  The guy sitting next to me leaned perceptibly away from me as I clutched at my shirt and moaned, “Oh. My. Gawd.”  Some people cheered, no one booed, and every woman in the place gasped audibly at shirtless Jacob.  I was tweeting it before Jacob even turned into a wolf.

 

My least favorite part of the movie:  the woman next to me who seemed to be having a sexual affair with her popcorn.  She thoroughly fondled, tongued, and sucked every piece with lusty relish.  I imagined ways to kill her with her own bucket.

Surprising moment:  Ginny Weasley in her pajamas getting on her knees in front of Harry Potter to tie his shoe lace.  Nothing like a thinly veiled allusion to blowjobs in a kids’ movie.  Actually, there was a lot of mild sexual behavior and intoxication–someone was always making out or drinking potions or ‘butterbeer’.  At one point Professor Slughorn gives beer to Harry and Ron (which was in the book, in their defense).

Something’s missing:  the entire story of Voldemort’s family.  Also, Hagrid and Neville were almost completely unused.  No funeral for Dumbledore (though there was a scene with lit wands that vaguely reminded me of a Journey concert).  I’m sure there was more missing, but these were pieces I was looking forward to and now I feel unsatisfied.

What they did right:  captured the horny teenager that is at the core of every Hogwart’s student. After the past movies, I’ve always said, “Where was all the making out?”  Half Blood Prince delivers the lust.

What they did wrong:  added crap that was not in the book.  I’m a Potter purist.  I don’t want new stuff, especially when they already left out some of the old stuff.

It was good in the way you expect a movie with a $200 million budget to be good.  They had no excuse not to have the best costumes, filmography, and special effects.  Cute boys* didn’t hurt either.

*With the exception of Rupert Grint.  Poor Rupert.  In addition to having the least attractive name known to man, he’s just not a sexy beast, and he’s had to stand next to the increasingly adorable Daniel Radcliffe for nearly ten years.  I know some people love Rupert, but I’m struck again and again how NOT attracted to him I am.