Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, February 28th

10. I'm thankful that I won the Nigerian lottery! Now, I just have to email them my banking information so they can take care of transferring my riches. This is gonna be great.

9. I'm grateful that many, many, many years ago on yesterday's date, a lady gave birth to my mother. And I'm also grateful that, more recently, someone opened Boca Chica, so that we could sup on fine Mexican (food, not people) in honor of my mama.

8. I'm happy that February has come to an end. Now, perhaps, in another three months, spring will...well, spring.

7. I'm thankful that, compared to Gabby's 18 naps per day, my 1-2 weekend naps seem less lazy.

Don't believe the pissy face - she was purring
 like a freshly charged vibrator.

6. I'm pleased that I did not throw my back out wrestling my dresser out of the car and into the house, though the neighbors may have wondered why I was hosting a WWE Smackdown with a piece of furniture in the driveway. If I'd have put on a bikini, I probably could've charged admission.

5. I'm grateful that I fashioned my very first hamburger patties this weekend without barfing in the bowl. If there's anything nastier than touching raw meat, I'm guessing it's a felony punishable by up to 10 years in prison.

4. I'm thankful that my mother and I weren't mistaken for December-May lesbians whilst ring shopping this weekend.

3. I'm happy that the boy didn't have a heart attack after Phase One of my moving in. I'm breaking him in slowly - first the tsotchkes and the Tampax. Next come the 40 pairs of shoes and the 200 items of clothing that I may or may not wear again some day - if and when they fit.

2. I'm grateful that my boss is an iPhone junkie, so perhaps he can show me how the hell to use my new device. My porn died along with my Blackberry so it's critical that I figure this out promptly.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, February 28th?

1. My boyfriend told me he'd give me $50 to say that I'm thankful that I regained my eyesight after being banged so silly by my hot boyfriend that I went temporarily blind.

Made in China

I've been delinquent in my blogging because...well, frankly I've been busy.

Not working. Or out on the town. Or even cleaning the house.

Nope, I've been terribly busy trying to crack a leap frog IQ test that's apparently given to second-graders in China.

Seriously. YOU DO IT!  Allegedly a person of average or better intelligence can figure this out in under two minutes.

It may or may not have taken me an hour.

Nothing angers me quite so much as feeling inferior, because my mama always told me I'm smart.

What the holy hell?

The moral of this story is that never will I question the wisdom of buying something that's been made in China.

When I need a new car? I'll find one that the Chinese elementary school kids put together.

If I need surgical intervention? Perhaps one of these little fuckers can squeeze me in during recess.

I'm beginning to suspect my mama may have lied to me. Now take the test and report back below to let me know if you'll be moving to China or licking windows with me.

The Edges are Sharp

He was sober when we met, but everyone warned me to steer clear of him and they told me he would break my heart.

Brent and I talked a lot about our demons.

Our adolescent years were very troubled and very similar. The scars lacing our arms were the same. We spoke freely of things to one another that I’d never felt that anyone else understood.

He was an accomplished chef and he spent several hours in my shitty kitchen one night, painstakingly constructing the most delicious French dinner I’ve ever eaten. The next day he pounded a bottle (a bottle) of my vodka while I was in the shower…and so it began.

It was alcoholism as I’d never seen before, violent and abysmally black.

His benders went on for days and the path of destruction he left behind him was outrageous. He would disappear until his organs began to shut down and then he’d call, sobbing and begging for help.

I’d peel him off a street corner, or pluck him out of a seedy flophouse. I’d wash his vile clothes and his battered, bloody body. He seized on the way to the hospital and foamed at the mouth; I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding his tongue down so he wouldn’t choke on it.

In the ICU, I held his body down with my own as the seizures and hallucinations escalated. Only immediate family is supposed to be allowed in the ICU; I thought it was because I had a calming effect on him that they allowed me to stay. Now I realize that they really didn’t want to bother with him, he was just another addict.

Dream catchers don’t stop the nightmares, and bringing cookies to the halfway house leaves a bittersweet aftertaste.

I had to step away, before he tore my life to pieces along with his.

I can still hear his desperate voicemails, pleading with me to answer my phone, to help him. I can still feel him collapsing into my arms, his face bloodied and swollen, so drunk he didn’t even know who beat him, or why.

I can still see the look in his mother’s eyes when we talked, the look of wanting to hope, but no longer knowing how.

He died a few weeks ago, and I didn’t even know until yesterday.

You can’t put the pieces back together when someone is truly broken, and it cuts deeply when you try.

Indian with a Side of Satan

Last night I went to meet my friend Amy for Indian food, and to see her new baby. Well, the baby isn't actually new anymore, but the other times we made plans to get together the baby had colic and my friend had exhaustion.

So now that the kid is almost ready for college six months old, she can finally go out to dinner.

Or so we thought.

She was snuggly and sweet and I kissed her chubby little cheeks and played with the fat rolls on her wrists.

We snapped a pic to send to the BF, since he thinks we should have a baby "someday".

"Look, honey!" I texted. "I'm holding a baby!"

"Aw," he replied. "That's so cute!"

And then she erupted on me like Mount Vesuvias.
I wiped the flow of lava off my shirt and my pants and was feeling quite proud of myself for my nonchalant response. Also, Amy informed me it was formula, so I was comforted by the fact that at least I wasn't swimming in my friend's breast milk.

I was very zen about it...nearly motherly, one might say.

Until she barfed again. I began to feel slightly less zen and significantly more damp. (Incidentally, it was around this time that I decided perhaps I ought to stop bouncing her up and down like a puppet.)

She was adorable for another few minutes, cooing and batting her eyes at me and I almost forgot about the spewage.

Until...

She opened her mouth and
the voice of Satan

roared forth from deep inside her

We got The Look from the other patrons, and Amy placed a 911 call to her husband, mere blocks away on standby, to come retrieve the devil spawn little peanut.

And that, my friends, is when I realized that babies are no different than really, really drunk girls.

 - They sob without provocation

 - They vomit without warning

 - The best way to get rid of them is to just bully some guy into taking her home

FAIL! Reality - 1, Romance - 0

There comes a point in every relationship when romance gives way to reality.

Some people think it's when you have your first fight.

Or perhaps it's once you comfortably pee with the door open.

But maybe?

It's the fart test.

I know guys who've blown ass during the first date. Can't lie; this is not a great way to get a second date. I realize we're all human, but c'mon. Can't you make up an excuse and step outside of the room in the name of pretending to woo me?

Then there are the guys who might take it too far the other way. It's not healthy to hold everything back, you know - horrible things can happen.

But I digress. Back to the story.

So anyone who knows me realizes that I'm basically head over heels for Mark. He's the cat's meow, he's the bee's knees, he's The One. Yes, I actually do have a girly girl gene, apparently. Don't tell anyone, it ruins my street cred.

However.

He's human. I'm human. We fight. We disagree. We have different tastes sometimes.

And sometimes, romance gives way to reality.

We were cuddled up in bed the other night, discussing plans for our future.

Engagement rings, to be precise.

Mid-sentence, he farted like a trumpet and passed out, snoring like a bear.

Ah....the romance. Chokes you up a bit, doesn't it?

FAIL!

Reality - 1

Romance - 0

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, February 21st

10. I'm thankful I had the chance to eat a foot long hot dog watch the Minnesota Wild play from killer seats, even though they got spanked.

9. I'm grateful that I didn't die while choking on tacos last week, as I do still have things I'd like to see and do before I leave this mortal coil.

8. I'm really happy that The Midget didn't recognize me. Or that, if she did realize who I was, she was a big enough person not to say anything. Ha! Get it? Big enough person?

7. I'm thankful we got a brief warm spell last week. It was deliriously exciting to go outside without an anorak and dual layers of wool socks.

6. I'm grateful that my mama is like the Rottweiler of bargain hunting. Just point her in the direction of what you're looking for, yell "ATTACK" and stand back. She'll tear the face off a deal for you in ten minutes flat.

5. I'm thankful that I got a workout this morning digging my car out from under 17 inches of snow. I'd have taken a picture for your viewing pleasure but I can't shovel, curse and take pictures simultaneously - and let's be honest, there was no way I was gonna stop swearing.

4. I'm humbled to realize that famous people enjoy my tweets. The Bloggess is now following me - and so is a porn star! I wonder what, precisely, about my life entertains a porn star?

3. I'm grateful that my Hamstermobile made it to work without spinning out and sending me into a ditch. This is a mighty accomplishment when I am the one behind the wheel.

2. I'm thankful that people are kindly enough to honk at others when they are stuck in the snow. It's super helpful, since I'm sure the people who are stuck don't realize it.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, February 21st?

1. I grew a sister! OK, actually that's a lie. My brother just finally proposed to his lady...but let's not split hairs.

Snow Day

Remember when you were a kid, and a snow day was the most exciting thing in your life aside from Christmas and Saturday morning cartoons? When did it stop being fun?

Here are my suggestions for how to entertain yourself on a snow day:

 - Pour 1 oz of every kind of liquor you have in your house into a shaker. Strain over ice. Add sugar (or anything available) to taste, until it's palatable. Gulp.

 - Put on the shittiest, most embarrassing music you love and have a dance party in your pajamas. Remember, it's freezing outside - nobody's gonna walk past the windows. Shake it like a Magic 8-ball.

 - Mix another suicide cocktail. Gulp.

 - Peer outside window. Feel angry about snow, but then remember you don't have to go anywhere.

 - Call and order pizzas from three local places. See who makes it there first in the blizzard and reward them by paying for the pizza. Don't answer the next two rings of the doorbell. Sit inside and giggle.

 - Pour another death drink. Enjoy.

 - Decide it's a good idea to make a sex tape using your iPhone and whoever is snowed in with you.

 - Commence sexing.

 - Watch tape and decide in your drunken stupor that it's sexier than the Kardashian video and therefore worth oodles of money.

 - One more cocktail. Getting kinda blurry.

 - Email vid to Vivid Entertainment with proposed contract negotiation.

 - Pass out.

 - Wake up wondering why snowstorms give you such a headache. Realize you're late for work.

 - Get to work. Open email. Find bizarre message from Vivid Entertainment, with a how-to brochure on the best ways to film a porno. Delete, as is obviously spam.

 - Pop Advil and wonder how those perverts got your email address.

Nobody Likes a Tease

For three blessed days, the mercury in Minnesota soared and we saw temps of 50 degrees. These teaser days taunt us with promises of sunny futures. They grant us just enough sunshine to remember what it feels like to have light on our pasty faces.

And then they bend us over and pound us in the ass with another 6-10 inches.

The snowbanks melt just enough that you can see around the street corner to know if you're going to get pummeled by a semi when you make a turn, and then the snow returns.

After living here for 34 years, this should not come as a surprise - yet every year I feel I've been cruelly cheated. The deception always stings.

But since life is handing me snowstorms, I guess I ought to make a snowman. And then punch him in his crusty cold face before going inside, pouring a Bailey's and coffee and surfing Internet porn.

Not the kind of porn that includes filthy sex with unattainable people. The kind of porn that includes tropical vacations in unaffordable locations.

I feel dirty already. Please don't tell anyone.

McWeddings

I just learned that McDonald's is now offering wedding services. For a particular price, you can say your I DOs under the watchful eye of the creepiest clown in the world.

Who needs a chuppah when you can marry beneath the golden arches?

And really, who doesn't want a wedding cake made from tiers of fried apple pie pockets?

This makes me McSick.

Have you ever smelled the inside of a McDonald's? I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be inhaling dirty grease and the scent of children's pee while staring into the eyes of my beloved and saying my vows.

Now, I realize that weddings cost a fortune, and people love a McValue. But I think I'd rather have a potluck wedding reception in the parking lot of WalMart than consumate our union in the bacterial ball pit.

And I really don't want Father Ronald asking my man if he'll love me through sickness and health, whether I'm skinny or super-sized, until heart attacks do we part.

I've never considered myself hopelessly romantic or high maintenance, but I simply can't envision wedding invitations that include a reply card with a WOULD YOU LIKE FRIES WITH THAT? option.

If, however, Taco Bell hops on the wedding venue bandwagon, let me know - cuz I love me some chalupas and hot sauce.

Murphy's Law

Tonight I ran into someone familiar.

Nope.

Not an ex. I'm not bloated or disheveled enough for that. And besides, it was worse.

I stopped off on the way home to meet my folks for a quick happy hour. They kindly saved me a seat...right next to the midget I knocked out last year.

OK, I don't know that she actually lost consciousness, because I was laughing too hard to check her vitals.

And, no - I wasn't laughing because I'm a mean and horrible person. I was laughing because...well, what the fuck do you do when you clobber a midget? You run away in an utter panic, howling with laughter while tears stream down your face.

It's like if an old lady farts next to you in church. You know it's totally inappropriate to laugh, so you absolutely must. With uncontrollable gusto. And you just...can't...STOP.

In my defense, if you are 3' 6", you have no business standing next to the bathroom door in a crowded bar.

Of course, tonight I could barely stop staring at her out of the corner of my eye. I'm praying she just thought I was staring because she's a midget; and not because she recognized me as the amazon who flung open the bathroom door and tossed her face first onto the ground a year ago.

Shit.

Hopefully all of us Big People look alike.

Near Death Experience

Today I choked on a taco at lunch.

As I began to asphyxiate, my life flashed before my eyes.

There was no comforting white light and I heard no angels singing.

I felt no regrets over things unsaid, love unrequited or goals not fulfilled.

Rather, I suddenly realized that I would rather actually die than violently expel my lunch from Chipotle on the table and all of my coworkers.

Did I mention that I'm the only girl in my office?

Seriously.

These guys are merciless.

Projectile vomiting would be horrifying enough, without having to hear them mock me about it every day for the rest of my life.

This blog, though, is about finding the silver linings in life - or trying to do so.

And the silver lining in my life today is learning that any one of my coworkers would punch me in the stomach if the situation dictated it.

Monday Marvels: The Love Edition

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, February 14th

10. I love my mama, who gave me ulcer medication for Valentine's Day. Nothing says love like a Costco-sized box of puke pharmaceuticals.

9. I love my dad, who always orders chicken fingers and then asks the waitress how the chickens will be able to type.

8. I love my bestie. We've shared food and cocktails and books and boys. We've laughed and cried and danced and skinny dipped and barfed and traveled. And she'll probably be pissed when her son reads this and learns of the skinny dipping, but she'll still love me anyway.

7. I love my readers, who bought me the laptop on which I'm writing this list. I'm still blown away that you read this shit!

6. I love how Gabby licks my nose at 4:30 AM to let me know she's ready to be adored.

5. I love my brother, except for when he has beer farts.

4. I love the feeling when my friends' kids slip a chubby little hand into mine. I love it best when they don't do it right after they pick their nose.

3. I love my Mark. He's gonna make a pretty cute hubby some day, don't ya think??

2. I love when I wake up in the night in a three-way spoon with the boy and the kitty.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, February 14th?

1. I love the wigglin' that I may or may not have done with my man on his boss' desk this weekend.

Liars

My whole childhood was a lie.

My mom used to tell me that beets and carrots were candy, and that if I finished my dinner I could have them for dessert. Imagine my surprise when I first tasted the babysitter's M&Ms. Her candy was vastly superior. The gig was up.

There was no Santa Claus, or Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy? Just another lie.

I don't remember what they told me when my mother's belly swelled with my brother, but I can assure you there was no mention of sticking a P in a V.

When I was three, I was a federal criminal. I stole the neighbor's mail. I'm not sure what the motivation was, since I couldn't yet read, but maybe they subscribed to Playboy and I wanted it for the articles. At any rate, I did this on a couple of occasions, and when I got caught, my parents would march me across the street to confess my sins.

Then one time we made plans to go to the Lincoln Del. Going out to eat was a huge treat in 1979 and I was delirious with joy at the prospect of matzo ball soup. Until we went to leave and my parents noticed a stack of mail on the hood of the shaggin' wagon - belonging to the neighbors.

"Did you steal this?" they asked me sternly.

"No." I actually didn't (this time), but in hindsight I can understand their suspicion. I was a felon already, tried and convicted by a jury of my peers parents.

"It's not OK to lie, young lady," says the lying mother. Really? Beets?

"I didn't steal the mail!"

And then they threw down the gauntlet. "If you don't tell the truth, we're going to Lincoln Del without you!"

This was catastrophic! I could practically taste the warm, salty matzo. So I took a deep breath.

And lied.

"I stole it," I confessed, hanging my three-year-old head in fake shame.

Off we trotted to the neighbor's house to announce my latest crime. Imagine my smugness, then, when the neighbor opened the door and thanked me for returning the mail...that he'd set on my parent's car and forgotten, while they were chatting earlier.

Matzo ball soup with a side of justice? Is delicious.

No News is Good News

I'm seriously questioning the need for news coverage. One could argue that it's important to keep up with current events, but I'm not sure I agree.

Most often when I read the news I'm either disillusioned, angered or depressed.

Occasionally I vomit.

In today's paper, there's an article about a charming grocery store employee from New Mexico who served a woman a small cup of semen, telling her it was yogurt.

I really didn't want to know that. (I bet you didn't either - but that's the price you pay for reading my blog.)

I will never be able to look at the little old sample grannies the same way again.

"Would you like to try some hummus, ma'am?"

"NO! FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS, GET THAT SHIT AWAY FROM ME!"

In other news today, a local drug-addicted nurse injected a patient's fentanyl herself while prepping him for surgery, telling him he'd need to 'man up' a bit because the procedure was going to hurt. Also, a couple of apartment complexes burned down, some nearby banks have been robbed and Brett Favre will be on Dancing with the Stars.

My life is not better now that I know any of these things.

And I definitely don't need the weatherman to tell me it's really fucking cold outside. My nipples alerted me immediately when I left the house.

From now on, I'm not reading any news stories that don't involve puppies, kittens or heartwarming tales of generosity and kindness. I like my news served warm, with a side of sugar delusion.



Meeting the MILF

The Mother In Law of the Future, you perv.

I don't hold a lot back on my blog. (Hi! Have we met?)

When I began this blog, I never really figured that anyone would read it beyond perhaps three or four of my friends who felt bullied into it.

People have helpfully pointed out that blogging publicly about sensitive topics might hinder a potential political career. Or get me fired from McDonald's. Luckily, I don't plan to run for office or serve Big Macs.

But I didn't plan to have a boyfriend, either.

I assumed I'd be single forever. Again - have we met? So this has been a bit of an adjustment. You know, thinking of someone else's feelings and shit like that.

Whenever I blog about things involving people I know, I ask myself  "Could this upset them or adversely affect them?" Then, if it's my family, I write about it anyhow. They are required to continue loving me, even when I horrify them and piss them off.

The boyfriend is not a blood relative which means he can walk away at any point. Believe it or not, I try to keep this in the back of my mind when writing new posts. I don't believe in changing myself for another person, but I do know how to be somewhat respectful when needed. (Quit laughing. It's true.)

So tonight I'm meeting the MILF and I can't lie, I'm a little nervous kind of shitting myself.
Not about having dinner with his folks - I can be pleasant and appropriate for two hours. But I'm nervous because his mom is on Facebook. And if she tries to link up after meeting me, I have one of two choices.

1) Ignore Boyfriend's Mom's friend request, which is probably considered a moderate FAIL.

2) Accept it, and realize that she will have access to my blog.

Fuck.

Hopefully his mama is relatively computer-illiterate and hates to read for fun.

Or perhaps this is a completely narcissistic anxiety attack manufactured as a thinly veiled excuse to pop a Xanax.

Maybe she has all the Facebook friends she wants already and has no interest in knowing more about me.

Let us pray.

Welcome to my Family

The other night at happy hour with my parents, while discussing laser hair removal, it came to light that my mother assumed I'd merely had my bikini line zapped.

When she realized I was going bare, she fixed me with a look of utter horror - the kind of look generally reserved for people kicking puppies.

Following is a transcript of the conversation as it unfolded:

Mom (clearly suffering PTSD): That's disgusting and perverted! And totally disturbing.

Me (laughing): Um, not really. It's pretty common.

Mom: No way. Why?

Me: It's just cleaner.

Mom: Whaddya mean, cleaner?

Me (awkwardly): You know.

Mom: No.

Me: No maintenance. It's less messy.

Mom: Messy? What are you talking about.

Me: Mom....seriously.

Mom: What?

Me: Do you wanna bury your face in a nest of fur?

Mom: GROSS!

Me: I'm just saying...it's not weird. It's maintenance.

Mom: It's perverted, that's what! Why would you wanna look like a child?

Me: It's not about looking like a child, it's about being clean.

Mom: That's exactly where it comes from. From pedophiles.

Me: Um, actually, I think the advent of Internet porn is probably more to blame. Porn is so prevalent and the trends go from being a bit risque to pretty mainstream. And by the way - are we seriously having this conversation!?

Mom (stubbornly): They aren't bald in porn.

Me: Have you seen a porn video?

Mom: Oh, yes - I've seen porn.

Me (choking back laughter): More recently than 1982?

Mom: YES! And they aren't bald. Bill! Have you heard of this?

Dad (visibly sinking down into himself on his barstool in an effort to become invisible): mumble, mumble

Mom: What!?

Dad (bellows): I DON'T WANNA BE A PART OF THIS CONVERSATION!

Me: We're making Dad uncomfortable.

Mom: YOU'RE making Dad uncomfortable.

Me: I can't believe this is shocking to you!

Mom: It's terrible!

Me: It's no different than a Brazilian. It's just permanent.

Mom: A Brazilian?

Me: Yes, where you're waxed from front to back.

Mom: BACK!? Who gets waxed in the back end!?

Me: Tons of women.

Mom: NO!

Me (calls bartender over): Can you please tell my mother what a Brazilian is?

Bartender: Taking it ALL off.

Me: Thank you.

Mom: WHO NEEDS THEIR ASSHOLE WAXED!?

Me: Most people.

Mom: No way.

Me: Seriously. Ask Reena, she's a nurse. She sees it all day long. At least I didn't get my asshole bleached. People do that too, you know!

Mom (to Dad): Where the hell are you going!?

Dad: I'M OUTTA HERE!

Next time we'll just stick with safe conversation topics like politics and religion.

Eradicate VD!

After some uplifting reading on History.com, my suspicions have been confirmed. Valentine's Day is a crock of shit. The actual origin of St. Valentine is wildly disputed, but it's thought that he may have been a 3rd century Roman priest who performed secret marriage ceremonies for young lovers.

Sound romantic?

Not really. Singles were the first to be drafted by the Emperor as soldiers and basically sent to their death - so, surprise! Suddenly these guys found marriage to be an appealing option.

So do you really want a dozen overpriced roses in honor of a guy who married men off so they didn't have to go to war!?

"Happy Valentine's Day, honey - being with you sure is better than a gladius to the face!"

Because that's sweet.

Over the years, we've twisted and commercialized history until Valentine's Day has become its modern day self - a spectacular landmine that just might make war sound safer.

And we women are at fault.

Oh, yes - I said it.

You know why?

Because no man can win on Valentine's Day.

If he sends flowers, big deal -everyone else in your office got em, too. If he didn't send flowers, he's a cheap fucker. If he buys you chocolate, your ass will get fatter. If he doesn't buy you candy, you figure it's because he already thinks your ass is too fat. For every girl out there who wants or expects jewelry on February 14th, there's another one who gags at the douchery of heart-shaped charm bracelets.

No wonder men cower in fear.

And another thing, ladies. Buying some cute lingerie for yourself is not a gift for him. Think about this for a moment. If he took some shit that you already play with every day, like your laptop or your pearl rabbit, and put a bow on it for your birthday, is that a present? Of course it's not, and you'd bust him upside the face for trying to pawn it off as such.

So don't think you can don a thong with a bow on Valentine's Day and then sulk when he doesn't buy you the Tiffany pendant you were lusting after.

My advice to men everywhere is this: ignore the 14th entirely. Be sweet some other days of the year. The flowers will be cheaper and you're more likely to get gratitudy booty.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, February 7th

10. I'm grateful that the smell of scorched skin has finally dissipated. Nobody warned me that laser hair removal would smell so vile.

9. I'm thankful for ulcer drugs so that I can swill the raw lemonade at Good Earth without puking afterward, because it's too delish to resist.

8. I'm happy that in one more week, the dippy jewelry commercials will finally cease and desist until Christmas shopping season begins in August.

7. I'm grateful for oil change delivery service. Oh, wait - what? You don't have access to this service? Yeah, my dad rocks.

6. I'm thankful that Volkswagen stepped up to the plate with Darth Vader and his super powers, because the rest of the Super Bowl commercials were a colossal flop.

5. I'm happy to have an excuse to stay in bed all morning on the weekends. Hey, it's rude to disturb a sleeping animal.

4. I'm thankful for the piss-poor audio during the Super Bowl halftime show, because during the few moments that the mikes worked, my ears nearly bled.

3. I'm grateful that my brother and his girlfriend take lots of pictures on the trips they take every other week so that I can vacation vicariously through them.

2. I'm happy to report that nobody was outside to witness me tripping over the curb in front of Dunn Bros this morning.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, February 7th?

1. I'm thankful that the newspaper informed me that winter is now half over. WTF!? It's been winter here since October! Does that mean spring won't come until July!?

My Vagina Takes One for the Team

So those of you who read this blog thoroughly and retain useless information know that my darling mama bought me a gift certificate for three sessions of laser hair removal. She bought herself three as well, and off to the spa we went.

As an aside, I'd like to lobby against calling any place a spa where they burn your hair out by the roots using light sabers.

I saddled up and talked about the weather while the tech prepped the area. That's code for shaved my kitty, but who wants to tell people they shave strangers' vaginas all day at work? I donned my protective glasses (wait a sec - these lasers have the power to blind me and you're going to aim them at my goodies?) and we did the deed.

She warned me that the sensation would feel like someone snapping a rubber band against me. I would inform you that the sensation more closely resembled electrocution, but then I've never crammed my labia in a light socket, so I can't say for certain. I would, however, happily challenge any man to go have his nut sack lasered and report back his thoughts.

My mom was going to have her upper lip done with her gift certificates, but to my amusement the tech informed her that her lip fuzz is too blonde and it won't work. I helpfully offered up my vagina (it's always happy to take one for the team), so now I get six free laser sessions instead of just three. My mom gets a much lighter wallet and a hairy lip.

But I'm sure my boyfriend will send her a thank-you card.

What's a Girl Gotta DO to get Paid?

Obviously I'm a validation whore, or I wouldn't be writing a private blog publicly. I say that I write because I love it, which is true. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my dirty dream is for someone to pay me to write. Who doesn't wanna get paid for doing what they love, while sitting comfortably at home in their fleece pants?

For the love of baby Jesus, people buy a book that SNOOKI wrote. If I can't crack this field, I may as well just pull a Sylvia Plath and cook my own noggin for dinner.

It seems, though, that the key these days is to become mildly wildly notorious first and then sell a book. So I need your advice regarding how to best go about achieving notoriety.

Snooki's got the fist-pumping drunken cartwheels sans panties locked down, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna challenge Octomom or Kate to a litter face off. I suppose I could accidentally release a sex tape, but that's soooo 2005 - and also my boobs aren't pneumatic enough for nationwide exposure.

I guess I could try to trump Heidi Montag and go for an even dozen plastic surgeries in one day, but frankly that sounds like a lot of effort and I'm not sure anyone even bought her book. Can her fans read?

I'm stumped, guys. My racy Friday nights cuddling with Boy Wonder and the cat have eluded the paparazzi so deftly that I *almost* think they don't care and Oprah hasn't called in a week ever.

I may, in fact, be a Has Been before I Ever Was.

Shit.

If I get knocked up with 14 babies while doing drunk bare-ass cartwheels and fist-pumping the plastic surgeon who is simultaneously inflating my breast and suctioning my thighs, and afterward leak a video of the blessed event to Perez Hilton, then will you buy a book with my name on it?

Vagina Chemo

My first laser hair removal appointment is Saturday and my kitty is dizzy with anticipation. OK, that's a load of bullshit - my kitty's actually a little nervous about the lasers, but I've been telling her not to be such a pussy.

I have a lot of questions for the...um...person. What exactly does one call a kitty laser technician? I guess that's question number one.

Also, I wanna know how this works. I'm picturing something vaguely chemo-like - do the procedure and then your hair will begin to fall out in sad little tufts. (Note to self - no wide-legged pants next week. That would be awkward.)

Mostly, though, I'm curious about the pain. Doctors always make us use the pain scale, so I'm gonna turn the tables. I'm gonna bring in a pain scale and ask her (please dear God, let it be a her!) to tell me what I'm in for.

Except I don't think these descriptions are very relatable, so I'm going to have to offer up my own pain descriptors for her to select from.

0 would describe the state of jollity

that comes from three Stoli Red Bulls

3 would be an all-day session under the tattoo needle

7 would be getting ass-raped sans lube by

that gigantic black guy from The Green Mile

10 would be having my other femur cut in half and
reconstructed, without narcotics by the fistful

I'm confident that I can handle a four on this pain scale. If it goes beyond that, though, I'm a little concerned. It would be shameful to limp out halfway complete, with a sideways kitty mullet.

Home Alone

When I was a kid, staying home sick was delightful. It meant limitless Popsicles, bedside Nintendo and a clucking mommy close to my side with a cool rag for my forehead.

As it has so ruined most things in life, adulthood has ruined sick days.

Tossing feverishly in bed, visions of disappointed bosses and irritated coworkers haunting my sleep, I find that a Popsicle seems like a rather shitty consolation prize - even if it is an orange one.

I can think of many, many enjoyable ways to spend my precious vacation days from work, most of which involve warm sand between my toes or warm Mark between my...ahem. But I digress. The point is that none of the ways I would choose to spend my vacation days involve fistfuls of antibiotics with a V-8 chaser.

So tomorrow I'm going to blow my honkin' nose and rejoin the land of the living. And before I go to bed (for the third time) tonight, I'm going to say a little prayer that my next day off involves more warm sand and warm Mark and less warm soup and warm snot.

But maybe still an orange Popsicle.

Bleh

I am a bacterial bomb. My cough could be used as a weapon of mass destruction, except there are no masses here to destroy. Because I'm home alone and bored out of my highly pressurized skull.

I have absolutely nothing to blog about.

Would you like to hear about my first nap today?

Or perhaps my second?

Cough.

Hack.

Gag.

Whimper.

Double over.

Cough.

Whine.

Gag again.

Is this as tedious for you as it is for me? Come closer, let me give you a juicy little kiss.

Ugh.

I'll be back when I have something to say that's not infectious.