I took this series of photographs after my cat became overstimulated by the brushing I was giving him. This is photographic proof that he is an asshole.
Now you know the truth.
I took this series of photographs after my cat became overstimulated by the brushing I was giving him. This is photographic proof that he is an asshole.
Now you know the truth.
Last week I worried everyone with talk of my running career being over because of leg and back pain, and although no one came over and massaged my aching body, someone did give me some excellent advice which actually seems to have remedied the problem. This person was my mom and her advice was to buy new shoes. Let this be a lesson to all of you Googlers out there who don’t know what you’re doing. Sometimes you just have to ask your mom what you should do. Unless your mom is a dumb-ass.
In other news, I made this amazing Coach fanny pack for my rugged male companion for his birthday:
After the making of this, I laid in bed thinking about fanny packs, which we will now refer to as hipstorers. I thought to myself about different materials I could use to make more hipstorers for the betterment of the world. The thing is, though that I don’t really want to be the one to make them. I want other people to make them because I’m really less of a manufacturer and more of a thinker.
Remember the other day when I was thinking about this memory in my head of the last time I had an idea to make something useful to people? Of course you don’t because it was going of inside of me, and you’re out there. This other useful thing that I made was a babysling which is a bag for carrying your baby. I wanted to make a line of slings that matched the mother’s style of dress and wasn’t baby-themed. This was around the time that I was in the slave portion of my motherhood, which is very different from this period of motherhood where I just have this ten-year-old person that just kind of hangs out with me. In the beginning, I had to carry her. Something strange happens when you carry a person around for a couple of years. Your arms become tired, and your brain becomes full of ideas for giving your tired arms a break. I actually made a prototype of a sling that copied the design of the Dr. Sears babysling, but was a fashionable black with red paisley trim. I’m so cutting edge. My mom mostly made that bag because I was the thinker and she knew how to sew.
This lifetime of making two bags made me realise that maybe I’m just incredibly tired of carrying things. Maybe my mom shouldn’t have made me carry groceries in from the driveway to the house. Even though she solved my back problem with her shoe-buying advice, I think it’s only fair that I blame my mom for this fatigue I feel. I mean, she sent me a text message this morning that said I needed to make pancakes for my daughter every morning and stop buying soy milk. I know my daughter was speaking through her, and because of this I feel incredibly sandwiched by the surrounding generations. They are squishing me with their pancake demands. I now blame both of them. The Coach Hipstorer is their fault.
My job of professionally carrying things is also to blame. I basically wear a hipstorer to work everyday. In the restaurant biz, we call it an apron, but it’s a hipstorer. It’s a waste-fastening method of carrying all your crap around, so now what? I get enough practice carrying things around at work. Why do I have to carry them here in the outside world? I don’t think it ever stops either. Old people have to carry their walkers and iron lungs. We have to carry our smart phones.
Yesterday I was sitting on a couch in the middle off the mall with my phone on my lap when I looked over at one of the guys who was about to fall asleep at the mall. He had his phone on his lap. I think I’m not so different from the people who fall asleep at the mall. I’m addicted to my electronic device too. I’ve had this idea to go through electronic device deprivation for a few days and then to write about it. I’ve had this idea for two years but am so incapable of not being in contact with the rest of the world via my smart phone that I can’t even go through with it. What is that?
We definitely have a mixed bag of things to discuss here, or should I say bags? Or should I say waist-fastening bags?! YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP! Fanny packs. Let’s talk about them. We had our first “discussion” about fanny packs back in may when I discovered the distance runner’s dirty little secret. It’s not even that dirty…it’s just a link to my Camelbak blog. It wasn’t a discussion either that’s why there are “”s around that. Well time has progressed since ye auld fanny pack monologue, and we are in October. In the moons twixt now and then I have learned many things. I have learned that I can still lose things regardless of this incessant sobriety, and that things need to be carried around, AND things need to be carried around around my waist but not in an ugly way. I know you’re wondering ‘why the waist?’ The reason you’re wondering that is the same reason why you would buy a bag just because it says the word ‘Coach’ on it. You don’t think! I’m going to make a whole list of reasons that fanny packs are better starting with number one…..
1. Fanny-packs are theft deterrent. Have you ever heard of anyone getting belt-snatched on the street? NO you haven’t because it’s not easy to steal a belt. Also, belts aren’t even that great. Why don’t you just get pants that fit, and you won’t have to worry about people stealing your belt. Jesus.
2. You don’t have to put it down to do things with your hands. Have you ever done anything with your hands? It’s easier when you’re not holding something. Hands-free, people! don’t they make everything hands-free? Why not our bags? I’ll tell you why. Sexism. It’s true. Men meet up in secret cigar rooms and plan this shit. “Oh hey, how can we slow down those uppity dames?” “I know! Make them carry something at all times so that they are super slower when we are trying to chase them down the street.”
People are getting chased. Not chaste.
3. You’re dance moves are way better when you’re not holding a bag, and it makes everyone less (and more) nervous. Have you ever been to a party and just didn’t want to put your purse down but needed it for one reason or another? Annoying right? At a club and you and all your girlfriends leave your purses in a pile while you dance? That’s pretty stupid and nerve-racking and distracting enough to make you a target for being chased later when all the cigar-smoking males have become sex-crazed from lurking on the dance-floor. Not chaste.
4. You can hold your bfs hand while walking down the street without having to switch sides with your purse. I don’t know why this is so annoying. It just is. I hate my shoulder bag, you guys. But also I hear that I might not have to worry about hand-holding activities while wearing a fanny-pack because of the ‘dorkiness factor,’ and this is where I need all of you to come in and unite for a better future of being able to carry things without arms. While we’re at it, think about the people without arms. Don’t they deserve more attractive fanny-packs? Don’t we all?
Also while we are on the subject of being chased, I have to put this out there in the hopes that maybe a doctor reads it. This is my new form of seeking medical attention besides google since I don’t have health insurance. I have not really been able to run for the past few weeks because of a pain that extends from the right of my lower back down to the front of my knee. Because of this, I am experiencing a terrible sadness and many lower back pain google sessions. I wish I had health care, America.
to be continued…
Gotcha! Just like Duchovny got me tonight when I was feeling lonely and trying something I had never tried before. This thing was called looking up soft-core porn on Netflix. I’M SORRY! I just didn’t feel like redtube. I’m really sensitive right now. You’ll be glad to know that Netflix doesn’t really seem to have a lot of it, but I know that my search will go on because I have a cat and I’m single and 30. Anyways, there was this Red Shoe Diary that was not sexy enough, but it starred David Duchovny. The opening scene was him and some chick and involved many sounds of saxophones, and I was growing weary of that. Weirdly. When I saw DDs face, I realized I had a movie movie in my instant queue that starred him, and that he is slightly dreamy. The movie was called The Secret, and I’m about to share it with you. Promise not to tell.
The Secret proved to be one that should have been kept from me. I didn’t read the premise of the movie, and I guess I should have. I guess I let the pretty faces of actors bewitch me just as the real-life man ones do. I just go, ‘oh he is pretty with his beard and eyebrows. He would never.’ These are the times when I am mostly wrong. When I’m being bewitched by faces, eyebrows, and beards. They are scratchy on my back, and I love them. Stupeh.
So Duchovny is this wonderful husband. I don’t remember the character’s name, so we will just call him Mulder. We can tell that he is wonderful by the way he makes a grand anniversary dinner for Hannah, his adoring wife. The rub lies in the eternally surly teenage daughter, Sam, and her hatred for her mother’s buttinski-ness. No. that’s not the rub. The rub is a semi-fatal car crash that dramatically causes Hannah and Sam to die simultaneously in side-by-side hospital beds while Mulder cowers in the corner. After the doctors declare time of death on both of their bodies, Hannah’s soul jumps into Sam’s body, so we are left with the awkwardness of a husband and wife mourning the loss of their daughter while the wife occupies her daughter’s body. The movie doesn’t try to make it any less awkward when it has Hannah say to Mulder (in an effort to seduce him) with the mouth of her daughter, “the mind of a 35-year-old woman in the body of a sixteen year old: that’s every man’s wet dream.” I just really think that if I was occupying the body of my daughter it wouldn’t matter how hot Mulder is or how married to him I am, I wouldn’t find it sexy to make a dad have sex with his daughter’s body. So the bulk of the movie involved this creepy sexual tension that wanted you to not think it was that creepy (it was), and Hannah discovering her daughter’s life.
The lives of teenagers are dark and scary. Blech.
Also, the ending was fucktarded. Spoiler alert if you’re ever going to watch this piece of creep. Sam’s soul finally comes back after Hannah does some snort drug that makes people lay and stare at the ceiling. Sam is initially only back for a night because she faints when she finds out her mom is dead. I guess the fainting knocks her soul right back out because Hannah is back in there when she comes to. Fortunately, Hannah can feel Sam slowly coming back again for reals this time, and we can finally end this nightmare. We all get through it together. Hang on. Knowing that Sam’s permanent return is coming (because now they are body/soul-jumping experts), Hannah and Mulder make a video of Hannah giving a speech addressing Sam about how great she is and how she can do anything in life. So Sam watches this video of her mom giving herself a speech, but her mom is occupying her body so the video is of herself speaking as her mom. She seems pretty okay with it and even lovingly caresses her own face on the television screen. Double u t f. What a piece of shit. Hannah should have apologized to Sam for trying to make her have sex with her dad. Stupid film.
I watched the whole thing and at the end, I was just like, ‘I don’t need this crap. I have enough shit going on in my life.’ That’s what it was like. Should I have stuck to redtube and not journeyed down this rabbit-hole of cinematic waste? I don’t know.
Pornography is disgusting but at least it never pretends not to be, and neither do I.
At least that.
So there’s a social networking site called Google plus. It’s new, and I’m on it. This is a whole new third chance to make a fourth impression in the social networking world. I’m doing this by using sidebangs and sunglasses to let everyone know I’m cool. I”m like, “hey guys, I’m new here at goople. Sup?” Super chill. But seriously, I want to let you know what my attraction is to Google plus because I like to endorse things willy nilly for no money. They have these things called ‘circles,’ and you can put different people in different circles and have different things viewable supposedly so your grandma doesn’t have to hear about how much you’re going to masturbate all over the likeness of Megan Fox’s naked body that you drew in your journal. I made a circle called BFFs and I’m going to post everything I ever wanted to say about tampons and butt pimples in there. Honestly I think the last thing any of us need is another social networking site, but supposedly in this new world of technology and e-everything, if an aspiring author wants to publish a book, she should develop some kind of readership and self-promotion skills-so they say.
That’s really boring to talk about.
Let’s switch gears and talk more about the potential for circles. I could create circles based on what I want from certain people and how I want them to see me. Like maybe I have friends that are really sympathetic and good at comforting words, so I’ll make a circle called ‘the crying corner’ where I can complain about cats and boyfriends. YOU GUYS! I could make a circle for only my smart friends where I spout off about the GDP and how to synthesize a methylated alkaloid! I could make a circle of people who I know are really squeamish and judgmental and post a bunch of bat shit crazy things like that I’m cooking cats and eating them in my Satan worshipping chamber. I just have to figure out how to use it AND I need more people to get on there, then I need the sun to come out because the beach would have been a healthier way to spend the day! I could make a circle for all my writer friends, and one for all my exercise friends, and one for all my cat-fancying friends, and one for all my Dr. Who-loving friends. All I see is circles. More of what you want and less of what you don’t.
That’s why I have googly eyes for google plus right now. It’s got curves in all the right places.
just like Megan Fox.
Hey, you Food-Eaters sitting there with menus in front of you about to order eggs. See those little symbols all over the page? Remember around kindergarten and first grade when they taught you how to interpret those symbols and recognise them as words? That was a great skill to learn, and you can use it for making my life easier. All you have to do is read the menu. No. I’m lying. Don’t just read the menu, but interpret the information and be an efficient customer for the good of all mankind. See, the thing about breakfast is that it gives you many options. You have to choose what kind of potatoes you’d like or whether you want fruit. It’s possible you might have to choose an egg style. Eggs are very stylish. I prefer over medium unless I’m not having toast or potatoes. What do you prefer? Can you figure it out before I come to the table, please? This is all a big deal because of volume. If I had five tables and had to hold your hand through every breakfast choice that lay before you that wouldn’t really bother me, but can you imagine having to repeat this fifty times in one morning: “how would you like your eggs? would you like hash browns, sauteed potatoes, au gratin, fruit, beans, sliced tomatoes, or cottage cheese? Would you like toast, muffin, biscuit, sweet potato biscuit, or tortillas?” Can you please anticipate that you are going to have to make these choices and not make me go through all your options?. Also, can you talk to your spawn about what they are going to eat before I get to the table? I really don’t need to see your family dynamics, and on that note, why is your kid afraid of me? Did you teach him not to talk to strangers? That one backfired on you didn’t it? Maybe instead of that, you should have taught him how to drink out of a glass so that I don’t have to kill the earth with your request for a cup with a lid on it. Why are you making that face at me? What is your problem anyways, don’t you have eggs at home? Maybe if you’re going to make that shitty face, you should be making it at your home-eggs, Holmes.
I promise I don’t hate you, and I really want to love you. I want to love all of you in a timely manner with extra butter. I live to bring your hollandaise sauce on the side. I breath so that you may eat frittatas absent of onions or whatever food you happen to hate. I rise from my beautiful slumber because I know you want some coffee and more blue creamers, please.
Don’t want to be a server no more.
Because I have to tell you something else. I think my job is sexist against me. I’m like the world’s food-bitch. I’m a ham-steak geisha.
Yelp this, mutha-fuckas.
I don’t know how they did it, but I’m pretty sure Lens Crafters ruined my vision. I was doing just fine all plain-faced and hairy-headed, when I walked in and got zapped by their eye exam. Now I’m chained to this pair of glasses, and they keep me coming back to try on a different pair of contact lenses every week. Every week I get a new pair that actually seems to make my vision worse by wearing it. One of my coworkers actually told me I look mean with them on because I’m squinting all the time to see. It feels like if I hadn’t had my eyes examined in the first place, I would still have 20/20 vision. Not only do my glasses feel like they limit my vision, but they also limit my “look.” Oh, it was a fine novelty to have people say ‘oh cool! sexy librarian,’ but I’m tired of the sexy librarian. I’m not going to be discovered as a 19-year-old starlet in a soda shop if I’m hobbling around town looking like I want to shush people and issue them cards for the checking out of books.
Oh, you didn’t know I was going to be discovered? That’s weird since I just discovered how hilarious I can be when my daughter asked me what happens when you lose a game of Hanging With Friends, and I told her, “you die in real life.”
She is frustrated with that answer, but I don’t know what she wants to hear.
I guess the moral of the story is to never get your eyes examined, if you’re not prepared to have less than perfect vision.
And don’t answer daughters’ questions. They are never satisfied.
I was going to write about waiting tables because that seems to be all I do anymore, and you’re supposed to write what you know. I know something besides that though. I know my daughter. She is a female child that I made all by myself with my biology kit and an assistant primate. Daughter wanted me to post this drawing on my blog, and she asks me whether I’ve done it or not at least once a week. I was so unnecessarily cranky at her this morning for putting her damn swim clothes in the washing machine and thereby ensuring that they would not be ready to wear in time for jr. lifeguards. I was such a bitch mom about it that my guilt has compelled me to publish her campaign poster for the office of World Ruler. The unfortunate thing about her declaration of world tyranny is that it happened in the middle of a country highway where the cars have oversized bumpers that drag on the road and are about to run her over.
I think as a parent that it is important to control your emotions and keep your mood in check so as not to turn what could be a learning experience into a getting everyone upset experience. I also think that getting upset is a learning experience in itself because once everyone is upset, they hopefully realize that it’s not the way they want to remain for all eternity, and they correct their laundry mistakes in the future. Isn’t this great? Learning about life every day. Every day. Life just carries on. We learn about laundry. The dos and don’ts. Let’s go.
Wouldn’t that be funny if you could time travel just one day into the future or past, but you couldn’t pick the day? Like I was imagining on the way home from all my jobs the other night, what if I wake up tomorrow and I’m transported back to Sunday (Father’s Day) morning? Wouldn’t that be a waste of a time travel day? I was thinking about what I would do differently, and all I could come up with was to remember to bring the dinner menus to the two ladies on P2 because I realized on the way home from work that I had forgotten to do that for them. Also I would not give the lady from New England such a hard time about her wacky way of ordering food. The thing is that she was going to order an omelet that she made up in her own head, and it was going to be pepperjack and onion. She asked me if I thought that would be good, and it just sounded weird to me, like it was missing ingredients, so I made a face at her. The face said that her omelet was a bad idea. But then she ordered her blueberry muffin cut in half and grilled. That was also weird to me and I told her it was an unusual request. I think if I went back in time to that day I would have been more used to people ordering grilled blueberry muffins and therefore would have taken it easy on her. I swear. Breakfast service makes me bitchier than normal.
No wonder my dad fired me. JK. No really. JKKKK. I’m serious.
My ideas are as underdeveloped as my chest. Goodbye.
The little one and I were walking in the neighborhood when a miracle appeared on the street. The miracle was called the tasty bumper sticker owner. When I saw that Mustang pull up and flip a U, I nearly had a panic attack at my good fortune. I hadn’t even seen the car since I took that picture back in April. I had so many preconceptions about the person behind the wheel that I felt like I already knew her. I feel sorry for my daughter because she was forced to witness me being a total weirdo and readying my camera for this stranger across the street to emerge from her car. Turns out I was mostly wrong about what this person would look like. While I had imagined in my head that she looked like this underwear flaunter to the left…it turns out that…she is a he?AND doesn’t look very yummy. He doesn’t even look like someone who would think he was yummy nor like someone who would have a girlfriend who would think that she was yummy. I’m thinking maybe this guy is using this bumper sticker to make fun of the bumper sticker. Like he wants people to read it and then he gets out of the car looking all sloppy and not “good,” and it’s just a big joke to him. I suppose in the end the joke is on me. No. The joke is on anyone who would ever listen to me.