Pillow Talk With Holly and Harry Hangover

This morning was pure comedy in my household. Last night was bowling night with the girls from work, which almost always results in a hungover Friday. Today was no different. To make matters worse, the hubs had man night last night (which also almost always results in a hangover), so I couldn't even whine until he rubbed my back. He was too busy whining, too. To say we were a sad pair this morning is the understatement of the year. Luckily, we both might have still been drunk, so there were a lot of silly shenanigans going on (nothing sexual or anything . . . I'm pretty sure sexy time would have made me barf*) to make up for the horrific headache and the spinning room. I thought I'd share some of our craziness with you, just for shiggles. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Holly: Ufffffffffff.
Harry: I am hungover like a whoooooooooore!
Holly: Uffffff. <pregnant** dramatic pause> Yeah. A whore that went to a really great party last night with a whole lotta free booze. Whores love free booze.
Harry: Everybody loves free booze.
Holly: Yeah, but if my headache is any indication, it must have been a whores' party with buckets and buckets of champagne. Because champagne makes your head hurt. And whores love it.

Then, somehow we got on the topic of tampons. Don't ask.

Harry: We should invent a new line of tampons and call them Corks. With an "x." C-O-R-X. That would be awesome.
Holly: Bahaha! Why the "x"? Because of the X chromosomes? That's clever.
Harry: Uh, yeah. That, too. But mostly because of the amazing marketing you could do. "Corx! They're extraordinary!" Can't you just see the commercial now?
Holly: Yeah, and we could have chicks chugging big ol' bottles of wine, and then corking them. You know, just to illustrate the point.
Harry: Yes! It should be red wine. And there should be a demonstration where they pour red wine into the Corx to prove how effective they are.
Holly: Xtra strength Corx! For those extra heavy days.
Harry: The stronger the Corx, the more "x"s on the packaging.
Holly: Put a Corx in her, she's done.

. . . and then he played the saxophone for me. Careless Whisper, to be exact. And I sang along ('cause it's kinda what I do). It was magical.


*Do people still say "barf"? If not, I'm totally bringing it back. I think it does a good job of illustrating just how gross the act of vomiting is. Barf. 
**It couldn't be a pregnant pause because I was drunk. Only assholes drink when they're pregnant.

The Joys of Peer Reviews

As you know, I currently do triple duty as a devoted employee, wife and student, which can honestly be overwhelming at times . . . but I'm handling it. I think. But if you're ever wondering what the hell is taking me so long to put up a post . . . cut me some slack, okay? Because I'm probably studying. Or doing homework. Or working on a multi-million dollar presentation. Or doing laundry, or dishes . . . or something else equally as glamorous. Don't be jealous. It's a fantastic juggling act, but somebody's gotta do it.

That said, I'm currently taking one of the most pointless classes I could have possibly ever taken, for the simple reason that I need to fulfill some stupid prerequisite. I'm pretty sure that I can probably write circles around these young Texans. (Especially considering the slanted state of their secondary education curriculae . . . did everyone hear about the whole textbook debate debacle last year?! Uh . . . yeah. 'Nuff said. Oh wait, actually - I feel the need to mention that Fox News [conveniently] left out other changes, including the downplayed role of Thomas Jefferson in the proposed textbooks. Right; you heard me. Thomas. Jefferson.) My theory is supported by cold, hard, facts. We have been working to complete our first essay assignment, which is a critical analysis of a short story. The whole process has been rather lengthy, because we first had to submit a rough draft to obtain two peer reviews, and then incorporate those reviews into our final draft. So, I of course waited until the last minute to turn in my rough draft (don't judge; i'm a juggler, remember?), and I'm pretty sure I ended up with the bottom of the barrel of peer reviewers. Don't believe me? In the spirit of asphinctersayswhat, please have a look-see below for a snippet from one of my reviews:  (Unless you have the eyesight of a hawk, you should probably click on the image to enlarge it. Pay special attention to the comment bubbles on the right; my essay really is inconsequential here.)

*blinkblinkblink* ISSHESERIOUS?! I love how she makes all of these gentle suggestions on how I should re-format my perfectly good sentences to better suit her parameters . . . and her parameters are obviously not something I should be concerned with, considering she corrected my possessive "its" to "it's." Yeah, that's right. I apparently need to change my possessive pronoun (even though I was modifying a noun, but whatever) to a contraction. How could I have overlooked such an error? The funny thing is, this is only a snippet of her review. What you're seeing actually happens to be the FOURTH time she corrected me on this glaringly obvious (sarcasm) error. Perhaps I should point her in the direction of my "5 Ways to Avoid Making Silly Mistakes That Might Make You Look Dumber Than You Are." Although, I'm confident that her silly mistakes don't make her look dumber than she is . . . she probably truly is just that dumb. I also like how she suggested that I change a proper noun to a pronoun, when I go on to use about a million pronouns after that sentence. Oh, okay. So I guess it's not that important to identify who "he" is? Got it. I'll make sure to remember that next time. 

Okay, but my favorite part, the one that really took the cake, was the fourth comment she made regarding my usage of the word "than." Hahahaha! I genuinely laughed out loud when I read it. What a FANTASTIC explanation she gave (and I quote): "This is tricky, if your using than to describe different persons it is correct. If you would like to show the differences of change from when the story began, you would use then. I think than may cause a little more confusion than then." Ummmm . . . first of all, less confusion for whom? Because I wasn't at all confused, thanks. Second of all, I'm fairly certain that if you don't even recognize the need for the contraction version of the word "you're," I probably shouldn't be taking YOUR grammatical advice. Thirdly, whuck?! What? The? Hell? Is? She? Talking? About? If I'm using "than" to describe different persons? I can't even see what she's saying. Hmmm . . . I guess she was trying to say that "than" is used for comparisons . . . which it is; however, I suppose she failed to recognize that I was CLEARLY making a comparison in that sentence? I don't think "than" is actually the word she has problems with. It sounds like she really needs a clearer understanding of what the word "then" means. 

Yikes. Education, shmeducation. These are your tax dollars hard at work, folks. Let's just say that I'm glad I grew up in the Sunshine State, where Thomas Jefferson is known to be one of the principal authors of the Declaration of Independence; the Civil War was not merely a case of sectionalism, but also mostly about ending slavery; America is still a democratic nation; capitalism still exists, and people know the difference between pronouns, contractions, conjunctions and adverbs.*

*No offense to all my Texas readers out there. Maybe it's an accent thing? Like my co-worker from the panhandle, who insists on referring to her heels as "hills." Yeah . . . on second thought, I'm not convinced that's actually an accent thing. I think she might just be country. She also likes "pre-proportioned" meals, because they're better for you and you eat less. *blinkblinkblink*

STILL. MORE. WEINER.

Just when you think the story can't get any worse . . . you find out there's a little weiner involved. . .*

Source

. . . and he KNEW. 

Shit just got real. Real(ly) complicated, that is. Should we take bets on whether or not she should stay? I feel really bad for this poor woman. Lord knows, she has probably had her fill of Weiner (I just can't help myself; it's too easy). Between all of the obnoxious headlines (touché - I totally grouped my titles in with that blanket "obnoxious;" I'll be the first to admit it), all of the random naughty pictures and the raunchy Facebook chats . . . she has to have had about as much Weiner as she can take. (How many times can I possibly use the word "weiner" in a sentence, with some sort of clever double entendre? The possibilities are seriously endless here. It's like a new game for me.) This has to be an incredibly difficult time. It's easy to say that she should leave that coozehound . . . but when there's a child involved . . . that's probably a lot easier said than done.

On top of everything else, and to add even more insult to [his] injury, Weiner now faces further probing (hehe) from the Ethics Committee:

'"Weiner will have to reveal to the ethics committee the names of the others with whom he's exchanged sex-text images," said a former House prober.'**

. . . I'm gonna go ahead and put it all out there. That "former House prober" (which, ironically, sounds awfully kinky to me) has got to have some sort of affiliation to the Republican/Tea[bag] Party. Either that, or (s)he's British. "Sex-text images"? Hahaha! It's so proper! That's like how my mom calls an ATM an "ATM Machine" or a cell phone a "cellular phone." Let's get to the real nitty gritty of the situation.

Listen, Weiner. You're gonna have to cop to who you've been fuc sexting . . . and if you have, indeed, been "misusing [your] official resources" . . .

So, there you have it. The latest and greatest of Weinergate. Whew. I'm worn out! It's way past my bedtime and that was a lot of "weiners." I'm going to bed.***

*Come on. You already knew this would be filled with tongue in cheek weiner references. If you were over it, you should have probably just skipped this post. I've gone rogue with the weiners. See how quickly that just happened? You were just minding your own business, when WHAM! I hit you in the face with another weiner. Yup.  Lucky for you, this is that kind of post.

**Quote taken from www.newyorkpost.com. Remember? It's only my new favorite place to find the good stuff! Apparently they can't get enough weiner, either.

***I know, I know. I'm sorry. Weiner's been getting all of my attention lately. I'm going to try really hard to blog about something else tomorrow...but I can't make any promises. This Weiner stuff is way too juicy. Yikes. My double entendres might have just officially gotten out of control. That one scared me a little. Too much, right? Maybe that really is my cue to just leave well enough alone. I'm sure people will eventually grow tired of obsessing over Weiner's weiner and this too, will pass. I think it's safe to say that I wore Weiner out over the past three days. Yeah...it's probably time to move on. All the weiners are getting to be too much. ...okay. I really am done now.

Can't Get Enough Weiner!

Hahaha! At the sake of sounding redundant, I would like to revisit Weinergate. Humor me. This is my newest obsession (besides Casey Anthony, but that's a whole 'nother side of deviance). I have been poring over the New York Post, getting all of the latest and greatest dirt on the big weiner, Weiner...and I do it all for you. I found an amazing wealth of hilarity and decided I MUST share.*

I have to say - I am enamored with the thoroughness of the reporting on the NY Post - this is totally going to be my go-to source for all the good juice.  Basically, the NY Post is launching a full-on attack on Weiner and his indiscretions. It's pretty great; I'll give you the highlights. Let's begin with who Weiner compares himself to:

He told her he was a "caped crusader . . . looking for my sidekick."

"[I'm] dying of boredom over here. Plus my tights really itch, I need a distraction," the hot, bothered -- and very married -- Rep. Anthony Weiner shot off to sexy Vegas blackjack dealer Lisa Weiss in one of more than lewd 220 sexts and Facebook messages between the revved-up pair since Aug. 13.

Hmmm...first off, I'm a little confused as to his reasoning for comparing himself to Batman. That's just weird. Batman saves people's lives - he doesn't badger them with his perversity. Maybe it wasn't specifically Batman, maybe he just likes to wear capes and stuff and fancies himself some sort of superhero. I think that if he had a costume, it would look something like this:**

Okay and I don't know about you . . . but I'm curious as to why his tights itch. Was that supposed to be sexy? That sounds more like a warning, to me. Your tights itch? That's a personal problem that you might want to get checked out. While you're at it, lose my number. I don't want any parts of your itchy crotch. Thanks.

Now let's move on to what this weiner is doing to earn your tax dollars:

"He admitted to "jerking off" to her Facebook photos, said Weiss, 40, a former Democratic Party worker...Weiss told the Web site that most of the duo's sexed-up exchanges occurred during his work hours -- and that Weiner used his office phone for at least some of them. She said they fired back and forth 69 messages during just one sleazy exchange.

Gosh. I sure am glad I pay my taxes. I mean, we all dick around at work sometimes, but this takes gives that phrase a whole new meaning. With all this sexting going on, how did he have time to do anything pertinent to his job as a House Representative? I feel bad for his constituents.

Moving on, how about him offering PR advice to one of his little ladies (pun intended; this chick is an undergrad...and obviously not a lady) No, really.

As the crotch-shot scandal exploded around him, panicking Rep. Anthony Weiner coached a porn star pal to lie about their sexually-charged online relationship, even offering professional PR advice, it was reported Tuesday..."Do you need to talk to a professional PR type person to give u advice?," Weiner emailed Lee on June 2, according to the gossip website TMZ.com. "I can have someone on my team call. [Yeah, my team is doing great. Ugh]."

Um...I feel like he should have listened to his own advice. I'm pretty sure the first basic rules of PR when addressing a catastrophe of epic proportions and attempting to do damage control are:

1. Address/admit to the problem. 
2. Apologize profusely. 
3. Explain what you will do to fix it or make it better. 
4. End of conversation.

None of this crying and moaning and personal pouty pity party in front of the nation. Oh, poor you. Your PR guys botched the job, eh? You feel like shit (because you got caught) but don't plan to resign, huh? We'll see how that works out for you.

Next, let's discuss what was said. Here's a gander at a FB message exchange.

Talking Dirty

March 16 Facebook message exchange with middle-aged Nevada Democratic volunteer Lisa Weiss:

WEINER: ridiculous bulge in my shorts now. wanna see?

WEISS: Yea! can u send a pic? I want to sit on your c- -k so bad right now.

WEINER: jeez, im rushing. let me take a quick pic

WEISS: awesome . . . how do I get it? right on here?

WEISS: how r u gonna go to work with a raging hard on?

WEINER: it wont go away. and now im taking pics of it, making me harder still

WEISS: so hot! u are making me wet again.

WEINER: jeez, i have to go. ill hit you later

WEINER: off to the shower. this thing is bobbing up and down

WEISS: aahhh . . . wish I was in the shower with you to help

WEINER: you give good head?

WEISS: Ive been told really good . . . and i love doing it

WEINER: wow a jewish girl who sucks [bleep]. this thing is ready to do damage

...yeah. These messages are real. Real ridiculous, that is. Bahahaha! "This thing is ready to do damage." This thing? What thing do you speak of? Your weiner, or this conversation? What an idiot. He didn't learn from Arnold or Tiger? Women don't keep secrets well. At all. You can pretty much guarantee that any woman is going to tell at least one other person. I guess in situations like this, you just have to cross your fingers and pray that the one person she does tell is not a member of the news media.

...and now,  for the Grand Weiner Finale...(drumroll please)...LET'S SEE THAT INFAMOUS CROTCH SHOT!

Haha! Talk about the battle of the bulge. I guess I'm not as impressed as Breitbart was, so I'll refrain from comment. However, this picture again begs the questions - how could Breitbart confirm that the picture was indeed of Weiner? I mean, it's obviously a picture of a weiner, but how do we know it was Weiner's weiner? Inquiring minds would like to know.

In closing, Representative Weiner, I salute you. I like that you're an equal opportunity pervert and unlike Tiger, there was a bit of diversity within your bevy of bitches. That aside, I'm pretty sure you're going to go down in the books as the biggest weiner in history. Good for you! Now go put your cape on and start saving some people; you caped crusader, you. *wink wink*

*All excerpts and images taken from http://www.newyorkpost.com/
**Special thanks to SNL's Ambiguously Gay Duo for the inspiration behind the image on the Weiner Crusader's costume
***Triple thanks to Christian Bale for being the hottest Caped Crusader...ever.

Love Notes, Revisited

Ho hum. I just can't seem to shake the post-birthday blues. Hopefully this won't last too long. Don't worry, until it blows over, I'm avoiding country music, razor blades and the roof. This too, shall pass. Ha! Moving on - I hardly had enough personality to blog today. Luckily I have such an overabundance of personality, that there's still a tiny bit left. Definitely enough to share this random funny. I mean, personality or not, I like to laugh. Thanks to @sarahsilverman for bringing it to my attention!

Remember when we talked about the fun to be had with writing angry letters? They probably don't ever accomplish anything besides giving the recipient (who is typically a douche nozzle) a good laugh (and maybe getting some random complimentary bullshit in hopes of retaining your business), but they sure as hell make you feel a lot better, amiright? If something or someone pisses me off, the only way I can move on (after obsessing about it for hours, undoubtedly) is if someone gets a piece of my mind. Especially if it was a business-oriented offense, where I was expecting some sort of service and all I got was a huge disservice. Well, here is a classic example of an angry letter that just had me in stitches. I love people like this. Eugene Mirman and I are definitely kindred spirits. Don't hold back! Tell it like it is! Assert your obviously superior intelligence while emphasizing the offender's lack thereof. But you can't be all-out nasty when writing business-related hate mail. Nope, people with class wage war on intelligence and the un-met expectation of good service (in most cases; there are definitely some exceptions where nothing will do besides a good, rousing, F bomb).* No, I will most certainly NOT give crib notes for this one. Read it! Thank me afterwards.

Source

...and that, my lovelies, is how you write a business-related nastygram. Hahahaha! Loves it!
____________________________________________________________________________________
*I don't have anything against the "F" word. Hell, I use it every day and I'm still a fucking lady.  

Ta-Ta, Twenties.

So, in case you missed the memo, tomorrow is my birthday. My THIRTIETH birthday. I'm not really having the pre-birthday jitters. There's no third-of-the-way-through-life crisis to be had over here; in all actuality, I don't feel all that different. I guess as you get older, birthdays really do become just another day. I mean, I guess I'm looking forward to it...I'm definitely looking forward to the party part of it...but the getting older part, I could probably do without. Still, there's that little part of me (that apparently never grew up) that is looking forward to my special day - the one day a year where everyone puts up with all of my shit and is super nice and complimentary and tells me how pretty I look and gives me presents...all just because I was born on that day! It's a pretty sweet concept, you know? Truth be told, I love the idea of birthdays and everyone having a special day to celebrate themselves. I'm already daydreaming about the amazing, wonderful delights that I no doubt have in store for me tomorrow because not only is it my special day, but it's my THIRTIETH special day...IN LIFE! I've already informed the hubs (he's such a good sport) that it's time for us to synchronize our cell phone clocks so when our IT'S BECKS' BIRTHDAY! alarms go off at midnight, they go off at exactly the same time. How else will he be readily available to place the birthday girl diamond-studded tiara on my head the minute it turns my birthday, à la Lily, on How I Met Your Mother?? That girl really has the right idea on how to celebrate a birthday. So, instead of waxing poetic about how much I'm going to miss my twenties and all the things I've accomplished thus far and hope to accomplish in the future, I'll just leave you a visual so you can feel like you're there with me (and the hubs) at the stroke of midnight. My fingers are crossed for the Spanish guitar player and breakfast in bed. Well...maybe not the breakfast in bed part. I have enough trouble getting to work on time as it is (Um...hello...a girl has to look her best, right?). Until tomorrow, my dearies. I'll catch you in my thirties. xo

HIMYM clip found here because our stupid Websense blocks YouTube at work. Hmph.

Message in a Bottle

Have you ever been so pissed off by some random person's thoughtless and inconsiderate actions that you wanted to write a nasty note? Sure you have. For instance, there is one particular inconsiderate jerk off that parks in the garage at work in such a way that his extra-special Rav4 or whatever shit he drives is taking up TWO primo pieces of parking garage real estate. Really?! I mean, the obnoxious sense of entitlement there is just astounding. No joke, when I pull up the ramp in the garage in the morning and I see his hunk of junk taking up an ENTIRE CORNER of the parking garage, my blood boils. Nobody likes seeing the inevitable dings in their door when they walk up to their car. Trust me; I know. I sometimes think that the people parked next to me must have tried to hit my door. I mean, how else do you really ding a car door to the point that the paint is gone all the way down to the primer? Ugh. But even still, I refrain from such blatantly obnoxious action as parallel parking my car across three spots to avoid the dings. One morning, the sight of his ridiculous SUV set me off so badly that I was rummaging madly through my suitcase of a purse, trying to find some scrap of paper to really tell him about himself. But alas, no paper. Just my luck. Well, I had a receipt, but it was a credit card receipt. I'm not against leaving a note, but to sign it with my full government name so the Rav4 owner can hunt me down and terrorize me? Yeah, not happening.

Anyway, my co-worker was called on an unexpected business trip the other day and had to rush to the airport. Apparently all of the spots in the garage were full and she saw everyone around her creating makeshift parking spots, so she decided to do the same. It was only a day trip, after all; she would only be gone for a few hours. So she parked her car as best she could, in her opinion leaving ample room for the surrounding cars to still navigate their way out if need be. Well, upon her return, imagine her surprise when she found this little love note waiting for her on her windshield:



Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! This note seriously made my day. I told her that I needed to make a copy and keep it in my purse so I could place it lovingly on the windshield of my garage nemesis' car the next time he pulled his douchebag move. I'm pretty sure this is the best nastygram ever. At least that I've seen thus far. I feel as though the author did a very good job of expressing their frustration and anger. Note the usage of the capital "F" and "A" for emphasis. Genius. To the author of this delightful little morsel of hilarity, I say this:

Dear Parking-Garage-Love-Note-Writer,

I salute you. Sure, my co-worker did nothing but laugh at the content of your note(and bring it into the office for show and tell)...buuuuuuuut I bet it made YOU feel better, now didn't it? And really, isn't that all that matters? Here's to standing up for yourself (albeit anonymously) and for inspiring me to put a pack of Post-It® Notes in my purse so I too, can help to rid the world of inconsiderate pricks, one hateful nastygram at a time. Thanks, guy.

Becks 

Happily Ever After

Okay, so I promised you some sort of post regarding the Royal Wedding and all of its fashion glory. I know I'm a little late, but better late than never. My impression can pretty much be summed up by one photograph:

Hahahahaha! Joan Rivers, I am not. Happy Friday, folks!

Husbands Say the Darndest Things

Over the weekend, the hubs and I were watching the wall-to-wall coverage of all of the Osama bin Laden videos that have surfaced since his death. Well, not really watching, per se...I was actually reading the good ol' Kindle (much like news radio, I'm not really one for CNN), but I digress. So we're "watching" the coverage and all of A sudden, the hubs just started cracking up. I couldn't imagine what OBL (Or as an old friend called him, OSB...which obviously spurned a slew of giggles between myself and the illustrious Marcy Magoo...O. Sama Binladen? Um, ok. Good thing he's cute, 'cause he ain't that bright.) could possibly have to say that would illicit such a response.

Me: (Concerned that my hubby sprouted terrorist wings overnight) Um...whatcha laughing at, honey?

Hubs: Bahahaha - have you - hahaha - seen this - hahahaha - video - hahaha - of Osama bin Laden??

Hubs: Bahahaha - because it reminds me of this video (Yes, he really did pull up the video for my viewing pleasure. He's pretty cool like that)...

Osama Bin Laden- Family Guy
Tags: Osama Bin Laden- Family Guy

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! He was so right. I knew I married him for a reason. Good times.


OSB (haha) video clip found here
Hilarious Family Guy clip (which, incidentally, happens to be one my all-time faves) found here

A Thin Line Between Love and Face Planting

I decided that since I already gave you a list of some of my neuroses, I may as well keep with today's theme of telling you various embarrassing endearing details about myself. We'll call today Humbling Hump Day.

So, you may or may not know this about me, but I'm pretty clumsy. You'd think that a girl who practically lives in 4 inch heels would be limber and light on her toes...but I'm not. I'm actually like a graceful bull in a china shop. I often wake up with random, inexplicable, bruises that I can never quite figure out. It looks a little bit like my good ol' hubs uses my thighs for punching bags. Hmmm, that's a thought. Maybe he does. At night. When I'm unsuspectingly sleeping like an angel beside him. That would explain a lot...but I doubt it. I think I'm just clumsy.

Beyond my clumsiness is my love-hate relationship with stairs. Actually, if I'm honest...it's really more of a combative relationship. I hate stairs...and they hate me. In the almost thirty years that I have been alive, I have fallen down flights of stairs several times. Maybe even more than several. Whatever that would be quantified as. Let's see...I'm gonna say maybe somewhere between 8-10 times. No joke. A few of those times were down the same flight of stairs, so I'm not sure if those count...but I often find myself grabbing frantically for the banister as my life flashes before my eyes. Hell, I've even tripped and fallen while going up a flight of stairs. I'm just talented like that.

The first time I ever fell down a flight of stairs was at Club Park Avenue (us regulars called it CPA) in Tallahassee (RIP). This used to be the spot. In fact, it eventually was shut down by the fire marshall for going way over capacity (and underage drinking, most likely). So, needless to say, this place was always packed. My friends and I knew the bartender so we used to double fist LITs all night long. Did I mention that CPA had two flights of stairs: one in the front, one in the back? Right. Two. I fell down each of those flights of stairs at least 2-3 times apiece. I'm happy to report that I managed to never spill a drink, though. Priorities! When you're 19 and drinking illegally, apparently saving your cocktail from its demise is much more important than preventing yourself from tumbling down a flight of stairs to your death. Go figure.

Another time was when I was on vacation with my good friend [at the time] and we got this cool hotel room that had a loft-type setup with a bedroom upstairs. Why would we do such a thing? Yeah. My ass definitely made contact with those stairs. It wasn't pretty. I had a pretty good momentum going and my feet slipped out from underneath me and I catapulted down the stairs so fast that the wall had to stop me. Picture me, sitting against the wall with a surprised look on my face, feelin' all embarrassed and butt hurt (in more ways than one). She had a great laugh over that one, believe me.

Perhaps the worst time was about six years ago on Thanksgiving Day when I was rushing out of my apartment to head to the 'rents house for some turkey and fixins. That's right - rushing. We all know I had no business doing that in heels. So...yeah. Cue frightening tumble down the stairs. This one was the worst because I actually went head first...and these stairs were concrete (and really steep!). My life definitely flashed before my eyes. But I had the wherewithall to actually grab the poles in the railing and use my momentum to propel myself in the opposite direction (practially ripping my shoulder from the socket in the process), and I turned my body to where I was able to save myself from an untimely demise. Before you laugh, I twisted my ankle! Seriously. Like, legit twisted it. It was swollen and I walked with a pimp limp. My whole family took great pleasure in teasing me mercilessly all day until I finally gave up and went home to pout...in my heels.

I'll leave you with a visual. I'm pretty sure that this girl can totally empathize with my hate-hate relationship with stairs. To quote Aaliyah, "If at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and try again." Happy Humbling Hump Day, folks!

Flowers in the Attic

Happy Administrative Professionals' Day to all the Admins out there who have to put up with their boss' bullshit all day, every day. Here's to you - 'cause they probably couldn't function without you. Interestingly, Administrative Professionals' Day is what prompted today's post. At work today, several of the Admins received flowers from their departments as a gesture of appreciation. Nice, right? Well, the sight of those flowers triggered a random [unrelated] memory that I had to share as an example of what not to do when sending flowers to a woman.

"What we gon' do right now is go back...way back...back into time."

Flashback to Valentine's Day, circa...2004? I was at work, minding my own business, when our office receptionist called to inform me that I'd received a package. I eagerly went up front to see what kind of Valentine's goodies awaited me and was promptly rewarded for my efforts when the receptionist handed me my box. All of you ladies know the ProFlowers® box because it's instantly recognizable, right? That long, green box that has the potential to completely brighten your day?

Right. That box. So I happily collected my special delivery and hoofed it back to my desk to see what breathtaking blossoms lay in wait for me within. I ripped the box open in anticipation, revealing a beautiful arrangement of tulips and irises, just waiting to be put on display at my desk.

Side note: Pretty much the only reason a woman wants to receive flowers (besides the fact that they make us feel special and all that other sentimental stuff) at work on occasions like Valentine's Day, birthdays and anniversaries is to put them on conspicuous display so the other women in the office will ask about the source of said flowers, ooh and aaah over the sweetness of such a gift and then be green with envy for the rest of the day whilst comparing their thoughtless significant other with the amazingly romantic source of your flowers. Take note, fellas - your woman will love you so much more for the gesture...and so will the women in her office. Not a bad deal. Okay, back to the story (almost done, I swear).

So I opened the box, revealed the pretty flowers, blah, blah, blah. Gushing, I of course reached for the card to read whatever romantic musings were typed with dedication and care (Chaucer or Tennyson, no doubt). After breezing through the card, I gathered up the box to take to the kitchen and begin the tedious process of trimming stems and arranging the flowers in their accompanying vase . . . at which time I noticed that, to my surprise . . . there was no vase.

Who?
Does?
That?!

For real. Who goes through the motions (because that's obviously what it was in retrospect, a matter of some jerk going through the obligatory motions of sending some crappy flowers on Valentine's Day) of sending flowers...but is too effing cheap to add the vase for $6.99?? Especially when said flowers are ordered on the internet and are delivered in a cardboard box. It's not like you can enjoy flowers from a box. What would I do? Prop the box open on my desk? A good friend equated that box to a flower coffin. No joke. If I'd tried to display my flowers from inside the box, it would be a little bit like a memorial service for my poor flowers. Which would have been fitting, all things considered. Again, hindsight is a bitch. Needless to say, I was disgusted and tossed those half-wilted flowers back to the shitty box they came in and tried to forget about them. (Funny how the description changes, right?)

Unfortunately, it's really hard to forget about flowers when the abovementied nosy ladies in the office ask about the box every time they pass by your desk, exclaiming about the thoughtful delivery, inquiring as to why I they weren't on display for everyone else to enjoy right along with me. Yeah. Try explaining a box full of flowers and no vase to put them in to a bunch of snarky women who were already jealous to begin with. I'm pretty sure that made their day. Kinda takes away from the appeal of having those stupid flowers delivered to me on V-Day, you know? I have to laugh...now.

So, there it is. What shouldn't you do when sending flowers? Be a cheapskate. The end.

the morning after.

I’m fairly certain that I just dozed off at my desk. Nothing too conspicuous, thank goodness, but I’m pretty sure I was asleep. I awoke with a bit of a start when I realized I was staring at my computer screen with a glassed-over, blank stare and my mouth slightly open. Damn. It’s going to be a long day. 



Contrary to popular belief, this is not a picture of me in the morning.
This is the sleep gnome.*
Oddly, he appears to be a cross between a Jawa...and DEATH.
I'm convinced he keeps his shitty sleep sand in his face hole and
hurls it haphazardly at his every whim and fancy. I hate him.



It's mornings like these when I wish that I could Photoshop® my face. That's right. Photoshop® my face. I wouldn’t abuse it; I would only use it on mornings like this one, when I'm so tired that my eyes feel gritty (How the hell does that pesky sleep gnome keep getting into the effing house? Looks like the hubs and I are due for another chat about leaving the door open so any riffraff with a pocket face hole full of sand can just stroll in at their leisure.), and my mood feels surly and I'm lugging giant, heavy, Samsonites® under both of my eyes. Is that asking too much?

Back to the Photoshopping®. Seriously, that would possibly be the coolest thing ever. Sometimes (on mornings like this one), I wake up and look in the mirror (and scare myself, to be quite honest) and wonder if I'll be forced to resort to sorcery or human sacrifice in order to appeal to the gods of conceit to please make me appear *almost* presentable. Makeup is an okay everyday solution to blemishes and a few too many cocktails from the night before…but the amount of makeup that I would need to shellac on my face in order to cover up a yesterday that lasted 22 hours and then finally ended with a measly 2 hours of sleep (remember, I'm not getting any younger and a growing girl needs her beauty sleep) would make my face itch. No joke. Listen, I have sensitive skin. Don’t judge me.

To recap, I would much prefer wizardry with the magic wand, eraser and blending tools that Photoshop® has to offer, over breaking out the grimoire and chanting incantations all morning (those things are so hard to remember sometimes). Trust me, I need it. There isn’t enough MAC® in the world to cover up what I’ve got going on today. So to the technology gurus (who I’m sure are most definitely NOT reading this blog)…MAKE IT HAPPEN. Posthaste.

Okay. Enough play time for me. This girl has got some serious slaving to do in order to finish this godforsaken paper before the DEADline (No wonder they call it a deadline. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before today. I wonder what the origin of that word really is?), and I am on a downward spiral of delirium, giggling maniacally at my desk. (The Downward Spiral was a pretty good cd. If you like headbanging. I don’t, but I like Trent Reznor okay. We share a birthday. He can’t be all that bad. For those of you NKOTB fans, I also share a birthday with Jordan Knight. Yup. You’re jealous. I know.) Oh, here I go, off on several delirious tangents…I can always tell when I’m sleep deprived, because I end up with a TON of parenthetical phrases. I guess I have a lot of afterthoughts when I’m sleepy. 

Aargh! Later, peeps. This blog is turning into The Neverending Story. So I’m gonna ride my giant flying dog thing on out of here and I’ll catch you on the other side of this stupid, day-ruining, obnoxiously tedious paper. Pray for me. Or do some incantations, if that’s your thing. Whatever. I can never remember the words and I have the most difficult time finding eye of newt. Shit. I’m doing it again. Maybe it would be better if I just stop typ

_________________________________________________________________________________

*Sleep gnome image courtesy of http://www.geeky-gadgets.com/star-wars-garden-jawas-13-11-2009/

**If you like the sleep gnome more than I do (and/or if you're a Star Wars geek), by all means, take him for yourself. Please. DO IT.
***Totally awesome picture of me and my buddy Falcor is a courtesy of me. The original image was taken from here.

Commentary This, You Say? Commentary This, I Shall, I Say.*

I am still quasi-personality-less this evening, as I have yet to recover from my brush with death sickness; however, I received this little teaser from my Aggie friend, Taryn (C/W), and couldn’t resist:

The link led me to a gallery of photos documenting the Lady Ags’ postseason stint. There were so many great action shots, showing those women powering through the Tournament…and there were so many great action shots that were just begging for captions.**

…Do I smell a challenge? I accept, my good friend! T, this one’s for you. (You’re my boy, Blue!) I’ll try to keep it to one caption per picture so this post doesn’t get any longer than it’s already destined to be…and heeeeere we go…



  

…I’m pretty sure she chose the blue pill.

That’s one small step for [wo]man; one giant leap for McNeese State...but yet, still not good enough. A for effort?

"Back up off me! I go hard in the paint and a gigantic knee brace to the gennies is not going to feel as good as my hand does right now. Trust me; I know."

 

"I’ll see your fist in my crotch and raise you a hand on your boob."

Look out, folks! It just went from the NCAA Tournament to the Quidditch World Cup awful quick-like. Shit just got real.

Well, that's all for tonight, kids. I'm about to go sip on some [fully legal, doctor prescribed, nothing-to-see-here-folks, just MIND YOUR BUSINESS] sizzurp and take my sick ass to bed.

Y'all come back now, ya hear?

*I know what you're thinking. "I thought she was sick!" Update on my bout with the ebola virus recovery/sickness for those of you that care (and for those of you that don't give a shit, but are very thorough readers that simply cannot pass up an asterisk footnote): I am still sick. I still have that run-over-by-a-truck feeling, but the good news is, I'm on the way to feeling better...I think. Seriously, it's been a week. If I don't get better soon, I may be forced to do something crazy. You hear me? Cra-zy. So fingers crossed for a [less than speedy, at this point - let's be real] recovery. 'Cause if that last digression is any indication, I'm already on my way to crazy.

**All photos courtesy of www.chron.com/sports

Friday Funny

...isn't everyone? The recession is so bad it's affecting soda fountains? Shit. Hard times.

The Hip Bone's Connected to The...?

I had a funny random memory when I was in the shower the other morning. Like most people, I’m pretty sure I do some of my best thinking in the bathroom. But anyway, I had a random flashback to 9^th grade Biology at good ol’ Spruce Creek High with Mr. Campbell (RIP), when we were learning about the human body. I think we’d just finished learning about the different systems within the body, specifically the respiratory system. My friend Kevin raised his hand to ask a question:

Mr. Campbell: Yes, Kevin?

Kevin: Uh…Mr. Campbell? I don’t know how to say this…but…are the testicles somehow connected to the respiratory system?

Mr. Campbell: Um…no. Why do you ask?

Kevin: Well, I know I can’t breathe anytime I get hit in the balls.

Hi-larious. I think I actually chuckled aloud in the shower. Gotta love funny little jaunts down memory lane.

Fat Guy on a Litte Scooter

So I'm driving down the street, minding my own business, when I hear what sounds like the engine of a toy train revving up behind me. Imagine my surprise when I looked out my window to find this:

I felt obligated to take a picture! Honestly? Come. On. And he was sooooo serious about it! This picture doesn't quite do it justice. It's almost as though the scooter was scaled up in the picture. Trust me. In person, he looked like a circus bear on a tricycle. With an engine.

This is a wonderful reminder that it's the little things in life, you know? Little things like tiny scooters with tiny, little engines and pink polo shirts with the collar slightly popped. I can't imagine how he could fit all of that douchebaggery onto that little scooter. Congratulations on your accomplishment, guy. I'm sure your mother is very proud.