A Series of Unfortunate Eve--Wait. That title's already taken.

I went camping with the Dude, the dogs, and my folks.  This is not the unfortunate part.

Dad set the Dude on fire.  (But only a little bit.)  (Edit:  I've been told by a not-unbiased party that this should actually read:  Hero Dad saved the Dude's life moments before total combustion.)

Blink, the blind and deaf dog--It's awesome.  He grins and waves his head like Ray Charles, only without the piano.--almost, while on a walk with Dad and the Dude, floated away down the river.  Whoops!

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The moral of the story is:  I'm never leaving the Dude alone with the Dad again.  They're trouble.

Also fun:  I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair this morning.  You know that scene in There's Something About Mary?

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Yeah.  It wasn't anything like that, actually.

Hops in the Right Direction: Summer Camp

When I was a kid, I went to summer camp.  For three weeks every year, I spent my days swimming, sailing, horseback riding, and making really terrible crafts.  Every moment, I was with at least eight other girls my age--a summer experience unheard of on a farm.

I had a lot of fun.  I made a lot of memories.  I did a lot of lip-synching to "Barbie Girl."*

****

I'm picking Prada and Stink up from my folks' house this weekend.  What with Kentucky and Mexico trips in two consecutive weeks, it seemed wisest to have my parents petsit rather than kennel Prada, who finds kennels stressful instead of fun. 

My parents have a large yard ringed by woods and two dogs of their own.  Prada's been able to play offleash outside everyday for weeks.  With other dogs who know her, and have learned to play a bit more gently with her (so as not to knock her over/piss her off).  Her days end in happy exhaustion. 

****

I wonder if my parents felt guilty about dropping me off and leaving me for several weeks, or if they worried that I was having more fun and learning more than I could hope to the rest of the summer at home.  If they did, I could assure them that as fun as camp was, it was great to come home to my family and relax.

And that's why I refuse to feel guilty about leaving Prada and bringing her back home.  I'm just going to assume that she has a great time while she's there and still misses me, even though I do live in a hot, cramped apartment with no yard and no other dogs for her to play with.  In the end, I just hope that it matters most that I've missed her too.

A Little Early for Mother's Day, But...

To my mom, who had to co-raise my snarky ass:


Remember when you got me a psych evaluation because I had an imaginary friend?  And the doctor told you that you had you play along, even when I said my sister had locked her in the house and we had to turn the car around and get her?

Sorry about that.

Remember that time I knocked all my teeth out and my sister told you Dad had taken me into town to get dentures?

Sorry about that.

Remember how there were never bandaids, paper towels, or scotch tape in the house?

Sorry about that.

Remember how I spilled a whole bottle of glue on the floor just a few weeks after you'd installed new carpet in my bedroom, and it never came out?

Yeah...  sorry about that too.

Remember that time I asked if people made babies the same way rabbits made babies (you know, the boy rabbit screamed and fell off), and you still didn't laugh?

I'd say sorry, but that was pretty freaking funny, now that I think about it.


Thanks for being the mom who played along.  Who didn't panic.  Who didn't ask.  Who understood it was an accident.  Who always answered my incessant and sometimes embarrassing questions seriously, so as not to embarrass me.  Because good lord, I was an obnoxious kid.

You rock.

All About the Ladies

Warning:  SFW euphamisms (with one exception) and TMI to follow.

Ever since I read this Epbot post, I've had my ladies on the brain.  Apparently, so does the rest of the world.

My sticky-outy bits aren't that, well, sticky-outy.  They don't generally get in the way.  In fact, they have never gotten in the way.  But at a loud work event last week, when I leaned forward to shout in a coworker friend's ear, he zigged and I zagged, and the ladies collided with his elbow, spilling his drink down my front.  (Good thing I wore black, right?)  Without even thinking about it, my friend exclaimed, "Ohgodyourtits!"  Which from anyone else would be offensive but from my friend was just funny as hell.  Good thing it was too loud for anyone else to overhear...

Later, as I was attempting to find some new, properly-fitting underpinnings, I swung by good-ol' Victoria's Secret.  I'd already tried a bunch on at other stores, and had had some near-fits, so I had a pretty good idea of what size I needed, like that the band needed to be either a 30 or a 32.  The oh-so-helpful girl in VS sized me up and recommended a 36B.  Because apparently VS is trying to get into the hula hoop business, with the way that thing would be flying around on me.  And the cup size?  Would have been a lot like that "Fat guy in a little coat" bit from Tommy Boy.  Not what I want to think of in relation to the girls.  I think I'm officially done with that store.  I always knew their sizing could be a bit inaccurate, but that's just ridiculous.  I had much better luck at TJ Maxx, where I also spent a lot, lot less.

Finally, you may remember that I went to a con this weekend, C2E2 here in Chicago.  It was awesome.  I wore one of my Doctor Who tees, because it's an advertisement of what interests me and an invitation for other Whovians to come fangirl with me.  (David Tennant's hair, anyone?)  But of course I forgot I was wearing it, so when an artist in Artist's Alley mentioned he had some Doctor art a few pages farther along in his portfolio, I was surprised.

"How did you know I like Doctor Who?" I asked.

"Your shirt is made of psychic paper," the artist responded.  Very clever, right?

The person with me piped in.  "I just thought you weren't wearing a shirt!"



(True:  My dad reads this blog.  Hi, Dad!  Sorry, Dad!)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

The Banjo of Science

I recently watched a documentary called The Science of Sex Appeal.  It was all right, I guess, though there was a lot more sex appeal than science, and it was completely heteronormative.  But, I'm going to assume what science there was wasn't wrong, just dramatized and a very small portion of the whole.

So, the smell of sweat happens when perspiration mixes with the bacteria growing on your skin.  Each person's immune system, which dictates what bacteria are allowed to grow, is different.  Ergo, each person's sweat smells a little different.

And if we are driven to procreate with the best possible match, that person would be one who has a very different immune system from our own, so that any offspring would be likely to have a strong immune system that can battle the most bad things.

Apparently, this is why siblings tend to smell really bad to each other--their immune systems are from the same gene pool, and it's a subconscious way for our brains to tell us, "Dear god, not that one!  Not that one!!!!"

Now, why the hell am I telling you this?

My family is extensive and convoluted, to say the least, and much of it is located in and around my hometown.  I have second and third cousins probably into the hundreds, and I don't know the bulk of them.  I went to a funeral in my hometown this weekend for someone who was not related to me, and I ended up sitting next to a man who was well-groomed and well-dressed--clearly hygiene was not an issue here.  And the way he smelled like to had my eyes watering.

Yep, probably a cousin.


(True:  This is why, when I lived at home, I had a "don't date within the county" rule.  Too many chances to accidentally turn up at the same family reunion.)

But At Least I Ordered Great Pizza.

My parents came down for the weekend, which was awesome.  Unfortunately for them, they crashed at my place.

My building has the old fashioned cast iron radiators that occasionally make a rattling sound if there is air in the pipes.  On Saturday night, there was not air in the pipes.  There was an entire steel drum band made up of people with no rhythm on crack, and I thought we were all going to die.  (We didn't die, as it turned out.  We just didn't sleep.)

And Sunday, I locked myself out of my apartment while heading downstairs to let in my parents, who had locked themselves out of the building.

It's a really good thing that people aren't rated for their hosting skills on Yelp the way hotels are. 


(True:  My parents surprised me with bookshelves this weekend.  I officially have the coolest parents ever.)

It's Like an After-Christmas Clearance Sale...

...A little late, but pretty damn awesome.

You guys, I woke up this morning feeling well. 

Yeah, I'm one of those boring people with one of those boring chronic disorders, and you can't even tell I'm sick by looking at me, which is just plain rude.  But after six or so weeks of feeling ever more awful, peaking on Christmas Eve (because bursting out in tears and then cancelling a vocal performance at the Christmas Eve service as I walked into the Christmas Eve service is how I roll, yo), I feel awake, alert, focused, and hungry.

It's like my own little after-Christmas miracle.

This is too:

The Frogman's Night Before Christmas.  Read it.  Because if you didn't already know, Frogman is the funniest dude on the Internet.


(True:  Calendars are being mailed tomorrow.  I'm sorry; George is an asshole--see above.)

Easy DIY Gift Bag Upgrade

I use gift bags very rarely.  In general, I like wrapping gifts.  (Yeah, I'm weird.  Tell me something I don't know.)  This year, though, I'm just so tired.  So I'm taking some shortcuts--some gifts are getting the "shove it in a gift bag and forget about it" treatment.

Aaand since I like things to be pretty and inexpensive, I upgraded some inexpensive, plain bags.  And they actually don't look dumb!




Just remember, I am the world's worst photographer.

 You can stop here.  No really.  You can look at the photo and see how it's done.  See?  You can shortcut your wrapping and your blog-reading.

What you'll need:

Gift bags
Craft/wrapping paper in coordinating colors
Glue dots/tape
Raffia/ribbon
Bells/ornaments/something pretty (optional)


For the bag on the left, I cut strips of wrapping paper about two inches wide, cut fringe, and curled it up around my finger.  I taped the fringe strips on the bag, because I'm classy like that.  (And also because I couldn't find my glue dots.  Seriously.  What did I do before glue dots?)  And then I used a strip of paper to cover the tape on the top layer of fringe.  The bag I already had.  The paper I already had.  The raffia I already had.  Total cost:  $0.  Total time:  5 minutes.

For the bag on the right, I cut two triangles, the star shape, and the rectangle for the trunk out of wrapping paper.  (The paper I have is a heavier, paper-grocery bag texture, FYI.)  I made it purposely imperfect, since that seemed to fit the "down home" feel of the color combo with the checks.  As I said, I misplaced my glue dots, so I used the old tape loop trick--one in the middle of the smaller triangle, and one in each corner of the larger triangle.  The fact that the edges of the trees are not tight against the bag makes for an interesting texture, though it didn't translate well to photo.  (Blame it on the photographer.  Frankly, I'm surprised she managed to get the entirety of both bags in one shot.)  The bells are a cheapy ornament I got at Target to dress it up a bit more, since I don't have the energy to do fancy bows this year.  Five bags:  $3.  Bell ornaments from Target:  $1.  Total cost per bag:  $1.60.  And it actually looks cute enough to be reused next year.  (What, doesn't your family do that, too?)  Total time:  2 minutes.

(Bravo if you read this far.  Don't give me that look--I told you you didn't need to.)


(True:  Last chance to email me at danathebiped at gmx dot com about what nice thing you've done for homeless pets and even have the smallest hope of getting your Possum Pinups calendar by Christmas!)

It's Really a Gift--For You and From You. So You Won't Even Have to Regift.

You know what I love even more than ice cream?  Watching TV and eating ice cream.  Of course, since I don't currently have a functioning television, all my watching happens online.  Between Netflix and the various networks' streaming video, I'm pretty well covered, and not in much danger of running out of things to watch.

A lot of my favorite shows are already discontinued or are already several seasons in--I generally prefer that, because then I can get obsessed and watch three consecutive seasons of a show in a week. 

But I might make an exception, and watch a currently-airing online show when Chic premieres.



Yes, that is a widget.  (Lookit ma, I managed a widget!)

Yes, that is a widget to a Kickstarter.

But I wouldn't recommend it if it weren't going to be AWESOME.  Seriously.  I know the producers, Sarah Hesch and Chris Snapp, and they are funny and clever as hell, and they make good art.  Do you really think I would recommend a show about pr0n on a blog my mother reads, otherwise?

Check it out.  Donate if it interests you.  Even if it doesn't, donate anyway--you can consider it a protest against the Kardashians.  And next year, you'll have something funny and clever as hell to watch instead of doing your laundry.

See?  Gift to yourself.


(True:  You know what else would make a great gift to youself?  A PossumFace Pinup calendar.)

FFS

I have a charlie horse between my shoulder blades, and have for the last twelve millenia hour.  The only way I can sit at my desk without being a bit distracted by the blinding pain is to contort myself like so: 

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Ironically, this is also the exact facial expression I have in all my middle school photos.


(True:  I was an ugly kid.  My school photos were all so awful and traumatizing that after the obligation of showing them to my parents, I would hide the packets under the washing machine.  When my parents moved my freshman year of college, they discovered all the waterlogged photos.  It was an improvment.)

The Circle of Life Can Suck It

As you may know, Prada had been coming to work with me there for a while during some work on my building.  Since it was reasonably warm, I could leave her out in the car without feeling too guilty.  (She's got a bed and a blanket out there, and she sleeps all day anyway, so don't feel too bad for her.)  And several times a day, I'd take her out to stretch her legs and go potty on the patch of grass in front of the building.

Near this patch of grass is a telephone pole.  After a couple days of regular potty outings, Prada had gained an observer:  a hawk that curiously enough only perched on that telephone pole around the times I took Prada out.

One more reason to keep your dog on a leash--your dog is less likely to be eaten.

Obviously, this story doesn't have a tragic ending--Prada is currently at home (yay, no more early morning hammering!), probably sleeping.  (I'm so jealous.)  Well, not tragic for Prada, that is.  Judging by the amount of feathers scattered on the lawn, either there was an epic pillow fight while I was gone or a small bird met a violent end.

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On a side note, if I hold Prada like Rafiki holds Simba, she dances.  I find it very amusing.  (She doesn't.)


(True:  My dad once hit a wild turkey with his car.  Do you know what happens when you hit a wild turkey going sixty miles an hour?  A blinding explosion of feathers.  Seriously.)

This is My Obligatory Thanksgiving Post.

I really hate Thanksgiving sap.  And Christmas sap.  And Valentine's Day sap.  And rom-com sap.  And that Folger's commercial with the young man coming home for the holidays.  And tree sap.

Maybe I'm just an ungrateful bitch.  Or maybe contrived sentiment just makes me want to puke.

There are, however, some things I am very happy to have:

• Caffeine, which gets me through most days murder-charge-free.
• My microwave, which is my second favorite enabler.
• My mother's pity for me and my lack of cooking skills. (I.e., leftovers.)
• Netflix, my first favorite enabler.
• My Sister the Lawyer not killing me when my phone's evil alter ego answered her calls seven consecutive times while simultaneously scrolling through every option and screen the phone has to offer--all while on key lock in my purse.
• This:

• And the fact that you read this blog even though I'm mental.

(True:  In the above poem, there really should be a semicolon, not a comma.)

And the Award Goes To...

If you are reading this, it probably means that it's finally happened.  I've finally achieved my (literally) life-long dream of getting a Darwin Award.  I've taken the liberty of writing a speech--obviously one of you dear readers will need to read it for me at the ceremony.  (I've included some notes on delivery.)

First of all, I'd like to thank my mom and my maternal grandmother, who showed me how to bear clumsiness with dignity if not grace.  Pause for laughter.

Thanks also to my dad and My Sister the Lawyer for teaching me that gracelessness is best when the amusement is shared.  And to my friend Seven, because sometimes, that amusement needs to be shared with a sharp jab to someone's kidney.  Pause for laughter.

To the members of the swing dancing club (If you put air quotes around the word "swing," I will personally come back from hell to haunt your ass.) I was part of in college:  I owe you so much.  Not only did your lessons help me learn to at least not embarrass myself (so much) dancing, they also taught me to walk without running into walls.  Mostly.  And that's probably what kept me alive for so long.  And to all the leads who partnered me:  Despite all the times I stepped on your feet, elbowed you in the gut, and once head-butted you during an aerial in a place that could constitute sexual harassment, you never once gave up on me.  Or filed charges.  Thank you.  And I'm really glad your insurance company ended up covering that procedure after all.

Finally, I know I didn't likely die in a dignified manner.  I quite possibly didn't have pants on.  But please, if you could, remember me just like I was that one time in that photo taken in 2006, where I don't look like a complete derp with stupid hair.  Yes, I know that memory will be false, but it's my last wish.  Not my dying wish, obviously, because I'm already dead, but my last, post-mortem wish.  Or I guess it could be my first post-mortem wish, if one of you develops an affinity for ouija boards. 

If you try to contact me by ouija board, I will totally just make "your mom" jokes.  So, yeah.  (Please stop reading now.  I've clearly derailed.)





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(True:  This is not an attempt to fake my own death.  Just to be clear.)

Five Things About Me You're Gonna Wish You Didn't Know, Or, A Bipedian English Dictionary Is in the Works

I wasn't going to post today, but Noa over at Oh Noa thinks I leave mildly amusing comments on occasion so I might actually get some traffic* and ohgodthepressure.

*(Besides that from my 22 loyal followers.  I love you 22 people so much that if you were to ask, I'd clean the baked on goop from that window of your ovens.*) 

*(That is a conditional sentence.*  I will not be cleaning anyone's oven.  I'd rather just stick my head it it.)

*(It's the same reason you really need to stop saying, "If I was you.")


So, I had to think of a topic off-hand, and this is what you're getting.  If you don't like it, too damn bad.

1.  When I was very small, My Sister the Lawyer once locked my imaginary friend in the house when the family was going on a trip.  I made my parents turn around to get her.

2.  My imaginary friend's name was Ulie.  Which is actually the name of one of William Tell's cohorts back in the fifteenth century.  This probably goes beyond simple precocity.

3.  The word "precocity" is in my lexicon.

4.  I can't help but point out when people use words incorrectly or in the wrong context.  This prompts them to call me a Grammar Nazi.  Thus I am forced to elucidate them on the difference between grammar and syntax.

5.  It would probably be more accurate, to call me not a Grammar Nazi, but enlightened or perhaps perspicacious.  Of course, "brilliant" would work in a pinch.

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(True:  Bonus!  I identify deeply with Amelia Peabody.)

A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Double-Tap"

I did a rare thing this weekend--I took some vacation time.  My folks own property up in the northwoods of Wisconsin, a few of the most beautiful acres in the world, as far as I'm concerned.  Long weekends there mostly involve hanging out outside in one way or another.  We hit a couple of outdoor, dog-friendly art fairs, we took a short hike around Bond Falls (a dog-friendly path), and we went swimming on a dog-friendly beach.

I was particularly looking forward to the latter as this past winter, I'd purchased a life jacket for Prada but hadn't had the opportunity to give it a go yet.  Because Prada is usually uncomfortable in new environments, especially ones where she doesn't feel like she has her feet securely under her, I really didn't know what to expect of the excursion.  I needn't have worried.  Prada paddled her feet for a moment (she's got the instinct for swimming certainly), and then chilled out.  I mean, she relaxed so deeply she almost fell asleep.  I was pretty tickled to say the least.

We didn't stay long.  Even though the water was bathwater warm, it doesn't take much for little dogs to get chilled, and after about fifteen minutes, Prada started shivering and it was time to get out.  But hey, they were a very successful fifteen minutes--it may be time to look up one of the dog-friendly beaches in Chicago I keep hearing about.

Without the dogs, we went four-wheeling (sorry, it's a drought, I can't honestly say we went muddin'), and did some target practice.  My dad has this gorgeous 9mm pistol, a Colt MK IV Series 80, and I had the pleasure of emptying the better part of a clip at the tail end of the weekend.  I'm much more familiar with rifles (though I don't get much practice with those, either, but enough to know I prefer a little bolt-action rifle without too much kick), and after a brief run-down on the mechanics of it, I let loose. 

Our target wasn't exactly high-tech--just a hunter orange circle about four inches in diameter slapped on a pizza sheet, but it did the trick.  Or rather, it probably would have done if I could aim worth a damn.  I hit the tin maybe twice, but not the orange at all.  I'd never be able to hit a zombie in the chest, much less in the head.  I tended to hit a few inches below and to the left of the target--at least I'm consistent.

And now you'll know how to find me in the zombie apocolypse:  I'll be the one being run down by zombies missing their right testicle.

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(True:  I never quite understood why it is zombies need to be shot in the head.  Wouldn't fire work, too?  A flame-thrower probably wouldn't require such precise aim.  Just sayin'.)

In Which You Discover I am a Huge Pervy McPerverson.

I woke up one morning several years ago with this poem sprung fully-formed from my head.  I call it, "Ode to a Hot Guy."  Any hot guy, really.  Alexander Skarsgard, maybe, or that dude who plays Thor.  Mmm, beardy buffness.  Anyway, since I know my readers have such fine literary sensibilities, I figured I'd share.  (Hi, Mom!  Go away, Mom!  No, you can stay, but you should probably redirect Dad before he has a heart attack.)  So, without further ado:

Ode to a Hot Guy

I wish that I were cotton.
I'd be your tighty-whiteys and be with you all the time.
I'd always be
in your pants.

I wish I were elastic.
You'd (ahem) bend me and you'd stretch me
with the friction
of your pants.

I wish I were a fly.
Maybe on your undies, or even just the wall.
I'd get to see you
in no pants.

Yeah, that'd do just fine.

NOT the "Bee's Knees"

Bees.  They are assholes. 

(Note:  I should probably warn you that I group any striped, stinging insect, including wasps, hornets, and yellowjackets, under the umbrella term "bees."  Mostly because I can't be bothered to learn the difference between them.)

I'm sure the asshole business isn't news to anyone, but it still needs to be said.  I've had some interesting experiences with them, myself.

There was the time, for example, that kid-me was fetching a sleeping bag from the camper.  I often slept in there in the warmer months (because I was eleven and deeply uncool), so the sleeping bag was not rolled.  This was a lucky thing, because since the last time I had overnighted there, a nest of angry bees had taken up residence in the open vent. 

They weren't pleased with having their space invaded, and they swarmed the bee-jeezus (sorry, I couldn't help myself) out of me.  Being particularly quick-thinking when fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror, I tossed the sleeping bag over my head burka-style and escaped with just three stings.

A more amusing (to me) time was when a bee started chasing my dad, and he ran all around the yard yelping and swatting at it.  It's the one kind of creepy-crawly that my manly-man dad cannot handle.  (Hi, Dad!)

Or that time my model friend--Yes, I do have a model friend.  No, I will not give you her number.  Creep.--took a swig out of a can of Pepsi wherein a bee reposed.  As it turns out, "bee-stung lips" is not a beauty phrase to be taken literally.

But mostly, I hate bees because they live in my shower.

I am totally judging this guy.  Also his sweatpants.  Via

(True:  "The bee's knees" orginally meant something small and insignificant, way back in the late 1700s.  I know that because I read it here.)

(Update:  Also relevant?  This.

A Very Bad Day

I am having one.

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But not that bad, I guess.  Somehow, I've always found that thinking of my blessings doesn't help a bad day as much as thinking of how absolutely FUBAR someone else's day has been. 


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 My mom must be so proud.

The Warm and Fuzzies

Ahem.  You may have heard--I grew up in the country, on a bitty little hobby farm (i.e., my parents weren't professional farmers, we just had lots of farmtype animals).  A good half my stories from my childhood come from interesting interactions with these farmtype animals, or those animals that just wandered into the barns to mooch food.

Let's meet some of my childhood companions, shall we?

'Possums.  We had them.  Not on purpose, but the oversized rats seem insanely attracted to cat food, much like the aliens in District 9.  They're about as cute, too, but much less sympathetic.  My mom was feeding the barn cats one evening, and either the power was out or she hadn't bothered to turn the light on.  In any case, she was in the mostly-dark barn, and when one of the cats wound its way around her ankles, she bent down to pet it--and came face-to-face with a 'possum who just wanted some lovin'.

Wanted:  Cat food and some sweet, sweet love for "attractive" single monster.

Shudder.

Sunny is way cuter.