I Almost Got Peed On By a Lesbian and Other Coincidences

Hello, dear reader!  I know you have missed me terribly since I last posted--almost a whole week!  I'm so ashamed!  But fear not, for I have been on the lookout for crazy, and the crazy has been plentiful.



First, I should tell you that I'm looking for investors for my new business.  I'm going to install a soda fountain in the trunk of my car and drive around looking for uncaffeinated people.  The way I see it, I should be able to get a government subsidy for this, since it is obviously a much-needed public service.  Uncaffeinated people are tired people.  Tired people are cranky people.  Cranky people don't buy stupid shit at the spur of the moment.  My plan with quite literally stimulate the economy.

I expect the money to come rolling in any moment now.



Second, you look like you need a pun.  Here you go:

Never tell a pun to a kleptomaniac.  He'll take it literally.

(This is not an original joke.  The Internet came up with it.  Or something.)



Third, I almost got peed on by a lesbian.  I went to the Pride Parade here in Chicago on Sunday, and it was awesome.  It was like a regular parade, but with more glitter and naked buttcheeks.  The crowd was very festive and friendly, but there are jerks everywhere, and one woman--who had as much personal space as a crowd that size allowed--threatened to pee on me.  I'm not quite certain why.  But she certainly thrust her butt into me in a bid for more space often enough, and every time I worried she was going to follow through with her threat.  She bragged loudly to her friends that she was assertive.  I think she added too many syllables to that word.



Fourth, I just got a call from a customer.

Customer:  Do you have any xxxxxx in stock?

Me:  Let me check....  No, we don't.

Customer:  Of course you do.

Me:  ...........


(True:  I've been informed I wear my crazy on my sleeve.  I figure this is healthier than hiding it, right?  Right???)

If This Doesn't End Up On At Least One Refrigerator, I'll Be Very Disappointed In Humanity.

I heard a joke I really liked, so I illustrated it.  It goes like this:

A giraffe walks into a bar and says,



This is original artwork.  I know you're very tempted to steal it and try to sell this fine-quality piece of artworkit on Ebay for gobs of money, but do try to restrain yourself. 

 Get it???

Okay, on second look, I think maybe this illustration needs a bit of explanation.  The orange stuff is liquor.  The things in the bartender's hand is glassware.  The giraffe has hooves or toes or something, not high heels.  The giraffe is the spotted thing.  That's not a tumor on it's face, that's its lower jaw.  Because, you know, the giraffe is talking.  So his mouth is open. 

You're welcome.  I'm here all week.


(True:  This is probably the best thing I've ever drawn.)

I'm Alive! And Tan(nish)! And Clothed!

I know, I know.  I'm shocked, too.

As far as warm-locale vacations go, I'd say this one was a huge success:  this was the first one during which I did not get physically ill from a sunburn (My Sister the Lawyer's wedding--I almost missed my speech for the puking.*) or a permanent line from a blister-level sunburn (reaching all the way to my armpits--just a little uncomfortable, that**).  Three cheers for me!

And, it was relatively disaster-free.  Sure, my tank top strap broke, but it happened in the hotel room, so no biggie.  And there may have been a Marilyn Monroe moment, but no one was really looking.  And the clasp of my swimsuit top may have snapped, but the tankini portion held everything mostly decently in place, and the bit of plastic clasp that winged five feet away didn't take out a single bystander's eye.

So this was definitely my most low-key vacation.

*You know it's a good wedding when you puke through most of the reception dinner and still manage to have a great time.  Also, don't judge me.  I fell asleep on the beach and forgot to reapply my sunscreen.  It could happen to anybody.

**Yeah, okay, I forgot to put sunscreen on my neck and chest.  And then I fell asleep on the beach.  And while it could happen to anybody, it mostly just seems to happen to me.  You should probably feel sorry for me.  And send pity cookies.


(True:  I saw grown men play what was essentially floor hockey.  In the dark.  With bare feet.  With a ball that was on fire.  Did I mention the bare feet?)

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!)

I'm Getting a Bit Worried.

I've done nothing ridiculous in about a week now.

I haven't accidentally spoken out of turn or nearly killed myself with hilarious results.

I haven't experienced the absurd.

Is this blog doomed?  Am I done doing silly things and being egotistical enough that I think my happenings simply must be shared with the entire Internet?  Have I finally achieved adulthood?!





Oh, never mind.  There's the absurdity I was looking for.

Here's some more:

This kid has got it right.

And, here's a (sort of NSFW but absolutely hysterical) gif series of David Tennant and the Stress Ball.


(True:  Dear Internet,  I less than three you so hard right now.)

It's Been Nice Knowing You, But Now I'm Headed toward Certain Doom.

Pray for me.  If you are certified, please include Last Rites.  (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)

Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall. 




This can only end in tears.  The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven.  My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud.  It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear.  My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried.  It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.

Ah, the memories.

Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...

Take this morning.

This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt.  It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring.  Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom.  So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt

And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.

If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.



(True:  It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)

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.)

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)

If You've Ruined My French Fries, I Will Never Forgive You

Dude.

Someone found my blog for searching for the "consummation of potatoes in 2013."

I don't think I've ever hoped so fervently that a word did not mean what someone thought it meant.  Or is this a thing?  Like furries, but with root vegetables?

And how did that search phrase bring them here?!

Clearly, my blog has a niche readership.

I worry about you people sometimes.

Via

(True:  I am trying really hard to not judge you right now.)

Fast Times at a School That Would Probably Not Prefer to Be Associated With This Blog

A good friend of mine from high school is having a baby in the not-too-distant future (ha, what else could it be?  Twenty years?), and it's got me remembering stuff.  So, join me on a walk down memory lane--if you dare.

I went to private high school.  Most of the students boarded, but there were a few of us "day students" who lived close enough to not have to live on campus.  We had our own lounge, and off that lounge was a small glass room nicknamed "the cubicle," which was just down the hall from the locker rooms assigned to the day students.  The cubicle had enough room for about four people comfortably, but we usually crammed about eight in there.  That's the boring part.

The interesting stuff is what we witnessed, safe on our side of the glass.  We saw break ups, make-ups, and make-outs.  We saw drama on a level that just isn't possible anywhere but a high school where most of the students live together (with teachers!) with no access to cars.

On one memorable occasion, however, the drama breached our safety glass.

A teacher stormed down the hall, coming from the boys' locker room, and slammed open the cubicle door.

"Who has been misusing their genitalia?!"

I honestly don't recall a single other time when all of us were simultaneously silent.  Cue astonishment and absolute confusion.

Eventually we figured it out:  someone in the boy's room missed the urinal.  Which was disgusting, but not nearly as bad as we had originally assumed.  Even better, none of us were guilty of the transgression--not this one, anyway.

But I do remember thinking, This is high school.  Those of us who aren't wish we were.


(True:  It was a special sort of high school I went to.  After I graduated and was legal to drink, I got conned into playing poker with my old high school teachers.  They got me drunk and won away all my money.  But I got an A for effort.)

Well, That's Just Embarrassing...

I work in the commercial lighting industry.  Friday, I quoted this fixture, and the photo they used to market it, well, I'd post it here, but it's probably NSFW.

That's right--a website I frequently use for work is not safe for work.

But here's the real mystery--is that photo proof that Spiderman is a hipster with a little too much affection for his web?

And who the hell thought, You know what will sell this light fixture?  A skinny, hairy, naked guy in the fetal position.


(True:  In a testament to how awesome my supervisor is, when she saw the web page I'd accidentally-on-purpose pulled up, she laughed and called over the rest of the department to come see.)

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.)

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.

Via

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.)

A Handy Guide to Halloween Costumes and Life

(Humming...)  It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, although presents are pretty damn wonderful.  I'm talking about Halloween, the one day of the year that responsible adults are still allowed to play dress-up.  By this point of the year, I usually have a detailed plan for what I'm going to dress up as and how to make that happen.  (I never buy pre-fab costumes.)  This fall, however, I'm running behind.  As I consider my options, there are several questions I keep in mind to keep myself on track.

And you should, too.

Question 1:  Could this costume be called "Naughty (Blank)" or "Sexy (Blank)?"
Because when it comes to costumes, both of these words are interchangeable with "whore."  One part of the costume can be of the come-hither variety without overdoing it.  (I flatter myself that I managed to pull off a Puss in Boots costume with red thigh-high boots.  But then, I paired them with a full cape and a modest top.  And, of course, pants.  Which leads me to Question 2...)

Via

Via

There is a happy medium...

Question 2:  Are there pants?

A banded top does not count.  Nor does any skirt short enough that you might get herpes from sitting on a bar stool.  Leggings might be okay with a tunic-length top, as long as they are opaque.  If they aren't, they are tights.  And tights are not pants.  Basically, keep your butt out of sight, please.

Question 3:  Will there be visible belly button?

This is not the 90s.  Start over.

Question 4:  Is this costume seasonally appropriate?

Seriously.  If you're running around in a tube top/mini skirt/high heeled sandals and it's snowing, you're not doing it right.

Question 5:  Is it lazy?

 Look, if you want to grab a pair of cat ears to wear with your everyday clothes, more power to you.  But don't blame me if people think you're more boring than watching other people watch paint dry.

Question 6:  Is it recognizable?

Don't get me wrong, I totally do obscure characters from literature all the time.  (That didn't come out quite right, but whatever.)  Even semi-sort-of-not-obscure characters, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland is probably going to get some questions.  But if you're going to dress up as a Jessie Drummond from Super What?, don't go crying into your beer when nobody gets it.  This is especially important with gender-bending costumes.

Question 7:  Can you sit/move in the costume?

If your costume is a pimento olive made out of chicken wire, consider this:  you may not fit into a car.  And you definitely won't fit through a bus door.  Your ass is walking.

A summary:

• Be creative.
• Wear clothes.
• Use your noggin, just a little.

All points that will serve you well in life--I promise.

(True:  Less than six weeks to the big day, and I'm still undecided?!  Seriously starting to panic...  Also, I have to say I do actually really like the crazy cat lady costume above.)

Spot and Dot Meet the World

I tried to look nice today, I really did.  I even went for professional instead of post-college slob.  Black dress pants, summer-weight sleeveless gold sweater with a deep v-neck, black cami.  (This ensemble is not as 1987 or pimp as it sounds.)  I broke out real shoes for once, instead of slipping on the stand-by flipflops.

I just went to the restroom and looked at myself in the mirror for the first time today.

Note to self:  This cami is only mostly opaque.  So next time, don't wear it with the polka-dot bra.


(True:  I only realized this after the ten-minute conversation with head honchoman.  Super.)

Reason I Love My Job #172

Because I've had the opportunity to say, "Don't you hate it when the telephone ringing interrupts the strippers?"


(True:  This happened:

Via

Not in my office sadly, but somewhere in the world. And that world is a better place for it.  You're welcome.)

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.

This Is Supposed To Be My Grown-Up Job (Not Adult Job).

WARNING:  This post is work-related and utterly inappropriate.  If you have virgin eyes or any amount of decency, you'll probably want to pretend this post isn't here.


I work in the electrical industry, specifically commercial lighting.  Yesterday, I quoted a pendant light fixture with this option:  "Tripod with Decorative Balls." 

That describes how the fixture is hung.



(True:  Another mounting option for that same fixture is a single aircraft cable, part number 1SAC.  This is seriously freaking me out.)

Next Time They Should Muzzle Me.

I had this work networking thing last night at the House of Blues--such a cool venue.  I gawk like an idiot every time I'm there.  As the office noob, my coworkers and boss think it's very amusing to get me another drink every time I reach the half-way point of the one I'm working on, despite (or, more likely, because of) my insistence that I can't hold my liquor.  So I spent half the night with two drinks in my hands.

Now, as you may know, I have a habit of making myself look ridiculous on a fairly regular basis.  And that's without social lubrication.  So, of course when a contractor I work with (but had never met in person) approached me and asked about the dual drinks, I blurted out, "They'll all double-fisting me!"

What are the odds that he'll forget I was even there?  Slim?  None?  Super.

Well, that's one way to be memorable.


(True:  This Saturday, April 28, is my last night as Karaoke Jockey at Blueberry Hill in Forest Park, Illinois.  Be there or be square.  Or just far away.)