The Dude is a Thief and a Rapscallion

When we order Chinese, we order way too much Chinese.  Because that's what Americans do.  Plus, leftovers.

So when we prepare the next-day plates, it's a race to see who can fill their plate and get to the microwave first.  This time, I won by juking around the Dude and startling him into stillness.

A couple of minutes later, we realized I hadn't actually set the microwave to do anything other than sit there smugly with my plate of cold food.  The Dude reached it before me.  And took my plate out to reheat his.




On an entirely unrelated note:  this weekend I'm going to a prom-themed party.  Cute 60's style copper taffeta or terrible velvet long, puffy-sleeved bodice anchored by twelve layers of hot pink floral taffeta and the biggest rosette ever created?  Vote!

FAQs

These are the most common questions I receive.  Here are the anxiously-awaited answers. 

I'm sorry.



1)  Can you help me with my English homework?
Sure.  That money I spent on college ought to be put to some sort of use.

2)  What's with the possums?
I don't know.  It's the best kind of mystery.

3)  What should I read next?
A book.

4)  What are you wearing?
Long underwear in a dingy gray, two pairs of socks, old sweat pants, a hoody two sizes too big, and a parka.  Or if that floats your boat, whatever you think is gross.

5)  Are you a feminazi?
If a dude called out another dude for being a douche, does that make him a dudenazi?

6)  Why do so many crazy things happen to you?  Do you make them up?
Sadly, no.  It's serendipity.  And a lack of social and/or motor skills.

7)  Can I someday be as awesome as your dog?
No. 

8)  Nine, Ten, or Eleven?
Ten.  Obviously.  The hair.  And below that, the... sneakers.

9)  You say you are from Wisconsin.  Do you like cheese?
Only if it squeaks.

10)  Who is your hero?
My nana.  I once went to her in an existential crisis.  She took one look at me and said, "Suck it up.  You're a Whoozit*."
*Name changed to protect me from the marsupial-lovers.

11)  How do you get through each day?
On my monitor, I have a shrine to the Virgin Mary, Superman, and Britney Spears. 

There are things you'd think I'd remember...

I've been told I can get a little feisty.  And I fight flat-out dirty.  I'm small and arthritic, so I've got to strike quickly and efficiently.

So I bite.

Not strangers or whatever, just friends and the Dude, whenever we get to wrestling.  (Actual wrestling--get your mind out of the gutter.)

The Dude commented on this penchant of mine last week.

"Yeah," I said, laughing.  "Remember that time I missed and accidentally bit your nipple?"

"Uh, that wasn't me..."

Whose nipple did I bite?!

Highlights of a Weekend Survived

A quick recap:

• Two weddings
• Two funerals
• One weekend

The Dude described me to a friend as "born and pasteurized in Wisconsin."

Bringing back-up ballet flats for after everyone has had a few drinks and no one cares anymore has saved my feet.

It was still too many hours in heels.

The hotel suite we shared with some friends had a fireplace.  It was a glass fireplace.  Through which you could see one bed from the other.

It's possible for a drinking straw to taste terrible.

Some guy asked a friend from South Africa if she spoke "that clicky language."  (Because, you know, she came from that general continent area.)  I feel this was more than enough grounds to punch him in the teeth.

My friend from South Africa is a much nicer person than I am.

She can also wear high heels for like seven consecutive hours without showing any visible signs of wanting to kill herself.

I have now been introduced to everyone the Dude has met.  Ever.

Of course, I'll still need to be re-introduced next time, because I can hardly remember a name when I meet people one at a time, much less by the dozen.

Having heard more stories from the Dude's family about what he was like as a child, I now understand why some species eat their young.  (Though I guess he turned out mostly okay in the end...)

I managed to get through three sit-down meals in nice clothing without spilling anything or dribbling food down my chin.



I'm counting this one a success.

I'll Be Playing Vince Vaughn

I've got two weddings and two funerals this weekend, which is the perfect set-up for a movie starring Vince Vaughn and a cardboard cut-out of Reece Witherspoon.  (Not that I have anything against Reece.  But her hair is way better than mine.)

This is a terrible time to be unable to think of any icebreaking jokes that don't reference Weekend at Bernie's.

Yeah, I Say "OreGON." And I Sort of Hate Myself For It.

(Content note:  The experience described below is a lot more universal than you're going to want to admit.)

When I was in grade school, the best days in computer class were when we were allowed to play Oregon Trail.  This was back in the day when a computer was still called a MacIntosh, and the green oxen pulled a green Conastoga wagon across a black screen.

Obviously, when naming the members of my party, I borrowed exclusively from my friends and, more importantly (sorry, friends), always included the name of my latest crush.

Because that's the height of romance in fourth grade.

Invariably, my crush would drown during an attempted river-fording (I knew I should have paid the Indians to guide me across!) or succumb to dysentery.  There were other diseases in the game as I recall, but dysentery seemed to be the only one that could actually be fatal.  That and ford-crossing.

Because I was a particularly twisted child, these deaths were always very amusing to me.

A few days ago, the Dude sent me a photo--he'd set me up as a test patient of the hospital that for some reason employs him.  The first thing that popped into my head?

Via

Naturally.


(True:  I just went to the bathroom and discovered there was toothpaste on my ear.  What?!  How!?)

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!

Via

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?

Via

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

Life As I Know It Is Over, and It's About To Be Your Fault

I have discovered Reddit, and it is good. There goes any chance of productivity in the evenings after work or on the weekends.

Oh let's face it, I never get anything done then, anyway. Except sometimes for dishes. And occasionally laundry. And once in a while I make a sad attempt to not kill flowers in the yard.

But mostly I just watch Doctor Who. Or this:

In actually important news, if you live in the Madison, Wisconsin area, the Dane County Humane Society is having a "Thank Goodness It's $5 Feline Friday" event.  Adult cats' adoption fees are reduced to just five bucks, and kittens' to $20 for today--you've still got some time today to save a life!

And then you can take a photo of your new friend, post it on Reddit, and become complicit in my sloth.  (The sin, not the animal.)

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???)

Culture Shock

I spent several months in London while I was in college.  I was well-aware that some things would be different than I was used to, and they were.  Same goes for my shorter visits to other countries.

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  Other than big-city-versus-tiny-town stuff, I figured most things would be the same. 

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  It's the only place where I've experienced culture shock.

Like "gym shoes."  Did you know Chicagoans call tennis shoes "gym shoes?"  Clearly this is wrong.  No one else does this, Chicago.



Can you even see the tiny green dot that is Chicago?


And they don't call it a "bubbler."  Dude, it bubbles.  It makes bubbling sounds.  It's clearly a bubbler.



See?  One of those tiny states out east agrees with us, and that makes it totally legit.  Also, my European geography is better than my American geography.  At least I can tell the difference between Latvia and Lithuania, right?  That's what's really important here.  And also bubblers.

(Both these maps, and twenty others equally as entertaining, can be found here.  If you language is interesting and people are weird, it's right up your alley.)

Also, would you believe that I had cannoli chips for breakfast?  I didn't even really know what cannoli was before I moved here, and now I find out it's available in delicious chip/dip form?  Dude, it's worth moving here just for that.

On a less appetizing note, "Sally" is used as an insult here.  As in, "You're afraid of spiders?  You're such a Sally."  Because no Sally ever would smoosh a spider without cringing and squealing and probably crying of course.  Get it?  It's because she's a girl.


(True:  This photographer in Texas took photos of her daughter that make me feel better.)

(Also true:  Spellcheck thinks "bubbler" isn't a word.  But it thinks the same thing about cannoli.  So there.)

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 used to weep drunkenly into my keyboard, obviously.

In the mirror, no one stares back.
Eyes and lips are drawn, lids and cheeks colored.
And so a face appears from nothing.
The mannequin, costumed, proceeds to the door
And out into a world, peopled.
Chatter can be heard--syllables crash and twinge and jab.
The sounds wash over each other and away
With the smog of the evening commute,
Leaving only traces of grime on unoccupied bus stop benches.
In the night-place, there are box-sounds and can-laughter,
And dinner, which is the same.
Finally, the face and day are scrubbed away--
Only naked honesty remains.
In the mirror, no one stares back.



Don't be alarmed.  I am perfectly (I almost wrote "pervertly," and that's pretty accurate, too) fine.  I just sort of stumbled upon/remembered a bunch of things I wrote in/immediately after college.*  Some of it isn't half-bad.  Some of it is pretty awful.  Some is super-dee-duper angsty.  And most of it was written mid-drunk.

Dear readers, let me introduce you to me, five years ago...



A Downer Commons Lamentation

"Why ever did I think
It'd be a good idea to sink
My teeth into that fried
Wildebeastie?" I cried.
Now my belly's a-churning
And my mouth is a-burning.
I think I'll just lay down and croak.
Do you have Sprite?  No, not Coke.
Alkaseltzer or Tums?
When I'm gone, tell my chums
That I'll miss them.

Ode to Vicks

You smell real nice,

And make me tingle.

My sticky chest

Keeps me single.

But it's hard to mind

When you're around, dear,

Since you've the talent to

Make my nasal passages clear.

Some people don't like you,

But I really don't get it:

There's nothing better

When I'm feeling like shit.

To sum up, quickly:

When you're looking sickly

There're no excuses

Not to use this.

Rather than toaster and tub

Try Vicks Vapo-Rub!

*Some of this may or may not be posted online in an abandoned blog.  No, I'm not linking to it.  By "some of it is pretty awful" I mean, good lord, almost all of it.

(True:  It is probably terrible that now-me finds past-me pretty freaking funny.  If, you know, hungover.)

Another Not-Real Post You'll Still Really Want To Read

Look, I know, I know.  I'm the worst blogger ever to not-really-blog.  But I'm working through my lunch (except for these few minutes, obviously, but I can totally type this up faster than I could pee.  Which actually, I just realized I need to do, too.) so you'll just have to deal with it.

Anyhoo...  here's some content from other, better internet places.

Click here to embiggen.

I'm that horrible, unforgiveable person who doesn't RSVP.  Ever.  I mean, I've never RSVPed to anything.  But this one...  No, I wouldn't RSVP to this one, either.  But I would put it on my refrigerator.  As a side note, "please RSVP" is redundant.  The VSP bit means si vous plait, which means please.  Your asking your guests to "please respond please."  And if they're anything like me, they still won't.  Because they're assholes.  Or just forgetful.  (Those two aren't mutually exclusive.)



While this post is quite aleatory, and I feel a measure of huzun, it's not because I'm a noceur.  Though you could accurately describe me as frowzy, wifty, aspectabund, and in a near-constant state of fernweh.  If you too, "suffer" from logolepsy and desire a verbal smultronstalle, you'll love Otherwordly.



You know what's cool?  When little girls dress like superheroes.  You know what's even cooler?

Via

When an artist takes these heroes seriously, and makes them come alive in awesome 2D.


(True:  I really need to know what awesome Internet thing have you stumbled across recently.)

You Didn't Find What You Were Looking For. Thank God.

I don't know about you, dear reader.  I worry about you.

Almost every day, I check what search terms bring traffic to this blog.  Frequently it's something like "sad dog" or "possum face" or "bees knees" or "hunger games nazi germany."

Okay.  I see where those are coming from.  I even see what posts those search terms would bring you to.

But every once in a while I get an outlier.

To the person who looked for "hairy ferrets":  Are there hairless ferrets?  Or are you trying to shave your ferret?  That sounds worrisome.  And wiggly.

To the person who came here looking for "hot chick with her mouth open":  What you're looking for is called porn.  This place called the internet is the land of plenty when it comes to porn, so I'm not really certain why you would choose to come to my small, self-depricating blog.  Unless you're talking about me in the summer, when my apartment is 110 degrees and I'm panting in an effort not to expire and sweating like a sweaty thing.  In which case you should know I don't post photos of myself.  And you're still a perv.

To the person who searched for "dear jesus loves everybody's":  Please finish that sentence.  Really.  Come back and let me know in the comments.  I'd really like to know.  You put in the apostrophe, so it can't be a typo.  Dear Jesus loves everybody's what?


(True:  I really hope some of these folks stick around and interesting content, even if it's not what they're looking for.  I try to be open-minded like that.  And to all you weird seach term-ers:  I wish you well and hope you find what you're looking for.  Just not here.  Because that shit's just bizarre.)

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.

A Poetry Slam Isn't Actually Supposed To Be Violent.

It's been a while since I've done a poetry post, and I know you, dear reader, have been desperately awaiting more of my lyrical wit...


I cooked food last night.
Dude had to eat some of it.
He is a good sport.


I went to Target
but forgot the Mt. Dew.
Life is terrible.


Trolling on Facebook.
My friends' vacation photos
make me Sad Panda.


I am wearing very bright shoes.
With multi-various hues.
When I put them on my feet
My toes tap a quick beat.
Happy sometimes comes in twos.


I once went to a poetry slam
Where everybody bitched out The Man
Though very sonorous,
I found listening onerous.
I just didn't give a tinker's damn.


(True:  It's shocking I haven't won an award for this shit yet.)

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!)

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.

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.)

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)