All I Want For Christmas Is For The Gift Wizard To Die

Christmas is in six days. Six bloody days. Which means I have approximately 144 hours to get my shit together. And I plan on sleeping through at least 36 of those precious hours, so subtract that. That minus the requisite time spent drinking and working equals me being screwed. Unless I’m carving figurines out of used soap for everyone, I have seriously got to get on the stick.

There was a day when a soap figurine was an adequate gift. Hell, my brother gave my dad a soap truck (complete with a pubic hair hood ornament) and some loose golf balls (which he found in dad’s golf bag, mind you) and everyone had a Merry Christmas, nonetheless. Me, I would take the twenty dollars I was given to spend on a gift, find something that was exactly that price and buy it, no matter what it was. It could’ve been an oversized t-shirt featuring a cow exclaiming “I’m Udderly Exhausted” or an automatic egg poacher. No matter, as long as I spent as much as I could. Probably explains my spending/saving habits to this day, come to think of it.

If my relatives knew how much I agonized over this stuff, they would probably be upset. But I’ve always been crazy spoiled by all of them, and now that I actually have a salary and use liquid soap, I should probably be getting them something a little classier. But with less than 100 hours left to work with, I’ve only got two people on my list covered. So I decided to get a little professional help. Enter the Gift Wizard.

The Gift Wizard, pictured above, is an online service that processes information about a recipient and generates gift ideas. The Gift Wizard, I should note, is also retarded.

I started with my mom, who never really asks for anything for Christmas. Ever. After asking for her sex, age and the occasion (and presumably licking a few windows), the Gift Wizard suggested that I get my mom a "Set of 2 Witty Aging Towels". Apparently the Gift Wizard thinks I should show Mom how much I love her with a menopause joke on a hand towel. "I'm still a hot babe, but now it comes in flashes!" it proclaims. Get it, mom? Hot flashes! HAHAHAHAHA! Merry Christmas! Why are you crying?

Looking at the product shot, I have to wonder if these towels even exist. It actually looks like someone took stock photography of a towel and then used Microsoft Paint to add the text. Do they have any of these in stock, or is there going to be a major "Oh Shit" moment if (on the off chance) someone orders one of these travesties?

Still, I figured I'd give the Gift Wizard a second chance. I realize my mom's pretty tough to buy for, so maybe he could handle my uncle. One slight problem: apparently 'uncle' isn't an option on the male relatives list. Doesn't anybody get presents for their uncle anymore? Crap. Looks like I'm going to have to improvise. We'll just pretend that he's my older brother.

In his infinite wisdom, the Gift Wizard recommends....

A Roman Coin.

WTF? Based on what? All the Gift Wizard knows is that this is my brother (uncle) and that he's over 50, and that we're celebrating Christmas. Based on this limited information, the Gift Wizard has determined that my brother (uncle) wants an authentic coin of the Roman Empire, certified to have been minted between 240 and 410 AD. Handmade, so no two are alike. Each features an emperor on one side and various myths or history on the reverse.

Oh, and the coin is $17.98. Really? Are there that many 1500-year-old coins out there that they can sell them for less than twenty bucks? Also the gift includes a handsome leather-like display binder & certificate that guarantees authenticity. A 1500-year-old coin in a handsome leather-like display. It's not even authentic leather, for God's sake.

Something tells me the Gift Wizard isn't going to help me find anything better than a hair-covered bar of soap. Worst of all, I've wasted precious time sorting through these ridiculous gift ideas, like the subscription to the Earring-of-the-Month Club or Bibleopoly, the Christian monopoly where the object of the game is to be the first player to build a church in one of the Bible cities.

Screw you, Gift Wizard. To the rest of you, have a happy, safe and relatively stress-free holiday. I'm off to the malls.

Love,

Steph

Thanksgiving Live Blog: 4:58

Dinner. Dessert. Bingo. Yes, this year Mom put together a friendly game of bingo to keep everyone entertained as they digested. An hour into it and all I had won was a set of coasters with a picture of a cornucopia on them. I was still doing better than my dad, who had only won a tape dispenser with no tape in it. I started getting hot toward the end and came out with a reindeer doormat, and my best prize yet, a five-dollar bill. My uncle traded me a key chain flashlight for the set of coasters (actually he refused to take the coasters but I hid them in his bag anyway. My aunt was the big winner as always, walking away with sudoku puzzles, a word search, candles, a box of Good N' Plenty's and five-dollar bill.

Next year I'm going to buy the prizes. I can't wait to see the look on my Aunt's face when she unwraps a shoehorn, or when my brother opens up a rectal thermometer.

Thanksgiving Live Blog: 12:27

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all! I'm at the family household and everyone is here. Dinner (we use that term loosely) will be served just as soon as we stop fighting over oven space, and *gasp* microwave space. Ah, good old homecookin'.

So here's the status: 3 deviled eggs, 14 cocktail shrimp, 17 crackers and cheese, two glasses of red wine and a Swamp Thing. By the way, while other people have been put in charge of the turkey, the dressing, the green bean casserole or the apple crisp, I'm in charge of the Swamp Thing. What is it, you ask? Well, it's a shot of Chambord, frozen raspberry daquiri, frozen lime margarita and a shot of Midori, all perfectly layered. Why have we been drinking them since ten in the morning, you ask? Mind your own damn business.

Anyway, wherever you are, I hope you're enjoying a wonderful turkey day with the ones you love. I'll check back later, when everyone's buzz kicks in and things get really interesting.

Back in the Saddle

Whew--home at last. I've been off on a whirlwind tour of the country (okay, Los Angeles and Kansas City, but that's a pretty good cross-section of the entire country, wouldn't you say?) It was a fun little trip but I can honestly say it's good to be back in Cleveland, despite the bitter cold and miserable people that welcomed me home.

Last week was my first time ever in Kansas City. And Missouri, for that matter. And anywhere near that desolate area between Chicago and Vegas, for that matter. And to be completely honest, it was a great little city. Maybe I'm being a little generous because of this new little discovery, but I enjoyed the bars and even some of the people. Mostly the bars, of course. Sure, I wasn't a huge fan of the "Little Guadalupe" district, but I have to admit there were some cool neighborhoods.

I don't know if it's milder weather, or the BBQ, or cheap alcohol (everywhere we went it was 'two for one' drink specials--on a completely separate note, have you ever woken up in a dumpster with nothing but receipts in your pockets?) but the people of Kansas City were so friggin' pleasant. You couldn't squint your eyes without someone asking you if you need directions, would like a bologna sandwich , or if you wanted to come to their cousin's wedding the following day for free booze.

The bars were packed, even on a Tuesday night. And when you accidentally bumped into someone, stepped on someone's foot or ran over their miniature pony with your car, they just smiled and said 'no biggie, it was probably my fault anyway'. Incredible! I just wanted to hug them all, then dissect them to figure out what kind of Stepford Wives shenanigans were going on in there.

Anyway, Thanksgiving is upon us, and with that in mind I'd like to give a few quick thanks. First, to the fine people of Kansas City for being such great hosts. Secondly, to God, who apparently became a Browns fan, at least for three seconds this past Sunday. And to my friends and family, who have somehow managed to get this site up to 1000 hits (okay, I confess, I've been hitting the refresh button non-stop since I started this thing). I love you all and hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Speaking of, my family Thanksgivings always turn out to be a colorful affair. Who knows, I might do a little live blogging from the whole sordid--err, splendid affair. If it's anything like recent years, expect a few hundred typos and at least one story about waking up in a bathtub full of ice with a note that says "Call 911".

Cheers!

Screw The Derby--I Just Want To Dance!

The good people at Best Week Ever have opened my eyes to a whole new kind of animal abuse. It's called Competitive Horse Dancing, but in this girl's humble opinion, it's the craziest damn thing I've ever seen (aside from that Japanese game show where the young girls had to wear strip steaks on their forehead and stick their head into an iguana cage. Don't believe me? Watch it.) It also trumps men's wrestling and nude leapfrog as the gayest sport on Earth.

There's a lot going on in this six-minute routine, but there are two things I just can't get over. One, the fact that there are more people in the stands than there were during the Diamondbacks Rockies playoff series. And secondly, the announcers! Oh, you just have to hear them. They make Scott Hamilton at the Winter Olympics sound like he's calling the World's Strongest Lumberjack contest on ESPN 2. These guys must get a handful of Quaaludes and a feather boa before each routine. There are too many highlights, but here is one of my favorite exchanges, uttered about three minutes into the clip:



ANNOUNCER 1: Well it's not often that I'm lost for words, but, ahhh, it's one of those moments now. I think that it's just absolutely sensational.
ANNOUNCER 2: You just sit back and enjoy it.
ANNOUNCER 1: (long pause) Ohh.



Tap tap. "Excuse me? You're two grown men. Watching another grown man on a horse that's stepping to the beat of Lady Marmalade. And you're groveling. Just wanted to let you know. Okay then, carry on."

Please have a look. Proof that when it comes to strange competitive sports, the Brits are putting the Japanese to shame.

Hope You're Sitting Down For This

You're never going to believe it: I'm back with more excuses. I know, I know, I'm a terrible person. There's just been a lot going at work, around the house--a lot of action pretty much everywhere, except for on the blog and in my underpants.

And it's getting even busier! I'll be in LA all next week and Kansas City the week after. I'll have my enormous laptop with me, which means I might be able to post remotely. It also means I'll have to have my back adjusted when I get back. Ah well. Tales from the road, people. It's what it's all about.

So I'm sorry I haven't been around much. Hope everyone had a Happy Halloween. I went as a dirty sailor hooker. A homeless man laughed at me. Pretty much says it all.

Love ya bunches! Have a good weekend.

More Costumes That Won't Get You Laid

Leave it to my mom to scour the Internet for more costume pictures to add to my Menagerie of WTF? Love her. Of course, none of these gems came with titles so we'll have to improvise.

The Village Douche: Proudly defending what appears to be an Iowa Waffle House.

I Wanted to be a Power Ranger but My Mom Hates Me: I mean really, from the bowl-cut haircut to the turtleneck sweater to the sweat pants, to the white, white shoes--something tells me this kid doesn't need to wear a polyfoam toilet to be laughed at by all of his peers.

Larry Craig: Just add white patent leather tap shoes.

The Unfortunate Cousin: Here's a familiar character. He's family, so you invite him to your costume party. Then he waggles his private parts at the other guests and asks everyone how many piercings they think he has. Later he'll be arrested for peeing in public.

The Thing: My old dog Gussie used to eat a lot of weird stuff, including foam mattress padding, cotton balls, underwear, toilet paper and babies. Okay, I lied about the babies. But whenever she decided to dine a la carte on furniture or the bathroom buffet, her crap looked a lot like this. Otherwise I have no idea what this could be.

Sir Douche of Douchelot: Oh, this guy is the creepiest ever. You know when he's distracting you with his plush wang he's also busy ordering you a roofie colada. Sick. He's a knight to remember because tomorrow you'll be picking his ass out of a lineup.

On a separate note, do you suppose this guy counts this catalog work as modeling? Like, when he's on a "go-see", do you think he mentions that time he modeled a two-foot stuffed penis?

The Dust Settles

Things have finally cooled down around here--for the moment anyway--so I thought I'd do a quick post before I leave for the weekend. Everyone seems to be talking about Halloween costumes and I think most of us will be going as a Sexy Pirate, a Dirty Hooker, or Sexy, Dirty Pirate Hooker.

I usually try to put costumes together with stuff I already have in my closet (meaning I go as a Dirty Pirate Hooker every year). This method works for some people, but clearly, not everyone.

Like this poor woman(?). Clearly this err, individual did a last minute inventory of her closet and came up with flannel pants, a scarf, a cape, a backstage pass, some face paint and a handful of Tylenol gel caps. Put it together and you get...well, you know...you get...that. If I had to guess, I'd say she was the resident pill pusher of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft/first person to pass out at a party next to the crayola markers.

Or this guy, who has dressed himself like a tiger. Or a zombie. Or a tiger zombie. Truth be told, if there wasn't a date stamp on the picture, I would've just assumed this was the t-shirt that matched those sweet-ass NFL Team Hammer pants that were popular in the late eighties. But since it's 2003, there's really no excuse for this.

Even purchasing a costume is no guarantee that people will get what you are. Take this woman--what the hell is she supposed to be? Slutty Movie Theater Concession Stand Employee? Slutty Carrot? Slutty Construction Cone? Or did they run out of white fabric at the Slutty Nurse Factory?

I'm assuming that most elements of these costumes were purchased at the costume store, except of course, for the underoos. And speaking of the underoos, I now want to switch my mascara to kerosene and poke my retinas with lit matches. Um, sir, your girlfr--err--date appears to be smuggling a kiwi fruit. And while I was staring (in horror, of course) at her package, I couldn't help but notice the total ninja foot you've got going on in your unitard. Oh, the humanity!

With that, I've got to get out of here. I'll be at my desk all weekend staring at the 6-car pileup in his pants. But before I go, please check out this short film a good friend directed for the Apple Insomnia Film Festival. The contest is decided on the ratings given to the film, so if you could also rate it (and don't be a dick about it, either) I would greatly appreciate it. Click here to go to the gallery. Just search the gallery for the film "Carved" and it will pop up.

Have a great weekend, you Dirty Pirate Hookers!

When It Rains, It Pours (And Pisses Me Off)

Holy Crap! Things have gotten so busy lately. It seems like only weeks ago I was desperately looking for ways to kill time, like wandering around grocery stores and sneaking KY into old ladies' shopping carts, watching QVC, and punting animals that walk by. Now I barely have time to sleep and punt animals that walk by.

Still, I feel like I ought to post and give you the Steph Status. Three posts in two weeks aren't probably enough to get rid of the withdrawal symptoms you've been enduring, so I hope I can make it up to all of you adoring fans (read: Mom, Grandma, Great Aunt Pat, two people from work and strange guy who keeps sending me handmade drawings in blood).

STEPH STATUS

Consecutive days without drinking: Zip.
Last shower: This morning--on a whim.
Mood: Slightly murderous with a chance of apathy.
Financial status: Not homeless and\or selling crack. Yet.
Boyfriend: Not by a mile.
Stray cats: Seven.
Stray cats for pet purposes, not food purposes: Zilch-o.
Most desired item: A stupid Louis Vuitton bag I have no business owning.
Next thing I'll probably purchase: Chairs. Taco seasoning. Booze.
What's making me mad right now: My wireless card keeps falling apart and I got chocolate in it somehow.
What's making me happy right now: The idea that somewhere, this very second, someone is dropping their iPhone into a puddle in the middle of traffic.

Well, there you have it. You are all caught up in the excitement that it my life--at least for a little while. Now excuse me while I work on getting peanut butter crackers out of my keyboard. And phone receiver. And fingernails.

Oh, and cleavage.

Excuses, Excuses

I'm sick.

I was in New York City all weekend.

I'm super busy at the office.

I was molested by David Copperfield.

Four good reasons I can't possibly post today. Well, three if you're only counting the things that are actually true (the other is on my 'to do' list, of course). So much to discuss--so I promise there will be a post tomorrow. However, I'm feeling awful guilty for leaving all three of you loyal readers hanging, so here is my New York trip in 50 words:

Airplane bloody mary rain SARS pizza how much for that purse you must be insane Gene Simmons hot dogs Time Square subway smelly Richard free drinks kissing stranger cut off hotel Central Park pizza VIP stumbling Bon Jovi in bed on the corner hotel broke Statue of Liberty phlegm factory.

In other words, it was frickin' awesome. And despite the fact that I probably subjected thousand people to some unknown Cleveland plague, I don't think I could've had a more fun weekend.

Hope y'all had a good weekend too! More to come tomorrow.

Lots of love and bacteria,

Steph

What Plague Will Jacobs Field Bring Tonight

We all remember Game 2 (the second game of the series held at the Jake) in the Yankees Series, in which a horde of gnats descended from the Heavens and onto the infield. The wild pitch, the tying run, Derek Jeter hopping around the field like a little bitch--it was truly a thing of beauty.


So what matter of curses, if any, can we expect tonight, as we play the second of a three-game stint at the Jake? Gnats were fun, but I think Cleveland can do better. Much better.


Top 3 Misfortunes that could Befall the Red Sox


The Curse of the Tower City Food Court

Earlier in the day, the Red Sox have a brief moment to grab some sustenance. In a rush, they head down to the Team Diner Food Court. Not wanting to wait, Ortiz and Ramirez head straight for guy with the free samples of teriyaki something-or-other, making a meal out of the entire tray of bite-sized mystery meat. Neither one will make it to the game...or the pregame meeting...or batting practice...or to the Team Diner bathroom. Tribe wins 3-1.

The Curse of the Drumming Guy

It's been a big year for the guy who sits under the scoreboard and endlessly thumps his giant drum. He got to throw out the first pitch at the opening of the Yankees series, and now he will single-handedly deliver the Tribe to the World Series. In the middle of a feverish rat-a-tat-tat, one of his drumsticks will go rogue, soaring onto the infield and becoming pierce the flask full of Bacardi 151 Slider keeps somewhere underneath that purple mess. The Bacardi 151 immediately ignites, causing a panic. Trying to redeem himself as a past Cleveland hero, Manny jumps on Slider and attempts to put out the flames. Instead, his ridiculous cornrows become engulfed. Eventually, a beer vendor extinguishes the flames ($13.50 worth of Budweiser, mind you) but Manny is forced to sit out of the game and team morale hits a new low. Tribe wins 18-2.

The Curse of the Horny Lumberjacks

Attracted to the 3-inch thick mound of pine tar stuck on half of their batting order, a throng of lusty lumberjacks will rush the field and start humping the Red Socks with reckless abandon. Shreds of Sox uniforms and plaid flannel with fly into the air like confetti, and the game will have to be delayed for a good hour as the Brawny army is subdued and the Red Sox batters are allowed to shower quickly and ice themselves down a bit before having to finish the game. Tribe wins 8-2.

Okay, maybe the gnats were better. With the predicted precipitation, who knows--they might be up for an encore.

T.G.I.F.B.I.A.T.H.S. (Thank God It's Friday Because I'm About To Hurt Someone)

Okay. Let me just say this: when it comes to the predestination lottery, I really lucked out in the job department. I'm not making enough money to start wiping my butt with dollar bills (although that is a goal of mine), but I enjoy my work, have awesome bosses and can more or less do whatever I want--including showing up in torn-up jeans and novelty t-shirts, spending several hours decorating tissue boxes with pictures of ALF, farting around on YouTube and when absolutely necessary, napping. And when I'm not doing all that, I really like the work that I get to do. Almost all the time.

There are, however, little assignments here and there that pop up and make you realize this: there's no such thing as a perfect job. They also make you realize this: window offices come with the disadvantage of giving you the option of ending your existence without having to really make a scene.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, of course. I would never end my life. But the latest 'To Do' to come down the pipes may send me into a murderous rage, which would be really bad for company morale. So to help myself put things in perspective, I've decided to reflect on some past jobs and come up with ten tasks I had to do that were way worse assignments than this one.

10: Wiping the blood off of the products at Record Town.
Hey guy, there's a large plastic security device around that CD. Do you think that after we went through all of the trouble to put it on there we'd make it easy for you to rip off right there in the middle of the store? Probably not. So now I get the most unpleasant chore of removing your bloody fingernails from said security device and putting the Sir Mix-a-Lot CD back on the shelf for our paying customers. Thanks.

9: Answering the phone at the radio station.
Eagle 106.3 the Rock Station? Yes, I know I suck. No, the Big Kahuna isn't here, he's on in the daytime. People that are good enough to be on the radio in the daytime don't work from midnight to six like me. Yes, it's just me right now. What's that? You're watching me from the parking lot? No kidding. Well could you run across the street and grab me three hard taco supremes? I can't leave this phone for another freakin' 5 hours.

8: Working in the fitting rooms at Gap.
Ugh. How about you ladies get a little more deodorant all over everything? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it goes on your underarms. Why am I having to wipe it off of your leggings?

7: Filling in for the dishwasher.
What do you do when the gnarly, toothless, sixty-year-old meth addict walks about because he feels like he's above the chore? Throw the 16 year-old hostess, full of hopes and dreams, back into the dish tank and see how she does! Ah yes, you can almost see her soul escaping her body as she gets hit in the face with mashed potatoes and half-chewed gristle.

6: Counter duty at the tuxedo rental shop during prom season.
No, jerk-off, we don't have any tuxedos like the orange and blue ruffly ones from Dumb and Dumber. But we do have this nice tailored jacket with deep pockets, so you'll have plenty of room for your flask, condoms and your date's last shred of dignity at the big dance.

5: Cleaning the hot dog machine at the ice arena.
Kind of an obvious one, isn't it? Here's a little known fact: after rolling around in the machine for 8 and a half hours, hot dog grease congeals and actually turns into chlamydia.

4: Working the skate rental at the ice arena.
Speaking of chlamydia, the flora that were thriving inside each of those rental skates could wipe out an entire small-to-midsized community. We sprayed them with some sort of NO AIDS spray, but I don't think that even put a dent in the casserole of illness growing in there. Ish. So wrong.

3: Dressing as a friggin' elf and handing out friggin' Gift Coins at Record Town.
Seriously. I'd rather clean the blood off of the Sir Mix-A-Lot CD with my tongue.

2: Representing the radio station at local events.
Hey, everyone! I realize this is a motorcycle show and that I'm a twenty-year-old sorority girl with a microphone, but you're supposed to pay attention to me. Also, you should all applaud when I ask "HOW'S EVERYBODY DOING OUT THERE?" in my best ex-cheerleader scream. And you should also pretend not to think I'm a complete retard when I exclaim that all of these motorcycles are "really bitching." God, kill me.

1: Waiting on complete douche bags for over one-third of my entire life.
No, I will not make your drink "healthy." No, I will not have the kitchen remake your steak--you got a seven-ounce sirloin butterflied. No, you can't have more free popcorn until you order a drink and stop falling asleep at the bar. No, I will not get you a brand new margarita because a bug flew into the one you've almost finished outside on the patio. You will not get an extra pour, a free appetizer, a complimentary dessert, a complaint form or my freaking phone number! EVER! GET BENT!!!!!!!!

Phew. See? So much better. Now the awaiting assignment seems like a piece of cake. Crappy, sugar-free, straight-from-the-box cake. But still--cake. Murderous rage averted.

Hope you have a great weekend!

Open Letter To The Guy Who Announced The Browns Game (Who Wasn't Greg Gumble)

Dear Announcer Guy (Again, Not Gumble),


I realize that as a television personality you must be super busy, what, with all that work you have to do so that you can bombard the nation with ridiculous, useless blathering every Sunday--but I was hoping to just get an eensy-weensy moment of your time so that I can ask you a simple question:


IF YOU LOVE TOM BRADY SO MUCH, WHY DON'T YOU JUST MARRY HIM?

Jesus! Like any Browns fan who had to sit and listen to you pine away for Brady, I've been searching for your address so I can start heading that way with a wrench, a bunch of tubing and some astronaut diapers. If I felt like coughing up the cash to order a transcript of the game, I'd expect to come across the words "living legend" and "incredible athleticism" as often as, say, "first down" or "complete pass". Or "football".

I know that your job is to call the game the way you see it--so I have to assume you weren't watching anything in a white uniform and an orange helmet. Also, you must have been too absorbed in the game to take one little thing into consideration: when it comes to everything besides football, Tom Brady is a huge douche.


If I were calling the game, I'd try to look at the big picture. For example:


"Wow! Tom Brady just dodged that Wimbley tackle like it was a pregnant girlfriend. What athleticism!"


"Notice how quickly Brady gets rid of the ball, just like he does with girlfriends who get knocked up? He's a living legend!"


"Look how comfortable Brady is in the pocket. It's like he is in the arms of a vapid, home-wrecking supermodel. He's always got so much protection around him. Well, not always."


Instead, I had to hear about your twisted man-crush for three pathetic hours, which would have been better spent laying behind the tires of my neighbor's car, or sticking various metal things into my electrical outlets.


Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that there were actually two teams present on Sunday, with two quarterbacks, both throwing for over 260 yards. Only one of them wasn't a philandering prick with a celebutard girlfriend.


Regards,
Steph

I'm A Very Bad Blogger

Sorry friends and relatives, for I have been seriously neglecting my blogging duties this week. I have a handful of excuses--working late, fighting off bobcats, drinking, etc. etc. I promise to be better next week! Have a great weekend, and GO TRIBE!

Hugs!

Wouldn't You Like To Know?

For all of you expecting the play-by-play of the date I went on last Friday, you are sadly mistaken. A lady doesn't kiss and tell, or break wind at dinner and tell, or apocalyptically vomit and tell. And of course I'm not saying that any of these things did or did not happen. I'm just saying that I'm a lady. Translated: I will use a series of pictures to help illustrate the evening.

There. Any questions?

I'd Love To Go Out With You. Craaaaaaaaaap.

After all the pissing and moaning I've been doing about being single, you think I'd be thrilled to have a date tonight. Truth is, I feel like hurfing, cancelling the thing and obtaining enough astronaut diapers to get me through a high-speed car trip out of the country. What the hell is wrong with me?

I mean, the guy seems really nice. But I'm worried he'll get uneasy when my nerves cause me to react in all kinds of off-putting ways. Despite all my efforts to remain cool and collected, one or more of the following usually occurs on a first date:

1. Debilitating gas pain. This is almost a given. Five minutes before I meet the person, my pancreas, spleen and both intestines get in some sort of West Side Story rumble. And they're all definitely packing box cutters and switchblades.

2. Uncontrollable perspiration. I could be wearing pasties and meeting my date in the middle of an ice rink and I will still be sweating like Britney Spears at a drug test.

3. An inexplicable, temporary speech impediment accompanied by nonsensical segues. "Tho where did choo go to high school? Really? I luv cheez, don you?"

4. Complete loss of motor skills. Don't ask me how it happens, but five minutes into the date I'm spilling food and drinks all over myself. It would be like inviting this guy to dinner, without the drunkenness and homelessness, of course.

5. Apocalyptic, Exorcist-like vomiting. 'Nuff said.

Soooooo, now you understand my slight hesitation (read: absolute dread) about this evening. It's nothing against the guy, mind you. He seems like a perfectly nice, normal person. Of course, after tonight, he will likely need years of therapy.

Wish me luck.

Time To Start Collecting Cats

Someone managed to videotape my future self and put it on YouTube. Upon seeing this, I began to wonder--at what point do you give up on relationships and succumb to your destiny: becoming your neighborhood's token crazy old bat?

In my eighth month of being a singleton, this may all be a tad premature. Still, it's never too early to plan ahead and prepare. Don't get me wrong--I'm definitely not a loony shrew now. But perhaps I should just pull together the stuff I'm going to need when that time comes.

Stacks and stacks of newspaper, for example. If I'm to build newspaper towers throughout my house, I need to start pulling them together. Otherwise, any visitors (animal control officers) will have no trouble walking through my house. Also, it will give my babies (feral cats) something to potty on.

Or toenail clippings. I've always felt that throwing these away was terribly wasteful, but never really knew what to do with them. But I'm going to need something to put in all my creepy jewelry boxes. I can also use them to make gifts to send to my neighbors. It's like macaroni art, but way more personal.

Fossilized hard candy is another good one. If I buy a couple pounds of it now, it should be just old enough to set out in dishes a few decades from now when I'm ready. I should also look into collecting menacing-looking porcelain dolls, don't you think?

Oh, and cats. I'm going to need a lot of cats. It honestly baffles me that someone could amass some 130 cats in a tiny apartment. That is commitment! She probably started way before me.

Anyway, if you want to contribute in any way, or if you think I missed something, feel free to let me know. In the meantime, I'll be standing outside the APL with a Supersoaker full of warm milk.

Elmo Gets A New Job, Still Has Time To Haunt My Dreams

The holidays are months away, but sociopaths--err, I mean toy designers, are already releasing the "IT" toys of 2007. A few days ago I noticed that Elmo is back with a brand new bag, and by bag, I mean a singing pan pizza that is clearly possessed by the devil.

If you don't feel like sleeping for a fortnight, you can watch Singing Pizza Elmo in action here.

It's been awhile since Tickle Me Elmo and the other one (what was it? Heavy Pet Me Elmo?)--so I had almost forgotten how much this character disturbs me. There's something really creepy about a 45-year-old man lending that kind of voice to a vibrating muppet. Sure, the guy looks harmless. But can't you just see him using that voice for evil?

"Hey kids, it's Elmo! Help me, I'm stuck in the back of this unmarked van under a pile of golden retriever puppies and popsicles!"

Anyway, one can only imagine what's next for Elmo and his inanimate-object-come-to-life friends. Speaking-in-Tongues Lasagna Elmo? Severed Kitten Head Bongos Elmo? Soul-stealing Blueberry Scone Elmo? "It Puts the Lotion on the Skin" Elmo??

Here's a thought: this year, skip buying your children these freaky-ass toys and just send them straight to therapy. You'll thank me years from now, when an entire generation of deeply disturbed kids are tossing their parents into wood chippers.

A Letter To The Owner Of My Parking Lot

Dear Sata--err...

To Whom It May Concern,

It has been brought to my attention that the cost of parking in your fine facility has been increased by 39.5%, effective October 1st. I must say that upon receiving this news, I may have been slightly upset and irrational (translation: had a mini-seizure and threw a stapler at someone's head). But now that I'm clearheaded and the assault charges have been dropped, I'm ready to openly discuss the price increase and find a common ground with you and your fine staff.

First and foremost, I think that I will be much more understanding of your price gougin--err, fee modification--if I knew exactly how this additional cost might improve our garage. For instance, I understand that many parking structures have issues with peeling paint, but I've never seen a building that actually has a dandruff problem. And although I don't particularly mind tracking white flakes of lead paint all over the entire west side of Cleveland, I am concerned that the pigeons and homeless people that occupy the garage are confusing the paint leavings for tortilla chips.

Also, you may or may not be aware that we've been experiencing some technical issues with the entrance gate. Many mornings, the front panel of your control box is completely missing and the poor attendant lady is hot wiring the thing in order to get tickets to spit out. Other times, the actual gate seems to have gone missing, and in its place is a couple yardsticks held together with duct tape. Generally when these mishaps occur (three or four times a week, usually), your people give your loyal monthly customers a form to fill out and bring in the next day so your administrative staff can account for us. Most of the time I simply throw this form out. Sometimes I burn it.

I also feel compelled to mention that you have a series of formations growing in the parking structure that should probably be reported to either a geologist or a HAZMAT team. Certainly I'm no expert, but based on their location, I believe these white stalactites are made of cigarette ashes, bird doo and bum wiz. And I usually have to park directly beneath them.

Finally, there's the small issue of the stairs between parking levels. The indoor stairwell has a significant rust problem. While the steps are in disrepair and shift constantly, I'm afraid to hold onto the railing until I get another tetanus shot. Also, it sort of smells like dead people, and feels like the kind of place you'd run into Larry Craig.

The other set of stairs is outdoors, which makes it much easier on the nose. Even though it's outside, it also doesn't appear to have as severe of a rust problem--I'm starting to wonder what exactly the indoor steps were exposed to in order to reach the state they're in. Actually, the only real trouble with the outdoor steps is that I nearly perish every time I use them. You see, the metal grate material you've used for each step might have been a poor choice. The six-inch gaps in the grate aren't ideal for the type of shoes people wear to work. Unless, of course, you wear scuba flippers to work--and I rarely do.

I realize I might be coming off as a bit of a whiner. Really, I just thought the amount of money I was already spending to park with you was enough for a few updates, or even an annual power washing. To be honest, all of your facility's shortcomings didn't really bug me until I got news of the price increase. Now they're all I can see.

Perhaps there's another way to make your garage more profitable? Here's a thought: instead of charging all of us more to park there, start charging the crazies who are constantly wandering around the garage to be there. Like the strange Mr. Rogers-looking man, whose apparent OCD prevents him from stepping on cracks (and prevents us from being able to enter the lot for the ten minutes it takes him to shuffle by.) Or the person who keeps leaving the "Are You Going to Heaven?" brochures in the stairwells. Or anyone that has in any way contributed to the formation of the stalactites. Because I'm pretty sure those are not the people who are paying you to park there everyday.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know the state of affairs at your parking facility so that you might reconsider increasing our monthly fee by such a gratuitous amount, especially when you've been so completely blasé about your garage becoming one giant car toilet.

Thanks in advance,

Stephanie

I Shouldn't Be Laughing

Okay, so I stole another "essay" from my mom's folder. First, let me preface this by saying that I'm pretty sure this was written by someone who didn't grow up speaking English. I could be wrong--but God, I hope not. And since I didn't master (or even get close to understanding) either of the languages I took in high school or college, I probably shouldn't even be laughing at this. I'm sure that one of my French papers is floating around some French blog somewhere, and a bunch of French people are all having a good laugh. Or snapping their fingers. Or throwing baguettes. You know, whatever French people do when they're amused.

With that in mind, I'm going to share two genuine paragraphs from this essay.


Ladies and Gentleman, I give you two paragraphs of SPOOKY HOUSE.




I like walk in a mountain after dinner, the reason why, when I walk in a mountain such as walk around, I can breath fresh air, here bird sing and see beautiful landscape. Last week, I had dinner in my house before I walked in a mountain. Actually, I always walk same way. I want to find new way; a place untouched by human foot, that so I took the other way. I had no idea it will give me spooky house.

. . .

In the morning I waked up. I just looked around in this room that is so clean and white. I went down the stairs it was very old wood. So it made strange sound. I looked around house, it's so wonderful. It was designed antique.that is just my dream house even though it's old house. After I was going my home I asked to a guard of mountain what spooky house is. He didn't know this house is the mountain. He looked at me such as insane. So we went into mountain to spooky house. When we went that location it's not house. It just has too many trees. He turned deathly pale with fright. He said one architect killed himself in here. he was so poor and had great architectural design. So he was selling this design. But it was stolen. And then he chose died in here.

The End.

. . .

I know, I know. It's not fair to make jokes about this person because clearly English isn't his first language. Or second, even. But there are some things in life you just can't help snickering at, even when you shouldn't.

Big people playing (and consequently falling off) the Dance Dance Revolution game, for example. Or fainting goats. Or that time when John Madden inadvertently drew naughty shapes on Monday Night Football. Shouldn't be funny. But it is.

In the defense of Spooky House, however, he at least came up with an interesting story. Somewhere on that French Blog, they're probably being forced to read my essay, "My Name A Stephanie, With Fashion Top Designer Pants."

A Night Out With Me

Hey—look at me.
Is there something leafy in my teeth?

Okay. Check my nose. Do I have any bats in the cave?

No? Well, what about the makeup? Did I screw up the eyeliner already? Am I pulling an Amy Winehouse over here or what?

Fine. Smell my breath. Is it nasty? No really, smell it. You can’t smell it from that far, get closer and really get a whiff! And be honest!

Phew. So what? Is it the outfit? Too revealing? Not revealing enough? Do I have a wedgie? A muffin top? A ninja foot?? Oh God, not that I hope!

No?? Good.

How about toilet paper on my shoe? An elbow growing out of my face? A suddenly lazy eye? A moustache? A unibrow??

Head lice? Face worms? Corn teeth? A shelf ass? Cankles?

Nope? So...what the heck is it? WHAT? WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHY NO ONE IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN PLACE HAS APPROACHED ME YET?!?!

Oh, wait. Is it because I just had an existential breakdown in the middle of a sports bar and I’ve only finished half a drink?

Well, crap. Let’s go somewhere else and try this again.

The Devil Is Freezing Today

Browns 51, Bengals 45

Pigs are traveling by air and cats are making love to dogs and Britney Spears is staging a successful comeback. Because yesterday the Browns beat the Bengals. And scored 51 points in the process!

Oh, it was glorious! I just wanted to kiss the large, hairy man in front of me, who thought he'd entertain me between plays by showing off four inches of butt cleavage. My eyes welled up when Leigh Bodden intercepted that final pass. A choir of angels sang and my beer turned into two white doves which flew out of my hands and into the perfectly blue sky.

And you know what else? The Browns are at .500! Ah. Do you smell that? Smells like...average. And any sensible Browns fan will take average, and be quite happy about it.

It was so wonderful that I totally forgot about the bratwurst that someone had pelted me with at the tailgate. Unfortunately the brat had exploded upon impact leaving behind a brat gravy which was beginning to attract ants. But I didn't even care! No insect stings were going to stop me from enjoying this incredible moment in Browns history.

Derek Anderson, I'm sorry I called you all of those names. I'm sure you're not a twirling fartknocker. And Jamal Lewis, you aren't the overpriced old buttlick I thought you were. For everything I might have ever muttered under my breath (or screamed at my television set, causing a half-dozen elderly neighbors to go into cardiac arrest) I am sorry.

Today, I am happy. Pigeons will be spared from kicking. Slow drivers will not be heckled. Homeless people will be hugged (not really, but I won't tell them to stop whining and get their resume together). I will be nice to every creature I meet.

Ugh, this is going to be hard.

Chad Johnson Hopes To Make Us Even More Miserable

There is a laundry list of side-effects that come with being a Browns fan. For example, many Browns fans suffer from sleep disorders, primarily the one in which we wake up screaming in the middle of the night. We experience episodes of delusion, generally between August and September, followed by a solid four-month spell of depression. Sometimes we urinate or defecate while still wearing pants for absolutely no reason at all. Well, that might just be a personal thing. Stop judging me!

Anyway, I was in a temporary delusional state this morning and decided to collect some Browns/Bengals insights and determine what the keys to victory were this Sunday (looks like we're going to need a little fairy dust, some Jesus hair, a warlock and some inexplicable mass-ankle spraining accident to occur in the Bengals locker room). That's when I noticed that Chad Johnson had renewed his pledge to leap into the Dawg Pound this Sunday after scoring a touchdown.

Know what's even better? I also heard that he bought a bunch of tickets for his friends to sit there, so it looks like Cleveland loves Chad Johnson.

Which reminds me of another Browns Fan Side Effect: fits of unadulterated, apocalyptic rage. I mean, REALLY?! Isn't there anyone more currently miserable that you could pick on, Chad Johnson? Why don't you taunt an entire pediatrics burn unit? Throw eggs at the nice people in the old folks home? Fart on a freshly-orphaned baby deer? God, you're a dick.

Okay, so here's my suggestion. Nobody sit in the first two rows of the DawgPound. If you happen to have tickets to one of those seats, don't worry. I will share my seat with you. Okay, so it's settled. No one is sitting in the first two rows. Well, maybe Chad Johnson's friends, but they won't be there for long.

Next, we take the entire contents of every Muni Lot port-a-let and spread a thick layer of nastiness across the first two rows. At last Sunday's tailgate, the pile of human waste in each port-a-let had grown so high that it actually stuck out above the toilet hole. And people were still waiting in line for twenty minutes to use them! Seriously, all I did was glance at the filth mountain and I got syphilis.

Following his touchdown, Chad Johnson will sail into a lagoon of bratwurst flavored puke, doody and urine. Besides immediately contracting syphilis, he will also throw up in his mouth, and sprain his ankle. WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, CHAD?? NOT YOU, BECAUSE YOU'RE CHEWING YOUR OWN VOMIT!





I think I just made myself sick. No surprise. Nausea is a common side effect of being a Browns fan, too.

Summer Finishes Prematurely, Hardly Satisfies

Can you believe summer is over? Oh, and anyone who just thought "No, Stephanie, summer isn't over until September 22" can eat it. It's friggin' over.

So yesterday there was a distinct chill in the air that told me Summer had packed its bags and is getting the hell out of this miserable place before Aunt Autumn and Uncle Winter get in a big ol' fight and turn everything to shit. And then I realized...I haven't done squat this season.


Ah, when May rolled around I had such high hopes that I would achieve my goals for the summer before September reared its fugly head. Let's see how we did.

Summer Goal #1: Get a boyfriend.

Umm...no. I got a sixty-year old man to wash my car every week. But then he had to go and have that triple bypass surgery. What? He's fine now! Stop looking at me like that.

Summer Goal #2: Lose ten pounds.

Perhaps I would have better luck with Goal #1 if I had achieved Goal #2. Funny thing about that, though--apparently you don't lose weight eating Chef Boyardee out of a buttered hot dog bun.

Summer Goal #3: Cut back on the booze.

Not even close. But that's okay, that was a stupid idea anyway.

Summer Goal #4: Save money.

HAHAHAHAHAH! Yea, right. That's about as ridiculous as Goal #3. It's been all I can do not to go bankrupt. Fortunately, my friends haven't caught on to the fact that every time we hang out, one of them wakes up in a bathtub full of ice with a note that says "Call 911". On a completely unrelated note, I'm selling spleens and kidneys at bargain basement prices. Call if you're interested.

Summer Goal #5: Read more books.

Okay, I totally got this one. That is, of course, if books = UsWeeklys and read = look at them for as long as possible until the checkout clerk pitches a hissy.

Summer Goal #6: Become more eco-friendly.

Okay, I still litter. But at least I cut up the six-pack rings before I chuck them over the bridge. And I totally stopped kicking pigeons. That's got to be worth some heaven points, right?

Summer Goal #7: Give back to the community.

Well, my friend made out with a homeless guy in a wheelchair and I didn't stop her. If that isn't charity, I don't know what is.






Okay, so I didn't get much accomplished this summer. Big deal. I didn't contract a disease, get arrested, lose my job or become pregnant either. So there.


Of course, summer isn't technically over for another 8 days or so.

I'll Miss My Computer, The Filthy Whore That It Was

At work, I use one of the older Dell laptop models. Unlike more modern laptops, this one wasn't designed to travel anywhere. I know this because it weighs 46 pounds. Still, it gets the job done...that is, if its job is to pick up more viruses than Paris Hilton on a Sunset Strip bar crawl.

So yesterday things looked pretty bleak when I turned it on and all I got was a black screen and some sort of suicide note in MS-DOS script. Something like "error message 00110: can't open windows >//> wishing for the sweet release of death>//> : boot drive you all will be better off without me."

The IT guy went to work trying to resuscitate the damn thing and I got myself a lender laptop (similar to the original but even heavier, if you can believe it). While it was in his custody, I started to reminisce about my half-dead computer and all of the things we've been through together. I thought about how much I'll miss its little quirks when my laptop was finally off to the big garbage heap in the sky.

Like, how the mouse button slides out of place, leaving a green sticky spooge all over my fingers. No biggie as long as I'm not using my mouse, which I need for BASICALLY EVERYTHING.

Or, how the broken fan inside my laptop causes the machine to produce a considerable amount of heat. Good thing the IT guy taught me that trick where I prop my computer up on my stapler so the heat has somewhere to escape. Otherwise my desk might be covered with burns and my stapler might actually be used for stapling.

Or the way it just chooses to "hibernate"--that's what Microsoft calls it, I call it slipping into a irreversible coma and erasing everything I've worked on in the past millennium--for absolutely no rhyme or reason.

Or the way that the volume seems to come in and out inexplicably, and make random sounds without provocation. This can usually be resolved by pounding on the computer in just the right spot. I still haven't figured out how to get it to stop telling me to kill people, though.

And finally, the way that it just stole $200 worth of iTunes from me (assuming it can't be repaired). My laptop is so cute when it robs me blind of all the music I used to enjoy whenever the volume was cooperating.

Oh, gigantic, horrible laptop...you will be truly missed. Perhaps you will come back to this world in the form of something a little more advanced, like a Skip-It, or maybe even a Teddy Ruxpin.

UPDATE: Computer is fixed! IT guy was able to talk it out of suicide, so it's back on my desk, atop my stapler, leaving green ass-goo all over me. Fortunately, all my music is still there. I don't know how I would begin to replace my classic George Michael or Howard Jones collections.

I think I just figured out why my computer wants to kill itself.

Britney Opens VMAs, Announces To World "I'm Dead Inside"

Like most people who watched the MTV Video Music Awards last night, I was banking on seeing one of two things: a glittery, jaw-dropping comeback performance in true Britney fashion or an absolute train wreck in even truer Britney fashion. In retrospect, I'm not even sure what the hell I saw.

To be honest, I was expecting to witness something truly freaky. Like some crazy-ass performance art in which Britney would set fire to her eyebrows and pee all over tabloid magazine covers, all while juggling a Red Bull, a carton of Marlboros and little Jayden James.

Instead, millions of viewers (well, at least thousands of viewers) were treated to a three minute...thing, that felt a lot more like a blocking session than a true performance. If Britney actually had her microphone turned on, all the audience would hear would be her moaning "brains...must eat brains..." as she lethargically stumbled about and rubbed against her back-up dancers (for stability, I'm assuming).

For the entire performance, Britney moved around stage like a wad of meat in a pinball machine. The star of the show was really her muffin top as it constantly threatened to take over the entire upper half of her shorts and put someone's eye out.

Anyone who has witnessed past Britney performances was horrified by last night. I mean, she has always lacked a certain something...oh, I don't know...live singing, maybe? But she was always entertaining in a "any minute this sparkly bra could be three rows into the audience and I could be making out with Sinead O'Connor" sort of way.

Someone please explain what has happened to poor little Britney. Is it prescription medicine? Alcohol? Young motherhood? Being married to a scrawny, fame-whoring succubus? An overly-tight weave problem?

I don't know about you, but I'm going to try and avoid all of the above. Oh, except for the alcohol. Lord knows it's going to take a stiff drink to erase the memory of Sunday's "performance."

Steph Presents: Bite Ideas On A Budget

Everyone knows that eating healthy isn't cheap. So I just don't. In fact, as my cash flow continues to shrink, I've had to be more and more creative in satisfying my cravings. As a girl who used to frequently enjoy dining out, it's been quite an adjustment learning how to make do with whatever is around the house.

Hence my new feature, Bite Ideas on a Budget: Meals for the Financially Challenged. Whenever I come up with a new, inexpensive substitute for a dinnertime favorite, you will be the first to know. Today's entree: The Meat?ball Sub.

If you're at an authentic Italian joint, you can't go wrong with a big, beautiful meatball sub. Even if it's not your favorite sauce recipe or meatball recipe, the combination of meat, sauce, cheese and freshly baked bread is almost always a winner. And it will usually run you about 8 or 9 bucks.

Not so with the Meat?ball Sub.

Here's what you'll need:

One (1) can of Chef Boyardee Lasagna (Pasta with Chunky Tomato and Meat Sauce)

One (1) value brand hot dog bun

One (1) heaping spoonful of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (the light version, of course)

A temporary lapse in judgement and overall absence of self-respect

Now that you have everything you need, it's time to prepare the Meat?ball Sub. Simply open your can of Chef Boyardee Lasagna, place it in a microwave-safe container and zap it for about two minutes. While this is cooking, liberally cover your value brand hot dog with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Light.

Remove lasagna from the microwave and spoon it onto your buttered value brand hot dog bun. Grab a tall glass of tap water and you are ready to eat.

Results

Price: $1.85 or so.

Taste Factor: Surprisingly decent, considering you're eating canned pasta out of a hot dog bun. The Meat?ball Sub gets its name from the questionable quality of meat used in the Chef Boyardee lasagna. Its powdery consistency and frighteningly nonexistent meat taste is a drawback, but the sauce is undeniably pleasing.

Shame Factor: Still recovering, quite honestly.

Digestion Factor: See above.

Chance of Repeating: Fairly high, since cans of Chef Boyardee were 5 for $5 and these hot dog buns aren't going to eat themselves.

Have a recipe you want to share? Leave it in the comments. Otherwise, I'll see you at the next exciting installment of Bite Ideas on a Budget: Meals for the Financially Challenged.

Next BBQ, Be More Specific

It has been brought to my attention that several readers think this is actually me. This is absolutely preposterous. I sleep on my back.
For the record, I found this photo at CollegeHumor.com.



There are three things I associate with Labor Day: drinking, sleeping in and drinking. And if I had to pick a close fourth, it would be cookouts. There's really nothing better than a Labor Day BBQ with some good friends--and that was my plan this past Sunday.

Most BBQs are BYOB, so I stopped to pick some beer and headed over to my friend's house. Of course, you can't go to a cookout sober, so we had a brew or two before heading to the party. WHAT? I DON'T HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM. STOP LOOKING AT ME!

So now we're low on beer. Easy fix to this problem: bring vodka. Fortunately there was a liquor store on the way, so after my friend counted out nickels (WE'RE FINE! STOP LOOKING AT US!) to pay for said vodka, we were off.


I should also mention that since this is a cookout with friends, I wore my finest garb. Shredded Citizens of Humanity Jeans, dirty flip-flops and that one Splendid tank top that makes it look like I kinda have boobs. My friend was basically wearing the same thing, except she really has boobs. Bitch.

So we're walking up the drive carrying an open case of beer and brown bags filled with booze, laughing and yelling and announcing to all our friends who are presumably in the backyard that "the strippers are here!"

We turn the corner and about fifty family members look up.

Oh. Holy. Shit.

Mothers holding babies. Fathers flipping burgers. Grandmothers with their perfectly coiffed hair and sailor-cut pants trimming friggin' rose bushes! ARE YOU SERIOUS??

Our friend who was hosting the party approaches us with a grin and grabs the beer, putting it in the tent somewhere between the table of nuns and the table of kindergarten teachers. We retreat into the house, bottle of vodka in hand. My friend confesses that she's just peed herself a little.

The host finally comes in to see how we're doing (besides half-drunk, totally embarrassed and sorta smelling like urine, great). At this point I'd rather walk directly into oncoming traffic than back into the party, but after a bit of coaxing, I relent. Fortunately for us, most of his family is totally cool. The old men really take to us, which may or may not have anything to do with the stripper announcement.

There's a lesson here. It might be "don't invite assholes to a cookout." But I'd like to think that it's "go ahead, invite close friends to a BBQ--but Sweet Jesus, tell them if it's going to be attended by your entire extended family."

Hope y'all had a great Labor Day Weekend. If anyone finds my dignity lying around, give me a call.

Extended Holiday

Hello, friends. I know there's about 4 of you that read this almost daily (Hi Mom and Gramma!) and I hate to leave you hanging, but I'm afraid a little computer trouble is forcing me to postpone today's entry. Besides the fact that my 'h' key and 'r' key pop off my keyboard all willy-nilly, my applications are running slower and slower, and I finally realized that although constantly blowing air on it worked for my Nintendo, it's not fixing anything on my computer (and the IT guy is sick of wiping my spit off the screen). So basically, I didn't get around to a worthwhile post (clearly) and will have to put that off until tomorrow.

So again, sorry for the delay. I'm going back to work and contemplating homicide.

Kisses!

All In A Day's Work

YOU: So, how was life at the office today?

ME: Peachy. I walked around downtown Cleveland in full scuba gear, passing out blank pieces of paper to random strangers.

YOU: Blank pieces of paper?

ME: Yea, they thought it was weird too.

YOU: Wasn't it hot in the suit?

ME: A tad. I guess they're designed to be used for swimming in cold water, not for taking a stroll downtown in 80-degree heat. In this case, the term "wetsuit" applied to the inside of the suit, particularly in the ass area.

YOU: Do you do this kind of crazy shit all the time?

ME: Sure. Why, last week they had me dress as an Eskimo and walk around nursing homes while handing out paperclips.

YOU: Really?

ME: No.

YOU: So...have you found a boyfriend yet?

ME: Nope. Weird, huh?

P.S. Here is me at the conclusion of my aquatic walk of shame.

(Happy Labor Day, everyone! Catch you next Tuesday!)

2008 Swimwear Preview

Summer is winding down, but swimwear designers are already getting "the next big thing" ready for the runways. Being from Cleveland, you know I have my finger on the pulse of high fashion (when I'm not using it to dig the last bit of cheese dust out of the Doritos bag.) Anyway, behold my pick for the next movement in swimwear: Swim-Eeze disposable swimsuits.

Ladies, imagine you're at a killer party when someone suggests a moonlight swim. Problem: all you have under your clothes is that $90 Victoria Secret matching bra and panty set (which no one has seen since the day you purchased it, unless you count that evil old bitch in your building that takes all of your wet laundry and throws it on the floor because she doesn't have time to sit around and wait for you to empty the washer when she could be doing better things like watching Matlock and trying not to die in her sleep.) Why wear those unbelievably expensive, sexy undergarments that were clearly not meant to be viewed by anyone when you can wear Swim-Eeze disposable swimsuits?

Note the "elastic arm and neck openings for a comfort fit." And better yet, the "attractive 'O' cut in the back," designed to allow pool water to enter the suit and fill up the baggy, bunchy area right around the ass. There are five sizes for the perfect fit, which should perfectly hug your nipples, flow around your midsection like a garbage bag around a Christmas ham and then taper in for an elegant camel-toe.

According to the website, Swim-Eeze are made from high-quality DuPont Tyvek fabric so you can reuse them many times. And they are guaranteed to prevent skinny-dipping. Huzzah! Take it from me: Swim-Eeze will be the IT item on the 2008 summer party scene. Who would want to be seen swimming in lacy, cleavage-enhancing undergarments (or worse, in the nude) when you could be wearing an enormous shower cap with leg holes?

The demand is gonna be enormous, so I suggest you preorder yours today at www.swimeeze.com.

I Know Why One Fifth Of Americans Can't Find The U.S. On A Map

Simply put, one fifth of Americans are stupid as hell. Blame the education system all you want (clearly it failed Miss South Carolina) but if somewhere along the way you didn't figure out where the U.S. is on a map, it's your own friggin' fault. You can pick up this kind of information from the Weather Channel, for Christ's sake.

Speaking of education, it's back-to-school time again. While I've been out of school for a handful of years, I always know that classes are ready to resume when my mom starts mumbling to herself and carving pentagrams into her forearms.

Mom teaches remedial English at community college, which I imagine is about as simple as teaching the parallel parking course at Henrietta's Driving School for Blind Quadriplegics. This aside, she is very fond of her students and works tirelessly to help them succeed (success in this case is being able to write a complete, coherent paragraph. Just sayin'.)

To get a sense of what she's up against, my mom first asks each student to write a paragraph introducing themselves to her. Judging from this little gem (which my mom does not know that I have taken and posted--she is going to be pissed), methinks it's going to be a long semester.

Note: This is completely genuine. I have not added any details. A small part was deleted to protect the stupi--err, innocent.



"As you where to travel along the southern edge of [my town], you could find a place i call my own. It is the headquarters of my life. Its where i report to at the beginning of the day, and deport from in the evening hours. It is also home to a veraity of people, many in which are all knowledgeable beyond their time. However it is not a place for all, most visiters are not welcomed but yet find their way to the headquarters of my life. But bewarned if for some reason you find yourself near, make sure you watch to see who has you in their sights first."



I could break this down sentence by sentence and critique it, but I think it's kinda beautiful, just the way it is. One question, though: did he just threaten to shoot my mom if she ever came near his meth la--err, the headquarters of his life?

Anywhoozle, I wonder if the people who are "knowledgeable beyond their time" could locate the U.S. on a world map.