Okay, well maybe we aren’t so much besties as business partners.  And maybe we aren’t so much business partners as we are acquaintances.  And maybe we aren’t so much acquaintances as we are people who have never met.  But whatever.  We are connected, but it’s just in about 87 degrees.

Wait, if I’m only six degrees from Kevin Bacon (as is everyone), and so is Zooey, then we are just 12 degrees from each other, which practically makes us best friends forever (or BFFs, for those of you in the know).

As much as I would love to believe Zooey Deschanel is my best friend, I realize it isn’t true.  However, her website, www.hellogiggles.com, decided to publish one of my posts, so I think that’s pretty much the same thing.  We are one sleep over away from getting Best Friends necklaces.  (I normally prefer the “Be Fri” part of the broken heart necklace, but I would gladly take the “St Ends” part…but only for Zooey.)

So please go checkout my post on hellogiggles.  ( http://hellogiggles.com/why-its-best-to-be-the-fattest-person-at-the-gym)

Also, feel free to comment, as there are quite a few haters posting some not-so-nice comments about my post.  They clearly don’t get my humor.  I’m telling myself they’re just jealous that Zooey doesn’t want to come to their house, braid their hair and talk about boys while eating fruit snacks.

Sorry ladies!  We are practically inseparable and there’s only two parts to that Best Friends necklace.

SNOW STORMSI live in the Midwest, which is lame almost every day of the year.  It’s a glowing endorsement for this part of the country, I know.  There are a few times of year where it isn’t quite so punch-me-in-the-face-just-so-I-can-feel-lame.

I’m definitely not saying there are days where it’s fun and enjoyable.  I wouldn’t go that far.  But there are a few times of year when living in the Midwest isn’t so bad, as long as you view it with an eye for humor (and a belly full of liquor).

One of the most entertaining times to live in the Midwest is when there’s a winter storm.  I realize most people think a winter storm occurs when there are several inches of snow and ice, the roads are deadly, and people are boiling water on gas stoves just to stay warm.

Not a single one of these things defines a winter storm in the Midwest.

What does?  “ANY forecast of ANY variation of precipitation that MIGHT not immediately melt when it hits the ground.”  Yes, that’s the actual definition for “winter storm” in the Midwest.  Look it up.

A “winter storm” was scheduled to hit my city this morning, and because I’m a huge planner, I was completely prepared.  I was stocked up with several flashlights, fresh batteries, several rolls of toilet paper, clean blankets, and the entire first season of Sherlock on Blu-ray.  (The Blu-ray wasn’t so much something I needed to survive the storm, but more something I wanted because  Benedict Cumberbatch is dreamy in the nerdiest of ways.)

The snow began to fall this morning and as I watched it, I felt a sense of accomplishment for being so prepared for the obvious blizzard that was set to destroy us all.

And then it hit me.  I realized I didn’t have the basic essentials to get through a winter storm.  (Don’t worry.  I had liquor.)   What I didn’t have was an excessive amount of carbohydrates and sugar.  Those are the two things guaranteed to keep you warm during a winter storm.  True story.

I knew I had to act quickly.  I grabbed my keys and headed out the door to get necessary supplies.  There was no time to brush my teeth…or my hair…or to put on a bra.  It was an emergency and the people at the grocery store would have to turn their eyes and noses away from my horrid presence.  I figured they already knew to do that anyway, as this is my basic look whenever I go to the store.  This time was the first time I actually had an excuse.

When I arrived I had difficulty finding a parking spot because the lot was filled with vehicles ready to be filled with necessities.  Fortunately, I was able to elbow an old guy out of a spot close to the door and I felt good about it.  I’m sure he needed his exercise for the day and forcing him to walk further from his parking spot to the store was my way of ensuring he got it.  I’m such a good Samaritan that way, even in times of crisis.  He didn’t even say thank you.

I went inside and headed straight to section of the grocery store that was most crucial to my survival during the storm:  the bakery.  I walked right over to the cookies and proceeded to hand-pick a few cookies to get me through this storm.  (A “few” means ten, right?”)

I already felt better knowing one of the two necessities for a snow storm was safely in my hands.  Well, it wasn’t safely in my hands because nothing is safe when in my possession, but you get the point.


Bentley in snowI then headed to the frozen food section to get the other basic requirements for a blizzard:  frozen pizzas.  Fortunately, once again I was successful and quickly found several varieties of California Pizza Kitchen frozen pizzas. 

I debated if I should purchase them or not, simply because buying an item with the name of a perpetually sunny state in the title didn’t seem like a good idea when the end of the world was coming in the form of thundersnow. 

But then I remembered that CPK pizza is amaze-balls so I grabbed two boxes and headed to the checkout.

As I walked through the aisles I saw people getting eggs, bread, milk and items from the meat department.   These people had all gone off the deep end and clearly didn’t know what it took to get through a winter storm successfully.  (No one had alcohol in their carts either…a sure sign they wouldn’t make it through alive…or at least they wouldn’t make it through happy.)

I headed to the checkout and took in the sight of all the others racing around trying to get everything before the storm picked up.  No one else was standing in line to check out with only cookies and frozen pizzas.  Then I realized something.  Winter storms, or even the thought of winter storms, brings out the fat kid in me.

Granted, the fat kid in me doesn’t ever have to be coaxed to come out, as he lives close to the surface in the muffin top of extra skin that folds over my pants.  I call him Henry.

Henry obviously loves winter and everything it represents. Instead of being embarrassed about my inner fat kid wanting to bitch slap healthy eating during a blizzard, I decided to embrace it.  After all, winter storms don’t happen everyday, and Henry needed a strong dose of pre-diabetic sugar overload to get him through the storm.

I went to the self-checkout to avoid stares from the cashiers who would undoubtedly judge my choice of essentials.  After only struggling briefly with the cash register, I grabbed my cookies and pizza and walked to my car as quickly as I could.  I wanted to get home ASAP to make sure the cookies were delicious enough for winter storm consumption.

As I approached my car, I noticed an old man walking slowly down the parking lot, heading towards the store.  I tried not to hit him with my car as I drove away, thinking about how horrible it was that he had to park so far from the entrance.  Someone really should have given him a parking spot closer to the door.

My husband can be a funny guy at times. Granted, most of the time he doesn’t realize he’s being funny, but those are the times he’s at his best. It’s not that he’s funny because of the jokes he tells. I assure you, he is not. Actually, if my husband asks to tell you a joke, punch him in the jeans and run away immediately. Seriously. It’s for your own good.

Despite his inability to master the “knock knock” joke, he has an ability to make me laugh at the most random times. It’s one of the things I love most about him. So because I love you guys so much (and because I don’t have time to write a full blog post tonight because I’m super busy and important), I’ve decided to let you in on some of my husband’s recent statements that made me laugh.

*Please note that none of these statements are ones that made me want to run to the divorce lawyer and take him for his entire collection of old and stained movie posters. (They are stained from water basement from the damage, you perverts!) A blog post about those statements will be saved for another day. Somehow, those statements also manage to make me laugh, which is probably just pathetic.

**Please also note that all of these statements were said innocently by him, and not a single one of them were said ironically or with the intent of getting a laugh from me. I’m sad about that part, but it’s the truth. He was completely genuine in each one of these examples. Every. Single. One.

1. Mr. Obvious

Matt: “I hit my elbow!”

Me: “Where?”

Matt: “On the pointy part!”

Yeah, because I definitely want to know where exactly on your elbowyou hit your elbow. The very use of the word “elbow” tells me exactly where you hurt yourself. I want to know what object caused you pain, mostly so I can ensure that object is in the way the next time you tell me my purse should go “in the purse spot.”

2. Mathematician

Me (while standing in the pool on vacation): “How much of this pool is pure urine?”

Matt (while also standing in the pool): “I don’t know, but I’ve contributed to it.”

At least he’s honest. And who am I kidding? I contributed to it too.

3. Ghetto Superstar

Matt: “Soledad O’Brien is my home girl.”


I feel like I don’t even need to explain this one. She clearly is his home girl, and I’m totally cool with that. Of course, it would have been more appropriate if he was watching her on TV at the time, or if there was some reference to her anywhere at the time he made this declaration. Yes, that would have been appropriate, yet that wasn’t the case.

4. Loverboy

Me (standing in the ocean hugging him): “I love you.”

Matt: “I’m peeing right now.”

See, people?! This is another reason I don’t fricking hug people! The one time I venture out and try to hug someone, they pee on me and an hour of disinfecting my body begins.

5. Motivational Speaker

Matt: “Do you want to go on a walk?”

Me: “Yeah, let’s go.”

Matt: “I don’t want to.”

Wow. This guy really knows how to make a girl happy. I’m thinking I will use this tactic the next time he wants to engage in sexy time.

6. Comedian

Matt: “I’m a funny guy, you dick!”

The word “dick” was strongly emphasized. When he strongly belted out this statement, I can assure you, I thought it was hilarious. So maybe that makes him the dick.

7. Food extraordinaire

Matt: “That thing I order here is awesome!”

Me: “What is it?”

Matt: “I don’t remember.”

Well, I guess we will just order two of those.

8. Schoolboy

Matt: “Did I ever tell you my elementary school principal looked like Kurt Russell in a wig?”

Perhaps this is true. I’m not sure, but for the sake of his principal, I hope it isn’t, as Kurt Russell does not-a-pretty-girl-make. But what was most humorous (and disturbing) about this statement, was that he made it as he was drifting off to sleep. After this observation, I immediately threw away our copy of Overboard, which sucks, because that movie rocks. (It was her money all along people!!!!!  Who saw that coming?)

9. Judge and Jury

Matt (while laying on the beach in Mexico): “Not to be a snob, but is that woman using a god….damned….flip phone?”


10. Fashionista

Me: “You look creepy in that skull cap.”

Matt: “It’s not a skull cap, it’s a knit cap.”

Me: “What’s the difference?”

Matt: “I don’t know.”

And there you have it; a list of unintentionally funny things my husband said recently. I could go on and on and post several more quotes from him, but it’s getting late and I need to use my flip phone to order something amazing for him for dinner.

Funny things my husband said on vacation

FAT TUESDAYI’m pretty sure I didn’t have to write a blog post about this, as it’s a no brainer (as evidenced by this post’s title). Any holiday with the word “fat” right in the title is obviously going to be observed by this girl. It’s pretty much a celebration of me and my fellow chub club peeps, and what we stand for…which is butter on everything and a side of Ranch dressing.

OMG! I just made up that chub club thing just now and it’s completely brilliant! I’m going to run with it. Okay, I won’t really physically run with it.  I will walk slowly with it or take a cab.  I think I’m going to start a Chub Club for real.

I will be the “Big Cheese” in charge of the outfit, and the members will be named after different variations of my favorite dairy products. This is genius! I predict t-shirts will be made soon with the smallest size being an XL (for the tiny people in the group). This is gold!

Sorry about hijacking my MjAxMi1hOWJkZTkyMDhjOGI2YmM4own post there, but when amazing ideas come to me, which is pretty much every hour, I need to write them down so I don’t forget them.

I’ve got so many irons in the fire right now that it’s hard to keep them all straight.  And by “irons in the fire” I mean “items in the microwave.”

Anyway, I feel like this post is a pretty obvious one and probably doesn’t need to be written, but then again, I thought Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had a love to last a lifetime, and look how that turned out.

You guys need guidance, and fortunately I’m here to serve.  However, I’m not here to serve you food; only wisdom. Scoop your own gravy, free loaders.

Perhaps the best part about Fat Tuesday is that it’s an actual holiday encouraging indulgence and gluttony.  Any other day of the year, society quietly judges you for overindulging.

Except in my case, society takes the form of my great aunt who doesn’t judge me quietly, but does so quite loudly from the seat next to me at dinner. “Wow, Lisa, you sure can eat an entire ham. Maybe you should grab some broccoli to round out your meal.”

charlie-sheen-fat-tuesday-mardi-gras-ecards-someecardsUm, maybe you should pick your teeth up off the table and shut up.

What other day of the year encourages engaging in a full day of complete gluttony? Thanksgiving is usually restricted to one meal of gorging, and the focus of the holiday isn’t simply stuffing one’s face with carbs (there’s desserts too!).

Apparently we are also supposed to remember the Indians on that day and how we killed them all with cholera blankets and STDs.  Not the happiest of holidays, although pie definitely makes it better. (Pie makes everything better. I think I should make that into a bumper sticker. It could be the slogan for my Chub Club.  I’M ON A ROLL TONIGHT!)

Unlike the short lived Thanksgiving with one big meal, Fat Tuesday encourages gluttony all day long! It’s the perfect day and it should be a national holiday. How can I be expected to work when I have a full cookie cake to eat? And that plate of nachos isn’t going to eat itself.

I can’t be expected to go to work on a day when the world is my oyster of food, and the oyster is on a cracker with Tabasco sauce.  Does my boss not want me to properly honor the holiday?  To basically flip off Fat Tuesday and all that it represents?  Apparently so.  My boss is obviously unpatriotic.

Fat Tuesday is also a great holiday because it actually celebrates being fat! All year long I’m made to feel embarrassed by my love handles and meaty thighs.


(I don’t feel bad about them, but it’s not for a lack of society’s attempts. They are relentless!)  But just this one day a year, society embraces fatness, one love handle at a time.

Wait, my husband just told me that Fat Tuesday isn’t a celebration of fat people at all. Apparently, he seems to think its a last hurrah of sorts before Lent starts and people give up stuff.  What does he know?  He’s skinny and clearly wants to bring me down on the best holiday of the year.

And if he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to learn about giving up stuff…in this case, it will be the comfort of our memory foam mattress, as we don’t have one of those in the guest bedroom.

I’m not letting my husband’s nay saying bring me down on the best day of the year. I will relegate him to the guest bedroom so he can think about what he’s done, and so I can enjoy my last stash of Twinkies in peace without judgment. I will also be launching a Chub Club, as this is clearly one of my better ideas. It’s right up there with the Snuggie dress, which is a genius idea if I could just get some funding.

So enjoy Fat Tuesday, my friends. Celebrate your inner and outer fat kid, and if you come across nay sayers like my husband, feel free to throw a pie in their face and tell them they need to get in the holiday spirit.  But don’t waste a good pie.   That would be a tragedy.

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I know I should be mortified.  I should be disgusted with myself.  I know these things, and yet I feel nothing but satisfaction.  Maybe this is how Taylor Swift feels whenever she puts out a new album.  (Sidebar:  I secretly like most of her songs, but I will never publicly admit it.  She’s just a country girl looking for love.) Anyway, back to me, where the focus should always be.  (That rhymes.)

I ate an entire container of mini cupcakes.  Impressed?  You should be.

Granted, it wasn’t in one sitting, but it was within a 24 hour period, which I find both depressing and exciting.  The fat girl in me is proud of the accomplishment while the skinny girl in me is horrified and repulsed.  Fortunately, the skinny girl in me is squashed and practically crushed by the fat girl, so she can shut the frick up and keep her opinions to herself.  (She also needs to eat a ham sandwich.)

I’m saying this is a good thing and I don’t care what skinny people say…not even my husband.

I didn’t do this tonight, but did it about 2.5 weeks ago.  As my loving blog followers know, I recently had surgery and had evil Stan the gallbladder removed.  That’s a pretty big deal, or at least that’s what I’m telling my husband.  I don’t ever want to move anything, lift anything, or carry anything ever again so I’m going to ride this surgery into the ground…or at least ride it to the store where I will stay in the car while he runs in to get milk because “I’m just so weak.”  This whole surgery thing is a built in excuse for life…or at least for a few months.

Either way, I legitimately had surgery and I have the scars to prove it.  They are both physical scars from the incisions and what I assume will be emotional scars that will come when I get the bills and realize I need a second job to pay them.  (I’m thinking something where I get to wear a uniform…but not a hat.)

Due to the physical and emotional trauma my body sustained, it needs time and energy to heal from the invasive surgery.  What better way to heal than with some pre-packaged chocolaty goodness from Target?  It’s the perfect medicine.

I know people say laughter is the best medicine, but those people haven’t tried these cupcakes.  They’re wayyyyy better.  (Incidentally, I also discovered through this whole gallbladder thing that Percocet is also the perfect medicine, assuming you don’t mind constipation, of course.)

The cupcakes were amazing, and I contend they were good for me too.  I mean, the sustenance my body received from eating an entire 12 pack of mini cupcakes can’t be quantified.  Okay, well maybe it can technically be quantified by calories, fat, and number of tears cried when I realized I ate them all.  Whatever.  Each bite was more savory than the last, and if I had it to over again, I would absolutely eat the whole container again.

Actually, the only thing I would do differently is this time I would buy two containers.  Isn’t two always better than one?  (Except when it comes to STDs.  In that case, I would say one is better than two.  I would also say get to the clinic and get that taken care of, you dirty dog.)

So the next time you’re at Target and come across containers of mini cupcakes, grab one.  You won’t be sorry.  Then bring it to my house so I can down them all in one sitting.  After all, you didn’t even get me a “get well soon” gift.


finished cupcakes

Notice how I left a few empty
wrappers to show you they were
chocolate? You’re welcome.

I have news to share, and this time it doesn’t involve infection, removal of my organs, or an embarrassing moment with a glass of liquid. It’s even better! I’ve been nominated at http://www.skinnyscoop.com/ as one of the 25 funniest blogs on the internet. Can you believe it? Me neither.

I had no idea there were others in the world who enjoy reading posts about my daily disasters. I’m not sure what this says about the world, or about the low caliber of the other competing blogs out on “the internets,” but I don’t care. I’m nominated.

Don’t worry. I TOTALLY get the irony that a website with the word “skinny” in the title would nominate a fat girl who frequently writes about eating and avoiding the gym. Maybe it was a pity nomination. I’m fine with that. I may be the one token fat girl that had to be nominated to make the contest fair and to appear non-discriminatory. I’m fine with that too.

I know that when actors are nominated for Oscars or Emmys, they always say they don’t care if they win, as it’s an honor just to be nominated. I don’t think that’s true at all. I’m competitive and I want to win. It’s who I am, and why I’m not allowed to participate in any gaming activity with friends or family. True story. So no, it’s not an honor to be nominated. It’s an honor to crush my competition with an obscene amount of votes, making them cry and drown their sorrows in alcohol or cheese dip. Dealer’s choice.
This is where you come in. Yes, you, my dedicated readers who only read my blog when I either force you to, or when you are in the restroom and run out of reading material. Well put down that toilet paper and go to the website and vote for this awesome blog. You know you want to. But do a courtesy flush first.
I realize I can’t actually make you vote for me, as I don’t know who you are, nor do I know if you have even read this far into this post. (We are several paragraphs in and I suspect many of you have either lost interest, or you’ve completed your business in the restroom and have returned to your office.) But for those of you suckers suffering from boredom and/or constipation, I’m asking a huge favor of you. Vote for me and this blog. Do it.

I know with the recent presidential election and all the commercials about voting, the last thing you want to do is cast another ballot for yet another jackass. But at least this jackass keeps you entertained by telling you stories about my life. And at least what I tell you is the truth, which is more than what I can say for most people seeking your vote.

You feel better already, right?No, I won’t promise to not raise taxes, nor will I promise your mortgage interest will always be tax deductible. However, I can promise that voting for this blog will be just one more thing you can do to make this world a little better. Sharing my blog and voting is another way to let the world know that no matter how bad their day may be, and no matter how embarrassing an instance is, things could be worse. You could be me. I’m always there to make those events seem insignificant when compared to my daily antics of offending people with my flatulence and making inappropriate comments in the presence of clergymen.

Is this a ploy by SkinnyScoop.com to drive more people to their site by holding a small, insignificant contest? Totally. Will my obvious victory change anything in this world?  Nope.  Does that make me any less competitive about wanting to win?  Not at all. Didn’t you read the earlier paragraph about my competitiveness? I’m seriously in it all the way.

To quote Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, “If you ain’t in it to win it, then get the hell out.” Truer words have never been spoken (or in this case, partially rapped by a middle aged white guy).

I suspect that in order to vote, you have to register your email with them so they know you are human and not a magical robot generating votes. (I would think if a robot existed that could function like a human, the last thing the he/she robot would want to do would be generate votes for a blog contest. Talk about setting the bar low…) If you have to give your email to vote, and they start emailing you, just “unsubscribe” to the emails and you will be left alone. (Side note: if someone can figure out how to “unsubscribe” to work emails, let me know.)

You may have to scroll down and hit the “see all suggestions” button if I don’t show up on the first page.  But you guys can totally click one little tab to vote.  I know you can.

Will this be the last time I ask my dedicated and amazingly talented readers to vote for something?  You know better than that.  Hopefully my blogging career will take off any day now and I will be an instant internet sensation.  But I can’t very well become a sensation if no one votes for me in this contest.  So there you have it.  It’s all on your shoulders.  Don’t let me down.

I even gave you a direct link because I’m awesome that way, and I know how to use the cut and paste function on my computer.  Vote now.  Do it for meDo it for freedomDo it for America.  (Cue patriotic music in the background.)

So please, spread the word about this blog and its awesomeness, and also about voting for it at SkinnyScoop.com.   I’m hoping to make it to the top 25 funniest blogs of the year. I’m also hoping the blog with the most votes gets an unlimited supply of bacon.

Please, help me get some bacon.

How to fix your iPad when the picture“Lisa, you shouldn’t be allowed to have nice things.”

This is something I heard from my parents nearly every day of my childhood.  Apparently I couldn’t be trusted with liquids and carpet.  Clearly my parents didn’t know that hardwood floors are the classier way to go, and my frequent spills on carpet were attempts to entice them to upgrade their home.

They never once thanked me for that.

(FYI: I have hardwoods in my home now and they are much easier to clean up spills.  You’re welcome, mom and dad.)

Somehow, this prohibitive phrase has been passed down from my parents to my husband.  I suspect this occurred when my husband asked my dad if he could marry me, and my dad then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to talk him out of it.

My dad’s a good guy that way, and Matt can’t say he wasn’t warned.

Most of the time, this regularly uttered phrase is both accurate and appropriate.  Admittedly, I say it to myself, most frequently after I accidentally back into something with my car (those trash cans come out of nowhere every Monday morning).

However, just because it may be true most of the time doesn’t mean I like that it is.

Whenever I manage to destroy something (which is about once a week), I fess up immediately.  There’s no point in trying to hide the damage, as it will eventually be discovered and everyone will look to the girl with the Kool-aid stained mouth as the culprit of the accident.  (The word “girl” here is loosely used.)

It’s not a far leap.  (A leap, incidentally, is how I caused the Kool-aid stain on the carpet.  Note to self:  A leap of any kind, no matter the distance, is impossible when done in heels while holding a beverage.  Lesson learned.)

But with my newest “uh oh,” I didn’t want to tell my husband right away.  Lately he’s been more irritable about my totally-not-at-all-preventable accidents.  He’s so judgy.

As you may recall, the face of my iPhone shattered recently when it came into contact with my friend’s driveway.  (Rather, the more accurate explanation is that her bully of a driveway came out of nowhere and smacked my iPhone around until his face broke.  I suspect this wasn’t the driveway’s first offense.)

That broken iPhone face was a bit of a traumatic event, not only for the iPhone, but also for my pride.  I had no choice but to fess up to my husband about the damage, mostly because he was with me at the time the assault occurred. The wounds from that injury are still somewhat fresh.

So this morning when I grabbed my iPad and noticed something wasn’t quite right about it, I didn’t dare mention it to my husband.  I was pretty sure he was still irritated about the demise of our last Apple product, and I knew he wouldn’t want to know about the new “boo boo” on my iPad.

As with the iPhone, the screen was in distress; although unlike my iPhone (RIP sweet baby boy), the screen wasn’t cracked.  Rather, red, green and blue colors swirled on the screen, creating a look quite psychedelic in nature.  I felt like I should pop in a Pink Floyd album and just enjoy the screen.  I doubted Matt would be on board with this though (he’s more of a Deathcab for Cutie kind of guy).

I also didn’t want to go all the way out to my car to grab the CD.  That would require pants.

Instead, I immediately double checked to make sure the Tylenol PM I took the night before wasn’t swapped out accidentally with hallucinogenic agents.  I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened.

Fortunately for my spinal column, the Tylenol PM wasn’t laced with anything.  Rather, it appeared as if the iPad screen broke when I gently dropped it on the floor the night before.  (This is one of those times where carpet would have been preferred.  Those hardwood floors can really kick you in the balls, or in this case, in the iPad face.)

The previous night I fell asleep while reading my hilarious blog.  As I dozed off, I gently dropped the iPad a few inches to the ground.  Apparently doing that affected the screen, making it look like a black light poster.

Although I certainly enjoy feeling trippy while reading USA Today on the iPad, I didn’t think Matt would enjoy it, so I knew I had to fix it.  But how?  I figured I would google how to fix it on my broken iPad.  I felt that somehow, using the problematic iPad to locate the solution would demonstrate to the universe my willingness to help.  (It would also demonstrate it to my husband as well, which would hopefully ease the blow.)

I found a video of someone tapping the iPad with a hammer and in the video, the tapping fixed the issue.  Since it was on the internet, I knew it had to be accurate, so I decided to give it a try.

Who would lie on the internet about hitting an iPad with a hammer as a mode of fixing a problem?

I located a hammer and quickly began hitting the iPad in the locations suggested by the video.  On the second tap, the screen restored itself and it’s completely back to normal!

The best part is that I don’t have to tell my husband that I broke the iPad, although I will definitely have to tell him I lost his hammer. (I’m not walking all the way down to the basement to put it back.)

So if anyone asks, nothing was ever wrong with the iPad, and everything is just fine.  On a more exciting note, I now know if I need a tough question answered, I can go to YouTube and find some very informative answers.  What do you think they will suggest for how to fix a broken heart?

Yeah, I would definitely recommend vodka for that too.

boy bands-I rocked out in my car today to a catchy tune from N SYNC. Which tune, you ask? Does it matter? All of them are catchy as those boys know how to rock a beat.As I fist pumped to the refrain, I had an epiphany.

I realized there really aren’t boy bands flooding the pop market like there used to be. Obviously, this is a travesty. I would think magazines like Tiger Beat and YM would be all over this issue, as I’m sure they’re running out of people to put on the covers of their magazines. (Do either of these magazines even exist anymore? If so, where would one hypothetically subscribe?)

This lack of new boy bands is clearly an issue of national importance and further investigation must be done immediately. Since I had nothing better to do, and because I’ve been watching episodes of Sherlock and felt intellectual, I took on the task of figuring out why boy bands are no more.

In looking into this issue, I was forced to ask some very serious and analytical questions about this void in the music industry. Are there just no more talented young men available to sing in a group and gyrate their manly parts in some not-so-manly ways?

Actually, I may have just solved the mystery. With singers like Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers, I’m realizing there really isn’t any young talent out there anymore, nor is there anyone even remotely good looking in the music industry.

Buy a shirt with a photo of Zac Efron on it? Pft! Why waste the cotton? (or the poly cotton blend, which is my preference).

Doesn’t America know we are in a boy band crisis/  I can only look at my Joey McIntyre poster for so long before the paper tears and the colors fade (along with poor Joey’s quickly receding hairline).  I need a new guy to fawn over, as the arguments between my girlfriends about who is cuter, Donnie or Jordan, have pretty much been played out.

school picture 1(Donnie is totally cuter, but then again, I love a bad boy.  I mean, look at my husband.  ——–>

I remember a time when you could turn on MTV and see videos of a shirtless guy singing a love ballad, standing by a waterfall while the wind blew and birds flew lovingly into the sunset. Not anymore. Now it’s all about teen moms and pimping rides that should otherwise be burned.

How else are young girls supposed to learn about true love if a group of pubescent teens don’t tell them the way through music and synthesizers?

**Note: My parents didn’t allow me and my brother to watch MTV because they thought it was all sex and parties and watching it would turn us into bitches and hoes. So if anyone asks, or if my parents are reading this blog (unlikely), then this reference to MTV is only based upon second hand knowledge. It’s definitely not from my brother and I watching it in my parents bedroom when we got home from school. Definitely not. And we also never raided my mom’s closet for her “secret” stash of candy bars that was no secret at all. Nope. The dogs ate those while watching MTV. Those shih tzus are not to be trusted. 

Is there a reason they’re gone? (The boy bands, not the candy bars.) Now that they are gone, the next question is, where did they go? In the 80s and 90s they were everywhere.

You couldn’t walk into a Spencer’s Gifts store without a cardboard cut out of Boys II Men in matching white sweaters staring you in the face. (They were usually strategically placed next to the board games about sex and the coffee mugs with nipples.)

Now, those cardboard cutouts are nowhere to be found, and the nipple mugs are left all alone to fend for themselves on the cold shelf.

Did boy bands simply run their course along with mall bangs and buying perfume at drug stores? (Say what you will, Luv’s Baby Soft made the best perfume that $4.99 could buy. Period.)

Now that I think about it, I don’t want to know where the boy bands went, as it may shatter my image of them. I suspect some of them are working regular jobs building houses or stocking shelves with nipple mugs. I don’t really want to think about that possibility though, as that’s not how I know them.

If one of the Hanson brothers ever asks me if I want paper or plastic for my purchased items, I might just breakdown right in the store.

However, I suppose this specific scenario would never happen because I go to a cheap grocery store where I have to bag my own groceries. Now that I think about it, maybe that part of the reason I go there to avoid disappointment.

Mmmmm Bop.

boys+face.jpgIf the boy band members are now working regular jobs, do they whistle while they work? I realize that was more of a seven dwarfs thing but since these guys are somewhat musically inclined (except for Donny Wood), I would think they would bring music to their work day. If I hear someone humming “I Swear” the next time I go to the bank, I will smile and know that boy bands are alive and well, they are just living apart from each other and contributing to a 401k.

Deep down, I feel like I know the reason boy bands have become extinct. It’s truly a response to the loss of one of the leaders of the best boy band to start it all…Jackson 5. Back then, when Michael Jackson was definitively male, he started the boy band movement with his moonwalk ways.

His love songs were inspiring, but also were as easy as ABC and as simple as 1-2-3.Those songs were the foundation upon which boy bands developed (although, that song certainly scoffed at anyone suffering from dyslexia.

So perhaps with Michael’s passing, the universe and Maurice Starr decided there was no use continuing to crank out a “New Edition” of bands of boys. Record labels stopped scoping out shopping malls looking for boys with minimum talent and maximum abs.

It’s a shame the world is losing out on all the deep feelings these singers have. I will truly miss a group of 17 year old boys belting out lyrics to a song that was really written by a bitter divorced woman in her 40s struggling with alcohol abuse.

So I guess we all need to say goodbye to boy bands and that era. I don’t think that trend will come back, although if RuPaul can revive his/her career, maybe there’s hope for boys (and girls) everywhere.

Until then, we will just have to get out our mixed cassette tapes and be careful not to hit the “record” button while pushing “play.” Maybe 98 Degrees was right; this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

totally made this graphic with
my computer.  I’m such an artist.

The other night I awoke to the most horrible sound in the world.  No, it was not Grey Goose being poured down the drain, although that sound would most likely bring me to my knees.  (I will never know this sound, however, as who would do such a thing?)

The sounds I heard sounded like a baby crying.  Did someone abandon their child in my subdivision?  Why would a screaming baby be outside my window?  I hoped it was a joke, or perhaps the horrific noise was someone blaring an old Korn album.  (I swear that band’s music can induce seizures.)

babies,baby,birds,births,bundles,cartoons,nature,newborns,persons,Screen Beans®,special occasions,storksI figured it was my ethical obligation to check it out and see if there was a small child screaming his lungs out on my lawn.  I’m knew if I found a baby, I wasn’t going to take him and raise him as my own.  I’m barely capable of taking care of myself, let alone another human being.  (But then again, a child is the perfect reason to always have fish sticks for dinner.)  I figured I wouldn’t keep the baby, but maybe the people who abandoned him left some snacks with the kid.  I decided to investigate.

I stepped outside and immediately wished I had grabbed my husband’s “indoor/outdoor” shoes.  What if a stork dropped off the baby and then shit all over my lawn?  (The stork, not the baby.  I figured the stork would at least leave the baby with a diaper, or at least that’s how it’s done in all the photos I’ve seen.)  I decided to push through and continue on even if I was barefoot on a lawn full of stork poo.  I could handle it, as I’m not a pussy.

I looked around wondering exactly what I was looking for.   Would he be in a bassinet?  What about a box with a sign that says “Free baby?”  Would he be like Moses in a basket made of leaves? I figured the basket option was the most possible because it sounded like a craft idea from Pinterest and since that site came along, everyone thinks they’re a Martha Stewart.

I didn’t have to look much further before I found the source of the screams. It wasn’t a baby but two cats in heat. (I think I would have preferred a baby.  Or a cupcake.) Both cats were sitting outside my bedroom window staring at each other and moaning. Um, what was this?!

Black cat with its back arched from HalloweenDid I interrupt their morning ladies coffee where they complain about their husbands and discuss whether they will ever really be able to catch their tail? Was this a girls weekend?  I would think they would go somewhere more glamorous than the overgrown bush in my front yard if they wanted a nice get-away.

*I want to make so many comments and jokes about bush here, but that would be childish….and I can’t figure out which one I want to use.*

I suspected perhaps they were women on a budget who wanted a quick retreat without the hefty expense, so my bush was a reasonable option.  (These bush jokes write themselves.)  I understood if they wanted to save some kibble, but if they thought they were going to get an all-you-can-eat buffet later for dinner, they could think again. I don’t share my food.

As I watched the two of them stare at each other and whine, I realized something…they were in heat. Seriously?! I’m an animal lover and advocate and all (shocking, right?), so for two cats to be in heat in my front yard made me angry. Who doesn’t spay/neuter their animals?  Do people have no respect for Bob Barker and his daily plea?  I was so mad that I couldn’t just stand there and watch, so I went inside.  Plus, there was no way I was going to interrupt a cat fight.  (No pun intended.)

animals,black cats,mammals,nature,pets,backs,arched

Inside I began collecting literature to distribute to my neighbors about the importance of spay/neuter, and started thinking about the hygienic element of the whole thing.  (Or the lack of hygiene).  These cats were essentially having their ladies days all over my lawn, and hanging out to complain about it. I wanted to tell them I totally understood their pain and offer them a heating pad and a box of Midol, but I didn’t want to encourage them to come to my yard.

I felt bad for the cats but I didn’t want their “heat” in my front yard. After all, I wasn’t running a brothel. (I figured the other tom cats in the neighborhood wouldn’t be good customers as one of them has really let himself go and another one looks like a domestic abuser. I’m not sure what a wife beater looks like, but I think that cat would qualify. (I also know that a wife beater looks amazing on Ryan Gosling. Have you seen him in Crazy, Stupid, Love?)

I didn’t want to run a night club or a brothel, so I yelled to break up the bitch-fest.  (Is a female cat called a bitch?  I’m more of a dog person so I don’t know these things.)  I yelled out something that sounded like “Caw! Caw!”  I’m not sure why that word came to mind, but it’s better than “Scram!” which was the second word that came to mind.  I would have to evaluate my urge to yell what an 80-year-old man would consider fighting words at my next therapist appointment.  Until then, I needed to focus on getting these cats to scee-daddle.

alcohols,animals,aperitifs,beverages,bowties,cats,chairs,fables,formal attire,formal wear,kitties,kitty cats,lounges,lounging,nature,relaxes,relaxing,transparent background,winesI was able to send one of the cats running by threatening to turn the vacuum on her.  Unfortunately, the other cat stayed behind.  Apparently she shared my love of the vacuum and wasn’t intimidated.  She went running and hid behind my retaining wall where I’m sure she will set up shop as a madame. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be the owner of a brothel.  I’m way cuter than Heidi Fleiss and a way better decorator.  (Velvet chairs, Heidi?  Ugh.  Such a cliche.)  But I knew if I was forced to host a brothel, that brothel was going to be the best in town.

I went inside and started making my list for what I would need for a classy brothel. A disco ball…red satin sheets…and a metal cash box with a little handle and a key.

I’m planning to make a sign out of katnip.

Currently, the cat is still outside behind my retaining wall, and if she’s the hoe-bag I think she is,  I suspect I will be running a NICU on a few short months.


I’m naturally a blonde.  Yes, it’s true.  Is that hard to believe?  Wait, don’t answer that.  I suppose with all my embarrassing moments, it’s not at all strange to think I’m a natural blonde.  (Insert your favorite blonde joke here.)

I really am a natural blonde, though.  I don’t mean I’m one of those people who says “This color? It’s natural”  while the black roots are screaming “She’s a liar!  She douses us with bleach and peroxide once a month.  She also smokes and hides it from her husband!”  Okay, maybe that last part wasn’t true, or at least I hope it wasn’t true, because dousing yourself in flammable products and then smoking is never a good idea.

Since I’ve been a blonde all my life, I’ve always wondered that age old question…Is Marilyn Mason really that nerdy kid from The Wonder Years?  I’m not entirely convinced, but some compelling evidence does exist.  Isn’t that what you were thinking I would say?

In addition to that burning question about Fred Savage’s BFF, I’ve also wondered if it would be fun to have a different hair color.  I’ve been attempting to go darker for some time, but my hairdresser, who happens to be my friend Scissorhands (not her real name), hasn’t allowed me to make a drastic color move.

I find this interesting because she pushes hard for other drastic moves in my life, like taking vitamins, or wearing a bra to the store.  Apparently that’s something I should do every time I go.  Pfft!  According to Scissorhands, we can’t do a drastic color change quickly because it will damage my hair and cause it to fall out.  Whatever.  She just likes torturing me.

I recently went in for my regular color and she informed me we were making the final move to the dark side…of the color wheel.  We were experiencing a code red in the best of ways!  We were putting up the red light to my blonde hair. (Okay, that last joke wasn’t my best work, but they can’t all be winners.)

After several minutes of these amazingly hilarious jokes about the color red, Scissorhands became red with anger (last one, I promise!) and said we needed to get to dying.  Wait.  Get to dying my hair.  Not to actually dying.  She wouldn’t be my friend if she told me I needed to get to dying.  She would be an a-hole if she said that; and she definitely wouldn’t get a good tip.

Scissorhands concocted the formula in the back of the salon, which I imagine was mixed in a witch’s cauldron with steam rising from it. I pictured her mixing it with a large stick and then scooping some out for my hair.  Obviously, when she’s in the back room, Scissorhands turns into the evil witch from Snow White.

We began the coloring process, which basically means I sat there and made random comments and observations while she covered my hair in dye and only half pretended to listen to my ramblings.  She’s a really good friend that way.

She told me we needed to dye my eyebrows as well if we wanted to make this look complete.  I didn’t want to trust her because she’d made fashion suggestions to me before that didn’t turn out quite right.?

One time she was all “You should totally wear leopard-print tights under your black dress.”  I did, and let’s just say in a dimly lit room, leopard-print tights look remarkably like scabs on one’s legs.  It makes for an awkward night of no interaction.  No one wants to talk to the scabby girl in the corner who slams vodka  and smells like farts.

Despite my hesitation, I let her put the dye on my eyebrows, and when I looked in the mirror, this is what I saw:

scary hair color

Scary, right?  I look like a fricking evil villain from a cartoon.  I could be a character on The Simpsons with this face.  I look ridiculous and scary, and I clearly need to hit a tanning bed every now and then.

However, it got me thinking that maybe this was my alternate persona.  I could be Poison Ivy, a superhero gone bad.  My superpower?  I would give STDs to those people who deserved them most!

*Granted, I suspect many of the people I would like to inflict with a social disease are probably already suffering from itchiness and redness in the nether regions, so this power may be redundant.*

final productAnd just to be clear, I don’t actually HAVE an STD.  Geez, people.  I would have it in a stick that I would slap people with, and they would immediately become infected.  It would be my “STD stick” and I would use it for good, not evil.

I would slap annoying people that could use a trip to the doctor and a healthy dose of Penicillin; like Justin Bieber, and everyone on “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette.”  (Like they don’t already have something anyway…)

Don’t worry all you readers out there who have done me wrong and are now fastening your jock strap for extra protection.  I would only pass out non-life threatening conditions, because I’m not a total a-hole (despite how you’ve been to me).  However, I would absolutely attack with a mean case of genital warts right before a beach vacation.

But hey, maybe if you would have been a little nicer to me and not shot me daggers with your eyes every time you walked by me, you’d be wearing a bikini instead of the swim dress you’re now sporting to hide the infestation in your crotch.

So to anyone who is mean to me, or has been mean to me in the last 5 years, beware.  (I’m only going back 5 years because I don’t hold grudges and I don’t have a great memory.)  I hope you all have a trusted primary care physician and a great insurance plan, as I plan to send my enemies to the pharmacy quite regularly with this new power.

Karma’s a bitch, and so is chlamydia (or at least that’s what I hear.)