CuddlyChristmasHopefully by now you’re decorated for the holidays.  Hopefully for you, your neighbors have limited the amount of inflatable snowmen they’ve put on their front lawn.  I didn’t bode so well despite my pleas that nothing really says the holidays quite like no decorations on the outside and listening to Metallica at a reasonable volume.

Again, I didn’t bode well.

We put up a Christmas tree for the holidays, although I’m not sure why since we have approximately 2 square feet of extra space in our house and shoving a fake tree with lights and a sh*t ton of balls on it doesn’t seem like a good use of space.  But I digress.

Every year we put up our tree and I always wonder what our dogs think of it.  However, I’m pretty in tune with my dogs so I asked them what they saw when they looked at our tree and they gave me a pretty accurate description.

Here it is in a graphic, because you love graphics.  And Bentley, Max and Shady Jack say “Happy holidays” to all of you!

What your dog sees when he looks at the (3)

 

 

 

photo credit: FUNKYAH via photopin cc

photo credit: FUNKYAH via photopin cc

There are several things I’m embarrassed about in my life, but tonight there are two fewer items on that list.

I’m from a small town in Illinois that was approximately 50,000 people when I was growing up.  It’s now around 45,000 people so all you fact-checkers out there, please spare me the snarky email correcting my stats.

What can I say?  The town fell apart when I left.

Aside from a slight embarrassment about growing up in a small Midwestern town, a large embarrassing fact about me is that I love McDonald’s.  Okay, maybe it’s not as well kept of a secret as I’d like it to be, as my bumper sticker says “This car brakes for McDonald’s.”

Whatever.  I love it.

photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photopin cc

photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photopin cc

Yes, I know it’s bad for me, but I’m clearly not the picture of health, so let me have this one (of many) vice.

Today, however, I’m proud to admit my humble beginnings in that small town in Illinois as it is quite close to another small town that’s made the newspapers.  What’s even better?  The story is about McDonald’s.

According to BuzzFeed, a couple in the small town of Ottumwa, Iowa, allege they purchased a cheeseburger from McDonald’s that was filled with pot. Yes.  Marijuana.  Ganja.  Mary Jane.  Reefer.

photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photopin cc

photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photopin cc

The police are investigating but if you ask me, this is the perfect way to serve pot.  You can get stoned while also curing the munchies that most certainly will follow.

I certainly hope McDonald’s capitalizes on this concept.  Adding it to a value meal makes perfect sense, as stoners can munch on fries after hitting the bong a few times.

It’s also a great way to get newbies hooked.  A dealer could simply slip a little chronic into a milkshake and before too long the drive-thru would be smokin’.  Literally.

Come to think of it, I might be more likely to eat a salad from McDonald’s if I knew the weeds I was eating were more than just iceberg lettuce.

And who doesn’t want to get a little nugget while getting their chicken McNuggets?  Extra sauce with a side of hash please.

All of a sudden people would be asking for a side of dime bag with their McRib.  I wonder if that could be super-sized.

If it could be super-sized, maybe I would be saying “I’m Lovin’ It!’ a little more.

photo credit: TheCulinaryGeek via photopin cc

photo credit: TheCulinaryGeek via photopin cc

Perhaps now the toy in the Happy Meal will be Puff the Magic Dragon.  Before too long McDonald’s logo will change from the giant M to a water bong, or maybe just a large joint….whichever one is easier to construct.

Granted, there is some question as to whether the substance in the cheeseburger was actually marijuana.  To make that determination the couple called the cops, which is a shame, as I’m sure there are high school kids everywhere who would be willing to take one for the team and test the substance.

After all, it would be in the name of justice.

photo credit: Stéfan via photopin cc

photo credit: Stéfan via photopin cc

What I find funny about this story is the fact that the people called the police instead of (1) ingesting it or (2) gifting it.

Graduation is upon us.  Some people prefer cash while others prefer hash.  It’s a perfect opportunity to take care of that loved one.

What’s also humorous is the couple immediately knew that it looked and smelled like pot.  How did that couple know such a thing?  Is D.A.R.E. really that effective?

Maybe in Ottumwa, Iowa it is.

In a way, I feel bad for the poor employee whose weed this was.  I’m sure he was itching for his break so he could sit back and enjoy a burger while he got fried.

That’s the real tragedy here.

I’m not sure if this mystery will be solved, but one thing’s for sure.  I’d like to believe the employee who processed this order is named Mary Jane.

We’ve all seen it by now; Miley Cyrus’s train wreck performance.

What’s that you say?  Which train wreck performance?

Good question.  Sorry I wasn’t more clear.

For purposes of this post, I’m referring to her performance at the 2013 MTV Music Video Awards.  I’m being quite generous with the term “perform.”  If she “performed” at these awards, then I “perform” a culinary masterpiece each night when I microwave frozen dinners and cover them with ketchup.

Because I’m super supportive, I’ve decided to write a few pointers for sweet and innocent Miley so she can learn from this experience and rise to her full potential…doing low grade porn.

1.  Look at yourself in the mirror before you make faces in public

Penises all over the world shriveled when she did this move.

Penises all over the world shriveled when she did this move.

This is NOT attractive.  Nothing about this is attractive.  I can’t imagine how you thought you were being sexy by doing this face.  Then again, I can’t imagine you thought your putting your hair into points to look like alien antennae was a good idea either.

2.  Please don’t take beauty advice from Amanda Bynes

The bra and underwear look doesn't work unless you have a bitchin' wig.

The bra and underwear look doesn’t work unless you have a bitchin’ wig.

I can only assume by your appearance that you conferred with your bestie, Amanda Bynes, about hair and makeup choices.  I’m shocked you were able to reach her while she is seeking psychiatric treatment, but I guess Amanda is just a loyal friend that way.

Either way, your choice of hair and make up was not your best.  Perhaps you should borrow one of Byne-Byne’s wigs and cover yourself.

3.  Don’t forget you have a vagina (or so it’s alleged)

What does she think she's grabbing?

What does she think she’s grabbing?

I’m not sure why you continually felt the need to grab your crotch and thrust it forward like a man would do with his balls.  Perhaps it’s from years of watching your father in skin tight jeans boot-scoot-boogy himself into the pants of women everywhere.

Fortunately, those restrictive pants lowered daddy’s sperm count so only a few spawns emerged.  It’s how the universe stayed balanced, and for that, we’re grateful.

However, thrusting your pelvis while grabbing your crotch is not something classy women typically do.  Leave that to the pros.  I believe Madonna has the market on that.

4. You have identity issues

In case you wondered what a bear's vagina looked like...

In case you wondered what a bear’s vagina looked like…

Forget the Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana confusion, your identity issues span to different species.  You are not a bear, despite emerging on stage from a teddy bear’s vagina.  Wearing a leotard with a bear’s face on it does not make you a bear.  If everyone turned into what they wear, I would be Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville covered in peanut butter.

A girl can dream.

5.  If you’re going to lip sync, try to keep up with the words

You can hear the talent through this photo, can't you?

You can hear the talent through this photo, can’t you?

Might I suggest watching a few Milli Vanilli videos?  They were pros and their music was a lot better than yours.  If you’re looking for what not to do, check out Ashley Simpson’s performance on SNL.  Actually, just google Ashley Simpson and take it from there.

6.  The teddy bear backpack/purses from the 90s are not coming back

Now that's a backpack you could put some stuff in!

Now that’s a backpack you could put some stuff in!

Believe me, I wish they were.  Nothing says sophistication quite like a child’s toy stuffed with lip gloss and then strapped to your back.  Sadly, I’ve had no luck bringing back this trend, and putting life-sized stuffed bears on the backs of others isn’t going to help the cause.

7.  Read your audience

NO ONE IS WATCHING YOU!

NO ONE IS WATCHING YOU!

Maybe you don’t actually know how to read.  I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, as you clearly didn’t read the reviews of your last album.  Either way, please learn how to know when your audience is bored.

Take a moment to stop humping whatever is nearby, and actually look at the faces of those you are supposed to be entertaining.

If you’re still confused, use this handy rule of thumb:  If you’re singing, dancing, or talking, your audience is bored.

This one makes me happy for so many reasons.

This one makes me happy for so many reasons.
(1) Boy band members? Check.
(2) Guy in background wearing oversized glasses? Check.
(3) JC Chasez trying not to laugh? Check.
(4) A photo of a woman in mid-passout of boredom? Check.
(5) Rhianna not being physically assaulted? Check.
(6) Justin Timberlake looking straight into my soul while everyone else looks elsewhere? CHECK! (please!)

And it’s a rule of thumb, not a rule of “giant foam finger that has nothing to do with anything other than to give you something else to hump while on stage.”

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MICKEY'S HAND, MILEY?!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MICKEY’S HAND, MILEY?!

That’s it for now, Miley, mostly because my brain has turned to mush after watching your performance too many times.  I can only hope you take my advice so we can all avoid these incidents in the future.

Come to think of it, it’s more entertaining if you ignore my advice completely.  You obviously ignored the advice of your stylist.

P.S.  I can see your underwear.

EVEN MORE PEOPLE NOT INTO IT!

EVEN MORE PEOPLE NOT INTO IT!

ambushed.jpg<<<<<<<I’m re-posting this one, as it happened over Christmas, but it’s one of my all-time favorite stories, and it’s such a funny memory.  I think you will enjoy, assuming you like pubes humor.

If you don’t like humor about pubes, you probably shouldn’t be reading this blog anyway…

ENJOY!>>>>>>>

Beautiful, right?

Beautiful, right?

Yes, I realize that brilliant graphic above and the title of this post isn’t how you spell “ambushed.”  I was trying to give you a hint as to what this blog post would be about, and I wanted to do it creatively, because I’m awesome that way.

Hopefully you can look past the spelling and look to the hilarity of the story.  You should, because the story is amaze-balls.

And before we go any further, how awesome is my drawing for this one?  I did it on Paint and it only took me an hour.  I’m so talented.

Every year, Matt and I go to Mexico to celebrate the Christmas holiday.  By “celebrate” we mean we lay in the sun all day, drink fruity drinks, and occasionally look at each other and say “Oh crap, its Christmas!  I totally forgot!”

We don’t go to Mexico because we don’t like Christmas; we just don’t like cold weather, or obligatory functions, or any kind of holiday that requires purchasing gifts.  (If you have a job and/or a bank account, you can buy yourself a gift.  I’m not waiting in line to get you a gift card to Starbucks.  FYI.)

drinks on the beachThis year was no different and we spent the holidays lounging on the beach, silently passing judgment on people as they walked by. (Sometimes not so silently, depending on the quantity and potency of the cocktails.)

We don’t do this to be mean, but mostly just to entertain ourselves, and because there are some seriously freaky people in this world…or at least in Puerto Vallarta over the holidays.

A few days ago I was scanning my surroundings, just taking in the scenery.  Okay, so what I was really doing was looking around for the waiter on the beach to check on the status of my refill of my Bahama mama drink.

He was nowhere to be found (probably/hopefully because he was making me another drink).  Instead of finding the waiter, I found something far better.

A young woman, probably in her early 20s, was walking up the beach from the water.  She was skinny and wearing a tiny bikini.  As I looked at her, I noticed something on her crotch area.  Immediately, I suspected she somehow got seaweed caught on her leg while she was in the ocean.

Because I’m a super caring person (and because I wanted to check on my drink status), I decided to get up  further investigate.  I figured if she had seaweed on her lady parts, she would probably want to know so she could remove it.  It’s the least I could do.

photo credit: jenny downing via photopin cc

photo credit: jenny downing via photopin cc

Oh god, how I wish it was seaweed on the inner parts of her legs.  If only….

As I approached, I realized it wasn’t seaweed, but rather an explosion of pubic hair coming out of her bikini and crawling down her legs.

I say it was crawling because I swear it was alive and quite mobile.  I saw it swaying in the wind and immediately imagined what it would look like when she was in the water.

The movement of it would most likely be confused by a snorkeling 10 year old as a different kind of seaweed.

It looked like it was busting out of her bikini bottom, as if it was trying to escape the constraints of her tiny cotton suit.  I could almost hear it gasping for air, or at least for a good shampoo and conditioner.

Naturally, I alerted my husband immediately.  I feel like this is one of those obligations a wife has to her husband.

In addition to honoring and cherishing, blah blah blah, I think there’s something in the vows about promising to alert your husband at the sighting of out of control bush at a beach.

photo credit: •●pfaff via photopin cc

photo credit: •●pfaff via photopin cc

If it isn’t in the vows, it should be, because that’s the kind of stuff that can break up a marriage otherwise.  I’m a caring wife that way.

Matt’s reaction was similar to mine.  He was horrified and happy, all at the same time.  We were both completely intrigued and decided to try to get a closer look.  Who was this creature who felt so uninhibited as to display her female whiskers.

Also, we wanted to make sure we took our camera to capture a photo of this remarkable sighting.  After all, I’m a journalist and this was just the kind of investigation you, my readers, depend upon.

I failed.  Just FYI so you don’t get all excited about seeing a photo of an untamed bush, and then you get disappointed when you don’t find it.  Part of you knew I would fail because I’m not really that great of a journalist, and I think posting photos of a stranger’s bush might put my blog into a porn category.

I’m not ready for that kind of traffic yet, so for now, you’re going to have to use your imagination.  Plus, this isn’t that kind of blog.  I try to keep it classy, people.

As we got closer to her, we confirmed what we already knew.  It was an overgrown forest between her legs.

No, it wasn’t a forest, it was a goddamn jungle.  Perhaps she wasn’t capable of trimming or removing it because it was just too strong…like maybe it was the Hulk Hogan of pubic hair.  I wondered if it wore a bandanna and called everyone “brother.”

bush.jpg

Please note the image is an artist rendering.  It’s not an actual photo.

I could only imagine what kind of sheers would be needed to slay that dragon down south.  Perhaps that’s why it was so out of control.  No razor could tame it.

No blade would step up to the task.  What she needed was Arthur from Disney’s beloved “The Sword in the Stone.”  Perhaps he was the only thing strong enough to tame that mane.

*Of note:  Arthur is also known in the movie as “Wart” which poses an interesting question about whether the massive bush was hiding something more serious…like herpes.  It also demonstrates my uncanny knowledge of Disney movies and characters.

Perhaps the only thing that would knock out a mass of hair that size would be a fire.  But then again, if she used that method, she would have a burning bush, and I don’t think that’s what Moses was talking about in the Bible.  However, he was in the dessert sand, so perhaps there’s some truth to this theory…

We approached cautiously, careful not to alarm it. I couldn’t help but say “It looks like she has two dead animals plastered to the sides of her legs.”

I bet two dead animals would smell better than what she’s got going on down there,” was my humble husband’s response.  I suspect he wasn’t wrong.

Blond Boy Crying

We followed her flowing fringe until “Miss Bush” arrived at her destination.  Unfortunately, it was not the salon for a wax.  Rather, she met up with her “friends” who were lounging on chairs on the beach.  The reason I use the term “friends” so loosely is because anyone who lets another person go out in public with pubic hair like that, is no friend at all.

Am-BUSHEDBut her friends got what they deserved, because she began talking to them while continuing to stand…while they continued to lounge in their chairs.  This provided a front row viewing of the lady mustache she was sporting.  (I just made up that term “lady mustache.”  Let’s make that a thing.)

It was obvious by their faces that her friends were aware of the vagina wig.  (There’s another one! “Vagina wig” is pure gold!  I can’t stop with creating these slang terms!)

But funnier than the faces of her friends staring down the barrel of her beard, was the face of the clearly traumatized 14 year old boy standing nearby.  I’m completely serious.

Matt and I had to stifle our laughter at that poor, tortured soul who was horrified and wanted to look away, but couldn’t find the strength to turn away from the lady sideburns.

(That’s it.  I’m going on the road with this act and all the names I’m making up for a woman’s bush.)

I wanted to comfort the poor lass, and tell him not all women’s genitalia looked like the base player from Guns ‘N’ Roses.  (Slash may have been an ugly dude, but he knew how to stroke that guitar.)

I also wanted to give him this month’s edition of Playboy to show him what classy pubic hair look like, but Matt left it on the plane for an uncomfortable stewardess to find.  (He finds this prank hilarious.  He also likes to whip it out in the middle of the flight and make the person next to him extremely uncomfortable.  And I’m talking about whipping out the Playboy magazine, not something else, you perv.)

It was at that point that we decided to go back to our lounge chairs and stop staring at the freak show of frizz.  It was starting to look angry and I swear that thing waved at me as we walked by.

We returned to our lounge chairs stunned and scarred from what we just viewed.  We knew we would never be the same, and for as long as we lived, the Mexico Christmas vacation of 2012 would forever be known to us simply as “Bushapalooza.”  We’re having t-shirts made.

Rental carI recently went to Florida for vacation.  Okay, it wasn’t vacation so much as it was a “If I don’t get out of here I’m going to lose my mind” trip.

I take those pretty regularly, as I’m frequently on the verge of losing my mind.  You should know that if you read this blog.  Actually, if you read this blog, you most likely believe I’ve already lost it.

It’s not an illogical assumption.

IMG_3472

This is the kind of view I need when I work. Not a homeless man peeing on the sidewalk.

Whenever I go to Florida I rent a car.  I don’t need anything flashy, as I like to keep a low profile.  I don’t want to draw attention to myself in my tankini and pale legs.

I usually rent the cheapest car there is, which frequently doesn’t include power windows.  It’s okay.  I need the work out.

This trip was no difference, and I got a sweet ride, complete with automatic windows AND automatic locks.  I was ballin’.

I like to go to the same beach every day.  It’s down a long strip on A1A, which is Beachfront Avenue.  I’m confident the beach I frequent is the area Vanilla Ice sang about in his catchy tune that was completely stolen from David Bowie.

I drove around forever in my rented ride, feeling every bump and pothole in my less-than-luxurious automobile.  I finally located a spot on the street and parallel parked that bad boy.

street with cars

Who could find anything on a street like this?

I’m an amazing parallel parker.  This has nothing to do with the story, but I felt it was relevant.

I pumped approximately $20.00 into the meter, because I knew this particular municipality would give you a ticket if you were even one second over your expired time.

As always, I had a million things running through my head, so I grabbed everything I needed and scurried away to the beach for some relaxation.

Just kidding.  I scurried away to the beach to work, but it felt better than sitting in a stuffy office.

After several hours on the beach, I headed back to the car, excited to use my automatic unlocking device.  One problem:  I had no idea where my car was.

Sure, I could walk up and down and look for it…if I knew what it looked like.  I didn’t.

In all the rush of getting the car and getting to the beach, I completely forgot to pay attention to the type of car I rented.

Things like color, make, size and model were details I suddenly wished I would have noted. It was time for some investigative work.

lisa with key

My only clue…the key to finding my car. Pun intended.

Looking at the keys told me it was a Toyota.  Great.  It’s not like that was one of the most popular cars on the road.  Yeah, that wouldn’t be difficult to find.

So I did what anyone would do in that situation.  I walked up and down the street clicking the unlock button, looking for my rental car and hoping the battery in the clicker was good.

Fortunately, the fine automobile I rented had a charged battery in the clicker, and I was finally able to locate my rental car.  It’s a Toyota Yaris, in case you were wondering.

Make no mistake, that’s something I won’t forget anytime soon.

IMG_3453

I named her Helen.
Isn’t that parallel parking job awesome?

Wind can be an a-holeSometimes you have a day when you feel like the whole world’s against you.  For me, it was when I found out Justin Timberlake married Jessica Biel and he was off the market.

Obviously, he’s never seen my dance moves, as I’m sure I could have mesmerized him with my movements (of belly fat.)  I know they say the hips don’t lie, and mine definitely say “I love cheese dip!”

But now I’m getting off topic, although I really do love cheese dip.

angry catI recently had one of those days where everything seemed to be going wrong.  It was a work day, which was an automatic strike  against me and my mood.

Perhaps if that day I was able to be at home in bed watching episodes of Arrested Development, things would have been better.

But alas, that pesky mortgage company requires me to pay them monthly, and my totally unreasonable employer actually expects me to work for my paycheck.  Humf!

Recently I drove out of town for work.  The trip was long and boring and Technotronic and TuPac could only keep me awake for so long.

I decided to stop at McDonald’s for a fountain Diet Coke, because McDonald’s adds a little bit of crack goodness to each cup.

Armed with my fix soda, I headed to my settings.

It was a windy day and I had several files with me.  Since I hate lugging around a briefcase on wheels, I decided to carry my files instead.

Of course, my precious addiction Diet Coke had to come as well, as I couldn’t be expected to work without it.

dog with mouth openI grabbed the files, my purse, and my drink, and headed inside.  I got a few steps away from my car and disaster struck.

No, I didn’t fall down, although that’s a totally valid guess.

A gust of wind came along and blew a few papers from one of my files.

Fortunately for me, it didn’t blow my dress up this time.  I think it learned its lesson last time when it blew up my dress and displayed my lady parts to the city of Hannibal.

resized photo of car with files scattered

Yes, I really did stop in the chaos to snap a photo for you, because I know you guys are needy and demand this kind of thing. Look at how sad Deiter looks.

(Again, Hannibal, I’m sorry, but don’t you think the restraining order is a bit of an overreaction?)

I hurried back to my car, put the stack of files on the roof of Deiter (my car) and took a sip of Diet Coke to give me strength for my 30-foot walk.

I  placed the Diet Coke on top of the files to keep them from blowing away.

I patted myself on the back for this genius move as I walked to pick up the escaped paper.

At that moment, evil wind struck again, but stronger than ever.  Before I knew it, my papers and files were strewn about the street, dancing in the wind and collectively flipping me off.

I didn’t know which papers to rescue first, so I started to run down the street to capture those furthest away, and work my way back.

Okay, I didn’t run.  I walked briskly.

As I walked, the wind continued to blow and I yelled “Stop it!” repeatedly, as if mother nature would heed my request.

I continued to yell things like “Balls!” and “Knock that off!” as I chased paper down the street.

980

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a truck turn the corner onto the street.  He approached slowly, being cautious of my situation.  I quickly thanked mother nature for throwing me a bone in my time of need.  Or in this case, a red Ford pickup truck.

I smiled at my knight in shining metal and then realized the truck wasn’t stopping at all. It was just slowing down to avoid a manslaughter charge for running me over.

I watched it drive by, simultaneously running over a few papers as he did so, crushing my pride in the process.

Don’t worry.  I watch enough Tru TV to know about how to collect evidence.  I took a photo of the culprit tire print and sent it to a lab to be analyzed.

I’m offering a reward to anyone who can provide the identity of the vehicle and tire.  the reward will be a fountain soda from McDonald’s.  So yeah, the stakes are high.

Fortunately, I was able to apprehend all the documents, despite my disappointment in mankind and all red Ford trucks.  However, when I got back to the car, I discovered the worst casualty of all.

979

RIP Diet Coke.  You left us too soon.

 

 

Everybody loves Howard Stern. And by “everybody,” I mean probably about half of the population. The other half wants to chop off what are most likely disgustingly old and sagging balls and shove them down his throat.

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

I don’t really have a preference, although I agree he probably has disgusting balls. I fall somewhere in between wanting to have a beer with the guy (only if he’s buying), and wanting to feed him a scrotum sandwich with an extra dose of women’s rights.

I don’t know how to transition into this next part of the story so I’m just telling you I’m transitioning now, which is probably just making it worse. Follow along.

I’m currenty in South Florida, pretending like I’m a baller and not convincing anyone. I’m a horrible actress and I don’t think asking if they serve “Two-Buck Chuck” wine helped sell my story. (They don’t.) But a hey, girl’s gotta dream.

This afternoon I walked through the enormous lobby of the Ritz Carlton in West Palm Beach. In an effort to look important, (and to hide the fact I was wearing sunglasses from the dollar store), I looked at my iPhone as I briskly walked through the lobby. I wanted people to think I was reading important emails, when what I was really doing was checking to see if Amanda Bynes had any new Twitter updates.

SIDE NOTE: If you are not following her on Twitter, do it now. What’s wrong with you?

I quickly realized I couldn’t read and walk at the same time, so I headed for a comfortable looking couch to rest. I almost reached my safe place when I smacked into what I thought was a wooden mop with a black head.

I looked up, expecting to see the janitor and his cleaning supplies. As I lifted my head from my very important correspondence (tweet) I wondered why a janitor was bringing the cleaning equipment through the main lobby area. Didn’t he know very important people were tweeting in there?

And then I saw who it was.

It was fricking Howard Stern…all 92 pounds of him….

Frickety Frick!

I apologized in my best “I’m totally wealthy and I know who you are and don’t care because I’m really rich” voice. I don’t think he bought it. Or if he did, he wouldn’t have been willing to pay more than the dollar I paid for my sunglasses.

Immediately I cursed myself for not buying the fancy sunglasses at Target for $19.99. Had I known I would bump into America’s raunchiest/funniest radio host, I would have splurged. Once again, my love of bargains screwed me over!

He shuffled away with this wife Beth, who looked adorable in her floppy hat that probably cost more than my mortgage.

They both walked away and I realized that collectively they weighed as much as I did.

You know I’m not a good photo journalist, but you guys push me to be better, so here’s the best I could do without looking like a total freak show chasing him to his room with my iPad.

Isn't Beth adorable?

Isn’t Beth adorable?

 

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard and Beth are looking to move to South Florida to avoid taxes in NYC, so says the word on the street (which is really just my Google search.) I don’t know if that’s true, but if they decide to move to Florida, do you think they will be looking for a roommate?

It could be just like “Three’s Company.” I would even be willing to be the super-annoying Janet and Matt could be the always dapper Mr. Roper.

Come and knock on our door, Howard! We’ll be waiting for you!

 

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.

Bloodshed and Cheddar BallsI know, I know.  I’m behind on blogs.  Pipe down.  Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  In the case of my roommate, freshman year of college, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder with her boyfriend, but it did make her grow genital warts.  True story.

I realize that it’s almost February and I’m writing a post about Thanksgiving, but doesn’t everyone love the holidays, no matter what time of year?  And Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all because it celebrates food, and freedom, and comradery, and killing Indians with cholera.

Well, maybe we don’t so much celebrate that last part, but it’s worth noting and shaming ourselves for…which is personally why I drink on that holiday.  I guess that means I’m a good American.

I really do have a lot of stories to tell you from when I was gone from the blog, but there’s only so much I can tell at once.   So bear with me, as some of these stories may not be timely. (Much like my college roommate’s “special visitor” one particular month which led to a pregnancy scare.  Another true story.)

But don’t get mad about it.  I’ve been backed up!  I feel like since I just had my gallbladder removed, I should make a joke about poo, but I won’t.  I’m better than that…and I also can’t think of anything clever to do with that joke.

On to Thanksgiving and the story.  This year we went to my brother’s wife’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t that where most people go for the holidays?  I would like to think it’s because my brother’s wife’s parents think we are awesome and want to spend the holidays with me and Matt, but somehow I think pity plays a big role in our invitation.  Whatever, they had good wine.

As soon as we arrived, we felt like ass-hats because we didn’t make anything.  Don’t get me wrong, we brought something.  (We aren’t horrible people!)  That something just didn’t happen to be ours.  Rather, we snagged a bag of pies from my parents as they were loading the car.  We didn’t want to look like ass-hats…but we were fine being them.  (Side note:  “Bag of Pies” would make a great band name.)

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Since I have an amazing moral compass, I knew I needed to pull my weight, so I immediately began helping in the kitchen.  This may have been partly because I wanted to help, and partly because I wanted to make the cheese balls. I wanted to ensure I would have complete control over how much cheese was used for said balls. (Hee hee…balls…)

The recipe called for finely chopped nuts.  (I know, these balls and nuts jokes are getting to be too easy….much like my college roommate.)  Once I realized the “fine” description in the recipe wasn’t telling me that I needed to do a good job, I looked around for a food processor.  But for the record, had I chopped the nuts myself, I would have done a fine job.  Just FYI.

The processor was packed neatly in a box, instead of thrown in a random cabinet like it is at my house.  I immediately began trying to put the food processor together.  I wanted to earn my keep, and I was also seriously craving cheddar.

My brother’s mother in law, Hallmark (not her real name), and I decided to tackle this project together, because two heads are better than one, but also because she is a fan of the cheddar balls too.  (I’m resisting yet another ball joke.  I’m so mature.)

Unfortunately, Hallmark and I together may actually have been collectively more clueless than we were separately when it came to putting together the food processor.  Fortunately, we are both adorable and amazingly awesome, so it made up for our inability to follow written directions.  Since I was the guest, and wanted to show it wasn’t a complete mistake allowing us to crash Thanksgiving, I took the processor by the blade and took action.  Sadly, the blade retaliated against me by taking a chunk off the tip of my finger.  He was clearly not in the holiday spirit.

Immediately blood began gushing out of my finger, and dripped all over the nuts.  (Seriously, people.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the peanuts.)  I looked around helplessly and locked eyes with the one person I didn’t want to know about my mishap; my husband.  His reaction was exactly what I expected from him, although I can’t say it was out of line.

He shook his head as said in an exasperated tone, “Two minutes, babe.  You’ve been here two minutes.”

I want to say that he was exaggerating on the time.  I want to say that so badly.  But I can’t, because he was right, and I’m also fairly certain he rounded up.  At that point, the blood was gushing everywhere and judging by the look in his eye, I knew Matt wouldn’t be the first to volunteer blood for my inevitable transfusion.  Fortunately, Hallmark came to my rescue and helped me bandage my wound.  (Didn’t I tell you she was awesome?)

Matt gently sat me down on the couch and said we should “just sit here for a while.” Again, I wanted to be irritated with him, but I figured it would be more efficient to only drip blood on one spot of the carpet instead of all over the house.  I was a considerate house guest.

We waited for dinner to be served, all the while ensuring my finger remained over my head to stop the bleeding.  Finally, the food was ready and we proceeded to the dining room to eat.  I hoped the cheese balls were amazing, and fortunately, they were.  But then again, of course they were.  They had a little piece of me in every bite.

I’m also confident we will not be invited back next year, so Matt and I are now accepting invitations for Thanksgiving!

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Because my life is super glamorous, I often have to go out of town for work.  I like to think it’s because my company wants to send the best man (er…woman) for the job, but I’m pretty sure they send me because it’s an excuse to get me out of the office for a day or two.

Apparently some people don’t like my afternoon reggae party and the smell of Indian food makes others nauseous.  Whatever. (If they think the food smells bad, they should come into my office a few hours after I’ve eaten it…)

Today I was in the Windy City of Chicago, which is a far nicer city than the ones I’ve been to lately. (However, I didn’t see a single restaurant offering bags o’ burgers, which made me a bit sad).  I arrived in Chicago the night before my meeting because I’m not a morning person and didn’t want to take a red eye flight in the morning.

I also wanted to partake in room service and the complimentary robes the hotel provides.  (I also secretly wanted a bed to myself without having to share it with 3 dogs and a husband, but don’t repeat that.)

This morning I met a coworker and we headed out on foot to the location of our meeting.  When it comes to Chicago, I only have a slight idea where I am at any given time and even less of an idea where I’m going.  (Come to think of it, that’s typically how I am no matter what city I’m in.)  When it comes to New York, I can get anywhere in no time, which subway line to take, and which homeless men to avoid.  When it comes to Chicago, I can barely hail a cab.

I’m not sure why we decided to walk to the meeting.  It certainly wasn’t my idea, as I have a strict “no exercise” policy.  However, my coworker started walking and I didn’t want to not be a team player, so I joined him.  I think you know where this story ends up…we got lost.

My phone couldn’t figure out where we were or where we were going and the trail of crumbs from my Fiber One bar was long gone, eaten by a combination of pigeons and homeless people.  (Please note the trail of crumbs was inadvertent…but then again, you totally knew that.)  We were screwed.

I was in heels and didn’t want to walk anymore, so I decided to hail a cab.  (Okay, so maybe the fact I was in heels had nothing to do with my desire to sit down, but let’s go with that, as it’s a reasonable excuse.)  I hailed a cab, got in, and cursed Michael Kors for making such uncomfortable shoes.

Before I go any further, I must point out that my coworker had never been to a city like Chicago.  He’d never taken a cab in a big city and had no idea what he was in for.  Okay, calm down, I’m getting back to the story.

We told the cabbie our destination and he sped off down the road, leaving skid marks and a pile of smoke in his wake (which, strangely enough, is the same result I get when eating Indian food, but that’s another story).  As we were just settling in to our wheelchair accessible cab, we were shaken from our thoughts by our cabbie dropping f-bombs at every-single-person on the road.  Seriously.  Every. One.

But then it escalated.  A woman in her twenties was riding her bike IN THE BIKE LANE when he came up on her in his cab, going approximately 100 miles per hour.  She rode right next to his cab, unaffected, although she came dangerously close to hitting him (BECAUSE HE WAS DRIVING IN THE BIKE LANE.)  And then it was on.

“That b&%^$ thinks she can f#$# with me today?” he yelled at the two of us, as if we were supposed to do anything other than shit our pants and text our loved ones a good bye message.

Before we could answer, he pulled around her, barely missing her, and then pulled in front of her to cut her off, all the while calling her mother a whore.  I looked at my coworker, who was petrified and I’m pretty sure I saw him praying the rosary, although I can’t be sure.

When the cabbie nearly struck the biker, he then yelled that he hoped the bi$#@ was struck by another car and seriously hurt because she was being so stupid (IN THE BIKE LANE.  RIDING HER BIKE IN THE BIKE LANE.)

“Who does she think she is?” he asked my coworker, as if he could say anything other than a few dozen Hail Marys.  “If she got hit it would be her fault and then where would she be?  I’m fully insured, Mother F@#$$.”

He then proceeded to cut off another vehicle who he just referred to as “Tennessee,” almost clipped two pedestrians, dropped a few racial slurs, and then dropped us off right in front of our destination.

My coworker gathered the things that spilled out of his bag when it went tumbling upon the first near homicide.  As he did that, I paid the cabbie.  I only had a $10 bill for the $5 fare, but I feared he would pop a cap in my face if I asked him for change.  Instead, I gave him the $10 and told him the extra money was for his troubles.  That actually seemed to make smile, which was good, as I wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t run me over when I exited the vehicle.

He sped away as quickly as he arrived, and I looked to my coworker to see how he enjoyed his first big city cab ride.  He said he enjoyed it just fine, and then immediately asked if there was a drug store close by.  He needed to buy Pepto Bismol, although I’m sure it wasn’t related at all to the roller coaster ride of death we just experienced.  Fortunately for us, the cab got us there early, so we had plenty of time to buy medicine to calm our stomachs, and caffeine to calm our nerves.