signs you're not a gardenerSpring is in the air, which means your eyes are puffy from pollen and you go from using your heater to your air conditioner all in the span of 24 hours.

For as long as I can remember, my parents spent the weekends in the spring and summer cultivating their gardens (and their wine habit). I always assumed I would follow in their footsteps, albiet those steps were stepping stones in a sea of green grass.

However, for some reason I missed the gardening-loving gene, although I did inherit the wine habit.

I learned the hard way that I didn’t have a green thumb. Unfortunately, my hostas and my manicure fell victim to this lesson.

However, in the hopes of saving the world from unnecessary manicure massacres, I’ve compiled a list to help you figure out if you’re a gardener or not.

1.  You think buying plant food means ordering a salad.

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2.  You like your garden clean and free of dirt.

3.  You prefer to do all gardening indoors.

 

4.  You think a spade is only something in a deck of cards.

 

5.  Wearing gloves isn’t enough to convince you to touch dirt.

 

6.  You can’t keep your artificial plants alive.

 

7.  You don’t look good in hats and your skin is far too delicate for direct sunlight.

8.  You always tip over the watering can.

9.  Even drawings of flowers make you break out in hives.

 

10.  You think gardening is sexy only when it’s done by the sexy hunk you hired.

 

Hopefully this list helped you decide if you have a green thumb.  Personally, it’s not the thumb I think of when I think of gardening.

It’s another finger entirely…


Other places on the web this week where I’m cracking people up!

8 Ridiculously Petty Fights I’ve Actually Had With My Husband

15 Things That Will Surprise You About Men When You Move In

10 “Wierd” Things That Couples Do That Are Totally Normal

 

I have serious writer’s block.  It affects most writers and I’m currently suffering from it, which means you’re suffering from not getting a post….until now.

Fortunately, my friend Ashley over at Big Top Family decided to help me out and do a guest post.  It’s the perfect post because it’s about angry exercising….as if there’s such a thing as happy exercising.

Here is a little about Ashley before we get started with the hilarity.

ashley_homepage_picAshley Allen is a multi-task-dysfunctional mom of three boys, including a set of twins, and a survivor of a weird childhood. She writes a circusy, irreverent humor blog at http://www.bigtopfamily.com about her childhood and adulthood, and always seems to find that the bridge between them isn’t as long as she thinks. When she’s not blogging or juggling the family  balls, you can find her ridonkulous musings on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest

EXERCISERI’ve always had a Love/Loathe relationship with exercise – mostly Loathe. But there have been times in my life that I have actually loved it, even though that love was an Angry Love. Let me explain.

The first time I recall ever consistently exercising, I was 20 years old and in desperate need of an exercise regimen outside of lifting beer mugs and slices of pizza to my greasy lips. I was living and working in a college town, having been ousted from the college itself with a .8 grade point average.  My dad had promptly pulled the plug on financial support, but I stayed in town because I was dating a townie who worked at JC Penney. VERY promising.

I got a job working as a drug store cashier to continue paying my rent, and my roommate happened to work at Pizza Hut, so her free pizza perks kept our grocery budget down.

It didn’t, however, have the same effect on my weight. I gained thirty pounds in the span of a year and a half, and even though my ass was the size of Texas, I couldn’t get it up and motivated to do any exercise at all.

Until I got dumped by Mr. JC Penney.

Mr. JCP was one of the Dipshidiots I mentioned in my Mama’s Boy post. You might recall that one of them was a seminarian? Well, Mr. JCP wasn’t a seminarian during the time we dated, but he went on to be one, I’m told. Back when we were dating, he kept breaking up with me so that he could stay celibate in preparation for his dream of becoming an Anglican Priest. That’s the kind, by the way, that can get married, so, uhhh, let’s not kid ourselves.

My guess is 90 percent of the straight guys who enter the seminary in their twenties have bagged at least one babe or two, and God’s not gonna hold that against them. I mean, being a guy, God’s probably even going to high-five them for it, with one of his gigantic hands.

Anywho. Mr. JCP would break up with me every other month or so because he said that’s what God wanted him to do, and I didn’t get too upset because who can get pissed off at God, for chrissakes? The last time he broke up with me, however, I found out that the Big Man Upstairs had nothing to do with it. In fact, it was the Little Man Downstairs that was calling all the shots, since Mr. JCP had been banging half the desperate bimbos at Penneys, including the married ones!

Devastated, crushed, and completely Looney Tunes, I didn’t show up for work, I wouldn’t leave my room, I stopped showering, I drank a lot of Natural Light, and I gorged myself on everything that Pizza Hut’s expansive menu had to offer. After about a week of this abuse, I looked in my full-length mirror and said, “Aw, HELL naw!” I shimmied my fat ass into some sweatpants, blew the dust off my sneakers, headed outside, and ran faster than Forrest Gump the day he took a bullet to the butt saving other people’s asses in Vietnam.

Of course, I only made it about a block before I passed out and had to receive mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a random pedestrian. (Not really, but you get my point. I was out of shape). That day, though not exactly epic in terms of miles run or calories burned, was a hugely pivotal day because on it, The Angry Exerciser was born.

The Angry Exerciser was a fat-burning persona of vengeance who APPEARED to the casual onlooker to be running, stair-climbing, or ellipticalling herself to death, but internally, she was kicking ass in a mixed martial arts cage match with cheaters, liars, various JC Penney employees, and the occasional clergyman.

In six month’s time, I was able to shed the extra thirty pounds, buy a new wardrobe, move out of the college town, and start taking community college classes so that I could eventually go back to a four-year-college. I dialed my exercise regimen back to a maintenance level of twice or three times a week, and eventually I noticed that The Angry Exerciser had packed her bags and gone on vacation.

That wasn’t the last I would see of her, though, not by a long shot. She would be back many, many, many more times in my life, when some Ass Hat would dump me, cheat on me, tell me I was gaining weight, flirt with one of my friends, stop calling me, stand me up for a date, do the White Man’s Overbite with some other girl on the dance floor, or all of the above.

Eventually, The Angry Exerciser just decided to unpack her travel suitcase and move in with me, because being the co-dependent type, I woke up one day and found I couldn’t do a lick of exercise without her.

Even now, nineteen years (oh, for Eff’s sake, really? NINETEEN YEARS?), one husband, and three kids later, though I don’t have any cheaters or liars to currently fuel The Angry Exerciser’s rage, I still desperately need her in order to work out. So I trick her, coax her out with her old memories, put ear buds in her ears, and make her listen to Pink, Kelly Clarkson, Maroon 5, Miranda Lambert, Cee-Lo Green (you know the one), Florence + the Machine, and yes, shudder, Miley Cyrus. (I can’t stand the little twerker, but who can resist “Wrecking Ball?” Who)?!

I do whatever it takes to get The Angry Exerciser back, because even though the Mind and Heart can heal themselves from Dipshidiot Rejection, the Ass never forgets.

TheI despise exercise. (Hey, that rhymed!) Something about getting sweaty and out of breath just doesn’t appeal to me.  Those are the kind of activities that I usually get out of by claiming I have a headache or are having my “ladies’ days.”

Either way, I hate working out, which is evident as soon as you lay eyes on me, as my body is pretty much all mush and lots of guacamole.  Lots.

Zumba is a great way to lose weight, and it’s a lot of fun, if you think fun is bouncing around in a poorly ventilated room with a bunch of post-menopausal women and Gary, the creepy overweight guy who is at every class.  Every.  Fricking.  Class.

Some say running is best.  In my skinny days I ran and had a love/hate relationship with it.  I hated every second of the run but loved the loaded nachos that awaited me.  Now I prefer to skip the running and go straight to the nachos.

Aerobics is also another way to lose those extra pounds….if it was 1986.

The stationary bike is something many turn to in order to feel the burn.  Unfortunately, all I feel is the seat slowly riding up my a$$.  I really don’t want something shoved up there that’s been up many others before me.  I’m also just not that kind of girl.

What about an elliptal machine? That’s probably the best of all evils but it still requires me to go to the gym, and it smells like old man farts there so I prefer to stay away.  Those farts are probaly from Gary.

That leaves only one other option, and it’s the easiest of ways to exercise.  It requires no trips to the gym and no one will be around to judge you for just how hard you’re panting after 2 minutes.  It’s my exercise of choice, if I had to choose.  Of course, my favorite choice is to avoid it all together, but if I’m forced to try to fit into those ever-shrinking Pajama Jeans, sometimes it’s necessary to walk it off.

What is it?  Walking. It’s not hard and has the least chance of injury, so it’s a great choice for me.

Because you guys liked my Fat Girl’s Guide To Yoga so much, I decided to do a Fat Girl’s Guide to Walking.  Once again, it’s on a diagram so it requires minimal reading.  These tips are pure gold so enjoy.  And the best part of walking as a form of exercise?  You get to avoid Gary-farts.

Thefatgirlsguidetowalking (1)

Wanna know where else I’m on the web this week?  Here you go!

10 Signs You’re Pushing 40 And Don’t Give An Eff

5 Totally Superficial Things I’m Thankful For (Don’t Judge Me)

8 Things That Really Fricking Suck About Dating A Worry-Wart

 

fat girl's guide to yogaI’m not a fan of exercise.  Who is, really?  It’s a necessary part of life, but that doesn’t make it any less horrible.  When I was in high school and college I worked out all the time; so much so it was almost an addiction.  Sometime in law school I found a new addiction: Oreos.  And Doritos.  And pizza.  And Taco Bell.

Of course, I also discovered fat rolls.

I’ve gone back and forth with different workouts over the years but nothing has really stuck.  So I turned to the only option left. Yoga.

Yes, yoga.  At first I thought this would be a great workout because it meant I could sit down and call it exercise.  I also loved that I didn’t have to wear shoes.  I figured it couldn’t be that hard if it didn’t require footwear.

Obviously I was greatly mistaken.  After trying yoga several times I’ve decided that I hate it.  No.  I despise it.  I realize there are people who think it’s great, but there are also people in the world who don’t like cookie cake.  It takes all kinds of crazies to make the world go ’round.

Since I want to save my readers from the misery of downward dog, I’ve created a fat girl’s guide to yoga.  It’s pretty with pictures so it’s easy to read.  Yoga requires effort but following a guide on how to do yoga should be effortless.fatgirlsguidetoyoga (2)

I’m on the web other places this week!

Why Water Parks Are Like Bars

What’s In The Kardashians’ Storage Unit

jumping off diving board**This post is syndicated with The Levison Group and originally appeared in various publications across the U.S.**

It’s summertime and the living’s easy. Well, maybe the living isn’t easy but it’s definitely summertime.

Summer is my favorite time of year and lounging at the pool is one of my favorite pastimes, and not just because there’s a great concession stand. However, I can never escape my legal tendencies, even at the pool, and every year when I go I think about the legalities behind it.

People undoubtedly injure themselves every year at their local swimming hole. From belly flops to slip and falls, the pool most certainly has its fair share of lawsuits.

So why is it that none of us sign a waiver when we’re admitted? Obviously the pool hasn’t hired me as their lawyer because if it did it would require everyone to sign a waiver before accessing the pool.

I’ve thought about what it should include, and here is my proposed waiver.

  • I agree not to run at the pool. I’m not sure why I would run around the pool as it’s all the same body of water and one part isn’t any more exciting than the other.
  • I will throw away my trash from the snack bar so ant farms don’t set up camp around the only available table. I will also agree to give the rest of my pretzel with cheese to the woman who has been eying it since I sat down.
  • I will not stand on the diving board while yelling to my friends about what kind of jump to do. I will collaborate with my friends and come to a decision about the jump before approaching the board.
  • I will not bring water guns to the pool and shoot them at unsuspecting people who didn’t want to get blasted in the face with chlorine water. I’m not sure why I would bring a gun that shoots water to be used while simultaneously standing in water.

kids at pool

  • I will not shove my body into a suit from last season and parade around the pool. I will accept that I have gained a few pounds and buy the next size up.
  • I will not spray sunscreen. I will use the stuff from the bottle because the spray sunscreen is ridiculous. I’m not that lazy.
  • I will not yell at my friends across the pool about stupid stuff.
  • I will read up-to-date magazines so I can share them with other pool goers when I’m done. Everyone deserves to be caught up on the latest celebrity gossip.
  • I will not throw a tantrum like it’s the end of the world when my parents make me leave the pool. I will come back the next day. And the next.
  • I will wear shoes in the restroom, because it’s gross not to
  •  I will ignore the fact that the lifeguards are all 16 years old and weigh 100 pounds and couldn’t even save my left foot if I was drowning.

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  • If I fall asleep at the pool I won’t snore. If I do, I understand if other pool goers move my chair away from them.
  • I will not block the exit ladder in the deep end of the pool. If I’m under 10 years old I shouldn’t be in the deep end anyway.
  • I will not talk loudly on my cell phone while laying out. I realize, however, it’s acceptable to do so only if I discuss juicy gossip on the phone and then let other pool goers in on the details.
  • I will not ask my friends whether that was a good cannon ball. It’s a cannon ball. There’s no skill.

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Maybe this waiver wouldn’t deter these behaviors from happening at the pool, but it would at least give a basis to kick people out for their idiotic behavior. Then again, if people were kicked out for violating these rules, there would be no one but me left at the pool. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be so bad.

Hey local pool, call me.

The real pool rules

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I’ve started going to the gym.  Award please.

Since I’ve been sick I haven’t been able to work out.  Best.  Excuse.  Ever.

Now that I’m feeling better, I have no reason to let my gym membership go unused (a.k.a. my fat tax).  I hit the gym this weekend with my husband, who is a total gym rat.  Being married to a guy with zero body fat is hard enough, but going to the gym with him is even worse.

Walking into the gym we were greeted by several regulars, all of whom said hello to him.  When their attention shifted to me, I saw pity in their eyes, but I could tell they were giving me a supportive “good for you” glance as well.

I approached the dreaded elliptical machine with hatred in my eyes and pre-emptive soreness in my thighs.  I knew that machine was going to beat up on me and I was hesitant to let the torture begin.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I mounted the machine and slowly moved my feet.  “Pedal faster!” it immediately shouted at me.  Okay, it didn’t shout it, but the exclamation point said it all.

It was calling me out on my half-assed attempt at exercise.  (Which is funny, because I certainly have more than half an ass.)

I don’t respond well to peer pressure, but I knew the machine wouldn’t register the calories I would burn if I continued at that pace, and I wanted to burn a few calories so I could eat the Sweet Tarts I had at home.  So I stepped it up.  Literally.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

Immediately I realized I hated working out and wanted to stop.  Why do people do this to themselves?

I looked over at my husband running on the treadmill.  He looked like a goddamned gazelle.

I pushed on, thinking about my beloved Sweet Tarts and how I was going to spend some quality time with them when I got home.  I thought that would get me through the work out.

It didn’t.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I hid the timer with a towel, as I didn’t want to watch the seconds tick away slowly.  I also wanted my towel close by.

I was already getting winded and I had barely pedaled faster, as per the machine’s instructions.

Soon I began sweating and my breath was labored.  I knew I was almost done with my 30 minutes but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the timer.

It had been 2 minutes and 53 seconds.  Seriously?!

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

How did people do this on a regular basis?  How was my husband flying through the air without so much as a drop of sweat?

The only solace I took was seeing my favorite gym-goer.  He’s an old man who wears a lifting belt no matter what exercise he does.  The best part?  He uses the weight machines, hence, no need for the weight belt.

He looked at me and smiled and then gave me a thumbs up.  I have no idea what that meant, but I can only assume he farted and his thumbs up was to show he felt better.  That guy is one gassy beast, so I feel confident saying that’s the reason.

Somehow I managed to finish my workout on Beatrice, which is what I named that dreadful machine.  Beatrice was less than kind to me and yelled at me to “speed up!’ more than once.  She was a fricking drill sergeant.

I stepped off Beatrice and wiped her down, even though she deserved to wallow in my sweat.  I stumbled getting off of her but was careful not to fall face-first into her evil twin sister, Bertha who was standing next to her.  She looked equally as menacing as Beatrice and not at all forgiving.  I knew they were going to talk about me when I left.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I headed to the door with my husband, proud I completed the workout, but mad I sweated enough to necessitate a shower.

‘”See you tomorrow!”  my husband said to the woman at the front desk as we left.  Um, what?  Tomorrow? I didn’t care if I never saw Beatrice again.  Apparently I was going to have to endure her screaming the following day.

One thing was for certain.  I was going to need another roll of Sweet Tarts if this gym thing was going to continue.

return to the gym

 

the fat taxIt’s tax season once again.  Normally I like the change in seasons as it gives me an excuse to buy new clothes to keep with the trends*, but tax season is no such fun.

*SPOILER ALERT:  The trends are always Pajama Jeans.

Come to think of it, I still buy new clothes when tax season comes around.  I can’t be expected to look at W2s in last year’s sweatpants.

All this talk of taxes and deductions (and clothes purchases) got me thinking about my waistline and how I need to reduce that along with my adjusted gross income.  If only it was that easy.

Sure, I could eat healthier.  I could, but I won’t.  I’d like to tell you that I’m going to make a conscious effort to limit myself to only 3 Oreos per night, but I’d also like to not make myself into a liar.

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

I’d like to tell you that instead of potato chips, I’ll eat kale chips instead.  However, baked weeds don’t have the same flavor as fried potatoes, so I can’t tell you such a thing.

And yes, potatoes are vegetables.  I googled it.

Since I’m not willing to eat roughage and limit my intake of processed foods,  I figured maybe I would focus on exercise and going to the gym.  As many of you know, I used to be quite the gym-goer.

Once a week makes you a regular gym-goer, right?

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

From personal training to zumba classes, I used to take a more active role in…well…being active.  Lately?  Not so much.  Granted, I’ve had health issues that have prevented my from hitting the gym, but those issues haven’t affected me for the past 10 years in that way…I just don’t like to go and I’m not going to start now.

So what to do?  Nothing.  I’m going to do nothing.

Maybe my monthly gym membership is just a tax.  A fine I have to pay for being fat.

A part of me wants to concede my defeat and cancel the membership entirely.  It’s not like I’m walking around in a size 0 pair of sweats.  My double chin tells the world I see the inside of a potato chip bag much more than the inside of the gym.

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

And yet, my gym membership remains active…unlike me.

Instead of making the effort to go to the gym and cancel my membership (there’s steps, so it’s a workout just to go there), I’ve decided to call it my “fat tax” and leave it at that.

There are taxes on all sorts of things in our great nation and this is just going to be another one of those things.  People pay additional taxes on cigarettes and alcohol.  Why not pay a tax on being fat?

If it means I can sit at home, watch “The Bachelor” and not feel guilty about avoiding the gym, then I’m all for levying this tax against me.

Hopefully it comes with a complimentary bag of chips…and Oreos.

 

Isn't he cute?

Isn’t he cute?

My husband and I recently decided to test the bounds of our relationship:  We took on a home improvement project.

When we bought our house, the guest bedroom was a shade of baby blue that no baby has ever been able to successfully rock.

Unfortunately, we were too tired from bossing the moving men around to paint the room back then, but we figured we’d get to it later.

***Enter five years later***

A few weeks ago we decided to take on this painting project.

Maybe we were incapacitated, or maybe we were just stupid, but either way, we decided to paint the room and roll the dice on if our marriage would survive.

Cleaning before painting.  Even though paint wasn't opened at this point, it was still crucial he wore the HazMat suit.

Cleaning before painting. Even though paint hasn’t been opened at this point, it’s crucial to wear the HazMat suit.

SIDE NOTE:  Home Depot and Lowe’s should add a complimentary divorce kit to any home improvement project purchase over $200.  It would be an excellent service to their customers.

Fortunately, our marriage (and our walls) survived painting and redoing our bedroom.

Of course, my husband said a few funny things throughout the day that helped get me through.

Smelling paint thinner also helped.

 

Idea Man

The kids are using Pinterest these days.  They tell me there’s good stuff on there.”

FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, WHENEVER WE SAW ANYTHING WE LIKED AT THE STORE…

Pin it!

Inspirational Speaker

We haven’t made any mistake that can’t be fixed.”

LESS THAN 2 MINUTES LATER….

Well, that can’t be fixed!

Doesn't it look like he's not wearing shorts under his painting suit?  He is, but still...

Doesn’t it look like he’s not wearing shorts under his painting suit? He is, but still…

The Musician

Lisa:  “I have California Girls in my head.”

Matt:  “Crap.  Now I do too. Wait, which one?  Katy Perry or the Beach Boys version?  I want to be on the same page.”

The Martyr

Matt:  “I’m tired and hungry.”

Lisa:  “Poor baby.  How do you do it?  How do you forge ahead when things are this difficult?

Matt:  “One day at a time…<sighs and hold head down> One day at a time…

Wealth of Knowledge

Matt:  “There was an interesting article the other day about how people are able to walk across hot coals.”

Lisa:  “How do they do it?

Matt:  “I don’t know.  I didn’t read the article.”

The Fashionista

Lisa:  “You can’t wear your Chuck Taylors while you paint.”

Matt:  “I can wear my Chuck Taylors and do anything.”

Can you believe he chose the Chuck Taylor's that most closely matched his outfit?

Can you believe he chose the Chuck Taylor’s that most closely matched his outfit?

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!

How to make an ugly christmas sweaterRecently I attended a Christmas in July charity fundraiser.  I didn’t attend so much because I’m charitable, but because I love getting gifts, and I assumed the fundraiser would include door prizes and auction items.

*On a side note, anyone who says “Giving is more fun than receiving” has never received a gift certificate for a day at the spa.  To those people who think it’s more fun to give than receive, feel free to give me as many gifts as you’d like if it makes you feel better.*

After all, I’m quite charitable.

As part of this event’s festivities, there was a contest for the ugliest Christmas sweater/t-shirt.  I’m competitive so I took this contest seriously.

I wanted to win and shove it in the faces of all the other participants so they would know I was the winner and far superior.

You know, all in good fun of course…

I knew I couldn’t construct an ugly Christmas shirt alone, so I called for reinforcements to make something amazing the night before the event. Downtown Christy Brown couldn’t help because she already had plans.

Obviously she didn’t care about charity.

Fortunately, my friend The Great Ape (not her real name) was kind enough to join me in my mission.

We sat down and sketched out our vision like designers on Project Runway.  We came up with our idea to turn me into a Christmas mantle with a stocking hanging from it.  I know, it’s a brilliant idea, which we came up with while I repeatedly yelled “Make it work” in my best Tim Gunn impression.

We headed to a thrift store to get what we needed, which is an entirely different post for a different day.  For reals.  We saw some disturbing things.

Here’s what we purchased for my award-winning design:

photo (87)

Yes, that’s a basket shoved inside a stuffed animal.  I can’t tell if the basket is violating the snowman or if the snowman ate the basket.

stewartMy first act was to decapitate the snowman.  I didn’t want to do it, but peer pressure is a bitch and The Great Ape threatened to do it with a guillotine if I didn’t act quickly.  Not only did I not want the snowman to die like Marie Antoinette, I also didn’t want to know how The Great Ape would fashion a guillotine out of things from my kitchen.

However, I’d seen her work making artificial chimpanzee vaginas, so I didn’t question her creativity skills.

I stepped up to the snowman, avoiding eye contact.  I named him Stewart, and I didn’t want him to know I’d purchased him solely to brutally murder him so I could win a gift card.

photo (89)I held my breath, took the scissors and began to cut, apologizing to Stewart along the way, pointing out he’s lucky he survived as long as he did, what with a basket shoved up his ass and all.

He hung on for a while, making it all the more difficult.  I’m not sure why I didn’t expect him to be a fighter.  He was a snowman who managed to stay alive during 100 degree temperatures in the July heat.

Combine that with the painful hemorrhoids he must have been experiencing from the basket in the ass, and Stewart was nothing but a warrior.

A wounded warrior, but a warrior nonetheless.

As I decapitated Stewart, all the while telling him it was for the greater good, I looked over to find Shady Jack staring in horror.  He loves his stuffed toys and always has one in his mouth.  I didn’t intend for him to see my dirty work, but he walked in just as I began cutting and there was no turning back.

I could practically hear his gasp and although I can’t be sure, I think I saw a tear run down his face.

photo (90)Stewart finally succumbed to the wrath of the kitchen scissors, and The Great Ape got to work quickly sewing his neck shut while I washed the proverbial blood off my hands.  It wasn’t so much blood from Stewart as it was blood from nicking my finger with the scissors.

It was Stewart’s final attempt at life and I didn’t blame him for it.

R.I.P. sweet snowman.

We worked a few more hours sewing and gluing until we had our masterpiece.  We held it up and heard the angels sing as the dining room chandelier shone down on our finished work.  Stewart would have been proud, had he lived to see the final result.

photo (91)It was a bitchin’ shirt if I do say so myself, and I do say so.  Duh.  Obviously, I won the competition, and since it was a charity event, I got to pose for a photo with one of the representatives from the charity.  The photo will be be in their newsletter, which will no doubt increase donations in Stewart’s name.

Despite my win, I couldn’t help but feel a little regret for sweet Stewart, who gave his life so I could win a gift card. I got over it pretty quickly and drowned my sorrows in a snow cone I purchased with my winnings.

Stewart would have wanted it that way.