New Year's resolutionsI hate new year’s resolutions.  The obvious reason is that I hate agreeing to do things that might be difficult.  That’s why I’ve never successfully completed a jigsaw puzzle, or an entire episode of the news.

I also hate resolutions because I like to think that I’m pure perfection, and I don’t need any improvement, which probably just shows I’m in a state of denial, but I don’t care.  I like to think I’m fabulous and without flaws.

Another reason I hate new year’s resolutions is because I will always fail to keep them, which just further reminds me that I’m a failure, and brings back childhood memories of letting down my 5th grade kickball team when I whiffed the ball and lost the game.

I still can’t look at a red kickball without getting misty-eyed.

So this year I decided I would make some resolutions that I knew I could keep.  That way, I would feel good about myself and my success, instead of feeling bad about myself and drowning my sorrows in Grey Goose.

Come to think of it, I will also celebrate my success with Grey Goose, so either way, there’s vodka on the table.  Here are a few of my resolutions for this year.  They should be your resolutions too because I think they’re pretty easy for anyone to keep.

1.  Eat good food

girl eating hot dogJust to be clear, this resolution isn’t to eat healthy food; it’s to eat good tasting food.  The two are completely different, despite what my personal trainer and my mother say.

Newsflash:  Spaghetti squash doesn’t taste anything like pasta, no matter how much you douse it in marinara.  So pass the pasta and shut it.

If I made a resolution to eat healthy food, the Chipotle I had for lunch and the Domino’s I had for dinner would not meet with that resolution, and I like to think of myself as a winner.

So vowing to eat delicious food this year is not only a resolution I know I can keep, it’s one I will take quite seriously. I’m dedicated to myself like that.

2.  Have as many embarrassing moments as possible

baboonThis is one resolution I can stick to even without trying.

For some reason, I manage to embarrass myself regularly; the way some people accomplish goals, or breathe air.

From dropping the bottom of my dress in the toilet to opening the door on a perfect stranger using the toilet, I get myself into some embarrassing situations.

Come to think of it…many of them involve toilets.  I don’t even want to know what that suggests about me.

3.  Come up with new and interesting excuses for why I can’t go to the gym

sickNo more “I’m sick” or “I pulled my scrotum.”

Those are old excuses that died with 2014, and any dream I had of fitting into clothes from the Juniors department ever again.

I’m also pretty sure that my physical trainer has caught on to the fact that one can only biologically have 2 sets of grandparents, yet I’ve managed to have nearly 6 of them die in the last year.

I think he’s starting to do that math.  This year I’m going to come up with new material for why I can’t make it to my workouts. Nothing is off limits this year.

I’m going to dig deep and dream big and look up new conditions on WebMD.

4.  Dress comfortably

sweater and hatSince I own a pair of Pajama Jeans, this is one resolution I’m confident I can keep.  I plan on not letting constricting pants get in the way of my comfort.  Please note this resolution goes hand in hand with resolution number 1.

Gone are the days of wearing pants that button, and dresses that cling to my fat rolls.  This year I’m going to branch out and wear more flowy clothes, which basically means I will be increasing my trips to the maternity clothes outlets.

If any of you have coupons for Motherhood, send them my way.  Those maternity pants aren’t cheap and I’m going to be tight on cash, especially considering all the good food I’ll be purchasing, and the money I’ll be wasting on a gym membership I won’t use.

5.  Make financially irresponsible purchases

pennies and manThis will be a fun resolution to keep, and one that will most likely encourage late night television viewing.  Nothing is a bigger waste of money than “only sold on TV” items that can easily be found at the local Wal-mart for a fraction of the price.

And with a Wal-mart purchase, there is the free added bonus of the sighting of a 55 year old male wearing a bathrobe and Speedo while demanding he be referred to as “Mr. Muscles.”

In addition to ridiculous television purchases, I also plan on buying lots of storage items that, ironically, will contribute to my storage problem by taking up space in my small house.

And maybe this year’s the year I finally let my husband buy a moped and start a moped gang.  He wants to call it Rolling Thunder.

I think this is a good start to my list of realistic resolutions.  I will keep you posted on my progress, but until then, I’m going to grab a Hostess snack cake (or 3) and call my trainer to tell him I won’t be at the gym tomorrow because my basement flooded and my workout gear is floating in sewage.

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Other Places You Can Find Me On The Internet This Week

Oh Marriage! The 7 Funniest Things My Husband’s Ever Said To Me

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

9 Awkward Stages of Seeing A Facebook Friend In Real Life

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

I’m published today over at In The Powder Room because for some reason they let me continue to write for them.  I have no idea why, but don’t knock it.

Today’s post is about the various reasons why Facebook is better than class reunions.  Yes, it’s awesome and yes, you should read it now.

Go there.  Do it.

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http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/me-time/2013-08-facebook-is-better-than-class-reunions.html

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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.

Ulta-BeautyI guess I really spilled the beans in the title of this blog post, so you pretty much know my big news.  I guess it’s also not surprising that I spilled the beans, as I spill pretty much everything.

It’s also probably not surprising that I referred to beans in this post, what with all my fiber issues and such…

MOVING ON!

I went to BlogHer 2013 in Chicago a few weeks ago and had a blast.  For those of you who don’t know blog-speak, BlogHer is a national convention with over 5,000 bloggers and tons of free shit.

I’m serious.  There is literally lots and lots of free shit, including vibrators and lube.

I’m not kidding.

ULTA Beauty was a sponsor of BlogHer, and somehow, the lovely women at the Richards Group Advertising Agency found me and thought I was funny.

I know.  Ree—-dic.

They had me shoot a little video, which I thought was just for fun, so I agreed. (I’m sure that’s what Farrah Abraham said about the sex video too…just for fun.) I figured they wanted the video for the sole purpose of laughing at me and making fun of my inability to use eyeliner.  They wouldn’t be wrong if that was their reason.

Apparently they liked my video and showed it to Wendi McLendon-Covey who thought I was funny.  Allow me to say that again, people, WENDI-MCLENDON-COVEY THOUGHT I WAS FUNNY!

Obviously she pitied me and my inability to use eyeliner.

You know who she is. She was the busty cop on Reno 911 and the sex-crazed mother in Bridesmaids who complained about her semen-infested home.

bridesmaids-photo-ellie-kemper-melissa-mccarthy-wendi-mclendon

Courtesy of Universal Pictures

Since she loved me and wanted to become my best friend thought I was funny, ULTA asked me to interview Wendi for their ULTA Beauty LOL marketing campaign, which is all about embarrassing beauty moments.  Naturally, I’m the perfect person to talk about embarrassing moments, so it was a perfect fit.  I know nothing about beauty, but I guess they figured I could wing it.

I met Wendi and did an interview with her, which was fun and exciting.  There were sound guys and cameras and a boom mic and everything, so you know it was legit.  THERE WAS A BOOM MIC, PEOPLE!  That’s the big time.

My interview was edited down to a 30 second clip that will be used for ULTA’s social media for their Beauty LOL campaign.  Cool, huh?  It’s a good thing they edited it because in our conversation we discussed key parties and having a stroke.  I’m not kidding.

It’s hard to believe she’s even funnier and more beautiful in real life than she is on camera, but she is.  She’s in a new show this fall called The Goldbergs.  It’s about a family in the 80s, so you know it will be hilarious.

For now, I hope my video with Wendi and ULTA will hold you over.  Please feel free to share this and splatter me all over the internet.  This is the one video I’m actually happy to share, and one that won’t result in indecency charges being filed against me.

DISCLAIMER:  I know I look horrible in this video.  They say the camera adds 10 pounds but I’m pretty sure the camera they used added at least 100 pounds.  

 

how to write a wedding toastWe’ve all seen it happen:  A train wreck of a marriage, headed down a one-way track to Miseryville, with a small layover at Domestic Violence, USA.

Whether it’s family, friends, or the librarian we’ve befriended in an effort to reverse erroneous late fees, most of us have witnessed the marriage of two people who should probably just honor the restraining orders and keep their distance.

The worst part is when you’re in the wedding party, and asked to give a speech and toast the couple at the reception.

Actually, that’s not the worst part.  The worst part is going with the bride to have warts removed from her bikini line.

It’s hard to know what to say to a couple you neither like nor support.  However, because I’m good to you, my dear readers, and because I’ve been in this situation before, I’ve decided to offer advice on how to write a speech when you don’t care for the couple getting married.

These recommendations are fool-proof and have worked at dozens of weddings over the years.

**DISCLAIMER:  I have no idea if these actually worked, as I was always too drunk to remember.  However, my memories of the times I followed these rules are glorious, so I can only assume this advice is gold.  Isn’t it always?

Focus on yourself.

toasting with drinksIf it’s a traditional wedding, it’s been about them long enough.  From the showers to the bachelorette party to the weekend wedding festivities, it’s time to remind them they aren’t special.

After all, they’re just like everyone else, and after their wedding day, no one will care about their love, or about the lame Christmas ornament they gave as a wedding favor.

(Side note:  What’s the deal with giving Christmas ornaments as a wedding favor?  Because every year people want to commemorate the day you two a-holes got married and had a party where only bottom shelf liquor was served? Yeah, right.  Dumbest. Gift. Ever.)

Get over yourself, Mr. and Mrs.  It’s time to talk about someone else.

This tactic is a sure-fire way to make the night less awkward.

Spill some secrets, but don’t spill your drink.

girls and secretNow is the time to force the couple to come clean of their dirty secrets.

How can they start a life together of subpar happiness if they don’t get all of their secrets out on the table?

Please note you can literally put their secrets out on the table.

This is the perfect time to present any evidence you have of those things they’d rather keep hidden forever.

If only Great Aunt Bessie believed in keeping things hidden forever, we wouldn’t have to stare at her liver-spotted breasts the entire evening.

The maid of honor/best man speech is the time to inform the bride and groom of things they may not know about each other, or about what the other has done.

shIf you ever made out with the bride or groom (or both), this is the time to discuss it in detail.  It clears the air so the couple can start off their marriage on the right foot.

Hopefully that foot won’t be up your ass.

Maybe it’s a more private secret one of them doesn’t want revealed.  For instance, does the bride have a drinking problem,  downing bottles of mouthwash to hide her addiction while simultaneously getting buzzed and freshening her breath?  Now’s the time to point that out.

How is the couple going to grow together if you don’t let these things out in the open?

FYI:  Pictures help your credibility, so make sure you have those ready for documentation purposes.

Expose the flaws of the couple.

microphonesIf they’re going to spend their lives together, they need to know their flaws as a couple.  This will prevent issues and problems arising down the road in their marriage.

Do you really want to waste all the money you spent on a hideous bridesmaid dress, a bachelorette party at Worlds of Fun and the sah-weet blender you bought them?

(Well, you could take the blender back but the third-degree burn scar from the malfunctioning roller coaster at Worlds of Fun will be with you forever.)

The reception speech is the best time to bring up the couple’s sexual incompatibility.  From his obsession of incorporating choo choo trains into their love-making, to her requirement she violate him with a spatula, now is the time to talk through these issues.  It’s best to do it out in the open.

Ironically, out in the open is their favorite place for coitus.  Again, something to discuss.

NOTE:  Only expose flaws of the couple.  DO NOT expose yourself.  That comes at the afterparty.

Use vulgarity

guy with glasses shockedIt may be awkward at first, but the audience will come around.  They always come around.

If not, lay on the profanity harder.  It’s a guaranteed charmer.

Vulgarity always works.  It f*cking always works.

 

Get the crowd involved

crowdYou don’t have to crowd surf, but make the audience feel like they’re part of it.

Send the microphone around the room to the drunkest of guests, and ask for their words of wisdom.

This always stimulates conversation.

It also always sparks a fist fight of some sort, which is just another way to make the reception memorable.

If not, there’s always the police reports to document the assaults and good cheer.

I guess that’s all I have for now.  I could give more tips but I doubt you want the speech to go on for longer than 25 minutes.

Anything longer than that is just annoying.  Anything less than that is a slap in the face to the couple.

Which reminds me, slapping the couple in the face is a good icebreaker and a great way to start your speech.

Cheers!

cheers

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?

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!

 

cupcake2

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.

FOR SHAME!

finished cupcakes

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

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.