I don’t get out much. When I do, it’s awkward and uncomfortable for all involved and usually ends up with me acting like maybe I was severely malnourished during crucial developmental years.

Lately, I’ve taken to winking at people. My grandpops winks when we play cards, like he’s up to something, and it’s cool because he’s old and my grandpops, but this isn’t that kind of wink. This is an I’m-in-a-store-and-you-helped-me-find-something-thanks-wink. And I’m 24 GD years old, why am I winking at people?

Let me further clarify that this is not a sexy wink, nor am I concerned with it being interpreted as such. I’m well aware that it’s a creep out/weirdy wink like so:

I pray to God that anyone I come in contact with thinks I have Tourette syndrome rather than thinking that I consciously winked at them. I have contemplated following the wink up with some sort of neck-jerk tic as an offset maneuver, but despite my recently stunted social skills, I still have a slight grasp on things.


Thanks to my sister, I’m pretty much Pinterest’s bitch now. It’s quite possibly the closest thing to a black hole besides, well, a black hole. For all I know I could have just signed away my life savings or had a baby because I don’t know where the last three days hours went.

But besides inexplicable gaps of time for which I can’t account for any goings-on around me, the thing I hate about Pinterest is that it makes me feel boring and not creative. I know I’m boring, okay? I stay in on Friday nights and watch TV with my dog in my pajamas. That’s why I go online; to see dumb people doing dumb things so that I can feel better about myself, not so some stupid Web site can show me I’m lame.

<<< Seriously, wtf? Who do you think you are? You think you’re better than everyone else because we have normal wood cabinets?

Here I was thinking yellow cabinets would be a bold move and then you had to be a dillhole and poop all over my creativity. “Pfft, yellow? Yeah that’s cool… I guess.” Well, suck it; the sixties are over, man, and those acid flashbacks aren’t going to be so cool when you’re baptizing your baby and it turns into a mutant.

Here’s where you can argue that I’m either not creative or not retarded, but I would not think to stack a bunch of tables going up a wall.

Still, purple aside, it’s pretty effing amazing and for that, you weird, anonymous Scandinavian turd, I hate you.

I guess the real problem is that I’m lazy and I hate this DIY craze. I hate it because I see all of this weird stuff I want, but I’m too lazy to make it and I can’t buy it anywhere. And you smug b-holes with your circular saws and can-do gumption are real heels.

If you were true patriots you would mass produce this stuff, in China of course, super cheap so that I and my lazy turd compatriots could buy it.


I’ve posted about getting old already, but shut up. I don’t have a lot rattling around in the ol’ brain box and, you know, I’m getting old.

It all happened last week when the boy I nanny asked me what “this thing” was.

When I told him it was an iPod, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. And then he called it stupid, or some similar childish insult, because you can’t play games on it. I don’t know what he’s talking about, “can’t play games on it”, ’cause I play a mean Brick Buster on this thing on the daily. And I’m assuming that “on the daily” means whenever I’m bored because I don’t know what you kids mean with your hip phrases and backwards hats. It’s confusing.

Anyway, after dying a little inside, I realized I just had my first real “getting old” moment. God forbid I showed this kid an 8-track or a Laserdisc; he’d probably crap his jim jams. To be fair, if I saw a Laserdisc, I’d probably crap in my jim jams too; those things were retarded.

Laserdiscs were good for those dramatic breakup scenes. Now if I want to ruin his music/movie collection because I’m crazy he’s wrong, I only get to break one or two tiny things. Stupid technology.


I don’t have anything to write about really because some of us actually have jobs and don’t sit around playing video games all day. Gabe. However, I’ve been watching a lot (A LOT) of TV lately so that’s what I’m gonna write about, poorly.

First item on the agenda: ugly babies. Ugly babies are ultimately the most unfortunate creatures in the world. And we have birds with guts for necks on our planet, ok? Ugly babies are sad because babies are supposed to be cute. Because you can’t say a baby has a nice personality or is really funny, so when they’re little and retarded, they should at least be cute. Also, ugly babies always grow up to be ugly adults. Fact.

Which leads me to my next point: CeCe Halpert. Could they not find a cuter baby to be the lovechild of one of the cutest onscreen couples this side of Technicolor? The worst part is that I read that CeCe is actually played by a set of twins which is sad because it means there are two identically ugly babies floating around out there. On a side note, I think we need to stop giving twins so much positive attention. They’re weird.

In summation: cute babies can become ugly adults & cute babies can become cute adults (Google Robert Downey, Jr. in the [awful] movie Pound. Pound as a noun, not a verb, creeps. Honestly, what’s wrong with you?), but ugly babies can only become ugly adults.

I’ve noticed that Robert Downey, Jr. has been in, like, every movie in the past couple of years. Is he making up for lost time? Because if this is how he does it, it’s going to fun to watch him catch up on his other hobbies. Like knitting. And heroin.

I can’t remember what else I was going to write about, but it was something amazing probably. Really you’re lucky that this post wasn’t one long run-on sentence of Michael Scott quotes and pictures of Jim with hearts all over them.


Craft stores walk a very fine line between awesome and depressing. Yesterday I was wasting time in mine, looking at craft projects I’ll never do, and stupid stamps and what have you and I ended up in the scrapbooking section. That aisle(s) is like stepping into a new dimension of crazy lady that I’m not ready for. 

I mean I’m pretty sure I ran into Eleanor Abernathy, let’s just put it that way.
Scrapbooking in general just weirds me out. People scrapbook either the most monumental or the most ricidulous events. You think you’re not going to remember getting married or having a baby? Because if you need a book of overpriced stickers and weird paper to help jog the old melon, I think you have bigger issues, my friend. Note: the “as your baby grows” books or whatever are not the same as scrapbooking. Keeping track of your kid’s first boogers and whatnot is awesome, but it’s not the same as decorating a page with one picture on it and $50 worth of stickers and weird paper embellishments.

Then there’s the other kind of  scrapbooking. “Remember that time I cooked a whole chicken?!” (H2B: before you unleash jokes about how, for me, cooking a meal would fall under the category of monumental [ie: baby, wedding, zombie apocalypse] and not ridiculous, please read this).

What the cuss is this even for? Who needs to remember the time they cooked a meal? Don’t try to sell me on how you could use this to remember cooking your first meal with your kid or something because, Jesus, buy a journal and a pen, you dolt.

“Man, Vegas was crazy. We got so out of hand at the casino and whatnot.” No you didn’t. If you scrapbook about your vacations/themed party nights, I feel sorry for the people around you.

Also, you should feel pretty retarded walking up to the register at whatever store and paying $3-$5 for a set of fake playing cards and poker chips. If you have that kind of money to burn, I have time to register as a 501(c)3 and we can probably work something out.

Here’s the part where I get bummed out and quit calling you retarded and just lament for societal dysfunction (and no, I don’t have a picture for it because I thought I could Google image it, but Google is being a turd). There was a set of stickers targeted to moms who want to scrapbook with their little girls. The sticker set contained lipstick, a blow dryer, a cell phone, a dress, cupcakes, and other similar things in ungodly bright colors. I bought them; because I want my daughter to know she gets to grow up and focus all of her time on looking pretty, texting, and baking for people. And also that she was born during the 1950’s time warp.


Some people think it’s cute when kids say things like “wediculous” instead of “ridiculous”. Not me. There’s nothing cute about being retarded, people.

Anyway, this post isn’t about the little brutes, it’s about wedding planning and how stupid it is. The thing is, I want to have a wedding; it’s like the Olympic games for normal people, only you pay to win the gold. So, yeah, it’s like the Olympic games for normal people (zing!, Olympic committee). You probably know that girls are pretty competitive creatures. Like when the hubs-to-be mentioned how soft the toilet paper was at a friend’s house, I knew what was up. There is no innocence in buying soft toilet paper, you’re trying to show someone up, somewhere. Fact. So, I went out and bought the softest toilet paper there is; made of angel tears and unicorn tails and whatever things are equivalent to mythological sateen. Let’s just say, I showed her.

That being said, a wedding is like the ultimate crazy showdown with one bride outdoing another and I have literally been Martha Stewart’s bitch trying to be up there with Kate and Will or Chelsea Clinton and what’s-his-name. Yeah, I’m trying to match million dollar weddings on a $10k or less budget. Get some.

So I’ve been putting together some ideas and I feel like I can share them with you without giving too much of the wedding ‘feel’ away.

How adorable is this, right? The Little Mermaid is probably one of my top five favorite childhood movies so to be able to recreate it as my cake topper, hubs and I, as mer-mice, united in holy unity forever… You can’t write that kind of magic, folks. The only problem is, I’m not sure how it’s going to look on my


life-size cake replica of me on my wedding day (because nothing could be better than two of me on my own wedding day). Talk about something that will leave an impression on your guests; everyone will remember your awesome wedding cake. The only downside is your cake could end up looking better than you.

The other thing I need to figure out is my wedding photography. I mean, these pictures are going to be around forever, blown up to ridiculous proportions and hung on every wall of my double-wide so clearly I want them to look good. I came across your typical ‘everyone jumping in the air at once’ photos and the ‘bride holding up a mustache on a stick’, but I want mine to really pop.

Nothing pops more than your vagina, I always say. Always flash discreetly and, of course, on special occasions. There is nothing sweeter than an intimate moment like this shared between husband and wife, caught on film forever. Then again, how am I supposed to get this same feel with a group photo?

Well, now I’ve made up my mind about jeans or shorts for the groomsmen.

Please send any suggestions my way; planning a wedding is hard, especially if you’re trying to keep it classy and personal.


Today, I Googled “PMS rage” because I hate you. And while it’s not quite representative of the rage, I do feel that this about sums it up:

Having PMS is like watching someone eat your newborn child while kicking you in the guts over and over and then telling you you’re the crazy one. Only the child is a bowl of ice cream that your normal, innocent boyfriend is eating. And it’s not that it’s the last of it, but it has the perfect balance of chocolate and cookie dough chunks and why should he get it because you got better grades in school and made this house into a home and organized all of your DVDs… And yes, you are the crazy one.

Now I’m not going to get into the whole woe-is-me thing because women have babies and we get our periods and whatever because yeah, obviously it sucks, but that’s really small potatoes. What I am going to to do is get you (you=men/boys/those with weens) to try to understand the uncontrollable rage that literally boils the insides of every organ in my body when I come home and see a piece of trash on the floor. Normal me would just pick it up (well, normal me would probably just leave it because I’m lazy), but crazy me insists you left it there on purpose for me to find, underneath the couch, as a way to rub my nose in just how little you care about keeping this house clean. That’s how crazy brain works, y’all, take a note.

In any case, I have one very simple rule and a pretty little picture to help it really sink in.

You are always wrong. If you’re wrong, you’re wrong, and if you’re right… did you just say you’re right and I’m wrong? Because I swear to God I will put laxatives in your pancakes.