Saturday, December 24, 2011

Where I Ruin Christmas For EVERYONE!

I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already ruined Christmas for everyone.  Remember?  When you took a newly potty trained Ellie Christmas shopping at Target while she had diarrhea last week."  Noooo, I'm not talking about ruining the Holiday shopping mood of  each and every person in Target by racing through the store, cutting people off all while shouting things like: 'Mommy's getting you to the toilet as fast as she can so you can keep your pants dry! Hold it!' or 'We don't put tut-tut-tut in the shopping cart. NoooOOOooo! That's crazy talk! We put it in the toilet!', six times in an hour and a half. No, I'm talking about a more traditional ruining of Christmas.  One that only those you live with 24/7 can appreciate.....

You see, I have a gift.  Well, really, maybe it's more of a skill.....  Yeah! That's it!  A way cool awesome present identifying skill.  Growing up I would look at my presents under the Christmas tree, shake one a little, heft another, and BAM! I knew exactly what I was getting for Christmas-kickball, Malibu Barbie, a new pair of pants, whatever. It was awesome! Plus, it annoyed my sister, so- SCORE!

OK, look people.  I can hear your scoffing snorts from all the way over here. But it's true!  Even Jon believes in my santacular skills now. However, once, just like you, he used his olfactory nerves for more than smelling the annual Christmas grapefruit*....

(cue cool flashback music here-which sounds oddly like Wil Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It")

One year, before we were married, Jon found out about my amazingly astounding Christmas skill and tried to trick me.  I took one look at his large rectangular Christmas present, rotated it 180 degrees, looked him in the eyes and said, "It's books, a large jingle bell, a pair of socks aaannnddd (the package did another 180) three pens." Even with his jaw on  the floor (from gift identification envy, obviously) he continued to doubt. "What books?" he said. And with four little words, the man never doubted me again. "The Chronicles of Narnia."

So, here it is, Christmas Eve, the presents are wrapped, the children are tucked snugly in their beds, Jon is in the kitchen whipping cream for some secret pie eating, and I have exactly three minutes of unsupervised present snooping guessing skilling**. Awwwww Yeeeaaahhhh!

Present #1, from Ellie:


A picture frame. Possibly of a duck.  Because, even Ellie knows, ducks are cool.  Because they look just like penguins with floaty toys, obviously.


Present #2, from Katie:


A wooden bookmark and a marble. Or a weird juice squeezer/zester thing.

Present #3, from Jon:


Pish! As if a bow the size of a chihuahua could throw me off.  It's a ring that says POW! or a necklace with an elephant on it.

BAM! (I totally just did it again this year!)
Merry Christmas!***



*No, really!  It's totally a thing in Arizona.  Maybe.  Probably.  Or possibly just for my family....

**Can you believe I just made up this word? I know! It ROCKS!

***Disclaimer:  I reserve the right to be wrong. I also reserve the right to then deny it later, even if you pull up this lame blog post.  Because, as everyone knows, you can't believe everything you read on the internet.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

More Awkward Conversations With Martha

Proof, once again, that I should only have conversations with other people inside my own head.

Conversation #1:
Yesterday, I braved the cold, the rain, the crowds, the aisles of meat based samples that is Costco in order to pick up our Christmas cards, and, of course had to have this conversation in the restroom:

Tall Lady: (watching me help Ellie wash her hands) She's cute! How old?
Me: (thinking, "that the Tall Lady looks vaguely familiar") She's eighteen months now.
Tall Lady: Awww... She's-
Me: (rudely interrupting, because I spend my days with very small children and that's how they roll) Hey! Olympic High, right? You drive that brown van. You bring your kids there on Mondays and Wednesdays for swim lessons at 6:15. A boy and a girl, right?
Tall Lady: Wooooowwww.... (glances nervously around the restroom) Um. You're, um, very (begins to edge toward the exit) wow, you're (gulp) good.... (chucks paper towel at the trash can, misses and flees as if her life depends on it.)

Conversation #2:
On Tuesday, I called and left this message at Rejuv Spa:

"Hi. Um, my name is Martha and, I'm really not sure if this was legitimate or not, but, um, my husband, his name is Jon, found an iPhone outside your business the other day, and he brought it in and it was some one's that was there. And, anyway, someone else told him that he could have a free massage, but he doesn't want it, in fact he'd rather have the iPhone, not that he wants the iPhone back, that'd be weird and probably illegal, um, anyway, soooo, he said I could have it, the free massage, not the iPhone, that's yours, or someone else's or something. Anyway, like I said before I don't even know if this is for real but if it is, you can call me back at 555-5555. If I just sound insane, and you know, that wasn't a real offer of a free massage, you can just, um, not call me back. Thanks!" (click)

UPDATE:
My massage is scheduled for Saturday. Because Rejuv is awesome. Or because business is really slow and they're bored and nothing perks up a slow weekend like giving that "weirdly awkward lady on the answering machine"* a free massage.

*Um, I don't actually know if this is my new nickname from the employees at Rejuv, but, let's face it, it totally could be!

Conversation #3:
I went to a Christmas brunch last weekend. There was Egg Thing. There was French Toast Thing. There was the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album playing in the background. There was coffee. A lot of coffee. And with all this you'd think it would have been more than enough to keep me busy for hours. Oh, nooooooo. And, unfortunately, I was fully aware that an hour long soliloquy with my coffee cup would have just looked weird so instead...

Me: Hi! My name is Martha. (sitting down at a table and sipping my coffee at the same time) Good coffee. And you are?
Stranger: Um, hi. I'm Thelma. (smiles nicely) Yeah it is.
Me: Oh! You're Marshall's wife! You guys just moved back from Illinois. You were there for, what, two years?
Thelma: Um, yeah. Something like that....
Me: (shoveling Egg Thing and French Toast Thing into my mouth at top speed because I just know one of my kids is going to demand my attention soon and, gosh darn it, I am hungry) So, did you guys move back to that cute little blue house with the hydrangea bushes that Marshall bought before you were married? Or are you somewhere else now?
Thelma: (nervously) Um...no...we're off of Mountain Crest now....
Me: (gulping coffee, shoveling food and whipping my head around like I'm watching a supersonic tennis match while searching for those Mommy attention seeking children of mine) Nice. (more coffee gulping) Hey.... (my brain finally starts catching up to my coffee consumption) You know I'm Jon's wife, right? He and Marshall used to work together. Because I just realized that I could have sounded like a total stalker just then, knowing where you've lived and when you'd moved and all that. Totally not a stalker here! (nervous giggle) That'd be weird. Jon, over there (points to Jon across the room) he's my husband. He knows Marshall. So, you know, that makes me not a freaky scary stalker....
Thelma: (nervous eye flicker)
Me: You know, I probably should have just stuck with talking with my coffee cup. I mean, that's what I normally do at these kind of part- Yeeeeaaaahhhh. Um. I think I'm just gonna stop talking now.

Friday, December 9, 2011

I Need A Hero

Do you remember when you were in junior high and you had all those Teen Bop magazine posters wallpapering your room? Maybe Kirk Cameron on the back of your door,


Debbie Gibson over your dresser,


Jason Priestly and Luke Perry taped to your closet door,


or New Kids on the Block over your bed?
Me neither.

Because, as you all know, my sister pulled an Extreme Make Over: Dorky Little Sister's Room Edition and plastered every cat poster know to mankind on my walls and accented with a bucket of Pepto-pink paint. Of course, before that, I was sleeping with The Declaration of Independence taped to my wall and a cow mobile over my bed, so she was probably totally justified. But I still say that my TURKEY! poster was the height of coolness!

Nay, the absolute height of AWESOMENESS! (For extra cool points say that last sentence in your best WWF Hulk Hogan vs. The Iron Sheik ring side commentator voice. Like I did.)

But, lately, I've been thinking, "Did I miss some important right of teenhood by drifting off to sleep each night with visions of cats cavorting through daisies in my head instead of pictures of currently culturally relevant celebraties?" So, I did what any normal person would do. I went in search of a hero.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Martha, you already have a hero. You changed the lyrics to 'You are the Wind Beneath My Wings' and made up a weird interpretive dance for her, that you never recorded and therefore never posted on YouTube (and THANK YOU by the way). Where's the love??? She made your grass shorter for goodness sake!!!" You're right, she is totally my hero. But, it's winter, my grass isn't growing and I'm as fickle as a kitten running through the daisies on a spring morning.

You see, this November instead of participating in NANO-WAMO (or NaNoWriMo as some people call it, and by some, I mean everyone but me) and butchering even more obscure grammatical rules while slapping 1,666 words a day from my brain into a spiral notebook or spending all my free time cheering on beard growing men in the name of prostate cancer, I found her:

My hero.

Seriously. I <3 her so much I may print a gigantic poster of her face, tape it to my bathroom wall and post little love notes on her nose every time Ellie puts her pee-pee and tut-tut-tut in the toilet. Because, dude, NO MORE DIAPERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (You know what? That's sooo not enough exclamation points. I think I'll add some more, just for you Jamie Glowacki. Just for you.) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, people of the internet, you can keep your hoodie wearing Justin Beibers, your paper collating Wil Wheatons, I'm sticking with Jamie Glowacki and her "Oh Crap Potty Training" technique. Because she's awesome. And, because there ain't nothin' cuter than an Ellie butt goin' commando.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Someone Is The Bee's Knees And It Isn't Me

Did I ever tell you that Jon gave me Richard Simmons: "Sweatin' to the Oldies" for my birthday one year? I know what you're thinking, "No you did not! WHY HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING THIS FROM US!!!" Yeeeaaaahhhh.... and I was eight months pregnant at the time too.

Exactly.

Now, in his defense, he thought he was being funny. But what he failed to remember is that at eight months pregnant I found nothing funny.

Nothing.

In hind sight, I probably should have sat on his chest or something when I opened his present, considering it was the first time since high school that I outweighed him. You know, now that I think about it, I probably should have sat on his chest more in high school too, put my extra three pounds to good use. I would have been all, "Where's your well thought out logic now, Mr. Smarty Pants? Huh!?! Got any more of those fancy statistics to prove my take on the economic security of Belgium is skewed? Huh!?! Do ya!?! Yeah. (gratuitous flick to the ear) Didn't think so." Then again, he had sisters so they probably totally did that for me. Because when it comes to Belgium, we need to represent! (Mostly because they have good waffles. I think. I've never actually been to Belgium, but when I do, I'm totally ordering waffles like every day. Man.... I really hope their waffles live up to all this hype in my head.)

Scrumptolicious waffles aside, I'm not really going to be complaining about my husband in this post, I'm simply documenting a few... facts. However, to be fair, if you are one of those people who think he's "the bees knees"* then I have one word for you: quantum.

Dude! Can I clear a room or what!?!


Because, dudes, Jon bought me a new laptop.

Apparently, the internet has these buttons you can push that say stupid things like "BUY NOW". Stupid buttons....

Now, if you're first question is something like, "Sweet! What kind of battery life does it have?" I have one word for you: quantum.

That's right! You heard me. Quuuaaantuuum. Just move yourself over to the corner and stand with all those buzzing knee people and discuss trochanters and coaxes or whatever. But not waffles. Waffles are mine. (insert deadly serious stare here)

I mean, sure, Jon had been throwing around words like "dieing", "on its last legs", "it's harder to recover information files from a dead computer than a working one" and other stuff. But he was talking about computers, people! Why in the world would I listen to that? (*cough*boring*cough*)

So, now I find myself typing away on some weirdly clean black keyboard, trying to figure out why this new computer is so gosh darn cool, because obviously it's not going to sell me itself by just listing out its geek statistics. Seriously, what the heck does "atom-based 12-incher with only 16 GB of onboard storage" mean anyway? And, if you know the answer to that: quantum. And just go stand over there. (waves vaguely at the huge rager going on in the corner)

Hmmmm.....

Maybe it's made me wittier!

.....

.....

.....

.....

.....

Apparently not.


Maybe it just plain make me smar-Oooooo! Look! Penguin videos!!!


I know! I bet the computer made me look prettier!
Or just point out what an ugly green sweater I'm wearing. Dude. That's harsh, new laptop. Real harsh.

Hmmmm......

You know what? I totally figured it out. My laptop is cool because it makes waffles. Tasty, melt in your mouth fluffy Belgium waffles. On Saturday morning. While I'm out for a run. And then it does the dishes.

Right, Jon?

Jon??

Hey! Helllloooo over there! Don't make me pull out that Richard Simmons DVD and send Katie over to ask you to dance with her! I'd join you all, but, apparently, I have a new computer to figure out.




*Give yourself 10 extra credit points if you've heard Jon use this entomologically confusing colloquialism in everyday conversation. And while you're at it, give yourself an additional 20 extra credit points if, like me, you just googled "Do bees have knees?" Woo hoo! Thirty points! (high five! Let's party dance! Hey! Why am I the only one dancing?)

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

FAQ: Frequently Asked Questions

I know you got 'em. So here's the answers:

Will you really send me a box of mac and cheese if I win one of your contests?
Yes.

What if I don't want you to? Will you still send it? Please don't.
OK, let me tell you a story. One day, many years ago, in a land with sunshine and a high influx of tourism, I worked at a historical society as a museum educator. (No. Seriously. This is a true story. And by true I mean in the sense that I worked for $7.50 an hour WITH a college degree. Because apparently I'm cheap like that.) My boss, who I will now randomly name Sue, and I were running an educational event where families could come and do some awesome history type activities as well as enter a raffle to win some very cool historical architectural themed things: blocks, books, etc. Sue decided that it would be best if she took the job of doing all the story times we had scheduled while I oversaw the arts and crafts area, the architectural blocks area, manned the information table and sold the raffle tickets. All day. A fair break up of the work? No, but I was having fun working with all the kids and talking up all the cool stuff we had up for the raffle so people would buy tickets to win things and the education department would raise some extra funds. (Maybe I'd get a raise!!! (Hahahahaha! Yeah. That didn't happen.)) Then, at the end of the day, just before we were to pull the winning tickets out of the basket, Sue comes over and whispers, "Let's take the book out of the raffle."

"What?" I thought. "You mean this book? The book I've been talking up all day. The book you've been reading at every story time? That book?"

Then Sue leans over my shoulder, snatches the book off the prize table, literally sticks it under her stupid looking blue plaid blazer, and whispers, "They'll never know." And then leaves me there to pull the raffle tickets. By myself.

In retrospect, she was probably just trying to get a good head start in her get-a-way, because she'd JUST COMMITTED A FELONY! Now, I don't know if the police ever showed up at her condo, bullhorns in hand, gas masks in place, battering ram at the ready, because we moved a year later and I now work for coffee and Twilight movie tickets (Man, I'm STILL cheap!), but she has to live with the fear of that happening every day of her life. So, dude, enjoy your mac and cheese because that level of stress would totally mess with my caffeine buzz.

Did you room with a drug dealer in college?
Yes.

Would you actually steal candy from Katie and Ellie to send to people on the internet?
You don't know me very well, do you? See, me and the Dental Association of America have a total symbiotic relationship thing going, a little like the carp and the hippo. In fact, I'm thinking of printing shirts up on Zazzle that say: Voldemort Ate Candy And His Nose Fell Off. It's catchy, hip and scary. Everything you could want in a reeeaaaalllly cool t-shirt.

But seriously, Ellie had more fun carrying and shaking that stripey box full of her Halloween candy all the way to the post office than she would have if I'd simply thrown 3/4 of her candy in the trash can, like the rest of the world does with their children's Halloween candy.

If I keep the candy, does that make me an accomplice?
In the words of The Kool-Aid Man, "Ooohhhhh yeeeeaaaahhhh!" From the first Whopper you popped in your mouth to the last stick of sour apple licorice. Unless you throw it away. Like Voldemort should have.

What do your kids shove under your couch?
How did they get all that junk under there!?!
I have no idea.
Seriously. No idea.

If someone uses the word "quantum" in a conversation, do I have to keep listening?
Oh, man.... I am soooooo sorry, because I come across this problem a LOT in my day to day life. In fact, I might even have once stumbled into a conversation about a Quantum Death Star in North Farthing that landed in the middle of elevensies because it needed a BSD license. Or I made that all up. Either way, the answer to your question is no. The word "quantum" was invented solely for the purpose of letting people know when it's OK to let your mind wander in a conversation, or, depending on the social situation, to simply wader off to another room. I totally recommend the wandering one, unless there is pie involved. Because obviously....PIE!!

Is escutcheon a swear word?
It has to be considering how many times Jon and I said it while replacing our kitchen faucet this weekend.

Any more questions for me? Leave them in the comments!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

UPDATED: It's A Post About Twilight. Again. Count Your Blessings. It Could Have Been Another Fart Joke.

You knew this post had to happen. It's inevitable, what with Friday leaning all angsty against it's shiny silver Volvo and all. Because, let me tell you, my tickets are bought and my babysitter is set! (aka Wouldn't-Be-Caught-Dead-At-A-Teenage-Vampire-Movie-Jon) I even took the time to smirk all smugly like at the white pancake make-up at Fred Meyer. Pish! As if I need any of that stuff. I mean, Edward and I are practically next door neighbors, people! A three hour drive and "poof" just like that, I'm holding a non-surgared coffee in my pasty white hands and engaged in an in-depth historical discussion with my new bunniculized vampire friend under a familiar grey and misty sky.

(Um, you might want to pause for a bit. Take the time to to just enjoy the peaceful scene above. Rest in the cozily crafted moment and all that. Because....)

I created a Michael Bolton station on Pandora this week.

Because I like to keep my crazy real like that.

And, while I was bopping around the house getting dinner ready, or whatever it is I do when I'm not drinking coffee or reading Breaking Dawn, I realized that I wasn't just listening to depressingly bad music, oh no! I was listening to the Soundtrack of the Twilight Saga: The Discards:

How Edward feels about Bella
"Waiting For A Girl Like You" the live version by Foreigner.

How Bella feels about Edward
"After All" by Cher

How Bella feels about Jacob
"I Don't Have The Heart" by James Ingram

Jacob's response to Bella
"How Am I Supposed To Live Without You" by Michael Bolton

Edward's proposal
"Soul Provider"by Michael Bolton

Update: OK, I don't know what I was thinking here. Soul Provider? Soul? I mean, that's just embarrassing. (makes embarrassed scrunchy face and hides it behind hands) I went to Breaking Dawn last night and as I sat in my overly comfortable movie seat I gasped as I realized the total Twilight faux pas that I made! So, instead, what do you think about "Steel Bars" for Edward's proposal? Any better? (And by better I mean, worse in a horrifically awesome and sappy way.)

Edward's More Thought Out Proposal:
"Steel Bars" by Michael Bolton
(On a related note, it might be time to delete my Michael Bolton Pandora station....)

The wedding song
"Nothin's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Starship

Obviously the rest of the soundtrack would have to be padded out with a few orchestral selections, a LOT more Michael Bolton songs (because when you need angst...) and probably a Joe Esposito song or two. You know. For the fight scenes.

What horribly sappy songs would you add to the soundtrack?

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
Hey, remember the contest I set up a couple weeks ago? The one where you were supposed to figure out Jon's Halloween costume? And the prize was a box of mac and cheese and all the candy I could steal from my kid's Halloween pumpkins? (Not to mention to totally awesome POINTS!!!!!) Guess what? Anonymous, YOU WON! I know you're probably busy bustin' out some moves you saw on Glee last night in celebration, but, here's the thing. I don't know who you are. I know who you're not, but that's pretty much as far as my Jigsaw Jones detective skills have gotten me. So, here's what I'm thinkin', you send me an email at:

mac(dot)and(dot)cheese(dot)attacks(dot)gmail(dot)com

and I'll send you the goods!

And for all of you who didn't figure out Jon's costume, he went as a Steam Punk Ghostbuster. And, admittedly, Anonymous' guess of "the guy from Around the World in 80 Days" wasn't quite right, but they won because I wandered Goodwill with Jon for at least 45 minutes (an eternity of shopping agooooonnnnyyyyy for Jon) helping him decide between dressing up as Jules Verne or something steam punky. And since Anonymous actually came up with a Jules Verne character I figured they were probably stalking us at Goodwill that day which means their Jigsaw Jones detective skills are way more developed than mine and I should probably pay them off in free candy and boxed mac and cheese.

Friday, November 4, 2011

This Halloween Post Lacks A Scary Michael Bolton Video. Or Does It?

Guide To Scaring The Pants Off Of People
as written down by me
(Are you picturing me flashing a sparkling smile followed by a humble, yet coy, finger waggle here? Because I that's exactly what I'm doing. Kinda creepy, isn't it?)

1. Stand in a darkened doorway.

2. Wait quietly, and patiently, for someone to walk by innocently.

3. Jump out and yell "BOO!" Or don't. Really just the jumping out part is enough.

4. Laugh uproariously. Claim you never meant to scare them, you were just happened to be walking out of the bathroom/bedroom/living room/etc.

5. Do it again.

And there you have it, "How To Make Your Children Howl In Fear On Halloween Or, Really, Any Other Day You're Feeling Bored And Feel In Need Of An Adrenaline Pick Me Up: In Five Easy Steps". Guaranteed and time tested. For years and years and years. On the cutest little kid you ever saw:
Yeah, Mom. I'm onto your "innocent" and "unintentional" terrorizing you put me through as a child. I also know about how you watered down my soda too. Man, you're just lucky I turned out so gosh darn normal.

In other news, Jon went dressed as this for Halloween this year:

42,650 scarily Frankenstein-like reanimated points, a box of mac and cheese and all the candy I can steal from my children's trick-or-treating pumpkins if you can identify what he went as. If you dare!

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Livin' On The Edge

I used to be a risk taker. An adrenaline junkie. A fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-who-cares-if-they're-on-fire-I'll-put-it-out-when-it-rains type of person. I grew up in the deserts of Arizona, so obviously I ran around with my pants on fire a LOT.

What?

You don't believe me? You say, the content of this blog doesn't support the statement "that I used to be just like Patrick Swayze in Point Break." Um, I'm pretty sure I told you guys that I once dyed my hair with purple Kool-Aide, AND, once in high school, when my parents were out of town and a friend was staying over at my house with me, we ordered a pizza and got it delivered. Dude, we could have been murdered before the weekend even started! But we took that risk. Because we were young and careless and... other stuff. And, in college I used to walk from South to Central Campus after my night class. By myself. In the dark. (But that was mostly because I didn't want to ride the campus bus with my creepy English professor. He used to stare. And smirk. Dude. Either stalk me or belittle me. You can't do both. CrrrreeeeEEEEeeeepyyyyy!) So obviously I used to flirt with danger like Amelia Earhart used to flirt with aviation. Meaning, she didn't because she was totally out flying in the face of it!

But lately I'd been wondering if I'd lost that dare-devil in me. Had it been drowned with copious amounts of coffee, strangled through a lack of restful nights, smothered with a plethora of "whys"? So, I sat down this morning, butterfly coffee cup in hand and made a list of some of my daring ways:

1. I drink my coffee out of a cup that has "Not For Use in Microwave and Dishwasher" stamped on the bottom. I totally pulled it out of the dishwasher this morning too.

2. I routinely teach Sunday School without giving the kids candy. Even at Halloween and Christmas.

3. I run each morning wearing all black. Even in fog and early morning darkness. Without one of those blinky red lights either. (OK, this one might actually prove my stupidity rather than my audacious nature.)

4. I iron my shirts with my hair straightener. While I'm wearing them.

5. I brew espresso beans in my full size coffee pot.

6. I mow the grass when it's wet. With my electric lawn mower. (OK, I don't actually do this anymore since Jon found out and explained to me that "the weird feeling I get in my hands" was actually me electrocuting myself. Over and over and over, eh hem, again. He then Craig's Listed the mower and bought me a reel mower. Because it doesn't plug in. Even though I had already scrounged up a pair of plastic dish washing gloves and wrote "ELECTROCUTION GLOVES" on them in Sharpie. It's like he doesn't trust my understanding of basic science or something.)

You know what? I think I'm done listing things out. Because it's totally obvious I haven't lost that madcap part of me. I mean, sure my days running from men with smirking facial expressions is gone, but my days writing on the internet about other stupid stuff I've done have only just begun. So, excuse me, because I have to go make a tornado in a bottle with my kids. Now where did I put that jar of glitter?

Friday, October 21, 2011

I Stole A Baby. What Did You Do This Week?

I don't want to alarm anyone. But, a kidnapper was seen wandering around our local Fred Meyer grocery store just yesterday. I even have a picture:

Yeah. That's me. And, true, it's not the most flattering picture-but considering I'm a kidnapper and all, I figured I should, you know, gritty up my image a bit.

You see, there I was, wandering Fred Meyer, in my kidnapping costume (which obviously consists of jeans and a t-shirt, because when you're kidnapping babies, knee high boots with six inch heels and a cute flippy vintage dress just aren't practical, ya know? Mostly because babies will smear just about anything on you. And I'll stop there, because I have my boundaries, you have a wonderfully developed olfactory imagination, and I'm a kidnapper, so obviously I'm very busy stealing babies and I don't have time to be describing the ins and (hem hem) outs of babies shmear.) Anyway, there I was, doing my weekly grocery shopping at Fred Meyer. I had stuck Ellie in the cart so she could happily bounce on her little diapered rear while pointing at all the grocery items on the shelves. And that was my Rookie Kidnapper Mistake #1: Being Seen With A Baby.

Next, I naively pushed my cart to the check-out lane and proceeded to unload all my kidnapper food: tofu, wheat germ, Braggs Liquid Aminos, baby wipes, quart sized Ziploc bags, Halloween candy (in which to lure more unsuspecting sugar needy kids, obviously) and other such items while giving the older gentleman in the next lane a friendly smile as he gave my cart a weird look. (Which, naively again, I took to be a what-is-she-some-freaky-vegetarian look, rather than a oh-my-goodness-she's-stolen-somebody's-baby look. This is why I don't buy candy.) And that's when I made my Rookie Kidnapper Mistake #2: Making Eye Contact.

Quicker than I can say "I drive a Honda Civic, not a scary kidnapper Honda Odyssey!" I was being circled intimidatingly while having menacing questions thrown at my head by the, now, rude old guy from the next lane. "Where did you get that baby?" "Did you get that baby in Kansas?" "How old is she?" "Is that the baby from Kansas?" Bewildered, it took me a minute or two to figure out what the guy was talking about, before I could even try to assure the man that Ellie was indeed mine! Luckily the nice lady in line behind me threw in her support of my non-kidnapper status, or I think the guy might have actually called the police!

Lessons learned. So, next week, when I head to Fred Meyer to do my grocery shopping, Ellie's totally going in disguise:
Because I've never been accused of shoplifting either.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

I Used To Dream In Technicolor

I dreamed I was a crouton the other night.

Oh no! You read that correctly.

In my dream I was a crusty stale crouton sitting on top of someones wilted salad greens. Then do you know what happened? I got picked out of the salad and put down on a napkin, before they poured all that boisterously fun salad dressing on top. Yeah. It's been kinda like that lately. I blame my kids*.

You see, it's hard to write on this blog when I'm all depressed. All those unfun type of emotions swim around in my nervous system and if I let them out they'd just plod around all scowly and weepy, half-heartedly kicking car-licking buffaloes in the head and making all my Twilight jokes soggy. Not cool. Plus, I'm not even sad about real stuff. (You know, like cancer, or global warming, or, um... the color gray.) I'm sad because I read a book. Well, three point zero two books, really. And I blame my kids. Yes. Again. But this time it really is their fault.

You see, Ellie and Katie pick out most of my books from the library. Something like twice a month, before I turn them loose in the children's section, I drag them over to the adult section. I'm not insane. I don't take them near the regular stacks. Oh no! I take them over to this section of our library where they put a lot of popular titles all mixed together on a couple shelves: fiction, non-fiction, biographies, self-help, whatever, all mixed together. Quick. Simple. Um, quick. Because usually after about 30 seconds Katie whines, "Can we go to the kid's section now? I'm booooorrrrrred!" and Ellie yells, "GOOOoooooo!" all long and drawn out while she toddles off pumping her arms in the air to keep herself upright. So, I let my kids hand me random books, which I dutifully put in our library bag to check out. I've been pleasantly surprised at times. Other times?

There are dead brothers, dead babies, a father who commits suicide, dead babies, dead baby ducks, more dead babies, and a mother who is murdered while carrying her baby on her head. And that last one was a picture book from Katie's pile! (Did you know Babar was that dark?) The only book I didn't read more than two pages of was entitled, A Gate at the Top of the Stairs, because after the previous three books I knew it was just going to be about a safety gate at the top of some stairway that goes on a baby killing spree. Obviously. It took me awhile, but eventually I caught onto the overarching theme there.

Now don't get me wrong. I get the whole deepen the main character by killing off some of the other characters in the story bit. Dude, I've read Harry Potter. But come on! Every single book this week? I can't handle it! I'm just not myself anymore. I even found these online:
And I was all, "eh...kinda...cute...(insert heart-wrenching tear jerking sigh here) maybe...."

Kinda cute? Kinda cute !?! They're BALLOON ANIMAL DOORSTOPS PEOPLE! Puppy balloon animal doorstops nonetheless! I should have been, I don't know, doing a Mary Poppins dance or, at the very least, belting out a slightly ribald Girl Scout camp song about my underwear!

But I didn't.

And, guys? Library day is coming again. Soon. (insert whimpering sigh with a sad puppy eye look here) Do you have any book recommendations for me?



*I figure I can keep blaming my kids, for just about anything, until they develop their own mad interneting skillz. Which, if they take after me should be around the age of 30. If they take after Jon, it should be next week.

Monday, September 19, 2011

This Is An Update From My Butt

Last weekend was the Tri Turtle Tri that I was training for this season. And by training I mean, regularly rolling out of bed to dunk myself in a cold and misty lake before the sunrise or to run circles around the track at the local high school, but not bike. NoooOOOooo. I dislike the biking the most, so why would I train for that leg of the race? That would be insane! So, instead I hauled my butt up on that little plastic seat about four times this season for a BRICK (bike ride immediately followed by a run), and then sweated in the danky basement on my bike trainer with the washing machine maaaayyybbbeeee three times. Obviously, good enough.

So, there I was, waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in and sing my traditional triathlon swim song, "Boot to the Head". Two hours, one minute and 49.3 seconds later, me and my butt have crossed the finish line. The end.

Or you can read the more detailed account I typed up below. But...... I wrote it in second person, and, I'm pretty sure my use of such a literary technique will only exasperate your conviction of my weirdness. And if it doesn't, I'm pretty sure the flamingos will. (These last three sentences may not have made any sense.)

First, you get up extra butt crack of dawn early to, sure, pick up your race number, but more importantly, to stand in line for the chance to relieve some liquid pre-race jitters in the Honey Bucket.

Second, you stand waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in.

Third, during your swim you flail energetically (because you're trying desperately to stay in front of the guy in board shorts and that lady who only uses her arms to swim) while singing "Boot to the Head", because you are literally, getting booted in the head.

Fourth, you somehow attach socks and bike shoes to your wet feet and pedal the course, grimacing and muttering "I remember this hill from last year. Yeah. I HATE THIS HILL!!" You do it a lot. Also, this leg doesn't have a cute theme song. Because it's the bike, and it doesn't deserve one.

Fifth, you chuck your bike at the rack, kick it once or twice because your butt is petty like that, then race off to the run course, free! FINALLY FREE!! while the theme song for Rocky plays in your head. Until you realize the repetitiveness is going to drive you insane, so you instead begin greeting each pink flamingo lining the route by name. "Charlie! Looking good! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) Hello there, Edith! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) BOB! (stumble a little) Geesh, Bob! Quit hiding behind the trees. This isn't the Halloween Spook Run! And put down those nunchucks, you're a flamingo, now act like one!" (Note: I made up the nunchucks for literary effect. You know, the scary kind, not the weird kind that I'm currently utilizing.)

Sixthly, you sprint across the finish line, get a medal slung around your neck, pick up a banana or two for your under five cheering squad, sit down and happily make plans with your fellow racers to fill your bellies with waffles and eggs while cheering on the other finishers. That is, until you find out that you got beat by the guy with a broken foot. (Seriously.) You'd berate your butt for letting you slack off on your training, buuuuuttttt, you then realize that it wasn't only you who got beaten by the guy with a broken foot, it was everyone. Which means he's probably an alien. So you happily firm up waffle plans, then join the line for the free post-race massage.

The End.
Dude... I can not wait to do it all again next year!

Friday, September 2, 2011

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Part Tau*

I went to Arizona to do my annual retreat thing with my college besties. This year had considerable less sloshy baby poop in my lap and more "shush, shush little baby...." (small groan of frustration with overtones of glee because it's not my baby) "Sorry, Scooby, can't seem to calm him down." (PLOP! goes the baby back in mommy's lap).

It's a good thing my friends keep having such adorable babies, otherwise I'd be all "Awwww... Crapazoidal!! That ugly baby is going to cry again. I'm soooo out of here! I wonder if Fiesta Mall is still the place for the cool people to hang. Pish! What am I talking about? If I'm there, obviously it is!" Which would have been weird because, in high school, I was never a mall bunny. Mall siamang? Mall bobcat? Mall mule? Whatever. I'm basically trying to say I never hung out at the mall much. I was more of a *knock* *knock* Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies? type of high schooler. Meaning I was way less likely to get pregnant, do drugs or drink irresponsibly (ummm, this will be quite obvious in about 30 seconds). Not to say that the people who hung out at malls were all shopping for trendy preggo tops while sipping from their rum flasks and making appointments to smoke pot out by the dumpsters. I wouldn't know! Because I was too busy trying to earn this by selling 350 boxes of Thin Mints:


Now, I loved Girl Scouts. Heck, I'm probably genetically destined to become Cookie Chairman of my neighborhood someday. However, what Girl Scouts did a horrible job preparing me for was ordering an alcoholic drink from a piano bar when I was thirty-five. True story.

You see, we had dropped the babies off with their respective daddy's and were dressed up and ready for a night on the town! In a piano bar! Without adorable chubby baby butts! And, as we hurtled along the highway in our mini-van this was my thought process:

"Man. I haven't been to a bar since college. Huh. I never even ordered a drink from a bar in college. DUDE! I should totally order a drink from the bar!! It'd be like a life story!!! Like bungee jumping or hang gliding. People would be all, 'Have you ever jumped from a bridge with only a twisty telephone chord looking thing keeping you from crashing to certain death?' And I'd be all, 'No. But I ordered a drink from a bar once.' And then they'd be all, 'Dude! I've always wanted to do that!' Yeeaaahhhh! I'm totally ordering a drink tonight!"

A few miles pass.

"Wait. I don't really drink. I mean sure, a Margarita at a restaurant every once in a while (OK, every four years), but I can't order a Margarita, can I? Would it even come with the salty rim? Because if it doesn't have a salty rim, it's not worth it. And I never liked those nasty sweet fruity drinks that everyone orders. Crud. I'm going to look stupid. OK. Think. I can't order a beer because, one, I don't really like beer, and, two, the bartender would probably ask me what kind I wanted and then what do I say? Bud Light? Then it's not so much a life story as it is a Super Bowl commercial. Maybe I should do some research...."

More miles pass as I mumble to myself and shake my iPhone fruitlessly (to make it go faster).

"Wait! Someone once said that Mike's Hard Lemonade is pretty good. OK. I've got my plan. I'll walk up to the bar and order a Mike's. It's simple, it's alcoholic, and there's no way the bartender can look at me and say "What's in that?" with a confused expression on her face. Yeah. All the cool people order Mike's at bars. Definitely...."

Cut scene to the piano bar where I'm enjoying the musicianship of the players as they smoothly move from Elton John's 'Bennie and the Jets' to Train's 'Hey Soul Sister' to Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' to Garth Brooks 'Friends in Low Places' and other better songs that I can't remember right now. Because, seriously people, 'Friends in Low Places'? No. Just stop requesting that one. You're just embarrassing yourself. Dude, even a Journey song would be better. (But not Michael Bolton. For the love of all that is good-NOT MICHAEL BOLTON!)

Anyway, eventually I make my way to the bar, lean in confidently and say, "I'd like a Mike's." As I'm pulling my cash out of my purse the bartender yells (because Garth Brooks is up again) "I don't have that!" Crapaziodal! What did she say!?! I have no clue what to do now. I'm completely unprepared. I should have done more research!! While I'm internally freaking out the bartender keeps talking and somehow I end up walking around holding a Smirnoff Ice in my hand. And I don't have a clue what a Smirnoff is.

Cut to two hours later and there I am, showing off my coffee house roots by clutching my empty glass bottle of vodka (thank you iPhone and free WiFi) while awkwardly bopping along to 'Play That Funky Music White Boy'. Why? Well, because I have horrific rhythm people, and apparently 12 ounces of vodka doesn't help. Also because, I couldn't find the recycling bin. I thought about slipping the bottle into my purse and taking it home, but then thought, noooOOOooo, that would look kinda, you know, odd. Or stupid. Or possibly illegal. Either way you look at it, there I was, stuck pulling up my all-natural organic cotton big girl panties and sidling up to the bar to ask the bartender, "Excuse me. Where's the recycling?"

A confused stare and a point to the huge black trash can later, I had my answer: bars don't have recycling.

Because, apparently, bars are NOT run by the Girl Scouts.

Unless you count that time when the beer was buried off site at Girl Scout camp one summer. But that's a completely different "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" story.


*Because not only are my college besties awesome and get comped cover at piano bars, they also watched this video and pontificated upon the ramifications of a world in which physical mathematics is turned on its head. Obviously they are awesome, because the only thing I got out of the video was a really big craving for cherry pie.**

**We also watched this video. I thought it was AWESOME! They politely chuckled. Maybe I was smarter in college....

Sunday, August 28, 2011

All This Could Have Been Avoided If You'd Just Followed Me On Twitter President Obama

I don't know how they missed it, but, apparently not a single uppity up in the TSA nor President Obama has read my post calling for the replacement of the evil x-ray machines at airport security with cute little fluffy puppies. How could they miss it? I mean, I put it right there! (points to computer screen) On the internet! Therefore, I can only conclude that they are too busy chuckling at the cats on icanhascheezburger.com to do any real research on the new trends for intercontinental transportational security. All I can say, is, dudes, those cats are not as funny as you think they are.
So, as a result of TSAs inability to tear their eyes away from cute internet kittens speaking with a horrific ungrammatical accent, there I was, stripped to my skivvies (plus a tank top and jean skirt) standing in line with all the other airport travelers out of Phoenix that day about to be blasted with 189 quadrizillion knots of radiation. Now, don't get me wrong. I understand that the heightened security makes people feel safer after 9/11. Heck, when they started the whole remove shoes confiscate pocket knives thing, I donned my stripped monkey socks and cheerfully left my Swiss Army Knife at home. Heck, I even started wearing my hair in Princess Leia buns just so when I got chosen for those extra pat downs (as I always seemed to be chosen for) I could tell everyone that "TSA squeezed my buns today." (Yeeaaahhh...Jon never really appreciated the wittiness of that joke.) But naked radiation boxes? Seriously, TSA? Do I look like I need more super hero powers?

Then, I notice. People traveling with wee little babes are shuffled around the boxes. They don't have to go though.

Quick check.

Yep.

Still baby and preschooler free.

Or am I?

As I come face to face with security personnel, I do what any woman my approximate age should do. I reach down, caress my stomach and say, "I don't exactly feel comfortable." And BAM! Just like that I save myself all the heartache that goes with having to attend Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning in order to learn how to control my mutant super powers.

But what about Jon, you ask. Will he be forced to abandon his family... his friends... his job... his life...his whole identity as he learns to control his new and strangely highly developed ambidextrous skills*? Naaawww.... That's why I'm planning on getting him this t-shirt for his birthday:
And this:
And some hair product.

Or maybe a wig.

I might need to take him down to ear piercing place in the mall too.

And maybe a cute pair of-

Aw crap. Never mind. I think Jon might be happier with the super hero powers.



*Knowledge that there is an ambidextrous X-man is just one of the wondrous things you can discover on the internet once you get past those stupid cats TSA. Just sayin'.


Thursday, August 11, 2011

This Is What Happens When I Socialize

Conversation with Mabel at a party:

Mabel: You should frost your hair.
Me: It's summer, it wouldn't stay frozen.
Mabel: (ignoring my witty joke) Nooooo.... we should give you highlights!!
Me: Why?
Mabel: It'll make you a faster triathlete!
Me: A faster swimmer?
Mabel: Suuuper fast!
Me: Faster than you?
Mabel: (rolls eyes) Don't be ridiculous.
Me: Faster on the bike?
Mabel: Like blue lightening!
Me: A faster runner?
Mabel: Nothing could make you a faster runner, Martha. You are the fastest runner IN THE WORLD!!
Me: (jumping up and high fiveing Mabel) I'll do it!

Lies and flattery. Apparently that 's all I need to hear in order to agree to turn me into this:

Yes. With teal eyebrows.

Hair-dying is a very weird process.

Maybe I should start at the beginning-back story by VH1 and all that.

I've never dyed my hair. Well, I once tried to dye a reeeaaallly small section purple with Kool-Aide in high school once, but it didn't work. Sure it smelled good, and it tasted like a grape popscicle, but I at the end I lacked the totally awesome section of purple hair that was going to transform me from Girl Scout cookie selling orchestra geek to cool grunge girl. And, you know what they say about failure... OK, I don't know what they say about failure, but I can confidently say it does not smell like teen spirit.*

Fast forward something like 15 years, and there I am standing in the cosmetics section of Target pretending to contemplate the hueical difference between "Biscotti" and "Caramel Cookie" but really just dreaming about eating a caramel biscotti and drinking coffee while I twirled aimlessly around. (Dude. I was wearing a skit. It's a girl thing.) Then I saw something exciting! Did you know (I'm saying this in my best conspiratorial voice, so you should totally listen closely) that they have samples in the aisles? Cosmetic samples! And that's why Mabel had to have this conversation with me:

Me: Samples!!
Mabel: Wha-
Me: (rifling through the eyebrow pencils) Chocolate brown... brown....brown/black...TEAL! Mabel! We should paint our eyebrows teal!
Mabel: Um. No.
Me: (recklessly scribbling above my eyes) Come on! It's free! FREE SAMPLES!!!!!!!
Mabel: Um. No.

(Another friend was shopping with us, I'll call her Belinda (mostly because I always wanted a friend named Belinda), but she took one look at the gleeful look on my face as I clutched the eyebrow pencil, giggled nervously and bolted for the deodorant aisle. If we had been in high school this would have totally been mysecond Nirvana reference!)

Then, because while Target gives out free samples of make-up they don't give out free samples of make-up remover, we left quickly with our box of un-edible "Biscotti" and soon I was sporting a wimple, or whatever the Amish call those hats they wear. Because hair dyeing is a weird process.

A Chinese Crested Dog cap, a wimple, three different hair products, and a hair straightener later and Mabel still couldn't beautify the dork out of me. Probably because I scribbled it across my forehead.


Note: My eyebrows really were teal, really, but they didn't show up well enough in the photo. Because, you know, if anyone wished I were lying about my eyebrows, it's Mabel and Belinda. All apologies, guys. (Dude! That's three!!!)


*Oh my goodness! I just made a Nirvana reference!! Oh man.... I feel so cool!!!**
** My brain is totally partying right now: "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it....Ice, ice baby...vanilla...." I'm doing the Roger Rabbit too.

Friday, July 29, 2011

BANANAS!!! Crud. I Just Totally Ruined The Punch Line For You All.

Knock! Knock!
Who's there?
Bananas.
Bananas who?
Bananas on a plate!

It's OK, I can wait for you to stop laughing uproariously.

Wait. Seriously? You're done already? Weird.... Because I recently found out on a road trip with Katie, there is nothing NOT funny about the word 'bananas'. So if you need more giggle time, I can totally upload some awesome elevator music to rock out to while I wait. No? Sure?

Oh thank goodness, people! Because I was thees close to having Micheal Bolton's "Said I Loved You... But I Lied" stuck in my head for the rest of the day.*

So, there I was with banana jokes cavorting around in my head, a giggling four year old in the back seat, 100 miles to go before we could sleep and a trigger thumb on my Twitter account, when this thought occurred to me, "If I twit that I'm off to the beach for a vacation the uber smart Buck-Roger-bots are going to know that I'm on vacation! They will know that I'm not at home! They'll be able to come into my house, install mind controlling devices in my microwave and bedside lamp, rearrange my underwear drawer and suck all the caffeine out of my coffee one bean at a time! Rude! Gross! And frankly, annoying, because I bet those brain implants give you tinnitus." So I did the only rational thing. I put my iPhone away. I played in the sand. I flew kites. I rode a bike. I went for glorious morning runs on the beach. I ate two Recess peanut butter cups and a cookie the size of my head. Obviously, I went vacation crazy, and it was awesome!

But I didn't want you all to feel left out, so I wrote down my tweets on a handy dandy (I make myself cringe with my slang sometimes too.) piece of paper. I'm sure it will be just like being there!

1. Stripey green maxi dress, purple shirt and pigtails. Nothing says, "I'm on vacation" like #DressingLikeAClown.

2. I don't think the McDonald's employees appreciated my homage as much as I did. #DressingLikeAClown

3. Um. Correction. Nothing says "I'm on vacation" like #DressingLikeAClown, but nothing smells like vacation like baby vomit all over the back seat.

4. This place has a 12 cup coffee maker and Jon is still in the shower. SCORE!

5. PB cookies the size of my head!!

6. Coffee tsunami! #LongBeachCoffeeRoasters

7. Vacation pics by four year olds can be kinda random.

8. Oh wait. Never mind. That was mine.

9. Apparently no matter how many times you say, "I have pita chips!" it doesn't turn them into real chips.

10. HARRY POTTER!! DH2!!


12. This town really loves it's razor clams. I'm just trying to fit in.

13. I think this guy needs to use the bathroom. I know the feeling dude.

14. It was just a two shot latte! I swear!

15. Jon's got skillz. Madcat skillz.

16. I want to hug him and squeeze him and love him forever! #sandsculpturecompetition

17. ARG! Croc-O-Pirate! #JakeTheAlligatorMan

18. I do realize alligators and crocodiles are different, but Alli-O-Pirate sounded stupid.

19. I am an ostrich cowboy.

20. Don't you hate tweets that basically say, "You had to be there"? #annoying

21. Check out deadlines make me crazy! Load the car! Load the car!



Thursday, July 14, 2011

Because My Sister Said I Was Weird

Things that happen when your sister flies six quadrabillion miles for a visit:

1. Your car is licked by buffalo. Repeatedly.

(Well, hello there! I'll take that slice of bread with a jumbo side of saliva.)

2. You get spit on by dinosaurs.

(This is my, "This dinosaur is going to spit on me too, isn't it?" face. I wore it a lot.)

3. You take pictures of dead geoducks.

(And apparently sing, "Dig a duck, dig a duck, dig a geoduck, dig a duck, dig a duck, dig a duck a day!" all by yourself. Because I like to embarrass myself like that.)

4. Ellie eats dirt, and rocks, and sand, and grass-but NOT DEAD GEODUCKS!

(Another picture of the half-eaten, decomposing, stinking of Clamato juice, dead geoduck, courtesy of everyone who refused to sing the geoduck song with me. Seriously. CLAMATO! That tall glass of tomato and clam juice doesn't look so appetizing now, does it?)

5. You find out you need to worry about elbow germs in public restrooms.

(Seriously. Do you know where YOUR elbow has been?)

6. Someone picks the Fremont Troll's nose.
(This is a troll. That is his nose. This is an anonymous type person picking the nose. These are my mad Inkscape skillz. Try not to be jealous. Of the skillz, not the troll booger. Obviously you can't help being jealous of that.)

7. You make a birthday cake out of Rice Krispie Treats and chocolate frosting.

(Which due to the minority of the household voting for the kale and tofu birthday cake*, we had to actually go to the store to buy ingredients for.)

8. Hilarious, yet inappropriate jokes about butts, poop and cannibalism are made at the dinner table each night. (I blame Ellie. Or Jon. But not for the same reason. Probably.)

(Death stare if you name my cannibal Edward. I'm looking at you Jon.)

9. You learn not to wear Ellie on your back while attempting to ride a merry-go-round.

(cough-baby go splat-cough.)

10. After everyone leaves, you and Katie agree that the week totally earned the highly coveted Fish Bump of approval.
(KAPOW, BABY!)

And, while my sister really did visit, I thought it would be more prudent to NOT post any pictures of her, because she's a spy. Or a teacher. Or a cupcake baker. Or the president of United States of America. Or I'm really embarrassing. Or I was too lazy to ask her. Or she's a cannibal. Probably the latter. Or the former? Crud. I always get those two mixed up....

Either way, you should totally come back soon! I'll keep a Fish Bump waiting for you!


*OK, I don't actually know if a kale and tofu birthday cake exists out there in the culinary type world, but I'm thinking with a little chocolate frosting, some sprinkles, might be kinda tasty. Or, I mean-Oooooo! YUCK! GROSS! WHO WOULD EAT THAT!?!

Friday, June 24, 2011

I Pity The Foo' Who Won't Twit With Me

How I know the computers are winning their bid for world domination:

Me: (standing groggily in the shower, which, truthfully, isn't much different than how I stand everywhere else)
My Brain: (in an unfamiliar, yet strangely compelling voice) Shave your eyebrows, you need.
Me: Oh,yeah. Knew I forgot something. (picking up my razor) Waaaiiit a minute....

And then I was forced to join Twitter.

Yes, I've called Twitter an insidious plot for world domination by super Buck Rogers computers (it is), but it was either that or lose an eyebrow people! And, I'm sorry, but I LIKE my eyebrows! Because, if I were eyebrowless I'd have to go around dressed like this:
All the time. Because, even with my limited fashion sense I know that a sweat headband would just look stupid by itself.

But now, instead of trashing my whole wardrobe and maxing out my credit cards on workout tights, leg warmers and awesome sweat bands, I'm busy trying to get Barack Obama to follow me on Twitter.

OK, fine. He wasn't my first choice. I actually wanted Jane Austen to follow me and so I followed her, but then she never tweeted at me and I felt all used and stuff. I mean, I've read all your books Jane! I recommended them to friends! The least you could do is twit at me or something! Is that so much to ask!?! Huh!! IS IT!?! But, noooOOOooo, apparently she's too busy being, I don't know, dead. And self-centered. (Yeah. You heard me Jane.)

So, there I was, depressedly wandering Twitter, drowning my sighs in yet another gulp of coffee, when I figured it out. You can't be a self-centered non-following twit if you've been made into a Chia Pet! Utterly impossible, right? Totally!

So, President Lincoln,
President Washington,
President Obama
and Mr. T,


will you twitterize with me?

Come on, guys! Sing with me! 1-2-3! Hit it Olivia!

"Let's get twittering, twittering,
I wanna tweet with you Chia heads
Let's get into tweeting talks
Let me hear your Twitter talk, your Twitter talk
Let me hear your Twitter talk!"

Um. Sorry. I'm not usually this uncool. (No one was talking to you, Jane!)

@MacCheeseAttack