i started writing this, oh, 5 months ago? and forgot. since then, i’ve had surgery on both of my feet, then broken one of them, split from the boyf, moved out of his house and into the tiny little place my mother just rented after selling my childhood home because it was big and none of her children were coming back (indeed, we sat down to discuss that with her before she sold. but whatever), lost my job, choreographed the successful end of a family drama and started to integrate my kitchen things with my mother’s. (that’s a way bigger thijng thjan you think it is, i promise.)
anyway. here’s some stuff. most of it’s funny. and there’s new stuff i found today that’s jhysterical. (also, this post heralds the return of the wonky j, for those of you who still know me.)
The human race as a whole committed a terrible crime this year with undercelebration of International No-Bra Day.
If you didn’t watch PBS before now, get to the back of the line, ladies.
The reason I didn’t become a librarian is people.
This exists, and now there’s a whole new world open to me.
Peeling off my glittery nail polish while sitting on hold is a totally under-rated hobby.
Bruce Springsteen has still not responded to my LinkedIn invitation to connect. Asshole.
It wasn’t the furtive eye-darting that made me look twice at the hipstery bearded dude coming out of the grocery store. Nor was it my suspicion that, should ever there exist a Deerhunter cover band, this dude would rock the bass line. But rather, I did my comical double-take (or double-took, if you will) when I realized the package he cradled to his chest was a wedge of pricey parmesan.
Pretty sure it’s just the semi-regular Clorox-wiping of my desk that keeps me from turning into Howie Mandel.
Last night I discovered I don’t own enough slinkys to fill a vase. Time to correct.
Binders full of women… automatic weapons… gun control… children growing up in happy, two-parent homes… Lisa Frank… I’m pretty sure gay marriage solves all of these things.
I am in the top 1% of profiles stalked on LinkedIn. I am also part of the 99%, with my liberal, hippie ways, but also part of the 2% since I make enough money to buy rice every day. If I wanted to buy rice every day.
Well, now, the sweet potatoes will not chiffon theyselves!
I own more pairs of cheap sunglasses than bras. Comparing my eyesight to my boobs might feel a bit like comparing apples and Tuesdays, but it’s clear my priorities have gotten fuzzier the more my boobs get in the way.
“Apples and Tuesdays” is my former boss’s favorite expression. I like both apples and Tuesdays, and today I ate an apple and it is Tuesday. The Pink Lady apple was very tasty.
My Capital One card looks like a wavy version of the Preamble to the Constitution. I often abbreviate when discussing the card to Cap-One, which, when you are too lazy for punctuation and capitalization, becomes capone, which makes my credit card a bad-ass gangster who died crazy from syphilis after being released from Alcatraz. Good times.
Daniel: “So that money would be the gangster card — gas, drinks, fancy grocery shit…”
Me: “Plus each time I have to give Barack $3.”
D: “Yes, each time you have to give Barack $3.”
Dear Country Music, are y’all all hung up on the same sweet girl from Amarillo? Or do they, like, mass-produce one for each of you there?
I just wrote an excellent email. It was really top-notch. I require praise.
Daniel: (warily) “…yeah?”
Me: “Why is nasal spray still so awful?”
D: “I just don’t know, babe.”
Me: “This is the crisis of our times. There should at least be folk songs about it.”
D: “Yes, dear.”
The real problem, my love, is that I am trained in the art of the crudité.
“Oh, my sweet Carolina” makes me cry. “Soulshine” makes me want to drink. “Sweet Baby James” makes me want babies. I can’t not sing along to the Farmers Insurance jingle. John Legend, Alicia Keys and Sade generally round out my Spotify lists, unless it’s Blackstreet, Boyz II Men, Adele, Amy Winehouse or the cast of Pitch Perfect.
I desperately desire to be badass, which is pretty much what makes me not badass.
Textspeak and lolspeak are harbingers of the fall of man. Except when I use them. Then, it’s cute.
Jimmy: “Oh my gah, what IS that? It looks disgusting.”
Each time I put lotion on my neck, I say a silent thank-you to Nora Ephron. I see her dismissing me with a little wave, saying, “I know, you’re welcome,” and tottering off to observe something, scathingly, about Heaven.
Super-aggressive hold music is my Kryptonite.
God references are best applied to awkward situations and their resolutions. See: Finding oneself in a seedy hotel room and then rejoicing in the sweetness of a Marriott. See also: Profusely expressing thanks for that charm bracelet you so don’t want because you’re not 13 anymore and maybe you didn’t even want one then? And being a terrible liar and having your boyfriend frog-march you into the jewelry store to pick out this fab layery necklace-ring combo.
I don’t actually like bacon all that much, unless it’s cooked in things or things are cooked in it. I do, however, love pork belly, because I am a snob.
Me: “So, this won’t work.”
Eric: “What’s wrong with that drill?”
Me: “It’s a screwdriver.”
Sometimes you just get stuck in your shirt!
Teen Jeopardy! is more fun because you get to make fun of the contestants and their braces while also getting most of the questions right.
It’s a weird day when you can’t tell if what you’re watching is porn.
Bootlegging is probably not as fun as it used to be but it still sounds cool, so getting bourbon shipped to my friend in a state without liquor laws that date back to Prohibition so she can ship it all sneaky-like to you in your all-too-blue state and it’s bourbon that’s apparently all hipster hard-to-find now? Is way fun. See also: I am a snob.
There are not adequate words to describe the will power I just summoned in not purchasing the huge turkey-shaped helium balloons here.
Pretty sure I’ve gotten more, professionally, out of my relationships with old high school crushes than I’ve ever gotten out of calculus.
Why do we sing “Take Me Home, Country Roads” when we all know what we mean is “Take Me Home, Comfort Food,” or, in drunker choruses, “Take Me Home, Fried Chicken & Mashed Potatoes”? Crowd-sourced final verse: “Take Me Home, Country Hos.” See also: The people who search for how to treat their hep C.
The challah / HOLLA! joke never gets old.
I’m just not feeling ok with how bright it is on the other side of that pillow right now.
“OH NO! I over-honey-mustard-ed that!” said me never.
Alliteration, glitter and an emergency popsicle solve most emotional crises.
Why does smug feel so good?
I have run out of cake. And by “run out of” I mean “eaten all the.” This is both a huge relief and a major travesty. Help.
The space between me and the boyf in the bed is called the Valley of Love. This is an indisputable fact and its boundaries must be respected at all times.
Thing is, Mr. President, I don’t see why Army One isn’t the presidential Winnebago that ferries you around in the middle of the night when your motorcade wouldn’t shut down my city, is alls I’m sayin’.
I vote for genetic modification insofar as I get to become the love child of Ryan Adams and Julia Roberts, whose parents are, respectively, Meryl Streep and Sean Connery, and Harrison Ford and Reba McEntire, but genetically modified corn is dumb. Because obv.
I’d just like to give a shout-out to the Pilot truck-stop company. I love you guys. Also, your assortment of state-specific tchotchkes.
I’m concerned that RDJ might make too pretty a chola.
When can we all begin to agree that the Souza medley is, in fact, both annoying and passé?
Carly: “Man, I hate stupid.”
Me: “I know! Let’s have new lives!”
C: “EXOTIC WILD LIFE!”
Me: “Problem solved.”
Every time the dog barks, I now wish to herald the sound with a shout of “Let me sing you the song of my people!”
So, this weekend my brother summit-ed Kilimanjaro and my sister made a human. Good times.
WHY IS IT SO HARD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN NAPPING AND BEER.
Cardboard paper-cut. In the nail bed. Thumb. Might need to amputate.
My dog, my niece, my man and my mama are better than yours. Bummer, dude.
PEOPLE. I need pygmy goats. I will name them after To Kill A Mockingbird characters. CAN’T YOU JUST SEE BOO AND SCOUT FROLICKING IN THE MEADOW?
The best of friends mail you pudding, bring you glittery stilettos and suggest you take some passionflower so you stop being such a fucking bitch.
HOW DID I FORGET HOW TASTY GRAHAM CRACKERS ARE.
ONE OF THE THINGS ON THE MACHINE IS MAKING NOISES AND I CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHICH I AM GOING TO KILL ALL OF THE THINGS.
In emotional-meteorological terms, what do you call it when you have your own one big tornado and another smaller but definitely angry and swirling cyclone that hits yours and joins it and won’t let go and so then your tornado becomes a bigger one? I’m pretty sure Twister taught me this answer but I can’t remember.
“Everything great in the world comes from neurotics,” says Proust. “No shit,” says I.
Something is wrong with pants. Unfamiliar territory. Will update as situation progresses. Please stay tuned.
“Please eat these cookies, honey. I need to make room for the next batch.” Filed under Best Girlfriend Ever, Yo.
I challenge you to find one thing wrong with owning china with T-rexes printed on it, wearing a tie with a very tasteful shark printed on it or Nutella.
I’ve said it before and I will say it again: Nasal spray is the work of the goddamn devil.
The universal improvement of strategic gif employment on the internet is my favorite thing to celebrate in 2012.
Anybody remember that one time I was funny? What did I say? I forget.
Staring into the eyes of my niece in every picture, it is becoming increasingly clear that she will one day control each and every one of us with her brain.
Nasal spray: 27,000,000. Mer: 0. STILL A PRODUCT OF THE DEVIL. Now with 30% more post-nasal drip!
I am most definitely not listening to the one album that rips my heart into 390,483,207,837 pieces over and over and over again right now.
ANN RICHARDS! That’s who I couldn’t remember the other day! With whom was I arguing? Doesn’t matter, sure I was right. After all, it’s Ann Richards.