Category Archives: Random

Long Live Plaid!

Dear Jen Lancaster, How do we love thee? Let us count the ways . . .

Dear Jen Lancaster, We giggled, snorted and guffawed while reading your first book:


Dear Jen Lancaster, We had a similar reaction to your second book:


Dear Jen Lancaster, We laughed AND cheered you on in your third book that chronicled your weight-loss battle:


Dear Jen Lancaster, We can’t wait to read your newest memoir that celebrates the 80’s:


Dear Jen Lancaster, We hope you have a huge turn-out for your Pretty in Plaid book tour. (Dates here.) We’ll be there in our miniskirts with rubber belts, jelly shoes, and Swatches, and we’ll be rockin’ our claw-shaped bangs. Every body Wang Chung tonight . . .


OMG, We’re So Trendy We’ve Been Outlawed!

The Queen and I recently told you about getting these Dr. Fish Pedicures (which, interestingly enough, is now being called a “massage”.) Here’s that post. Just last week, the state of Florida outlawed the use of the fish because the tanks can’t be disinfected between users.  (Whatevs, once we got rid of that weird breakout of blisters, we were totally fine.)  Here is the article about Florida in the LA Times.  We are not only very sexy, but Queenie and I are very much scofflaws.  We will not be hassled by The Man if we want fish to be nibbling our toes.

Regarding the name change from “pedicure” to “massage”, here’s my suspicion:  massages probably fall under a different regulatory body than pedicures.  Anyone in Virginia want to offer their expertise on the subject?

Miss Brownie Leader

The Queen is a Brownie leader this year and I can’t wait to see her on her first camping trip.  Here is the T-shirt to best describe her outdoor living skills.  (Thanks

Me me, my me, mo me

So Mama has been begging me to do this “Meme” thing. Evidently I spend way too much time on Facebook and not enough time sharing my innovative musings with the world. But really, given the options of chatting up cute boys on Facebook or amusing the one person who will read this (my mother) in the outhouse, I’d consider it a no-brainer. PLUS… If I meet a cute boy, date him, get married, and have babies, think of all the great new stories I will have to tell! I am Facebooking for the sake of this blog!      


Anyhoo, the point of this Meme thing is to find the closest book to you, open it up to page 56, and share lines five through ten or so from that page with other readers. Why? Beats the hell out of me. But it gives me something to do. Now, to pre-empt any possible grammatical confusion, “Meme” is evidently pronounced “meem”. Why it isn’t just spelled that way is a mystery, but I’m guessing the “Hooked on Phonics” people are pissed. You give a shout out to the person who invited you to mime or meme or whatever (The Dolan Blog) and pass your own meming on to others.      


Since the rules state to find the CLOSEST book to you and not your favorite book or one that might be interesting or saucy, which is how I would play this game, I have no choice but to share with you the creative stylings of Webster’s Dictionary. Since there are no page numbers in a dictionary, I am having to count to page 56 by hand. (I didn’t realize math would be involved in this little project) and after scrolling to line five here is what I’ve found:         


appalling: adj. Causing consternation or dismay; frightful. Appalling working conditions. Used in a sentence: “I find it appalling that the word Meme is pronounced meeeeeeem.” (I swear that’s what it says. Don’t believe me? Look it up.)    


Wow. Riveting.     


I’m going to my bookshelf now, picking out one of my favorite reads, and putting it right on my keyboard so I can try this again tomorrow.

Need We Say More?

Like you need to tell us!

Like you need to tell us!

Condoms and Misdemeanors

So I just finished the last day of a 60 hour training course to become a P.I. here in the beautiful state of Virginia (Which if my dating history is any indicator is NOT for lovers, contrary to what all the t-shirts and bumper stickers profess.)  I decided that I enjoy snooping around in other people’s business so much, why not make it official and get paid for it? 


The class itself was very educational, as we discussed all sorts of civil and criminal law, compared surveillance techniques, and watched a great movie explaining why one should NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES talk to a cop when pulled over.  (There goes that method of finding a date.)  We spent a day talking about computers (Really… Someone should’ve told me that I need to defrag my hard drive more than once every four years!) and I just couldn’t stifle my chuckle when I saw that someone had mistyped the letter “c” instead of “s” in the word disk on the PowerPoint slide and in giant letters on the screen we were told to ALWAYS find time for “DICK CLEANUP”.  Makes you wonder what staff meetings are like at I.B.M.  Had I known such pertinent information was part of the curriculum I would have taken computer science instead of band in high school. 


The crème de la crème of investigative subjects just begging for sarcastic remarks and witty repartee came under the guise of a lesson simply called “Adultery”.  For starters, I learned that it is a class four misdemeanor (read: ILLEGAL) to have pre-marital sex in the state of Virginia.  Uh oh.  Is it pre-marital sex if I have no intention of getting married?  I think I need to write my Congressman.


Next was a lesson in how to “prove” adultery based on evidence found in the hotel room where the alleged Dance of the Bumping Fuzzies took place.  For starters:  P.I protocol says that if a used condom is found in the man’s room, it is not adultery.  However, if the liquid-love filled prophylactic is found in the woman’s room, DING DING DING!  We’ve got us some cheatin’! (I assume we trust a visual only inspection of said condom for this sort of thing.  And sixteen layers of latex gloves.)  I guess it is to be assumed that if the protection is found in the man’s domain, he is simply a practitioner of unusually cautionary self indulgence. (Tube socks are soooo passé.)  If found in the woman’s room, she is a whore and adultery is assumed. 


But how, as a non-involved party (unless you’re into that sort of thing) does an Investigator get his/her hands on such evidence.  Well, apparently it is good M.O. to attempt entry into said hotel room where extra-marital love doodling occurred by getting the maid to allow you in under the guise of having left something in the room.  For example, “Excuse me, Molly Maid?  It seems I left a baby-batter filled condom here in the room.  Might I retrieve it?”  And in you go.  Or, if too shy for straight talk, tell the cleaning crew that you left something important in the room and need to get in.  When after a thorough inspection of the love nest you walk out dangling a pubic hair between your thumb and pointer finger in a death pinch, simply exclaim, “Oh thank God!  I thought I’d lost it forever!” Chances are you’ll end up on some weird sex registry after such a display, but HEY!  You’ve got your evidence.


We learned many more interesting facts throughout the course, but honestly… It only goes downhill from here.  Let’s just say it’s safe to assume that out in this big wide world of ours, there’s a lot of freaky shit going on.  And where’s there’s freak, you’ll find me, a magnifying glass, fingerprint dust, and a briefcase full of pubic hairs.

Dumb kids, dumber bumper stickers

Okay.  I have a beef that all you mothers and fathers who are insanely proud of your children’s accomplishments will probably hate and berate me for, but here goes.  What is up with those stupid, obnoxious “My kid is on the Honor Roll at Blah Blah Blah Middle School” bumper stickers?  Is making the Honor Roll really THAT huge a deal in this day and age that we have to read about your spawn of Einstein while sitting in rush hour traffic?  How grand an accomplishment can it be when half the minivans in the country are driving around sporting the same bumper braggers?  And with the continuing decline of education in America, is it really that difficult to be on the Honor Roll?  Hell, I was on the honor roll my entire life and look at me now: I just got back to work after being unemployed for a year and I spend my spare time ranting to the two people who read this blog (Hi Mom) about what irks me.  Wow… That was worth twelve years of busting my ass for good grades.  I saw a bumper sticker a few weeks ago that took the whole wonderchild thing up a notch.  It said, “Every kid deserves to be honored at Yadda Yadda Yadda Middle school.”  So just how effing stupid is your kid that you have to resort to THAT one!?  Why not just put a sticker in the back window of your Dodge Caravan that reads, “My kid is a major dumbass at the Too Lazy to Study School for Morons”?  And the “My child is a Presidential Fitness Award WInner” is a personal favorite.  I was a Presidential Fitness Award winner in high school.  Now I’m a single, overweight woman pushing 40 who sits at a computer all day and runs out of breath just walking the dog to the mailbox.  Your kid would be better off with the honor roll sticker.  But my all-time favorite, and the entire motivation for creating this rant, was a bumper sticker I saw on the back of a Honda Odyssey yesterday.  It read, “Parents are special at B**** R**  Middle School”.  Yeah… I bet they are.