Category Archives: Uncategorized

Best Christmas Present EVER!

I hope my husband and parents don’t read this. Because the coolest present I got this Christmas was not from them. It was from our very own Queenie! And it was totally worth waiting until after Christmas to open. Check out the shirt she had made for me:

Really, I'm not just trying to show off my bo-zooms in this picture.

Really, I'm not just trying to show off my bo-zooms in this picture. And I'm just anal rententive enough for it to really bother me that my shirt is crooked. Argh!


Isn’t she the greatest?? Maybe we’d get more hits if we made up a bunch of these and handed them out around DC during the Inauguration. People love free stuff. We’d just have to find where we could buy those huge T-shirt cannons that shoot shirts into the crowd. Think the Secret Service would allow those?


The “Build a Bear Experience” = Stuffed Animal Hell

I had to do something this week that made me cringe and which is against all of my principles:  I had to buy a Hannah Montana Build A Bear.  Shoot me in the frickin’ head now.  Miley Cyrus annoys the living daylights out of me.  But it’s what my niece wants for Christmas, so I sucked it up and went against everything I stand for in regards to celebrity marketing and bought it.  Have you done the Build A Bear thing?  It was embarrassing.  The sales girl loved her job WAAAY too much (her enthusiasm was just oozing through the store like syrup) and she decided that I, an almost 40 year old woman, absolutely HAD to enjoy the entire Build a Bear “experience”.  Experience?  I thought you just walked in, grabbed your damn bear out of the bin, said “Stuff it please” and left.  Nope.  Evidently there is an entire ritual to be performed when buying a stuffed animal these days.  First I had to push a pedal to fill my bear with fluffies while the sales girl encouraged me and cheered me on. You would have thought pedal pushing was some new Olympic sport the way she was whooping and hollering.  Then I had to stick my hand under this air duct of floating poofy hearts and grab one to put in the bear.  Okay.  Kinda cute in a corny way, I guess.  But then she had me hold the heart between my hands and rub it for warmth while making a wish, followed by pressing it up to my heart to send love along with the bear.  Getting silly now.  “Now rub it on your nose.”  WTF?  Keep in mind I was THE ONLY PERSON in the store except for a hot UPS guy who was watching this entire performance while he waited for Pollyanna Perkypants to finish with me.  So I touched the heart ever so slightly to my nose so as not to get make-up on it and assumed we were done.  Wrong.  “Okay, now kiss the heart to send your love.”  Didn’t I already place this now annoying little heart to my chest to send the love? Now I’m supposed to KISS it, too? I’m not exactly Mother Teresa.  I don’t have a whole lot of love to spare. By this point the UPS dude was glaring at me like “I don’t get paid to stand around watching middle aged women make out with stuffed trinkets, so let’s bust a nut and get on with this little display, shall we?”  So I gave the heart a little peck and stuffed it into the bear’s ass where it will remain for eternity, never to be seen again.  The sales girl was elated. I was mortified.  My niece better put this damn bear in a curio cabinet and bow to it in all it’s glory every night before bed.  I’m serious.

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.

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.

I Love GraphJam!

funny graphs
see more song memes
funny graphs
see more song memes
funny graphs
see more song memes
funny graphs
see more song memes

Facebook Fix

Queenie, I blame this all on you. You convinced me to get on Facebook. Do you know how much time I’m spending on there? First, you request I join the Sticker and Superlatives applications. OK, cute. Now, I’m getting daily requests from people to take the 80’s Movie Quiz, join Knighthood (“The game of medieval feudalism and warfare!”), play Connect Four, take the Neverending Movie Quiz, etc. And let me tell you, the Neverending Movie Quiz is, um . . ., NEVERENDING. I could spend hours playing with all these fun apps and trying to find old friends. (And even when I find someone I used to know, I’m sorta embarrassed to “poke” them. What if they don’t remember me? Or worse, what if they do and really don’t want to reconnect?)  And now, you send me the What Weapon Are You Quiz?  Like I have nothing else to do?  I’m an MP5SD, btw.  What are you?

Anyway, when my laundry sits undone and the dishes pile up, I’ll put it all on you. And maybe I’ll send you a sticker.


From the Queen:

I just opened up a Facebook account. Are you on there? It’s a very confusing place, especially for someone who’s already on meds for this sort of thing. One minute I’m writing a profile about myself and downloading pictures to share with my friends, the next minute I’m somehow sending “virtual stickers” to strangers and being stalked by some guy named “Brad”, who we all know is actually a 72 year old housewife named Mildred who chain-smokes Lucky Strikes while her husband tinkers on the ‘87 camaro sitting astride cement blocks in the front yard of their double-wide. Then there’s this feature where people can add you to their “entourage”. I love that… “entourage”, like we’re going to ring for the private jet to fly us to Vegas to drink apple martini’s at Hyde’s with Paris and Lindsey. Would we even be allowed in their entourage if we admit to our nasty habit of wearing underwear?