At Least I'm Not Incarcerated

My reunion was supposed to happen two years ago. I graduated in 1997. But I guess the class president was in charge of that, and she clearly has no desire to see any of us again.

I know particularly that she wouldn't want to see me. I once spilled bleach on her Nautica jacket during photography class and she started a campaign to make me pay her $200 for the trouble. I didn't, even after her mother called my house. Because I'm a stubborn bitch that way and she was totally being mega-rude about how I ruined her coat.

Bitch.

Anyway, they've finally scraped one together and it's tomorrow night. Lucky for me, I've contracted the plague, so I think all my sneezing and sniffling with detract from how pointy my nose and chin have gotten. Also, I bought some really killer fucking shoes, and if that doesn't spell S-U-C-C-E-S-S, I don't know what does. (Hopefully the matching bag.)

But here's what you really came for; my high school graduation portrait. It was before I grew to appreciate the ability to see. Clearly, my ability to do my own hair has always been an issue. (BTW, this is not even close to how awful my "Sexy People" picture would be--have you VOTED yet?):

Click to enlarge/print poster for your family room.

Actually, I totally rock it better these days. Screw that noise. I'm not *that* down on myself. (Well, except in the thighandass department. But luckily it's not *that* kind of party.)

And I'm actually kind of excited. I was kind of a recluse in high school, sticking fiercely to my small circle of (3) friends. Which means there will be no awkward meetings of ex boyfriends or obnoxious former girlfriends. ALSO, there was this major drug bust in my home town last week which rounded up like 20 former classmates. So if I'm not all that impressive, well, at least I'm not incarcerated.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

By now, you all must know about the love I have for my brotha from anotha motha, I'm Not Benny.

Well, the other day I had a moment that seemed to suggest that if we are not cosmically related, then maybe his antics are actually contagious.

(In summary, either we're super awesome, or I'm Not Benny needs to be quarantined.)

Right. So, this weekend I noticed that a neighbor had put out some furniture by the road with a FREE sign attached to the grouping. At first, I didn't look too closely; we've pretty much got enough shit to sit on around here.

But on my way back from the store, I realized that the chairs they'd set out match our dining set perfectly. Who doesn't need some extra chairs? FREE ONES?!

I told my mother to remain behind since the kids were asleep and generally, it's good for children to remain supervised. There were only three chairs. SURELY I could manage that on my own.

Well, getting a grip on three pieces of furniture is remarkably challenging, as it turns out. For me, anyway. I weaved some fingers around two chairs and grabbed the remaining one with my left hand. After about five steps, I realized that this was a stupid, stupid idea as my hand was simultaneously feeling broken and asleep. Should I set them down and reposition?

No. Of course not. Instead, I started to run. It seemed better to just get the whole ordeal over with. It's kind of weird to be taking someone's stuff, anyway, right? What if he came out proclaiming, "WE'VE CHANGED OUR MINDS! THAT WAS GRANDMOTHER'S FAVORITE!"

So there I am, jogging down the street with someone else's dining room chairs clanking about my thighs, all the while muttering "ouch, mother fucker!" under my breath. It was at this point that I think I heard the neighbor shouting behind me to see if I wanted some help. Perhaps THIS made me stop? Pause? Reposition?

Nope. Not a chance.

I was too far gone people. Too. Far. Gone. So I kept running down the road, up my driveway, and directly into the garage. Where I hid until I was certain he went back indoors.

I should let you know that later, my mother decided she wanted the table. THIS predicament involved a neurotic dog, a FREE sign taped to my mother's back, and more nervous, hurried shuffling while fingers broke free from our hands.

This time, we were caught red-handed:

Neighbor: Hey! The dog was going crazy in here...need some help? I think I saw you with the chai--

Me: [Clearly needing help. Also, denying/ignoring association with chairs.] Oh, I don't think so! Gosh, this feels silly, huh? I'm not stealing am I?

Neighbor: [Noticing sign taped to my Mother.] Is she free, too?

Mother: [Nervous laughter.]

Me: [Nervous laughter.]

Neighbor: [Awkward, forced laughter.]

Mother: ...

Me: ...

Neighbor: ...

Me: [Thinking I can make a quick exit with a 200 pound table and an ailing mother.] Alrighty then! Thanks so much for the stuff! See you around! [Hurried shuffle. Mother complaining. Me biting at her under my breath.]

[After moving about 3 inches.]

Neighbor: Yeah...you SURE you don't need some help? I mean, I can...

Me: Nope, good as gold! Thanks! [To mother, whispered] Get a damn GRIP woman; let's MOVE it!

*****

Listen, my mother's strong-like-bull so don't get all weepy on me. Plus, it's good to work for something that's free, right? Don't want her to grow up just EXPECTING things to be handed to her! But, really, the neighbors are moving soon, so I'll be in my garage until the whole thing blows over. Could someone check on the kids for me?

I Doth (Dost? Doest?) Protest Much

You're in for something completely different this week, folks. You see, over the course of the past week or two, I've been finding myself in situations where I've said, "Well, that makes me sound pretentious." And I've heard that these kinds of situations are good for self-reflection.

Eh, I'll try anything once, right? What I've done, then, is taken the aforementioned pretentiousness (pretention?) and attempted to suss it out. (Did I use "suss" correctly? I'm not British. But that seems like the perfect time to use the term "suss." Radiohead used it once so it must be cool. Go ask Mr. London.)

Right. On with it then...the sussing:

1. On my designer jeans.

I know. EW. You're totally vomiting from the classism already. Last week, when I was on the Mantime show, I was asked about my stance on designer jeans. And I was all, "Oh em gee, boys, I'm a design-label WHORE" except I said it totally differently and really just rambled on about the ass-pockets and how pretty they are. The truth of the matter is that I own a few pairs of such jeans, but that exactly two of them have holes in the thigh-crotch region as a result of my thundrous thighs eating away at the fabric over the past few years. And I still wear them. I just keep my legs crossed and stuff, because that's classy which goes ahead and cancels AGAIN the un-classiness.


Where does that leave me? Right. As a chubby woman who thinks jeans will make her look slender as her thighs scream for mercy. Lovely.

2. On my trip to the nail salon

I also recently built up this party/event thing I went to in an effort to make me look glamorous, but also, pretentious. Well, you know what I mean. Maybe. Anyway, I went to get my nails done because the fungus on my toes looked like maybe it needed a little more than just a chisel. When I got there, I was totally out of my element and I totally ordered some special pedicure that I was certain was going to come with a happy ending. I spent much of my time in the chair wondering how to say "No, thanks!" politely, but FIRMLY in Korean. Or maybe it was Vietnamese? I don't know the difference; I'm pretentious, remember?

So, I totally spent $45 on my nails, but I totally gasped when I got the bill and promptly smudged one of my fingers as soon as I got to my car. In conclusion, would you call a cursing, over-spending, smeared woman pretentious?

...

Oh. Well let's move on to the last suss, then.

3. On being a blogebrity. Or having 100 followers.

If you recall, I have this love-hate relationship with that "followers" button over there. I love (in the loosest sense of the term) each and every person that has (been begged to) clicked that button, but my obsession with the number is unhealthy. Sure I'm not a therapist, but I can pretty much hear her voice in my head constantly. Which is an example of something that IS totally healthy.

Anyway, now that I'm all famous with over 100 followers and stuff, I'm wondering if I should UP the pretentiousness (pretention?) a bit. Like, am I supposed to badmouth other bloggers now? Join the anti-mommy-blog network? Stop responding to you in the comments section? Talk about my traffic and ad revenue?

Well, first, I find it more fun to badmouth myself, so I doubt the first will happen. And while there's a wave of hate spiraling about the Internet, I kind of dig Mommas, even if I want to stab their writing in the eyeball. And I'm too self-absorbed to stop responding to your comments, though if I had traffic and ad revenue, I would TOTALLY be smearing that in your faces. You can count on that one.

I'm not sure how that one boils down, but it might be less "pretentious" and more "delusional" or "in need of anti-psychotics."

*****

So, how was that? I'm not sure what the final verdict is, so I've made a pie chart. If you could crunch the numbers for me, that'd be great.

Either way, I feel refreshed. But just in case, I'm thinking about doing something silly and I'd like your feedback on the matter: Have you heard of the site Sexy People? OF COURSE YOU HAVE! Me suggesting you haven't and then smirking pompously is so PRETENTIOUS! Anyway, I'm totally thinking about submitting an old school photo of me to that site What do you think? Vote in the damn poll!

I Can't Be Held Responsible for ths Blog

So I know I told you all that I was going to report back about the dildo party, but I was totally KIDDING. Actually, I wasn't at the time. But that's just because I'm an idiot.

But really, the first rule of the dildo club is that NO ONE talks about the dildo club.

Sorry. Not my rules. I believe they're Palahniuk's. Well, him and the nine-month pregnant hostess of the Passion Party.

Instead I'm just going to hum a little tune to distract you from all that other nonsense.

Who? What?

LOOK! Over there!

And THERE!

Whew. That was close.

It's Ok to be a WHOOO Girl When Holding a Dildo*

So...ahhh....I'm going to one of these here "Passion Parties" this evening. And, well, yeah.


When I RSVP'd to the thing, I knew full well what I was signing up for, but I don't think I properly visualized the awkwardness. The party is being hosted by a friend of mine that I only recently got back in touch with. And all of her single, kind of self-absorbed friends will be in attendance.

And me, of course. I'm self-absorbed, too. But at least I'm married? (Okay, so I'll probably fit in well enough.)

Anyway, I don't know why I'm telling you this, exactly, other than to WHINE about how I'll be embarrassed and warn you that the next post will explicitly outline how I accidentally smacked someone in the face with a purple dildo or something.

Because you KNOW that's totally going to happen. That, or I'll mistakenly eat a pair of panties, thinking they're part of the appetizer spread.

SPREAD! AHAHA! (Yikes.)

Wish me luck. And offer any suggestions on the proper etiquette for watching sex toy demonstrations. Do you clap? (Yikes.) Ask questions? Take notes? Am I expected to be a fucking WHOOOOO! girl here?

This is going to be something else. This is certain.

__________

*Actually, no. This makes dildo-holding exponentially worse, I'd wager. In other words, I'll test it out during the demonstration. Watch my Twitter for live updates.

Chuck Norris Needs a Diva-vention*

Good LORD have I a thing or two to say about CHUCK NORRIS. Yeah, because, you know...I MET HIM. (Also, his teeth. And wife. And handlers. And way to many of his, eh, "fans.") As you may have heard (via my incessant Twitter-ing), I went to meet the fella on his promotional book tour. This is the book:

Now, I cannot get too specific about this rendezvous because I'm scheduled to spew the details TODAY on the Mantime show at 1pm EST. (Also, I'm kind of scared of the repercussions.)

However, I cannot help but list some items for you. (Because I hear this is what's called "teasing" but also because I mostly can't help myself.) (Also, amnesia.)

So here are some highlights:

1. Going to a military academy (read: military college) is kind of like visiting a prison. I had a feeling these boys hadn't seen women in a long, long time. My friend and I were the ONLY two normally dressed females in a sea of gray and black testosterone. In other words, cougars are gross.

2. I didn't realize Chuck Norris was such a big thing. No, really. We waited for over TWO HOURS. In what looked like a high school hallway and smelled like a high school locker room.

3. They ran out of books.

4. WE WAITED OVER TWO HOURS.

5. There were handlers. They were everywhere, people, and they wore Secret Service ear pieces. I am not even kidding. They also wore suits and clasped their hands in the front. You know what? There was even a freaking STATE TROOPER. I don't know...presumably to handle the ruckus? Of military-trained young boys? At a book signing? REALLY? (Okay, they may have been called because we were clearly there to start a riot. But kind of, I'm serious.)

6. When we got to the front of the line--did I mention the wait?--there were DIVA instructions that put a damper on all my best-laid plans for fame and fortune. D-I-V-A. It was a little bit sad because I knew then that he would not be demonstrating any roundhouse kicks or signing my boob. But also, just really fucking obnoxious. Because I had shit with me, people. Like, of the Arts & Crafts variety.

I'd made this for my buddies at the Mantime show (Ok, maybe my kid helped.):


And this for my beloved Bloggess after realizing that getting The Norris to sign her boob for her would be difficult without having her actual breast in-hand:


And, lastly, I made this one for myeslf. But realized that it probably wasn't smart to play roulette with things like the word stupid and Chuck Norris:



Let's just say that things got dicey after they told me NOT to offer them to The Norris and I didn't listen...Aren't you INTRIGUED?

But that, my friends--THAT little ditty you must tune in to hear more about. But here's a clue: it involves me getting yelled at by the handlers as they screamed into their earpieces. What? Bad clue?

Whatever. Shut it. I SHOOK HIS HAND, so I'm pretty sure that's given me some residual ass-kicking-ability. You watch your step, sir.

And tune in to chat with me! (Or heckle. I'm fine with any form of attention, really.)
__________

*Well, really, I'm pretty sure it was just the black cloud of gloom that surrounded his handlers. Perhaps what he really needs is conservatorship. Get those goons away from him and his stunningly shiny teeth. Like Britney. And myself. (Except I have bad teeth. But stil...I think my analogy is clear.)

Chuck Norris & Too Much Lipstick (Somewhat Unrelated)

If you're not up on the Twitter, there's a lot I need to update you on.

1 a. Firstly, you should get up on the Twitter.

1 b. But also, something monumental came into my life the other day. I was driving along on my way to pick up my new specs when I saw a sign that would change the course of my life this blog my day's schedule the following Tuesday.

That's right, kids. CHUCK NORRIS is coming to town TOMORROW! Like Santa, but with less fat and more roundhouse kick.

Right now, the plan is that I will go and get one of his fancy new books and have him write something awesome on the inside cover. THIS has finagled me another appearance on the ol' Mantime Show. I'll have a chat about my life-altering experience with the Norris and possibly tell the tale of how I tried to hug him, but was detained by military officials and sent to Guantanamo Bay for a few hours before the Norris himself came to avenge my injustice.

Or maybe just how I took his picture and stuttered awkwardly.

Anyway, I'll be giving away the book on the Mantime Show (date TBA), which I plan to have him address to "Schmoopsie." So, if that's your name--or you'd like it to be *wink* *wink*--then stay tuned for details on the giveaway.

2. Okay, next we've got the premiere of my new specs! My son was asking to take my picture last night because I'm a stunning, lovable subject because he likes electronic gadgets and things that flash. So he took this:


Which is clearly unacceptable. So I told him that this kind of artwork just does not cut it in this world unless you're a drug-addict or a trust-fund baby. Which, I might add, Plus One is NEITHER. So he took a deep breath and channeled his toddler-angst for the hipocrysy of the modern art world. The result:

He's going places, that kid. But really. What about the specs? You love? The Hub hates, but he's a man of routine. As he scowled at my face the day I came home with them, I smirked and told him to say something nice. He responded, "They look expensive." I'm not sure this was a nice thing, since he has access to our bank account records.

3. LASTLY, I was mentioning--again, on Twitter...why are you not there?!--that I went to a big fancy party this weekend. One where they cut a cake with a sword, attendees wore fancy suits (and some, even blue hair), and the paparazzi followed my every move. It was hard not to pick my nose, I'll tell you. It gets really dry in November.

No, but I really didn't take many pictures because I invited my friends, one of which is a professional photographer with Magnum Photos. So, why the hell would I bother? That's what I pay him for I'm friends with him for! Heh. But the fact that I wore makeup and had BIG HAIR is something I cannot keep from you. So here's a glimpse of the awesomeness:


No, but really. That doesn't even LOOK like me. I never wear makeup! So go easy...I'm laughing at myself...but only on the outside. Inside I'm vexing my lipstick choice and love for hot roller curlers.

So, lets finish with a shot of us on our way home, exhausted from staying up until 11pm on a school night. This another picture I'd initially put up on Twitter (catch my drift?).

I love it because it highlights my new sunglasses, the stunning beauty of the region in which I live, and our area's curse of punkass fucking kids:

PHEW. Am I done talking now? Christ, I'm long-winded sometimes.

I feel like I need to recap:

1a. Follow me on Twitter.
1b. Chuck Norris book giveaway on the Mantime Show. Stay tuned for details.
2. I got new glasses. Fawn or make fun at your will.
3. I went to a party, danced to Jay-Z and Alicia Keys, and wore too much makeup. This is why I tend to stay indoors.

I rock, clearly. *TING*