Um...What??

UPDATED: 2010 Hates Me! Also, My Friend Lori Is Totally Into Horses, So I Added One To This Post (I Added A Scientific Fact About Poop, Too, But Pretty Much Everyone Is Into That Kind of Thing)

Updated 2/10/10 to add: Sorry, everyone!! I didn't mean to imply I had some kind of head injury. The neurosurgeon referenced in this post is actually checking out the other person involved in the accident –– a gentleman who is comfortably in his 80's. (It would have been an entirely different accident had he been younger.) I know I was rather vague, but as the situation is still being resolved, I'm hesitant to speak on it too much. But I appreciate your concern and promise there's absolutely nothing wrong with my brain. I know: I'm just as surprised as the rest of you.

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Today's post is dedicated to those of you who e-mailed and DM'd me this past week, genuinely concerned this blog might be dead. To which I can only say with great affection what in the hell is wrong with you people? Stop reading this crap. It's also dedicated to Ryan who, upon learning I was working on a new post, seemed less relieved by this news than he seemed mortified by it.

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Welcome back everyone! Today we'll be getting reacquainted since I've been away for a little while on account of that's how I do it around here: like a person who does absolutely nothing around here. My pleasure. But today we'll be remedying this situation by taking part in what is referred to in popular blogging circles as actually blogging. And by actually blogging I mean HAHA GOOD ONE! Like I have any idea at all what that means.

ANYWAY.

To catch up, I thought we'd gain a little perspective by first taking a backwards glance at the year that just passed and then looking forward to 2010 and everything this new year might hold. So, on this note, I thought we'd begin with  –– similar to the one we had for 2008 –– this sweeping, pictorial retrospective:

2009: The Year in Photos!

Oh, whatever. That's sweeping enough.
2009: The Year In A Photo!
Because a picture's worth a thousand words!!
Not this picture, necessarily. But some other picture. Somewhere.

This past year –– one I thought for sure had to be better than 2008 but SURELY WAS NOT –– turned out to be a year where either one of two things was happening: Absolutely nothing at all, or some random thing I really, really, really didn't want to be happening. Long stretches of near coma were interrupted by events like the loss of Moses The Cat and the various steps along the road in the Porcupine's slow, messy, painful descent into a place I just can't reach any more. Mostly because I've decided I have to stop following, for fear of ending up lost in the dark myself. He calls it the abyss. Doctors call it depression. I call UNCLE. Four years is all I can do. I just don't have anything left in me any more. This past year, especially, has all but hollowed me out.

I'm not deserting him, I'm just letting go right now –– of the worry and the fear that have consumed me for so long and of my constant attempt to control things that have always been totally out of my control. I know that as much as I might want it to, the sheer force of my will isn't going to pull him out of the shadows he says are so black that he usually can't even see himself anymore. Now that journey is, as it really always has been, solely up to him. I'd be lying if I didn't admit how much I hope it leads him back here, but waiting for that to happen is no longer going to define me. It's time to take my life off pause and get back to the business of living it again, because ––  as much as I do love him –– it's time I start loving me more.

          
 
RUDE.
Although the hair thing is spot on, so they're not total idiots. HAHA! OF COURSE THEY ARE.

    

   

   

This is not the scientific fact about poop. But that doesn't make it any less interesting. Obviously.

So, with 2009 finally –– mercifully –– coming to a close, I found myself actually looking forward to 2010. My usual feeling of doom had been replaced with a different feeling I almost didn't recognize anymore: hope! Hope that no matter what ended up happening with The Porcupine, I'd survived the worst of it. Hope that better things were coming! And you know what? I would totally describe to you right now what having that feeling was like except for that I can't really remember it anymore on account of how IT ONLY LASTED LIKE 79 SECONDS. Oh, hey! It's nice to see you, 2010! NOW GET OUT.

Hope floats.
Like extra-gassy poop in a toilet bowl. (It's SCIENCE. Look it up.)

Only one month in, and 2010 is already...

Because Chris actually might have had a worse month that I did.

Hello? We're supposed to be talking about me here? PLEASE FOCUS, PEOPLE.

 
HEH.

 
JERKS.

ANYWAY. As I was saying. So far, 2010 has not gone at all according to plan just the same as 2009 2008 2007 2006 2005 EVERY SINGLE OTHER THING I HAVE EVER TRIED TO PLAN AROUND HERE. It started at the very end of December with this weird sound emanating intermittently from under the hood of my Escape which – when all was said and done –– resulted in the following phone call on the second of January:

"Hello, Umwhat Lesley? Turns out we'll be needing to put an entire new engine in your car and oh yeah: By the way? This will be the first hybrid engine we've ever rebuilt but don't worry because we know exactly what we're doing." Which I was totally confident was true, especially after noticing later how my estimate paperwork said  "HyBIRD" in about 17 places. And I don't know if any of you have ever had this kind of major engine repair done before, but I'm not exaggerating when I say that sending an entire team of engineers into orbit to repair one of the two Russian-designed toilets on the International Space Station would cost slightly less. Although I doubt those toilets ever actually need any type of repair since they were built by Russian plumbers and not the Ford Motor Company.

But really, the most frustrating part of the whole deal was that the repair ended up taking FIVE WEEKS. Do you know what else you can do in five weeks? Circle the earth 583 times aboard the aforementioned space station, that's what. And how awesome would that be??? I have no idea, actually, because instead, I was stuck driving around in the world's most disgusting rental car which, besides smelling like death –– and who doesn't want to be constantly reminded of death while taking her own life in her hands on the freeways of Southern California –– WAS ALSO CURSED. Almost immediately after getting the car, I was in a not-so-minor traffic accident, which seems weird considering there was zero damage to my rental or to the other vehicle. Unfortunately, this is about all the detail I can get into at the moment due to the outstanding legal issues involved. And by outstanding I do not mean magnificent. I will add one more thing however: This situation has escalated to the point that it now includes a neurosurgeon and did you know that neurosurgeons make approximately $15 gagillion dollars a minute? This really has nothing to do with anything except for how it's also exactly what my mechanic makes. What a coincidence.

But the good news in all of this is that January is over now and I've just gotten my car back and odds are things HAVE to start looking up around here soon. When kind of lamenting everything to Maureen the other day and wondering what kind of doom all this might predict for the rest of the year, she told me she thinks I've gotten all the bad juju out of the way at once and because of that the next 11 months are now destined to be great.

Well. I certainly hope this is true.

I mean, this could totally be true!!

This is totally true!!

Right???

You know what else is awesome?
THIS POST IS OVER.
Happy 2010, everyone!
Oh, yeah right.

Oh dear god.

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P.S. By the way: Do you know what it cost me to rent that car for a month?? (Chris drove me around for the first week.) About the same as it did for me to pay a month's rent on my not exactly cheap apartment –– which, at least, has a bathroom. Although the fact the car doesn't hasn't stopped a whoooole bunch of people from previously peeing in it. It seems.

P.S.S. Some of you might remember this:

See? It really IS always him.
And don't ask me why I post pictures like this –– I'm just the vessel here. Blogging as spiritual enlightenment. Or udder utter crap. Whichever.

This Blog Smells As Bad As A Massive Fart...Evidently (It Also Has A Hidden Zombie In It!)

Today's post begins with two shout outs:

The first is to loyal and much loved Um What?? family member, Debra. Debra's been here since the earliest days –– you know, back when this blog was simpler. And posts were shorter. And they didn't have any Photoshopping in them. In other words, Debra has stuck around to witness this blog's downward spiral into total crap. Poor Thanks, Debra!

The second is to my friend Jared who I think is a reader here, though I can't be totally sure due to the fact that he's never actually admitted it. Just like my friend MC. Because admitting in public that you read Um What?? basically has the same effect on people as telling them you have Bird Flu. Or the Black Death. Or that you're going to massively fart in their general direction. It sends everyone running and screaming from the room. Apparently.

Despite this, Jared has actually appeared here once before. Anonymously. Pictured on a coffee cup. FOR NO REASON. Which of course is ridiculous and doesn't really make any sense at all because if Jared's face belongs anywhere for no reason it's not on a coffee cup. This is an error I will fix immediately, and by fix immediately I mean this:

     

And Maureen actually publicly admits she reads this blog. Jared. And not only when she's drinking martinis, either. Hopefully. But just wait, dude: You'll be singing a totally different tune when Um...What?? becomes totally, hugely popular one day. HAHA! GOOD ONE!
  

Okay. Enough of all this. Let's get down to the actual point of this post. And by actual point I mean oh dear god, of course this post has no point. Are you new here? But there WILL be picture after picture after picture of the exact same chair. It's going to be just as awesome as it sounds. Trust me.

     
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Welcome back, everyone! I know, I know. Posting's been way light around here, even by our standards, though this really shouldn't matter much to you because if you come here you obviously don't care at all about standards. Regardless, please accept the apologies of everyone at Um...What?? headquarters. It's just that we've been bogged down in work and there are seriously not enough hours in the day. Because just like back in 2008, this new year finds us equally overwhelmed with so, so, so much to do. I mean, honestly: It's a wonder this post is even getting published at all.
    

I seriously need an assistant.
   

Among all the recent developments around here, the most noteworthy would certainly have to be this:

The arrival of the new chair!! (Pictured above! Pictured below! And then pictured below after that! And then yet again after that and so on and so forth and I am a blogging Sensei. Learn from me.)
      

 

If you've been around here for any length of time, it may have previously come to your attention that I have no a$$*. And not in an I'M BRAGGING LOOKIT MY PRETTY PETITE LITTLE HINEY kind of way, but more along the lines of it never ceases to amaze me that I can ever manage to successfully sit down.

*Of course I am not totally without ass on account of, you know, THIS:
        

We have all met Chris by now, yes?

And speaking of Chris? He was doing this all last week –– which really has nothing to do with anything I'm talking about here except for the fact that who doesn't like a good pair of boobs, right? How about eight pairs? That's SIXTEEN BOOBS, people:
       
 
Poor Chris. It really is as horrifying as it looks.
(This gratuitous use of boobs in a blog is brought to you by my shameless attempt to grow Um What's male readership!)

ANYWAY. Before the arrival of the new chair, my poor, bony, sad excuse for a butt was forced to write in this blog while sitting on any one of the following:
  

Oh, of course it's not really made of concrete. CONCRETE WOULD BE SOFTER.


User Tip: Down couch cushions are NEVER a good idea. Take it from me. Eventually they just end up squished beyond all reason –– bony butt or not. I don't sit on this couch so much as I slump down into it. It's designed less for relaxing and more for being slowly eaten alive. It's like having a couch made of quicksand WHICH WOULD BE AWESOME, except for that there's not really any quicksand involved, so instead of being awesome, it's really just ergonomically incorrect or a big-a$$ piece of sh*t.


That's right. I sit here. On All The Above Monstrosities. And blog. FOR YOU PEOPLE. I am seriously like the Patron Saint of Uncomfortable Blogging. Only more saintly. And way more uncomfortable. WAY.

So after much waiting and wishing and scrimping and saving and then having to start completely over on the scrimping and saving part due to my tendency to lose focus and accidentally spend what I save on Michael Kors handbags and Belvedere vodka (oopsie!), I finally got my hands on the extra cash I needed to bring home the world's most enormously awesome and comfortable chair!

WHICH I THEN COULD NOT EVEN SIT ON DUE TO THE FACT MOSES THE CAT APPARENTLY TOOK OUT A MORTGAGE ON IT. Or something.
      

Five seconds after chair was delivered.
   

Basically every single subsequent second for the following week:
  

   

   

   

           

Of course, I'm just kidding. HAHA! Moses The Cat isn't the boss of me, obviously, because that would just be ridiculous and I am the one in charge here and I can sit on my big, new chair whenever Moses The Cat lets me I want to!! SEE??:

    

And before you say it, YES I KNOW THIS BOOB SHOT ISN'T EXACTLY THE SAME. Seriously. I'M DOIN' THE BEST I CAN, PEOPLE. Also? I can't understand why I don't blog more often, considering how infrequently I nap.

But these days it really is share and share alike here in New Chairville. As a matter of fact, Moses the Cat and I are sitting together on it right now as I slap together craft this piece of sh*t amazing post!:

View from my side of the chair.
This shot originally looked pretty bad. Then I added a special filter layer to it in Photoshop, and now it looks totally worse.

And all this togetherness got me to thinking about my really big, super-huge, enormously awesome chair and how having just Moses The Cat and me sitting on it seems like such a waste. We can all fit on here, people! Climb aboard! Let's set sail!! Because the bloggy family that traverses the bumpy seas of life together probably just ends up barfing all over each other. Fun!
 

Slightly more doomed than The Titanic.
The above image was updated 3/25 to add Donna, the very lovely and adorable and loyal Um...What?? family member I inadvertently left off the first go 'round. I blame the failing economy. And Chris.

And on the subject of fun? Now I can blog, blog, blog in total and utter comfort!!
  

        

     

Awesome.
You: OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NOBODY WANTS YOU TO BLOGBLOGBLOG.
 

And finally, I'm pretty sure my next new chair's probably going to be one of these:
  

Solvin' two of my problems at once.

And speaking of big butts:
   

Oh, like this is some kind of a surprise.

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P.S. So, how many of you spotted the hidden zombie?? This post is totally like "Where's Waldo?", only in this case Waldo's undead and wants to eat your brains out. Gather the kiddies 'round!

P.S.S. Okay, so seriously: Jared probably doesn't even read this blog and I'm all, "Why don't you admit it, jerk?!" and "Hey, yer a BUTT" and I bet if I ever said anything to him, he'd be all, "I don't even know WTF you're talking about! It's bad enough I have to work with you. You think I'd read your stupid blog too? And anyways, I didn't even know you HAD a blog." And then he'd give me the finger and leave and go back to his office and blast some Metallica until a lesser person's ears would bleed because Jared LOVES Metallica and then –– OMG! –– I would start a second blog all about Metallica and then maybe he'd read THAT. It probably wouldn't be very good though, since I don't really know a lot about Metallica. Then again I don't know shi*t about anything I write in this blog either, but that never stops me.

P.S.S.S.: And just to put a period on this whole post, on Friday I tweeted something about tattooing a bunch of people's Twitter handles on my butt. To which the lovely and aforementioned Debra answered the following:
      

SEE??

Updated (Sort Of): The Most Boring Post You Will Ever Read – Despite The Gigantic Puppet Spiders And The Fact That Someone Took Out My Eyeball

So, this weekend I decided to look up the word "meme" on Wikipedia. Mostly because I didn't even know how to pronounce it, but also because Mr. Farty gave me one to do (WHATEVER –– MR. FARTY IS LIKE TEACHER FARTY GIVING ME HOMEWORK) and so my entire life has been falling down around my ears because I've had to keep saying things like, "No I cannot have dinner with you because I have to write my meme" and "Sorry, I don't have time to talk on the phone because I have to sit and think about my meme" and "No, I totally cannot marry you as I'm busy with my meme." Only sometimes I'd say "meemee" and other times I say "Mee-may" and occasionally I'd try "meh-mee" because I didn't really know which one was right but figured no one else did either so I'd probably be in the clear regardless. But then eventually I decided I needed to know for sure because I can't very well keep bragging about my PhD in blogging (I TOTALLY HAVE ONE) if I don't even know what the hell a "meme" is since "memes" are central to blogging. Apparently. Just like having a blogroll and also totally inflating your blog stats when reciting them to your fellow bloggers. (In some circles this is referred to as lying. In blog circles, lying is referred to as blogging.) Here's what I learned:

"A meme (pronounced /mi:m/- like theme) (OHHHH. "MEEM.") is a unit or element of cultural ideas, symbols or practices; such units or elements transmit from one mind to another through speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena. The etymology of the term relates to the Greek word minema for mimic. Memes act as cultural analogues to genes in that they self-replicate and respond to selective pressures."

Not that I need to point out the obvious, but by here's what I learned I mean that beyond the pronunciation I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I LEARNED BECAUSE WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEME MEAN??? There were several more paragraphs by way of explanation, but I'm not even going to copy them here because they do not help the matter at all. Trust me. So, basically this tells me that pretty much nobody knows what a meme is and if they say they do it's just like an Emperor's New Clothes thing and they are totally lying. Also known as blogging. SEE ABOVE PARAGRAPH.

Anyway. Unimportant details aside, I will now do the meme given to me by Mr. Farty, entitled "10 Honest Things About Myself."  And speaking of unimportant details, that's exactly what this meme will be filled with. Because honestly? Nobody cares. I don't even care and it's all about me.

Honest Thing #1: I have a blog. I KNOW! Most of you are probably unaware of this fact, but it's true. You can find it at www.umwhat....er, www.lesley.umwhat...OH WHATEVER. But trust me I get TONS of hits every day LIKE IN THE GAGILLIONS. (SEE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH ABOUT LYING.) I originally started my blog thinking I was going to write deep, profound, meaningful things about myself and my life. Until I realized I had little interest in writing deep, profound, meaningful things about myself and my life I'M BORING and instead what I really wanted to do was just Photoshop sh*t. And I don't even know how to Photoshop. And I'm seriously on the verge of an aneurysm right now because look at how far down I've gone into this post without one Photoshopped image in sight! Dear God.

Honest Thing #2: I really cannot stand having very many people around in my life. This should not be confused with "I am a loner" because I don't want to be alone –– I do love being around those I'm closest to. Just ask Chris, who cannot get away from me despite the fact he continuously tries. But it's my natural inclination to keep my group of friends small, because human connections are pretty profound to me, and all the emotions and feelings and experiences that make up those connections can completely overwhelm me if I'm not careful. The Porcupine says it is because I am an empath like Deanna Troi ("You just feel everyone's feelings like they're your own") and regardless of whether or not that's true, what is completely true is that when The Porcupine makes geeky sci fi references it totally gets me hot. AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON HIS CHEWBACCA IMPERSONATION. Basically, Sylar said it best last week on Heroes: "Look. You're really gonna have to stop trying to be my friend or I'm gonna have to kill you." Exactly! OMG Lesley and Sylar are like soulmates!! And by the way, for any of you who are not familiar, Sylar is a homicidal maniac serial killer who takes out people's brains but never mind that particular part.

Honest Thing #3:  I am a direct descendant of Robert Louis Stevenson. He was the uncle of my great grandmother on my mother's father's side. Which of course totally goes without saying because have you even READ my blog lately? I clearly got the fine literature genes. And by fine literature I mean this is a crap sandwich served up with a side of crap chips on a plate made out of crap. (You: What's for dessert? Me: CRAP.)

Honest Thing #4:  My head hurts. I was born with my left eyeball turned out so that all you could see was mostly the white part. And yes: It's just as attractive as it sounds. So when I was so small that the thought of putting me through any major surgery was enough to terrify my parents practically to death, they braved the terror anyway, so they could get my eyeball repositioned. So I could do things like, you know, see. The surgery involved disconnecting muscles and nerves and taking my eyeball all the way out which you have to admit is so many kinds of awesome and maybe it was rolling around on a table at some point or sitting in a beaker? ALSO AWESOME. Then there was some reconnecting somehow and putting the eyeball back in and blah blah WHATEVER, I AM NOT A DOCTOR. Currently. But it was the first surgery of its kind (I am in the medical anals, people) and while it was for the most part quite successful, I was left with a little side effect I like to call Surplus Vision. I actually see separately out of each eye, which results in my always seeing two of everything. Since it's the only type of vision I know, it seems normal enough to me. For the most part my brain disregards one image and then said brain and eyeballs and I go about our business just fine. But I do get some big-a$$ headaches fairly regularly since all of this action is a huge strain on the muscles around my eyes. Most of the time this doesn't at all affect my ability to function and most people around me have no idea anything's going on. But occasionally? I have to stop the world and get off. BE BACK LATER.

Honest Thing #5: I am an only child. This fact –– which is totally not my fault, by the way –– caused this blog's favorite MC to put me on Friend Probation, which he announced to me (JERK) way back at the beginning of our relationship because he usually does not like only children because he thinks they tend to be spoiled and self-centered and did I mention he thinks that they are spoiled? Just because he comes from a family of six eight fourteen one bazillion siblings is no reason for that kind of attitude. But luckily it became a non-issue as I was none of those things because I am lovely and wonderful and caring and unselfish and never mind all that I HAVE A NICE RACK, so, you know, friends forever!

Honest Thing #6: I watch way more Sci Fi Channel programming than should be allowed by law. And I'm not even talking about just the good stuff either –– like Ghost Hunters or Battlestar Galactica. I'm talking about the kind of movies that are on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Because if there are giant puppet spiders with visible strings or enormous, fake-looking plastic bugs or exploding heads that are clearly made of lettuce and stuck on the top of a stick or horribly written lines delivered via colossally bad acting, I am so there. And probably watching whatever it is for like the third or fourth time.

Honest Thing #7: I am always slightly amiss. You know those women who are always perfectly put together and coiffed and poofed and polished and manicured and coordinated and, you know, whatever else perfectly-put-together women are? I am not one of those women. Those women look good. I look good enough. As in OH WHATEVER, I GIVE UP. Today? My hair is full of enough static electricity to probably power my laptop. And underneath my cute little short-sleeve, violet-colored sweater I am wearing a black camisole. With a hole in it. Some days it's cat hair all over my clothes. Oh look! Like today. Or coffee dribbled on my top. Or leftover lunch dangling in my hair. Or chipped nails or scuffed shoes or lipstick on my teeth or gray roots or YOU GET THE IDEA. Last week I walked around all day with only one earring in. While wearing a ponytail. And not because I lost the earring either. But because I only put on one to begin with. And it wasn't a subtle earring, either. It was a gigantic hoop practically suitable for a bird to perch on. How does a person just, you know, not notice that the other one is missing?

Honest Thing #8:  I am the whitest person you know. And by white I don't mean I can't dance, I mean literally. White. As in the color. As in if Nicole Kidman and Marcia Cross had a baby (I have no idea) and then rubbed White-Out all over it, that baby would still look slightly more tan than I do.

Honest Thing #9: I am the singular most direct person you will ever meet. It's the only way I know how to be, and 99% of the time it serves me well. I don't understand passive aggressive, I don't understand beating around the bush, I don't understand hemming and hawing, I don't understand people who are vague and/or hesitant and uncomfortable saying what they think. Of course you can imagine what this must sometimes be like for the people around me. Take a recent exchange I had with Mo, for example, which maybe didn't go word for word like this but was still the general gist:

Me:  But why wouldn't you tell me something like that directly?

Mo (patiently and not unkindly): You know, everyone is not as comfortable as you are just speaking their minds. YOU ARE A FREAK.

Okay, so that freak part might have been implied. Or maybe I just inferred it. But either way? It's totally true and all I can say to everyone who has to put up with this trait in me is I apologize. And, oh yeah, IT'S NEVER GOING TO CHANGE. This is called I Apologize, Part Two.

Honest Thing #10: This meme is a perfect example of why I've never done one before and will never do one again!! OH MY GOD no one cares that my eyeball was moved and I'm blindingly white and blah blah sometimes I wear only one earring OOPSIE and I like puppet spiders and I have been on Friend Probation yadda yadda everyone who isn't now in a coma, please raise your hand.

That's right. NO HANDS.

Oh. And in conclusion? This:

OH LIKE YOU REALLY THOUGHT I'D GO A WHOLE POST WITH NO PHOTOSHOPPING.

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2/25 edited to add:  Now that you're all done with this nonsense, go visit Mr. Farty if you haven't already. You will NOT be sorry!

This Post Has Slopestyle Snowboarding, A Poopy Diaper, Really Confusing Fashion and An Awesome Drinking Game I Played All By Myself

Welcome, everyone! Today at "Um...What??" we will be getting educational, with an introductory lesson on the sport of snowboarding –– slopestyle snowboarding, to be exact. And I am just the perfect person to teach you because I know absolutely nothing at all about it I am totally an expert!

I recently discovered how much I love slopestyle snowboarding when one night last week I unexpectedly found my television tuned in to the Winter Dew Tour.

Andy by I love slopestyle snowboarding, I mean:

HELLO! I love a man with a name I can't spell by myself.

The moment we met, I knew Torsteen Torstien Tore (OH WHATEVER) he was meant for me. Because his athletic skills were like nothing I'd ever seen before and involved being immune to gravity as well as spinning over and over without barfing on himself or other people. And let's face it: The qualities that come with being an elite athlete –– discipline, drive, passion, dedication, a traffic-stopping butt –– ARE HOT. I also knew we were meant to be because of the way he was totally adorable.

Plus? Do you know what else is totally adorable? The fact that Torrstine (sp?) was born in 1987. The year I graduated from high school.

Awesome.

       

Also awesome? THIS:

Toarstein (sp??), sometime last year.

SO WHAT?! Age is just a number blah, blah, plus I don't look a day over 25!!! As far as you know.

Anyway. The original Dew Tour (sponsored by Mountain Dew or maybe invented by the makers of Mountain Dew or –– no! ––I think the Mountain Dew people actually invented snowboarding or something? OH, I DON'T KNOW) debuted in June 2005 and included only non-snow related action sports like BMX and skateboarding and motocross. Then something something this and then blah blah blah another thing that and then something else yadda yadda (nobody really knows for sure) and then ta-da! This year's inaugural winter version of the Dew Tour was born! One hundred gagillion years after I graduated from high school.

The particular Winter Dew Tour event I happened to watch was called the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event. I'm guessing it was called this because the competitors were men. With snowboards. And there was this gigantic snow-covered slope they kept going down. All while dressed in the style of people working in a very, very cold forensics lab:

Oh! And speaking of style:

 

Really, Tourstiin? (sp?)

And as an FYI:

I didn't watch the Superpipe event, however. Because at the time I didn't know anything about it. Because at the time I didn't even know anything about the event I WAS watching. Because I was born tenteen bazillion years ago when they didn't even HAVE snowboards. Or electricity. Or upright walking.

In the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event, –– which involves a form of snowboarding known as freestyle –– Toarstyne (sp?) and a bunch of other people I don't care about the other competitors went up against each other on two separate runs down the slope, which is also called the course. Although, it's possible it was nine runs or maybe five or OH WHO KNOWS. Because let's be honest: It's way easy to lose count when you're taking a shot of Disaronno every time one of the on-screen announcers yells, "BIG AIR!!"

During a slopestyle run, there is no clock and snowboarders are awarded points for style and difficulty while performing a wide variety of tricks on their way down the course –– moving around, over, across or down various terrain features like boxes, rails, jumps and jibs. These tricks include things like a switch backside 1260 and a boardslide 270 out and a nose/front board combo and a cab 900 and a 50-50 to backside rodeo 5 off the canon and a cab 270 to frontside boardslide and a switch backside 900 and a frontside 1080 stalefish. See?? This paragraph, by the way, is called totally clearing up all the details for you or you are welcome.

This is one of the previously mentioned tricks. Luckily, it's totally obvious which one, so I don't have to waste my time or yours explaining it.

And now, more slope style!:

 

Why, Torrstynne? (sp?)

Toerstiene (sp?), who is from Norway which means he is Norwayian, or –– more accurately –– a Viking, really only had one true competitor in the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event, the reportedly very popular, crazy-talented (OH, I DOUBT IT) and far, far less adorable snowboarder, Shaun White. Shaun was actually favored to win this event, but that's mostly because he's basically favored to win every single snowboarding event, even the ones he doesn't enter.

Nevermind Shaun White. ALL TORSTEIN (!!) ALL THE TIME!

In what were described as near-perfect runs –– not by me, of course, since I had NO idea at the time WTF was going on EXCEPT THAT IT WAS AWESOME –– Torstein (SP!!) threw big (snow) balls in the face of his no-competition competition by doing things like this:

  

And also this:

 

Plus some of this:

HOW CAN SOMETHING SO COLD BE SO HOT??

And by combining these moves with, you know, even more moves, and then combining these combined moves with an equally amazing move known as adorability, rising mega-pro Torstein took first place in the Men's Snowboard Slopestyle Event and won the much-coveted Dew Cup! One hundred bazillion trillion years after I graduated from high school. Congratulations, Torstein!!

I don't even get it.

(I have a PhD in Photoshop. As if I even need to point this out.)

      

 

Torstein's Dew Tour victory ceremony! Oh, honestly. It could be anybody under there.

And this winning moment brings us to the conclusion of today's informative and entertaining post on slopestyle snowboarding. I think we can all agree that we've learned the most important basics of the sport, which are Torstein Horgmo IS slopestyle snowboarding and I am old.

And on that note, this also brings us, sadly, to the end of mine and Torstein's love affair. Alas, I just don't think it's going to work out between us, on account of how I just found this...which is sliiiiightly more slope style than I can handle in my advanced years:

Torstein Horgmo: Norway's answer to Flavor Flav??

Somebody pass me the Mountain Dew. And please put a lot of vodka in it.

Don't worry, Torstein. At least we'll always have the Winter Dew Tour Men's Slopestyle Snowboard Event:

Lesley and Torstein: True Love Forever For A Few Minutes.

STOP CRYING, TORSTEIN.

THE END

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. The amount of research I did for this post is amazing! This blog has reached a new level of greatness, where greatness equals oh my god no one is even reading this far down anymore.

P.S.S. Take a minute and a half out of your life and watch this before you go, because the snowboarding shots I included above don't come close to doing the sport justice:

And if you don't find this at least a little awe-inspiring, well then you haven't actually hit the play button yet. Or you are slightly dead inside. But don't worry: We like that kind of thing around here. (We even have shirts for it!)

P.S.S.S. HOLY FREAKING CRAP that is HOT. Nevermind –– we're back on, Torstein! I'll just have to adapt:

Because I am totally like a chameleon. Only with a better hat.

This Post Has Moses The Cat, Brain-Eating Zombies, My Friend MC And A Ridiculous Amount Of Hats (It Also Has NEXT TO NO POINT AT ALL) (Seriously...There's No Reason To Even Read This)

When I originally started this post, I was all, "Yesterday, my friend MC said to me..." but then I had to change that to a couple days ago and then to a few days ago and finally last week. Because that's the kind of blogger I am: THE KIND WHO NEVER ACTUALLY BLOGS.

* * * * * * * * * *

Last week my friend MC said to me, "I expected you to blog more about your cat."

First of all, what is that? Some kind of insult? Like I have no life and nothing else to write about? Well, I've got plenty to write about for your information. My life is FILLED TO THE BRIM with things like commercials I've seen on TV and crap that Chris does. Second of all, as someone who still hasn't admitted publicly that he reads this blog (he thinks this keeps his total love for me a total secret, which it just might except for the way it totally doesn't), MC certainly spends a lot of time obsessing over the content. "You need more Star Wars references!" "Move me up higher on the cast list!" "The porcupine looks like he's peeing!" "More cat-themed blogging!"

 

Seriously: Who isn't??

Photo courtesy of Glamour Shots. HAHA! Obviously, I'm just kidding. This is actually a picture from MC's personal collection that I talked him into giving to me. And by personal collection I mean pictures he had taken at the local Glamour Shots.

Also, when I inadvertently mentioned something to him about having his picture open in Photoshop, he gave me some lip about not wanting to log on here and find himself with a propeller hat on his head. Dude. Seriously? What kind of an immature a$$hole do you take me for, anyway?

      

EXACTLY.

Plus? I'm also this kind:

 

And this:

OH! And also this:

 

Oui, Oui! Servin' it up hot at the "Um...What??" Bistro!

Look. I know. I am very pretty and it is very distracting (JUST ASK CHRIS) but now get over it and stop lurking around and leave a comment on a post. Because everyone knows that comments are a blogger's life force! Oh, of course they're not. Ads are. And you can see how many of those I have. Which honestly doesn't matter to me since this particular blogger's life force is BELVEDERE VODKA. Which I have plenty of. Although, I'd have a whole lot more of it if the CEO of Belvedere Vodka (Mr. Belvedere?) (Benson?) would read this and then send me, you know, a whole lot more of it.

Anyway, if MC thinks he can blow me off in public but still get behind-the-scenes creative influence here just because he walks around with that hot Irish smolder thing going on, all I can say is well, obviously. So just for you, MC, because I listen –– where listen equals I had nothing better to write about anyway and where write equals to Photoshop a bunch of hats onto someone's head –– I bring you: Some Blogging About My Cat! (Or: Six Feline Fun Facts!) And for my friend Chris who is slightly afraid of cats because they make his air and nasal passages instantly swell shut, which causes him to brutally suffocate and die (OH BIG DEAL), as well as for any of the rest of you who might not be entirely interested in reading various things about my cat –– like, you know, he poops, I will balance out the cat facts by also bringing you an alternate set of thoroughly researched facts about zombies! (Who, incidentally, don't poop, and trust me you do not want to know the details.) Here we go:

Feline Fun Fact #1:  Moses The Cat is so good looking that he sometimes gets unfairly labeled as a "pretty boy" and isn't taken as seriously as he deserves. Interestingly enough, this is the exact same problem Chris often has.

 

Photo courtesy of Glamour Shots.

Alternate Zombie Fact: A zombie is a reanimated human corpse that feeds on living brains and flesh, which –– if you ask me –– doesn't really seem all that appetizing.

Feline Fun Fact #2:  Moses The Cat has diabetes but he doesn't let this define him. Instead, he prefers to define himself as awesome.

      
Seventeen pounds of awesome. Plus a dirty sock.
           

Alternate Zombie Fact: The Zombie Apocalypse is the collapse of civilization caused by a vast plague of the undead. Zombies will attack people, which creates new zombies (I have no idea; I got kind of distracted at this point and wandered away from what I was reading to eat a popsicle), leading to mass panic and the unraveling of society until only isolated pockets of survivors remain, scavenging for food and supplies in a world suddenly reduced to a hostile wilderness. Oh. So the Zombie Apocalypse has already happened. Apparently.

Feline Fun Fact #3:  Moses The Cat has a wide variety of interests including butting his head against things, barfing up hairballs, watching the toilet flush, playing with shoelaces and following Wil Wheaton on Twitter.

 

Moses also likes to read! Okay, that is just ridiculous. Moses is a cat –– he doesn't read books. DUH. He writes them.

Alternate Zombie Fact: Chris has read 14 zombie books this past year, "20 if you count graphic novels." Which, as I understand it, are the zombie books that are really, really, really graphic. Which doesn't make all that much sense to me since zombies eat brains so wouldn't they ALL be really graphic? Oh, I don't know. I'm not an expert.

And by the way? This:

 

Oh, like anyone here actually thought I was done with this.

Feline Fun Fact #4:  Moses The Cat has only five teeth because he's had 25 teeth pulled. He's had this many teeth pulled because before I adopted him a year ago, he was very, very sick with multiple infections and illnesses, a condition also known as mostly dead. Even though none of his remaining teeth line up in pairs, this in no way affects his ability to energetically inhale his disgusting diabetes management dry food, where energetically inhale equals does this bench make my butt look big?

 

Yes. It. Does.

Alternate Zombie Fact: Zombies became a mainstay in modern horror fiction due in large part to the success of the 1968 film, Night of The Living Dead, which includes this famous scene:

"What do we want? Brains! When do we want them? Brains!" (I'm not going to lie to you. I stole this saying off of a zombie t-shirt. But when you run into a zombie wearing a message t-shirt, you're going to remember what it says. TRUST ME.)

Feline Fun Fact #5:  Moses The Cat loves to laugh! Personal essays about exploding toilets and riddles about farts are among his favorite things.

 

Oddly enough? MORE HATS. Coincidence? Or blogging at its brilliant best? (No, NOT THE SECOND ONE. Obviously.)

Alternate Zombie Fact: A recent development in modern day zombie films and literature is that zombies can now run. Uh-oh.

Feline Fun Fact #6: Moses The Cat purrs every single time you touch him and sometimes when you just look at him. Because Moses The Cat feels the love.

Besides purring, Moses The Cat also expresses his love by drooling, rubbing his face against yours and making poops that are only slightly stinky.

Alternate Zombie Fact: The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy its brain. Zombie experts (I have no idea) recommend using either an M1 carbine or a machete and aiming for the cerebellum. Hey. I've got a suggestion for a way less messy way of destroying a zombie's brain: Make him read this blog post.

And there you have it, everyone –– the conclusion of today's requested installment of Some Blogging About My Cat! And in case I wasn't clear enough, I could not possibly love Moses The World's Most Awesome and Spectacular Cat any more than I do now, because I swear if I did I would totally burst. Which, if you think about it, would just make it that much easier for the zombies to eat me.

And in additional conclusion? THIS:

 

Oh, good grief. This is just totally absurd at this point.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. to MC:  You are welcome.

Happy Various Holidays, Um What-ers! Let's Celebrate With Pepper Spray, Bank-Approved Auto Theft And A Black Lace Tutu!

Today's post is dedicated to loyal (and suh-mokin' hot) "Um...What??" reader Lisa, whom I inadvertently neglected to mention in a previous post when I called out some of my favorite blogs. This is in NO WAY a reflection of Lisa's site and is instead completely reflective of the dullness of my brain. Sometimes I forget about my own site because I am busy trying to remember things like where I put the cat and also The Alamo. This one's for you, Lisa!

* * * * * * * * *

While innocently minding my own business last week something very, very deeply disturbing happened to me.

Specifically, I accidentally watched this. For three and a half hours:

 
I'm going to tell you anyway. This is called I Have A PhD In Blogging.

For those of you who are unaware (oh dear God, please tell me it's all of you) Operation Repo is a reality television program currently airing on TruTV. TruTv used to be Court TV. But, apparently, when you abruptly change half of your previously quality programming to stupid-a$$ sh*t like Speeders and Hot Pursuit and The World's Wildest Vacation Videos you also have to change the name of your network to include a misspelled word because incorrect spelling equals yore your you're stupid and so are your shows.

By the way. Did I mention this?:

Seemingly, anybody can now get a show. Hello? I WANT A SHOW.

In a nutshell, the premise of Operation Repo(hno) is that basically Southern California is filled with deadbeats who like to "have" new cars but don't like to "pay" for them, so these deadbeats need to have their cars taken away from them by people who look like even bigger deadbeats.

Enter the cast of Operation Repo(hdeargod), whose motto is "It Ain't No Joke If You Don't Pay The Note!" And trust me –– it isn't:
    

"Peek-a-boo! I'll repo you!" (This would be my motto.)
Although I'm not sure sure I look the required "deadbeat", but I do look "hot" which, obviously, is close enough. Come to think of it, why didn't anyone ask me to be a part of the Hot Blogger Calendar? Jerks. Maybe it's not too late for me to get into the Hot Repo-er Calendar? I'm assuming they have one because, well, the above picture? Sonia? Matt? Do I really have to explain it?

As far as I understand it –– and believe me, it's hard to understand much of anything when you're on sensory overload to the point you're just this side of having a moderate to severe stroke –– Lou is the father of Lyndah as well as the big brother of Froy. Froy –– who I'm guessing is named after some Middle Earth-y thing (A hobbit? A hobo?) –– either is currently or used to be married to Sonia. (What's next? THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE??) I don't really know how the hell Matt fits in, though. Some kinda repo freeloader or something. And they all do repo-y things together and live Happily Ever After! Or something. Seriously: I could be making up half of this crap for all I know. There were a lot of distractions going on. Like this one:
   

 

   And also this one:

 

Also, at one point I got seriously distracted thinking about this:

Sonia: Operation Repo(MG WTF)'s answer to Beth Chapman!
Honestly? I probably lost 20 minutes of my life all caught up in this line of thought. My days are very, very full and eventful. So in case you ever wonder why it sometimes takes a week or so for me to get up a new post, first of all, what is wrong with you people? Don't you have something more important to spend your time thinking about (??) and second of all I AM VERY BUSY. Obviously.

And now, Everything I Need To Know About Repo-ing, I learned from Operation Repo(hmahgah) and will now pass along to you:

1. The first rule of repo-ing is that to be a successful repo agent, you need to make sure you have the correct tools at your disposal: a reposession order (I'm pretty sure this is the least important part paperwork blah blah boring), a tow truck BEEP BEEP, pepper spray (more on this in a minute) and a tutu.

That's right. A tutu. It's the uniform of choice of all the most successful repo peopo. HAHA! See what I did there? Maybe I can have a show where I just do a whole bunch of rhyming and whatnot?? OH NEVER MIND. Back to this:

Trust me: If you could hear what was going on in this moment, YOU'D HAVE YOUR TV ON MUTE TOO. And yes. I actually recorded this. So I could recreate it here for you. This type of thing is called I Give And Give And Give To You People Until I Bleed.

And in case you think I'm taking creative license and the above is just Sonia stopping to do a repo on her way to a Costume Gala, IT'S NOT. Because look! Here is Sonia doing a whole DIFFERENT repo:

Because seriously? The language involved in this profession embarrasses even me, and I don't know how to say ANYTHING without using the F word at least five times. (HI MOM!) And another thing: If you're gonna repossess my car wearing this kind of getup –– fine. But you'd better perform some damn Swan Lake for me before you take my wheels because I Brake For The Arts.

2. The second important rule here is that when repo-ing, you should keep in mind the fact that for whatever reason people tend to get slightly annoyed when you try to take their cars away from them, where slightly annoyed equals they point guns at you and attempt to beat you over the head with baseball bats. (Big deal. This is exactly what happens to me every time I go into Chris's office and try to get him to look at the page bags that died on his desk hours earlier.) This is why, to be safe, you have to make sure you bring with you the pepper spray I mentioned earlier, because everybody knows that pepper spray totally beats both bullets and baseball bats and also? Paper covers rock. And of all the crazy, psychopathic, loan-defaulting deadbeats, never forget that women are the most totally insane of all and by that I mean you do not even want to know what I mean. I'm going to tell you anyway though, because I honestly cannot be expected to be the only one with the misfortune of knowing this crap.

The very first episode I saw is the perfect example of this: Matt, Froy and Sonia show up at some chick's house to repo the car she hasn't made payments on in months. Or ever. Or whatever. I'm kinda unclear on that part as I was too busy being hypnotized by Sonia's eyebrows.

 
LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BE EQUALLY SPELLBOUND.

Anyway, they all run up her driveway and start hurriedly hooking up her car to the tow truck wheel lift. (Or, you know, whatever the big hook part is called. Who knows! I found this term on line when I Googled "parts of a tow truck" because –– as it turns out –– I don't really know that much about tow trucks except for the fact that they "tow" things and they're also "trucks.") (Oh! And most of them are made by Tonka.) (Wait...right?) So the repo-ee chick catches wind of what's going on and comes running out of the house –– all 95 pounds of her –– SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER and gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and sobbing really desperately (okay, this one was me) and slapping and kicking at anyone who tries to come near her or her car. And then suddenly she's SCREAMING HOLY HELL BLOODY MURDER while gyrating and wailing and flailing and cursing and slapping and kicking and throwing herself dramatically and messily all over the hood of her car.

At first I was all, holy crap this b*tch is batsh*t crazy, but then I was all, wow, that's actually kinda sexy in a Tawny Kitaen/Whitesnake video kind of way and then I was all OMG, WTF IS WRONG WITH ME (???) and THEN –– and even Stephen King couldn't make up this kind of horror –– she pulls out a Taser gun from even God doesn't want to know where on her person and tries to zap the hell out of Matt (which you know probably isn't a bad idea regardless), forcing Sonia to finally put a much-needed end to all of the girl's insanity not by pepper spraying her but instead BY SITTING ON HER. HARD. And at that point the room started spinning and I think I blacked out for a minute.

Oh, and by the way? Did I mention the car at the center of this repo was a 1994 Honda Civic? First of all...SERIOUSLY? Second of all, who the hell can't afford to make the payments on a 14-year-old car loan? Someone who spends all their money keeping up with the latest in stun gun technology, that's who.

3. And all of this brings us to the last important rule of repo-ing: If you've done one repo, you've pretty much done them all. You're never just going to drive up, take the car and go. And if I'm wrong about this, NEVER MIND because boring repos result in everyone being really bored and nobody wants that. It's boring. Instead, there's always going to be BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP-ING and BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMING and VERY EXCITING VIOLENCE-ING. Quick! Gather the kiddies around! OH! And there's also going to be a whole lot of "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM??"-ing, because seriously? At least three people asked this question during various repos I watched. What is this? Some kinda repo trivia game? Ooh, ooh! I think I know who you are!! A deadbeat. I do, however, need to give honorable mention to the below woman for elevating herself to a level above the every day deadbeat crowd when, in an attempt to keep the members of Operation Dumbo Drop Repo from taking her car, she made the uber-defensive, Ninja-style move of pulling out her own pepper spray and promptly pepper spraying herself:

 
To be more precise, she actually pepper sprayed both herself AND her husband which means, for those of you keeping score, that she managed to attack everyone on the scene except for every single member of Operation Repo(bi-wan Kenobi). Which –– not that I need to explain it –– is awesome. This is pretty much just like the time I tried to take a picture of the sunset but accidentally had the camera backwards and ended up taking a picture of my own eyeball instead. You know, except for the fact that I didn't need medical attention afterward.

And then, like any decent person would after experiencing more than three hours of this crap, I had an aneurysm and died. The End.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. Sorry I couldn't find any screen shots of Crazy-A$$ Repo-ed Chick laying around all over her car. I hadn't thought to record the show yet, and then I couldn't find anything on line. (I KNOW, right??? Why even HAVE an internet?)

P.S.S. to Lisa: Sorry the post I dedicated to you turned out to be, you know, this one. You deserve so much better.  So did Jesus though, and look at what happened there.

P.S.S.S. to Maureen, who earlier today gave me certain amounts of lip for taking so long to post here. More specifically, she called me CHRIS which, as anyone who's spent any amount of time around here knows by now, is the ultimate of insults: I mean honestly, woman. That is fairly rude. You KNOW how much extensive research (none) goes into each and every post I, you know, post and how much time (none) goes into that kind of in-depth research. I forgive you, though, being that you're my best friend in all the world. Okay, a little bit for that but more so because you gave me an autographed Kathy Griffin t-shirt. SCORE!

P.S.S.S.S.:  Speaking of Chris, Happy Boxing Day, dude! In celebration of that? This:

 
See, Maureen? It's called RESEARCH and it takes TIME.

P.S.S.S.S.S.:  I wrote all of these P.S.'s before I died. Obviously.

This Quasi-Post Defines Both "Highly Successful" And "Borderline Obsessive" (It Also Has Drunk People In It!)

Hi, loyal "Um...What??" readers! Today's post isn't so much a post as it is a memo that serves the purpose of taking care of a little housekeeping business. HAHA! This serves no purpose! Why would I start that kind of thing now?? I wouldn't!

Before I get to my point (heh), I'd like to throw out a special hello to our newest reader dsbs42 who, if she's visiting here today, is in all likelihood doing so in order to procrastinate some project she should be working on for school instead. This is exactly the same type of studying technique I employed when I was in college and now look: Today I have this highly successful blog! And by highly successful I mean I can't even get my own mother to leave a comment on it.

And speaking of comments, this brings us to the business at hand: I've updated the formatting for the comments you all leave on this blog. This change is the result of two things –– Typepad rolling out their new "Typepad Connect" profile feature AND (more importantly) the endlessly fascinating fact that you guys actually stop by here to visit AND THEN EVEN LEAVE COMMENTS WHEN YOU DO. (I used to think there was something wrong with you for doing this, but now I just think there is something wrong with you for doing this.) Time is precious and this blog is not and yet here you all are. If I could hug each of you and lick your faces, I would!

The new comment platform looks a lot like what most of you use on your Wordpress blogs. I'm hoping if you're so inclined, you might go ahead and sign up for a Tyepad profile to use when leaving your comments here. It would make this blog so much more personal and intimate and inter-connective and social and oh, I don't know. This is what Typepad is telling me, anyway. Mo's the first to create her profile because I made her asked her to and see?:

Isn't this nice? With her little picture and everything? (Mo: Queen of The Daily Snark.)

I'm hoping XUP might create a profile and then upload one of her sexy-slash-mysterious profile pictures where we can sorta see her while at the same time we absolutely can't see her at all. And maybe Debra will create a profile that'll include the first ever known online picture of herself so we can finally see what she looks like! (SHE WON'T.) Maybe Chris will create a profile with a picture of him and a figure model or him and a supermodel or him and some other naked-ish-type model. Like this one, maybe:

Sadly, I'm neither naked-ish OR a model. The crap poor Chris has to endure.

And seriously? This is also perhaps the worst picture ever taken of either one of us. So naturally I'm posting it online! DUH. All I know is my face is NOT that pointy and Chris's head is NOT that round and if I remember correctly, Maureen took this picture with Chris's camera which is, apparently, a funhouse camera. Why would he even HAVE a funhouse camera? (Plus? Chris accidentally cut off all his hair and I accidentally put on not one stitch of makeup and maybe we were already drunk before we left our houses??)

And since we're talking about comments? If you've been lurking around here for a while, I'm hoping maybe the new comment field will inspire you to finally come out of the shadows and introduce yourself because...okay, honestly, there's really no reason at all that it would. What if I told you there was going to be a giveaway and that the more you commented, the greater your chance would be of winning?  Well obviously that would be a big fat lie. There will never be any giveaways here! What do I look like? A blogger who does giveaways? I really have no idea. Although maybe I could just give away this whole stupid blog?? Anyway, according to my stats, there seem to be quite a few of you lurkers around and I'd love to know who you are. On the other hand I could be wrong and all my extra hits could really just be my friend MC clicking on this site like 200 times a day, which is probably the case now that I think about it because he TOTALLY loves me. In a borderline obsessive way, really. And by borderline obsessive I mean once he completely forgot I existed for almost a year. By the way, here's this blog's first posted picture of MC. I didn't ask his permission either, because that's the kind of blogger I am –– the kind the rules do not apply to:

 

Seriously? More girls?? Why the hell aren't there bunches of dudes everywhere I go??

Honestly though: MC does read this blog. And then offline he says cool things to me like, "That was funny!" or "I love the part where you said (insert brilliant thing that I said here)." (Brilliant/Stupid. Same thing. Semantics.) But you know if he ever actually leaves a real comment here, it'll be something along the lines of, "This is SH*T! No one would ever want to read this, right?"

That's. Right.

So go ahead –– sign up! It's totally easy (after all, I managed to do and it and so did Maureen) (HAHA! I'm just kidding...just because Mo is blonde doesn't mean anything!) and then you can commence commenting and making yourselves known! There won't be any cash or prizes, but I CAN promise you countless more useless "posts" like this one.

This Post Has Door Slamming AND The Slammer! (It Also Uses the Word "Dipsh*t" Twelve Times)

This is a door:

"Um...What??" management -- that's who!

But it's not just any door. This particular door belongs to my new neighbor who just recently moved in across the hall from me. Or does it?? This is called The Setup or trying to get someone (ANYONE) not to immediately click off after waiting more than a week for a post from me and then logging on only to find a picture of a door. By the way? Here's another one:

 
This is totally true! You know, unless you count the home of The Bloggess or The Daily Snark or XUP or Wil Wheaton or Bossy or Reflecting or Maggie or Ryan (HI RYAN!) or Waltz or Lisa or Issa or any other blog on the web. Except Chris's blog, of course. BEING THAT IT'S DEAD.  Chris does have a nice Facebook page, though:

 
At least I'm assuming it's nice. I can't actually see it myself since I'm not a member of Facebook because Facebook is for people who actually do things like doing things, after which they brag about them online to people they know. Because Facebook is also for people who actually know other people. I know my cat, but that's called CATSTER and anyway I'm getting totally sidetracked at this point.

As far as I can tell, my neighbor moved in across from me about two weeks ago. At least that was when the new and festive doormat appeared. It was striped and colorful and kind of reminded me of the circus which made me think of clowns and how it would be kind of awesome to be neighbors with a clown, except for that whole part about how clowns are completely creepy. Not to mention the fact I've worried on occasion –– usually any occasion I happen to be watching Poltergeist –– that my death might end up being directly or indirectly caused by a clown. Which would be pretty embarrassing if you think about it. Way more embarrassing than, say, getting killed by a Samurai which would at least have some kind of dignity due to the fact he would have a gigantic sword. And I don't really know for sure, but I think a Samurai is a more polite version of a Ninja, and that's nice. Because if you're going to kill me, the least you can do is try to be polite about it.

Okay, honestly: Why are we on this topic? Enough about my death (You: Nooo! We love this topic!) and back to the subject of my new neighbor. Appearing next to his doormat on that first day was a cheery stone sculpture of a rabbit, which doesn't really have anything to do with anything except for how I know you guys like dead animals and whatnot and this is the closest I can come to including one in this post.

Anyway, you'd think a festive doormat and a cheery stone bunny would add up to a nice new neighbor, wouldn't you? WELL IT DIDN'T. Instead, it added up to this, where 1 + 1 = IS IT 2 LATE FOR ME TO JUST GO AHEAD AND OFF MYSELF?:

 
Meet! My! Neighbor!
"Won't you be, won't you be, won't you be...MY NEIGHBOR?!"
OH MY GOOD GOD. NO.

Also, it turns out I just found out this guy's real name. More on how I discovered this further down in the post. This is called Dramatic Suspense or THE SIX PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE.

I'm not sure what issue my apartment complex has when it comes to doors, but our individual apartment doors slam just as hard as the one to our gym does. If you don't hold onto your doorknob to help guide your door closed -- and forget ever having your door stand open on its own -- you're going to knock pictures off your own walls. And this is not even a slight exaggeration since I am not exaggerating even in the slightest. All you have to do is accidentally let your door fly just once and you're not only going to realize that what results is way too loud and way too violent for civilized living, but you're also probably going to need some kind of resuscitation from your self-inflicted heart attack, but none of your neighbors are going to give this to you because you just slammed your door and, well, DIE, DOOR SLAMMER! (You'll also need a new picture frame for the picture of Moses the Cat you had hanging in your entryway that is now in two pieces on your floor.) And so for these reasons and also because you don't hate your neighbors, you're going to be careful when you close your door. Because you live in an apartment community where community equals a social group where each of you shares a certain locality with the others but you don't want to actually talk to or interact with anyone else but still want to know that someone will care enough to call the authorities should they smell something dead coming from your apartment, especially if no one has seen you go in or out of it for days.

But these rules of community do not apply if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy! Because if you're The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy YOU WILL JUST KEEP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR. OVER AND OVER AND OVER. LIKE A DIPSH*T. Because, well, who cares? Because Dipsh*t Guy has nerves of steel -- you don't even know the half of it yet (this is called Foreshadowing or THE FOUR PEOPLE STILL READING THIS DO NOT CARE) -- and because Dipsh*t Guy should also have a totally different doormat -- like one with the phrase "I'm A Dipsh*t Guy" written on it. Or perhaps the slightly less poetic but equally appropriate phrase, "SCREW YOU."

Because it's one thing to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment. It's another thing entirely to slam your door every time you go in or out of your apartment when you have periods where you go in and out of your apartment an average of 20 times in an hour. At all hours including many times before seven in the morning and other times after midnight. Sometimes I'd have absolutely no idea what he was doing because I couldn't see where he'd go. Other times I'd have even LESS of an idea what he was doing because I could see him, and my brain simply couldn't process the information. Like, for example, when everything came to a head during last weekend's Beach Chair Incident.

(No, not this weekend that just passed. The weekend before that. Thanksgiving weekend. Because "Um...What??" is that busy. YEAH RIGHT. No one is busy here. This blog just SUCKS and it's THE BEST WE CAN DO and we consider it a miracle when we can even FIND the publish button. Or our pants.)

Anyway. The beach chair. Last Saturday afternoon, The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy slammed his door no less than 13 times in a half hour period. That's right. I took notes because I wanted to tell you all about it here because I knew you totally wouldn't care. Basically, he was moving a beach chair around. And moving his vehicles around. And did I mention he was moving a beach chair around?:

Exit apartment.

SLAM!   (This is when I ran to the peephole and then ran to my front windows and then back to the peephole and I am a VERY, VERY busy person, by the way. That time before when I said I wasn't was just creative license.)

Go downstairs. Retrieve beach chair from back of truck and bring it upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Go immediately back outside, still carrying beach chair.

SLAM!

Go downstairs. Put beach chair back into truck.

Go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Go back downstairs, maybe 30 seconds later at most. Retrieve beach chair from truck again, this time stuff it into back seat of BMW. Stare at handiwork for a moment, then go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!

Immediately open apartment door again, glance around hallway for a bit, then go back inside.

SLAM!

(Seriously. WTF?)

Wait a couple minutes, then emerge from apartment to go back downstairs again.

SLAM!

Take beach chair out of BMW (I AM NOT KIDDING) and (do I even need to tell you??) put it back into truck.

Pull truck out of parking space and move it into visitor parking. Then move BMW into space truck was in. Even though BMW already in a legal, assigned space. TAKE BEACH CHAIR OUT OF TRUCK AND BRING IT BACK UPSTAIRS INTO APARTMENT.

SLAM!

BOOM-BOOM!!!  Okay. This part actually had nothing to do with neighbor guy and everything to do with the sonic booms created by the space shuttle reentry. Only I forgot about the space shuttle reentry -- despite the fact I'd just been watching NASA TV online –– because I became momentarily distracted running around between my windows and the peephole. And since I was now certain that the booms I heard were the result of an explosion because suspicious neighbor had just BLOWN UP HIS PART OF THE BUILDING, I had a slight heart attack followed by the urgent need to breathe into a paper bag only I didn't have a paper bag because who makes brown bag lunches anymore and what else would I use a bag like that for? Oh. RIGHT. But then Wil Wheaton sent this tweet and I realized I didn't need a paper bag or a defibrillator:

Seriously: 70% of what I know is from Wikipedia, the other 30% is from Wil Wheaton. NOT REALLY!
85% is from Wil. Duh.

Until:

SLAM!

Stand out in hallway and look thoroughly concerned and perplexed. Obviously doesn't know what the sonic booms were. Clearly not enjoying LOUD, FRIGHTENING DOSE OF HIS OWN MEDICINE. Goes back into apartment.

SLAM!

Go back downstairs (NO BEACH CHAIR) and move truck into parking space where BMW was. So now (for those keeping track) both of his cars are back in his assigned spots...just reversed now. We are also at 10 slams. Get out of truck and stand and stare at it for a while. Go back upstairs into apartment.

SLAM!  (Now 11.)

At this point I have had enough and I am writing A NOTE. There's another slam (SLAM!) but I don't see what he's doing because I am busy writing A NOTE that includes the word "PLEASE" 13 times (counting the extra one in parenthesis for effect) as in "PLEASE x 13 STOP SLAMMING YOUR DOOR." And the fact that the number of times I wrote "PLEASE" and the number of times he slammed his door ended up the same is either a total coincidence or it is foreshadowing of the evil that is to come because 13 is an evil number, right one whole person who is still reading here (or: Maureen)?
 
So while he was outside doing whatever, I ran across the hall and shoved the note in his door jam. Then I ran back inside as fast as I could because I'm not an idiot (well, I mean except when it comes to blogging) and I'm fairly certain this guy is BATSH*T CRAZY. He eventually comes back up the stairs, pauses to read my note, crumples it up and goes back into his apartment.

SLAM EXTRA SUPER-HARD WITH FEELING!

By the way: When he came back up he was holding THE BEACH CHAIR. No one could make up this crap. Which means he went down with it. Again. And then immediately brought it back up. Again. And I have NO IDEA what is going on. Again. And oh yeah: JERK! Deliberately slamming his door after one of his neighbors sarcastically politely asked him if he he could maybe please (x 13) stop?

So, I did the only thing left to do: I e-mailed the apartment manager to complain. And by Monday night when I got home, there was a note on each of the doors in my building talking about "increasing complaints of door-slamming" and citing various 1.23 blah blah codes in our lease about "noise regulations." Because where I live? They take your crap seriously. That...or the fact that the one person who actually shares a wall with Dipsh*t Guy and, therefore, might be the one guy more annoyed than me is the apartment manager. HAHA, World's Dumbest Dipsh*t!

The letter stated that if the door slamming didn't cease and desist immediately management could and would evict the offender(s). First off, this is the kind of balls-to-the-wall management style I can totally get behind. "PAY YOUR RENT ON TIME OR WE'LL BURN YOUR SH*T DOWN." Second off, they were NOT kidding because shortly thereafter the police showed up, slapped the cuffs on The Dysfunctional Door-Slamming Dipsh*t Guy and hauled his a$$ away! Because guess what??? It turns out that slamming your door repeatedly in the Santa Clarita Valley IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE.

HAHA! Of course it isn't. But running a multi-million dollar credit card scam out of your apartment is.

To be totally honest with you, I had no idea at all about the arrest at the time it was happening. Sure, I was in my apartment and sure there were like six cops milling around in the hallway outside my door (I found out later) and sure I could see the flashing cop car lights through my front window and didn't think anything of it. Because, apparently, unless door slamming is involved I cannot be bothered. For all I know there might have even been a shootout in the hallway (I'm not totally clear on this) but I do play my TV kind of loud and sometimes Moses The Cat can get all chatty and who the hell can hear the blaze of gunfire over the sound of the meow-meow? No one, that's who. And really? The only reason I know anything about this at all has nothing to do with either Wikipedia or Wil Wheaton this time and instead has everything to do with my friend Kathy who -- for the 14 plus years I've known her -- has had an uncanny ability to remember and put together the most random of details to observe things in the world most people miss.

This is what she did last week when, after I made a very passing mention of my door slamming dipsh*t of a neighbor and his two vehicles and his unhealthy obsession with his beach chair, she came across an article in her morning paper last week that instantly caught her eye. "Hey," she said to me. "Doesn't that guy have a truck and an older BMW? And didn't you say he still had a bunch of moving boxes stacked up inside his door?"

OH. MY. GOD. Yes and yes. And as it turns out? This guy was up to a lot more than slamming his door:

 

You do realize the irony of all of this, right? The door slammer? Going to the slammer???
 
Welcome, everyone who has hung with me this far (or: Maureen), to my neighbor's NEW door(s)!:

NO.

Innocent until proven guilty and blah blah blah GUILTY!!! All I know is three dudes showed up a couple days ago and hauled away all his stuff. Now the place is all locked up and I can't get in there to snoop around RUDE. And now I am left in blessed, slam-less silence to contemplate my two remaining burning questions:

1) What the hell happened to the beach chair? And 2) WHAT IF THE DUDES WHO LIVE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF ME ARE UP TO SOMETHING, TOO?? Oh, like I even care. The fact is they NEVER slam their door so I LOVE THEM.

 

I'm The Tiger Woods of Bloggers! Unless It's Like Copyright Infringement Or Libel Or Something, In Which Case I'm Totally Not

If I have learned one thing from my blog stats, it's this: I seriously do not understand my blog stats.

Take this week, for example. This week my stats seem to indicate that, if given a choice between live animals and dead animals, you people would much rather read all about dead ones. Either I'm confused by the numbers and this is totally wrong, or you people are sick. Because after the whole dead lizard/dead bird post? MY STATS HAVE BASICALLY TRIPLED. Tripled.

Me: This is so exciting! I have rescued a super-cute doggy schmush face off the side of the road! Cute! Licky! Plays the kazoo!

You: Sound of snoring.

Me:  Hey! There are dead animals everywhere I look!

You: OH MY GOD!!! Click click click click page view page view page view page view click click click e-mail link to friends retweet click click page view TIMES A GAGILLION bookmark click click page view page view click click click click SMOKE COMING OUT OF BACK OF COMPUTER click page view click page view DEAD ANIMALS DEAD ANIMALS DEAD ANIMALS click click click click clickclickclickclickclick WEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Okay. While I'm pretty sure this behavior isn't normal and I probably should be worried for your souls and whatnot -- I am nothing if not deeply invested in each and every one of you -- HELLO? TRIPLED BLOG STATS? It turns out I'm busy so you'll have to tend to your own eternal selves.

HA HA!! Who am I kidding? Caring about stats is for people who actually, you know, care about stats and anyway, what do I look like -- a statistician? Truthfully, I have no idea. Maybe! Are they hot looking? Oh, never mind. This doesn't have anything to do with my actual point here which, if I keep typing long enough, I'm sure I'm bound to remember sooner or later.

You:  Like maybe now?

Me:   Blank staring.

        Excessive blinking.

        Eventual light napping coupled with slight drooling.

        COMA.

Me:  (17 hours later):  OH! I remember! BUSTER! (Keep reading. CHRIS.) I have an update on Buster who is very much alive. Which makes me happy because I am a normal person who prefers my animals with a pulse. Learn from me. But don't worry. I've got you all covered, so just stick with me through the end of this post and you won't be sorry.

First, my Buster update. Remember this illustration?:

         

Well here's the real thing:

This is seriously the most awesome thing I've seen in as long as I can remember, where the most awesome thing equals THE MOST AWESOME THING.

Unless, of course, it's this:

              
 Or maybe this:
        

 

That's right: This blog post is all about A-LIVE Buster and his happy ending! My blog stats can just suck it -- big deal! Plus, to be perfectly honest, I'm not completely convinced that lower stats aren't better. What if blogging is like golf? Lowest score wins! Maybe I am the Tiger Woods of bloggers? Should blog wearing green blazer?

Regardless of how amazing I look in a blazer (think "professional" meets "sexy" where professional means sexy and sexy means even sexier), the moment M's mom told me how much it meant to her that I'd given her son the amazing gift of a best friend to grow up with (because that is what Buster and M have quickly become), I realized that if I do nothing else in my life that makes any kind of a difference, I've managed to do one thing in my life that's made a big kind of difference.

And second (because yes, there was a "first" -- it was just a while ago because SOMETIMES I GET SIDETRACKED...SO WHAT??? This isn't English class and anyways, if it was? A++++ for me!) I have this for you -- in case near-negative stats ARE bad (not that I care, but sometimes when I think about it, I get afraid Typepad or maybe the government will make me shut down my blog on account of it creates a GIANT BLACK-HOLE VORTEX OF USELESS SPACE ON THE INTERWEBS, except of course, for the days it's filled with DEAD ANIMALS) and also because I am here to make you happy, death-infatuated faithful readers:

 

There. Happy?? Good! I will most likely burn in hell, but don't worry about that.

Seriously though. Who would draw something like this? And who are the other nine people who downloaded it before I did? Oh, like I don't already know it's YOU GUYS.

Next time? Stay tuned for BARBEQUED BUNNIES.

Oh dear god OF COURSE THERE WON'T BE ANY BARBEQUED BUNNIES. Not next time or ever. Get. Some. Help.

Dreams Do Come True (Not For Me, Obviously, But For Other People Who Aren't Me) (Oh, And For Dogs I Meet)

Last week our country held a very, very important election.

That's right: The choosing of America's Most Haunted House in the Ghost Hunters Great American Ghost Hunt!! SCARY! Congratulations house-on-a-private-island-thingy in Thousand Islands, New York! And I have no idea if this island is the birthplace of the salad dressing, but if it isn't it should be. Right, French Dressing, France?? Congratulations haunted-est house, with your ghost of a little girl and your flying spoon (Maybe not flying? Maybe just hanging from nose of invisible ghost? So not as much scary as it is hysterical HAHA!??) and your weird, disembodied voices. Though honestly? Big deal. I lived somewhere haunted once* and I liked it. PEOPLE ARE WUSSY. And anyways, you know what makes any scary scenario way more romantic bearable? TAPS ghost hunter, Steve. Hold me, Steve.

*Seriously.

Also, in another, slightly lesser-known display of democracy last week, Barack Obama was elected this nation's first black tall, dark and handsome president. Which, of course, is no reason at all to vote for someone (What are you? Thirteen?) but is a perfectly good reason to write your name plus his name all over your notebook surrounded by big hearts.

Swoon.

In his acceptance speech, Obama said many, many sexy inspiring things, like:

"It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America."

And:

"It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day."  (Holy CRAP. Why don't people in my own life talk like this? Instead, they just say DUDE a gagillion times a day and SUCK IT almost as many and oh wait – that person is me.)

And:

"This is our moment. This is our time -- to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes we can."

Yes we can have the highly inappropriate hots for our Commander-In-Chief. It's one nation under Oh-Mah-Gah.

Droools.

And then there was the quote that resonated louder than all the others combined:

"Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House."

Wait...WHAT? A puppy? THE OBAMAS ARE LOOKING FOR A DOG??? First of all, why doesn't anyone anywhere ever tell me anything?? This is called a huge oversight, or Well Played, Government Oversight Committee. Second of all, who are Sasha and Malia? HAHA! I'm just kidding. I know they're actually...wait. Does Obama have two wives? I CAN MAYBE BE WIFE #3??? And speaking of three, third of all...hello??:

Could maybe change name to Filibuster?

Dear other world leaders who aren't Prince Charles: Take a lesson from him and read this blog, because this blog changes lives and unites countries. You know, where changes lives = induces narcolepsy and unites countries = this reader is in Canada. If President-Elect Barack O-Mah-Gah-Droooools had been reading, he would have known about my determined search to find Buster a home worthy of his wonderful spirit. And our incoming first family would have had the chance to bring with them to the White House the singular greatest dog ever rescued off the side of any road anywhere. And – as a bonus! – on the heels of this historical election where we, as a country, have taken great strides forward in breaking through our racial barriers, we could have also taken an equally great leap toward stamping out America's horrible DOG BREED BARRIERS:

Pit Bull: From feared, misunderstood breed to cuddly international diplomat.

        

Plus...can you picture it???:

Yes, Buster talks like Scooby in the first picture and an English teacher in the second. Don't question it.

      

 

 

I have absolutely no earthly idea.

           

Hold me some more, Steve.

Steve, of course, has nothing to do with anything here really, unless maybe the White House is haunted? But either way: He's still hot. Duh. And, frankly, would also look good on a sandwich. Or with his lips stuck to my face.

And for those of you who think I've forgotten what my original point was here, I have. OH! Buster. Right. Notice how I said that Buster could have gone to the White House? It's true: Buster will not be available for underground bunker bowling or licking various visiting members of the House of Representatives (Nancy Pelosi, you'll have to find someone else to do this) because BUSTER HAS ALREADY FOUND HIS NEW HOME!!

So, it's not the White House. Who cares?! It's a house and it's white. Okay, it's actually not white either but it IS a house. Though, unfortunately, one that isn't haunted. At least as far as I know. Sorry Steve. This time I'll hold you. It also doesn't have 35 bathrooms but, again, who cares?? Buster likes to do his business outside anyway. What it does have is a wonderful family made up of a lovely woman I've worked with for years, her husband and their quite awesome almost-six year old boy. Who, by the way, is made that much more awesome by the fact that on the day I dropped off Buster he told me I was pretty multiple times and kept holding my hand.

Me: I'm giving you a new dog, M.!

M:  Yeah, but are YOU staying? You're PRETTY.  Grabs my hand. Giggles.

Me:  But look! Doggy!

M:  You're pretty. 

This can be be called Kids Say The Funniest Things or, more accurately, The Most Action I've Seen In a Year.

What I like best about the family Buster has ended up with – besides the fact they all three love the crap out of him, of course – is the story of how he got there. I mean how he literally got there was in my car:

But how he really got there was by beating the odds. Because odds were against him on the side of the road. And odds were against him at the death-row shelter. And in a world where odds are already against most stray animals finding new homes, they were quadruple-y against Buster because of his breed.

And, oh yeah – one more thing (and this is my favorite part): Buster also beat the odds against this particular family adopting him since Lovely Woman's husband had the same reaction to the idea of a Pit Bull that so many other people did: No way. Not in my house. Not around my little boy. And I didn't blame him either, because I understood the stigma. But he hadn't met Buster and I felt endlessly frustrated that such a great dog kept getting this summary verdict rendered against him simply because of his breed.

But Lovely Woman did meet him on that first day we busted him out of the shelter. (Shelter Motto: Welcome to our shelter – where we don't actually give any) (Alternate motto: ANIMALS ANNOY US, WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM HERE??) She and her husband were already looking for a new dog, which is why she was so immediately receptive to Buster. Like me, she gave no strikes against him just because he was a Pit. She liked him. And she trusted my judgment of his personality (God love her) and, consequently, was just as disappointed as I was when her husband didn't go for it.

So Buster went off to live with my friend Kim for a week and then with fosters for a week after that. His fosters, by the way, totally fell in love with him and wanted to keep him, despite the fact the living arrangements weren't at all suitable for Buster in the long term. When they found out I was taking him back in the end, they told me in a fit of hysteria that I ruin lives. First of all, you people don't even know me. RUDE. Second of all, to all the people who do know me? Yeah, um...sorry about that.

So while the fosters were falling in (psycho) love and while I was still workin' it and trying to find Buster a permanent home, Lovely Woman was going about her business trying to find the right dog to add to her family. She visited adoption fairs (God love her MORE) and even tried to bring one dog home with her to see how she fit with them. (She didn't.) And all the while, in the back of her mind, was Buster. Buster with his big pink nose. Buster with his non-stop licking. Buster with his positive outlook. Buster with his addiction to spooning and complete over-the-moon love of people. Buster with that FACE.

So she kept asking me about how he was doing. And relaying the stories to her husband. And then they both started thinking about him. And then they did something I completely didn't expect: They decided to take a leap of faith and trust – to look beyond the stereotypes of Buster's breed and to look, instead, directly at Buster himself. Buster with his big pink nose. Buster with his non-stop licking. Buster with his positive outlook. Buster with his addiction to spooning and complete over-the-moon love of people. Buster with that FACE.

So with hope in all their hearts – and, understandably, a little bit of nerves in their guts – Buster came to stay at their house for a while to see. And then, not knowing the exact moment it happened, they all looked around one day and realized Buster had already come home to stay.

Welcome, loyal readers, to Buster 2.0. Where his life is pretty much like this now, every single day:

So congratulations all around, then! Congratulations to Thousand Islands, New York and your most haunted house in America. (Really? Flying Flatware is scary?) Congratulations to incoming President Barack O-Mah-Gah-Droooools. Sorry about Buster, but you can't win 'em all. Congratulations to Lovely Woman and Lovely Woman's Husband and awesome little M. for choosing such an amazing dog to complete your family. Your leap of faith did much to restore my faith in the idea that basically most people are good.

And congratulations most of all to Buster. Welcome to your happy ending!!

Swooooooooon!

And speaking of happy endings:

More Steve.

First I Met A Dog And Then I Met A Snake Wrangler And Then I Had Really Bad Hair But Not Necessarily In That Order

This isn't the post I've been working on for the past couple days, but I've had to momentarily set that one aside on account of the following unexpected turn of events. But before you all breathe a sigh of relief have a collective panic attack, don't worry. I will still be publishing the other one as well. You will not miss out on one single word of the poetic greatness that is "Um...What??" GAG.

Anyway, on my way home from work Thursday I had the pleasure of meeting this guy:

Read more about adopting me here!    

          

I don't know his name because he wouldn't tell me what it was which was mostly because he was too damn busy constantly sticking his gigantic tongue inside of my ears to be able formulate any coherent sentences. Of course this is the normal effect I tend to have on men so I am totally used to this behavior. Chris. But everyone needs a name so I think I'm going to start calling him Buster. I figure this is probably better than calling him This Guy or Hey Dog, Plus, my backup name is Marshmallow Mush (BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HE IS) and I'm guessing no self-respecting dude wants to be known as Marshmallow Mush. Also? I stole the name Buster from Dad or Bust, one of my favorite blogs EVER and the best daddy blog on the web. And I can totally be the judge of this since I don't know sh*t about being a dad and know even less about blogging. Don't forget me, Dad or Bust, when you're bigger than DOOCE. And yes, Chris, YOU should be my favorite daddy blogger but this would require you actually write in your blog. Because seriously? I'm gonna take back your Lazy-Ass Blogger award and replace it with one for a DEAD-ASS BLOGGER. The good news is I won't have to really change the artwork all that much:

Dead? Lazy?

The only conceivable difference is your breath on the mirror I shove under your nose to make sure I don't have to pay for your funeral. And I am poor so I hope you enjoy making your trip to the afterlife in a cardboard box Hefty Cinch Sak.

    

Back to Buster: (You: I fell asleep five minutes ago BORING.) When I met Buster he was running around on a very busy road I take back and forth to work. It connects the San Fernando Valley to the area farther north where I live, and while it's busy as hell, it's also akin to the middle of nowhere. There are no houses, no businesses, no ANYTHING in that area. You just use it to get from Point A to Point B. Unless you're Buster. He was using it as some daredevil, stunt-dog training ground as he ran back and forth from one side of the road to another, dodging in and out of cars and causing various drivers to have strokes and heart attacks and near-miss fender benders.

It was clear he was in over his head, but even so, no one was stopping to help him, which I'm sure had everything to do with how freaked out everyone was from having to brake and swerve and nothing at all to do with the fact that a lot of people SEEMINGLY HAVE NO SOULS. So I stopped. And did my own quick version of traffic dodging. Speaking of possible Dead-Ass Bloggers. Unless you're my mom reading this, in which case I am totally just joking about running around in traffic HAHA SO FUNNY! Once I got Buster's attention, it didn't take much to also get him into my car. One "Here boy!" (lucky guess) and two open arms and Buster and Lesley were suddenly just like Fozzie Bear and Kermit The Frog – movin' right along in search of good times and good news! Except that Buster didn't have a banjo. Silly. Of course he didn't. Because he had a harpsichord. Not really!! Everyone knows dogs prefer kazoos:

              

       

I am seriously too dumb to figure out how to center this video. Awesome.

After Buster spent about five minutes thanking me profusely for picking him up by licking every square inch of my face and spitting in my ears and slurping on my neck – and sadly this is as much action as I've seen in as long as I can remember MORE AWESOME – I decided to take him to my vet for some kind of guidance because, frankly, once he was in the car I wasn't exactly sure what to do. He was filthy and had no collar, but he was certainly healthy enough. I knew I couldn't take him home myself, because besides having a diabetic cat, I also have a small, one bedroom apartment and no yard. That's right: There is NO END to my awesomeness.

"THAT is a Pit Bull." This is the first thing one of the vet techs said to me when Buster padded happily into the waiting room with me. This is an animal professional and she looked, well, somewhat alarmed. She retrieved a leash from somewhere in the back and told me I had to get it on him right away because "there are people's pets here." Um...what? Isn't that what Buster is? Someone's pet? He was clearly well trained, lying down in the back seat while we drove – except for when he'd get up to put his big head on my shoulder and lick my ear – and try as I might to coax him into the front seat, it was obvious he'd been trained that wasn't allowed. He followed me when I walked and heeled when I stopped. This was a good dog and as sweet as any I'd ever met and it was 8:00 at night and there was NO ONE else there so all the other animals were in the back and this dog was busy licking and licking and licking my right elbow in a really loud and sloppy fashion. Good holy crap: EVERYBODY RUN FOR YOUR LIVES.

Unfortunately, Buster – who they told me was about a year old – didn't have a microchip and that left the two of us without a lot of options. My parents live in the area, but their condo also doesn't have a closed-in yard and they have two cats of their own. Chris lives about ten minutes away, but he's violently allergic to animals. "Hey Buster! We saved your life, but we accidentally killed Chris. Woops!" Maureen lives about five minutes the other direction, but her female dog is in heat (and Buster is unfixed) and that is called Compounding The Problem or Animal Porn.  So after a few calls I had no choice but to make arrangements through Animal Control to take him to the Castaic Animal Shelter.

Animal Control? Who wants to call THOSE monsters? Don't they drive around in big, menacing trucks with bars on the windows? Don't they carry huge nets they just smack down over an animal before scooping him or her away to some kind of dirty, depressing Animal Attica? Yeah. That's what I thought too. I was amazed at just how wrong I was. I dealt on the phone with a lovely woman named Alissa who coordinated with the shelter for our arrival (it was many hours after hours at that point) and then stayed on the phone with me while Buster and I drove around in the pitch black, middle-of-nowhere trying to find the place.

Once we eventually stumbled onto it, I thanked Alissa profusely and clicked off. She had assured me this shelter was a loving, compassionate facility where Buster would be well taken care of. And I was sure I believed her, despite the fact that in the dark it looked more like a place where people go to get violently ax-murdered during the dead of night. Which, to be honest with you, wasn't really something I was all that interested in. Unfortunately, this outcome started to seem more and more likely as Buster and I wandered around outside in the increasingly creepy night for almost ten minutes looking for this dude who was supposed to meet us. Tons of barking dogs...not one other human soul. Oh - and the wind! Spooky, swirling, howling wind. Howling. Which, of course, is why I almost had a heart attack when my phone suddenly rang loudly in my hand. I dropped it to the ground in a startled fit and Buster immediately begin licking it. Because, for those of you who haven't caught on to this yet, licking is what Buster does. It was Alissa again, letting me know that the gentleman I was meeting had to go on some animal emergency-related house call. He would be back in an hour at most.

An hour?

In the dark?

By myself??

WAIT! I have a Pit Bull!

"You have a WHAT??" My dad. On the phone. "You let a Pit Bull into your car?" Okay, really? Again with this? Buster and I were sitting in the back seat together, and he was snoring away with his big head in my lap. There was a growing drool spot on my knee. SCARY. "People get killed alone at night in the middle of nowhere, dear." Well, I can't argue with that.

"But I have a Pit Bull with me, Dad!"

"People get killed alone at night by Pit Bulls."

What?  "Okay. Now you're just making crap up."

"I'm coming to meet you. You shouldn't be alone in a strange place at night." Not alone! Doggy! "With a strange dog." Not strange! Mushy! "You could get yourself killed." Seriously: My dad spends a LOT of time offering me tips on how to avoid getting myself killed.

And he did show up. Because he's my dad, and that's what he does. He takes care of his little girl. But you know who else showed up at almost the exact same time? The shelter guy. Who, it turns out, was also an Animal Control employee. (I had no clue how these things work. Who did I expect? The janitor?) He was wearing a verrrry nicely-fitting uniform. With a shiny, authoritative badge. He had a killer smile. He offered me a sweet, southern-twanged apology for being late because he had to go "wrangle a snake."

Wrangle? A snake?

Oh. Mah. Gah.

Drooooooools.

Buster was licking him.

I was getting kind of jealous.

I was also not at all happy about the gale force winds that allowed my hair to look like this upon the first moment mine and my new Snake Wrangler boyfriend's eyes met:

Although maybe this is okay, since in a way it looked very similar to this:

But what made Snake Wrangler Boyfriend even hotter was the sweet way he talked to Buster. He scratched his ears, he told him he was a good boy, he laughed when Buster jumped up and licked his chin. And he wrote down my phone number because that's official shelter procedure he was obviously totally in love with me. Droooools.

And with that, Buster was leaving me. And while I was relieved to know he would have food and water and a safe place to sleep, I still puzzled on the drive home over whatever chain of events I'd managed to set into motion that night. I have since gone to visit him twice (they're closed to the public on Sundays), and in the light of day the Castaic Shelter is actually quite a wonderful place. It's on a beautiful piece of land. The enclosures for the animals are clean and larger than you'd expect with both indoor and outdoor portions. The place is swarming with volunteers who walk and play with and love the animals. But the bottom line is it's still no place for any of them to be stuck. At the end of the day it's still concrete and cages and lost souls that have somehow ended up in circumstances that are less than ideal.

And now that I've grabbed Buster off the side of a desolate stretch of road, I feel responsible for him. Now that I've gotten him locked away in what feels like – despite the grass and despite the lovely volunteers – nothing less than a prison, I need to find a way to break him out. The shelter will hold him for five days in the hopes his people will claim him. (Five days? That's it?) After that, they will do their best to find a family to adopt him, but let's be honest: At that point his future becomes uncertain. It is for every dog in that situation, but even more so for Buster because of his breed. Pit Bulls have gotten a bad rap (PUTTING IT MILDLY) due to a$$holes like Michael Vick, but inherently they're born as wonderful, loving animals. When well trained – as Buster clearly is – they're ideal family dogs. They're intelligent, they're enthusiastic and they're loyal. They live to please their people and they LOVE children. This is exactly the dog I saw in Buster. I fell in love with his dirty, spitty mug, and now I want so badly to save him from his current predicament. Because Buster is a soul in desperate need of some rescuing, and I know a little something about how that feels. The lost look he had in his eyes when I found him? The wandering? The fear of being left behind? Yep. I get it. We're kindred spirits, Buster and I, and I'd like to think we ran into each other for a reason.

Which I'm assuming is something related to the greater good and not just so I could meet a hot Snake Wrangler Bloggy Boyfriend. Although, you know...that certainly doesn't hurt.

Hang in there, Buster. I'm working on it.

* * * * * * * * * *

High Horse Epilogue:  If your pet isn't microchipped, what are you waiting for??

* * * * * * * * * *

UPDATE: The following comment was left on this post by Issa, one of this blog's favorite readers (because you're allll my favorites!), and I thought it bore repeating:

Holy moly man. I freaking love pits. My dad has the sweetest one in the world. She would literally let my kids take anything from her, even out of her mouth and she just lays there all patiently. My aunt has an awesome one too. People are what make pits bad...

Thank you, Issa!

This Post Mentions Both My Butt And My Cat's Butt

Hey, lesleykim! Twitter called and they'd like their 140 characters back. But mostly they'd like you to close your account. And lose their website address. And – oh yeah! – stick this Fail Whale up your butt!:

(Seriously: Did you know you could get a Fail Whale on a t-shirt? ME NEITHER.)

 

The image at the tippy top of this post is my Twitter Tag Cloud. It shows – via the size of the corresponding text – what I tweet about the most. And as it turns out? I tweet about pretty much the same thing I blog about: Absolutely nothing that has any point. ("Hey there!" one whole reader left who hasn't already figured this out.)

I mean what does it say about me that my most tweeted word is maybe, followed closely by would, could and should? Well, besides saying I AM A WISHY WASHY TWEETER, it also says, Never mind that – when the hell did I ever tweet about a basement? I don't even HAVE a basement.

Random basements aside (and the obvious fact I clearly must direct tweet at Chris in annoying amounts – both Chris and haliscribbler appear on the next tier SORRY DUDE), my Twitter Tag Cloud seems less of a direct representation of what I tweet about and more of a general statement about my life as a whole. (And by statement I mean those things I never make with any kind of substance whatsoever and who gives a crap what I tweet and why haven't you all just unfollowed me by now??) These days my life is completely stalled at the intersection of Maybe meets Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda and no one is directing traffic and I THINK I'M DRIVING WITH A BLINDFOLD ON. (You know, where life = car and living = driving and OH WHATEVER.)

I feel just this side of futile a lot these days. Like all my steps ahead in fact just move me around in a circle and I keep ending up back where I started. Except not only do I still have no answers, now I also have more and more questions. Maybe The Porcupine and I will get there? Maybe we'll all be okay? Or at least maybe we won't die? Okay maybe we'll die but death will be painless? OH WHAT'S THE POINT WE'RE ALL TOTALLY DOOMED. And besides my attempt to look forward, I also do a fair amount of looking back: Oh if only one of us would have...(pointless) or maybe I should have...(useless) because then maybe today we could have...(fail!). OOH! Maybe I can have another Fail Whale for this? But maybe on a cool t-shirt this time instead of up my butt?

And on some days – as hard as I try to rally against it (because other people have real problems like hurricane-ravaged homes and not enough money to pay bills and plus? Nepal is outlawing nude disco dancing and WTF are people over there supposed to do?) – these maybes kind of get me down. Maybe someday this constant panicked feeling will leave me. Maybe someday I'll sleep again at night. Maybe someday The Porcupine will be a little more the man I used to know and a little less the ghost in front of me. Maybe someday soon I will be a little more "actual" happy and a little less "fake it 'til you make it" happy. (I've used this "fake it" mentality since getting it from my skating coach back when I was learning how to do a single axel jump, which is actually a revolution and a half, and yes this is absolutely as impressive as it sounds.*  My coach would say, "Fake it 'til you make it!" and so I would smile while falling down.)

* Okay: The following is an actual conversation between a five-year-old girl and a then 33-year-old me. The five-year-old is being referred to as "Five-Year-Old" only because I'm guessing calling her "Smart-Ass Bitch Face" is probably frowned upon by various mommy bloggers and parental organizations everywhere, all of which I am totally sure could give one sh*t about read this blog:

Five-Year-Old (after watching me work on my axel for a while): We're practicing the same jump!

Me:  I know! Isn't that kind of fun?!

Five-Year-Old:  Aren't you way too old for this?

Me: (Falls.)

And in case you're wondering what this has to do with anything I'm talking about, the answer is very little. HAHA! Please. Everyone knows the answer is nothing.

ANYWAY. On the days the maybes are kicking my ass – which has been a lot of my days as of late – I do the same thing to that little "What are you doing?" Twitter box that I do to my blog: I just stare at it. What am I doing? Um, what the hell am I ever doing? (AM I EVEN AWAKE RIGHT NOW? ANYONE?) I sit here in the weird state of suspended animation my life has become, watching all the lovely people I follow tweeting all these interesting and entertaining and witty and pithy things and I'm still sitting there puzzling over what exactly it is I might be doing besides breathing. What am I doing? Am I even doing anything? Well, I am trying to think of something to tweet so does that count? Being that my last two tweets were about my cable company and my cat's shaved butt, uh, NO.

And that's when Twitter can just freak me the hell out. In 140 characters or less I'm reminded of how much life is going on around me and how even though in my own way I'm doing the best I can to participate – I'm falling down a lot but I'm smiling, dammit – I still feel a bit outside of the ebb and flow most of the time these days. I'm not adrift – I have wonderful family and friends who moor me – but I am almost weightless. Long on maybes. Short on tangibles. At times feeling almost without substance.

Clearly, this intangibility I feel comes across in my tweets: Maybe? I dunno? Could or would? Should? Basement? (Screw you Thank you for the insight, Twitter Tag Cloud!) It also comes across in this blog when there are three or four days between posts because the ugly maybes have crept in and I am far from my best and want only to bring my best to this blog. (Because I love you, Blog!) (Blog as boyfriend?)

YES, I KNOW. Begging the question: "Oh my god does she think THIS crap is her best?" Yes. I. Do.

And, oh yeah: If you'd like a Twitter Tag Cloud of your own, you can get one here. I have next to no idea what anything on this page means except for the part that says, "View Your Twitter Tag Cloud Now." PHP?  Rest Service? Zend Framework? XFN? Who cares?! The site's author's kinda cute right? And 12-ish? Am I dumber than a 12-year-old?

MAYBE.

Maybe At the End of the Story EVERYONE DIES? That Would Be Awesome

Open letter to eHarmony on behalf of FED UP SINGLE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE:

Dear Everyone Who Works At eHarmony:

I hate you. I have a polite request. If you could please be so kind as to stop running your commercials during every single program break on every single channel every single day of the week, THAT WOULD BE SUPER.

Case in point:

I have seen this particular couple's story approximately 1,487,264 times – and by approximately I mean 1,487,264 times plus an additional 6,876 more. In short, their commercial spins a yarn that goes a little something like this: Perfect boy (no such thing) meets perfect girl (no such thing unless me) and they become even way more awesomely perfect together because of their perfect, storybook love. (In some circles, this kind of love is sometimes referred to by its Latin root name of "BARF FEST.") (Or "Vomitous Festivalus" for our Spanish speaking friends.) (Since, if you'll recall, this blog recently became multilingual.)

I am sure "Lee" and "Anne Marie" are quite innocent in all of this. This couldn't have been their idea. It's not like they look smug or overly impressed with themselves. Oh wait. EPIC FAIL.

I mean honestly, eHarmony: What is your advertising budget over there? $20 gagillion trillion billion dollars?? And if it is, maybe you could do something a little more constructive with your money like, oh I don't know, perhaps feeding the world's starving and homeless? Or bailing out the United States' disastrous housing market? Or paying off the country's overwhelming debt? Or – I know! – how about something way, way, WAY more not at all important but still undeniably cool, like BUYING LESLEY THIS SUPER-SWEET LITTLE RIDE:

Say hello, reader readers, to the Cadillac XLR-V Roadster...and its starting price of ONE HUNDRED AND ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. (In all likelihood this entry-level figure does not include the engine or all of the tires.) eHarmony? You can afford to buy me two. 

(If not eHarmony then maybe Cadillac/General Motors? I can write about car in blog? Free advertising that will easily reach two people millions? Fair trade?)

Droooooool.

 

                     

Oh good grief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the thing:

Yes, I know the world can be a lonely place and that a lot of people are still searching for that one person they want to spend the rest of their lives with. I believe in The Big Love (being in it myself) (and by "in it" I mean "OH MY GOD WILL THIS EVER END") and I am all for everyone finding it. Woo-hoo! High fives all around! Love and let love! And I know that you, eHarmony, totally believe in the power of stuffing your wallets love, too.

TIMEOUT 10:53 PM: LEE AND ANNE MARIE ARE ON TV RIGHT NOW. YOU CANNOT MAKE UP THIS KIND OF CRAP. They're on the Sci Fi Channel (huh??) where I was attempting to mind my own business while watching Grant and Jason hunt ghosts and instead suddenly found myself looking at THIS:         

 

I like to keep my love and ghosts/zombies/blood-sucking spiders separate, thankyouverymuch.

I see these people more than I see my real friends.

Universe hates me.

 

 

 

Anyway. Back to eHarmony's love of their Swiss bank accounts love. As I was saying: I believe in love too, eHarmony. But my problem with you is the way you presume to act like FINDING LOVE IS SO EASY. The way you imply over and over that all anyone has to do is fill out a simple questionnaire. And by simple I mean a 487-page time suck of about 687,000 questions on important topics like, "What are your interests?" And for your information, the choices listed as an answer to this question actually include "eating" – not eating out...just "eating" –and I don't really understand this because if you're not interested in eating then chances are good you're DEAD and probably shouldn't be filling out this questionnaire. Then once you're done with The Third Degree, all you have to do is fork over some dough to then be instantly matched across "29 key dimensions of compatibility." I honestly have no idea what these dimensions are, but this does sound kinda sci fi so maybe it's not all bad. (Can I assume one is "HOTNESS?") And then? TA DA! You and your soulmate can ride off together into the sunset. Maybe in your Cadillac XLR-V Roadster if one of those 29 compatible dimensions includes WALLET SIZE: GIGANTIC.

Really, eHarmony? What do I look like? A moron?:

Exactly.

But that doesn't mean that I am one. I know better. I know love cannot be bought at the mall like a new pair of shoes – I don't care how many tens of thousands of times a day you try to tell us otherwise. And I don't care how many dimensions two multi-dimensional people have in common (3D? Need red/blue glasses?), love is not always hearts and flowers and sighs and swoons. Because if it was as easy as all of this? No one would ever need a service like yours, eHarmony. Duh.

So, I've got an idea for your marketing department, eHarmony. Why don't you put real real people in your ads? How about THAT? How about putting people in your ads who are down in the trenches covered in mud and crawling along on their bellies dodging automatic weapon spray while still trying to keep holding on to each other. (I might know a little something about this.) Because that is when you really find out what your love is made of, more so than when, say, you're bowling. (HAVE SEEN LEE AND ANNE MARIE BOWL ONE GAGILLION TIMES. WAS INTERESTED ZERO TIMES.) It's when love is tested that we really learn its worth and are reminded of why we need love to live as much as we need food and water and shelter. How about a little truth in advertising, eHarmony? How about a whole lot more respect for the act of love (NO, NOT THAT ACT) (CHRIS) and a whole hell of a lot less of this crap over and over and over in all of our faces:            

People don't need this. Especially me.

And would eHarmony run even more ads if they actually charged us this extra $40? (Shudder.)

 

 And in conclusion? THIS:

            

Oh right. Like you didn't see this ending coming.

I Love Birthdays That Aren't Mine! (Or: USE THE FORCE, MO)

On this date in history many, many important people were born. Like:

Geoffrey Plantagenet: Who? I have absolutely no earthly idea either. But Wikipedia says he was a duke, also called "The Handsome," who did many important things I am sure, not the least of which was the conquering of Normandy in 1144. This seems impressive. Unfortunately, this happened before the invention of pretty much...everything, so no picture is available. This means we're also unable to judge the accuracy of the nickname.

Cal Ripken, Jr.: Shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles from 1981 to 2001. A 19-time all-star, he earned the nickname "Iron Man" by continuously refusing to let injuries knock him out of the lineup. He went on to play a record 2,632 games in a row. Holy crap. This is way more impressive than that Plantagenet dude. Play 2,632 baseball games in a row? Conquer some region/territory thingie once? Exactly.

Hi, cute butt!
 

                                    
Kenny Baker: British actor who played R2-D2 in the greatest movies ever made and oh my god, can you even believe there was actually a real live person in there? Kenny is 3' 8" tall and that is all the size he needs to kick Ripken/Plantagenet butt! I don't care what kind of athletic prowess you may have or how many nations you may have lorded over, if you were in Star Wars? YOU WIN.

            

Yasser Arafat: Late Palestinian leader and winner of the Nobel Prize for, I don't know, something or other. Who cares? My point is he was NOT IN STAR WARS so I'm only vaguely interested at best. Although, apparently, many found him evil along the lines of Darth Vader, so he does have THAT going for himself.

And on the subject of Star Wars, am I the only one who didn't know about this??? Awesome.   

       
      
          
         

But enough with all these people I don't actually know. Who cares?? I can't even call to wish them a happy birthday, since two are dead and I'm fairly sure the other two wouldn't take my calls, so screw them what's the point? And anyway: On this day in history, someone else – someone far, far more important – was born:

That's right!

Maureen!

Could she be any cuter? Could my photography skills be any more Annie Liebowitz-introspective-portrait-like?

That's Mo's husband in the background. He's not totally comfortable with putting himself out onto the internet, so instead of posting his actual photo, I have drawn a reasonable facsimile. And before you start sending in your e-mails, no he isn't related to Jack, and no you cannot get complimentary Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers.

Step aside nation conquerors (YAWN) and home run hitters (I'M BORED) and Nobel Prize winners (NEXT) and droid character actors (BIG DEAL MO IS PRETTY TINY AND I BET SHE COULD HAVE FIT INTO THAT BUCKET TOO) and make room for Southern California's 4' 11" biggest force of nature! Today is the anniversary of the birth of my best girlfriend Maureen and if that isn't a reason to make August 24th a national holiday, then why do we even HAVE national holidays? HMMN??

So what words could I possibly write to illustrate how special and unique and lovely and funny and feisty and spirited this girl is? While I'm sure I could come up with at least 50 gagillion of them myself (because I can come up with way too many frickin' words the perfect amount of words for any occasion...I swear it is just like verbal diarrhea poetry), it occurred to me it would actually be better to use her words!

So on that note, I bring you the Mo Montage – a collection of excerpts of things she's e-mailed to me that I put together for her a while back, reprinted here in this special Get To Know Mo (!) Birthday Post:

 

I'm dying here. UGH. Can't get three seconds with His Vinceness.
I haven't been able to get near Vince for anything. Ugh.
I was hoping that would bump up the ad count, making Mr. Cranky Pants happier.

I'm on the Pasta is Bad Because It Makes My Ass Fat(ter) Diet
Moo!
Mooooo! Must graze in the field.
He was talking about how full he was and I made some comment about feeling like a cow, so he called me Mad Cow!
Oink.

Hey! Don't make fun of our trickle.
Drooling is tres sexy!
Aaaaaagggggggghhhhhhhhh!
They should all bow to my beautifully clad feet.

Pee NOW!!!
I've already peed!

The only thing that bugs me is that you have M&Ms and I don't.
I'm just going to attach my candy bag to my face like the feed bag it is!
I'M WORKING HARD OVER HERE, PEOPLE. STOP MAKING FUN OF ME!!!!!!!

Coffee?
Is this today's coffee or old coffee? There's a difference in the level of scuzz.
Where do you want to eat?
Lunch is good. Where?

Hey! I'm [hicup] trying to work over here [hicup]. I don't know what you ladies
(and I use that word loosely) are talking about [hicup].

This is insane. Amateur hour!
God damn! This is INSANE!
It's insane. I'm so over it because it's picky shit.
Ariel just went to Vince to argue. This is insane.
Ugh. Crashed again. This is INSANE.
This is total insanity. I have never felt so disorganized in my life. I think I'll stay home on Monday.

There is NOTHING in here that says these had to go out last night! If you weren't so obsessed with how full you were, you might have warned us!

I am not at all inspired by the approximately 6,528 e-mails that my e-mail has generated.

It's my fault that now every person who speaks to you in person is going to be drawn to your boob (more than they usually are).

You KNOW I have no self-control when it comes to french fries.
I eat whatever I want and just stick my finger down my throat.
I have no self-control. Can I have more popcorn??
MMMMMMmmmmmmm carbs!
Good thing it's leg day; I'll be able to burn off that cinnamon bun!!

Burning CDs, protruding hipbones.

"Hi! my name is Maureen and I'm a shopaholic. I have no self-control!"
Am I game to go to the Gap? Is the pope Catholic? Duh!
Bad day? Buy shoes! Great day? Buy shoes! Too many shoes in the closet? Buy more!
I woke up this morning all excited because I knew we'd be going shopping! I think that speaks volumes about my shallowness!
I'm saving all of my energy for shopping (uh, shipping?)

Yee-haw!
Woo-hoo!
Woo!
Boo-hoo!
Hee-hee-hee!!
Hee-hee snort!
Ahhhh!
Ack!
UUUUGh.
Bah!
Pfffft.
Grrr.

I'm about to go into the art department and sneeze on Ariel for sport!

HUNGRY!
EAT!!! NOW!!!!!!!!
Yeah, I can feel the grease starting to ooze out of my skin.

Notice my lame attempt to be hip?

This place is a total loony bin.
Sigh. Everyone is nuts (except you and me!).
Must be a full moon around here. Everyone is crazy.
They're all lunatics!

Ugh. I'm dying here. No one will help me.
Sigh. I have to do EVERYTHING around here.

Really? You must be immune to me!

Look at you stirring up all kinds of shit. Who do you think you are? ME?

From one icky, cranky, strung-out stressball of a wench to another...
Yeah, but I'm wearing a thong, so I'm really cranky.

SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SHUT Up!

Just me and the fat girl. Sigh.
I have a pile of pages on my desk. Sigh.
I guess I need a shaker too. Sigh.
Chocolate Cake??????? Sigh.

I am the Queen of the Meltdown!
Do you freak out? Are you totally unable to handle anything? Cool. Welcome to our magazine.

That's all the motivation I need to get my fat ass into the gym tonight!

Sorry, though, no floss. You're just gonna have to stick a piece of paper or something in there.

Oh Lord!
Oh! My! God!
Dear god.
Oh for the love of GOD.

* * * * * * * * *

And finally, here's an actual illustration of Maureen in the form of the only video I have of the two of us together. This is from about five years ago and I can assure you we are only completely cuter and totally younger looking today. Notice how you can't understand anything we're talking about? Yeah. This is pretty much the case with every conversation we've ever had within earshot of just about anyone:

 

(Garbled, pointless Incredibly riveting video clip.)

So happy birthday, my funny, beautiful friend. It's not been the easiest year to be friends with me and you have been unyieldingly heroic. Steadfast. Loyal. Supportive. Wise. You're the duct tape holding me together in the moments I think I'm falling apart. You're my Yoda, imparting quiet wisdom in the times I can't tell my eyeball from my a$$hole. You're my daily dose of calm in what sometimes feels like seemingly endless chaos. You're the best girlfriend I've ever had and I can't imagine my life without you. How much do I love you? I LOVE YOU MORE THAN STAR WARS* and that, my friend? Is a whole hell of a lot of love.

--------------

*It should be noted that Maureen HATES all science fiction, so naturally I have chosen a running Star Wars theme for her special birthday post. Because I am THAT much of a self-centered asshat good of a friend.

I Think (tootootoomuch), Therefore I Am (totallytormented)

My brain has no off switch.

I don't mean this in a "Look at me! I'm so constantly creative and productive and ON!" kind of way, either. I mean it like My inner voice - THE HARBINGER OF DOUBT AND DOOM – never ever shuts up and I am constantly driven to practically paralyzing distraction by the overwhelming and never-ending sound of the BLAH BLAH BLAH inside of my own head. (Help. Me.)

Yesterday, Maureen and I were having a conversation about perspective. And by "conversation" I mean Mo was listening to me BITCH AND MOAN, and by "about perspective" I mean that she was trying to give me some because as usual? I DO NOT HAVE ANY. The exchange went a little something like this:

What Maureen Said:  Sometimes something just is what it is. Don't read into it.

What I Heard:  GAhhhhhhbarrrrrrdurrrrrr (garbled) (followed by confused and echoing silence - MY OWN)

The idea of immediately accepting something at face value is completely foreign to me. I just honestly cannot process this concept. Do people do this? Without their lives imploding? (And maybe the lives of several people around them?) I can eventually accept the face value of something, but this is only AFTER analyzing it and studying it from every possible angle as well as a few additional angles which should not be possible and yet somehow are because my over-thinking? WILL NOT BE DENIED.

It doesn't even matter what's on my mind, either. A big ticket item? A small nuisance? Something not even worth one second of my pause? It's all the same to me. If the thought gets into my head, chances are it's gonna stay there for a while as I analyze it to within an inch of its life. (CRAP.) I will think. Mull. Ponder. Wonder. Speculate. Consider. Theorize. Predict. Worry about. Obsess over. Imagine. Extrapolate. Question. And question. And question.

This makes me seem like I'm a super-smart, deep thinker, right? WRONG! It just makes me seem like what I actually am: ANNOYING. If I had a dollar for every time I asked myself, "What the hell does that really mean??" or "What exactly is actually happening here??" Well, let's just say I wouldn't have time to be sitting here writing this post as I'd be way too busy ROLLING AROUND NAKED IN MY GIGANTIC PILES OF MONEY.

As you can imagine, this kind of personality trait (because "trait" sounds so much prettier and more acceptable than "Pathetically Asinine Personality Flaw") is not exactly ideally suited for my current situation with The Porcupine. Because if I can get totally caught up in the normal, day-to-day things (My boss seemed cranky...am I going to be fired? Did I screw something up, I can't THINK of anything I screwed up but maybe I just don't know about it yet? I can't remember locking the door, did I lock the door? Did I not lock the door? Did the wind swing it open? OHMYGOD is the cat wandering around on the street now? And what about the insulin, did I even put that away?? Did I just flush another $100? Am I really that stupid? I haven't talked to Friend A in weeks now does she think I suck? Oh my god, I DO suck and now she totally knows it! What the hell am I gonna do??), imagine what I can do with everything I'm in the middle of right now. I have fodder for worry FOREVER!

I am slowly driving myself just this side of bat shit crazy thinking and worrying about everything that's going on. Extrapolating is my personal favorite these days as I try to figure out what Every Single Solitary Thing That's Happening Now will mean for everyone involved six months from now. Or a year. Or five years. Or when I'm an old lady. (Because really?? I might be one before this all gets resolved. I AM SO SURE.) I don't reserve all of this activity for just my waking hours, either. I know I also do it when I'm asleep because I can't remember the last morning I didn't wake up in a panic – even before I was aware enough to remember what exactly it is I'd even have to freak out over. (I don't have a snooze bar. I have a panic button.) And then I'm like, 'Oh yeah. EVERYTHING."

I realize that my over-thinking is some kind of weird control thing. I'm currently in a situation I have little to no control over, so I think and think and think and think about everything in the attempt to somehow quiet the chaos that way. Which of course never works. Which of course I already know. Which of course makes no difference as MY BRAIN HAS NO OFF SWITCH.

I knew going in to this exactly how life with The Porcupine (such as it currently is) would rub up against all my worst issues. This would be a challenging situation for anyone, but for an over-thinking control freak with really awesome hair such as myself? (Not that my hair has anything to do with anything here except for the fact that I was just noticing that it IS looking particularly awesome these days on account of the fact my stylist Jenny??? Is a god.)

So all I can do is do my best. Try as hard as I can to refrain from my constant puzzling and supposing – at least once in a while – because I'm really starting to become a serious threat to my own sanity. I attempt this kind of growth by doing things like I did yesterday: Recognizing my problem ("Hi! I'm Lesley and I'm a HOPELESS OVERTHINKER." "Hiiiiiiiii, Lesley!") and reaching out in the attempt to get a little perspective. Or maybe a lot. All in all, I think I'm gaining some serious ground too, as revealed by the following recent conversation:

The Porcupine (totally exasperated and obviously experiencing some incredible restraint since he was talking to me instead of punching me in my face):  Hon. Why are you thinking so much?

Me: Well, because I'm...hold on a second. WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN??

Love Letters

Today? I'm feeling the love (SMOOCH!) and directing it at the following:

A. My new shield sunglasses by Fossil.

Woo-hoo! At first glance (like when first glancing at them in the display) these glasses look borderline ridiculous. They're HUGE - one part "I'm out in the sun!" and another part "I'm doing DNA testing in the forensics lab!"  But on my face, they're just altogether styley:

See?

(Plus, check out how accidentally good I look  when reduced to a super small size)!

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(Or when filtered in Photoshop!)

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(Although I've yet to figure out how to top this look.)

Okay - WOOPS! Momentarily sidetracked!

Anyhoo....

Back to the sunglasses! I love big sunglasses. The problem is, nine times out of ten they don't love me back. I'm a small woman with an even smaller head, and most everything designed for my lid (sunglasses, regular glasses, baseball caps, knit hats) runs size jumbo on me. It's the same thing with watches – I love wearing those huge too. But you can get away with an oversized watch a lot easier than you can a pair of sunglasses that stretch from the middle of your forehead to just above your upper lip. (Although don't think I haven't tried.) These, however, manage to be big and yet still fit my face. They don't bump my forehead or my cheeks and they don't stick out left to right. They wrap around the sides of my head against the actual sides of my head...instead of two inches out from it. And the topper? They were pretty inexpensive to begin with, and then ON SALE after that. Twenty-five percent off of 25% off? What's not to love??

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B. My new Yoda bobblehead (Bobblehead? Bobble Head? Bobble-Head? Sadly, world cannot seem to agree on this.)

First a teeny head – now a big, huge, fat one! (As if Yoda's head wasn't big enough already before being made into a bobble.) Yoda's the fifth addition to my Star Wars bobblehead collection, which sits in its entirety on one of the shelves in my office. My five bobbles are displayed next to my SW Potato Heads – thanks, Chris! – and my big Lego tie fighter, masterfully built for me by my friend Kathy's youngest son, Ryan. (Yeah, we're all a bunch of sci fi geeks at heart. The Force is with us – DON'T HATE. Just be thankful I elected to leave my Lego Star Wars video game off this list OR YOU WOULD STILL BE READING THIS STUPID PAGE 45 MINUTES FROM NOW.) I got Yoda this past week and the biggest reason I love him is the biggest reason I love alllll of my bobbles: My friend Tuna gave him to me, and I just love my friend Tuna. (Smooch!) I've worked with him for a couple years now and he periodically shows up at my office door bearing some thoughtful little gift that says, I'm paying attention to you. I've taken the time to learn funny little ways I can make you happy. (Which is, of course, actually the best gift he ever gives – his time and attention.) And the thing is? This is what Tuna does for all his friends. All the time. He constantly goes out of his way to concern himself with all of us and make sure we're happy. And yeah: Goofy little plastic things with big gigantic heads? That I can BOING up and down with varying levels of enthusiasm depending on how my day may be going (GRRR)? Make me very happy.

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C.  "Too Late" - new Foreigner single

This song is completely rocking my world (and my workouts)! Has Foreigner reunited? Did they ever break up? Where's Lou Gramm and why isn't he fronting the band anymore? Who knows? I don't! Does it matter? Nooooo! This song is CATCHY! (Anyway? I've always been more of a Journey girl when it comes to my late 70's/early 80's arena rock.) I wanted to embed it here, but the audio file has more built-in security protocols than a presidential secret service detail. I mean come on, guys. Really?? No amount of trickery or manipulation on my part could find a way around them. So now – 45 frickin' minutes later...I still love "Too Late" but Foreigner can totally SUCK IT – I'm instead embedding a brief, partial clip of a recent live performance of the song. Which, as it turns out, is unfortunate because as good as the song itself may sound, I suspect this will be totally lost on you due to the seriously, seriously distracting and horrible stage presence of the new lead singer. Pointing? Is just rude:

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D. Benjamin Bratt

Helloooo, former detective Rey Curtis! Benjamin Bratt is now starring in "The Cleaner" – a new drama on A&E. He plays an extreme interventionist who – himself a recovering addict – will employ any means necessary, regardless of how dangerous or borderline illegal, to save other addicts from the demons that are killing them. And while the jury is still out for me on how much I'll love the actual show itself (it has big potential but is still finding its way, and I tend to like my darkness with a slightly higher dosage of redemption), one thing is clear: I DO NOT CARE. Benjamin Bratt is holy-crap yummy and seriously needs to be dealt with. I am tuning in.

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E. Crunch Pak Apples

And speaking of holy-crap yummy!? Mmmmm...Crunch Pak Apples! Alright. We've already established in a previous post that I just do not cook. Now we must learn that I cannot be bothered to cut my own apples either? I have to buy them pre-sliced in this nifty little resealable bag? This looks bad, I know, but it's not what you think. First of all, I CAN and DO cut up my own apples, because there is no fruit I love more than a sweet, crunchy apple. Unfortunately, there also isn't a fruit I hate more than an apple that's MUSHY. Soggy. Squishy. Soft. EWWWE. So many times I'll get home with a bag of apples and as much as half of them are mushy. Even though I picked them out myself. And poked at them. And squeezed them. And they SEEMED hard as rocks. (In all seriousness: WHAT is happening to our produce industry? Are rising gas prices somehow to blame? Is it because I shop at Albertson's and they get all the crappy, leftover apples after all the good ones go to places like Whole Foods and Rachel Ray's house?) But Crunch Pak Apples? The name doesn't lie! Super crunchy and super sweet every single time! (They come in a green pak of tart apples too, but I'm all about the sweet. And some also come packaged with caramel, but I'm looking for a healthy snack, not one I'd get at a carnival.) I buy this sweet pack all the time and have never come across a bad batch. Not even once. What makes them extra yummy? They're rinsed in a mixture of calcium and vitamin C – healthy! – and the company gives a lot back to charity every month. Check 'em out!