Um...What??

Please Pardon Our Dust (And The Dirt Under Our Fingernails And The Mud All Over Our Shoes And The Pieces of Hay Dangling In Our Hair And Our General, All-Around Barnyard Odor) WE APOLOGIZE

Remember the banner I put up with my last post that had Jared soliciting people to request more of him on the blog? Oh, of course you don't: THAT WAS LIKE 27 GAGILLION WEEKS AGO. It's how I do things –– like someone who doesn't do things! But as it turns out, people actually DID request more Jared. And by people did request more Jared, I mean Jared requested more Jared. And by Jared requested more Jared, I mean after looking at my last post he said, "I glanced at it and saw it didn't have me in it so I didn't bother to read it." NICE ONE, JERKWAD JARED.

However, it IS true we've been getting some feedback lately that perhaps we've been favoring Chris in way more posts than we have any of the other Um...What?? family members. This is a little something Gus The Cat my staff and I like to call valuable blog input. Until everyone is out of earshot, that is, and then we call it Whiney Whining From Jealous McWhinersons. HAHA! We kill us!

ANYWAY. Because I blog for the people –– the people who like really, really, tragically bad blogging –– I can promise you all that I'm listening. And on that note, you can rest assured Chris will not be appearing anywhere at all in today's post. So those of you who've expressed concerns have absolutely nothing to worry about PHIL AND JARED McWhinerson.

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Welcome back, Um Whaters!! I realize that even by our virtually non-existent standards it's been WAY too long since there's been any sort of activity around here. Blog as cobweb collector!! But –– and this obviously goes without saying –– IT'S TOTALLY NOT MY FAULT. An unforeseen chain of events was recently set into motion where we almost instantly went from absolutely nothing at all going on...TO THIS (and apparently I can only blog during times I have nothing at all to blog about, WELL OF COURSE):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Um...What?? Headquarters: Come for the never-ending Porcupine problems; stay for the newly-implemented goat doting!

Some of you who've been here for a while might know I've recently been busying myself trying to figure out how to fill back up my pitiful, emptied-out heart after it was gutted by The Porcupine's long, painful vanishing act that left him physically here but, you know, not actually here at all. It was such a slow process that it wasn't until he was barely more than a ghost in front of me that I realized in a moment of near-panic how much of myself had disappeared along the way, too. OOPSIE!

Of course the only thing I knew to do next was to sit around wondering what to do next. I'd been so fixated, walking my one narrow, Porcupine-centric path for so long that I had no idea which direction to go without it. Who was I now? Why was I?? It was clear my life needed a gigantic do-over, which would've been fine except for how that required some sort of actual doing of something and I had absolutely zero idea what to do. I did know what I wanted though, even if I had no idea where to start: to take all the energy I'd been so intensely focusing on The Porcupine (and, essentially, myself) and redirect it out into the world on a larger scale. I mean honestly: If I'm not here to try to make some kind of a difference in whatever ways my own abilities allow, why am I even here at all?? Beyond the obvious, of course: TO PHOTOSHOP.

Then I came across a Facebook post from The Gentle Barn, an organization in my area that rescues and rehabilitates the bodies and spirits of severely abused animals and, through their work with these animals, teaches at risk and special needs kids (and adults) lessons of hope and forgiveness and healing and love. And despite how wonderful this sounds, it's even more wonderful than it sounds. The barn's founder was looking for anyone who might be interested in volunteering to come out and be a special friend to any one of their animals. All you needed to qualify was a surplus of time and love and a willingness to share both.

And in that moment, the time and love the barn needed to receive perfectly intersected with the time and love I'd been needing for so long to give and then those two things even more perfectly intersected with say, do you know what kind of animal isn't found in a barnyard A PORCUPINE, THAT'S WHAT and two days later I found myself at The Gentle Barn. Because sometimes life hands you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. Which, if you think about it, really was the least life could do, considering how it had spent most of the past few years ENDLESSLY POKING ME IN THE EYE. Rude.

ANYWAY. Please say hello, Um Whaters, to the newest extended family members of our little global, interwebby family: the Gentle Barn goats!! Oh, yeah right. Like I had any chance whatsoever at all of being able to pick just one animal to be special friends with. Are you new??:

Sophie's a sweet, gentle soul who's completely ridiculous with the cute!! She likes grapes and bananas and more and more and more bananas and oh, hey maybe do you have some more bananas? Sophie's older and sometimes a bit stiff with arthritis, but she doesn't let it bother her, because Sophie has A CAN-DO ATTITUDE. She enjoys resting her chin on my knee and rubbing her horns all over my boots. She also occasionally likes to try climbing into my lap, which I'm sure is bound to end badly for me at some point considering all the hooves and horns involved, but honestly who really cares because hello?? THERE'S A GOAT. IN MY LAP. WHICH IS AWESOME.
    

Tink likes getting brushed and brushed and brushed and staring at me forlornly when I'm brushing someone who isn't her. She loves snacking on grapes and apple pieces and delighting people with her totally Zen vibe and beautiful, perfectly curved horns. She can often be found hanging out in a barn stall with a pig or three or rubbing her rear region on a nearby railing on account of goats get kinda itchy. Her hobbies include sunbathing and showing me her chin so I can scratch it and making me melt with her RIDICULOUS CUTE. She would also like you to please get those disgusting bananas out of her face.
     

Billy is Sophie's totally cute son (I know! It's ridiculous) and he loves cucumber slices and sucking on my shirts and walking around with hay or dirt hanging from his beard because it's styley. He can be kind of a rascal –– like when I try to stop for just one second to give him love in the middle of giving him cucumber slices, and he's all, UM, NO WE ARE EATIN' THE CUCUMBER SLICES RIGHT NOW PLEASE KNOCK OFF THAT JUNK OR YER GETTIN' SOME OF THIS HORN ACTION –– but this is probably why I'm slightly, kind of, just a little, totally extra in love with him. Because underneath the occasional bravado, Billy's A SQUISH. He takes tender, devoted care of his mama, and when he's in the mood for love –– which is almost always he just likes to be the one to ask for it –– he'll tether himself to my side and follow me all around the barnyard, pestering me endlessly to IMMEDIATELY DROP EVERYTHING ELSE AND PLEASE AND THANK YOU BE ONLY AND ALL ABOUT BILLY THE GOAT.

  

I know what you're thinking: "Lesley is totally like a photojournalist!" I KNOW, RIGHT??

Zoe may be the smallest of the four goats, but she's filled to the brim with a size extra-large, feisty, loving spirit and gigantic RIDICULOUS CUTE. She specializes in charming all the barnyard visitors with her compact stature and powdered sugar-dusted muzzle. Her hobbies include being shaped like a football, having the munchies and staring at me intently while hanging on my every word. She also enjoys spending time head-butting Josh The Sheep and then casually standing around acting like she did not just head-butt Josh The Sheep and do not even bother calling her on it because she seriously has no idea what you're talking about.

Don't ask me –– I just go where the story takes me. You know, photojournalisticly.

And, as none of you who've spent any time here should be surprised to read, this story isn't over yet, you are getting sleepy welcome!! Because the problem with waiting [insert number so large here even Stephen Hawking is confused by it] weeks to finish this post about my new volunteer gig, is that when that gig suddenly took off and became way more all-encompassing, this post had to become way more all-encompassing and then blah blah goats this and something something hosing off an emu that and then TA DA! No one has any idea what my point is anymore, least of all me. Oh, hey! Welcome to every single post ever published on this blog!! Yay!

ANYWAY. As it turns out, there was just no way I could focus all my time and love on ONLY the four goats in the midst of so many wondrous upper barnyard residents since, you know, have we met??, and I quickly became hopelessly attached to the whole entire lot of them: four goats, two llamas, 11 pigs, three sheep, three turkeys, a peacock, two peahens, 20 27 33 sit still chickens I am tryin' to count ya oh whatever A LOT OF chickens and one very spectacular emu.

My weeks of being The Goat Girl quickly evolved into my becoming the upper barnyard manager, or, as I like to think of it, the upper barnyard happiness facilitator. Woot! Barn raising! Raise the roof! Besides being there in the mornings before work and sometimes in the evenings and sometimes for staff meetings, I also oversee the yard every Sunday during what are becoming busier and busier visiting hours to make sure all of the animals are well-treated and safe and all of the visitors are happy and content. It's usually never any less than five hours of non-stop motion on my feet in the sun letting people in and out of the gigantic gate and answering questions and telling the animals' stories and it's demanding and exhausting and I never fail to get a sunburn of some sort despite always wearing sunblock 14 gagillion because I AM A DELICATE FLOWER and, oh yeah, one more thing: In the end, the happiness that's most facilitated is my own.

 

Here are just a few more select upper barnyard highlights as I'm trying to keep this post short. HAHA! I don't even know what that means:

No one remembered to take the minutes.



Josh The Sheep is made of teeth and love. He's the entire barnyard's big brother – keeping the peace, taking special care of any new or needy animals and cheerfully transporting the chickens around on his back. Josh is mellow and patient and a true gentleman, and he's never met a Gentle Barn visitor (or a snack) he didn't absolutely love. He also uses Crest Whitening strips. Probably.
 

 
Patent Pending.

Yoda's an emu –– not to be confused with an ostrich or, as I've heard on an occasion or two, a giant chicken. If Josh is the barnyard's big brother, then Yoda's its ambassador –– socializing with everyone, happily posing for pictures, accepting hugs and spreading around his special brand of limitless, optimistic love. He enjoys neck rubs, being way more curious than any cat, and racing Jewel The Peacock in gigantic, spastic circles all around the yard. He also has big, awesome feet that look like they belong on a Velociraptor, so when one little boy asked me if we had any dinosaurs at The Gentle Barn, I was able to answer that UM, KIND OF, WE DO. And I introduced him to Yoda, and he was happy. Because at The Gentle Barn, happiness always happens.
     

 
 Notice my masterful use of shadows to totally ruin the shot. Call me, Life Magazine! 
 

 

King The Llama's hobbies include sun bathing nearly belly-up, hanging out with his sister Duchess and following me closely around the barnyard to study even more closely every single thing I do while not letting me touch him at all EVER. (He is starting to eat out of my hand, though, so one day at a time.) Both he and his sister are glorious and regal and dignified, bringing an extra level of class to the barnyard that helps balance out some other, less classy things that go on there such as why didn't anyone tell me I have poop all over the side of my boot??
 

My chicken identification skills still need some honing.
  If you've never gotten to know a chicken, you really should. They're interesting and funny and engaging and curious, and when you talk to them, they listen very, very closely. Unlike some people I know. JARED.

Zeus likes tummy rubs, feasting on produce deliveries and rolling around in the barnyard's mud pit. He also enjoys having the cutest piggy ears you have ever seen and being large in size but gentle in spirit.
   

Notice my masterful use of the barn door to totally ruin the shot. Call me...some other really famous picture-y magazine type thingie! Oh, whatever.

Stanley is the upper barnyard's newest resident –– about three months old at the time of this photo and five months old now. The first weeks of his life he suffered physical treatment so horrendous that we are just going to totally skip it here on account of dear holy god. But now he's safe and loved and settling in happily to his new home. And talk about the ridiculous cute, right?? OH, LIKE ANYONE CAN TELL FROM THIS.
   


That's one pound for every year I've been writing this post.

Biscuit's huge but SUPER SWEET. You can hand-feed him the smallest of things and he ever-so-gently takes them from you, being very mindful of your fingers. The first couple of times you try this, it can be a little intimidating, but after that? AWESOME. And very, very dirty.
     

 

Look at this pretty darling. Sweet, quiet Toulouse used to live in a house with her human family until that got too dangerous for her (the neighbors started throwing bricks at her because SOMEONE NEEDS TO LOOK UP THE WORD "NEIGHBORLY" APPARENTLY) so now she's moved to The Gentle Barn where she's loved and cherished and well cared for. But despite her wonderful new home, Toulouse is still getting over the loss of her past. She mourns the life she used to know and misses a special person she used to love. Now she's learning to adjust to change and figuring out how to be happy again when everything she knows is so different and oh hey, Toulouse! That happens to be a little something in which I'm currently earning a black belt*.

*A black belt I plan, of course, to wear around my head PHIL MONGER STYLE. 

   
 Josh's Taxi Service: ALWAYS ON DUTY. Direct routes and scenic tours available.

Note: This photo is actually courtesy of Susan Shaddock. And by courtesy of Susan Shaddock I mean I have no idea who that is because I stole this off the intertubes. You can visit The Gentle Barn's Facebook page to see the original photo and hundreds more just like it, all of which are WAY, WAY better than the crappy ones I take. Because I don't have to time to take a photography course as I am way too busy constantly blogging. Like I even need to explain this.

And then an unexpected thing happened one day as I found myself standing in the barnyard: Standing in the barnyard, I found myself. Hey, me, IT'S ME. Where the hell have I been??? In that moment, I remembered that the holed-up, locked away, sad and faded girl I'd become during the past few years wasn't me at all. All that time I'd spent holding my breath and trying so hard to be perfectly unmoving wasn't getting me through anything. It was just leaving me out of everything and I'd almost completely stopped living. But in that place, surrounded by all these animals who've transcended such horrible circumstances to become filled with love and trust and joy, and in the midst of such wonderful, like-minded and generous people all working together to try to make the world better for as many souls as possible –– in this place so overflowing with life, my own life rushed back in. Only better. Less self-involved. Hopefully. More connected and connecting. Definitely. Down one Porcupine, but up so many other things. Like purpose and peace. And poop.

Because at The Gentle Barn, everyone gets to come just as they are...and leave as so much more than they ever were before.

 
A gal, a goat and a seriously, seriously unfortunate outfit not at all ideal for posting all over the intertubes. So, naturally I'm posting it all over the intertubes! And the entire Um...What?? family lived happily ever after.
     

The end of the beginning of our new beginning.
Or something like that.

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P.S. Today's post is dedicated to Um What's CFO and Creative Director In Charge Of Writing Chris-Themed Jokes (BLAME HIM), Gus The Cat –– who, despite however many other animal loves I may have, will always and forever be my main squeeze.

 

 
Yet another sad, barn-related, Farmer-in-the-dell type shirt. YEE HEE HAW!!

P.S.S. Besides their upper barnyard (named as such for being at the very top of the five acre property), The Gentle Barn also has two other main areas down below –– one for their horses and the other for their cows. And they have another pasture down the road where yet more cows live. And this is the kind of information a half-decent blogger would have remembered to include in the actual post. So sue me. (No, really! Sue me! YOU COULD WIN SOME PIG POOP IN THE SETTLEMENT!)

P.S.S.S. Coming next time...THIS GUY:

Rude.

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.

I Managed To Write This Despite The Fact I Have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder AND I DIED

This post took way longer to publish than I originally expected because I got completely hung up on my friend Lori's illo. I just went to dinner and the movies with her and yet I still couldn't remember if she currently had bangs or didn't have bangs because that's the kind of totally attentive friend I am: the kind who pays absolutely zero attention! So then I asked Maureen if Lori currently had bangs or didn't have bangs and guess what? Maureen had no idea either AND MAUREEN WORKS WITH HER FIVE DAYS A WEEK. Very helpful. Maureen. So then I went back and forth and back and forth and finally decided on some half-bang thing that would sort of work either way because this small detail was very, very important on account of the way it had absolutely nothing whatsoever at all to do with this post.

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This is my lovely friend, Lori:

Because I have only the best-looking friends! And Chris.

I recently ruined Lori's life went to the movies with Lori to see District 9. And by recently I mean two weeks ago and wow! Compared to how things normally go around this blog, that IS recent. I have totally focused my blogging chi!*

*Yeah, yeah. So it's really been three weeks now. Sue me. (You: Okay!!) You could win this blog in the settlement! (You: Oooh. Forget it.) That's exactly what I thought.

Lori and I try to catch dinner and a movie together semi-regularly because we like movies and we like dinner and we like each other and oh, hey! Friends are like flowers in the garden of life. Or whatever. ANYWAY. I chose the movie this time around, and I had several reasons for deciding on District 9: like how it was being touted as forever changing the face of science fiction and how Chris highly recommended it, telling me it was "great!" (OMG why did I use this as a reason?? TACTICAL ERROR FORESHADOWING) and how it had a very important and relevant social message which I assumed at the time as anyone would have was probably something like "YAY! Aliens are awesome!!" Or whatever. Because really: Who doesn't love aliens? Right??

Wrong.

WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG-ITY WRONG WRONG.

Listen: Before I go on, I know: District 9 is an exceptional movie with seamless visual effects and an inspired documentary shooting style and top-notch acting and a hauntingly delivered commentary on the darker instincts of human nature and SO WHAT NONE OF THIS IS ENOUGH TO TRUMP THE HORRIFIC, HUMAN-INFLICTED ALIEN BABY MURDERS AND AWFUL ALIEN TORTURE AND ABUSE AND RAMPANT XENOPHOBIA AND PEELING FINGERNAILS OFF ROTTING FLESH AND HAHA, who am I kidding?! The part where the main human character starts peeling off his fingernails from his rotting fingers was awesome! As a matter of fact, I can't think of a single movie in history that couldn't be made better by adding a fingernail peeling scene. Or Dwayne Johnson.

District 9's plot, in a nutshell, is this (Warning –– Spoiler Alert!): A big spaceship full of aliens gets marooned over earth blah blah no one knows why just go with it, then humans make first contact in sort of a Welcome-Wagon-meets-Home-Invasion-Robbery kind of a way and determine said aliens are low-life, bottom-dwelling "prawns" that must be imprisoned into a horrible, slum-like internment camp despite the fact they're already sick and suffering and need kindness and mercy and then something, something human-dude-who-looks-like-Hitler-this and something, something alien-father-guy-who-is-ugly-but-beautiful-that and then a whole bunch of other stuff happens who cares and then TA DA! It turns out it's the human race that's filled with the most miserable and vile bottom-dwelling creatures who ever lived THE DESPAIR-FILLED, GOD-AWFUL, SUICIDE-INDUCING END. Popcorn, anyone?

So. If I was a professional movie reviewer –– which I'm not although I think we all agree I totally could be –– I would give this movie two thumbs down  stuck up my butt because that's how uncomfortable I was JABBED VIOLENTLY AND REPEATEDLY INTO MY EYEBALLS UNTIL I'M RENDERED TOTALLY BLIND AND OH DEAR HOLY GAHHH WHAT I WOULD'VE GIVEN AT THE TIME TO BE RENDERED TOTALLY BLIND. Or dead.

OMG WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO WATCH THIS CRAP?! OH. OOPSIE!
(Heh. Butter Face. "Everything looks good but her fa...oh, never mind.)

I knew I was in serious trouble when a few minutes into the movie, a teeny-tiny, empathy-inducing alien boy appeared on the screen at the exact same moment my brain chose to register the fact that Chris loved this movie and all of Chris's favorite movies are the ones where everybody totally and completely dies. Gahhhh. I turned to Lori at this point and whispered something that began with some profanity followed closely by a very famous Han Solo/Luke Skywalker/Princess Leia/C-3PO quote. (Oh dear god why was I not at home watching my Star Wars DVD box set instead?? WELCOME TO MY BIG, FAT TACTICAL ERROR.) Now, what Lori said was that she also had a bad feeling about this. But the horrified look on her face told me what she really meant was "I rue the day I ever met you." Which seems pretty bad but was actually kind of awesome because do you even know how much longer it took her than most everyone else I know to arrive at this conclusion?!

 
OH, IF ONLY.

In the end it should be noted (and this would be a real spoiler alert except for the fact it's totally irrelevant just trust me since you should never, EVER see this movie) that none of the souls at the center of the story dies. This is good news when it comes to the father alien and his son who manage to escape the clutches of "humanity" –– both of whom you'll find yourself beyond emotionally invested in unless, of course, you have no heart and then oh, hey! This is the perfect movie for you and also? You're Chris. This news is disappointing, however, when it comes to the main human character, who –– I don't care how much redemption he finds in the last 37 seconds –– has done so many awful and sickening things leading up to that point (Hello One Man As Symbol For The History Of Humanity) that all I could think the entire time was DIE A$$HOLE. He did end up turning into an alien though (don't even ask) which, in my opinion, just adds further insult to injury because haven't the aliens suffered enough indignities already??

Anyway.

Speaking of suffering enough indignities, all I can say to my dear friend Lori –– who told me she was up until 4:00 in the morning after the movie because she couldn't turn off her brain FROM THE HORROR –– is I am so sorry. But it really wasn't my fault. Because if you think about it, besides being sort of the fault of all of the rest of humanity, it was mostly TOTALLY CHRIS'S FAULT. Which, if you think about it further, is pretty much the explanation for every other horrible thing that's ever happened around here. Like this post.

THE END.
And this explains the OTHER reason it took me so long to get this posted: I DIED.

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P.S.: THIS:

Just another example of why I spend so much time wondering why my blog doesn't have its own wing in The Louvre. BLOGGING AS FINE ART.

P.S.S. Also: For anyone who may have noticed that blog regular MC has been conspicuously absent as of late, don't worry: He's still around, he's just been temporarily banned from this blog due to a little thing I like to call punishment.

RUDE.

I'm not going to get into the details here (shunned me on Facebook) but suffice it to say (specifically shunned this blog on Facebook) I was extremely hurt (untagged himself in all blog-related illustrations posted on my Facebook page so other people wouldn't know of his involvement here) because I've never done one thing to warrant this kind of behavior (JERKTARD) except for accidentally being the kind of person people totally rue meeting. Something I cannot do anything about. Obviously. Which reminds me: I keep e-mailing the Facebook developers to suggest they change their motto to "FACEBOOK: No Good Can Ever Come Of It" but for whatever reason I can't get anyone answer me. No wonder they're only the second biggest site on the interwebs. No vision. ("Um...What??" is number one. I'm guessing.)

Anyway, no matter! Because my friend Chris, on the other hand, is totally proud of his involvement here.

Chris: Proof that there truly is no more hope for humanity.
IT'S JUST SAD.

Updated To Add Useless P.S.: This Post Is About My New Cat So You Might Want To Just Skip It (Unless You're Totally Into Cats) (Or Crack Houses)

Today's post is dedicated to my online friend Jose Kilbride who –– besides being riotously funny and entertaining and charming on Twitter –– is also a gifted photographer who takes the kinds of pictures you don't look at so much as you're transported into. And if THAT wasn't enough, I recently discovered he also has a blog with writing so good you can actually get lost in it. Which then got me wondering what else he can do that I don't know about. Paint? Sculpt? Write limericks? Do long division? Okay, that last one's absurd. I'm pretty sure no one can do long division. Carry the one?? Nobody even knows what that means. THEN I got to thinking about how rude it is for him to hog up all the talent for himself and not leave any of it for me so that all of you people are now left stuck here reading this idiotic crap which, even though I wrote it, is so very obviously not my fault. THANKS A LOT. JOSE.

* * * * * * * * * *

Welcome back, everyone! As many of you already know, my last post turned out to be quite controversial, which means it was filled with things like controversy and, of course, cows. Because where cows go, controversy follows. Trust me. Cows –– I've been told –– are polarizing, which, if I'm understanding correctly, means that they reduce glare, although to be perfectly honest I hardly see why that's anything to get all worked up about. Oh, what do I know? ANYWAY. The good news is that today's post isn't about cows, it's about, well, good news! Because in an unexpected turn of events we've actually had some around here. And this good news comes in the form of Team Um What's newest family member, Gus The Cat!:

Team Um...What??: We're growing!

Yeah, sure. They just had a baby over there at that Dooce place and that is so super exciting WHOOPEE DOO blah blah WHO CARES?! We've got GUS! And believe me when I say the whole family could not be more excited about the new arrival. Especially Chris!

 Ungrateful.

I certainly didn't plan on getting another cat so quickly after Moses, especially with a heart still so raw from losing him. But if you've been around here for any amount of time at all, you know how things normally go for me: Whenever I go to a lot of trouble to make some very specific plan...TA DA! The total exact opposite thing happens.

So, of course, that night I went onto the Kitten Rescue website was no different, and despite having specifically planned to just find a cat to sponsor because I didn't yet feel ready to adopt again, one minute I was looking at the sponsor cats and then a few minutes after that I was on the adoption page (I have no idea SEE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH) and then –– two hours later –– I was still on the adoption page. Staring at Gus.

There was just something him that kept returning me to his page. I can't explain it, just like I couldn't explain the same feeling I had with Moses. Maybe it was his pictures, maybe it was his story, maybe it was the line about Gus being a cat "looking to rewrite the tragedy of his life." Dear. God. But something compelled me to e-mail his foster mom who, in a really inspired twist of fate, turned out to be the very exact person who saved my sweet, old Moses from the shelter on the day he was scheduled to be put down. NICE ONE, UNIVERSE! I'd always wondered who she was and now I could thank her and it just kind of seemed like a sign and sometimes when the universe gives you a sign you read it and so, WELCOME HOME, GUS THE CAT!

Besides: Could YOU resist him??

    

Do you people even understand what it's like to be me??

Okay, seriously: This post is killing me. I wrote and rewrote the above paragraphs about finding Gus because first they were too long and then they were too boring and oh look! They're still boring. Because I'm fairly sure this is the kind of useless minutia of my life that nobody cares about and what if this post is like the written equivalent of my forcing a bunch of my vacations photos down your throats?? YOU KNOW, LIKE THIS:

      

 

Nice camera skills. CHRIS.

     

Maureen isn't in this picture because she was all, "Wah wah, I HATE SCIENCE FICTION" and "Yoda Yoda Yadda yadda aliens are stupid" and so she wouldn't even come INSIDE with us because she was just way too good, apparently, which is totally rude if you ask me because on the way over was I way too good to sit on the hump in the back of the landspeeder? NO I WASN'T.

ANYWAY. My point is that my vacation photos are awesome!! Actually, I don't really know what my point is, but that's the kind of blogger I am: One without a point. SO? Also, why are we even talking about this? I'm trying to tell you all about my new cat and you people aren't even paying any attention. PLEASE FOCUS.

Continuing on:

Gus has come a long way on his 13-year journey to get to where he is now. Yeah, yeah, I know. He's 13. What do you want from me?? I love the feline old fogies! Are you a cat? Who's retired? And looking for a nice home to live out your twilight years?? Come on over! We've got shuffleboard. And Ben Gay. And those power chairs from the Scooter Store. HAHA! We don't have any power chairs from the Scooter Store. Do I really look like someone who can afford that kind of fancy equipment?? Of course not. WE HAVE JET PACKS.

But long before his retirement years when Gus was still just an unweaned kitten, he was thrown out into a dumpster like he was trash. The medical term for this condition is dear god in heaven people suck. But then this really nice woman found him and bottle-fed him and after a while she discovered that she was so very good at taking care of him that she should take care of people too and so she opened a special kind of group home for the needy that in some circles is referred to as a crack house.

So she did this –– I'm guessing –– by first gathering up a lot of crack and then gathering up a whole lot of people who needed to buy the crack but didn't want to commute to buy the crack because we all know how difficult it is in today's economy to afford both gas and crack and besides, driving around all over town is just a completely inefficient use of time that could be spent in one's house already getting a head start on smoking the crack. Again, I'm guessing. And although our little Gus found himself living in a house like this, it should be noted that Gus is neither a crack dealer nor a crack addict. But when the police raided the place and arrested people and shut it down and boarded it up and blah blah CRIME DOESN'T PAY they did find close to 20 swords in there (TOTALLY TRUE STORY) which I can only assume means Gus is a ninja. Bonus!

And now? Well Gus is settling into his new home as if he's always lived here. And this place, which had become a bit emptied out and gutted as of late, is filled up to overflowing with Gus's unique brand of emotive, expressive, effusive, sloppy love. Now? I spend a lot of time stuck under the cat. Because Gus is always sitting on me or lying on me or jumping on me or rolling around on me. At night he's always sleeping curled up in my armpit or wrapped around my head. He licks and grooms me so much I'm pretty sure my showers have become completely redundant. He gives endless speeches and monologues and soliloquies which I listen to raptly and attentively, because Gus is a cat with a lot of important things to say. And he stares and stares at me. Constantly. Gus spends so much time craning his neck to gaze at me like I'm the singular greatest thing he's ever seen that's he's been known on occasion to accidentally tip himself over. (Which is totally the kind of beautiful expression of love a lot of people could take a lesson from. JARED.) Now? These days? We spend a lot less time moping around here and a lot more of it totally covered in cat spit being happy. Because time might heal all our wounds eventually, but love heals them a whole lot faster.

 

Welcome home, Gus The Cat! You could not be more different than Moses, but you also couldn't be more loved. Here's hoping you're always really happy here!!

    

 

Just another day at Um What Headquarters. Honestly, I have no idea why we ever bother to go on vacation.

THE HAPPY END BEGINNING!

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. I owe special thanks to Maureen for her technical input regarding crack. I wasn't sure if one primarily smoked crack or shot up crack and so I asked her a lot of questions about crack except, of course, for the totally obvious one which would be oh dear god, why does she know so much about crack???

* * * * * * * * * *

Updated 6/29 to add:

P.S.S. I realized in all my fascination with Photoshopping sh*t, that I only included a few actual pics of Gus. So, here are a couple more. Because why even HAVE the intertubes if not to upload 50 gagillion pictures of your cat??:

 

This second shot is my attempt to be artistic. You know, like Jose. I call this "Open Space With Cat Face." My mom calls it, "What Happened, Did You Drop The Camera."

I Might Have Made Up Some Of This (EXCEPT FOR THAT I TOTALLY DIDN'T)

Welcome back, everyone! Times are exciting here around the Um...What?? headquarters these days, because look who's finally here!:

Yes. That Jared.

Because as it turns out? My friend Jared does read this blog! You know, now. After I finally was all, "JUST READ IT!" and then he was all, "The hell?? YUCK I DO NOT EVEN LIKE YOU!" and then I was all, "But I wrote about you in it!" and then he was all click click CLICKCLICKCLICK, "I TOTALLY LOVE THIS BLOG MORE THAN ANY OTHER BLOG IN THE WORLD!!"

So, now not only is Jared a regular reader (HAHA! No one can read regularly around this blog and you are welcome all you people with hundreds of posts stacking up in your readers –– I'm lookin' at you, Mr. Farty and Scientist Laurie), but he also might officially join Team Um...What??!

HAHA –– how ridiculous! Of course there's no free beer here. I have no idea where he got this impression.
 
By the way: This illustration? That looks so much like Jared that it's just like Jared is looking into a mirror right now? Chris drew it. I KNOW!! I couldn't find anything existing that looked at all like Jared* so I asked Chris to draw something in the style of his own illustration so he did whatever it is he does in Illustrator with his graphic tablet and paths and points and fills and strokes and blah blah nobody really knows for sure and then TA DA! Twenty-five minutes later the world's most perfect image of Jared was born! Which, you know, BIG DEAL. I'm totally sure I could have drawn it myself except for the fact that I am very, very busy. Occasionally.
 

* Note to all iStock illustrators: There are men in the world with beard-like facial hair who also aren't leprechauns for your information.

By the way: Did any of you notice anything different about Chris's illustration?
  

Luxurious.

      
Anyway. Today's post will celebrate the fine art of conversation as we spend some time getting to know Jared, who has agreed to sit down and answer some questions for all of us because I told him there would be free beer here he totally loves this blog more than any other blog in the world! And if it's any indication of how it's probably going to go, when I told him I'd make up crap myself if he didn't want to do this, Jared assured me his answers would be crap anyway, so I could add his crap to my crap and then I could have one totally crappy blog post. Which would have been a really generous offer except for the fact that I can write a totally crappy blog post just fine all by myself, thank you very much. (See: every single other blog post I've ever written.)

Let's get started!

Hey! Thanks for sitting down to talk with me.
Where's the beer?

SO. What uniquely qualifies you to join Team Um…What?? What specific skills do you bring to the table?
Gee, that’s a good question. I’m not much of a “Team” player, and my skill set is very general. I do own a computer on which I can keep up to date with the latest Um…What?? news. Does that count?

Sure! Good answer. We're off to an excellent start here. Now: Why do you read this blog? Is it because you’re afraid of what I’ll do to you if you don’t?
Because I heard that I was mentioned in it.

So what you're saying is that your love of yourself is greater than your fear of me?
What I'm saying is where is the beer?

This blog’s tagline is, “Fueled By Random, Pointless Tangents.” What would your personal tagline be?
“Fueled By Anger, Loud Music and Miller Lite.”

Describe yourself in three additional words.
Hungry. Bitter. Hilarious.

I'm always hungry too! Plus, sometimes I'm bitter and I am so totally hilarious ALL THE TIME!! Just ask anyone! Do you think this mean we're soul mates?
We are NOT soul mates. Good god. And you're not really that funny either. Sorry.
   

           

I see. So now describe me in three words, one of which will not be "funny." Apparently. JERK.
Did you just call me a jerk?

NO. What the hell? Stop trying to stall. Describe me in three words, please.
Cat Lady. Modest. Bloggy.

Okay. You do know that's four words right? Did you fail math in school?
No, because I am fully aware that three beers plus one beer equals FOUR BEERS. And yet I don't have even one beer. What the hell is that about?

Speaking of things a person needs, can you loan me $50?
Sure, if you don’t mind getting it in installments.

Don't you think –– you know,  since we're friends and all –– that the appropriate answer to that question would be that you'd just GIVE me money? Meaning I wouldn't have to pay you back?
Friends give friends beer.
     
      
         
        
               
I'm sure they do. Anyway, MC is a total jerk for the way he never comments on this blog, right? 
We’re supposed to comment on the blog?

No. You're not supposed to. But wouldn't you LIKE to? I mean isn't this blog entertaining and inspiring like that?
Seriously?

Never mind. Okay. What is something about you most people wouldn’t know?
There’s a reason people don’t know. There’s some dark sh*t going on here.

Oh, please. There's nothing dark going on with you. This from a guy whose license plate is ILVHUGS. You're totally ducking the question, which would annoy me except for the fact that there's no way anyone is still paying any attention here so, you know, whatever.

Moving on. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
Only one thing?

Well, I'd have to agree with that answer. I shouldn’t change anything about me though, right?
Umm…uh…hmmm…uh…no.

Way too much hesitation, dude.
Way not enough beer.

What is it about me that you find the most inspirational?
Your ability to find time to update your blog…occasionally.

First of all, everyone's a damn critic. Second of all, like anyone wants me to post more often.
Good point.

If I die before you, will you come to my funeral? What will you wear? If you die first, what will you leave me in your will?
If you go before me, I will wear my nicest Metallica T-shirt to your funeral. If I die, I will leave you my nicest Metallica T-shirt.

Of course this would be the shirt after I tailored it. Jared doesn't wear girl shirts. Sometimes.
Also, notice how I combined two images together but then was too lazy to match the skin tones. This is what's known as I Am An Inspirational Photoshopper.

Besides your favorite Metallica t-shirt, what are five things you love?
Baseball, heavy metal, TV, sushi, answering questions for friends’ blogs

Why am I not on that list?
Next question.

Speaking of me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how pretty am I?  (With 1 being “Completely Pretty” and 10 being “totally pretty.”)
I would have to say about a 5, which I think is “thoroughly pretty.”

Really, dude? Not even a full five but about a five?? Middle-of-the road FIVE? Did you really think this would be an acceptable answer? Just so you know, I'm gonna call Chris right now and show you how it should be done. Listen and learn:

Chris: What's up?

Me: On a scale of 1 to 10 –– with 1 being "Completely Pretty" and 10 being "Totally Pretty" –– how pretty would you say I am?

Chris (with not even one millisecond of hesitation): 5 million! Prettiest girl ever!!

Me: Thank you. (CLICK)

* * * * * * * * * *

SEE?! Would it really have killed you to say something like that?
You do know you were on the phone, right? And that I couldn't hear anything on the other end? I bet that wasn't even Chris on the line.

Well IT WAS and he thinks I am FIVE MILLION PRETTY.

Nobody is five million pretty.

I am.

No you're not. Although you might look better IF I HAD THAT BEER YOU MENTIONED. And are we done here yet?

No.

Oh! And speaking of Chris:
    

Flowing.

    
     
    
        
MC should stop sending me e-mails about how awesome this blog is and should start leaving me official comments instead, don’t you think?
Great. Not only are we supposed to make official comments, but now we can’t just send e-mails? Ugh.

LOOK. I am not asking you to take Cyanide pills. IT WILL NOT KILL YOU, OMG GEEEEEZ. Okay. Continuing. What do you like best about yourself?
That I was asked to join Team Um…What??

You do know you're still on probation though, right? The jury's still out on you. Not just anyone gets to be on the team.
I find that hard to believe since Chris is here.

I know. But that was an accident. I can assure you. So. Why don’t you like Fort Minor? Everyone knows Mike Shinoda is way, way, WAY more talented than Metallica.
I have to plead ignorance on this question. It just doesn’t make any sense. 

Huh. Ignorance. I'm sensing a theme here.
Wait. What?

Nothing. So. You used to be a sportswriter. What do you think of my post on slopestyle snowboarding? Maybe I could be a sportswriter, too??
It was good, but with two critiques: too much use of the word “adorable,” and it should have been about skiing. Or baseball.

What? I'll give you the baseball thing, but honestly dude. You must have been a terrible sportswriter, because you obviously have no idea what you're talking about on that first thing.

I rest my case.

What is your greatest accomplishment in life so far? What is your biggest goal you’ve yet to accomplish?
Getting asked to join Team Um…What??; taking the time to start my own blog.

Do you know Photoshop?
No.

Then you can't blog. Give it up.
What?

Just trust me. Anyway. If the world suddenly ran out of beer, what would you do?
Start doing hard drugs.

Hard drugs? Dude. This is a FAMILY blog.
It is?

Of course not.
  

Hi Chris!

In conclusion...
Oh thank god.

...is there anything else you’d like to add that hasn’t already been covered here?
First of all, after re-thinking through the questions and my answers to them, I seem to be a very simple person defined by two things: Beer and Metallica. Wow, I guess I AM pretty cool. Thanks Um…What?? Second of all, BEER NOW??

Seriously, dude. Let it go.

(DID I MENTION THAT CHRIS DREW THIS IMAGE OF JARED???)

Oh yeah. One last thing:
    

So silken.

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.

     
* * * * * * * * * *

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.

* * * * * * * * *

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.

* * * * * * * * * *

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!

Because For All I Know I Might Be A Mars Rover (Which Is Totally Possible Considering How Cute I Am) (AND YES IT TOOK ME LIKE EIGHT DAYS TO WRITE THIS CRAP – SO WHAT?!)

The NASA Space Program is very exciting! Just ask the Mars Spirit Rover: Thanks to the NASA Space Program, Spirit has spent five long, tedious years totally marooned on Mars.

If you do the math, that's more than EIGHTEEN HUNDRED days stuck on a mission that –– by the way –– was originally slated to last only 90 days. So Spirit has been there more than TWENTY TIMES longer than expected which, if you stop and think about it, means I have done two complicated math equations in one paragraph, or I am basically a NASA scientist now.

Spirit's mission –– as part of the overall NASA Mars Exploration Rover Mission –– has been to study the history of water on Mars. Well, of course. What else would you look for if you were on Mars?

"Um...What??": Wildly popular everywhere in the universe!*

(*excluding Earth)

But honestly? Ninety days? To study the water on a barren, desert planet that almost doesn't have any? Shouldn't that take like zero time at most? OH, WHAT DO I KNOW? I've only been a NASA scientist for a few minutes so far.

Unfortunately, the answer to the little rover's question was the same then as it is today: NO. Because Spirit still had a 90-day 1800-day totally long-a$$ mission to complete! (OH WHATEVER. EVEN NASA SCIENTISTS CAN ONLY COUNT SO HIGH.) So all these years later Spirit is still left wandering around on the Martian landscape which, according to abcnews.com is "a cold, hostile place, far away from home."

Huh. I hadn't really thought of it that way until now.

 

What's next, ABC News? Online videos of baby seals being bludgeoned?

At first I was all, I CANNOT FUNCTION I AM WAY TOO SAD and then I was all OH MY GOD HOW CUTE IS THE SPIRIT ROVER WAS HE DESIGNED BY DISNEY and then I was all FOCUS, LESLEY, REMEMBER THE SAD and then I was all WAIT A DAMN MINUTE because of the way I suddenly realized just how similar Spirit and I are, where similar equals I think I might be a part of the NASA rover program? And no one bothered to tell me? THAT IS TOTALLY MESSED UP. NASA.

And so was born this brief overview of Spirit's mission thus far, as compared and contrasted with my own personal effort to survive my current predicament, or Mission OMGWTF:

       

MISSION BEGINNINGS:

 

The Spirit Rover Mission:

 Officially began when Spirit first landed on Mars January 4th, 2004.

Mission OMGWTF:

Began on December 5th, 2005, back when The Porcupine first officially lost his mind. MORE THAN ELEVEN HUNDRED DAYS AGO. Is also taking place on barren, desolate, uninviting, freezing cold Mars. Apparently.

   

MAIN MISSION OBJECTIVES:

 

The Spirit Rover Mission:

To look for water on Mars –– which is, if you ask me AND I AM A SCIENTIST SO I TOTALLY KNOW THINGS –– another way of actually looking for proof of life on Mars. Its original goal to last at least three months in the hostile Mars environment has been replaced with its current goal to last as long as it possibly can.

Mission OMGWTF:

To look for proof of life, you know, pretty much anywhere. I don't usually have much luck, to be perfectly honest with you. Most days I'm fairly sure I'm wandering around out here all by my pathetic scientific self. My original goal to spend about two years helping The Porcupine through A Super Tough Time has been replaced by my new goal of trying to find the way out of this desert wasteland we've somehow landed ourselves in BEFORE EVERYBODY ENDS UP TOTALLY DEAD. You know. As opposed to the current way we're only kind of dead.

Also: Notice how there's a empty line of space above "To look for proof of life...?" This is called as hard as I try and try, I can't figure out how to override the damn auto-formatting that keeps randomly popping up here or science is obviously useless.

       

MISSION TEAM MEMBERS:

The Spirit Rover Mission:
     

    

     

       
Spirit has hundreds of people back here on earth supporting its mission on Mars including scientists and professors and drivers and navigation managers and robotic engineers and orbital engineers and even a Knowledge Engineer. (I am totally one of these myself.) (Like I even have to explain this.)

Mission OMGWTF:
    I've got people supporting me too, you know –– helping me do things like navigating around tough terrain, cleaning off some of the sh*t dust that lands on me on a daily basis and prompting me to perform various diagnostic tests on my many systems, such as when Chris says things to me like, "What the hell is WRONG with you??" Oh! I'm not sure...let me check! Just because I'm sometimes 100% certain I'm totally alone, doesn't mean I actually am. I guess. Or so people tell me. I don't really know for sure though. OH WHATEVER.

Me: "If you love me you will all put on these glasses."
Team OMGWTF:  [Collective blank staring.]
Me: "But I've seen scientists wear these. SCIENTISTS."
Team OMGWTF:  [More collective blank staring.]
Me: "OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I HAVE NO IDEA BUT JUST PUT THE DAMN THINGS ON."
        
     

MISSION CHALLENGES SO FAR:

The Spirit Rover Mission:

Poor little Spirit has had nothing but trouble throughout its mission, where nothing but trouble equals "HEY I THOUGHT I WAS DESIGNED BY WORLD-RENOWNED SCIENTISTS AND NOT MRS. POOLE'S THIRD GRADE CLASS??" There have been the problems with the unrelenting dust storms that no decent rover has ever been expected to endure. (Spirit is solar powered and just like paper covers rock, MARTIAN DUST COVERS SOLAR PANELS.) Then there's the broken right front wheel that stopped working entirely on day #779 of the mission and has forced Spirit to navigate backwards ever since, essentially dragging its bum limb behind it. And there have been several computer glitches, including the most severe instance yet where just over a week ago Spirit abruptly and spectacularly lost its mind. In people-speak? Spirit suddenly had no idea where it was, and no memory of what it had been doing. Have I mentioned lately that this was while it was all alone? In a cold, hostile place, far away from home??
      

   
But Spirit –– the little rover that could –– has since regained its faculties and after a series of successful diagnostic tests is once again moving around normally, where normally equals "OHMYGOD I AM SO LONELY CAN I PLEASE COME HOME NOW HAAAALLLLLLP!!!???"
    

             

Mission OMGWTF:
Also fraught with difficulties and setbacks. My navigation controls are clearly broken as I all I seem to do is constantly go in circles until I'm just this side of vomiting. Also broken? EVERYTHING ELSE. My reserves are low (energy, endurance, resolve, vodka) and my outlook is even lower. Just like Spirit, I've also lost my mind, but that was somewhere back around day #568 and big fat deal: I've been functioning just fine without it ever since. Obviously, BECAUSE DID I MENTION I'M A NASA SCIENTIST NOW?!

Oh. And by the way? This:

BUT MOSTLY VODKA.

       

MISSION OUTLOOK:

The Spirit Rover Mission:
  

Because all of the smart, sciencey people follow NASA on Twitter.
      

Considering I just received the above tweet, I'd say things in the immediate future are looking up for Spirit. Long term is another story, however, since –– in case no one here has figured this out yet –– there's no way to get Spirit back home once it's done with its mission.

 

It's the elephant in the living room nobody really talks about: Spirit has been sent on a one-way trip to (you know what's coming, right??) a cold, hostile place, far away from home. In the end –– after all it's endured and after all the challenges it's risen above and after all of the pictures it's taken and data it's collected and work that it's done for all of us –– it will be left to slowly shut down and eventually disintegrate into the Martian landscape.

 

Actually, I may not completely understand the details of the mission's end since I can't find them spelled out anywhere. Not to mention I have no idea if shut-down robots left on Mars actually disintegrate. As disintegration is not my scientific specialty and whatnot. But you know I'm right because have you ever heard of even ONE Robot Rescue Mission anywhere? And I would TOTALLY pay more taxes for that kind of thing because, you know, SAD. And even if I'm wrong about all of this JUST NEVER MIND because that would only ruin this part of my post and I can do that kind of thing without anyone's help.

SEE???

Mission OMGWTF:

DOOMED. Duh.

Yeah. Just like Spirit, I was pretty much jettisoned to my current locale without any kind of plan to get me safely back out either. OOPSIE! But, you know, it seemed like a good idea at the time. OH OF COURSE IT DIDN'T.

Anyway. Against all odds –– because against all odds is WHAT I DO –– I'm not giving up. And besides: The whole landscape could change soon since President Obama is set to appoint a new head of NASA any day now. A few key names are being bandied about, but I think we all know who the obvious choice is here:

 

Because William Shatner was an admiral in Starfleet, people. I mean do I really have to explain this?

Help get Spirit and me safely home, Admiral William Shatner. You're our only hope.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. Exciting!!

P.S.S. Yesterday when Mo and I were talking about this post (YES I SUBJECT HER TO THAT KIND OF CRAP ALL THE TIME), she said, "A dead porcupine belly-up with XX's in his eyes? On Mars? I know it all now. You don't have to finish." For those of you who wish I'd listened to her, TOO BAD I apologize.

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 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.

 

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.

Get Out Of Jail FREE! (Or For $41.00)

Good news, "Um...What??" readers! There have been many, many exciting updates in Buster's life since my last post!!

* * * * * * * * * *

Reader #1:  "What last post?"
Reader #2:  "Was I old enough to read back then?"
Reader #3:  "Did you blog on a cave wall?"
Reader #4:  "OH. YOU'RE NOT DEAD??"

* * * * * * * * * *

Yeah, yeah, I know. Plus? I totally made up that third one. Wil Wheaton doesn't read this blog. But if he did? That would be so much cooler than even having Prince Charles as a reader. And for those of you who are new here yes, Prince Charles totally reads my blog. Although I probably just screwed that up by writing that thing about Wil Wheaton being cooler. Idiot.

Anyway, back to my point WHICH I ACTUALLY DO HAVE. In a long line of many recent developments for Buster, the biggest one is THIS:

Buster?

Is FREE!!!

   

Cell phone images as pieces of sh*t art.
Because seriously? I'm pretty sure my toaster would take better pictures than my "camera" phone.

It wasn't easy busting out Buster. It was actually just this side of damn near impossible. This is mostly because the fact that Buster is a Pit Bull ran up against another lesser known fact that an apparent job requirement for working at this shelter is that you need to be a total f*cktard. And to be fair I'm not saying every person who works there is a total f*cktard, I'm just referring to the particular ones I met WHICH WAS ALL OF THEM. This does not, however, include the volunteers who all seemed very sweet. Though they also seemed nervous and paranoid, which is something I deduced from the way they continuously said things like, "I'm not telling you this" (a comment that punctuated the endpoint of every single thing they told me) and "Don't tell anyone I talked to you," all while wearing those Groucho Marx glasses. Okay, obviously I'm just kidding about that last part. That was actually the dogs.
      

Witness Protection Program: This is not Buster.
(Photo taken with camera toaster.)

You'd lay low too, if you were Buster, because – to review – he understands the volunteers are behaving like this because they are volunteering at a prison under the iron-fist rule of TOTAL F*CKTARD NAZI "SHELTER" WORKERS where shelter = GAS CHAMBER and workers = PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT DO ONE STITCH OF WORK TO ACTUALLY HELP YOU ADOPT AN ANIMAL because they do not care and they are county employees and they cannot be fired no matter what they do YAY!

Remember how I wrote earlier that I was totally wrong about the stereotype of the unfeeling, uncaring, menacing, Animal Control worker? Well, I was totally wrong about being totally wrong. And before all you Animal Control workers send me a bunch of nasty hate mail (because I have no doubt every animal control worker in the state of California reads this blog because, well, who doesn't?), no, I am not talking about you and I am sure you are lovely and wonderful and full of heart and all about putting the needs of helpless animals first. This is about all the other animal control workers who are not you. And now that we are all square on that, I will continue.

Buster's plight was two-fold: Not only did some idiot stick him in the C@st@ic animal shelter (AHEM) (and yes I am disguising the shelter name because I don't need those a$$hats finding this post) (again going back to the idea that every Animal Control worker in the world reads this blog blah blah blah SUCK IT, ANIMAL CONTROL), but he also had the bad luck of being a Pit Bull. But the thing is, he's not a full Pit Bull. He doesn't even seem to be half. He's a big old mushy mix which, as far as we can tell, includes some Pit Bull and a lot of Boxer and Staffordshire Terrier and Sharpei and, oh yeah, some TEDDY BEAR, too. In other words? He's as completely terrifying as you'd imagine:

(Photo taken with camera blow-dryer.)

Unbeknownst to me, putting a Pit Bull (mix or not) into this particular shelter is nothing short of condemning him to death. Only you don't actually put a dog into a shelter, you impound him because apparently dogs are just the same as stolen or illegally parked cars. And yes, I actually said the words (where said = had a Defcon 5 meltdown), "THIS IS A DOG NOT A DODGE!!" to the total f*cktard working behind the desk who told me, "THIS IS NOT YOUR DOG, THIS IS OUR PROPERTY!!" because I think we were having a noun-naming contest that I'm fairly sure I lost because do they even make Dodges anymore? I don't know. But if they do, Buster would love to ride around in one because Buster loves adventures in the car.

You see, different rules apply to Pit Bulls and these rules cause RED TAPE GALORE that not even a highly intelligent person such as myself could navigate within the five day "safety" window, after which they can put him down whenever they want because, "THIS IS NOT YOUR DOG, THIS IS OUR PROPERTY." And even if you could navigate the red tape, they really don't want you to, because that would require work on their part and they do not do that. Because you know something is seriously wrong when your question of "You would put this dog down before you bothered to even make one phone call to me?" is met with four faces staring back at you in one, collective DUH.

Pits never get back out. That's what one volunteer told me. In whispered tones. While wearing a bag over her head. And slowly dying on the inside.
    

Because I live in an apartment, they wouldn't consider releasing him to me. Most management companies don't carry the insurance required for vicious dog breeds such as Buster and you can't even begin to attempt to sneak him in because Animal Control will call your management company first to alert them that YOU HAVE A VICIOUS, KILLER DOG LIVING ON THEIR PROPERTY.
   

Vicious Personified.
(Photo taken with camera vacuum.)

It didn't matter to them the seventeen different ways I tried to explain that he wouldn't actually be living with me permanently. It didn't matter to them how I tried to explain over and over I was working as fast as I could to find him a good home so could you please assure me that you won't put him down? It just didn't matter to them insert any possible phrase of your choosing here. Because while this is the current Animal Control logo:

 

It really should be this:

Sure, I could give them a friend's address, but that wasn't working either because they will immediately call said friend's homeowner's insurance company to let them know THEY HAVE A VICIOUS, KILLER DOG LIVING ON THEIR PROPERTY (even though he wouldn't be living there permanently and blah blah blah SUCK IT, ANIMAL CONTROL) and therefore you should be charged $200,000 more a year in insurance. Or whatever. I'm just making up the number. But trust me, it is close enough. And it really comes down to Animal Control covering their own ass in case your VICIOUS, KILLER DOG eats one of your neighbors while they are visiting. Case in point:

WARN THE NEIGHBORS.
(Photo taken with camera garden hose.)

So in the end, after much fretting and scrambling on my part and daily visits to Buster whom the "Shelter" Nazis would not, by the way, even let me even take out of his cage TOTAL F*CKTARDS and numerous phones calls and MORE FRETTING and no sleep due to EXCESSIVE FRETTING, my very sweet friend Kim (who is now totally in my will which means she might one day get my entire net worth of about $300 and believe me, she has earned it) pulled some strings and got Buster's plight presented to Ace of Hearts, an incredibly wonderful dog rescue organization that stepped in and threw their considerable weight around (special thanks to Whitney) to get Buster IMMEDIATELY SET FREE. Their motto? "We rescue all breeds...and don't discriminate against any!" TAKE THAT, ANIMAL CONTROL! You can suck it. And another thing: It was amazing how quickly the total f*cktards became my BFF's forever after I had Ace backing my efforts. That is called still not giving a sh*t but being afraid of bad press, or BEING TOTAL F*CKTARDS. Also, if you can get to the actual adoption stage, the cost of bringing home a wonderful, new family member is a very nominal fee of $41.00, which includes neutering and microchipping. It's the best $41 you'll ever spend.

And now? Lesley and Buster are totally in love:
        

And NO I am not wearing Blueblockers sunglasses.
(Photos taken with camera fire hydrants.)

So, tonight Kim and I are taking Buster to a lovely woman who is going to foster him for a couple weeks. Her name is Angel and YES, I'm pretty sure that's not a coincidence. Angel has previously adopted a big, wonderful Bulldog named Lily from Ace, so we already know what a huge heart and love-filled home she has. Up until now Buster has been staying with Kim, and words can never express how grateful I am to her and her family for stepping in the day that Buster busted out. Her parents took her dog while she and her husband took Buster, and her cats took to the bedroom while Buster took over the house. It's been no small effort by ever-growing Team Buster and my part in it has really been the smallest. And all of this has taught me something, too:  While some people do totally suck, others can really surprise you. In the end, I think all hope for humanity might not be lost after all. But don't quote me when I totally change my mind on this subject tomorrow.

So in conclusion, "Um...What??" readers, I leave you with one more thing. It was inspired by my friend MC, who said the following to me in a voice mail message two days ago:

"I think your blog ratings are slipping, and we need to return to the fundamentals, and by that I mean MORE STAR WARS REFERENCES."

Alrighty then. Same story as above, done over sci-fi style:

 
Evil Animal Control DEATH ROW PRISON WARDEN.
     

Evil TOTAL F*CKTARDS working for the warden at Animal Control DEATH ROW PRISON CAMP.


Heroic Ace of Hearts swoops in and comes to Buster's aid!
   

YAY! Buster is saved!

THE END.

* * * * * * * * * *

For more information on adopting this wonderful boy, please visit here.

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 Has Carcinoma, Delicious Doom and The Butt Of A Bantha

Today's blog post is dedicated to my newest reader, Ryan. Ryan has described my posts as "slow-motion car wrecks" full of "crazy ramblings" that induce "watering eyes" and "inner ear-based balance problems." Finally! Someone who gets me.

* * * * * * * * * *

According to Dictionary.com, the word comparison can be* defined in the following way:

Rhetoric. The considering of two things with regard to some characteristic that is common to both, as the likening of a hero to a lion in courage.

* I say can be as there are also five other definitions of the word, none of which is as relevant to my point here BECAUSE AS FAR AS YOU KNOW I HAVE ONE and anyway this is just TOO DAMN MANY definitions for one word, so please make up your mind, Dictionary.com.

And thus begins our little lesson in comparison:

On the left? The Porcupine. Inspirer of this blog. Will jab you with his quills! On the right? Luke Skywalker. Inspirer of a legion of Jedi Knights. Will slice you up with his lightsaber! You will never see these two people at a party together. Why? Well, besides the fact that Luke Skywalker is just a movie character and isn't at all real (Do I really have to explain this to you??), neither one of them has any time to go to some stupid-ass party since they both are way too busy saving the universe. Which, of course, I would be doing too if I didn't have to spend all my time sitting here writing in this damn blog for you people. Although I am not yet convinced my doing so won't totally end up saving lives one day. BLOG M.D.

Let's do a quick review:

Luke: Humble beginnings on small-ish planet Tatooine. Two suns! Carcinoma as National Pastime! The Porcupine: Equally humble beginnings on small-ish island. Only one sun, but that's all this particular blogger needs to get carcinoma up the wazoo. Snow White stands next to me so she can look tan! I'm rendered completely invisible on ice planet Hoth! SPF 597 cowers before me! I will get a sunburn. On a rainy day. Wearing a turtleneck sweater. While I am inside my apartment.

Luke: Grew up into a great leader of men. Jedi Master. Fearless protector of worlds. Tragically bad hair. Which in no way hampers his ability to lead but is still majorly unfortunate. Use The Force, Luke. For a haircut. The Porcupine: Has also grown into a great leader. Honest. Principled. Intelligent and aware. Leads by example. Makes those around him better by his mere presence in their lives. Never fails to consider others first. Makes continuous sacrifices for the well-being of everyone else in his universe. Awesome hair. Sure, his universe may not be as vast as, say, Luke's – whose is, to be technical, the actual universe – but that doesn't lessen in any way The Porcupine's drive and dedication and determination to protect the lives and worlds around him. (Also? The Porcupine possesses two additional great leadership qualities known as "Mind-Numbing Hotness" and "A Traffic-Stopping Butt." Drooooooools.)                              

Trying to build a life with someone like this isn't exactly easy. Which is why – pay attention here – Luke Skywalker never got himself a woman. (This blog's favorite Chris, upon an earlier discussion of this post, said, "He never got the girl because the girl WAS HIS SISTER." Oh, like Princess Leia* was the only girl in the universe. STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY BLOG POST WITH "FACTS.") Anyway, can you even imagine how complicated things with someone like this would be?:                                                                                  

Luke Skywalker's woman:  Hey, babe! Maybe tonight we can...                      

Luke: Sorry – gotta go have a lightsaber duel with Darth Vader. The whole universe is depending on me!

Luke Skywalker's woman: Oh. Well then maybe next week we can...

Luke:  Ooh. Also bad. Then I've gotta join the Rebel Alliance and go blow up the Death Star. Millions of lives are at stake!

Luke Skywalker's woman: You never have any time for me.                           

Luke (practicing his lightsaber moves):  I'm sorry, hon. Did you say something?            

Luke Skywalker's woman (scowling): The Force sucks Bantha butt.                                           

*Speaking of Princess Leia, let's take a quick pause in the spirit of today's post to note how she and I compare. Not in the "I'm like The Porcupine's sister" kind of way (THAT IS CALLED "FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC" or "GROSS"), but in the even more profoundly important way where we totally have the same wardrobe:

Anyway. Me? I don't have to imagine what the above complications are like, because I live my own version of them every day. And as if that wasn't already enough, life with The Porcupine is about to get even MORE complicated. There's a big, messy storm brewing, and I'm worried about our ability to withstand it. He's worried too. Because he knows just like I do that all of his qualities that serve him so well when it comes to helping other people – unselfishness, an overwhelming sense of responsibility, the tendency to always put himself last – are the very same qualities that often aren't so healthy for him. (And they don't exactly get us anywhere, either.) These same things that make him an exceptional man are the things that often render him a handicapped one, too. He can't seem to draw a line. He will give and give and give of himself until he's so depleted he has nothing left for his own life. He will stop taking care of himself almost entirely in his effort to take care of everyone else. But what good is he to anyone if he ends up losing his hand himself in the process? He does understand this. Intellectually. We talk about it at length. But caught up in the swirl of his current circumstances, he feels he has no choice but to keep doing what he's doing.                                                                                                   

So all of this adds up to it not being easy to love him sometimes. There have been more days than I can count where I've been left feeling futile and wholly insignificant from knowing the helplessness he feels – from watching him put his life on hold for everyone else, which in turn puts us on hold – and knowing I can't seem to do anything about it. How do I do for someone who isn't comfortable doing for himself? How do I help him find a way to help himself? Because our future together hinges on his ability to do this. (And no, the Jedi Mind Trick doesn't work. DON'T THINK I HAVEN'T TRIED IT.) And it's an internal struggle for me too, wondering if I'm selfish, wondering if he thinks I don't understand what makes him tick. Because I do. I don't want to change who he is. I never have. I am his biggest champion. I just want to make some room for a little balance.

And this storm that's brewing? It's coming in the form of his responsibilities and the scope of his universe and what he's being asked to give of himself all increasing suddenly by about a hundredfold. Starting immediately. This is no small order for a man already struggling under the weight of his existing load of these same things. Any semblance of balance we might have still had is quickly going the way of my youthful optimism. If he couldn't see his way through everything before, how in the world will he be able to do it now? HELP ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI OR I SWEAR I'M GONNA KILL SOMEONE. On the one hand, I'm proud of him. But I'm always proud of him. He was born to change the world in ways I could never hope to. But on the other hand? Why am I giving one crap about the universe since the universe CLEARLY HATES ME? All of these things at once? And now another thing? Any one of them on its own would not be pretty but would still probably be manageable enough. But combined? Could anyone manage it all? Can The Porcupine? Can I? Can we?

In the end, I'm not sure how it's all going to go down:

And to stay on point (Okay. Seriously? You're almost at the end of this thing and you STILL believe I have one??), comparatively speaking, the first option is likened to my hope (fading), while the second is likened to my overwhelming sense of doom (growing exponentially). But regardless of how this ends up, in the meantime somebody better be baking me THIS on my next birthday:                                    

Which has nothing to do with anything except that this whole damn situation SUCKS almost as much as THIS POST and I'm a nice girl and I like cake and this post is filled with Star Wars symbolism and so at the very least I should get some freaking DEATH STAR CAKE out of the deal.

* * * * * * * * * *

Luke Skywalker: I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you!

Princess Leia: Do you have any birthday cake?

Luke Skywalker: No, but...

Princess Leia: Get out.

* * * * * * * * * *

One more note to Ryan: If you never come back here ever again, I will totally understand.

If You Got Here By Googling "Boobs In My Face" I'm Guessing This Probably Isn't The Type of Site You Were Actually Looking For

According to Dictionary.com, the word "disappoint" is defined in the following way:

"To fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of" or "to defeat the fulfillment of hopes." 

Wow. It would suck to be the person who does that.*

Therefore, by logical extension, the definition of the word disappointment is, "the state or feeling of being disappointed" or also – and pay attention here, because this is key – the feeling that overcomes every single solitary person who has ever found themselves on this blog as the result of any type of Google search.**

* I should know.

** SEE???

**********

Innocent Google Searcher:  I will enter my search parameters here!  Various word selecting and typing. Exclamation point to indicate searcher's excitement level. Google searching is fun! The internet is your oyster! Guess what isn't the pearl? "Um...What??" THAT'S WHAT.

Innocent Google Searcher (after a moment scanning the results page):  Hmmmmn. Okay. This one looks good! Note exclamation point. Still excited!! Clicks link to whichever "Um...What??" post has happened to appear.

Innocent Google searcher (after a moment of trying to figure out what he's looking at):  What the hell is THIS sh*t?? This isn't at ALL what I was looking for. I am very disappointed. Searcher crushed. Demoralized. No exclamation point. Immediately clicks off and sends disgruntled, strongly-worded e-mail to Google management. As a side note, did you know that according to ehow.com the exclamation point "can add punch to a sentence when used judiciously" but is also "often overused." Good grief. Please learn to write better, people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Also? If it wasn't for the internet, I swear I wouldn't know ANYTHING.)

**********

ANYWAY, over the past few days, this kind of mind-numbing disappointment has happened to a lot of teenage girls who spent their precious, youthful time searching for either J0n@s Br0thers or N#ck J0n@s or N#ck J0n@s birthday and came across this post. Which was just like two posts ago. And is probably about six inches below this post. And yet I still put a big link to it. STUPID. Also, I have to type like I have Tourette's or something or else these girls are all gonna end up here again. SUPER-STUPID. Anyway. (OMG am so tired. Have lost all transitional skills. Anyway, anyway, anyway!) Anyway (WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME??), most bloggers would KILL for the number of extra page views this post has brought me (about 20 a day). Okay, not most bloggers. Probably hardly any bloggers. Alright, just me. Since before I was averaging a whopping hundred page views a day. Which I am still very proud of, regardless. Especially because I'm sure at least 10 of them probably weren't my mom. And what did these extra girls – I'm assuming they're girls – all find when they got here? They didn't find swooning. They didn't find photo galleries and online squealing. Instead, they just found things like, "Butthead" and "Damn you, Nick J0n@s!" and random pictures of Prince Charles. Do today's teenage girls even know who Prince Charles is? Not unless he was in High School Musical, they don't. Wait, was he? Oh, I don't really know. Or care. Okay, I care. Yeah, right. NO ONE DOES.

Then there was the group of sadly disappointed people who Googled several variations of "Cute blonde who plays with football in NutriSystem ads" (Ugh. Seriously?) and got this piece of crap genius in which I said NOTHING about her being cute or blonde and I THINK GOOGLE MIGHT BE BROKEN. Unless "cute + blonde" equals the same as "obnoxious + boobs in my face." Which I kind of doubt.

Finally (You: ohdeargodthankyou), there was the person who Googled "donkey draw" and ended up on the post about my being a kick ass blogger (which, if you're still reading this far down, you understand is A FALSEHOOD). Was this person searching for instructions on how to draw a donkey? And then all he ended up with was a picture of a donkey that I drew but then admitted one sentence later I didn't actually draw but instead just stole off the internet? I'm sorry, aspiring donkey drawer. And by "drawer" I mean a person who draws donkeys, not "drawer" as in a dresser since a dresser drawer full of donkeys would be kind of inconvenient. Maybe slightly more so for the donkeys than for you. Although it would still probably suck for you too because then where would you put your socks? What do donkeys eat, anyway? And no, this has nothing to do with anything I'm talking about here. Welcome to every single blog post I've ever written.

So as a service to all of my readers – those both intentional and accidental – I offer the following visual aid to help you deal with the never-ending disappointment that is The Google Search. And by "help you" I mean "it won't" because it really has nothing to do with anything except for being some random ad I came across while researching the concept of "disappointment" and mainly I just want you to know that yes, I do extensive amounts of research during the course of verbally barfing carefully drafting every single "Um...What??" post because I care about you all that much. Plus, I have some form of internet ADD and can't stay on any one web page for more than 30 seconds before I have to open 17 more.

Anyway (That's. Right.), here you go:

UPDATE: During the course of my writing the bulk of this post last night, someone found me by Googling "um what blog by leslie." (Can't spell my name right SORT OF INSULTING but blog beggars can't really be choosers.)  Thank you One Whole Person who actually tried to find me on purpose. It's for you that I do all of this.

Oh please. Like there's ANY reason to do any of this. Ever.

Yes, This Post Actually Has The Jonas Brothers In It (I Should Probably Just Delete Entire Blog Now) (Also: HI MOM!)

Last week, two very important people celebrated their birthdays:

This guy:                                                      And this little cutie:
                                                   

The guy on left is Nick Jonas. (You: Who?? Me: Exactly.) He is, apparently, who all the teenage girls are swooning over these days. Which of course makes me wonder what the hell has happened to teenage girls over the past 20 years.

Because hello???

THIS is who we swooned over when I was a teenage girl!

 

 

Who, by the way, looks like this now and I THINK I NEED A MOMENT.

Oh! Sorry!

I'm getting way off track here from my original point.

There's something that never happens always happens every single post.

 

 

And the cute little short-stack on the right? That's my mom. (HI MOM!) Isn't she adorable? I picked that particular photo to post for a few reasons. Because it's always been one of my favorite pictures of her. Because even though she's just a little girl, her face is still so recognizable to me as the first face I knew in life. The first love I knew. The first memories I made. The place I grew my deepest roots. Home. I also picked it because she looks so happy just to be, and that's a feeling I always associate with her and one she always worked so hard to instill in me – something that remains the source of the resiliency and determination I have today. And, oh yeah: I also picked it because there's NO WAY she can call me later and tell me she doesn't like the picture because she thinks she looks too old in it. (HI MOM!)

So my mom's birthday was this past Friday, and Nick Jonas's was Tuesday. The only reason I know anything about Nick's birthday is because I accidentally came across this story. As if I even need to clarify the "accidentally" part because who would read that kind of thing on purpose? Anyway, this news story is basically the lone source of ALL of my knowledge about Nick Jonas, including the fact that he's one of three Jonas brothers when I thought there were only two – although when I took the time to think this is beyond me – and they seem to be very into layering their clothing. After they're done stealing it from Billy Joel and Prince Charles:

      

 

 

 

 

 

Hello?

So, Nick just turned 16 (Big deal! I did that once), and for that incredible accomplishment – and because he's some kind of a heartthrob* and he gets special heartthrob* treatment where treatment equals many, many, many families with young girls give him their money – Nick got to celebrate his birthday at Dodger Stadium.

*Um...no and no:

Hello??

This guy can have MY money.

You know, if I had any.

I'm not giving him any pants though. Because, well, DUH.

 

 

According to the news story, Nick and his brothers rented out Dodger Stadium for two and a half hours so they could play some baseball with their friends. Awwww. Baseball. With their friends. Isn't that cute?? NOT WHEN THOSE TWO AND A HALF HOURS COST $30,000, IT ISN'T. $30,000? For a 16-year-old's birthday party?

Look. I'm just as in favor of kids having fun birthday parties as the next guy. Yayyyyy kids!! (Honestly, I don't really care. I'm just trying to keep all the mommy bloggers from hating me.) But this story disturbs me on several levels, the most obvious being why do these marginally-talented kids have so much money while people like teachers and nurses struggle to make ends meet in today's economy? (Okay, I admit I've never heard their music and am just assuming about the marginally talented thing. So I could be totally wrong in that they could actually have no talent whatsoever.)

And where are their parents in all of this? Do they talk to them about the value of money? Do they remind them that most people would love to have an extra $30,000 so they could do things like buy that new mattress they need (ME) or finally replace their 10-year-old couch (ME) or pay off their credit card bill (ME) or just stop scrimping so much (ME). (ME, ME, ME, ME, MAKE THE CHECK OUT TO ME.) I mean honestly: $30,000 to rent out an entire stadium? And did I mention they also invited only 15 of their friends?? (Which all other things aside is pretty impressive as I certainly don't have 15 friends. Do I even know 15 people? God, I hope not.) That few people? In a gigantic stadium? For less than three hours? For $30,000??

Hey, twit Nick Jonas! If you just want to play some baseball, they have these really cool things all over the place called PARKS, and guess what? THEY'RE FREE. Butthead But if you insist on going the whole stadium route, maybe you could also do something a little more meaningful while you're at it? Like inviting a whole bunch of sick or needy kids in desperate need of some fun to come on out and throw the ball around, too? (CHARITY!) Or maybe have some kind of a contest where you let a bunch of your fans come out with you as there's room for tens of thousands of them anyway? (KINDA CHARITY?) Since, if we want to get technical, it's pretty much their money that funded your little b-ball, b-day shindig. Or maybe you could just, you know, WRITE A CHECK TO CHARITY INSTEAD? You do know we've had some hurricanes and whatnot...right? You don't, do you?

But what also bothers me about such a display is this: My mother did NOT have her birthday celebration at Dodger Stadium. My selfless, loving, amazing, beautiful-inside-and-out mother who has been a Dodgers fan for 49 years did not get such a gift. My mom lives and breathes Dodgers baseball. She bleeds blue. She knows all of the rules of the game of baseball. The stats. The history. The teams. The players. She gets depressed come the end of a season when there are so many months before spring training. My mom loves Dodger Stadium. I swear I think it might be her happiest place on earth. (Disneyland can suck it!) No one I know deserves a fancy, $30,000 Dodgers Baseball Birthday Party more than my lovely mom.

But did she get that? No. Why? Because she didn't have an extra 30 grand lying around, and neither did I. She and my dad poured all their money into taking care of their daughter for so many years. My mom always put herself last so I didn't have to want for things. She made sure I got a college education so I could graduate and someday go on to WRITE A BLOG LIKE THIS THAT DOESN'T PAY ME EVEN ONE CENT OF REVENUE. (HI MOM!!)

And how did I pay her back? By not becoming a pop singing sensation-slash-heartthrob, that's how. By not making anyone swoon over my Musical Stylings and Stage Presence and therefore not having an extra $30,000 lying around so I could gift my mom in the manner she deserves. Yes, I know: I could've become a doctor or investment banker or something too, but that has nothing to do with the theme of this post, now does it? Please try to follow along.

Mom? In short? I suck.

What I wouldn't give to be able to throw my mom a party at Dodgers stadium. And if I did, you can bet it would last longer than two and a half hours and would include ACTUAL DODGERS PLAYERS doing things like serving her drinks and rubbing her feet. Throughout my life she's fulfilled so many of the desires of my heart – what I wouldn't give to be able to just once return the favor in totally grand style. But I know that no matter what I do, I could never repay all the invaluable gifts she's given to me over the years: Security. A defined sense of self. Strength. Confidence. The belief that as a woman, I could do anything. The belief that as her daughter, I could do anything. The freedom to fail. The tools to succeed. At once, both roots and wings.

Sigh.

Damn you, Nick Jonas!

But my mom does have one thing going for her on her birthday that little Nicky Jonas doesn't: Her birthday - September 19th – is also National Speak Like A Pirate Day! Avast, mateys!! Walk the plank, Jonas Brothers. And in honor of THAT, I have made my mom THIS:

Here? She also looks young! But in addition? PIRATEY.

Mom?

You are welcome. And I love you. A lot.

And one more thing to the person who wrote that little article:  It's DODGER Stadium - not Dodgers Stadium. The team name has an "s" but the stadium name doesn't.

Hello?? It's called a fact checker.

You are welcome, too.

 

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.

I Am Too Damn Busy Baking Pies And Wearing Aprons And Hand-Washing Laundry To Understand "Sports"

We're sorry for taking so long between posts this week, readers! "Um...What??" has been a little uncharacteristically "Ewe...SICK??" for a few days now, thus rendering it impossible for this blog to live up to its normal standards. You know, if it actually had any.

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

Oh, NutriSystem.

You make me want to stuff my face with cheese-covered fried cheese dipped in melted cheese just to spite you. You also make me want to send you a photo of myself holding a newspaper with today's date to remind you that it isn't 1954 and, oh yeah, JUNE CLEAVER IS DEAD.

This?

Is not me or any other woman I know.

And if I did know her?

I would in all likelihood put that pie in her face.

But seriously though. That's a nice oven, right? Isn't It? Oh, I have no idea. I've never even opened mine and have only a vague idea where it actually is.

As a woman, which I'm assuming is a large part of your target demographic, NutriSystem, I find the commercial you're currently airing with Jillian Barberie (and by Jillian Barberie I mean OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP) to be annoying and insulting to women at a level second only to every single commercial spot ever run by eHarmony. (WHO CAN GO BANKRUPT ANY TIME NOW, PLEASE.)

I won't go so far as to embed the clip of Jillian's commercial here because I care about you all that much and already feel guilty enough even subjecting you to the following screen shots. But the gist of story by way of introduction goes a little something like this: Girl gains weight (more on this later), girl is better than all the rest of us lesser-type girls watching the commercial because of something having to do with football (to be honest, I don't really get it but whatever) and then girl loses weight THE END.

And now? The same story in seven easy-to-follow images. It's like "Dick and Jane" (low-level reading skills) meets The Iliad (nobody knows WTF it's supposed to mean) only with really unfortunate fashion:

>

1. If you see this? THERE IS STILL TIME TO RUN OUT OF THE ROOM.

 

2. Jillian (OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP) says hello and introduces us to her "BEFORE" self and her "AFTER" self! This is even more boring just as exciting as you might think.

 

3. Here, we learn that OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP is an amazing and unique type of woman because she has gigantic boobs she likes sports:

"Listen! I know I'm not your average gal. I LOVE sports!!" Then, she catches a football tossed to her from off camera and declares, "FOOTBALL!" Just like that. Just that one word. Noun naming game? Some form of object-related Tourettes? Intelligence level of two-year-old? And as if this wasn't bad enough, she follows up her outburst with, "How many girls can do THAT??"

Seriously??? Catch something?

Listen yourself, OHMYGOODGAWWWDSHADDUP. Unless that thing was hurled at you from a hundred yards away by either Peyton Manning or Donovan McNabb...no wait. I still wouldn't give a crap. Plus, what does this have to do with anything? Nothing. LOGIC FAIL.

 

4. There are NO WORDS.

               

5. Good lord. I think there's some technical information given in here somewhere too. You know, pricing and meal plans and blah blah blah I do not care as I'm just busy staring at her ta tas. (WHO ISN'T??)

         

6. Football thrown AGAIN from, let's be honest, probably two inches off camera at most. Plus, I totally suspect at this point whoever threw it might have been "accidentally" aiming at her head. I'm guessing this football/sports thing is repeated just in case you did not understand this symbolism the first time around. The good news is you won't understand it the second time either. "Get NutriSystem and SCORE!!" What the hell does THIS mean, exactly? Some form of not-so-vague sexual reference aimed at the same group of people who laugh at armpit farts? (Which is ridiculous because any intelligent person will tell you only REAL farts are funny.) Furthermore, does it also imply only skinny girls can have sex? And anyway, who plays football in their lingerie top??? LADIES IN THE LINGERIE BOWL, THAT'S WHO. Hut hut!!

       

7. Finally, we have arrived at the bitter end, and by bitter, I mean ME.

                        

Look, NutriSystem. You annoy me. Not only are women more than collections of hot pink lingerie and vacuous expressions but, um, A LOT OF US LOVE SPORTS. And by a lot of us? I MEAN A LOT OF US. You know, that is when we can find time to sneak in watching a game or two between doing loads of laundry (BY HAND) and polishing the silver and thinking of ways to please our man and speaking only when spoken to. And Jillian ("SHADDUP" for short), I am not sure how much of this is your fault, but I'm going to try to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were following a script. Although, really? Just for doing so? Female fail.

And here's a little something else you neglected to mention, NutriSystem:

Yeah.

There's a reason Ms. Jillian felt heavier and then suddenly didn't:

It's called PUSHING SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR MOTHER NATURE AND THEN GIVING IT A BOTTLE. Or two boobs. Or...holy MOLY those are some serious boobs. And yes, I know I neglected to draw any kind of happy face on either one of them, but really? Some things just go without saying.

Who knows? Maybe this is an accidental oversight or maybe she talks about the pregnancy in some other NutriSystem commercial that maybe I haven't seen AND ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT TO.

Also? I saw EIGHT eHarmony commercials during the course of slapping together carefully crafting this sh*tty-ass amazing post. Only it's a different couple now, and not Lee and Anne Marie, which leads me to the obvious conclusion that Lee and Anne Marie have already broken up. I certainly hope my earlier, thought-provoking post had nothing to do with it, because that would be awesome make me feel badly.

AND????? I burped AT LEAST 15 TIMES (!!!) while I was writing this, which has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that I don't think I've burped 15 times total before IN MY ENTIRE LIFE and WTF is wrong with me and this leads me to another obvious conclusion that NUTRISYSTEM GIVES ME GAS.

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For those of you suddenly not so sure you're happy I've resurfaced here...I totally understand.