Quite Literally Funny

Because people on the Internet are awesome, they spend their time making literal versions of music videos, where the singer narrates the action and thereby points out the ridiculousness around them. I saw this one today, and I love it... and not just because I love weddings and ruffians.

White Wedding: Literal Video Version - watch more funny videos

Financial Planning

On my first day of college I signed up for a Visa card with a $2000 limit. Ever since then, I've ebbed and flowed into debt and deeper debt. I'm a smart person, so I know credit cards are bad. But I'm also an impulsive person, an I-want-it-all-and-I-want-it-now American, so on days when my head was swirly with desire, Daddy MasterCard was there to help me out.

To be fair, Daddy MasterCard made a lot of things I cherish in my life possible. He paid for my airfare to Europe. He helped me start my own business. He even foot the bill for my and Mr. T's wedding.

When we moved across the country and I started collecting a normal paycheck again, I decided it was time to grow up and start living within my means. I put the old plastic in a baggie of water and threw it in the freezer. For about two weeks.

After more than 10 years of bad judgment and a lack of self control, I wised up and stopped the spending spree in the Fall 2007, days after charging more than $2000 on a flat screen television I cherish. I have been diligently paying off huge amounts of credit card debt each month, a feat made possible by working 3 jobs for more than a year and taking on extra freelance work whenever I can. (And when I say jobs, I don't mean glamorous, sexy jobs. I mean front-desk-babysitting-work-on-the-weekends type of jobs. That's how sick I am of having credit card debt.)

Finally, I have made some measurable progress. Card #1 is paid in full. To celebrate, we bought some champagne and cut the card into confetti. Now I have a taste for blood and Card #2 is next on my hit list.

Married... without Children

OK, so I started another blog, really it's a spin off of this one, called Dulywed where I chronicle my relationship with Mr. T because, really, what's better for a marriage than having no boundaries.

I'm pretty sure this is the one that will make me a million dollars, but if not, it will hopefully make you laugh.

Bookmark it already.

For Your Infomercial

Favorite Quotes from this Sham Wow Masterpiece:

"It's made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff."
"You following me, camera guy?"
"We can't do this all day."



Favorite Quotes from this Slap Chop Masterpiece:

"You're gonna be in a great mood all day 'cause you're gonna be slapping your troubles away with the Slap Chop."
"You love salad. You hate making it. You know you hate making salads, that's why you don't have any salad in your diet!"
"This tuna looks boring. Stop having a boring tuna. Stop having a boring life."
"You're gonna love my nuts."
"You can't open this up. It's worthless. Forget about it."
"We're gonna make America skinny again... one slap at a time."
"Tacos. Fettuccine. Linguine. Martini. Bikini."
"You know we can't do this all day."



Would it be really wrong of me to want one of these in Royal Blue?

Turns out... I AM AWESOME!!

So that video thing I did for Heather... yeah the one just below here.

IT WON!! Which means me and Heather will be heading to New York for a makeover and shopping spree and 3-day opportunity to yell PENIS everywhere we go.

Holy crap this is awesome! Finally, I will be stylish for at least ONE DAY of my life and Heather and I will be taking a trip for the first time since Spring Break '96!

BFF... &E

I started a new school in the 5th grade. I went from St. Matthews to Zachary Taylor, and for someone who was so shy her mom advocated to keep her with the same teacher for grades 3 and 4, moving to a new school was basically my 10-year-old hell.

On the first day, I walked into Mrs. Kidd's classroom and sat at a desk near the door. The desks were arranged in clusters of 4 to 6, facing each other to make squares or rectangles or age appropriate study groups or opportunities for new girls to feel like aliens.

I sat next to a cute girl with huge boobs named Stacy Dickey, hoping we could be friends so I could get through the 5th grade with my fragile psyche in tact (and so I could get her secrets on how to get boobs). Then a girl named Heather Kellogg walked in and changed my life forever.

"Yeah, you have to move," she said. "That's my friend and that desk next to her is mine."

I was defeated, scooped up my supplies and relocated next to a girl named Leslie Smith. Leslie and I became fast friends, probably because she was as needy as I was. We spent every available weekend together most of the school year, earning all As and being teachers pets and over achievers, while that Heather girl caused a commotion and was forced to sign the conduct notebook almost daily.

Then, toward the end of the year, Heather and I became friends. Maybe it was the love feud over Tommy Goins that split her and Stacy up. Maybe it was the rearrangement of desks into twos, all facing front. Maybe it was an invitation to her 11th birthday sleepover party. Whatever it was, Heather became like a sister to me. Another girl for me to fight to the death with, to hate with all my being, to need to survive, to rely on for the will to breathe. So long nice, quiet, respectful, generous, nerdy, safe Leslie. Hello wild, crazy, nutty, hysterical, outrageous, unpredictable Heather.

Without Heather to delicately push me out of my nerdy cocoon, I would probably be afraid to do anything the least bit valuable. Afraid to kiss a boy. Afraid to stand up for myself. Afraid to make noise and take up space. Afraid to explore new places and meet new faces. Heather blazed a trail to life for me. I owe a lot of who I am to her, probably more than anyone (not counting those who are one of us).

I recently saw a contest that was about what friendship means, and even though I've been blessed with the world's most incredible women for friends (shout outs: Liz, Amy, Ruble, Sarah, Kristin, Jen, Leigh), Heather popped into my mind immediately. She has seen me through everything that mattered since things started mattering. So I made this, to honor her and to try to win us a trip to New York for a makeover.

Because that's what best friends do.

Happy Birthday Sheba!

And then Laila went to college.

When the government makes it a 3-day weekend and your employer complies and you live in LA, the best way to spend those 72 hours is to GET OUT.

So Mack and I loaded up the hatchback with a change of clothes and went to kidnap Laila and take her to San Diego. She'd been so excited to go with us on an overnight, out-of-town, NO PARENTS ALLOWED trip that ever since we mentioned it, she made a point to tell Mack, "I'm free this weekend," every time we visited.
She assumed the back seat on her own, after trying to convince me that I wouldn't be as bored back there as I'd be in the front seat, and we hit the road.

We went to the beach and inspected tidepools and sandstone cliffs.
We walked along the rocky outcroppings and felt the ocean mist our faces.
We watched the pregnant seals roll around on the sand, certain they were seconds from giving birth.
We explored caves marked by strange foot formations.
We went back in time and visited dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum.
All of this was a lame waste of time. Laila wanted to get to the hotel, "check out the mini fridge," and pretend we were college roomies. Less than 30 minutes after checking in, she had unpacked her bag AND my bag (hanging up all of our clothes, including our pajamas) and created a "beauty bucket" for our toiletries.
Then we broke out the beer bong and took her to get a tattoo. How can she be this big already?

Analyze This.

Lately Mr. T and I have been using separate comforters, an act he hates and I love. For years I've been freezing my ass off at night, clinging to the duvet overflow because my bedmate thinks he needs a king size comforter all to himself. But last week our other comforter wasn't dry all the way, so we brought in our back up, and then, well, then we just never put the back up away.

So now we get to be two cocoons of warmth instead of one. Sweet equality.

But all this sound sleep hasn't necessarily been restful. I sleep so deeply that my dreams take the place of reality and I'm up all night running from killers and saving people's lives.

Take last night for example. Everything was great at first. I was sitting on the dock of a huge lake, watching Amy swim, beer in hand, in the little roped off swimming area. She was floating that special way she has of floating and everything was just fine. That is, until Shamu showed up.

All of a sudden, I was screaming from the dock for Amy to swim to the side and get out. But she was floating that special way she has of floating and she couldn't make out my actual words with her ears in the water. Then Betsy ended up in the roped off swimming area magically and she heard me screaming and started to swim toward me. Which was dumb because I was farther from her than the side and she had to swim right past Shamu to make it to me.

In all the commotion, Amy finally caught on that her life was in danger and started to swim to the edge. But not very aggressively since she had to keep her beer hand up out of the water to keep her beer safe. At the very last second, just as Shamu was about to have an Amy snack, she swam under the dock and took cover.

Betsy got to me and I pulled her out of the water, very dramatically by her bikini bottoms, which gave her a ridiculous wedgie. Why was that part so clear in all of this? A wedgie sticks out during my whale attack dream? Come on brain.

We both ran to the dock where Amy was hiding, expecting her to come out the other side so we could pull her out, but she never came out the other side. She was just under the dock. Running out of air. Without her beer.

What a nightmare.

Things I've Been Doing to Keep from Dying of Boredom

1. Listening to NPR's playlist of Lesser Known Love Songs.
2. Designing phone book ads for my neighbor's construction company.
3. Cropping photos of my professional clips and working on my professional website because I AM A PROFESSIONAL DAMMIT.
4. Taking mental vacations to South America. (Have you been here because it is AWESOME!)
5. Sniffing the different color Sharpie highlighters to see if they have subtly different smells.
6. Wondering if that lady who had the 8 babies really did have surgery to look like Angelina Jolie.
7. Revisiting the idea of composting.
8. E-stalking on Facebook.
9. Reading blogs. And more blogs. And more blogs.
10. Typing creative concepts as they're being dictated to me by the guy in the office with the broken finger who also likes to tell me about how he asked a girl once if he could just "stick it in her butt" since she was on her period.
11. Deciding if I really need a master's degree to do graphic design or if one of those education extension classes would do the trick.
12. Planning to take a long photo walk. Planning.
13. Watching this hilariousness over and over and contemplating if this really is real life.

14. Trying to forget my last horrible dentist appointment so I can fit in one last visit before my insurance goes bye-bye.
15. Wishing my office had a bubble bath.
16. Imagining what will happen tonight on Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible.
17. Chatting at an unnecessary length about the unconstitutionality of entrapment, even if it is to catch a predator.
18. Looking up photos of Michael Phelps with the bong.
19. Enjoying Good Earth tea 4-5 times a day.
20. Counting the minutes until I can escape, go home, and do the exact same things but find them pleasurable and exciting.

A thrilling look at LICENSE PLATES!

I saw this the other day and hee heed all the way home.

Then today, I saw this, and I think there may just be a market for modesty plates.

Modesty Plates.
BY LUCAS KLAUSS

- - - -

NOT2GR8

MEDIOCR

103IQ

LILFAT

DECENT

SHRUG

2NDRATE

TOLRABL

OKCOOK

VANILLA

UR2KIND

REALLY?

OSTOPIT

MIDLING

OKDOCTR

AVGBUTT

EH

Correspondence

Laila got an email account. And with it came free access to the mind of an 8-year-old sass queen.

On Monday she whacked her head on the corner of the table and a blood panic ensued. (Laila used to get so upset at the possibility of blood or a scrape or a bump that she would cry so hard she'd vomit. It's tapered off incredibly since she's gotten older, but the head leak was new territory for her and her parents probably deserve an award for letting her live through what were no doubt the worst screams of her life). So today I emailed her to ask about it and to send her this.
(Mack gets all the credit for the cute puppy exchange idea. He started sending her videos and photos of adorable things, and without his guidance, I probably would have started swapping recipes with her. Puppy pics are waaaay better.)

I was thinking she'd email me back something I didn't totally understand. Like once I sent her a photo of herself from when she was 3 and looked like she'd gone for a swim in a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and I wrote a little message about how beautiful she's become and how I'm glad to have her as my sister. She wrote back, "How did you like my FANCY WIGGGGGGGG!"

I mean, it sort of makes sense, but not exactly.

And then she followed that one up with, "My favorites for songs are lalaland by demmi lavito and shreck2 allstar. ps also more of demmi lavito's songs."

So I'm used to being a little confused by her responses, but that bonk on the head must've done something to her email technique. Here's what it looked like today.
Finally, she's speaking my language of totally rotten.

Super Bowl XLIII

I don't watch any football. Ever.

I used to watch college basketball, but since the team I root for (CATS!) doesn't ever get played on TV on this side of the country, my college basketball watching is officially dormant.

Which means that aside from the Olympics, I don't watch sports.

Which means that it's no big deal for me to be at an airport on Super Bowl Sunday during the Big Game.

This year I was in Memphis. I was at Lenny's sandwich shop getting a tuna sub with baked BBQ potato chips and preparing to head to Gate B10 to read my New Yorker and my OK! magazines. The only thing I knew about either of the teams is that one was there on luck alone and one of the players used to bag groceries.

With dinner in hand, I started to walk down the terminal and noticed the gait of my fellow travelers as they approached big screen TVs. They slowed down like they were running out of batteries, their jaws loosened, their eyes glazed over, and they stood, in a trance, watching padded men chase each other around. They would dam up the terminal hallway ever 50 feet and then, when a whistle blew, they would break from their huddles and try to get a little closer to their own gates.

We are funny monkeys.