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.

Letters to the Cupboard (in this case... the filing cabinet by my desk)

Dear Flavor Blasted Goldfish,

You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.

Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.

Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.

I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.

Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.

And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.

Love,
Amber

It's Beginning to Look a lot like Black History Month

If you have the day off today, you should watch this so you know why.

If you're working like me, you should steal 20 minutes from your employer and watch this so you won't feel like as much of a slave to capitalism.

Happy MLK-One-Day-'til-Obama Day! Let the end of segregation begin! Again!

Seriously

My friend David is in Congo right now making a documentary and mingling with child soldiers and it's got me thinking about, you know, child freaking soldiers.

I've heard about 100 stories of child soldiers carrying guns, getting raped, watching their families get slaughtered, sensational stories of survival go team! In general, I think it's bad to have child soldiers and I feel bad about children having to be soldiers.

In specific, look at this:
That woman up there (not the white one, duh) was a child soldier. Her name is Chantal and she was taken by rebels when she was six.

Six.

She was held captive in the forest for nine years.

Nine.

Every day of those nine years she was raped by seven different men.

Seven.

She, like any six- to 15-year-old being raped every day by seven different men, tried to escape. Three times she got away, only to be captured, brought back and tortured. On her fourth attempt, she finally found a way out.

But in the cruel reality of child soldierdom, her escape didn't leave her liberated. Instead she found out she would be forever tethered to the men who'd been raping her every single day because she was pregnant.

Pregnant and with no idea who the baby daddy was.

My friend David met Chantal. And her baby, who is now two years old. Chantal has just started to take care of her child because for the first two years she just couldn't stand the thought of being kind to something that was associated with the person who destroyed her life. I can't say I'd be so generous.

Who really wants to think about this sad crap on a Friday? Not me. It's far worse than I ever imagined it was, and even though I prefer being in the dark about the cruel reality, that won't help other kids like Chantal get a fair shot at life.

The Thing about HMOs

Since I'm in media and the media industry is insecure to put it nicely, I've decided to get my health in order. I've lived without insurance before, and, thanks to Planned Parenthood, it's manageable, but the things I need to do now aren't things Planned Parenthood takes care of.

Like a colonoscopy.

My Uncle Mike died from colon cancer when he was 33. He was diagnosed a couple years before that, which basically makes him my age. The thing about my Scott blood is that it really isn't optimized unless it's got a layer of filth in it -- courtesy of violence, sex, smoking or alcohol -- and Mike's blood was pristine compared to my other relatives. He didn't smoke or drink, didn't break his siblings' bones, didn't cheat on women and was generally a good guy. While the rest of the Scotts swam around in the smoky residue of Chesterfield Kings unfiltered cigarettes and toasted their health with cases of Hamm's beer, Mike focused his attention on his shiny red Corvette and adventures in Africa.

Fortunately, I exist with that protective layer of filth on me, but even so, I feel like I should get a colonoscopy to be sure it's working. Plus, my mom told me to do it on my 30th birthday and I put it off and put it off, and for some reason, she just won't forget about it like I do. If I want to hear the end of the colonoscopy, I need to send her footage of a healthy intestine for Mother's Day.

Today I started the process. I made an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) and paid $25 to spend 3 minutes with her while she filled out a referral form claiming I was "constipated." It's true that I don't crap every day, that sometimes I won't crap for 3 or 4 days, but I wouldn't say I'm ever constipated. I don't feel any pain... I just need the right circumstances to relieve myself. Like a cup of coffee, some reading material, an hour of isolation, and the confidence a book of matches buys you.

With referral in hand, I left the office and called the gastrointestinal (GI) doctors. After confirming my HMO/PPO status, I made an appointment for a consultation with them for Jan. 27.

On Jan. 27, I'll pay another $25, offer up some hyperbole about my "constipation" problem -- something that involves bloody stool and cramping -- and hope that I'll be able to come back in another few weeks to get diarrhea. That is what my HMO makes me do. Lie about my condition so my poor mother (and a little bit of me) can get peace of mind.

From Crackle: Colonoscopy

Less than 5 feet from each other

There's some stuff going down at the office of The United States of America, and it's got me feeling all sentimental and wishy.

For the last few years, my job -- the one that has made me a horrible wife, a lousy friend, an absent sister, and a lame, one-dimensional person -- has been the highlight of my life. It's been the reason I get out of bed and do stuff all day long. Not necessarily because I love it, but because I love doing something. The sense of accomplishment I get from being productive is what makes me take note of my days, what gives time its value.

I have made almost all of my friends in Los Angeles thanks to my job. And while I've not connected with them as much as I wish I had because, you know, we're "colleagues," I plan to add these people to my collection of admirables and make sure they get a Christmas card from me every year at the very least.

But as my office -- and every office in the country -- works to suss out this insecure limbo we call "tough economic times," I'm afraid of losing these friends more than I am of losing my job. I'm afraid that the girl who sits not five feet from me, who I find to be talented and adorable and far more dimensional than myself, who brightens up the dingy corner of our quarters with her easy laugh and sweet reflection, will leave my life before the depth of our connection is realized.

Laura is my friend, but the ease between us when we are together -- lingering with margaritas at the work party, walking to the library during lunch, talking about baking our own bread and imagining how life would be if cars were gone and we had more time to conduct ourselves instead of conduct business -- is something so precious and so full of potential. She's one of the few people I've encountered in the last 10 years who could be a good friend if conditions were right.

It's tough to find good friends at my age. Especially good girl friends. The friends who are your given people. The ones you're going to be hanging out with over the weekend even though no one has planned for it. The ones you're going to go see Mamma Mia with without needing an invitation. Part of it is because my best friend is Mr. T, he's my given, and he's a good given to have. And a lot of women my age have spouses or serious partners who are their givens too. Which makes it hard for us to, you know, be friends.

I guess I'm just bummed that I've taken for granted something that was right next to me for so long. The potential of a good friend is just as valuable as the reality of one, and if this job has taught me anything, it's to break through the cubicle walls before they come crashing down.

Oh, and to build up my savings.

Hype, Hype Hooray!!

And now for the big reveal.

Also, those three gals in the last photo, yeah, me, Leiah and Betsy, WE'RE COMING!!

"I drank Shannon's puke. How do I deal with this?"

New Year's Eve 2009 was the first I've ever spent with just my sisters. Of course Seth was there, but he's always around, and Lara was there, but she volunteered to be the DD, which elevates her to sister status in my book.

Because we're all married gals (Seth is always around), we decided to hit up the gay bar so we could dance without having boners in our backs... okay, and because the drinks are always stronger at gay bars and we're in a recession people! We got dolled up, raided our mom's jewelry, put on our dancing shoes and had Charles drop us off at The Connection.
The night was primed to be a blast. Good company, strong drinks, balloons netted by the ceiling just waiting to rain down upon you, party hats, drag queens.
This was Betsy's first New Year's Eve as a legal drinker, so I made sure to keep pace with her as she slammed gin and tonicsI could better gauge her drunkenness.
A few minutes past midnight, Shannon, who had more reason to celebrate than just the passing of a year (it's Dr. Hensley now, especially if you nasty), got the dancing bug. I followed her out there, left her with a new friend who though my name was Edna to go look for Betsy, and then lost her in a sea of swirly lights and flailing arms. I sent Leiah and Lara in as reinforcements, and they dragged my leggy big sister back to the table, where she plopped down under a curtain of drunk hair.
And then good times started to roll.
Shannon looks up at me with her face -- her eyes weren't opening at this point -- and says, "Imunnabesich."

Got it. I spot a discarded drink on the table, toss the ice out of it, and put it in front of her. One heave and it overflows onto my hand. I set it on the table, turn to the first doctor in our family, and help her get through it. Bystanders clear out like an atomic bomb of stomach bile would expect them too, the limp body goes rigid with pukey pulses, and as soon as there's a break in the action, it's all, "Come on, we gotta walk, let's go, gotta walk, fresh air, gotta walk."

I call Charles, apologize for the condition his wife is in, explain it's not her or our fault... she got overserved!... and ask him to come retrieve her. We sit outside while a nice smoker goes inside and gets her a cup of water.

"Imunnabesich."

Leiah meets me outside and we assure Shannon that three steps ahead and one to the right is a perfectly acceptable place to yak up all the disgusting mess that 2008 put inside her body. Charles pulls up, we plop her in the car, and me and Leiah head back the party people.
The second we see Betsy, she grabs my arm, gets as serious as a happy drunk can get, and says, "I drank Shannon's puke."

Awww, Betsy. That is a special kind of gross. Why in the....

"How do I deal with this?"

I don't know if she's said anything that funny since the time she told Leiah to "just let it come out your nose." That comment right there made my New Year's 2009 one of the most memorable of my life.

At the time, the only advice I could muster for her was probably, "Don't drink it again," but having had some time to reflect, here's what I would have said if I wasn't about to zerbert a stranger's stomach, steal beers and blow chunks myself within an hour.

"First of all, don't puke up her puke because that seems like a new type of incestuous. Then, pretend it never happened."

Too bad Betsy's big sister has a blog, huh?

Half Time Entertainment

Who's sick of babies??!!! Not me!!!

Enjoy this little diddy by Ben, in which he teaches you the ABC's.

And now for a sweet number by Renee. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star can now be retired from the toddler vernacular.

We are a musically gifted bunch, a collective of singers and songwriters whose talent is so immense, it may be mistaken for a piercing shrill.

Rock on, my people.