The Best Goddamn Birthday Present Ever

So my birthday was this week. I turned 38.

*silent scream*

Let's move on, shall we?

I didn't really do anything exciting to celebrate this year, besides get laid. Holla! The Captain, whose birthday is 4 days before mine because apparently someone just has to hog the spotlight every fucking year, and I decided not to exchange gifts this year. Which is good news and bad news for me. Good news because I suck at gift giving. He probably would have gotten a book about pirate ships. Again. But bad news because I love receiving presents. Luckily, his parents came through for me and got me a kindle and ohmygod I am reading the shit out of that thing.

Anyway, so it's two days after my birthday and I'm getting kind of frowny face because now I'm 38 and all I have to look forward to is turning 39 and then...well, you know. Get ready for a blog post two years from now about how I did nothing but sob and eat two whole birthday cakes, is what I'm saying.

And then? Something amazing happened this morning. I received a totally unexpected and awesome birthday gift from my good friend Kristine at Wait In The Van.

Was it Ugg boots? A new iPhone? A toaster? Shut up, I love toast.

NO.

It was a blog post Kristine put up featuring herself and her best friend singing "Somewhere Out There" in 1989. This thing is so much genius that I assumed she posted it specifically for me and my birthday week. Yes, I get a whole week. I call it every year, so it totally counts.

Click here to go watch it. Maybe save it for later tonight, because once you see it, the rest of your day will seem dull and not nearly as fun.

p.s. Kristine, your vibrato is the stuff legends are made of.

Hungry Like The Middle Aged Couple Two Rows In Front Of Us Making Out Inappropriately

This just in: I suck at blogging. Every day I have plans to blog something super awesome and hilarious and then I get to work and I’m all type type type blech. I think my job is sucking my will to live. And then I go home and I’m all “I am totally writing 3 blog posts tonight” and then I look at my cat and she’s all “We both know you aren’t blogging tonight” all judgy-like and so I just give up and sit on the couch for 4 hours and then go to bed.

But today. Today! I. Am. Blogging.

You’re welcome.

All that up there was me trying to explain to you why I’m about to tell you a story about going to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago.

So I went to a Duran Duran concert three weeks ago. Courtesy of my new best friend in the whole wide world, Kristine at Wait In The Van. Are you reading Kristine’s blog? Ohmygod, what a stupid question because OF COURSE YOU ARE.

Kristine invited me to go with her to the concert, despite all the creepy stalker comments I’ve left on her blog. So of course I said yes. And then left her a comment about shovels and burying bodies or something. I can't remember exactly, but you know...just trying to show her how funny and totally not murder-y I'm going to be when we meet up in person finally.

We decided to meet in front of the venue (how fancy am I? Venue. Ooo la la) and I got there a little early so I spent my extra time checking out everyone walking into the building. Y'all. So many cougars. Mostly my age and older. Many inexplicably wearing halter tops with back fat hanging out of them.

Then Kristine texted me that she was there and I got all nervous because ohmygodwhatifshe’scoolerthanmeandthinksI’msuperlame? But of course, that didn’t happen. We were immediately bff’s despite my first sentence being “OMG when did you graduate from high school?”. I don’t know. I do things like that sometimes.

So the concert starts and Duran Duran comes out and they look surprisingly well preserved. Simon is wearing tennis shoes, which was weird but whatever. The music was pretty good (the old stuff, not the new stuff. I have no interest in anything this band produced after 1993) and Kristine and I are dancing around and sweating like crazy and having a grand old time.

See? She's totally not scared of me and that is totally not a fake smile.

So there we are…jamming out to The Reflex, when we see them. They are two rows in front of us and we have a clear view of them. A couple, maybe in their late 40’s…hard to tell from where we were, but definitely older than us. And definitely too old to be aggressively making out at a Duran Duran concert. But yet there they were, all over each other. She in her one-shouldered tank top and khaki capri pants. He with his balding gray hair and air guitar moves. Groping and slipping each other the tongue in between yelling out lyrics and gyrating against each other.

It was horrifying.

We could not stop watching.

And it only got worse as the concert wore on. He’s kissing her neck. He’s grinding his hips into her butt. He’s grabbing her boobs from behind.

Dear Duran Duran Gods….please for the love of the 80’s, make it stop.

And then the concert was over…except it wasn’t. Because of course there was an encore. And it was one of their old ones and it was so great. And Simon had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of old memories and sad regrets. And the couple were all over each other. I think Kristine threw up in her mouth a little.

And then the concert was really over. The drummer threw his sticks into the crowd and 40 year old women fought over them like they probably did when they were 18. The gropey couple disappeared and Kristine and I left. It was 11 pm and we were both exhausted. What? It was a Thursday night. We’re old. Shut up.

Luckily, I took the next day off from work so I was able to sleep in until 9am. Unfortunately for Kristine, young children never take a day off. So when I got out of bed Friday morning, I knew she had probably already been up several hours. And being the new caring best friend that I am, I sent her a text.

Me: Hey remember that one time that we went to a concert together and then I took the next day off and slept in but you still had to get up early to take care of your kids? Yeah, that was great.
Her: Am. So. Fucking. Tired. And I hate you.



p.s. I wrote about Rick Perry being super excited about maple syrup and totally not drunk over at Sprocket Ink today. Click here to check it out.

The Best Place To Get Your Snark On

Big news, people.

I went running yesterday and made it a whole half mile without stopping. Then I went home and ate a bowl of ice cream. You know. For sustenance.

*pats self on back*

But wait, I have even bigger news than that.

Sprocket Ink, an awesomely kick-ass new website dedicated to all things snarky, has launched today. And I'm writing there.

You: No way!
Me: Way.

My first post is up and I'm super nervous about it because for some reason I chose to write about Britney Spears. I just....I mean...I don't know why. It just sort of...happened. But I promise, the website is super cool. I mean, they are letting me use all the swears, y'all.

And all the other writers at Sprocket Ink are amazing. This is a very talented bunch of bloggers I'm talking about here, and I am so honored to be a part of this group. So please go check it out and leave some comment love.

Sprocket Ink

Here's To You, Blow Job Fans

My mother-in-law is now reading my blog and has told me that I have "a really wonderful writing style". I think the title of this post proves she is indeed correct.

Some of you might think that I would start cleaning things up a little on the blog once Captain Carl's family started reading. You would be wrong, my friend. The wiener jokes will continue to fly fast and furious up in here. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Speaking of wieners, I am guest blogging over at Wait In The Van today as part of her "Twelve Bloggers of Christmas". I talk about blow jobs and rubbing my lady parts on Captain Carl's goatee. You know, your typical holiday stuff.

Go! Click Here! Read! Leave a Comment! Give someone a hand job! Whatever!

Probably The Most Interesting Interview Ever Involving A Song By Bonnie Tyler

I made it through my family Thanksgiving celebration, y'all. Somehow no one got murdered this year. Hooray for murderless holidays!

So I finally got a featured interview over at Studio30+, courtesy of my awesome fly-eyed friend Vic. It's pretty much amazing awesomes. We talk about diahrrea and Carlos Spicy Weiner and my new theme song "Total Eclipse Of The Heart". It's as confusing as it sounds.

Please go read it, and then become a member. But only if you are over 30. If you are under 30, then shut up and go listen to some Justin Bieber or whatever you stupid kids are into to these days.

And Now A Guest Post From Someone Who Should Probably Be On Medication Of Some Kind. Also? It's About Farts.

I've been whining to my blogdaughter, Tristachio, about how I'm super busy and popular and very important and therefore cannot find much time for blogging lately. So she offered to write a guest post for me. And because I'm stupid, I was all "Awesome, yes!". And she totally did it. And it's totally about farts. You're welcome.

Why It's Important To Have A Conversation With Your Anus

Do you know what is hard to do? Farting in public. It's just so hard. Your binghole is all "Dude, you've got to lighten up a little because, seriously, I'm filling up with stuff down here and the more you hold it in the more likely I am to shit your pants because you ignored me. That lady over there in the undersized clothes and unwashed hair? Yeah, she doesn't care if you let one rip. Infact I'm pretty sure she would love it. So why not saunter over to her and explode?" And seriously, what else can you say to your binghole then "No Mr.Anus, I can't do it because I am in Walmart and it's the epitome of class and farting in Walmart would be worse then showing up to a Redneck wedding with Obama on all your paper plates! Not to mention it's only the two of us in this aisle and she'd obviously know that it was me and then it'd be awkward."

What, you don't have conversations with your binghole about when or when not it's appropriate to fart? Maybe it's time to re-evaluate your relationship with Mr.Anus because you are, obviously, headed for divorce. And by divorce I mean you most likely will crap your pants.

My Boyfriend, The Pilot, doesn't have this type of relationship with his binghole. His relationship is more like a bromance with Mr. Anus. If Mr.Anus had hands they would highfive. All the time. Not matter where he is, he will fart. He just doesn't care. He would rather let out a ripper then "Potentionally explode while flying in mid-air because the pressure of holding in the fart can destroy your insides while you are a bajillion feet in the air" and since I don't know anything about planes and he learned this while attaining his college diploma all I can do is give him the stinkeye.

Also, when your binghole says "Dude, you should totally fart on your girlfriends feet because you are sitting on them and how funny would that be if you did it and it really stunk and then her socks started to stink because of it? It'd be super funny, that's what." You shouldn't listen to it because Mr.Anus is a liar. It wouldn't be funny if your girlfriends only clean pair of socks end up stinking like your butt.


p.s. I told Tristachio that now she'll get tons of followers on account of how I'm the Godfather of blogging and the mere mention of her blog on my blog will make people follow her. Don't make me go all horse-head-in-your-bed on you, people. Go. Now. Follow. Shoo.

Thank You, Creepy Blog Stalker Lady!

I got an email this morning from someone only going by "Mimi" who sent me a link to this awesome website. I don't know who you are Mimi, but I love you. I love you like Renty loves my cat...a little too much for "normal people" standards. Probably even a little bit more than that because you've never puked on my furniture. Yet.

I'm also a little bit afraid of you because of the line "you don't know me, but I read you" that you dropped at the end of your email. That's the kind of comment that leads up to emails that say "I loved your last blog, can you please send me a a couple pieces of your hair?" and "I told my mom about you and she thinks we are destined to be best friends. Then I cleaned the leaves off her tombstone and went home." and "LOL you are so awesome that I want to stab you in the face!". Mimi, please send me a heads up email if you decide to start hanging around outside my house with binoculars. Because I'll have to ask Becky to make room for your car. There's only so much space for parking in a cul de sac. Just sayin'.

It's Not Gay If No One's On Top

This post has nothing to do with the title. Someone said that me yesterday and I thought it was too awesome not to use as a blog post title so there you go. And by "someone" I mean "crazy person stalking me named Tristachio". I once had a blog style duel to the death with her over who was more awesome. I won. She lost. She's never gotten over it. Now she IM's me every time I'm online and keeps saying things about my giant man hands and how she's my hypothetical love child and how our birthdays are one day apart and something something dutch rudder. Seriously, all those things have come up in our conversations. She's not right in the head, people.

So Captain Carl went to a whiskey tasting at an Irish pub with his brother, Mailman Mike, last night. He was all "I'll be home early, we're going with his girlfriend's dad blah blah blah". Four hours later he calls me and is all "Sorry, we had to stay for awhile and sober up and omg we got 8 shots of whiskey and omg it was amazing and omg blah blah blah" and I was all "Yeah, I did your kid's laundry all night and cleaned the kitchen, so that was probably just as awesome" and he was all "What? Wait, am I in trouble?" and I was all "No, I'm just sharing the awesomeness that was my evening with your drunk ass" and he was all "You told me to go!" and I was all "I'm not mad at you" and he was all "That means you are mad at me" and I was all "I'd like to stay on the phone and argue with you some more, but your kid's socks are ready to go in the dryer" and he was all "I love you?" and I was all "click". Then he came home and I was all "fold fold fold" and he was all "I'm totally not drunk oops I just tripped over nothing hee hee heeee!". Seriously though, I wasn't mad at him. Much.

I really need new underwear. Almost everything I have left to wear to work is getting worn out and also they're all granny panties. The last time I mentioned that I wear granny panties on this blog, I think it was The Peach Tart who left a comment like "Oh honey, noooo. Not granny panties". Yeah. Yet I can't bring myself to buy some new, sexy underwear because it seems like too much of a luxury. This is seriously the life I am leading right now. Where panties are a luxury.

Oh, and we're getting a new renter. She's 40 and bald. True story.

Sometimes You Wanna Go Where You Can Laugh And Point At People

And I have just the place for y'all to do that today.

Jules over at Mean Girl Garage is having an "Out Of Tune Idol" Competition, featuring several bloggers and their recorded attempts at karaoke. I think there is a prize for the winner and guess what? I am totally a celebrity judge. CELEBRITY JUDGE Y'ALL. For that reason alone, you need to get over there. Also, you get to vote on who gets kicked off each week. So it's kind of like the Survivor of bad singing.

Suck It, 20-Somethings.

Hey all you over-30-but-still-totally-hip-and-relevant-if-only-in-your-own-mind bloggers! Go over here and become a member!


Visit Studio 30 Plus


It's pretty much the most awesome place on the internet. Except for maybe my blog. And also any website with porn and/or Harry Connick Jr.

People Love Me. I'm Kind Of A Big Deal.

So Wednesday night was a pretty bad night for me. Marian the Librarian moved out in the early morning hours Wednesday and she asked Captain Carl if he wouldn't mind getting rid of some garbage for her. Just some stuff she didn't want anymore but didn't have time to dispose of. I suppose he thought she meant maybe four or five bags of junk and maybe a few boxes because he said yes.

Dudes. That crazy bitch left about 25 garbage bags of junk, 20 empty boxes and 15 pieces of furniture. I am not even shitting you. How she got all that crap in one little bedroom in the first place is beyond me. Turns out we had one of those crazy hoarding people living in our house and didn't know it. And here's a little bonus....she left a dirty litter box in there. A DIRTY litter box, y'all. It smells like a fucking pet store in there. And not a nice pet store. The kind of pet store that you walk into with your kids because la la la look how we're making happy family memories by visiting cute little puppies and kittens! and then suddenly it's a horror show of feces and urine and hair and yucky smells and your kids are screaming and you're gagging from the fumes and blam! there's your family memory, only it ain't happy.

So yeah...bad night. And yesterday morning I drove to work thinking about how much cleaning and dumping we were going to be doing this weekend and I was all frowny and grumpy and I just knew this day was going to suck. Then I got to work and checked my blog for comments, because I'm an attention whore and also a really shitty employee.

Dudes! I don't know what I did to deserve this (that's a lie...I do know what I did and that is be super awesome and sexy), but three of my all-time favorite bloggers decided to make today "Miss Yvonne Appreciation Day". No shit. Turns out Vic, Becky and Kurt got together (dirty? maybe.) and decided they would each write a blog post about little ole me. And they are all awesome, kick-ass posts and I am (kind of) humbled and (totally) appreciative because I pretty much wish I could write like they do every single time I read their blogs. I'm also completely jealous of how many followers and comments they get, because as I said before (in my last paragraph...keep up, loser) I am an attention whore and everytime I check my followers I make that drumroll sound with my tongue. Your mom taught me how to do that because she's a whore too, but in the literal sense.

*sigh*

Now that Kurt has said I'm super awesome at your mom jokes, I can't come up with a single good one. I think he jinxed me, which was probably his secret plan all along because that's exactly the kind of blogger he is. He uses his ridiculously handsome looks and his run-on sentences and love of all things dinosaur and skittles to distract you before he goes in for the kill. And now that my your mom skills have been disabled he's going think he's the king of your mom. But he's totally not because only one person can be the king and that person is your dad.

That's right. I just replaced your mom with your dad. Your dad is the new your mom.

No? Not working for you?

Shit.

Thanks a lot Kurt. I hope you and Beautiful Treasure and your dinosaurs are happy now.

Anyway, so I'm always checking Vic's blog to see if she has posted anything new because she is so cute and funny and I hate going weeks between new posts from her. Also she has a profile picture of herself wearing really huge sunglasses but when I first saw it I thought she had fly eyes. Go look at it...I'm telling you, fly eyes. Okay, I just went and looked again and really they look nothing like fly eyes and my mind probably just told me that because she's so damn cute and I was jealous of her non-double chin so I made up the fly eye thing to make myself feel better. My point is that I am honored that Vic took the time out of her very busy schedule to write about me and link to some of my own best posts. Vic, I heart you to infinity plus fly eyes.

And then there's Becky (remember the theme song to Maude? Classic). She has me literally laughing out loud (I know she loves that) with every post. I can't decide what I love most about her...she uses great swears, she's totally inappropriate, she makes fun of things other people are afraid to make fun of, she vlogs on days that she hasn't showered....so many awesome things. I've always loved Becky, but now I love her even more because she put boobies all over her blog for me today. Just because I left a comment once asking her to blog about me and to mention titties when she does it. And she did both. I think I'll ask her to send me money and vibrators next. You need to visit her blog today, just so you can see the man boobs picture.

Becky

+

Vic

+

Kurt

+

Me
=

BSGLAPHFF (Best Super Good Looking And Possibly Homosexual Friends Forever)

Things Are Not Funny Over Here Today...So Go Read This Instead

I've got family drama going on at my house this week. I'm not going into it right now, except to say it involves the Kiddo and I just don't know if I want to share. Because of all this drama, I am not feeling very funny. But I know someone who is, right this very minute, extremely hilarious. You have to go read Happy Meals & Happy Hour's post about what happens when your child walks in on you bumping uglies with your husband.

Good stuff.

P.S. I'll be back soon...probably with more awesome stories and lots of swears. Until then, I'm off to contemplate why this shit keeps happening to me. Because I'm just that self-centered.

UPDATED: The Elusive 150th

I've got 148 followers now. I told Captain Carl back in the spring that I wanted to hit 100 by the end of this year, so yea for me! However, I've been hovering around the mid-140's for weeks now and yes, I know it's probably partly somewhat kind of my own fault because I haven't been blogging and commenting much lately. But come on people, I'm still hilarious and awesome even if I'm around less.

So now I'm obsessed with hitting the 150 mark. I mean, Kim has more than 150 now. And Steamy and Vic and Kurt? Well hell, they've already gone way past 200....I'm choking on their follower dust. I'm just as funny and witty and good looking as all of them, right? Okay, maybe not quite as funny but I'm definitely as good looking and probably better in bed than all of them. Just sayin'.

I'm trying to figure out ways to boost my number. I'm pretty sure I need to get more sweary and sexy, which is an almost impossible task because I'm already damn sexy and very sweary. Very sweary. That should totally be a Hubba Bubba gum flavor. Do they still make Hubba Bubba? I chewed a lot of that shit in high school. Probably why I have the clicky jaw now. Thanks a lot Hubba Bubba. You suck. Unless you want to pay me for my soon-to-be-patented "Very Sweary" gum flavor. If you do, I'd like to consult on the wrapper design please....you'll need a catchy phrase to draw the kid's eyes. Like "Now With More Fucks And Shits!" or something like that. I'm pretty much a marketing genius. I'm like the Ted Danson of marketing. I don't even know what that means, but I am.

So back to how I'm going to get my 150th follower. I need suggestions. More renter stories? More renter sex stories? More renter pissing-me-off stories? A picture of Captain Carl smelling his back scratcher?

Ooooh! What if I offer the 150th follower a special surprise? Like maybe they give me the code to their voicemail and I change their message to say something like "This is Miss Yvonne and so-and-so is not available to speak with you. Because he probably can't stand you and saw your number come up and was all 'Oh shit, not that asshole again' and let it go to voicemail. Or because he's busy having sex with your mom. Leave a message, bitch!".

Or I could promise to post a video of me singing "Don't Cha" on drunk karaoke night when I hit 150. Or maybe I could share Captain Carl's recipe for the absolutely best lemon ice box pie you will ever eat in the history of eating pie (that's what she said). Or I could send the lucky follower a present and when they open it, it will be something awesome like a post-it note with a chewed piece of gum stuck to it or a caricature of me drawn by the Captain with me doing something cool like riding a unicycle or using a vibrator and also I'll make sure the package is marked "This box contains really offensive porn and sexy toys".

All that sounds pretty awesome, right? I'm sure I won't have any trouble getting to 150 now. I'll probably hit 170 in no time. And then in a couple weeks when I hit 300, I can be all "Suck it Steamy!" and "In your face Kim!" and "Take that Vic!" and "Bend over Kurt!" which he probably hears all the time anyway. But still.

UPDATE: Well apparently all I have to do is whine enough and I'll get what I want because guess what, y'all?! 150 followers. Boo ya. And what's even more awesome is that my 150th follower is called "vagiunta" which probably stands for something beautiful and meaningful but I'm going to say it's the Spanish word for cooter. That's what you get for following me, vagiunta. Sorry. Not really.

So now I have to get drunk this weekend and have the Captain video me singing "Don'cha". Just to make all my long-time followers happy. So quit yer bitchin'.

Now I'm off to whine about wanting to win the lottery.

I Shoulda Been A Stripper. And Also A Doctor. But Stripper Would Be Way More Fun. Probably.

Hurrah for awards! Hurrah for strippers! Hurrah for combining the two!

Little Miss Blogger apparently thinks so highly of me that she bestowed the I Shoulda Been A Stripper award upon me. Either that or she thinks I'd be really good at working the pole. And I am, baby...I am.

So I'm supposed to list 7 of my personality traits and then give the award to 7 other bloggers and also drive the bus and make sure I keep it above 55 or it will explode. Part of that was probably in a movie. I forget which part. I think it was the personality trait part.

Here's my 7 traits...read 'em and weep. Or be bored. Whichever, I really don't give a fuck.

1. Sweary - fuck you if you don't think that's a trait.
2. Anxious - all the fucking time.
3. Obsessive/Compulsive - this morning I check the freezer in our garage 3 times to make sure the door was shut. Don't even get me started on unplugging my hair straightener.
4. Hilarious - duh.
5. Giving - to a fault, people. To. A. Fault.
6. Did I list Sweary already? Shit.
7. Nice Smelling - okay that might be pushing it for a "trait", but my niece once told me I always smell nice and I will always cherish that as one of my favorite things about myself. So there.

Phew, glad that part is over. Now on to the next part. I'm giving this award to the following bloggers...

Prosy on Toast
Diamond Pewpin' Carnivore
Tater Tots for the Masses
Mean Girl Garage
The World Should Be Moisturized
Cooking Blind
Miss Chief's Blog

Dudes...I've got a new sex toy review coming up soon. It's gonna be awesome. And by "awesome" I mean "extremely uncomfortable to read". So yeah, be on the lookout for that hot mess.

We Have So Much In Common, We're Practically Twins

Last weekend Betsey and her husband traveled to my area of the country to see Depeche Mode in concert. I've been stalking Betsey's blog for a long time now, even though she was all "I found your blog first" last week and I was all "Ummm, no I found yours first" and she was all "Oh yeah" and I was all "In your face! Uh uh uh uh uh!" and she was all "Huh?" and I was all "I forgot we were texting...that was me doing pelvic thrusts" and she was all "Okay soooo, I gotta go" and I was all "Relax! They were victory pelvic thrusts!".

So she had the balls to tell me in the spring that they were coming down in August and I was all excited and clappy but figured she'd forget about me when the day got closer. But she didn't...she emailed about two weeks ago and we made plans to meet up for lunch.

On Saturday the Captain and I met up with Betsey and her Mister at a mexican restaurant that turned out to be the place where the frozen margarita machine was invented. I don't know if that is true, but I do know that they make a kick ass sangria swirl frozen margarita, so whatevs. The Captain and I drank a lot and were pretty much completely in the bag after two hours of eating and talking. I'm sure we came across as super intelligent and great conversationalists. Especially after I spit a chip halfway across the table and then said something like "I told Emo to stop putting the pussy up on a pedestal". Classy, right?

Luckily we had cameras along to document the event. And even luckier, I have photoshop. Because Captain Carl took these pictures and they were a hot tranny mess in their original condition. That man has no photography skills...let's just leave it at that. So I figured as long as I was fixing them, I'd do a little work to make Betsey and me seem a little less, ummm....sloshed. Did it work?


But if I'm going to be honest here, we spent most of our lunch doing this....



No, we are not sneezing. We are laughing. I love having friends I can laugh like this with, especially if we are laughing at Captain Carl and his inability to take a good picture.

So even though Betsey and I look nothing alike and we live in different states and lead very different lives, we actually have quite a lot in common.

Our hair, for instance....

We both have perfect homes and families.

We both have super important and serious blogs.

We both have amazing taste in music.

Isn't it great to meet people and really hit it off and then on top of that, you have so much in common and you are amazed that out of all the people on this planet, you somehow met each other?

I mean, what are the odds, people???

Thank You For Being A Friend, Kiwi. Go To Hell, Prunes.

You know what kind of fruit I love? Kiwi. I love me some kiwi. Kiwi is like the best fruit ever, next to really juicy watermelon. Sorry kiwi, but nothing beats a good watermelon. Other than that, kiwi is my fave.

You wanna know why I love kiwi so much? Too bad I'm telling you anyway, asshole. First of all, the color. A perfect kiwi is the most beautiful green on the planet. I want to paint my bedroom that color, except I already painted it awhile ago and I hate painting so it's not happening. Sorry kiwi. I love all those tiny little black seeds because when you bite into a piece of kiwi, you get a little crunchiness but not too much to make you be all "gross, kiwi's are so obnoxious with all these seeds!". And then there's the flavor. A little sweet and a little tart. sigh. Oh kiwi, you complete me.

But there is one thing I hate about kiwi. The skin. Damn that skin! It's all fuzzy and tough and I'm sorry but how the hell are you supposed to peel a kiwi, anyway? I use a knife and shave it off one side at a time, and by the time I'm done my hands are covered in kiwi juice and those yucky little fuzzy strings from the skin. And hello? you have to peel about 50 of them to get enough kiwi to satisfy your healthy fruit hunger. Are you even supposed to peel kiwi? I used to think that was the only way to eat them, but my mother-in-law told me recently that she just cuts off one end and eats it out of the skin with a spoon. Like the skin's a freaking bowl. Oh let me tell you, my world was rocked by this information. Rocked! Have I been eating kiwi the wrong way all these years? Am I some kind of fruit moron???

Hey, I was listening to the radio this morning and I heard a song called "Birthday Sex". I'm pretty sure this was the exact moment that I officially became old, because I just sat there for a minute with my mouth hanging open and then I shook my head a few times and thought to myself "These are the kind of lyrics that sell these days? Pitiful." Then I grabbed my walker and headed to the refrigerator to get another glass of prune juice.

Prunes. Gross, y'all. When I was in the hospital in college for fighting for my right to party too excessively*, they served me prune pudding at every meal. The first time they brought it, I thought it was chocolate chunk pudding so I was all "This is the best hospital ever!". Then I took a bite and guess what? Not chocolate chunk. Fuck you, prunes! You suck.

Anyway, so I texted Betsey, who probably wishes by now she'd never ever given me her cell number, and told her about the birthday sex song and how old I am (but still awesome and good in bed) and she was all "Me too....we are totally Golden Girls" and I was all "I call Blanche!" because Blanche was the slutty one and also said whatever came into her head which is something I do all the time. Just yesterday I was eating lunch with a couple of my co-workers and we were talking about internet dating and how you need to be careful not to tell them where you live at first, and for some reason I decided to say "I slept with my husband before he even knew my last name or where I lived" and then they stared at me in horror and I was all "What? I was being safe!".

And then Betsey was all "I call Rose!" and I was all "You are soooo Rose" and then she was all "old men love me!" and there might have been some other texts in between those two but I can't really remember because I kind of accidentally hit on her...I was all "duh, you're so cute!" and then I got a little worried that she would think I was trying to set it up to ask about having a sexy hotel sleepover this weekend or something, so I added "I mean that in a non-lesbian way" and she was all "LOL" and now she probably thinks I'm weird. I mean, I AM. Weird, that is. But not lesbian weird. I'm heterosexual weird. Maybe with a little bi-curious weird thrown in.

I just ate the last piece of kiwi....this post is so over.

*I was actually in the hospital for pleurisy, but the other sounds way cooler and also I totally DID fight for my right to party excessively all the time and holy shit! I just combined two awesome songs into one. You're welcome, Beastie Boys and Eddie Murphy.

Just A Little Diarrhea Story

Last weekend I was in Walgreens, picking up my drugs and shopping for cheap nail polish when something really surprising and bad happened. There I was, strolling leisurely through the makeup aisle, trying to decide if I wanted another pink polish or maybe a red one when my stomach started to gurgle. Hmmm, weird. I move on to the hair care aisle and it happened again....gurgling, only this time lower and accompanied by cramping. Ouchy. Guess I better check out, something feels wrong.

So I head back to the pharmacy to get my drugs and pay for the 5 nail polishes I had picked out. I put my basket on the counter and waited while the lady pulled my prescription. Suddenly the cramping came back, and this time I knew what it meant. I was gonna need a bathroom pretty soon. By now the pharmacy lady had found my drugs and had started ringing up all the stupid shit I had thought 5 minutes ago was important but now seemed ridiculous. Who needs 5 nail polishes! What was I thinking! This is taking forever!!

The cramping has picked up the pace and alarm bells are starting to go off in my brain. Hurry! We don't have much time! Bowel emergency! Sweat beads are breaking out on my forehead and holy hell, this is the longest checkout ever. The lady stops while ringing up my nail polishes and says "You really like pink, huh?" and laughs and I'm all "Yep!" but in my head I'm all "I really like bathrooms too...get the lead out, bitch!!".

Finally she finishes and I pay and run/walk to the front of the store while chanting "please please please please please" under my breath. Things are starting to look pretty bad for me and my intestines. I'm 5 miles from home in rush hour traffic, which translates into a 20 minute drive. I take off and am now yelling at myself "You can make it! You can make it!".

Guess what? Red light. Looongggg red light. At this point I've got one foot on the brake and the other braced on the floor, lifting myself up off the seat so I can...ahem...clench. The only word in my head now is "FUCKKKKKK!!!"

I couldn't make it. I had to stop at the first place I saw, an Arby's. I fucking love Arby's. I couldn't believe I was about to defile the Arby's bathroom, but I had no choice. Ever have fast food bathroom diahrrea? Yeah, it's not fun. That's all I'm going to say about that.

So this weekend, the Captain and I are meeting up with this hot lady and her husband for lunch. She's in town for some lame Depeche Mode concert and actually has the balls to not only meet me in person but also GIVE ME HER CELL PHONE NUMBER. I know, right??? That bitch is crazy. I immediately began texting her furiously about clown masks and phone sex (not together...but now that I think about it, that would be pretty awesome). Amazingly, she responded and we've been having a texting battleship war for two days. What's even better is that she told me she also had a public bathroom diarrhea incident this week. We're totally diarrhea twins! But hers was gas station bathroom diarrhea, which is way worse than Arby's bathroom diarrhea. So I am totally winning the diarrhea competition. Wait, maybe there wasn't a competition.

OMG, we should TOTALLY have a diarrhea competition!

Suck On This

I've been meaning to write a post about the penis straws that Kim sent me a couple weeks ago. See, it took me this long to do it because I've been busy hiding them all over the house for Captain Carl to find. For several days now, he's been opening drawers and cabinets and he's all "How many of these fuckers did she send you?" and then I get all giggly and clappy and then I forget about writing my post for a few more days.

But then I realized that Whiskey Girl has not posted yet about the penis straw I sent her and I'm all about winning and in this case, winning means I post about my straws first. Take that, bitch! I say bitch with love, because I really do love you WG. I love you like I love my penis straws...with all my heart and soul and also I might love you so much that I stick you in a frozen margarita this weekend and suck on you all night. Awww yeah. Wait, what?

ahem


So anyway...penis straws. Here are a few of my favorite hiding spots so far.

Kitchen drawer...yes, I know it's kind of dirty. You know what?
Your mom's drawers are way dirtier. Boo-ya.

Refrigerator.
I stuck one in the meat drawer today, but he hasn't found it yet.
heh heh I said meat drawer.

Sweet corn that my Dad sent me from Minnesota.
He'd be so proud if he knew.
Or disappointed.

Toothbrush holder.
I know...I'm a genius.

I may or may not have been drunk when these last two pictures were taken.

A Stainy Anus Of My Very Own

You know how when it's your birthday or Christmas and you ask your parents to get you something really awesome this year, like a Cabbage Patch Doll or a Walkman or the latest Color Me Badd tape and you're pretty sure you are totally getting it and then the happy day arrives and you open your present and instead of the Cabbage Patch Doll, your parents gave you Garbage Pail Kids? And you are a little disappointed at first because you didn't get exactly what you wanted, but then you realize that GPKs are really cool and also pretty gross and therefore are way better than a stupid CPD.

That totally happened to me today.

Steamy over at Steam Me Up, Kid had a giveaway and I entered, even though I knew I shouldn't win because I already won one of her giveaways and I never got the plants she sent me to live so I really didn't deserve to win again. But still! I wanted that Mr. T voice thingy! Well, I didn't win and I found out through Kurt's blog, which is like finding out from your best friend that your husband is cheating on you. I went right over to Steamy's blog to congratulate the winners and also to say I really didn't want her stupid prizes anyway because I heard she wipes them across her vagina before she sends them out.

But then I didn't do that because she gave me Garbage Pail Kids....aka this award.

If you don't know what it is, don't ask.

I don't know if I'm supposed to feel honored, but I totally do. Stainy! My blog is stainy, y'all! This is probably the grossest thing that's ever been on my blog, which also makes it one of my most favoritest things.

Then I went over to Trodo's blog and realized I actually DID win her giveaway...but turns out everyone that entered won, which is like everyone in the state who bought a lottery ticket won and yes I know that was in a movie and I'm pretty sure it was Liar Liar or maybe it was Dumb and Dumber and yes I know it wasn't either of those movies but meh, whatever.

I just know that she's gonna send me that creepy mask thing. I just know it.

It Only Took Me Two Weeks To Make These Masterpieces

I finally finished my personalized cards for all my giveaway winners. Yeah, it took me two weeks to make five cards. Shut up, you don't know me!

So I won't tell you what I wrote in each of them, because it is super awesome and for the winners eyes only and also I can't remember because I finished them last night at midnight and I was really tired and also kind of drunk.

But I did manage to get a picture of the front of each...

For Nikki

For Tracey



For Erin


For Little Miss Blogger

The last one is my favorite. Because of all the penises. It's for Courtney and it really has nothing to do with the gum that she won, but it has everything to do with the fact that I'm sending her one of my penis straws.


With any luck, the gum and the cards will be in the mail tomorrow.

Maybe Tuesday.

Possibly Wednesday.

For sure by Thursday.

Okay, definitely by Friday. Fuck, get off my back already!