Thank you, Internets!

I know it's lazy to just give you a post redirecting you to other things, but this is what I've got right now.



VH1.com Blog

Fact: I've never heard of anyone not liking Biz Markie.




Why was I not made aware of this sooner?

And in further evidence that icanhascheezburger is up in my internets, pwning my life, Jezebel is having an LOLVogue captioning contest. Go look.

I'd forgotten how pervy Paula Abdul's cartoon boyfriend is.

I'm Ready to Love the Beckhams.

The media onslaught has been successful. I have decided to welcome the Beckhams into my heart. And in the case of David Beckham, my crotch.


I just find her refusal to smile so charming!

The Power of Intention -or- Kitten Party!!! A True Story!!!

A lot of the time, I have trouble falling asleep. It used to help to think about interior design, because nothing interested me less and I could bore myself to sleep contemplating duvet covers and decorative tchotchkes. This stopped working for me about a year ago, as I have become dismally domesticated and now find the subject absolutely thrilling. A solution came to me a couple months ago as I lay thinking to myself, "Wouldn't it be, like, the best thing ever to be surrounded by baby animals of all sorts?" I imagined a baby monkey hanging from my neck, a tiny hippo leaning against my back, and kittens. Lots and lots of kittens. It was glorious, and it soothed me into sleep rather quickly. This train of thought has since become my go-to relaxation technique.

On a recent visit to Portland, the dream came true.

We were visiting our buddy Emmett, who took us to his friend's house after a night of well-ventilated bars and charming Puerto Rican strippers. One of the residents of the house informed me that her cat had just given birth, and asked if I would like to see the brand new tiny baby kittens.
Imagine my glee! She took me into her closet, and there they were. Seven adorable kittens, each about the size of a can of tuna, nestled close to their mother, sleeping sweetly. And that was when she started putting the kittens all over me. There were three in my lap, two in my shirt, and one in each hand. It was perfect. And it just goes to show, if you just think about something hard enough, it will totally happen, which is why I need to stop thinking about how raccoons own the night because they have thumbs.

Saturday night I made eye-contact with John Krasinski three (3!!!) times. Whooooooooooooaaaa!!!!
Let's backtrack a little.

So, I was working the box office at Neumo's tonight when my homie, Natalie, informed me that she saw Jim from The Office at The Crocodile yesterday. Apparently he's in town hanging out with Ben Gibbard. Whatever. I promptly freaked the fuck out, because I, like every other woman in America, am completely in love with him.


After I made her tell me everything about it, we realized that he was probably still in town, and maybe he was on the hill. Perhaps at the Cha Cha? And at that magic moment, who should show up but Cha Cha regular Jon Cairns. I asked him if he'd been at the Cha Cha. and if he'd seen Jim from The Office. Jon had no idea who I was talking about. I then asked if he'd seen Ben Gibbard.

"Oh, yeah, " he said. "He's at the Redwood with a couple of other dudes."
"Like, maybe Jim from The Office?"
"Yeah, I guess so."

That was all the information I needed.

Dreamboat!!

The moment I finished my shift, me and Natalie were gone, man. We walked to the Redwood so fast we nearly left our hair behind. We were two women on a mission.

So, we got there and the place was totally packed. My buddy Aaron was checking ID's at the door, and I stopped to talk him up for a minute. But as I was talking to him, I noticed that the man behind him had a very familiar neck. Like, maybe I've seen it every Thursday night at 8:30 for the last three years. That's right. It was the neck of one John Krasinski. Sweeeeeet!!

He was totally posted up, so we didn't get a good look until he went outside to smoke. Natalie and I quickly conferred and decided that the best course of action would be to follow him, as it is not a successful stalking if you don't do some following. So we went outside and that is when we made eye contacts numbers 1 and 2. Eye contact number three came later when we were all back inside, pretending to ignore him again. I cannot tell you what passed between us in those brief moments because it is private and it belongs to me and Jim from The Office. All I'm going to say is that there may have been some eyebrow action. And maybe a touch of fear.

I Hate the Word "Guy"

Last night at work, this drunk dude came up to me and asked, "Would you date a gay guy?" I hesitated. Not because I don't enjoy the company of homosexuals, or because this particular homosexual bore a striking resemblance to Tweedle Dee (or Tweedle Dum, your pick), or even because I am a married, heterosexual woman. I hesitated because I hate the word "Guy." Had he asked me if I would date a gay man, I would have said yes pretty quickly. I feel like the word "Guy" is kind of interchangable with "Douche." This is what happens in my head:

Gay "Guy":


Gay "Man":


And wouldn't you much, much rather go on a date with David Hyde Pierce?

Also, whenever I hear the phrase "Black Guy" it sounds racist to me. Do you know what I mean? So I say we all stop using the word "Guy" whenever possible. "You Guys" is acceptable, I guess, but I really prefer "Y'all". I know, it sounds uneducated, but don't you find it to be infinitely more inviting and (Alright, I have to interject here. I'm barely paying attention to what I'm typing. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is coming out in exactly one week and I can barely contain myself. What am I doing blogging? I should be rereading the book or looking at stills or something!! Next week is going to be so awesooooooooome!!!) personable than "You Guys"? "You Guys" sounds accusatory.




I'm freeeeeakiiiiiing ooooouuuuuuuuuut!!!!

He Can't Feel His Face

The other day I suddenly realized that I have developed a crush on Lil' Wayne. That's right. This guy:


I'll go ahead and say it for you: What in the hell?!?! I must be going through some shit. I think it started when I was at Nail Connection getting my feet did, and I read in GQ that he has "FEAR GOD" tattooed on his fucking eyelids. I got baffled into a crush. This isn't the first time this has happened. Sometimes I just get so confused by everything about a person that I can't stop thinking about them and it turns into a baby crush. The last time this happened was with Batista, the WWE wrestler. I really like it when he unleashes The Animal!!


His job requires that he not wear pants. So grody!

A Mystery is Afoot

Someone shoved a pair of underpants into my mailbox.

Panties, colloquially. Red and pink striped Victoria's Secret panties, size small, specifically. I have composed a list of suspects.

1. The Goth Girl in Apt. 8: Last week, me and my buddy/neighbor Alex were smoking on the balcony when Gothy McSoulisdark forced herself into our conversation. For 20 damn minutes. She was boring and not funny and she wouldn't go away. A couple days later, Alex and I were playing Turner Classic Movies Scene It in Alex's apartment with the windows and shades open. Alex got this clue: "What 1969 movie had the tagline, "One man went looking for America. He never found it." It was Easy Rider, but she wasn't getting it, so to give her a clue I went into the whole "Yip-yip-yip-yip-yip-yip!!!!! Indians." thing (if you don't know what I'm talking about, rent Easy Rider. It's the best damn part of the whole movie). That exact moment, Gothy came out of her place, and hearing my "yip-yip" routine said, and I quote, "What is that, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on crack?!" That, my friends, is not only demonstrative of how not funny she is, it basically amounts to word salad. Then, as her first bout of verbal diarrhea garnered no response from us, she tried again. "Xena Warrior Princess!" We continued to ignore her. The next day she came outside while I was smoking alone. We did not speak.


Could it be an act of vengeful mischief?

2. The Australian: A couple months ago, the Australian called me a stupid bitch for drunkenly blasting Aerosmith at 7am. Is she still mad?


3. Alex: She says she didn't do it, but this kind of seems like the work of a buddy. And look at her! Those eyes are full of mischief!!


4. My husband, Landon: He was the one that "found" the offending underpants.


Seems shifty to me.

5. Caralee McElroy: I can't see any reason why not, and I would like to hear her alibi.


I would love to hear your thoughts on the suspects. Tampering with the mail is a Federal offense!

Mini Donkeys

I have an imaginary pet. It's incredibly convenient. My one bedroom apartment is never too small for her and I never have to walk her. She's an English Bulldog, which would normally run me about $1500, but since she lives in my head, I got to waive that fee. But Miss Nomi Malone just ran into some competition. This week I found out about miniature donkeys.



Now, I love all things tiny. You can increase any object's cuteness by shrinking it. That, my friends, is scientific fact. And while full-sized donkeys are not necessarily cute, miniature donkeys are about the cutest thing since the birth of Cinnamaroll. In Addition!!! there is a mini donkey breeder in Texas that names all of their donkeys after country music superstars!!!!! Whooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaa!!!! I have chosen Aaron Neville as my imaginary pet mini donkey, and I have decided that he and Nomi Malone are BFFs a la Milo and Otis. Awesome!!!!

(little boy included for scale. He is not one of my imaginary pets)

Look how cute they are together!

Labiaplasty

Lately, I've been fascinated with the concept of vaginal reconstructive surgery. Personally, I spend about five minutes a year thinking about my labia, but apparently there are women out there who are so dismayed at the appearance of their "labes" that they will risk losing clitoral sensation to, um, tidy up their boxes. In my attempts to understand labiaplasty I looked at a bunch of before and after pictures, and frankly I am sick of looking at vagi-gis. So here is the closest approximation of a labiaplasty before and after I could come up with without having to use actual vaginas.
Before:

After:


Do you know what I mean?

Bacon Waffles

A couple weeks ago, on the way back from Eastern Washington, me and my buddies stopped for breakfast at a Family Pancake House. I capitalize it because that was the actual name, not just the type of establishment. That's the kind of place I can get behind, y'know? Call it what it is. And they didn't stop winning me over there. The entire staff was Mexican. Not just the cooks, or busboys. Everyone. Well, everyone except for this waiter that appeared to be about eleven years old and had red hair that looked like a hat. Kind of like this:




But, y'know, eleven, and, um, human.

So, we get the menus, and what do i see? Bacon Waffles. Not bacon AND waffles. Bacon Waffles. It's exactly what it sounds like; waffles with bacon crumbled into the batter. Awesome. They also had Ham Waffles, but why get ham when you can have bacon? God, I'm hungry.

Not only were they fucking delicious, they were time efficient to boot!! No time wasted going back and forth; bacon, then waffle, then bacon, then waffle. Bacon Waffle, Bacon Waffle, Bacon Waffle. I'm a busy woman. That's just how I roll.