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Every morning I start my day off pretty much the same.  Turn on my computer, fill my oversized mug to the brim with coffee, and check to see what I missed on Google Reader since 6 PM the following day (I know, hard hitting stuff right?).

This morning I was excited to see an article featuring Catcher In the Rye titled

20 books every ‘tween and teen should read before they hit 16

I generally consider myself pretty well read so I did what any intellectual would do and hit the link to see the full list so I could feel superior to all of the plebeians who haven’t read C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (which wasn’t even on the list, making me glad that the generation after us is projected to have a shorter lifespan than we are).

And here’s where I have to take a minute.  The original post was on a design blog, which I thought was kind of weird, with a link promising to show me the full list on their sister blog, a mommyblog which… ew. BUT THEN THAT LINK OFFERED TO TAKE ME TO ANOTHER SIGHT DISCLOSING THE WHOLE LIST.  Anyway, four clicks later (and about 7 eye twitches) I get to the actual list and its from an article on freaking CANADIAN FAMILY MAGAZINE. And now I’m totally paranoid that Steve Jobs is just playing a mean prank on me because he knows that I only ever download the free song of the week on iTunes.

Back to the point:

Who even CARES what CANADA thinks kids should read?!! UGGGGHHHHHH.

I wasn’t even sure they even COULD read and then I figured they only looked at picture books about hockey and fur trapping or something.

I digress.

Because I am openly pathetic I decided to check out the list anyway so I could prove that I’m way more awesome than everyone else.  Only I quickly realized I hadn’t read most of the books which made me feel like a complete failure because my tween years are long gone and I’ll totally have to spend the rest of my life creating a time travel device or finding and conning someone into letting me use their time machine so I can go back to when I WAS a tween and then instead of doing something important like refusing to get that gross hair cut in 7th grade I’ll just have to read like 14 books because Canada said so. And I was really pissed about all of that UNTIL…

I got to the very end and saw this:

slideshow image

And then I remembered that this is why I had invalidated the list in the first place and haughtily went back to my Google Reader to check for some celebrity gossip.

In other news I am destined today to log on to facebook and discover that someone I knew in high school has decided to name their child “Slake”
and MAN will I have a aneurysm then! (and a good laugh).

Obviously, it’s been quite some time since I’ve written here so I was surprised to find a few drafts saved from awhile back.  Please enjoy:

 

Mom was in town last weekend and per usual, convinced me to spend some of my hard earned money on stuff I absolutely do not need.  This weekend’s addition was patio furniture.  I know what you are thinking – E, if you didn’t at least SORT of want it, you wouldn’t have bought it right? 

WRONG.

My mother has these mystical powers in which she badgers you for hours on end to do something so dumb (like move your bed out into the living room, just to see what it would look like) and then she leaves and you think you can return to living life like a regular person except CRAP, your BED is in your LIVING ROOM. And you are too embarrassed to ask your neighbor to help you move it because they will think you are into something kinky and when you mutter something about “my mom made me do it” it just makes it sound EVEN WORSE. 

Anyway… patio furniture. So on Sunday I went for a nice little run, took a nice little shower, took a book out onto my balcony to enjoy my brand new patio furniture.  About a half a page into my book I realize some wine would be lovely.  So I go to get some and hey, neat, somehow I managed to lock myself out on my balcony.  

I call my next door neighbor because for some reason I had brought my keys out with me and I asked if she could come and let me in.  After pelting her with my keys, and 10 minutes of… “any minute shes going to walk through that door…. any minute…. AAAAAAnnnnnyyyy minute.”  SHIT. I remember that I had dead bolted not one but BOTH of my front doors.  

The neighbor helps me call our management company while laughing and pointing at how stupid I am.  They reply that this is SIMPLY not an emergency and they will get to it when they can. Maybe in an hour or so.  

This is when I realize that my neighbor is on a date.  I can say this with confidence because her date scales the wall of my apartment like a spider monkey and tries to jimmy open my door while I try and pretend that I’m NOT wearing Halloween boxer shorts in the middle of June and there’s TOTALLY a bra under this oversized t-shirt. 

So the date eventually discerns that my bedroom window is unlocked but he can’t climb over to it without falling to his death, and hey, I’m a reasonable person, so I only asked him to try 2 or 3 times before agreeing with him.  

We do the only thing we can think of and call 911.  

BECAUSE THIS WASN’T ALREADY EMBARRASSING ENOUGH. 

The fire department arrives dressed in their full gear carrying axes (I guess they were ready to chop my door down if need be?) and when we explain the situation to them they all look stunned…. as if to say “ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME?”

Eventually I was rescued from my balcony, without making eye contact with a single fire fighter and promised to make them all cookies (which I later delivered to the wrong crew) and immediately called my mom. 

“I am never listening to you again”

“What?”

“I was just stuck on my balcony for 3 hours”

“So then you really DO like the new patio furniture huh”

click.

Chickens.  

My mom and stepdad have recently decided that instead of one of those silly banks, they’d like to sink their retirement into a “farm.”  Yes, that’s right Concord, TX – you are the new home of two complete nuts and one 14-year-old miniature dachshund! I’ll give you a minute to savor that.

My Uncle Bubba- who is the type of guy that says “warshin’ machine” and teaches his 5-year-old son to go frog gigging and therefore totally deserves to have a farm – had recently bought 12 chickens assuming that only 4 or so would live.

Up to this weekend he had 10 hens pecking around and promised my mom that she could have any survivors over the 4 he intended to keep.  I don’t think my mom has ever been so happy – including the time the doctor who delivered me checked and reported that yes, I was indeed a girl. 

We went to visit the chickens  and I could see the sheer joy and greed oozing out of my mothers eyes as she counted them.  

Unfortunately, there were only 9 full chickens hunting and pecking about and one pair of chicken feet sticking straight out of the ground.  

(Please do not ask me how a chicken burys itsself in the ground – I don’t even WANT to know what kind of kinky stuff was going on in that hen house)

Mom was still satisfied with 5 chickens and was walking around talking about how she was building nesting boxes and had a basket picked out to collect eggs in when the neighbor’s dog scampered over, snatched a chicken, and ran off into the woods like the happiest little bandit that ever lived. 

Moral of the story is – if my mom can’t even keep chickens alive when someone else is taking care of them…

Looks like we won’t be having fresh eggs anytime soon is all I’m saying.

A few months ago I decided I needed a puppy to fill the void in my life caused by having no soul, no real friends, and no man.  So I adopted a lab mix who used to be a stray- which could have turned out disastrous but fortunately we happen to have the exact same lifestyle.

By that I mean she often sleeps through major life events, needs to lay down to finish breakfast, and circles rooms full of people asking for belly rubs.

So in short, we are like a dog-human dream team.

Since I do love the little bitch, I decided to do the responsible thing and get her fixed last Saturday.  She has pretty much been asleep ever since except for a teensy-weensy little complication which I don’t want to describe in detail because some people (me) vomit at the sight of stuff like this but was bad enough to send my room mate into a frenzy of alternately screaming “OH MY GOD” and “TAKE HER TO THE VET.” And causing me to yell back “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M GOING TO DO WITH HER ASSHOLE?!??!”

So I take her to the vet, drop her off, and again… START CRYING. 

(Note from the author: If you actually knew me you’d be all “what the heck, this bitch doesn’t even have emotions, let alone tear ducts, why is she lying about all these crocodile tears.” but seriously… I have cried twice this week which is more than I have cried in the last 6 months. So suffice it to say THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME AND I HAVE A FEELING ONLY VODKA IS GOING TO BE ABLE TO FIX IT).

I realize all of the sudden… SHIT I really love this little bitch ( its not a curse word if you are talking about a female dog, so I am going to use it as often as possible in this post). So I spend the whole day worrying and Vet #1 calls me back.

Vet #1: So your dog has some mild tartar that’s going to need to be looked at in the next 6 months or so (I start thinking, if he’s talking about mild tartar she is totally fine) OH AND SHES GOING TO DIE. I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOUR DOG, but death is certainly near.  You should probably ask if Death’ll just put you our of your misery while he’s hanging around.*

(note: this may not be an actual transcript.)

Then he says, if you really care about her, take her to see Vet # 2. So I pay my $70 and take he to Vet #2 the next day.

Vet # 2 says: “Here is a list of the 217,694,206  things that could be causing this complication. I don’t really think it IS any of those things for these very specific reasons.  So you have two options… you can do these $1,100 worth of test just to rule out all that stuff I said it probably isn’t, or you can take her home and watch her for a week… I bet it’ll just go away.”

At this point I’m just staring at the dude with my mouth open thinking “PEOPLE PAY YOU FOR THIS, AND ARE YOU SINGLE, ALTHOUGH I’M PRETTY SURE YOU JUST TOUCHED MY DOG INAPPROPRIATELY, AND IM NOT SURE I’M OKAY WITH THAT, AND SHE’D PROBABLY BE PISSED AT ME FOR TRYING TO STEAL HER NEW BOYFRIEND ANYWAY, AND WHEN SHE GETS PISSED SHE EATS MY SHOES AND I THINK YOU ARE GREAT BUT I JUST GOT SOME REALLY SASSY NEW BOOTS AND SHES TOTALLY GOT HER EYE ON THEM, AND DO YOU THINK I’D LOOK BETTER IN A VEIL OR A TIARA AT OUR WEDDING?”

So I told him, I love my dog, but I’m choosing the second option and keeping the $1,100 he thinks I have in the imaginary bank where they belong.

For those of you out there going “OH MY GOD, you are a selfish bitch.” Yes, I am, but this isn’t a good example of why. You’ll be pleased to know the decision was actually far more educated than that and my dog is fine, the complications DID clear up on their own. 

And to further prove my point, when my friend P. called last night to see if I wanted to go out with him I said no. Then I spent the rest of the night waking up every 20 minutes all “OH MY GOD MY DOG IS DEAD” and then sitting up and shaking her until she looked at me like “WTF, this is really getting old.”

(and getting texts from a guy I once made out with at 11:45 at night that just said “what are you wearing?” If any dudes are reading this – THAT IS CREEPY. DON’T DO THAT. Even if you HAVE already had your tounge in her mouth at some point. But that is neither here nor there.)

The moral of the story is Bob Barker is an asshole… don’t have your pets spayed or neutered.*

*have them spayed and/or neutered just expect life-changing and terrifying consequences that could cost you upwards of $1100.

questions1

I just discovered this website called WikiAnswers (by googling “that stupid quote about letting love go and it coming back again and then you had it, or you lost it or something like that”). And let me tell you my friends, I think this is the place for me. 

Essentially anyone with a connection to the internets or access to a public library can ask questions and anyone else with the same luxuries can answer them.  I immediately though…”I am never going to be able to work again because I am going to be answering  ‘Would Chris Brown wanna git wit a eleven year old?’ all day every day from now on.”

Then I realized you have to register for something and that sounded like it would take time, and I don’t have room in my inbox for junk mail from wikianswers because it is full of junk mail from Pottery Barn and Bluefly already.  So I decided to treat you, dear reader,  to the answers to 4 of the questions that I deemed interesting enough to answer.  Enjoy.

Q:  HOW DO YOU BECOME NOT TICKLISH?

A: I think you begin by learning to compose a proper sentence.  I hear they also make a cream for that these days. Its French I believe.  Just google “french tickler.” You are welcome.

Q: TYLER PERRY’S HOUSE OF PAYNE?

A: I am sorry to admit that I, nor anyone on the planet, have any answers for this question.  It is an enigma like “What is Shanae Grimes on? (And can I have some)” or “Does God have feet?” I just wanted you to know that you are not alone.  We are all just as confused as you are as to why movies where men dress up as fat women are so popular. I do offer my most sincere apologies.

Q: WHAT DO THIRTEEN YEAR OLDS WANT?

A: Thirteen year-olds, like any children, all want the same thing.  To make your life as sticky, noisy, and miserable as possible.  They will use all of your money, eat all of your food, yell at you, and eventually crush your very soul. But then some day they will turn 18 and demand that you spend every last penny that you have in order to send them to college where they will probably do all kinds of reckless things like binge drink, pierce body parts, and make out with frat boys in the “secret room” at the Halloween party.

(Note from the author: I’d like to take this opportunity to congratulate my friend ashley who is knocked up!! I’m sure YOUR kid will be different… just keep them away from me…seriously…I’m begging you, I’ll pay…BIG.)

Q: WHY DO PEOPLE HATE EMOS SO MUCH?

A: My mother once told me in a life-altering email:

“[Life] is not a beauty contest- maybe [that girl who is really fug that you were talking mad shit about] is beautiful on the inside- WHERE IT REALLY COUNTS. Didn’t you learn anything by watching that old TV show with Tuti, JO (the tomboy), and about 5 others, one was really pretty and rich (she is today a Christian speaker, living in Mt Pleasant TX, I hear her on the radio sometimes), one black, one chubby, they all lived in a boarding school with an older woman,  and others- it came on around the time of Different Strokes but I can’t remember the name of it.    I’m sure Gilmore Girls addressed this issue too….

If you can think of the show let me know, it is driving me crazy.
MOM

I think, what my mother is trying to say here, is that people hate emos because they are ugly on the inside. 

I personally believe it is also because they have chosen Pete Wentz to be their king.  We’ll categorize that as “poor decision making skills.”

This weekend I was given free basketball tickets by my dad (who I’m sure did not intend for me to  make a cocktail out of wine and beer beforehand and continue to drink my way through 4am).  I decided to offer them up to Ex-boyfriend’s Good Friend.  Who was also a good friend of mine in college and just moved to Dallas.  This was both the best and worst decision I have made since I decided to go to Mexico for a friends wedding and leave all of my luggage in Austin (true story for another time and place.)

Ex-boyfriend’s Good Friend and I have always had a bit of strange chemistry, but I was always Ex-boyfriend’s Girlfriend and he was his Good friend, so obviously we kept our hands to ourselves and played nice.  But I think we all knew what we were getting ourselves into when he accepted the ticket.  I also took  J. and my ginger-friend P.

Everything was great FOR THE FIRST TWO MINUTES OF THE GAME when ExBf’sGF asks me “so are you and Ex-boyfriend cool now or…?” I can hear J. giggling over my shoulder because she knows I now have to have the awkward conversation of  “no, in fact if that asshole was on fire in a puddle of gasoline, I’d probably spray him with jet fuel, but some sort of hybrid slow-burning jet fuel because he took my heart and tore it into tiny little pieces and then used those pieces to spell ‘and I’m taking your dog too but lets still be friends which means I’ll never speak to you again and you will always feel really stupid that you believed me'” (In reality I said, “No, not really, I’ve only talked to him once since…uh, you know”).

We get through the rest of the game  slightly less awkwardly and decide to head to a local bar to meet up with another one of Ex-boyfriend’s Friends who is actually really helpful in easing the tension as he doesn’t ask anything about Ex-boyfriend or why Ex-boyfriend’s Good Friend and I are making bedroom eyes at one another.

(typically when I run into anyone who knew me in college the conversation goes like this. They are all “oh my god, how are you? You used to be so cute in college, but I guess we’ve all seen our better days.” And I grudgingly reply “Thanks, it must have been the meth addiction.” then they are always like “WHAT?!?!” and then I say, “nevermind” and they say, “By the way, how is Ex-boyfriend?” and I say “Dead hopefully.” And they are all “WHAT?!?!” and then I’m like “Just kidding. We broke up last year, but I do hope he has a seriously painful case of the herp. Well, hope I see you again sometime soon!”)

So J and L (who joined us for the drinking portion of the evening) decide to go home in this fashion – “OK BYE WE ARE LEAVING. REALLY TIRED. YOU STAY. STAY AND HAVE FUN. E. SIT, STAY, GOOD GIRL. BYEEEEEE.” Then they threw me a treat and peaced out.

So I ended up at 4 am with Ex-boyfriend’s Good Friend on the balcony of Ex-boyfriend’s Other Friend’s town home. And he is all “You know you are making this really hard right?”

I bat my eyes (or maybe I just couldn’t keep the right one open at the same time as the left one) and say “But I don’t know what you are talking about.”

He says “I can’t date you, because I have to be a good friend to Ex-boyfriend.” And I provide him with a bunch of rational (read: drunk-ass) reasons why that is stupid.  Then because I am SO smooth with the gentlemen.

I START CRYING.

So he says “don’t do that” reaches in to give me a hug, and then defies all laws of nature and starts making out with me. Which was a very pleasurable experience for 37 seconds until we were interrupted by a girl who had asked me earlier if he and I were dating because we were “the cutest couple.” I shot across the 3×5 balcony like the wall was made of Snickers and I hadn’t eaten in a week.

Long story short.  The next morning I talked to him to make sure he wasn’t like OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!??!??!!! And he was like “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” I didn’t think it was the appropriate time to tell him I totally plan on designing a jet pack by then, so I don’t ever have to cross any bridges because they REALLY freak me out. So I just smiled and said “OK.”

I’m sure the next time we hang out I’ll get drunk and ask him if he thinks “ex-boyfriend will actually come to our wedding or if he’ll just send a really shitty present.” and he’ll be like, “I think ex-boyfriend would at least send a nice present.” and I’ll disagree heartily because Ex-boyfriend has horrible taste and I used to pick out that kind of stuff.  Then he will run screaming from my apartment because I will officially have driven him insane. 

Welcome to my world.

The Return of The Mack

Ok, I know I released Is-he-or-isn’t-he-guy to the gods of Bitchier Bitches than me… but I think playing hard to get actually worked. 

This week it was REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY EFFING cold at the Auction.  So I was wearing approximately 97 articles of clothing and had about half an inch of my face  showing. 

This is the day that Is-he-or-isn’t-he-guy decides to make his move.  He comes over and blatantly ignores me and says to my dad “Nice coat, are you gay now or something?” Swoon.

Then my dad points out that the hat he is wearing looks like something his blind grandma knit for his sister once (which, in all honesty, was less of an excellent insult and more of an accurate description).  Then Is-he-or-isn’t-he-guy smiles directly at me, WINKS…and returns to ignoring me for the rest of the day.

Oh, its so on Is-he-or-isn’t-he-guy. Its SO on.