The clever and quirky title of this blog was also my status on g-chat for about 20 minutes today. 

The following conversation is an example of why I don’t have any normal friends.

L:  okay, i have wondered this for years.
is his head REALLY frozen?
Sent at 2:07 PM on Wednesday

me:  yes, i did it personally

L:  were you even alive when he died?

( five minute break in which I frantically googled “the year walt disney died” and realized there is a website called www.findadeath.com which is a dream for FREAKS like me because you can find all kinds of interesting facts like “Kurt Russel has confirmed a long-standing industry legend…that the last thing Walt Disney did before he died was write the words, “Kurt Russel.”  )

me:  if i can can cryogenicly freeze things does it really matter if i was alive
maybe i just cryogenicly froze myself, then waited until someone invented a time machine then used the time machine to go back and cryogenicly freeze the head of walt disney

it could happen

im just saying

Lauren:  i cant even wrap my mind around that.
Sent at 2:18 PM on Wednesday

me:  I wouldn’t expect you to be able to


Just asking…

Does wondering if I would still love my dog if she only had one eye make me a bad person?


My roommate A. has a dog.  I also have a dog.  The difference is other living beings seem to like my dog. 

Almost every time her dog sees my dog it instantly attacks my dog’s face.  So I guess it is a good thing that she keeps her dog locked in a cage in her closet all day every day (oh, except to take it out to the bathroom and let it run around like the savage that it is and stop to pee three drops in 14 different places in my apartment while A. stands and screams “go to your room, go to your room, I SAID GO TO YOUR ROOM!” and chases it around the dining room table like a scene from I Love Lucy.)

It’s always been a little annoying, but when my dog woke up with a corneal abrasion that was infected (which the vet said was probably caused by rough play with another animal…wonder what little gremlin she could be referring to?) I wanted to put the thing back in the feral cat trap it came from (that is not a joke… the dog was found in a cat trap – you decide its level of intelligence).

So several hours and $178 later, I have to put drops in my dogs eye 4 times a day (because I don’t have to work or anything) and smear some sort of cream that smells vaguely like a bums breath across her eye twice a day. 

But I’m happy to report that the neon green goop in the corner of her eye has now turned a lovely shade of sage green lowering my level of concern from “OH MY GOD MY DOG IS ONLY GOING TO HAVE ONE EYE AND SMALL CHILDREN ARE GOING TO POINT AND SCREAM AT HER FOR THE REST OF HER PITIFUL LIFE!!!” to “eww, this is kind of gross.”

Which is a HUGE relief because why I felt the need to lock  my dog away like Bertha of Jane Eyre would only be a good way to start conversations with men at bars for so long.

This weekend marked 22 years of J.  terrorizing blessing us all with her presence.  Although I guess I’ve really only known her about 5 of those years (and only really liked her about half of that time – JUST KIDDING).

In fact, I’m so fond of the little biddy that I will willingly insult men who can buy and sell me for her sake. 

We happened to be at a bar where nerd and gazillionaire, Mark Cuban was also partaking in some libations.And even though I really couldn’t care less about the guy, apparently I am the only person in the entire population of Dallas who feels that way.  

As soon as we got inside, the Birthday Girl (who had had 3 drinks for everyone else’s 1 at the previous bar) decided she needed to use the ladies room.  I offered to go with her because chicks are often like water buffalo and only go many many places in herds.

Unfortunately, there was a huge crowd of men standing and yelling in our way.  I tap the first one on the shoulder and yell “its my friend’s birthday and she has to go to the bathroom, move!” the guy turns to me and says “Thats Mark Cuban.” I said, “cool…my friend still has to pee, if you’d like to keep your tennis shoes white I’d suggest you move.”

We finally manage to make our way to the bathroom and come across the same problem on our way out.  Some guy turns to me and says, “Hey that’s Mark Cuban.” I open my mouth as wide as it gets with a look of mock suprise and say, “No way, Mark Cuban drinks beer too?!??! People magazine is so right, stars really ARE just like us!” then roll my eyes as dramatically as possible. 

Meanwhile L. ran up to tell me some guy was standing in her way so she pushed him to get by and someone yelled “Hey, you can’t push Mark Cuban.” I guess they didn’t realize that she had just PUSHED MARK CUBAN proving that you can, in fact, push Mark Cuban.

My notoriously boy-crazy roommate A. somehow managed to get invited to an after party where said gazillionaire showed up – alone…without friends…by him self…solo…pathetic, but I suppose more wealthy than I will ever be in my life. 

She sent me a text message to let me know she was there.  I was already passed out in my bed.  You do the math and figure out who got the short end of the stick. 

Long story short, A. woke up at about noon, emerged from her room, and declared “I GAVE MARK CUBAN A FOOT MASSAGE LAST NIGHT.” 

I guess she was expecting me to immediately have an orgasm or something and then murder her Cain and Abel style out of jealousy.  Instead I said, “Ewww” and threw up a little in my mouth because, come on, you know Mark totally Cuban has hairy feet.

 So I suppose the moral of the story is money can buy a lot of things, but at the end of the day, if your feet are hairy you are pretty much shit out of luck.

Actual messages received from my actual friends J (teetering dangerously close to being 22) and L (who has already fallen over the edge) while all three of us were at our full-time jobs:

4:16 pm – J: dude….im listening to the joe jonas song from camp rock
Gotta Find YOu

4:19 pm – L:  icarly came out with a cd

4:35 pm – J: ohhh i love this song
potential break up song by aly and aj

Way to go Nickelodeon and Disney. 

Apparently 20somethings just can’t quit you.

I’m pretty sure that a major television network needs to secretly install a webcam in the corner of my office so that the entire population of the free world (sorry China) can watch me eff things up on a regular basis.  For instance, yesterday this charming sequence of events occurred. 

I boldly attempt to staple a reciept on top of a stack of papers.

The staple goes through on one side but not the other causing the stapler to be stuck to the paper. 

I remove the stapler, spend 5 minutes trying to get the broken part of the staple out and attempt to staple it again.

The stapler again only staples on one side and eats the other half of the staple.

Upon trying to remove said staple bits with a staple puller I somehow manage to launch the staple puller across the room around the other side of my desk.

Being both too lazy and too stupid to stand up out of my chair, walk around my desk and retrieve said staple puller, I scoot in my desk chair all the way around my desk and reach down to pick it up.

I almost fall out of my chair, but manage to maintain my balance long enough for the receipt to fall off of the stack of papers in my lap and blow back under my desk.

Must…..scoot….back…to….other…side…of…desk. (with much effort)

I bend down to retrieve the reciept, once again almost losing balance, even lifting one wheel off the ground.

While trying to scoot backwards to rearrange the mess of papers still in my lap, I realize that my purse has gotten caught underneath said lifted wheel. I stand up to try to fix it (forgetting that there is a stack of papers in my lap) and cover the floor with papers formerly in my lap.

Finally, I stand up to rectify all situations. Purse strap removed – reciept, stack of papers, stapler & staple puller placed on desk.

At this point there is nothing else I can do but sigh sit down, take a few moments to recoup and get back to work.

I boldly attempt to staple a receipt on top of a stack of papers.

The staple goes through on one side but not the other causing the stapler to be stuck to the paper. 

I put my head down on my desk and begin to cry.


In other non-suicide-inducing news… the other girl who works in my office tried to borrow my stapler today and once again the staple goes through on one side but not the other causing the stapler to be stuck to the paper. This is about the time I think… “See, I am not a complete idiot” and begin yelling “I’m the King of the World Rose, the King of the World.”


Then she says, “Why don’t you just trade yours for the one on the front desk. It works fine.”

(This is the part where the web cam catches me in the corner of my office talking to my tape dispenser about how the calculator wants to kill me and routinely pulling out my eyelashes one by one.)

I’ve officially lost interest in Is-He-Or-Isn’t-He guy because he has stopped playing the game.  Probably due to the cold weather, he has settled into a rut of jeans and some type of hoodie jacket or Northface.  Today I stood with my back to him for almost 45 minutes before I remembered to check and see what he was wearing.  Despite his blue Pumas (which were obviously a last ditch effort to force me to judge him) I just don’t have the desire to put in the effort anymore. 

I realease you back to the wild Is-He-Or-Isn’t-He guy. May your life be filled with the judgement of a bitchier bitch than me.

My roommate A. sometimes goes on these things called “dates.” I, on the other hand, often lay around the common areas of our apartment in various states of hangover (both food and booze induced) and watch really, really awful television.

Classic Example.

This Sunday, I had spent most of the day on the couch alternately watching Intervention, Wizards of Waverly Place, and True Life.  I’m not proud to admit it, but at one point I set the DVR to record the movie “My Boss’ Daughter” starring THE Ashton Kutcher and America’s Sweetheart, Tara Ried.  It was that kind of day and I wanted you to get the full impact. 

Eventually our other roommate L. decided to get out of her bed and be productive (read: move to the couch and yell at the TV with me).  

Everyone who is anyone knows that Sunday was the premier of the new holiday family classic “Britney: For the Record.” At some point A. had come out of her room and said something along the lines of “Blah, Blah, Blah, boy, Blah, Blah, Date.” At which I almost threw up in my mouth because… HAVE YOU EVER EATEN A DATE???  If not, let me terrorize your senses for a moment.  It tastes a little like a raisin.


Plus, people are always putting them in weird shit like fruit cakes.  And if there is one thing I hate it is when people mess up perfectly good cakes with fruit. 

Anyway, right about the time that L. and I start giggling and repeatedly yelling “sprinkle cheese” because Daddy Spears has spoken the words of the gods, A. brings her date up to our apartment.  My intial response was to lift the blanket covering my legs and make sure I was wearing pants.  Leggings… damn, guess that is close enough.

She introduced us to him and I said “shhhh Britney is on.” then I turned to the fellow and asked “do you like Britney?” he said “no” and I said “you are a fool” and returned to pretending that he didn’t exist. 

I continued to yell “sprinkle cheese” until Brtiney informed us all that the Paparazzi stole her “cool slang” from her.  At which point I let about 15 really offensive comments slip out of my mouth.

He was petting my dog and asked what her name was.  I said, “Cricket. Careful, shes kind of a slut.” A. almost immeidately said, “uh, this is my room, lets go in there.”

You’d think she was ashamed of me or something. 

Its all cool though, because her dog threw up on the guy right after they went into her room, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.

I can’t help it. I’m just living life like a karate kid.