Posts Tagged ‘haha’

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.”


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.

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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.


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.


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.


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.)


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.

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.”

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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.


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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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Part of my job requires me to go to the Dallas Auto Auction once a week and be groped by the eyes of approximately 4,000 dirty old men of varying age, race, and sizes.  Awkward…Did I mention that I attend with my father? Awkwarder…

On occasion some yummy little delight emerges from the 3,999 other fellas to catch my attention.  Recently we relocated and I now find myself back to back with the “Is-he-or-isn’t-he” Guy.  If you have ever been sitting at a Chili’s with your mom while she talks incessantly about the new American Girl doll and stared at some guy across the booth while gnawing on your baby back ribs with a quizzical expression on your face, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about. 


Well this was week three of the little game that “Is-he-or-isn’t-he” Guy and I play that I like to call, “Could you possibly turn me off more, and do you want to go make out?”

The first week, “Is-he-or-isn’t-he” Guy brought out the “hey look, I’m normal” card by wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  He is tall, and has a well-sculpted body.  In addition, we are in the same bizarre line of work, so I thought that could be fun. (As in, when people don’t believe what I do, at least I can turn to him and roll my eyes as if to say, “imbeciles!”)

Score: Is He: 1; Isn’t He: 0

The following week “Is-he-or-isn’t-he” Guy slipped a few notches. In what I can only assume was a shortage of time to get ready in the morning, he put together an outfit consisting of cutoff cammo cargo shorts and a t-shirt.  I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you gasping through the computer screen, you must not have read that correctly.  I SAID CUTOFF CAMMO CARGO SHORTS. 

Score: Is He: 1; Isn’t He: 1,647,286

Then he smiled at me and introduced himself and I had to adjust the score a little.

Score: Is He: 1; Isn’t He: 1

This week, he really outdid himself as showcased in the following series of text messages with J.

November 12, 2008 10:17 AM

Cammo cargs is wearing basketball shorts today…in public…where no sport is being played.  This is getting redic.  What will he be wearing next week?!?!?!

From J:

Nov 12, 2008 10:19 AM

I would say god only knows but somehow i don’t think god has anything to do with this. Hes always struck me as a man of style.

[Note from the author: I think J. is talking about god being the one who has great style as she has never met the “Is-he-or-isn’t-he” Guy. Which could be true, I think I saw a pair of Prada sandals once that looked exactly like the ones that Jesus is wearing in The Last Supper.  I mean, I know that is God’s son, but no matter how hard you try, your values rub off on your kids.  Also, I’ve never seen God’s feet which leads me to believe he doesn’t have any, and therefore cannot wear Prada sandals, poor guy.)

Score: Is He: 1; Isn’t He: 2

Tune in next week when I report again on what a virtual stranger is wearing and whether or not I think it is absurd.

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