A triumphant return…?

Other than this photo of me at the office, nah, not really. But at least it’s a return in some form. Over the past few months, I’ve been trying to convince myself to start this thing up again. But it’s been half a year, and after a while you start feeling like you should reappear with something spectacular. Like the time Papa went to “work on the railroads” and “absolutely not visit his secret family.”

We got some amazing presents that year. But now, this woman named Sheila keeps calling me. She’s a bit of a rambler, so I usually just write my grocery list and mindlessly agree with everything she says. Though, now that I think of it, she does talk about kidneys a lot. I don’t know why, but I’m glad, because it always reminds me to buy beans.

So much has happened since May, but I’ll have to ease into it slowly. (Heh.) A little preview of things I may or may not elaborate on: Mimi gettin’ REAL sassy, Kelly’s discovery of new ways to respond to serious questions with, “I KILL WHITE WOMEN,” my paying off over half of my student loans, and of course, the time my entire apartment flooded with poo water.

Delicious!

Germination

Remember when this blog was all about how I didn’t know what I was doing with my life, but I DID know that I absolutely should not get knocked up?

Well, apparently it’s come full circle. Yes, I’m pregnant. With employment!

When I first graduated from school, I had a dream that my creativity, coupled with a complete lexicon of dick jokes would lead me to be instantly hired. Well, it didn’t quite turn out that way.

On May 15th, it was officially a year since I received my degree in advertising. And miraculously, on May 14th, I received a job offer. A job within a year of graduation. This was an actual goal that I actually met. I’m a little shocked myself. Now, if only some of those same “mysterious ways” could work on my long-standing desire to become a contortionist. Nah, wait, no I don’t want to do that. I’d really rather have a magic spell that allows me to harness the powers of self-tanner without becoming orange. Or, maybe I’d rather be a man for a day. Just to see what it’s like, geez. A wise man once told me, “DON’T SQUEEZE!” I’d like to find out once and for all if he was just being a baby about it.

On or around Memorial Day, I will officially begin my career as a copywriter. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this now. One positive change it has already inspired: I’ve decided it’s time to put stuff on my walls. Seriously, who doesn’t have anything on their walls? I’ve been here since last October, and it looks like a nun lives here. You know, except without all those crucifixes and dumb curtains they wear as dresses. And also, my browsing history is a clear sign that no one of any very strong faith goes here.

For the record, the title of this post was originally “Remember that time I mistook Stevie Nicks for Euronymous?” Why? Because it’s something that happened while I was thinking of a title. Poor Ms. Nicks. In her defense, there were lots of lights, and it was a photo taken from far away. She just looked really menacing.

A Little Gamey

If your dog ever catches a cat unawares at 5:37 a.m., and it’s dark out and they seem to be fighting over a brown napkin, and you think, “What is that, a napkin? I guess I shouldn’t be too worried about her putting that in her mouth,” know that you are, in fact a dumb bitch.

Because, dumb bitch, that is no napkin. That is, in fact, a live squirrel.

And of course, you’ve never dealt with your dog mouthing a live squirrel before, so you do what comes naturally—use that long rope around your canine’s neck to shake her head violently until the dying creature is released.

I stared at the squirrel, the dog stared at the cat, and the cat stared at me like, “HEY ASSHOLE. You think you can do something about YOUR FUCKING DOG? She’s kinda ruining my FUCKING GAME.”

I quickly followed the cat’s suggestions once I was liberated from the hypnotic writhing of that doomed rodent.

Despite Mimi’s many achievements, I’ve never seen her prouder. This moment, in her eyes, outdid them all. She practically floated home. I, on the other hand, was a little shaken up.

Thankfully, I had some tender puppy mouth-kisses waiting at home.

Gotta Have My Blisters

I’ve been feeling a little “off” over the past few days. Not sick, just not functioning at maximum capacity. This morning (1:15 p.m.), I woke up wanting popcorn. So, that's what I had.

If you think about it, it’s not that strange. Lots of cereal is made from corn. But OH NO, it’s not breakfast unless it’s wrapped up in a colorful box and forced onto you by some overly suspicious, under blemished adolescents.

Remember?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, if you want popcorn for breakfast, and you only make it on the stove, make sure you get dressed BEFORE introducing hot oils to your nearby crotch-level surroundings.

We almost had another Fried Egg Incident of ’04 on our hands. Thank god I tucked.

Food Poisoning? (Part 1?)

Last night, Kelly and I went to Field of Greens for dinner. Actually, we got Field of Greens to go. Mimi (the pooch) had been in the crate all day, and I knew I’d just get so worried about her while I was actually sitting and eating in an actual restaurant that I’d make myself sick.

Well, I guess that initial worrying about the worrying was enough to do it. Or, it was the food. Shortly after devouring my soup and sandwich combo, I began to feel sort of sick. Which quickly escalated to a medium-grade terribleness.

I propose we put on our detective hats, consider the facts, and find out together whether I was poisoned. Food poisoned. (Food poisoning? That’s about the EASIEST way to poison someone. But I’m glad I wasn’t stricken with something more inventive. Like, ugh, tampon poisoning. Wait, that exists. THIS WORLD IS GROSS.)

OK, the facts. Sort of.

Kelly got the vegan bbq sandwich with french fries, and I got my semi-new favorite: Wild Field Pockets (or WYLD FIELD POCKYTS, if you like your pita sandwiches with a little more Bill and Ted flair. I do, personally, but I order it on the side.)

I know, you’re thinking—“A Wild Field Pocket. What is that?” My first guess was the vag of a dirty farming woman. While eating one of those may or may not make me sick, the Wild Field Pocket that actually may or may not have made me sick was a whole wheat pita filled with ham and chicken (both soy), shitake mushrooms, crispy tofu, tomato, guacamole, garlic sauce and sprouts.

Now, you’re thinking—“Wait. You’ve eaten that before and you didn’t get sick?” Precisely. This sandwich sounds strange, but is strangely awesome. I don’t usually eat at Field of Greens because it’s expensive and most of the food is based around soy meat products. While I try to keep these foods to a minimum in my diet (since, let’s face it, they’re still processed foods), I really REALLY appreciate them every once in a while.

OK, facts:
*I ate the vegetable barley soup
*I ate a Wild Field Pocket
*I asked for the Wild Field Pockets to be made vegan (in case you’re thinking some mayo slipped in. I doubt it.)
*Kelly didn’t get sick (this is important, because I ate some of his fries. I know, I know, how girly of me to order soup and then snag the boyfriend’s fries. Well, I always eat some of his fries—even when I order my own. It’s not as much a girly thing as it is a bitch gets hungry and bitch love fries thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go watch a Lifetime movie while doing Pilates/kegel exercises.)

And one more fact, a fact I have concealed from you, but hinted at for what seems like CENTURIES now. Wild Field Pockets. Wild Field PocketS. That’s right—there were two. One destined for my horrible bowels, one destined for the garbage. Or was it?

Any person in their right mind would have disposed of the second sandwich, assuming it would land them in the same painful position they had been in some mere hours before. But I am not that person.

What can I say? They’re delicious. So, I guess we didn’t need to be detectives after all. If the Wild Field Pocket did it, I’ll let you know in “Food Poisoning? (Part 2).”

Facts:
*I am a nasty bitch.

How to not become a fat hairy loser

1. Do not get a Super Nintendo Emulator.
My cousin, who is exactly 18 days older than me, is making plans to buy a townhome. I, on the other hand, spend my days making plans to defeat simulated monsters. Why? Iunno. BEATS DOIN’ STUFF. At least I’m not out getting into trouble, Mom. Also, let's try a little less naggy, a little more cookies. Speaking of which…

2. If you must eat cookies/ice cream/potato chips, use a plate/bowl/napkin.
This is one of those food rules that I know but always ignore. Why? CUZ FOOD RULEZ! (Oh. Man.) Here’s the deal: You’re supposed to put a reasonable amount of whatever nutritionally questionable item you’re craving in a reasonably sized serving dish. That’s it. It’s an extra step, I know, but it will save you calories, money, and in many cases, embarrassment. Of course, I prefer to just bring face to bag/carton/container. Like a feedbag. That’s not disgusting, right? At least it helps me avoid that problem I have where I get too excited about what I’m eating and I start missing my mouth-hole. I try not to think of it as a socially crippling handicap, but more as a special talent.

3. If you don’t drink soda, don’t start.
It’s bad for you. There’s nothing good about it. It’s like a sweet, syrupy addiction cobra, coiled and ready to pop out at you whenever salty foods are present. And if you consider my potato chip/french fry/popcorn addiction, that my friend, is one dangerous snake. It’s been almost 24 hours since I had my last fix. The only thing pulling me through is the thought of a better life. That, and all this heroin.

4. Get your hair cut professionally.
My DIY haircuts don’t look bad. Well, the boyfriend might tell you otherwise, but I’m fine with them. It’s all those tiny hair remnants all over the sink, the floor and my poor, poor body that are the problem. If you’ve never experienced the horrible irritation of tiny hairs under your bra straps all day, I pray you never do. It actually makes me a bad person. Seriously. I’m pretty sure itchiness is the real root of all evil. These hairs make me want to get married just so I can beat my wife. Instead, I suppress my urges for spousal abuse and go with the lazier/more realistic approach: Naked emulator time.

More like Pervco

Every time I go into that Petco off of Shepherd, there is always some smarmy raver burnout trying to hustle my treats. And I’m not talking about the same person, either. There is always one of them. Maybe it’s a job requirement. “Clean aquariums. Check. Feed hamsters. Check. Hassle woman trying to buy doggie chew toys while stealing brief glimpses at her crotch. Check.”

I went in a couple days ago with the new pooch, Mimi. The store was relatively empty. NOTE—Though it’s quiet and relaxed, this is when you need to be most on guard. The lecher will feel free to harass you from aisle to aisle. First you’re thinking, “I can’t make an informed decision about tennis balls when I’m trying to pretend I’m listening to the shit coming out of this guy’s mouth while simultaneously covering all my lady parts with my arms, purse, sweater, etc.” Then it really sinks in that no one else is there. And then you start picturing the worst-case scenario. “It’s my word against yours, lady. Unless your dog is gonna start talking any time soon.” And unfortunately, this isn’t a Busch’s Baked Beans commercial. This is your life. He’ll simply wipe away the DNA and go back to feeding guinea pigs.

So, you can imagine how shocked I was when my trip the other day was actually pleasant. I browsed the leashes and toys for about a half hour without being bothered once. And as I approached the register, it was nice to see another woman in line. She was tall, blonde, slim and pretty. I’m not going to be rude about it, but let’s just say the man at the register was about as opposite from her as you could get. (Normally, there would be no point in bringing that up—it makes me sound like a nasty bitch. But I’m setting a scene here.) Then I stumbled upon the end of this amazing conversation:

Woman: Yeah, I get Cameron Diaz a lot.
Hobbit: (incoherent mumbling)
Woman: OK, thanks. (lifting 50 lb. bag of dog food)
Hobbit: You need any help, or you just gonna huff it?
Woman: I got it.

He was either too discouraged by the Amazonian newscaster-type who preceded me, or he’s not into girls who look like 7 year-old boys from the early ‘80s. The bottom line is, he didn’t even lay an eye on me. Not one wandering eye.

And the icing on my cake? On the way home, my fecally challenged canine decided to let loose right next to the Arby’s drive-thru sign. Just in time for the lunch rush.

It was a very good day.