You know you live in a small town when the Chamber of Commerce marquee flashes “Kelly Copeland is the Bunco Queen!” as you drive by.
The Saltine crackers with the unsalted tops – are they still really Saltines?
Sometimes, I am actually as fabulous as I think I am.
A couple years ago, a rock bounced up from the highway and cracked my front windshield. I was singing “Safelite repair, Safelite replace!” for about three weeks. At work. At home. Out in public. It’s still somewhat shameful to recall those dark days.
Whatever program randomizes my SMS pass codes for my server at work is rather pervy. Today alone, I got pass codes with “fux,” “sex” and “tit” in them. Password Porn. It happens so often now, it isn’t even interesting anymore.
The other day, I was hungry and called my mom to take me to dinner at Costco. Sometimes I send my dad back for seconds (and thirds), because he doesn’t get all bent out of shape asking for extra samples like my mom does.
Years ago, before I started that awful smoking habit, I had the most outrageous sweet tooth. That disappeared when the nasty habit took over. Even though I quit, to this day I’d rather have a Lay’s potato chip over a brownie, hands down.
Ernest Hemingway said, “Write drunk; edit sober.” He also wrote while in the nude. Drunk naked blogging. That would kick ass!
Thanks mucho to @Katjaneway who warned me of the dangers of owning a pygmy goat. I’m wavering now, but a part of me is still convinced that my life would be complete if only I owned a tiny goat.
I have strict instructions for my parents in the event I lapse into a coma. Someone MUST pluck the hair that grows out of the mole on my cheek. Also, if I die, they are required to keep a shrine up for one year. A pink shrine. Cremate my ass, and no funeral, nope. I don’t want to be mourned, but I do want to be idolized. And there must be glitter. Lots of glitter.
Don’t hate me because I have a mole on my cheek that grows a hair. It’s not like I have a mustache or anything like that. And I pluck on a regular basis.
I have had a strict policy for YEARS now that I answer the phone when and if I want to. Not at work, of course – there, I am always available! – but at home after hours, hell yes. Just because it rings doesn’t mean you have to answer the fucker.
My first trip abroad was over 11 years ago (and pre-9/11 – back then, you could fly drunk). We had a layover in Boston, so we hit the pubs. At the time, I hated taking photos, so I didn’t own a camera and I borrowed my mom’s. (Pre-cell phone camera days, obviously.) We got so blitzed at this one Irish pub that I put the camera on the ground next to my purse, then left an hour later without it. I called my mom the next day from England: “Mom, I’m okay, I’m fine!” She was beside herself, thinking something had happened. Then I told her I lost her camera. Best way to break bad news to a parent is to make it sound like you barely escaped death. They forgive much easier that way.
P.S. I told her the truth later. She didn’t find it as amusing as I did.
P.P.S. Since then, I have bought my own camera. Funny, I never managed to lose it.
I would love to see all the weird shit people put on flower delivery cards. I bet florists have some stories to tell. They probably also know who are having illicit affairs.
I am one of those people who, when they see a bag by the side of the road, thinks there is a dead body inside.
I also get really sad about roadkill. Even if it isn’t actually roadkill. “Poor bag!”
I brake for squirrels. And birds.
Online window shopping is about my most favorite vertical thing to do. Drunk online shopping is worse than a one night stand, though. No diseases, true, but four $40 t-shirts in the same color but different sizes? Bitch, please, just go to bed the next time!
I don’t get text messages and emails that just say “Hi!” If you are going to distract me from my day, you better have something to say.
Never buy into a cryptic Facebook status update that makes you wonder what is wrong. “So sad.” “Oh, depressed again.” “I can’t take much more.” Honey, I am the QUEEN of attention whores…at least make it interesting, please.
It’s taken every fiber of my being to NOT get another dog. No, I don’t want a replacement for Mr. Swirly (as if that exists!), but it really is too quiet around here!
There are around 650 calories in a bottle of white wine (give or take). Or, as the non-BF calls it, a “serving.” If I cut out lunch and dinner, I’ll still make my daily intake goal!
I totally had to Google how many calories were in a bottle of white wine.
Grief makes people do weird things. I stopped eating and cried constantly when I lost my first Min Pin. With Mr. Swirly’s passing, I’ve been making jokes about what a crazy, swirly dog he was. I prefer the laughter over the crying. Even though I do still cry a little bit. He was a great dog. A dog like no other. I dare people to show me a stranger little fucker than that dog. He walked backwards and tried on my flip-flops. I still miss him 😦
Sometimes, I don’t know when to quit. Like now. I guess this is the end of this!