Saturday, December 19, 2009

It's a Pillow! It's a Pet! It's So Fucking Hard to Get! ***this post contains many FUCKS and SHITS***

Holy Moses smell the roses! Since the day after Thanksgiving, I have been haunted by the stupidest cash-cow to ever catch the eye of millions of toddlers, tweens and in-betweens. Have you heard of them? PillowPets? It's a pillow AND a pet. I am going to warn you about that link. Make sure all family members under the age of twelve are not within earshot, lest you want to spend the next month listening to the child singing that song, ALL OF THE TIME.

ALL OF THE TIME. It's a pillow! It's a pet! IT'S A PILLOW PET! *stabby stabby*

Anyhoodle, I placed an order for a PillowPet, to be exact, THE PURPLE BUNNY PILLOW PET. Being an expert online shopper, (online shopping, the best invention since the vibrator) I was very careful to make sure the site was legitimate and not Nigerian. I went to my inbox an hour later, and there was no confirmation of my order. I didn't sweat it and instantly forgot about it for a week.

The following week, I was sitting at home when mine ears heard that familiar jingle which made me think "WHERE THE FUCK IS MY FUCKING PILLOW PET, GODDAMMIT!" I logged into my inbox, and there was still no confirmation from the Pillow Pet people, which I found rather odd. I then went to the PillowPets official website where I had placed my order a week before and after a little research, it appeared that my order did not only NOT go through, but that all Pillow Pets were SOLD OUT.


You could get the Pillow Pet Blanket, which was not a Pillow and a Pet, but a blanket made from what looked like highly flammable material affixed to a creepy head. "LOOK INTO MY CREEPY GOOGLE EYES WHILE I WRAP YOU IN MY LAYERS OF BURNING, LITTLE CHILD!"

No thanks.

I was feeling a little defeated, but then I remembered the good folks at places like Ebay and Amazon. A smile crept to my lips as I exclaimed, "OH THE CLEVERNESS OF ME!" typing in the url. My exultation was severely limited when I discovered that, yes, both sites had Pillow Pets for sale............. For $199.99.

*sidebar: If you are an asshole who possesses a crystal ball that can look into the future to determine which piece of crap is going to be the next fortune maker for the following Christmas and then goes and buys every last one to sell for a profit of $150; Hit me up. I want in.*

I could not believe it, as I pounded my desk and grabbed the phone.

" Little Honey?"

" Yes, Kate."

"My Pillow Pet order did not go through."

"Why not?"

"I have no fucking clue, but now I cannot find them anywhere except for Ebay and Amazon and those Cretans are charging TWO HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS for the pieces of shit! $200! CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT?"

"Oh well."


"Well, what do you want me to say?"


Clearly, he was not as emotionally invested in acquiring a Pillow Pet as I was.

I became a woman obsessed. My deadlines were pushed back and I had both assistants on the case.


An hour later, thanks to Wacky Planet, we were able to locate a cow PILLOW PET, not CUSHION CUTIE, or Padding Pup, or Bolster Buddy.... an honest to Betsy PILLOW PET for $36 after shipping! FUCKING A, MAN! VICTORY!

I felt so proud and accomplished.

I was certain that I had won Christmas, as I shouted, "SCREW YOU EBAY", while jumping up and down. Not to be fooled again, I headed directly to my inbox, where, BEHOLD! The confirmation letter was waiting for me as patiently as a pup waits for their master to come home. I read the confirmation and was assured that my recent PILLOW PET purchase would ship within the next three to five business days. Glorious, VICTORIOUS.

Another week of deadlines, duties, and doldrums went by and not a word from my local UPS man or a package from Wacky Planet....... What was the fucking deal? I went to the Wacky Planet website and called customer service, (yes, they make you call) and left a message inquiring about my order, (YES they make you leave a message on an answering machine.... Hey Wacky Planet! 1988 called, they want their customer service back).

A few minutes, I received a message in my inbox entitled "Your order is on backorder".


I opened the message to see just how long I was going to have to wait to receive the most coveted piece of crap of the Christmas Season, when I noticed something peculiar. The order had my name, billing and shipping information, but there was something different. It was for a Bunny, not a Cow, from the Pillow Pet People and not Wacky Planet....

What the fuck?

So, apparently my original order did go through and was being processed. Apparently, the latest shipment of Pillow Pets was stuck at customs, but rest assured, would arrive in time for the Holiday season.

Within the three minutes it took me to read that message and figure out just what the hell was going on, I received another email.

From Wacky Planet that was titled; "Your order is on backorder".

What to do, what to do? Do I just buy two and have one to spare that I can hold ransom for millions of dollars on Amazon? Or do I cancel one of the orders, therefore freeing up one coveted Pillow Pet for acquisition for someone as desperate as myself?

I decided to cancel the Cow since I had originally intended on purchasing THE PURPLE BUNNY and it was also $12 cheaper. Now when that familiar, nefarious jingle escaped from the lips of my family members, or from the commercial on television, I felt completely relaxed instead of stressed and weary.

All was right with the world when three days later I received notice that my PILLOW PET was shipping out in the next three to five business days! HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!
It was indeed, a Christmas miracle. As I read the order slip, something caught my eye.

Items Ordered:
1 LADY BUG $19.95 $19.95


Somehow, the invoice that stated I ordered the PURPLE BUNNY a week or so beforehand, had now mysteriously morphed into a fucking LADYBUG.

That's not even a mammal for Xenu's sake!

What ever. On Christmas morning I plan to sip my coffee, scowl and sneer, "YOU GET WHAT YOU GET AND YOU DON'T THROW A FIT" when questioned about the fucking LADYBUG.

Have a crappy Christmas everyone!

Thursday, December 17, 2009


The Miraculous Ceiling Fan
Have you ever heard of Godwin's Law? Basically, it states that all forms of internet debate will eventually deteriorate into referencing Hilter and Nazi Germany. I have my own theory, The Confused Dildo's Supposition, which asseverates that any person talking about their relationship with their significant other will eventually focus on flatulence.

It's a reality that is grim, but one we must all face. The bright side of this is that farts are always funny.

My Little Honey (tm) is a wonderful man and I love him dearly. He is a brilliant urban planner, an incredibly talented musician and a wonderful father. He is also a stinky farter. His farts are just plain ridiculous.

A few months ago, I was so thrilled when he read that having too much soy in your diet could be unhealthy, for up to this point the man's snack of choice was edamame. I don't want to rain on my Little Honey's (tm) parade, but there was nothing worse than being in the same room with him after he downed a bowl of soybeans. It probably smells better living next door to a paper plant than being in the room with him..... I would rather not clean the litterbox for three days than having to smell him after soybeans. It's wretched and he is so proud, proving that for some, their farts can do no wrong. One day after the Little Honey blasted some air biscuits while watching the Bengals game, the neighbor came over, exclaimed "smells like toots in here", and hastily left.

They are that bad.

Last night, as I lay in bed dozing off to sleep with the cool night breeze coming in through the window, I could smell the wonderful scents of nature; lilacs, grass, pine, fresh rain. I conceded to the fragrant air as it began to carry me away from the doldrums of everyday life and transcend me into dreamland. I was floating on a white, puffy cloud until a hot, spoiled egg, with an under note of onion, gas creeped into my subconscious and violently hurled me back into reality. The Little Honey was busy creating a dutch oven that could overpower small children and it was starting to leak out from underneath the sheets in an effort to bring evil and darkness onto the Earth.

This gas smelled like the ugly, olive green that people used to decorate their kitchens with in the 1970's. This gas was staining the bed and with every move I made to escape it, it clobbered me back into submission. The Little Honey (tm) tried to play possum, a feat he failed miserably, as he lay there giggling like an idiot. When I started to gasp, choke, and complain he declared that he would fix this awful situation he created and jumped up to right the wrongs of his ways............. In other words, he turned on the ceiling fan.

A ceiling fan that is not made of artificial wooden vinyl, but crafted from golden and magic, with the force of seventy gazillion ocean breezes that can banish any loathsome, repulsive aromas into Siberia.


That odor lingered all night long. The gas was the Kato Kalin to my Brentwood manner, and it would not just fuck off and dissipate. The next morning, I had to change the sheets, stuff the comforter in the dryer with a scented sheet, and Febreeze bomb the mattress pad.


This is the man who holds my heart and whom I am going to marry.

I'm a lucky gal.

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy, vote for me at TheGirlWho.Net's Great Experiment!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Bringing "SAVORY" Back.

Where the fuck did the word "Umami" come from and why is everyone tossing it around like Oprah's favorite thing? It means "savory", essentially. Just say savory. People are about as dazzled by your use of Japanese adjectives as they are by your Toyota Camry.

Just stop it. It's annoying.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Baby Used To Rock and Roll.

What the fuck happened to me? I used to rock. I was a quintessential "Rock Chick". I was adventurous, hot, fun, funny, drunk and slutty. I was reckless, I was fantastic. I would travel near and far for shows, whether I was with the band, or with my friends. No city was too far, money was never an issue because all that mattered was rock and roll. From the Vogue in Indianapolis, to The Magic Stick in Detroit, to Coney Island High or the Continental in St. Marks; I had been to all of them, several times for several shows with several friends, new, old and some to never see again.

For a period of three years, I gallivanted around the country, hopping from one tour bus to the next, going from show to show. I was always backstage partaking in the swag, food, free-beer and the finite adoration of the fellow I had decided to follow around the country for a week or two. It was really fun. I never became attached, diseased, or pregnant. I would leave venues on the arms of "rock stars" and for some reason people would ask me for my autograph, which I never understood.

I'm sure that many of you are shocked to read my candid words of my adventures as a very loose young woman, however you must realize that I was raised in an Episcopalian household of Swedish/ Anglican descent. Loose morals were not only permitted, they were encouraged.... Kind of like how Amish families give their teenaged children a chance to go out and live amongst the sinning English before they commit themselves back to the life of the plain, however, this is not encouraged as a way to learn right from wrong and to chose a Pius life, but as a way to hone your sex and drugs skills as to not become a sloppy lover in your later years.

I was young and I took advantage of my youth and freedom. Though it sounds as if I was working out some low-self esteem, daddy issue laden lack of self worth, it really wasn't. I was having a blast, honestly.

I don't know when I changed or if it was even a conscious decision, but it struck me that eleven years ago today after finishing my final exams, I received a call from the band dude of the month with whom I was infatuated with and was off to Columbus Ohio to tag along with him for awhile. It seems like it was just yesterday while simultaneously seeming like eons ago.

I have been thinking about my life so much lately and all of the choices I have made, the person who I was, who I am, and the woman I want to be. I feel that I am at a Crossroad. I am not a mother, nor do I desire to become one, so I have not had to experience that jolt of responsibility and instinct that kicks in with the birth of a child. What has happened is that I am about to get married, I need to quit smoking and my fiance's cholesterol is a little too high.

The writing is on the wall.... it is time to grow up.

It's been years since I have jumped on a tour bus or partaken in any of the shenanigans I was into ten years ago, however, I am still a party girl. I still go to shows, I can still hang until 4 in the morning, which is not uncommon for the crowd I hang out with. I still like to have fun and I like to get wild, but other than becoming a tad monotonous, it is also incredibly fucking exhausting.

Drinking too much makes me feel shit like in a whole new variety of ways! Once all I needed to do was to barf, brush my teeth, drink a McDonald's Coke and down some French Fries and I was good to go!


A night of partying will most certainly ruin the next day for me. I don't need to barf anymore, mainly because my body lacks the energy to do so. What I can do is lay on the couch for 8 hours and slurp chicken broth. FUN! Get my laundry done? Nope, I'm going to lay here like a slob at 33 freaking years old and watch the Bridezilla marathon, because that isn't pathetic AT ALL. It's just gross.

I'm too old.

The Mr and I were also discussing the fact that we are both life long smokers. He has been smoking for 25 years and I have been smoking for 19 years. We have both been smokers longer than we were non-smokers, so this is more than a nasty habit and addiction; it's a way of life. I don't remember what is was like to not smoke. I am not even a heavy smoker, I am triggered by situations that make me want to smoke and to drink, for that matter. I have come to realize that my vices are a direct result of my social anxiety and insecurities.

I started smoking to fit in. Everyone does. Nobody picks up a cigarette and thinks, "YES! THIS is how I want to live my life!" That's ridiculous. What's even more ridiculous is starting the habit because "That's what the cool kids do!" Yet, when have teenagers been known not to make ridiculous decisions with their lives? Exactly.

I started drinking to fit in as well. I admit that while I was a teenager, I did not gravitate towards drinking as easily as smoking. I guess I like to suck, *natch*. Not that I didn't drink in high school, I did. But, by Junior year, I was in love with my first boyfriend and the thought of the two of us sitting around getting drunk, really didn't appeal to me. I went through many "Drinking is stupid" phases until I turned 21 and discovered the wonderful world known as "the bar."

Drinking not only got me a crowd, but it also made me relax, which was great for a person as high fucking strung as myself.

As with anything in life, it's just time to move on. You can't keep behaving in the same manner and expect anything to change... Ever. I not only want to live a healthier life, I am just bored with it all. I'm beginning to find it rather tacky and gauche to be whooping it up with the 24 year olds every weekend. I'm older than they are! I'm not old in any sense of the word, but keeping the same social habits for over ten years is BORING.

It's also depressing, (*warning:Schizophrenic posting ahead*) because though I am not "old", I am too old for this behavior. When I am hanging around a bunch of 24 year olds; acting like a 24 year old, though it may appear that I am having fun, it is actually reminding me that I am 33 years old and most people my age are spending their time more constructively....... and that maybe, JUST MAYBE.... I need to act my fucking age. Which isn't old..... but it does have things like debt, mortgages, and 8:00am staff meetings.

So, in short, partaking in the Shenanigans of the young; makes me feel fucking ancient.

I'm not admitting to some drinking problem here nor am I quitting my wine. I can't quit wine. I'm like Jesus, I love wine. I am quitting smoking, (which funnily enough, makes your hangovers eleventybillion times worse than alcohol alone) and I am also quitting the all night dance parties forever..........Maybe.......... Maybe not forever.......Maybe like once every few months? Only on birthdays?

Whatever... But the smoking is done. DONE I SAY!

Baby's going to have to learn to rock and roll in a new way.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

I Am A Rock. I Am An Island.

I must admit that I am not too great with the whole "blogging" thing. It seems that there is some unwritten rule that when you write an "off-topic, personal" blog, you are expected to share every detail of you marriage, kids, mental issues, etc, with the entire internet. I refuse to do that. I am trying to develop a talent for taking the mundane challenges I face as a 33 year old professional woman, engaged to a father, who does not desire children of her own, and make them into the funniest fucking stories you have ever read without one mention of prozac or counseling. It's a daunting task, I know, but I am willing to try it. What I will share? I have three cats, Elton, Bernie (Rainman) and Bishop, a girl could never hope for a better bunch of pussies to posse up with. I also am a mom to the best dog on the planet, JAKE! who has been with us since April. He is the Captain to my Tennile.

When I first ventured onto the cyber-wasteland know as the internet, I was unaware of the dangers and threats it posed. I had only used the internet for research during college, because I did not own a home computer. I had never seen a message board, a blog, social networking site and all of the concepts were so foreign to me, I remembered thinking, "Who the fuck cares about *talking* to people in the internet? Get a life." Little did I know that once I had finally began working outside of restaurants and retail shops and at a desk, I would become so engrossed with this new world of socializing, that I would dive into what I had previously deemed as "LAME", without a second thought. I was taken in immediately and like a kid in a candy store, I began to over stuff my pockets. Needless to say, I found myself entangled in a web of over-sharing, attention whoring, and embarrassment. The best lessons are the hardest to learn.

As of late, some people have been asking me what my boundaries are when it comes to blogging, and since mine are so rigid, if that leaves my readership feeling disconnected from me? Well, my personal life is not totally off limits, but the intimate details are. I have a family and friends, and they have the right not to be blogged about. This revelation took me awhile to understand after many arguments with my significant other and a few friends. I thought I had carte blanche when it came to blogging about my life and the people within. It's my life, I can write what I want, since it doesn't bother me.... Honestly, I can't believe how long it took me to realize that I was a selfish, arrogant, over-sharing prick. My family doesn't want to be blogged about. They want to live privately. SO, DUH! Don't blog about them!

Sometimes I am such a stubborn prick.

Needless to say, my boundaries are set in stone, and as far as my readership feeling disconnected from me, I say: What readership?