In a few weeks I'll be heading to Tennessee (aka the durrrty south) with some friends for a weekend roadtrip. Do you want to know what we will NOT be doing?
Noodling catfish.
This ain't your grandpa's fishing my friends (maybe your uncles, but certainly not your grandpa's). Unless you live in a third world country or are hammered, I'm not sure what would possess someone to wade in basically a septic tank and then dig around to find a 65 pound Nemo in that septic tank and then stick your hand into Nemo's mouth and back out through its gills in a race to see who can eat who faster.
So no, I will not be noodling, in case you all were wondering. I will, to the dismay of my buddies, be going door to door passing out cupcakes to studio execs with the hopes that they will recognize my talent in imitating country singers (I think that may be how Taylor Swift was discovered).
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
i could be a....you pick.
I have a couple of things that I'm pretty good at.
#1 is shuffleboard. I recently discovered that I will make an excellent 74 year old foxy lady who has the leather skin of an iguana, wears a visor and floral bathing suit with the ruffly skirt-bottom, and plays shuffleboard like its my post-retirement job.
#2 is laughing by myself at things that probably only I think are funny.
For example, inspired by the the great Jenny the Bloggess who recently discovered that nearly 700 of her followers found her by Googling "dead whores," I decided it would be fun to Google this blog and see what I could come up with. Of course that just left me with way too many unanswered questions.
I didn't make it very far because these are the search items that auto-populated, in order, when I typed in "i could be a"...
"i could be a freak"
"i could be a freak every day of the week"
"i could be a freak lyrics"
"i could be a mud doctor"
"i could be a poet"
"i could be a frog"
"i could be a better girlfriend"
"i could be a man of the world"
It's tough to explain the spectrum of emotions I experienced when viewing this list. It went from mild intrigue (i could be a freak) to passionate curiosity (i could be a mud doctor) to pathetic empathy (i could be a poet) back to passionate curiosity (i could be a frog) to saddness and confusion (i could be a better girlfriend, keyword "could be") and then the desire to punch someone in the face (i could be a man of the world...really? You have to Google that?).
Disappointed with those results, I decided to move on to Facebook knowing that it certainly wouldn't let me down in the random category. Sure enough, I discovered that the group "I Wish I Could Record My Dreams and Watch Them Later" has 98,566 fans. I'm sorry, what?
Next in line was the group "I could really use a wish right now" which slapped me across the face with a big ole' 119,823 fans.
And last but not least, a search for "i could b" pulled up (drumroll please)...
"i wish my babydaddy came with a receipt so i could take his a$$ back," liked by a whopping 1,618 people.
Basically, what I've learned from this is that if I really want to amp up readership, I need to start tagging inspirational words in posts like "wishes" and "dreams" and "babydaddy."
#1 is shuffleboard. I recently discovered that I will make an excellent 74 year old foxy lady who has the leather skin of an iguana, wears a visor and floral bathing suit with the ruffly skirt-bottom, and plays shuffleboard like its my post-retirement job.
#2 is laughing by myself at things that probably only I think are funny.
For example, inspired by the the great Jenny the Bloggess who recently discovered that nearly 700 of her followers found her by Googling "dead whores," I decided it would be fun to Google this blog and see what I could come up with. Of course that just left me with way too many unanswered questions.
I didn't make it very far because these are the search items that auto-populated, in order, when I typed in "i could be a"...
"i could be a freak"
"i could be a freak every day of the week"
"i could be a freak lyrics"
"i could be a mud doctor"
"i could be a poet"
"i could be a frog"
"i could be a better girlfriend"
"i could be a man of the world"
It's tough to explain the spectrum of emotions I experienced when viewing this list. It went from mild intrigue (i could be a freak) to passionate curiosity (i could be a mud doctor) to pathetic empathy (i could be a poet) back to passionate curiosity (i could be a frog) to saddness and confusion (i could be a better girlfriend, keyword "could be") and then the desire to punch someone in the face (i could be a man of the world...really? You have to Google that?).
Disappointed with those results, I decided to move on to Facebook knowing that it certainly wouldn't let me down in the random category. Sure enough, I discovered that the group "I Wish I Could Record My Dreams and Watch Them Later" has 98,566 fans. I'm sorry, what?
Next in line was the group "I could really use a wish right now" which slapped me across the face with a big ole' 119,823 fans.
And last but not least, a search for "i could b" pulled up (drumroll please)...
"i wish my babydaddy came with a receipt so i could take his a$$ back," liked by a whopping 1,618 people.
Basically, what I've learned from this is that if I really want to amp up readership, I need to start tagging inspirational words in posts like "wishes" and "dreams" and "babydaddy."
Monday, June 28, 2010
You Should Start Carrying a Copy of the Constitution Too.
Hey, remember that time when Senator Byrd clothes-lined a certain HELP Committee intern as she tried to sneak into the Senator's only elevator in the US Capital? I do.
R.I.P. Senator Byrd, the longest serving member of Congress.
R.I.P. Senator Byrd, the longest serving member of Congress.
Taste the Rainbow
Five thoughts that went through my mind at Chicago's Pride Parade yesterday...
#1. Never have I seen so many energy drinks consumed.
#2. Never have I rubbed up against so many people perspiring energy drinks.
#3. How many hits of acid would it take to get me to walk around with rainbow colored pasties on my nipples?
#4. Only at the Pride Parade does this conversation take place:
Me: "Oooo look at the smokin' hot with the bright pink inflatable Crayola Crayon between his legs!"
Sarah: "No way, I love that one over there with the metallic gold hot pants grinding up on the speaker."
Random Passerby in "Hot Buns" briefs: "I want me some of that Mr. Chicago Leather 2010!"
#5. I loved the 5 year old decked out in pride gear cheering on one of the floats, but you've got to wonder how his parents explained the gigantor blue-painted Avatar alien sucking the tail between his legs on the next float.
Also, pretty sure I heard the organ version of Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" streaming from the walls of the Friendly Confines yesterday.
#1. Never have I seen so many energy drinks consumed.
#2. Never have I rubbed up against so many people perspiring energy drinks.
#3. How many hits of acid would it take to get me to walk around with rainbow colored pasties on my nipples?
#4. Only at the Pride Parade does this conversation take place:
Me: "Oooo look at the smokin' hot with the bright pink inflatable Crayola Crayon between his legs!"
Sarah: "No way, I love that one over there with the metallic gold hot pants grinding up on the speaker."
Random Passerby in "Hot Buns" briefs: "I want me some of that Mr. Chicago Leather 2010!"
#5. I loved the 5 year old decked out in pride gear cheering on one of the floats, but you've got to wonder how his parents explained the gigantor blue-painted Avatar alien sucking the tail between his legs on the next float.
Also, pretty sure I heard the organ version of Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" streaming from the walls of the Friendly Confines yesterday.
How can you not love this city?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Is This Why They Call it the Windy City?
Can't a girl walk the streets of Chicago without having her back gently blown on by a little schmuck? Apparently not because I tried it during my lunch break today only to discover an itty bitty 5'1" blonde man doing just that... to and fro, back and forth, nice and easy, minding his own biz while I debate between soup and a salad.
It tickled. After I made the realization that there was surprisingly no breeze and logically figured there must be a smurf blowing on my back, I turned around, peered down at him, pushed my sunglasses to the tip of my nose and gave him the look that said "hey buddy, listen here, I'm a little weirded out by this advance so if you could just cross the street and blow on some other girl, I'd really appreciate it."
And on he went. Had it been a massage, this would have ended very differently.
It tickled. After I made the realization that there was surprisingly no breeze and logically figured there must be a smurf blowing on my back, I turned around, peered down at him, pushed my sunglasses to the tip of my nose and gave him the look that said "hey buddy, listen here, I'm a little weirded out by this advance so if you could just cross the street and blow on some other girl, I'd really appreciate it."
And on he went. Had it been a massage, this would have ended very differently.
These Google Ads are Killing Me...
I don't know if you guys (again, all 16 of you) have seen these ads in the right sidebar yet, but you should check them out, they are hilarious. It's like an adventure everytime I post, see what random companies will advertise based on my ridiculousness today!
Today we have "Silkies Official Site. Quality hosiery, affordable prices!" followed by "CaizziLo Art, LLC "Face Paint, Temp Tats and beyond!" and the closer, "Face Painting Cheek Art."
What does this say about my blog?
Today we have "Silkies Official Site. Quality hosiery, affordable prices!" followed by "CaizziLo Art, LLC "Face Paint, Temp Tats and beyond!" and the closer, "Face Painting Cheek Art."
What does this say about my blog?
Slexting
In some people, stress manifests itself in the form of nail biting, hair pulling, leg shaking, chain smoking, continual runs to the bathroom, etc. For me, stress manifests itself in the form of sleep talking and more recently, sleep texting ("slexting" as I refer to it).
It's as though I come alive at night and morph into this creepy chick with a cheesy overzealous laugh (sounds kind of like this) and then get all up in everyone else's business.
Like sophomore year of college, first night with my new roommates in our small two bedroom apartment. My poor roomie Stebanie (another anonymous name) wakes to find me pulling her suitcases out into the middle of our room mumbling something about "UGHH these are ALWAYS in my WAY." Totally logical.
Or there was the time on a 9th grade family vacation when I leaned over to my best friend Meg, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered "pssst, hey, is Jimmy over there with you? Are you guys spooning?" Allegedly, later that same night I creepily tapped her shoulder again to ask "psst do you see that guy in the corner? No? He's over there, leaning down. I think it's Dylan." I think I made her cry.
The sleep texting has only come about recently and I fear has the potential to do some serious damage. It's hard to explain all the things running through my mind when I wake up to messages of "hahahaha." Actually no it's not, it's basically "oh sh*t."
A couple months ago, I sleep texted a guy I was newly seeing and said "hey, don't forget to grab the alarm clocks. I'm really going to need those." In my defense, he should have interpreted that as, hey she's prompt. In his defense, I think it was interpreted as, ok Ms. High Maintenance.
My most recent slext occurred last night at 12:34 AM.
To Meg: "I think I may have just accidentally sleep talked Mr. D..."
Last time I checked, you can't "sleep talk" someone, so now of course I'm paranoid that I accidentally sweet talked my high school basketball coach.
It's as though I come alive at night and morph into this creepy chick with a cheesy overzealous laugh (sounds kind of like this) and then get all up in everyone else's business.
Like sophomore year of college, first night with my new roommates in our small two bedroom apartment. My poor roomie Stebanie (another anonymous name) wakes to find me pulling her suitcases out into the middle of our room mumbling something about "UGHH these are ALWAYS in my WAY." Totally logical.
Or there was the time on a 9th grade family vacation when I leaned over to my best friend Meg, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered "pssst, hey, is Jimmy over there with you? Are you guys spooning?" Allegedly, later that same night I creepily tapped her shoulder again to ask "psst do you see that guy in the corner? No? He's over there, leaning down. I think it's Dylan." I think I made her cry.
The sleep texting has only come about recently and I fear has the potential to do some serious damage. It's hard to explain all the things running through my mind when I wake up to messages of "hahahaha." Actually no it's not, it's basically "oh sh*t."
A couple months ago, I sleep texted a guy I was newly seeing and said "hey, don't forget to grab the alarm clocks. I'm really going to need those." In my defense, he should have interpreted that as, hey she's prompt. In his defense, I think it was interpreted as, ok Ms. High Maintenance.
My most recent slext occurred last night at 12:34 AM.
To Meg: "I think I may have just accidentally sleep talked Mr. D..."
Last time I checked, you can't "sleep talk" someone, so now of course I'm paranoid that I accidentally sweet talked my high school basketball coach.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Spotlight on Panty Hose Day
I have just declared today to be "Spotlight on Panty Hose" day. Only because I've had two separate panty hose moments today...and I'm not even wearing them.
The first being that for most of the day I've been wondering who the blazes wears stockings (if your 70), panty hose (if you're 40), tights (if you're 23) in 90 degree heat. Then this got me to thinking about the time my friend told me that her boyfriend once saw her putting on her tights and cried out in horror "THAT'S what those things look like?!" Which I have since learned is not a unique situation. If he thought that was traumatizing, he should see when one foot gets stuck resulting in a freakish bounce around the room in attempts to get the other foot in the nylon casing/suction. This usually ends in expletives when I see my toe poke through the spot where my knee should be.
Next, and perhaps most touching, the cleaning lady at work stops me in the bathroom while I'm washing my hands, motions to my legs and says in broken English "are dose you skin or you panty hose that color?" Fair question given that my legs are the color of Arby's curly fries, soon to switch back to the color of McDonald's fries so enjoy it while it lasts.
"Oh these old gams? Oh aren't you sweet!," I replied. And then I hugged her. No, but I wanted to.
In retrospect, I think this might be one of those situations where I confuse compliments with backhanded jabs.
The first being that for most of the day I've been wondering who the blazes wears stockings (if your 70), panty hose (if you're 40), tights (if you're 23) in 90 degree heat. Then this got me to thinking about the time my friend told me that her boyfriend once saw her putting on her tights and cried out in horror "THAT'S what those things look like?!" Which I have since learned is not a unique situation. If he thought that was traumatizing, he should see when one foot gets stuck resulting in a freakish bounce around the room in attempts to get the other foot in the nylon casing/suction. This usually ends in expletives when I see my toe poke through the spot where my knee should be.
Next, and perhaps most touching, the cleaning lady at work stops me in the bathroom while I'm washing my hands, motions to my legs and says in broken English "are dose you skin or you panty hose that color?" Fair question given that my legs are the color of Arby's curly fries, soon to switch back to the color of McDonald's fries so enjoy it while it lasts.
"Oh these old gams? Oh aren't you sweet!," I replied. And then I hugged her. No, but I wanted to.
In retrospect, I think this might be one of those situations where I confuse compliments with backhanded jabs.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Because We Were Getting Sick of Rap Snacks.
Although most of you probably know me as Mz. Booty Pop, I thought I'd take a little of the spotlight off my goodies, I mean self, and throw this photo out there for you all to comment.
Whoever comes up with the best caption gets a personalized video of me booty popping. Okay that's a lie, and may only be considered a prize to federal prison inmates, but I will buy you a bag of Booty Pop ( note: AS SEEN ON TV) and will even throw in some Rap Snacks.
And by "you all to comment", of course, I mean the people who either a) feel sorry for me and pretend to read this blog, b) actually read the blog and end up asking themselves how I am able to survive on planet earth or c) gave birth to me.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Fine, I'll Leave the Face Paint at Home.
First, I would like to note that I could probably write an entire book on Jeans Days. I'd have a chapter on how they are like sedatives for disgruntled employees, a chapter on how creepy it is to see certain coworkers in jeans, a chapter on the good ole' days when denim mini's and jorts were acceptable, etc.
For now, I'll just share the Jeans Day announcement email I received at work today:
"We will be having a Jeans and Jersey Day tomorrow! Please feel free to wear your Blackhawks or World Cup apparel! This is the first time since 1961 that the Chicago Blackhawks are Stanley Cup Champions! Tomorrow is also the start of the World Cup!! An event that only comes around every 4 years is worthy of a celebration! The usual jeans day guidelines are in place, and no face painting is allowed."
Okay so is it just me or this a direct attack on me?? "...and no face painting is allowed." It's almost like they were speaking to me, "And no Jordan, no face painting is allowed. Don't even think about painting your face half black/half red and tattooing that Native American to your cheek. Just put it away." Next they're going to suggest leaving the tomahawk at home.(kidding if you're reading this Fed Reserve Bank security guards.)
The second best part about this is that you know someone in the course of this law firm's history decided that it would be a good idea to wear face paint to work. You don't just make that shiz up, "Oh and by the way, if you were thinking about painting your face for that deposition, think twice."
For now, I'll just share the Jeans Day announcement email I received at work today:
"We will be having a Jeans and Jersey Day tomorrow! Please feel free to wear your Blackhawks or World Cup apparel! This is the first time since 1961 that the Chicago Blackhawks are Stanley Cup Champions! Tomorrow is also the start of the World Cup!! An event that only comes around every 4 years is worthy of a celebration! The usual jeans day guidelines are in place, and no face painting is allowed."
Okay so is it just me or this a direct attack on me?? "...and no face painting is allowed." It's almost like they were speaking to me, "And no Jordan, no face painting is allowed. Don't even think about painting your face half black/half red and tattooing that Native American to your cheek. Just put it away." Next they're going to suggest leaving the tomahawk at home.(kidding if you're reading this Fed Reserve Bank security guards.)
The second best part about this is that you know someone in the course of this law firm's history decided that it would be a good idea to wear face paint to work. You don't just make that shiz up, "Oh and by the way, if you were thinking about painting your face for that deposition, think twice."
Monday, June 7, 2010
Will it ever end?
All my life I have had one question burning and churning inside me. No, it's not what man will I bring home to the smurfs...what will my retirement package look like...is my pet turtle Chipper really BBQing with my cat Grits in animal heaven?
It is simply this: Why do I have one eyebrow hair that outgrows all others overnight? Literally, overnight. And it's long too, it's like an inch long. And it's really blonde, it's like if you took one strand of Dakota Fanning's hair and stuck it on the side of my face, that's how blonde it is. And I try and keep track of it too, like one night I didn't sleep at all because I wanted to catch it growing, but I couldn't keep my eyes open for that long.
Unlike "mister 2 cents" of Yahoo!Answers who has given up, I will move forward with my quest because I too, mister 2 cents, sure would like to know why my Dakota hair outgrows all the others.
Probably more to come on this facsinating story.
It is simply this: Why do I have one eyebrow hair that outgrows all others overnight? Literally, overnight. And it's long too, it's like an inch long. And it's really blonde, it's like if you took one strand of Dakota Fanning's hair and stuck it on the side of my face, that's how blonde it is. And I try and keep track of it too, like one night I didn't sleep at all because I wanted to catch it growing, but I couldn't keep my eyes open for that long.
Unlike "mister 2 cents" of Yahoo!Answers who has given up, I will move forward with my quest because I too, mister 2 cents, sure would like to know why my Dakota hair outgrows all the others.
Probably more to come on this facsinating story.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Super Fly
Before I tell this story I want to give you a little context...
My friend and I have a morning commuting routine, (for the sake of anonymity, let's call her Argela). It started with her sending a text at 7:11 that said "Do you want to commute this morning?" then degressed to a 7:32 text that said "Commute together?" then 7:45, "Commute?" then "C?" and now I'm pretty sure we just meet at the same corner every day at 7:50 after a "?" text for a powerwalk to the train.
It's a precious bonding moment we share. She usually asks me if I went out last night, implying that I look like a trainwreck, and I mumble something about how I didn't think I needed to wash my hair today, or yesterday, "but I swear I took a bod shower." The other thing I should note is that Argela is a very graceful person and is one of those few people who roll out of bed and look cute. Normally I despise those people but for some reason our friendship remains intact.
In fact, the only time I've seen her really uncomfortable was when our neighbor's bulldog was humping her leg, and let me tell you that image will live on forever.
Which is why I thought I was soooo lucky that I was able to witness Argela's second awkward moment at 8:01am Tuesday, June1, when a stranger approached her on the Southport brown line platform to very seriously inform her that her "fly was open." Of course I got a good chuckle out of it, then got a little creeped out because the woman was obviously staring at her crotch for too long, and then got another good chuckle out of it, and I thought to myself "Holy monkeys, that happens to me! I'm the one who walks around with my fly unzipped!! What a treat!"
And then I looked down and my fly was unzipped.
My friend and I have a morning commuting routine, (for the sake of anonymity, let's call her Argela). It started with her sending a text at 7:11 that said "Do you want to commute this morning?" then degressed to a 7:32 text that said "Commute together?" then 7:45, "Commute?" then "C?" and now I'm pretty sure we just meet at the same corner every day at 7:50 after a "?" text for a powerwalk to the train.
It's a precious bonding moment we share. She usually asks me if I went out last night, implying that I look like a trainwreck, and I mumble something about how I didn't think I needed to wash my hair today, or yesterday, "but I swear I took a bod shower." The other thing I should note is that Argela is a very graceful person and is one of those few people who roll out of bed and look cute. Normally I despise those people but for some reason our friendship remains intact.
In fact, the only time I've seen her really uncomfortable was when our neighbor's bulldog was humping her leg, and let me tell you that image will live on forever.
Which is why I thought I was soooo lucky that I was able to witness Argela's second awkward moment at 8:01am Tuesday, June1, when a stranger approached her on the Southport brown line platform to very seriously inform her that her "fly was open." Of course I got a good chuckle out of it, then got a little creeped out because the woman was obviously staring at her crotch for too long, and then got another good chuckle out of it, and I thought to myself "Holy monkeys, that happens to me! I'm the one who walks around with my fly unzipped!! What a treat!"
And then I looked down and my fly was unzipped.
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