Dear TIGI

YOU ARE THE MEAN GIRL OF HAIR PRODUCTS!

The fanciest beaver I've ever seen

Last weekend, my friend Jamie and I went to see The Book of Mormon (it. was. awesome.).

It was also a rare chance to put on a pretty dress and go to the theater on a Saturday afternoon (I can count the number of times Beau and I have done that on NO hands--not that Beau has ever worn a dress. As far as I know.).

Denver is a funny town. It wants to be a big, cosmopolitan city (and it does attract great art exhibits, national conventions, presidential debates, etc.), but deep down, it's always going to be a cow town (the grand champion steer from the stock show ambles down a red carpet graces the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel during afternoon tea every January. Don't believe me?)

As such, this is a dress-down town.

So an afternoon at the theater, for some, means ironing your best Tommy Bahama shirt, wearing your nice jeans, and pulling your hair into an extra-neat ponytail.

I know, I know, I know. You don't care about all this. WHAT ABOUT THE BEAVER?

I'm getting to that.

While I was admiring the sartorial exploits of Mr. Bahama, I happened to glance over his shoulder at his wife (who was much more dressed up).

She was wearing a necklace in a shape that I couldn't quite make out. Is that a parrot? No.

I looked a little closer.

No, it can't be.

And then I made Jamie look.

And we came to the conclusion that she was, indeed, wearing a DIAMOND-ENCRUSTED BEAVER AROUND HER NECK.

Which, let's face it, is all kinds of awesome.

Oh yeah.

This is the best shot I could get without Tommy Bahama noticing and kicking my ass.

You know you want one.

Important rules for society safety

My pal Steve went to a Fetish Ball last week. We chatted about it the day before the festivities. He decided to wear neoprene from head to toe (sounds sweaty). His roommate, he said, was probably going to wear a jock strap and a harness (he'll be cool as a cucumber... so to speak).

Later that afternoon, he emailed me the rules for the ball:

Here are the rules (and these rules are often overlooked).
Exile Fetish Ball continues the tradition of featuring talents from Colorado kinksters, but takes it to the next level. This event will incorporate fetish demonstrations, dancing, and other darker artistry including live musicians, DJs, fashion & stylists, visual artists, as well as other designers and vendors. This will be a great opportunity to showcase your passions, gain exposure, and turn people on.

This is a 21+ event ($10 before 10pm, $15 10pm – 11pm, $20 after 11pm)

This is a great opportunity to push limits. FETISH GEAR STRONGLY ENCOURAGED. As per public decency laws, the only nudity limitations are male/female genital or female nipple exposure.
****************************************************

Yes, by all means, let's shield society from the dangers of the EXPOSED FEMALE NIPPLE!

Let us take shelter in the warm glow that comes from exposed, nurturing, life-giving male nipples.

To clarify, I'm not making a case for myself. I have no desire at all to show my own nipples to the world. I just think the nipple double standard is silly.

Now that I read what I've written, it sounds like I'm protesting too much.

And typing "nipple" too much.

NIPPLE! NIPPLE! NIPPLE!

Ok, whatever.

Forget it.

Sigh.

[Postscript: Steve told me afterward that a girl showed up at the ball with fish hooks in her back. She then proceeded to suspend herself from the ceiling using these hooks. Thank God her nipples were covered at the time or that might have been fucking disturbing.]

My folks' trip to the movies

Mom and Dad went to see the new Bourne movie over the weekend (they liked it, BTW).

Mom told me that they checked her purse for weapons on the way in and had guards stationed in the theater (given recent events in another Denver-area theater, that's not much of a surprise).

She was kind of irritated about it, but that was mainly because she was trying to sneak in a Diet Dr. Pepper and had to quickly pass it off and smuggle it in Dad's pants (how they failed to notice a soda can in a man's pocket is beyond me).

It's not like I'd have a gun in my purse, she huffed.

I nodded at her, thought about it, and realized that--wait a minute!--that's a TOTAL FUCKING LIE. (Really. Click the link if you don't believe me. Hell, click the link even if you DO believe me.)

And then I realized that they searched my mom's purse and totally ignored my dad, who has a concealed carry license and is packing all of the time (but, as he says, It's just a little gun. Plus, he's sane. Sane enough).

And then I realized that other people probably don't have these kinds of conversations with/thoughts about their parents.

My one chance to impress a new neighbor...

And I'm pretty sure he just heard me screech FUCK YOU! at my garage door when it refused to go all the way down.

Well, shit.

I suppose hollering I'M A NICE GIRL! I'M A NICE GIRL! I'M A NICE GIRL! Wouldn't help now.

Or would it?

My latest phobia

The toilets on the floor where I work flush... violently. 

Really violently. So violently, in fact, that if, during the act of flushing, your shoe fell off (because there's no woman alive who flushes public toilets with her hands), it would be GONE in an instant.

And if, by reflex, you tried to catch the shoe before it went down and you slipped, you'd lose the arm too. Amputation by toilet. Nobody talks about the toll it takes on us as a nation.

No toilet needs to flush so hard that there are, uh, splashes. 

Who needs that kind of stress?

I guess maybe I just have weird potty phobias. Not germ phobias, really; that's what Purell is for. But between the "Please Keep Door Closed to Prevent BEAR ENTRY" sign in Lake Tahoe and the fact that I live in Colorado, where shit like this happens much more often than you'd think, I'm sprouting new phobias every day.

And it all just brings me one step closer to being the housebound crazy cat lady whose house gets egged every Halloween.

One of my personal heroes

I have a sweet friend at work who had a not-so-sweet husband. Luckily, she's a smart cookie and unloaded him once she found out he was a dud.

One of the most wonderful things about her is that even though she's had a rough time of it this year, she's stayed very upbeat and positive, finding little things to love about each day.

But here's what makes her all the more awesome in my book. Last week, she went down to the courthouse to file her divorce papers... WEARING. HER. WEDDING. DRESS.

I'm so lucky to know so many amazing, funny, bold, kick-ass women.

Dad and Siri

I was in the car with my dad a couple of weeks ago when he told me that we had to make a stop before he dropped me off at home. He was donating blood the next morning (he's one of those nice, blood-donating dads), and he wanted to find the place so he wouldn't get lost in the morning.

We had the cross streets, but no specific address. While we looked, Dad thought to grab his phone and ask Siri.

Siri told us that she found a donation center, but it was pretty far away. We asked her in several different ways. No dice.

Finally, we found the place on our own. As we sat in front of it, Dad asked Siri one last time and got the same wrong answer.

And then Dad hit the button and said "Siri, I'm disappointed in you."

*INSTANT FLASHBACK* to what I heard after every stupid thing I pulled when I was a kid, including the time when, impatient with the "normal" way to use puff paint (in the oven), I decided to expedite the process (in the microwave), filling the house with acrid smoke while I was alone in the house. 

And, much like my own reaction in those days, Siri responded with shamed silence.

Dad Disappointment cuts to the bone. :)

Beau walked in my door on Saturday

And the first thing I told him was that he had the perfect cover for a serial killer.

"What???"

"I mean it. You're friendly. You're an artist. You were raised by a peace-loving hippie family. You have 700+ Facebook friends and a nice girlfriend who never suspected that you had such a dark side. It really is the perfect cover."

[insert audible sigh--EXACTLY the way a serial killer would react, don't you think?]

"Well, I'm not a serial killer, so there goes your theory."

"That's what a serial killer would say. Look at how huge the trunk of your car is. How many dudes do you think would fit in there?"

"Right, like I'd kill a bunch of men and stuff them in my trunk."

"Oh. So you'd kill women? You've thought about it, have you?"

"Are we done with this? Aren't you hungry for lunch?"

So we left it at that. BUT if I suddenly disappear, all of the tv newsmagazines will pull this blog entry and say how tragically prophetic it was. And then they'll show a photo of my smiling face and you'll hear "Somehow, deep down, she KNEW."

And you'll have read it here first.

Or not.

Lunch was good, anyway.

If you buy school supplies...

At Whole Foods, congratulations! You've just been inducted into the Douchebag Hall of Fame!

Spreading the torture around

Recently, I received this little gem of a book in the mail. I didn't order it. I'm guessing someone sent it to me in an effort to save my wretched little soul. Thanks but no thanks. Jesus and I get along just fine, thank you very much.

I asked Duff if he'd sent it. He said (quite proudly, I'll add) that he "Didn't take the religious route." I'm inclined to believe him; he's gleefully taken credit for the rest of his shenanigans.

Anyway, this thing has been sitting on my coffee table for weeks. I don't like the idea of throwing a book away, but I don't want to read it and the cover kind of freaks me out. I don't want it in my house.

So, last Saturday at around midnight, I had a wild hair (and a glass of wine--or six). Dressed in sad-ass pajamas and flip-flops with wet hair, I headed for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Beau.

"Uh, to put it on my Mean Old Lady Neighbor's door. Duh."

He said something else, but I didn't hear it. I was out the door.

I was a tortured-Jesus-book-placin' ninja.

In the morning, I noticed the book was gone.

Heh heh heh. Let HER wonder about it now.

That's what you get for being a Mean Old Lady Neighbor!

I am the queen of the uphill battle

I have a brown, corduroy couch.

I have a white, long-haired cat.

I have an oft-used lint brush.

Though I don't know why I bother because this is what happens.

I start to brush the couch.

Curiosity piqued, Daisy hops up to investigate (depositing more fur).

WHAT'S THAT??

 

Then, she gets a little angry at the lint brush.

WHACHOO DOIN' TO MY COUCH?

And then she tries to destroy the lint brush altogether.

DIE, LINT BRUSH! DIE! NOM NOM NOM.

Until I give up completely and let her be.

DAMN RIGHT YOU DON'T MESS WITH MY COUCH.

Sigh.

Truth and Lies in advertising

I got this nice little direct mail piece over the weekend.

Family owned? Courteous? Included recycling? LIES!

Oh, wait a minute.

Just puttin' this out there. If you have a family-owned, courteous company. Perhaps, even if that's your name, you should not stamp the word LIES all over it. :)

Oh I am absolutely dorky enough

To pull over and photograph my odometer the second it read 1-2-3-4-5-6!
Oh yeah.

True story

I'm not saying it happened here or that I know any of the parties involved (I might be able to say both of those things, but I'm not actually saying them).

In a meeting in an office somewhere in the lower 48 of these glorious United States, the following happened.

One man turned to one woman and meant to say:

Will you email Jane Doe? 

But what he said instead was:

Will you fuck Jane Doe? 

Silence in the conference room (because, oh yes, there were many witnesses).

The woman tried to help him out, saying, You mean you want me to tell her to fuck off? 

He looked up, blankly, saw the faces around him, and said What? What did I ask  you? 

You said "Will you fuck Jane Doe?"

I did? 

Yes. 

Oh. Weird. I meant "email." [Shakes his head, shrugs, and moves on]

WHAT??? That's it? That's just a normal slip of the tongue? People transpose those two words all of the time in meetings??

Wow. Wow. Wow.

More creepy antique store finds

This might be one of the reasons Beau and I are perfect for each other. We like to go to antique stores and take pictures of creepy items. Who else would do that with me??? Nobody, that's who.

Anyway, here are some of my faves.

The Blair Witch Project comes to life.

Feeeeeed the Kitty. Feed the kitty YOUR SOUL!

Look deep into my eyeeyeeyeeyes!

After the Billiard Murders evidence was released back into his custody by the police after the trial, Bill saw no reason why people wouldn't want these fancy, blood-spattered pool balls at a mere two bucks a pop!

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Karen Black doll (I'm dating myself, I know)

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. No eyes? NO FUCKING SOUL! MU-HU-HU-AH-HA-HA!

This thing will haunt your dreams, your nightmares, and the rest of your waking life. I feel cursed for even touching it. But touch it I did. Just for you, dear reader.

CAN I GET AN AMEN!?!

One-minute abs

I'm assuming that's how long it would take to put on this dress. If you can get past the sparkly boobage and heinous rosettes, you'll notice that abs are sewn right in!!

When I was a little kid...

I assumed grownups just talked about adult things.

And then I became a grownup and realized there's no such thing as adult conversation.

The best shirt I saw at the Aerosmith show

It coulda been the lacy, sparkly number that was (barely) held together with a black sparkly shoelace, but it wasn't. (In that vein, though, Lawdy, girls! Y'all looked like you turned tricks to get into the show.)

Nope. It wasn't anything like that. My favorite shirt was worn by a large gentleman. It was a black T-shirt that had a simple message: I'M FAT. FUCK OFF.

:)

You're designated driver at a party

How do you entertain yourself while you wait for your significant other to get her drink on?

If you're Beau, you practice your cocktail-napkin graffiti.

Repeatedly. :)

The original.

To the dim bulb* who designed my pants

(*Full disclosure. I BOUGHT the pants, which doesn't make me too bright either.)

I love the linen (I've learned to accept what I cannot change; it stays unwrinkled for a minute and a half. But I've learned to love the wrinkled linen look too).
I love the cut of the pants.
I love the color.
I love the length.

What I do not love and do not understand about this particular pair of pantaloons is the placement of (rather weak, in my opinion) Velcro where the button should be.

That Velcro results in a disturbing ripping noise every time I bend over to buckle my shoes, pick up a paper clip, etc.

It basically sounds like I'm blowing 'em out about seven times a day.

It's the fatal flaw in an otherwise perfect pair of pants.

Why? Why? Why?