I don't know anything about Bart Crow

His name (and logo) crossed my desk the other day. I'm sure Bart creates mellifluous tones and tunes that make the ladies swoon.

However, he might want to get a little tighter hold on his merch people, who've seen fit to slap his name on a T-shirt in a font that makes it look like his name is BARF CROW.

WE LOVE YOU, BARF!!

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Well, that's one way to detox and cleanse

Just Pukka all those bad things away.

Haiku of the day

Diesel fumes aside,
It's cozy beneath this bus
You've thrown me under

Thorough directions

Is it just me, or does 3. POUR INTO BOWL get a little bossy?

And who pours it into a bowl anyway? As you might be able to tell, Beau and I ate the popcorn straight out of the bag. LIKE HEATHENS DO IT!

I'm nine.

I don't care. GRIND YOUR OWN NUT BUTTER will always be funny.

Funny postscript to yesterday's Honey Boo Boo post

My friend Lora told me she uses online clips of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo as a tool to teach her seven-year-old daughter how not to behave.

Upon seeing the clips, she said “Mom, THAT show and THAT girl are ridiculous!”

And then she said that she was glad that her parents don’t act like that in public and especially on TV.

It's simultaneously sad and AWESOME that a seven-year-old is so much brighter and more mature than millions of American television viewers. :)

I can admit it

I watched about 10 minutes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.

And (though it breaks my heart) I understand why it's a hit.

It's the same reason people love to watch the gorillas at the zoo. They seem just a lot like you, but when you see them do something like playing with their own feces, you feel a bit superior (even though you know, deep down, that that huge gorilla/redneck could squash you like a bug in seconds flat and start playing with whatever oozes out of you).

Here's something else I've noticed lately.

For channels with names like Discovery and TLC (which is supposed to signify The LEARNING Channel), there is an alarming amount of subtitles for native speakers (including Honey Boo Boo's delicate flower of a mother). These are people born here to English-speaking parents who simply cannot speak in a manner that is understandable to most of the country.

And THAT, my friends is even more frightening than the popularity of Honey Boo Boo and the Kardashians put together (and don't think they're not pitching that project to executives right now).

This story is a little gross

But I'm going to tell it anyway.
Duh.

One of my male friends has a roommate. They're not really friends, it's pretty much just a financial agreement.

I should preface things by saying that these are two grown-ass men. Not college boys.

One day, the roommate approached my friend and said he was having trouble getting his cable hookup to work in his room. My friend walked in there to try to sort out the problem.

When he walked in, he was immediately accosted by roomie's... art.

This art consisted of FRAMED porn. Framed beaver shots, to get right down to it. I repeat, FRAMED. BEAVER. SHOTS.

To quote my friend, "It was like an anatomy lesson in there." Fucking creepy.

He turned to the roommate and asked him what's up with all the porn.

"You mean my nudes?" he replied.

NUDES! HE CALLED THEM NUDES.

"You need to lock this shit up; I have friends with kids. If one of them wandered in here by accident, you'd go to jail. Plus, it's just gross."

The nudes were gone the next day.

NUDES!!

No matter the message...

If you TAPE a bumper sticker to your bumper, you're automatically a douchebag in my book.

I know you can't see it or read it very well, but I thought the fact that I took a picture of it gave the story credibility.

Another jacked-up dream

Courtesy of my unconscious.

I dreamt that I was in a high-end department store like Barney's (only it wasn't). It was populated with very skinny saleswomen.

I bought a $900 purse, and when I walked out, I said to myself "What the fuck are you doing buying a $900 purse?"

So I marched right back in to return it. They were pretty bitchy about it, but whatever.

I stopped in the Ladies Room on my way out. And in each stall, there were two toilets. One is for regular business One has blue water and is designated solely for bulimics.

WHAT???

My obligatory, trivial, yet bitchy, post about aging

Today, I am... older. Technically, I could say that every day, but today, the number of candles inches up.

I am one step closer to the F-word (that's FORTY, fuckers).

And here's my gripe about aging. It's not gray hair or the occasional aches and pains. It's not even the "middle-age spread" (an actual term my doctor used during my checkup yesterday--I shit you not).

This is what chaps my ass:

In the morning, after a night of sleeping on a particularly bunched-up pillow, it now takes FOR FUCKING EVER for the pillow creases on my face to go away. They used to go away like *that* (I'm snapping my fingers), and now I regularly show up at work with what looks like a relief map of the NYC subway map on my cheek.

Told you it was trivial.

Told you it was bitchy.

Happy birthday to me.

Yay old.

;)

As much as I love new stain-removal methods...

If you could see the shelf in my laundry room (you can't), you might think I have a problem.

Sadly, these removal methods are never as exceptional as their packaging and commercials make them seem (which, considering the fact that I work in advertising, shouldn't be a shock, but somehow it always is). [Insert sad Charlie Brown Christmas music here]

But I digress.

Even I find this bit of marketing chatter odd.

I fear the stain-grabbing nubs (and, let's face it, the fact that they didn't hyphenate it on the package).

My nosy neighbors tried to give me the plague/rabies

On Mom's birthday, we ate. A lot. Starting with a huge breakfast.

I don't know why I ordered them (because I've never ordered them before), but I found myself sitting behind a pile of banana walnut pancakes.

I finished about a fifth of the pile. And then I felt wasteful.

Then I got a brilliant idea. I asked for a doggie bag, took the pancakes home, and left the open box on my front porch...

I'M GONNA GIVE THE SQUIRRELS LOVE DIABETES!

I left the cakes on my porch and went on with my day (movie, shoe shopping, and--of course--more food).

When Mom and I came back, we wanted to see the progress. We rounded the corner and saw... that one of my neighbors had closed the box.

But only after the squirrelies had eaten two-thirds of the contents.

What's the point of that??? Why close a box full of rodent-gnawed food?

BECAUSE they saw squirrels gnawing away, and thought I'd probably eat some random food item left on my porch AS LONG AS IT WAS IN A CLOSED BOX. Thus, giving me the plague.

Diabolical.

But, alas, I'm waaaaay too wily for them.

I dumped out the rest of the squirrel cakes on the step and took the box inside.

Take THAT, mean old rabies-rootin' ladies!

I. Am. Shocked.

That these beauties were in the clearance section!!

I like cooking and baking

But when you have (AND admit to AND publish) your own CANDY CORN RECIPE, it's time to lock up your crazy ass and throw away the key.

Time to break out the butterfly net.

Also, a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the BEST (pistol-packin') MOM EVER (mine), who is smart enough to buy candy corn at the store like sane people do. 

I love you, Mom!

If someone didn't know me...

They might think my Netflilx queue is a cry for help.

And with that, I slam back down to Earth

So.... I've been doing a little exercise these days. Nothing crazy; just a little cardio (to combat the crap I eat--hello, Endless Shrimp--and because it's just stupid for anybody who's able-bodied not to).

I've been pretty proud of myself for keeping up with it. Feelin' a little better about how my jeans fit. It's put me in a general Mary Tyler Moore Throw Your Hat in the Air mood.

Until... on a recent daytrip to Breckenridge, I got into the car and blew out the left thigh of my jeans.

It. Was. Attractive.

[Side note: This is not an uncommon occurrence with ladies whose thighs touch when they walk (*gasp* did I let my horrible thigh-touching secret slip?). Repeated friction weakens fabric over time.]

It's just that the timing was a little irritating.

Thanks for the instant reminder that I'm not hot shit, universe. 

Sigh.

The Taste (level) of Colorado

Every Labor Day weekend, Denver hosts The Taste of Colorado, a fair based on food but better known for the insane people watching.

I loathe crowds (I like scary crowds even less), but Beau LOVES crowds. I agreed to go on the condition that we eat light so that we could feast on Endless Shrimp at Red Lobster later in the evening (don't judge; you know you love it).

Oh, the sights and smells of downtown.

Here are a few of the photos I got.

Memorialized her favorite snack.

I want ya to cut his hair all classy-like, BUT I'LL CUT YOU IF TOUCH THAT RAT TAIL!

The tattoo on the middle of her back says DIVA.

But here's my favorite story of the day.

On our way back to the car, I urged Beau to come with me and, for good luck, stand on the Mile High step at the capital building (for those of you who don't know, Denver is the Mile High City, sitting at an average altitude of 5,280 ft.).

We ran up the steps until we got to the Mile High step.

Proof that I'm not a big fat liar.

When we got to the step, we decided to do the Rocky dance (fists in the air, jogging in place).

And that's when we heard an angry female voice.

"Go ahead and laugh! It's real fuckin' funny, isn't it?"

We stopped jumping and noticed a woman with a shopping cart (and, I'm guessing, numerous drug, alcohol, and emotional problems) at the base of the steps.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO TO PEDOPHILES IN PRISON, YOU BITCH? 

Oh, my. She's talking to me. And I'm pretty sure she just called me a pedophile. And a bitch. Whuck?

And then she started talking about some BALD-HEADED SONOFABITCH (which couldn't have been Beau; he's got a lovely head of hair) and GOING BACK TO JAIL.

And then she called me a bitch and a pedophile again. I think.

So I had no qualms about taking her picture.

All in all, I think it's a lovely shot.

When I texted this photo to Beau today, he responded with "Pedophile."

To which I shot back "BITCH."

And that's what goes down at The Taste of Colorado.

The Endless Shrimp was delish, BTW.

I got my wish

When I blew out the candles on my birthday cake last year, I knew exactly what I wanted.

And I got it.
DONUTS THAT GROW ON TREES!

Note to self: When making birthday wishes, BE SPECIFIC.

Luckily, this wasn't my cake.

Not that there's anything wrong with a cake with a GIANT TUMOR in the middle of it. 

If you want it, though. It's on sale!