Why MTV is ruining society...

Translation: or all that is wrong with American TV programing.

So I was out and about earlier (it stopped snowing, the sun was shining, God was basically saying here you go Kat- embrace your first day of winter vacation), and I stopped at Target to pick up some tights (of the Spanx variety, with the Mexican food binge I'll be going on during my trip home I'm going to need them..mmm enchiladas). Anyhow, I am getting off topic...I was preparing to buy my miracle working tights when my eyes stumbled across the following headline on gossip magazine at the checkout counter- MEET THE NEW CROP OF TEEN MOMS!

I thought surely I must have lost the ability to read because there's no way in hell a magazine would be glamorizing the fact that some 17 year old had too much peach schnapps at her junior prom and as a result forgot how to keep her legs closed. But unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I was dead wrong. Below the caption was a slutatisically looking fifteen year old holding twin babies. Because when karma wants to bite you in the ass- realize it is always ready and waiting.

Now, I realize mistakes happen, but why does the media feel the need to put these girls on TV? My searching led me (unsurprisingly) to MTV...the place responsible for all that is wrong with the world/Jersey Shore/A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Apparently they have like 65 different shows over pregnant teens. One would think they would be using these shows in order to help teens, not goad them into a casting call. I'm thinking they should do a spin off of MTV cribs, but in the literal sense. Wait, I'm giving them ideas...this is the opposite of my point.

Anyhow the point of my rant is this, why is teen pregnancy being glamorized? Ratings? Money? Ad revenue? I'm not sure. All I know is after five minutes of watching one of these shows I shut it off. I honestly felt bad for the girl...but then again she agreed to let cameras chronicle the 9 month ordeal. This should be a learning experience or a cautionary tale about all the things you will have to give up for that night of fun, but this girl was looking to get preggo to score loot and a nicer car because she was seemingly peeved with her parents being so old school and wanted her 15 minutes of fame.

Not the kind of thing that deserves to be on TV. If most of the episodes are like this and not at all informative on the hardships of teen pregnancy, MTV should be ashamed. I'd even go as far as to say they should replace shows like that with more Real World Road Rules challenge.

I think Lifetime movies deal with the whole teen pregnancy issue best. It's not something you plan for...which (let me get up on my soapbox) is why you can't just run around sleeping with everyone in your formative years. Or if you plan on doing so, you should be mature enough to tell your parents and make a trip for some birth control pills or something. Because for the love of God the last thing we need is for MTV to find more ways to make money by NOT PLAYING MUSIC VIDEOS.

Essentially, I blame you, MTV for making the masses believe everything wrong with the world is right. Exhibit A through Hepatitis C:


I'm told the small one in the middle is called a "Snooki" which I believe roughly translates to "miniature hooker" in Guido.

...........................................

Now, I do not usually cover issues of a prominent or taboo matter like teen pregnancy in my blog, but thanks to the good folks at Planned Parenthood teens and young adults can all take a step in the right direction. If I have offended anyone with my ranting over why teen pregnancy shouldn't be glamorized on TV I am sorry. Children are truly a blessing and deserve nothing but the best, like parents who are able to take care of them and love them unconditionally. I know a lot of people who had children in their teen years and the kids turned out wonderfully, it is just not an ideal situation to be in, and I feel for those who have gone through it. I would not have been strong enough to cope. If I have children before the age of 30 I will probably not be able to handle it, so there's that...yeah. I'm sure that has something to do with me being a giant immature child myself?

These are a few of my favorite things...

Translation: its no surprise the disdain I hold for a one Oprah Winfrey...and she seems to be popping up just about everywhere lately, but lucky for me (and you whether you're brave enough to admit you hate her, too or not), most of these places seem to be boldly bashing her to a degree I find both necessary and hilarious:



This scene of LEGEN...wait for it...DARY awesomeness brought to you by NPH and the gang at "How I Met Your Mother." Mockery at its finest, people!

And as an added bonus- Conan brings you the fear I initially felt about talking crap about Oprah...



Hit me up CoCo, we're way better off without the big O. Besides, she can deny it all she wants to Barbara Walters, but we know Steadman is just her beard. Poor Gayle...what's a girl got to do to get a little love? Either way- the revolution is upon us people! Team No-O for life!

It's a numbers game, really...

Translation: suck it, math!

Well after 4 weeks of absolute hell, my statistics class is over...and I rocked it. 97 out of 100 points. I now feel like those moments where I felt my head might explode were worth it. I think. Sort of...my brain is pretty much mush at this point. I'm just happy I remember how to tie my own shoes after that class.

And in "Karma decided to spare you, Kat Von Devious" news...I started a curriculum class this week that appears to be a cake walk. So I expect to be having my cake and eating it too for the next 8 weeks. As of now I am gearing up for a two week break from work and my master's program and a much needed trip back South to visit my crazy friends and thaw out.

I woke up this morning and found that I am living in a Hallmark Christmas card. Everything is covered in snow and so white it hurts my retinas. I'm pretty much a scrooge around the holidays but it's just so damn cheery outside I think I could throw up pure joy and not even mind it at this point.


(No- this not the inside of a snow globe... see more here)

So sorry for the posting absence but I have been working like a dog lately either on my own schooling or teaching others (taught Spanish the other day- more to come), and the creativity and will to sit down and blog has just been sucked right out of me. Until today. Because I'm pretty much snowed in for the next day or two. But I'm leaving you now, all that talk of cake earlier made me realize there's something missing in my mouth life. Peppermint chocolate cake? Don't mind if I do.

So I will be back soon, after I spend several hours doing extreme cardio to ensure my holly jolly ass doesn't jiggle for my homecoming trip. And all the while during my workouts I will continually be singing "We wish you a Merry Christmas, and a really firm rear" to stay motivated.

The curse of Arrested Development...

Translation: or shows that never got the chance to bombard your television with quality programming.

I am a huge fan of Arrested Development. It’s weird, quirky, hilarious…and oh so very dead. I’ll admit I didn’t get into this show until a year or so ago, but it’s a wonderful combination of dry and satirical (and I’ve seen every episode about 6 times and still love it). It’s the kind of humor that goes straight over the heads of many, many American TV viewers- people more interested in whether or not Snooky and Pauly D hooked up would definitely not understand the nuances of the Bluth household. America- I shake my head in your general direction. Arrested Development managed to pull off some of the best entendres:



And found clever ways to bring up the previous work of all its cast (like Buster, who did the Volkswagen Mr. Roboto commercial everyone loved a few years ago):




But once again, this thought got the wheels turning in my noggin. There are several other shows that mimic the brilliance of A.D. that also got put off the air before they really hit their stride. And you know what else is weird? Many of the same actors from A.D. were characters in these other shows. Which begs the question, are Michael Bluth and co. doomed to be cast out in the shadows of TV’s past?

Take for instance the show Better Off Ted. My parents got me into this one (and I repaid them the favor by getting them hooked on A.D., I’m generous). It lasted a paltry two seasons, but the ride they take you on along the way is absolutely hilarious. Portia de Rossi (for those of you unfamiliar, she played Lindsay in A.D.) really makes this show. Exhibit A:



But there are so many instances of hilarity we’d be here all day. Moving on!


Running Wilde…this starred Gob Bluth, more commonly referred to as Will Arnett (Y’know, the dude married to the insanely funny Amy Poehler). I’ll admit, his character was exactly the same as Gob in this show, but with a guest spot from David Cross (also of A.D.) it was like a mini reunion. One that only lasted for like 8 episodes. The show had promise, but much like A.D. was on the evil Fox network that would rather show reruns of Cops than peculiar programming with a cult following. Exhibit B:



I couldn’t find many clips on Youtube. There are some real gems in these episodes…that clip really only skims the surface. If you’re one of the ten other people that watched this show, you know what I’m talking about.


Finally, there is the very recently canceled New Adventures of Old Christine. This had a healthy five season run, but out of nowhere was canceled right before season six started filming. Diehard A.D. fans remember Elaine Bennis Julia Louis Dreyfus was a guest star as Maggie, the not really blind lawyer prosecuting the Bluth family. But Old Christine was the story of a woman you wanted to hate due to her being a self admitted dumb ass, but couldn’t help but love. Wanda Sykes was also great in this show, hell I couldn’t pick a favorite out of this cast. I am really sad to see this one go without any resolution, since cancellation didn’t seem like a possibility when season five ended. Exhibit C:



Other funny clips weren't able to be uploaded from youtube but can be found here and here.

I am sad to see all three of these shows gone, Christine is at least in syndication, and all are available on instant Netflix. But in the end all I can hope for is that the people of Fox hear the words repeated by every Bluth on A.D: “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

Arrested Development the movie- wait for it.

"So you're saying my crotch would go into the pole?"

Coco is my hero. There is no man on planet Earth that does awkward funny better. If you haven't caught his new shew on TBS, you're totally missing out. I mean, I dvr it because it is on waaaay past my bedtime, but me being an old fart and Conan being funny are completely unrelated.

I am back from the Cheese state and actually thankful for the balmy 35 degrees it is here in Michigan because Wisconsin was FREEZING. So aside from being the home of cheese and really sheisty football teams, we can add "top three places to go if you'd like to die of hypothermia." What are one and two you ask? Russia comes in at two, and Oprah's embrace comes in at number one.

Goodnight moon.

Coexistence: what the farmer does with the turkey - until Thanksgiving.

Translation: Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I know this is a day early but we will be en route to Cheeseland (Wisconsin) tomorrow. The enemy state, yes, but as long as the Packers fans have turkey stuffed in their mouths I should be OK. Come to think of it, do they ever NOT have something crammed in their mouths? Be it cheese or bird or spite.

In the spirit of giving (wrong holiday, being nice confuses me) I wanted to share with you a video from SNL that is ACTUALLY FUNNY. This is thanks to my Mom who showed it to me:



And I've had "Hap, Hap, Hap, Happy Thanksgiiiivinnng" stuck in my head for about a week now. But this year I am thankful for a large and ever expanding family that are always there for me, crazy ass friends who I would be nothing without, and a boyfriend who, through all the trials and tribulations of a long distance relationship over the past 2 years, still gives me butterflies every time he tells me he loves me. For all the bitching I do about life in Michigan, I know there are far worse things that I could be going through.

I am also thankful for the 2011 convertible Camaro and Johnny Depp. And the thing I am most thankful for this Thanksgiving: the end of Oprah's tenure on network television. I think I may need to plan a party to celebrate.

I was recently asked if I had plans to go shopping on Black Friday, to which I replied:"I prefer not to deal with smelly rude people in stores at the ass crack of dawn. I can do that on the internet for free."

And on that note, I wish you all a Happy Turkey Day. May your pants be stretchy, and the football endless!

If my belongings could talk, would I be embarrassed?

Translation: …or would we find other ways to discover your awkward secrets?

Do you ever ponder your own death? I do, but not in the aspect you’d think. Personally, as long as I go out in a ball of fury (think high speed car chase a la Thelma and Louise) I’m ok with my own death. What frightens me more than anything is all the crazy shit my family will find when they go through my belongings. But thankfully, I’m not dead yet! (Couldn’t resist a Monty Python reference)

Whoever has the unfortunate task of sorting through my storage locker…I’m sorry and embarrassed all at the same time. When you find the blue bin marked “Textbooks” just light it on fire. There are no textbooks in that bin, no, I wrote “Textbooks” all over it in hopes you’d find that so mundane you’d automatically throw it out, but…what is inside is haunting audibly, visually, and tactilely. When you remove the lid your face will recant in horror—because you had no idea someone with such impeccable taste as myself could ever stoop to such a low…and no one else needs to know I’ve held on to every item of Spice Girls merchandise released before the year 2000. The horror, the shame…the morbid curiosity as to why (we were all 12 year old girls once. Most of us anyway).

Yeah, that got you thinking. When you die, that beanie baby collection you thought was secret (I’m talking to you, men ages 20 and up)—BAM—EXPOSED. The insane amounts of pornography you’ve collected over the years (I’m talking to you, ladies ages 20 and up) –BAM—EXPOSED. So when you die your family finds out you are actually a large man-child with a Peter Pan complex who wasn’t hugged enough as a baby or an insane sex addict with a penchant for Chuck Norris look-a-like porn’s. You just looked like someone who was into receiving a roundhouse kick post coitus but no one ever mentioned it aloud.

These are not the final memories you want to take with you to the grave. Your eulogy should read nothing of the hidden Hannah Montana DVD collection you’ve been keeping secret for five years under that loose floorboard. I could not think of a more embarrassing epitaph than “Here lies John – State wrestling champion turned Clay Aiken fanclub president.” I’m sensing those two could somehow be related, and deleting your browser history is recommended weekly.

Let’s face it, I don’t care who you are- there are some things about you that you do not want anyone in the world- let alone (ahem, especially) your family finding out about you. Some people keep toe nail clippings in a jar hidden in the back of their closet. Others buy used chewing gum off eBay. What’s worse, some of them even chew it again before putting it back (if you thought ABC gum was just for 5th graders…so wrong). Whatever floats your absurdly peculiar little boat, friends. You’ve got so many secrets it’s more like a dinghy floating into a dark abyss. Hehe, I said dinghy. Anywho…

If you don’t want people to know you’ve held on to incriminating articles that could be used to ridicule you after you’re gone and totally unable to defend yourself (imagine the fodder over the Thanksgiving table…your collection of Backstreet Boys memorabilia fueling the conversation…) my advice to you is- invest in an uncrackable safe only you know the combination to. In the event of your death make sure that thing is BURIED WITH YOU. Because we all know the saying “I’ll take it with me to my grave” is so much more meaningful when you’re talking a notebook full of Justin Bieber news clippings, and not secrets.

But please, feel free to share your dirty little secrets with me. We can dish over a bowl of popcorn while we watch one of my four copies of the movie SpiceWorld. People of the world, Spice up your life…

Things aren't always as they appear.

Translation: I changed the url of the site from kategravelle.blogspot.com to katvondevious.blogspot.com ...because let's face it, Devious is wayyyy easier to spell than Gravelle. So if you've bookmarked me please update (and thank you for your letting me occupy space in your web browser).

Will be back tomorrow with more insanity.

When keeping it real goes wrong...

Translation: ...or things I learned about myself while back in Texas.

So, sorry I have been scarce since my near melt down thanks to my stats class. I still hate numbers more than I hate Oprah, but what can you do? It seems, in this life, we are destined to deal with both. However, I spent an amazing weekend in sunny, warm, wonderfully friendly Texas. When I came home I had both schoolwork and actual work demanding my full attention (with a sprinkle of jetlag), but thankfully I had today off from subbing to finish the former so I could bring you the crazy.

Needless to say, there are several things I learned about myself when I went to Dallas for my cousin's wedding:

1. I like to brag. I look for any excuse for people to ask me what I do for a living to show them that not only am I a giving human being, I am honorable...dammit. I pridefully tell people I do a job most people would fear/hate (some guesses of my line of work have included working for the IRS, defusing bombs, or stripping. Thanks for the vote of confidence, friends and family...). Most people think being a substitute teacher would suck more than working for the IRS. But I truly enjoy it. And instead of just calling me Miss G (because the first initial of my last name is the only pronounceable part) my students have taken to calling me Miss G6...because I'm fly. Reference: Far East Movement's song "Like a G6." My students have chosen to flatter me in a manner I can understand: by feeding my ego via a rap song. *Tear*

2. When If I ever get married my father/daughter dance will be to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and if you don't like it- no open bar for you (said in Soup Nazi's voice). Also, I plan on playing plenty of songs that will either embarass you (think Chicken dance) or make you feel like you're at a Junior High dance (think Boyz2Men). Basically I want to alienate you to the point of leaving, just not before you've dropped off that waffle maker I had my eye on.

3. I can actually take care of children. I'm not talking my students. I'm talking BABIES. I watched my 15 month old niece Hayley practically all weekend to give my brother (from here on out referred to solely as Mr. Mom) a break. And she liked me. I refused to change diapers, but she liked me. Also, 5 of my other nieces and nephews seem to be warming to the idea that Aunt Kate is "the fun one." I am totally ok with this because again, it feeds my ego, but this time in a manner that tugs on my heartstrings. *Tear*

4. The stars at night really are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas. The beer is also colder, the bar trivia effortlessly more fun, and the drunks much more pleasant to be around, but probably because I am one of them.

5. After like 20 some odd years I think my sister and I have finally found a way to manage our time and actually enjoy each other's company (and by enjoy I mean not want to kill each other). This system involves Mexican food, trashing old and/or current boyfriends, and a healthy dose of Chappelle's Show. Combine those three things and its like a cure all for sisterhood. Screw the traveling pants nonsense, all you really need to know is what happens when keeping it real goes wrong...

Chappelle's Show
When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong - Darius James
www.comedycentral.com
Buy Chappelle's Show DVDs Black Comedy True Hollywood Story

And on that note- I'M RICH BIATCH!

"The probability of someone watching you is proportional to the stupidity of your action."

Translation: I just spent over seven hours working on statistics problems for my M.A.E.D. Why in God's name I need to know how to plot histograms and find the standard deviation of eight million numbers as a future ENGLISH TEACHER is absolutely beyond me. Seriously. I am pretty sure I won't be teaching my kids how to write using only the binary code?! Unless they're robots. And in which case, the curriculum at the University of Phoenix is not going to prepare me for teaching terminators.

This was going to be a post about unbelievably excited I am to go to Texas in two days, but even the concept of putting words together (never mind my awesome ability for sarcasm) at this point might cause me to have a brain aneurysm. So I feel as though if I blog about going to Texas again, this time I really will act like the inbred doofus you all believe we are anyway, and dammit I just can't let that happen!

But back to stats class...my Dad used to tell me as a child "Katy, it's all about math." Everything in life can be explained by math. As a pilot, I understand how this applies to him. So maybe I'll drop all my stat's problems off on him in a few days just so I can say "Dad, it's not all about math nowadays...its all about paying other people to do the shit you can't do." And then run away using my famous zig-zag method so he can't catch me through the crowd (perhaps I won't wear heels to my cousin's wedding. I'll need better traction).

And as for everything in life being explained by math? Well, I suck at math so that would probably answer why I currently (cough, cough the past ten years cough, cough) suck at life. Geeze, as an English teacher I probably could've put that more eloquently...so here you go: My failures and lack of mathematical ability correlate to surmise that my existence is both derisive and imprudent. Better?

Moral of the post: if I hear the words "data" or "analysis" used within the next 24 hours my head will explode. And nothing but numbers will fall out of it. It will be like a gritty reboot of the Count's "Number of the Day" sketch from Sesame Street. "The number of the day is 85- as in Kat Von Devious' head is in 85 pieces! Bwhaha!"

This ain’t my first rodeo.

Translation: And I’m not your stereotypical Texan.

Last week I taught a group of 8th graders...I had subbed for several of these kids before, so many of them know I recently moved from Texas to Michigan. All of them question why, and I totally don’t blame them.

Anyhow, the students that didn’t know who I was were bummed after I introduced myself because they heard the sub from Texas is totally awesome. It was then I informed them I am said substitute teacher. To which several students replied, “But...Miss G…you don’t SOUND Texan?!” I also relayed to them I hate country music, I’ve never ridden a horse to school, and I don’t own cowboy boots or a hat.

This was extremely disappointing to the children (the poor, poor children!). However, I think I taught them a valuable lesson on why you shouldn’t read into stereotypes. Plenty of my friends don’t have Southern drawls or that cowboy swagger (but we all have excellent aims).

Being from Texas up here is pretty much equivalent to being a mythical creature. People look at me with wide-eyed wonderment when they hear where I hail from. With the size of their saucer-like eyeballs you’d think I was a damn unicorn. Or Angelina Jolie (I WISH). They wait with baited breath and become deathly still, waiting for the words to roll off my tongue with that twang they hear in all those Western flicks.

Aaaaaaaannnnddd then I utterly disappoint them because I sound like a completely normal person. So I pepper in plenty of “yall’s” in my regular speech, just to make them giddy. Because when you’re in the presence of greatness people, you get giddy, dammit.

But this got me thinking. I posed the “Texas situation” to my Texan pals on facebook. And we formulated an excellent plan:

I’m going to show up for all future assignments in a cowboy hat and spurs. If anyone asks, John Wayne was my grandpa. I’ll embellish stories about how Wells Fargo still runs stage coaches and the Pony Express still transports our mail. I drink moonshine on a regular basis with Chuck Norris. Yes, THE Chuck Norris. At the Alamo. I was a country music superstar as a child, who showed that poor girl Taylor Swift how to play the guitar. Also, I’m a NASCAR fanatic and I’ve been to so many races I’ve lost count (well, there has to be some truth in this, doesn’t there?).

I figured that would totally satisfy Michigander’s Texas lust for awhile, yes?

I will say this- all jokes aside, Texas may not be the most beautiful place on Earth but it is authentic, genuine, and hospitable. People think Texans are a bunch of gun happy, uneducated fools, but I’ve never met or known nicer folks than true Texans. And quite frankly, the economy there is the best in the country, so we must not be that stupid (minus our football team..down with the Cowgirls..post for another day). It may be 110 during the summer but we don’t ever worry about snow storms and power outages, cause winter is a balmy 50 degrees where I’m from. I’ve never missed being somewhere more in my entire life, and I think that’s because Texas is more than just a place, it’s a state of mind.

But I am happy to report next week I get to return to Texas for a wedding. I think this is the happiest and most excited I’ve been in months! So in the great words of Davy Crockett- “You can all go to hell…I’m going to Texas.”

This is not an appropriate time to say "namaste."

Translation: I have this thing where I hate going to the movies (the seats aren't comfy, screaming kids, small bladder, etc.) so I just now got around to seeing "Get Him to the Greek." Ok, it's not going to be the film of all films, but it is pretty hilarious.

In particular, Sean Combs (P.Diddy) absolutely makes this movie. I was disappointed I could find all of my favorite clips from the movie on Youtube except my absolute favorite scene where Combs/Sergio and Jonah Hill/Aaron are talking about the disastrous song "African Child" that ruined Aldous Snow's (Russell Brand) career. Sergio tells Aaron no matter what you tell Aldous you loved "African Child" regardless of how he really feels about it.

Aaron: "So I just lie to him?"
Sergio: "No. We don't lie to people, we don't do that...we just believe invalid truths."

This is now my motto in life. I'd explain the rest of the scene to you but I am far too white for how many "N" bombs Sergio drops after that quote. Anyhow, here are a few absolutely hilarious clips that had me rolling after a long and rough day, so hopefully they do the same for you.

Think of this as the one nice thing I will probably do for the rest of the calendar year? I know I am phoning this post in, but I had an epic day with an 8th grade class and I am "le tired" (go view "the end of the world flash" if you do not know what that is from IMMEDIATELY...see I just did something else nice for you...I'm such a giving person).

......................................

Because everyone knows the Carlton dance (and damn if I'm not excellent at it)


Furry Walls, starting around the 1:00 mark. I want a padded room with furry walls now.


"This is the longest hallway of all time!" "It's Kubrickian!"


I hate Lars Ulrich, so this is unrelated to P.Diddy's character, but had me rolling.


And with that, I bid you all adieu for the day! I will be back with my own sarcastic wit within the next few days. Like when the feeling returns to my fingers, damn you Michigan winter.

This is Halloween, this is Halloween!

Translation: It's the one day of the year it’s OK to let the freak flag fly.

Happy Halloween everyone! I have spent the day watching my classic Halloween movies (since I’m a giant wuss, none of these are even remotely scary): Betelgeuse, Addams Family, and Hocus Pocus, or as I like to call it, the only movie Sarah Jessica Parker was ever attractive in. Seriously, it’s the only film she’s in where it’s okay for her face to resemble a foot (add her to the list) because she plays a witch.

It’s been like 15 years since I’ve seen Hocus Pocus, and I didn’t realize the boy at the beginning of the movie plays McGee in NCIS. Yeah, I even IMDBed that one just to double check. Ahhh, everyone has to start somewhere!

Anyhow, I can finally get on board with Michigan in regards to Halloween. The people up here go ALL OUT. Like Pirate Ships in front yards, things jumping out and scaring the crap out of you everywhere, and of course, a crapton of candy (and by candy I of course mean spiked cider. Adult candy?). Since this is my favorite holiday, I’ve really enjoyed it. But I’m still glad we live in BFE so there is not even a remote chance we’ll get grubby little trick or treat-ers. Bah humbug. Yes, wrong holiday, I know.

Last year at this time I was busy red-necking it up at NASCAR’s race at Talladega (or as we so cleverly called it- Hallowdega..muahaha). The year before, I was busy bomb-shelling it up as Jessica Rabbit. And now, I am sitting at home, movie-ing it up. People, it has finally happened- I am…OLD. The sudden realization is so terrifying I find it appropriate I figured this out on Halloween. In fact, it’s so frightful I may have just peed a little. Bladder control is a sign of aging, isn’t it? …damn.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to scream into a pillow and then find a rock to crawl under. Happy Haunts, readers.

Your best work is your expression of yourself.

Translation: ooooh, aaaah, the blog's been redesigned. I was feeling rather majestic today and I think the new format reflects that quite wonderfully. Have a good evening, all!

If you don’t like the weather in Texas, just wait a few minutes.

Translation: But if you don’t like it in Michigan- you’re shit out of luck. And I fear if the wind continues as it has up here, I am going to be blogging to you from Kansas by the end of this post. 70 mph gusts today, or as I like to call this weather- the mortal enemy of good hair.

I’ll admit, the only thing I am deathly more afraid of than spiders, are tornadoes. And along with all the rain and hot weather mix, I thought for sure I’d be a goner today. After 20 years of living in an area prone to tornadic activity, you tend to develop of sixth sense for impending doom when the sky looks…green (and when the weather channel forecasts a warning. Either way it’s all about the power of observation here, people).

I’d also like to note the area in Michigan I live in didn’t have tornadoes. Until I moved here. Then I actually witnessed one forming when I was in traffic and decided anything Tornado Alley could throw at me might have less of a propensity to make me wet my pants.

You know how the Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed until he blew the house down? Yeah, what with the shoddy workmanship of Michigan building standards if my house is still standing above ground in another hour I’ll truly be impressed. But so far I haven’t died, no tornadoes have come out of this crazy weather, and my hair actually looks decent…so I’d count all those things as a win.

But just call me Professor Von Devious today, because I bring you some insane facts about tornadoes that will blow you away (HAH!).

-The most powerful tornadoes on Earth occur in the US, and every 3 out of 4 tornadoes happen here, too (Well isn’t that comforting, I wonder it that tidbit of information is listed in the fine print area of the American Dream)

-A Tornado can occur at any time, but most often between 3pm and 9pm (when your main goal in life is causing utter chaos and destruction, I can see where having a rigorous work schedule would keep you ‘grounded’ …I’m on a roll)

-Sometimes multiple tornadoes form and travel together in swarms (Just like those mean, bitchy girls you always hated in high school)

-Knives and forks have been found embedded in tree trunks flung from a tornado (but if these utensils were found in a trailer park, I wouldn’t read too much into it…shit gets pretty wild in those things without the help of a natural disaster)

-Tornado winds are the fastest winds on Earth (Thereby making hurricanes look not quite so scary, so that’s a plus)

-A Tornado can sometimes hop along its path. It can destroy one house and leave the house next door untouched (Apparently Mother Nature was one of those bitchy girls I was talking about earlier, but with a better, more sarcastic sense of humor)

-The myth of opening the windows in a house to keep it from being destroyed in a tornado is false. In fact, opening the wrong windows could allow air to rush in and blow the house apart from the inside. (I’d like you all to take that in for a moment and then respond with a resounding: “No shit, Sherlock”)

All these facts were taken from www.tornado-facts.com …which I enjoyed perusing but I know it will haunt my dreams tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if in one dream I ended up just chillin’ under a house with my feet and fabulous ruby red slippers sticking out from underneath it. Until that bitch Dorothy comes along and steals my Jimmy Choo's- then it’s on like Donkey Kong.

In the immortal words of Jean Paul Sartre, 'Au revoir, gopher.'

Translation: Surprisingly, this blog has very little to do with Bill Murray. Which is a little sad, but I’m too confused to go into details, because I just finished watching the movie Vicky Cristina Barcelona. And I just have one thing to say- WHY?

The movie was truly me just waiting and waiting for 93 minutes for something, anything to happen. Aside from Penelope Cruz smoking ANOTHER cigarette while cursing in Spanish or Javier Bardem looking more confused than usual while he finger painted. I like to give anything with Scarlett Johansson a chance because I’ve been told I resemble her by a lot of people (yes, other than just my mother). So it would seem my vanity has once again gotten the better of me. Damn you, narcissism, my lust for myself knows no bounds.

I was told the film was artistic and exotic. Read: nice way of saying long winded, and oh yeah, there’s a split second kiss between two chicks.

So I wonder…am I missing something here? For a movie that was critically acclaimed two years ago…I had to poke myself a record 33 times to stay awake (not to mention I was confused as to whether Vicki Cristina Barcelona was one person before I watched, and now I'm just mad there's no punctuation in the title).

I usually appreciate “artistic” films! I didn’t waste spend a whole semester in my undergrad in film criticism classes for nothing, you see. I know more of montages, apparatus theories, and rack focusing than I particularly care to…because I find I can no longer just watch a movie. I have to dissect every little detail (note the running theme here that I am insanely OCD). Unless of course, the movie is Caddyshack. No analysis necessary- just general badassery.

"Because remember Danny- Two wrongs don't make a right but three rights make a left." And anything will Bill F*cking Murray in it is worth watching at least 36 times in one weekend.

"I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist."

Translation: retail therapy has made me discover horrible, horrible things about myself.

So ever since my dog passed, I’ve had this overwhelming need to…nurture something. As much as it pains me to admit I have a heart, it should come as no shock to you all I’ve channeled the need to love the hell out of something by increasing the amount of time I spend shoe shopping. I’ve acquired QUITE the boot collection for this winter.

But put all these awesomely hot boots together, they are still nothing to cuddle up with at night. While, yes, the idea of nuzzling my grey Nubuck Rampage’s as I drift off to sleep has crossed my mind a couple of times…I am but a feeble woman, sue me.

Anyhow, since the need for me to be human and “feel things” has been more prevalent than I’d prefer lately, I’ve found an increasing correlation between the direction I’m headed and the nearest Macy’s. Which got me thinking- why the hell do women love shopping so much? Half the time we go, try stuff on, vow to never eat another piece of cake again and run a marathon, only to leave the store feeling gross and frumpy, and inevitably reaching for that last piece of Red Velvet to drown our sorrows in.

So I did some googling research, and it turns out women are likely to shop when either happy, or depressed. If you are a woman, or know a woman (I’m assuming this encompasses everyone reading) you know we pretty much only have two main emotions. And that would be happy, or depressed (occasionally we also experience madness brought on by the opposite gender). So it would seem we waste 98 percent of our free time spending our hard-earned money (or if you’re a lucrative women, some old guy’s dough) on clothes and shoes.

I find this to be a little dismal. But only a minimal amount because there are worse things we could be doing with our time. Like stealing cars or robbing banks. Shoe shopping is not a gateway crime. If it is, I might as well be locked up for life without parole because I own more shoes than I could possibly wear in a year, and I'd kill someone for a pair of Manolo's. I’m a shoe slut. I go weak in the knees for a pair of six inch red stilettos like Scarlett did for Rhett- and if they’re on sale, I have a shoegasm. And frankly my dear, that is something I DO give a damn about.

I often wonder why I can’t direct how pleased shoes make me into other aspects of my life. I’d be a lot happier if I had more money, but that would mean I had less shoes. You see the predicament. I fear if I do not find a constructive means to deal with my ever present desire to love something, I’m going to run out of closet space.

Oh, and there’s no biological clock ticking it’s magic here, I am in no way shape or form looking to have my own kid, I take care of about 200 of them on a weekly basis (and THAT is the best birth control EVER). It’s just that I’ve done such a wonderful job of taking care of myself that I actually find it enjoyable to take care of something or someone else. I’m…domesticated. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go cry over my lost rebelliousness while eating a bowl of ice cream and walking around in my 5” BCBG pumps searching for where I might have misplaced my edginess.

…and don’t be surprised if in my next blog, I come to you to speak about my new goldfish, Fred.

Whoever said that things have to be useful?

Translation: I think we’re overwhelmed with connectivity nowadays. I say this, because my grandparents visited this weekend, and my grandmother wanted a rundown on what exactly facebook, twitter, and blogging were. Which then made me realize they’re all essentially the same thing- an asinine means for you to express yourself and hoard friends, while “staying connected” aka “being too lazy to pick up the phone.”

But have you ever tried to explain twitter to an 80 year old? ...it makes you feel like a real ass.

“Yep Grandma…you post in 140 characters or less a quip or something about your life you think other people will be interested in.” In my head I was thinking ‘wow…my generation is full of egotistical a-holes.’ But since my grandparents are one of the VERY FEW people I ever watch my mouth around, I let that thought pass. Shocking, I know, but it is in fact possible for me to pipe down.

But it still stands- why in God’s name do I care that Kim Kardashian had pancakes for breakfast and they were delicious? That Forever 21 is having multiple shoe sales? That one of my friends has the inability to withhold posting his sexual exploits via Twitter (if the description fits in 140 characters or less, trust me, it is not worthy of the world knowing, Casanova.)? I DON’T. Wait…except for that second one. That’s just good advertising.

As for facebook, it makes a little more sense (except for the ever-addicting facebook games. You’ll all be happy to know I’ve leveled up in Frontierville, so apparently the addiction won). And I won’t knock blogging for obvious reasons. If you post daily about your cat Mister Zazzle’s adorable ability to rip your furniture into shreds in 30 minutes, I recommend you back away from the keyboard and experience reality (as well as getting that feral damn cat declawed)…but that’s just a suggestion.

So now that my G-ma knows what a twitter is…I think in her eyes my generation just got dropped down a few pegs. So advice to you, if any older relative ever asks you what twitter is, do our generation a huge favor and claim twignorance. Or tell them it’s a noise a bird makes. Deny all connectivity whatsoever and maybe, just maybe, you’ll save yourself from looking like a huge douchebag in front of people whose generation existed just fine without cell phones.

If anyone else has ever experienced a similar situation and wasn’t smart enough to claim they don’t have a twitter either, I appreciate your commiseration ahead of time. I should’ve gone the Jon Stewart route and replied to my Grandmother by saying this- “For the uninitiated, here’s how Twitter works – I have no f***ing idea.” But dropping f-bombs in front of her surely would’ve gotten my tweet-happy ass kicked out of the will.

“Why is it drug addicts and computer aficionados are both called users?”

Translation: I got a monkey on my back, and if I don’t get my fix…it’s gonna be ugly.

Sidebar: Well it seems one of the points I mentioned in my previous blog over being left handed is incredibly true. I have been sick for over a week now with insane allergies. Allergies that ruined my long weekend getaway and will more than likely be the death of me. But I’m glad what I am writing to you, indeed has the appearance of being true? However, I type to you today not to discuss the amount of Kleenex’s I have used in the past seven days, but of my ever growing addiction to the Facebook game, Frontierville.

…what a foolish thing to blog about, you say? Well, apparently you’ve never had the desire to tame the Wild West. This is either because as a child, you were one of the very few people who ever beat Oregon Trail, or you live under a rock and have never heard of Facebook.

There are so many FB apps nowadays it is absolutely ridiculous. I used to scoff at (nay, de-friend) the people who would send me relentless requests to water their crops on Farmville, or feed their fishies in Fishville (seriously Zynga, try branching out when you name games. Adding –ville to everything doesn’t automatically make it fun. Lobotomyville? Auditville? Cancerville? I’m not buying it). But seriously, these people are more relentless when it comes to Facebook messaging to better their game level than door-to-door Mormons with a recruitment quota.

…and I’ve become one of them. I’m not sure what it is exactly about Frontierville I like so much. Is it the customizable buildings? The fact that I can shoot cannons to blow up predators? Visit my neighbors to chop down the trees they’re obviously using as décor just to be mean? Probably all of these things. It’s like a sick, twisted addiction. I log on Facebook every few hours to check and see if people have sent me the hammers I requested to build my Jackalope Lodge. If they haven’t, I no longer consider us on “good terms…” I’m building an empire here people; anyone who gets in the way will be crushed.

But when I log into the game and I’ve completed a task on my checklist it’s like sweet relief comes flooding through my veins. I’m amped. Charged up and ready to master the next thing that comes my way.

I used to think, ‘Oh hell, it looks like I’m gonna have to bother even more people in order to fulfill the requirements to finish the next one.’

And now, I could absolutely care less about how insane my demands are, and whether or not I have completely plastered them all over your live feed. SUBMIT TO MY WILL!

…Clearly, I need help. I’ve tried going days without the game but I always come back to it- like Paris Hilton to cocaine, old people to a Walmart, Germans to their sausage. I can’t quit you, Frontierville. I think a heroin addiction might be easier to kick. Do they have support groups for FB game addicts? They should. I think I might try Googling ‘Zynga Rehab for people on the verge of alienating every single Facebook friend they have,’ and see if I yield any results.

But if you don’t hear from me in a couple days, know that I have had no luck, and resumed my quest to virtually manage the Wild West whilst taking no prisoners. It’s a dirty game, but someone’s got to play it. I’m like the John Wayne of Frontierville.

...Except I’m a woman.
...And I’m obviously allergic to the outdoors in real life.
...And I never beat Oregon Trail as a child.
So someone pass me a box of Kleenex, I’ve got foxes to shoot.

The right half of the brain controls the left half of the body. This means that only left handed people are in their right mind.

Translation: Move over righties, this lefty is about to hit you with some knowledge.

First off, a big thanks to Mid 30’s Life for the one lovely blog award, if you haven’t read her…go check it out! Her link is right below the award. Yes, I’d like to draw focus to the award...sue me. Being sarcastic and witty is not as easy as I make it look, people.

Secondly, this is not a girlie post, but the whole reason this came to mind earlier is that I was painting my fingers and toes to get ready to go on vacation this weekend…and you see, much like my Aunt Anne (hello if you’re reading, miss you!), I suffer the curse of being left-handed, which makes virtually every task I do 15-20 times more difficult than it should be.

Did you know that approximately 2500 left-handed people a year die from using right-handed products? I know what you’re thinking, and no, we’re not retarded. But I dare you to try to use a pair of scissors backwards and upside down in order to cut a straight line…it’s no easy task folks.

Here are some things lefties suck at:

-Writing on a dry erase board. At work this is absolutely impossible for me to do without my arm being covered in smelly marker (at least they make fruity scented markers now), kind of giving the left side of my body the resemblance of a toddler whose been playing in mommy’s make up all morning. I decided in my classroom I’m picking a righty and making them do all my transcribing for me. Righties will be the new minions; much like pink is the new black.

-I’ve already covered how hard it is to use right-handed scissors; thank God they make lefty scissors now, too. Before the invention of left-handed scissors, my arts and crafts projects as a child looked like something an angry rhinoceros with a severe inferiority complex crafted (read: frustratingly ugly).

-According to Associated Content, lefties make up only 5-15 percent of the population. We’re unique. But not in the good way like double rainbows or snowflakes…more or less unique like Melvin the hypochondriac giraffe from the Madagascar movies, because we’re more prone to illness, migraines, insomnia, and allergies (we should be raised in bubbles).

-Serial killers are predominantly left-handed. I have no comment on this; I just thought all you righties would like to know pissing us off is a bad idea.

Now on the other side of the coin, things we’re better at than righties (you didn’t think I was going to not find a way to spin this in my favor, did you? If so…remember, I used to be a journalist, readers):

-We use a different side of our brains than righties, and because of that we are much more creative and complex thinkers (Da Vinci, Hendrix, Escher, Cobain- in your face).

-We’re more eloquent (you’re damn right we are...I never said we were less pretentious…ahem).

-We have our own holiday. Left Hander’s Day, August 13…mark it on your calendars, I expect gifts.

-Being a lefty offers you the element of surprise in sports, thereby making lefties better at things like tennis, baseball, and boxing. I also think our aggravation from being a lefty in a right-handed world helps tremendously here.

-Somehow, we manage to overcome the right-handed obstacles to succeed, awesomely. Studies have shown left-handed people have a higher average income than right-handers. So while you can use sharpie markers, a computer mouse, and live longer than we do…we’re too busy rolling our money like Scrooge McDuck to notice, so we have righties do that stuff for us anyway.

So in conclusion, being a lefty has its perks. While I’ve grown used to being called a South Paw or a weirdo (that probably has nothing to do with what hand I predominantly use), I like being left-handed. There are so few of us it’s kind of like belonging to a really exclusive club…like the chess club or AV department. You know, the kind no one really wants to admit belonging to, but in the event it pops up…it’s a damn good thing we’re loaded.

Because we're better than you, and we know it!

Translation: After google searching, I found this to be the mantra of hipsters. How someone who still lives in his mother's basement, listening to the same Taking Back Sunday album for the 8th million time while reading anything by Chuck Klosterman (because they're certain he's God) thinks he's better than other people...well it's absolutely beyond me.


I am bothered by the growing trend of men wearing women's jeans and wife beaters in public, whilst sporting long and shaggy unwashed hair. This trend is called being a "hipster" ...although for the life of me I cannot figure out what is so hip about looking like a homeless person. Call me crazy?

Anyhow, I was at the mall doing what I do best (window shopping...much to my chagrin, my credit card keeps me from ever being able to make a commitment), and a group of what appeared to be 15 year old girls were walking in front of me. I say "what appeared to be" because it was my professional opinion as a woman it could've been trendy, really skinny 15 year old girls with cute bob hair cuts from behind. Sadly, I was wrong. And the only thing I find more annoying than admitting I am wrong, is seeing a hipster in a public place.

Once I passed these girls and realized they were in fact boys, I was highly upset that a man obviously had on not only the same black pair of Charlotte Russe skinny jeans as me...but a SMALLER SIZE of black Charlotte Russe skinny jeans. I'm a size 4 and this kid had to be in a 0. Instead of tearing out my hair and ultimately deciding to wear sweats everywhere I go (noooow I get it, Michigan) I attempted to go about my business.

Until I heard the kid say it..."Hey, lookie there lady we have on the same jeans!"

I asked what a 15 year old was:

A. Doing out of school at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday
B. Doing stealing his younger sister's jeans
And C. Informed him I was glad those jeans were so tight they probably would render him impotent.

So it turns out he was actually 21. I think my laughter resonated throughout the entire mall. Do I feel bad about mocking a grown man in woman's jeans? Of course not. If those jeans weren't so tight, I'm pretty sure he would've had the room to exit the mall with his tail between his legs.

“Basically, I hate conformity.”

Translation: Why I just say NOprah.

I am one of five people on the face of this planet who absolutely abhors Oprah Winfrey. She’s never given me a free car, she’s accountable for the career of Dr. Phil (note the term doctor is used loosely here, as in- he isn’t one), and I’m pretty sure she’s responsible for Global Warming. Those last two items are things that are ruining our planet. Someone has to stop her before she causes the apocalypse.

I know what you’re thinking reader, “Miss Von Devious- you can’t openly bash Oprah in a public forum…she has…‘connections.’”

And to you I say- I used to be scared to hate on the Big O in public, for fear she has snipers on every roof top, or the meteorological capability to cause a tidal wave to crash down on me regardless of whether I’m near a beach, in a Walmart, or hiding her book club recommendations at Borders.

So what’s changed? Well my friends, Oprah’s reign of terror is finally coming to an end this season. No more couch jumping lunatics, advice from a woman who’s so rich she probably doesn’t even know how to operate a toaster, or use of the word ‘va-jayjay.’ How old are you again, Winfrey?

Inadvertently, I still picture her series finale coinciding with the end of the world. And it will go something like this:

“Everyone, look under your seats for you FREE PLUUUTONIUUUUUUMMM!!!!”
…and fade to black/massive explosions heard in background.

Yes, Oprah made a name for herself out of practically nothing and that is impressive, but all she ever seems to talk about is either being fat, or losing weight and remembering what it was like when she was fat. One more jerk on this yo-yo and you think the general population would be up to her tricks. But no, she cleverly circumvents this by giving her audience free trips to Australia (that turn out to be not so free after all) and other pretty sparkly things to distract them. Apparently her audience has the IQ of a greedy kitten.

Even her TV channel, the Oprah Winfrey Network, or OWN (how fortuitous), is pompous. Since she’s such a philanthropist and started her own leadership academy schools, I believe it’d be more fitting if it was called the International Oprah Winfrey Network for Youth Organizations United, or I OWN YOU. Juuuust a thought.

But I am so happy to report I am not alone in this hate- a google search of “I hate Oprah” pulled up pages upon pages of yahoo support groups, facebook clubs, and other sites that gradually helped to restore my faith in humanity.

We can unite, people! No longer do we have to let this mogul tell us what to read, who to elect for president, or what’s hot this season (the woman does not dress herself- wear white whenever the hell you want to, but avoid purple pleather pants..that’s a given).

And while I enjoy using the "Oprah voice" for excitingly gaudy conversations, I am now a proud member of about 36 different anti-Oprah clubs. Wendy Williams is where it’s at, anyhow…that woman can DRESS. And I’ve learned really essential things from her, like beef jerky tastes better when heated up with a bic, and that when I say “how YOU doin’” as a tiny white girl, people will not take me seriously.

…………………………………………………………………………………

So eventually there will come a time when Oprah will be but a distant memory. And aside from you and me, loyal reader…I feel the real victims in all of this are Gayle and Steadman.

The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.

Translation: That’s probably why I can never find a damn unicorn ANYWHERE.


It’s time for another riveting round of daily observations! ...don't look so puzzled. You know you yearn to be enlightened by my inner awesomeocity.

-After spending the day subbing for a 2nd grade class, I wonder if I could find a doctor somewhere in the US that would be willing to give a 23 year old a hysterectomy.

-I was watching Glee last night (tell a soul and I will shove you in a locker), which got me thinking…what’s with the growing trend of celebrities whose faces look like a foot? Mr. Schu? Robert Pattinson? Jennifer Aniston? Look at your foot. Google a picture of any of those people- it is remarkably hard to tell the difference. (Side note- the Britney Spears episode was absolutely hilarious…reiterate- STUFF YOU IN A LOCKER)

-What is it about driving a golf cart that automatically makes grown men (50+) revert to ten year old boys? If I see one more old dude doing donuts on the green behind our house I’m gonna set up a camera. Also- women are EXTREMELY vulgar golfers. I kinda like it. I wonder how much money I could make in a day if I sold beer and hotdogs from my yard. We are on the cart path…my entrepreneurial spidey senses are a tingling.

-Watched a few seconds of Will Arnett’s new show “Running Wilde,” which got me thinking- is he capable of playing any character other than Gob Bluth? Also- Arrested Development has and will always be the greatest effing show in the history of shows. I’ve instant netflixed the entire series so many times Netflix probably put me on a government watch list. Oh yes, and I fancy myself a Buster Bluth fan. If you’re reading this blog and you’ve never seen an episode…you would understand so much more about me if you did. They’re the televised version of my family.

-Speaking of…Netflix, if you keep putting Rob Schnieder films under the movies you think I’ll love category- we’re breaking up. Coming soon- my ‘Ode to Netflix (or other ways to spend 13 bucks a month).’

-Dear Ke$ha, Please for the love of God take a shower. And just…stop. The mere sight of you makes me want to wash my hands and burn my clothing.

Anatomy of a Catcall

Translation: why men are evolutionarily inferior to women.

I’d like to start off by stating- yes, I do believe women are superior to men. But without them, who would reach the stuff on the high shelves? I don’t keep a ladder handy.

Any man who’d like to argue this idea with me- your point is moot, because:

a. You can’t give birth
b. You can’t walk in 6 inch heels (unless you’re a drag queen and in which case I group you with us)
c. You’re less likely to graduate from college than a woman
d. Your life span is shorter (this may or may not be attributed to the fact that you suck at the aforementioned points)

I dare any straight man to argue point b with me and still try to prove you’re the superior one.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like to mention while I’m a “hater” it’s usually because men have provided me with excellent reasons to “hate” …but you’re not all evil or philandering jerks. One day I promise to blog about how there are certain things you can do better than us (like get sacked by a 300 lb defensive lineman or pee standing).

I digress…yesterday I was walking through the parking lot at the local grocery store, and a minivan (oh baby, nothing says hot like a loser cruiser) with some rather interesting/woodtick looking men in it all started whistling and hollering in my direction.

I consider myself to be a moderately attractive woman, meaning even on my worst day I know I look better than Lindsay Lohan.

Anyhow, this got me thinking- what in the world do men expect to happen after they Catcall a woman? Cause guys, I gotta tell you, the kind of woman whose loins burn after being whistled at from across a seedy parking lot is probably not the girl you want to bring home to Momma. Generally I’d pinpoint her as the woman you’d like to steer clear of unless you often wonder about the joys of herpes (I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess genital warts are really NOT that joyful).

Unless of course, you aren’t looking for a woman of high caliber, in which case, whistle on you egg-headed horndog, whistle on.

I’m suspecting if I had approached said van full ‘o hosers, they would’ve either:

a. Rolled up the windows and been too big of a pansy to speak with me.
b. Thrown me a cheesy pick up line like “Did you have lucky charms for breakfast? Because you look magically delicious,” in which case…
c. You wouldn’t be reading this blog because I’d be in jail for assault.

I do have to wonder the efficiency of Catcalling. I’ve never heard of a couple falling madly in love after the man so “dashingly” whistled her way as she stomped past him on her way to work, coffee in hand, poised to be thrown in his face…but instead his act of romanticism swept her and her Starbucks off their feet.

Or imagine the E-harmony ad. ‘Well, Steve completely degraded me when we first met with a catcall, and then I just KNEW he was the one…we’ve been married for a year and he only has three mistresses. It was fate.’ Ahh, true love.

So in conclusion, men- want to impress a woman? How ‘bout ya open the door for her instead of yelling “hey baby nice cans,” in front of your 6 year old son. But if that’s asking too much, perhaps your wife should do the rest of us a favor and not let you leave the house unsupervised. Just a thought.

I'm thinking I might need to start animating some of my blogs. Because the mental image I have of my final points A-C are epictastical.

P.S. I’ve never met a jar I can’t open on my own…sometimes I like to give a guy a freebie morale boost and ask him to open something for me. I’m not completely evil.

"There are rules for the mullet hunt..."

Translation: you never see an episode of COPS where someone with a mullet doesn't get shot...what are these rules you speak of?!?

Well, Pete was the discerning ear I always ran my blogs by before submission, so bear with me. The dog so loved to critique.


(See, he was more than happy to help and laugh at me even when I wasn’t funny so now you all must do the same…)
…………………………………………

When I lived in Texas, I really thought we cornered the market on mullets. I am pretty sure you’re all familiar, but a mullet is a hairstyle best described by Google image searching “Joe Dirt.” That’s right…when you decide the mullet is the right hair choice for you—you’re embracing a lifestyle, not just a trend.

Needless to say, I thought the rebel hair choice known as the mullet would be long gone as I waved to Texas in my rearview mirror and headed to the North. There are few things I have been more wrong about (like the catastrophic time I decided tequila and Goldschlager would pair excellently, or my prediction that the Spice Girls would last forever…oh Past Me, you were so jubilantly foolish).

But when I arrived, Michigan turned into a proverbial “Who’s Who” of the mullet wearing community. Men, teenage boys, grown women, babies, dogs…they all had mullets. I know you question the validity of a dog being able to sport a mullet, but hello, a poodle with overgrown hair is totally rocking one (mental picture status: EPIC). No one is safe.

But there was one in particular I saw today that literally stopped me dead in my tracks, mouth agape, eyes wide, breath ceased in horror/amazement- horrazement. This man was dressed in tattered jeans, and a cut off tee sporting a WWE Raw logo (your first hint he’s quite accustomed to the mullet lifestyle), and work boots. He was wearing a lime green camouflage fishing hat. While usually I would be pointing out the obvious misstep of wearing a lime green hat as camouflage- we have more important things to worry about. Upon removal of the hat/locating device, a mane of long, wavy hair unfolded down his back, nearly to his plumber-peek-a-boo-asscrack, however- in the front it did not do the same.

In the front he had the most impressive Elvis impersonator swirl of hair I have ever seen. It was almost as if you separated the two hair styles you would have Fabio standing next to Mr. Presley himself. Needless to say, I scrambled for my blackberry while trying to muffle my hysterical fit of laughter not to make too much noise.

But I was scared if I got close enough to take a picture, the sheer force of the thing would suck me in and cause me the sudden urge to rebuild a 1975 TransAm or name my first born Cletus (or Bobby Ray if it’s a girl- cause dammit I ain’t raisin’ no sissy!).

I really must apologize to y’all (see I was a good 20 feet away and it affected my grammar) that I was not brave enough to take a photo. This was definitely the most epic mullet I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think I could embrace, let alone, pull off the mullet lifestyle- so please...forgive me for the sake of my barely there sanity and ability to dress and leave the house without looking like my electricity went out.

I thank you ahead of time.

P.S. Anyone reading this with a mullet- I apologize, and I gotta say- Jared Allen is my favorite football player of all time (but did ya’ll a huge disservice by choppin’ that thing off).

P.P.S. I'm really proud I made this entire post without once referring to the mullet credo of "business in the front, party in the back."

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Translation: this is a post grieving the loss of the dog I loved so. I promise I will be back to posting blogs entailing Michigan Mullet Count 2010, a rousing look at why I am not goo-goo for Gaga, and a game I like to call "Shoe- or Torture Device?" in a day or two my patient audience. I appreciate your readership so very much, but today I need to be serious.
........................................

I have been trying to keep busy in hopes I will not notice he is gone. But when you’re so used to having a little dog by your side for 18 hours out of the day the absence he has left is beyond obvious.

The house just seems so cold without him, my routine so interrupted. I have no one to sneak Apple Cinnamon Cheerios to in the morning, and when I take my laundry downstairs and look across the hall from the washing machine where his bed was, there is now nothing.

And my heart aches.

I knew this was not going to be easy. Losing the family dog is always inevitable, but no amount of preparation could ever have readied me for holding him in my arms for the last time. Watching the life slip out of him, I have never hurt so much in my entire existence. I want to scream, but no amount of thrashing and flailing will bring him back.

It is unfortunate they don’t do liver transplants for dogs...it was his time. Now he is no longer sick, or hurting in any way. Now it is my family’s time to hurt. I thought perhaps I would feel better today, as I reminisce about how wonderful and crazy that dog was. I have so many fond memories of Pete that I could fill pages upon pages chronicling the 13 years worth of happiness, enjoyment, and companionship he was kind enough to give my family.

But absolutely every part of my waking day involved some aspect of Pete. And 24 hours after he has been gone I find myself unable to be downstairs during the day. He would lie in his doggy bed next to the kitchen table while I got my work done; sit with me on the couch and play, then sleep so soundly. When I check the mail today I will do so alone. When I open the front door I will no longer wait for him to follow me in. At 5:00 last night I went to get a plate to feed him dinner and then I remembered. These habits will be so hard to break.

I think the hardest part is I can no longer look into his little eyes and feel the love he had for me shine from them, then cradle his head in my hands and kiss his furry little forehead and tell him I loved him, too.

Its absolutely amazing how much an animal can affect your life. But Pete was more than a dog- he was a member of our family. I’ve never felt a pain like this when I lost a boyfriend, had my heart broken, or even when I had to give up Shiloh when I moved here. All those things hurt like hell but were a scrape compared to this. I’ve never experienced a hurt so deep even when some of my family and friends have passed. Yes, I mourned and grieved, but with time it got better.

I pray that in time this heals, too. I dealt with the loss of Corky and Maggie. I loved those dogs, as well…but Pete was my best friend. He had more personality in his 25 pound body than anyone I’ve ever met. When I was sad, he would curl up pressed so tightly against me like a little bodyguard keeping me from harm. And that damn dog was the only thing on planet Earth that has ever been able to make me laugh regardless of how I feel inside.

Now life feels very joyless. I have so much aching inside of me, and I put on this strong façade for my family and in public. But truth be told, even the thought of Pete being gone makes me burst into tears. I look down at my side and I think I will always expect him to be there. Because for the majority of 13 out of my 23 years, he was.

The last moments I had with Pete were so distraught and agonizing. Like a quiet storm of violent pain. The look of worry and fear on his face in the vet’s office before he was put to sleep. The sorrow in his eyes while we waited in the car for my stepdad to arrive. He knew he was dying. Pete knew everything.

So when he climbed on to my lap in my Mom’s car I held him as tight as I could. I told him goodbye, and in a way he told me, too. He looked into my eyes with a gaze that almost told me not to worry anymore. That he tried as long as he could, but he had to go now.

I will always remember the feeling of stroking his fur. Of my tears falling onto him as he sat in my lap and hearing my mother cry beside us. Of the very last time I ever got to tell him I loved him, and thank him for being the only boy I gave my heart to that never broke it.

When he was gone, I held his little face in my hands, and I knew that never again in my life would I experience a bond with anyone else like the one I had with Pete.

I am somehow at peace with that. I will have other dogs in the distant future, as I love animals. I want my children to grow up with a family pet the way I grew up with Pete. And when I find that dog, he or she will be put up against the toughest standards left by Petey.

And if that dog is even half as wonderful as Pete was, I will be happy.

"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really."

Translation: All dogs go to Heaven.

My usual wit and charm will be missing from this post, because I am experiencing the day every pet owner dreads...our beloved rat terrier, Pete, had to be put down this morning.

I knew this loss would hit me hard, but I feel like a part of me is gone forever. That little innocent corner in my heart that so belonged to that dog aches. We're a dog family alright, and anyone else who has lost a pet or ever read "Marley & Me" and wept openly, knows exactly how I am feeling right now. Every where I turn I see him in our home. While it was his time, I don't think I ever could have prepared to let him go.

For 13 years Pete was my best friend, the funniest little dog on the planet, and the only boy I ever loved who never broke my heart. My family and I will miss him more than words can describe. Rest in peace, Petey.

It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.

Translation: Back. Away. From. The. Kindle.

I, like any Red-Blooded American, generally hate on all forms of technology that seem pretentious and then turn around and end up using them anyway. I just don’t tell anyone about it. Or admit to it if cornered. Its 2010 and I don’t even own an IPod (TRUTH. May lightening strike me down if I am lying…).

Still here. Whew.

Tangent aside, I am writing to you about a series of events that all culminated because of my increasing addiction to Twitter (but because I’m a huge perv I usually refer to it as “Twatter” and instead of “tweeting” I’m “twatting.”) Ok, back out of the gutter.

My abode, however humble it may be, is literally located out in B.F.E. ..for those of you who are unfamiliar with that term, Urban Dictionary is going to be your best friend. I am so far out in the middle of Nothingsville (population: 1 extremely concerned Texan, 6 Michiganders), that Twitter’s automatic tracking tool can never seem to find me.

Recently it has suggested I am:
@Prestige Liquor in Detroit (over an hour away)
@Liquor Westside in Detroit (I’m sensing a pattern here)
@New Bethel Baptist Church (it’s too late to redeem yourself now Twitter- we all know you’re a drunk)

…or generally just claims my location is unavailable (sadly, I find this to be the most accurate).

So I did some Twitter bashing, on account of I’m a mean and bitter person. I twatted tweeted the following:

“twitter keeps saying my location is unavailable- let me help you out Twatter... it's B.F.E.”

And then about two hours later my mother is frantically calling for me upstairs to “LOOK OUT THE WINDOW!! OH MY GOD!!”

I was hoping that Johnny Depp had somehow found his way to my home and God had answered all my prayers…but no. There was a tour bus outside my home. Let the gravity of the situation sink in for a moment.

A TOUR BUS. BIGGER THAN THE ONE ON BRETT MICHAEL’S ROCK OF LOVEBUS*.

So in a rather ironic twist of fate, a Tour Bus full of 50 people can somehow find their way to B.F.E., but Twitter/GoogleSkynet (my paranoia over this is a blog for another day, *as is my apparent shitty taste in TV shows) can never seem to locate me.

I guess in the event of a robot uprising, I am safe here?

A few observations and much reasoning lead to error; many observations and a little reasoning to truth.

Translation: I'm about to hit you with some keen observations from my ever-awesome questionable mind.

Daily observations:
I find it hilarious how inappropriate people can be in a public forum. Because when a person puts their foot in their mouth, I like when a network of about 500+ other people can read about it, too.

Hot men in Michigan- they do not exist. But maybe I can meet Kid Rock here and he can show me where the party at?

Twitter- don’t need it, but love to use it. I also use this analogy for any products made by Sephora, my blackberry, and rich men.

I’m addicted to Google. So much so, that when I’m thinking to the furthest recesses of my mind about a puzzling issue, I wish I had an instant search feature.

In congruence with my previous observation when I did a google search of “why are men so…” the following options pulled up:
…stupid
…selfish
…mean
…lazy
…shallow
…complicated

Hands down the best Google search result of course came from Yahoo answers, which is rivaling Google for a spot in my heart. The riveting answer to the million dollar question:

“because they are retarded sex addicts.”

Touché, yahoo answers, touché.


More serious observations:
I’m thinking about moving to the DFW area once I get my provisional teaching license. I really miss Texas but could never see myself back in San Angelo.

I miss the feeling of being loved and wanted by a man. I’m pretty sure if I fell off the face of the Earth right now, my boyfriend would be too busy to notice for a solid month.

I am happy I am headed in the right direction to fulfill my dream of teaching, but sad that I have left behind just about everything I cared about in order to do so.

I am not living life to the fullest- it’s time to go shoe shopping.

"Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice"

(Literal) Translation: If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.

(Von Devious) Translation: If you seek normalcy in Michigan, you're completely screwed. P.S. Our state motto, much like us, doesn't sound so bad at first, but would be more appropriate if it translated into 'Michigan- there's a whole helluva lotta hosers* here, eh?'

*For my Southern friends, a hoser is the redneck equivalent of the North. Needless to say I am faced with the possibility of running into at least 4.5 people with mullets on a daily basis, and 98% of the general population leaves the house in Lycra or pajamas (both of which are ALWAYS paired with Crocs, of course) and sees absolutely nothing wrong with this.


Which got me thinking (danger!), why the hell are the people here so weird? It goes beyond the people, it even goes beyond the mullet. Like any societal foundation, it starts with the laws.


Like this gem (all of the following mentioned are ACTUAL STATE LAWS, because I'm good people, but even I can't make this shit up):

"There is a law that makes it legal for a farmer to sleep with his pigs, cows, horses, goats, and chickens."

 Brings to life a whole new outlook on being put in the "dog house."

"It is illegal to let your pig run free in Detroit unless it has a ring in its nose."

Ah, so THAT'S why my pig was confiscated...next time I'll know better.

"Any person over the age of 12 may have a license for a handgun as long as he/she has not been convicted of a felony."

Ohhh where do I even begin with this one...I better not piss off any kids in the classroom in inner city Detroit or I will surely get shot, which surprisingly, is something I NEVER worried about in Texas. At least there we can all automatically assume we're armed. Now when those hoity-toity Democrats raise their eyebrows at me when I say I am from Texas/"that big ass state with all the shotguns," I have this little gem to throw in their face.

And the piece de resistance:

"Alligators may not be tied to fire hydrants."

...But Crocs should of course be worn on feet. Are alligators even geographically located in Michigan? Who the hell came up with this law? What was he smoking? Did he share? And most importantly- where the %^*& am I supposed to tie my damn alligator then?

 I'd like to note at this point I didn't even search for Michigan's road laws...oh no...those are so unbelievably retarded even Rain Man would question them. So of course, I am saving those for another post. And to be fair, Texas has some pretty stupid laws too, but at least we have the decency to not wear fuzzy pink slippers with flannel pj's to formal events there. Just sayin.

Always wear expensive shoes. People notice.

Translation: men might also notice if you have a boob hanging out, too.

 Let me set the scene for this conversation:

Approximately one year ago, in my living room in front of a bottle of Riunite Lambrusco so large me and the fattest person you can think of would be able to swim in it, plus Richard Simmons (he just seems like the kind of guy who would have quite the collection of fun-noodles). My partner and crime and I are discussing the haul we just got earlier in the day at a shoe sale. I use my Freudian mojo to note the following:

Me: We’re just substituting one thing for another, Taren…shoes for sex, sex for shoes.

Taren: Yeah but which would you rather be thinking about right now? Shoes or sex?

Me: Sex.

Taren: Are you getting laid tonight?

Me: Well no, but I am wearing shoes.*

*I'd also like to note at this point I own over 200 pair of shoes, which is sadly waaaaayyy more than the amount of times I've had sex in the last calendar year. If I didn't know better/drink so much, I'd say I'm in dire need of help.