Category Archives: I am totally overrated

UPDATED: As soon as ASU gets back to me I’ll be available for consultations and endorsements. And it will be awesome.

I’m not sure how it happened (I suspect voodoo) but I was somehow magnamed the Distinguished Alumna of 2014 by Angelo State University, my hometown college.  (ASU Magazine clipping at right to prove I’m not just drunk right now.)

It was very flattering but equally baffling, and I spent the weekend pretending to be “distinguished” and hoping that people wouldn’t realize that I am entirely overrated.

I was given my award at a banquet where everyone else being recognized had a legitimate reason for being honored and they were all insanely awesome, professional, and unintentionally intimidating, and I suspected that none of them had ever dug up a corpse or been attacked by their pet turkeys.

It was fancier than my wedding, and there was a live marching band to play us to our seats.

I can't play an instrument but I think I'd be a good band leader because I look good in capes.

Do all marching bands have capes, or is this one especially bad-ass?

I requested “Tusk“, but I don’t think they heard me, or possibly they’re just too young to know who Fleetwood Mac is.

My extended family all turned out, so I had to come up with a suitable speech that I could give in front of my daughter and my granny, so I wrote my speech on my phone while Victor drove us to San Angelo.  Here it is:

“I am so glad to be here tonight to accept my honorary doctorate degree. I never thought this would happen. Until I was driving here, that is, and thought, “I bet if I accept an honorary doctorate at this event they kind of have to give me one. That’s just polite.”

It doesn’t haven’t have to be crazy official. You don’t even have to spell “doctor” correctly, and I will vow to never perform surgery on people without first telling them that I’m an honorary Doctor of Journalism, but that I’m really excited about seeing if I can find their appendix.

This might seem ridiculous but I heard some other college gave Ellen Degeneres an honorary doctorate and my husband was like, “Well, is ASU up to those kinds of standards?” And I said, “Oh, ASU is way better than that crappy college” and I think you could prove me right tonight by making me whatever it is that’s one step above doctor.  I don’t know what that is.  Super-Doctor, maybe?   Major Doctor?  I don’t know.  I’ll leave it up to the board.  You guys are the experts.

I’d like to thank my parents and grandparents for bribing me to go to college with the promise that I’d get whatever money was left in my college fund after I graduated.

If I’d had college math at the time I probably would have realized that there wouldn’t be any money left and that I’d have to rely on grants and scholarships and work to carry me through, but in the end it was worth it. Because 17 years later I stand here before you:  A proud ASU graduate…

A Super-Doctor, at last.”

You can't tell, but that's me at the podium.  Trust me.  I'm a doctor.

You can’t tell, but that’s me at the podium. Trust me. I’m a doctor.

I was supposed to be in the Homecoming Parade but I said I’d only do it if I could ride on the float with Dominic (our live Ram mascot).  I was told that was impossible, probably because they assumed I’d steal him, and they were right because LOOK AT HIS FACE:

He looks like he'd be fun to drink with.

He’s like if Matthew McConaughey was a sheep.

I refused to ride in the parade unless I was given an equal or better sheep but they weren’t going for it, so I was like, “What if I bring my own sheep?” and they didn’t say no, so I just dressed my kid up as a ram and smuggled her into the bed of the pick-up.  Hailey had never been in a parade before either but you never would have known it and honestly she sort of out-Dominiced Dominic because she had the sweeping, majestic horns and furry coat, and she could throw plastic footballs to kids watching the parade because she has thumbs.  Additionally, she didn’t shit everywhere and that is a big plus as far as I’m concerned.

(Hailey is the one on the right.)

(Hailey’s the one on the right.)

Then I went to the ASU homecoming game because I was told I needed to walk onto the field at half-time to be “recognized” and that sounded a bit awkward, but then when I got there I realized I was supposed to follow the royal homecoming court onto the field.  And let me tell you, if you ever find yourself walking slowly, here-comes-the-bride-style, onto a football field toward a packed stadium of people (and one live sheep) while a marching band plays “You Can Tell Everybody This Is Your Song” and an honor guard makes a bridge of swords for you to walk under, just remember that it could be more awkward.  You could be doing all of that while wearing a sweatshirt and pajama jeans as you follow the thinnest and prettiest girls on campus, who are all wearing strapless ball gowns and glittery jewelry, and one of them just got a tiara and that’s when thought to myself, I suspect a team of unicorns will be by to whisk them away, while a pack of dirty dogs carries me off because that’s the only thing that could make this any more glaringly unbalanced.

It's like turning up for a wedding wearing overalls and then you remember that you're a bridesmaid."

It’s like turning up for a wedding, but you’re wearing overalls for some reason and then you remember that you’re a bridesmaid.

I’m reading all of this and it sounds like it was ridiculously ludicrous, and it was.

But it was also…really lovely.

I kept waiting for someone to realize that they’d made a terrible mistake, but they never did, and I remembered that one of the reasons I’d chosen ASU in the first place was the fact that people there are accepting of anyone…even the girl who never joined a sorority or club, or went to frat parties or football games, or ended up in a single photograph during her time there.  I wish I could have told the terrified college me who hid in libraries and tiptoed through halls that one day I’d go to my first homecoming.  And that that very same weekend I’d aggressively accept a doctorate degree, and ride in a parade with a small, beaming child dressed as a sheep, and walk in the footsteps of (small-town college) royalty while a marching band played Elton John as I limboed under pointy sabers.  Then again, I probably wouldn’t even have believed me.  Honestly, who the hell would?

PS.  Dear ASU Alumni Board/President/King/Vicar:  I went ahead and made this myself because I know you’re very busy.  I’m not sure if it’s totally accurate but it felt right.  Could you forward it to whoever needs to sign it?

my degree

Please rush if possible. My first patient is ready for surgery but his family is giving me static and I think the certificate will help reassure them.  Also, can I get a discount on bulk ether now?   It’s important.  These cat’s tonsils aren’t going to remove themselves.

PPS.  Seriously, thank you ASU, for being a wonderful college for even the dangerously social awkward.  I just saw the video you sent out this morning and it reminded me again that there’s a place for everyone.  Thanks for being my place:

100% of all Super-Doctors approve of this message.  (See?!  Think of the endorsement opportunities alone, ASU.)

Now please hurry up with that certificate so I can start stabbing people legally for a change.

UPDATED (10/15/14):

This morning when I was getting Hailey ready for school I vaguely remembered that I might have sent an email to the President of ASU at 1 o’clock in the morning when my insomnia makes me even more unstable than normal. And apparently I did:

“To: Dr. Brian May

Just a quick thank you for the fabulous and unexpected honor of being named the Distinguished Alumna of the year. This weekend was really amazing and I can’t tell you what it meant to be recognized in the town where I always thought I was invisible at best.

I wrote a quick post about it I thought you might like. Or might hate. Hard to tell.

Ps. I’m just kidding about being given a “super-doctor” degree. But only if by “just kidding” you mean “ridiculously serious and dedicated to making this happen.” The last time I was this focused I was made an official Czar of Texas (true story) and ended up using this power to increase awareness of the awesomeness of Texas and also to overthrow the Government. (But just for one night and the Government was very nice about it because they recognized my valuable political contributions, and also because they didn’t entirely take me seriously since {according to my proclamation} I report to the stray cat that lives at city hall.)

It’s very late so this email might not make much sense but I thought I should mail it off before Tulane reads my post and offers me a Super-Doctorate and things get all awkward.

Hugs,
Jenny”

My husband, Victor, read my email and suggested that thing had already gotten awkward, but my faith in the weird was redeemed moments letter when a response came back from Dr. May, which read simply:

“Super Doctorate is in the mail!!!!”

It’s possibly he’s humoring me, in a “the-check-is-in-the-mail” sort of way, but if I really am getting my Super Doctorate I’m stoked because as a Super-Doctor I would always outrank everyone in the room and so no one would question me when I mispronounced words, or let myself into the lemur house at the zoo. Victor argued that I would actually rank below “Subway Sandwich Artist” because “Super-Doctor” doesn’t really exist. And he might be right, but I countered that”Super-Doctor” doesn’t really exist YET, and that with my Super-Doctorate I will be setting a record for having both the highest and lowest ranking degree to ever come out of ASU, and that’s pretty darn impressive.

Also, if I become a Super-Doctor I can diagnosis everyone as needed. Like if you’re having a terrible day you’d be able to say, “Oh, this? My doctor prescribed this portable margarita machine to help me get through these horrific business meetings. It’s medicinal, I assure you. Please carry on.” Or “I need to take a nap because apparently I’m suffering from ‘An Overabundance of Bad-Assness’ and my doctor says naps are the only thing to keep it from growing to dangerous proportions that might overload my body and make everyone feel terribly inferior to me. Basically I’m taking this medically necessary nap for you, so please keep it down.”

EVERYONE WINS.

I’ll keep you posted.

Forgive me. I’m only human. Or possibly not even that.

I just tried to leave a comment on someone’s blog, but instead of posting my comment, the blog stopped me and was like, “Not so fast, you.  Are you even human?

areyouhuman

Is this really a problem?  Are there a lot of houseplants and robots trying to leave comments on blogs?  Also, what does this even mean?  Why ask if I’m a human and then give me a weird photo of a wall?  I assumed I was supposed to write the calligraphy on the wall, but when I wrote “B O” it said I wasn’t a human, which is ridiculous because if there’s one thing that humans are good at, it’s at recognizing B.O.

I complained to Victor that computers were judging me for not being human enough and he looked at me like I was insane and said that I need to type in “130”, not “B O”,  and that there must be something wrong with my eyes.  And he’s probably right, but I’m pretty sure that just proves that I’m human because I suspect robots almost never have to get stronger glasses.

**************

And now, time for the weekly wrap-up:

shit i did


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit that I’m vaguely involved with on the internets:

Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

  • I’ve got nothin’ this week.  This funeral stuff took over my life.  Sorry.  If you have something awesome you’ve seen on the internet, please share.

Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by JustGoGirlwhich is a product you need if you’ve ever laughed so hard you peed a little.  Apparently the same thing happens when you run marathons or work out, although I wouldn’t know about that so much.  Basically, it’s a pad designed for athletic leaks, which is a problem that affects 1/3 of all woman.  You totally need to check it out here because people swear by them.

I think I fucked this up.

I’ve never used Storify before so I decided to try it out.  I have no clue if this will work or why it won’t let me post the whole thing without you having to click “go to the next page”  at the bottom. (For the love of God, don’t click “view as a slideshow” or your computer will just shut down.  Apparently my computer hates slideshows as much as I do.  Just click inside the storify box and page down.)
I may never do this again.
[View the story “I went to Blogher and all I got was a bunch of human hair.” on Storify]

This is why I’m almost never asked to write for the news.

So HLN asked me if I’d write a piece for them about having sex after babies, but I pointed out that I think sex after having a baby isn’t all that different from sex after any other desperately demanding job that causes complete exhaustion and irritability. An overworked, kid-free friend of mine told me that her husband recently tried to seduce her by saying, “We’re not stopping until the sheets are soaked.” And then she was like, “Well then I guess we’re both gonna have to pee in the bed because I’m stopping in about 10 minutes. Some of us have shit to do, Kevin. And also, no one wants their sheets ‘soaked’ in body fluids because first of all, ew, and secondly, that just sounds dangerous. Dehydration is a silent killer.   Also, we don’t even have the waterproof mattress cover on because it’s in the wash and someone didn’t put it in the dryer. Did you mean to say that we wouldn’t stop until the sheets are “vaguely damp”? Because that would be preferable. No one wants to sleep on a soggy mattress, Kevin. That’s how people get cholera.”

And that’s why sex after having a baby is very similar to sex after starting an exhausting but wonderful full-time job that never ends, which is sort of what motherhood really is if we’re being honest. But then I said that I really didn’t want to write about sex anyway because I’m a fucking lady and HLN read my theory about how cholera is spread and then agreed that I should just avoid that topic.  Then they suggested I write about “Pintrest Moms” instead and so I did.

And shockingly, they just published it.  

It’s possible it might offend people more than the sex thing.  Hard to tell with people.

You’ll shoot your eye out.

I just saw this on the “Buy-one-get-one-half-off” rack at our local toy store:

Awesome.

Awesome.

I assumed the eye-patch was for after you’d shot your brother’s eye out, but Victor thought that it was perhaps preventative, because if you were pretending to be a pirate while being shot at you’d have one less eye exposed to the crossfire.

Either way, I want to lick whoever put these two things together.

****************

And in other news, it’s Monday, but I didn’t post the weekly wrap-up yesterday because I knew you were too busy recovering from having to spend time with family, so instead I’m doing the Monday wrap-up so you have a way to ease yourself back into work with a little distraction: Painting courtesy of @fattieart (J Rose)

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by my friend Elle Kennedy (bestselling author) who co-wrote All Fired Up, the first in the Dreammakers trilogy.  Fun, smutty, steamy and costs less than you’d pay for a donut.  Plus, it’s an ebook so no one on the train knows you’re reading a steamy novel instead of War and Peace (which probably has much fewer shirtless men in it).  You should go buy it and also check out her other stuff.  It’s right here.

Watermelon is the secret code word

Whenever I’m at large events and I’m asked to write my name on those “HELLO, MY NAME IS” stickers I instead write “Watermelon is the secret code word.”  Most people just look at me like I’m off and avoid me.  Some people (usually the ones in large, boisterous groups) loudly yell “Secret code word for what?” and I just say “I have no idea what you’re talking about” and walk away.  But a few people (usually the same people hiding in corners, or drinking so they have something to do with their hands) will hesitantly come up and whisper a single word. “Watermelon.” And then I nod and smile like we know a secret the rest of the world doesn’t and I quietly say, “You’re in.  Welcome aboard.”  Then they usually smile back – happy and slightly confused – and walk off with a little more confidence, knowing that they’re part of something bigger.  Bigger and ridiculous and utterly insane.

Those are the best people.

***********

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up: Painting courtesy of @fattieart (J Rose)

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by A Life Less Frantic (which is something I can get behind because if my life was less frantic I’d run out of Xanax much less often.)  If you click right here you can get a totally free pdf copy of her book, Your Best Year Yet.  Free.  Just because she knows that readers here are full of awesome.  You win.  Go check it out here.

Day = made

I kept getting strange emails and tweets from people who said they’d seen me at Emerald City Comic Con yesterday but were too shy to say hi.  And that’s weird because I’m usually the shy one, and also because I’m not at Emerald City Comic Con.  And I wondered if my evil doppleganger had appeared, or if I was accidentally  astral-projecting.

Turns out, I was not.  But?  Next best thing:

bloggess cosplayer

The red dress.  The curlers.  The obsession with Doctor Who.  This woman is possibly more me that I am.

Never change, internets.

Worst. Pet Shop. Ever.

Yesterday Victor and I took our nine-year-old to a pet shop to look at ferrets, because holding ferrets automatically makes your day brighter (both because ferrets are hysterical and also because they’re stinking up the pet shop and not your house).  But when we started to walk in I saw this note on the door:

hamsters

Victor pointed out that maybe it wasn’t so bad if you got the front half of the hamster, but I’m fairly certain that the severed front end of hamster is going to be just as messy and leaky as a whole one.  Probably even more so.  Regardless, Hailey asked the clerk where they were keeping all the half-hamsters and was shown to a bin filled with completely whole hamsters where the clerk explained that “these are all of the half-off hamsters”.  Then Hailey whispered, “I don’t think these people know how fractions work.”

She’s so our child.

*******************

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means its time for the weekly wrap-up:

sid

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Bill Harte, author of Women Dress Like Sex, Men Dress Like Money: Everything You Need To Know About Marketing You Learning In Dating.    I’ve only read pieces of it, but the pieces I read were interesting and provocative.  I didn’t always agree with it (but I dress less like sex and more like a hobo, so I guess that’s to be expected) but it offers a fascinating marketing perspective and might give you info to really help your business.  You can check it out here.  It’s less than a cup of coffee and you can get the audiobook for free if you buy the ebook or paperback.

Well, *that* doesn’t bode well.

So, this is going around Facebook:

page 45

I decided to try it, and the book next to me was the German translation of my book.  The sentence is:

“Der Familienlegende zufolge schlug der Mann meiner Ur-Ur-Grobtante, als die schon Über dreißig war und eines Tages am Frühstückstisch saß, seiner Frau von hinten einen Nagel in den Schädel und begrub sie anschließend im Garten.”

This, of course, translates to:

“According to family legend, when my great-great-great aunt was in her thirties, she sat down at the breakfast table and her husband drove a nail though the back of her skull and then buried her in the backyard.”

And that’s why I’ve hidden all the hammers on the roof, Victor.  I’m saving you from yourself.  And I’m also saving me from yourself.  We’re both benefitting.  Stop asking about the hammers.  The hammers are gone.

**************

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means its time for the weekly wrap-up:

sid

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you  by the lovely Helen Pellet, who has a brand new show on cable access called “Here’s What I Like And Now I’ll Tell You Why.”  Watch her describe what she likes, assisted by her hapless maid, Nora Marbles.   My personal favorite: “Green: The Bluejean of Nature.”  I recommend.

I’d kill everyone just out of spite, but I’m possibly too old and might break a hip.

Conversation with the guy at the video game store:

Clerk: Can I help you find something?

me:  I’m looking for a new game.  Something where you explore and solve puzzles but you don’t have to shoot anyone.  Something like Myst, maybe?

Clerk:  I’m not familiar with it.

me: Really?  Myst?  It was a super-big-deal video game.  It came out in the mid-90’s, I guess?

Clerk:  Oh.  Yeah, I wasn’t born then.

me:  Ah.  And now I understand why they say video games make people violent.

**********

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means its time for the weekly wrap-up:

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you  by the fabulous woman who invented JustGoGirl,  a low profile pad for women with athletic leaks that occur when you run or jump.  Millions have this issue but it hasn’t received a lot of attention because women aren’t comfortable talking about it. It’s light, comfortable and invisible in tight workout clothes.  It’s also good to wear when you’re laughing so hard that you pee.  Just saying.