Category Archives: International incidents

And then they asked if I’d like to interview Santa Claus. That happened.

A few days ago a PR agency asked if I’d like to do a live video interview with Santa and was like “You have obviously never read me. OF COURSE I’LL DO A LIVE, UNSCRIPTED INTERVIEW WITH SANTA CLAUS WHERE I CAN ASK HIM ANYTHING WITH NO REPERCUSSIONS” and then I felt a little bad for the company because it was pretty clear they had no idea what they were getting themselves into and I considered asking Santa all serious questions about healthcare reform and abortion rights just to see how he’d react but I don’t actually know enough about those topics to ask legitimate questions about them so instead I decided to just see if I could get Santa to say something vaguely inappropriate within the first four minutes and by minute two he was all “I. DO. NOT. watch ANYONE getting undressed, Jenny“.  And technically he was just saying that to defend himself, but still? I count that as a win.

There’s a video right here but it’s really hard to hear me so I’m just going to share my questions here:

1. When I was eight I asked you to kidnap my sister and replace her with a puppy and I got the puppy but I still have my sister. Do I need to send her to you or drop her off somewhere?

2. In an epic battle for world domination between zombies and unicorns, who would win?

3. Do you ever get mad that you have to share the spotlight with Jesus?

4. You know that song that goes “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake”?   Are you also watching me when I’m getting undressed? Because lately I’ve been undressing under a tarp and it’s kind of uncomfortable.

5. Can you tell me about your sack? Just how big is it?

6. Do the elves mind if you call them “elves” or do you have to call them “little people?”

Overall, Santa handled it like a pro but Mrs. Claus looked a little pissed.  Probably because some strange woman was asking her husband to describe his sack.

PS. My favorite clarification from Santa: “If you’re being naughty naked, I’m not looking.”


I can't tell if she's clutching her pearls or pulling out a shiv. Either way, she scares me.

James Garfield is currently on the floor beside me because I can’t find a stud in the wall to hang him but it’s nice because it looks like he’s bursting through the basement, which is awesome because we don’t even *have* a basement so basically James Garfield is making my house seem bigger WITHOUT EVEN TRYING.

This year we couldn’t take a real family vacation so we’re taking Hailey to see her cousins and Disney Land for a few days so I’ll be vaguely MIA starting tomorrow because every time I pull out my phone to get on the internet Victor will huff at me accusingly and so I’ll have to duck into the bathroom a lot to approve comments surreptitiously and then Victor will yell at me for drinking too much and I’ll be all “WELL MAYBE I HAVE A BLADDER INFECTION, ASSHOLE” and then he’ll insist that we go to the Disney emergency room to check it out because he won’t believe me and we’ll miss all the parades because I’m too busy peeing in a specimen cup all because my husband doesn’t understand the importance of social media.

But while I’m gone you can check out two things.  First off, this. The comments on this post made me cry…but in the best way possible.

Secondly, a ton of people have asked if I’m making James Garfield Christmas cards again this year and the short answer is “sort of?”

A short summary for those of you who are new here this year:   Last year I became obsessed with the head of a badly deteriorated, taxidermied Wild Boar which Victor refused to buy for me. I named him James Garfield.  Then James Garfield was threatened with dismemberment in a horrific emotional ransom attempt and I may have freaked out a little and then Victor grudgingly rescued him like some kinda goddamn American hero.  Then I sold James Garfield-esque Christmas cards to make back the money we spent on him so Victor that would stop glaring at me every time he looked at James Garfield and then so many people bought them that James Garfield made more than I did that month than I did, although he did inadvertently cause an international financial crisis which made a several Canadians seriously inappropriately furious.  Quite a few of you have asked if you can buy James Garfield Christmas cards this year but I suck and I’m crazy behind on everything so I’m farming it out.  But if you want to send Christmas cards to your family with photos of the happiest fucking dead boar in the world I totally have your back.  You can order your Christmas cards by clicking here.

A few examples:

I also made a non-James Garfield blank holiday card which you can use to warn your coworkers and family that you’re not putting up with their crazy bullshit this year.  It’s my personal Christmas card but I thought I’d share because I’m generous that way.  You. Are. Welcome.

Special note to burglars: I’ll be back Sunday but my house will be protected by my heavily-armed, entertainingly-unstable Bohemian father who pulls entrails out of dead things for a living.  This is what we have instead of an alarm.

Comment of the day: This makes me want to send out Christmas cards. No, wait. This makes me want to buy something dead and decorate it for the holidays. I wonder how much Bea Arthur costs.  ~ alonewithcats

Update: For some reason my zazzle store hates me and the Mullet Tov card keeps randomly disappearing.  I blame anti-Semitic shoplifters.  Anyway, if one of the ten products doesn’t show up in my store the individual links are here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here.  Get your shit together, Zazzle.

Random Ramblings of an Insomniac: Boobquakes, dangerous squirrels, things we already knew about men

I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media.  Apparently this is a real concern.  So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.

It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science.

The boobs are real. The hair? Not so much.

Also, I just realized that my cat has a ton of nipples that are never covered so I guess technically she should actually be part of this experiment too.  Touché, cat.

You can't really see any of our nipples but I assure you, they're all totally there.

PS. If this does, in fact, cause some sort of horrible earthquake then I blame the cat who has like 4 times as many nipples as me.  Honestly, it’s like she wants to cause an earthquake.  That cat’s kind of a dick.


A few weeks ago I linked to a post on Alone with Cats and the chick that writes it sent me a very sweet, unexpected thank you card filled with cursing, threats of violence and tips on befriending wealthy, dying relatives and there was a tiny package under the card and inside the package was was the single greatest, random, bizarre gift that I’ve ever received:

Introducing: Grover Cleveland.

Yes, people. It’s a dead, stuffed gambling squirrel holding a tiny pistol and when I pulled it out Victor said “Oh, what the fuck now?” and I was all “This, Victor, is what happens when you make a difference in people’s lives” and then he made me put it out in the garage with James Garfield because apparently our real estate agent thinks having hilariously awesome taxidermied animals in your house scares off prospective buyers.  I prefer to think that we’re hiding them so that buyers won’t assume that they come with the house because really? They totally tie the fucking room together.


Google suggestions once again makes me weep for humanity while inadvertently nailing the difference between the sexes:

These questions might be related. Just a thought.


Feels like there should be a fourth random thing here.  Something about badgers or pandas, maybe.  Or badgers mixed with pandas.  I think my sleeping pills are kicking in.  Ooh, leprechauns…

Comment of the day: When my dad died, we had him cremated at Cress Funeral Home, aka “The Taxidermy Museum”.  I think you would appreciate its charm although I’m undecided if mourning enhances or detracts from the experience of seeing dead squirrels ride bicycles and perform topless dances. We may need to perform an experiment to determine the effects of grief on taxidermy appreciation. Fortunately, I’m a chick, so I totally get science. ~ Sarah P.


I just went to brush my teeth but we were out of toothpaste so I pulled out this tiny little travel tube that the stewardess gave me when I went to Japan and it’s the size of a hamster femur so I squeezed it all out onto the toothbrush and then I started to feel really sorry for the people who live in Japan because that shit is awful.  Then it got worse and worse and it started making my mouth all dry and sticky and when I tried to spit it out it was sticking to my teeth and  and I wondered if maybe toothpaste can go bad in Japan so I looked at the tube to see if it had an expiration date and that’s when I realized that I had just brushed my teeth with FUCKING EYELASH GLUE. No shit, people.  Like, the glue you use to keep fake eyelashes on.  And then I panicked because I was afraid that I was going to die or that my teeth were going to get glued together and so I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and looked on the internet for “Will eating eyelash glue kill you?” and the internet was all “Um…maybe?” so I went on twitter and asked them and everyone was like “This is twitter, dude.  Not poison control.  What the fuck is wrong with you?” and they had a point but I didn’t want to call poison control, both because I’d have to explain that I just ate eyelash glue and also because I didn’t know if I could talk on the phone without accidentally closing my mouth and then I started to worry that if I went to sleep I might wake up dead or with my teeth permanently glued together and then I’d have to pretend that I somehow caught contagious lockjaw because there’s no way in hell that I was going to confess to Victor that I’d accidentally brushed my teeth with glue.  So then I called the ASPCA because they were very helpful a few months ago when Barnaby Jones Pickles ate that bottle of homeopathic cold meds but they told me that they didn’t give medical advice to humans and I told them that that seemed vaguely racist and they insisted that I call poison control.  So I did.  And they were dicks.

I mean, technically they were very nice but I had to explain the problem like three times before they finally seemed to understand the situation and then they assured me that eyelash glue was non-toxic and that I’d be fine but they kept asking me why I’d done it and every time I’d explain they’d say that they didn’t understand and I assumed they were making a tape of all of this to play to their friends later or possibly  they honestly just couldn’t understand what I was saying since I wasn’t using my lips so that they wouldn’t get glued to my teeth.  I tried to explain that to them but there was a lot of silence on their end so I finally just hung up.  It’s bad enough I just ate a bunch of glue, poison control.  I don’t need your damn judgement.

PS.  I just woke Victor up to tell him what happened so that he could check to make sure I’m still breathing every few hours and Victor rolled over and said something about how I brought this on myself because “who the fuck confuses glue with toothpaste?”  Well, obviously *I* do, Victor.  Way to blame the victim, asshole.


PPPS.  This post is probably full of typos and run-on sentences and I’m sorry about that but I JUST GOT FUCKING POISONED, Y’ALL.  It’s kind of heroic that I’m even able to write this post at all, you guys.  If anything, I deserve a goddam medal.

Obviously Japan is trying to kill me. Probably. This is exactly like Pearl Harbor, but worse because I got vaguely poisoned AND I'm out of eyelash glue. So it's like a double tragedy. Plus, I don't even know where the fake eyelashes this glue goes to are but when I do find then they'll be totally useless. Worst. Day. Ever.

Comment of the day: You’re right. Medical professionals are often nosy and judgmental. I almost cut my hand off with a skilsaw one time (severed 3 tendons), and after the surgeon assessed the damage, he was like, “and what’s with this?” as he motioned toward his own eye. I was like, “With what? What the fuck is this?” motioning toward my own eye. “The black eye,” he says. I forgot that I had gotten a black eye a couple days earlier when my dog headbutted me while we were wrestling. I explained and he gave me that look that says, “I know your game, you goddamn shiftless tweaker. You’ll do anything to get on disability, won’t you? Well, you’re not gonna get away with it this time, buddy boy.”   But I totally did. ~ beta dad

I’m on a lot of painkillers, part 2

Okay.  So turns out that my finger is broken, but only in the way that the rest of me is broken, i.e., no bones are shattered but it’s still technically fucked up and useless.  Thus, I’ve had to type everything this week using one hand and I deserve a medal for this.  But I have to write down part two of my cruise experience because I’m on a lot of painkillers and if I don’t do it soon I’m not going to remember it.  If you’re finding this blog for the first time ever I recommend reading Part 1 first because this is going to be confusing for even my most ardent reader.  Or maybe just skip all this and go look at pictures of kittens.  Your choice.

Day 2:  So we arrived someplace in the Bahamas, I think?  And then we took another boat to some other place but I don’t know the name of it.  God, I should work for the Travel Channel.  The important thing here is that we ended up on a tiny pirate island filled with dolphins and crumbling 100 year old towers and rumors of buried treasure.  It was awesome until we were packing up to leave and Hailey got lost for the first time ever and I had a panic attack that I still haven’t recovered from.

"Look mommy! My shadow is a monster! Also, get your xanax out because as soon as you turn around I'm going to run back to the boat and hide in there because your panic attacks amuse me." She didn't say that last sentence out loud but it was totally implied.

Day 3:  Hailey begged me to let her go to the on-board kids camp so I dropped her off and on my way back to the room I realized that I’d lost my lipstick, which is a HUGE FUCKING DEAL.  I have to have lipstick on at all times or I feel naked so I went to the gift shop to buy some, except the cheapest tube they had was exactly the price of an unlucky number that I avoid at all costs so I asked the clerk if I she could charge me a dollar extra and she said no because she wants the ship to sink, apparently.  I told her that I’d just give her a tip and she said she wasn’t allowed to take one which is ridiculous because I’m supposed to tip the waitress who brings me over-priced drinks but I’m not allowed to tip a clerk who might very well be keeping the entire ship from sinking by simply not making me have to use that unlucky number?  I explained that that was totally ridiculous and she agreed although I’m not sure if she agreed for the same reasons and she recommended that I buy the only other tube of lipstick they had, which was $35 but I felt pretty certain that Victor would probably sink the boat intentionally out of spite if he found out I’d spent $35 on a lipstick because of a phobia, so instead I bought the unlucky number lipstick and then I promptly ripped off my thumbnail trying to open the lipstick package.  I blame Victor for this since the $35 lipstick would never have caused this sort of injury.  It was bleeding profusely and the clerk offered to call the ship doctor but I waived it off because it was kind of a relief to know that my bad luck was probably over and also because I knew that if I didn’t go lay down I was going to pass out because that’s what happens whenever I see blood.  So I quickly walked back to the elevator to take me to my room but my thumb was bleeding like mad by that time and there was a small puddle of blood beside me when another couple walked up and looked at it warily.  “Someone spilled their wine” I explained, both because it sounded more festive and also because I didn’t know if they passed out at the site of blood too and I didn’t want all of us passing out at once into a puddle of my blood because that’s unsanitary and also because it would look like some kind of drive-by shooting to whoever found us and that didn’t seem fair to anyone.

Then I got back to the room and used the head of a creepy towel animal as a tourniquet and drank some booze from the mini-bar which I know was over-priced but I was in pain and it was medicinal so stop judging me.  Then I sat down and read a book where the swanky main character toasts to the furniture and I was all “That’s awesome.  I never drink to furniture” so I toasted to the coffee table and the lounge chair and I felt very cosmopolitan but then I reread the paragraph and it turns out she was toasting to the “future”, which makes more sense but is incredibly dull.  Then I toasted the buffet and took horrific pictures of my mutilated thumbnail so I could show Victor what he’d done to me while he was out having a work meeting.   I might have had too much to drink.  Again, I blame Victor.

Day 4:  We’re supposed to be flying home but we have 7 hours before our flight so at the airport we found a guy who said he’d be happy to take us on a tour around Miami.  Because there’s nothing safer than getting into a car with a stranger who hangs around the airport.

Summary of the tour:  “Look kid!  A horsey!”

Hailey, horsey, little Havana.

“And there’s Humphrey Bogart in a car.  For some reason.”

I don't know either, y'all.

“And here’s the shop where you can buy all your animal penises.  I’ll be back to pick you guys up in few hours.”

Yeah. Go back and read that again.  It’s not a typo.

So was the raccoon giant or is the penis giant? Because I can't tell which noun is being modified. The cashier didn't know either and seemed surprised I was even asking her about penis bones. Obviously she doesn't read my blog. Also, YOU WORK IN A SHOP THAT SELLS PENISES. Know your shit, lady.

No shit, y'all. I can't even make this stuff up.

And I didn’t buy any of the penises because I’d already fell in love with Pocahontas Wikipedia who was hiding on a back shelf but I couldn’t afford him so instead I bought a bunch of necklaces with dead bugs in them.  This is when Victor threatened to cancel my credit card because he doesn’t understand art.

Why yes, they *are* totally bad-ass.

In short?  Best Miami tour ever.  And none of us got stabbed.  Bonus.

Comment of the day: Through a weird series of events, I actually own a raccoon penis bone, still in its original package… wait, let me rephrase that, still sealed in a little plastic bag. (The *original* original package would be a dead raccoon’s penis, which would be a weird thing to have lying around the house.) Anyway, I have no use for the damn thing, so it’s yours if you want it.  Also, I need to stop reading your blog at work, because screaming things like, “Oh my God, I’ve got a raccoon penis bone!” never fails to draw concerned looks from my employees. ~ Evn

I’m on a lot of painkillers

So last weekend Victor’s company had a family retreat on a cruise-ship, which would have been nice if I wasn’t terrified of water, giant squid, flying and fucking everything else involved in this trip.  Still, you can’t say no to a free family vacation (because Victor wouldn’t let me) so we packed up and headed to Miami.  Then when I was getting on the plane Hailey said “Look.  A pirate” and I started to shush her because last time she did that she was pointing at an elderly woman who had a hook for a hand but then I looked up and there was a motherfucking pirate on the plane.  Then I tweeted that out because how do you not share something like that with the rest of the world and of course no one believed me so I tried to take pictures but he’d already sat down so when we hit Miami I planted myself in front of the airplane doors so I could get a shot of him and Victor was yelling at me to hurry up and I was all “PEOPLE ARE QUESTIONING MY INTEGRITY ON TWITTER SO BACK OFF, DUDE” and he sighed grumpily but just then the pirate came out and I got a blurry camera phone picture of him.  Then a lot of people on twitter apologized for doubting me but several pointed out that he was more likely dressed as a patriot for a Tea-bagger convention and then I just felt betrayed and I was all “Fucking Republicans ruin shit for everybody” and Victor was all “You know what would be nice?  If just one family vacation didn’t end with you blaming Republicans” and I was all “This is why nobody trusts Republicans, Victor” and then he made me promise not to talk to anyone at his company about anything ever.  Apparently he forgot about that because as soon as we got to the hotel he asked me to go help his coworker stuff notebooks for the retreat which was just a horrible suggestion.  Victor’s coworker and her husband asked if I’d gone down to the ocean yet and I said that I couldn’t really appreciate it because I kept thinking about all the dead bodies in the water and they both got really quiet and I was all “You guys do watch Dexter, right?” And they were all “Oh, yeah. Dexter’s great.”  But then later I found out that they don’t have cable and they thought I was talking about Dexter’s Laboratory. True story, y’all. Victor’s coworkers thought I was freaked out about a cartoon character dumping corpses in the Miami bay. Awesome.

When we were done I walked back downstairs to our hotel room and if you looked out our front door and to the left while you stood on our suitcase you could almost see the ocean, so yeah, it was a pretty great room.  Also, the walls were paper thin and around midnight Victor and I were still working on our laptops while Hailey slept when suddenly the room next to us was filled with the voices of four drunken men who were so loud it was like they were in the room with us.


me: Wow.

Loud drunks next door:  “YOU ARE SO MONEY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT, MAN!”

me:  Awesome.  I’ve just entered the set of Swingers.


This is when I called man at the front desk and asked him to tell the guys in 112 to keep it down and also to tell them that everyone in room 110 agrees that that skank does not deserve him except for the 5 year old who now wants to know what a skank is and the front desk guy said that he’d call the room immediately and tell them that but then he totally didn’t and do you know how I know? Because I can hear their phone, Best Western. You guys are fucking liars.

The next morning we boarded the ship and I had a mild panic attack as we got ready to be called to our muster station for an emergency drill, because there’s nothing more calming than acting out a scene from the Titanic as soon as you get on a ship.  Hailey loved it though and carried around her lifejacket yelling “This mustard is awesome!” and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t even know where to start correcting her.  Then the person doing the drill assured us that there were plenty of lifeboats which were made out of a material that makes them “unsinkable” and first of all you shouldn’t say “unsinkable” on a cruise ship because didn’t you learn anything from the Titanic? and secondly why didn’t they make the cruise ship out of the same material?  No one had an answer.  Then they showed us pictures of stuff to do on the cruise and one of the things was to get your picture made in front of A BACKDROP FROM TITANIC and I was all “Are you fucking kidding me?” and no, they totally weren’t.  Then we sailed off toward the Bermuda Triangle.  None of this is made up.

This is where I would type the rest of the story because it involves bloodloss and penises in boxes but I can’t because my finger hurts and I think it might be broken so I’m going in for more xrays in the morning.  Also, I’m on a lot of painkillers. Have I mentioned that?  To be continued.  Probably.

It's very relaxing if you don't think about all the dead bodies and giant squid and sea serpents who want to drag you down to a watery grave. Totally, totally relaxing.

Comment of the day: Why, exactly were you “fucking everything else involved in this trip”?   I can understand why Victor was upset. ~ Mojo

Monday is the new Sunday. Unless this is Tuesday. Someone send me a calendar

Remember when I used to do a weekly wrap-up every Sunday except that one time when I did it late because I got lost in the Bermuda Triangle?  Because that just happened.  Sort of.  Long story which I will probably start off and never finish.  Like that time when I almost told you about how Victor and I were practically murdered in our sleep in Japan?  Still in the draft folder.  BUT I’M TOTALLY WORKING ON IT, I SWEAR.  Also, I’ve had practically no sleep for days and I lost a dead squirrel in a canoe.  More on this later.  For now…the weekly wrap-up:

The shaken-and-also-stirred edition

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and relatively safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

    This week on the internets:

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    • Not much.

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

    Two weeks ago I said if you donated to my friend Anissa I’d pick a commenter at random and pimp them out so I asked Hailey to pick a number between 1 and 145 and she picked “eleventy” which isn’t a number.  Then I pointed out that “eleventy” isn’t a number and she was all “Duh.  I said eleventeen” and then rolled her eyes at me and walked off.  Awesome. In her defense she hasn’t slept much either and really DID get lost in the Bermuda Triangle and she’s also just shitty at math.  She’s really good at art though.  Plus she’s five so back the fuck off and stop judging her. At least she’s trying. But I’m sticking with eleven which means that Suzy is the winner.  Suzy is made of starlight and sunshine and she once saved a small dog from drowning.  And that dog later invented donuts.  So yeah, she’s pretty bad-ass and needs a fucking statue.  (Ad value: Eleventy dollars.  Please report this on your taxes, Suzy.)

    Does any of this make sense?  I’m a little woozy and I haven’t quite recovered from my terrible decision to not buy an overpriced squirrel in a canoe that is now halfway around the world.  I would have named him “Pocahontas Wikipedia” and I’d have put him under the head of James Garfield and loved him with all my heart until the cat chewed his hands off:

    The one that got away.

    Then I would have loved him even more because he couldn’t even paddle and he’d be up a creek without hands which seems like a metaphor for my life.  Then I would have sprinkled tabasco sauce on him so the cat wouldn’t chew on him anymore.  Unless the cat is into Tex-Mex.  Then that might make it worse.  I don’t actually know what kind of seasoning my cat likes.  I’m going to go to bed now.

    More later.  Probably.

    Comment of the day: Good news! I found Pocahontas’ cousins. ~ Charlotte

    Canadian money is pretty much useless

    Yesterday someone mailed me cash for a James Garfield ChrisKwanzaaKahRfield card but instead of real money they sent me a Canadian $10 bill.  Which is kind of fucked up because 1) I wasn’t aware that Canada had different money than normal people and 2) I don’t even know what Canadian money is supposed to look like so for all I know someone made this on their printer and is just fucking with me.  It looked suspect:

    His popped collar says "I'm a bad-ass" but his face says" I never got a puppy".

    Side 1: His popped collar says "I'm a fuckin' bad-ass" but his face says"I never got a puppy".

    When the doves cry.

    Man at the gate: "No, you *can't* come into Canada. This is *our* socialized medicine. Not yours. Nice catch, Canadian ghost Mountie. Not sure why you felt you needed binoculars though. Honestly, they're like three feet in front of you."

    I asked Victor what I should do with it and he said he’d take care of it which means “You’ll never see that $10 again” so no thank you, Victor.  Instead I went to the grocery store and decided to use it there.  I figured that I couldn’t buy American stuff with it so instead I picked up $10 worth of Canadian bacon but when I got to the checkout the cashier just looked at me suspiciously like I was some kinda counterfeiter and she told me I had to use real money.  Then I was all “This is real money.  I’m pretty sure it’s a Canadian ten dollar bill” and she was like “You can’t use Canadian money here” and I’m all “But I’m buying Canadian bacon.  So the Canadian parts cancel each other out”.  Then she’s all “This is ham” and I’m like “Yeah, Canadian bacon is ham.”  Then she looked confused and I’m all “I know, right?  It’s like Canada is trying to make things difficult”   Then she called her manager over and she also said she was very sorry but that I’d have to have the Canadian money exchanged.  And I’m all “That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to exchange this money for bacon”.  Then she stared at me and looked at the money again like there was an answer written there and I’m all “Yes, I realize it’s Canadian money but this is Canadian bacon so if you cancel out the common denominators this makes sense.”  She still didn’t get it so I drew her a picture of how it works:

    I'm not good at math but even I understood this one.

    I'm not good at math but even I understood this one.

    But the manager just looked at me and said again that they don’t take Canadian money because they hate Canadians and don’t understand how algebra works.  Except she didn’t say that last part, but it was implied.  Then they told me that I had to pay with real money or they wouldn’t let me have the bacon and so I just left.  I don’t even like Canadian bacon, y’all.  Instead I just gave the cash to the Salvation Army guy on the way out.  Then he was all “Oh.  Bless you.” and I’m like “Dude.  Don’t bless me.  You can’t even buy bacon with that.”

    Thanks a lot, Canada.  Your money is useless here.

    Comment of the day: The depressed guy looks like Bill Maher. I’d be depressed if I was Bill Maher too. ~ mommica

    Japan, part 2 (ish): Tommy Lee Jones needs to mind his own business

    OMG, you guys.  I actually published a “part 2” to a post that I labeled “Part 1”.  I think that’s the first time that’s ever happened.  Is there a medal for this, or some sort of ribbon?  If so, please mail one to me.  Unless it’s that bullshit white participant ribbon.  No one wants that ribbon.  Unless you buy it yourself and wear it ironically.  Then it’s kind of awesome.  Or desperate.  One of those.

    So where was I?  We’d just landed in Japan and luckily I was still using my journal at the time because I’ve already drank most of these conversations away.  Victor says I just made them up but I didn’t because I even wrote “THIS IS ALL TRUE” with giant arrows in my journal because I knew he’d try that later.  Plus? I have pictures.  Victor is unsupportive and not to be trusted.  Almost all of this is straight from my journal:


    We just checked into our hotel in Tokyo.  It smells like fish in our room but there are no fish here.  Also, the toilet is frightening me.  There are 6 buttons on the toilet and two handles.  Victor told me I could figure it out and he’s all swaggery because he’s been to Japan before and knows how to work the toilet.  It’s not really something to be proud of, Victor. It’s not like you can put it on your resume.  Whatever. I’ll just hold it.


    Victor seems to think I’m not going to be able to not use the bathroom all week.  He’s probably right.  I’ll just pee in the shower.


    Victor says I’m not allowed to pee in the shower so he’s not going to let me go to sleep until I “figure out the toilet”.  Great.  Now I have test-taking anxiety.  And now he’s yelling at me and pounding on the  bathroom door.  I explained that I was busy writing all this down and taking pictures of the toilet.  He just made this exasperated huff like he can’t even believe I brought my camera in the bathroom to take pictures of the toilet.  It’s like he’s never even met me.


    This is where I had originally written a whole toilet saga but it’s too damn big so instead I’m going to cut it and later make a whole separate entry entitled “And then the toilet tried to destroy my spirit”.  It’s kind of a how-to.  But just the opposite.  Then I conquered the toilet and went to sleep.  It took about 3 hours, which I assume is some sort of a record.  Victor says he assumes so too.


    Day two: This morning Victor’s going to a sword show and I’m meeting a free tour guide, Chicako, who may or may not be part of the Yakuza.  Victor says she’s not but he’s going to take a picture of us together though just in case I end up ransomed.  Except he took the picture with the camera I took with me for the day.  Awesome.  I’m probably going to die violently.


    Took the Tokyo subway to a studio where several people dressed me as a Japanese courtesan.

    me geisha

    It’s exactly what it sounds like.  (This link leads you to the whole sordid story, which is both embarrassing and only vaguely safe for work.)


    Chicako took me to an important Castle or a Shrine or something.  I’m not sure.  I just kind of nodded a lot.  It was super pretty though.  Except I don’t think we ever actually got to the castle.  We just walked on a gravel road in the woods.  Which was very cool but also sounds like the beginning of a chainsaw maniac movie but there were a lot of other people around so I hardly even thought about chainsaw maniacs.  Maybe twice the whole time.

    Probably none of those people are chainsaw murderers.  Less than half at least.

    Probably none of those people are chainsaw murderers. Less than half at least.

    Then we got lost.  In the woods.  In Japan.  With an interpreter who was awesome and sweet but didn’t really speak that much English.  Not that I’m judging her because the only phrase I could remember how to say in Japanese was “I tried to fart but poop came out” and when I tried that one she just looked at me strangely.  Probably because I pronounced it wrong. Japanese is hard, y’all.  So then we were in the woods at this fork in the road and it goes off in 4 directions and there are like 175 acres of woods around us and that’s when I’m all “Well, we’re fucked.  We’re going to have to eat each other” except I didn’t want to doubt Chicako’s navigational skills because I was afraid she’d panic so instead I just supportively said “Well, all roads lead to Rome, right?” and she was all “I do not understand” and I’m like “All roads lead to Rome?  It’s just something we say in America.  All roads lead to Rome.  Except that this is Japan so maybe that’s not so applicable because isn’t Japan an island?” and just kind of looked at me and said “What road do you take in America that leads to Rome?” and I’m all “It’s kind of rude to answer a question with another question” but I didn’t say that out loud because technically she’s totally right.  Touché, Chicako.  Why the hell do we say that? So then I’m all “I don’t actually know why we say that at all.  It’s really only applicable if you’re in Europe at the time.  And on a road.”  Then she nodded and walked about 10 steps down one road and we could see the city again.  It was like she was testing me.  I totally passed.


    Chicako took me to a soba noodle restaurant in Harajuku station.  I walked in and saw a row of empty shoes so I quickly flipped mine off because everyone is barefoot in Japan all the time for some reason.  I didn’t really research that tradition but I totally like it.  Being barefoot is awesome.  Except that there are all these complicated rules about it…like you have to take your shoes off when you walk into someone’s house because it’s a sign of respect, but if you’re mostly naked at the mall because you can’t find a fitting room they ask you to leave.  It’s like Japan was trying to get me arrested.  And then it turns out that the part of the noodle house Chicako took me to sit in is the one part where you’re not supposed to take your shoes off.  And I’m barefoot and we’re sitting with strangers.  Also, the people in the raised, no-shoe area next to us are totally laughing at me.

    Chicako said those people were just very cheerful.  I think that's code for "Your ignorance amuses us."

    Chicako said those people were just very cheerful. I think that's code for "Your ignorance amuses us."



    Tommy Lee Jones is fucking everywhere over here.  He’s on practically every vending machine and billboard hawking drinks but instead of saying “This is Tommy Lee Jones” it just says “Boss”.


    Me: So you guys really like Tommy Lee Jones over here, huh?

    Chicako:  Who?

    Me:  That guy on that billboard.  Tommy Lee Jones.

    Chicako: O-oh.  You mean “the Boss”.

    Me:  I guess so.  His real name is Tommy Lee Jones.  He’s kind of an asshole.

    Chicako:  No.  That is the boss.

    Me:  No, really, that guy’s a famous American actor.  He lived in my husband’s hometown.  Victor said one time he spit on a guy.

    Chicako:  ?

    Me:  Or maybe he kicked someone?  I wasn’t really paying attention.  He told me the story like 15 years ago.

    Chicako:  He is the Boss.

    Me:  No, seriously, he’s kind of an asshole.  Don’t get near him if you ever see him because he’ll probably spit on you.  That guy’s like a llama.


    Chicako and I are waiting on the street toward a market and she tells me we can’t cross right now because there’s a parade going by.

    Me:  Huh.  Are those children tied up like prisoners?

    Japanese Parade.  Possibly.

    Japanese Parade. Possibly.

    Chicako:  Yes. It’s a parade.

    Me:  Yeah.  Of course it is.


    Then I took Chicako out for thank-you-cheesecake and we said goodbye and she didn’t seem like she wanted to keep in touch.  Probably because I made her help me buy boobie pudding.  Then I went back to the hotel and told Victor all about my day and he was all “WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU? These people are all about decorum and respect.  You probably terrified that poor girl” and I was all, “No way. I am full of decorum” and he’s all “I think maybe you don’t know what ‘decorum’ means”  and I’m all “Whatever, dude. You know when I can’t sleep and I go in the living room to watch TV but when I turn on the light the cat squints and mew because the light’s too bright?  I always say ‘Sorry’.  Even though the cat probably doesn’t know what I’m saying and may never say anything back to me.  That’s just the kind of person I am.”  Then Victor was all “What? The cat is never going to talk back to you.” and I’m like “I know. He’s kind of an asshole.  BUT I STILL TRY.  And that’s what decorum is all about.”  Then Victor is all  “That’s what insanity is all about.  Apologizing to cats and expecting them to answer you.” and I’m all “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘expecting’ it.  I’m just saying it would be a pleasant surprise.”  Then Victor sighed all disgustedly and started to walk out except there’s no place to walk to except out in the hall where there’s a vending machine of beer (thank you, Japan) plastered with pictures of Tommy Lee Jones and I’m all “Hey, WTF is up with Tommy Lee Jones everywhere?” and Victor’s like “Yeah, it was like that last year too.  He’s ‘The Boss’ apparently.  He’s kind of an asshole.”

    Me:  I KNOW!  That’s what I told Chicako.

    Victor:  They should have a showdown between Bruce Springsteen and Tommy Lee Jones.  Like some kinda “Boss” cage match.

    Me:  And Tony Danza’d show up right when Bruce and Tommy Lee were both exhausted and barely standing from punching each other and Tony’d be all “Who’s the Boss?  Me, motherfuckers. I’m the boss“.  Plus, he’d win because Mona’s in his corner and she fights dirty.

    Victor:  And that’s why I love you.*

    *He didn’t actually say that last part out loud but I could totally see it in his eyes when he walked away and locked himself in the bathroom.

    Coming up soon…Day 3:  Where the fuck are we?

    WTF, Japan.

    PS.  On a totally unrelated note, I’m going to be at my first ever book signing in Houston tomorrow (Tuesday the 17th) and you should come.  Also, fair warning, I only contributed like four pages to the Kirtsy book.  That probably works in the book’s favor though.  Also, I’m not getting paid for any of this book stuff so none of this counts as shilling.  So stop stop smirking at me, Tommy Lee Jones. I’m nothing like you.

    Comment of the day: I nearly burnt my bum on a heated toilet seat in japan. Ok, it wasn’t that it was hot, but the fact that it was actually warm was a horrific shock to my cheeks, so I nearly fell off it. Who on earth wants to heat the loo seat to the perfect temperature for bacteria to grow on? That’s just asking for trouble. ~ pixielation

    It might not even be pudding. It may have been lotion. Or some sort of spackle.

    A video of weird/offensive/awesome stuff I bought in Japan.  Also, I suck at making videos.  That’ll be evident if you make it to the end.  But about halfway through I eat a boobie.  So there’s that.  Totally redeeming.

    Comment of the day: Peppermint creeps the everliving crap out of me. Totally did not expect the eye color change thing. And since she’s Japanese, there’s probably some horrible karmic consequence of pulling the ass-string. Like, in seven days you’ll be forcefed boobie pudding until you die.  Unless this whole Vlog was like “The Ring” and then we’re all fucked. Oh God. Sleeping with the light on. ~ TxtingMrDarcy