Category Archives: mixing medications

Would you like to buy a monkey?

Last weekend at a thrift shop I found a small, stuffed monkey, which seemed to have some sort of snout leprosy and would probably murder us in our sleep.

I named him “Copernicus”.

Copernicus.

I immediately picked the monkey up and turned to Victor with wide eyes, as I struggled to keep my voice down to a whisper so that the shop-girl wouldn’t realize how much I was interested.

me:  Victor.  Oh.  Em.  Gee.

Victor:  Oh, holy shit.  Put that thing down.

me:  Are you fucking crazy?  HE NEEDS US.  Plus, he is made of awesome.  And nightmares.

Copernicus: MISTER, CAN YOU SPARE A HUG?

Victor:  Did you just make that monkey talk?

Copernicus:  A HUG IS LIKE A STRANGLE YOU HAVEN’T FINISHED YET.

Victor:  What is wrong with you?

me:  OH MY GOD, HE’S FANTASTIC.  Plus, he just used “strangle” as a noun.  Who does that?  Copernicus the homicidal monkey, that’s who.

Copernicus:  YOUR FACE LOOKS DELICIOUS.  I WILL CHEW ON IT WHILE YOU SLEEP.

me:  See.  He just gave you a compliment.

Then I followed Victor around the store, speaking in a squeaky monkey voice and trying to convince him that Copernicus would save us money because I could use him to make home-made Valentines for our kid to hand out at school.  But he was $15 and that’s a lot of money to spend on a haunted monkey, so I set it on the counter and prepared to haggle with the girl running the shop.

me:  I realize you’re probably very attached to this monkey as you can see his potential, but I was wondering if $15 was really the best you could do.  Because he’s missing a lot of his face.

shop-girl: I just work here.  I’m not really allowed to made deals.

me:  He smells like what I would imagine syphilis smells like.

shop-girl:  What did you have in mind?

me:  Um…$10?

shop-girl:  How about $7?

me:  I think you don’t know how negotiations work.

shop-girl:  Honestly, I don’t want to have to touch it to put it back on the shelf.

me:  SOLD.  No bag necessary.  I’ll carry him out.

Victor:  LIKE HELL YOU WILL.  That thing is not touching my car.

me:  He doesn’t mean that, Copernicus.

Shop-girl: Paper?  Plastic?

Victor:  How about something burlap?  On fire.

me:  He can ride home on your shoulder!  You’ve always wanted a monkey!

Victor:  What?  I’ve never wanted a monkey.

me:  EVERYONE WANTS A MONKEY.

Victor:  Not me.

me:  Well…that’s what’s wrong with you.

Victor:  I CAN NOT BELIEVE YOU PAID $7 FOR THAT.

me:  I KNOW, RIGHT?!

(We were both yelling, but for two entirely different reasons.)

Copernicus:  WHERE DO YOU GUYS KEEP THE KNIVES?

Victor:  SHUT UP, COPERNICUS.

**********

UPDATED:  I’ve already made the first three valentines day cards and I’m pretty sure Hallmark will be calling me this week.

This one feels a little dark for first graders, so I'm going to save it until next year. Because I'm a caring parent.

PS.  Why, yes, actually you can buy Copernicus Cards.

Homicidal monkey cards for hopeless romantics: series 12 and 3

Psychiatrists are not to be trusted

Conversation with Victor after I came home from my appointment with my shrink.

Victor:  So what’d your doctor say?

me:  The usual.  Still crazy.

Victor:  Well, at least you’re stable.

me:  She gave me something to kill the insomnia.  Ro-something?  I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s supposed to just knock you out completely.

Victor:  Rohypnol? Your doctor gave you roofies?

me:  I’m pretty sure my doctor didn’t give me the date rape drug.  It just sounds like rohypnol.  Wait, hang on.   There’s an actual warning on this pamphlet that you have to be careful to not accidentally have sex in your sleep.

Victor:  Your doctor gave you roofies.  Generic roofies.

me:  Wow.  I probably should have tipped her.

PS.  I took the drug and it was not roofies.  Or I’m immune to roofies.  One of those.  But, in brighter news I’m getting a lot accomplished due to not sleeping.  Like, I’m really good at drawing dinosaurs now.  And at making water-beds for cats.  And at involuntary hallucinations and forgetting where I live.

PPS.  It occurrs to me that if you don’t have insomnia you probably missed the day when I live-tweeted my hour-long attempt at making water beds for cats, so I’m going to reprint it all here.  Because the cats and I shouldn’t be the only ones to suffer.

  • I’ve decided to use all this extra insomnia time to make a waterbed, using only ziploc bags & a cardboard box.

 

  • It’s going to be awesome. Also, Victor really should stop leaving me at home unsupervised.

 

  • The waterbed isn’t for me. It’s for the cats. These cats have never even SEEN a waterbed. They’re gonna be ecstatic.

 

  • I’m going to need some duct tape. And a mop. And some…cat mittens.

 

  • Hang on. I can totally *make* cat mittens out of duct tape. THESE PROBLEMS ARE SOLVING THEMSELVES.

 

  • I’m not going to wrap duct tape around the cat’s paws, y’all. That’s inhumane. I’m going to put condoms on them first. Calm down, PETA.

 

  • I meant that I’m putting condoms on the cats’ feet before I duct-tape them. Not that I’m making them wear condoms for birth control.

 

  • My cats never use birth control. I think they’re Catholic.

 

  • No, no, no. Cat mittens are mittens made FOR cats. Kitten mittens are mittens made OF cats. Cats who died of natural causes, probably.

 

 

  • My kid just wandered in to see me forcibly balancing a deeply unappreciative Ferris Mewler on a quart-sized ziploc bag.

 

  • I don’t even know how to explain this. I just told her to go back to bed. She may never sleep again.

 

  • This is exactly why we need to find a cure for insomnia. Because it hurts EVERYONE.

 

  • Also, I’m bleeding and the cat is pissed. Duct tape makes terrible shoes for cats.

 

I think I just became a professional scientist. A dangerously unqualified one.

Yesterday I got an email from Scientific American magazine asking if I would be interested in submitting some ideas for science experiments for children.  And I was all, OF COURSE I WOULD.  After all, this is the same prestigious magazine that Einstein once contributed to.

My actual response:

Have you considered experiments regarding the proper combination of liquids?  Specifically, teaching children how to mix mojitos properly.

Technically, it’s basic chemistry (with a touch of biology if you grow the mint yourself) which ends in awesomeness. Plus, the parents would have to test the final product, so you have automatic parental involvement.  Personally, I would be very interested in becoming involved in that experiment.  Or anything involving Zombie Apocalypse preparations.  Maybe something with battle-axes.

Also, have you heard about these nuclear wolves?  Because they sound scary as shit.  Personally, I think we need to be concerned.  We may have over-planned for zombies, and under-planned for nuclear wolves.

Hugs,

Jenny

PS.  My spellcheck says “mojito” isn’t even a real word. I think this points out exactly why this sort of education is critical in America.

 

To be honest, I wasn’t actually expecting a response, but I got one:

If you really want to create an experiment on the proper combination of liquids (mojitos or otherwise), can you provide some more details like the objective of the experiment, the controls and variables that you think should be present, etc.? If our edit team features it as part of the next round of BSH experiments, we’ll credit you and link to your Twitter/blog. Suggestions from your blog readers and social followers are also welcomed.

And I completely agree about making serious moves to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse. I don’t want to scare you, but zombie fungus ants might be the real thing we need to be worried about… At least for now.

Thanks again for the response. We look forward to discussing this and other end of the world conspiracies with you further.

Which?  Kind of a bad-ass response from a magazine that’s been around since the the 1850’s. Unfortunately, all I know about science is that if you flush a lit M-80 down the toilet it will fuck. up. your plumbing.  Really, I can’t stress that enough.  Also, you should not use roman candles to “burn away” the evidence.  It totally does not work at all and just makes things worse.  Plus, did you know that shower curtains are highly flammable?  Because I didn’t.

PS.  I have no clue how to write a proper scientific proposal and most of you are way smarter than me, so if any of you have any suggestions please feel free to leave them in the comments and I’ll have the Scientific American team come and check them out.  And then we all get knighted as Professional Scientists and then we can wear white lab coats with impunity and pretend to be very important doctors who can’t be bothered to pay their bar tabs because I HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY TO ATTEND TO AND THIS COAT HAS NO POCKETS FOR MY WALLET.  I’m pretty sure that’s how science works.

I just paid to have someone beat me up

I just had my first ever Swedish massage and it was awesome, except for the parts when I thought I was going to be murdered.

Halfway through the guy told me to “smell” I was all “What?” and I opened my eyes and his hands were over my face like he was just about to smother me and I yelled “WHAT?” and he said, “I said ‘smell‘” and so I did and it was eucalyptus. I assume that’s some kind of aromatherapy but I have to think that the relaxation gained from smelling eucalyptus is not worth the stress you get from thinking you were going to be smothered.  Maybe it’s just me.  Then he rubbed the eucalyptus into my body.  Except by “rubbed” I mean “punched.”  I smell like I got beaten up by a koala bear.

Then he started pulling on my limbs and pushing them back in and it was kind of like if a class of kindergartners were told to kill you using only their hands and feet.  Then he tried to dislocate my arm.  Not on purpose, but he kept doing this thing and my arm was getting crunchy(?) and so he pushed harder and then I realized that he was trying to align my shoulder-blade except that I’m double-jointed and so he was trying to fix something unfixable and so I’m all, “Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.  You can move on”

Then he asked, “Um, have you ever had an allergic reaction to lotions or essential oils?” and I was all “No, why?” and he told me that my arm was really red and I was all, “Oh, that’s because YOU JUST TRIED TO DISLOCATE MY SHOULDERBLADE” but I didn’t say that out loud because at this point I was a little afraid that he was going to murder me, because who enjoys inflicting that much pressure on someone?  Sadists, that’s who.  But then it turns out that I am allergic to the oils, or that maybe I’m just breaking out in hives from the stress of my stress-relieving massage.

The only good part was when it was over and the guy was all “Make sure you drink a lot so you can flush your body of the toxins” and so I was all “Hell yeah” but when I got home and poured myself my second booze-slushie Victor said, “Water.  You’re supposed to drink water” and I was all “He was not specific“.

And that’s why there are so many typos in this post.  Because I’m therapeutically drunk and sort of bruised and dislocated.  That was not relaxing at all.  Next time I’m just skipping straight to the drunk part.

Victor ruins everything and also probably hates America

Conversation I had with Victor after I decided we needed to start having game night…

me: I’m signing us up for sign language classes so we’ll be really good at charades on game night.

Victor: First off, I don’t do “game night”.  Secondly, that’s not how charades works.

me: I’m pretty sure it is, but you have to learn it too because I need a partner.

Victor: I’m not going to learn sign language just so we can cheat at charades.  We don’t even play charades.

me: Well, we’re going to start.  Because it’s good for America.

Victor: What the f…?

me: Because it’s American Sign Language so it’s patriotic. Because it’s made in America.

Victor: That’s not how patriotism works.

me: Why do you hate America, Victor?

Victor: This is why I don’t talk to you when you’re drunk.

And that’s why we can’t have game night at our house.  Also, I was dead sober and I do not appreciate the implication otherwise.

UPDATED: Oh wait.  No.  He’s right.  I was drunk.

UPDATED X 2: But that doesn’t make me any less right.

 

There might be some sort of voodoo curse on me.

I’m three weeks behind on this but I actually do have a very good reason which does not involve drinking or taxidermied alligators, for once.  Victor got a really horrific infection in his broken arm and was in the hospital for so long that I forgot where I lived.  Then Hailey and I both came down with strep and when they finally let Victor come home they put him on an antibiotic that costs $2,300.  After insurance. Then all the corpses from the Indian burial ground beneath our house started floating up in our pool and I considered moving to Canada and investing in my own bone saw.  (FYI…only that very last sentence is an exaggeration.  We don’t have a pool.)

But after all of that crap I realized that I probably need to have a bit more in savings in case this happens again so I’m going to stop turning down graphic ad offers on my blog and start offering them in between actual posts (labeled as ads right up front, of course).  I promise they won’t be awful.  And I’m not using an ad network so if you see an ad it’ll be from companies/bloggers/artists who actually contacted me directly and are bad-asses who are cool with advertising on a blog which no sane company would ever be advertising on.

PS.  If you want one they start at $250.  Email me advertising@thebloggess.com if you want details.

**********

Let’s begin the weekly wrap-up, shall we?:

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed in my shop (tentatively 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:

The week’s wrap-up sponsored by my real-life friend, Stephanie Smirnov, who just started a truly fabulous blog about finding horsemeat in your refrigerator (among other things). I once found a sack of sheep intestines in my refrigerator. There’s a lot of that going around. Also, I just want to point out that Stephanie is in charge of a PR company that isn’t afraid to invite me to molest the hot, gay guy from Project Runway. She’s not paying me to mention that but I’m going to anyway because that kind of bad-ass PR-ness should be rewarded.

Dear internet: You have lost your damn mind. Never change.

If this is your first time here you should skip this post.  Really.  Go away until tomorrow.  It’s one long run-on sentence and makes almost no sense and it’s filled with typos.  I haven’t slept in two days.

The last 36 hours has been strange even by my personal standards.  First of all, after two years of turmoil and struggle I was finally recognized for my contribution in the field of politics when I was presented with a Shorty Award.  It was a big night for me and I may have screamed a bit, which was fine because I was actually watching it from home because I was too freaked out to go to New York alone and I think Victor broke his arm on purpose so that I wouldn’t walk up on stage in my panda suit to accept the award from that guy who does the Daily Show.  Also, I was told to submit my acceptance speech in case I win and I specifically asked them to have Jerry Stiller read it and accept the award for me, but when he came out on the stage at the beginning he looked so frail that I wanted to just put him in an egg container to keep him safe, and I silently prayed that they wouldn’t actually let him read my acceptance speech because I gave him stage directions that when he screams “WOLVERIIIIIIIIIIINES!” he should do it with victorious fist-pumping action, (ala Red Dawn) and I’m fairly sure it would have shattered all the bones in his body.  No one wants to be responsible for killing Jerry Stiller.

For those of you wondering what the fuck I’m talking about and why I even wanted a political award when I don’t actually have anything to do with politics, I will give you a short summary.  Part 1: 15 months ago I was somehow shortlisted in a political category for the Shorty Awards (it’s like the Oscars of Twitter) and I spent a lot of time telling The Shorty Award people that I’m not actually in government but it didn’t work because people kept voting for me ironically so I decided to run with it and took on NASA and the Mayor of New York.  Also, my personal hero (Author, Neil Gaiman) decided he’d run for the Customer Service category because the “author” category just seemed too fucking obvious, and also I think we were drawn to the idea of showing why voter-driven awards are fundamentally flawed.

Part 2.  I was a top finalist until the last day of voting when I was unceremoniously stripped of all of my votes because NASA paid them off.  I assume.  The Shorty People said it was because I’m not really a Government official.  They also stripped Neil of his Customer Service votes.  It was totally shitty but the city of Martindale Texas came to the rescue and named me as their official Czar.  I report to the stray cat that lives at city hall.  None of this is made up and I have pictures to prove it.

Part 3. I sent a strongly-worded email to the Shorty Awards demanding my votes be reinstated as I was now a Government official.  They told me I need a full year of service before it counts.  I think maybe the shorty awards don’t know how the Government works.

Part 4. The Shorty Awards hate ponies.

Part 5. The Mayor of Martindale traveled to Houston to present me with my crown, scepter, and a government proclamation (signed by the cat).  Then I was attacked on stage by a stray baby.

Part 6: In my duties as an official Czar of Texas I have judged and accidentally desecrated a beauty pageant (but forgot to write about it) and personally welcomed Neil Gaiman to Texas.  I planned to give him the key to the city but the only key I had on me was my mailbox key and I was expecting a package that week.

Part 7 (one year from ordinal update):  This is part seven.  It’s been a year of service and after many dedicated followers (thank you!) voted to reverse this travesty I found myself short-listed, and the finalist list went to the Academy to make the final vote.  It’s an Academy that includes MC Hammer.  This is all true.  Apparently MC Hammer is a fan of chaos and anarchy because I won.  They flashed my acceptance speech (recognizing Martindale, TX and the cat I report to) onto the screen and it was done.  It would have been more exciting except one of the other winners was a sandwich.  True story.  Winners include me, Conan O’Brien, and a sandwich.  I’m not sure what they’re going to do with my glass trophy since I wasn’t there to accept it but if they don’t want to mail it me I’m going to ask them to give it to a homeless person because homeless people deserve trophies too.

Then yesterday I asked everyone on twitter to paypal me 11 cents in the next 24 hours because I needed $1,000 to buy something incredibly stupid.  And they did.  Hundreds and hundreds of 11 cent paypal donation flooded in and I emailed out 450 thank you notes until my wrists seized up and I had to quit.  As of this moment people have sent in $402 in mostly 11 cent increments.  Which is completely insane.  And awesome.

Hard to argue with that one.

Sadly, this morning I was informed that the taxidermied pig (who died of natural causes) dressed as Scarlett O’Hara that I desperately wanted to buy was not properly preserved and is no longer a good investment because it’s “totally stinky”.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed but I shall persevere.  And instead of saving up for my the next stupidest thing on my list (Hannah the drunken squirrel pianist ~ “Cognac is her drink of choice, while silly little love songs are her song of choice. She drinks until the songs become sad, then stops“) I’ve decided to take this money and give back to the community in the most ridiculous way I can think of.

Remember a few weeks ago when Wil Wheaton sent me a picture of himself collating papers so I could use it to stop spam?  Exactly.  That was awesome.  And that’s why I’m going to offer Nathan Fillion $402 to send me a picture of himself holding twine.  Sexily, if possible.

PS. If Nathan does not respond then I’m going to use the money to buy a bunch of pigmy goats for my neighbor because then I won’t have to be responsible for the goats but I can still play with them.  Best idea ever.

PPS.  The very best part of the whole Shorty Award ceremony:  Amanda Palmer plays tweets of random celebs…fucking awesome.

UPDATED: It’s been several days and Nathan Fillion not tweeted anything remotely regarding twine.  He did, however, tweet a picture of a fake dead cat covered in ketchup and another one of him stand next to food.  In other words, Nathan Fillion has lost his damn mind.  Personally, I’m concerned and I think perhaps we need to leave him alone.   The good news though is that I told Alyssa Milano that I seem to have inadvertantly terrified Nathan Fillion and asked if she could stand in for him and she replied “I’m confused”, which is totally a fair response.  Then I explained a bit further and she said she would totally be happy to send us a picture the very next time she did something incredibly random.  I suggested a picture of her thumbwrestling Sarah Silverman or or possibly having a staring contest with an animal but it’s really up to her.  Personally, it doesn’t even matter if she never sends anything.  The very fact that she responded at all makes her fucking classy in my book.  This would have a funnier ending if I didn’t only have 9 minutes before my laptop battery gives out.  Just pretend I wrote something hysterically right here.

You probably need this

Yesterday I had the shittiest day ever and I was right on the edge of having a total breakdown and then my sister emailed me and was all “I don’t care about your personal problems.  Let’s talk about Little House on the Prairie”.  And it made me feel better.  Maybe it’ll make you feel better too.

This is that story:

Lisa: So they gave Victor the whole morphine cart when he had his surgery?  You probably should pocket some for yourself just to get through having to deal with this.  Remember when Charles Jr. got addicted to morphine on Little House on the Prairie and he threw up in that shoebox?  Avoid that.  No one wants your vomit in a shoebox.

Hang on. Crap, I just googled it, and it wasn’t Charles who was the junky. It was the adopted kid, Albert. Which makes more sense, because I THOUGHT he was adopted, but then was all, he couldn’t be adopted because his name was Charles Jr. Oh Little House on the Prairie, you are so brilliant.

me: I TOTALLY remember the Albert morphine vomit episode.  Scarred me for life.  That one and the one where ma had to cut off her own leg (Way to fuck up again, Doc Baker) because the Bible told her too, and the one where Albert fell in love with that raped girl who ended up getting murdered by that guy in the mime mask. Little House on the Prairie was fucked up. I’m reading the books to Hailey and there’s a chapter in the real book where pa joins a minstrel show and dances around in black-face to entertain the town and everyone in the town is all “THIS IS THE MOST MAGICAL, GLORIOUS THING EVER”. No shit. THAT HAPPENED.  I skipped that chapter. I told Hailey it was about how pa picked up a drinking problem.  There was also a chapter where ma says “the only good Indian is a dead Indian”.  I changed it to “The only good Indian is an Indian who likes pie.  I’ve always been suspicious of people who don’t like pie”  It didn’t make sense but I figured she can wait until at least first grade before I explain the intricacies of early pioneer racism.

Lisa: Good call.  Also, Albert should have shared his morphine with racist ma.  What a selfish asshole.

me: I think maybe Albert was dead then. Remember that episode when he got a bunch of nosebleeds and Doc Baker was all “You’re totally going to die” but then in his final scene all the school kids held hands with him in a field and everyone was really happy?  I always thought that they cured him with the hand-holding thing but then he was already dead by the next episode so apparently hand-holding isn’t all that effective to battle fatal-nose-bleed-disease.   That was a really fucked up series.

Lisa: I have some theories on this whole Knut the dead polar bear saga that is going on, but my baby’s freaking out. In a nutshell….Polar bears are smarter than us. The end.

me: NBC did a story about Knut dying but someone mistyped the wording on the screen and so instead it said “KUNT DIES“. Too soon, NBC.

Lisa: Go watch this right now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qsclhKhAss&feature=youtu.be

Did you watch it yet? Go…speakers on. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, but you’re all jacked up on morphine. Now when Victor is whining about not having any more drugs left tomorrow you can be all, “Honey Badger doesn’t give a shit.  Honey Badger will get bit by in the face by a cobra and just take a light cat nap.  And then he eats the cobra.”  You’re welcome.

Comment of the day: If you just read the comments and not the blog posting, you’ll feel like you’re in a room where everyone is on drugs but you. ~ Karen

UPDATED: SXSW…sort of.

The SXSW festival is an hour from my house but I never go to it because crowds scare the shit out of me and also because it’s super expensive and I don’t have enough xanax and/or facial hair to fit in there, but last week I got invited to some kind of SXSW civility luncheon thingie and I had to go because 1) it was being thrown by some of my best friends and 2) someone invited me to a GODDAM CIVILITY LUNCHEON, y’all.  How could I not go?

I usually write down shit as it happens and quickly write a post that day so I don’t forget what my notes meant but then Victor decided to shatter his arm and I got distracted and now I just have a bizarre bunch of notes that are confusing even to me.  And now I’m going to share them with you.  Because then you’ll know what it’s like in my head and it will make you feel better about yourself by comparison.

Bizarre notes I wrote to myself while getting mildly sloshed at a brunch designed to teach me about “civility & mobile etiquette”:

  • Awesome idea for an invention:  Tin cup (worn on a piece of twine around your neck).  You could use it for olive pits, used-toothpicks and for panhandling.  A tin cup on twine is the new waterproof pocket.  That would be our slogan.
  • I could probably save a lot of time if I just made a t-shirt that says, “I’m sorry for disappointing you”.
  • I’m at civility party designed to teach me about not using Twitter in public. I’m the only person tweeting right now. Awesome. *I’m* the asshole at the bar. Except this isn’t even a bar. My god I suck at this.
  • I just spent 10 minutes convincing Helen Jane that James Franco’s severed arm probably tastes like buffalo.  Made a really convincing argument of it and I’m fairly sure she was impressed.  Then some new chick came over and asked what we were talking about and I was all “James Franco’s arm tastes of buffalo”, but I wasn’t sober enough to remember my reasoning so I just left it at that and the new chick looked vaguely frightened and wandered off.  This is why context is important.
  • This is a civility luncheon about the rudeness of using mobile phones in public and it has a hashtag assigned to it.  #deeplyconfused
  • Overheard: “Do you ever have to please your man while texting?”  And suddenly this shit just got interesting.
  • Overheard:  “Ringworm is going to happen, but if your baby gets pinworms you just walk away.  Start fresh with a new baby, I say.”  (Disclaimer:  Does it count as “overheard” if you’re overhearing yourself say it to other people?  How about if you’re only saying it to see how eavesdroppers will react?  I say yes to both.)
  • Overheard:  “This would make a great heroin spoon.  Right?  Do they sell these here?  Someone find me a waiter.”  (Again, see disclaimer above.)
  • me at our table:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • me, seconds later:  “Oh. Those are not pistachios.  Those are olive pits.  No one eat those.”
  • me, two drinks later:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • *repeat*

Seriously. They *totally* looked like pistachios.

  • Things I learned: SXSW is pretty cool if you don’t actually get anywhere near SXSW.    Pistachios aren’t supposed to be damp.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to have a phone and/or leave my house.

UPDATED: By popular demand, “Sorry for disappointing you” shirts for socially akward bloggers are now available in men’s, women’s and toddler’s sizes.  I’m buying two.

Wil Wheaton and I feel embarrassed for you

Remember last week when Wil Wheaton sent me a picture of himself collating so I could use it to cure the world of bad PR pitches?  If not, then you need to go back and read this.

Back?  Good.  Then you’ll be happy to know that I have started using the Wil-Wheaton-Feels-Sorry-For-You awesomeness to great success.  Just yesterday I created this particular page to send to the PR people who sent me pitches of pictures of Nina Garcia holding a blanket and of Kathy Griffin leaning near baby supplies.  It’s been incredibly fulfilling and I feel bad keeping all of this wonderful Wil Wheatoness to myself so I’m putting a link to the Wil-Wheaton-and-I-feel-embarrassed-for-you page right here so that if you get sent a terrible pitch you can just send the link to the PR person and maybe together we can slow the growing tide of thousands of bewilderingly inappropriate PR pitches using only the whimisical image of Wil Wheaton’s beguilingly smug smile.

Together, we can do this.