Category Archives: stuff better left unpublished

This would be funnier if you were drunk too.

A morning in the life of me:

This morning I went to see Sisters at the movies with my friend Maile.  We were concerned that it might not be funny and we needed it be so we ordered drinks but the movie theater was like, “It’s illegal to sell you booze this early on Sunday morning unless you get food because Texas is weird” but then they admitted that the slice of lime they put on the side of my margarita counts as food, which was awesome because then we were lightly buzzed and also we weren’t going to get scurvy.  I had to pee halfway through the movie but I didn’t want to miss anything so I ran as fast as I could to the restroom, but on the way back I guess I was running too fast (and my feet shrunk because it’s cold here) so as I was running my shoe shot off my foot and flew into the air and when it fell it hit a stranger in the back.    And he was looking up at the ceiling like, “What just fell on me?” and I looked up the air, like I was also concerned that things were falling and said, “Whoa.  What just happened?” as I slipped my shoe back on (which sounds bad but my shoe barely hit him and it was really embarrassing so technically we were both victims) and then I ran back to my seat and told Maile we couldn’t leave because I hit someone with a flying shoe.  And she’s a good friend because she didn’t even blink.  Then this old lady beside us had to go to the bathroom but she lost her balance and almost toppled down the stairs but Maile grabbed her in a concerned man-handling sort of way and kept her from breaking all of her hips, so I think our karma equaled out.  (Saving old ladies > owning a shoe that kicks people in the back.) Like, technically I think we could even kick a few puppies and we’d still be up on the karma points.  Not that we would.  I’m just saying that we could, but we wouldn’t.  Which makes our karma even higher, I think.  Choosing not to kick puppies is a +2 to your karma score every day, y’all.  This is science.

So, long story short, I know this is gonna piss a lot of people off, but Sisters was way funnier than Star Wars.  Sorry, not sorry.

PS.  The booze may not have completely worn off yet.  Sorry.  For real.  Sorry.

PPS.  Also, our husbands and kids met us for lunch afterward and Victor ordered fish.  I think it’s supposed to be fancy but basically they just dropped a whole fish in the fryer which seems like the laziest way to make fish ever.  I usually don’t get why people post pictures of their food and drinks on the internet but I’m making an exception because THEY DIDN’T EVEN REMOVE THE TEETH.  I didn’t even know fish had teeth, so maybe they added them?  I don’t know how fish work.


PPPS.  Sorry again.  For all the stuff above.  The usual.


And now, the weekly wrap-up:


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


This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Garage Door Nation.  That seems like a weird sponsor but who doesn’t have or need a garage door?  EVERYONE.  Plus, they’re paying for you to read this so let’s give them attention.  They’re the leading supplier of garage door springs and other parts for the do-it-yourselfer looking to save big, including the garage door insulation kit which lets you insulate your garage for lower energy bills all year. They ship nationwide and offers 24/7 online customer service.  Check out their step-by-step free video tutorial here.

And that’s why I don’t trust science.

People always say that every snowflakes is unique, but I’m not sure if I believe it because really who’s checking? Probably somebody just looked at a few dozen snowflakes and said, “Fuck, these things all look slightly different” and then just shrugged and wrote down that “no two snowflakes are alike” because he was cold and ready to go inside and watch Doctor Who.  And even if someone called him on it and was all, “Ten points off because you didn’t show your work” then he’d be like, “IT MELTED, ASSHOLE” and no one could question him because that’s how snow works.  No one ever cares about disproving the science of snowflake individuality even though it seems like mathematically there should be snowflake twins and dopplegangers at least. It’s not like there’s a snowflake fingerprint database.   No one keeps records on snowflakes.

And that’s why I don’t trust science.


And now, the weekly wrap-up…



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

  • “YOU CAN DO IT, FRANK!”  This is a nice shirt because if you happen to be walking past someone named Frank he’ll feel buoyed by your encouragement, and if you’re walking past people who aren’t Frank they’ll just think you’re a nice person and probably be encouraged to lend you money.


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

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Calm-A-Mama. “Motherhood is hard. Life is hard. Let us help. Supplement your body and soul with nourishing and restorative blends of traditional herbal and flower extracts. Gentle enough for the whole family. We support you so you can be awesome.” ~ Calm-A-Mama.  Here’s a quick video about their products.  We use a few of their products ourselves, including calm drops at night.    

Jesus. The google searches I’m going to get for this one…

Facebook just suggested I wanted to see a story entitled:

“Man arrested for breaking into funeral home to perform sexual act on female corpse”

My first thought was, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME, FACEBOOK.  That is NOT the kind of weird shit I want to know about and I really don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

My second though was a mental image of a man performing a strip-tease while standing on a corpse, but I’d guess that’s not what happened.  I don’t know for sure because I didn’t click through.  I think it’s the wording that I find confusing.  That and, obviously, the fact that someone thinks corpses are hot.  That last part goes without saying, I hope.

I just think we can find a better phrase than “perform a sexual act on.”  There are too many variables and too much subjectivity.  Victor says there really isn’t, but I’m pretty sure if people are performing on corpses we can’t really rule anything out.

Also, I’m giving serious thought to cremation and to scrawling “FILLED WITH RAZORBLADES AND LEPROSY”  on my stomach each night, just in case .


And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:


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

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the talented Claire Ashby, who wrote When You Make It Home, which you should buy RIGHT NOW because today it’s 99 cents.  That’s less than I pay…everything, basically. Synopsis:  Meg Michaels, a bookstore owner, has already walked away from two cheating exes. She’s learned her lesson and has her mind set on success—until she gets knocked up. Embarrassed and unwilling to discuss her situation with friends and family, she wears layers to hide the pregnancy.   Theo Taylor, an Army medic wounded in the war, finds out her secret and agrees not to reveal her condition.  The two forge a bond of friendship that blossoms into love. But can their love overcome all the obstacles that stand between them and creating a happy family?Go right now and buy it.  I just did.

I’m a murderer. Sort of.

Remember a few weeks ago when I confessed that I can’t keep a houseplant alive, but then somehow managed to accidentally grow a plant in my pantry when a sweet potato went rogue?  And then I gave it googley eyes and a name?

Sam I. Yam in happier times.  Naturally smiley and high in vitamin C.

Sam I. Yam in happier times. Naturally smiley and high in vitamin C.

Well it turns out I can’t even keep a yam alive because – in spite of my care – Sam turned gaunt and withered and started to decompose.  Sam was blossoming just fine when he was lost in the back of the pantry but when I rescued him he started dying immediately.  It’s like my love is deadly.  Like I’m an accidental Black Widow, but for plants and sweet potatoes.

We had a quiet funeral and I buried Sam, but only up to his eyeballs (which I had to remove and reset) because the spoon I was using as a shovel broke.  And also because I read that if you plant the bottom part of a dead sweet potato they’ll sometimes come back to life.

Victor could take a lesson.

Then Victor looked out his office window asked me why a sweet potato was staring at him from the yard and I explained that I was attempting to make a vegetable zombie, which is sort of true.  Then he sighed at me because apparently bringing the dead back to life is another thing on The List Of Things I’m Not Allowed To Do According To Victor.  I didn’t even mention the broken spoon because if he’s this upset about me trying to Frankenstein a potato I figured he was too irrational to deal with silverware issues, so I took the broken spoon and buried it next to Sam because that way Victor won’t find it and also it’s probably a good way to add iron to the soil.

Then Victor was like, “You don’t have funerals for spoiled potatoes  You throw them away” and I was like “You can’t throw away something you’ve named.  Where is your humanity?” and then he said that I needed to stop naming vegetables, which is just insane because I’ve done that ONCE in my whole life, Victor.  Way to focus on the negative while I’m in mourning.  Honestly, Victor could take a lesson from that upbeat potato.

But the good news is that on my way back inside from burying the broken spoon I saw something that made me smile in spite of the grave situation.

I saw a tiny little weed sprouting out of a small hole in our stairs.


I’m going to call her Shirley.

Mama Paquita: “Why would a baby need a sombrero?” and other problematic questions.

This isn’t a real post.  It was a rambling email I was writing to my sister and then it sort of got away from me and so I decided to flesh it out and share it here because maybe we weren’t the only ones who were taught this song in school.  You can ignore it if you want.

When I was little there was this song called “Mama Paquita” that we’d have to sing in music class.  According to our music books, it was a 1930’s Brazilian Carnivale song but it was kinda fucked up.  It was about some salesman trying to convince a mom to buy her baby a banana, a papaya, some pajamas and a sombrero, but she was like “Who has infant-sombrero money in this economy?  Let’s go dancing!” (I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly) and I remember thinking, “Why would a baby need a sombrero?

(Side-note: I just googled” “Why would you buy a baby a sombrero?” and I got a lot of vaguely racist pictures, and also a link to a poem, which includes the lines “He had heard stories of a baby sombrero wrestler who would one day rule the world, but he had never thought that it would be his son” and “Hey, do you want to go get some soup, and maybe have a baby?” {Which might be the best pick-up line ever.  Or worst.  Depends on who you’re trying to pick up, I guess.})

Anyway, when I was in third grade I asked the music teacher why we didn’t just  sing the original Brazilian song, Mamãe eu Quero, (which I’d memorized from Carmen Miranda movies and old Tom & Jerry cartoons) but she shook her head disdainfully, saying only that there were “too many nipples in that song”.

I was confused about that for years, but in high school I told a friend that I knew the words to a risqué Brazilian nipple song, which I then sang.  She knew a little Portuguese, and she told me my song was about breastfeeding and that my pronunciation was atrocious.  Then I said, “Oh wait.  It gets worse” and I sang her the bastardized English version from my childhood music classes, and she was like, “What kind of racist bullshit is that?” and I said, “The extremely problematic kind taught to small children in the 70’s?”

Then she looked at me in confused bewilderment and I nodded in embarrassed agreement and said, “Honestly, I don’t understand it either.  I apologize on the behalf of white people.”  (Which is a phrase I should just put on a t-shirt because that shit needs to be said A LOT).  She gracefully accepted my apology and offered to teach me how to curse convincingly in Spanish if I agreed to never sing that song again.  Our cultural bridge was built on a shared love of profanity, and although I never mastered the accent to her satisfaction, I will forever treasure the phrase: “I SHIT ON EVERYTHING THAT MOVES!” which is easily the best thing to scream when you are stuck in traffic, or when the copier eats your overdue report, or when life is just being an asshole in general.


This was all before the internet existed so I had to take my friend’s word on the translation, but then my sister reminded me of that song again and so I decided to go online to try to translate the Portuguese version.

And here is the (probably horribly butchered) translation:

Mommy I want, mommy I want,
Mommy I want to suckle!
Give the nipple, give the nipple, give the nipple
Give the nipple so your baby won’t cry!

Sleep, son of my heart.
Take the bottle and join my dance party.
I have a sister, she’s called Anna.
She blinked so much she lost her eyelashes.

I look at the little ones, but this way
I’m sorry I’m not suckling.
I have a sister, she’s phenomenal.
She’s the boss and her husband’s an imbecile.

And now I’m even more confused, and I can’t get the fucked-up English version out of my head.  And (if you were also taught it as a small kid) it’s probably stuck in yours too now.


I am part of the problem.

PS.  Again, I would like to apologize on the behalf of white people.  Seriously.  White people fuck shit up for all of us.  Including white people.  It’s baffling.  I’m so sorry.  Let’s go get some soup and maybe have a baby.

I have an orange thumb.

I just found this in my pantry:

sam i yam2

I can’t keep a houseplant alive to save my life but I can make my sweet potatoes grow into unwanted plants with literally no effort at all.  I can only imagine this means I have some sort of super power which allows me to drain the life of fern and transfer it’s leaves onto a yam.

This is a terrible superpower.

Unless yam plants are a good thing.  Are they?  Could I just put a yam-growth in a vase and use that as my new houseplant?  If they’re so hardy why don’t we grow them instead of the more easily murderable plants?  I’m pretty sure the only difference between a yam-growth and a lily is that one has a better name.  I just need to find a better name and then I can sell my accidental yam-growths and live off the proceeds.  Something like  “YaMandrake” or “Potato-Pansy”.  Maybe if I keep letting it grow it’ll get really enormous and then I can create a portable yam hedge that you can bring with you to use when you’re stalking someone in the desert.  BYOB.  (Bring Your Own Bush.)

I just tried to look up “Can I keep a sprouted potato” but after I typed in “Can I keep a” google auto-suggested “Can I keep a wild rabbit, a gun in a car, a wild turtle or a fox as a pet“.


WTF, google.  I just want to keep a potato.

Then when I added the “s” for “sprouted” google was like “OH, I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” and suggested “Can I keep a shotgun in my car” or “Can I keep a squirrel as a pet“.  Jesus, Google. I know I live in Texas but way to stereotype me.

When I got to “Can I keep a spr” google auto-changed the whole question to “Can you have a spray tan when pregnant?”  I don’t know, Google.  I guess?  Why are you asking me?  YOU ARE GOOGLE.

Remember when Google was there to answer questions instead of just raise more?  Me either.

Remember when Google was there to answer questions instead of just raise more? Me either.

Eventually I typed in the whole question but all the links told me how to keep my potatoes from sprouting, rather than how to grow my sprouted potatoes into a giant bush.  I considered googling “How to grow a giant bush from a potato” but I was afraid of what the auto-suggestion would be after I typed in the first part of that search, and so I decided to just give up and wait to see what happens with my potato.  It’s like a science experiment, but in laziness.

Also, I glued some googly eyes on the potato so it looks more life-like, and will be less likely to be thrown away by Victor if the potato can stare at him accusingly.  I was going to call him Mr. Potato Head but that seemed too obvious so instead his name is Samuel Ignacious.

Sam I. Yam.  Naturally smiley.

Introducing Sam I. Yam. He’s naturally smiley and high in vitamin C.

I’ll keep you posted on my big bush.

PS. Victor just found Sam and he claims that what I’m doing is a very common children’s science experiment and he was like “Seriously?  You never grew a potato plant when you were a kid?”  He says I’m supposed to cut the potato and add water and put toothpicks in it, but that sounds suspiciously like a recipe and I think he’s just trying to trick me into accidentally cooking. He insists that every child made potatoes sprout into plants and I was like, “Not us. We were poor. Some of us had to eat our potatoes, Victor.  We couldn’t all go around wasting toothpicks and putting googly eyes on our pet potatoes, Daddy Warbucks.” Then Victor countered that googly eyes aren’t supposed to be part of the science project but I’m pretty sure that just proves that he’s doing science wrong.

My cat is alive and makes me feel like an asshole

Conversation with the exterminator about my 16+ year old cat:

Exterminator: Ma’am? I’m afraid you have a dead cat in your living room.

me: Oh, he’s not dead. He’s just really old.

Exterminator: I’m sorry, ma’am, but this cat is dead.

me: He’s just fucking with you. He sleeps with his eyes open.

Posey: MEOW.

Exterminator: JESUS CHRIST!

me: Exactly.

…That was several months ago.  Since then, Posey has gotten thinner and wheezier and I felt selfish, so yesterday I took him to the vet to have him put to sleep.  But then the vet was like, “This cats thyroid’s fucked up.  I could probably save him.  I mean, unless you just WANT to kill him.”  Which is awesome.  So now I feel happy and like an asshole.

Also, the vet told me to take a picture of Posey today and then another one in 3 months so that I can see the difference in his appearance.  I assume he means if Posey responds to the meds, and not if he dies of a stroke in the next week.  Hard to tell.

My cat looks like Gollum.

I have no fucking idea what I’m doing (UPDATED: I still have no fucking idea what I’m doing, but I feel much better about it.)

I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Like, ever.

Last week I met with my shrink, and she told me I need to figure out who I am and what I want out of life.  I think this is excellent advice for people who are grown-ups, and who have 401ks, and clean, matching socks, and 5-year-plans.

I’m not one of those people.  I just do shit and then other shit happens.  Sometimes it’s good shit and sometimes it’s shitty shit, but none of it is planned.  And I sort of suspect that if I stopped to actually consider who I am, I’d stop being “me”.  “Me” never knows who I am.  And now I sound like an existential Tarzan.  Awesome.

It’s been eating at me for the last week, but I think I’ve finally figured it out.   My five-year-plan is to never be the kind of person who’s stable enough to have a five-year-plan.  It’s technically the same plan I had five years ago, and guess what?  I’m totally on track.

PS.  I just realized that always accomplishing the same five year plan of continued instability actually makes me pretty damn stable.  And now I’m just confused, and need more xanax.  I can only assume my psychiatrist did this on purpose to ensure her job security.  In fact, this whole scenario was probably all on her five year plan.  Nice one, Dr. Q.

Slow. Fucking. Clap.

UPDATED:  First off, thank you.  It’s nice (and somewhat terrifying) to know how many of us are just pretending to be grown-ups.  Also, my shrink is quite awesome, and when I tell her that I’ve decided to be perpetually and happily immature forever she’ll probably give me a high-five.  Or a look of confusion.  Maybe both.  But what’s nice is that instead of feeling like a failure for falling backward into life, I woke up this morning feeling better…for choosing to dive in – albeit backward, eyes closed, chaotically, and possibly into broken glass or hyenas.  I think that’s called “growth”.  Or denial.  Hard to tell.

Also, so many of you reminded me that I needed to listen to this song again.  And you were right.  Thank you:

I think I need some vampire blood for my cat.

Conversation I had with Victor about our ancient cat, who I’ve had for almost my entire adult life, and who I suspect might be immortal:

me:  There’s something on Posey’s leg.

Victor:  Hmm.  Is it Posey’s foot?

me:  It’s not a trick question.  It sort of looks like he’s trying to grow an extra toe.

Victor:  Why would the cat try to grow an extra toe?

me:  Well, probably because he just now noticed that the kitten was born with all those extra toes, and now he thinks he needs to keep up.

Victor:  That’s not a toe.

me:  I’m pretty sure it is.  And now he’s wasting all of his old man energy trying to grow extra toes BECAUSE FERRIS MEWLER IS A DAMN OVERACHIEVER.

Victor:  You know it’s a tumor.  The vet said we should start expecting this.  Posey’s 16.  He’s like the Keith Richards of cats.

me:  In that he’s a bad-ass.

Victor: In that he’s almost entirely sinew, and no one knows how he’s still alive.  In fact, I think he may already be dead.

me:  Keith Richards died?

Victor:  No.  Posey.  He’s not moving and his eyes are rolled back in his head.

me:  Yeah, he sleeps with his eyes open now.  It’s kind of creepy, but I think he does it to conserve the energy it takes to blink.

Victor:  I love you, but you and I both know he’s sleeping with his eyes open because he’s looking for the grim reaper.

me:  Posey will outlive us all.


me:  See.  EXACTLY.

Victor:  What, “exactly”?  He can’t even meow properly anymore.

me:  He says he’s sick and tired of your doubt.

Victor:  No, he says he’s just about ready to take a one-way ride to the vets office.

me:  You don’t know what cats say.


Then Posey jumped into Victor’s lap and purred so loudly that bits of cat juice flew out of his nose, and Victor rolled his eyes and sighed, grudgingly petting Posey.

Victor:  Alright, old man.  Prove me wrong.


Victor:  What did he say that time?

me:  I think he wants to sell merchandise.  I don’t know.  It’s hard to tell with cats.

PS.  Posey is fine.  He’s not in any pain, and his tumor is adorable.  In fact, I’m tempted to draw a smiley face on it and give it a name and a tv show.  I suspect he’s probably sprouting a younger clone from his leg.  I might be in denial.

PPS.  I can’t tell if this post is funny or just really, really depressing.  Let’s change the subject.

It’s Sunday!  Which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up.  Let’s get started, shall we?

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

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 on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “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 sponsored by Oh Crap Potty Training, a business devoted to getting your kid potty trained in a single week. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but my guess is that witch doctors are involved.   I couldn’t even potty train my cats in one week.  You should probably check it out.



An open letter to lots of people I’ve accidentally offended

You know when you’re on twitter and someone sends you a DM about zombie gnomes, and then the next day you DM them back, saying: “That’s fucking hysterical. You made my whole morning!”

And then you go to their actual public twitter stream and it’s all: “Thank you so much for all of your kind words and DM’s”, and you realize that ten minutes ago they posted that their beloved grandma just died unexpectedly?

Yeah. I am so sorry about that.