Category Archives: terrible titles

UPDATED: Don’t let my hands falling off be in vain.

This isn’t a real post.  It’s just a quick update.

Last week I looked at my list of people who’d signed up for one of the free 5,000 bookplates I’d autographed and I found out that there were actually 6,000 people signed up.  Then I sighed deeply and called my publisher and asked if they could send me another thousand and a wrist brace and then they hesitantly told me that there had been a miscommunication and that the 5,000 bookplates I thought I’d autographed?  Were actually 10,000 bookplates.  Which explains why my right arm withered and fell off when I was done.  But the good news is that my publisher still has a few thousand unclaimed bookplates so if you preorder your book by midnight tonight (March 16) make sure you sign up for the free bookplate.   You can preorder your book and sign up for your bookplate right here.  Also, if you’re preordering an electronic version of the book you can totally have a bookplate.  Just stick it to the back of your reader.

PS. Picador just announced that they’re publishing my book in the UK.  Yeehaw, Britain!

PPS. I haven’t heard if non-US publishers will going to offer bookplates, but I’ll keep you posted.

UPDATED:  Matthew Broderick and his most baffling early birthday present ever:

Better than twine.

 

This isn’t a real post. It’s just something cool I liked.

Many years ago, my friend (Rachael) painted a portrait of my pug, Barnaby Jones Pickles.  Several years later he was killed by a rattlesnake, but I’m pretty sure those two things are unrelated.  At least, I hope they are, because Rachael’s now doing Day of the Dead art and she just surprised me with my own portrait.  Which is completely bad-ass, but maybe not entirely worth death by rattlesnake.

Day of The Bloggess (scan)

Luckily, I’m much bigger than Barnaby Jones Pickles so I would probably survive a rattlesnake bite, and it would make a cool story.  So, I guess what I’m saying is that Rachael’s paintings are worth being injected by venom, nearly – but not quite – to the point of death.  Also, I’m not sure why she doesn’t hire me to write advertising copy for her, because this shit is gold.

PS.  Here’s her site if you want to commission your own portrait.

 

 

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.

 

I can’t think of a proper title for this.

I’m two weeks behind on the wrap-up again because I suck.  But I have a good reason because Victor’s still dealing with his broken arm (see: “Man Cold” X 80 billion).  He’s having a plate put in it next week, which is nice because that means that he’ll have to be frisked through every airport security check from now on, which helps level the playing field a bit since he always glares at me as I slow him down because apparently my shoes are more complicated than his are.  This paragraph would make more sense if I’d had more sleep.  Probably.

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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:

UPDATED: SHOCKING PICTURES OF LOU DIAMOND PHILLIPS HOLDING WATER.

This week I was flooded with uncomfortably awkward blog pitches.  Most were robotic form-letters attempting to get a product mentioned in exchange for a high-res photo of something that no one would ever want a high-res photo of.  For instance, an hour ago I got an email from a pr chick (named Bridget) asking if I’d like a high-res picture of Lou Diamond Phillips drinking water.

my response:

Of course I would love a high-res image of Lou Diamond Phillips drinking water.  Who wouldn’t? Please make mine poster-sized and send it to the address below.  Also, it needs to be laminated because I’m going to use it to cover one of the holes the dogs chewed in my bedroom wall and if it’s unlaminated poster paper they’ll just jump right through it like circus lions.  I prefer matte paper over glossy because it looks more classy.  Here is my mailing address:

Jenny L.  10223 Broadway, suite P #359, Pearland TX, 77584

PS.  I just realized that once it’s laminated it won’t actually matter what kind of paper you use so please feel free to use whatever type of paper all the other bloggers are requesting for their poster.

One minute later I sent a follow up:

Hi.  Me again.  I was just telling my girlfriend about your offer to send high-quality images of Lou Diamond Phillips to anyone requesting them and she said she’d like one too but she wants to know if you have any pictures of him not holding water?  If so, that’s actually what I’d like too.  It’s okay if you’ve already mailed me my other poster of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water because honestly, I have a lot of holes to cover up so I can totally use more than one. I‘d thought it was the dogs causing all the damage since I came home yesterday to find Chester LaRue (dachshund) t-boned midway through a hole in the bathroom but then my husband pointed out that our dogs couldn’t have chewed all the holes in the ceiling unless they’d suddenly learned how to levitate. Turns out it’s actually the family of otters that I put in our attic during the winter, who are chewing the holes in the walls to make nests.  I’m not sure why they even need nests.  The whole attic is a nest, otters. My husband is very displeased and frankly I feel a bit betrayed.  This is exactly why you can’t trust otters.

At this point Bridget seemed baffled but showed exceptional professionalism by ignoring the otters and pointing out that they had images of Bobby Brown holding water if that was more my prerogative.

My response:

I appreciate the offer but regardless of how many holes the otters make I would never put up a Bobby Brown poster because we’re Team Whitney.  But you know who I bet would totally want those Bobby Brown posters?  Those fucking otters. Maybe they could just use them to make their nests and stop eating my walls.  Those otters are assholes.

No response.

UPDATE: Proving that not all marketing emails are answered with vague form letters, Bridget responded with a single sentence, agreeing simply that, yes, those otters did indeed sound like assholes.

And in return for that bit of humanity I’m totally sharing this picture of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water.  You’re welcome, America.

I'll say this for him: The man has range.

UPDATED AGAIN:  Wow.  I just got an email from a different PR woman who wants me to share pictures of Selma Blair wearing a goddam scarf.  What the fuck, marketing?

BTW, this was my response to her:

I would love to post a picture of Selma Blair wearing a scarf but unfortunately I *just* posted a picture of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water and I’m afraid that back-to-back posts of random celebrities using everyday objects might be too overwhelming for my readers.  Please keep me posted if you come across any photos of Wil Wheaton collating paper.

Hugs,  Jenny

This is my second post about Abraham Lincoln today and neither of them have been useful in any way. That must be some sort of record. A terrible, terrible record.

In honor of Presidents Day.  And of me being too lazy to write a proper post.  More of the latter really.

Happy day, presidents.

I THREATENED TO CUT HER: The exciting new trend no one is talking about.

I just got an email letting me know that some twitter analysis website had named me the number one trendsetter in the category of “I THREATENED TO CUT HER“.  Which is odd because I’m the only person listed in this entire category. I’m pretty sure that’s not how trends work.

It's not really a trend if you're the only one doing it. It's more of a "bizarre aberration", at best.

Updated: Oh, hang on.  They’ve also listed the top topics I’m most likely to discuss as “blogging ethics” and “logic“.  Clearly they’re just fucking with me.  Never mind.

UPDATED: Cats eat babies. Apparently.

I was just on the phone with my friend Karen and I was in the middle of (unsuccessfully) convincing her about the importance of guns on roadtrips and then I heard that hurk-hurk noise of a cat throwing up so I ran over to scootch Posey toward the tile and the vomit was all glittery and he looked at me grumpily because I pushed him while he was throwing up and I was all “Posey, if you wouldn’t eat tinsel then you wouldn’t throw up tinsel” and Karen was all “Your cat is eating tinsel? That can’t be good for him” and was like “No, I think eating tinsel is normal for a cat.  It makes changing the litter all festive” and she was all “And this is why I don’t have any cats” and I see her point but she also doesn’t have any guns so I think maybe this is less about cats and more about why Karen needs say yes to things more often.

But then I was all paranoid that maybe tinsel was bad for cats so I went to look it up but when I started to google “cats eat tinsel” this came up:

Oh, Google. Why can't I quit you?

Then, of course, I had to click on “cats eat babies” because I DON’T KNOW WHY.  And the answer given for why cats eat babies makes sense.  Except for the end.

Wow.

Also, I did look up “Should cats eat tinsel?” and it turns out that no, no they shouldn’t.  So now I have to pull all the tinsel off my Christmas tree.  Way to ruin Christmas, Posey.

"I also ate two ornaments."

PS.  Don’t yell at me for being a bad cat owner.  I rescued Posey from certain death 14 years ago so every day is a gift.  A gift filled with significantly less sparkly Christmas trees and sad, sad holiday vomit.  Also, he has arthritis and is allergic to himself and likes to sneeze copious amounts of snot in your face while while you’re sleeping.  But he did make a music video for African orphans (true story) so stop judging him.  He’s like the best cat ever.

PPS.  Victor just pointed out that Posey may have been trying to kill himself.  Awesome. And now I’m all depressed again.

Updated: Occasionally robot websites will auto-insert links to my blog into their product posts.  It pretty much never works out for them:

"What pet foods are best for my cat?" "Cats eat babies." Well, that's unfortunate.

Unimportant trivia: Padma was once married to the guy who wrote “The Satanic Verses” (which I always refer to as “The Vampire Diaries” because I’m bad with titles).

Part 1 and part 2 of my Blogher summary are done.  Part 3 starts now:

I was asked to do a cooking competition at Blogher and I would have said no except that they said that I could create whatever I wanted and that the judge would be Padma from Top Chef so of course I was all “I’m in”.  Everyone I was competing against in my heat made stuff like “stuffed artichoke areola some-thing-or-another” but I figured if I’m going to do this I should totally carb-load the sandwich because Padma needs to eat something, y’all.

I'm the one playing on my phone.

My sandwich ingredients were white bread, ham, chocolate fudge, gummi bears, m&m’s, whipped cream, more chocolate fudge (for bonding), caramel corn and packets of sweet-and-low stolen from the hotel.

This was "organic chocolate fudge" so I *technically* this sandwich is considered health food.

Padma looked horrified and not in a good way and I explained that this was a sandwich I made for my daughter all the time and that my kid really likes it although she does have severe diabetes but that I still make it for her because I believe in “tough love” and then Padma looked a little appalled and she was all “Your daughter is diabetic…and you’re making this?” and I’m all “Yep” and then I squirted some whipped cream directly into my mouth to get me to stop talking because at that point even I wanted me to shut up but I overshot and sparklets of whipped cream shot onto Padma and she looked unpleased.

Girl on left is trying to distance herself from me. Girl on right has given up. I offered everyone whip-its and no one wanted them. Probably because they thought I was talking about dogs instead of whipped-cream. I would NEVER offer people dogs in a cooking competition. Because I'm a professional.

You can tell that no one knows me here because they gave me a knife.

Then the sandwiches went for judging and when Padma picked mine up she was all “I’m gonna need a wet wipe” and I turned to the girl next to me and I was all “Hell yeah. My sandwich is so sexy she’s gonna need a wet wipe” and the girl next to me was all “I don’t think that’s what she means” and I decided to ignore her because it’s pretty obvious that she was just trying to psyche me out.

I think the guy on the left was doing the wave for my sandwich. It was that awesome. Also, the girl on the right needs to learn how to hide her emotions better.

But then Padma refused to eat my sandwich and I was all “FUCKING SHENANIGANS!” but she totally ignored me.  But the other judges were all kids so I figured I was totally winning but then the votes were tallied and then Padma called out who was moving on to the next heat and it was EVERYBODY IN THE COMPETITION BUT ME.  I shit you not.

The aftermath. (Technically it was less of a sandwich and more like a chocolate stew that had bread and ham in it.)

And I was all “WTF? I was robbed” but then I was like “Wait, where would they get a bunch of kid judges at an adult conference?” and I decided they were most likely stolen from an orphanage and the orphans probably just weren’t used to that level of love in a sandwich.  Also, I may have given them all diabetes and I think giving diseases to orphans probably counts against you on your sandwich score card and probably in life in general.

PS. All of this is on video, y’all.

PPS.  Photos taken by Karen, then vandalized by me.

PPPS. This is the worst picture of me in the history of the world but I’m including it because it kind of sums up the whole day:

This is my "cooking face". It's also why I don't cook. Also, this is exactly how you should always look when you're standing next to a supermodel anyway because no matter what, you're going to look like shit comparatively so you might as well go all out.

Part 4 of Blogher still to come.  Someone get me some ritalin.

I don’t have a good title for this.

Facebook just told me that I needed to “reconnect” with my husband.   And then they showed me a picture of him just in case I wasn’t sure who he was.  Way to make me question my marriage, Facebook.

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It’s Sunday so that means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up of shit-I-was-doing-when-I-wasn’t-here comforting my dishwasher and changing out of my pajamas in graveyards.

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

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

    This week on the internets:

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