Category Archives: “Bloggessed” is the new puce

And then we were murdered in our sleep

Every night before I go to bed I write “And then we were murdered in our sleep” in my journal so that there’s always an ending even if the worst happens.  Victor thinks it’s a sign I need to up my medication but I’m pretty sure it’s just a sign that I’m a really considerate writer.

And now, time for our weekly wrap-up:

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

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

What you missed on the internets:


This weekly wrap-up sponsored by the tremendously kick-ass website Gaggle of Chicks, which offers up deals of up to 70% off stuff moms want. Stuff like cooking supplies. And crack.*

*Gaggle of Chicks doesn’t actually sell crack.


**Gaggle of Chicks has no plans to ever sell crack and they greatly regret allowing Ms. Lawson to write this ad copy.

Happy Social Media Day!

Tomorrow is Social Media Day and to celebrate I’m going to wear a pin with Guy Kawasaki‘s face on it all day long.  You may be asking yourself why I have a pin with Guy Kawasaki’s face on it and actually he gave it to me years ago when I went to his house.  True story.  That’s how you know you’ve made it.  When you can give people who show up at your house a picture of your own face on a pin and they thank you for it.  If I gave out pins with my face on them to people who came to my house I’d get strange looks.  Mostly because the only people who ever come to my house are my lawn guys.  And also because I don’t really have the kind of face that lends itself to pins.   I’m pretty sure this is exactly why no one in social media ever takes me seriously.

It's like his face was MADE for pins, y'all.

PS.  Also in honor of Social Media Day I will continue to fall yet another day behind on posting the comment(s)-of-the-day but I do promise to feel really, really bad about it all day.

PPS.  I’ve been drinking.

PPPS.  I just looked up “Social Media Day” to prove that it exists and it kind of looks like Mashable just made that shit up.  Which is fine, but if they’re calling tomorrow Social Media Day then I’m calling Thursday “I’m-ignoring-your-friend-request-because-YOU-ARE A TREMENDOUS-ASSHOLE Day“.  It’s going to be awesome.

If you have a choice, don’t get rheumatoid arthritis. Or testicular cancer. I heard that one sucks too.

A series of things that should be separate posts but they aren’t:

1.  Paraphrased conversation between me and my rheumatologist yesterday:

Me:  My feet are ouchie.

Him:  That’s because you have a degenerative disease, dumb-ass.

Me:  Yes, but I thought I’d be better by now.

Him:  I think you don’t know what “degenerative” means.  Let’s up the chemo drug that makes your hair fall out  to 10 pills at a time and if that still doesn’t work then next month we’ll start doing IV therapy and self injections.

Me:  Yay!

PS.  That “yay” was sarcastic.  I know it’s hard to see sarcasm on paper but probably the context should have given it away.  

PPS.  Honestly, I’m fine and can still totally function.  It just feels like when you’re wearing really uncomfortable stilettos that are two sizes too small and you can still pole dance but you know you aren’t as effective as before because you keep grimacing but you’re trying to at least grimace “sexily” except you know it’s not working because that stripper with the bullet-holes in her thigh is getting bigger tips than you.  And that’s exactly what rheumatoid arthritis feels like.

2.  For those of you that are new, Nancy W. Kappes is a paralegal from Indiana who never comments but sends me these long, fucked-up emails that are shockingly similar in tone to the emails I send to my idols who never respond to me and now I know how it feels to get an email screaming about failed abortions and Jesus-Christ trucker hats.  (It feels awesome.)  (That’s not sarcasm).  And Nancy fans keep yelling at me to share more of her letters so here are the latest two (starting with her take on Cinco de Mayo) and I swear to God she is real and not me and might even come to the Blogher People’s Party in Chicago so stop doubting me, non-believers:


Hey! A Holiday celebrating mayonnaise. I’m gonna totally protest and eat some Miracle Whip. Once for a party, I filled this huge piñata with M&Ms. Just plain ole colored M&Ms. Lots of fucking boxes of M&M’s. Like tons of M&M’s. Okay, so the kiddies are blindfolded and the grown-ups sneak off to smoke crack watch their little faces light up. Elizabeth (who would grow up and be a rugby star—all 95 lbs. of her—but she could run like her mother, and once she grabbed those tree-trunk legs of the other players, you had to saw her head off to get her to let go.) Anyway, she’s about 7 and a twee little thing, but she takes that stick and knocks the motherfucking piñata into the next county. Okay. So now we are knee deep in GODDAMNED UNWRAPPED M&M’S AND THREE DOGS AND EIGHT KIDS START GOBBLING THEM UP AS FAST AS THEY CAN. Fuck me running, no one told me the shit had to be fucking wrapped. So there’s dogs pooping up huge rainbow turds and the kids are all eating a % of 1/1,000 (one being the number of M&M’s and the other being the amount of dog hair.) Then their Guatemalan housekeeper who has wet her pants and passed out laughing gets on the phone in her room where she no doubt  was laughing her ass off to her friends in Guatemala about  the fucking-dumb-ass gringo who totally didn’t wrap the candy. Muy loco chica!!!

So the hell with it.  I’m drinking jello-shots tonight.

Gotta run. I’ve scheduled a conference call with Life, God and Jesus at 4:00pm. It ain’t gonna be pretty.

Nancy W. Kappes




Come to Indiana where all the viruses, bacteria, people with an I.Q. in double digits, anything interesting, moved out long ago with all of the goddamned fun. When I would take the grrlz to school in the am [driving 145 mph–we looked like our faces had been put in one of those 90-mile an hour wind tunnels; Claire used to claim her face didn’t return to normal until 3rd period] we would pass “Conner Prairie” and, yes, it is as hokey as it sounds—makes Rock City look like the Louvre. One bleak, cold, pitch dark morning in winter, there was an atypical lack of joviality and witty banter until we passed C. Prairie and Elizabeth bellowed, “You stupid shit-heads! What the hell kind of drugs were you on when you decided to stop here?” We still don’t know. People say “Oh, but it is such a great place to raise your children”. Bollocks. It’s difficult for tha grrlz to get products for their meth lab. 

Okay, so this thing that is in Chicago in July or whatever—no wigs! Roller wigs! HA! Totally like your photo! How motherfucking awesome would it be to look out over a crowd of people and they are all totally wearing roller wigs! Sweet! Actually, if I wasn’t a lazy bitch, I would make some for you to pass out, but maybe a shit load of the Jesus Christ hats where we cross out Jesus Christ with a fucking sharpie and write in“The Bloggess.”

Well now I cant get this goddamned font off my computer. Motherfucker, I hate these things.

I cant stand this fucking fontits like Letters to God.or some Readers Digest shit. Plus, considering the content, isnt that an oxymoron?

Nancy W. Kappes 



3.  Neil Gaiman direct messaged me on twitter.  Seriously, that happened.  And yes, sadly, it happened because he read my post about strange-looking guys I’d totally do if I wasn’t married but still…NEIL-fucking-GAIMAN, y’all.  I own 27 of his books.  Swear to God.  Then I told my friend Laura that Neil Gaiman had DMed me and she was all “NEIL DIAMOND DMed YOU?!?” and I’m all “No.  Neil GAIMAN.”  And she’s all “Oh.  Who?”  Then I drowned her in a fountain at the mall.  

4.  I’m going to spend the night on an aircraft carrier with a small group of internet-famous people next week, including Guy Kawasaki and some guy who was on Dancing with the Stars.  I think he also invented the internet.  I’d write about it here but all those people probably have google alerts set up for when people mention their name and I don’t want those people to find this blog before I meet them because I’m the only non-famous, weird girl going and I plan on pretending I’m someone else.  Like maybe Neil Gaiman.  So instead I’m gonna video blog about it later today or as soon as I can figure out how to work this new fucking computer that is trying to destroy me.

5.  Neil Gaiman, y’all.

Comment of the day:    Mmmmmayonaisse. Europeans don’t refirigerate it and they put it on their fries. That’s all I really know about them and also where my curiosity ends. ~MayoPie

I am totally usurping Guy Kawasaki

So today The Printed Blog wrote a feature about me, which is really nice because the last feature they wrote was about some famous editor all dressed in a suit with artful lighting, and my feature looks like this:


Even more amazing is that they featured one of my stories and my byline is IN FRONT OF GUY KAWASAKI‘S.  True story.

And even more amazing is that in spite of the fact that my hooker story has to do with defrauding the navy, Guy asked me to join him on a Navy-sponsored field trip to spend the night on an air-craft carrier in the middle of the ocean, which is awesome because I’m terrified of flying, water and giant squid.  Also, my friends were all “You’re sleeping with Guy Kawasaki on some sort of cruise?” and I’m all “No.  There’s going to be other bloggers there too so if anything it’ll be like some kind of weird orgy.”  But I will be able to scope out plans for my naval hooker scenario.   Also I asked Guy if I could bring Victor and he wrote (swear to God) “No.  I only have 14 bullets” which I don’t know what that means but I’m assuming it means Guy Kawasaki is going to murder me for being more popular than him.

PS.  I just want to remind everyone that in real life I’m a lowly junior HR analyst who does pivot tables all day.  And that I’m more popular than Guy Kawasaki.

Comment of the day: See, this is why I’m so in favor of the serial comma – people who read the profile but are unfamiliar with Jenny will think she wants to be (or has been) fisted by the President. Those are just unreasonable expectations to set for new readers. ~ Jason

The things coinstar wouldn’t take

Did you know that you can break the Coinstar machine if you put in a bunch of random stuff?  Also, today I’ve taken 12 prescription pills, including the chemo drug that causes the cancer that I don’t have yet and it’s actually making me feel much better but incredibly groggy so I can’t even think of something appropriate to write for you to comment on.  Hence, the comments are completely open for anything.  Deep confessions, words you don’t like, what animal you wish would go extinct next, which weird-looking celebrities you would sleep with if you had the chance…go wild, y’all.

Comment of the day:  Okay, seriously?!  I give you nothing and you give me 400 comments.  I can’t possibly choose just one comment for comment of the day so I’m going to have to create an entire post from these comments because you people are fucked up in the most beautiful way.  Comments are still open if you still want in.

I’m not even sure why we *have* katanas anymore

So the other day I was wearing the only clean thing in my house, which was a beach sarong that’s basically two giant scarves tied around my neck, and it’s super-comfy but at the slightest breeze it flies open to reveal my nipples to the world.  This is called foreshadowing.

So I ran some errands and when I parked in front of my house I saw Quiet Asian Guy in his yard and considering how often he’s seen me naked I was mindful to arrange my scarves and exit the car all lady-like and  I was feeling very smug about not showing my junk to the neighbor when I tripped on something and practically broke my ankle but I still kept hold of my scarves with a death-grip because I have determination but then I turned back to see what I’d tripped on and it was A GIGANTIC FUCKING SNAKE and this is where I totally lose. my. shit and run into the house with my scarves flying wildly behind me, and I’m screaming at Victor to get a gun and I run to grab a sword and then Victor gets all yelly that I’m overreacting just because I wanted to use a katana to slice up a snake in the street.  Because he loves snakes and wants me to die.  Apparently. 

So we go back outside and the snake is still there but his head is sqwooshed so Victor thinks I probably ran over him with my car when I was leaving which means it was UNDER MY CAR WHEN I GOT IN, like in those emails where the gang member is hiding under your car and he slices your achilles tendon for his gang initiation, except this is even worse because instead of a gang member it’s a snake who doesn’t have a knife so he’s going to have to chew your achilles tendon in half.  Yeah.  So now you get why I was so freaked out.   So then I realized that no one would believe this so I took a picture of the snake but I couldn’t capture how HUGE it was and I needed something for scale so I grabbed some coins to throw at the snake but I didn’t want to get too close because it could be faking death to lull me into a false sense of security.  So I’m tossing nickels at it but they’re all bouncing off and rolling away and that’s when I realized that I’m standing in the street throwing change at a dead snake like it’s some sort of performing monkey with an accordion.  So I tried a few more coins before I remembered how bad I was at “quarters” in college and then Victor noticed I’d swiped his change bucket and started yelling at me that I’d better be picking that shit back up and of course that was not going to happen so I just kicked the change into the storm drain and walked closer to take a semi-closeup of the dead animal I ran over for you, gentle reader, because I’m a blogger who cares.  Would Guy Kawasaki do that for you?  (Answer: Probably not because I’m pretty sure they don’t have snakes in California.)  And I thought about putting a little tip jar beside the dead snake just to fuck with whoever found him next but I didn’t want to get that close and also I didn’t have a tip jar.


I added the bear and the lightening bolts because the picture didn’t capture just how fucked-up the whole thing was.  And that’s why now when I get into my car I have to circle it first, looking underneath it for snakes and then when I get in I leap into it from several feet away just in case a snake is hiding in the wheel-well, except that when I did it this morning I misjudged the height because when I jumped in I  totally slammed my forehead into the roof of the car and I panicked because I could feel myself about to fall backward onto the asphalt and all I could think about was how much it would suck to get bit in the eye by the wheel-well snake and so I desperately grabbed the steering wheel and caught it although I did break two nails which sucks but is better than being bit in the eye by a snake. 

And also I lost my checkbook.  That’s not related to the snake thing but it sucks too.

Comment of the day:  See, that’s one of those Driveway Vipers. The squished head with the tire tracks is just camouflage. Its hunting method is adapted for a suburban environment. First, it sneaks into your driveway and plays dead under your car, being careful to avoid the tires. You dispose of the “dead” snake but you’re so freaked out that you start doing stuff like leaping into your car and smacking your head on the door frame. Next thing you know, you’re lying in your driveway with a concussion, at which point the snake returns to chew your Achilles tendons at its leisure.   You got off lucky. Your best defense at this point is to start wearing a helmet when leaping into your car.  We’re doomed, people. The snakes are out-evolving us. It’s only a matter of time before one starts camouflaging itself as a katana and then you’d be standing in your driveway trying to kill the squished head snake with the katana snake while the Sunday paper snake sneaks up behind you. ~ Steve

My fame is awesome/humbling/nonexistent in the real world

I was totally shocked when Michael informed me that I’d been entered into the annals of history by way of the Urban Dictionary:


And I, of course, giggled and blushed and decreed that my coworkers begin walking 3-5 feet behind me to demonstrate their inferiority to me. 

Then I clicked on one of the tags Michael included in the definition and discovered this:


Touché, Willowtree.  

And just like that, my over-inflated ego collapsed and the world went on much the same as always. 

But I’m still going to need all of you to start referring to me with an honorific title like “your excellency”.  Or if we’ve gotten drunk together, something less formal like “The Dread Lady of Blogsylvania”. 

Also, no eye contact.

PS.  If you look up “Bloggessed” in the “real” dictionary it gives you this as the closest match:


Insulting and scarily fitting.

Comment of the day:  Back in 1974, when I was the karate champ of Flitners Corner, Wyoming (I actually moved to Flitners Corner solely for the reason that there was no karate studios in the area and the relatively low population, figured I could become the champ once I created the contest and lightly (aka light as in not) advertised). I became the subject of similar such notoriety. The only contestant I had to defeat, Lyle P. Ligonberry became the victim of the very first Scrotal Tornado. What happened (mostly by accident), was my toe got caught in his wrestling singlet (Lyle apparently thought wrestling was karate) and I fell. I flipped over snapping back into action. In the process of doing so, I had started torquing his nutsack into something resembling a flesh colored twister lollipops. Ergo, my toe and your mind have a lot in common – both famous and both excellent at twisting nutsacks. ~furiousball