Category Archives: I’m not really full of mosquitoes

It kind of feels like a hollow victory

Conversation with Victor in the car…

Victor: You never talk to me while I’m driving. You just play on your phone.

me: Oh. I was just thinking that my friend M.is amazing, but she can’t see anything other than her flaws. I wish I could make her see all the awesomeness inside of her. She’s like a magnificent pinata filled with such beauty, and all I want to do is just smash her in the face with a stick.

Victor: What the f-?

me:  But in a good way.

Victor: It’s amazing that Hallmark hasn’t called you yet.

me: I know. They don’t have nearly enough cards about pinatas. Hey, do my eyeballs smell?

Victor: Are you high right now?

me: No, I’m serious. If I said “It smells like ass in here” you’d know what I mean. Same thing with armpits, and earwax, and feet, and unwashed hair, but you never hear people saying “something smells like eyeballs in here”. I wonder if humans are immune to the smell of eyeballs.

Victor: This is not even close to what I had in mind when I asked you to talk to me.

me: Well, that’s the danger of not giving me a topic. I bet cats can smell eyes. That’s probably why when I wake up sometimes Posey’s face is like an inch from mine, and he’s staring right at my eyeballs. They probably smell awesome.

Victor: Or terrible.

me: I bet they smell delicious.

Victor: *silence*

me: Smell my eyeballs.

Victor: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.

me: Well, now I’m all curious. I can’t smell my own eyeballs, dude. This exactly why I got married.

Victor: You got married so you’d have someone to smell your eyeballs?

me: Well, not specifically. I mean, it wasn’t in the vows. But it was implied.

Victor: You know what? I take it back. Please, please go back to your phone.  You win.

me:  Really?  I didn’t even know we were fighting.  My God, I’m good at this.

 

Honestly, it’s sort of hard to argue with any of these.

Several people sent me links to this new site that analyzes your past tweets and comes up with what your next tweet will probably be according to your personality and past habits.  I assume the average person gets stuff like “I need coffee” and “Good morning everyone!”  Not me.

Things that “Yes, That Can Be My Next Tweet” predicts I will say in the near future:

“Quick.  Someone get me a replacement cobra.”

“MOTHERFUCKER.  Ha!”

“My alligator is worsening.  I need an 11 cent payment for a cave.”

“Here.”

“I never thought I’d like a firey crash so much.”

“No, that taxidermied pig dressed as my special lady is not leaving me.”

“I’m ready to hate me now.”

“I NEVER WORE THAT, VICTOR.  So stabby.”

“I need two perky young priests and three squirrels.  After insurance.”

“There is that shoe again.  I’m worried.  Where’s the bucket?”

“Okay, three words: It’s like, FUCK YOU! YOU’VE CHANGED.”

“I have captained space ships.  Also, this entire day just came out five hours later.  I blame the future.”

“Home from Jesus’ death?”

“I don’t know who owns this own crossbow. Right now we’re cool. ~ But HALF A BLOWJOB?”

“I just made an arm.”

“Home from something stupid.”

“Victor: Why do Pickles look they hate me.”

“Also, Victor’s broken arm casts now endorse unicycling.”

And my personal favorites:

It’s a valid question.

Can you carry an alligator on a plane? Answer: I still don’t entirely know.

If you follow me on twitter then you already know that yesterday I bought and smuggled a dead alligator onto a plane so you can just skip the next paragraph and go straight to the money-shot below.

If you missed it, I’ll just sum up by saying that if you ask twitter if it’s legal to carry a smallish sort of taxidermied alligator onto a plane with you, most people will say “Um, no.  You aren’t even allowed to bring breast milk on a plane.”  Then you’ll point out that the alligator is at least 50 years old, is wearing clothes and is missing a hand and some of them will change their mind but most will still insist he’ll be considered a weapon.  Then you’ll say “I can’t imagine anyone seriously thinking I’d try to take over a plane using only a tiny, clothed alligator as a weapon” and everyone on twitter will like “Really? Have you even met you?  Because that sounds exactly like something you’d do.”  And they had a point.  But what I learned is that if you carry your alligator through the airport with confidence, no one ever questions you. Probably because you’re holding an alligator.

I call him "Jean-Louis". Victor is not a fan. Probably because he had to share the window seat. And because I'm already making plans to buy him a tiny pirate suit. And a hook for his missing hand. And a saucy little pony-tail. Victor: "This dead alligator is a damn money pit." Oh my God, if I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me.

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.

(UPDATED: NOW WITH MORE WIL WHEATON) An open letter to Wil Wheaton

Dear Wil Wheaton,

Hi.  I’m sure you must be very confused about my insistent tweets asking for a picture of you collating, and about the fact that the I Blame Wil Wheaton shirt was given an award for being one of the most viewed shirts on zazzle.

First of all, let me assure you that I do not actually blame you.  I blame your secretary.  Or whoever is in charge of sending out photos of you collating papers.  She should probably be fired.

Secondly, I’m pretty sure that you haven’t sent me a picture yet because you’re not sure what I’m going do with it and that is a totally fair question and one I’d be asking myself if a sex worker was asking me for a picture of me collating paper.  In fact, I’d probably suspect that “collating paper” was code for some kind of weird sex act.  Like, remember back before the internet was invented, when “laying cable” just meant you were laying cable?  Me either.  But I assure you, “collating paper” here just means collating paper.

You probably don’t read my blog so I should explain that the reason I need a picture of you is because I constantly get emails from PR people offering me pictures of celebrities using whatever bullshit product I don’t actually care about and I’d like it to stop.  Most recently I wrote about my interactions with PR people who wanted to send me photos of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water, and of Selma Blair wearing a scarf.  (This is all true). I still get these emails daily and my plan is to get a picture of you collating paper so that when they offer me a picture of “Harry Connick Jr. standing next to yarn” I can say “Thanks.  Here’s a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper” and then they’ll be like “Um…why would I want a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper?” and I can be like, “EXACTLY.”  It wouldn’t actually stop PR people from emailing me thousands of pictures of people-with-things but I’d at least feel better about it.

Hugs,

Jenny

PS.  It’s totally okay if you don’t want to send me a picture at all because years ago you commented on a post I wrote for a blog that doesn’t even exist anymore and now you get a pass for pretty much anything.  You wrote “Now you can scratch one off”.  I know because I kept the notification.  I can’t actually remember what the post was about but I’m fairly certain your response, though brief, was totally apropos.  Also, I emailed you to make sure it was really you and you responded: “It’s me”.  Seven characters.  It’s pretty clear you had a talent for twitter before it was even invented.

PPS.  I had the maid proof-read this and she just pointed out that “laying cable” is not a sexual euphemism at all and I was like “Who’s the sex worker here, lady? They sent me to Japan to write about sex ponies so I’m pretty sure I’m the expert here” but then I looked it up and it turns out that “laying cable” is code for taking a long, unbroken poop.  Apparently I was confusing “laying pipe” with “laying cable”and I’ve been saying it wrong for pretty much my entire life.  Awesome. Plus, now the maid is claiming that “writing about sex doesn’t make you a sex worker” so I had to pull up the pictures of me in the sex dungeon for proof and she was all “You’re fully clothed” and I was like “I think I have a picture of me naked in here somewhere” and then my husband walked in and was all “Why is no one working in here?” and I was like “Do you know where those pictures are of me naked but covered with hamburgers?” and the maid was like “It doesn’t count if you’re covered with hamburgers” and then Victor said that from now on I’m not allowed to be in the house on days when the maid comes.  Because apparently he doesn’t want me to have friends.

PPPS.  I found the hamburger pictures.  You don’t have to look at them though.  They’re really more for the maid, who I’m not allowed to talk to anymore.  I don’t blame you though.  I blame Victor.

UPDATED:

WIL WHEATON IS A GOLDEN GOD.

Reason #307 why I love the internet.

Updated again:  It would be selfish to keep this to myself.  This page is for you.  You’re welcome, world.

I can’t tell if I won this argument or lost it. I’d feel better if I at least had nachos.

Conversation with my husband:

Victor: Look at this video. It’s about a company that invented a tool that lets you drive using only your mind.

me: Awesome. I’m so glad we’re making such huge advances in the field of driving-a-car-without-hands. It’s good that the scientists have a new priority now that they’ve found a cure for cancer.

Victor: The concept is pretty cool. You can drive all the way to work just sitting there.

me: They already invented a tool for that. It’s called a bus.

Victor: I think I want one. You could drive yourself to the grocery store and learn to play the flute at the same time.

me: I would kill myself in about 8 seconds in that car. What about all the times you think about driving off the edge of a cliff? Does it compensate for that?

Victor: Who the hell thinks about driving off a cliff?

me: Um…me.  And everyone.

Victor: *

me: You don’t imagine –for just a second– about driving off a bridge every time you drive over one?

Victor: Why would I do that?

me: Because it’s human nature. Everyone does that. You never actually do it but everyone thinks about it.

Victor: Well I don’t think about it.

me: Well then, maybe there’s something wrong with you.

Victor: Maybe there’s something wrong with me because I don’t think about driving off cliffs on a regular basis?

me: Or because you want a car so you can play the flute. Neither of those are particularly normal.

Victor: Okay, first of all, the flute was for you. Secondly, I think there’s something really wrong with you.

me: Probably.  I like how in the video they’re all “Don’t try this at home” because that disclaimer is totally the only  thing keeping me from driving my car with my mind right now. I mean, that and the fact that we’re out of brain sensors.

Victor: Just stop talking.

me: If I was driving a brain-car I’d make it go to Taco Cabana all the time and you’d be all “Where are we going? We don’t have time for this” and I’d be like “I’m not doing it! It’s the car. It must want enchiladas” and then I could get enchiladas all the time and you couldn’t yell at me about it because you couldn’t prove I was doing it on purpose.

Victor: When have I ever yelled at you about enchiladas?  WHY IS THIS EVEN AN ISSUE?

me: You’d totally yell at me if I suddenly veered off to get unexpected enchiladas. That’s why I’ve never even tried it. Because I know you. But just wait until we get our mind-control car. There are going to be unexpected enchiladas everywhere.

PS.  Then Victor said that I just proved that I can’t be trusted with a mind controlled car, which was kind of my point to begin with.  I win.  Except now I totally want enchiladas and I have no brain-controlled car to get them for me. Touché, scientists.  Way to create a demand.