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.
This is a really, really long post and I should probably break it into two parts but I suck so I’m going to tell you when part two is, and you can walk away and come back tomorrow if reading more than 10 paragraphs bothers you. Except I just made this longer by adding this prelude. Awesome. Also, if you’ve never read me before, don’t start now because this will confuse the shit out of you.
You know what’s awesome? When you write a bunch of posts about something but never fully explain it and so your 4th post in you kind of have to start from the beginning and answer all the questions that you should have answered the first time, except you realize it really doesn’t matter because your readers all have ADD too so they’ve forgotten what you posted before anyway. That’s what’s awesome.
So…the whole Navy trip. Many of you have asked how I got to go fly out and land on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean and the answer is that I gave Guy Kawasaki a hand job. Kidding. I don’t like Asian men. Kidding again. Ha ha. I just pissed off my husband, Guy Kawasaki, and also 4 percent of my blog readers in one paragraph. So “yay” me, because this is an improvement. Technically I’m not sure how I got invited. All I know is that the Navy brings out people all the time to see what it’s like at sea because (according to them) “It’s your Navy because you as a taxpayer pay for it” and I’m all “Hell yeah, I do“, and then I remembered that I don’t pay taxes. Kidding again, IRS. Please don’t audit me.
So I was with a bunch of other bloggers who are all professional and awesome and some were ex-military and all were very smart and well-respected, and then there was me. And I was even worse than normal because I am so terrified of water that I was on a ton of xanax the whole time I was there. But I also had a lot of caffeine so it evened out like when you take speed and heroin together. I assume.
We went all over that damn ship from stem to stern (even though I don’t know where the stem of the boat is because you never hear people say they’re there). We met Charlie Brown the first day and I know I said that he was like the head of the ship but turns out that I was wrong and he’s all “I’m totally not the head dude and you’re going to get me fired”, except he said it in Naval-ese so it sounded more professional. Also I showed him a bunch of sex toys I’d brought along and mentioned the inflatable sheep and he visibly paled. It was adorable. Also, I was really relieve to hear that Charlie Brown was not our Admiral, because although I absolutely adore him he does not have a name that instills trust, but then we actually got to meet the Admiral whose name is “Fozzie”. Like the bear. I am totally not kidding. Also we met the Captain whose name is “Nasty”. Like, that’s embroidered on his Captain’s chair. Nasty.
Then I mentally cursed Victor for convincing me that the Navy was uptight, because Fozzie and Nasty and Charlie Brown were all kick-ass and so was everyone else on the ship except for the one enlisted guy who looked anxiously at our group when we came in like he was looking for someone famous and it turns out he thought Hannah Montana was with us and was very disappointed. True story. But after that I made sure to stand next to this guy because he looks exactly like Clint Eastwood, and I thought I could pretend to be in his entourage and it would be less disappointing for the military people. On the second day on the ship I confessed to him that I was standing next to him all the time because he looked exactly like Clint Eastwood and if we got attacked he would probably be the only one who survived, and he kind of grunted just like Clint Eastwood would do and then someone else was all “Seriously, you do look EXACTLY like Clint Eastwood” and he admitted that he’s Clint’s body double and stuntman. Also I think he’s like the Mayor of Malibu and he has a Grammy. Or an Emmy. Something cool. I was a little high.
And then I said that I also planned on sticking next to Lex too because he used to be a fighter pilot himself, but admitted to him that my hopes were really pinned on Not-Clint-Eastwood because Lex just looked too nice to survive if we were attacked by Russians. But I assured him that in my head he’d die heroically trying to save me, and I could tell that he was cool with that or that he’d just stopped listening.
Then we had a briefing with the Captain and a “shooter” whose name was “Freakshow”. This is the part where I just nodded because everyone else was asking important questions about fuel consumption and political ideologies and I’m all “How many Cylons do you think are on this ship?”, “How many mermaids and/or UFOs have you spotted?” and “What’s the biggest secret that you’re not supposed to tell us?” but the answers were something like “What’s a Cylon?”, “None.” and “Nuclear blah blah blah” I can’t really remember because I lost interest. BUT THEN! Freakshow (so named because he used to work in the circus – I shit you not) took us out onto the aircraft carrier to watch jets take off just feet in front of us. We had to wear earplugs and headphones since it was so loud so Freakshow told us to pay attention to his hand signals or we would get blown off the ship by a jet, and he said that when he got down on one knee we needed to do the same because we were ducking from the exhaust of the jet engine and that if we stood up we’d burst into flames or something. So we went out and I. was. floored. Honestly, it was amazing. Even with the headphones on it was so loud it felt like it could stop your heart. I was utterly in awe and that’s why I didn’t notice Freakshow take a knee until I felt the heat and then I quickly took a knee, except I’m naturally clumsy and the hot blast coming off the back of the jet blew me completely over and so I just sat on my ass while Freakshow laughed at me and the others looked like they were proposing to him.
This is the end of part one for people with short attention spans, or who can’t read books or who actually have work to do.
Then we met the XO (who is like the Spock of the ship, I think?) and I told him that I’d heard that our Governor recently said that Texas might consider seceding from the rest of America and I asked him if they had the accuracy to bomb just his house or did I need to just move out of Texas altogether? He assured me that they could hit a single house with accuracy so I told him to get on that, and he kind of has to because they just said that it was *my* Navy, so if they don’t bomb our Governor it’s like peeing on the constitution. Or something. Then I begged Public Affairs to let me go to the brig and they were all “Uh. That’s not really part of the tour” and I’m all “So what do I need to do to get thrown into the brig? Because I have an inflatable sheep and I know where the captain sleeps” and they kind of looked at me, and I’m all “It makes real sheep sounds too!” Then they said, “We’ll see what we can do” and next thing you know, I was behind bars and for the first time ever it was not for prostitution. Kidding again. I’m not a prostitute. Although while I was there I totally pitched my idea for my Navy Hooker Business Proposal (Remember? I was gonna call it “Captain Hookers”?) and all the Navy people looked a little stunned and told me that it was illegal and that “pirate law” was something that I’d apparently just made up, but I think they just said that because they realized it’s an awesome business model and wanted to do it themselves.
Then, toward midnight they took us to Vulture’s Row where we watched the jets land and take off in the darkness. We were outside and even from the balcony the noise was extraordinary and I could feel the engines in every part of my body, almost cutting off my breathe with the sheer vibrations and power. We all wore our earplugs and noise-canceling headphones on top of the earplugs, so we were essentially deaf as we each listened to our own pulse in our ears, watched the smokey haze settle over the tarmac and took in the smell of the jet fuel. The blackness of the ocean stretched into a dark sky as we were forced to watch in silence while we all experienced our own unique moment, untainted by others. And in the stillness I realized that I could fart as loudly as I wanted and no one would ever know. And it was very freeing.
We went over ever inch of that ship, and when we finally got to bed at 1am (3am Texas time) I was exhausted. Then a few hours later they woke us up and told us we had 20 minutes to get ready. Then I considered calling in a bomb threat but I couldn’t find a phone and also since technically the whole ship is covered with bombs I didn’t think they’d be distracted enough by it to let us sleep in. After more exploring we got ready to leave the ship and were told that the take-off would make us shit ourselves. Or that it would be “dynamic”. I think they mean the same thing. Basically you can’t get up enough speed to take off before plunging into the ocean so they catapult the plane over the edge of the ship with a giant slingshot and then it flies off. This is when I started taking xanax. Then I took another one. Then they said “dynamic” again and I went to the bathroom because I was going to pee myself with fear because honestly, I am terrified of the water. I’ve always had a feeling that I will die drowning, and when I was in the bathroom with the other chicks I apologized to them in advance because if we ended up hitting the water it would probably be because I was onboard. They were very understanding and supportive and assured me that we would be fine so I sucked it up and took another xanax got mentally prepared. Then the Captain came in and opened up a certificate. We would each get one back on land, but by chance this one was mine and he read it out loud:
And I sat there, kind of beaming stupidly, because I realized that “TailHooker” was even better that “Captain Hookers” but also because for the first time in a long time I was really proud of myself, for pushing past what I thought my boundaries were, and for (with a little medication) taking hold of my anxiety disorder and gaining a little more control of my life. After the plane catapulted off (which felt a little like God grabbed you by the neck and threw you into another State) and when we finally landed I felt like I could breathe again and I suddenly realized that in facing my fears I’d loosened some constraints I didn’t even realize were holding me so tightly until they were gone. And it was beautiful.
PS. There isn’t a joke there. Sometimes there just isn’t one. I’d suggest going back and reading the fart joke again if you really need it.
Comment of the day: The real reason you could fart as loudly as you wanted is because when on board a naval ship such as yours, when you fart, it magically sounds like “Highway To The Dangerzone” by Kenny Loggins. ~HA Guy
I’m alive. Got back from my Navy trip yesterday and I’m still exhausted and trying to sober up but I figured you guys would be worried if you didn’t hear from me so here’s a quick taste of what happened:
Then I commandeered a gun and then they tried to take it back and I explained that I’d feel safer holding on to it just in case Tommy Lee Jones comes on board and I can’t find the chef…
…and they gave me a weird look because I guess not everyone in the Navy has seenUnder Siege, which seemed suspect to me and I joked that they were probably all actually Russian Communists but then they gave me an even weirder look which just confirmed my suspicions but then later when I was in the brig I realized that I was accidentally combining Under Siege and The Hunt for Red Octoberinto one movie, which actually would probably be a kick-ass movie. I’d call it The Hunt for the Siege of Red October, part II: Sharkey’s Revenge. That way people would think it must be awesome because why else would they make a sequel?
I had a lot of time to think about it.
PS. Real post about all of this coming.
PPS. I adored the people on that ship so much it shocked me and can never thank them enough for letting come join their family for the weekend. Also, if whichever one of those Koreas is being a bastard hurts them in any way I will lose. my. shit. Seriously, Korea. Stop being an asshole.
PPPS. I just posted probably my best advice ever on my advice column. Long story short in case you think you’re too good to read the whole thing: Stop fucking bears.
Comment of the day:Why is Goose written on your hand? Is that because you’re hoping Tom Cruise will come and save you from the brig? Don’t you know that Goose dies in the end? I’m just saying. ~ Becky Mochaface
This is a terrible video blog about my trip to get eaten by giant squid with famous people next week. Also, a lot of this information might be totally wrong because I’m kind of high right now bad with details. Also I’m not this blue in person but I am totally this annoying.
PS. Victor says that distracting you with animal tails and mouse skull necklaces will not make me color-coding our books any less neurotic but I think he’s wrong, and also I pointed out that by showing you the beaver tail in a bottle you were all distracted from how fat I look. Then Victor made me go take my medication.
Please someone tell me I don’t look fat.
PS. I had to reshoot this twice because my boob fell out. True story. If I could figure out how to edit that out I would release that version because it was way better and I’d put a DVD commentary over it telling you what I was really thinking about while I was filming.
PPS. I was thinking about cheese.
Comment of the day: Ohmygod you sound like kelly from the office. Like if they did one of those digital voice comparison things like they do in spy movies, yours would like up 100 percent. ~Janet
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.
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.
Hey! AHoliday 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-assgringo 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.
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 outJesus Christ with a fucking sharpie and write in“The Bloggess.”
Well now I can’t get this goddamned font off my computer. Motherfucker, I hate these things.
I can’t stand this fucking font—it’s like “Letters to God.”or some ‘Reader’s Digest’ shit. Plus, considering the content, isn’t 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
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