Category Archives: this blog cures cancer

And then we were 40.

Somewhere in between Xmas and New Years is my birthday.  It’s always vaguely forgotten because of a combination of holiday fatigue and me not really caring about birthdays.  This one is supposed to be a scary one…40…but it doesn’t bother me.  I feel 40.  And sometimes 8.  And occasionally 90.  And on terrible, terrible days I’m an awkward 14.  But 40 seems fine.

Someone told me that “40 is the new 30” but I think more accurately “40 is the new I-don’t-really-give-a-shit-about-how-old-I-am-because-I’m-finally-learning-how-to-be-a-bad-ass-so-get-out-of-my-way-or-I-will-shank-you-thank-you-very-much.”  40 means you’re finally old enough to be trusted with a taser, or a bunch of fainting goats.  (Someone tell my husband that, please.)

40 means you get to be staunch one day and flighty the next, and no one can question you because at 40 you’ve pretty much decided who you’re going to be, and people realize that they should either avoid you completely or just come along for the terrifying-but-entertaining ride.

40 is when you still wonder what you’re going to be when you grow up, and then you remember that you are somewhat grown up, and then you laugh at the very idea of you being considered a grown up and promptly pour yourself a drink as the lights go out because you’ve forgotten to pay the electric bill again.

40 is when you get to be just as stupid and forgetful as you were at 20, but instead of blaming it on being stupid you can pretend that you once knew all of the answers to Trivia Pursuit but you’ve simply forgotten a few things because you’re getting older.  And no one can question that.  This same logic works for asking questions everyone else is thinking but won’t say out loud, using the wrong fork, calling out people on their bullshit, and forgetting everyone else’s birthdays.  It’s not your fault.  You’re 40.  You’re just young enough to still do everything you still want to do and just old enough to not do anything you don’t want to do ever again.

40 is a get-out-of-jail-free card for any slight faux-pas, for “accidentally” running over political signs you don’t like, and even for a few minor felonies.

40 is perfect, and I am ready to embrace it with grace and with glee.

Please remind me of that in two days when I turn 40.

And then the stars of Portlandia renewed my faith in America. Even though they might be Canadian. I should probably check Wikipedia.

So, this morning I got a follow-up email from Fred Armisen, telling me that they personally made sure that their legal department is now aware that they are just fine with sharing birds with the rest of America.  And this photo was attached. THIS is how you resolve a customer complaint:

Why, yes, that is Carrie and Fred holding my bag.

It’s also why I will be a fan of Portlandia, Fred, and Carrie for the rest of my damn life.

Confused?  Click here for the back-story.

PS.  Yes, you can buy that bag if you want it.  (Any profits will go to the Austin Pets Alive shelter.)

PPS.  True story:  Today I was at the craft store looking for things to put on the giant Marie Antoinette wig that I’m making, and the clerk helping me was like “Hmm…well, we could put a bird on it?”  Then I just nodded, and -with a small tear in my eye- I said, “Yes.  Yes we can put a bird on it.”

PPS.  You really should be watching this show:

My point here is that flying-squirrels are seriously under-estimated.


I'll rip your ass to shreds.

Because A. I’m my own boss so I could get this as my new work uniform and I’m pretty sure that makes it tax-deductible.

2. I would wear this everyday that I work on my book.  Because who wouldn’t buy a book written by a girl dressed as a panda?  Vegans, probably.

C. Last year I totally wrote about how I wanted to sleep in bears to save lives. This is a sign.

4.  OMG LOOK AT IT. It’s so adorable that I could go to the liquor store and after they rang me up I’d be all “I can’t pay because I’m a bear.  No pockets.  Rowr.”  And they’d probably just give me the booze for free.  Or if they didn’t I could just run out with the booze because there’s no way they’re going to remember what my face looks like because they’ll be so distracted by the panda face and they probably wouldn’t even report it because who’s gonna believe that you got mugged by a panda at the liquor store? Oh, and also I’d mug them.  In for a penny, in for a panda.

D. I also want the flying-squirrel because it’s basically a pair of pajamas that come with a blanket that you can never lose. The only thing that would make this better is if it had a little pocket for sleeping pills.  And one for my gun.  Because you’re probably gonna need a gun if you’re going to mug someone in a flying-squirrel costume.  No one ever takes flying-squirrels seriously.

Oh twitter. I don’t know whether I should feel touched or insulted.

Twitter has this new thing where they’ll suggest users you should probably follow based on your tweets.  Here’s who they suggested to me:

Honestly, Twitter.  I get enough of that from my father.

Comment of the day: Last time I followed Dr. Drew, he called the cops on me. If you can’t handle your leg being humped while you use a public urinal, you shouldn’t be in show biz. ~Always Home and Uncool

Happy I-Suck-Less-Than-Yesterday-Day

Hi.  This isn’t a real post.  It’s an explanation.

See, this morning I sent this tweet out:

What would happen if we all promised to be a little less sucky than we were yesterday?

Then I followed it up with this:

I’ll start. If you’re reading this, you’ve made a difference in my life. Thank you for listening.#HappyISuckLessThanYesterdayDay

Then, other people started tweeting out sweet things or making plans to pay for the coffee of the person behind them at the drive-thru  or promising to stop poisoning the people in their office for the day.  And it was beautiful.  And then a bunch of people asked me where the link was to this holiday and I was all “Uh.  Nowhere.  Because I just made it up?” and then it felt less valid because it wasn’t on the internet so that’s why I’m posting it here.  So now it’s real.  Happy I-Suck-Less-Than-Yesterday-Day, y’all.  Go hug a kitten or tell someone you love them.  Or tell a kitten you love them.  Although that’s not really going to make that much of a difference because kittens can’t speak English.  It’s a start though.  High-five.

PS.  In the spirit of Happy I-Suck-Less-Than-Yesterday Day I just want to say thank you for not judging me that time that I accidentally ate all that glue.  You guys are like a crunchy taco dipped in glitter.  That’s a compliment.  Just trust me on this one.

UPDATED:  #HappyISuckLessThanYesterdayDay has gone viral.  And by “viral” I mean “More than 2 people know about it”.  It’s pretty obvious I don’t  know what viral means.

We're making a difference, you guys.

Random Ramblings of an Insomniac: Boobquakes, dangerous squirrels, things we already knew about men

I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media.  Apparently this is a real concern.  So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.

It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science.

The boobs are real. The hair? Not so much.

Also, I just realized that my cat has a ton of nipples that are never covered so I guess technically she should actually be part of this experiment too.  Touché, cat.

You can't really see any of our nipples but I assure you, they're all totally there.

PS. If this does, in fact, cause some sort of horrible earthquake then I blame the cat who has like 4 times as many nipples as me.  Honestly, it’s like she wants to cause an earthquake.  That cat’s kind of a dick.


A few weeks ago I linked to a post on Alone with Cats and the chick that writes it sent me a very sweet, unexpected thank you card filled with cursing, threats of violence and tips on befriending wealthy, dying relatives and there was a tiny package under the card and inside the package was was the single greatest, random, bizarre gift that I’ve ever received:

Introducing: Grover Cleveland.

Yes, people. It’s a dead, stuffed gambling squirrel holding a tiny pistol and when I pulled it out Victor said “Oh, what the fuck now?” and I was all “This, Victor, is what happens when you make a difference in people’s lives” and then he made me put it out in the garage with James Garfield because apparently our real estate agent thinks having hilariously awesome taxidermied animals in your house scares off prospective buyers.  I prefer to think that we’re hiding them so that buyers won’t assume that they come with the house because really? They totally tie the fucking room together.


Google suggestions once again makes me weep for humanity while inadvertently nailing the difference between the sexes:

These questions might be related. Just a thought.


Feels like there should be a fourth random thing here.  Something about badgers or pandas, maybe.  Or badgers mixed with pandas.  I think my sleeping pills are kicking in.  Ooh, leprechauns…

Comment of the day: When my dad died, we had him cremated at Cress Funeral Home, aka “The Taxidermy Museum”.  I think you would appreciate its charm although I’m undecided if mourning enhances or detracts from the experience of seeing dead squirrels ride bicycles and perform topless dances. We may need to perform an experiment to determine the effects of grief on taxidermy appreciation. Fortunately, I’m a chick, so I totally get science. ~ Sarah P.

You DESERVE this.

A few days ago they announced the Bloggie Award winners and unsurprisingly I lost in both of the categories I was a finalist in.   Victor was out of town so I called him to tell him.

me:  They just announced the winners of the Bloggie Awards.

Victor:  The one where you got disqualified because your boss is a cat?

me:  No.  The other one.

Victor:  Oh yeah.  “World’s Greatest Grampa.”  So you won?

me:  No, I lost.

Victor:  Wow. So you’re not even World’s Greatest Grampa.  How embarrassing.  For you.

And it wasn’t really embarrassing because I never should have even been in the category of “Best Writing” since I can’t even use apostrophes correctly and also because all week I was flooded with very nice emails (honestly, don’t stop) telling me that my latest post had a typo IN THE FUCKING TITLE.  And even then I was all “No way.  That’s totally how you spell “razerblades” and so I googled it and it was all “did you mean ‘razor blades’ (asshole)?” but I consoled myself with the knowledge that several entries popped up with the wrong spelling too so it was probably a commonly misspelled word but then I looked at the very first entry of people-who-can’t-spell-razor-blades-correctly and it was fucking mine.  Then I quickly fixed it but it didn’t matter because Google was all “No way.  That shit’s never washing off” and for days it was the first thing that showed up when you googled “razerblades” because Google is unforgiving and apparently isn’t over the shit I pulled last month.

Touché, Google.

Anyway, I’ve decided to just give up on ever winning awards and instead I’m just gonna make some up because really, who’s gonna check?  Nobody. So today I’m awarding myself “Leader in the Field of Innovative Literary Efficiency” because last week I was thinking that instead of saying “lettuce” we should all just say “let’ce” because if you can shorten “let us” to “let’s” then the same principle should apply.  I just saved you a syllable every time you ask someone for “let’ce”  Except that then you’ll have to spend a few minutes explaining what “let’ce” is but it’ll be worth it because you’re helping others to save syllables too and I’m pretty sure that counts toward your community service hours.  You’re welcome.  And thank you for the award recognizing my literary contributions even though I had to award it to myself. And also, it’s about fucking time.  Honestly, how long have I stood here with no awards?  Too long.  In fact, I’m going to make up a bunch of them and if you want one then I officially bestow it upon you as the official Czar (of Nothingness) of Martindale Texas.  Pick an award, y’all.  You earned it.  Probably.

Congratulations, winner.

Comment of the day: Now you jinxed yourself. Enjoy being eaten by a bear. ~ Marinka

(Honorable mention: most strangely in-depth comment of the day goes to Neil for this baffling bit of awesomeness.)

Ode to a blog commenter

Hi.  I’m about to break your computer because I don’t understand how image compression works but stick with me because it’s totally worth it.  It’s no secret that my commenters are almost always way funnier than me.  That’s why I do the “comment of the day” whenever I remember to.  Because then I can steal their awesomeness for my post and they get credit too.  So we all win.  But I win more.  But today I’m going to say thank you to all of my amazing commenters by celebrating this bit of brilliance.  Below is a series of screenshots of comments left here by my friend, Van, aka Furiousball over the last few years.  I know it seems like they wouldn’t make sense since you won’t know what post he’s referring to but you’d be wrong because his comments are almost always totally unrelated to anything in my blog posts anyway.  It’s basically like he’s just having a conversation with me that no one else can understand.  Including occasionally me.  But it doesn’t change the fact that when you look at all of his comments together like this there is a simple, elegant truth to them and it’s a little like eavesdropping on someones inner thoughts when they’re just drunk enough.  Personally I would like each of these printed up in a book entitled “I Don’t Know What You’re Talking About, Van.”  Also, for some reason about a quarter of the way down everything starts to get slightly fuzzy.  It’s probably because I shrunk the screenshots too much, not because you’re having a stroke.  Unless you are actually having a stroke.  That would totally suck.  Let’s get started:

Continue reading

It’s called “entrapment”, Target.

Remember last week when I innocently took a picture of some confusing Diet Dr Pepper in Target and then days later it created a huge international incident of angry people who don’t understand satire?  Me too.  So today when I was at Target I looked toward the shelf where the infamous Diet Dr. Pepper had been and found that it had been replaced.   With this:

It's pronounced exactly how you think it's pronounced.

This is when I realized that Target is obviously just fucking with me.

No, Target.  Sorry. Not falling for it.  I’m not even going to touch your bawls.

Comment of the day:  OMG…just went to Bawls website to see where to find it besides Target, and it listed all the chains…

You can get blue Bawls at Kum & Go. ~ Markira

Men don’t understand science.

This was supposed to be a post about how awesome towels are but then my cat Rolly fucked it all up.  I was going to share my discovery about how if you wrap your hair up in a tight towel-turban when you’re upside down after a shower it pulls your face-skin back so it’s all taut and you look like you just had a mini-face-lift which is cool because you can combat the I-feel-vulnerable-because don’t-have-any-make-up-on problem with the but-I-do-have-a-youthful-fake-face-lift thing, but then when I was setting up my camera my cat jumped on my head.  And technically she does that almost every morning but this particular morning I was trying to document my towel discovery and it was fucking up the whole look, but then I noticed that the weight of the cat body actually pulled the towel further back and made the face-lift thing even more dramatic.  Which was kind of great except that she’s so fat that she sqwooshed my neck so I looked even less swan-like than usual but then I thought maybe it was an okay trade-off because her height gave me the illusion of being taller (which is slimming) so then I was totally conflicted and so I went and asked Victor, “Be honest…does does this cat make me look fatter…or younger?” and he just kind of stared at me and I’m all “Seriously, this is not a trick question.  This is for science.”  And then he was all “You know, you’re the reason why that damn cat jumps on everyone’s head.  If you’d stop letting her ride around like that we’d have a lot less people complaining that our cat attacked their head” and then I was all “I’m not even going to talk to you while you’re being ridiculous” and I walked away because Victor’s mother doesn’t count as “everyone” and besides, the cat was probably just trying to make her look younger.  Or fatter.  Hard to tell with cats.

PS.   This is exactly why I keep a tripod set up in my bathroom.  And also, it makes people take faster showers because they never know if the camera is going to go off.  So I’m saving water and inventing beauty tips.  And also I’m making cats more useful.  You’re welcome, America.

I showed this picture to Victor and he was all "Is that my toothbrush?!" like *that's* the pertinent issue. Victor needs to get his priorities straightened out. And also have no idea if that's his toothbrush. I'm way to busy doing science to pay attention to trivial shit like that.

Comment of the day: Clearly, to activate the scientific part of your brain you need a cat to sit on it. That’s why Einstein’s hair was so fucked up.  He didn’t want people to see the cat.  He wanted all the credit. ~ a