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.