Category Archives: William Shatner: It’s complicated

Someone find me a tattoo parlor

Every time I tell Victor to scratch the super-itchy part of my shoulder-blade that I can’t reach he never gets the right spot, and I get more and more frustrated and I scream “NOT THERE.  SCRATCH WHERE IT FEELS LIKE SPIDER EGGS ARE HATCHING UNDER MY SKIN”, and then he yells “You’re not pointing at anything specific” and  I explain that that’s because I can’t even reach that part of my back well enough to scratch it, much less point at it and then he inexplicably starts scratching the top of my arm for some reason and I’m like “REALLY?  Why would you think I couldn’t reach my own arm?” and he huffs and walks away and I end up having to go outside to rub my itchy shoulder-blade on the brick siding and then Victor yells at me for being semi-topless outside and for looking like I’m “giving the house a lap dance”, and then I tell him that I’ve finally decided to get a tattoo that says “What are you doing?  Here.  SCRATCH IT RIGHT HERE” since apparently he doesn’t understand shoulder-blade directions, and then he pointed out that since I’m so bad at describing things that the tattoo artist would probably put the tattoo in the wrong place as well, but that’s not true at all because I would just tell him to put the tattoo where all the bloody scratch marks are from where I had to ask a brick-wall to give me a back-rub.

Thus ends the longest, most confusing run-on sentence in the world.  I win the internet.  And so do you if you actually followed it.  Someone get us a small trophy and money for a tattoo.


In non-related news, it’s time for the weekly wrap-up.  Let’s get started, shall we?

What you missed on all of my columns and blogs

  • Nothing.  I started watching Doctor Who this week and lost an entire week.

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up sponsored by my friend Liz (from Mabel’s House) who wrote a fabulous book entitled My (not so) Storybook Life: A Tale of Friendship and Faith. I haven’t read it yet, but judging from the bad-ass cover it’s about a girl who can levitate and who owns the exact same wallpaper I want in my office.*

*Disclaimer: Apparently this book has almost nothing to do with levitation or my office, and instead is about finding humor in the dark places and about learning to love what you already have. It’s an excellent lesson that I need to learn, although it would be easier to do if I already had that wallpaper and knew how to levitate.

This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to work with people

Not long ago I got an email from Jane Pratt (creator of Sassy, Jane Magazine, and personal hero of mine since I was 12) who asked if I’d be a writer for her new website.  After I stopped screaming I finally responded.  This is the actual email I sent.  It’s also proof that I need someone to keep me off the computer after I’ve had pain pills.

Dear Jane:

True story: I wrote an essay for my 8th grade English class about how I would one day be a highly-paid intern for Sassy and that I would use all of my earnings to create a race of half rabbits/half kittens, which I would call “Rabittens“.

It’s fairly obvious that not only was I woefully misinformed on what interns are paid, but that I also was terrible at naming things, since “Rabittens” sounds like something rabid that’s just bitten you.

Clearly, “Kabunnies” is the obvious choice, and if I had a time-machine I’d go back and shake my head in disappointment at my 8th grade me.  I’d also tell me to enjoy rocking the side-ponytail while I still could, because its days were numbered.  I would never have believed me.

In short, I am totally flattered that you even know who I am and I would *love* to write for you, if for no other reason than to be able to tell my 8th grade English teacher that she was wrong about my “unrealistic expectations”, and I would totally call her right now to tell her that except that she’s dead.  I can only imagine that tomorrow science will come out with the technology to invent Kabunnies and suddenly the side  pony-tail will be popular again.  Also, I might be in a coma, dreaming all of this.

Unfortunately my book is due at my publishers so I’m swamped with writing deadlines, so the only way I could do this would be to write for you a few times a year when I have spare time/insomnia, or to quit one of my paid columns, which would suck because my daughter has grown accustomed to the little luxuries of hot lunches and vaccinations. I would love to hear more about it though, and either way this email will go in my file labeled “THAT JUST HAPPENED”, sandwiched between the time Neil Gaiman agreed to speak at my funeral, and the time when I accidentally started a feud between myself and William Shatner which was covered by several news outlets.  (It was a very slow news week).

Best coma ever,


PS.  To her credit, Jane was not shaken and still offered me a spot.  I countered that I was open to offers “unless it’s an offer to pay me in used syringes, because I have quite enough of those already, thankyouverymuch“.  Then I started negotiations at $182,500 because “Frankly, I’d feel bad charging you anything over $181,000”.  She has not replied.  Probably because she’s too busy stealing my kabunnies idea.

PPS.  You can have “kabunnies”, Jane.  For free.  That’s how negotiations work.


If you strive for constant vigilance the way I (and most of the readers of this blog) do then you are already aware that the Center for Disease Control has finally released recommendations on how to prepare yourself for the  zombie apocalypse.  Most of their tips are fairly good but their list of suggested supplies are embarrassingly silent on the need for riot guns, swords, suspenders, and flame-throwers.  And this is why today I agreed to be interviewed by The Washington Post about the impending zombie apocalypse.  To pick up the slack of the CDC.

It’s all right here.  You’re welcome.

PS.  I just want to point out that I never get invited to go on Oprah or The Today Show to discuss important world events, but I have become a media darling regarding zombies, pissing off William Shatner and using taxidermied boar heads to save Christmas.

Mission accomplished.

Me, as I assume I will look two months into the zombie apocalypse. But not because I've been eaten. More likely because I'll accidentally cut off my own arm. I'm just really clumsy.

I missed Victor and I’m ready for him to leave again.

Victor’s home (yay!) and he leaves again tonight (mother.fucker.) but it was nice because when he got home from his work retreat he was all “I’m exhausted.  Can you rub my temples?” and I was like “Um…no.  I have piratitis, remember?” and he was all “Like…fear of pirates?” and I was like “No.  It’s a severe kidney infection and I feel like crap. You should be rubbing my temples” and he was all “Well, my kidneys hurt too.  I had a lot to drink.  Plus my throat hurts from all that karaoke” and I was all “If this gets worse they’re going to put me in the hospital” and he was like “Oh, and my company rented out an amusement park for my team and my back hurts from riding the roller coaster too much” and I was all “On the way to the emergency clinic someone ran over a cat right in front of me” and he was all “Did you see these pictures of me hula-hooping?  I didn’t even know I could hula hoop” and then I was all “I found a scorpion in the toilet.  Now I’m afraid to pee but I can’t stop peeing because I HAVE A LIFE-THREATENING KIDNEY INFECTION” and he was like “I understand.  When I was in the airplane I bit my lip.  Hurt like hell. But then I got bumped up to first class so I had ice cream to sooth it.  They were out of chocolate though.  It was pretty devastating”.  Then I just stopped talking because I’m too weak with piratitis to find the guns.
PS.  Turns out it’s not “piratitis” but “pyelonephritis”, but “pyelonephritis” sounds like a fear of pylons, which sounds fucking ridiculous.  So I’m sticking with piratitis.
PPS.  Victor did rub my temples so I guess that makes us not even close to being even.
And now, my weekly wrap-up of shit-I-did-when-I-wasn’t-here, although it’s kind of crazy long since I didn’t do it last week because my dog died.  Also, this is the most depressing post ever.  I apologize.

I'm using this graphic because I don't have one of me on my deathbed.

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

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on the internets:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    Comment of the day: I googled “pyelonephritis” and one of the symptoms was “Mental changes or confusion” and then the whole post made more sense. ~ Stoic

    For the love of God, buy my house.

    Today I sold our couches on craigslist because I need cash for drugs we’re moving and the guys we sold them to came to pick them up but when they moved the first couch there were like 23 furry-mouse cat toys stuck under there and they all kind of looked at me with their beady little mouse eyes like they were accusing me of poor housekeeping and one of the guys buying the couch was all “Huh.  You have a cat?” and I was all “Nope.  My husband.  He likes to bat shit around” and the guy just kind of stared at me and nodded and I nodded back and then Victor walked in and couldn’t figure out why both of those guys were looking at him so strangely and that’s what you get for making me answer the damn door, Victor.


    And now for a list of shit-I-did-this-week-when-I-wasn’t-here:

    True story: I just had to look up how to spell "soccer". Seems like there should be more O's in it.

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

      This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

      This week on the internets:

      • I was utterly baffled when Forbes put me on their Top 100 Websites For Women but then I noticed I was like on page eight which seemed more understandable because probably whoever was putting the list together was drunk by page seven but then someone pointed out that I was only on page eight because Forbes did the listing alphabetically but then I was all “Wow.  There must be a fucking ton of people with websites that start with an A” but turns out that they’d alphabetized me under “T” for “The Bloggess”.  Apparently I don’t know how alphabetizing works anymore.
      • My house.  You totally want to buy it.  Please.  Someone?

      This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

      It’s still Sunday, but just barely

      It’s still Sunday for another couple of hours so that means I’m not technically late for my weekly wrap-up of shit-I-was-doing-when-I-wasn’t-here.

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

        This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

        This week on the internets:

        This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

        Comment of the day: I think you look like the love child of Judy Garland and Frida Kahlo in this picture. I mean, the love child if two women could create a child and if there were any way in the world the two might have gotten along long enough to create the aforementioned love child. Arco Iris is spanish for rainbow. I think they would have agreed that rainbows were awesome, though Frida’s would have been tragic and steeped in loss and pain, while Judy’s would have been wistful. And tragic. Maybe it’s good they didn’t have you. ~ Amanda