Fab Friday: My friend Louis

I really love purses. Like, a lot. Especially designer purses. “Own a real Louis Vuitton” has been a life goal since late high school (I was a tomboy before that and hadn’t yet seen the monogrammed light).

I finally got my first Gucci (used and missing the shoulder strap, but how else was I supposed to afford it?) and it was love at first carry.

I totally check out women’s purses in public to see what they’re carrying, and if it’s real. I can spot a fake Louis Vuitton from about 100 yards. I check out their jeans, too, to see if they’re designer, but that’s a little more awkward. I HAD A GOOD REASON FOR STARING AT YOUR ASS.

I know this makes me horrible and shallow and frequently broke, but I don’t care. There’s just something about an expensive tote dangling from my arm that makes me feel so much more confident.

So come meet some of my favorite friends:

These are just the bags I could find this morning. Sorry my iphone takes shitty pics.

From left, the new Gucci, vintage Coach, Vintage (grandmother’s leather clutch), Coach, Kate Spade, Miu Miu, Wilsons, and then the two hiding at the end are a vintage shoulder bag and my big Coach tote. And there are several missing … another vintage Coach, another Kate Spade, a J. Crew, a D&B clutch, a seatbelt bag, a cool vintage patchwork tote…

Stop printing this, Boyfriend, this post may not be used as blackmail to get me to stop buying purses. Or shoes. Or anything else, for that matter. I don’t have a problem, I have a collection.

I’m thinking about breaking down and trying Bag, Borrow or Steal to rent some designer purses, but the problem with the site is that you can’t reserve/pre-order bags. So you can’t plan to have a particular bag for a particular event. You order and they ship immediately, so you have to hope the bag you want is not waitlisted when you go to order.

Also, I’d have a really hard time sending them back. They’d probably have to send a rep to my house to pry the Louis from my cold, dead hands.

So what are your guilty pleasures? Something you love to shop for/buy?

Cat turds and meatballs

I really hate going to food stores. I always go in with my list in hand, purpose in my step, and then come stumbling out two hours later with all 8 recyclable bags stuffed to the brim, a $200+ receipt and barely enough real food for 2 meals. I get taken advantage of like a college chick on roofies, and I keep going back for more.

So after work today, I went in for just a few essential items. I had to catch the bus home, so I knew I couldn’t get too much. I needed butter, jam and parchment paper (gluten free poptarts, here I come! … Look for the second post after I lop off a finger and set the neighbor’s house on fire trying to make these things).

I found the jam (and the red bull, oh come on, that’s an essential) and the butter and all I needed was the parchment paper and I was golden.

This Harris Teeter has the most incomprehensibly awful and unintuitive layout I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s still about 800 steps up from the sketchy-ass Giant off of Rhode Island Ave that always smells like rotting salmon, but the layout annoys the crap out of me.

I could not for the life of me find the damned parchment paper. Or a store employee, because why the hell would one of those people be around? They’re like the cats in our neighborhood – all over the fucking place, until we actually need them to kill a damned rat. Then they’re nowhere to be found. Pussies. (The cats, duh… Ugh, that’s bad, even for me. I apologize.)

So I wandered, and I wandered, and I aged 10 years and climbed Mount Fucking Sinai, and when I finally came down the other side – tada! There was the parchment paper! Next to the cat litter and insecticide.

Because when I think “food prep” and “food storage,” I naturally think cat shit and POISON!

Did that placement really make sense to somebody? Was some assistant manager like “hmm, I bet when people are thinking about cat turds, they’ll suddenly remember that they need to store those left over meatballs … better put the plastic baggies and saran wrap right here!”

Maybe it’s time to embrace my inner hippie and start shopping exclusively at tiny organic markets.

Now I’m off to make those poptarts … with a side of kitty kibble and a nice Raid-flavored glaze. Yum.

I love lesbians ... and cheese.

Boyfriend and I went to a 30th birthday party for a friend on Saturday night (haha, way to be old, R!).

My GPS likes to fuck with us on occasion (You’ve arrived! That dead end sign is totally a Wal-mart! Haha! #WhiteWhine) so we ended up in the wrong part of the neighborhood at first.

Boyfriend and I crawled out of the truck, carrying a giant and not-in-the-least-suspicious brown paper bag (full of alcohol), and start wandering blindly around in the middle of the street, looking for house numbers.

Why in god’s name would you not put numbers on your damned house? Are you a serial killer? Don’t answer that.

It was about 7:40 at night, and completely pitch black, because some brilliant city planner was all “streetlamps are for losers [or non-ghetto areas]!”

So there’s a girl sitting out in front of a house, near a table that may or may not have several kegs on it. She was half slumped over drunk and could have been the bouncer at a frat party. So we asked her for directions. She ran inside the house and never came back out.

Eventually a chubby dude toddled out, but he was of no help.

So we got back in the car and started driving back the way we came. We eventually found the house, shrouded in darkness, surrounded by several dark, bulky car-shapes. Fortunately, there were balloons tied to the gate (the one behind the black SUV), so that helped.

What do you get when you put 30 lesbians together in one place? Hilarity and lots of delicious food! What? You thought I was going to be a bitch?

I actually met some fabulous people, in between cramming cheese cubes in my face. God I love cheese cubes.

Also? How has no one EVER told me about twice-baked potatoes before? Way to keep the potato-crack all to yourselves, bitches. You are all dead to me.

By the end of the night, I was a wee bit tipsy off of white wine (not whine, this time) so boyfriend and I said our goodbyes and headed for the door.

We were just a split second too late.

The lady who hosted the party (and was very sweet to do so, don’t get me wrong) got to the door before us and suddenly turned, hand on the knob and launched into a story about karaoke and corvette clubs and Spina Bifida kids.

Yeah, we were perplexed, too.

But then, she didn’t stop.

And any time anyone made any kind of polite “mmm” noise, she’d elaborate! Ten more minutes of soliloquy!

She had at least 5 of us held captive. None of us were quite sure what to do. We were all frozen in that awkward ‘we can’t ignore her because she’s the host, but OHGODMAKEITSTOPplease’ place.

I tend to have a bit of a laughter problem sometimes- like, getting started and not being able to stop. I feed off of myself, to the point where my face is all scrunchy and I’m gasping for air and the tears are just falling of their own volition.

It’s a bit awkward, and kind of inappropriate in most situations. I think I just defined myself in one sentence.

Naturally, that happened the second I made eye contact with the girl sitting across from me. And was further exacerbated by Jeff wandering over and asking if we needed a beer. Because this was going to take a while.

She eventually excused herself (obviously we were holding her up) and we were able to make our getaway but I couldn’t get the laughing thing under control until we got to the truck.

And we were so distracted by the monologue that I didn’t even get to grab a twice-baked potato for the road. Oh the humanity.

Does this ever happen to anyone else? Why am I such a jerk sometimes?

Fab Friday: Satellites over Idaho

Y'all totally thought I forgot about Fab Friday, now didn't you?

Ok, more likely you were too busy pounding margaritas for dinner and then stumbling home drunk on the metro with your bike so you could spend the rest of the evening watching Season 1 of Breaking Bad. Oh wait, that wasn't you? Hmm. I ahh... yes, nevermind, then.

But I totally didn't (completely) forget, and you know what is making my Friday fabulous?

Not having a freakin' satellite dropped on my head.



Yeah, sucks to be you if you live in Washington, Oregon or parts of northern Idaho, but us east coasters are in the clear.

Does anyone actually live in Idaho? Because I've never met anyone from there, or met anyone who has met anyone ELSE from there. I'm pretty sure Idaho is just an elaborate joke to funnel money to some politicians so they can buy more $16 muffins. Just sayin'.

They should just herd the satellite towards Idaho. Let them take one for the team, for once.

So, death by bus-sized satellite seems to have been averted for most of us anyway, and how can you not be happy about that?

Au Bon Pain in the Ass

Despite my fear of the salad nazi (aaaand cue 10 more people wandering in because they’re looking for Nazis. Welcome, you filthy anti-semites.), I frequently eat at Au Bon Pain. Mostly out of necessity.

The sushi lady at Union Station just giggles when she sees me now (‘one sah-mon woll and one bowh of WICE!’), and my only other choice is the “vegetarian option” from Sarku Japan. “Vegetarian option” meaning they charge you $7 for rice and some stringy cabbage while snickering about gullible Americans behind your back.

So lots of salads and 12 Veggie soup from ABP.

So when I got a notice at the bottom of my last receipt that I could fill out a quick survey online and get $1 off my next purchase, I was all over that shit. I’ll drive 10 miles down the road to save $0.02/gallon on gas, too. I’m Jewish – does this surprise you?

The survey was quick and easy, I was reasonably generous in my responses (other than about the prices. Can we say eye-gouging?) and I got my snazzy 4-digit code at the end.

I wrote the code down and headed over to ABP yesterday to save me some money.

This is what ensued:

[Unsuspecting Heather pulls out receipt with redemption code written in. On the line where it says “Write redemption code to redeem offer.” Just so we’re clear.]

Me: “Oh! I have this coupon I’d like to use.”

Charlene [in a thick … I dunno, foreign … accent]: “Where did you get this coupon from?”

[Note: Coupon was pronounced KOO- pon. Heavy emphasis on the KOO.]

Me: “I filled out the survey online and wrote in the number”

Her: “But where did you get the receipt?”

Me: “…from this store?”

Her: “But where did you get the coupon from?”

Me: “I took the survey online and wrote down the code--“

Her: “But you need the coupon”

Me: “That is the coupon – I wrote down the code--“

Her: “You found this receipt here, but you need the coupon to get the discount.”

Me: “I didn’t find the receipt, I bought something here and got the receipt. See? Overpriced salad…”

Her: “Yes, but you need the coupon to get the discount”

Me: “That is the coupon! The code! I wrote it down.”

Her: [gesturing with her hands] “But I need the coupon printed, otherwise I get in trouble with my manager”

Me: [takes receipt back, points to spot where it says “Write redemption code to redeem offer.”] It says write down the code. See? There’s a line for the code.”

Her: “You must have the coupon from the website” [more hand gesturing]

Me: [brain shrivels in the vortex created by the absence of logic] “But it doesn’t say to print it out. On the receipt and on the website, it said to write the code onto the receipt and bring the receipt back in.”

Her: “But those are the rules. I need the coupon from the survey to give the discount.”

Me: “But that’s not what the receipt or the website said. Can we ask a manager, please?”

Her: “I’m sorry, those are the rules.”

Me: [deep sigh]“But if you just READ the instructions on the receipt…”

Her: [shaking head]

Finally, we were able to summon a manager who gave me a commiserating eye-roll and started to ring up the discount.

Naturally, it turned out that the purchase had to be $5 before tax to qualify for the $1 off, so I couldn’t use the damned thing anyway.

When I got back to my desk, like any good disgruntled social media user, I took to Twitter and tweeted my angsty rage @AuBonPain.

Shockingly, they responded. I'm not sure what to do with this new found power.

For now, I've just crawled back under my anonymous-consumer rock because I have no desire to actually get the chick in trouble. But I did bring my lunch today.

I'd call Rick Santorum gay, but that's an insult to gay people

Rick Santorum said in an interview with the Washington Post: “The Internet allows for this type of vulgarity to circulate. It’s unfortunate that we have someone who obviously has some issues. But he has an opportunity to speak.”

Pot, meet kettle. Kettle, please give pot the fucking ass-whipping he deserves.

Santorum is trying to get Google to remove SpreadingSantorum.com, the website created by sex-columnist/gay rights activist Dan Savage which quite aptly defines Santorum as “the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex.”

As a side note, if you have child-sized troll hands, can’t use a split keyboard and accidentally type “santorm” instead of "santorum," it’s defined as “Poop chunks caught under the foreskin of an uncircumcised man after unprotected anal sex.”

So even if you just typo, Santorum is fucked either way. Get it? From all ends? Moving on.

Seriously, Santorum? How do you think gay people feel about YOU? You equated gay marriage to beastiality, motherfucker. If you don't have 'issues,' I'm the queen of the goddamned world.

I’ve met/seen/heard of some ignorant people in my life [see: tourists and Ben Roethlisberger] but Santorum takes the homophobic-why-has-nobody-shot-this-douchemonkey-in-the-face cake.

When Piers Morgan called you a bigot, dude, he was being NICE. Because when I think of you, more colorful terms come to mind. Like Vacuous twatnozzle. Or Imbecilic shiteater. Just to name a few.

Seriously, if this man gets elected to any sort of public office, ever, I’m abdicating my citizenship and moving to Galt’s Gulch. Or Iceland, or something.

It disgusts and frightens me on a regular basis that not only do we live in a country where millions think we should relegate gay people to second-class citizenship, but also that those people are taken seriously, instead of being locked up in lead straightjackets and tossed in the Mississippi River.

I’m scared of a lot of things. Like escalators and fish and popping balloons and butterflies. But I’m even more scared of the combination of ignorance and rhetorical power and influence.

I would CHEERFULLY ride up and down an escalator, holding an armful of live fish, with butterflies perched on my face and balloons popping all around me before I’d ever, EVER even consider Rick Santorum or any other bigoted, ignorant homophobe for public office. This means you, Bachmann, so watch the fuck out, bitch.

You’ve made your bed, Santorum, now you get to sleep in that frothy, discolored wet spot.

Eating children is not funny, Mike Tyson

So I watched the roast of Charlie Sheen last night (way to be relevant, Comedy Central – Monica Lewinksy wasn’t available?).

I’ve never watched one of these things before, and honestly, I didn’t intend to watch it, but I was screwing around on my laptop and was too lazy to even shove Boyfriend with my foot to get him to change the channel. So it was on, and I sat there, occasionally glaring bitchily at the TV and mostly not expecting much.

Turns out, when Kate Walsh isn’t playing a robot-faced douche bag on TV (is that not her character?), chick is actually funny. Or at least she knows how to hire funny writers, which is practically the same thing.

“It's amazing -- after abusing your lungs, liver and kidneys, the only thing you've had removed is your kids.” You have to laugh, because it’s true.

Steve-O, on the other hand, looks more fucked up sober than he ever did while he was fucked up. He’s that sad loser kid who tries to be funny by running into walls [and Mike Tyson’s shaking fist], but really everyone is just awkward-laughing and hoping the bell rings like 5 minutes ago to get back to class.

Poor Mike Tyson. Was anyone else just kind of grimacing and hoping he wouldn’t go into an epileptic fit on the stage?

There once was an old burnout named Mike
Who could probably get beat up by a dyke.
He’ll sue over a tattoo joke
And hang out with Charlie Sheen just to snort coke
Then he’ll eat small children and mount their heads on a spike.

So that’s what happens when you spend years getting pummeled repeatedly in the face and head. Mark that one off my list of career options to explore.

Seth MacFarlane was fine, although with all that gelled hair and Snooki-endorsed bronzer and makeup, he looked a bit like Chaz Bono meets Real Housewives of New Jersey. Does he have some sort of weird skin condition or something that he hides behind all of that pancaked crap? I’ve seen pre-op transvestites who have a lighter hand with the foundation and self-tanner than Seth.

I did like the line about assholes getting fisted, though. Because who doesn’t love a good fisting joke.

William Shatner managed to make exactly zero lasting impressions on me, and I still don’t know who the rest of the brady bunch members were.

I think we turned it off before the whole thing was over, because I’m actually 85 years old (and not a warlock. Or a goddess.) and 11pm is way, WAY past my bedtime.

But if there’s one thing I learned last night, it’s that massive amounts of coke and hookers make you funny (at least as the punchline) and relevant. That, and I could probably beat up Mike Tyson at this point. Or at least gnaw off his ear before he could stop drooling/slurring long enough to hit me.

Did you guys watch it? What did you think? How unbelievably pissed was Steve-O when the blonde chick made the Ryan Dunn joke?

Getting a massage is just one long sexual metaphor

Paying a small Asian man to beat me up was the best idea. EVER.

I bought a LivingSocial deal for an hour-long aromatherapy massage, but I kept putting it off and putting it off because I was all awkward about getting naked with and felt up by a stranger.

After the last “Hey, doofus, this thing expires THIS WEEK SO USE IT ALREADY” email from LivingSocial, I finally got my act together and scheduled a massage for exactly one year from the date I bought it. Yeah, one whole year of sitting on this thing, being too wussy to use it.

So after work yesterday, I made my way over to K St for the massage. This place was not easy to find. And the fact that sometime during the last year, the company changed its name didn’t help much. But I did make it down there, and I spent 20 minutes filling out the medical form that no one even read, and then it was go time.

I followed my tiny Asian man (boy?) into a dimly lit back room, where he told me to undress as far as I was comfortable and climb under the sheet.

I froze for a few seconds. Naked. Gotta get naked. Ohh man I don’t know about all this.

Then I pulled my t-shirt off. And stood there in my bra like a retarded hooker in the beam of a cop’s flashlight. Do I keep going? Put the shirt back on? Is he going to think I’m a slut? Do massage therapists think things like that?

So prudish! Can’t do this!

Finally, I unhooked the bra, shoved it into my backpack, and dove under the sheet. Then I got up again and took my shoes off. Then dove back under the sheet.

Then I spent several minutes smushing my boobs up under me, so nothing inappropriate would make an appearance. Then I smushed them together some more. C’mon, gals, get friendly under there.

Finally, the little Asian man came back and it was time for the ‘scent test.’ I was supposed to smell 6 vials, identify the scent, and pick my favorite oil to use.

If I ever find myself in a life or death situation involving identifying odors, I’m a goner.

I kind of got orange right (it was tangerine, but really, who the hell can tell the difference anyway?), but other than that, I have the olfactory sophistication of a dead fish.

By the last vial, I was like “I just… I just don’t know.” And he was like “Um, it’s peppermint. You know, like a York Peppermint Pattie?” So shoot me. Stupid peppermint.

I settled on the rose (“Is that the lavender?”), and off we went.

He kept asking me if the pressure was too little, too much. I was in straight up dirty whore mode: “harder, HARDER!” but he didn’t seem to mind.

There were elbows thrown, forearms, maybe a chin, and the whole time I’m grunting like a sumo wrestler and begging for more. I may have drooled at one point.

By the time it was over, my face was flushed, my hair was standing on end, and I looked like the world's most satisified sorority girl after a weekend at Beta (ok, I’m sorry, that’s 3 allusions to sex [dad, stop reading] but really, it’s a massage – what do you expect?).

I stumbled out of the room, hair hastily shoved back into a ponytail, too embarrassed and self-satisfied to make eye contact with the little Asian man. The receptionist immediately offered me coffee.

I somehow managed to bike a little over 2 miles to get home, but I have little recollection of that commute, other than biking through a crowd of scrawny models in fancy dresses and Mad Men types in tuxes. I don’t think that was a hallucination. Weird.

Somehow the night ended with a couple margaritas (probably not what the Asian guy meant when he told me to hydrate afterwards) and not letting Boyfriend eat ice cream at 2:30am, but that’s all a story for another day.

For now, I will cherish this feeling of not being in a barely-functional level of pain – at least until Vandy starts playing football and the emotional pain sets in.

Fab Friday: Don't Stop Respectin' Me...

Mmkay, my inner AARP-card-carrying 55 year old self is coming out today. I can’t help it. There’s just something about fall that makes me want to curl up on the sofa with some hot chocolate and a James Taylor record playlist on Grooveshark.

And such a handsome young whippersnapper, back in those full head of hair days!

Heart-warming tales of suicidal mental patients really do it for me. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, baby.

In Austin, I was driving to work one day in the early fall (ok, it was probably early December – that’s about as close to fall as they get) and one of the radio stations was doing a special three-in-a-row-from-one-artist thing. That particular morning it was James Taylor.

They played “Sunny Skies,” “Carolina,” and “Fire and Rain,” and my old-person-nerd-fate was sealed.

There’s nothing quite like driving down I-35, caterwauling along at the top of your banshee-esq lungs, with your eyes closed as you imagine yourself standing on stage [10lbs lighter], singing to and connecting with millions on an emotional level. Then swerving to avoid that a-hole in your – oh wait, how’d I get over here?

And how can you listen to “How Sweet It Is” without picturing the youthful and timeless love between Oz and Heather in American Pie? These are the songs that have shaped our generation, man.

Oh Sweet Baby James, you truly are my Rainy Day Man.

[Please still respect me after this. I can’t help the dorkiness sometimes!]

Fear the rice cake monster

I’m not really a super assertive person. I play tough sometimes – and I’m always a badass in my little mental fantasies about taking down would-be terrorists on planes – but when it actually comes down to it, I generally clam up and go all kicked-puppy in confrontational situations.

Unless you’re in a car and I’m on my bike and you do something that makes me wish stabbing people in the eye with a fork was an acceptable means of self-expression, because then I will scream obscenities at you like the finest of trailer park whores. But I digress.

Rewind to Monday, when I’m biking in to work for the first time in over a week (thanks, torrential downpour that made my hair look like it belonged in a bad 80s music video all week, no matter how much crap I put in it).

I’m about 2 blocks from my office, when suddenly a large homeless woman in a black t-shirt and Cee Lo style shorts waddles out in front of me, slowly waving her tentacle-arms. Just in case her noxious scent of eau de un-showered dumpster diver wasn’t enough to get my attention.

Pause for a second here – I’m really not a horrible person (despite the sudden, gratuitous use of foul language on this blog [sorry, mom!] and my fear/hatred of all things flying). Homelessness is a terrible problem and I hate that anyone should have to go hungry, especially in a nation of so many fatties. End PSA.

So I narrowly avoid toppling over my handlebars as I come to an awkward pause in front of her. She proceeds to advance on me, as I lean farther and farther off to the side of my bike.

By the time she stops moving, my right foot is completely off the ground, and I’m balancing all my weight, plus my backpack and the bike on the outside edge of my left topsider, while hopping just a little to avoid falling over.

The entire time she’s cornering me, she’s wailing: “Can you plEEEEEaaaaSSSSSee help me? I been out here fo’ sis days and ahm hungry! PllllleeeeeAAAAAAAssseee help me!” Her voice rising and falling on the “pleases,” as if she were trapped beneath a pile of megaphones.

I generally try to at least be polite in situations like these. I’m not giving you money to feed your drug and/or alcohol addiction (I have my own to worry about … just kidding, parents…!), but I won’t be a complete jerkface either (I reserve those moments for really special people).

But the Wailer wasn’t letting me get a word in edgewise.

Finally, my frustration and fear of people who stand close and smell bad came to a head.

“If you’re hungry, I’LL GIVE YOU A RICE CAKE!”

We stared at each other for a second, completely frozen in the wake of my strange, strange outburst.

Then Bitch ROLLED HER EYES at me, and walked away.

From now on, I’m threatening people with rice cakes. Confrontation AND gluten avoided, all in one fell swoop. We all win.

I’m sorry, I’m terrible at Paint.NET. It’s like photoshop, but so, so not.

When just being white trash isn't enough

So every time I think I may have finally erased the demented-barbie doll image of this chick from my mind, she pops back up.

This … this person, who at [allegedly] age 16 became a child-bride to creepy 51 year old “actor” Doug Hutchinson, claims to be a (now) 17 year old model/actress/singer.

Ok, first, go watch this video. When you’ve finished gargling away the vomit, I’ll be here.

Make sure you skip to around the 2:00 minute mark, where she starts making methed-out porn star eyes at the camera and trying to deep throat the air. It’s worth the extra queasiness, I promise.



So first of all, entertainment industry, I’m not stupid. That is very clearly an alien version of 58 year old Pamela Anderson on crack. Her silicone implants might only be 16 years old, but the botox injections, 85 cubic tons of makeup and bad weave say otherwise.

And now she’s on Twitter.

Bringing us such gems as:

“Spreading myself out sexily beneath the shimmering sky as shooting stars sweetly set-off across the sensational sphere. This is so stunning!”

And:

“Entwining my body playfully in white willowy sheets as I wildly wallow on top of the wondrous bed. Feeling kind of kittenish today... Purrr!”

Because nothing says pre-pubescent sex kitten like absurd adjectives, awful alliteration and nauseating narcissism! Bark!

So like… this is all a joke, right? Like that Joaquin Phoenix not shaving for a year thing. Just a wacky social experiment to see exactly how much it takes to make the entire US population simultaneously projectile vomit. Right?

Does anyone have the number for child protective services? Or an exorcist?

Suck it, Ben

Sunday afternoon, at the bar:

Me: “I think the Ravens could win this”

Boyfriend: “I don’t know, Ben Roethlisberger always beats you guys”

Me: “Yeah, well he beats women, too.”

In your FACE, Roethlisberger.

Yeah, you totally want to drag her into a bar bathroom and then pay a fancy lawyer to get you out of it, don’t you, Ben…

Fab Friday: Snuggle hammy! Warning: Cute overload!

Today’s Fab Friday is brought to you by this guy:

Sorry it’s blurry. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a 4 oz rodent to sit still and pose?

No, it’s not some rat we found hiding under the back stairs.

That darling little ball of fluff is our rescued diabetic dwarf hamster, Marley.

Boyfriend and I desperately wanted a puppy (well, I desperately wanted a puppy – he’d probably promise me just about anything to get me to shut up about the damned puppy), but since we rent a basement apartment the size of a large postage stamp – no puppies allowed.

So I went online and found Small Angels Animal Rescue and began searching for my (pint-sized) soul mate. And I found him, in the sad-looking little guy who was seized from an exotic pet warehouse in Texas.

Cue the Google search to figure out why someone in their right mind would call a hamster an ‘exotic pet,’ and it turns out that dwarf hamsters are actually originally from Russia.

So we have a rescued diabetic dwarf hamster who may or may not have been in the Russian mob. To clarify, we don’t actually know that he’s diabetic, but dwarf Hams are prone to it, so we have to treat him like he is. We do, however, know that he was in the mob.

This guy trains like a champion on his running wheel, so I’m thinking he was probably a covert-ops spy at one point. But he’s not talkin’. (He chirps, actually, and it never fails to make me giggle when boyfriend attempts to imitate the Marley Chirp and ends up sounding like a panicked seal).

"I'm almost there, guys!"

The Hammy (as those in the know call him) is unfortunately prone to falling off of high places (we were warned about this during our adoption interview – add that to the list of things that make you go ‘oh yeah, THAT happened’). Fortunately, I don’t think he has a terminal velocity, so mostly he just tumbles gently down his cage and scampers off like nothing happened.

As a well-off hamster, the Marley (who insists upon being referred to in the third person) of course has two homes. He spends much of his time in the first floor Blue Igloo Retreat, though he does enjoy escaping occasionally to the single-serving size Oatmeal Box, especially when he has Important Business to do.

What kind of Important Business, you ask? Well, he’s sworn us to secrecy, naturally, but I can tell you it involves digging. Lots and lots of digging.

Though it took some effort, Marley has taught us, his human minions, to prepare his favorite diabetic-friendly meals for him on a regular basis. We stand and laboriously pick any and all vestiges of sugar-loaded corn from his pre-packaged dry food, and we prepare fresh veggies and proteins for him such as cucumber, cauliflower, chicken, egg whites and pieces of Boyfriend’s finger.

But the one thing that the Marley loves above all else in the world is his pumpkin seed.

We accidentally bought him salted pumpkin seeds, which displeased His Highness, so every morning, one of us will carefully peel the shell from the seed and offer it to The Hammy.

If we’re slow or delayed in providing the seed, Hammy will climb the walls of his cage, twitching his nose and giving us death glares to hurry us along.

He’s also been known to be a very tricksy little Ham.

Boyfriend is generally awake before me, so he’ll come out and sometimes give the Ham his pumpkin seed. Then, because The Hammy is very sly from his years with the Russian mob, he’ll duck back into the igloo and pretend to be fast asleep.

When I stumble out after Boyfriend has left, still half asleep and highly susceptible to devious Hammy tricks, the Hammy will stumble back out of the igloo, all sad and bleary-eyed, looking for his pumpkin seed.

As an aside: we call this squinty-eyed, ‘oh god, the light is hurty!’ reaction being ‘Marley-faced.’ Like, when you emerge from the basement-cave into actual daylight and can’t get the sunglasses on in time, you go all Marley-faced.

Here, the Marley demonstrates ‘Marley-faced.’ You wish you were this cool.

It took us months to catch onto this extra-pumpkin-seed-gaining ploy. Sometimes we still fall for it. There’s nothing more humbling than being outsmarted by a rodent with a brain the size of a dehydrated pea.

But for all his deviousness and trickery and dietary restrictions, the Marley is by far and away the cutest Hammy-wham to ever live, and we’re totally crazy-dorky Hammy parents (don’t make that face, Boyfriend, you love him to bits too).

Marley says “fuck off, I’m sleeping.”

So what about you guys? Any dorky pet stories?

Michelle Bachmann supports child labor

As a general rule, I think the vast majority of politicians – regardless of party affiliation – are narcissistic Napoleon wannabes with unresolved daddy issues. Liberals can’t keep their grubby paws off my money, and Republicans can’t keep theirs off my body (and who can blame them, right? Right??)

I generally identify as a Libertarian (like that time the state of MD dissolved the Libertarian Party and sent me a new voter card marked “Independent” and I crossed out independent, wrote “fuck you, I’m a Libertarian” and sent it back), but I recognize that the vast majority of Americans don’t have anywhere near enough common sense/decency for Libertarian ideals to work.

So it was with a good deal of skepticism and a full bottle glass of wine that I sat down to watch the 1st Republican debate last night. All hail Ronald Reagan.

Here are some quotes and some of my thoughts from the night:

• “One thing I know, is that kids need jobs.” At least Michelle Bachmann is willing to pay them, so it’s not exactly child slavery, I guess. Also, did she steal Darth Vader’s helmet? What is that thing on her head?
• Is John Huntsman Snooki’s dad? I haven’t seen a man that orange since Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
My, Mr. Huntsman, what a pretty shade of Sunset Orange you are!
• “There is no one in the 12 years that I was in the US senate that did more … working on the poor.” No, literally. They make great footrests. And pedestals to stand on when gay-bashing. Oh Rick Santorum, you are a classy, classy mix of lube and fecal matter…
• “Bottom up, not top down.” Yeah, we know that’s how you like it, Santorum *eyebrow waggle*
• Ron Paul, you are making me so sad. Where did all this crazy come from? I mandate you to stop! Please?
• “We’re about fixin’ things” Thanks, Perry, for clearing that up. I especially loved the side-eye from token black guy Herman Cain as he very carefully pronounced “fixinG.”
• “I hate cancer” Bold statement, Rick Perry. Bold statement. *cheers* Yeah, stick it to that cancer, Rick Perry! You tell that bastard cancer we ain’t gonna take it anymore!
• Can we please, please talk about the hypocrisy of blathering on about “parental rights” while on the other hand trying to take away a parent’s right to not bring a child into the world? No? Bueller?
• “We had people eating in public parks because the supermarkets were closed!” …I think you don’t understand what supermarkets are for, Mr. Host. Unless you mean the people were feeding on grass and squirrels or something. Mmm, squirrel burgers.

So who’s your front runner? Anyone else praying that the Mayans were right, if this is the best we’ve got?

Earthquakes and hurricanes and wildfires, oh my ... also, Kate Spade is a bitch.

Sunday afternoon, we were driving back from visiting my horse and shopping in San Marcos (3 hours and all I got was one pair of Spanx tights. They’re awesome tights, but really? When did I start sucking at shopping?), and all of the sudden traffic got awful.

We were all: “I bet there’s an accident just over the hill-- hey, is that smoke?”

Turns out nearly half of central Texas is on FIRE.

After about 40 minutes of fighting our way past the Darwin Award candidates trying to take photos of the flames/smoke, we made it into the development. An officer was waiting on the main road, yelling at everyone coming in.

We rolled down the window and were told “You have 5-10 minutes to get your stuff and GET OUT. We can’t stop this fire.”

The smoke as we drove into the development. Yes, L, I know we should probably go the other way.

Oh fuck, this shit is real. Cue the goose bumps, nausea, heart-in-throat.

So we set a plan of action: get to the house, throw my stuff and Boyfriend’s stuff in the car (Boyfriend is in Houston at this point, visiting family), one suitcase each for my parents, and grab the dog. Ready, break.

The power was off by the time we got to the house, and there was already so much smoke that even with the blinds open, it was still pretty dark. I ran upstairs, fumbling around in the dark, and threw everything I could swipe off the bathroom counter into our suitcases, along with any clothes that I could feel scattered around the floor.

I went beast-mode and carried one large suitcase, one large carryon and a laptop downstairs and outside all in one trip. I threw my stuff in the back of the jeep and went to locate the parents.

I dash into their bedroom and there are about 4 suitcases open on the bed, Stepmom is frantically searching for an heirloom watch, Dad is videoing his DVD collection (that’s priorities right there, folks), and generally not much of anything is happening anywhere near fast enough.

I grab dog food for my brother’s dog and take it to the car, and as I’m heading back to the house, a piece of ash lands on my arm.

For one brief instant I couldn’t see anything other than that small white square of papery ash, perched so innocuously just above a freckle on my arm. Then I called Boyfriend and begged him to take care of the horse if I didn’t make it out.

It was like the calm at the center of a storm. The neighborhood was eerily quiet – hopefully most people weren’t home at the time and that’s why we didn’t see a lot of movement. A few kids sat on the driveway across the street, quietly waiting for their parents.

Black smoke was creeping up over the line of houses perpendicular to our street and sirens were wailing in the distance.

It's coming for us...

The parents were still freaking out, throwing picture frames into the dirty laundry basket, and the dog was darting back and forth anxiously, clearly attuned to our panic.

We finally get everything we’re getting into two cars and start leaving the neighborhood. Stepmom is leading in the jeep, and I’m with Dad in his car.

As we near the end of the small subdivision, Stepmom pulls a U-ie. My stepbrother wanted his passport and she forgot it.

As we whipped around behind her, all I could think was ‘We’re going to be those idiots on the news who died going back one last time for [insert completely insignificant item that is NOT worth dying for here]’

She runs upstairs to my brother’s room, with my dad shrieking after her that we don’t have time for this. I eventually go up to forcibly remove her if need be, but she had located the passport and was on her way.

This time we make it out of the subdivision and onto the main road with the two to three thousand or so other people trying to flee the flames. There’s only one way in and out of this division, and there was nothing to do but wait.

Dad was in full-fledged panic mode (I come by these panic attacks of mine honestly, at least) and when he started rubbing his chest and left arm, I went numb and tingly all over, all at once. All I could think was, if he has a heart attack, there are no rescue crews left to help us.

I’d have probably killed him if he’d had a heart attack – counterproductive, I know – but at least it would have gotten the point across.

As we were leaving, you could see the actual flames coming up through the smoke. They looked like campfires off in the distance, but so, so much deadlier.

Over an hour and a half later, we made it to the gas station on the corner of 620 and 2222 to fill up both cars. I ran inside and bought two packets of Bayer, just in case. Then I took the car keys and made dad let me drive.

At that point, I finally started to feel like we weren’t in absolute, imminent danger.

We made it to my parents’ friends’ house a little after 9pm – only 2 hours late for the Labor Day BBQ and Stepmom’s birthday celebration. Oh yeah, that’s happening now. Woohoo. Party time. Fuck.

Boyfriend was still in Houston at this point, and as much as I desperately wanted him there with me (mostly to have someone to make snarky comments to about certain someones at the party, but also for moral support), we decided it was safer for him to stay put in Houston.

Is there a Real Housewives of Austin, TX, yet? Because I’ve got your first cast member… Anyway.

We eventually wound up spending the night at S & C’s house (lovely, lovely friends of the parents), and I even got my own room, complete with a life-size suit of armor. Because my night hadn’t been surreal enough up until that point.

Knighty and I reached a tentative truce around 2am, and I finally managed to fall into an exhausted sleep.

Last I heard, the fire in the parents’ neighborhood is only about 25 percent contained, and there are still many, many other fires raging out of control through Austin and central Texas. As far as we know, the parents’ house is still ok, but with the strong winds and insanely dry conditions, anything can happen.

That cloud of thick smoke hovering along the horizon is what's left of most of Bastrop county.

We landed back in Baltimore around midnight yesterday/this morning, and got off the shuttle bus in pouring rain into a puddle of standing water almost an inch deep. Sad, sad irony. I would kill to be able to send all this rain down to Texas right now.

I’ve now survived a natural disaster trifecta in just over a week – an earthquake, a hurricane and now the wildfires. Isn’t there some sort of prize for this? A couple of Mexican Martinis would probably do…

Then, on top of everything else, because sometimes my life is like a damned game of Jenga being played by that ham-handed guy who always thinks he can wiggle out the bottom block, the handle on my brand new Kate Spade purse broke.

Damn you, Kate Spade. Way to really ruin my weekend.

Fab Friday: Ryan Reynolds is my crack

Last Friday, I was sitting at home, alone, because Boyfriend was all “there’s a hurricane coming and even through I’m from Miami I suck at hurricane prep and so let’s get drunk instead!” and I was in people-avoid mode and didn’t feel like going out.

So I was killing aliens on the iphone and refusing to let myself watch the Hannah Montana movie (but there’s a horsey in it…!) and flipping through channels and … oh HI, Ryan Reynolds.


Can I be that thumb now, please?

I’ve probably seen The Proposal like 70 bajillion times at this point, but when there is that much yummy hotness on the screen … who am I to argue? So I settled in to watch.

And then … because someone at AMC must really, really love me (or is trying to steal my man – I will cut you, bitch!) … Definitely, Maybe came on. Double the Ryan Reynolds drool-fest.

One might think that nearly four straight hours of Ryan Reynolds would be enough to sate even the most ravenous Ryan appetite, but no. You’d be oh so wrong.

The next day, while waiting out what turned out to be a moderately annoying rain shower, Boyfriend and I found Chaos Theory on Netflix.

Not a good look for you, Ry, but let’s go with it…

Holy god this movie is awful. Like, poorly filmed, the lead female actress can’t keep her accent under control and the director was too lazy to care that oh hey, she’s suddenly British in this scene, and the plot made me want to eat grass just so I could vomit, bad.

But we watched the whole damned thing just so I could ogle Ryan Reynolds.

I saw Green Lantern and remember very little other than his very prefect, very scrumptious, very naked rear end. And I’d see the stupid movie again just to see THAT again.

I’m very selective about my Hollywood crushes – and I’m loyal. I was a Devon Sawa girl, even when everyone else jumped ship for JTT. Then I liked Leo, even when he was a jerk about not getting an Oscar nod for Titanic. Then Heath Ledger, because Aussies are hot.

Ryan Reynolds joins a very elite list, and I will kick ScarJo in the face if I ever meet her in person for being such a dumb twit. But at least now he’s single (yeah, shuttup, Star Magazine – he’s not marrying Sandra Bullock – she’s old) and that means there’s still hope for me.

P.S. I love you too, Boyfriend!

Tony Danza is not dead, I promise

Every few years, these rumors surface. This time, Tony Danza died falling 60 feet from a cliff in New Zealand (he died this way in 2006, as well). A year or so ago it was Eminem and Woody Harrelson in [separate, I assume] car crashes. Before that, it was Michael Jackson from a -- oh wait, that one was real.

Anyway.

I grew up with parents and grandparents who told me that you shouldn’t always believe everything you read. But for some reason, their generation [this rumor wasn’t any of my parents-- THIS time] is probably one of the worst perpetuators of internet rumors and lies.

For the most part, they seem to have figured out that the dude in Nigeria is not actually going to transfer them $10,000,000,000 to get it safely out of the country, but other than that … anything goes.

Senate Bill 707 is going to give Obama the right to walk into your home and snatch your guns from your cold, dead hands?? Stockpile the grenades, honey, this is WAR!

And no, of course I don’t need to independently verify this, because someone who sent this to someone else who got it from someone else that said they knew of someone who was related to the cousin of the guy who checked it on Snopes. It’s true. OBVIOUSLY.

Oh, you mean if I’d gone to http://thomas.loc.gov I’d have realized that S.B. 707 is the Puppy Uniform Protection and Safety Act? … That tricky Obama, camouflaging his anti-Americanism with puppies…! Ahem.

Just because someone sent something over the all-powerful internets or posted it to one of them fancy webpage things doesn’t mean it’s true.

Oh man! That dude totally got eaten…!

There is no proposed 28th Amendment to the Constitution that would make those darned Congressmen behave better, there was no shark swimming in the street in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Irene and Obama did not stop wearing his ring and watch for Ramadan. This year or last year.

This AP photo from August 19, 2011 (smack dab in the middle of Ramadan) clearly shows Mr. President rockin’ the Rolex (or whatever it is).

Anything else I can clear up for y’all?

Now quit harassing poor Tony Danza - he's still the [alive] boss!

You are, Tony. You are.