Monday, February 28, 2011

Oscar [the award show, not that monster in the garbage can] Can Suck My Nuts

According to my twitter feed, blogroll, and the numerous emails that have been bandied about today, apparently the Oscars were on last night. Being the fierce on-top-of-everything-ALL-the-time blogger that I am, I was totally aware of this.


Um, fuck yes it is. I should know - I use it all the time

In my defense, there really wasn't any reason for me to watch the Oscars in the first place--I'm assuming the Twilight Trifecta was not in attendance or my Twitter feed would be filled with less "What the fuck?" and more "OMFG, my ovaries exploded and tried to copulate with my television set!!!" accompanied by a multitude of pictures of Robert Pattinson looking ridiculously uncomfortable and smexy as hell. And maybe a few snapshots of the other two. You know, what's-her-face and the wolf-boy.

The Twilight Trinity - That Guy, That Chick and Robert Pattinson...

Let me remind all of you that, prior to Twilight, I lived under a rock when it came to television, movies, and celebrities. I liked what I liked and was extremely vocal when I thought something blew monkey nuts. While the former might have changed (although in a somewhat small way with laser-like focus), I can assure the latter absolutely has not.

I honestly think most of those awards shows are a bunch of marketing ploys and try to use sneaky tactics to get tons of viewers to flock to their boob-tubes in the vain hopes of, say, catching a glimpse of a sexy actor or actress that they hump in their dreams on a regular basis but would probably be reduced to a drooling humanoid who smells vaguely like the pee dripping down their leg should they ever be within close proximity of that person.

Also, the last time I saw the Oscars was about 10 years ago and someone made this gawd-awful punch that contained rum, vodka, and antifreeze and I had to call out of work the next day because I was vomiting profusely from both ends. And if it wasn't the punch, then it was the little pig-in-a-blanket that I dropped on the floor but ate anyway. So I'm little traumatized by the whole Oscars thing.

Anyway, rumor has it that there was some "special" Twilight...thing that was going to happen last night (see the above reference about marketing ploys) and it was going to be super-duper mind-fucking-blowing. Like, JMFHF-I-TOTALLY-FUCKING-CREAMED-MYSELF!!! kind of awesome.

There was no creaming going on when I watched it and -- judging by the disgruntled and slightly homicidal tone of some of the tweets I read today -- most of you were equally unimpressed. I clicked on this link fully expecting to be wowed. Instead, I feel like someone just jabbed a rusty screwdriver in my ear.

The "surprise" was quite possibly THE most obnoxious fucking thing I've ever sat through. My ears are bleeding and it's all I can do not to throw this laptop across the fucking room and stomp all over the speakers because - WHAT THE FUCK??? Whoever thought that was a good idea needs to be checked for lobotomy scars because I'm 130% positive you will find them.

If you're a glutton for punishment (and I know you are), here is the video. You've been warned.

Clearly, this year's Oscars sucked. There was no Robert Pattinson in attendance and I was just audio-ly raped by the suckfest of all suckfests that was that ridiculous fucking segment.

{{Takes a deep breath}}

Okay, I swore I wasn't going to turn into a total rageball over this so let's talk about something else.

Like how FUCKING SHITTY that video is. I mean, people actually stayed up and waited to see that thing. Like, put shit on hold or changed their plans to watch the Twilight shout-out, only to get smacked in the twat by that atrocity. I would have been monumentally fucking irate if I had put my porn-reading on the back burner to watch that.

I can only imagine the conversation that went into making that masterpiece of total-fucking-suck.

Maybe it went something like this:
Numnuts - Okay man, we like, totally need to suck in those Twilight freaks and trick 'em into watching the Oscars.

Asshat - Yeah! {Fists pumps} Wait, what? Hold on, let me do a few more hits of this concoction I developed in my mom's basement -- it's bleach, ammonia and kitty litter. F-U-C-K-S you up, dude! {Fists pumps, falls over}

Numnuts - Okay, okay! I got it!! Those Twilight losers LOVE the wolf-guy, right? They totally start making out with each other every time his baby nipples show up on screen. So, let's include him!

Asshat - Yeah! Here's to chicks makin' out with other chicks. And that hot chick from Harry Potter!

Numnuts - What does that have to do with Twilight? Meh, fuck it. They'll dig it anyway. What are we talking about again?
At any rate, if the folks who produced the Oscars try this shit (literally) next year, they're going to be in a for a rude awakening because people were... unhappy. And I'm kind of looking forward to it -- if there is one thing you don't want to do, it's fuck with the Twilight fandom. I heard them's some crazy bitches...

And on that note, I'm off to watch Charlie Sheen have a meltdown so I can stop focusing on my own.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

I Met Bobby Long... I'm Dead and Done.

Several months ago, I heard that Bobby Long was going to be playing a small venue here in Portland and even though I had never heard Bobby sing, at least on purpose, I got this sudden urge to see him. So I texted Double_Dippin and, of course, she was in. I bought the special "VIP" tickets, which are an extra $10 but so fucking worth not having to stand through the whole show. I'm old. I can't stand for three hours.

Since I had no idea what kind of music this dude even played, I immediately downloaded his one record to iTunes and had myself a listen or twelve. I liked it ok. I didn't love it. There were a few songs that I really liked a lot, but overall I wasn't sold.

Fast forward to Friday, February 25th... the day of the show. I wake up to a weather report spewing threats of death on the roadways because there's a storm a coming and it's gonna get messy. Fuck you Mother Nature. Fuck you and that diseased horse you rode in on. I'm fucking done with the snow. I was terrified the concert would get canceled. I had worked hard to get us some "special treatment" and damned if I was going to let that slip through the cracks.

Thankfully, Bobby's bus driver wasn't a pussy and didn't let a little snow keep the show from happening...but it did keep quite a few of the fans from making it. Bummer.

So Bobby went on a little after 9pm and played a good hour and a half, which I thought was pretty good for a guy who's only recorded one album. And let me tell you, I was impressed. I was seriously fucking impressed. You know how sometimes you see a concert and the band is horrible? Like the singer's voice needs serious audio mixing equipment to make them sound good so when they play live, it just sucks? Well that is not Bobby. His live show makes his recorded stuff sound like it was done in a basement on a cassette tape in a boombox.

We were really close to the stage. Love the intimacy of a small venue.

I'm not a great music reviewer like Jenny Jerkface so don't expect any complex musicy-type observations...but wow, just wow! Bobby mainly plays an acoustic guitar but when he mixed it up with the electric, I tingled down to my toes. The addition of a backing band made the show feel more rock-ish and less folksy. Guess I just like it a little harder. [TWSS!!] I almost didn't recognize a few of the songs.

While he seemed a bit uncomfortable on stage, hiding behind a full beard and a curtain of hair that hung in front of his face throughout the whole show, he managed to keep the 60 or so fans engaged with amusing stories of being on tour, his "fucking freezing" bus, the snowstorm woes, and eating lobster rolls at a local seafood restaurant. He wore black jeans and a t-shirt layered under a plaid shirt, layered under a cardigan sweater (grampy? is that you?), and some serious pointy-toe shoes that gave me high school flashbacks. (Think 1986 people.)

He closed with my favorite song of his: Dead and Done. Which was like a gazillion times better live.

What? You thought I was going to forget to tell you about my "special treatment?" A few weeks before the concert, I started working my radio station connections to see if anyone could get me a "meet and greet" with Bobby. I was surprised when one station got back to me and said "no problem!" HOLY SHIT! We were gonna get to meet him!

I had no idea what a "meet and greet" entailed. I had never done anything like this. But just in case we spent any amount of time with him, I frantically emailed the gang asking for smart music questions I could ask so I didn't sound like a complete redneck douchebag. I also figured it was probably a good idea not to ask him any questions about RPattz...although I did dare Double_Dippin to pick pocket his phone so we could steal Rob's number. She chickened out. Pffft.

So before the show started, I met with his tour manager, who was a super nice dude. He tells me that after the show, Bobby usually comes down to the merchandise table to sign the stuff people buy. And after he was finished, we would be taken up to Bobby's dressing room for a more "intimate meet and greet" - wha...wha.. WHAT? There surely must be some other fans getting the same treatment, right? Um... nope. Just us.

This would have been nice to run into backstage... really, really nice. Three-way anyone?

Once the autograph signing finished, we were escorted up to the dressing room and got to spend about 20 minutes with Bobby (his tour manager chaperoned) hanging out chatting. He was very chatty which was surprising because he seemed very shy and quiet on stage. I managed to ask him a few of my questions - but for the most part I was so enthralled with both his accent (unf...the accent!) and how incredibly polite he was that I totally don't remember his answers. I would be a horrible interviewer.

I forget, because he's so popular within the Twidom, that he's really a very new artist and he's thrilled if he gets 200-250 people at a show. I told him I was sorry Mother Nature screwed him with the snowstorm, but he really appeared all right with the small crowd. I'm pretty sure, had the tour manager not stepped in, Bobby would have chatted with us much longer. I was on my best behavior (yes, I do have one of those) having set the meeting up through work, so I'm sorry there were no shenanigans to report. Even though Donnersun had asked me to get a picture of his ass and lick his face for her... I failed at both requests. Sorry dude. He's really got no ass anyway...

Before we left, he agreed to take a few photos...

Ugh, so many things wrong with this photo... why didn't someone tell me I was sporting a double chin, greasy bangs and a shiny forehead? I look scared. And Bobby looks scared... I wonder if someone told him about my freezer?

Me and Double_Dippin snuggling with Bobby...look at him muckling on to us. He obviously doesn't want us to go. Why didn't I think to slip in an ass grab while my hand was back there? Although DD tried to get him to take a few naughty spanky-type photos. That's when we were escorted off the premises.

If you have the chance to see Bobby at some point, do it. It probably won't cost you a lot and it's totally worth it. And word on the street is he usually signs merchandise after his shows so get yer asses to that table for a little face time. Now what does this little rendezvous bring my degrees of separation down to? One? Mutherfucka, I hung with someone who hangs with the Preh-tay! Squeeeee!

Friday, February 25, 2011

Live Love Laugh

For the sake of full disclosure and to give fair warning, this post might make you cry a little. But hopefully, it will make you smile in some places, too.

Earlier this month, Dangrdafne and My After Car Is An XKR put together an amazing tribute to my mom: TwiHearted - a fund-raiser for the American Heart Association. The set a goal of $2000, figuring that if all the blog followers chipped in as little as $1, we could raise that amount for the AHA and hopefully raise awareness of heart disease along the way. I was equal parts floored, humbled, and awed when we reached our goal earlier this week! I can't thank them - and all of you! - enough for doing something so completely selfless and inspiring. I have said it before and I imagine I will say it again: the Fandom and the Twidom and the fans & supporters of THIS blog are the BEST, most amazing, and big-hearted group out there in the blogosphere - or anywhere! - bar none. I am ridiculously proud and honored to call you all my friends.

It's not too late...
Click the heart to connect to the tribute page - even if you don't donate...

Myg has also graciously offered to write an Osa Bella outtake just for the people who donate. You just need to sigh the guest book at the AHA page and email her your name - you can get additional details HERE. Thanks, Myg!

This event has come at a rather auspicious, but bittersweet, time. This weekend, my parents would have been celebrating their 46th wedding anniversary. I don't even know what to say to my dad... He is almost 800 miles away and I wish I could hold his hand and tell him everything is OK, even though it's not, really... He probably wouldn't like the hand-holding bit because he is not as much of a mushy, emotional, sentimental git as I am, but it would make me feel better. I might not be able to say anything to my father that will exactly make this weekend easy, but I DO get to tell him - just like I did after we got back from Forks - about this wonderful group of crazy ladies [*cough*] who I love and could not live without at this point. And I can regale him with stories about how how this group - who some might consider strangers - came together into such a tight circle when I needed them most, providing heart-felt condolences, moral support, shoulders to cry on, and even recipes for him when he needed a crash course in cooking (he's still working on that one, for the record - but your recipes are inspiring!). I have not told my dad about the AHA fundraiser yet, but I hope that when we talk tomorrow, it will provide him with some much-needed comfort on what is sure to be a particularly difficult day for him.

You've all been remarkably indulgent the past months, and I'm all about pushing my luck, so I hope you'll join me for a little pictorial history of Mom & Dad Snarky...

Forty six years ago, two crazy kids - kids! 19 and 22! - ran off to Niagara Falls and got married - they eloped!

It wasn't always smooth sailing for them in the early years - my dad was admittedly still sowing his oats when then met -

Hef? Is that you???

In fact, my parents separated briefly after my older sister was born, and for a short time, their future was looking pretty grim. I almost didn't exist - gah! Needless to say, I am glad that things worked out the way they did...

Whew! That was a close one...

My dad might scoff a bit at the notion of being a romantic, but on their 25th wedding anniversary, he recreated their first date - he even rented the exact car he owned at the time! Sister Snarky and I dropped our completely baffled mom off on the street corner near Rutgers University where they first met, and a moment later my dad came around the corner in a '57 Chevy...

Seems like just yesterday all over again...

We played mini-golf on the same course where they has their first date (I think the same woman was behind the counter - no joke). Then we were off to the site where he proposed...

Passion Puddle on the Cook Campus of Rutgers - beautiful! There wasn't a fountain there at the time, but I don't think there was any lack of scenery... On their 25th anniversary, my dad gave my mom a diamond ring to mark the occasion. There was crying all around.

He might seem like a bit of a gruff guy...

OK, truthfully? We staged this photo - he was really just shooting a bunch of balloons that had gotten stuck in one of our trees...

But underneath it all, he's a big softie with a weakness for animals...

Being the Alpha with our Doberman...

Bottle-feeding orphaned baby squirrels...

...and feeding other creatures.

He loved my mom with all his heart and soul.

You could see it in the way he looked at her...

Maybe he was influenced by his parents...?

love lasts...

They shared countless good times over the years...

Miss this...

I'm not sure about the appropriateness of this segue, but this has been on my mind and weighing heavily on my soul these last few days: I'd need to take a moment here to mark the passing of one of our own - a Twitarded friend whose time came way too soon. Many of you may have know Uber Vamp from her comments here, or her Twitter feed, or her chock-full-o-Rob-porn Tumblr... In a devastating turn of events, Uber Vamp - who was only 23 - passed away earlier this week after being injured in an accident. There's nothing I can say to truly express such a tragic, sudden, and random loss. I hope that her friends and family and loved ones can take some consolation in the fact that she brought happiness and joy to so many people...

You will be missed, Uber Vamp.

I hope you will all take a moment to tell all of the people in your life that you love them... Life is short and wonderful and precious and fleeting. Embrace it - enjoy it - live it to the fullest!

Thursday, February 24, 2011

SXSW: Strictly For the Hardcore

It's time! It's time!


For those of you not familiar with the SXSW music festival, let me refer you here before you read any further. I have very fond memories of the first few hours of last year's SXSW & meeting JJ. After that, it gets a little fuzzy. I know JJ has already covered some of this, but I'd like to rehash it from a Texan's perspective.

1. Not all Texans are friendly. The etymology of Texas' name is "friend." This is to lure in unsuspecting Yankees. Do not be fooled. If a stranger offers you a ride to your hotel, do not be disarmed by his charming twang. He wants to murder you and sell your kidneys to the highest bidder. Trust me on this one.

What of it?

2. Texas is not always hot. You would think it would be blazing hot 365 days a year judging from its location on the globe. You would be wrong. Also to be noted, weather forecasts for Texas are only about 30% accurate. Last year the weather was supposed to be a picturesque 70-ish degrees throughout the entire festival. It was at least 170 degrees one day and literally 17 degrees (with 40 mph winds) the next. You need to prepare for all possible climates. Wear your swimsuit under your parka. I'm not even joking. Snorkel gear is not a bad idea either.

Let's not forget about the possibility of afternoon penis showers.

3. You will be surrounded by food and able to eat none. Restaurants and roach coaches are everywhere. You have two choices here. (a) Stand in line all day waiting for a taco, or (b) spend that time running from venue to venue trying to see a band. The only thing you will have easy access to is alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Breakfast shots are a foregone conclusion. This is a bad combination. Pack snacks. I can not express how important this is. Have something to eat stashed in your bag. Otherwise, you will end up like me a friend of mine and staggering drunkenly through the CVS, unable to tell if you are purchasing a box of Meow Mix or Wheat Thins. I guarantee the clerk will lie to your drunk ass if you ask him to verify if you are buying people food. Shit gets real, people. Just be prepared.

You will spend more on drinks than you do on a month's worth of food. Deal with it.

4. You have to be willing to cut an old lady to get a cab. I think there are almost 5 taxis in Austin. It is near impossible to get one. Do not be afraid to sucker punch an elderly man to steal his waiting cab. He can get the next one. You very literally have to be willing to die to get a taxi. Jumping in front of a moving one is usually the only way to get a ride. Also, all taxis will be clearly marked. A sedan with a magnet on the side reading "TAXI" is not, I repeat, NOT a cab. This is also someone who wants to steal your kidneys and leave you in an ice bath.

5. No matter where you are, the next band you want to see will ALWAYS be 12 blocks east and 9 blocks north. Without fail. Since you won't be able to get a cab, you will be hoofing it everywhere. Wear comfortable shoes. [I know what you're going to say, JJ, & my stiletto boots ARE comfortable, fuck you very much.] Pack a pair of foldable flats in your bag on top of the snack food. If you don't already own a pair, I feel sorry for you.

I want to make out with these shoes.

Having said all of that, who wants to come?! It's March 15-20. We are still working out the details of a meet-up. It will probably be mid-day this year, but I don't know which day yet. We're running a little behind, in typical Twitard fashion. I do need a rough idea of how many peeps are interested so I can work on reserving a space for us somewhere. I'm also open to suggestions on places we can meet. It's a little lot crazy during SXSW & pretty impossible to find a venue that is not eardrum-bursting loud. Even the McDonald's has live bands. Nonetheless, let's get together and rock out with, not cocks out. E-mail me and I will add you to the list of possible revelers.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Love and Wildflowers. Also, I'm Totally Screwed.

Before I get to the Twilighty point of this post, a little backstory is necessary:

You see, many moons ago, when I was a punked-out, purple-haired asshole at the tender age of 17, I met a girl who we will call Choodles. Choodles and I shared the same Spanish class and became fast friends, namely because we served a lot of detentions together and the Senora hated us with equal ferocity. That friendship blossomed as we encouraged each other to be the Biggest Douchebag to the Senora and frightened all the Freshman (Choodles literally made one of ‘em whimper when she convinced him she was a vampire. Good times. Or a sign of things to come?). Years passed and Choodles and I bonded over under-aged drinking, hiding from the cops, switching peoples’ lawn ornaments around, and sneaking out of my parents’ basement window and pushing my car down the block so we could go joy-riding.

Eventually, we were old enough to drink legally, but still had to outrun the cops for various other reasons. Regardless, Choodles and I have remained friends for the past sixteen years (minus that "we were on a break" period immediately following the time I beat the crap out of her with a broom when we worked together at Friendly’s).

Not too long ago, Choodles became engaged to a handsome young gent. Against her better judgment (in my opinion) she asked me to be a bridesmaid. Because of our long and sordid history together - and the fact that I’m pretty sure we’ve both cleaned up the other person’s puke, which is like being blood-sisters but far more disgusting - I accepted. I’m pretty sure she second-guessed asking me the day we went together so I could try on my bridesmaid dress and she murmured, “I forgot how many tattoos you have...” but, anyway. Seriously, her wedding party is going to be like a game of One of These Is Not Like The Others.

It's going to be like this but with pretty dresses on...

At some point during the early preparations of her nuptials, Choodles asked me to contribute to the wedding favors, which she explained to me in depth and I totally forgot what they were but they sounded really nice. And included flower seeds.

Choodles wanted me to write a poem.

What? Is that bad?

Oooookay. It’s true that I was accepted to a scholarship poetry camp when I was 17, but the only things I remember from that experience is getting attacked by a bat, learning how to Robo-trip, and making out with a college boy.

And she doesn’t just want any old poem, either. She wants a poem about love and wildflowers.

Now this, I can do.

There once was a sparkly vampire named Edward
Who loved a lame human named Bellward... (what? Aren't poems supposed to rhyme?)
He said, "will you marry me?"
And she said, "No."
So he called her a dumb whore
The end.

To: Choodles
From: Jenny Jerkface

I’m looking through old poem books as we speak. Can I reference Edward and Bella?
From Choodles
To: Jenny Jerkface

NO EDWARD/BELLA SHIT! Don’t want my wedding commemorated by a poem about a needy, co-dependant whiny bitch.
Did I mention that Choodles doesn't share my fondness for all things Twilight? But fiiiiiine, it's her wedding so I'll be nice.

So now, rather than spending my free time licking my computer screen and pretending its Robert Pattinson’s face, I’m desperately trying to come up with some nice little poem about love and wildflowers.

Stop... STOP licking the screen, JJ!! Christ, have a little dignity, Jerkface.

Oh, and it anyone has any suggestions about where I can get some inspiration (that is not Twi-related, grumble grumble) I'm all ears!

Also, I’m going to sneak in a Twilight reference if it fucking kills me.

Also (again), I can't remember if she reads this blog or not but if Choodles reads this she's going to kick my ass. Especially since I nicknamed her Choodles. Among other things.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

And That Wasn't the First Night I Dreamed of Robert Pattinson...

After two nights of side-splitting vagina monologues, I'm hoping you're ready for something a little less cooter-related. Well ok, here you go... so it's sort of un-cooter-related... unless you want to discuss what this did to my snatch but maybe not.

This does unmentionable things to my lady bits. Especially the mischievious smile...

If you've been hanging around Twitarded for any length of time, you may recall that I'm just not lucky enough to dream of Robert Pattinson very often. If I could control it, I'd make sure he made an appearance every night which I assume would start to piss off the hubs when I was constantly moaning orders at Rob in my sleep... "Oh yes, Rob... a little lower, Rob... faster, Rob... again, Rob... ungh oh oh OOOOH Rob!"

I need those pants to fall down... like right now. Unf...

When I do dream of him though, I remember it like it happened five minutes ago. I wake up and it's like I'm still there but he's not. Which is totally fucking weird when you're laying in bed next to your husband who is so definitely NOT Robert Pattinson. I'm not sure what sparked this dream. The only thing I can think of is that I was reading Catching Fire yesterday and had been discussing with VitR a scene where Katniss describes Gale while he's sleeping -- his dark, thick brows, the stubble on his jaw. And of course it reminded me of Rob and got me all hot and bothered.

Do I make you randy, Latchkey Wife? Do I?

The dream...

For some odd reason JJ, STY, VitR, TK, Myg and I were all together in a giant hotel room. Not just the six of us, but bunches of other people too but I can't remember who they were. We were having a party in our room (big fucking surprise) and the door opens and three guys walk in - Rob and two friends - although I'm not sure who the friends were. Everyone in the room just kind of stared at them when they walked in but it was weird since everyone was bunched up on one side of the room so no one was even close to them when they entered.... except me for some reason.

So I immediately run my little whore self right over to him and say hi and introduce myself. He seems to be a little frightened of me at first (not sure why? **bats eyelashes**) but then he relaxes a bit as I chatter on about a million things and ask him a slew of questions. I just remember looking over at everyone just staring at me gape-mouthed. No one even moving to come towards us. It was almost like we were separated by a sheet of glass or something.

Rob and I sat on the bed in the hotel room and just chatted. For a long time I kept yelling for JJ, STY, VitR, TK and Myg to come over and meet him but no one did. I remember telling him he needed to meet my friends and he said he would but then they never came. I can remember just staring at his face and wanting so badly to touch him but I didn't want to scare him away.

And then I started checking blogs on my phone and asked him if he ever reads blogs about himself. He said no and I told him it was a good thing... he shouldn't be reading them. But then he wanted to read them and he was trying to get my phone away from me so he could.... aaaaand the next thing I know we're snuggling under the covers. Like a real good, tight spoon. Fucking yum. I think I bit him at some point too. And then it was dark and everyone was gone. Then I woke up and he was gone. Sad panda.

But I fell back to sleep and in the morning, I put on one of those big fluffy white hotel robes and went looking for him because I forgot to give him my number. Somehow I found the room he was staying in and it was huge and fancy. I walked in and he remembered me but couldn't come up with my name which made me super furious. And then he gets that wonderfully mischievous grin on his face (you know the one!) and he kind of grabbed me around the waist. I of course took it as an opportunity to run my hands across the stubble on his face and then I kissed him.

So weird how I can remember the details of his mouth in my dream, his soft bottom lip and how I pulled it into my mouth.... fuck me, if I could only remember what his tongue tasted like...

Next think I know, I'm at JJ's house which oddly has like five bedrooms upstairs and random people are coming out of them and JJ is still sleeping of course so I text her to tell her I'm downstairs and to get the fuck up. She's obviously pissed at me for hogging RPattz and she texts back something like "blow me I'm still sleeping". So I go to sit at the dining room table and my cousin Double_Dippin is there and she has brought me some food and we drank coffee and ate muffins and waited for JJ to get up.

And then I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep which totally pissed me off because I was totally hoping to run into Rob again and maybe let him get to second base. And I still haven't seen his cock.

The end.

Oh Latchkey! You crack my shit up! Let's have a nekkid tickle fight.

Ok all you dream analyzers out there... what does it all mean?? Is it a foreshadowing of what's to come? Will I be lucky enough to party with RPattz in a crowded hotel room in my future?

Monday, February 21, 2011

Small-Talk FAIL: Waxing Edition

Back when I got my lady-bits de-fuzzed last year (and lived to tell the tale right here - much to the horror of Sister Snarky and assorted RL friends), something...happened... Something I didn't talk about at the time (too annoyed!)... But it's stuck with me all this time and since I had a harrowingly busy day at work today (NO, I didn't have President's Day off like Jenny Jerkface and Latchkey Wife and everyone else I know - thanks for asking!), I've decided that now's the time to vent. Rant ON!

Take my hand, come back in time with me, and let me set this up for you:

Scene: Snarkier Than You, nekkid from the waist down save for a scrap of tissue on a string that supposedly passes for "disposable underwear," is bracing herself for her first-ever Brazillian wax. Mentally and physically. Aside from what I was certain would be a decent amount of real-life "JMFHFOMFGTHATFUCKINGHUUUUURTS!!!"-Defcon 5-level real owwie-ness, I'm steeling myself for my first real face-to-cooter meet-up with an aesthetician. I am, in short, nervous as a cat in a roomful of rockers on all counts.

The woman who owns the salon - Zuzanna - is older and of Eastern European descent. She clearly knows her way around a hoo-hoo, and her no-nonsense, professional, "I've seen all this a million times"-style puts me as much at ease as one can be in this type of a situation. I'm laying back, legs splayed, and she prepares to get down to business on my business. And then she says it - the words that haunt me to this day; the ones that put me in a tizzy after I recovered from the blow-torch-like after-burn of the waxing itself -

So, do you have any children???

I should make it absolutely, positively, 100% clear that at the time this seemingly-innocuous and possibly-at-any-other-time benign inquiry was uttered, Zuzanna's face was approximately three inches away from my crotch, and she probably had a clear line of vision directly into my uterus (she could probably see clear up to my tonsils, for goodness sakes). Given that, it seemed - to me - like a wildly inappropriate time to ask if I had ever squeezed anything the size of several bowling balls strung together - or, let's say a watermelon - out of that particular orifice. It added insult to injury - to say nothing of the fact that she was about to commence using hot wax to rip out hundreds of hairs from the most delicate area imaginable - that when I said "No," a look of concern - regret? - and then perhaps pity for posing this question to the clearly barren woman who obviously has to get her privates polished to make up for the fact that she will never bear offspring.

I guess it's my fault for not having this Get-Out-of-Awkwardness-Free Card tucked away somewhere in the back of my little paper g-string...

I am at an age where if I had wanted kids, I would have probably had them by now. As I explained to Sister Snarky back when she razzed me over it, our blog blurb that says "We're a bunch of over-thirty chicks who never meant to fall in love with Twilight" IS accurate! Over 40 IS still over thirty; and besides, I was 39 when we started this crazy blog. So there. You do the math. Anyhoo, I've noticed that people aren't sure what to make of it when they attempt to make small talk by asking about my theoretical children only to find that I don't have any.

Let me state definitively that small-talk-wise, regardless of whether the person doing the asking has intimate, up-close knowledge of your nether-region parts that you will only ever see for yourself in a mirror or not, this is a loaded gun of a subject. I don't know if maybe Zuzanna was absent the day at school where they taught every other person who has ever cut my hair, given me a pedicure, or cleaned my teeth to say "So, do you have any vacation plans coming up?" (unless it is anywhere near Christmas, in which case "So, are you ready for the holidays?" may be used interchangeably), or maybe they just don't teach that at whatever no-nonsense Soviet-era beauty-school gulag where she learned her trade. I'd also like to note for the record that you can hold the small talk - period! - all I really want to do at times like these is read a magazine, listen to my ipod, or dig my fingernails into my palms and wait for whatever it is you are doing to be over, thank you very much. No offense.

But if you are thisclose to my girly bits and ask me if I have kids? Instant complex. I mean, what the fuck?! Why would you say such a thing?! Does it look like the Holland Tunnel down there??? Was she making small talk only to see if there would be an echo?! I happen to know that my bits and pieces are in mighty fine shape and none of that could possibly be the case, but I still have the urge to go back and ask her what exactly she was thinking when she asked me that... And when I said "no."

Yup, I'm going to get on that... Right after I do my Kegels.

P.S. As proof that Robert Pattinson is EVERYWHERE and Twilight continues to take over the universe, I found the pic below on the second page of my google-image search for a funny Kegels image. I don't even want to know.

You look like you've squeezed out four puppies and a kitten, max, STY...

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Something Smells Fishy

You know when you wish you could un-see something? This is that post. The research that went into writing this has broken me. As soon as this post goes live I am cracking open that Do-It-Yourself Lobotomy kit I purchased from Guatemala.

I'm not much of a perfume person. I like it, but I never remember to put it on in the morning. My memory is shit. At least twice a week I try to leave the house in a bathrobe. No exaggeration. My fail knows no bounds.

I never tried the Twilight perfume. I figured it must smell like an odd combination of ass and abstinence. It probably contains anti-pheromones to fend off any suitors with impure intentions. I prefer to be ostracized and treated like shit for my personality, not my smell.

"I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, but your perfume smells like hippo vomit."

I want to go back to the days when the Twilight perfume was the most vile smelling thing I could imagine. Those days are gone. [Cue dramatic music.] I present to you: Eau de Pussy.

I'll give you a moment to process.

Like me, your first thought is probably "WHAT. THE. FUCK?" You'll be sorry you asked.

I can't even...

"Your hand smells like what?"

I have to say, I would have LOVED to have been a fly on the wall in the lab that developed this. I'm imagining phrases being thrown around like, "Too much sandalwood. Add more vagina juice." Then you have to wonder about those smell testers. Did they have to sniff a bunch of dick mittens and compare it to the samples? What does a job like that pay? Do they have a dental plan? Maybe they would just give you a dental dam and send you on your way. But I digress...

If you are smart, you will never, EVER Google "I smell pussy."

What is the one thing that could make this product more gruesome? A commercial. There are apparently several commercials, but I couldn't look at any others after this one violated my brain. I made Mr. TK watch it (because I'm mean like that) and he keeps wandering around the house grumbling about "fucking bicycle seats." It probably goes without saying, but a video about whisker biscuit pan drippings is NSFW. I had to shower immediately after watching this. J/s.

I'm 98% certain most of the people who purchased this product do not look like the man in the commercial. I'm 105% certain that most of the people who purchased this product have never smelled real lady juice, sweaty or otherwise. (I just threw up in my mouth again.) If this company was smart, they'd team up with Hustler and rig the magazines to explode with ten million sample cards like some kind of depraved jack-in-the-box. Let's be honest, their target demographic is individuals who are home-bound due to their morbid obesity. The rest of us are looking to NOT smell like they just left a brothel on half-price night.

The only positive thing I can say about this is that I now know I can use my feminine secretions as a form of currency in the coming zombie apocalypse. As long as RPattz keeps doing photo shoots, I'll live like a queen.

What are your thoughts? Will you be dabbing a bit of clit extract behind your ears before your next trip to the grocery store? Perhaps you could spritz some cooter nectar on your clavicle before a budget meeting. The applications are endless.

Here's a little something to cleanse your palate and get your *coughcough* juices flowing.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Holy Crow! What IS That???

Laaaaadies, meet Jackson Rathbone:

He's a cute little feller, ain't he? Nice cheekbones, a quirky little smile, playful eyes, sexy abs, sexy hair, sexy... well, you get the picture.

Jackson Rathbone is a good looking guy. He also happens to play another good looking guy. Or, in this case, a vampire -- Jasper Whitlock. In the books, Jasper is described as tall and leonine, ferocious yet gentle. Totally fuckable, in not so many words.

Somewhere along the lines, the people of Summit Entertainment got together and decided that one of the vampires could not be all ethereal beauty, with sparkly fucking sexiness oozing out of their pores. No one really knows why - maybe they were jealous, or hungover, or just had to take a shit and needed to get out of the costume/makeup/wig meeting STAT and agreed to anything.

Regardless, it doesn't matter because at the end of the day, they beat the ever loving shit out of Jacksper with the ugly stick. And I have pictorial proof:

Oh, wait. Wrong picture...

Jasper Whitlock - Ye of the Constipated Poodle Hair...

We've gone on relentlessly about the wigs and costumes in all three movies. Some days we're more gentle; others it's like a prison bathroom up in here. We find it frustrating and a little painful to see such handsome and beautiful people end up looking someone stuck a dingy mop on their head. It sucks.

But it couldn't get any worse, right? Nope, nothing beats the Harpo-I-have-to-poop look. What could be any worse than that?


This is the Tonner doll. I don't even know what else to say.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding??? OF COURSE I know what to say!!! Holy Donkey-crapping-bird-fuckers what the hell is up with this DOLL???

He looks like a tow-headed fucking John Travolta. And what's up with the tucked-in button down? Is Jasper going to work at his accounting job? He's supposed to be a teenage boy, for fuck sake. Teenage boys only tuck in their shirts when they're standing in front of the judge at family court. Or going to see their Grandmothers -- I don't know, I was never a teenage boy. At least, not fashion-wise.

Let's not forget about the Farrah Fawcett hair, either. What the fuck? The Jasper Tonner doll is a John Travolta drag queen sportin' Farrah Fawcett's 'do.

Fine. Jasper's is a little shorter, I'll give you that. And the part is a little off but regardless... same haircut.

Maybe I'm being a little hard on this disaster. I mean, I'm not a doll maker... (scrolls back up)

Nope. It's a clusterfuck. I need a little something to cleanse my ocular palate.

Ah, yes. That's MUCH better.