At Least It Wasn't A Stranger's Pair

You know what's not cool? Waking up to find the Math Teacher's teeny tiny dog has pulled my underwear out of the laundry and is chewing on the crotch like it's going to give her everlasting life and happiness.

Seriously puppy, what the h!?

After I scolded her and told her that sort of behavior is just a step before ending up on Dateline's To Catch a Predator - "Why do you have condoms in your car little tiny dog?" - "Uhh, those aren't mine." - "Why do they have your initials on them, and why are they numbered?" - "Oh I like to know how many I use - I mean . . . shoot! I'm outta here!" - After that I jumped in the shower, and completely forgot about the whole underwear incident.

Until I got out AND SHE HAD THEM AGAIN.

I'm not sure how she got them, because I put them on top of my sister's bookshelf (you're welcome Becky) and this puppy is seriously like three pounds and as long as a football. But somehow that little sucker had managed to get them again and was now wearing them over her head like some sort of creepy, perv babushka.

I don't know what's going on, but I locked all my underwear in the bedroom, so if I come home and that puppy has my underwear again I will be a) impressed; and b) will have to ultimately come to the conclusion that my underwear tastes like Skittles.

THAT'S THE ONLY POSSIBLE EXPLANATION.

I Also Love The Dancing

I don't know if it's because it hasn't been on in like seven months (it's not summer FOX, stop pussyfooting around), or if it's because I need to rethink my sexuality, but I keep dreaming about Santana.

Not the Mexican rocker Santana, the Mexican girl from Glee Santana.

Maybe it means I want to be Mexican (Oh my god I wish) (Do you know how awesome I would be as a Mexican? TOTALLY awesome.) (And I would time travel back to 1991 when being a Mexican girl meant I could wear lip liner the color of chocolate, and pale nothingness as the fill in lipstick, and I would hair spray my hair so crispy if you got near it you could snag your sweater on it and end up trapped in my curls like a burr patch, and I would talk with a thick ghetto accent even though my parents and I speak Castilian Spanish at home, and I would wouldn't have had to wear pants that stopped about mid-thigh because I out grew everything at a lightning pace back then because I wouldn't wear pants, I would wear leggings under jean shorts and an over-sized Raiders jersey that I borrowed from my boyfriend Jose! I don't even care which Jose, and of the ones I knew would work!)

(To be fair that's actually what I looked like back then because I desperately wanted to be Mexican except I'm not, so I just looked like a ridiculous, white, gangly, Jewish girl with too much mousse in her hair and not enough boob to make the Raiders jersey look remotely attractive. It just looked like I was wearing a nightgown to school. And that I'd accidentally lined my lips with a sharpie.)

Anyway, the holidays are over and it's time for mah stories to start coming back on. Raising Hope, Glee . . . lets do this mother!

Here's a magic little gem because it's the song I dreamed about last night. Santana was singing it to me at the hospital while I got my teeth capped with gold and diamond caps. And then I shaved my head.

Maybe I don't wanna be Mexican, maybe I want to be a rapper.

I'm not sure I would fair as well.

Jack In My Heart

Let me tell you a little something about breakfast croissants from Jack in the Box. . .

I'm fairly certain they're made in the heavens by chubby little angels that went to Hogwarts and died in some sort of epic battle against the Dark Arts teacher and now have a place in magical Heaven, not normal human Heaven, and for some reason they work on a line system, like the elves in Santa's Village, even though they're in Heaven and they shouldn't have to work, but these are the kids that really wanted to go to culinary school but couldn't because they got a letter form Dumbledore and had to go just to make their parents happy, all of whom said, "Just finish your seventh year and then you can do whatever you want, go to pole dancing school if you want, I don't care, but you're gonna finish Hogwarts and you're gonna finish good." And then they ended up dying, which just made their parents devestated and crying in the corner, "Why didn't I just let little Bathildaione go to pastry school like she wanted?! Bwaaaaa!", but it's ok because now they get to spend eternity spreading love and joy and magic through cooking those tasty little breakfast croissants.

BEHOLD:






And they're two for three dollars! SHUT YOUR MOUTH!

I'll take twenty!

Anyway, I'm not sure why I'm going on and on about this, but when I lived in Chicago the closest Jack was and hour and a half away, and don't think that I didn't consider taking four trains to get there once, because I totally did. But now my sister lives like a block away from one, and it's pretty much going to be the death of my arteries, and I don't even care.

There goes my "Eating Healthy in 2011" resolution, I think I've officially changed it so now it's, "Eating Healthy More and More in 2011 and Loving Every Single Ham and Cheese Filled Second"


(P.S. I really wanted to label this post: "You Can Put Some Jack In My Box" just to show how much I love it - but then I remembered my Mom reads this so decided against it. Family friendly people.) (Sometimes.)

James Dahmer

Well, my murdering little psycho is back in action. You can all breath a sigh of relief - much like the way I hold my breath waiting and hoping Dexter will kill someone soon, because damnit if that Julia Stiles isn't putting a crimp in my stories with all of her feelings and blah, blah, blah - James has started murdering again.

Because of the winter, my little sucker doesn't spend much time outside if it's too cold, but we've had a weird warm patch which not only brought out the cat, it also apparently set all the mice in the world free, making it like a pedophile set loose in an un-teachered elementary school.

I'll be honest, I liked kill-free life. No blood to clean up, no praising him for bringing dead things into the house even though all I really want to do is cry/throw up a little. Plus when he comes into bed at night to snuggle in my knee nook, I don't worry that my lower legs are about to get some sort of SARS from one of the wild birds he has just eaten while still alive, and then my legs will be the resurgence of SARS back into the world, and I'll be quarantined in some government manned hospital where eventually they erase me from all world data banks, cut off my legs, and make me hobble around on my nubs, occasionally strapping wheels to them like some horrible version of human roller skates except way less fun.

But apparently I can't have life my way all the time. Because this morning. . . . this morning James caught a mouse the size of a football then let it go, caught it again, let it go, caught it again, threw it up in the air for a little bit in some sort of horrible juggling show of death, let it go, caught it again, juggled it, I think laughed a little bit, and then continued on with this cycle for a good forty five minutes, until he got bored, the poor thing died, and James decided the party was over and it was time to eat.

But I swear to God he's so super cute and teeny you could never imagine him doing such a thing! Which I imagine is the trick of all the great serial killers, it's how they get through life - making everyone believe they're innocent and tender and cute and cuddly, and then when you're not looking - *BAM* - there's a slaughterhouse in your front yard.

I hope it snows.

Kitten Pancakes

I'm pretty sure I used to do normal things. A while ago. Like, maybe back in High School. I know I at least made it out of my pjs everyday, because I went to school and trust me I would remember if I showed up in my green paisley silk pajama bottoms (that stopped just above my ankle bones) and my sister's t-shirt from kindergarten that said 'Class of 2000' on it. ( Why they gave a 5 year old a t-shirt that would fit a sixteen year old the size of a anorexic Luke Walton I'll never know.)

So, definitely back then I did important things like learn how to drive a car, and memorize the entire periodic table of elements, and discover that not all boys made out with their entire faces, some actually didn't leave a string of saliva between us like some weird sort of I'm-dating-you-umbilical-cord-of-gross. From there I somehow made it to college and graduated (twice)(how?)(I mean, I pretty much drank my weight in whiskey, which leads me to believe I am simply much smarter when drunk)(maybe alcoholics aren't alcoholics, they're really just cancer-solving, world-hunger-ending, space-robot-physicists trapped in a sober body?)(Please do not spread this around as fact though, as is just a theory. And probably a really bad one. Maybe. I can't tell, I'm sober.)

But then everything after that is sort of a reverse blur where I end up back in my pjs, watching waaaaay too many episodes of Two and a Half Men (awful), and making pancakes for my cat.

Oh yeah. That's right. I woke up the other day and made. pancakes. for. my. cat.

Ok, but here's the thing . . .

I've never made pancakes before. Like not even from a Bisquik mix. I don't even ever order pancakes. Once, Gige's husband and I were really hungover and we all went out to breakfast and he and I noticed the couple sitting next to us left almost an entire stack of uneaten pancakes. And by 'almost' I mean ok, fine, they had eaten a quarter of them, but the other quarter was untouched and golden and I think even glowing a little with sunshine sparkles, and we looked at each other, shrugged, and much to Gige's absolute horror, dug in and ate those suckers. But even then I didn't order them, I just ate them off of some strangers plate.

Anyway, so I don't normally have anything to do with pancakes. But I woke up and was like, "I think I want pancakes today. On a Wednesday. Even though it's 10am and I should be working." And just at that exact moment James jumped onto my chest, squished my boob as hard as he possibly could, and said, "Fuck yeah let's have pancakes."

So that's what we did.

Since I don't actually know if he used the F-word or not, I had to go by his actions, and the little sucker got up and followed me to the kitchen and watched every single thing I did to make the batter, like a crazy little Gordon Ramsey. But one that can fit in the mixing bowl. Which was where he sat after I'd made all the pancakes. Because he liked the feel of the leftover batter on his paws? I'm not sure. That little guy is weird with his textures. But he sat in that bowl as if I was supposed to rub the excess all over him like a whole body facial, or some sort of disguise he could use around the neighborhood to fool all the unsuspecting birds into coming to him.

Unfortunately I didn't act fast enough to get a picture of it, because I was too busy falling in love with him all over again for being RIDICULOUS, but I did manage to get a picture of our pancakes.

I ate like seven, and he only sort of licked this one, but it was totally worth it. Next week I might try waffles, that way maybe I can pour little tiny square pools of milk in them and make a fun little checker board of drink for him to relish! He's so lucky!

And yes, I'm going to shower and leave the house now. I do hear myself.

Just Creeping On The Down Low

So I - like the total creep I am - read a lot of Mommy blogs. Like, they're the first thing I check in the morning. So I - like a creep - totally know all about these strangers' kids, how old they are, what their names are, when they started walking, and so on. So much so that a year or so ago, I somehow brought it up with a girl I went to school with and she was all, "Oh my god I read them too! Did you hear blah blah had her baby?!" and I was all, "YES. She's soooo cute! Almost as cute as her son." and we chatted on like this for a while, talking about these women as if they were our friends, dodging weird looks from the guy we went to school with because he had noticed we were talking about people that were almost fictional to us. But worse. Because they're not fictional - it's not like I have some weird fan obsession with Bella and Edward and their world - it's an obsession about real people.

Cue police escort out of the building.

Anyway, I checked one this morning I haven't seen in a while and was shocked to find the baby is not really a baby anymore. She's walking and has hair and I was stunned. Like, I assume people freeze in time when I'm not reading about their personal life? Actually, yes. That is what I assume. The fact that life keeps happening when I'm not checking up on it is almost mind-boggling. And completely self-absorbed, I know, but still - shocking. Like, there's this kid I knew in first grade who broke his leg, and I haven't seen him since, and for some reason when I picture running into him I picture me as a thirty year old, talking to Casey Waters the six year old - asking him what's going on with his life, how's recess, did he get chocolate or plain milk for snack, you know, the ushe.

And I feel even more like a creep because I know if I ever ran into one of these women I read, or their kids, I would be all, "Oh my gosh! Hi Heather! Leta and Marlo are so cute! Hi Marlo, I know you love cheerios, why don't you come into my van and I'll give you all the cereal you want. Start the van Donny, START THE VAN, I'VE GOT THE KID!"

Just kidding. I don't know anyone named Donny.

Anyway, the whole point is, I should probably leave my house more and talk to real people so that one day I don't stumble out of the yard looking around me like - Where did all these flying cars come from? What's this facebook thing the kids are all talking about? Michael Jackson died when???

And I will. I will leave the house.

Right after I check up on some blogs. Like a creep.