The One in Which My Phone Trys Embarrass Me; Also Called "Why A Penis Can't be Borrowed"

    Tonight while I was innocently trying to compliment a friend's wedding photo (and also justify tagging myself in it...right at the part where I was explaining why it totally wasn't awkward because I was really there and stuff) my smart phone autocorrected "gorgeous shot" to "gorgeous shit". Naturally this went unnoticed by me until after the comment had been posted. (Then I had to retract the awkward stuff because suddenly shit got awkward or gorgeous depending on who was reading the comment I suppose)
    I have no idea why my phone wishes to jump in at inconvenient times and ruin (or add to) conversations... I mean it's not like I don't say weirdly amazing awful random what-the-fuck did-she-really-just stuff all the damn time.  I often tell people (usually while I am apologizing and helping them look for the bottom half of their jaws) that I don't like to think about what I say before I say it...I like to be just as surprised as everyone else at what comes out of my mouth. (This theory also must apply to my eating habits, because I swear sometimes I throw-up and have to really marvel at the contents before I flush them, or make Wade scoop them out of the sink, because I genuinely don't remember eating anything that looked like that.,,Also, to clarify I don't throw up often, just after I've had bad sushi or mixed rum with tequila...those two *do not* get along in close quarters...no matter what anyone tells you, they don't. Wade has banned certain things from consumption for everyone's saftey and mental health... apparently it's mentally scarring to get up in the morning to brush your teeth and find a sink full of vomit.)

    This is not the first time that Smartdumb phone has left me having to explain things "no, I know you totally expect me to say something like that, but for real this time I didn't mean to, and yes, I know your very religious mother reads your page, (why does your religious mother have Facebook??? And why did you friend her????)  or your girlfriend checked your text messages and now wants to know why I want to borrow your penis."--- That happened...no seriously...it did.
    It was mid-terms, and honestly who hasn't lost their mind during intensive batteries of tests (I mean they *are* called batteries...as in to batter or assault.  (not like cake, let's face it, no one would dread tests if they were cake,we'd eat them and get fat(ter) ) Essentially tests are assaults of our short term memory... anyway, I'm rambling (more so than usual)..so, I was surprised to see that one of my professors required the test to be taken in pencil. (of which I had none...because I hate erasing, and have a fear of falling eyeball first onto the point of a #2 lead pencil..that is another story for a much drunker time) So I did what anyone would do...text a friend and ask to borrow one. Here's what I typed: "Hey, do you have a pencil I can borrow for a couple hours?" Here's what smartdumb phone decided I meant to write: "Hey, do you have a penis I can borrow for a couple hours?". Naturally, my friend was hanging out with his girlfriend who saw the text and found it to be an odd request.
    Of course there were the usual questions one expects when asking to borrow something...How long do you need it for? What are you going to use it for? Except this time there were added concerns...Will you clean it up before you return it? You aren't going to use it on an animal are you? (I study science...we have dissection labs...do you really want a visual here?) All of these were followed by the polite explanation that I might want to brush up on my anatomy lessons...my friend patiently reminded me that if I was indeed going to use his penis for a couple of hours he was going to have to be with it...due to attachment issues (I know right..guys are *way* to attached to their pants sausage) and also his girlfriend was not super happy about lending it out, even if I promised to wash it before returning it. (Please note though that the first response was not an emphatic NO...I have awesome, possibly stupid friends) (Also, I tried explaining to her I was in no way referring to her boyfriend's junk as any sort of pencil dick...this made things infinitely more awkward...we dropped the subject)
   So since smart phones supposedly learn from our daily vocabulary, I am not sure what this actually says about me or my phone. Although on a *Hell yea* kind of note, my phone will autofill "Awetastafuckamazing and fuckweasel" with only the first three letters typed in...we are still working on douchecanoe...I know such a simple term right?
     And so tonight I complimented my friend's wedding photo by calling it a gorgeous shit... for all the world to see. Because really who doesn't want their marital photos to be classified as pretty poop or fabulous fecal matter??? Thank you smartdumb phone...you *do* know me all too well!

*This post not written on aforementioned smartdumb phone...for obvious reasons

Adventures With A Domestic Terrorist

If someone at your local Humane society tells you that 6 week old pudgy, rolli-polli, fits in your hands fuzzball Aussie Blue Heeler Mix is the calmest,most loving, sweetest dog you could ever want...laugh until you shart.

He comes from a long line of pig hunters bred on the island ( the breeder is still in shock that he is a)friendly and b)has not turned our building into rubble...though not for lack of effort on his part) He is uber smart...like to the point I have an ongoing quest to outsmart my dog, the score is currently Thumbed Household Occupants 1,984 to NonThumbed Household Occupants 4,593, we have agreed to call a draw on the "Where the Hell is the Other Battery" incident.
I cried during Marley & Me...not due to the movie itself, but because I thought to myself..this guy got a movie and that's all he did??? My god, Nalu should be syndicated for life. We used to come home everyday, and damn near throw a party if the walls were still standing...(he *did* make us a lovely Dutch door once).
He is the happiest, friendliest pooch, with an endless supply of energy. He fears only folding chairs, hates only ceiling fans. He will fetch and husk you a coconut in under 5 minutes if you ask him to...he will also chew the toes out of all your socks whether you happen to be wearing them at them moment or not and molest your pillows. He will rescue you in the water and pull you to shore if you scream "Help Nalu" and grab his tail. He is impossible to stay angry at, even if he did chew the rails on your brand new custom board and now it is useless...

He will find tennis balls out of seemingly nowhere even if you are in the middle of the junglesque woods with no clear trodden path....he cannot resist cat poop. He will give you hugs when you are sad, and steal your egg roll right off your plate while you watch in disbelief that someone who is neutered has such brass balls. He will ride shotgun with you on a mid summers day at noon in a truck with no air conditioning and vinyl seats...he will attack the steering wheel the moment a cop pulls alongside you on the highway. He is immune to spankings, even if you *do* force your voice really deep and scary and make the mean face in his general direction.
He is a total chic/man magnet...but let him sense the slightest bit of flirtation from a party other than his "mom & dad" and he will not hesitate to take a runny crap right on their feet...he will prance away with his head held high because he is so proud of himself. He refuses to go in a crate, and if forced will destroy that $300 "guaranteed indestructible titanium reinforced rigorously tested" box. He humps the air, on busy street corners while on evening walks.


He is a muscle bound, spring loaded, hair triggered demon with a teddy bear heart. He is my favorite creature on the planet, even outranking meerkats and unicorns...I threaten to make adobo out of him weekly. I cannot imagine how dull life would be with out his antics, I remind myself of this every night when all I want is a place for my feet that is not hanging off the side of the bed...I plan to buy a larger bed.
I am hanging on white knuckled to the leash of an 80 pound crash course in life lessons on a training collar as he explores his world and mine...He is Nalu, and he is my friend.

(Artwork at top left by Jim Mitchell)

Attention: Your Dog Is Trying To Kill You

A dastardly plot has been uncovered in recent weeks. Our best friends wearing fur are actively engaging in bio terrorism to aid in our untimely demise.
Why? So they can eat our feet or something, obviously. Their reasons are unimportant, the fact remains your dog is trying to kill you by silent asphyxiation.

It all starts off serenely, innocently, a perfect situation. You are sitting on your couch blissfully reading a good book passing the afternoon away.
(You'd go outside, but it's surprise deluge week...it's sunny and warm...Holy Norsemen! The sky is falling! Run for your lives, seek shelter...oh wait, nevermind, it's sunny again...Ahhhh build an ark you fools!!!!) So anyhow, there you are peacefully sipping a carbonated lemon water, your canine companion napping sweetly at your feet. He stretches, yawns, plots your death...
you scratch his ears, smile, remain unaware that in mere seconds you will be involved in an epic struggle for your very survival.

*sniff* Hmmm, a slightly foul odor begins to invade your olfactory sensors. *sniff,sniff,GAG* It's like rotting corpses boiled with cabbage served on a skunk with fetid cheeses!
Your eyes begin to water, you gasp to no avail, the oxygen levels in your bloodstream drop to critical levels, your entire life begins to be played on the projector in your mind (even that one time you'd rather forget about, and would have too if you weren't about to expire). At this point the will to live takes over your flaccid limbs and you stagger/crawl/ooze to the nearest window or door. If you can just get one breath of sweet, sweet air. The room is now spinning, you are fading in and out of consciousness, your vision is failing...and what is the last sight your mostly dead eyes behold???? Your dog, bestest of buddies, confidant extraordinaire, the creature you love like a child begins to wag his tail fanning the noxious fumes in your general direction!







If you are reading this then you have managed to survive the assault, good job. You however, are now aware of potential for attacks from the retched rear of your darling mongrel. There is but one recourse. You must find and feast upon the spiciest, greasiest, most bean filled bowl(s)of chili you can find. Retaliation shall be swift and painful,but it is necessary to reestablish your dominance over the horrible hound.
Good luck, God speed...

A Fish Called Alan

He began his existence as all goldfish do I imagine, spawned in the Wal-Mart fishery on aisle 11 in the back suspiciously located next to the cat food. It is unclear exactly how long he had been of this world before we met at the school carnival. He was swimming in a plastic baggie, I was playing a game of sack toss.

His purchase was two sacks in a triangle and one in a "pick a shape" slot. I bestowed upon him the moniker "Alan", for no apparent or at least remembered reason. He was schlepped about the school grounds for the remainder of the day and tossed in the backseat for the ride home...where he was promptly forgotten about for two days until spotted just shy of having a history book dropped on his little plastic home.
Panic! How had I forgotten? Awe! How was he still alive? It was decided he was a hearty fella worthy of of a better dwelling, and so he was upgraded to a slightly better alternative, a mason jar. I believe he was also served his first proper meal of a crouton shortly after the official move.

Months passed, Alan thrived a top my dresser next to the stereo. I remain convinced he enjoyed the rhythmic vibrations from Wu Tang and Nirvana. I began to notice the visibility was less than ideal for Alan observations due to a lovely green coating that was forming on the jar walls, the shade of green was reminiscent of that one time I learned Midori does not play well with tequila...but that is a different story for another time. I was informed that cleaning one's goldfishy abode is generally a good thing to do at least semi-annually. (Ok, fine, I will admit, I hadn't really expected him to continue living this long. Seriously, 7 months??? For a carny goldfish???)

I decide a survivor of his caliber surely deserved a new crib, not only cleaner, but larger with more viewing space, and a neon sculpture!
Snazzy digs if I do say so myself. Alan seemed pleased with his new space and a mental note was made on my part to schedule a bi-monthly scrubdown of his window to the world.

The promise was kept, and the very next month I did indeed sanitize and defunk his place. ( Let me tell you, catching a goldfish with a spoon is infinitely more difficult than I anticipated, and it turns out mothers are less than thrilled with alternative uses for flatware) After a couple unceremonious flops out of the spoon onto the floor, we made it to his temporary swimming hole...the toilet! (What, can you think of a better place??? Besides, he liked it.) Thus our routine was established, once a month he got to play in the "big bowl" and came home to a sparkling pad.
The machine ran smoothly for almost a year, a net was even added to assist with Alan transportation between bowls.
That is until the day a cleaning agent was added to the mix...in the very mouth of the porcelain god, something about preventing stains or something. Now, let me preface this with the reasoning of "I was 16 and had kept an aquatic creature alive for over 19 months, however in typical teenage fashion, had the attention span of an ADHD sufferer on crack."
(Yes, your honor, the defense now rests.)
I failed to notice the pretty blue water in which Alan was tossed in and allowed to swim for his usual 30 or so minutes. It was usual practice to allow him some free bowl time to stretch his fins. I returned a while later and was horrified (momentarily)...Alan, was sort of green in the scales.
As always, he seemed none the worse for wear, and his new color seemed to suit him, though I did feel a tad bit awful when his left fin disappeared shortly there after.
This was also about the time Alan, grew a sense of humor (replacement for the missing appendage?). He began to play a nifty little game with me, let's call it "Guess Who's (Not) Swimming With The Fishes". The rules were simple, he would wait for me to leave for a while and commence belly up flotation maneuvers.
I would return, see him, become sad, and proceed to the usual fishy burial grounds. Just as funerary ceremonies were about to start, Alan, would joyously swim to life! I would chalk this up to mere coincidence, except this became part of our routine, happening at least three times a month.
Seasons changed, time passed, and once again as is the natural course of teenagedom (dumb?), I got an infatuation, er, boyfriend. At the time, I was utterly convinced it was love and we were going to be together forever, or at least until spring break. We spent hours on the phone, so I was constantly distracted, and of course Cupid's bloody arrow had pierced directly through common sense/intellectual portion
of the brain causing an epidural effect every where but the feel goody regions.

It was time for Alan's semi-weekly (we had progressed a great deal in our cleanliness efforts as you can see) purification. On this day, just as I had removed him from his glass house, lovertoy called. I swear I thought I had completed the transfer , I swear it! Quite sometime later I returned and found I had not. Oh this was not good, I thought I had indeed killed my finned friend. I was pretty sure this was considered homicide.
I made my pathetic apologies, and commended his soul to the deep as he made his final plop into the pooper. But wait! Upon reentry to the water, a twitch! Then, a full body jerk, and a circular movement... Holy Mary,Joseph,
and the camel,he was alive! I offered more mea cuplas and promised to be more careful with his life in the future.
So another year passed, we continued our morbidity guessing games,
adjusted to the fact that his belly would apparently always be green, and a scuba diver and night light were added to his abode to keep him company. On the 15th day of the 11th month of the 4th year of his existence, I found him in his now familiar upward buoyancy drill...I had grown wise to his trickery, no fish would fool me today, and he was left unattended until the next afternoon. He was in the same position the next time I saw him, I was impressed that he was really in character...bravo sir!
I went to bed. The next morning, I was suspect as he appeared not to have moved at all and his flakes remained uneaten and littering his floor. I rocked his bowl a bit and caused a localized tsunami in the hopes of rousing him from his game...nothing. I grabbed his net and poked him for clarification...nothing again. There was a sense of sheer disbelief, I had come to believe he was immortal and indestructible! I thought surely a swim in the big bowl would revive him...Alan? Alan? Alllllllaaaaaaaannnnnnn???? He was really gone!) Alan the Eternal Goldfish was no more. 3 years, 11 months and 17 days after I met him, Alan was laid to rest with a burial at sea(via the sewers and waste treatment plants)
it's what he would have wanted.
And that's the story of how a fish named Alan will remain immortal in my head forever.

SpongeBlob NoPants

Ohhhhhhhh....Who lives in an apartment in Hawaii?
SpongeBlob NoPants!!!!

Nonconformant and mellow and bare assed is she...
SpongeBlob NoPants!!!

So, I recently found myself amongst the ranks of the unemployed. Don't panic and get all sad for me or anything, though unexpected it's a good thing. Happy times and progress await instead of a stale soul death by stagnation
in a skyscraper wistfully watching the world go by.

Anyhow, not to get off topic here...my loss of corporate income has resulted in two things...bliss
and the need to wear pants. I hadn't really noticed the lack of leg coverage I had going on until Friday when friends dropped over and it dawned on me this was the first time since Monday that I had in fact put on pants. I mean except for dog walking but those are cloth shorts that have taken up residence by the door. Plastic poop bags...check.
Leash on dog...check. Put on shorts...fine, check.,
Upon domicle reentry...probably look like a fool because of how quickly my pants are on the ground.

Low and behold, today presented another opportunity to dress my derriere. Met a friend for lunch (at 11am on a Tuesday!!!!
Ah the things I have been missing while comatose in a cubicle) Somehow the topic of ass apparel came up in conversation. Turns out, my friend (who is a self employed genius by the way) also finds pants completely unnecessary. There is nothing saying one cannot work britches be damned.


After an extrordinary eating event (lunch is for schmucks



who are told how long they have to masticate their meals because the planet won't survive if numbers aren't crunched) I decided to poll a few other friends, both employed and otherwise engaged in time passery...Profound proof, pants are only around because "The Man" wants one more way to make us suffer. No more, says I! It is now my personal goal to remain butt uncovered for the term of no less than one week. I'll do it for the environment, less laundry = less water consumption.
See it's for a good cause. I also think the boyfriend will be supportive of my environmental efforts.
I should probably stock up on food stuffs before beginning...now if I could just remember...Where the hell are my pants???

The Day I Knew My Addiction Was Winning

As we all know....(much to their dismay) Portland and San Fran are the mecca for Hipsterism.

I was pondering why???? I mean it's not very obscure of them to all gather in one place where they don't stick out of the norm, and where *everyone* in said place has heard of and has the vinyl of that little underground band that sprouted up last week at the coffee shop poetry reading. I mean *gasp* someone else probably is even wearing that same 4 sizes too small ironic tee shirt
*AT THE EXACT SAME MOMENT YOU ARE*



Speaking of Hipsters and their hangouts... I went to Starbucks this weekend (I know, I know... what was I thinking???
Not clearly I assure you, as it *was* 8am on a Saturday and I had not had a single drop of caffeine to course through my bloodstream) So, in my fiendish state I was lulled by a short line and the promise of flavored coffees.

Now let me backtrack a few months so you are fully able to grasp the "What I ordered, What I got, and Where the hell it went wrong" concept of my experience. Around Christmas, the season of gift cards, I usually come into a few Starbucks bucks...some I regift (don't judge me, there are those amongst us who squeal with glee at the prospect of paying 5 bucks for a cup'o'joe {who the hell is Joe???} but I usually keep one for myself and go with the rest of the office crew on a blustery 70 degree Hawaiian afternoon like geese flocking to warm weather. This past holiday, I took my place in the V formation and made the trek across the street to one of the 3 Starbucks on the block.
I ordered a Venti...(what you think I am not going to use the full value of the gift card and have to make that trek more than once????? Fools!) "Chocolate Candy Cane". I was pleasantly surprised at it's fantasticalness. The nice older (damn recession, probably laid off and forced to work with the bean minions...she was clearly too educated and competent) told me I could in fact order my new found wonderful mouth orgy in a cup all year round. Whaaaaaa??? The hell you say, tell me more. I was instructed to simply order a White Chocolate Mocha with a shot of peppermint, and off I scampered damn near joyously into the wilds of the corporate jungle.


This brings me to Saturday...I walk into aforementioned coffee hell house, I march confidently up to the order taking member of the caffeine chain and place my order " I will have a venti iced ( Rolemodels flashes through my head..."stupid in 2 languages") white chocolate mocha with a shot of peppermint *and* an extra shot of espresso" <- what I ordered....That may be the first error in communication, I can't be sure at this point. I pay for my nectar, give my name for the order, and proceed to the pick up zone.

What I got -> "Anne" Rapture, it's ready...cue salivatory glands!
I see only one cup on the platform...it is a Venti, full of ice, 2/3 full of coffeeish looking liquid...I approach with caution. "um, excuse me (we all know the dangers of pissing off a barista) um is this for Anne"? " yea" "oh, ummmmm" I gingerly take a sip.....Retched vomit of demons!!!
This is terrible!!!! This is no where close to the tasty treat experienced during the holidays! I place the container of doom back on the platform and have a brief moment of eye contact (a dangerous maneuver I am aware, use this one sparingly) "um, mam this is not so good, I think it needs more coffee" (in my head " ya know to *fill* the cup and whatnot, as far as I know, no lack of sleep or energy drug has ever caused me to want a giant plastic partially recyclable cup and only half full of liquid
...it seems a bit unnecessary) Barista" you want me remake it" *while throwing it away before I can answer* Me "just more coffee would have been fine"

What I got Part Duex -> I stand back in the appropriate corner, head down as is the proper pose whilst waiting to receive ones order...*try to look bored self,, they'll know you don't fit in if you don't* " Anne" Ah ha! It's ready *again*... I proceed to coffee altar,fully prepared to be rewarded with my fix... again one lone venti cup, filled with ice, and 1/3 full of brown liquid. *eyebrow raises* "Really"???? By now if we don't get on the road, we will be late, so I hastily add some half and half, and run out the door...reminding myself and others why Starbuck is overrated and a waste of space.

I take a sip of the coffee/ bile extract... my nose begins to burn, eyes water, but my breath is completely freshened!
Holy Mentos Batman, it's pure mouthwash. It was then I noticed a complete separation between the ingredients in the cup. the half and half was floating on a layer of clear liquid, I will for the sake of my fragile mind assume to be the peppermint syrup, and below that a brown sludge like layer was forming with a sort of sediment swirling about. That can't be good...better shake it up and take another swallow....the lengths an addict will go to for a fix right??? *shake shake shake* *swallow* nope no different...*shake shake shake* maybe some of the ice will melt and help this whole process along...*shake shake shake* My pretty pretty princesses.....it's like licking Santa's ass!!! I can't go on....world growing fuzzy
....*shake shake shake* "no Santa, I don't want any of your artic salad...nooooooooo!!!

I still don't know what went wrong, and my stomach has hurt since...but I must say, I have remained minty fresh for the past 2 days....

Strokin' the Stem: A Tale of Cerebral (almost) Copulation

Upon review of the last post I was reminded by MySelf that perhaps some encephalon stimulation would assist in preventing sudden onslaughts of imaginative upchuck. "Like mental masturbation" I asked MySelf. Apparentaly, we were not amused (I was). Anyway, here's pretty much how that conversation went...
Me: "Brain...hey brain, you awake"?
Brain: "Who is it"?
Me: "What the hell do you mean who is it? It's me, you know the one on the outside of that skull that surrounds you, keeps you safe when Inner Ear fails to keep us vertical on those stilts down there and we go tumbling down a flight of stairs WHEN WE'RE NOT EVEN DRUNK"?
Sorry, wasn't yelling at you, just hoping Inner would hear me...that was ridiculous".
Brain: "Oh, yea right, how ya doin"? Listen, do you think you could go stand in front of the mirror or something...seeing you would make this conversation slightly less awakward".
*stumbles to wall mirror* Perhaps I shouldn't have yelled at Inner...seems quite pissed and this whole walking thing just got more difficult.Dammit.

Me: "Sooooo, what's up with sudden bursts and outpourings of artistic genius"?
Brain: " You don't provide me with frequent stimulation. I wonder how many cell phone conversations we are standing right now, I mean thousands of invisible waves going right through us right now at this exact second. Did you ever think about that"??

Me:"No not until just now, and now all I can think of is cancer, thanks.
Pay attention will ya? Like mental masturbation"? What you want me to grasp the cerbral stem and stroke it"??? Should I talk dirty to you as well? Oh brain...you big throbbing mass of grey matter".
Brain:..."You're weird, this conversation is finished, I'm going back to sleep and no we are not dreaming of ninja M&Ms on a unicorn again".

Me: "You're the one actually thinking all of this AND I'M THE ONE WHO IS WEIRD"??
Pfffffttttt, I don't care what that neural nuisence up there says...we'll discuss this later, and there will be ninjas
dammit.