About me: My husband Chuck, our five-year-old Junior, our two-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I blog at funnynotslutty.com and soggypuffs.com.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Random Tuesday Thoughts: Honey, you forgot to mow the kitchen counter
If you need evidence that the human race has hit rock bottom, look no further. Snookie is publishing a romance novel. If you don’t know who Snookie is, I’m jealous. I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to Jersey Shore, but I do watch it sometimes. I can’t help it. Any day now, one of the cast is going to catch such a bad case of herpes or gonorrhea that their limbs fall off, and I want to be there to see it.
Thank God someone invented a cure for unsightly dish racks. Fake grass on your counter looks so much better.
But where is the watering can coffee maker? And the coiled garden hose toaster? If someone’s going to suggest that regular kitchen apparatuses are aesthetically unacceptable, there needs to be more follow through, dammit. I need cohesion. How can we be asked to settle for just grass when we deserve so much more? How?
Yes, those are my pregnancy hormones talking. They’re the same ones that yelled out my window to the woman who let her poodles poop on my front walkway. I’ve never yelled out the window at anyone. It felt kind of good—though I think it would have felt even better if I’d been holding a rocket grenade launcher and had one leg up on the window sill, like I was ready to spring.
Why think small?
Before we can move to Mulletville Lite we need to remove black mold from my father’s basement. Chuck said mold removal takes precedence over painting. “Not when you’re painting a bedroom that used to be the bedroom your parents smushed* in,” I said. It’s true: being exposed to both can cause dizziness, nausea and vomiting.
We’re throwing my friend Jen a bachelorette party this week (she’s the one who had her identity stolen by the Russian mafia, among other things). The evening includes fondue, specialty waxing—yep, an expert is stopping by for wax jobs—and this
Because what bachelorette party is complete without a penis cake? My friend Ana is baking the masterpiece, and she looked to me for guidance. Of course.
First, there was the question of ethnicity. After some debate, we decided on an attractive shade of tan. Then, the obvious question of testicular accoutrements. Ana was full of ideas: “I was looking online and someone covered the balls with chocolate sprinkles. It looked good. But I think if I can find the black licorice strings and curl them - that that might look better/grosser...I may try to make veins to, but that may be too much for me to handle.”
How could you not love this woman?
I think I’ll stop the randomness right there so you enjoy that graphic image of a penis cake for a while. Consider it my gift to you.
No, thank you.
*If you don’t know what smushing is, I’m jealous. Essentially, it’s what the cast of Jersey Shore does 24-7. Their word, not mine.