Who doesn't close the door in public restrooms?

Ok, enough about Curly Sue (although she is going strong, hanging in there for day 3). Let's talk about some Important Stuff. Like Stuff that Happens in Public Restrooms.

I never use the handicapped stall. I just can't. Even after downing a bucket of Wild Cherry Pepsi at a movie, when I really have to pee and there is a long line and it is the only stall available, I won't use it. What if a legitimately handicapped person comes in right as I'm, um, getting down to business? If I caused someone in a wheelchair to poop their pants because my able-bodied ass was occupying the handicapped stall, the guilt would follow me around my entire life and I wouldn't even try to argue with St. Peter when he shook his head and turned me away from the Pearly Gates.

There is a lady in my building who always uses the handicapped stall and never shuts the door. You heard that right. She leave the door unlatched. Now, this lady has a handicapped parking tag and sometimes uses a cane, so I am not begrudging her the use of the handicapped stall. But I've noticed that her office door is sometimes closed, so she can't have a disability that would keep her from latching the stall.

Don't get me wrong; I never close the bathroom door at home and only rarely do I close it at Steve's (unless I have to see a man about a horse or taking care of some lady business). When I walk in and see the door unlatched and see her feet under the door (of course I look), I start to question myself. Am I being a prude? I mean, it's not like anyone is going to see anything or even walk past. It's the last stall. But then I snap back to reality. No, it's normal to latch the door in public restrooms, just like courtesy flushes or awkward attempts at conversation. As I occupy my stall, I start thinking that maybe it's a dare. She's daring me to fling open the door. Or maybe she's really germophobic, and the merits of latching the door do not outweigh the sheer amount of pathogens that touching the latch would potentially transfer to her hands.

By the time I leave the bathroom, in my mind she has become this passive-aggressive lunatic who goes back to her office to don tissue-box slippers.

She does have that handicapped placard...

Meet...Curly Sue

I got one of my co-workers to help me take a picture of Curly Sue* for your viewing pleasure. Gaze upon her beauty!

[Pay no attention to my bitten nails or unplucked eyebrows. Trust me. It's better this way.]

So...jealous much? I would be, too. Isn't she a thing of beauty? It's too bad I can't type and twirl her around my finger, because looking at this picture is seriously making me want to bust out some pomade and style Curly Sue. Right. Now.

I know that some of you requested a Paint portrait, but really, I tried and I couldn't do her justice.

As a Double Bonus Happiness, I got my birthday present** from my sister Anne and her fiance, Justin, today. I know! Curly Sue and birthday happiness? How lucky can a girl get? I'll probably go home to dog poop all over the house today, just to balance everything out.

It's ok, though, because Anne (who reads this blog sometimes) sent me Cake Decorating for Dummies and the Scrabble Word Building Book. I wish it were the weekend so I could spend all day making Scrabble tile cakes and brushing Curly Sue.

----------------------------------------------------
*Thanks to Dr. Zibbs for giving me the idea to name her.
**My birthday is on Sunday. Happy 27th to me!

None of this would apply if I could grow a decent handlebar moustache

About every 3 or 4 months, I grow an extra-long eyebrow hair in my right eyebrow. It goes pretty much unnoticed by everyone except for me, as it is always very blonde and very thin. I'll just get a feeling one day, and reach up to check, and yes! It's back!

I love this eyebrow hair, and become obsessed with it as it grows. Every so often my hand will sneak up to stroke it, much like I imagine I'd stroke a beard or a moustache if I had one. I sit in front of the mirror and pull it gently to prove to myself it's still there and attached.

I made the mistake of pointing it out to my roommates once, who immediately offered to pluck it for me. When I refused, they moved from offering help to threatening to pluck it as I slept. I don't have to tell you it was a sleepless night.

I got that special feeling today at lunch as I ate my apple and peanut M&M's (I ate my pb&j at 10:00 because I skipped breakfast). I reached up, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. My fingers slid across my eyebrow until I was able to detect and wrap my index finger around the renegade hair.

Long, boring budget meeting? Stressfull phone call with my grandmother? It is the MAD Cat to my Dr. Claw. Seriously, this thing is almost better than as good as a cold beer.

Seriously?

So apparently my blog is down due to some false spamming issues? Fuck. Wordpress is looking good right now...

At least it's Friday.

I threaten my dogs with knives

I went home yesterday on my lunch break to put some scalloped potatoes in the crock pot so they'd be ready for dinner. The dogs were thrilled; I'm pretty sure they usually spend the day licking each others' genitals.

Thanks for sharing my shame, mother.

Anytime, baby Ernie.

Even though Dexter has a bum knee and sometimes refuses to get off of the couch for a morning potty break, that little bastard is an escape artist. In his younger days he'd climb over 6 foot fences. So when the dogs are in the backyard, I keep a close eye on them. Every so often I stuck my head out of the back door.

"Is everyone still behaving?"

It wasn't until about the 3rd or 4th time that I realized I still had my huge potato-slicing knife in hand, giving my neighbors yet another reason to doubt my sanity.

TMI Thursday (and an apology)

Not to worry; I've already slapped myself across the face repeatedly for being an asshole blogger. Work has been crazy, what with the short week (made even shorter by a SNOW DAY on Tuesday and a 2 hour delay on Wednesday--I love working for the county!). I spent the weekend making delicious and not-too-horrible looking red velvet cakes and picking dog hair out of marshmallow fondant (it was more fun that it sounds). Also, I played around on Steve's drums a little bit.

He broke the news that I couldn't be the singer in his fake band because he's heard me at karaoke and he doesn't think I'm good enough. Bastard.

Moving on. It is once again time for TMI Thursday, and although I've talked about pubic hair, rats, and not getting hit on while smelling of baby pee, I have yet to talk about what I think about while sitting on the toilet. Allow me to enlighten you.

Last night I was sitting on the toilet, smack dab in the middle of a satisfying post-work #1, and staring at the empty roll of toilet paper.

Dammit.

Some, when faced with this dilemma, would rail against a spouse or a roommate. As I live alone, I know that I am solely responsible for the predicament I find myself in. I considered my options.

Option 1: Attempt to 'shake' or 'drip' dry. This seems to work well for guys, but I have never found much success with this method.

Option 2: Waddle, pants bunched around my ankles, to the hall closet to retrieve another roll. This would seem the likeliest course of action, were it not for the cold temperature of the house, the possibility of dripping urine on my pants, and the probability of a cold/wet dog nose making contact with my bare bum.

Option 3: Use a washcloth. Convenient, and, in my desperate reasoning, environmentally friendly. I equate it to the use of cloth diapers.

Ultimately, I went with Option 3. I figured that, with judicious use, I could get 4 to 8 uses (not including number two, obviously--I'm not an animal) out of a single washcloth, folded into quarters, before said washcloth would need to be laundered. This would save both toilet paper and water, as I do subscribe to the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" school of thought. I can't really let more than 2 yellows mellow, if you know what I mean, without running the risk of clogging my finicky toilet.

I'm not quite ready to make the permanent switch; I still have some wrinkles to iron out, including:

• coming up with a system for keeping track of which quarters of the cloth have been used
• making the distinction between bathing and wiping washcloths
• tactfully warning guests away from washcloths currently 'in use;' and last but not least
• keeping Ernie from consuming 'in use' washcloths

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

This is what I imagine goes on while I'm at work, except probably with more tongue kissing.

Happy Friday!

TMI Thursday

Ok, so maybe this isn't really TMI, but it is an embarrassing story none the less.

My sister, aunt, 18 month old niece, and myself were in hour 14 of our 15 hour road trip from North Carolina to Michigan. We were making our way through downtown Detroit when we heard a grinding noise coming from underneath the car. My aunt pulled off on the next exit, and stopped at the first gas station we pass to inquire about the nearest service station. While my aunt was in the gas station, a man approached the Dumpster we were parked next to and urinated on it. My sister and I crouched behind my niece's car seat in the hopes that the black half of her racial heritage would be enough to give us some street cred.

We were pointed in the direction of, I kid you not, the scariest auto repair shop you have ever seen in your entire life. From the oil-spattered walls to the tiny rottweiler puppy tied to a cinder block chewing on a styrofoam take-out tray, everything about that place gave me the willies. I accompanied my aunt to the bathroom, which was no more than a filthy commode stuck in an alcove with half of a shower curtain for a door. I decided I'd hold it a couple more hours, but my aunt was in dire straits so I gamely shielded her as well as I could as she did her best in the cesspool.

We reluctantly left the safety of my aunt's car and crowded into the tiny office as the mechanics took a look at the car. There are two chairs in the front office, but no one sat in them. I was holding my niece when I suddenly felt a warm patch spread slowly across my hip. Her diaper had leaked. After retrieving her diaper bag from the car, we got her in a fresh diaper but I was stuck wearing my urine-soaked road-trip jammies.

That place may have been filthy, but they were quick. I don't even remember what was wrong with the car, but they had us out of there in 90 minutes. As we filed out to the car, one of the younger mechanics grabbed my arm.

Him: "Hey, can I get your phone number?"

Are you kidding me? I thought. My hair hasn't been washed in 2 days and I reek of baby pee.

Me: "Um, well I live in North Carolina, so I don't really think this would work out."

He looked at me with an exasperated look on his face.

Him: "No, I need your aunt's phone number. In case we need to get in touch with her about her car."

I blushed wildly and ducked quickly into the car.

Me: "Aunt Mary, they need your phone number."

In which I dream about calling the maintenance man, or Julie Gets a Microwave

Sitting at a friend's house eating pancakes and sausage for dinner recently, I announced that I thought Julie had gotten a microwave for Christmas, but I wasn't sure and maybe I just dreamed that. I'm not 100% sure what prompted me to make this announcement; Julie wasn't even present at dinner. Perhaps it was the wish that I had taken the time to microwave the syrup before I poured it over my pancakes, or maybe it was a random brain synapse firing. I guess it doesn't really matter.

What matters is that I have boring dreams. I have dreams about regular, everyday things. For example, about 5 years ago when I shared an apartment with 2 girlfriends, I was supposed to call the front office to get someone to come out and look at the fan in our laundry room which wasn't working. A couple days pass and one of my roommates, A, asked me if I had called, to which I replied that I hadn't called because our other roomate, D, had called. A few more days pass and no one comes to look at our fan. Why? Because D hadn't called; I had just dreamed that she did. WTF? Get an imagination, you freak.

I've been reading Cake Wrecks for a couple of months now, and I've started having dreams about decorating cakes and I now believe I have the skills to appear on an episode of Ace of Cakes. How hard could it be to sculpt the Backyardigans out of fondant? Never having baked or decorated a cake in my life without the aid of my pals Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker, I bragged to my sister Lauren about my imaginary new-found skill with a pastry bag. She, in turn, told my sister Anne, who is getting married this May, about my new calling in life.

Anne and her fiance have very set ideas about how they want their wedding to go down, and are both working at least 2 jobs to finance it. I'm extremely proud of her for being so responsible, even if her job as a manager at a children's clothing store did prompt her to send me the following email:

To: badmuthafudrucker@gmail.com

From: mailto:babysister@ican

Re: Retail rules

Rule Number 1:
I AM NOT A BABYSITTER --
in fact you probably don'twant to just let your kids run around wild in hopes that I'll watch them. I'd probably let them put a dirty penny in their mouth and watch as you are mortified because you weren't watching them and they decided to suck on a penny - why not? It's shiny, they have nothing better to do. I know those evil glances you're giving as you yell at your child and force them to spit out their shiny metal snack are meant for me, but unfortunatly for you, you cannot place the blame on me in front of the 3 other sets of parents who are looking at you as though you were reading Britany Spears' memoirs of motherhood (hopefully she doesn't really write memoirs of her experience as a mother, it may cause further and irreversible damange to her boys as they grow old enough and some stranger teaches them how to read).

Besides, if you leave your kids to me, how am I supposed to pull all the sizes you want to try on in all the colors and outfits you came in here for in the first place?

Oh and if you ask me to put in a movie for them to watch I will probably be more interested
in that (no matter how many times I've seen Ella Enchanted in the past week) than catering to your every need.

well i hope you enjoy this and it makes you pee your pants a little bit.

-------------------------------------------------

Ah, the pleasures of working in retail.

Anyway, a recent phone call between myself and Anne goes down like this:

Me: Hey Anne!

Her: Hey. Lauren said you wanted to make my wedding cake?

Me: Well, what I said was that I have mad dream skills at decorating cakes.
Her: So you'll make my wedding cake? We just want something simple. All white. With roses.

Me: What if it comes out looking like vomit on a plate? But it still tastes good? Will you hate me forever?

Her: Probably. We want red velvet. I'll send you a picture. [click] dial tone

Me: Wait...

So she wants this:

[image credit: http://www.uniquecake.co.uk/]

But I'm afraid she'll get this:

[image credit: http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com]

Looks delicious. Anyone have a good Red Velvet cake recipe?

Seriously, it's not that hard.

As Nancy's birthday lunch comes to a close...

...Dummy McStupidFace makes a fatal mistake.

The bill arrives...

...and the shit hits the fan.

Things get really ugly, really quickly.

The moral of this story? Always, always ask for separate checks.

...and bring some small bills, mother fuckers.

I should be so lucky

image credit: xkcd comics

I'm sensing a pattern. I cannot fucking win. I'm beginning to hate Scrabble, and myself. This weekend Steve spanked me again at Scrabble. I tried all day not to play, and when I lost I was very, very close to pitching a hissy fit. I was also very, very close to cheating.

"Q-U-O-N-E. QUONE. You know, when a patient gets out of hand, you have to quone'em. We need a medical dictionary!"

Granted, I am showing improvement. I only gave him 2 Triple Word Score spaces, instead of setting him up for all 8, and I only lost by about 40 points. But when did I become such a poor loser?

I was never really big into sports in elementary or high school. First out in dodge ball in 4th grade PE? Oh well, I'll just sit over here and read "Incident at Hawk's Hill" again.

On the rare occasion when I wasn't riding the bench on my high school's varsity softball team, my sister and my best friend would eat my sunflower seeds and drink my Gatorade Ice, filling it back up with cloudy water from the team's water cooler, then laughing at me when I came back into the dugout. The three of us were also admonished by out coach for an inappropriate display of mirth on the bus ride home from a particularly bad loss. Apparently the appropriate attitude was one of despair and humiliation. We didn't get the memo. It was Friday, and we had a date with a handle of Aristocrat vodka and a henna home tattoo kit.

I hope our Technology department isn't monitoring my internet usage too closely today, lest they see a spike in Google searches for 'scrabble+tips for winning' and 'how to lose graciously.'

You win this time, venison.

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I'm there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they've speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she's killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I'm making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year's resolution to lose a few pounds? I'll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn't the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I'm still in denial.

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*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven't actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I'll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

Harry Potter sock yarn? Yes, I am serious.

Today is a sad day. Has anyone has been holding off on presenting me with that bag full of cash so I can quit my job and spend all day knitting socks out of Harry Potter yarn and baking delicious treats for the dogs? Because today would be the perfect day to stop procrastinating and hand over that loot. Seriously. I am thisclose to punching a few people in the mouth and then hanging out in the intersection by the McDonald's with the other homeless panhandlers. I bet I could make a couple bucks today before my tears of frustration with life in general stopped being cute and started turning ugly.

Ok, internet, I am going to go breathe into a paper bag and try not to karate-chop any of my co-workers in the throat. SERENITY NOW!

Trish gave me an award on Monday, probably before she read my depressing post about the passing of Pat Hingle in which I make fun of Mr. Rogers. Thanks Trish!

So I'm going to quickly pass this along to a couple of blogs I've recently started reading that restore my hope that humanity is not a complete and utter pile of steaming dog diarrhea:

Doug at To Blog Or... because I nearly shit my pants reading about how he did shit his.

Lisa at Lemon Gloria because she is not afraid to write about how her husband voiced his fears that the cable technician would urinate on their rug during a service call.

Just a Girl because her chihuahua chewed up her butt plug and my sister's chihuahua chewed up my very first vibrator. This means we are blog twins.

Alexa at Cleveland's a Plum because she pierced her ear to win a scavenger hunt and didn't even end up winning. But you are still a winner, Alexa.

and last but not least,

Dr. Zibbs at That Blue Yak because he gave me nightmares about turkey vultures and it is his birthday. Happy Birthday Dr. Zibbs!

Also Kate, Lump, and Ashley all took me up on my offer to interview them, so check their blogs out in a few days for their answers to such thoughtful and insightful questions as:

Who would win in a fight between a unicorn and Dateline NBC’s Chris Hansen?
(Keep in mind: the unicorn is abnormally strong, has a razor-sharp horn, and can fly; Chris Hansen has the power to read minds and also has a pet phoenix whose tears can heal any wound.) Explain.

and

You find an old oil lamp at a pawn shop marked $20; you haggle the
proprietor down to $10 and buy it. After you bring it home and rub it (just for
shits and giggles), a genie comes out. He tells you he is the pantry genie, and
can bewitch your pantry to always be fully stocked, but only with the
ingredients for one dish. Which one dish do you tell him to stock it up with?
What are the ingredients? Can I have that lamp when you are done with it?

I burned my bangs off with a curling iron. True.

So Andy over at Film, Tape, and Steel Strings offered to humor interview me (ok, really I volunteered because I'm still not in the I-can-totally-write-a-funny-blog-post-no-problem mode). Here are the 5 questions he asked me with my answers. Now I'm supposed to send 5 new questions to anyone else who's interested; just leave me a comment letting me know you'd like to be interrogated interviewed and I'll come up with 5 brilliant and insightful questions and email them to you. It's possible that I've gotten some of this stuff wrong so check out Andy's blog for the real rules.


1) If you have one physical possession that means more to you than all others, what is it?

Growing up as a military brat, my family moved a lot and I ending up losing having to part with a lot of stuff, so I view most of my possessions as replaceable. I won't count the animals, even though legally they are possessions, but if the house was on fire they would probably beat me out of the door (or in Hemo's case, push me down on her way out a la George Costanza). If my house was on fire and I could only grab one thing, I'd probably grab my electric skillet, because that thing makes some AWESOME hash browns and I even made soup in it once. True, I could buy another one at Wal*Mart for $19.99, but what if Wal*Mart burned down, too? I'd be S.O.L.

2)What is an embarrassing High School moment that you had to live through?

In high school, I played clarinet in the marching band, and no, that's not the embarrassing moment. My sophomore year, we marched in the Junior Orange Bowl Parade in Florida. I was so pumped. We were going to DisneyWorld, too. Double pumped. I was getting ready at 4am to get on the bus, going through my usual routine of curling my bangs in the infamous claw-over-the-forehead style, when the stench of burning hair assaulted my nose. All 20 strands of hair that made up my bangs had seperated themselves from my head and were seared onto the curling iron. I lost my shit. Crying, screaming, peeking at my crispy baby bangs through red, puffy eyes, I jammed a Mickey Mouse ball cap on my head and boarded the bus with my bandmates. My bangs have never been the same.

3) Who is your "favorite" blogger/blog and why?

My favorite blogger is Dingo over at As I Was Saying. She was one of the first commentors on my blog, and she has become my blog hero. She's had like a million different jobs, from stewardess to attorney to college professor, and has the baddest Photoshop skills you've ever seen. Plus she has a baby pigeon named McJagger (well, maybe he's not a baby anymore, or even a boy, and maybe he no longer resides on her porch or enjoys Dingo Girl's protection, but still, McJAGGER? Come on! That's golden.) Also I want her on my side during the zombie apocalypse, because she's devoted some serious time to planning for and surviving said apocalypse.

4) Your favorite nickname someone else has given you*.


Well, it's definitely not Wine Eye. My sisters called me Sarah Jeanie Weenie when we were little and I hated that, too. My senior year of high school, though, I developed an insane crush on my AP American History teacher, Mr. Tucker. Man, my knees still get weak thinking about him. I had (and filmed, the shame!) a fake wedding in which my Little Foot stuffed dinosaur stood in for Mr. Tucker at the altar. I was convinced that when I saw him at the Homecoming football game the year after I graduated, he'd offer to take me for a ride on his motorcycle, and then propose marriage. I guess I don't need to tell you what didn't happen that night. Sigh.

What we were talking about? Oh yeah, nicknames. There were only 6 people in my history class, and when we were learning about the Battle of Saratoga, Mr. Tucker started calling me Saratoga Jean (my middle name is Jean, if you haven't picked that up already) and it is now my email address, my screen name, and my first and only tattoo. Ok, one of those is a lie. But Mr. Tucker, if you are out there...I love you. Still. Call me.

5) If you had to move to a major city somewhere in the US, what would it be
and why?


I'd move to Honolulu, because I couldn't stand to be anywhere colder than where I am right now. We lived in Hawai'i for 6 years when I was in elementary school, and if money wasn't a consideration I'd moved back in a heart beat. The ocean is beautiful, the water is clear and warm all year long, the food is an absolutely delicious blend of Polynesian and Asian influences, the culture is fascinating, and even on your worst day, you are still in Hawai'i. The best corn on the cob and the best shave ice I've ever eaten were from roadside vendors on the way home from the North Shore. Man, I need to start saving my pennies.

So, who's next?
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*I don't believe in giving yourself a nickname. That's why I slapped several people in the face at a bar who were calling my friend Ashley "A-bomb." It's not a real nickname, guys, she gave it to herself. Stop calling her that. Call her "Smashley." It's funnier.

I know I shouldn't have slapped the innocents who didn't know any better. But I couldn't help myself. My rage blinded me.

86 Pat Hingle*

This morning I saw "Hats off to Pat Hingle" displayed on the marquee of a local diner. For the next 20 minutes of my drive to work, I wondered who Pat Hingle was, and what he/she had done to merit such public recognition. Had he coached his son's pee wee football team to the pee wee Superbowl equivalent? Had she been the top producing real estate agent at the local Century 21 franchise? Had he (be still my beating heart) finally conquered the 8 lb. hamburger at the afore mentioned diner?

A little wiki-research revealed that Pat Hingle had played Comissioner Gordon in several Batman movies. Oh, that Pat Hingle. And that he had survived a near-fatal fall 54 feet down an elevator shaft. Wow.

It turns out that Pat Hingle died yesterday in Carolina Beach, NC from leukemia. So hats off to Pat Hingle, even though to my knowledge he never did conquer that monster hamburger.

----------------------------------------------------------
*The title comes from a horrible joke told by a co-worker when I was waiting tables. The kitchen would regularly communicate which items we were out off by writing "86 (whatever we were out of)" on a marker board in the kitchen. When one of the servers heard about Mr. Rogers' death, he wrote added 'Mr. Rogers' to the list. Even though I was sad about his passing, I couldn't help laughing. I will have a hard time explaining this to Mr. Rogers if I make it to Heaven and meet him there.

It's just like riding a bike, right? Right?!?

So I haven't blogged for a while (you didn't notice? oh well) which has created a backlog of post ideas that have leaked into my real life conversations. Prefacing a story with, "just a warning, this might be TMI," doesn't really work out well when you end up telling your mom how you know it's gross but you still sit bare-assed on the toilet seat at bars because the 'squat-and-pee' maneuver it too difficult to pull off after a few drinks, and no one really gets crabs from public toilets anyway, right?

Also I said 'fuck' in front of my mom and my 5 year old niece, but thankfully my family is too shocked to really address this issue, so after I weathered the 25-30 seconds of awkward silence I was home free.

So here's a quick recap of things that have happened to me in the past 2 weeks or so:

• I cut off all most of my hair. I love it.
  

I went sledding with my niece in Michigan. Being in the snow for less than 45 minutes rocks. After that...not so much.

Steve got drums. :(

That is all for today. Yay 2009!

*[Updated to add]: Why did no one tell me I spelled niece wrong?