I've Stolen an Idea to Keep You Interested in My Blog Because My Brain Hurts and it Needs a Break. There's a Lesson in There, Kids. Laziness Breeds Thievery.

My brain is tired from entertaining you guys.  And also my space heater smells like it's about to catch on fire.  Hang on a sec.

I'm back.  False alarm.  It's fine.  Now, where was I?  Oh yeah.  My brain is tired and I'm feeling lazy, but I don't want to leave you guys high and dry with nothing to read because what if you get bored and stop paying attention to me?  So I've come up with a brilliant plan to give you a new post every day for the next ten days, but I don't actually have to do any thinking because it's an idea that I stole from my friend LaToya.  She's awesome and funny and she has a blog at www.lahdiva.blogspot.com.  Go to it!  Tell her I sent you.  Now my space heater smells again.  Dammit WHAT IS GOING ON????

Okay I can't figure it out.  It's making me nervous but I would rather be warm and take my chances than be cold but assured of my own personal safety.  If I die in a fiery inferno because of a faulty heater, then this post will be my last words.  Can one of you please promise to read it at my funeral?  Thanks. 

Anyway, here's the thing that's going to be awesome because you guys get content and I get a vacation from thinking up new ideas.  Ready?  It's a ten-day challenge.  I'll go ahead and give you all ten topics now, so that in case you see one that you think might be boring, you can just go ahead and skip that day.

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.
Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn offs.
Day Eight: Three turn ons.
Day Nine: Two smileys that describe your life right now.
Day Ten: One confession  

Doesn't that sound like fun??  I'm excited.  Oh wait.  I just realized that in order to do this, I'm going to have to think of what to write for all these topics.  Shit.  There goes my brilliant plan to just phone it in for the next ten days.  So I guess that means that you guys get content, but I still have to make an effort.  Sigh... FINE.  It's a good thing I like you.      

The Supply Closet at Work is Probably the Safest Place to Hide From a Bear. Especially if There's an Ex-Nun Inside.

Last night I received a very awesome text message from a friend regarding her and another person, which required my immediate attention, but it was kind of late so I decided to save it for the following day (which would be today) to give me something to do at work.  I was looking forward to responding in a verbal fashion, but unfortunately I failed to remember that there is an ex-nun temporarily working in the room in which I usually make phone calls, and I would feel weird discussing my friend's opportunities for potential hook-ups in front of someone who used to be married to Jesus and probably still has a direct line to God.  

So, consequently, I was bored at work all day until a woman that I work with came over to my desk and started poking my face with her finger without explaining to me what she was doing.  I had no idea what was going on, and my first instinct was to freeze and then play dead.  Like how the nature survival shows tell you to do in the instance of a bear attack.  

Side note- when bears attack, do not run.  This only serves to excite them and bears are faster than you.  I don't care if you are Jesse Freaking Owens with four fancy gold medals.  You cannot outrun a bear.  Don't say I didn't warn you. 

Anyway, I was frozen in place, thinking about the likelihood of a bear attack, when I realized that she was merely comparing my face to hers in an effort to gauge how old she looks.  (I have no idea how old she is, but I would guess mid-thirties.  I am 25.)  

So, no bear attack, but still.  She was poking my face.  It was weird.  But at least I know that if a bear were to go on a rampage at my office, the safest place to hide would be the supply closet because that's where the ex-nun is and God would probably protect her first.

Bloggetty Blog Blog It's November!!!

17 days til Thanksgiving!  I can hardly wait.  Soon I will be able to listen to Christmas music... 

So yeah, I don't really have anything to say.  I wasn't planning on posting today, but I was sitting on my bed with Lappy doing my routine surveillance of social media outlets (read: facebook stalking), and the spirit moved me.  Why I don't know, because all I can think about right now is should the word "Bloggetty" be spelled with two t's, as I spelled it in the title, or just one, and that's not enough for a post.  You guys deserve better than whole sentences devoted to possible spellings of made-up words.  

So I'll quit now.  I will be back only when something newsworthy happens.  Sorry for the fake-out if any of you got excited about this.  I'll make up for it next time.

Things that MUST BE ACCOMPLISHED this week

1.  Clipping my nails.  

Seriously.  I don't know what it is about me, but my fingernails are freakishly strong.  They almost never break.  My current theory is that I have an overabundance of protein in my body, and instead of the surplus manifesting itself in awesome ways like really big muscles or the stamina of a marathon runner, I have instead been cursed with fingernails so strong that in order to trim them, I have to first soften them by running them under hot water for several minutes and even after that I still have to use the heavy-duty toenail clippers instead of regular nail clippers that are made for normal, non-mutant people.  
 
I think it's too much protein because I also have abnormally thick and heavy hair, and isn't hair made out of protein?  I remember hearing somewhere that your fingernails are the same substance as your hair.  Or maybe I heard that the horn of a rhinoceros is just densely packed hair, and is mostly protein, and then my bizarro imagination just threw in the fingernails for fun.  Either way, trimming my nails is an arduous task but it must be done, and soon, because they are now so long that it's affecting my ability to type.  Really, I've had to backspace so many times already in this post you don't even know.  It's taking me way longer than usual.
 
2.  Laundry.  

I'm drowning in it.  At this point it would just be easier to buy all new clothes.
 
3.  Write a blog post.  

Oh wait, I'm doing that.  Sweet.
 
4.  Go shopping for long-sleeved shirts.  

I think I only have five, and right now I'm just kind of repeating them a lot with different pants combinations, and hoping no one will notice.  Also, see number two, above.


So... that's my list of stuff.  Which can only be accomplished if I get up and start doing something, so I think I'm going to go get the pruning shears and hack at my rhino nails for a while.  Peace out, cub scout.

Is Twelve a Mystery, After All?

I just had a thought.  Remember a few weeks ago when I gave a shout-out to Dee to thank her for being number twelve and putting the stopper in my bottle of crazy?  Well, that stopper is wriggling loose, because here’s my thought: What if it’s not her?  What if it’s a stranger?  A mystery Deanna, if you will.    

I had just assumed that anyone reading my blog is someone I know, so naturally, because I only know one Deanna, I assumed it was her.  But I might be wrong.  That would be really embarrassing.  I mean, we all know what happens when you assume.  (Wait, you don’t know?  You must have skipped sixth grade, which is about the time that joke manifests itself.  Here’s the breakdown: when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me.  Get it?  Haha.  Hahaha.  Okay.  Moving on.)

If, Deanna, you are a stranger, then I apologize for mistakenly identifying you as someone else in front of the entire online community.  Actually, “entire online community” is vastly overestimating the size of my audience.  I suppose  I should revise that statement to “I apologize for mistakenly identifying you as someone else in front of the handful of kind-hearted souls who follow my blog out of pity for my constant need for attention”.  So really, it’s not a big deal.  Don’t worry.  Only a few people were given a false impression of who you are.  

If, Dee, it is in fact you, then congratulations on getting married!  I’ve been stalking you on facebook and I saw pictures of your wedding.  You looked so beautiful!  Remember that time that we went to the antique store by your house and I bought a bracelet?  I still have it.  I can see it from where I’m sitting right now.

Where have I been?

I can’t believe I’ve only posted once this month…sorry!  Not like I think any of you are waiting with bated breath to hear what I’m going to say next, but I can’t help feeling slightly guilty for depriving you of my brilliance.  I honestly don’t know where my brain has been!  I guess nothing worth telling has happened lately.  But that’s all over now, because this morning right before my alarm went off I had a really gross dream, and I think you need to hear about it.  

Okay.  So here’s what happened.

I was at some generic, non-descript farm somewhere, and I was walking around in one of the pastures looking for a halter that one of the horses had broken while he was out the previous evening.  The field had just been planted with who knows what, so I was walking around the edges to keep away from the freshly ploughed area.  I don’t know why in my dream it made sense that horses would be put out in a field with newly planted crops because they would just trample all over it and wreck everything, but whatever.  Dreams are like that.

So anyway, I was walking along and I heard this weird rumbling noise behind me.  I guess whoever was in charge had decided that it was a good time to fertilize the crops, and a huge manure spreader was bearing down on me faster than I could get away.  I just kind of stood there like an idiot, and as it drove past me it sprayed my ENTIRE RIGHT SIDE with liquefied horse crap.  It was absolutely disgusting.  It was on my face, in my shoes, everywhere.  And then my alarm went off and I woke up.  And it was Monday.  And raining.  Mondays don’t start much worse than that.    

P.S.  I told this guy who sits next to me at work about it, and he said that if  I were to ask Freud, he would probably interpret it in some twisted way to mean that because I dreamed about being sprayed with fertilizer, it means I want to have a baby. 

Guard Cat- My First Experiment With Video Blogging

Is this what 'vlogging' is?  I have no idea.  Anyway, this is Alice, guarding my sandals like the fierce girl that she is. For whatever reason, she seems to especially like shoes.  Sometimes she will shove her whole head in my shoe and then fall asleep like that.  I'm never afraid to leave my valuables laying around when she's there, because I know that whatever it is she will immediately lay down on top of it and refuse to move.  She's like a rottweiler-hippogriff-raptor-cat.  Don't mess with her when she's on duty.  Raptor-kitty kill you.   

Yes I Have One Shorter Leg, But I Really Don't Think That's The Problem Here

Can we just discuss something for a minute, you guys?  I can’t even tell you the battle I’ve been having lately with buying jeans.  It seems that in the past year, one of two things has happened- either the leg length of the average woman has increased by like four inches, or whoever puts the labels on the jeans in the jean factory has been smoking crack and just sticking on the sizes willy-nilly without care for the sanity of those of us who need new pants.  Or they’re just doing it as a joke. 

Okay that was actually three things.  Whatever.  Sometimes when I get worked up I get a little careless.

Anyway, my point is this- jeans usually come with labels attached identifying them as either “Long”, “Regular” or “Short”.  Naturally, one assumes that these are for long, regular, or short people. 

Not so.

These labels apparently have no bearing whatsoever on the actual length of the jeans.  When I invest my time in a shopping expedition (which for me is like epically slow Chinese Water Torture) I expect the regular length jeans to be just that- regular.  'Tis the season for flip-flops and flats, and I don’t want yards of gratuitous fabric flapping around my ankles when I’m going for a nice, leisurely stroll around town.  This past spring I completely ruined the hem of my favorite pair of jeans while walking around Venice because they were too long for my flops but I didn’t want to wear heels on the cobblestone streets. 

(I could have gotten my point across there without being specific to location, but I want to make sure everyone knows that I wrecked my pants in Venice.  Booyah.) 

Right about now you might be thinking to yourself “Geez this chick is lazy.  Why doesn’t she just buy the regular pants and then hem them if they are too long?“  Here’s why- I don’t want to.  I want what I was promised on the label to be so.  I don’t want to buy pants and then spend more money to make it so.  (Captain Picard fans should have gotten a little thrill just then.  To everyone else sitting there scratching your heads- we are cooler than you.  Go check out Star Trek: The Next Generation and then get back to me.) 

I understand that everyone wants a pair of jeans that they can wear with a fun pair of heels/boots/wedges etc.  Naturally, these need to be a little longer than usual to accommodate the extra height, or else we would look silly, right?  Of course.  That’s what the long ones are for!  Hear me, oh rich and powerful Magnates of Denim: There is no reason to make the regular length jeans longer!  You have already provided for this with your "Long" length!!!  Does anyone else have this much trouble, or is it just me?       

All that whingeing aside, I actually did have some margin of success yesterday- at Wal-Mart no less.  (Oh my gosh, spell check recognizes Wal-Mart as an actual word!)  Here’s the secret.  Ready?  You have to buy petite.  Not really a word I would ever use to describe myself, but apparently if you want jeans to come down just to the soles of your shoes, that’s the way you have to go.  Which leaves me wondering- what is the difference between 12 petite and 12 short?  Because I tried the petite ones and they were the perfect length, and then I tried the short ones and I looked like a sailor from On The Town.  Go figure.  

(Belated) Shout-Out to Number Twelve!

Ordinarily I’m not a shout-out-y type of person, but tonight I’m making an exception.  You may have noticed that after my post in which I begged for more followers in order to appease my Number OCD, my number increased from a seizure-inducing eleven to a much more calming and visually pleasing twelve. 

So I’m sending a big shout-out to Deanna Fleming, my fellow French Honors Society alum and the person who helped me to make it through my 7:30am Intro to Psychology class in high school.  (Honestly, what person is mentally prepared for such an advanced level of cogitation that early in the morning??)

Prior to her selfless act of generosity, every time I looked at my number of followers I felt an impending sense of dread that is not unlike the sensation I get in the moment right before the whirring dentist office toothbrush smeared with gritty dentist office toothpaste accidentally hits my tongue and I nearly bite my hygienist’s fingers off in disgust. 

Now, with twelve, it’s more like the feeling you get when the teeth-polishing is over and you are allowed as much water as you want to wash the residual grit and bloody saliva out of your mouth. 

So, thank you Dee!  Every time Maxime Le Forestier comes on my ipod and sings “C’est une maison bleue…” I think of you and Viv, and being stranded in a blizzard in Québec with nothing to do except go see an extremely disturbing French-Canadian movie that was actually kind of like soft-core porn. 

Hot Pockets and Number OCD, Part 2 (The Number OCD Part)

Before reading this you might want to buckle your seat belt, or at least put a helmet on or something, because we are about to go deep into the recesses of my mind and explore the mystery-enshrouded brain hiccup that I like to call Number OCD.  Are you ready?  Hold on tight to something.  I assure you, the ride will be bumpy.  

Anyone who has ever ridden in my car with me has most likely experienced this particular quirk, and if you have ever tried to touch the volume on my radio you have surely had your hand slapped away/been subject to a raving, nonsensical lecture.  My car radio is sacred ground, and the biggest manifestation of my weirdness.  

The way it works is that there is a turny button for the volume, and a digital display that tells you the number of the volume level.  The volume is pre-set to 25, which means that whenever I turn my car on, no matter what the volume was set to when I turned it off, it starts at 25.  This is a perfect number because it is half of 50.  I can’t tell you why that’s perfect, I just know that it is.  It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.  Kind of like how you feel when you're looking at a box of kittens.   

Anyway, 25 is not nearly loud enough.  Never mind the fact that I could just change the setting so that it’s pre-set to a higher volume.  I’ve thought of that before, but it came to me set at 25 and that’s the way it shall stay.  So I always have to turn it up, and here’s where it gets weird.    

Do you remember the scene in Monty Python and The Holy Grail when they find the Holy Hand Grenade?  And do you remember what it says in the Book of Armaments?  Let me give you a little refresher:

"First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin, then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out.”

That’s kind of what it’s like in my mind.  The number of the volume in my car should ideally end in a five or zero.  A number ending in a two, four, six or eight is acceptable, but not preferred.  Of the four acceptable numbers, six is the least preferred because six is only one number away from five and why would you turn it to six when five is RIGHT THERE?  I realize that four is also one number away from five, but it’s less than five so that’s okay.  Having five as your next higher volume option is fine.  But there’s no excuse for turning it only one past five.  If you’re going to go past five, please have the decency to go further than one click.  What makes six acceptable is the fact that it’s an even number, otherwise it would be stricken from the list.  You should get down on your knees and thank God for your easy divisibility, Six.  It is the only thing saving your bacon.

Under no circumstances may numbers that end in one, three, seven or nine be used.  One and nine because they are too close to zero and why wouldn’t you just turn it to zero, and three and seven because they are right in between two even numbers - either of which would be vastly preferable to the odd number between them unless that odd number is five - so there’s no reason to leave it on three or seven.   

There are other, smaller ways in which my Number OCD comes out, but I think I’ve done enough damage with these few paragraphs.  And Number OCD is not the only type of OCD that I have.  Don’t even get me started on colors.  (Just ask my mother about how every time we play Trivial Pursuit I have to take all the colored wedges that she has haphazardly shoved into her playing piece with no regard whatsoever for the natural order of the world, and put them back in rainbow order.  It drives her crazy when I do that.)  

Symmetry is very important to me as well.  I was unable to watch any of the coverage of the Inaugural Ball for fear I might see the First Lady, who unfortunately had chosen for her dress that night a gown that only had one shoulder strap.  You have two shoulders, Mrs. Obama.  Why would anyone choose a dress with one shoulder strap?  Why?  (For that matter, why would anyone make a dress with one shoulder strap?)

So now you guys know I’m crazy.  That's not nearly all, but it's enough.  It is now safe to remove the helmets/seatbelts/harnesses.  The ride has come to a full and complete stop.

Hot Pockets and Number OCD, Part 1 (The Hot Pocket Part)

I was asked to blog about my number OCD and also my love of Hot Pockets, so, as promised, here it is.  (Actually, I said I would blog about them in my previous post, and then I was asked after that, so I would have done it anyway.  But I prefer to say that I’m doing it because I’m such a magnanimous person.) 

I think I’m going to do this in two separate posts, because there’s no smooth transition to be made between warm, cheesy heaven and mental illness.  There's also not a whole lot of difference.  That being said, I’m hungry so let’s do Hot Pockets first, okay?   


I discovered the Hot Pocket when I was 19.  I was a sophomore in college, living in an on-campus apartment with five other girls and extremely pleased with myself  because I had lived in a dorm when I was a lowly frosh, but now I was Big Cheese.   

*Quick note about freshman year (this will be important in a minute so pay attention)- I did not have a car.  What I did have was a dorm room that was ten feet away from the dining hall, and a meal plan that let me eat there three times a day.  Sophomore year I had a car, and my apartment was located approximately one hundred million miles away from the dining hall.  Needless to say, I never set foot inside that building again.  

I am an extremely lazy person.  I totally could have walked to the DH for my meals, but I had my car and my own kitchen, so I was like “I’ll just buy groceries and make my own food like a real adult.  It will be fun!  I’ll eat healthy!”  Yeah right.  Enter the Hot Pocket.

The Hot Pocket, for those of you who grew up under a rock, (or North Korea or the former Soviet Union or some other place where having fun is against the law) is a delicious concoction of cheese and usually some kind of meat, wrapped in a pastry-type crust.  Biting into it is like biting into an angel straight out of Heaven made of chocolate and baby laughter all wrapped up in the moment that the Wizard of Oz turns from black-and-white to color.  Words cannot do it justice.    

But it can turn on you.

From my Hot Pocket diet (still the happiest nine months of my life) I went from 152 pounds to 170.  It has taken me FIVE YEARS to get rid of it.  And I still have three pounds to go.  So take a lesson, kids.  All things in moderation.  The Hot Pocket can be your best friend, or your worst enemy.  It all depends on how much will power you have.  For me, it is no easy thing to keep Beelzebub at the stave’s end.    

Okay that got a little dramatic.  It’s not cocaine or anything, it’s just a microwavable sandwich. 

Shameless Self-Promotion, or- I Need More Followers Because Right Now I Have Eleven and This is Making Me Antsy Because I Have Severe Number OCD and I Don't Like That Number So I Need More People to Follow Me, Please.

Recently I’ve become obsessed with wanting everyone in the world to read my blog.  I don’t know why.  It’s not worth reading.  I’m absolutely certain that immediately after you read whatever my latest lame story is, you probably sit there thinking “Why did I waste my time on that?  That took me at least two to five minutes to read.”  

You could have used those minutes to read something worthwhile, like The Economist, or The Beijing Times.  Or better yet, you could have used two of the minutes to microwave a delicious hot-pocket and still have had three minutes left over to eat it while you were reading something that would fill your brain with important thoughts because you are a suit-wearing intellectual with many accomplishments under your belt and a snappy briefcase that says "I'm Somebody", and not a 25 year old sweat-pants-wearing fake-adult who still lives with her parents.  (By the way, two minutes is the exact amount of time it takes to nuke a hot-pocket.  I know this from experience.  Someday I’ll tell you about how this knowledge helped me gain twenty pounds during my sophomore year of college.)

But you are not doing any of those things.  You are sitting here reading all of my nonsense.  Or maybe you aren’t, and I’m writing stuff that disappears into the vast wilderness of cyberspace and winds up lost and alone, discovered only by the poor, confused soul who’s just Googled “hot-pocket” and “The Economist” simultaneously and is now wondering which circle of Hell he‘s stumbled into.  

Welcome to my mind, hungry smart person.  There is no escape.  I have you now.  

Either way, I don’t really care because blogging is an ego-centric activity and in the end I still get to write funny things for my own personal enjoyment, and that’s all that matters because this is about ME, right?  RIGHT???  That’s what I thought.  

But I still want people to read.  

So…tell your friends.  Also tell your enemies.  Being forced to read my blog would be a great way to torture someone that you hate if they are afflicted with no sense of humor and do not enjoy pointless but also hysterically funny stories.  

It is also acceptable to tell perfect strangers.  You could be like those people who stand on the street and hand out pamphlets promoting some club or self-produced DVD of a lame stand-up comedian who also happens to be your friend and you really don’t want to be standing outside on the street for seven hours breathing in traffic fumes in the middle of August promoting this person but they’re your friend so you do it anyway because that’s what friends do.  That would be awesome and although I don’t have a club to invite you to, I would probably most likely bake you some cookies.  

So there you go.  Tell everyone.  My undying gratitude and some free cookies are waiting.


P.S.  In case you were wondering about the title, I really do have number OCD.  I’ll tell you all about it sometime soon.  

Love Letter To My Moisturizer

Dear Avalon Organics Vitamin C Oil-Free Moisturizer,

Thank you for hydrating my skin!  You are so light and smooth, and you make my face feel good.  I love the way that you smell like oranges.  Or lemons.  I’m not very discerning at 6.50am.  Either way, you smell delicious, kind of like you would taste really good.  But you don’t taste good.  (Don’t judge me. I was curious.) 

That’s okay, because whatever the ingredients are that make you so perfect are likely toxic and would probably kill me if I ate a whole jar of you.  One time, I ate a whole tin of Sucrets because they tasted like candy and my mom had to call Poison Control!  Did you make yourself taste bad on purpose to keep me safe?  That was so thoughtful of you!  

Thank you, Avalon Organics Vitamin C Oil-Free Moisturizer, for having a rancid flavor and saving me an embarrassing phone call to Poison Control, and possibly a trip to the emergency room to have my stomach pumped.      

Thank you also for your continued efforts to make my skin smooth and silky.  Keep up the good work!  I will see you tonight after I wash my face.  I can't wait!

Your friend,
Molly

Holy Crap

I just plucked the shit out of my eyebrows, you guys.  But for some weird reason I decided to only do the middle.  So now I look like I’ve had a horrible accident with lighter fluid, or hydrochloric acid, or some other equally destructive substance that’s burned away an inch-wide strip directly above my nose and left a furry furry caterpillar to stand guard on either side. 

I could fix this.  I should fix this.  But I don’t think I’m going to.  Even though I look like some sort of really surprised Brooke Shields-Groucho Marx hybrid. 

Shut up.  I do what I want.   

Dear Fortune Cookie...We Are Not Friends

Dear Fortune Cookie,

Well I hope you’re happy.  Not only were you crushed into little tiny pieces before I unwrapped you, you didn’t even have a fortune inside.  I was so disappointed. 

When I first poured your little broken bits into my hand looking for that coveted slip of paper dictating how I would live my life for the next ten minutes before forgetting about you completely, I was filled with the kind of breathless anticipation one gets right before opening a present on Christmas morning.

I was initially confused when I couldn’t find it, and I immediately went into Justification Mode.  “Maybe I just missed it.  This cookie is a mess and I ripped into the wrapper with extra enthusiasm.  Maybe it just fell on the floor.” 

Sifting through your broken pieces again, the justification turned to denial: “Any minute now.  I’ll find it.  It’s here somewhere, I know it."  I grew more and more anxious as I frantically searched under my napkin, in the folds of my pajama pants and on the floor.  Where was the reward for finishing my meal?  What was I going to do without that little piece of paper chirping out sometimes confused or misspelled but always cheerful statements advising me to “Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned”, or “Always remember to wear your best pants when fighting for freedom”, or “Please visit us at www.wontonfood.com”?

As I lie here on my bed in a state of apathy and despair, slowly and painfully digesting the entire pint of sweet and sour chicken that I wolfed down in a state of giddy anticipation while blissfully unaware that my dinner was about to turn into a bigger disappointment than "Aladdin 2: The Return of Jafar", all I have to say, Fortune Cookie, is that I’m very disappointed.  This is not the level of service I have come to expect from you.  Please take care that this does not happen again.  Thank you for your attention to this matter. 

Sincerely,
Molly

Extreme Boredom Prevails

Holy christmas tree you guys, I am so bored.  I'm sitting on my bed waiting for inspiration to strike.  It's not happening.  Help!  Usually when I'm bored I read, but I just can't get into Reflections on the Dawn of Consciousness right now. 

I have a weird cramp in my thumb.  I've never had a thumb cramp before.  Oh wait, it's gone now. 

I think I ate too much for dinner.  I always get really excited whenever mom makes mashed potatoes, and I wind up going a little crazy.  I turn into a mashed potato monster and I think that if I was the last person left on earth and the only other person besides me was a chef who only knew how to make mashed potatoes, I would be fine with that.  Like, forever.  

Fail

Today I wanted to write a blog post, but my brain was like: "No!"  So instead I'm writing a list of movies who's endings traumatized me so much the first time I saw them that I can never watch them again.

Armageddon 
The only part of this movie that I can clearly remember is that scene at the end where Bruce Willis changes places with Liv Tyler's boyfriend at the last second, and is all "Take care of my daughter" or something like that, and then basically just sits down on the asteroid and waits to run out of oxygen, or for the asteroid to explode, whatever comes first.  I did not see that coming. 

This might be traumatizing to me because one of my biggest fears is dying alone in outer space.  I'm not sure why this scares me so much.  I'm pretty sure I will never be in outer space.  Unless NASA suddenly starts accepting extremely under-qualified musicians with vague aspirations towards the library sciences field into their astronaut program.  

The Goonies
I don't even remember why this movie scared me.  I just know that it was bad.  And I never want to see it again.  Call me un-American, call me a traitor to my generation, just don't call me into the room if this movie is on tv.  

Titanic 
Even though I was fully aware of how this one would end, it still scared the crap out of me.  Again, (I'm sensing a theme here), one of my biggest fears is being in extremely deep water with no idea as to what could possibly be lurking under me.  Just the thought that any minute I could look over and see a huge whale or maybe a shark is enough to keep me out of the deep end of the pool.  And don't even get me started on those aquariums that have the big underground windows where you can see into the tanks.  I live in mortal terror of the sperm whale display at the Natural History Museum.  


Deep Impact
Space disaster, end of the world, huge tidal wave.  Enough said.  


E.T.
Don't laugh, you guys.  This movie made me so sad that I cried hysterically for two hours after it was over, and had to have my mom sleep in my bed with me that night.  Never again.  


So now you know what a wuss I am, all thanks to my lazy brain who couldn't come up with a good idea for a post. 

Frog blog- the final chapter

WeIl, I had a feeling that Pork wouldn't last too long after Beans died.  I was right.  At least they are together again...I guess I just wasn't meant to keep aquatic pets alive.  I feel so guilty.  If you ever see me heading for the fish store again, you had better scream bloody murder until I turn around. 

Little kid food

My mom is making hot dogs for dinner and I'm weirdly excited about it.  I love hot dogs.  Hot dogs hot dogs hot dogs.  Eating a hot dog always makes me feel like a little kid.  So do these things: 

Other Food That Makes Me Feel Like A Child
spam
cinnamon toast
Gortons Fisherman popcorn shrimp
chicken nuggets shaped like other things (dinosaurs, stars, etc.)
frozen vegetables
celery and peanut butter
Kid Cuisine tv dinners
the kind of orange juice that comes frozen in a can and you have to put it in the pitcher and pour cold water over it and then chop it up with a wooden spoon

 

I would time travel for a bagel