Despite what Coach Used to Say...

You are not all winners. In fact, in a bizarre woman's blog-based photo caption contest (with only two entries) I think we have just proven that we are all losers. I suppose the only real winners in this whole situation are the homeless, tweakers and horny teenagers that utilize the mattress in the aforementioned photo. I really do appreciate the two brave (or Ambien induced) posts. They were both clever and well thought out, unllike most of my day-to-day decisions.

Oh well. I tried. I tried something new and it didn't work. Do you see why I never do anything nice for you? Do you see why we can never have anything nice?!? It only gets ruined!

Pardon Me, Ma'am?

On behalf of all of the other patrons at Hobby Lobby, I'm going to have to ask you to never wear that tangerine silk one piece jumpsuit again. I know you thought you were making a festive, Summery choice when you put that on this morning, before you headed out to purchase more DIY jewelry makins', but I don't think you understand the detriment you have caused to your own appearance.

Perhaps you were under the impression that the multiple beaded bracelets and necklaces would add a bit of flair to the belted ensemble you concocted this morning, but really they just caused me to have a flashback to the times I spent belly dancing in drum circles back in college. The tinkling of handmade bell-adorned jewelry and clickity-clack of bedazzled sandals on Hobby Lobby's floor was so distracting, I almost forgot to buy half of the useless crap I went in there with the intention of purchasing.

So please, let's never see you in all that get-up again. The cashier and I nearly had to say an unkind word about you after you left, and we know that wouldn't be up to the family friendly standards of America's Favorite Craft Store.

Oh My God, Really?

One Entry? Really? No one has anything funny or inappropriate to say about a dirty old mattress laying across the street from the park I took my sister's kids to so that we could play volleyball? C'mon! I have like twenty nasty things to say about that mattress, most of them are about my sister but according to the official photo caption contest rules, I. Can't. Enter.

So, I'll make you a deal. You have one more day. I'm going to go run errands: get a new social security card, buy toilet paper, wash some undies... that sort of thing. The next twenty four hours I expect you to dedicate to captioning the hell out of that photo.

Ready? Go!

Photo Caption Contest!

OK, boys and girls. I'm going to be gone for a while so, to keep you busy, I thought I'd post a little activity. The rules are simple, just post the best caption you can for the photo and I will announce the winner upon my return. You may post as many times as you like and there is no word limit for the captions. Dry Martini, take it easy on the foul language, this is a family blog. Fuck.

Ready? Set. Go!

Call Dr. 90210

It turns out the sausage casing situation is a little more desperate than originally anticipated. This morning my cousin and I thought we'd try the wedding dress on (together in the sense that we were in the same room, though not in the same dress) to re-assess the ill-fitting situation. Once zipped in, she noted that the dress was not tight at all in any area other than where my ribcage was trying desperately to expand in an effort to provide oxygen to the rest of my body.

"The good news is," she said,"that you will be able to eat at the reception, but the bad news is that we are going to have to remove your bottom ribs."

Does anyone have the contact information to an inexpensive plastic surgeon in the borderland area?

Cult is Such a Strong Word

I noticed there are a lot of you out there anonymously reading my blog, which I really appreciate. But I think it would make our blog relationship stronger if you became not just readers, but followers as well.

I know, I know. "Follower" sounds so Jesus-and-discipley, but hear me out.

Commitment can be scary, I understand that. However, there are a great deal of benefits to becoming one of my followers.
1. The satisfaction of that group "belonging" feeling. When you are a part of something, you feel a certain amount of comfort knowing that there are others out there like you. Once you join the group of my followers you'll know you aren't the only one in the world who reads my blog and thinks "Why would she write that?" and "Why would she write that and then put it on the internets?"
2. Instant e-mail updates. As a follower, you have the option to receive an e-mail every time I post a new entry. Isn't that great? This way, you'll know exactly when I have my most recent, inappropriate thoughts. Imagine getting an e-mail during work hours with one of my blog entries that contains some really bizarre comment about my work environment. You'd know I was blogging on my employer's time! Not that I would do that, but still.
3. Guaranteed access to your afterlife of choice once you die. What other blog author can promise you that? I don't want to go into details in this post because they are lengthy and very technical. But, seriously. It's totally legit.

So, just sign up to be my follower. You don't even have to put your real name or comment on my posts. Just let me know that you are out there. I promise, you will not regret this, especially later, when you die. And hey, after we get to know each other a little better we can talk about you moving to the compound and becoming a member of the inner group.

Hey Guys, About the Other Day...

So um, yeah. About that whole thing where I said all that stuff about all you guys who I hadn't talked to in a while that showed up to my dad's funeral a few weeks ago... Right. I pretty much called you all bastards, well, just so you know, there's like an addendum to that. So, whatever. In case you're interested... Wow. This. Is. Awkward. But, hey, right? I mean, ugh!

Oh, then, I like e-mailed some pretty weird stuff too. I don't know, I think I was sober. It was morning, right? I was probably sober. I mean, I was supposed to be sober, ha ha, anyway...

Cool, so, um. Great thing on FB the other day, by the way. Totally hilarious. Well, yeah. No, yeah... Er. Yeah. Cool. See ya, yeah...

Thank God for Well Made Sausage Casings

I nearly just crapped all over my bathrobe. And by "nearly" I mean "totally". So the first two days I was worried none of these "cleanse and detox" pills were working. But judging by the commotion I just made in the bathroom, I'd say that they are. All I need is a little breathing room, and I mean that literally, in my dress. If I have it hooked in and zipped up, the best I can do is pant in shallow little breaths, like a puppy, and I'm pretty sure it will only take about 10 minutes of that before I pass out.

The good news is that even though I will be crammed in that thing like some kind of hot and spicy ground Italian meat, thanks to the high quality construction of the dress, the unknowing onlooker will have no idea that I am in the worst kind of pain and probably beginning to bleed internally. Not a single bulge or roll can be seen. I can only pray that the structural integrity of the garment holds up for the few short hours I need it to. After that, I can walk around for the rest of my life, eating turkey legs and funnel cakes at state and county fairs, packing on pounds and saying things like "I was so thin when I got married." God, I hate people who say that.

This Time, Lil' Miss Check-Out, It's Exactly What it Looks Like

Unlike all of the other times I feel like the items in my cart or hand basket or in a disorganized jumble in my arms are an unfair representation of my lifestyle when I go through the check out line, today you are welcome to judge me based on my purchases. The pair of Spanx, two boxes of Jillian Michaels Detox and Fat Cleanse, bulk sized tub of spinach and fat free yogurt are all products intended for exactly what you assume.

There is a wedding gown in my closet that I purchased 5 weeks ago that was only a little snug when I got it, but I was way too cheap to buy the next size up and pay $100 to have it altered to fit me properly. Unfortunately, the same pirates who killed my daddy are apparently allies with the Ambien Walrus, who fed me fried chicken and brownies against my knowledge. So, here I stand at the check out, ten days before I'm about to get married, in a last-ditch effort to lose enough post-funeral bloating so that when they zip that bad boy up I don't pass out from hyperventilation caused by the inability to breathe enough oxygen to remain conscious.

Don't worry. I have plenty of time. The disastrous gastrointestinal side effects of this plan should wear off at least 48 hours before I have to wear the very expensive, and obviously stainable dress. And if this doesn't work, you can expect to see me around that same time frame purchasing water pills, laxatives and ace bandages (for binding reasons.) I appreciate your nonchalance, I suppose this is nothing really, compared to last week when I came in here buying a pregnancy test and a bottle of tequila.

I'm Going to Pistol Whip the Next Person Who Says 'Bitter Sweet'

What an insightful comment. How very sensitive and original of you to recognize that my wedding will be both sad and happy, what with my dad dying like a month before I am getting married. You should be a counselor or something, with thoughtful things like that to say. You know exactly what to say during difficult and emotionally trying situations. And you are not at all the fiftieth person to say that to me either. Oh, and reminding me that my dead father will be there in spirit is a great way to help me feel extra shitty for attempting to feel some happiness that day while everyone else in my family will be feeling extra alone.