The Importance of The and A Blog Award

If Obama came up to me and said, "Hey Lindsay, I'll give you a million dollars and let you ride with me to Hawaii on Air Force One and buy you a puppy if you stop reading Kate's I Am The Worst Blogger everyday, I'd be like, "No, thanks, Mr. President. Kate's the shit and now she's even more the shit because she gave me an award." Then I'd be like, "Blam!" and show him this

Thanks, Kate! By the way, I just realized the importance of the word "the". Take, for instance, me calling Kate "the shit". To refer to someone as "the shit" implies their coolness, their ability to rock in the figurative sense, and/or their general all-around superiority. However, omitting the "the" redefines the subject as simply "shit", or excrement. So, Kate is definitely THE shit (Obabma still is too) and now I present you with 10 Things That Make Me Happy....

1. Money Pants. Money Pants are a pair of pants you put on that you haven't worn in a long time, only to find there is money in the pocket. You might also find a note reminding yourself to do your laundry which explains the smell coming from the pants.


2. The Taco Truck. The Taco Truck is a magical, Cinderella-esque place. When the clock strikes 2am and alcohol has been absorbed into the bloodstream, cuisine from this mobile miracle becomes delectable. I don't care if the carne asada is actually corned cow ass, just wrap it up in a burrito and I will happily stumble on my way.


3. Making People Fall Down. You know, when an old lady is trying to cross the street and you act like you're going to help her, but then you push her into traffic and yell, "Gotcha, Grams!" Kidding. KIDDING. But really. I train a martial art, Capoeira, and there is no better feeling than taking someone down. Which leads me to one of the 10 Things That Specifically Do Not Make Me Happy: being taken down.
   
4. Q-Tips. You and I both know that there is no better feeling than shoving those pointy little cotton sticks into your ear right after a shower, swirling it around, and observing the yellow residue it collects. And if I'm a guest at your house and I use the bathroom, I am not above taking advantage of any Q-tips in plain sight...or in the medicine cabinet or in that little drawer by the toilet.


5. Re-Heated Pizza. Pizza the first time around - right out of the oven, out of the box, whatever - is great. Pizza re-heated in a microwave to the point where all the cheese and toppings goup together in gooey, nuked matrimony is greater.


6. Dramatic Reading of a Real Break-Up Letter. I have to credit Allie from Hyperbolie and A Half for this one. She used to have the link on her page. It goes to something different now, but you can still find it on youtube. Ah, young love - school dances and touching someone's hands for stupid reasons. Read it. You'll see what I mean.


7. The Snooze Button. In your face inventor of the alarm clock! Ten minutes of sleep (and another and another) is never quite as appreciated under any other circumstance
   
8. Sporks. Generally, I prefer spoons over forks. Spoons allow for maximum volume of food consumption per utensil lift and are not bothered with those nasty little slits found in forks that permit sauce/grains/crumbs/cheese slivers to escape. However the fork is much more adept at the initial food contact, ensuring a secure grasp by piercing said food and maintaining hold until the desired location (i.e. your mouth) is reached. And so - the spork. Ta-fucking-da.


9. Head Massagers. These things look like a cross between a giant whisk and an electric chair helmet (pretty sure that's not the correct term.) But they feel AMAZING. Funny that it took humans so long to invent this when dogs have been getting their heads scratched for years.


10. Friends and Family. Yeah, had to say it. I am truly blessed to have so many people in my life that are each wonderful and amazing in their own way...and are all crazy enough to love and care about me back. Aww.

So, ahem, had something in my eye. Anyway, now I shall pass this award on to 10 more worthy bloggers. (Weird. For some reason, I just heard James Earl Jones' voice saying that as I typed it. Try it, makes it sound really important.)

• Elizabeth Shibboleth
• Fourth Grade Nothing
• A Rainey Day...with a chance of Sunshine
• MicaelChadwick.com
• patricktillett.blogspot.com
• The unforgiving minute
• That's Not How You Do It
• Tony's Diet Log
• Ramblings of an Insomniac's Mind
• Quilting In My Pyjamas

The above are all some more people who are THE shit, not to be mistaken with shit.

Fuck You, Barney

I hate sharing. I'll do it - because I know I'm supposed to - I just hate it. And the worst part is that I think this character flaw actually only set in in my adult life.
When I was little, I never had a problem sharing my toys or taking turns.
"Want some of my graham crackers? Sure! No problem."
"Of course you can play with my dolls. Which one do you want?"
"What's that? You want to push marbles up my nose now? Go right ahead!"
But that was in the Golden Age of No Responsibility or Paying for Stuff. That's why I don't feel all warm and fuzzy inside when I give a homeless person my leftovers from a restaurant. Instead of taking comfort in the fact that one less person on the street will have to go to bed hungry that night, I selfishly mourn the loss of my little box of Tai Chicken Curry. When my neighbor asks to borrow a DVD, I find myself acutely aware of my sudden desire to watch that specific movie every night until it is returned. And when my friend wants to switch and put marbles up my nose for a change...just kidding.
But you get my point, right? I still share, but I hate doing it. And it's that stupid dinosaur Barney's fault. As a kid growing up, I had things like Mr. Rogers and kindergarten teachers and goldfish death threats from my older brother to instill this virtue in me. But kids are stupid, and they'll do anything you tell them to without thinking. I was told to share, so I shared.
But as I grew older, these mentors began to fade into the background. My teachers became more concerned with educating me on multiplication and Columbus (so not a sharer). My brother became entirely disinterested in me and the death of my goldfish (which by this time had long ago died anyway) because he was a super cool teenager and I was, well, related. (Love you, J! Yes, fully-grown and I still possess the power to embarrass you.) And television icons that sang songs about days of the week and talked about crap like the importance of being a good person had really lost their moment in the spotlight.
Then along came Barney's fat-ass. "Hey kids, it's good to share!" Shut up! Stupid, purple reptile. Your mouth doesn't even move when you talk, just gapes open waiting for one of those overly-paid little actor kids to sucker punch you in the teeth.
Barney re-introduced sharing. He brought it back. But by this time, it didn't seem as cool. I was paying for my own graham crackers and maybe I didn't want to share them with Susy and who cares that she's in a wheelchair and her mom's on Welfare. But because of Barney, I had to or I'd look like an asshole.
So yes, I will share my shit with you and take turns and all that stuff. But it's not because I want to. It's because a big, purple dinosaur told me to.

Hey! This blog is about dinosaurs!

Behind the Scenes in Greece: Ass Snipers

Last summer, my friend M and I went to Greece. It was beautiful and amazing, but a good deal of it was spent scouting out ass with our cameras. Yes, while most respectable tourists take pictures of the Acropolis and other historic ruins, the two of us ran around like perverts snapping shots of the derrieres of unsuspecting natives.

This wasn't entirely my fault. A gentleman friend of mine who is particularly fond of the female backside requested that, as a souvenir, I take photographic documentation of the Greek women and their gluteus maximi. And like the loyal friend that I am, I complied. Hence, the Ass Snipers.

For said gentleman friend, our crowning moment was on a volcano tour in Santorini. M and I were on the top deck of our tour boat admiring, aka staring unabashedly at with dropped jaws, the physique of two Greek demigods. Suddenly demigod #1's girlfriend's dress flew up in the wind as she leaned over the railing. M, with reflexes like a pubescent ninja, captured the Kodass moment in its full exposure. Never the subtle types, we immediately huddled together to review the digital shot, giggling like perverted morons.

But our moment of glory happened on the island of Paros. We were walking back to our hotel when we saw this:

I really think this photo captures the serenity of the island. Notice how you can almost hear the gentle rippling of the...water. Yeah, yeah. I also took pictures of the statues and the churches and blah, blah, blah. But this. This is a rare vision of Greece that few have beheld. Your welcome.

Earwax With a Side of Cat Lady

Oh my God I'm the Cat Lady, and I don't even have any cats.
It all started yesterday. My roomie stayed home sick. I was there too because I am unemployed, hence the title of my blog. (Hey, wouldn't it be cool if my roomie was a dinosaur? Then it would be, like, full circle or...whatever. K, I still love you even though you are clearly not a dinosaur. But if you WERE a dinosaur, it'd be like you were the star of my blog.)
I need to stop drinking coffee.
So. Rooomie, sick. She was complaining that her ears were plugged so I suggested this earwax removal stuff I happened to have. (Slightly gross, I know, but deal with it.) I pretty much forced her to agree and be my patient. I ran into my bathroom to grab my bag of Random and Expired Medicine. I took care of K and proudly sat back on the couch and obtrusively watched the crap drain out of her ears. And then I became the Cat Lady.
It went like this. My eyes drifted over to the coffee table where I had left my bag. It's actually a travel toiletry bag my mom had given me many, many Christmases ago. And it has cats all over it. Creepy, bubbly drawings of cats dressed as fishermen and ballerinas with the words "Cat Lover" stamped all over it.
I sat transfixed, horrified at what I had become. I couldn't stop staring at it, every detail, realizing I had never really looked at it before. I don't have a cat. Okay, that's not entirely true. When I was a teenager, a friend gave me a stray cat, who to this day still lives at my mom's house. (My mom gave me the cat bag that same year so it's not entirely crazy that I own that bag.)
But the whole thing just creeps me out. If you have a kid, you don't wear a shirt that says "Kid Lover" unless you're a freak, right? And this isn't my mom's fault. It was just a silly gift she gave her snot-headed 16 year-old daughter instead of a belly ring.
It's the fact that I still have it and use it that creeps me out and makes me question what image I have been unknowingly projecting all these years.
When I would go to slumber parties, were my friends all, "Who invited freaky Cat Lady?"
When I first arrived at college, did the co-eds in my dorm make a mental note to never speak to me? When I brought it out to "treat" K, was she secretly terrified that I might try to put a flea collar on her and build her a scratching post?
I know I'm not the Cat Lady, but does the world know?
P.S. K is cured!
P.P.S. I threw out the cheese.

Fake Cheese: I Will Love Again

The 99c store and I aren't speaking. I went there the other day to buy an accordion folder (and then a liter of artificially-flavored peach lemonade carbonated beverage, a 5-pack of Bubble Yum Bubble Gum and beef jerky). Walking past the perishable foods section, I was immediately drawn to a bag of shredded cheese.


Now I've always told myself that I will never buy anything edible at The 99c Store with a life durability weaker than that of a cockroach. Well, that and condoms. Anyway, I saw this cheese and my vow against food cheaper than a dollar began to waiver. I mean, I'm a regular connoisseur of Jack in the Box's 99c tacos (TWO for a dollar!) and was literally (and pathetically) delighted when Wendy's added spicy chicken nuggets to their value menu (ALSO 99c). Actually, now that I think of it, I never order anything over a dollar from a fast food chain. So what was my problem? Besides, I needed cheese. How else was I going to make my famous quesadillas? (1 flour tortilla, 1 handful of cheese. Microwave for 30 seconds. Eat. You're welcome.) And this was Mexican-style cheese! So now my quesadillas would taste Mexican! Once again, I was sold.

I think it might have been late the next night (and after a few glasses of wine) that I set to work in the kitchen, exercising my Hispanic culinary skills. But Step 2 of my recipe (microwaving) did not deliver the expected result of melted cheese. Maybe the microwave wasn't working properly? I re-heated for another 30 seconds. No dice and no melted cheese. But my tortilla (1 flour tortilla) was so hot it had begun to take on a nasty, gooey quality. So I ate it.

Still curious about the cheese and determined to solve the mystery of its non-melting properties, I grabbed the bag out of the refrigerator. It read: MEXICAN SHREDS: Pasteurized Process Topping Pasterizado Procesado Coberturas. Awesome.

So I'm a bit upset with The 99c Store. I invest a lot of late-night snacking happiness in cheese, and when I find that I am in fact not eating cheese but pasteurized processed shreds made with powdered cellulose, I get a little upset. Now I know that The 99c Store never promised me cheese; it did, in fact, state that it was proving me with pasterizado procesado coberturas. But I guess I just got a little ahead of myself, what with all the delicious beef jerky and aisles of make-up tools that may or may not gouge your eye out.

Maybe we're just not at That Place yet. Maybe I said some things I shouldn't have and maybe I threw my "cheese" bag angrily on the ground (only to pick it back up, lovingly smooth out the plastic creases, and gingerly place it back in the fridge). I just need a few days to regain my trust and we'll be fine. Besides, I'm running low on I Be Profin.