Paging Mr. Whiskers

I was getting ready for the New Year's Eve party last night when the last 2008 disaster happened: I was flat-ironing my hair--this is a process in which you burn the shit out of your head, all for the sake of looking more... Asian, I guess--and decided I needed bangs. This usually occurs to people when they're six years old and just learning how to use dull scissors in grade school. Me, I'm 32.

The problem with bangs is they only look good in my wildest fantasies, and never in real life; the bigger problem is that I never actually remember this. In sixth grade, I didn't remember; in ninth grade, I forgot; and it failed to register again at ages 19, 23, 25, 27, 30, and 32. I'm just going to tell people I had a stroke this time. It's the only explanation.

Bangs look good on me when they're blow-dried, flat-ironed, styled, and shaped by someone else. Here's the punchline: I am not that someone else. I'm the lunatic who thinks cutting her own hair with the kitchen scissors in the bathroom mirror with very little light is a good idea. A GOOD IDEA. Oh wait, that's the punchline.

Problem #1,647: I don't have straight hair. In fact, I might describe my natural hair as 'unruly', 'horse-like', and 'completely lacking in remorse.' So to flat-iron the curls out and then cut it is stupid, especially when you're having a stroke. Those straight bangs end up being a curlicue monstrosity in the wrong kind of weather. I'm now referring to them as 'a clusterfuck of bangs.'

Thanks to Murphy's Law, God decided to bring the exact wrong kind of weather, and pooped freezing rain upon my head last night, causing my super-straight hair to become THE SUPER FANTASTIC MUSHROOM EXTRAVAGANZA. I now resemble a woman who lives in a home with wood-paneled walls, shag carpeting, and the wicked smell of seasoned cat pee. I look like I should be eating a generic Hot Pocket and wearing a bejeweled sweatshirt that says I HEART MR. WHISKERS.

Live and learn in 2009: no bangs. Well, no bangs after I get these ones taken care of. At this point, I just want to shave them right off; maybe a huge forehead will be slimming somehow. It worked for that kid in the movie, Mask.

2009 certainly started off with a bang (or bangs)--at least I laughed about it. And will be laughing and avoiding mirrors and laughing TRA LA LA for the next six weeks, I guess.

A Happier New Year Message

Works for me. Please be safe, everyone!

Freewheeling Fun

I have no one to call. That's not actually true, but how is it I can feel close enough to a stranger to tell them about my period, my past, and my sordid relationships, but I can't call my best friend and say something like, 'So I need to talk to someone.' Or how about, 'Can you come over here before I set myself on fire?' It's the little things.

'I have no one to call' is a cop-out, because there are plenty of people on my contact list, but it's also kind of true: I don't like my contact list options. Granted, it includes almost everyone I know, but surely there must be a Go-To Guy for this kind of stuff, someone I trust implicitly. Oh, right--there was a guy who fit that description, but he is unavailable at the moment (and he's a part of the problem anyways). And I don't want to call up the person I love most in this world and say, Hi honey!--I'd really like to kill myself today. Because it would kill him, too. So I figured it would be easier to say it online: Internet, I'd like to jump off a bridge right now. Don't deny me: I deserve this.

How might I go about dying? It's a hard decision. I don't like pain, so the wrist thing is out; same with actual bridge-jumping, because I've heard how all your bones break but you still have a chance at survival. That doesn't seem like a suicide attempt, just an attempt at a suicide attempt; I'm not knocking those of you who have tried it and succeeded, only those of you who tried it and failed because you landed on a houseboat, or in a concrete parking lot. Pills always seem like a painless way to go, but I hear it makes your insides go berserk; I wouldn't like that. I'd like to peacefully end my life, having a scantily-clad Johnny Depp inject me with clean sweet heroin while I'm resting on a cloud getting a foot massage. If it's not too much to ask.

Of course it's too much to ask, and I'm a big bad drama queen. But today has been a truly horrific day, from the time I woke up until I sat down to cry razorblade tears in front of this computer. I am a fool. I am crazy. I am a crazy fool. My eyes are almost swollen shut and my nose is dripping like our kitchen faucet, and I can't find a bridge to save my life. Get it? To save my life? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. HA.

Life is a spinning wheel, I guess--sometimes you're on top, sometimes you're at the bottom, but it's perpetually moving, no matter what. Hopefully I'll get myself back to the top by tonight, or tomorrow, or maybe next year. It'll be an adventure. :)

Snow Effigies

This photo and the snow seem so long ago!

Barefoot In the Kitchen

Due to laziness, this afternoon's post consists of sending you elsewhere. If you'd like to see my Wordpress blog, check it out here. It's not a daily blog, just a place for me to make and bake (not to be confused with wake and bake).

More later, after I watch a hundred episodes of the barefoot contessa.

'Corn Horn Central

Whoreleen, Mrs. Clean, and I went to a unicorn-themed party this weekend, and this was the best photo from it. The man levitating above us is the infamous Joe Ball, who works in my 'hood at the new healthy food extravaganza, Thrive. It's one of those fresh, organic, plant-based, raw food-supportin' places, and the smoothies look killer. Check them out if you want to feel goooood. Joe Ball is one of those militant vegans that I normally can't stand, but his food has always been insanely delicious, and he has a sense of humor. I can say, with total confidence, that the Esq and I are meat-loving meatlovers who would rather die from a veal-related heart attack than eat vegan "food"--but every time we've had Joe Ball's delectable cooking, WE INHALE IT. I barely have time to chew, his food is so good. I think he's the head cook, or at least one of the cooks, over at Thrive. Memorize that face, and the way he defies gravity; you'll recognize him if he's there.

It was very strange being at a party with mainly vegans or veggies, most of whom were dressed like unicorns, and wearing an I HEART BACON pin. I took it off at the beginning of the night, because I didn't want to offend anybody; then I went upstairs, looked around at the sea of people who surely graduated from Evergreen, and remembered who I was. I went downstairs and put the pin back on, because it's not a political statement: it's a personal preference. If you really want to come up to me and get snarky about a PIN, then I will take that aforementioned pin and shove it into your forehead. One gal walked past me, looked at my pin and said, "REALLY?" in this 'OH FOR HEAVENS' SAKE NOT ONE OF THESE PEOPLE' tone of voice; all I said was, REALLY! in a tone of voice that said 'I REALLY *DO* LOVE BACON, YOU UPPITY WICCAN BITCH.' At least I look like I've eaten in the past year, and also seen sunlight; couldn't say the same for her. In this photo, Dimitri is wearing a unicorn horn, Joe Ball is levitating, Allison is giving the Death Stare, and I am throwing a Shocker that's dangerously close to Joe Ball's actual shocking areas, were he a girl. Fun was had by all.

Being John Malkovich Goodman

Christmas 2008 was everything I hoped it would be: family, friends, great food, relaxing. It was also stressful, uncomfortable, tiring, and humiliating. But if there's one thing I've learned this year, it's to appreciate the things in my life that have real value, and by that I mean expensive Christmas gifts. What did you think I meant, love and goodwill towards man? Well ha, ha, ha. I laugh in your face.

It feels too early to make weight-related resolutions for 2009 that I won't actually keep, but I'm comfortable with that. It's time. And when I say "it's time", I mean "it's time for me to publicly declare my intentions to do something that I may or may not follow through on". So let's do this.

My goals in 2009 surround money and weight, two of my least favorite things; they are also my least favorite things to talk or write about. Sometimes I feel like my bank account can't get any redder, or the clothes in my closet can't possibly get smaller, but then they're all HA HA FUCK YOU YES WE CAN. But Denial is a powerful ally when salad is your sworn enemy; Denial is the kind of friend who says you look great while hand-feeding you bacon cheeseburgers. It's the accomplice who keeps all mirrors and bank statements out of my home, the verbally-abusive boyfriend I continue to make excuses for. Well from now on--or maybe just today, or possibly just until lunch--I'M GOING TO TAKE A STAND. Although truthfully, standing takes effort, and I just don't have that kind of energy.

The money thing just has to do with finding work, which is challenging right now; I've sent out 79 resumes since September, which ends up being about five per week. All for naught. But, as the Esq said, Obama will be in office soon, and candy will rain down from the heavens. When I heard that, I laughed for so long, it almost felt like exercise, or what others have described to me as exercise. And it kind of hurt.

Speaking of hurt, I sat down on my grandmother's custom-made redwood bench at Christmas dinner, and the fucking thing broke; my ass karate-chopped the shit out of that bench, clean in half. Granted, two other people were on the bench, but THANK YOU HUMILIATING WAKE-UP CALL. Brockoli was on the opposite end of me, and the unfortunate Esq was in between us, the thin white meat to our brioche-like bodies; he went down like the Titanic. Luckily, we had inquisitive little people at the Kids' Table, wondering why I broke the bench and ruined Christmas. I waited to sob my fat, ironic tears in the bathroom later, which was good because they would have broken my dinner plate, too. I'm glad my computer keyboard is made of stronger stuff.

Enter all of the hideous holiday party photos of me; when did I start looking like John fucking Goodman? Whoreleen even has video of me, and I can't handle video of me, not even when I look GOOD; I thought there was nothing worse than looking like John Goodman. Then I saw myself dancing. So I'll just use those mediums as motivation, although right now it just motivates me to live by myself in a self-cleaning cave filled with an endless supply of cake. Cake and fifty-dollar bills.

Chef Em had the logical observation that if someone doesn't like how they look in photos, they should get out of the picture. I agree, in some cases. But I have a friend who avoids taking photos in the same way she would avoid an army of zombies heading straight for her, and it's SO. ANNOYING. At a certain point, you're spending more time avoiding cameras--which, with today's cell phone capabilities, are EVERYWHERE--than having any fun. And my friend has become That Girl, the one with major social issues that play out in front of everyone; it's tiresome after a while. Just take the stupid picture, or stay in your room if you can't play nicely with other people; I don't want to be like her. So I might as well lose a few pounds and keep my social skills, is what I'm saying.

The Esq and I have been talking about our future, and I'd like to be around for it. I'd like to feel healthier, and assume that having confidence would be better than thinking of it as a concept for other people. I say it every year, but this time I mean it (I say that, too):

2009 IS MY YEAR.

I would also like to win the Lottery. Thank you.

The Spirit of Christmas

This is not a beer; it's a name tag.


















My son and my nephew: Ebony/Ivory, Happy/Sad.


















Gay and Not Gay.


















A paper chain of fools.

The Greatest, Snottiest Gift of All Time

This is a coppery, pirate-faced me.














This is me and Jesus; he's lacking eyeballs.
It's the blind leading those who can already see.





















This is me and Jesus and two slices of bacon.
Jesus was all about the bacon.






















This is me and Jesus and two slices of bacon at The Last Supper.
I think I've replaced Mary, so it's really two slices of bacon,
Jesus, and a Bethlehem whore.


















My thought bubble says, 'Maybe he won't notice the bacon.'

I keep saying it's a painting, but it's not; it's more of an art piece. It's fairly large, and heavy due to the entire thing being made out of copper and something that feels like suede. We decided to put it in the kitchen, so it can be covered in the actual smell of bacon; I didn't really like the idea, but it seemed... appropriate. I was completely speechless when I opened it, and didn't quite believe I'd won our Christmas Lottery. The fact that someone added me--and my partner in cholesterol-raising crime, bacon--to The Last Supper makes this the greatest gift that has ever been made for me. The fact that my dad made this for me just makes him the best dad in the whole wide world. It's a wonderful feeling when you realize a parent really gets you, and seeks to understand what you're about; I feel very lucky, because both of my parents do. I am lucky in love, bacon, and Jesus. It was a very good Christmas.

A Message From Our Sponsors

Merry [insert politically-correct description of a December holiday here] from Snotty & the Esq. Have a safe and happy [insert ludicrous description again]! See you on the flip side, if we don't drown in snow overnight.

SNOW and Other Four-Letter Words

Mel Gibson is saying, "FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK, YOU JEWS RUINED THE WORLD. MERRY CHRISTMAS, SUGARTITS!"

I'm officially naming this awful weather 'Snowpocalypto', because nothing is worse than a badly-directed Mel Gibson film featuring the Yucatec Mayan language, unless it's a badly-directed Mel Gibson film featuring the passion of his mangled BFF, Jesus Christ. I've been mulling over the movies that I hate and Mel Gibson's vehicles never fail to take me down a yawnfest rabbit hole. Kevin Costner, if you remember, used to be the king of long-winded historical dramas that ultimately went nowhere; Dances with Wolves was a good movie ("Tatanka!"), but it also lasted four days. When I finally saw daylight again, I was determined to never fall for the phrase 'epic journey' ever again; I would not be fooled by Kevin Costner and his terrible attempt at acting. Sure, I liked Field of Dreams, but in the same way I liked Cocoon: they were semi-interesting movies about old people that my parents made me watch.

Then, one fateful day in 1997, I rolled a joint, inhaled a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and turned on a classy cable channel, like Starz or Encore; through my reddened, heavy-lidded eyes I saw Kevin Costner in a Postal Service uniform. But my compromised brain cells failed to recognize that it was 1) Kevin Costner, and that 2) he was wearing a Postal Service uniform, so I ended up losing another four hours of my life, thanks to his movie, The Postman. Surely I would have recognized history repeating itself, had I been sober: Kevin, a bad script, an 'epic film', an awful outfit. This was the winning formula for Dances with Wolves, Waterworld (I gave this film two urine-drinking thumbs DOWN), JFK, Wyatt Earp, For Love of the Game, and The Bodyguard. Don't get me wrong, I like some of his movies; Bull Durham is a personal favorite, and his first big role was in The Untouchables, which most people can agree is a truly righteous film. But this Epic Film Formula only works for so long--like once. Why Mel Gibson decided to keep Costner's action-packed, snore-filled legacy alive is beyond me.

Mel Gibson did two projects I enjoyed: Mad Max and Lethal Weapon. Everything else felt like a long, painful history lesson, or a long, painful crucifixion; either way, Mel Gibson is not my cup of Jew-hating tea. Why can't people just make movies? Why do they have to make EPIC movies? Epic movies are as formulaic as crappy romantic comedies; the rules are as follows:

1. The movie must be made by an over-hyped actor-slash-producer-slash-director. Slash-douchebag-slash-bigot-slash-religious nutjob.

2. You must pay American money to sit through a five-hour history lesson that may or may not be factually accurate. I'm talking to you, Jesus.

3. You must not, at any moment during the film, laugh out loud--that alludes to fun being had, and no one in the history of Mel Gibson has ever had any fun, except Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon. And I think we can all agree, his was an exasperated, eye-rolling, 'I'm going to kill this white boy' kind of fun.

4. Crying is required, although not necessarily enforced in all theaters.

5. You must wonder, directly after exiting the theater, what all the hype was about.

6. The film must be nominated for all kinds of prestigious awards, but only win in safe, non-actor categories like 'cinematography'.

7. The actor-slash-director must be embroiled in some type of controversy; if the controversy happens before the release date, that movie is a shoo-in for a Golden Globe, but blackballed from The Oscars.

8. The film must cost the same amount as it did to make The Lord of the Rings--roughly enough money to buy your own planet and fund a space tourism business--but it can't be nearly as interesting or successful.

9. At some point, you must defend the movie from your point of view, ie; why you paid to see it in the first place. 'I really love Mel Gibson films' is not a good enough reason; I expect that kind of answer from an adorable special-needs child or a self-hating Jew. Normally I say something non-committal about the movie, like 'well, it wasn't the worst movie I've ever seen.' With glowing praise like that, how can these films lose money?

10. The film should have no outside marketing or retail value at all--it should be so unapproachable, McDonald's won't even want to pillage your movie for Happy Meal toys. Although they might have been missing out with Apocalypto. Imagine a brown, jungle-ravaged Mesoamerican tribesman who is running to escape human sacrifice and also to save his village; now imagine him in talking doll form. Every time you pull his string, he speaks Yucatec Mayan and is attacked by a jaguar; SWEET. That right there is fun for the whole family.

This post started out as a rant about the hateful white candy falling from the sky, but I guess I hate Mel Gibson more. Anyone who has a church built directly onto their property deserves at least one snarky blog post from me. Count on it.

The Polynesian Desk of Doom

Earth to desk, come in desk....

My desk is on a 'snow day', and currently buckling under the weight of:

My computer, which is a mish-mash of electronic bits that were fused together with love by the Esq; it was my Christmas gift last year. He made it from scratch, which is how everything should be made. I named my computer after a Samoan goddess called Sina--pronounced Seena--who reminded me of me. Sina, in Polynesian folklore, is a lunar deity who kept an eel in a jar, but it soon grew into the eel-god, Tuna, who eventually tried to rape her (of course! because this is a story we tell our children!). The people of Upolo rescued her and sentenced him to death. At his request, she buried his head in the sand, and from that grew the first coconut palm.

Sina is the goddess of light, and is married to Marama, the god of night. She lives in the sky during the daytime, when her husband is not visible; they don't see each other often. She makes tapa (a type of cloth made from bark--my mom used to do this!), and hangs her tapa in the sky, affixing it with boulders. The tapas are clouds, and when they are finished, she takes them way and the boulders roll, causing it to thunder. She is also the goddess of fish, inventor of barkcloth, and creator of the island, Molokai. What, you don't think this sounds like me? A crazy artist who lives in the sky and creates thunder throughout the land? A girl with sketchy exes who loves eating the fishies? Bitch, please. Add in the Esq, aka THE GOD OF NIGHT, and that's me in a pinch.

Also on my desk:

Sweet Simplicity, a fruit desserts cookbook, written by Jacques Pepin; How to Be a Domestic Goddess, care of Britain's favorite non-model, Nigella Lawson; Professional Baking, an official pastry chef manual from South Seattle Community College; Sensational Cakes, a book featuring one of my favorite bakers, Sylvia Weinstock; and 500 Cupcakes, an adorable cupcake cookbook I received as a birthday present from my friend, Emma. I'm sensing a baking theme here.

And finally:

Notes, notes, and more notes. Photos of the Esq and I, all from the thinnest days of our relationship (also known as: The Beginning); a framed photo of my favorite cousin; torn-out advertisements that caught my eye in Wallpaper magazine; pinwheels; Hawaiian sea salt; an empty Blue Boar; headphones, Ipod, digital camera, busted cell phone; three rings (jewelery); a stack of business cards; "Mardi Gras" beads in a mason jar; power strip; an empty container; an empty water bottle; an empty vase; rubber bands and bobby pins by the thousands, THE THOUSANDS; Martha Stewart Weddings magazines; a Nintendo hat; three small paper plates with red writing on them; old burnable CD's; a quarter package of dry Top Ramen; one Ikea lamp; gum wrappers; one dried booger; and an uncapped bottle of cumin. Where did the cap go? And why is cumin sitting next to my mouse?

Our Treacherous Walkway

It's hard to feel brown when it's so very white. The Esq looks like Shakespeare, or a hoodlum.

Snowy Eve With the Neighbors

Apparently, I'm a gangsta.

Christmas Door Decoration Contest

[Click on photo for closer view.]

It took me all day, and I never want to see a glue stick again, but I think our front door turned out well; our apartment building is having a door decorating contest. The thousand tiny cuts I ended up with certainly got me in the Christmas spirit. My favorite paper chains were made out of Wallpaper and Flaunt magazines; the stars, snowflakes, and hearts were made from plain old construction paper. I watched an entire season of Arrested Development during this craftastic ordeal adventure.

I'm getting cabin fever, so we're venturing out with the building peeps to Pies & Pints for some warm everything. I don't care if I hobble the whole way there, the chicken pot pie will vindicate my irresponsibility. The snow is nice, but only when it affects other people negatively.

YouTube LOLs

YouTube Contest Challenges Users To Make A 'Good' Video

I love The Onion.

You Do Not Talk About Fight Club

I was looking out of our living room windows last night, enjoying the snowy park across the street, when I saw a family with two tiny little girls in front of our building; they were all bundled up, and very cute. I was in a sort of dreamy trance, watching one pick up snow and screech, while the other one held onto her mom. I thought they were adorable, and wondered how cold it was outside.

Much like in a dream or a movie, everything slowed down, and I became hyper-aware of every sound and movement. I saw one of the hood rats from behind our house lurking by the fence, which runs along our high-traffic street; he was turning in a circle, bending to pick something up. I saw a blue car come down the the street, going approximately 25 miles an hour. I heard the Esq talking with Whoreleen on the phone, and even his speech was slow and tempered in my ears. My entire body was prickly, and the hairs on my neck were standing up with a vengeance. The family, hood rat, and car were at the same place when the car screeched to a halt on the ice. I realized at that point I wasn't breathing. A bigger Asian man got out of the car, came around, walked up the stairs to the hood rat, and pushed him on the ground; apparently, although I hadn't seen it, the hood rat had thrown an icy snowball at his car, and made quite the impact.

All of a sudden, every car door opened, and three grown men got out; the hood rat was yelling, and down the path, from the opposite direction, came four hood rats to the rescue. The father of the girls was struggling to keep his family out of the melee, but I lost track of one of the little ones. TEN MEN were pushing, shoving, shouting, throwing punches, holding each other back, jumping on each other--and I was saying, "No. No. No! NO! OH MY GOD, NO!" when I saw the little girls intersecting with these two oblivious men who were screaming and punching each other. The guys hadn't even noticed the family, who were caught in the middle--I thought the little girls were going to get hurt. I kept yelling the word 'NO' as I threw open our front door and raced to get downstairs, and in my panic, I forgot to put shoes on. Unfortunately, the 16 stairs from our front door to the 2nd floor are incredibly narrow, and entirely too steep; halfway down, I could feel my forward momentum going too fast, and knew I was going to fall on my face... so I jumped.

Yeah, I jumped. From like eight feet up, and with all of my weight behind it. In mid-air (switching from the word 'no' to 'FUCK' in a heartbeat), I realized my left ankle--which has been broken twice--wouldn't be able to take the extra fifty pounds I've resentfully put on in the past two years. So I shifted to the right, and OH. MY. GOD. I landed on my right heel instead, and now I can barely walk on it.

I managed to hobble to our second-story deck, with Cory and Justin right behind me, and screamed as loud as humanly possible, 'YOU FUCKERS BETTER KNOCK IT OFF, OR WE'RE CALLING THE POLICE!' They got all up-in-arms, and screamed right back, but kept brawling on the lawn. The Esq was yelling at them, and Cory was trying to talk them down. I managed to see the family, safe on the other side of the street, so at that point, I didn't care what those douchebags did. I half-heartedly yelled, "Fine, we're calling the police!" and they kept at it, screaming racial slurs at each other and trying to act all tough. Finally, when we were just going to call 911, they broke it up and went their separate ways, shouting insults at one another and high-fiving their friends.

It was completely irresponsible on everyone's part. The hood rat shouldn't have thrown the snowball, the Asian guy shouldn't have thrown the first punch, and everyone in between should have recognized how vulnerable that family was; I was really worried for their safety, because the man was trying to protect them--but for all those hood rats knew, he could have been a friend from the car. If you're going to be testicularly-retarded, wait until two innocent little girls go by you on the sidewalk, dicks; it's the polite thing to do.

Of course, now I feel like a giant idiot for wrecking my foot over something so stupid.

Note to the men on our lawn: Educate yourselves on how to insult someone properly; words, when used correctly, are powerful. But 'nigga', 'spic', and 'chink' are so ten years ago; they don't even mean anything. They're practically vintage.

Pointless Questions, Pointless Answers

Sorry, guys, but today is kind of a re-post, which only affects the people who've been reading since the old Myspace blog. My cell phone decided to crap on my face today, and so I need to go take care of it--but wait, there's more! Thanks to the icy weather conditions, I will be walking to the nearest Sprint store, or taking a bus that will inevitably fall off a cliff. Of course I have no winter coat, scarf, shoes, or hat (the Esq has the hat today, we're sharing), so that's incredibly helpful. Hey, I'm fucking broke and unemployed, so there's no money for these things, and usually no reason to go outside of my apartment. On the bright side, two people told me secrets this week that I shouldn't really know--and that's freaking me out on many different levels. I threw a uterus-sized tantrum this morning, and I'm preparing for another one this afternoon; I'm a cold mess today.

I received an email from an old high school "friend", whom I haven't seen since graduation. The email read like my worst nightmare--the elements of her life, it seems, are what I've been avoiding my whole life (multiple cats, a best friend in Jesus, kids to homeschool, and country crafts)--and she asked me somewhat pointless questions (or maybe 'unanswerable'). 'What have you been up to for the past 14 years?' was one of my favorites, right next to 'What church do you attend in Seattle' and 'How many cats do you have?' 'Have you discovered the fun in scrapbooking yet?' was my very favorite one, because HAVE I EVER.

I'm okay with people finding me on Facebook now, mostly because I can ignore them if I choose. And I don't mind the 'What have you been up to?' questions, because I genuinely want to know what they're doing, too. But to summarize in a Facebook email all the things I've done in the past 14 years seems stupid, because wouldn't the first thing on the list be, "Kept the people who are closest to me in the loop about my daily life"? And sorry, you weren't on that list.

I was asked the same question a while back, and I actually answered it in an old blog posting. The answers haven't changed, so I'm re-posting it for the people who keep on asking:

What has Snotty been doing for the past 14 years?

*I did a lot of drugs, and it was probably fun but I don't remember.
*I shacked up with a bunch of unworthy buttholes with sketchy employment situations.
*I had baby mama drama and moved away from my offspring.
*I went to beauty school, moved to Seattle, and went to rehab, all in the same fruitful year.
*I had a string of crappy jobs that didn't pay the bills.
*I buried myself in an Everest-like mountain of debt.
*I started college nineteen times only to drop out later.
*I found a cat and then, because he was unlovable and terrible, gave him away.
*I did the same thing with my ex-husband.
*I moved 500 times.
*I created shallow friendships with idiotic, self-involved people.
*I gained 60 pounds through a dedicated program of constant carb overload.
*I did a lot of emo eye-rolling.
*I went to a Scissor Sisters concert.
*I bought some clothes in varying sizes.
*My grandparents died.
*I saw scat porn for the first time.
*Sean Nelson gave me his record player.
*I met a nice guy named Justin.
*I started a blog.
*I learned to love old school country music.
*I re-discovered Dr. Mario.
*I found I have a thing for robots.
*I voted for Barack Obama.

Other than that, though, nothing much has happened in the last 14 years. But thanks for asking.

Church & State, Openly Dating

[Above: Look, it's Jesus! Oh wait, it's just Rick Warren.]

Okay. Rick Warren.

No offense to the gays that hate him or the pro-lifers who resent him, but Rick Warren is not the problem; he's only a symptom.

Yes, I hate this man's Proposition 8-loving ideals and politics--but no, I was not surprised by Obama's choice. My feeling is that Obama is letting everyone in on the discussion, which is what he's known for, so why is everyone shocked and surprised? I don't agree with the decision, but that has nothing to do with the gays, and everything to do with the church.

I find it interesting that so many liberals are screaming 'UNFAIR!' and moaning about how we're being kicked in the teeth on this one. I wonder why they don't step back and see the bigger picture, which is this: the number one news story should be on the separation of Church and State--or lack thereof--and fuck Rick Warren's religious douchebaggery. There's not a minister alive whom I would be happy to see at Obama's inauguration--because they don't belong there in the first place.

It seems illogical to have the invocation of our presidential inauguration--you know, the highest rank in our government--being given by a man who makes his living off of Jesus... you know, Jesus-Jesus. So to the people who are screaming about his politics, I'm here to remind you who he is: an evangelist, speaking at one of our country's most prestigious political ceremonies, and the whole world will be watching; as a man of God, do you think he should have this kind of political platform or spotlight? I certainly don't, and hope to see a return to actual politics with this new administration; we've pandered to the religious right long enough. And yet now they have a center-stage seat during one of the biggest nights in our history--to me, this is unacceptable.

The Esq remarked this morning that this is one of the many ways we scoff at the invisible separation of Church and State: 'oh, we meant separation of non-Christian churches and State, tra-la-la.' Do I want Rick Warren to be the center of this inauguration? No. But the same goes for a pro-choice rabbi, a priest who supports gay marriage, or a bacon-loving shaman; even though we share the same beliefs, they should play no part in this government. Rick Warren's political views are deplorable, at best, but the point is: he shouldn't have a voice in this new administration. If we focused more on the politics of governing--of getting our country back on track--and less on choosing sides in a religious tug-of-war, we might actually get shit done for once.

For now, I watch from the sidelines and feel fairly balanced about Obama's choice: he had to pick someone, and he picked someone that both sides *hate*. Sadly, the only person who agreed with his decision was Elizabitch Hasselbeck, which I hope isn't a trend. Personally, I think he should have chosen someone we could all be inspired by, who has no ties to religion; that way, we'd be staring at our country's future, and not the future of religion in politics.

**Addendum: Does anyone else find it odd that there's another pastor on the inauguration list--socially progressive Joseph Lowery, who supports gay marriage--and it's just the liberals who are losing their shit? Interesting.

The Sky Is Falling

Above: the view from my biggest kitchen window.

The sky is falling, and I don't mean snow: for the first time ever, I agree with Newt Gingrich.

Also, the sky is falling. Seattle, as always, blew its' snowy wad too soon on the promise of ice and snow yesterday. The schools closed--CLOSED--in "anticipation" of this winter snow storm, and the wee ones stayed home with their grumbling parents to await their weathery doom. The snow did not disappoint, waiting until the last possible second to hit Seattle--this morning. After everyone took the day off yesterday. And now the cities of Redmond and Bellevue, our retarded half-siblings to the east, have issued official city statements of DON'T COME NEAR US, WE'RE TOTALLY FUCKED. The floating bridges are filled with jack-knifed semis and stalled Metro buses. People are stuck in their homes with nothing but their Tivos, the internet, their Ipods, and -gasp!- other people to entertain them. What will these poor people DO? The city of Seattle is officially a weather hostage.

The Midwest knows what real snow is, and the East Coast thinks we're a joke; I tend to agree. Oh noes, look at the cold white candy, pouring straight from the sky! Is it precipitation, or maybe cyanide in disguise? Does it burn like acid rain? Will it turn my children into zombies? I guess we'll have to find a bomb shelter and wait out the Snopocalypse together; if we run out of food, we can always eat little Tommy. I mean, there's at least 2 inches of snow out there, people--ARE YOU READY TO MEET YOUR ICY DEATH? We are all a bunch of weenies.

It certainly is beautiful, though. And there's nothing better than snuggling up with your sweetie under a pile of warm fuzzy blankets, watching the snow fall--although I can imagine a scenario where I'm snuggled up under a pile of laundered money, and that's good, too. The first winter of us being an US, there was snow. My bed fit right underneath a huge picture window--so we bundled up, got in bed, and watched the snow for hours. There was a lot of talkin', laughin', smoochin'... it was really the best kind of snow day.

The Esq stayed home today, after getting up early and getting ready for work. We were debating whether he should go in, but the bus never came, so he finally gave up. I gave him an A for effort. So since the man is home, I must go make bacon (that is not a euphemism), and get ready for hot chocolate and snowman-making later; the folks at 5800 need a snowman to represent! And since all the peeps stayed home from work today, it's going to be one giant play date, all day long. If you're anywhere near me, come this way! We're going to have a ton of fun. Snow!