Today I had an epiphany. My goal is to post daily, or at least weekly but then this thing called life gets in the way. It's pesky that way. Between my husband, my children, my pets, and my Twitter addiction, things like bills, housework, and blog posts fall by the wayside. I was almost going to refer to myself as a "busy mom" but then I'd have to stick a fork in my eye, so I won't go there. I'm more like an "easily distracted mom." Ooh, shiny!
So what's with this happy scene girl pictured above? What does she have to do with epiphanies or blogging? NOTHING! That's the genius of it. She's just got hair resplendent with styling products and unusually white hands and she's really happy. Her relevance is neither here nor there. Well, mostly neither here but I'm getting away from myself again.
Anyway, today it dawned on me: OMG I can just put a list of these cool links on my blog and its, like, almost a real post. Will anyone notice my trickery? Shhhhh.
Amazing demo of a drawing technique using water from drawn.ca. Being stoned would make it even better, I'm assuming.
Would America be a better place if Mos Def were President? Undecided? He had me at a shawty moratorium.
Spy is a great new site that is like Summize across many social media platforms. Type in a topic and watch the conversation unfold. No I didn't search something silly like boobies. Okay, maybe.
Finally, what if the key players in this election were all playing D&D together? It would go something like this.
See? That was almost like REAL CONTENT. I'm over here doing the Jedi hand-wave thing so just pretend like you're falling under my spell. Real content. CONTENT.
Confession time: I found a banana in the bottom of my purse today. A banana I apparently put in there several days ago. Okay, maybe a week. On the Top 1000 Great Things To Find In Your Purse list, bananas don't even make the cut. So why am I so ashamed of this? Well, I think it says a lot about me, all of it not good. Let's do a little Jungian handbag analysis here:
my purse is rather cluttered
my purse is teeming with enough oddities to disguise the presence of a banana
I put perishables in my purse and promptly forget about them
I don't clean out my purse on a weekly basis
See, there are apparently women in the world who not only check the contents of their purse from time to time, they even change handbags daily to match their outfits. These women bring shame upon the rest of us, the non-daily-purse-changers, and must be stopped. I know a girl who claims to change handbags EVERY DAY and always uses it as an excuse for being late. "Can't believe I was late again, couldn't decide on a bag." She's also 20 and beautiful and has stunning breasts so I'm sure her constant handbag-induced tardiness will go unpunished.
I, personally, have been carrying the same purse since last Christmas. It's a horribly loud, borderline obnoxious Betsey Johnson in a bright print with patent-leather trim. I fucking love this purse, so much so that I don't even care if it matches what I'm wearing. So there.
But this! This horrid incident, heretofore to be referred to as "the time I tried to make banana bread in my purse" needs to be a one-shot deal. I'm making a resolution to keep my handbag fruit free and tidy. With Betsey Johnson as my witness. So mote it be!
Today maybe Twitter can use it's power of immediacy and viral spreadage of information (from the French, spredage) to help find a 14-year-old girl, and the 17-year-old boy who probably took her. Word of this Amber Alert spread like wildfire and became some of the most popular words on Twitter, as everyone retweeted the cry for help. Sure we're mostly kept busy making smart-ass jokes about Sarah Palin but when we're NOT, we like to help out those in need.
Her name is McKenzie Church and she was last seen on Saturday, in South Carolina (Spartanburg, Greenville). She could be anywhere most likely is in the Carolinas or Georgia. She may be traveling with 17-year-old Ryan Schichtel in a Green '97 Honda Accord.
If you have any information, please call Crimestoppers at (864) 232-7463.
I had a major Smurf obsession as a child. I wasn't too interested in the cartoon, that was just an added bonus. My main focus of concentration was on the little figurines. Making matters worse, much worse, was the fact that my best friend Yvonne had every single character known to man. You see, Yvonne was German. That was her rationale, not mine. She'd say it and shrug, as if it to say 'Silly American girl, in Germany we shake the Smurfs off the Smurf trees and gather them in the aprons of our fraulein dresses.'
She had worker Smurfs, party Smurfs, musician Smurfs, athletic Smurfs (including weightlifter Smurf). She even had in her possession the crowning glory of Smurfdom, the Smurf house. It was a brilliant technicolor toadstool, big enough to fit Smurfs inside, and it had a WORKING key. I became fixated with that key like a hobbit on a ring. Immediately upon entering her room, I'd run to the Smurf house and want to lock and unlock the door. I can still see that damn key, it haunts my dreams.
So the other day when I saw this display when walking through the toy store, I was brought to a dead halt.
My husband, seeing my apoplectic state and thinking perhaps I'd swallowed a bug or was just coming to the realization that I'd had a major stake in Lehman Bros., came over to help me out. "Get the camera, get the camera!" I shrieked. Apparently unable to use my hands to get the camera myself, I was now uselessly flapping them like baby bird wings.
New this season are KKK Smurf and Psychic Vampire Smurf (AKA Zombie Stockbroker Smurf).
I was strong that day. There was a 50/50 chance I walked out of there with $500 worth of blue plastic. In the end, I didn't even buy one. Thanks to blogging and camera phones, I can be satisfied with Flickr uploads and a blog post about the majesty, the awesomeness, the spectacle that is: The Smurfs. Plus, the ability to now refer to my blog as "that place where I talk about Smurfs" is totally prize enough.
So get this, there is a dude on Twitter PRETENDING to be a blonde girl and he has almost FIFTEEN-HUNDRED followers. While I, a REAL live blonde girl, only have 240! Do you see the injustice here?! Of course I was aware there were probably fake hotties on Twitter. Hell I even had my suspicions about iJustine until I saw her with my own eyes. I didn't throw water on her to see if she'd short out though, so the jury's still out on that one.
I learned about "Britneymason" (no, seriously) after watching the Current clip all about the Twitterverse, featuring the lovely Holden (@sflovestory).
Holden, like me, is also a REAL LIVE FEMALE, I'm 99% sure. But Britneymason, also known as David Peck, is male, a father of five. The picture on his website depicts an idyllic scene, with his gaggle of children and adoring wife surrounding him on a dappled lawn. The mind boggles. What, you can't be happy being the archetypal hunter/gatherer for your tribe, you want to be the pinup too?
I'm sure he is the nicest person imaginable. But that dog don't hunt for me. My husband deciding to create a Twitter account as a hot blonde would set into action the longest talk of our married life. I'm talking a long-ass long talk. I'm talking a running out of food stores and needing to take a leave of absence long talk.
See, first I got weirded out. But then I got ENVIOUS. Yes I know I'm abusing the caps lock today. You see kids, some people spent their formative years smoking too much pot. I spent my formative years reading too much Dooce. Send your hate mail to Heather B. Armstrong.
I've finally come to grips with the reality of it. A poorly-done CGI dame is more likable than me, a poorly-done real-life dame. Okay, fine, be that way. I know it must be that he has technical skills and probably says lots of really deep, meaningful geeky stuff. I can't compete with that!
So alas, having nothing technically bright to add, I will now proceed to just make shit up. I got my pong.gn tweaked with my nacker mode set to 300. Sure I had to redirect the RIZ to donka.bu and stream the output, but once I got that hacked, it was aces. Wait 'til Scoble hears about this one! (this paragraph is made of 100% recycled identi.ca posts)
Well tonight is the big debate between Palin and Biden. So what's the catch? Tonight is Thursday! The night I watch the Tivo'd Project Runway from last night. Now what am I supposed to do? (Don't say "watch it tomorrow", it ruins the whole punchline, just hush).
If I could somehow get the audio from Project Runway over the video of the debate, it would almost appear as if Heidi and Tim were debating and that would totally and utterly kick ass. Even the dialogue would make sense:
Heidi "Yoh ida een, or yoh aut."
Tim: "Well this worries me. Make it work, people!"
Now I just can't decide if I want Heidi to narrate Biden or Palin. Decisions, decisions.
It's almost October so you'd best get crackin on that super-original Halloween costume. Your choices are boundless and sometimes that much choice is painful and stultifying, so I've whipped up a handy chart to make things easier on you.
Boys usually take Halloween less seriously and are more than happy to just slap a mask on their head and consider it done. Just as long as they get to carry a weapon, it's all good. Once they're older, they graduate to villains like "pimp" (or is that hero?) and more elaborate, gory renditions of killers. Note: I'm not talking about that special brand of nerds who make their own Stormtrooper uniforms out of plastics most befitting a Stormtrooper, information they found on the George Lucas webring. That's a different breed, folks.
Who ever said girls don't have more options than boys? There is NO glass ceiling in the lascivious Halloween costume industry gals! The possibilities are staggering. I've broken them down into three broad (get it?) categories but they are packed floor-to-ceiling with whorish goodness:
Slutty career: fireman, policeman, baseball, football, referee, cheerleader, boxer, maid, nurse, military. Basic recipe: take any job, substitute a 4-inch swath of fabric for the bottom, add thigh-highs and BOOM, you're done.
Slutty historic: Greece, Rome, Egypt, pirates, French Revolution, flappers, pilgrims, Indians. Did you know your history book is a treasure trove of debauchery? Sure some are obvious (hello? Greece and Rome), but with stilettos and bounding cleavage, any era can be made hot. Ever had a pilgrim give you an erection? Plymouth rock, man.
Slutty fictional: witch, sorceress, nymph, fairy, nursery rhyme heroine, angel, devil. Who knew nursery rhymes could be so thrilling? Check out Little Miss Muffett's tuffet, dude!
