Posts Tagged ‘Groan’

My infomercial psuedonym has been taken

Thursday, October 27th, 2011

“Stella Riches” is currently on my TV hocking some kind of bra. Did you know throwing your bra away is like throwing out money? Me neither. I thought they just got old and it was the natural progression of things: the circle of lingerie life. I like to bury mine at sea, but that’s another story for another day.

In other news, I have just assembled a cheap Wal-Mart bookshelf incorrectly FIVE TIMES. And I used glue two of the times. And now I’m going to go sloppily drive a bunch of nails and screws into it, in the hopes that it doesn’t collapse into a pile of pressed wood rubble when I put a few things on it. In a just world, magic elves would appear after the fourth or fifth incorrect assembly and bail me out.

oak bookshelf

It looks like this. Sort of. Only black. And with a wee Tower of Pisa thing going on.

Seriously, between this and my new-found dialing problem – I seemingly cannot dial the numbers into a phone as they are  printed in front of me – I’m starting to wonder if I have Adult Onset Dyslexia or am just plain dumb.

The worst of it?

I have two more bookshelves to deal with. At this rate, I’ll be at it until dawn.

That puts my hourly wage at roughly $1.10 an hour…nearly three times what JR proposed in his “give Vanessa $20 and she’ll write you something personal every day of the month” and something about your complexion looking nice. I suppose I should be glad none of you jumped in on this. I’m going to choose to interpret it that you value my time much more highly than this, and not that you won’t even spot me the $20 in exchange for egregious return favors.  ***sniffle***


Okay, enough bitching. I’m getting sick of my own self. Back to the bookshelves! I’ve done one…I can do three. Or maybe it takes ten fucks ups before the elves show? I have a feeling we’ll find out…

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Brimming With Bad Advice

Thursday, April 28th, 2011

So I have a friend who lives in the Liverpool area and we sometimes talk (type) via that Blackberry Messenger thing. It’s free, and he’s often drunk there when it’s the middle of the day here, so it provides occasional minor entertainment. As you know by now, I’m always looking for free ways to waste time.


Teeth tattooed with royal couple

This wanker actually got this tattooed on his teeth. He's the first one you should execute as part of the revolution. Sinister, indeed.

But I digress.

This morning he writes me “Have you heard some wedding is going on tomorrow?” which actually was news to me. I mean, I realize the older spawn of Charles and Diana is getting married, I just didn’t quite know when. At first I thought it was last Sunday (yes, Easter. I didn’t realize it was Easter either. Sue me.), which someone actually LAUGHED AT ME for. I think it’s a sign of intellectual superiority to have no clue what’s going on with the friggin’ royal family. I also pride myself on not being able to name any of the Kardashians except Kim. Anyway, then I thought the wedding was this coming Sunday until, well, the text this morning. Who gets married on a Friday anyway?

Oh, and while I’m on the subject, did William get his dad’s unfortunate choppers or what? No amount of braces can tame the gigantic teeth that are Prince Charles’ pedigree.  Hmmmm…. Do those people have a last name? Or is it like Cher? Perhaps i’s just “Prince Charles” and call it good.

Prince William smiling

Those are Dad's teeth for sure.

So back to the story: Trying to be polite, I write back and say “so I take it this is a big deal – vicariously – for you all?” It was a vicarious big deal for most of us when Obama became President, so I can relate.

So he says something about how he’s uneasy with it and that it seems sinister and something about incest and a bunch of other stuff that basically confused the hell out of me which ultimately led to ANOTHER revelation (this one much more significant than mistakenly thinking they were getting married on a Sunday) which is that the royal family actually wields some kind of power.

This I did not know. I thought they were just figureheads, but my friend tells me “The Queen is the head of everything. There is only a government by her consent. There is no constitution here. It’s all protocol/ritual.”

This is where my advice-giving kicked in, and it was good stuff. Thus, it didn’t seem fair that my friend – who, again, spends a lot of time drunk and is unlikely to actually act on anything I tell him – be the only Limey in possession of this insight.

Prince Charles grimacing

You can get plastic surgery for the ears, but the teeth are what they are.

So sit down, shut up, listen and learn. You can thank me later when you’re all buying yourselves Aston Martins with the money you split from the ransacked royal coffers.


You know you want to. It’s high time. It’s been almost four hundred years since Oliver Cromwell. Besides, all you’ve got going on over there is the X-Factor and Papa John’s pizza. A revolution will give you something new to discuss during the pub quiz.

Here’s what I advise:

1. Sink a few ships full of tea or throw a few boxes into the nearest body of water. This will make much more of a statement if it’s English Breakfast or Earl Grey or one of those. Save the Oolong to drink with your next Chinese Takeaway.

2. Do this while screaming a catchy slogan. “No taxation with representation” is a bit hackneyed, so I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a few new ones for you.

Prince Charles windblown

This one is included simply because it made me laugh.

“There will be executions until we get a constitution!”

(Actual executions optional.)

“No more Queen Mother: I’d like to see her smother!”

(Look, I’m on a time crunch here. This is the best I can do off the top of my head.)

“The royal family looks like a bunch of chimpanzees!”

(These are getting downright weak. I’m going to stop here.)


3. Write a manifesto. Get someone with good handle on fiery, highfalutin, and occasionally incomprehensible language like “secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity” and “no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood, or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.”



4. Force poor people to fight for you

Revolutionary soldiers

This makes it look a lot better than it probably was.

This is key. What I suggest is that you become mayor of somewhere and then pass a law that the only way out of the draft you just started is to pay you one million pounds. Everyone who can’t come up with it has to fight. Instant army, easy breezy. Also, make sure there’s an inadequate supply of shoes, clothes, and weaponry. Nothing gets a man fired up like having to tramp around in the wet mud without shoes while being stalked by someone with a working gun. He’ll fight with his wooden pistol just to take the boots off the other guy. Again: candy from a baby…

5. Set lots of stuff on fire. Anarchy is all about uncontrolled street corner fires.

6. Boycott all British goods.

Happily, Papa Johns is not British, so you should be fine.


You’re welcome in advance. Good luck and enjoy your revolution!



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How Do I Hate Thee? Let me count the ways…

Monday, November 22nd, 2010

I hate the way you give me anxiety bordering on a breakout of hives.

I hate the way you’ve made me call the heavily accented lady at the help desk (is she the only one who answers or is it just fate giving me her each time???) three times before noon with my stupid questions.

I hate that even if I put in my best effort, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to build a website that’s anything more than the equivalent of a messy crayon drawing obviously done by a slow child.

I hate that real experts cost thousands and thousands of dollars and often don’t deliver that much more than what I could have cobbled together myself and  yet leaves me feeling totally dependent on them should catastrophe strike.

No amount of Joomla! books will bring me comfort...unless it turns out a web designer comes with them.

I hate that it’s snowing (not your fault, but maybe it is in some kind of extended global warming sort of way.)

I hate that I keep wishing I was rich and could make this somebody else’s problem.

I hate that of I’m the ‘technically savvy’ half of the new business venture I’m part of, because that basically means we’re doomed, at least technically speaking.

I hate that it’s 1pm, and I’m still in my bathrobe, and I’ve already cried twice, and I’ve done nothing for three hours but work on setting up this website and ultimately achieved what an expert probably would have pulled off in fifteen minutes.

I hate celery.

I hate waiting in long lines.

I hate shoveling.

I hate feeling incompetent.

I hate being stuck: literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.

I hate waiting.

I hate not knowing.

I hate how I get in my own way.

I hate whiners.

I hate that I’m whining.

And yet…oddly enough…I actually feel rather better, so I suppose I’ll stop my whining now and knock off a few other items on the to do list, and wait to see if the DNS server changes I made were actually done correctly. And, with any luck, I’ll continue my tortoise and the hare (me being the tortoise) progress and have something to show you in a few days.

Slow and steady wins the race, right?

We shall see…

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Move Over, Bacon!

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

Now there’s something meatier!


In lieu of what I was looking for, the other Sizzlean - some kind of drag queen (at least I hope that's what we're looking at here.)

Do you remember those ads? I think the product was called Sizzlean, and their slogan of the 80′s became my brother’s and my battle cry when sitting down, sliding over rapidly, and slamming the other person’s ass (hopefully) onto the ground. The ‘move over, Bacon!” part was yelled as you plopped down, and the final flourish delivered mid-body slam.

That has nothing to do with anything except that these posts need a title, and this was vaguely relative, and I couldn’t come up with any worthy ideas involving Paul the Octopus…not that he’s relevant at all, just that I can’t stop thinking about his perfect World Cup prediction record and how I wish I could get just fifteen minutes alone with him to review some critical life choices and investment options.

In other news, a couple days ago I was channel surfing and saw a snippet of the reality thing starring that guy from KISS (Gene somebody? I try not to know. KISS scares me. Their role in turning me against Dr. Pepper is enough.) and he was cramming for  the bottom-of-the-barrel quiz show “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader”? It was clear that the answer was ‘no’ when he didn’t know that red and blue combined make purple (and a few other basic facts of life I figured the primary school set would have down cold.)

I didn’t actually see him ‘compete,’ but I have to imagine  it was a total blowout. It seems to me in those instances that they should then have a show you could flunk down to…say, “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader With a Learning Disability?” Enter Robbie K. or his equivalent, a boy in my fifth grade class that (back then) would have been labeled “hyper’ and ‘needs improvement’ and definitely would not have sat still and stopped humming long enough to have known that yellow and blue make green.

Ring stack toy

Study up, Gene! This one could be challenging!

If you couldn’t beat Robbie, then how about “Are You Smarter Than a Toddler?” wherein you compete at stacking rings on a cone or identifying basic colors, shapes, and whether or not the face in front of you is a stranger, one of your parents, or your own reflection in a mirror. Still too dumb to be removed from national TV? Maybe “Are You Smarter Than a Lab Rat?”  Try to guess which water bottle contains poison and which one is just water!

If you survive that, let’s just have you sterilized and given a job as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

Sorry, that was probably harsh, but no harsher than my proposed series of programs extending the Man vs. Wild (and now Man Woman Wild) franchise.

Naturally, I have done no research, so I don’t know if the Man v. Wild guy is now traipsing around risking his life for no good reason with his wife in tow or if they’ve found another pair of ‘survivalists’ to entertain us by wandering through a crocodile-infested swamp with beef hearts tied to their thighs or what. Does it really matter?

As it so happens, specifics aside and sight unseen, I know that Man Woman Wild will be too mundane for my tastes. Let’s get some combos out that that will truly impress me. How about Elderly Man, Colicky Infant, Wild?

Rosé wine

Mmmmm.... Wine....

Or Pothead Teen, Nap-Deprived Toddler, Wild?

Feuding Couple on the Verge of Divorce; Hannah Montana-Obsessed Brat; Blind, Arthritic Poodle; Wild?

Blue Man Group, Land Mines, Wild?

Okay, maybe a few of these would be too difficult to put into production, but I think you see the direction I’m going: it’s not entertainment if you’re a survivalist by training or know the difference between poison oak and poison ivy. That’s too easy. Give me somebody that has to work for it. For instance, stick my mother out there with some high heels on and a bottle of rosé and you’ve got some REAL entertainment.

Trust me. I know of which I speak, even if I’m not allowed to blog about it.

(Did I mention she has vertigo?)

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Why try to change me now?

Monday, February 8th, 2010

Today has been a strange day.

Mostly a bad day. Or maybe not.

I don’t really know anymore.

One probably shouldn’t blog in a melancholy mood, but at the same time – if it’s authentic and real – why the hell not?

So let’s see: Last night the dog attacked the cat and really – pardon my French – f*cked him up. I wasn’t actually in the immediate vicinity, but as I understand it, steak was involved and the (very food aggressive) Malamute noticed that the (very food aggressive) Himalayan cat was moving in, and he tore him a new one. Literally.

Fu’s chin is covered in stitches and he’s missing some fur by his left eye. He’s also QUITE emotionally traumatized.

As am I.

Add to the mix that not one, but TWO people I consider very close and important friends called me out on the carpet – separately and without much padding or candy coating – on all the ways I sabotage myself and make excuses and hold myself back and stay stuck in patterns that aren’t serving me.

This had nothing to do with the cat.

It just also happened to happen today.

So ouch.

Is there anyone that’s ever happy to hear this stuff about how we’re our own worst enemy? Even when we know it’s true?

Don’t get me wrong.

These were lectures given with love.

And they weren’t off-base.

Maybe the worst sentiment of the whole day was something along the lines of, “If I came to you with these excuses, you would kick my ass and give me really good advice and totally straighten me out. Why can’t you do that for yourself?”

Double ouch.

And yet…

I have been saying “the book will be done in a week or two” for…

I don’t know?

Ten weeks?


And  some of it is legit – my friend died brutally of a brain tumor, and I made a conscious decision to be there with her in those last months, and I’m so glad I did – but some of it is bullshit. In truth, I keep finding new ways to distract myself or chase other rainbows and what I really, really, really, really want to do – deep down and with every bone in my body – is finish this last editing and contact agents and sell this damn thing and realize a lifelong dream and make some money and effect the future of required reading lists and change the world, but I think I’m also totally scared and terrified and vulnerable and dealing with all that by sabotaging myself.

So my plans (to attend the Isha Yoga Inner Engineering program in Seattle this week) have been nixed, and I will – no more excuses – finish the book and contact at least a handful of agents by the end of next week.

I have to.

This has gone on long enough.

I’m so close it’s absurd.

Which is what I guess is what spawned the WTF!? lectures delivered at both 11am and 11pm today.

Or maybe it’s just some weird alignment of stars in the universe?

Either way, it worked.

Anyway, it just got me thinking about how we cling to our ways – good, bad, and indifferent – and this really sweet song by Cy Coleman (as sung by Fiona Apple because that’s what I could find on YouTube) about just that.

To anyone else out there getting in their own way: I can relate, and if you can’t do it for yourself, I wish for you that some dear friend comes along and gives you a dose of tough love sometime soon. Or if they don’t or if your friends are too polite, send me enough information that I can do it for you.

It’s no picnic.

You may cry.

It hurts…but in a good way.  xo

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