Boom chicka snootchie booches

If you’re my kid, don’t read this.
If you’re my parent, don’t read this.

If you’re someone who is easily offended and/or grossed out by The Ess-Eee-Ecks, don’t read this.

If you’re Mr. Mewes, thanks? I think?8

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Okay, now that the buzzkills are gone, oh my god, you guys.

Johnny Rotten has been obsessed with Kevin Smith lately, and with the exception of Comic Book Men, I can understand it fully. I enjoy nothing more than a bunch of beer, a blankie, a really comfy couch, and the ViewAskewniverse, you know?

I was letting him run with his Kevin Smith kick, and yes, I was shit talking a little, but Mr. Smith seems like a cool guy and I also think that he could probably see some humor in trash talk from some housewife who doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground on all things comic-y,  and besides, even if he was butthurt, I figure that if I bought him a beer and apologized and told him how I wanted to name my dog Dante Hicks but got outvoted, we’d probably end up buddies or something. Anyway, I was being pretty supportive over this bearded filmmaker obsession.

I was. I really was. Until last night.

See, I had an X-rated dream last night. You’d think, with all this talk about Mr. Smith, that it would be about the man himself, but nope. You’d have thought wrong. It was starring (boom chicka) Jason (snootchies booches) Mewes.

Don’t recognize the name? He was Jay from Jay and Silent Bob fame. He was in Zack and Miri Make a Porno. He was in….. other stuff. Probably.  I think.

Still don’t know? Maybe Mr. Smith can help…..

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Thank you, Kevin. Yes, that  guy.

You’re supposed to buy weed from Jay, or ask him where the Phish concert is. You’re not supposed to think like that about and so you guys? Again, I don’t even know. Clearly, I am confused.

Johnny Rotten has been informed that he’s not allowed to talk about anything Smith related before bed. LIke too much caffiene, it clearly affects my dreams.  This is like that time where we were watching Everybody Loves Raymond before bed and I…. you know what? NO. There’s no need for all of us to be traumatized by this.  My Everybody Loves Raymond story is my own cross to bear. You’re welcome.

Rule 34 is no joke. (The tentacle rice bag)

Johnny Rotten has a neck that aches all the time. Whether it was from his time in the military or just because he’s built wrong, I don’t know. Fact is, it hurts. A lot. All the time.

I hate seeing him in so much pain, so I whipped out my trusty sewing machine and made him a reusable rice bag-you know, the ones you heat in the microwave for a few minutes for a hot pack or throw in the freezer for a few hours for a cold pack- to hopefully give him a little bit of relief from his achiness.

Clearly, I had the best and most innocent of intentions. I wouldn’t say I was being noble exactly, but if you want to say I was being noble, I probably won’t stop you. Probably-maybe-for sure won’t stop you.

I hmmmed over the design for a long time. It needed to be long and able to be wrapped around his neck easily….like a tentacle, kinda.

Oh my good lord, a tentacle was a great idea! I could make a long skinny heating and/or cooling pack, and I could be fancy and awesome wifey and paint a tentacle on it to make it even more badass for him. Old ladies have those floral rice bags. Who has tentacle rice bags? Only awesome people!

Only, y’all, I didn’t exactly know what a tentacle truly looked like. I knew they were the bottom half of my favorite sea creatures ever, but if you asked me to draw one, I’d probably have screwed my face up and drawn you a boob instead, because I’d be hoping to distract you from realizing that I don’t know what tentacles look like by showing proof that I do know what boobs look like. I’m sneaky like that, you know?

Anyway, I might not know what tentacles look like, but you know who does? Google does! I headed on over, and being the classy kind of lady that I am, I typed ‘cephalopod’ in to the search bar.

Lots of terribly scientific articles and images came up. They were good and all, but I wasn’t writing an academic paper on octopi and their bretheren, so I figured that maybe I ought to search for something a little less sciencey-sounding.

Very well. I, being the smart person I am, typed in ‘tentacle images’.  After all, that was exactly what I was looking for, and I expected hundreds of friendly octopi to flood my screen, showing me cheerfully what their legs look like so that I could paint a reasonable facsimile. *

I hit ‘enter’.

And then, I realized, milliseconds too late, that rule 34 of the internet — if it exists, a porn version exists on the net– existed. Milliseconds after that, I realized that I hadn’t bothered to ensure that safe search was on.

I was right in a sense. There were hundreds of octopi on my screen. Like any person who is naive on the net, I figured the thumbnails were giving me an unrealistic idea of what the actual image was.

Again, I was right in a sense. The thumbnails didn’t do the images justice. They were far, far worse than the thumbnails let on. These were no Beatles “Octopus’ Garden” octopi, they were straight up pervtacular. Bad octopus! And the squid were no better. Guys. You don’t even know.

I waded through the octoporn, as I was a woman on a mission. I would paint this thing if it killed me. And so, I spent that afternoon with crazyass porn and a paintbrush. Anything for Johnny Rotten, you know?

It actually turned out kinda well. I’m especially proud that I took the artistic license not to paint a phallus on the end of it. I guess I’m pretty good at this after all.

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Still, I wonder…. would it have ultimately been cheaper to send him to a chiropractor, or is the therapy I now need cheaper in the end?

*-dont try this at home, kids. If youre a grown adult, do what you want. Just dont come crying to me when you feel that everything that you thought was good about marine critters turned iut to be very, very wrong.

I’m boring, but heres a banana wielding man in a zentai suit for you.

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So hey, y’all! I hope you’re well and happy. I’m busy trying my very best to figure out this new bit of shiny internet wizardry and baking and hollering at the kids for making turkey noises at the dog, but I have all kinds of stories that I can’t wait to tell you. Please note the above photo has nothing to do with my life–that i know of– but it’s way more interesting than a photo of me pretending that I actually have this tablet figured out. Feel free to discuss and/or write fanfic in the comments!

Sunday short and shout: Wait, so Rick Springfield is actually just a straight guy creeper?

I found this awesome app called Songza. It’s free, no ads, and has truly great playlists. You should get it, if for no other reason than you can have misheard lyrics conversations with your significant other too.

Me, ironing, singing along to my 80’s playlist: Ooh I wish that I was Jesse’s girl….

Johnny Rotten: STOP. What did you just say?

Me: I said, “I wish that I was Jesse’s girl”. That is how the song goes, I’m just singing along.

Johnny Rotten, doing the I’m-being-serious-on-the-outside-but -I’m totally-laughing-on-the-inside face: Could you please explain what this song is about?

Me: It’s about a guy who has a crush on his friend, and wishes he was in a relationship with his friend, but he can’t do anything but wish and long from afar– afar, Johnny Rotten!– because of different sexual preferences. It’s kind of sad, but these things happen, I guess.

Johnny Rotten, with his I’m-laughing-on-the-inside-AND-the-outside face: Seriously?! That’s not what’s its about. That’s not even how it goes.

Me: Fine, so tell me, smartypants. Tell me your interpretation.

Johnny Rotten: It goes “I wish that I had Jesse’s girl”, not “I wish I was Jesses’s girl”. And it’s kind of creepy, because it’s just this guy wishing he could steal his best friend’s girlfriend. How do you not know these lyrics?

Me: You’re judging me right now, aren’t you?

Johnny Rotten: Yes. Yes I am.

FIrst Date: Well, at least I didn’t do *that*.

Where were we?  Ah yes. I was meeting Johnny Rotten for the Very! First! Time! My Munchkin had fallen off the bed, I was overcome with a fit of I-am-a-terrible-mother-and-person, I cried my eyes out, he knocked on the door, and the hot mess that was me was revealed like the worst episode of Extreme Makeover ever.

He hugged me, told me it was great to meet me, and then–AND THEN!– offered to hold the baby so that I could wipe my face off and put real pants on.

Before I get massive internet screaming about how I was a horrible mom who let her kid fall off the bed and then let a stranger– an Internet Person– hold her darling child, let me just say that he has two kids. I knew that he knew that babies have to be held the right side up, even though there is no little label with an arrow to tell him so. I was in the house, only a few feet away. The door wouldn’t be closed, except to put pants on (which, dudes? I am totally good at that. If I were a superhero, I’d probably be FastGarmentPuttingOnGirl or something) and my sister and her boyfriend were about eight seconds away, as they were coming to eyeball the new guy babysit.

It went smashingly well. I got out of the bathroom to find that Munchkin was cooing at Johnny Rotten and Johnny Rotten was cooing right back at Munchkin. D’awwww.  You know when you meet someone and they’re really good at everything, and it kind of makes you feel bad and like you can’t be friends with them because you have your own blooper reel from every single day and you coast from one embarrassment to another? Yeah. That.

Folks, I really liked him.  I mean, really liked him. Reallyreallyreally liked him. I chalked it up as a ‘sucks to be me’ situation, because it wasn’t a date-date, it was hanging out. A relationship wouldn’t have worked anyway, because we were not only from different countries which kind of makes dating a little tough, but we both had just ended long term relationships and rebound relationships never work, right? Right. Still, doing something on a Saturday night is better than doing nothing on a Saturday night, and if the person I’m doing things with is cute and smells good, all the better.

He easily dealt with The Sister’s interrogation polite conversation and small talk, and we headed out for dinner. All good. I wasn’t trainwrecky, and he loosened up a little. We were getting along great, and even if this didn’t work out into anything meaningful– which it wouldn’t, of course!– we both had fun. We were having such a good time, in fact, that we decided to spend some more time together and went out for a drink at the local pub.

Maybe he was finally getting comfortable around me, or maybe it was just the wine with dinner, but he had gone from ‘loosening up’ to a little flirty. I had figured that he was not into me like that, but I guess he was just shy and really polite. He seemed to like me. Like, like-like me. Yes, like THAT. I was stoked, and I figured that he’d make his move any second.

Two things happened at that very moment.

One: my jacket dropped from my chair onto the floor.

Two: he made the move he had been contemplating all evening.

I bent down to get my jacket, and he tried to execute some kind of suave contortion to put his arm around my shoulders. Had he swept his arm up around the back like a normal person, and not an Internet Person, everything would have gone according to plan and I wouldn’t be telling you this, because it would be boring.

Happily for the sake of stories told to strangers, he did not. He swept his arm up in front of me, like he was going to put it over my head, and then have it land on my shoulders. At that exact moment, i bent forward to grab my jacket. We collided.  Smooth.

For the second time that day, my mascara was ruined because of tears, but these weren’t anything emotional. It seems to be a pretty normal body response to being elbowed full force in the  face, you know? It wasn’t a little tap. My eyes watered. I tasted blood. I could feel my lip puffing up. I swore.

For him, the phrase ‘died a thousand deaths’ didn’t even begin to cover it. He apologized. He asked if I was okay.  He apologized more.

Johnny Rotten was so very, very upset by this. I started to laugh. Of course, most people don’t laugh right after they get hit in the teeth, and he mistook it for sobbing, which I found even funnier. He was ready to accept that this had been a complete failure, and started gathering my things so that he could take me home.  Once I caught my breath, I convinced him that I really didn’t hate him. I knew it was an accident, I wasn’t badly hurt, and I wanted to continue the evening.

It was more than that though, for me. Yes, I absolutely did want to continue the evening, but you know what? Him bashing me in the teeth took all the pressure off. Yeah, maybe I did end up answering the door in pj pants, with a yelling infant and a leaking face…. but at least I didn’t turn tentative affection into outright battery.

The pressure was off. We were now even-steven, and I knew I wanted to see him again.

And we play a dirge. Maybe.

Last night, my computer– not a beautiful beast, but a terribly hard working one– played a joke on me.

I had been looking at art, y’know, like I do, and after seeing Magritte’s The Treachery of Images, it was all, “Cool… not a pipe, I get it. You know what else isn’t real?”

I expected it to say ‘your face’.

(Oooh, buuuurn)

I expected it to say ‘your mom’.

(Oooh, double buuuuuurn)

It said ‘your keyboard’. Then I swear it made a beep-boop laughing noise and quit. Man, my computer is a jerk.

Anyway, this is all to say that I likely will be a little slow and sporadic for the next few days until I work out a solution.

The most Awkward Pickup Line Ever

A few years ago, I was standing in the frozen food aisle at the local supermarket, and this gentleman, to use the term extremely generously, moseyed on up to me.

“Hey”, he said to me quietly. Then, “HEY!”

I turned, thinking perhaps I had dropped my purse or that he had mistaken me for store staff. Believe it or not, it happens a lot, and since I tend to know where everything in a store is anyway, I’m usually pretty helpful. I smiled, but kept the cold-dead- “state your business!” type eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked coolly.
“Yeah,” he grinned. ” I like your arm.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and waited for me to respond.

My forearm brings all the boys to the yard, and they’re like, it’s better than yours.

Of course I said “thank you”. It’s not every day someone tries to pick you up by the frozen corn by telling you they admire one of your limbs.

Still, years later, I wonder: is there an appropriate response to “I like your arm” that I should have used? I’d like to know, in case it ever happens again.