I work at a rather small firm. The IT department just updated a bunch of stuff in our really pretty server room. I have no idea what any of that stuff is called. I just know that since The Elitist did his upgrading that I can no longer stream Pandora. I mean, technically I was never supposed to stream Pandora. But I did. All the time. I also walk in cross walks when it says not to, and I text and drive. It’s called living on the edge, people.
Today, I needed some sweet reprieve from the daily hustle and bustle of the world of brand management. I directed my browser to one of my bookmarked pages which is labeled Ryan Gosling Typographer. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Images of Mr. Gosling associated with catchy typography quotes or questions. I click the link, and an Access denied: forbidden content message appears. It then tells me it’s because the page contains Adult/Mature content. I can’t believe this. “What does IT consider Adult/Mature content?” I wonder. “Is intelligently written humor about letterforms not OK, when floating next to RG’s dreamy eyes? So what if there are sexual undertones, he has his shirt AND pants on in every photo!” This is preposterous. I call The Elitist and demand an answer. He laughs and revels in the power he currently holds. I plead my case about it being work related because it’s a site about typography. I’m sure to note that he is always clothed. Then I ran right down to The Elitist’s office, threw a fit right by the creative printer, and stomped off.
A few minutes later The Elitist called to tell me had adjusted the fire wall filter to allow Adult/Mature information on our network and I could now waste all the time I wanted on the Ryan Gosling Typographer site. I made a quick status update about this on Facebook. I guess Ryan Gosling saw it… because he sent me this.
The Elitist threw a copy of the new Daft Punk album Random Access Memories my way. I definitely have a soft spot for anything Euro. Be it fashion, fonts, and especially music. Air, Swedish House Mafia, Phoenix, The Sounds… I could go on and on. But I’m especially fond of Daft Punk. They were my gateway drug into the world of house/electronica. I mean they know a thing or two about club music, and almost defined the French House scene in the 90′s. I’m guessing it’s because they were rave kids doing their rave thing at EuroDisney, when I was learning long division and state capitals. And most Daft Punk songs make me think of parties in warehouses and getting in Club 152 with a fake ID and heading straight to the third floor in search of illicit shit.
Random Access Memories feels like Phoenix and Jamiroquai had a love child that made this album. And I like it. It’s what I imagine snuggling a unicorn to be like. There’s more to it than just the single Get Lucky. I recommend the tracks Doin’ It Right, Instant Crush, and Lose Yourself to Dance.
Now on to business. Get Lucky is a great come back song. But the video is alllll kinds of creepy. Please sit down, and if you are on ANY type of hallucinogenic drugs DO NOT play this video. Trust me.
So, Cayucas. I don’t really love their first single, “Cayucas”. Is it because I really don’t like it, or is because it’s annoying to me that the name of the song is also the name of the band? I don’t know. This will require a time of deep introspection while wearing a blazer with suede elbow patches and smoking an old-timey pipe.
Now, “High School Lover” is another story. It’s Beck-esque, which is a good thing. The tempo would be perfect for a not-slow-but-not-fast dance, the sexiest kind, in my opinion. In the video, the singer looks like he’s trying to give the F-me eyeball to the camera, or he’s a little high. Either one gets the point across, and the point is, “We are about to make out so you might as well go ahead and wipe that lipstick off and put your beer down somewhere”.
Be forewarned: this video is awful. Maybe you should just listen to it on Spotify.
I was a dog mom for about 4 years before I tried my hand at mothering a human. I thought of it as a trial run. You know, to make sure I could handle keeping something other than myself clean, fed, and alive. All went well. I now have 3 dingos and a man child that rely on me. Dr. Cooper was my first born dingo. I got him for The Hunkle as a birthday gift when I was like 21. Then the next year we got Mr. Miles (who is a half brother of Dr. Cooper) so Coop wouldn’t be lonely. These guys have seen it all. Cross country moves, boating on Pickwick Lake, golf course living, apartment living, being groomed with the dogs of Vegas strip club elite, The Man Child being introduced into our family… you know the works. In 2012, we adopted Sir Oliver. The Hunkle found him on an adoption site on Facebook, and within days he was being neutered and transported to us. I think it’s pretty apparent that we fucking love our dogs.
The Hunkle and I are embracing the fact that Dr. Cooper is 10 now. The vet has told us that dogs of his breed and size usually have a life span of about 12-15 years. With that on the brain, I’m preparing for the next few years. It’s no secret that I’m a planner. My first plan was a full-fledge funeral procession when the time comes. Maybe even a New Orleans style, Big Band funeral with an assortment of horns and drums. Then I thought “well that’s just plain crazy.” Then it hit me, “I’ll have him stuffed… and in the cuddle position.” The idea rolled around silently in my head for a while. I finally let The Hunkle in on the idea. You would’ve thought I’d just asked him to shadoobie on me during sex. He looked at me like I just grew an extra head, or boob. He could not believe that I even thought that was an option. I substantiated my proposition with a Scrubs reference, “Honey, C’mon… they stuffed their dog, and had him mounted in a standing position, and would just pass him around. And it was hilarious and endearing all in one sha-bang.” The Hunkle still did not take the bait. He was instantly throwing around words like “creeeepy” and “insane”. Then I told him I’d been behind a truck on the way home from work that day, and the driver promoted his taxidermy business by decals on his truck. I instantly went into a list of questions I had for the taxidermist, then what do you know… The Hunkle started in with questions as well. This is pivotal, because it means he’s thinking about it! And I got super happy.
The next Monday, I’m watching Bates Motel like I always do, when Norman Bates’ rescued dog gets hit by a car. He flips his psycho shit… and runs right out to get him stuffed. That’s when it hit me. Maybe I AM a total creeper for wanting to stuff the dingos I love so dearly. At that moment, I sent The Hunkle a text and noted that the taxidermy approach was off the table. Thanks for putting that into perspective, Norman.
It is. And my EBFF (Elitist BFF) Justin (or Uncle Justin as the boy calls him) will tell you so… with phrases like “Life’s too short for shitty shit!” Justin is actually The Hunkle’s friend from, like, elementary school. Now he’s the unpronounced god-father of my kid and my IT guy at work. So I claim him as my own BFF too. I don’t know if this blog post would stand up in court, but if anything ever happens to me and The Hunkle, and our families can’t take care of our kid and dogs… Uncle Justin will be the lucky recipient of them. He even offered to take Mr. Miles when Brandon threatened to give him away when he was a puppy. I called him crying at like 7 am on a random Tuesday, asked if he would take Miles, and made him promise not to change his name. To which he agreed no questions asked. He’s an all around good person, and my family is damn lucky to have him in it.
However, Justin is a proud elitist. Just offer him a domestic beer and watch him scoff at you like you just farted on him. Beer snob is an understatement. And mainstream music? Not a chance. Now that Cold War Kids are even remotely mainstream, I think they are completely dead to him. He goes for the top-of-the line item with every purchase he makes. The boy said he wanted a blue dirt bike for Christmas, but Santa could only find a red one in his and Mrs. Clause’s price range. And then guess what? Uncle Justin shows up with a sweet blue dirt bike for himself. I’m also pretty sure he’ll be the first of my friends to own a 3-D printer. Unlike other elitists, he only thinks he’s smarter than you if he doesn’t like you.
So I made this Venn diagram to give you a visual reference of Justin’s elitism.
First of all, if you didn’t read that title to the tune of the Coolio song Rolling With My Homies, we need to talk about if this is the right blog for you.
On to the topic at hand, Rick Rolling. One of my Bests, my UBFF (Ultimate BFF) Ginger, recently told me that she didn’t know what “Rick Rolled” meant. I laughed hysterically and said “You know, where you think you’re following a link in a thread of comments to a certain, relevant website, but instead you’re intentionally diverted to the Rick Astley Never Gonna Give You Up video?!?” She had nothing. Then I said “Giiinger, he was in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade a few years ago. Did you think they just just dug up Rick Astley and his trench coat from an 80′s funk for no good reason?” Then it dawned on me… I might be the only one who still watches that parade.
In her defense, I’ve never personally been Rick Rolled. But I did have a mystic wolf shirt wearing, space invading, Internet geek of an IT guy that taught me about the RR Internet sensation in like, 2007. I have to remember that everyone is not as fortunate as I am. And Ginger, I apologize for laughing at your lack of useless internet knowledge.
I just had a birthday, and I used my birthday money to upgrade my old iPhone 4 to a new iPhone 5. Needless to say, I’ve been junking out for a couple of days now. Last night, The Hunkle, The Manchild, and myself met my dad and stepmom for dinner to celebrate my birthday. I drove us to the restaurant in the rain, which is dangerous… as I am not the best driver. As I’m approaching the driveway of the restaurant, my dad calls. To my surprise the photo on the lock screen of my phone is a self-taken photo of The Hunkle’s junk. You know, the kind where he puts my new phone in his pants and snaps a quick pic of the D. I’m soooo fucking surprised at the dong on my phone that I missed the turn, and almost crashed. I quickly regain my composure and recover. I make it into the next driveway safely. I quietly make a cryptic inquiry to the husband about the dong pic, how it got there, how long it’s been there, etc. I have to choose my words wisely though, as The Manchild is in the back seat, and even when you think he is not listening… he is. (And you know what I don’t need? That would be the boy asking the director of his montessori school what a “dong pic” is at circle time.) The Hunkle loses his shit and thinks it’s HILARIOUS. As we’re walking in I change the lock screen photo back while I juggle my keys and purse, and watch The Manchild to make sure he doesn’t dart into traffic.
We order our food and are sitting at our table chatting. I grab my phone, unlock it, and to my surprise the same dong pic is also set as my home screen wall paper. I was hoping no one would notice, but me spitting sweet tea all over the table probably did not help with deflecting their attention.
That’s right. I was double-bamboozled by The Hunkle. The good news is my folks didn’t catch a glimpse of where their grandson’s Y chromosomes came from.
Maybe it’s simply because I live in the Dirty South, but I’d love to know why dudes are still wearing gold chains. All of these guys can’t be rappers. CAN’T be. (And for the record, a “studio” in your mom’s basement does not make you a rapper.) All I can think about when I see said gold chains is where the rap battle might be going down. And is it open to the public? Because I’d love to come watch. Believe it or not, I’ve never been to a rap battle.
I used to work at a bank as a teller. It was all kinds of interesting. And I had pink eye like every other week. Anyway, there was a sex store in the shopping center down the street, and they banked at my bank. The owner, I assumed he was owner as he handled the business end of the strawberry scented deal, made all the deposits. He wore a gold chain with a pendant that was a pressed gold nugget. There was also a matching pressed, gold nugget pinky ring. My point is, his 70′s porn star ‘stache and sex shop enterprise = gold chains and rings. Every Day Joe, with an office job and a Toyota Corolla ≠ gold chains.
I will now show a correct and incorrect gold chain example.
I’m just going to say my guest blogs are going to give all the married ladies the chance to live vicariously through the crazy single girl. Mixed in with that, a feeling of peace in being married because you don’t actually HAVE to date again.
My second blog is dedicated to a classic adornment that doesn’t involve serious men holding birds: The infamous Puka Shell Necklace. Sorry, Marrieds, that means you don’t get to date the Puka shell necklace wearing guy. Unless you were lucky enough to marry one of them when the Puka shell was actually acceptable…. whenever that could’ve been.
However, I’ve always considered myself a pretty lucky girl , and thank my lucky stars when I came across these gems. Yes, they are still out there and decorating gyms, bars, and beaches everywhere.
These sample specimens of the population are both athletic, a major plus in my book. I would like to add that the caption on the second one is “Street Jam Basketball Tournament.” Are the necklaces street legal on a court? Perhaps I could add worldly and travelled to their description? I know Puka Shells aren’t cultured in the desert environment. The only thing that could make these baubles better are a shark tooth.
For some reason, I haven’t actually tried one of these men out. I am deterred by the thought of getting picked up for a date in a yellow vehicle. Not to mention that I’m terrified about the possibility of having to hear about their midwest glory days and their current gym routines.
I am one Puka shell necklace away from being that crazy cat lady and at this point, I chose the latter.
Preface: When The hunkle and I moved to LV, we kept our house here in Memphis and rented it out to some bacheloriffic friends. They took great care of the place. It was however, a bit surreal to come back here to my house, and see it decorated with things like a hand made, Budweiser beer can air plane, or the giant pirate flag hanging in my dining room. Anyway, some other friends of ours gave the roommates a photo they found in their attic as a gift. Then the roommates ever so generously passed it along to us when they moved out.
So this is Keith.
Keith has lived on the refrigerator at my house since sometime in 2005. I like to keep him censored with a leggo magnet, as there is some hard core banana hammock on display under there. He also perfected the Nip Slip well before Janet Jackson did at the Super Bowl that year. I think Keith looks like a mix of Earl (Jason Lee) from My Name is Earl, and my dad in the 70s. The good news is I am SURE Keith is not my father. (WHEW!) I bet you’re wondering why I call him Keith. You’re probably all “But how do you know his name if he’s not your father?”…
Because he told me… via a handwritten note to his special lady-friend named Ashley, who apparently has a hankering for documenting banana hammocks. And while I love that Keith used the $ for the S in dollars, I hate Hate HATE that he misspelled Dollar$. If you’re going to go as far as substituting a symbol for a letter to add flair, you have to spell the rest of the word correctly. It’s like an unwritten law, or something.
I keep waiting for someone to walk through my kitchen at a party and go “HOLY SHITBALLS. Why is my dad/step dad/uncle/old boyfriend/long lost cousin displayed on your refrigerator in a thong?!??!” But so far that has not happened. I’ve also thought about starting a Facebook page for Keith. I think I’d like to find him and his family. That’s a lie. After looking at Keith’s barely-covered junk for the past 5 years, the last thing I want to do is take a long, serious look into his eyes.
So anyway, if your folks are named Keith and Ashley, your dad likes man panties, and your mom is a novice photographer… these may be your people.