like sarah jessica parker...

random thoughts:

mumford and sons is like a butter face (but-her, get it? bwahahaa like kirsten dunst) but for your ears. just like kirsten dunst has a pretty fit body, and can wear a dress without you wondering if she's man, but once you look up, AH! it's kirsten dunst teeth! and face! and ew.

are you with me?

so anyway, mumford and sons is whatever is the vocal form of a butter face. they start off super rad and then slip in some banjo and you're all like, "YEEEAH!!!!"

but then the guy starts singing and suddenly...ew. things take a turn. there are still banjos and a good beat, but there's this guy who sounds terrible. You briefly consider changing the channel or cd, but then the chorus starts and the other guys in the band sing along to help cover up the main guy's terrible voice and they up the banjo and drums. now you can't change the channel because it's time to jam! and then it's over.

do you see what i mean?


another thought:

who in the HELL decided babies need their own special cake to smash on their first birthday? because they deserve a swift hook to the face. i bet it was the same dick who invented cake balls. who is it out there that keeps wanting to waste perfectly good cake?! in what world is it logical to make a whole cake for a infant so he/she can smush it and spread it around and make a big ass mess? what mother thinks, "i know, usually cakes are for eating, but they could ALSO be for me to clean off the table and floor..."

it's infuriating. illogical. idiotic. alliteration.

terrifying

this is fucking terrifying. i don't know who has it worse. y'all gonna get eaten!

from here

problem-o solve-o

these last couple of weeks i've run into a problem. luckily, today i solved it.

kevin is in michigan doing his internship and i've suddenly become a single mother to bear and hooper (no big deal) and cheryl (omggg please kill me. or this dog).

having cheryl in the house is like having a really stupid energetic toddler to watch out for. not just any toddler, but a clingy, and let me emphasize again, DUMB toddler.

cheryl can barely be taught. she can learn, but it takes her a really long time with lots of yelling. (i'm not kidding, i'm a good dog owner, dammit. i've had dogs my whole life. i read genius ABA-usin' cesar milan's book. i rescued bear. we saved cheryl from backyard abandonment. but she cannot learn without shouting. she needs the knowledge scared into her.) her story is one for another day.

keeping retarded cheryl alive requires a lot of work, but i'm down for that. i know how to handle it. what i cannot handle is retarded cheryl and love of my life bear up and deciding they don't like their food anymore. that pushes the pot over. now i have to buy gravy? i have to add an extra step onto feeding them? i barely want to scoop two different servings. it would be much more convenient for me if they two of them could share one large bowl. now i'm expected to buy or make gravy, put the food in the bowls, stir it all up and THEN give it to them? what am i, a scientist? or rachel ray?

still, bear is my darling magic awesome dog, and if he isn't eating i felt i should at least make an effort to make his meal more appetizing. if bear got his food doctored, i wasn't going to leave retard cheryl out; that would just be mean.

however, when that giant, tail-less, toothless fucker refused my specially made beef bouillon food/soup, i drew the line. how dare you, buddy. where did you find the balls to turn down my delicious beef broth food? crunchy food soaked in BEEF JUICE so your poor little teeth nubs wouldn't hurt when you ate, i MADE that for you. i personally took your dish into the kitchen with food and dumped broth on top. then i gave it a little stir so everything was even. that's work, dude. work i didn't want to add to my already busy day. and you TURNED it DOWN?! you must be crazy.

game on, dick.

after that i went with my original plan. when cheryl and bear originally refused to eat the nutritionally balanced, previously loved dry food for no good reason, the behavior analyst in me said that doing anything would reinforce their behavior and would encourage discerning taste in the future. look, they're dogs. eat the food i give you or go live in the woods. however SOMEONE (kevin) felt bad and told me i couldn't just "not feed them." (um, why not? hello, if they were in the wild would momma doggie go find some rabbit gravy to slather all over her pup's food? hell, no. eat it or get out.)  at first i had to try other options. other options stop at trying to make beef soup seem appealing.

so i cut out their breakfast.

you wouldn't believe how excited bear and cheryl were to eat that tasty, tasty dry food. ohmigosh guys, suddenly it was amazing. isn't that funny. turns out i can starve them and it will work because i'm awesome and they're dumbass dogs.

me: 1
dogs: 0 + shame

beady eyed bastards. *UPDATE*

all i can say is, fuck mice. fuck any tiny entity that can turn me into a shrieking stereotype on top of the couch. a brazen little rodent just made it's way across my living room floor. talk about super balls. where does he get off just walking across my floor?

it gets worse. that little fucker didn't just come into my home and EYESIGHT (seriously dude, we live in the country. feel free to hide in my walls where i will never notice you. the moment you come into sight, it's on) he entered from my COUCH underneath my FEET.

that little bug eyed, furry, disease-ridden mammal had the audacity to pick a fight with my giant cat underneath my very legs, tangled up in my lovely, soft blankets. IS HE KIDDING?! the most sickening part is that they were apparently fighting for minutes until he decided that, i don't know, he was warm underneath all of those layers, and decided to peace out and head for my kitchen.

my thoughts were, "wtf are both hooper and cheryl so interested in?....oh. it's a GD mouse!!!!!!"

this is where it gets embarrassing. there are things your dick brain does to you that you can't explain. it's the excuse all mothers everywhere use when they want to win an argument ("you wouldn't understand... you're not a mother."). so when i saw this mouse walking across my floor having previously been underneath my legs, at first i was like, "aw. a cute mouse. MOUSE!" then my brain went into overdrive. the mouse ran under a shoe and my fatass cat nonchalantly walked over debating whether to kill it. i ran around in circles screaming obscenities and debating whether to cry, smash it with a shoe (oh gross, please no) or something else drastic. kevin was out of town and it was late.

i ultimately decided to jump onto the opposite part of the couch, call kevin and threaten to never feed hooper again if she didn't just "destroy that fucking mouse NOW, bitch". i seriously debated finding a cheap ass motel to stay in because i could no longer trust anything in my home. then i remembered that any motel i could afford would probably have its own mice and lots of other gross stuff too. (32 flavors, anyone? of semen?)

 hooper took for-e-verrr to kill this mouse. the little dick ran under the arch of kevin's shoe so she couldn't immediately rip him up. at one point she even walked away! i screamed at her, "if you don't kill that thing NOW i will never feed you again! do you hear me!? you will be forced to kill other mice for food because you were unwilling to eliminate this one!" she looked at me for a hard second and then got back to work. if there's one thing hooper understands, it's food.

she killed it, but left it under the shoe. for me, that wasn't good enough. i was majorly freaking out. i was still on the phone with kevin and i had been yelling the whole time. i yelled at kevin for being in detroit. i yelled at cheryl for being interested in the mouse which could potentially make it run away, which would fuck everything up because then fatty kitty wouldn't be able to catch it. i yelled at kevin some more, and then i yelled in general about my lack of knowledge and bravery needed to continue from my point atop the couch. i yelled at hooper to "keep killing it!" even though it was more than likely already dead.

what if this mouse was just really patient? he had already dodged my cat and dog for 5 minutes in my freshly laundered blankets, then meandered across my floor at a slow pace before jogging to the nearest shoe to avoid death. i wasn't about to believe this guy was dead until i saw it. i kept yelling at hooper and she endured me with the kindness a mother would give her poor, scared, stupid child, a two year old that was irrationally begging her to check the closet for monsters. she kept trying to walk away and i would yell at her to come back. she finally flipped over the shoe, pushed it out and ripped off a piece of its back.

excellent. there was no doubt now. that cocksucker had drawn its last breath right where he let his ego take control. let its ghost mouse be cursed to roam the earth, warning all of its mouse buddies so they know never to show up in my household.

the mouse being dead did little to aid the situation. i still had to dispose of it. kevin wasn't going to be home for 2 weeks. my excellent neighbor, jeremy, was my only hope. i had to check the time, 9:50, he may still be awake. i quickly hung up the phone with kevin and texted jerm that there was a mouse problem and he had to solve it asap. because he is an awesome neighbor, he agreed to come over and dispose of the gross mouseness in my living room.

he got rid of it but then proceeded to tell me that the mouse was FAT and probably had babies somewhere, maybe under my couch. "go shake it out and see if any other mice run out."

uh, no thanks. you need to come back and do that, sir. once again, because he is an awesome neighbor, he came back in and shook out my couch to make sure there were no more mice. so far, so good. as i write this, it's been about an hour and i haven't seen another mouse.

but seriously? i can't believe my reaction to mice. it's completely nonsensical. after jeremy went home, i spent 10 minutes soaking cotton balls with peppermint oil and throwing them randomly about my house. mice supposedly hate peppermint oil. that's not rational behavior; a tiny mouse shouldn't freak me out in such a way. they're completely harmless, mostly. something about them though...

my whole house reeks of peppermint.


so it's been a couple of days and there was another one this morning!! i almost stepped on it. i think the universe is playing a cruel joke on me, getting me so close to accidentally touching gross mice.

i woke up this morning with the distinct feeling i should put on my slippers. these things are fuzzy and big and meant for winter, not the beginning of summer, but whatever. i was walking to take cheryl out when i saw a dark spot on the hardwood. I thought, "hmm. i don't remember that dark spot being there. maybe i should turn the light on and make sure it's not another asshole mouse."

guess what.

it was another stupid mouse. apparently i am no good at dishing out curses. i only married an italian; apparently the magic didn't transfer over... again i say, fuck mice. it was too early to call Jerm, so i was going to have to deal with this stupid dead rodent myself. here was the problem though, it wasn't bleeding. it didn't appear cut. it was just frozen. maybe it had JUST frozen in fear because it had just seen hooper.

i stood there for a second and wondered what to do. i wasn't frozen in fear because hooper's track record is 2:0 and i've never actually seen a mouse alive in my house for more than a minute. my good buddy, the best cat ever, hooper was right there and she didn't seem to bothered, so everything was probably ok. still, a rigid dead mouse is icky, and i wasn't about to pick it up. i tiptoed past it to continue taking cheryl out while i figured out what to do.

then this happened:

this was in the breezeway (which is where the dogs go out so there's grass and dog hair everywhere. welcome to my gross life). absolute confirmation that this mouse was probably really dead for suresies. i like to think hooper tortured this little fucker for DARING to enter our house. guess what, dude? we don't practice kindness is this household, buddy. there isn't one of those stupid "in this house we..." things on our walls. if there was, it would read, "in this house we rip up ballsy little rodents who dare to show their face". germans aren't any good at curses, but we understand revenge. 

i ended up double raking the mouse out of my house. I used one small, metal rake to flip the little bastard onto a bigger, plastic rake. The exit out of the house was eventful. Because the rake was so wide, it kept hitting things, making the mouse body jump around. I kept fearing that I was going to jolt it awake, that it was a fighter and it was just waiting for the moment to strike. Every time it jumped and flipped on the rake I screamed at it to, "stay dead! stop moving!"

once i got outside, i got a little more cocky. i threw insults at this stupid dead mouse as i flung him into the bushes and missed. then again as i raked him back into the bushes.

stay out of my house, rodents.

i'm going to come back from detroit on tuesday and there'll be mouse carcasses everywhere...

my brief stint as a mother.

one of my many faults is that i'm not opposed to lying. not major lies, just innocent little white ones. in high school i scored the highest in my class on some machiavellian personality test because i marked "strongly agree" to phrases like, "a little fib is ok if it works out in the end" and "what a person does not know, will not harm them".

so when i found myself in a situation where i accidentally admitted to being a mother, i was kind of nervous, but not really surprised.

one day i was with a couple of women who were talking about their children. it became VERY apparent that one of them clearly valued motherhood above anything else. being just the three of us, i did not have much to say. i stood there, quietly, secretly hoping the inevitable question would not come up. i did not want to admit to this woman that i had no children, had no intention of having children and secretly hoped my uterus was as dried up as an open paper bag of sawdust in the middle of the desert in the middle of the summer. i didn't want to look like the heartless jackass.

the question did come up, however.

i ended up telling her that i had a 2 year old daughter named Remy (which was short for Rumor which she was not to know...). she immediately approved. i was in; i was part of the club. i understood things that the real me couldn't possibly fathom. our conversation ended shortly after, and i haven't spoken to her since. so no harm done right?

when i told that story later, i said remy drowned at the public pool. i figured i had to get back to my original state somehow so having her drown seemed like the best option. kevin was supposed to be watching her swim but he was too busy studying for his 1L finals. major bummer. one time someone overheard me and they didn't realize that remy was imaginary... that was pretty funny.

facts.

there are several things in my life i like to declare as facts and that's that. since i don't have suckfest facebook anymore and twitter is for retards, i decided to lump them all in this one post.

fact #1:
it's always sunny in philadelphia is the funniest, bestest show out there. it's also a super accurate representation of the people of philadelphia. everyone in philly is a sociopathic dick like mac, dennis, dee and charlie.

fact #2:
spaghetti squash is gross. stop trying to get me to eat it, america.

fact #3:
(which goes in line with fact #2) crescent rolls that come from a tube are not food. stop showing me gross ass recipes using crescent rolls, internet. (i'm looking at you, pinterest...)

fact #4:
benjamin franklin is the king of badasses.  KING.

fact #5:
putting food on a stick is fucking lame. if you ever hand me food on a stick and it's not a kabob or we're not at the fair, then i will give you an earful. I'M LOOKING AT YOU, CAKEPOPS.

fact #6:
when i clean my bitch cat's litter box she likes to sit and stare at me by her food dish as if to let me know how futile my actions really are...

i'm glad you're all such good friends.

let's face it, old people are gross. if you're an old person and you're reading this, just fess up. i'm in my 20s so therefore i have an undeserved sense of accomplishment and think i know everything, and you're an old person whose skin is literally sloughing off.

my opinion is in the minority, however, when it comes to old people on tv. everyone i know loooves the golden girls. it's a weird 80s sitcom featuring 3 old women and a transvestite living together and getting it on. i can't fathom its popularity. why in the world would i want to watch old people talking about sex? ick.

that's an actual line from the show up there...

yet its popularity reigns on. i'd seen the show before but only a couple times. my friends and i are all alike in the fact that we like pretty things, photography, weird humor, and vintage. however, i think i'm the only one that doesn't like the golden girls. every one of my pals has tried to get me to watch it and i've said no. i don't think i should have had to turn down a show about old women doing it so many times. and never did i think i'd be accosted in my home by my own HUSBAND.

c'mon dude! since when do guys like the golden girls? isn't it even MORE wrong to picture old ladies dating as a guy? isn't that why old men still continue to date much younger women? because old people are gross??

but nope, kevin loves this show and one surprising day it showed up on our television. he chirped off the same refrain i'd heard before, "you'll like it! it's super hilarious! come on! old people talking about doing it! tee hee."

seriously? why would that ever be a selling point?

there are so many things wrong with this show. first off, the biggest barrier: how does dorothy get a date, ever? she looks like a man, she has terrible hair and she wears super gross 80s clothing. there's an episode when she discusses spanish fly. she goes into detail with rose about spanish fly so as to get her minks to have sex. what? how could i make this up, and in what world do i want to hear two old ladies discuss aphrodisiacs in order to help their pets to get it on?

it's freaking weird to live with your mother and 2 roommates at 60 something years old. i admire their attitude, living outside the box and all. it's still strange, though.

the whole show is just 80s ridiculousness. Quirky situations with easy solutions and silly wisecracks. It's like punky brewster with old people. and given the choice between punky brewster, and old people version of punky brewster...

this?

 

or this?

i mean, punky had brandon and that kickass treehouse. maybe if Christopher Lloyd (that's right, there's a second christopher lloyd out there. he looks much less crazy and he worked on the golden girls. he appears to be the opposite of the other lloyd in many ways...) had put all of those bitches in a brewster/darling style tree and/or clubhouse, i would be more into the idea of the golden girls. they could have discussed baby sitting and make up instead of feelings and one night stands. 

maybe if adam reed remade the golden girls in a blaze of awesome the way christopher nolan blew new life into the batman series... actually if that happened i would become the golden girls' number one fan. instead of 3 women and a transvestite it could be one kickass lady and 3 zombies. yes. i would watch that absolutely. 

somebody make that happen before betty white dies.

how to remain calm in the face of adversary.

i have one major pet peeve. i get annoyed a lot, but it's usually circumstantial and i get over it quickly. however, there is one thing that absolutely drives me crazy to an irrational level.

i hate it when people put an A in my name. growing up, there were 1000s of Lindseys. so many people with the same name as me and most of them were horrible. do you know how many boring people are named lindsey? or more specifically lindsay? think about one you know, is she vapid? perhaps a slut? that was the case when i was growing up. i didn't want to be lumped in with these morons! maybe i was unlucky, i'm sure there are plenty of awesome, fun lindsays out there; i know a couple.

i got so effing tired of correcting people on how to spell my name. and half the time they acted like i had offended them by spelling my name differently. it just shows such a lack of respect. i can spell your name correctly, where is it exactly that you're struggling? repeat offenders were the worst. three strikes you're out, man.

anyway, i could go on and on about why i hate it, but excess anger isn't good for the circulatory system, right? so in order to remain calm in the face of unwelcome As (seriously, i even dropped my middle name, amanda, in order to replace it with my maiden name when i got married because it had too many As in it. i hold a grudge against the 1st letter), i decided to read the misspelling a completely different way. instead of reading "Lindsay" as it's written, i'm going to read it as if someone from canada is calling me linds. then i will get a chuckle out of picturing a mountie calling me linds instead of picturing someone too stupid to spell my name logically. 

brilliant, right?

i'm gonna live forever. 

smirk t adkins

my dad had a birthday this past weekend. i wanted to post something ON st. patty's day, the day of his actual birth, but i suck and am doing it a week later. you can assume i was too drunk to get it together on st. patty's day if you'd like.

anyhoo, my dad is better than your dad, first off. my dad introduced me to mel brooks and america. not the country, the awesome folk band. probably. he's always been there for me and always takes my side in an argument. that may not have been the best plan since it gave me an over inflated ego, but it's nice to know you can complain to someone who will immediately take your side.

however, one of my favorite aspects of my awesome dad (jump on board, if you knew him, you'd agree. he's a buckeye for crying out loud), is how he'll totally lie right to your face to prank you. since his daughter is SUPER gullible, i got lied to a lot as a child. it was always something hilarious or unbelievable; something i should have realized was untrue.

one of my favorite stories about me and my dad is when he tricked me into thinking that the english language was invented by a guy named "johnny english", a literary genius. i'm assuming we were talking about the origin of language in general and my dad saw an opportunity not to be missed.

the key to successfully pulling one over on me was the complete, unwavering confidence that came with delivering a line of total bullshit. that's what did it. he told me "johnny english" invented the english language with the same ease one would use to talk about tonight's dinner.

at first i didn't believe him. surely, i would have learned that my language was invented by some dude. at some point in my history classes someone, somewhere would have mentioned that this guy named johnny came up with our language. he would have a special day or something like lincoln or mlk. but tolkien  invented a language didn't he? so it's not so out there that this gentleman sat down one day and came up with the whole english language. i don't pay attention anyway, so maybe i just missed it.

then i remembered that my dad majored in history and he would probably know, wouldn't he? growing up my dad always had all kinds of trivia to share about american history. he knew all of the presidents in order for crying out loud, who does that? there's also the inherent family trust factor:

 i would really like to tell you i was young when i fell for this story. maybe if i was 4 or 8, it could be seen as cute and not embarrassingly hilarious. if i remember correctly, i was a freshman in college. maybe, if i want to give myself 3 more months, the summer before my freshman year.

no one should be that sickeningly gullible.

happy way belated birthday dad!

boosh. also, ignore this.

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why it would suck to be a plant

our one-sided love runs deep.

my adoration for adam reed knows no bounds. he's the funniest man alive [after mel brooks]. his voice is magically hilarious. if you don't like at least one of these shows, i seriously question our friendship. it won't run deep, that's for sure. we will never be bff if you can't tell me where babar's house is.

 

 

 

 

this is a weird post.

say it with fabric.

 

i wanted to put something like, "but when i do, i'm not playing an american". but then i thought it was pretty silly to rip on americans when i'm american... check it out man, anytime he plays a british dude, he's wearing velvet.

guy from hannibal? american and therefore, no velvet.

dude from red riding? had an english-ish accent and wore a flippin velvet dress.

commissioner gordon? even though his accent goes from heavy brooklyn in batman begins to sirius black voice in the dark knight, american which means no velvet.

sirius black? well, look at the photo...

gary oldman!

numbers are hard.

today at work we had a gentleman come and talk to us about setting up our 401k. he was very nice and tried to his hardest to explain everything clearly. unfortunately, when you're dealing with a total math and logic retard, your hardest sometimes isn't good enough.

he kept using these adult terms like "fund" and "investment". i was baffled, but i had already asked like 3 questions. i didn't want to interrupt him to be like, "look dude. what the fuck are you talking about?" instead i just sat there, intermittently nodding when he made eye contact with me (which is important in faking like you understand). there were definite points where i thought things were making sense, and i could see myself as an old lady living the life of preplanned luxury. however, then we'd turn a page or advance a section and the sad image of 70 year old me paying for support hose with pennies would float before my eyes. it didn't help that he kept referring to our 401k as "john hancock". i just remember thinking, "wtf does that guy have to do with anything?" apparently it's the name of the company. my bad.

 i was told i was going to get to miss work for an hour to go to a meeting about retirement. how awesome does that sound? missing work to talk about when you never have to work again. sign me up! i didn't mentally prepare for it. i didn't remember to coach my brain, to remind it that numbers and math and money was going to be the subject for the next hour. going from talking cat ipad apps and rampant autism to grown up money conversation is hard when you don't prepare. it was just all too much for me to handle.

 

it'll probably be ok, because kevin will figure it out. if he ever dies, i'm totally boned though. he better make it until at least 90 or something...

david bowie ftw

it's great to be in cincinnati!

the post is just to make fun of kevin

kevin sucks at making snacks; i am clearly superior.

me:

kevin:

 

cold.

bono is on the tv, mucking up my across the universe viewing. you're gross, bono.

it really is. when i'm rich, i'm going to order my maid to turn up the thermostat ALL DAY.

new game

a couple of weeks ago i started playing a game with kevin. he rarely joins me until he has to.

the main object of the game is to get away from him. (this is the primary reason he isn't usually playing). sometimes in a store i will just casually sneak away down another aisle. this often occurs when he is comparing prices and talking about coupons. i loathe coupons.

if there is more room and we're, for example, outside, i will try to completely bolt away from him. most times he is explaining something and i just get bored with it so i leave.

have you ever tried it? it's suuuper fun. running away from someone and having them chase you is exhilarating. the more times you run away, the more fun it becomes.

kevin is usually pretty good about it. once he magically scaled a half wall. i really thought i had him that time, but it turns out he can jump pretty high.

sometimes running away doesn't end well. i had a good clip on kevin once. as i ran through downtown bloomington, i was abruptly stopped by an elaborate homeless camp. this dude was set up with a nice blue and white tent, sleeping bag and i think, even a banner. it was startling to race gleefully away from my husband only to awkwardly slam on the brakes in order to avoid tripping over the homeless. that's the only time it's gone badly, though...

so run away from your friends! they'll be happy about it later when they realize you've given them a sick spontaneous cardio workout. spontaneous means they have no time to say no. forced fitness is what's going to keep us out of the floaty chairs.

this. just. HAPPENED.

i have a real post coming soon, but this just happened on my way out of the grocery store and i had to come home and tell someone about it.

as i was leaving the store, i glance over to the produce section through the entrance doors and see the most magically unique sight i have ever witnessed. it was the most awe-inspiring, majestic moment of at least my monday, perhaps even my year.

i know what you're thinking friends, i saw a unicorn or something else equally amazing. no. what i saw was even BETTER and MORE RARE than a unicorn.

prepare yourself.

take a deep breath.

mentally look back and check for the weirdest, most fantastic thing you've ever seen. keep that in mind.

now compare:

 

that's right. i drew this guy much younger than he was. he actually is in about his 50s with his blonde, mulleted DRED LOCKS. that's right. this dude had both a mullet and dreds. and a huge beer gut. and a mustache. i mean, holy cow. is he the only one? is he a PIONEER in terrible, stereotypical hairstyles? 

this guy lives in my neighborhood. he goes to my kroger. he is OUT THERE, nearby. i wish i could have talked to him. what an interesting individual to come out of his house in a blaze of insanity with clearly no regrets. that takes balls, dude. to look in your mirror and see too old to be blonde, blonde hair, all mulleted up and then long and dreded in the back and be ok with it? nice. 

because it can't just happen, oh no. that kind of hair takes planning. mullets require maintenance and dreds need your attention for a bit. he keeps after this look. day after fabulous day, he continually says yes to this hair.

my hat's off to you, kroger guy.

hipsta' kitty

and she means it. she's angry because she's fat, and from philly. that's a dangerous combo, amigo.