Pubic--I mean PUBLIC--Service Announcement:

Do NOT give permanent markers to toddlers. 

They will eat them. 

You see, the fact that they may or may not be toxic to humans apparently makes permanent markers all that much more appealing to toddlers.  Kind of like how you know your flat iron is deep frying your hair and that if you keep doing it your hair will continue to break off mid-shaft, eventually giving up its very existence and jumping ship from your head as if there’s a beubonic plague outbreak on your scalp, only you can’t stop because EVERY DAY when you go to the grocery store for wine there’s Kim Kardashian staring at you from the glossy magazine, perched carefully on the check-out line shelf, with her shiny, glossy, perfectly straight hair silently communicating to you that “if you TOO had shiny, glossy, perfectly straight hair just like me you’d be able to get paid for doing nothing but drinking and shopping TOO” and, after all, the only thing you ever really wanted to do with your life is drink and shop and get paid for it anyways so you keep trying to convince your hair to be like Kim Kardashian’s even though it grows out of your head in all different directions and textures like the rogue pubic hair that pokes out of your bathing suit even though you spent an hour carefully shaving and trimming so as not to expose your out of control vaginal hair growth from the sides of your bikini bottom.

Don’t pretend like I’m the only one LADIES.  You know what I’m talking about.

That’s what permanent markers are to children.  Just exactly like that.

Don’t worry if you didn’t follow that.  I didn’t either.  Which is why someone should pay me to drink and shop all day long so that I can feel useful and contributive and will stop trying to make sense on this blog. 

See? 

It all makes perfect sense.

You are WELCOME. 

Wasted Youth.

I saw this on my hike today.

I wanted to poke it.  And then I remembered that snakes have fangs (and that I am not 5) and I thought better of it.  And then I realized, kids have it really good.  If I was 5, I could have poked this snake and no one would have thought I was 

a) cruel

b) stupid or 

c) hoping to get bit by a snake. 

Instead  they would have thought I was a curious 5 year old who didn’t know any better…which made me realize that I have passed the age at which I should know better.  And then I cried. 

DAMMIT. 

Wasted youth, man.  Wasted youth.

Why I Too Could Be a Princess.

1) I have the perfect skull structure for tiara wearing.  Pointed on the top, flat on the sides. 
2) I enjoy being curtseyed too.  Go ahead.  Curtsey the next time you see me and marvel at how much I like it.
3) I too have been to a Jubilee and I totally rocked it.  I very much enjoyed the palabok fiesta.  Wait, what?  Oh, that was a Jollibee…Well, no matter, I’m sure it’s very similar.
4) I can wave my hand without using my wrist.  It’s all in the elbow.

Letters from the other side (of sanity).

Dear Dog,

Please stop licking your butt.  The hemorrhoid cushion around your neck is embarrassing for us both.

Also, your tongue is hanging out.  So....you might want to tuck that back in.

Or not.  Up to you.

Your Owner

p.s. please stop eating poo.  thanks.

In infant baby mouse killing news...

This morning (or afternoon. whatever) I decided I would actually walk my dog when she whines at my lifeless body under the covers and places her tiny little doggy paws on my face whist staring at me with her big brown doggie eyes and crying just enough to be audible/heartwrenching/pitiful/guilt producing.

Usually I just roll over. 

But today, I was feeling inspired.

So I got up.

Before Maury Povich.
Before the toddler came out trying to escape capture for her mid-afternoon nap.
Before my sister texted me that she’s going to Costco and do I want a chicken because it’s daytime and that’s what people do in the daytime, they go shopping and bring back chickens for the lazy, lifeless lump that lives in their backyard and shares some of their genomes.

Because that’s what people do.

So there I am proudly (this is where things begin to go wrong) prancing through the backyard (where I live) to the house (where the plumbing and running water is), leash in hand, devoted Shih Tzus following closely  circling themselves because they’re so excited they’ve forgotten which way is forward and can’t think of anything else to do other than follow their own behinds without realizing that this just makes them go in circles with the only forward motion accomplished being when I accidentally kick them (thus propelling them forward several feet) whilst tripping over them.

I saunter through the house and out the garage door.  I’m INSPIRED.  Nothing’s gonna stop me, not even the fact that I’m wearing my pajamas and socks with my flip flops. 

That’s how inspired I was.

I was inspired into fashion nonchalance.

And then it happened.

Remember when we were having an infant baby mouse problem?

I had forgot.  And thus, was caught unaware.  There was no helpful sign-a sign I imagine would look something like this:

PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA STRAIGHT AHEAD

I hear it first.

The struggle. The fruitless, fruitless struggle.

Of a mouse.  Stuck in brown goo.

So tiny.  So cute with his long mouse whiskers wiggling (frantically) as he/she (how do you tell?) strained against the goo.

It’s no use baby infant mouse.  There’s no break in the force.

This is what I deserve for getting up before Maury Povich and the baby-daddy dna-test drama.

This is my punishment.

 

Why being a toddler is awesome: Volume 1 (because I anticipate thinking of more reasons later)

 1.  People give you candy when you pee

2.  You never forget your pants because people very helpfully remind you to put your pants on before exiting the house so as to avoid the embarassment of accidentally walking out in public pants-less.

3.  Your parents don't call you every three days and ask when you're going to get a job and move out of your sisters backyard

4.  All you have to do to get what you want is be totally and completely obnoxious and, not only does no one accuse you of being "immature", but you also get what you want--usually immediately, although this is directly and propotionately related to the degree of obnoxiousness.  (see diagram below).

I rest my case.

Frozen babies=Fun for all

Recently I went to a baby shower for my cousin’s wife. 

Normally, I am not a baby shower kind of person.  Frankly, I’m not really even an interact-socially-with-others-whilst-sober-AT-ALL kind of person. 

I’ve only been to four baby showers in my life and they were all for my sister which means that I had the liberty of participating in the food-preparation for these events, which means that I made my “famous” sangria (because I can’t actually “make” anything but mixed drinks) which I then drank entirely by myself which means that I was too drunk to care by the time the party approached the lets-play-ridiculously-silly-games-so-as-to-pass-the-time-and-humiliate-ourselves point.

Ridiculously silly baby shower games decrease your intelligence. 

This is a fact. 

Go ahead.  Google it.  I'll wait.....

See?  Told you so. 

#FACT.

Given the fact that there was no sangria or even just plain wine at my cousin’s wife’s shower AND given the fact that I’ve already come to understand that what little brain cells have not already been damaged by my friend Robert Mondavi need to be preserved and thus protected  from silly baby shower games...

I HID in the car when the baby shower olympics kicked off with the guess-how-fat-the-pregnant-lady’s-belly-is-using-nothing-but-string-and-your-own-unreliable-powers-of-depth-perception game. 

Unfortunately for me, I miscalculated and rejoined the group just in time for the give-birth-to-a-baby-in-ice contest.  Not familiar?  Allow me...

Here’s how it works.

You are presented with an ice-cube into which has been frozen a tiny, naked, plastic baby doll.  Your job is to “birth” the baby by melting the ice around the baby such that the baby is freed from its icy womb by the powers of the physical property changes of water. 

But we’re civilized folk, so there were RULES. 

1) No placing the ice-cube-imprisoned baby in your mouth. 

2) No placing the ice-cube imprisoned baby in the microwave or exposing it to fire, gas, nor electrically powered heat sources.  

AND 

3) The baby has to be completely free of the ice to be considered “born”, so no “hey-most-of-the-important-parts-are-out-who-cares-about-the-left-leg” births. 

Because that, my friends, is CHEATING.

This resulted in an entire room full of frantically rubbing, sucking, fondling, placing-in-strategically-warm-body-crevaces, or otherwise ice-cube molesting women.

Go ahead, close your eyes. 

Picture it.

Did I mention that I did not drive myself to this event?

Did I mention I was smack dab in the middle of the Sierra Nevada mountain chain where there is NO cell phone reception, subway stations, taxi stands, heliports or ALCOHOL?

All avenues of escape were blocked by pine trees, hippies with armpit hair, Volvo’s, and sisters who are enjoying the aforementioned games and don’t want to leave.

And there was no ALCOHOL.

Good times.