Why I too should be Justin Bieber

This post has nothing really to do with Justin Bieber, except for exactly what it DOES have to do with Justin Bieber…which is not very much.

So pay close attention.

I feel like I’m losing you already. 

*tap tap tap* 

Is this thing on?

Here’s how it began:  recently, on my way to The Job, I overheard a radio talk show host complaining about how Justin Bieber is outraged that he got a speeding ticket whilst doing 80mph on a Los Angeles freeway in his Fisker Karma—that’s a car…what?  Never heard of it?  That’s because it’s made exclusively from extinct Wooly Mammoth skins sewn together by hand-less midgets in the desert—not dessert—of  Darfur who are simultaneously sewing whilst dodging RPG fire by the government backed Janjaweed militia and cursing PETA out loud in the broken English taught to them by generous American Mormon missionaries.   

I’m sorry PETA, I don’t personally curse you, I just talk about people who I imagine curse you….IN. MY. IMAGINATION…so no firebombing my house for the bacon therein, ok?

Good.  Glad we cleared that up.

And so, I thought to myself while listening to said talk show host curse the Fisker-Karma driving, disobedient Beiber...who on EARTH could feel more privileged than a man (Justin, are you still following?) who feels outraged over being pulled over for breaking a commonly held traffic law when said individual is driving a car made by impoverished, disabled people who are being shot at by their own government whilst sitting in their own shat? (I assume, perhaps mistakenly, that there are no flushing toilets in the desert-again, it's DESERT not  DESSERT, as in these individuals are sitting in SAND and NOT sitting in CUPCAKES-therefore I also assume said Fisker Karma-Wooly Mammoth skin sewing, hand-less midgets are pooing where they sit…wrong?  is that hard to follow?  welcome to my brain.)

And I felt OUTRAGED.

And then I forgot why I was outraged and had to re-read my own blog post. I realized….wait, I’ve totally lost track of my own train of thought.  

And, also, reality.

For all I know, Fiskar-Karma’s are made from metal manufactured in Detroit.  AND, for all I know, Darfurian hand-less midgets poop in regular toilets, just like you and I.  AND how do I know that they have no dessert there?  Maybe there is, in fact, a glut of Strawberry Shortcake in the local markets? 

WHO AM I TO SAY?

Confession

It’s time to fess up.  I am no longer living in a plumbing-less shack in my sister’s backyard, because she kicked me out when she got pregnant again and ran out of room in the regular house to store all of her children because I got a job and that’s what responsible, formerly-unemployed people do when they recover gainful employment…they move out of their sister’s backyard.  

I resisted. 

I was all like, “why do you need another kid anyways, you already have FOUR and, I mean, like, one is enough anyways right?”  And then she muttered something about having an even number of donuts for everyone or some such nonsense and I just gave up. 

Whatever.

So I moved.  To my very own place.  And all was right with the Universe.  Until my student loans came into repayment.  And here’s where I explain things that aren’t so funny and for which I can’t seem to find humor.  *feel free to skip ahead, I wont judge* 

Once upon a time I had a great job that I had incredible passion for, and was kind-of really good at.  It was a job I had done for the better part of a decade, and was just as in love with as when I started.  Then I suffered a serious on-the-job injury that required multiple surgeries, and a very long rehab which left me disabled, and unable to return to my former profession.  I decided to go to graduate school because I knew I needed a new career and, also, that I would have some free time on my hands while undergoing surgeries and rehabilitation.  Surgeries and rehabilitation that might prevent me from working, but which wouldn’t prevent me from doing things like studying and writing papers. 

                             

It all seemed like a good idea at the time. 

I took out student loans to pay for it, which remained in deferment while I was unemployed.  Now that I am working, these loans have gone into something called “income based repayment”.  That sounds great, right?  INCOME based.  Meaning, presumably, that the government will be all, like, “hey, we wont ask you to pay any more than you can AFFORD girlfriend!” and PRESUMABLY we wont base those standards on some RIDICULOUS 1950's cost-of-living....right? 

Wrong.

Unfortunately, the government doesn’t take into account that it is 2012, and that the cost of living where I live (rent is about 1/2 to 2/3 my income), gas prices to commute to work because I can't afford to live close to my job (WTF, $5 a gallon?), repairs to my ten-year-old car (double-WTF, $4,000?), and the fact that I have a penchant for adopting elderly, infirmed dogs requiring expensive veterinary treatment.  Basically, I cannot afford my life.  I can either continue to live independently and accrue a ridiculous amount of debt, or I can swallow my pride and accept help.

Soooo….off I go to Mom and Dad’s house. 

I don't know what I'm really trying to say here, except that the subtext to my blog title is now, sort of...misleading.

Rest assured, there will still be "ramblings and nonesense"...OBVIOUSLY, because that's how I roll, y'all.....only soon it will come from my childhood bedroom.  Which, i think, is even WORSE.

The good news (for you, anyways) is that this should result in far more dysfunction hilarity than when I was living in my sister’s backyard (for reasons that should soon be obvious). 

T-minus 30 days and counting.  Wish me luck people…or nobody since my readership is, like, zero. Whatever, I'm not picky.

Dear Universe

Apparently, I have offended you.

Was it my insistence on continuing to eat bacon after joining PETA? 

Have you ever had bacon?  It’s pretty tasty. 

Maybe it was the time I peed in the ocean and thus unknowingly contributed to its ongoing acidification?    

I think maybe you’re being a little too picky.

Love,

Mary

I’m infected with porn.

One upon a time, whilst innocently minding my own business, trolling the internet for recommendations as to how one might remove permanent marker from the naked torso of a two year old...I became infected with porn. 

By the way, did you know that you shouldn't give permanent markers to a toddler?  They will eat them and, also, draw all over themselves which means that you will then spend much of your evening trying to scrub permanent marker off their naked torso.

FYI.
So there I am innocently using the internet in an attempt to figure out how to remove all traces of the permanent marker I let my neice eat and draw on herself with before her mother arrives home, when all of these message boxes began popping up telling me I needed to download anti-virus software IMMEDIATELY  as my computer MAY ALREADY BE INFECTED!!!!! 

OMG. 

I MAY ALREADY BE INFECTED!!!! 

Thank God I had these convenient pop-up boxes warning me and very helpfully offering a solution!

So I clicked.

And this is how I came to be picking up my laptop from quarantine at the local computer store.

And this is how I met Jim, Super-Hero/Computer-Fixer-Of-All-Things-Computer-Related (not his real title).

Jim fixed my computer.

It turns out all of the helpful pop-ups were not so helpful, but rather were, IN FACT, evil messengers of destruction laced with the internet equivalent of arsenic causing my computer to hemorrhage usefulness until it was just about as helpful as my Dad was when he took me to buy my first training bra-which was NOT very helpful at all. 

No offense Dad.

Jim, however, is very helpful. 

Jim is very helpful with computers. 

Jim is not very helpful in breaking the stereotype of the socially awkward, hygienically challenged, fashion backwards computer geek.

Excuse me while I interrupt myself for a Public (meaning mostly Jim) Service Announcement:

Dear Public (meaning mostly Jim),

Socks are not necessary when you’re wearing Birkenstocks.

The End.

You’re welcome.

It’s funny to me (read that as not-so-funny) how the universe always has its own special way of exacting revenge just when I think it’s safe to recklessly toss around judgment and condemnation.  Such as when one innocently insinuates that all computer geeks wear socks with Birkenstocks, for example.

Damn you Universe.

My interaction with Jim went something like this:  

Me: (silently to myself and in my own head) "Wow.  He is wearing socks with Birkenstocks…I am going to judge and condemn him silently to myself and then later out loud on my blog that no one reads."

Jim:  “So (insert awkward pause here)…are you the only one who uses this computer?”

Me: “Yes.  Absolutely, definitively, yes.  Me.  Only me.  Just me.  Solo mia.”

Jim:  “Well…I mean…it’s just that…see, when I was done removing the virus I clicked on Internet Explorer and it asked me if I wanted to restore my last browsing session…”

This is where I began to feel concerned. 

It’s not that I have anything to be ashamed of, so to speak.  I’m not trying to hide anything.  (Aside from the fact that I fed my neice permanent marker, that is.)  It’s just that I’d rather strangers NOT be privy to some of the things I type into a Google search on any given day.

My life is very irregular, after all.  You never know what might happen.  Or what I might need to Google.

An innocent query might easily be misconstrued.  Say, for example, “how to remove permanent marker from infant nipples.”   

Jim: "It’s just that, you know….it took me to a...um, well…to some pornographic material."
Me: "What?!  That's weird.  How'd that happen?"
*insert awkward silence*
Jim: "So....yeah.  I just...I mean, I thought you should know..."
Me:  "Oh yeah....of course.  Thanks....for that."
*insert crickets chirping here*
Me: "You know Jim, I really shouldn't be trusted to watch after other people's children in the first place.  I'm really very irresponsible.  VERY, VERY irresponsible.  I mean what kind of idiot would let me watch their kids anyways, right?  Let alone scrub their nipples.   I mean, that's just silly, right?"

You can see how one might jump to erroneous conclusions.

And check the local sex offender registry. 

When in fact it was merely a dutiful, doting, babysitting Aunt trying to cover for the fact that she left her neice alone with permanent markers.

If one is judgmental like that, of course.

Which I am not.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I will never leave the house again.

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.