How do you know it's the right time, or at least a relatively ok time, to get a dog?
I really, really, really, really, really, really, reallyreallyreallyreally want a dog. Like bad. However, there's always an excuse not to commit to the whole thing. Like, they're expensive, messy, smelly, poopy, peey, furry, sheddingy, dirty, disobedient and potential relationship enders. All kinds of relationships. Ones with shoes, yards, fences, corners of couches, landlords and more.
On the minus side, I work about 20 minutes (with no traffic) from where I live, leaving me little time at home mornings and evenings. My typical schedule has me leaving the house about 7.20am and returning about 7.30 - 8pm. That's a lot of time away from a pup. However, I do have BF who offices at home, so it could be doable...
On the plus side, I am sure that I was more active without even trying when I had Zealand (dog lost to breakup '06). He was a big, goofy guy who needed lots and lots of walking and interaction with other folks and animals. So, there I was, day after day, him dragging me through the two mile loop at the dog park. Two miles a day, rain or shine, winter or summer adds up to a healthier me.
And yes, dogs are pricey, but I think the act of financial restraint and saving for something other than yourself is a worthwhile pursuit.
I feel like if I wait for everything to properly align, the soonest I'd get an animal is when they bring kittens to the old folks home.
Congratulations, me! I am now the proud owner of two pair of boots. The aforementioned black heeled boots, and now a pair of flatish brown boots. I literally have no idea how to properly wear either pair. I had grand visions of pairing them with stylish skinny jeans and dresses with unique tights, but at the end of the day, skinny jeans involve the word skinny and tights are, well tights. So, yet another trend fail.
Pumping gas when it's colder than a witch's titty out there. HATE IT. I pumped approximately 0.98 gallons just so I could get home. I'll deal with tomorrow's commute tomorrow. When it's still just as cold. BALLS!
Yesterday, I was watching TV on the local NBC affiliate when Linda Cavaneck started talking about some sort of supermarket sweepstakes thing. Not sure what the rules are, but you could win either a $200 gift card or a grocery grab shopping spree! Whee! So, I started thinking, what's the best strategy for one of those things? As if I would win. Anyway, I decided I'd hit up the spices aisle, rake all of the olive oils and expensive vinegars into my cart, grab up all of the nuts, hit the specialty cheese case and then sprint over to the health and beauty section to stock up on razors (they're fucking expensive and only four blades, nothing like these bad boys) and then snatch up all of the Excedrin I can find. The whole scenario would be choreographed to mimic the season five, episode four of Designing Women, "Miss Trial", where Julia serves on a retarded jury, but more aptly, Charlene wins a free for all shopping spree at a record store and invites Suzanne to be her partner. Pastel sweatsuits are deployed. Brill.
Love you ladies!
And that's what I'm thinking about this Sunday evening.
Last night, I went to sleep. All normal like and stuff. But, my night brain went to work creating a truly bizarre sleep movie that I can only remember bits of.
Andrew Bird is my tour guide on a night cruise of famous swimming pools. He drops a tiny boat into still, black celebrity pools (the first was one from a movie I could recognize in my dream, but can't remember now) and we paddle in a circle while he narrates the history. And he talks exactly like he sings. Here's a sample from the song "Sovay."
I was getting ready to consider my next plan of attack I think I'm gonna sack the whole board of trustees all those Don Quixotes un their B-17s and I swear this time yeah this time they'll blow us back to the 70's and this time they're playin Ride of the Valkyries with no semblance of grace or ease and they're acting on vagaries with their violent proclivities and they're playing ride Ride of the Valkyries sovay,sovay,sovay all along the day
Right, so, he paddles about, using newly created words to expound upon water and whistling. Very AB*. Suddenly, my mom is there, but she's a cartoon version and looks like Meg Griffin with Sideshow Bob hair. She wants to get off the boat because we've come to a stop at whatever hotel/monstrosity in Vegas has the "Venetian" canals and gondoliers.
I wake up thinking that Sideshow Bob's hair really isn't all that much unlike my mom's.
*Listen to "Armchairs." This was the only version I could find. I don't know who or what this is, but it's decidedly less weird than my dreams. Also, this song is good.
What are the dudes doing that just chill at the gym? You know, the ones that just pace around machines with their workout clothes, but absolutely no intention of working out except to adjust a seat, sit down, then get up again? Are they just scoping people out? The problem is, I stare at them and all their weirdness, which I'm sure they take as me staring at them because I'm into them. What I'm really doing is desperately trying to do anything besides think about how many minutes are left.
My seriously fucked up dreams. Ones in which my mom gives birth to a kitten. One in which my boss's daughter has progeria. One where my boyfriend is pregnant and I'm super pissed because I thought he was on birth control. Another one with Philip Seymour Hoffman on a boat. One where the spider from Charlotte's web turned evil and promised to kill me, someday, so I spend the rest of the dream scared shitless that a talking spider is trying to murder me. What is up, sleeping brain?
I've decided that "Modern Family" and "Park and Recreation" are, in fact, worth watching. Also, let me profess my secret love for "Castle." Imagine this in my Oprah voice - LOVE IT! It's truly terrible. Bad acting, stupid stories, a horribly appointed apartment, but still, fuck me if I'm not watching Monday nights at 9.
The $8 car wash is definitely better than the $5 car wash. Worth all 300 extra pennies. The black 'trix is still shining.
I'm enjoying September in November. It's been sunny and 70sish all week. Had I not had a vomit inducing, brain melting migraine for two days of it, I forgot where I was going with that. Migraines suck (but are always better when referred to as meegraines).
I'm afraid of watching and not liking "Precious."
I like to listen to these songs:
Bitter Heart - Zee Avi
I Don't Know What To Do - Pete Yorn and Scarlett Johansson
Right, so, I've been really, really, really trying to incorporate at least 30 minutes, if not an hour of cardio daily in my effort to not be such a lard ass. The up side is less jigglyness and realized value of super-expensive running shoes. The downside is a continued proclivity for TERRIBLE FUCKING music. I mean, craptastically awful. Check this shit out.
I'll be honest, I don't know who half of these people are or how I hear them. Except the old school Shakira. I heard new school Shakira and she was talking about being a wolf or something retarded and I flashed back to awesome Spanish class era Shakira and took an iTunes trip down memory lane (expensive). But, turns out "Estoy Aqui" good running music. So, there you go. Also, if there's anyone left out there who reads this (I know there are at least two and one is my mom), PLEASE HELP ME!
In a related story, I went to the OU/K State game Halloween. I dressed up as an OU fan e.g. I actually bought an $11 OU t-shirt and wore it public. Something I swore I'd never do. I rarely even wear Smith garb (mostly because people think it's a made up school). Basically, I have no school spirit for any school. I'm so much fun! Hang out with me! Anyway, it was a lovely evening, OU played perfectly for about 47 seconds, the band did Thriller, I got in some cardio climbing up and down the stadium stairs ten thousand times (we're up on row 67), and then we met some friends for a beer at Brother's on campus corner. They have cheap pitchers. Woo hoo! Since I'm trying to not be so lardassy, I'm trying to drink less. So, I actually only had about 1.5 solo cups of beer over two hours, which equals not even tipsy. You hear me? Good. I'm looking around, taking in the scene of oldsters (it was homecoming weekend) drinking it up and eyeing all the coeds in their retarded sexy anything getups. Two grey dudes are walking arm in arm toward the door. One tells the other to hold on, there's a big step here. I smile and think, someday, I hope I have a friend who will still hit the bars with me when I'm 80. Cut to us leaving. Our booth was directly in front of the front door, next to the big step. Cut to me falling off the big step and slow motion rolling onto the cold, brick floor, laying at the feet of ID checkers/bouncers and the owner of the bar. The moral of this story is, had I known that was going to happen, I'd have just said fuck it and had a pitcher. DAMN!
I dressed up as myself on Saturday for work today (everyone else is in pumpkin t-shirts, cat ears, etc). Holey jeans, holey sweater, pony tail, Tivas. I rule.
Where have I been this time? you might ask not give even the slightest shit about. Well, I will give you 10 guesses.
A) Developing a very special, very new product: the home pap smear. Seriously, every effing time I turn around, I'm making an appointment (six months in advance) to see my gyno so she can charge me a bajillion dollars to swab my bajingo. I'm over the two hour wait and am all set answering awkward questions about my sex life and lady parts. Hence the home pap smear. A medical degree is not required to successfully carry out a smear. Mainly, one only needs to be comfortable with her own body and voila! Dollar dollar bills saved, y'all. Send it off to a lab and you're good till next year. I am so serious about this.
B) Storyboarding my own fan video for "Party in the USA."
C) Perfecting my one woman version of "The Nightman Cometh."
D) Searching for the perfectly wearable pair of black boots to go with winter skirts and dresses. (I settled on these because I am part old lady - they're Naturalizers. Huzzah!)
5) Waiting in line for tickets to the This Is It premier.
6) Misunderstanding the new Facebook format.
7) Living in an alternate universe powered by beautiful and creative blogs, or, the total opposite of this pile and my life. Secret: I cannot stop reading home designish blogs. Blogs about food and cooking. Blogs about pretty stationary. Blogs about other people's boyfriends and perfect lives. Blogs about cities I'll never live in. Blogs where everyone's photogenic, creative, surrounded by succulents and vintage furniture. It's a sickness. And I don't think there's a cure. Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge these people their diligence and creativity. I'm simply jealous. See here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here.
So, my pretties, this is what I've been clogging my ear holes with at the gym. It's terrible. Horribly embarrassing. But, somehow, inspiring. This group is exactly 31.5 minutes, which means I get to listen to it twice!
*Click to enlarge, but beware, you will confront the likes of Miley, Lady Caca and Chris "lady beater" Brown. I warned you.
1. Went to slickdeals.net to look at coupons on a Saturday morning. Yeah. Believe it. Found coupon for 10 pair of Victoria's Secret Pink underwear for a mere $25. Almost creamed my current underwear at the prospect of so much panty for so little $$. Went to mall to purchase.
2. Did underwear fashion show (for myself, I would never subject others) and promptly turned into my mother. The bargain drawers were simply too low cut in the front and high cut in the back. I thought barely covering your ass market had been cornered by the thong, but I guess not. I actually uttered these thoughts aloud, sealing my fate as an oldie.
So, if you need to reach me, I'll be living the dream.
I do love me some Mariah Carey. But like old school Mariah. Size 10 shoe, crazy curly hair, rope swinging, roller coaster riding Mariah. I don't like post "Honey" Hello Kitty, let me slip out of yet another ensemble and into my bathtub with a towel on, butterfly chasing, straighhairweirdface Mariah. I'd kind of written her off my music radar. Which really saddens me. I spent many an afternoon after school singing along to Vision of Love full blast on the living room stereo until my parents got home (I sounded just like her! true story!). The other night, I was driving home from work at, you know, probably 11pm, which is totally normal, and needed to stay awake. Instead of listening to my carefully cultivated CD collection (RIP listening to iPod in the car since new car doesn't have the right equipment and I will NOT fuck around with the FM transmitter bullshit thing) of indie lady drivel, I ventured to the dial. Did you know that KJ103 still exists? It does! And some more stations too! It was wonderful! Until I heard this one song. "Obsessed" by traitor Mariah. The lyrics are so fucktarded, fucktastic, fuckified that I have to share them. Behold, the lyrical genius that is Mimi, well partially. She's 1/3 responsible for this mess. I've highlighted the best parts.
OBSESSED (Mariah Carey - C. Tricky Stewart - Terius “The-Dream” Nash)
I was like, “Why are you so obsessed with me?” So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh Will the real MC please, step to the mike? So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh All up in the blogs Saying we met at the bar When I don’t even know who you are Saying we up in your house Saying I’m up in your car But you in LA and I’m out at Jermaine’s. I’m up in the A You so so lame and no one here even mentions your name It must be the weed. It must be the E Cause you be popping hood You get it popping, Oh Why you so obsessed with me (Boy I wanna know) Lying that you’re sexing me (when everybody knows) It’s clear that you’re upset with me Finally found a girl that you couldn’t impress Last man on the earth still couldn’t hit this You’re delusional, you’re delusional Boy you’re losing your mind It’s confusing yo, you’re confused you know Why you wasting your time Got you all fired up with your Napoleon complex Seeing right through you like you’re bathing in Windex Boy why you so obsessed with me? You on your job You hating hard Ain’t gon’ feed you I’m gonna let you starve Gasping for air I’m ventilation You out of breath Hope you ain’t waiting Telling the world how much you miss me But we never were So why you trippin’ You a mom and pop I’m a corporation I’m the press conference and you a conversation Why you so obsessed with me (Boy I wanna know) Lying that you’re sexing me (when everybody knows) It’s clear that you’re upset with me Finally found a girl that you couldn’t impress Last man on the earth still couldn’t hit this You’re delusional, you’re delusional Boy you’re losing your mind It’s confusing yo, you’re confused you know Why you wasting your time Got you all fired up with your Napoleon complex Seeing right through you like you’re bathing in Windex
Oh, how I long for the days of yore. Maybe "Someday" she'll come around. Single tear.
I've been all down in the dumps lately. Maybe it's dumbasses who won't let the President speak to the school kids of America. Maybe it's gay fish/Kanye's outburst toward dear, sweet Taylor Swift. Maybe it's how fucking terrible Norman tap water tastes this time of year. Maybe it's that my iPod is full, but I have like one kajillion songs I'd like to add to it. Maybe it's knowing that this season of Mad Men is almost half over. But, probably, it's the theme I choose for Gmail. I picked the tree one, which somehow means it's always rainy or storming in my inbox. I'm switching to planets. Wish me luck.
I suppose I shouldn't complain. There was a stretch this summer when I had forgotten rain. When the OK was more dried up than a joke about Joan Rivers' vajayjay. Anywho, now it won't stop raining. Rained all day Saturday. I actually had tickets to the OU/Idaho St. game, but pussied out. Neither wet t-shirt nor pancho is a good look for me. Instead, I let my parents purchase the game on Pay-Per-View and watched my mom down Keystone Light out of a pilsner glass. Surreal. It rained again all day Sunday. ALL DAY! I remember many rainy days in Mass, but here it seems to storm and be done with it, so this hovering rain put me in a mood. It also made my hair crazy. Like lion's mane crazy. Girlfriend needs a haircut, which costs $$... but this is about music.
Rainy days and mondays always get me down. Not really. Rain gives me an excuse to indulge my inner (and sometimes outer) sad bastard.
2% pay cut, among other things (e.g. no retirement contribution match) for at least nine months. When you're as poor as I am, 2% is a big deal (like a student loan payment and/or rent). More than that, there's the idea that working your way up and through a complicated job with a huge personnel issue is rewarded by the expectation of more work for less money. Yes, I still have my job, which is good, because the Department of Education and Citibank would be pretty sad if I found myself unemployed, but what am I working for? Another round of salary reductions? Constant fear of a reduction in force? Working in HR is difficult, since I catch wind, but not details of these decisions and have ample time to obsess. Also, there will surely be exceptions to the official rules to wrangle our budget, and I will have to process them, all the while living on less myself. Life isn't fair. I know this. But I was so hopeful. So hopeful.
Right, so, do I use this as impetus to see what else is out there? Do I seriously look at grad school now that I know I'll be just as poor working as I would in school? Do I look into selling my eggs? Do I hang out at retirement centers and befriend oldies who will add me to their life insurance policies? Do I move back in with my parents and save as much as I can to fund some sort of real change? Or, do I just tread water and hope for the best since I do actually like my job, the people I work with, and am not through learning what I'd need to know to be marketable in this area. I could do other stuff, sure, but I just invested over two years learning benefits and compensation.
Ugh. Sad panda. I don't know what that means, Shain says it, so I repeat it.
Oh, hi there. It's been a rough beginning of the semester. Shit has hit the fan at work. Turns out higher education in Oklahoma is not, in fact, recession proof. Employment is the new poverty. Also, I've obviously been in mourning since OU's ridonk performance the other day. And I ate at Cheesecake Factory and fell into a coma. Oh, and I've been trying to follow both Top Chef and Project Runway. So yeah, I've been pretty preoccupied. Apologies. To my imaginary fans. However, in the past two weeks, two moderately entertaining things happened involving the fam.
::Story #1::
Flash back to the summer of 1999. A young Bee-spot is head over heels in love with high school boyfriend who has earned a dork award that requires him to travel to DC for two weeks. Two weeks without seeing each other! Oh the agony. Right, so you no one might or might not know care that my old bedroom window was essentially used a door for parent forbidden shenanigans throughout my tenure. I was quite used to late night visits from high school boyfriend. Sometimes, we would watch taped episodes of Jeopardy!, sometimes we would stare into each others eyes, professing our tiny love, and sometimes we'd, well. You know. Do it. Anyway, the night before HSBF leaves for DC, I hear a knock on the ol' window. There he is, out in my yard, brandishing a curious red gift bag. He thrusts the bag through my window and tells me that he's purchased a few items for me to help me withstand his absence. Aw. I peer inside to discover a treasure trove of very naughty items. It was the first time I'd seen anything of the like. I could've stocked my own Christie's Toybox.* I honestly didn't know what to say or do. I kissed him goodbye, opened the bag and shoved the vibrator between my mattress and box spring. I hid it because it was the only thing I recognized and knew I needed a safe place for it. The other things had no meaning to me at the time, so I shoved them deep in the depths of my bottomless closet thinking that even if someone found them, they too would be unclear of their purpose.
Flash forward to 10 years later. My brother rarely texts me. When he does, it's usually to tell me to leave him alone or he confuses me with someone who can sell him drugs. I joke. Sort of. I receive a text that says something like you'll never guess what Dad found. That's right. While my brother and dad were attempting to repair my old bed (it's a 100+ year old four poster monstrosity that's very fragile), they pulled off the mattress to uncover, yes, a 10 year old dormant vibrator. Awesome! I asked my brother what Dad did with it. Apparently, it's waiting for me in the desk drawer.
::Story #2::
Oh moms. And the internets. Hilarity always ensues. Mom's school district refused to show Obama's don't quit school speech (big surprise/Oklahoma is awesome!), but she was determined to have the text available for herself and any interested student and wanted to print it out as soon as it was published. Cut to me showing her the magic of cut and paste and word and font size and printing. It was a miracle. Now she wants to email the link to her super conservative brother. Ok. She frequently emails me, so I don't see why she'd need my help for this, but she thinks she does. I watch her close every open window and application on her computer. Weird, but ok. Then she opens Internet Explorer. Um, ok. Then she types yahoo.com into the browser. I think to myself, weird, since I set her up with a Gmail account. Next she types Google into the Yahoo search field. Yeah, it's true. She Yahoo's Google. Then she proceeds to Google Gmail. I died a little. Also, if you know me, I think this explains a lot about me.
As mentioned, I went to a wedding earlier this month. It was atop Mt. Magazine in Arkansas, which doesn't sound like much, but actually, it was quite lovely (it looked like this). There was too much drinking and cavorting, some hiking, a wee bit of dancing, etc, etc. In preparation, L-ma, the groom's sister, wanted to create a little mix tape of weddingish songs. I came up with what I thought was a kick ass list, which I will share with you. Note: these are relatively recent songs. A complete list of the best weddingish songs of all time would be completely different. This is love light. Yellow highlighted = my favorites.
Brand New Start Little Joy 5 Years Time Noah and the Whale Nothing Even Matters Lauryn Hill (Featuring D'Angelo) Parentheses The Blow Harvest Moon Neil Young To Be Alone With You Sufjan Stevens Wild Horses The Sundays Find Love Clem Snide Mushaboom Feist Lover Devendra Banhart All I Wanna Do Jamie Lidell First Day of My Life Bright Eyes Little Romance Ingrid Michaelson Butterfly Nets Bishop Allen Nothing Matters When We're Dancing The Magnetic Fields Great Day Paul McCartney I Will Follow You Into The Dark Death Cab For Cutie Sweet Thing Van Morrison Our Way to Fall Yo La Tengo When It Don't Come Easy Patty Griffin P.D.A. (We Just Don't Care) John Legend By Your Side Sade Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever Susan Tedeschi Good Hearted Man Tift Merritt Say Yes Elliott Smith By Your Side Beachwood Sparks Magic In The Air Badly Drawn Boy You Are The Best Thing Ray Lamontagne Words Cannot Describe Mirah Let My Love Open the Door M. Ward Make You Feel My Love Adele This Will Be Our Year Ok Go If We Can Land a Man On the Moon, Surely I Can Win Your Heart Beulah Question (LP Version) Old 97'S Gotta Have You The Weepies Fly Me To The Moon Frank Sinatra Closer Travis I'll Be Your Mirror Clem Snide I'm the Man Who Loves You Wilco The More I See You Sondre Lerche Us (Album Version) Regina Spektor
I ask you. Seriously. The garden continues to spew forth the slimy stuff for which I have no culinary answer. I would fry it, but that's time consuming. How come the tomatoes can't make as impressive a showing? They're tiny and sad and green.
So, I guess I took an unscheduled blog break. A blogcation, if you will. You won't? Ok. Things that have been keeping me from this blog:
I had a birthday! I'm now 28 and bitter instead of 27 and bitter. But at least I'm not 30. So, there's that.
I watched some peeps get married in Arkansas. It was actually quite nice and beautiful up there on Mt. Magazine. I'd like to go back.
I watched Top Chef Masters. Did you know that Rick Bayless is from OKC? Rock on.
I have been consumed by work. Back to 60 hour weeks with nothing but commute, work, commute, sleep, commute, work, commute, sleep. There's not even time to drink excessively. Sadcakes.
I've purchased a couple of cookbooks that will no doubt gather dust while I eat at Chick-fil-a too many times. They're actually great books, though: Simply Organic and Mark Bittman's Kitchen Express.
The summer roommate moved out.
I've watched lots of movies: Julie and Julia (as a Smith grad, it's required viewing), which sucked except the parts Meryl Streep was in; Funny People, which was unfunny and awful; The Goods, which was surprisingly hysterical.
I've hotly anticipated and subsequently analyzed the return of Mad Men - it was as good as ever. New episodes are pretty much the saving grace of Sunday nights.
I got a new car. It looks like this. The events that caused this purchase are boring and complicated, but who cares! I got a new car! WOOOOO! (By new I mean new to me, it's gently used. Also, it'd better last me at least 100,000 miles or I'm screwed.)
So, all in all a good August thus far. But I'm exhausted.
Oh, and did you see this? Good thing I got season tickets. You know, until we fuck it up.
She and Him's rendition of The Smiths "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" is pretty good, unless you are a senseless hater of Zooey and co. Maybe it's because my birthday is coming up and I feel super old because I want a Kitchenaid mixer and super lame because I'm this old and can't afford it. Or maybe it's the haunting, heartbreaking, unfettered lyrics that express better than any song I've heard lately what we all want.
I had a friend back in the MA named S. She introduced me to many things, knitting, fried clams from The Bite in Martha's Vineyard, Le Creuset cookware and lounge pants. I made fun of her (to her face - I'm nice like that) penchant for donning lounge pants as soon as the sun went down before settling in for some Gilmore Girls or Veronica Mars, but little did I know she totally knew what was up. I've settled into this routine where, basically, I either wear work clothes, gym clothes or lounge pants. I'm not sure if that means I'm old (turing the big 2-8 shortly) or lazy or resigned to my life as a suburbanite or what. But fuck me if I don't love a good pair of lounge pants. I feel terrible for deriding S back in the day. She and I could've curated a kick ass collection of lounge pants. We could've sewn our own! Bought the expensive ones from Anthropologie! I didn't know! I was so young back then. Young and compelled to be properly dressed at all times. What I'm saying is, I've rounded a corner. Loungeapalooza baby.
Yeah, I saw Away We Go. Yes, I want to marry John Krasinski and Michael Cera at the same time, but only as Zooey Deschanel or Jenny Lewis. Sure, I own The Royal Tenenbaums. And I have sex dreams about Luke Wilson that involve Coconut Records. Who doesn't? I am a walking fucking cliche of a mid (late) 20's woman who went to a liberal arts college and fancies herself "open minded" and shops at Anthropologie. FINE.
Since I'm part cyborg, I get skeeved easily by outpourings of emotion, especially if they involve people who think they love each other and want to make everyone know about it. I hate that.
I think this dude does too. Check out the vid he made to propose to his girlfriend. Apparently he conned her into seeing an "artsy French movie", but instead forced her to sit throug this, which includes a Daniel Beddingfield* song and many changes of skivvies. I'm not sure which is worse. Here's the full story.
Seriously. 24 hours dedicated to a funeral for someone who wasn't even real royalty? I say this because Princess Di's funeral coverage was totally warranted. Duh.
I wish I could take credit for finding this, but alas, I cannot. I can, however, pimp it and hope that you think it's funny too, like pee in your pants a little bit funny. If not, we probably shouldn't be friends, but probably for very different reasons. In any case, enjoy...
