Because I'm a blooming genius and never hit save until the end, I just lost a post I'd been writing for the past two hours, that was actually started on Friday. It was good. You're just going to have to go along with me on this one, trust me, it was some fine writing -- highly entertaining and informative at the same time. Infotainment, if you will. But it's gone.
Just so you know, this is a dramatic reenactment of what I did upon realization that my post was lost.
There used to be a regular feature here on The Kerry Blog called What the Hell Friday, that for some reason I'd forgotten about, but today -- back by no one's demand -- it's What the Hell Friday.
It's a Friday night. You know what that means: par-tay! I'm going to watch the documentary Objectified (from the same people that brought you Helvetica, an entire feature-length doc about fonts!) because that's just how happenin' it is around my house. Look out, it's documentary night! Woo-hoo! Don't everyone rush over to join the fun at once, there is limited parking and we'll all have to gather around my laptop to watch. Oh, it's going to be a night. You never know, I may get wild later and listen to a podcast! It might get crazy around here and I may debate friends on Facebook over politics in my pajamas, you never know. I was going to color my roots, but that would bring a little too much excitement to the party. I mean, why not spread the fun throughout the weekend?
Before my wild night gets started, I thought I'd bust out something I came across on The Huffington Post this afternoon, which made me decide to bring back the Friday feature. It's Handerpants, underpants for your hands.
Yes, it's a real product. Perhaps intended as a joke, but a real product one can order nonetheless. They're touted as being ideal for night bloggers. I think I know what all my blogger friends are getting for Christmas. Nothing says "merry Christmas" like blogging with underpants on your hands.
It's been one of those days. You know what I mean. I know you do. Shall I expound on my day? Okay.
Let's back up a moment. It's really a carry over from yesterday when the air conditioning was out (it's 90+ degrees here on the Northshore in South Louisiana even thought the calendar says it's October). It was hot. I am not a fan of heat. Like at all. Our a/c man is fantastic and the house started to cool around bedtime (not my bedtime, the children's bedtime), so I was in a much better mood last night.
I went to bed around one. Couldn't shake the static in my brain, of course. Woke up at 5 with a migraine, took some Judy Garland trailmix and tried to go back to bed 'til 6:15, otherwise known as "time to make the doughnuts" as I say every morning when I turn off the iPhone alarm and wake the kids to get ready for the bus. No, I've never made doughnuts.
After I got the kids off, my migraine and I went back to bed. If you've never had a migraine, let me illustrate the feeling: my senses were so heightened that I could smell colors and that made sense. At 9:45 I woke up and made coffee, took a shower, put on another pair of pjs, and sat down to the Macbook Pro for the ENTIRE day. I've been working on a friend's website for about a week and this morning I decided to publish it to the web so I could work out glitches and upload mp3s and all.
Unfortunately, the interwebs hates me.
I deleted the old site, uploaded the new one, but it wasn't there. The error message on the site said something to the effect of "error blah blah blah, this page does not exist on here, fool. Contact the webmaster." This made me laugh until I choked on my coffee and yelled "this shit is bananas," which became the phrase of the day. The webmaster is an idiot. I'd fire her if it were my site.
So, I called my good friend, Frugal Beth to tell her the story because I knew she'd laugh and she asks her professional webdesigner hubs what to do and we got it worked out. Something about publishing to some file blah blah blah awesome. Site was up, buggy, but up. More issues arose, the kids came home crazy, and my friend tells me he bought the new Photoshop Elements 8. Now, I bought PSE 6 a few months ago. This kind of thing makes me crazy. I hopped on apple.com and sho nuff, 8 is out. This shit is bananas.
After putting myself in timeout for a few minutes after telling the kids to stop asking for cookies for the brazillionth time, I returned to the kitchen to see they had eaten the entire bag of Chips Ahoy. I put myself in timeout again to avoid the screaming boiling up from within, then sent the kids upstairs, sat down to the computer again and continued day-o-web frustration.
And then I pondered dinner for at least ten seconds before putting a frozen pizza in the oven (because that's all I could muster up tonight). After calling the hubs' aunt and cousins to ask them to babysit next weekend, I realized I never took the pizza out. I burned the pizza. Nothing like extra crispy blackened pepperoni.
This was not my day.
After burning the pizza, I chatted with my friend while making at least a dozen blog banners for his blog, then finally got the right size. It was bananas. The first one was 20 times too big, then too small -- it was like when I try on clothes. Typepad said it was supposed to be so many pixels, wrong. Whatev, they're smokin' crack. I again recited my phrase of the day.
It was about that time that I remembered I forgot to eat dinner, made myself some cereal, and watched Private Practice while trying to upload the mp3s. Two will not work. They must have gotten the memo that the interwebs hates me. It was at this moment that I went to You Tube for some Gwen Stefani. I'm not a fan of the Gwen, but this mix of "Hollaback Girl" with Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" is the bomb, yo. After -- no lie -- playing this video 7 times, it's been a much better evening. And come on, this shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s. Sing along with me.
It has come to this. I have to make a public service announcement for our friends out there who didn't get what I like to call "home training." You see, I ran a few errands yesterday and saw many crimes against humanity, at least of fashion humanity.
I'm not talking about wearing white after Labor Day.
I'm talking about what to wear in public. Or rather, what not to wear in public. For the remainder of this post, public will mean any place you go to where you have to get out of your car. Yes, even Walgreens.
New Rules for Public Attire
Wear a bra. You should know if you need one. Remember the pencil test from middle school when you put a pencil under your boob and if it stayed that meant you needed a bra? Okay, some of us could put a pencil case or a phone book under there. I'm not naming names or anything. Don't make me stand in front of Target with pencils.
Pajamas are for home, keep them there. Oh, what gave it away that those are pajama pants? Maybe the thin fabric and drawstring waist.
Keep the pants that say something on the behind at home too. There is nothing right about a 40 year old woman with "Juicy" written across her ass.
Slippers are not shoes.
A bluetooth ear-thingie is not a fashion accessory.
If further clarification is needed, please do not leave your house.
It's Friday night. You know what that means -- sexy times. Yep, I'm at home with some Nyquil (because I'm getting a cold), in pajamas, Kleenex within reach, with the trusty laptop blogging and catching up on Dexter to get ready for the season premier Sunday.
This evening I stumbled upon something so ridiculous I felt I needed we needed a Friday Night Wrong Roundup. I've done vast research for at least the past ten minutes to compile what I believe to be the utmost in wrong for you, dear readers. The only question is where to begin.
I am nothing if not an art lover, so first up in wrong is the porntastic sculptured furniture of Peter Rolfe. Are you in the market for a new nekkid lady sculpture/two-drawer dresser thing? Well, look no further.
Yeah. I'm getting you all one for Christmas. I can't help but notice the glaring design flaw. Why go to the trouble of making the she-drawer if you're not going to make the nipples drawer pulls? Hell, why not? It's already ridiculous.
Onto more wrong. Y'all know I'm nothing if not a fashionista (in my own mind), so I don't know how I missed this gem.
I love the idea of interactive clothing. It's brilliant. Very Project Runway. Not so sure if I want my ass winking at you though. Thank goodness they've got a patent on that, you don't want just anybody making winking ass pants.
Speaking of winking, I've been told I have expressive eyes. More to the point, I've been told not to do "that eye thing," which I think is my disapproving look, I'm not sure. I'm thinking I could really push the envelope with these.
That's right. Eyebrow weaves. I have blond eyebrows that are pretty much invisible, so I color them when I color my hair. I'm SO getting eyebrow weaves. Imagine how disapproving I could look with those. So fabulous.
Next up is something for the musician in your life. I'm simply a fan of good music, not a musician, so I don't know what an acoustic guitar should cost, but $3900 seems a bit high even for a Chanel, which is a fashion house, not an instrument company.
I really hope that includes the case, which I think would make a fantastic piece of luggage, but it does kind of look like the cozies the extra pieces of my china are in.
You know what musician types are fond of? Sunglasses. The name Bono ring a bell? He's never without shades. Do you think he has these?
That's right, they're on a roll of tape. They stick to your face. TO YOUR FACE. Yeah, you won't sit on them and break them, but you'll get them stuck in your hair. They're by Azumi and David, who are obviously geniuses, because guess what else they make?
Yes, they are watches. MADE OF TAPE.
I'll let that sink in for a minute.
Okay. You know why these are the most retarded thing in this post, right? THEY DO NOT TELL THE TIME. The only people these "watches" are good for are the blind and preschoolers. Oh, and THEY'RE FREAKIN' TAPE. Have you ever had a hair caught in a bracelet? That hurts. Pulling tape off your wrist? Why not just save yourself the trouble and wax your arms? While you're at it, wax your eyebrows because they're going to come off when you take off your tape sunglasses.
The Nyquil's kicking in. I'll probably dream of tape and nekkid people furniture and wake up screaming "THOSE AREN'T DRAWER PULLS!"
I didn't say anything when you appeared in my mailbox on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing bubbles.
I didn't say anything when you forgot to wear clothes under the blazer because you thought the flesh-colored unitard would suffice.
But not this time. Madam, this will not stand.
(yes, the video is in German, no I don't know what they're saying)
You cannot go around wearing an outfit made of Kermit the frogs. It's just wrong. It's unAmerican. Plus, Miss Piggy is not going to be after your skinny ass. And I wouldn't be surprised if PETA comes after you too. Now, go and put some damn clothes on.
Once again, it's up to me to tell you about a product you didn't know you needed. Watch the one-minute video, then we'll discuss.
Okay, first, the woman in the beginning looks uncomfortable because of the get-up she's sleeping in, not her boobs.
Seriously. I'm speaking only for myself, but damn, if your boobs are the reason for your insomnia, maybe you should read the news and you'll have a bigger reason to lie awake at night. I'm just saying. Now, I've had big boobs forever and never have I been trying to get to sleep and thought "if only I had some sort of plastic boob separator I could get some sleep!"
Let's look at some of the FAQs from kushsupport.com.
Q. Is there an adjustment period for Kush?
A. Like knee pillows prescribed by orthopedic physicians and chiropractors,
there may be a brief period of adjustment for the first two or three nights.
However, most customers report being unaware that Kush is even there while
sleeping!
Q. How does Kush stay in place?
A. Kush offers a unique anatomically contoured design to fit comfortably between
the breasts. Made of a lightweight plastic that offers the firmness necessary
for breast support, the slip-resistant surface and contoured shape help keep
Kush in place as a woman rolls from one side to the other during sleep.
Q. Do I need to wear clothing with Kush?
A. No. You don't need to wear a bra, restrictive clothing or special garments.
You can sleep in nighties, T-shirts or in the nude, and Kush will stay in place
with its slip-resistant outer coating.
Q. Why is my Kush not staying in place?
A. We recommend that customers use Kush against clean, dry skin. The slip-resistant
quality of Kush can be negatively affected by nighttime perspiration associated
with menopause, or by perfumes, alcohol, oils, lotions or creams.
Really. I don't see how I could be unaware of the Kush while I'm sleeping, but sweet mother of insomnia, thank goodness the Kush is slip-resistant and I can sleep in the nude with it. I cannot sleep in the nude, I'm far too prudish for that. Plus, if there was an emergency, like a fire -- if you sleep in the nude you'd have to throw some clothes on to run outside. At least I'd be on the lawn in my chemise waiting for the cute firemen to show up. Back to the Kush. It's slip-resistant is negatively affected by a few things, alcohol being one of them. I'm confused. Do they mean when you drink alcohol or if you pour a drink down your pajamas? 'cause I'm a klutz and am always spilling my booze at bedtime. The Kush comes in 3 different sizes and plenty of colors. Now, I thought the colors were for various skintones, but then I noticed the blue, lilac, and green, so I assume they're making the Kush for aliens. This, of course means aliens have boobs and now I don't know if I'm more disturbed by the Kush or by aliens with boobs. I'm telling you, sometimes this blogging thing unearths some phobias I didn't know I had.
The sizes are freaky too. And they remind me of the little hand weights my mom used to have when she had the exercise mini-trampoline when I was kid, and since my boobs are weights themselves, I don't think they need competition. Plus, according to the site, I'd need the large size and I fail to see how I wouldn't notice it while sleeping as the FAQs suggest.
It's a weird and wacky world we live in, isn't it? Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my junk together for a little scrapbook trip to the swamp tomorrow. Since I don't have a Kush, I guess I'll pack the cordless phone to put between my boobs. I don't think that's big enough, maybe the dustbuster or a roll of paper towels.
Y'all know I am nothing if not crafty, but lately I have seen a few things that go beyond craft and down a road not only less-traveled, but perhaps the road to crazy craft town. Do you know what I'm talking about? I don't mean the things your wonderful child brings home from school that's made with love (and glitter and popcicle sticks and macaroni) that you can in no way figure out what it's supposed to be. Is it an ashtray? Is it a trivet? Do I hear coaster? NO, I'm referring to the crafts that no one needs.
I'm thinking you need a visual.
When I saw this photo of the First Lady at Westminster Abbey, I thought, "interesting. I have that ric rac and trim in my scrapbook bag." For realz. Poor Michelle looks like she fell into one of my scrapbooking bags and came out with a skirt. And she's wearing two cardigans. Two. Now, I read that the tunic is designer. And just when I was going to call Mrs. O and tell her to put down the glue gun. Yeah, it's by Australian designer Richard Nicoll. That reminds me, I'm launching my new clothing line this fall. It will be very earth-friendly, as all clothing will be made from recycling embellishments from my scrapbook stuff. I will also feature a line of monogrammed cardigans with all the letters I have left after spelling titles. The cardigans will be a big hit with those of you with names that start with Q, V, W, and Z.
Speaking of recycling, I never know what to do with all my leftover felt and I'm always thinking of practical gifts for friends, but never did I think the two would meet. Lo and behold, my latest Etsy find: Owl Pasties! No, I'm not kidding. They're called "Check Out My Hooters" and here's the description: Bedroom Beauties pasties are a hoot as bachelorette party gifts (trust
me), and guys love them (trust me). Bring out your inner burlesque
beauty and show off those girls!
Wait a damn minute. Guys love them? There are men who get all hot and bothered by owls? Oh hell no. Now I have a new reason to count my blessings everyday -- that I didn't marry a man with an owl fetish.
I may be going out on a limb here, but hell, if I don't say it who will? It's time to stop with the trophy heads. Now, I've never been a fan of the taxidermy trophy head hanging in a den or an office -- I think it's creep city. My father-in-law had alligator heads in their old house and decorated the deer heads for Christmas and I just can't go along with that. Plus the alligator heads were freaky -- they were upstairs and sat at the doorway of his office, so when I saw them I'd think, "oh crap, alligators! oh crap, how did they climb the stairs?!"
Anytaxidermy, I've noticed something of a phenomenon lately called Modern Trophies. They may be made of felt or other fabrics or in this case, resin and paper. The big boy to our right may be the best yet -- a moose made with Amy Butler paper (I know, I have the scrapbook paper). I'm so confused and torn. I can't decide if it's a horrible craft gone wrong or a really awesome way to hang my handbags in my bedroom. Sure, it goes against every fiber of belief I have that animal heads do not belong on walls, but I'm kinda loving the moose. And I'm not against hunting, I'm just against hanging the dead things inside. I would have to put some big fake eyelashes on the moose if I bought it. Oh well.
I'm ending this post with the find that inspired it. I found it on Craftgossip.com and when I saw the photo I must have stared at it, mouth agape, for 10 minutes. There were several reasons for the staring --
there are some crazy ass people in this world.
seriously, wtf?
never have I thought, "oh, that would make a great finger puppet!"
so, this is what you would wear for special occasions?
Y'all, seriously. I doubt other people experience this feeling when you hear something, often in the news, and feel as if your brain will explode from all the jokes you could make about it. Doesn't happen to you? Happens to me all the time. Usually when this happens I press my lips together as tight as possible so I don't say anything, because if I do, I will have to ask the question "did I say that outloud?" This would be a question I am quite familiar with.
Things like this have been coming up all week. Maybe it's due to my better mood, I'm not sure, but stuff is some kind of funny. Yesterday I simply could not contain myself when I read that Chastity Bono was becoming a man. Now, this is not a religious or political commentary -- it makes no difference to me whether someone wants to be a man, woman, or Michael Jackson. But when I read about Chastity, I had a hundred things pop in my head -- Cher standing in her wig closet wondering who she would leave all her wigs to now. And all the sailors (that I know she took home with her and hang out by her pool) from the "If I Could Turn Back Time" video -- who will she leave them to? And hypothetically, if there were Chastity male impersonators, like the legions of Cher ones, what will they do now?
Then I read this morning that when her boobs are removed, legally she can change her sex to male on documents. This is just wrong people. I mean, hell, I've spent four days at the pool this week and have seen more manboobs than anyone should ever have to see. If boobs are what make a person a woman, then holy wonderbra, somebody needs to tell these dudes to sign up! And this is me saying this! I have ta-tas that could put an eye out if I'm not wearing a sports bra on the treadmill, so I know a thing or two about boobs. These dudes need to get to the Bra Genie STAT! There are children in the pool area! For the love of Double Ds, no one needs to see your hairy manboobs. Is there nothing worse than hairy manboobs? At least wax those puppies, or good grief, get some Just For Men's Manboobs and dye that gray stuff so you don't look like Grover's freakin' muppet Mammaw.
The other news item that got me this week is what is being called the Designer Vajayjay. People, if I may be so bold, wtf? At first I thought the article was going to be about the Betty dye, but oh no -- it was about getting a nip and tuck Down There. Oh yeah, you can march right into the plastic surgeon's office and tell them you want a magic vajayjay and they will hook you up. By the way -- Magic Vajayjay is going to be the name of my new band that I just made up. My backup singers will be the Ovarians and my horn section will be called the Totally FAB-loppian Tubes. Don't tell anyone until I get the t-shirt designs done, I want to keep it on the down low. Back to the Magic Vajayjay -- seems women these days aren't content to have the one they were born with, no, they want everything all nice and shiny Down There. These women said it was ugly and wanted a Labioplasty. Now seriously, are you looking all up in there with a damn mirror, going "you know what would make this prettier? If this here were more symmetrical." Unless you're in the adult film industry, there are only a couple of people who see your vajayjay and maybe you should focus your attention on something that's, oh, I don't know -- IN SIGHT. I'm not even going to mention the other sugery, 'cause damn.
I think people are just making up things to have nipped and tucked. We live in a sick society that wants everything all nice and shiny with their Magic Vajayjays, while I have to look at Chester's hairy manboobs over there. That reminds me, I need to make my yearly doctor appointment with Dr. B. and I better call my hairstylist for an appointment while I'm at it.
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