Friday, July 6

Wednesday, June 20


It's like my Grandma wrote this.
 I think that Victory Bible Church is dangerously close to copyright infringement. They better hope that the good people at Hershey’s never find out about Wannaknow, distance cousin of the Whatchamacallit and the Thingamajig candy bars. Instead of crispy rice and a chocolate coating, the Wannaknow is filled with bitterness and a delicious coating of judgment. 

Friday, May 25


By the way, this is meant to be sarcastic.
In no way do I want to literally throw down.
Granted, I haven’t posted in a long time, partly because of school, partly because I lost my Google password and then forgot the new one, only to have to get a new one, only to forget that one. But over my absence the last month or so, I've noticed a trend around town of everyone bitin’ my shtilo with the church signs. I was going to stop posting them, but now it’s a grudge match. Oh I may not have pithy comments about mean customers (I’m looking at you 715), but I’d like to see them connect Twilight, the Princess Bride, and Poltergeist with one of those signs. Think that you're good enough for that? Think again.

Wednesday, April 4

Friday, March 16

Wednesday, March 14


I have a love/hate relationship with birthday parties. On one hand, they're great because I get to let my kid run around like a mental patient without being judged by other parents, and also there is the likelihood that I can score some birthday cake. Ironically, these are the same reasons dislike birthday parties. Just once I'd like a parent to send me an honest invitation: "Come celebrate Suzi's birthday! There will be no structure, even if there is structure, and we plan to send your kid home hopped up on goofballs. Good luck with that nap."

This doesn't mean that I won't take Piper to a party, I will, but for me it's the preparation for the party that makes me resent it. With a five-year-old and an almost two-year-old, traveling is like packing for a trip up Everest and takes about as long. Some days I feel like I'm on the load in/load out crew for a band that isn't making any money.

Plus, poor Piper has been cursed with a mother that gets lost everywhere. It's so bad that she'll ask me about 57 times if we are a) late and b) know where we're going. Usually the answers are "yes" and "no."  For our latest excursion, I planned ahead, got my mother-in-law to watch The Boy, mapped out our course and left 30 minutes before the party. I was feeling confident in part because we'd already beaten the odds that morning by being on time (actually a little bit early) to Piper's gymnastics class. I should have known.

We zoomed out to the address on my handy sheet of paper (my goddamn iPhone's little blue button can eat it), and turned  right just like I was supposed to. All I had to do was find 30th street. That's it. As we passed by 26th, 27th, and 28th streets, I told Piper that we might actually get there early. Yea! That is until I couldn't find 30th St. I drove in little circles looking for a street that apparently didn't exist. The whole time I kept my eye on the clock. Plenty of time I told myself, plenty of time. It was then that I spotted the elusive 30th street.

My optimism was short-lived as 30th turned into a street with a name. What? Another click around the block cemented the fact that where ever I was, it wasn't the right place. I finally saw signs of life and pulled over to ask directions from a dude who's dreadlocks made him stand out like a stanky hippie in the nice, suburban brown neighborhood. When I asked him where 30th St., was he pulled on his beard and pontificated for a minute or two. "Which one?" he said. I asked "what do you mean which one?" He tilted his head and said east or west? I looked down at the invitation that clearly said 'east.' Oh. My. God.

See this is exactly the type of situation where it becomes crystal clear that I'm not from the Midwest. I grew up in a place that is strictly left and right. You ask someone which direction they're coming from, and then you tell them how to get there. Is that so hard? Granted, sometimes they assume that you know where the old general store used to be but still, you know to take a right once you get there.

When I heard 15 minutes, I glanced at the clock. We had just enough time to get there, and I knew from experience that it would actually take me about five minutes if I drove irresponsibly. Sure enough, we arrived on the right side of town with about ten minutes until go time. Since I took 31st street to speed across town, I figured that we were close to our destination, and I was really looking forward to seeing that number 30 next. Oh I did. Except it was a parking lot for city buses. No house, no neighborhoods, nothing. I soldiered on, thinking OK, this is can't be right. I turned around and drove back down the road I came from. Nothing, I turned into the parking lot again, hoping houses would magically appear. Nope.

As I U-turned it in the middle of the road, I saw a cop hanging on the dirt road ahead of me (I don't know why there are so many dirt roads in this story. There really aren't that many in town). It was the first time in my life  I've ever interacted with a cop on purpose. I went up and asked him where the hell this so-called 30th street was. I didn't feel so bad when had to get on his cop map to figure it out. We both stood there, an sworn officer of the law, and me, a former breaker of the law, trying to get our bearings so I could get to a friggin' birthday party. Together finally made sense of his map and he gave me crazy criss-cross directions that made no sense.

Tuesday, March 13


I listen to Pandora radio every morning as I get ready for work. Not only is it awesome it's also the reason I'm always running late. You try dancing to just a portion of  "Goody Two Shoes." Can't be done. However, with all the hours I've put into Pandora, I've come to notice that it can be lazy. While I respect lazy, and I like structure, this means I wind up having to hear the same songs at the same time each day. Usually mornings are reserved for disco and 80's one hit wonders, which is fine with me because it can (occasionally) put me in the rare good mood. 

I love disco just as much as the next gal, their selection is somewhat limited. As much as I enjoy shaking my groove-thang to ABBA, Gloria Gaynor and the Bee Gees, after awhile it gets boring, which disco should never be. That's why when I heard a disco song I didn't immediately recognize, I was intrigued. I played a guessing game for a minute or two, trying to figure it out before I finally gave up and looked at the album cover. Andy Gibb! Foiled by the youngest, and arguably cutest Gibb brother. I should have recognized that familiar high-pitched nasal sound. My finely-honed disco skills had let me down. I am better than that, and I have the case of 45s to prove it (look it up kids).

Yet something gave me pause as I stared at the picture of a bare-chested Andy Gibb lounging by a pool. I thought, "he reminds me of somebody..." I stood there captivated by his boyish good looks and the sweater he was wearing. On second thought, I think that sweater was really his chest hair.


Tuesday, March 6


These guys are really glass half full kind of people.

I have a couple of thoughts on this all of which can be explained through interpretive dance. However, I am without a camera right now, and never would do that anyway for fear of becoming the new "Double Dream Hands" guy. I could express it in song, but it's been made clear to me by both Piper and Tanner that I do not sing well. Maybe that's why I never got out of Carolina Company (if you get that reference, then I've known you too long, and you'd better keep your mouth shut). So the next best thing is through the medium of Pop Culture.

 Here we go:

We can be immortal. As dreamboats. Stephenie Meyer wouldn't lie.

“My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”

And finally,

Wednesday, February 29


I've said a lot about Victory Bible Church. At times I've been harsh, I'll admit. But as you can see, sometimes they kind of deserve it. It's hard to take a church seriously when they can't even get their only source of marketing right. This has been up since Monday and either the entire congregation are horrible spellers, they haven't noticed it, or they just don't care. My guess is they can't spell. 

As I once said during the Dan Quayle "Potatoegate," "I'm not a great speller, but I'm not Vice President either."

I got nothing.


Saturday, February 25


The first thing that I thought about when I heard Whitney Houston died was "yeah, that's about right," immediately followed by, "oh great, now we'll have to hear about it non-stop for the next two weeks." I was right. It reminded me of the Michael Jackson death orgy of '09.

Much like Jackson, everyone seems to put on their rose-colored glasses to look back at her life and career. Sure, her death and the days leading up to it are scrutinized, but eventually everyone focuses on her "genius" and forgets that she died a drug addict. I don't consider drug addicts to be criminals or bad people, but maybe, just maybe, when someone famous dies because they took too many drugs, we shouldn't pretend like they didn't die because they took too many drugs. No one thinks twice about mentioning that David Carradine died by auto-erotic asphyxiation, but hey, let's celebrate Amy Winehouse's life and not dwell on the fact she drank herself to death.


Wednesday, February 22


Once I had a discussion about whether it would be better to die slowly or suddenly? A morose topic I know. I didn't even blink and said "suddenly." My attitude about death is that I'm not afraid of it, I just don't want to know it's happening. Like in the case of nuclear war, I just want that bomb to drop right in my lap as opposed to knowing that I'm eventually going to die of radiation or the mutants that will surely survive and rise up, a la Omega Man. Either way, I lose.
I have a feeling that Jesus knows
about death coming quickly.
At one time Mark said that he agreed with this school of thought, but after hearing a story on the radio he'd changed his mind. See, this old guy was killed in a car accident, which qualifies as "suddenly." Well, his grieving family had to go through his things, at which time they found his huge stack of hardcore gay porn. Not that I have a huge collection of hot gay porn, but if I did I surely wouldn't want my grand kids to be the ones to discover it. Unless they were into that kind of thing... not that there's anything wrong with that. It just got me thinking about what I might not want everyone in my family to find if they had to come and clean out my things. So maybe Jesus, a little notice would be great.

On a separate note, this morning Mark pointed out that Victory's lack of commas screwed up their intended message once again.

Thursday, February 16


Wow, what a pick me up on a Monday morning. Why not just have a bullet for breakfast? This reminds me something that Bill Hicks once said:

"Hey buddy, my Daddy died for that flag..."
"Really?'Cause I just bought mine."
My Dad just co-signed for a car.

Tuesday, February 14


Much like milk, God has an expiration date.
I found this one when I was clearing out old photos. I can't believe that I missed it. Anyway, it's all the way back from Black Friday. I wonder if they had lines like Target?

Thursday, February 9


So for the past four days Mark and I have been marveling at this one. There is so much wrong that I don't know where to begin. It's gotten to the point where I want to call them and say, "you know, you really need to fire whoever is writing your signs. You're not getting your message across. Or at least I can't hear it from all my laughing. kthxbai."

Once when I was writing copy I had someone suggest the following as an intro: "What? You say?" It has become a go-to for when something makes absolutely no sense. That was actually my first reaction to this sign. "What? You say? Jesus' coming is sure are you? Half the time I hope in vain that a member of the congregation will notice and suggest, oh I don't know, a comma? It's like they've got Yoda, or a big Star Wars fan writing these.

Some Suggestions:
"To hell sinner, you are going."
"Free make you, the truth shall."
"Big butts I like, lie I cannot."
"What? You say?"

Wednesday, February 8


Believe it or not, there was a time when I was even lazier than I am now. I know, wow, right? Well, I'll admit that I had a little help in the form of marijuana, but all it really did was bring out my full slug potential. The pinnacle of my slacker/stoner/loser phase was the summer that I lived at the beach, which didn't help matters at all. Nothing motivates a nineteen year old more like being forced to wake and bake and hit the beach. Sure I had a job, but it was at a movie theater with two screens and my biggest worry there was trying not to burn myself on the popcorn kettle while high, which I did a few times.

Now, for some reason, playing video games seemed like a really great thing to do with my time while under the influence of The Pot. The house we lived in came with a Nintendo and one game: Super Mario Brothers. Two if you count Duck Hunt, but no one does because it was only good for taking a break after 3 hours of straight Super Mario.  

Up until this time, I had never played SMB. My video game exposure hadn't expanded from the arcade (look it up kids) or my home system which consisted entirely of Pong.  Indeed I learned that smoking copious amounts of weed* and unfettered access to a video game console weren't a good combination, because it quickly became very apparent that I have no impulse control whatsoever.

I stayed up till all hours of the night and played non-stop. I developed calluses on my thumbs, although that was probably compounded by my Ms. PacMan problem. I had a friend that worked at a place called Foosball Palace, and

I'm a little guy. Little arms, little legs, small features. A little guy.
although it was certainly no palace, it did have a kindly owner that rigged his Ms. PacMan machine for me so I could play for free with  unlimited Coca Cola privileges, basically enabling my addiction by tweaking me up with caffeine. Embarrassingly enough this whole "lost summer" wasn't my first foray into a gaming shame spiral. The year before I'd discovered the gateway game, Tetris, on a friends computer. I'm not lying, at one point I had to be literally dragged away from it. For months afterward, I saw beautiful, colored shapes falling in my dreams. Thankfully, all of this was long before Jeff VanVonderen could get involved and tell me that I was surrounded by people that "loved me like crazy, but weren't going to love me to death."


Friday, February 3


I've been doing Weight Watchers for awhile now. Or, should I say I had been doing Weight Watchers for awhile. In recent months I've kinda let the point-counting fall by the wayside in lieu of things like pizza and Girl Scout cookies. I know, I know, not the best attitude after all that hard work, but it's been fun to slack off a little. That is until recently.

I've noticed that my pants, which used to be big to the point of clown size, are starting to feel a little snug. Actually, they're becoming down-right uncomfortable or, as my Mom would say, "cutting me in half." That's 70s speak for taco crotch. You know you've got trouble, when you can't sit for long periods of time because your FUPA is making trouble for your entire lower half.

I should look on the bright side. I've let my diet run amok since Halloween, and it's only now that I am beginning to feel fruit of my labor in the presence of back fat. Lucky for me I instituted a diet safety net a while ago, by getting rid of all my fat clothes. I literally have no where to run from an expanding waistline. There are no fat pants lurking in my closet. All I kept are the super-fat pants, so if I grow out of the clothes I currently have, I'm going to have to go all in, because there isn't any middle ground.

Basically what this all boils down to is that I have to start dieting again. It's not really that bad, it's just an awful lot of work to think about every facet of food every time you eat. I think that was half the reason I lost weight. At a certain point I decided not eating was easier than trying to calculate points. And, as we all know, thinking isn't exactly my forte, but laziness is. 

That's why I usually settled for a frozen Weight Watchers for lunch. All I had to do was heat them up, and not do any math. However, like I mentioned, I've been making some not so good, but very tasty lunch choices as of late. That was before my pants started getting tight.

So today was my first day back on the Weight Watchers horse. I heated up my delightful lunch of Spinach and Ricotta cheese pasta in the microwave, and as I was waiting I happened to glance down at the directions that I'd looked at a hundred times. Now, in addition to the "cooking" directions, there is now a food saftey guideline that I'm supposed to follow. Apparently, I am to temp my lunch out to make sure that it's in the "safety zone" of 165 degrees. Oh, and I need to use a food thermometer. 

Yeah, I'm not doing this.
I'm sorry? Apparently Weight Watchers has no idea about the demographic that's buying their products. Hint: we're lazy. That's why we can't diet on our own. I'm heating up a microwavable lunch, for God's sake. I'm putting plastic in a microwave so I don't have to cook and now I'm supposed to hunt down a food thermometer and check the temperature. If I had the time, energy and wherewithal to do that, I'd fucking cook.