Another reason why majoring in English was probably a bad idea

In college, my fellow English majors and I used to joke about how we were paying thousands of tuition dollars on an education that was just going to land us a home in a cardboard box. (Odd that our collective creativity couldn't come up with a better joke than the cardboard box cliche, but I digress.)

After graduation, I eventually managed to find a job that allows me to live in a normal-sized apartment with actual sturdy walls and a roof. But I can't thank my diploma, as I very rarely invoke my English major skeeeelz in the workplace. I mean, I have to make sure that all the words are spelled right on my company's website and all of our advertising materials, but they aren't exactly five-dollar words, and as a former fifth-grade spelling bee champion, I think I could have completed this task even before I entered the hallowed halls of my alma mater.

So, not only does my degree serve no practical purpose in my professional life. But also, it has given me sufficient knowledge of the English language's grammar rules to become significantly irritated when I hear others abusing them.

Today's example: Jesse McCartney's song "Leavin." I hear this song played on the radio approximately 548 times a day, and although the teenybopper inside me* secretly kinda likes it, the song also drives me completely crazy. And not just because hearing a kid that looks like this say the word "shorty" makes me cringe like I did when David Archuleta tried to make the lyric "my boo" sound natural when performing Chris Brown's "With You." Stick to what you know, kids.

No, the real reason I want to punch Jesse McCartney's songwriter is for the crime of randomly interchanging pronouns. The whole song is directed at some girl, one who's apparently the baddest little thing that he's ever seen. Almost every line says "you": "I've been watching you all day/Man, that thing you got behind you is amazing." Except for this ONE TIME when he switches to "I" for the first line of each chorus:

Why don't you tell him that I'm leavin, never looking back again

I just don't understand! Wouldn't this chick's "shorty" be happy if, in fact, Jesse leaves, never looks back again, and therefore stops hitting on his girlfriend? How is that a threat to the guy to treat her better? So I assume he is giving her a specific script for how to tell her shorty that she's the one who is leaving. But if that's the case, then why does he switch BACK to "you" in the very next line?

You found somebody who does it better than he can

You see my dilemma. Thanks a lot, B.A. in English. My teenybopper self just wants to relax and enjoy this crappy song, but she can't focus when her grownup counterpart is tearing out her hair in frustration every time it comes on the airwaves.


*This is the part of me that still uses LipSmackers instead of grownup chapstick because hello, it tastes better. Even if it makes the Target pharmacist laugh at me when she rings it up. That's a different blog.

What the hell, China?

Since it only occurs once every four years, lately I've taken to watching the Michael Phelps show Olympics. Due to a 12-hour time difference and the fact that I'm 75 years old, most of the events occur after my bedtime, so I must resort to checking CNN.com the next day to read recaps of my favorite events. For every article about an event, though, there's another one about how China has been faking it more than Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

Now that the Chinese female gymnasts have beaten out the U.S. team for the gold, there has been increased grumbling that some of those tiny girls can't be older than 14, even though their passports (issued by the Chinese government) insist they are at least 16, the minimum age to compete in the Michael Phelps show Olympics.

Looking at photos of the Chinese team, I have to agree with protesters, and to that I say, what the hell, China? Athletes here in America might occasionally dabble in the performance-enhancing drugs, but they'd never stoop to something so low as lying about their age just to gain an advantage in a sporting competition.


Apparently China's not only interested in winning as many gold medals as possible, though. They're also out to show everyone that they can throw the best darn-tootin' Michael Phelps show Olympics the world has ever seen - even if they have to fake their way through that, too. Yesterday this story broke, revealing that the cute little girl who sang "Ode to the Motherland" during the opening ceremonies was actually lip-synching the performance. The girl who actually provided the vocals was deemed not good-looking enough to perform the song, thereby setting a new world record in earliest onset of low self-esteem.

What the hell, China? Maybe some musicians in America occasionally lip-synch their performances (everyone say hi to Ashlee Simpson!), but at least they provide their own vocals on the recordings. We'd never do something like, say, give a recording contract to someone who lip-synchs to the vocals of those who "lack a marketable image."


China is so desperate for perfection that even some of the fireworks during the opening ceremonies were faked. Worried about "poor visibility," the Beijing organizing committee opted to use some previously recorded footage of computerized fireworks.

Seriously, what the hell, China? Are you really so superficial that you feel the need to enhance something that, in its natural state, already inspires awe and reverance from probably about half of the world's population? Unheard of.


You should be ashamed of yourselves.

TMI? Too Much Information. It's just easier to say "TMI." I used to say "don't go there," but that's lame.

I'm in line for the security checkpoint at Pittsburgh International Airport. There is a woman in front of me with two early-elementary-school-age children...old enough to not wear diapers and to carry their own bags, but young enough that they still need specific instructions. The woman looks more than slightly frazzled. "Put your bag up here, honey. We don't need that bin, please put it back over there. Take your shoes off and put them with Mommy's. No, don't take your socks off, just your shoes. Leave your socks on!!"

With this last line, she looks back at me and smiles apologetically. I smile back, because I assume she feels guilty for holding up the line, but I'm not in any great hurry and I want to reassure her that I'm not getting impatient. I also nod knowingly, as if to say, "Kids can be this way sometimes!" Of course, I have no children, only cats, but they would certainly be terrors if I ever took them to the airport.

Don't assume things, Sarah. She wants to apologize for something other than their lack of speed:

"He's got toe fungus, you know."

I'm not sure what my face looked like after that, but it couldn't have been pretty. Was that necessary? Keeping your socks on is standard protocol for airport security screenings, so did I really need an explanation for why you were so adamant that your son's socks remained on his crusty little toes? I think not. Shudder.

One more reason I love going to the airport.

Kill you? I don't wanna kill you...you complete me.

OK, David Farnham might have been slightly justified in leaving his two-year-old locked in his car while he went to a midnight showing of The Dark Knight. That movie is FANTASTIC.

David probably had a babysitter all lined up, just as any responsible parent would do, but maybe she canceled at the last minute, and what was David supposed to do then? He already had his ticket, so that would have been $10 down the drain (and since now he'll have to save up to post bond and pay his lawyer, he can't justify that kind of irresponsible spending). Plus, Batman is always there to support the good people of Gotham, so for David to turn around and not support Batman in his big blockbuster endeavor...well, that's just plain inconsiderate. So it was either leave the kid in the car or bring the kid to the movie and be that person I hate who has a crying kid at the movie theater. I think the judge and jury at David's child abuse trial should have to watch the movie first before they decide whether or not to convict him. I'm just saying. He could plead not guilty by reason of irresistible AWESOMENESS and they would probably have to let him off.

In conclusion, you should drop what you're doing right this second and go see The Dark Knight. Just maybe make triple sure that your babysitter is available. A lot of stuff happens in the last ten minutes, and you don't want to miss it on account of being arrested.

More people who should not be parents

To be fair, I haven't seen this movie yet. I'm going tonight, though, so tomorrow I'll let you know whether it's worth risking the suffocation of your child.

Introducing Things I Love / Things I Hate

My blog is very unfocused, hence the title Word Vomit. I like it that way, because I get bored of doing the same things all the time, so I'm sure to get bored of writing about the same things all the time too. But sometimes I find that having TOO many choices of things to write about is overwhelming, so I end up writing nothing at all. (Also, that's really just an excuse for not updating more frequently. As you should know by now, I'm a bit lazy.)

I figure a happy medium is coming up with a few "theme" type entries that I can default to when I can't decide what else to write about. For example, so far "things I read on cnn.com" seems to have yielded a lot of subject matter. I also like to make lists, but that entry about the five products that have changed my life took something like three hours to write. From now on, lists will comprise only two items: something I love and something I hate. I'm an equal-opportunity product pusher/slammer. Today's Thing I Love and Thing I Hate were both brought into my life by Tron. So I guess that means I have to love him and hate him too.

Today I love dark-chocolate-dipped Altoids. First of all, because dark chocolate is the best of all the chocolates (that's what she said). But also because technically it's a breath-freshening device first and a candy second. So if I eat a whole tin in one day, maybe I'm not being a greedy little chocolate lover. Maybe I am just trying to cure a really bad case of halitosis, so get off my back already! These Altoids come in Cinnamon and Peppermint flavors, which are both delicious, and also Ginger, which I'm terrified to try.

Today I hate Brett Favre. Not nearly as much as I hate all the Browns, all the Bengals, and Terrell Owens, but I still hate him. Brett, please listen to me. I don't WANT to hate you. But you need to stop fake retiring. I want to remember you as a great legend who set a bunch of quarterback records, and who also seems down to earth enough that I want to be your friend. However, I have a short attention span. If you keep this up, all my good memories will fade and I'm only going to remember you as that indecisive drama queen who came back for one more season and failed to take some team that's not the Packers to the playoffs.

Tune in next time...I love and hate a lot of things, and since I'm always right, you need to follow along to know what you should also be loving and hating.

Who is dumber - kids or adults?

It's an age-old question. Kids will say adults are dumber, and adults will say kids are dumber. I maintain that it just doesn't matter because I'm smarter than everyone anyway. I have never in my life done anything stupid. Well, at least nothing that was caught on tape and posted to the internet, thus you can't prove anything.

So, what's dumber? Climbing into a toy vending machine (motive: unclear - either reallllly wanting a new stuffed animal or hoping to be "won" by some new parents) or tackling and beating the crap out of your neighbor when her pit bull bites your toddler (motive: proving that you know best what's most harmful to your child, and of course that does not include smoking around him, using excessive profanity, and showing him that violence is the solution to all of life's problems)?





***UPDATE: Apparently CNN does not like when YouTube posts their videos, so click here to watch that second clip.

How should I be buried?

Is it me, or does there seem to be a growing trend in popular culture of competing to see who can create the biggest and best spectacle to celebrate major lifetime milestones? MTV chronicles bratty teenagers in their quest to have the Superest Sweet 16 party, because cupcakes and Spin the Bottle aren't good enough anymore. The first question posed to the recently engaged (after asking to see the ring) is "How did he propose?" because simply asking "Will you marry me?" is now seen as laziness on the guy's behalf. Weddings, too, are becoming more expensive and more elaborate as we try to keep up with the glitz and glamour of Hollywood nuptials.

One trend, however, that I'm totally on board with is coming up with creative ways to preserve one's remains. Of course, bragging rights are a little limited, since you're dead and all, but you leave your descendents with a really cool story to tell. For example, although my grandfather's passing a few weeks ago was quite sad, I do delight in telling people that my grandmother is currently storing his ashes in one of his beer steins. Although this wasn't so much his specified wishes as a half-joking suggestion of my mother's, I know he's thrilled to be preserved in a way that reflects his pride of his German heritage.

And then yesterday I read an article on CNN.com about something that happened in Cincinnati that didn't involve one of the Bengals getting arrested. Fredric J. Baur passed away on May 4 at the age of 89. Mr. Baur, the designer of the famous "once you pop, you can't stop" Pringles can, requested that a portion of his cremated remains be buried in a Pringles can. And so, in a cemetery somewhere in suburban Springfield Township, Ohio, Fredric J. Baur is proudly buried inside his legendary invention.

This is one of the most awesome things I have heard in awhile, so I am officially opening up the floor for suggestions on a great way I can be buried. I mean, I'm hoping I won't have to use any of these ideas for a long time, but I like being prepared. I was a Girl Scout, after all. (But I hated it about 98% of the time, so don't start suggesting that I be buried inside a sit-a-can or a mess kit.)

Five inventions that have improved my life

Hi there, reader! (Readers? Maybe? Am I lucky enough to make that plural yet?) Today for your reading pleasure I present: five awesome products that you should definitely use (or just three products if you're a dude who doesn't occasionally experiment with the cross-dressing lifestyle).

I can't guarantee that these are the five inventions that have had the GREATEST impact on my life, because I think those types of titles should be reserved from assignment until I'm on my deathbed (how do I know that something better isn't going to come along tomorrow?), but believe you me they are pretty dern fantastic.

5. The Skinny Cow Ice Cream Products
I have a problem in that I'm a girl who tries to be skinny, but who also LOVES food. Especially ice cream when it's hot outside. And since I live in Atlanta, that's pretty much all the time. Sure, sometimes an ice cream craving is so strong or a day is so fabulously crappy that really the only cure is Cold Stone, but for all other occasions The Skinny Cow is the perfect fit. Their ice cream actually tastes like ice cream, rather than cardboard like some other low-fat ice cream products, or chalk like astronaut ice cream. (Remember that stuff they made us eat in elementary school? Gross.) Found in most grocery stores, The Skinny Dippers bars have only 80 calories per bar (3 g fat, 2 g saturated fat) and the ice cream sandwiches (which I recommend slightly higher, the mint flavor in particular) have only 140 calories per sandwich (2 g fat, 1 g saturated fat). Keep a box in your freezer; you won't regret it.

4. Kayak.com
2008 is turning into a year of major traveling for me. The most recent count is one cruise, two funerals, and four weddings (one down, three to go). And of course none of them are within driving distance. Two things I do not have much of are money and time. Problem: How do I find the cheapest flights when I don't have time to search all the individual airlines' websites? Solution: Kayak.com. Much easier to navigate than other travel websites like Orbitz and Travelocity, Kayak quickly searches all the airline websites and other travel sites as well, then lists all the flights from cheapest to heart-attack-inducing. You can narrow the results by specifying exact times of day you'd like to fly, nonstop vs. layover, or by choosing only certain airlines to display in the results.

3. Maybelline Expert Wear Eye Shadow Quads
This is a new recommendation. I purchased this eye shadow (different color than shown in photo) two weeks ago, when I was struck by that urge to change my makeup routine (an urge that strikes only about once every five years, by the way). Maybelline has created a product that is so idiot-proof I'm still shaking my head in amazement. First, they grouped together four shades that complement each other, so you don't have to consult the bored and clueless 17-year-old restocking the cosmetic shelves at Target. Second, they imprinted each shade with the location of the eye on which to apply. Third, on the back of the case is a diagram for those who need EVEN MORE HELP -- like me -- to figure out where the crease and brow bone are (seriously, I think I missed that class in pretty girl school). Added bonus: instructions on which shades you should use to achieve a subtle, casual, classic, or dramatic look. On behalf of those who need all the help we can get to look hot, thank you Maybelline!

2. Victoria's Secret BioFit Bra
I scoffed at the commercials for the BioFit when I first saw them ("You'll feel like it was CUSTOM MADE just for you, and you WILL believe us since we're speaking in such a DRAMATIC VOICE!") but after trying one on, I'm a believer. Due to my "problem" of having healthy-sized bazongas, I've had to avoid padded bras in the past. Too much padding = circus freak! But the BioFit has different amounts of padding depending on your cup size, and the result makes the girls look pretty good, I think. Tron* will probably second that opinion. And it's comfortable to boot. The only downside is the cost: $45-$48. However, Victoria's Secret is currently offering some BioFits during their Semi-Annual Sale for only $24.99. Just be warned that the only colors on clearance are Daring Orange, Flamingo Pink, and other neon wonders.

1. TiVo
Other than my wonderful cat, TiVo is the best gift I have ever received. I think the TiVo marketing department should consider an advertising campaign based around the concept, "Once you go black..." When I think about how TV ruled my life in the pre-TiVo era, I can't help but laugh. Gone are the days of scrambling to find a blank videotape before Grey's Anatomy starts, or trying to remember what channel is NBC, or wondering if American Idol is half an hour or an hour long this week. No longer do I absentmindedly channel surf in a vain attempt to find something to watch; I either pull up the Guide that shows at a glance what's on TV at the moment, or watch one of the shows that TiVo nicely recorded as a recommendation based on my previous viewing habits. No more cutting social outings short because LOST starts in FIVE MINUTES and I have to get home; no, I can watch my shows whenever I please. (That's not to say my social life doesn't suffer at all. I no longer answer calls or texts when I'm watching TiVo, as the outcome of more than one sporting event or reality show has been spoiled due to the TiVo-less not understanding the concept of "hey, I'm not watching this live, so don't tell me what happens.") If you don't believe anything else I say, take my word for it: Once you go TiVo, you'll never go back...o.



*Tron is the internet alias requested by my dear boyfriend, and it is henceforth how he will be referred to on this blog.

My birdie can talk, and flap his wings, and shake his butt

I'm back! I think we should all get used to the fact that blogging every day is just not going to happen for me. This time, I actually have a good reason besides just being lazy. I was out of town, attending a wedding (the first of three this summer, so if you notice a couple more weekends with a conspicuous lack of posting...don't be alarmed).

It was a very enjoyable wedding, filled with love and laughter and plenty of feel-good wedding traditions like the throwing of the bouquet, the bride and groom shoving cake in each others' faces, the adorable flower girl dancing on big people's shoes, and of course, the Hokey Pokey and the Chicken Dance.

Except...did you ever wonder where those two dances came from and why they are an intregal component of a wedding reception? I'm not as worried about the Hokey Pokey's origins; it seems to fall into the "learn the parts of the body" genre of songs for preschoolers, much like Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. (Which I might request at Wedding #2 next month - why does the Hokey Pokey get all the wedding love?)

But the Chicken Dance is just plain weird, so I decided to perform some of my famous internet sleuthing to see what I could discover. I first turned to Wikipedia (because duh, where else can you find such a vast resource of reliable information?) So here we go:

The Chicken Dance song was composed in the 1950s by a Swiss accordian player named Werner Thomas. The original song title was actually Der Voglertanz, which means "The Bird Dance." Thomas played it at hotels and restaurants starting in 1963, but the song didn't find international success until a local Dutch band "De Electronica" released it in 1977. Since then, over 140 different versions have been recorded worldwide, for a total of 40 million records. The most popular version, the one we usually hear at weddings, was recorded by the Emeralds and released in 1981.

This is all well and good, but I'm more interested in the dance rather than the song behind it - HOW did this dance get created, and WHY is it so popular at weddings? Wikipedia offers no information about the dance other than a description of the steps. (Side note: I've been doing the third step wrong for 25 years. I always hold my arms bent next to me when I wiggle down to the ground, a la The Twist, but evidently you're supposed to "make a chicken's tail feathers with your arms and hands" instead.)

So I consulted some other website that does not look entirely credible, but at least it features a dancing chicken and some audio of Der Voglertanz for your enjoyment. (Except they claim that Thomas actually called it The Duck Dance, or Der Ententanz. This is turning into a bigger mystery than I anticipated*.) This site offers the vaguest of explanations for the dance's origins: "People spontaneously 'began to move with the melody.' A leg here, an arm up there and suddenly Thomas thought of his animals. The dance evolved to include a beak, wing and tail motions."

This reeks of conspiracy. As Paris Hilton and Vanessa Hudgens will attest to, you can't hide anything - the Internet will find you. But all I get is, the dance just "evolved"?? I want names! Dates! Marketing plans that describe how some sinister individual has not only convinced millions to flap their arms like a chicken at large social gatherings worldwide, but also that doing so is not idiotic/ugly/asylum-worthy. Seriously, how did he/she accomplish this?

Sometimes I think I'm too curious for my own good. This started out as a harmless research project, but now I'm seriously bitter towards this dance and I may never be able to perform it again. So if we're friends in real life, and if we find ourselves attending a wedding together sometime, please just quietly tell the other guests to ignore that buttmuch in the corner who is fuming to herself rather than doing the Chicken Dance. I'll join you for the Electric Slide.



*After additional research (here and here), the general consensus is that Thomas did name his original song The Duck Dance. Remind me to get on Wikipedia and correct that. But there's still no information about who actually invented the dance steps.

Triumph of the Word Nerd

So, I heard that some show called American Idol crowned its seventh winner last night, a 25-year-old former bartender from Blue Springs, Missouri. Everyone in this picture looks pretty happy about it, but I am MAD.

Why does David Cook winning it all affect me in such a negative way? Am I desperately (and illegally) in love with runner-up David Archuleta? No, although I do think he is extremely talented, and I'm sure Idol execs are gleefully rubbing their hands together as cartoon cash registers wildly go off in their heads at the prospect of finally finding two finalists whose careers will bring in the big bucks.

Did I want one of the other ousted contestants to take the title instead? No, actually, David Cook has been my pick to win for quite some time now. How long, you ask? I called it after his very first audition. Normally I love saying "I told you so," so why doesn't this victory bring me any joy?

I DIDN'T BET ON IT!

Can you imagine the odds I would have gotten to correctly pick the winner after only one round of auditions? The most memorable contestants at this stage are usually just the awful/funny ones, and even of the good ones, it's impossible to tell who is truly talented and who is just a one-trick-pony auditioning with the one and only song that he or she can sing well. I mean, hell, even Randy and Simon weren't that wild about David's first performance.

I should be a millionaire right now.

David Cook, since I'm sure you're reading this...I think you should reward me for believing in you from the very beginning. I take cash or checks. Or, you know, marry me. I'm cool either way.

Let me see that Chong...that Chong, Chong Chong Chong Chong

Wow, less than a week into the blogging world and I'm already slacking - what a shock! I'm going to blame it on nothing interesting happening in my life over the past week. (That's not true. Friday afternoon I came home to a flooded laundry room because the water heater in the apartment above ours busted and leaked its contents through our ceiling. Somewhat ironically, on Saturday we found our new apartment. We'd decided to move long before Friday's flood, so that was really just the icing on the cake of all the things that are wrong with our current crappy apartment.) But without visual aids, that flooding story wouldn't have been super interesting, so I was too lazy elected not to blog about it.

Since it looks like I'm striving for interesting, I am instead going to post a short tribute to...my hairdresser. Hold on to your hats!

Moving to a new city is hard. You have to find all new people to perform your personal services, after using the same ones for 22 years, based on the stellar recommendation that they're who your parents use so you don't question their judgment because it's too much work to find someone else anyway. I actually had really good luck on the first try finding a doctor, a dentist, and an optometrist who I love, and they all are less than 10 minutes away.

But as for the most important job - who will handle my hair? That question took longer to answer. I tried a few different locations, and although no one did a bad job, something always felt "off" (yes, even taking irrational pet peeves into account).

Then I met Chong. I love everything about her, from the 17 one-armed half-hugs she gives me every time I see her to her standard "How you been?" greeting. Even though I've been getting the same exact haircut for about 5 years, that doesn't stop her from always trying to convince me to get highlights. Once she told me that if I decided to go for it, I should let the receptionist know that I wanted "a haircut and a pasha." I spent about a week wondering what color "pasha" was until I finally realized she had said "partial." Accents are funny.

Most importantly, Chong can wash, cut, blow dry, and style my hair in 20 minutes flat. One of these days I'm going to ask her to come live with me since it takes me an hour and a half to get ready for work, and most days I'm still late. I bet she even knows how to repair leaky ceilings.

Seriously...how many internets are there?

I read a lot of blogs in my limited spare time. Mostly because I don't currently have any new books at home, and I'm too lazy to drive to the library. But also because I like learning new information and discovering new writers, and there are a lot of talented writers out there, blogging about all sorts of topics.

The only thing they all seem to have in common is continually referring to the Internet in the plural sense. This really irritated me at first. I'm talking fingernails down a chalkboard. Then I started wondering if maybe blogging gave one access to an online community spanning multiple galaxies, each with their own version of the Internet.

Well. I've been blogging for four days and I have not been contacted by any alien species. So I turned to the trusty Internet (just the one, thanks) to see what this plurality business is all about.

Wikipedia says that "internets," thanks to G-Dub's superior debating talents, is a term "used humorously to portray the speaker as ignorant about the Internet or about technology in general."

So what's the deal here, Internet community? Are you making subtle political commentary with each of your blog posts? Belittling your knowledge of the Internet or technology in general? Or does this serve some greater purpose that has not yet been revealed to the likes of Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia?

Seriously, help a sister out. I'm new here and I want to fit in.

Here's the last box of your clothes. I'm just going to label it "What were you thinking?!"

Last weekend, Houston teenager Marche Taylor was denied entrance to her prom after a chaperone determined that her dress was inappropriate.

You decide:











There's now an intense debate about whether the school made the right decision. The sides? Marche Taylor vs. ....um, everyone else who hears about this story.

Marche's got plenty of reasons she should have been allowed into the prom:

1. It's her prom.
2. She spent money and went to all the trouble of getting a custom-designed dress for the occasion.
3. She "actually likes" the dress, and "everybody else actually likes [the] dress" too.
4. Despite the chaperone's protests, she was, in fact, wearing "underwears" underneath.
5. I mean, come on. It's her prom, so someone better give her a damn good reason she shouldn't be allowed in.
6. Her friends can wrap the gold train around her stomach and pin it so her belly button isn't showing, but that's still not "appropriate." What do these people want?
7. It's her prom. She wants to be there so bad, that given the choice between going home and changing, or going to jail for (somewhat violently) defending her basic right to hootchiness, she'll choose...jail.

The school maintains that she was in violation of pretty much every rule in their detailed prom dress code, which all prom-goers were required to sign. The general public seems to be leaning heavily towards the viewpoint, "Where the f*** were her parents when she bought that thing??"

Me? I think everyone is focusing on the wrong questions. I really, really want to ask Ms. Marche Taylor why on earth she wanted to spend money to attend the prom when she could have been out earning money as a lady of the night. That dress ain't gonna pay for itself.

Just call me the dead skin lady

What's worse than sunburn? Peeling! My nice farmer's sunburn is starting to peel everywhere, most especially the back of my neck, my earlobes (why?) and my forehead, leaving really sexy flakes of skin in my hair. Black is currently off-limits for my wardrobe, and I'm considering asking Head & Shoulders if they need a new spokeswoman during the next few days.

Plus, I am ITCHY!

I suppose God is punishing me for spending all day Friday building a playground for underprivileged elementary school children.

Or, you know, for not being smart enough to put on sunblock while participating in said charity event. Whatever.

If I had a blog yesterday...

This blog was born five minutes ago. But if I'd had a blog yesterday, this cake is what yesterday's entry would have been about.

How good was this red velvet layer cake with cream cheese frosting? Not creative answer: good enough that I'm still thinking about it more than 24 hours later.

Slightly creative answer: I didn't even berate myself after scraping the plate clean, as I usually do after eating something unhealthy. This cake was worth EVERY FREAKIN CALORIE.

Most creative answer: I could eat a piece of this cake as every meal for the next 10 years. Boyfriend would leave me because I'd get super fat, but I honestly don't think I'd care because I could have a long and happy relationship with this cake.

So, thank you for the Piece of Cake, coworker-with-a-birthday! It's OK that we're not close enough friends for you to invite me to your actual birthday celebration, as long as you leave leftovers in the kitchen for me to enjoy.