If I turned Dusty into a loldog...I wonder how...maybe if...oh, wait, what's THIS?!
LolDusty.
Another lolDusty.
And another.
And in case you're wondering what a loldog is, they're the evolution of lolcats. Rate lolDusty well and make her a celebridog! We'll be just like Paris Hilton and her little rat dog.
Except for our ability to survive in the cold. And respective plethora of talents. Although I have no idea what kind of skill set the rat dog has, so I could be off-base there.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
who do you know who could tell this story? no one, that's who
So I still have all this British money in my wallet that I apparently refuse to take out because I think I'm going to run across a currency-exchange booth on my way to work. Maybe it makes me feel...exotic? Maybe not.
Whatever the reason, I told Trina and she said, "Yeah, I found a wad of cash in one of my pockets the other day...Malaysian."
I want to write a script just so I can share this scene with the rest of the world, because it might be the funniest thing anyone has ever said.
Whatever the reason, I told Trina and she said, "Yeah, I found a wad of cash in one of my pockets the other day...Malaysian."
I want to write a script just so I can share this scene with the rest of the world, because it might be the funniest thing anyone has ever said.
nancy drew (times two) and the case of the forgotten hat
So Trina and I went to see "No Country For Old men" on Saturday, which was a fucking outstanding movie. Go see it. But that's not what this story is about.
As we were leaving, Trina noticed a hat on the floor next to where we'd been sitting and concluded it must have belonged to the guy who was sitting next to us. He was older, with a woman who was presumably his daughter.
"He was shorter and wearing black; she was taller than him and I think she was wearing pink. He also has a bad knee, so he can't have gotten far."
Stand down, Adrian Monk. Amanda is on the case.
So we spotted them right as they were walking through the door and we yelled what is now our catchphrase -- "Sir! Your hat!"
We hope this will grow into an international series.
Monsieur! Your beret!
Signore! Your cappello!
Hipster! Your fedora!
"Hipster! Your fedora!" will undoubtedly signal the tragic end of the series.
As we were leaving, Trina noticed a hat on the floor next to where we'd been sitting and concluded it must have belonged to the guy who was sitting next to us. He was older, with a woman who was presumably his daughter.
"He was shorter and wearing black; she was taller than him and I think she was wearing pink. He also has a bad knee, so he can't have gotten far."
Stand down, Adrian Monk. Amanda is on the case.
So we spotted them right as they were walking through the door and we yelled what is now our catchphrase -- "Sir! Your hat!"
We hope this will grow into an international series.
Monsieur! Your beret!
Signore! Your cappello!
Hipster! Your fedora!
"Hipster! Your fedora!" will undoubtedly signal the tragic end of the series.
not only did she catch the gingerbread man, but she fucked him up
So here in Pittsburgh, we had a bit of a snowstorm on Monday night. The roads were bad enough that on Tuesday, I got to have a Grown Up Snow Day. Which, in case you were wondering, is the best kind. The joy of making snowmen pales in comparison to the joy of vodka while the sun is still up. Sort of my homage to the housewives of old.
Also part of an homage to housewives of old -- I spent the whole day baking. And I mean baking. I made dozens and dozens of cupcakes, brownies, and enough pink-frosted sugar cookies to send eastern Europe into a diabetic coma. Yeah, that's right. Mama owned that kitchen. My cupcakes were glorious, too. Chocolate chocolate chip, white fluffy frosting, lovingly sprinkled with little chocolate bits. Carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting and whimsical pink sprinkles. Double fudge frosted brownies with little snowflake sprinkles. And I busted out the food coloring for those damn sugar cookies AND they had sprinkles, too. The dining room looked like it had been infested with Keebler elves.
I frosted my last cookie around midnight. It was a good day. The reason for this flurry of domesticity was that my mother was conducting a staff-support meeting on Wednesday and she likes to take goodies. That I make. I told her that I expected at least one marriage proposal by the end of the night. (And that if it was from a doctor, to assemble my dowry.)
So Wednesday morning, she solved the problem of how to transport so much deliciousness in one trip. She constructed something out of twine and a cooler and magic and went out to chip the ice off her car. Half an hour later, she was backing up, and...crunch. She said that she could hardly bring herself to get out and look. But as we all know, the Ford Escape versus Sprinkly Cupcakes bout did not end with an upset.
She made up a story about falling down the steps (onto tires?) and spewed every foul word she'd ever heard in her life at her steering wheel as she went in to work. Which is when her day got bad.
When she told me about her dessert demolition, even though I'd spent the entire day crafting all my little sugary babies with love and care when I might as well have been hurling eggs, flour, and vanilla extract on the front lawn, I'd never heard anything more hilarious in my life. I laughed so hard that my dog thought I was dying and she sprang onto my back. Because I was doubled over. She was somewhat less amused; she said she wanted to just crash the fuck into a tree and get it over with.
"Why? Were there cupcakes on it? Did the Muffin Man run past one? I hope you didn't go down Lollipop Lane and crush all the Gummi Bears."
Best part: someone still told her they were the best brownies he'd ever had in his life. Boo-yah.
Also part of an homage to housewives of old -- I spent the whole day baking. And I mean baking. I made dozens and dozens of cupcakes, brownies, and enough pink-frosted sugar cookies to send eastern Europe into a diabetic coma. Yeah, that's right. Mama owned that kitchen. My cupcakes were glorious, too. Chocolate chocolate chip, white fluffy frosting, lovingly sprinkled with little chocolate bits. Carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting and whimsical pink sprinkles. Double fudge frosted brownies with little snowflake sprinkles. And I busted out the food coloring for those damn sugar cookies AND they had sprinkles, too. The dining room looked like it had been infested with Keebler elves.
I frosted my last cookie around midnight. It was a good day. The reason for this flurry of domesticity was that my mother was conducting a staff-support meeting on Wednesday and she likes to take goodies. That I make. I told her that I expected at least one marriage proposal by the end of the night. (And that if it was from a doctor, to assemble my dowry.)
So Wednesday morning, she solved the problem of how to transport so much deliciousness in one trip. She constructed something out of twine and a cooler and magic and went out to chip the ice off her car. Half an hour later, she was backing up, and...crunch. She said that she could hardly bring herself to get out and look. But as we all know, the Ford Escape versus Sprinkly Cupcakes bout did not end with an upset.
She made up a story about falling down the steps (onto tires?) and spewed every foul word she'd ever heard in her life at her steering wheel as she went in to work. Which is when her day got bad.
When she told me about her dessert demolition, even though I'd spent the entire day crafting all my little sugary babies with love and care when I might as well have been hurling eggs, flour, and vanilla extract on the front lawn, I'd never heard anything more hilarious in my life. I laughed so hard that my dog thought I was dying and she sprang onto my back. Because I was doubled over. She was somewhat less amused; she said she wanted to just crash the fuck into a tree and get it over with.
"Why? Were there cupcakes on it? Did the Muffin Man run past one? I hope you didn't go down Lollipop Lane and crush all the Gummi Bears."
Best part: someone still told her they were the best brownies he'd ever had in his life. Boo-yah.
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