Birthday? I think not.

I have decided to forgo aging this year. 28 came too soon and with too many potential complications. I am staying at 27. Thanks anyway Universe - catch you around next year.

PS. Anyone who can help make this happen (by way of functioning time machine or pre-tested magic potions of the un-mushroom variety) please email.

Nailed.

I was Rusty Nailed yesterday. Not the drink. Or the sexual position. I mean a rusty nail pierced my virgin flesh. Made it BLEED. I'm actually surprised that I lived to blog the tale. They wanted to give me a total blood transfusion and stitch and staple it up the gaping wound with about a hundred or so stitches. And some industrial grade epoxy. And then a CAT scan to be safe. And put in one of those throat thingys Stephen Hawking has. But I declined. I'm tough like that. Tough as rusty nails. Maybe even tougher.

But just to make the 32 paramedics, 5 firemen and 1 trauma surgeon (who all rallied around me in my darkest hour) feel better I agreed to get a Tetanus shot. So off to doctors I went today. Apparently I was 3 years overdue for mine. Once every 10 years people. And you should have seen the needle! It took 2 nurses to bring it in. Left a hole the size of a grape in my arm. No problem - I stuffed my gum in there. Like a real hero.

So I'm topped up. Good to go. Tetanus proof. And you know what that means.........?

Irresponsible Drinking and Rusty Nail Throwing Party At Sarah's House! BYOB.....and nails.

Deadline looming. Time to blog about inane shit that I know is really important to you.

My plant hates me.

I don't know why and I didn't know that plants could, but my plant hates me.

I own am the proud angry owner of a generic tropical plant. Species unknown. The label that came with it said 2" Tropical Plant. A little red flag should have gone up right then and there. What plant doesn't have a name? I'll tell you which: the kind that will grow up to hate you. And slowly break you down. One defiant yellowish leaf at a time.

Blatant subversiveness is the name of this plants game. I prop it up, it grows down. I put it near light, it leans toward shade. I put it in shade, it strains towards light. I have suspicions that its not a plant at all, but a willful 2 year old child (theory yet to be proved).

It has decided that instead of having its leaves grow out at its side like other plants, instead it will have its leaves point straight downwards. Hell bent on making me look like a really bad and negligent plant owner. This plant is the toddler that stands in aisle 4 of the grocery store and screams bloody murder after you've taken out their addition to the cart and said "no sweetie, we aren't going to buy ribbed condoms today" making everyone wonder if you secretly beat your child at home and/or if you are a sexual deviant who shops for condoms in the presence of their 4-year old (I just heard a Republican somewhere gasp in horror). Side note: Both kids and plants collaborative mission = humiliate adults at any chance.

Nothing I do makes this plant happy. A more esoteric person might make a clever analogy here about how this plant is like life and blah blah blah *snooooooooooore* That person has a very different blog than me:

itakemyselfveryseriouslyandsoshouldyou.blogspot.com

I'll just continue bitching about my plant.

That hates me.

I have other plants you know. Alive, flourishing, happy. Its not ME. Its the plant. Who is an asshole. Yes. I just called my plant an asshole.

I am going to surround my asshole plant with all my other happy plants. In the hopes that their goodwill and ability to be normal rubs off on it. I take a risk in doing this though - come the morning I might end up with 7 asshole plants where before there was only one. In which case I will gleefully regretfully pull them up by the roots and start over with better plants. Plants that will DO what plants are meant to do. WHY CAN'T THINGS JUST DO WHAT THEY'RE MEANT TO DO!

Stuck.

So I am starting to get the hang of this blogging thing: basically, if you have something else to be doing, ANYTHING at all, that's when you'll feel the urge to blog most. Compelled, Impelled, PROPELLED! It becomes all you can think about. Your fingertips flying over the keys, your heart racing, your pupils dilating. Yes, blogging is the drug of choice for computer-literate lickspittles straddling the Generation X/Y cusp.

So that being said, here is my entry for today. 20 bonus points for today's theme being:

How to Solve a Problem About the Task I Am ACTUALLY Supposed To Be Doing Right Now
(or HTSAPATTIAASTBDRN for short).

So you know how when you're writing a piece of music and everything is going along tickitty-boo? The moody, broody harmonies reflecting the ever-so damaged soul of a tortured musician are practically writing themselves (except not really. I'm writing them. ME. In case future royalty collections are up for dispute...) and then out of nowhere it all takes a horribly bizarre turn and ends up morphing into that really catchy song from "Beauty and The Beast"? And you're like, "what the fuck? did that just come out of me?" and then you get worried because maybe a blue bird is about to follow. And some woodland nymphs. And a singing mouse. [Note: singing mice are the harbingers of death to a music career. Next stop: pet food jingles. On RADIO].

So yeah, that's happened to you, right? Great. What do I do about it? What makes Belle stop singing: "Newwwww and a bit a-larming, who'd have ev-er thought that this could beeeeeee, truuuuue that he's no prince charm-ing, but she won't dis-co-ver that its him! 'till chap-ter threeeeee!"

Ahhhhh!! MAKE IT STOP!!!


Things I Have Already Tried:

1. a walk
2. eating swiss chard
3. yelling at the squirrels who live in my roof and feast on our electrical cables
4. reading the superficial.com (can you BELIEVE that Heidi and Spencer are still the word's biggest douche bags? Yeah, me too. But Ashton Kutcher sure gave them a run for their money....)
5. watching "Beauty and the Bea-" oh shit! Damn you Alan Menken and your conformist Disney melodies!

Any offers to buy me beer suggestions would be much appreciated.

Dockside Diatribe

So, you know how when you're at a cabin and all you want to do is delve into a really good book while laying naked on a dock? (although you may not find Naked Reading listed under 'interests' on my Facebook page, I assure you it's only because Facebook has a 300% higher readership than this blog and thus wields more power to tarnish my exemplary image).

Where was I? Oh right, Naked Reading. So there I was down on the dock, blissfully soaking up some destructive UVA/B rays, my epidermis cheerfully mutating at the cellular level, when I was rudely interrupted by a boatload, yes I said a boatload, of yahoos (listen well children: a long time ago in a far off land, there existed a world without the internet. In this magical place, access to porn was scarce and the bastardization of the English language had yet to begin; yahoo = redneck, oaf, boor). A boatload of yahoos cruising into the bay for an annoying looky-loo. You know, a slow drive-by rife with obnoxious music, macho tales of hook-ups past (purposely uttered a little too loud), the sound of Kokanee beers being cracked open and of course, the subsequent sound of empty Kokanee cans being smashed against hollow, spray-tanned foreheads. *sigh* well if that don't just set a girls heart aflutter...

Now first things first: if you own a speed boat, one of those souped-up, godawful, fueled-by-machismo speed boats, fuck off. Just fuck right off. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $100. Don't even read to the end of this post. Close your browser window, shut off your computer and fuck off. I'll wait.

Secondly: if you are a self-respecting late-20-something male in a speed boat (see above) and are looking to improve your masculine appeal, here's a tip: only prepubescent girls think Ashlee Simpson is cool. FACT. So, why then, was she blasting from your over-priced (but, like, totally bitchin') sound system in your even more over-priced speed boat? I am confused. You LOOKED like a guy. When the words "Boo Ya!" fell across your lips you SOUNDED like a tool guy. When your buddy farted, you HIGH-FIVED him like a guy. But the music selection du jour pointed in another direction...what was the artsy Chinese girl named in the Baby Sitters Club again....? Ah ha! Gotcha!

Although my nakedness had me rather restricted in the immediate actions I could take (think: Crazy Cat Lady from the Simpsons. But naked. And minus the cats. On a lake. But not in Springfield. Whoa, this analogy is rapidly slipping away from me......aaand its gone. As you were.) against your offensive assault on my nude reverie, it was irrelevant in the end as my intense anger dissipated the second Ashlee started singing "l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e." I'll give you this - it is a catchy song. But c'mon. Seriously? The song "L.O.V.E."? Did you forget you had a penis? (If that happens often, may I suggest tying a string to it and the other end to your hand - so every time you give another "bro" a high-five, you will be reminded that you are in fact a Y-chromosome-toting neanderthal). There are so many other amazing tolerable Ashlee Simpson songs out there you could have picked. How about that song she got busted for lip syncing on SNL for? Or the one where she whines about living in the shadow of her big (bosomed) sister Jessica. Or even th- no wait. Those are really her only songs. So basically out of a possible 3 to choose from, you picked the least bad-ass (did I just refer to Ashlee Simpson as bad-ass? Oh man, I really have to stop drinking expired orange juice....) So to recap: Me=angry, You=12 year-old girl.

So instead of screaming at you losers to take a fucking hike and hurling any available projectiles at your boat (Fun Fact: pinecones and empty sunscreen bottles are really not enough to do significant and un-repairable skull boat damage) I just sort of sat there clutching my towel to my chest (while maintaining a cool and calm iciness) in dumbfounded bewilderment and shook my head wondering what planet you people come from? And if you can you please go back? And maybe take with you the borax and icing sugar I left out for the ants. Trust me, we'll all rest easier tonight. Well, I'll rest easier. You'll be dead conscious-challenged.

P.S. You weren't any more charming when you came back at 10:30 that night just as I was falling asleep, blaring your Goldilocks Rap (not too Black, not too White, but juuuuust right) and screaming (with great eloquence) "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" I can only hope that you awoke in a half sunken boat sporting a large hole in the hull from your buddy thinking it would be "dope" to set fireworks off in the cockpit. And please God, let there be a little (entire stomach contents worth of) puke on the new leather seat you special ordered from assholeswithtoomuchmoney.com. You know, the one with the naked lady hand stitched on it to let the rest of the world know that you like women (that extra $250 really WAS worth it!) even though you spend your days in a speed boat with 3 half-naked men. And I pray so very much that the stereo system is in a few (thousand) pieces after your juice-monkey friend went all roid-ragey on it when it wouldn't automatically skip to track 3 (c'mon Chad, not "Sk8tr Boi" again!) no matter how loud he screamed expletives at it.

R-ant

So remember the "Bring out your dead!" scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Well, it is being re-enacted as we speak in my bathroom on a very small scale.

Up until recently we had an ant problem. They liked to sneak in through the gap where the top of the bathtub and bottom of the tile meet. Which meant there were always lots of tiny ants crawling around the ledge of the bathtub and the occasional pioneer who would climb down the porcelain canyon toward the drain in search of gold. Or a nice spot to put the homestead. Or a better life for their family. I don't know. We rarely spoke. They had the decency to turn the other way while I showered two feet away.

Now I don't really have anything against ants, but when they hit the 1,000 mark in population, I draw the line. Being the googlenut that I am, I spent at least 5 hours looking up old wives tales on how to get rid of these things without using pesticides. Honesty Corner: 4 hours and 55 minutes of that time may or may not have been spent at thesuperficial.com following the sordid details of the Linsdsay Lohan/Samantha Ronson saga. In the remaining 5 minutes I found a commonly agreed upon method of mixing icing sugar and borax together and sprinkling it around as food. The smell of the sugar attracts the ants and when they start eating it, they also ingest the borax as they can't distinguish between the two granules. Then I think it just sort of poisons them (in a loving non-pesticidey way; like morphine to a eutheniz-ee) and then maybe they bring some back to the rest of the gang and it poisons them too. Or maybe its more Heaven's Gate-ey and there's a whole wacked-out ceremony surrounding the sweet Borax cocktail consumption. Ha! Teeny tiny ant Nikes! What, too soon? The statute of limitations has definitely run out on that one, people.

Anyways, I did that for about 2 weeks and they ate it up like candy. Borax-laced candy that is. This reminds me kids: stay away from creepy Philip Seymour Hoffman look-alikes in brown panel vans offering candy. Even the non boraxy stuff. Their sinister plans might revolve around making you watch Capote over and over. Or worse yet, Marley and Me. Oh the humanity!!!

Right, where was I? Ah yes. Two weeks of happy poisoning. And then nothing. Not a single ant. Tumbleweeds. The sound of crickets. A creaky dilapidated door swinging in a tension-filled breeze. And then.....the dismembered ant bodies started to appear. Everywhere! Think Platoon meets Terminator 3 meets Quentin Tarentino's entire filmography meets Wile E. Coyote meets The Spanish Inquisition. And not the John Cleese Spanish Inquisition. Ant arms, ant legs, ant heads, ant abdomens, ant second abdomens, ant brains, ant spleens (at least I think it was a spleen - my Grade 12 high school biology is a little fuzzy at the moment. Did you see what I did there? I just used that spleen comment to let you [the reader] know that I [the author] took Grade 12 biology and am probably smarter than you. Unless you took Grade 12 Biology too. But even if you did, can you honestly tell me that you got 96% in it? I can. I have the transcripts to prove it. Don't MAKE me get out the high school transcripts people, because with it comes the stack of Grade 11 Creative Writing assignments I kicked ass on).

Whoops. Off topic again. Recap: War Amps Society worst case scenario in my bathtub. And this has been the state of affairs every single morning when I go into the bathroom! I have been washing them away at night and then waking up to a plethora of more ant chunks strewn about. It's like Attila the Hun lives in the crack above my bathtub.

So what we think is going on, is that another ant colony has moved in (or a Russian spider) and is basically cleaning house and quite literally bringing out the dead. And in this little play, I'm merely the cart pusher, submissively rinsing them down the drain each night. I'm worried that I may have setup a dependency situation. My bathtub is the new transfer station for the insect world. I have considered putting up a tiny "No Dumping" sign but ants don't read English. And mistranslations can be damaging. That's how "Grandpa Fucking Space Shuttle" came to be printed on millions of children's t-shirts in the Jiangxi Province of China....

So, what the hell?! How long is it going to be the killing fields in my bathroom? This is really creepy stuff. Maybe it isn't a new ant colony cleaning out the nest. Maybe its a sign from the Ant Mafia. They know what I did. Its only a matter of time until I wake to find a severed horsefly head in my bed....

My Passions Have Been Ignited Once Again

So I left out some milk and cookies to see if that would entice my blog elves out of hiding but alas, all I found in the morning was a jolly looking white-haired old man dead on my living room floor. After the coroner left, it was Mrs. Clause who filled me in on her husband's Type 2 Diabetes and adamant negation of the doctor's warning to stop partaking in the goodies the children leave out. I do regret that Santa's last cookie was a stale Chip's-Ahoy I found under the couch cushion, but in my defense the only person I thought would end up eating it was a midget or the huge spider that lives behind my hot water heater (yeah that's right buddy. I know ALL about you!). Had I known the tragedy that would befall the old man, I would have at least sprung for cookies with the chocolate chunks in them. If its your time to go, then go out with a bang. Actually when I think about it, I suppose I would have just put out some celery sticks and a bowl of cottage cheese and avoided this whole 'death' thing altogether. Hindsight is 20/20. Telling your child that Santa is dead due to an EXTREMELY avoidable and reversible disease is priceless. How's that for a Christmas morning Kodak moment? "Merry Christmas Tommy. We thought this year we'd get you the gift of a reality check. You know how much you love your Fruit Loops? Well so did Santa. And now he's DEAD. Adult Onset Diabetes is no laughing matter. Let us all learn a lesson from this. Oh look! its snowing out....."

Ok. Where was I going with all this? Oh yes. The elves have forsaken me. This blog rests entirely on my untiring shoulders. Big responsibility. I will fail you not, Good People of Internet-a-lot.

And now for today's important and socially relevant topic.....


Philip Seymour Hoffman: Man or Sweaty Pervert Better Suited for Meat Grinder?

Let's discuss.

Why do people like this guy?! And by people I mean Nayt Keane and Julia Hilton. Perhaps there are more (doubtful) but my circle of friends is limited and my reclusive nature keeps me from going any further in this poll. I actually did ask them why they think he's so great but I really struggled to hear what they were saying over my yelling "HE'S SO GROSS I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LIKE HIM WHAT OTHER CREEPY ACTORS ARE YOU OBSESSED WITH THAT I DON'T KNOW ABOUT MAYBE WE CAN'T BE FRIENDS ANYMORE HOW CAN I RESPECT YOU ANYMORE LA LA LA LA NOT LISTENING, NOT LISTENING CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA!!!!!" We often have spirited debates like that. Eventually I make them see how unreasonably and totally wrong they are (hey btw, do you remember when Burt Reynolds did that 8 episode stint on "Friends"? He was so great in that. Offered a lot of credibility to the role of Monica's older boyfriend. Yuuuuup. Burt Reynolds. That was him. In all his Burt Reynoldy glory. Just acting his little heart out. As only BURT REYNOLDS can do......)

Anyways, I thought rather than have a serious face-to-face discussion with people where I run the risk of being proven inarticulate at very best, I'd rather blog about stuff knowing full well that once its on the internet, it cannot be taken down. And thus must be FACT.

So. Lets begin.

Strikes Against Philip

1. beady little eyes - inbred or just demonic? discuss.
2. profuse sweating. ALL the time. Trait also found in serial killers. Compare and contrast.
3. heavy breathing. And grunting. And strange almost-vomiting sounds whenever he speaks/open his mouth. Hopefully not some sort of disability or else we'll have to take the gutless high road and talk about how he's "overcome" so much in his life and blah blah blah.....
4. the internet's strange love affair with him. Now, it is not easy to find a website dedicated to how terrible this guy is. I have looked. Oh, how I have looked. I googled until the cows came home in hopes of finding some sort of Philip Makes Us Wretch online club that I could join and then send away for a complementary "Don't fillMEup with Philip" coffee mug. No dice. Which leads me to believe two things. 1.) In his movies he performs some sort of weird hypnotizing act with his beady eyes and heaving throaty grunts that brainwashes the viewer. I have of course only been exposed to 1.5 of his movies and possess phenomenal brain capacity that could easily withstand even the most intense of Jedi mind tricks. 2.) People who publicly denounce Phillip Seymour Hoffman are killed within the hour. I am lucky to be blogging this from a secure bunker in an undisclosed location. Fear not people. I will live on. Dedicated to bringing light into my public's dark little lives. Its the least I can do. Seriously. I was originally going to write a blog on how to convert leftover toilet paper rolls into bird feeders but then I realized there was something even LESS useful I could bring into the world of blogging. Personal opinion. So don't thank me. Unless you feel really compelled. In which case I always accept cash (no coins please, what do you think I am, a hobo?) and baked goods.

Wow. How did we get on the subject of my awesomeness again? [Side note - one should never ignore a recurring theme as there is often much truth behind it]. But I digress. Back to Philip.

After doing a little research I came up with some other interesting views that are worth noting:

On the highly respected movie news website digitalspy.com, Hoffman is quoted as saying "There's a certain amount of pain that goes into [acting]. It's painful. It's not easy."

On the even more respected 'pearls of wisdom' website sarahmacnabb.blogspot.com, Macnabb is quoted as saying "There is an EPIC amount of pain while watching Hoffman act. Its so totally MORE painful to be the person watching his films. It's, like, not easy but times infinity. Squared. Cubed. And then times infinity again. Plus one."

Even the STARmeter on imdb.com has him down 4% this week. Vindication.

There you have it folks. When your status starts slipping in the STARmeter, you know its all coming to an end. Move over Chuck Norris. Your 4:00 a.m. informercial slot is in jeopardy. There's a new has-been in town ready to make those paychecks flogging one Ab-sizzler at a time....

P.S. Nayt is quoted as saying "Everything he does, I love. His acting is so enriched. I like him." Keeping in mind that Nayt is a new dad that has not slept in almost 10 months. And might have been a little bit high at the time of said comments. Not to discredit his opinion in any way. And by a "little bit high" I mean caught doing blow out of a hookers navel. Not that that should in ANY way taint your belief in his statements. And also I think the hooker might have had a wooden leg stuffed with cash and anthrax. I'm just saying......