The art of gift giving, the dildo edition

I think what you give someone as a gift, if you are setting out to do something thoughtful, sends a pretty strong message about how you feel about that person. It should show how well you know someone, their interests and what your relationship is like.

I have great gift giving friends. And somehow, I’ve tricked them all into giving me some pretty great stuff when I see them….Like today, when I went to lunch to see my girl LB off, as she’s moving home next week. 😦 But more about that in a second, as I have to end with that because the accompanying picture is one of those, save the best for last, type deals.

Anyway, recent gifts I’ve been given and how I gift give.

I like to write people stories as gifts. I know you didn’t ask for one, but if I have a story about you in the first place, or a lot of them, or a whole book’s worth, that probably means you’re pretty important or memorable. (Except if you’re my family, who is not interested in seeing these stories in print. HA.) But really, I can make a story out of anything and I have a memory like you would.not.believe. Really. So writing is typically my gift to people, which I don’t think makes me cheap, but I’m sure it comes off like that.

Things from Maine. I like to give people gifts that are representative of the not-so-city way of life in which I was raised. I like to give lilac soaps that remind me of the spring breezes in our front yard. I give all things lobster, for all those summers filled with cracking and steaming and butter dipping of the excess variety. I give candles of sun and sand that remind me of beach trips filled with crab hunting and castle building, wave jumping, of boardwalks filled with promises of skeeball and half and half ice cream on a plain cone, with sprinkles. I give sweet blueberry wines from local vineyards and LL Bean gear in yellow and orange and green, like hoodies that hug on a crisp and bright fall day. I want people to know where I started and how it made me the person I am today.

Books. Sometimes, I give out my favorite books to people I trust will return them to me. That’s the deal. You get a book I think is important, but I want it back. Book suggestions are also a gift, and I will warn you all. If I suggest a book and then you don’t read it, you are half dead to me. So, in the case of books, I get kinda crazy about it and I’m kind of an indian giver but don’t you think my well-read book is a better gift, even if temporary, than some copy off the shelf? Or no, am I being weird?

Pictures. Because when I run out of words to say, pictures do the trick.

And lastly, I do everything hand written and if your shiz comes wrapped in kraft paper, considering us friends for life because that’s how I do for the people who matter.

Now.

The very best gifts I’ve been given recently are:
1. Books. There is nothing better than receiving a book, second-hand, from someone else. Well, for me there isn’t. And, if it’s a book similar in writing style to mine, or funny, or something you really value and you want me to read it, I get really teary about that shit. I think words are the greatest gift you can ever give someone.

2. Stationary. I have received some brilliant stationary lately and I really, really love this. All writers do. Between that and pens, I just get all panties wet over that shit. I’m a real sucker for paper goods. (My friend Mel made me the most fabulous letterpress stationary, if anyone is interested in some original, custom-made merch. http://www.greymoggie.com/)

3. Lipstick. I write this and laugh but when I get all serious about a new hobby, I love it when people join in. My friend Amber the greatest. I hadn’t seen that girl for almost 8 months and when she shows up to brunch in DC to see me, she comes lipstick AND stationary in hand, because she knows and loves me. And she’s great at coloring, which I know nothing about. (Boys, just forget that I even wrote number three. You will never understand)

4. Dildos. Yep. I’m serious.

This brings me back to my girl LB. She is a ray of sunshine and is always a fantastic escape from reality when you need a good wine lunch. Also, the first time we ever drank together was at Volksfest last year and that little ball of sass got herself up on the picnic table and banged out a split, the HARD WAY, in front of at least twenty people who were sitting down drinking beer. Big bag of WIN. She’s also a delight to make laugh and a big supporter of the blog, so much so that she reads it to her 63-year-old mother (heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey Mom!), which I think is badass.

Well, the sad news is that LB is heading back State side with her Sexy Cuz Lethal hubs and her two boys next week for their next assignment and so Caroline and I went out to pizza with her today to say our see you soons.
Upon arriving at lunch, LB promptly whipped out a gift for each of us and said we had to open them before we went inside. Caroline and I looked at each other and then down at the gift.

It looked oddly shaped like something you’d either put in your mouth or your jage or maybe like spargel but let’s be honest, no one is buying me spargel on their way out. LB carried on, “So the day I read about you and Caroline talking about injuring yourselves while (insert knowing look), I just died laughing because I once told Sexy Cuz Lethal (her husband) that I once threw out my back but he just…” And instantly we knew that of course he wouldn’t understand. They never do. “And so when I saw these,” she continued, “I just knew I had to buy you both one.”

So many great things about this gift.

It was totally a penis and I was willing to bet she bought me a huge, foreign looking penis dildo, which was great news for my collection but was going to be interesting to explain to the Mr.

Caroline and I looked at each other and waited because it’s kind of awkward to open sex toys in a parking lot. But then we did anyway because it might be awkward but it’s also awesome.

AND GUESS WHAT? LB bought us our very own porcelain, Polish penises that are both decorative and helpful because they also measure real penises if you keep it by your bed. I initially inspected it, thinking it could also function as a salt and pepper shaker or a cream pourer but wow, that shit is kind of massive and so I’m just going to build a stand for it and put it at my desk.

While in the car on the way home, I showed the Mr. and he got a kick out of it. But then I almost killed him. I was mesmerized by my new gift and got a bit carried away when I tried to jam it down the hatch, partly to be funny, partly to see what number I could hit but then I almost knocked out my front tooth and when I made a gasping noise and shrieked, Mr. H looked over at me in the car and when he saw what I was trying to do, he almost hit an oncoming car.

This is my new, favorite picture. I'm going to send it to my Mom.

You just never know what’s going to happen on a Tuesday in Germany.

Produce to get freaky–German style

So I’m driving through Germany the other day and see yet another produce sign for spargel and erdbeeren, which for all you Americans and non-Germany dwellers is white asparagus and strawberries. And I’m thinking to myself, why in the FUCK does Germany sell these two produce items together? I can’t figure it out, as asparagus goes with steak and strawberries go with whipped cream and I guess if you’re looking to put together a whole meal, good for you, thanks for being so efficient about it but jesus. But anyway, sure enough, every season, wooden signs go up with horny looking asparagus and plump strawberries, always making me confused as fuck as why the two are sold together at farm stands country-wide.

I'm now obsessed w spargel pictures in a, don't look but ohmygod I have to, kind of way.

So I’m talking to a friend the other day and I ask if they know why in the hell these two are sold together and I think he said, “Germans.” Which is of course an acceptable answer but not good enough for me and so since today I had nothing better to do, I googled “Spargel and Erdbeeren” and came up with this picture, which of course brought clarity to the whole issue.

Right. That's what I was thinking too.

So in seeing this picture, I’m all, Oh dear god, strawberries are aphrodisiacs and white spargel looks like albino penis so OF COURSE. Then I find out asparagus is also an aphrodisiac and now I’m convinced that the Germans just sell produce combos like this to compensate their lack of selling Viagra. But really, how much strawberry and asparagus salad to have you have to eat to drop your pants? That is a question I will have to look into.

Germans. They are a smart fucking bunch.

Spargel is starting to freak me out.


And further, no, I do not eat spargel (white asparagus) because it looks creepy and I can’t get albino dick out of my head when I see it. I’m cool with strawberries, still, though, because they are my favorite fruit and I will not let this country ruin that.

But really. There is no way I’m eating these two together. That just seems like it’ll catapult me into a fucking frenzy and shit, I’m all set with that right now.

Moral of this story is that the Germans are a bunch of freaks and I’d appreciate it if the farmers would stop fucking pushing sex on me on my countryside drives. Shit.

Dr. Seuss and sorting out Life.

Today, after catching up on a few emails and phone conversations, I came home to lie on the couch in the rain and watch movies, and for some reason thought of one of my most favorite poems in the world. I used to think this poem should be reserved for people graduating, getting married, those with promotions or new children or when things monumental happened in life that deserved recognition. But tonight, as I was just lying around, I thought of the poem again and thought to myself that sometimes, nothing has to happen. Sometimes people just need a little inspiration.

For when life seems bullshit.
Or when you feel loss and the whole world doesn’t understand.
Or when you want faith in something bigger that you’re not sure exists.
Or when you’re scared or just stuck.
Or when you need want to jump and you’re just a bit scared to take that leap.

You’ll find the way.

It should be noted that I’m not great at giving advice, but lately, I’ve been asked to give a lot of it. And I wouldn’t trust me. I don’t even ever take my own advice, and I’m really pretty crazy, so feel free to never listen to me. I’ll understand.

So. Read the poem and do with it what you will. It has always made me feel better when I needed it to and I hope it does the same for others.

Oh! The Places You’ll Go!
Dr. Seuss

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look’em over with care. About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.” With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you’re too smart to go down a not-so-good street.

And you may not find any you’ll want to go down. In that case, of course, you’ll head straight out of town. It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along. You’ll start happening too.

Oh! The Places You’ll Go!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed. You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t.
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so but, sadly, it’s true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you.

You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch. And your gang will fly on. You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump. And the chances are, then, that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked. A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin! Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And if you go in, should you turn left or right…or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.

No! That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape all that waiting and staying. You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing. With banner flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky. Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t. Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times you’ll play lonely games too. Games you can’t win ‘cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not, Alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some, down the road between hither and yon, that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go though the weather be foul. On you will go though your enemies prowl. On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl. Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak. On and on you will hike. And I know you’ll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

Kid, you’ll move mountains!
So…be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ale Van Allen O’Shea, you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

http://www.seussville.com/
**PS, I’m not having an early life crisis. I’m actually quite delightful right now. And this may or may not be a children’s book. Kind of. Either way, I stand firm in recommending it. You’re welcome.

Ask Heather: Your official Dudes’ Answer Girl

So. Today I woke up to this message frome a friend on FB:

Idea for your blog, a weekly “Ask Heather: The Dudes’ Answer Girl”.
Question for week one – Do chicks really dig when we shave down by our main phaser bank and photon torpedoes?

Well, J. Kirk from Iowa, thank you for asking. I LOVE giving advice on shit I may or may not be qualified for and especially about DUDES. And pubic hair. And, this will be an easy weekly post. SO. Please feel free to send your questions to my email and I will start answering them weekly, on Wednesdays. The more insane, the better. And, I will not name you (above name is code). You’re welcome. (*and yes, I will answer girl questions too)

Now back to the question. First. If you EVER refer to your junk as a phaser bank/photon torpedo, you will NEVER, never, reallyfuckingnever, know what a gal thinks about your region because you sound like a moron and I think it’s a girl rule not to bang people that talk like that. Unless you’re into Star Trek and all things geek, which I suppose some people are.

Anyway. More importantly, the answer is yes. Of course we dig it when you shave. Do you think I look forward to pulling pubes out of my teeth? Newsflash, I don’t. I also don’t prefer to have to hunt for my fun and if you’re going to insist on keeping shit full blown crazy down there, I am going to have to believe that:
1. You don’t care what I think.
2. You are lazy.
3. You suck in bed. This conclusion has to be drawn because if you suck at shaving, you suck at life which means you definitly suck in bed and why would I be interested in that?

Now let’s be clear. I didn’t say you had to get all porn star on me. I’m not even asking you to be creative like you all want us to be. I mean, really. As girls, we put in some extreme effort. You think landing strips and fancy shapes and bare jages JUST HAPPEN? No. That shit takes skill if you do it at home or it takes a bit of tolerance of pain if you prefer a healthy dose of hot wax. And we don’t do it for our health. We do it because we’re doing you a favor.

And FURTHER. I don’t care if you’re European. That is not an excuse and I know you think it is. How do I know Europeans don’t shave themselves? Because I was subject to torture one day when I went to this thermal spa in Iceland where they make you group shower your filth off before you get in the springs and OHMYGOD I have never seen so much international public hair in my LIFE. I was horrified. Chia pets EVERYWHERE. I felt like everyone had a bear skin rug draped on their privates but me. Also, everyone was washing themselves like the goal was to rip yourself raw. I have never seen so much red, raw skin and clumps of hair in my life. I can just imagine how much Drano that place has to use. Fucking Christ. I do NOT like group showering and this particular incident has obviously scarred me for all of eternity.

Jesus fuck. How people not shaving is making me aggressive now, I do not know. But, it is.

Now. I suppose we should discuss technique so there’s no confusion. When I say shave, I don’t mean you have to go all bald eagle on us if you don’t want to. But it wouldn’t kill you to dust off the clippers and cut an inch or two off. If I can grab your pubes and put them in a hair elastic, or wait a minute. If I can gather them in general, that is bullshit. Who knows why I’d be putting them in a hair elastic. Also, if I can shave every last angle of my jage with my eyes closed, you can most certainly de-fuzz your balls. Unless you don’t want my mouth near them, which is also fine. Up to you but really. Don’t get all, I have no idea why she avoids my balls if they have hair on them. Either she doesn’t want to swallow hair or she doesn’t know what to do with balls but that’s a whole other issue.

Another thing. If you’re proud of your cock, which most of you really are, I’m confused why you wouldn’t want to shave and put that bad boy on display. Unless you have a small dick, which is unfortunate and I guess you can hide it all you want. Or you’re probably not getting laid that much anyway so what the fuck does it matter.

I really wish I could include a picture of what I think is appropriate but I’m sure that’d get me flagged or something. I don’t even want to google shaved cock right now because 1. I still haven’t eaten and looking at some random penis is just going to make me gag and 2. No penis is THAT attractive. Sorry.

So. In closing, the moral of this story is shave yourself so I don’t have to feel like I’m banging out a sasquatch. And when I say me, I mean all the girls of the world. So not me, actually. Just in general.

PS, this is not about my husband. This was really a question that came in. He fucking hates when I generalize about random cock, leading people to believe I am speaking about him. I may or may not get a talking to at home when I do this. For the record, I actually never speak about my husband’s privates. Just so we’re clear. hahahahhahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Airport fail, the Phoenix edition

So since I made it through security in Denver AND DC with no issues(the plane will probably explode), I have nothing to complain about and nothing funny to report. But, since that’s boring, I’ve decided to finally tell the Phoenix airport story, which is a favorite of mine.

Back when I lived in DC, when my travel was somewhat normal, I took a trip to Vegas with 4 other girls for a bachelorette party, which looking back, somewhat rivaled The Hangover.

The trip was seemingly simple. Surprise engaged friend at airport at 6am, fly with girls to Vegas (some I knew, some I didn’t), drink obscene amounts of booze, trouble ensues, take pictures, fly home.

But, no. I didn’t realize I’d need to add, almost fucking die on an escalator, to that list. But sure, whythefucknot.

So. February 2006. Me and said girls arrived in Phoenix, our layover spot, with no hassle at all. Our friend was surprised and out of her mind excited we were heading to Vegas. We were equally pumped and ready to unleash ourselves on Vegas, so excited, in fact that we all dressed up for our flight…you know, just in case we hit the ground running off the plane.

Now I can’t quite remember what anyone else was wearing but I do know that me dressing up that day consisted of wearing knee high black boots with four inch heels and an angora wool turtleneck sweater that was tight as hell, primarily because I thought it made my tits look nice, which was apparently more important than say comfort for me at the time. (Keep in mind, I’m currently at the airport wearing a sweat suit, no underwear and flip flops. Times have changed)

So. There we were, all dolled up and standing in line at the gate, getting ready to board the plane when we hear,
“We’ll now take passengers in zones 1 and 2.”

I look down at my ticket. I’m zone B. I look at the girls. “What zone are you guys?” I ask.

“C,” says one girl.

“A,” says another.

We all look at each other while every other person boards the plane. Someone nearby offers, “I think you’re all on the OTHER Vegas flight that leaves now.”

WhatintheFUCK. We ask the gate keeper. She nods and then ever so helpfully adds, “It’s boarding now, all the way across the airport. But you probably won’t make it.” Fucking bitch.

“RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.” Someone shrieked and I instantly felt like I was in some horrible movie where survival depended on my running skills and speed which are non-existant and therefore in my head meant I would die via death by zombie or fireball because those are really the only thing people run from in movies.

So anyway, we were apparently now running at TOP SPEED, which no one warned me about, because when I looked up, all the other girls were now 50 yards ahead of me. So I was sprinting, or at least my version of sprinting. I’m sure to the typical bystander, I just appeared to be dragging my legs awkwardly behind me, much like limping or dragging an leg that fell asleep. My lungs were failing me, my face was purple and I was sweating. What was more distracting was the fucking titalicious sweater I opted to wear was now like second skin and the turtleneck portion was choking me and all I could think about was how I was overheating and needed to get this motherfucking sweater off me STAT. Between that and the 50 pound carry-on I was racing with, I was beginning to want to sob, but knew that would only slow me down more.

This is the point of the story where all 4 other girls ahead of me pounced onto the walking escalator and bounded down it like a bunch of gazelles. At the end, they, not missing a beat, resumed sprinting, banged a left at the Starbucks on the corner and carried on down that terminal. As I approached the walking escalator, I was wheezing and spitting violently from my lips, swearing and acting generally bullshit. I couldn’t even see them anymore. You MUST catch up, I thought as I weebled toward the end of the escalator, still trying to drag my legs as fast as midgetly possible.

And then it happened. Just as I attempted to pounce off the walking escalator, as fluidly as possible, one foot off and still running….the goddamned grate, those asshole jagged metal teeth, they attacked my right boot and ate it alive as I went to pounce off the escalator. This assault by technology launched me two feet into the air, head first, sending me tumbling fast on my hands and knees. My carry-on went flying and I felt like I was in slow-motion now, scrambling to get up off my skinned and now bleeding knees as the man who ran the corner coffee shop offered, WHILE CROSSING HIS ARMS AND LAUGHING, “Your friends are leeeeeeaving you.”. No offer to help, just an easy chance to mock the crazy looking mess that was crawling around on the floor, hacking and hallucinating.

“Thank you,” I said, but my eyes totally countered with, you fucking asshole.

I finally stopped shaking and rolling around on the floor, picked up my heavy as shit duffle bag and limped the rest of the terminal with my broken heel. Fuck running. We were either going to make the flight or not and I’d leave it to the Olympic relay team I was traveling with.

As I slowly limped up to the gate, all four girls, now sitting and discussing the flight we were rescheduled to, all whipped their heads up when they saw me.

“I’m fucking dying. I need a teeshirt. Please dear fucking god someone give me a teeshirt before this sweater eats me alive.” I was dripping with sweat, my hair matted to my face, snot down my cheek, bleeding from the knees and looking like at any time, I could go into cardiac arrest.

They all burst out laughing and continued to laugh harder and louder as I told them in dramatic detail about how the walking escalator almost fucking killed me.

One of my friends handed me a teeshirt. When I came back out, her friend took a picture of me. “Asshole,” I said to the picture taking girl I didn’t know.

If only I had that picture now.

The Alchemist and Knowing

It’s usually weddings and/or excess amounts of wine that get me all chatty about love and such and since I’m at wedding weekend in Denver, celebrating my sister-in-law Allison and her used-to-be-fiance Nick get married, you guessed it. I’m all philosophical on all things stars aligning and soul mates.

Allison asked me to read a passage from one of my favorite books, The Alchemist, and to shorten one of the passages and then write it out so it would be suitable for her reading at her wedding yesterday. Below is the passage she had chosen, which is one of the finest passages ever written about Knowing.

Now. If you had asked me when I was twenty if I believe in the notion of Knowing, I would have laughed in your faced, or punched you, rolled my eyes and said it is not fucking possible to meet anyone and just Know. Not.a.chance.in.hell.

But. I was wrong, as I *sometimes am. The passage below is reflective of Knowing, and the Fire, and of speaking with no words. It is the perfect example of how sometimes, when I suppose luck is in your favor, or the world is tilted just right, you will be given the chance to meet someone and you will just.Know. And in a matter of seconds, it will seem as though you have met somewhere in the universe, at another time, it’s just the details you lack.

And in a short time–minutes, hours, days or longer, you will feel as though you have known each other for a lifetime. Nothing in the world will be able to explain this. Nothing will be able to make it go away, either. It is bothersome and magical and gut wrenching and one of the most fantastic things the world can ever give you.

And it happens, most usually when you least expect it.

Extract from “The Alchemist”
“At that moment,it seemed to him that time stood still,and the Soul of the World surged within him.When he looked into her dark eyes,and saw that her lips poised between a laugh and silence,he learned the most important part of the language that all the world spoke-the language that everyone on earth was capable of understanding in their heart,it was Love.

Something older than humanity,more ancient than the desert.Something that exerted the same force whenever two pairs of eyes met, as had theirs here at the well .She smiled, and that was certainly an omen-the omen he had been waiting for,for all his life.The omen he had sought to find with his sheep and his books,in the crystals and in the silence of the desert.

It was a pure Language of the World. It required no explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through endless time.What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life,and that,with no need for words,she recognized the same thing.He was more certain of it than anything in the world.

He had been told by his parents and grand-parents that he must fall in love and really know a person before being committed.But maybe people who felt that way had never learned the universal language. Because,when you know that language,it’s easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you,whether it’s in the middle of the desert or in some great city.

And when two such people encounter each other,and their eyes meet, the past and the future becomes unimportant.there is only that moment,and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world.

Without such love,one’s dreams would have no meaning.”

In Rockies til Tuesday

Then I’ll be back in Germany.

For now, here’s a pic of me in the Rockies, enjoying the sights and sun of the West. More pics to follow but for now they’re just on FB. Hopefully will write soon…..

Special report: My newest brilliant idea

So, when I get too much time on my hands, I come up with things to do to keep me busy. And so, lucky all of you, I have a new idea and though I won’t be able to start til June, I have decided:

To have a weekly YouTube show that I post on the weekends on my blog. Just once a week, though. I don’t have enough time to tape shows, write, work and act ridiculous in Europe.

And so yes, once a week, my friends and I have decided the following:
1. We will set up my office as a set and the spare bedroom will obviously be hair and makeup.

2. We are allowed to wear whatever we want during the show taping, no one has to match and the most popular items suggested in our brainstorming session last night were: wigs, fishnets, but only ripped ones, lipstick that’s either cotton candy or red, corsets, hats, glasses, red heels, and obviously Hooters gear.

Red lipstick. Our new black.

3. We will be drinking wine the entire taping. If we decide to make a Friday evening taping, we can drink gin or tequila.

4. My guests will be my friends.

Me and some of my special guests

So far I have Caroline lined up to teach people the worm, Sun will do a spot on teaching dirty Korean words, Kathy is going to do a, “How to apply red lipstick while drunk/how to make a great spicy, hamburg con queso” double feature and Tracy and the Kokes haven’t quite informed me of their desired guest spot topics but they can get them to me this week.

5. I will also be skyping in my international friends on my laptop and interviewing them over the live feed, which is going to be great. I imagine I will interview Billy Fagan first, to really kick things off, but then again, that could just shut this whole show down immediately. We’ll see. I may also have my sister tape a spot from Maine so we can go live to my family, who I promise, never disappoint.

6. There are tracks to be made to play in the background. Baby Got Back, Pour Some Sugar on Me, Ice, Ice Baby and Doin’ It, will probably be regular go-to songs in moments of awkward silence or scene shifting. Or dancing. We’ve discussed the amount of random dancing that will be busted out for no reason. It’ll be great. I’ll finally be able to bust out the surfer dance live, for all the world to see. In case you want a preview of that little gem, here is a vision from Friday night. It’s almost impossible for me to behave more attractively in public.

Who cares what the rest of Fest is doing? I'm caught up in my sweet dance moves.

7. I will probably take a few guest calls, depending on my mood. This might just actually turn into the one-minute spot where I make one of my British (or Australian) friends skype in a read us the dictionary for a minute. Because that is totally worth it and not weird at all. I don’t have any Aussie friends, though, so let me know if you any of you have one. Oh, and only guys because I’m not listening to some British bird yap for a minute.

8. Caroline is only allowed to wear a turban if she is giving the World News, which I told her was the only way we could wear turbans and seem rational about it. She said fine, if I write the news. And by write, I will just print something off the internet, most likely off The Onion, which is far less depressing than the real news.

9. I will 98% start interviewing Germans about their ridiculous behavior and laws. Like the one where you’re not allowed to shower on a Sunday after 7pm, like that’s any of their fucking business. Or I could interview the new hairdresser I had yesterday, who was a gay man, German and deaf. Try to listen to that fucking accent for three hours while trapped in a salon chair.

10. The show is just going to be a live version of my blog. Me, talking about insane shit at my house w guests and costumes. It’s already set to be a shitshow because I don’t even know how to edit videos so every one posted will just be exactly as how we taped it, which is probably going to be more entertaining to watch than anything. I’m totally shooting for across between the Jon Stewart Show, Chelsea Lately, SNL and The Ellen Show—but more badass, because it’ll star me.

So, while I sit around in sweats today in the rain watching chick flicks, I’m going to brainstorm about guest topics and interview questions and make lists of the things I feel will be important to cover, live from my study in Steinenbronn. Suggestions welcome and please let me know if you’d like to be a guest on the show this summer. The more ridiculous, the better.

Is England just fucking with us?

Because after seeing this a million times on the FB yesterday, I think they might be.

And well played, England. Pretty crafty.

Further, here is a video that is hysterical.

What’s not hysterical is that one or two of my British pals has called me Vicky, which is not fucking funny anymore, now that I’ve seen the videos.

Welllll, yeah, but. No but, yeaaah, but. No, but.

Happy, happy Friday! 🙂

Northern Fur Seal Sent Back Home

I am having a fantastic week here in Germany and am so positive that I couldn’t even bring myself to do my planned, “Things that are BULLSHIT” Thursday post that I had planned out, mostly because I can’t think of much that is bullshit this week. Must be all the jump roping I’m doing. And though I’m not usually one to send out heartwarming emails or videos, I have to today because awww, this baby seal is great.

And he reminds me of Moxie, the way he walks and looks around all cute like…and we all know how much I love Moxie.

So, hope this video makes you feel as happy as that seal looks.