Victoria Secret boy briefs cause bigger, more uncomfortable wedgies.

 

There is a sign on I-95 instructing travelers to “Report Suspicious Activity.” I called the toll-free number and told them that my boyfriend “works late” all the time, smells like perfume, and recently developed an obsession over double-jointed Siamese midget twins with breast implants, but the hotline did not commend me on my civic-mindedness. 

Aren’t all motels open 24 hours? Or maybe at other motels, someone will knock on your door at 2:00 a.m. and say, “Closing time! You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here!”

(click on photo so you can read the sign, fool)

Dear Joe,

 

I might have believed you if you had just said you had the WORLD’S (note the apostrophe, Joe) best hamburgers AND the WORLD’S best buffalo wings AND the WORLD’S best subs AND the WORLD’S best seafood . . . but the WORLD’S best CHINESE food? You reached too far, buddy.  Too far.

1. Flush.  Toilets don’t come with instructions, but they aren’t hard to figure it out.  Use your foot if you don’t want to touch the handle. And check to make sure everything went down with no tell-tale skid marks. If you are squeamish about looking at your own shit, think about how others feel when they get an eyeful of the presents you’ve left behind.  Keep flushing until you’ve done the job right, dammit.

 

2.  Don’t leave the paper toilet seat cover on the toilet seat. If you are using a toilet seat cover, you already have an appreciation for avoiding butt germs from strangers.  Leaving the toilet seat cover for someone else to dispose of is just rude. What makes you think your butt germs are better than anyone else’s?

 

3.  After you are done with your dirty business, wash your hands and get the hell out.  Some people (me) have shy bladders and cannot urinate when others are within earshot. Proper hygiene is important, but there is no need to spend five minutes scrubbing in like you are about to perform heart surgery. 

 

4. Whenever possible, leave at least a one-stall buffer zone between you and the next person.  I don’t care if you have a “favorite” stall you like to use.  Always use the stall that is the farthest away from everyone else.

 

5.  Ladies, close the goddamn top of the sanitary napkin dispenser after you’ve shoved your bloody, monster-sized pad (with wings) in it.  

 

6. No talking. No moaning, no groaning, no sighing.  I don't care if you just squeezed out a poo the size of Loch Ness. QUIET ON THE SET!!!

 

 

SMF ("Special Man Friend") and I have been living together for over a year.  This is fairly remarkable, considering I’m not the easiest person to live with: I force SMF to watch American Idol (although I think he secretly likes it), I fart when I laugh too hard, and (according to SMF) the way I load the dishwasher offends all notions of logic and reason . . . and, uhm, physics. Or something. I’m sure on occasion he’s regretted the decision to cohabitate. One time I caught him trying to secretly move out.  He said he was just “cleaning” and “removing clutter” but it sure as hell looked to me like he was packing.  So I made him put that clutter right back where it was!

 

SMF, on the other hand, is easy to live with.  Unlike most men, he always puts the toilet seat down after a piss, he carries all the heavy bags of groceries, and he (re)loads the dishwasher the way God intended it.  The only thing I had to get used to was the weird stuff he brought in the apartment. For example:

This is called Mt. Tiki Soki. I’m not even making that name up. SMF loves all things tiki, so I didn’t question (too much) why he’d purchase a spraying water toy when we live in a third floor apartment and don’t have a yard.  Or a garden hose.  While I’d love to frolic in the cool, hydro-volcanic eruption of Mt. Tiki Soki in our living room on a hot summer night, I don’t want to lose my security deposit.  So, as far as I have seen, the sole purpose of Mt. Tiki Soki to hold SMF’s hats.

In line with his tiki-obsession, SMF recently purchased this Tiki Time drummer:

I may get bored with this toy eventually, but right now, using it to terrorize ‘Fraidy Cat is highly entertaining.  You absolutely must wait for the part where the drummer does his (very brief) solo.  It’s the best.

Then there is the whaling spear. Yes, I said whaling spear. SMF acquired this from his fraternity big brother. It doesn’t really go with the vintage Paris theme I had going on in my living room, but I relented (in exchange for sexual favors, of course).  I am not sure what use we will get out of a whaling spear, but if a whale manages to make his way inland, scales up to our third floor apartment, and tries to attack us, we are prepared!

 

One of SMF’s most prized contributions to the household, however, is a fake beard. Because you never know when you’ll need a disguise.  And with a beard like this, you’ll blend right in:

When SMF first moved in, we played this game called Hide the Croc Head.  And no, that is not a euphemism. We would take turns hiding the crocodile head in various places around the apartment in an attempt to scare each other: under the pillow, on the toilet, in the fridge. We decided to stop the game because we did not want to frighten our houseguests.  Except we’ve never had houseguests.  I wonder why?

 

 

SMF has this habit of buying things simply because it is the only item of its kind left in the store. One time he brought home Hot Six Oil because it was the last one on the shelf.  I misread the bottle and thought it said “Hot Sex Oil,” so I was rather upset to learn that this is a product for hair and five other purposes listed on the bottle, none of which sounded remotely sexy.  But SMF had to have it because it was THE VERY LAST ONE, which, according to his economist brain, means it is in HIGH DEMAND.  So it must be good.  Or something.  I put a dab of Hot Six Oil on my hand and it burned. 

 

Given SMF’s propensity for purchasing such items, it should have been no surprise when he came home after grocery shopping with this:

 

 

I can't figure out to turn this picture upright, but that’s MSG (a.k.a. monosodium glutamate). According to Wikipedia, the leading authority on Everything Worth Knowing, a 1995 FDA-commissioned report acknowledged that MSG may cause the following symptoms: burning sensation in the back of the neck, forearms and chest, numbness in the back of the neck, radiating to the arms and back, tingling, warmth and weakness in the face, temples, upper back, neck and arms, facial pressure or tightness, chest pain, headache, nausea, rapid heartbeat, bronchospasm, drowsiness and weakness.  

 

But SMF had to buy it because it was THE VERY LAST ONE! And HOW COULD WE LIVE WITH OURSELVES KNOWING THAT MSG WAS IN OUR GRASP BUT WE FAILED TO JUMP AT THE OPPORTUNITY TO ENHANCE THE FLAVOR OF OUR FOOD WITH THIS IN-DEMAND PRODUCT?

 

Not all of SMF’s purchases are as ill-advised, however.  He likes to try out unusual wines – the wines that can only be found on the bottom shelf at the store tucked behind all the Mad Dog. Typically, these wines are from Moldova.  Knowing that the Moldovan economy relies heavily upon wine exports, SMF feels morally obligated to support the Eastern European country by boozin’ up. The only problem is Moldovan wine tastes like ass.  Not that I know what ass tastes like. Moldovan wine tastes like what I imagine what ass tastes like. Not that I sit around fantasizing about what ass tastes like.  You get my point.

 

One day, however, SMF found this gem in the wine aisle at our local grocery: 

Wine in a bull-shaped bottle! And not just any kind of bull, mind you.  A WELL-HUNG bull!

I think any guy who is secure enough with his masculinity to keep something like this in the apartment is worth keeping around.

 

I can’t believe Diana Ross said ‘pronunciate.’ Ugh.

 

For all the money Simon is getting paid to do this show, why does he insist on wearing Fruit of the Loom undershirts?

 

Sanjaya.  How he made it into this competition is the Eighth Wonder of the World, but at least he provides some much-needed comic relief (especially now that the BJ girl is gone).  If Sanjaya wants to steal Chris Sligh’s ‘do, though, he should avoid using home perms from the Dollar Store.

 

Separated at birth?

      

 

Last night’s episode showcased three different strategies for what to do when you forget the words: (1) freeze up (Brandon); (2) make ‘em up (Stephanie); and (3) break into a song that sounds strikingly similar to Rednex’s Cotton Eyed Joe (Haley). Stephanie wins the Unintentionally Funny award, though.  In explaining why she cut out the best part of the original song during her performance, she said that the disco part of the song involved a lot of “ad-libbing” and she wanted to “sing the verses” of the song.  Uhm . . .

 

My picks:

 

   

 

SMF thinks I have mouth cooties.  He hasn’t said this per se, but I have no other explanation for why he  insists on having his own tube of toothpaste.  I have no brand loyalty toward toothpaste (I’m not aware of any that are purple), so when SMF moved in, I started buying the toothpaste he uses.  But then I noticed that he was still buying his own toothpaste.  Different brands. I kept buying the new brands I thought he wanted, but then he’d buy something else. We always have two tubes of toothpaste in our bathroom, which seems like a terrible waste of precious counter space. I don’t understand! I know the proper toothpaste etiquette: I don’t squeeze the tube in the middle, I don’t leave the top off, and I don’t leave globs of toothpaste on tube opening. So what gives? Is he afraid of catching my mouth cooties if his toothbrush touches the same tube opening as mine does? Ridiculous. He should be more concerned about my ‘gina cooties.

Merry Christmas!

 

JORDANSMORGASBORDEN: The Funniest Niece on the Planet

(age 11)

 

Heidi: Jordan, I told you to go to bed.  Don't mess with the power of the mommy.

Jordan: I will defeat you with the power of my farts. 

Heidi: Your farts are no match for the power of my foot up your butt.

Jordan: Then your feet will smell.

Heidi: No, my foot will block the smell.

Jordan: But then the fart will just come out the other end.

Heidi: The other end? What other end?

Jordan: My girlie.  Sometimes my girlie farts.

Heidi: Well, at least it won't smell as bad.

Jordan: Oh no . . . they smell just as bad.