i’m upset about this weiner business. not because tweeting a photo of your moose knuckle to a hot chick is all sleazy and salacious and the dude is married.

that shit happens all the time and the emotional repercussions are between him and his wife. and hilary clinton probably. besides relationship stuff is thick, layered and very complicated. that kind of analysis is best left for someone with credentials. or credibility. neither of which i have.

now don’t get me wrong if anthony weiner used any official resources to talk dirtay with his dianas, i think he should be lynched. (and i really hope john edwards goes down in a flame of silicone lube for soliciting and secretly spending more than $925,000 to hide his mistress and their baby during his campaign. fucker!)

what i am upset about is that no one ever tweets pics of their package to me.

don’t get all excited. this isn’t an open invitation or a “tweet your meat” contest announcement (although that’s not a half bad idea, i think the contest would be huge – TWSS), but it’s just the idea of it.

i like junk.

i embrace technology and new media.

i adore pop culture. (damn i’m punny)

i want in!

yet no one is sexting me, sending me dirty pics, leaking sex videos of me, or tweeting me their massive male muscle.

what am I chopped tuna?

hear this men: the 20 somethings, college students and nubile porny stars aren’t the only chicks wanting men to flex for them. in fact, they may well be among the least engaged in your brand promise. you’re missing targeting your message to a key market segment. that is, over 40 with a hungry, open mind and discretionary time for play (our children are grown and our careers are established).

campaign fail!

well we all know this was a big power trip and men in power pull these kind of shenanigans because they think they are getting away with something and are reaping satisfaction by imagining some trophy girl will perceive them as hip, badass and well-endowed. so silly. try to impress a woman who is savvy, has discriminating taste and sophistication. a woman who can’t be bought and sold. in other words, take on a real challenge, ya numbnut. then it might be impressive.

the other reason i’m upset about this weiner stuff is because he tried to delete the tweet. i feel his pain here. i can’t tell you how many time i’ve  responded to a twitter message notification text on my iphone thinking i was responding as a direct message only to have my response appear as a tweet for all of my followers to see.

when i would delete the tweet, it would disappear from my timeline, but it wasn’t getting removed from everyone else’s timeline! this is from the twitter help center on deleting a tweet:

“Hover your mouse over the message (as shown below), and click the “Delete” option that appears. Voila! Gone forever… almost. Deleted updates sometimes hang out in Twitter search. They will clear with time.”

almost? sometimes hang out? clear with time?

twitter has no real delete mechanism. this poor sap thought he would flash his physique to just one chick and it went to everyone. there is no way to save your ass (or your dick as it be) on twitter!

now that’s evil.

i want feather hair extensions. my daughter just got them at the mall. they were only $10 a feather. they’re mad expensive in a salon though.

they’re all the rage with celebrities.

so cool, right?

here’s a 48 sec vid:

FeatherHead

daisies in the hair are pretty rad, too.

the feathers come in dazzling colors. you can wash, dry, curl and straighten your hair with them in. they last about 8 weeks and are attached with silicone-laced beads so they don’t damage your hair. they also come in multiple lengths and can be cut just like hair.

so what’s the rub?

i think i’m too old for them.

i work in corporate america.

these things bum me the fuck out. i want to wear them!  i mean i grew up in the 70s admiring stevie nicks and the whole gypsy belladonna look. i wore feather earrings for chrissake. my style today is bohemian cali rocker chic a la mary louis parker in weeds. and i have messy hair that would hold feathers so awesomely. kind of like this skank:

for illustrative purpose only. sorry kesha haters.

yes, i have bigger more grown up issues to worry about but i avoid them and torture myself with this shallow shit instead. what? you have a better coping mechanism?

so tell me what you think i should do or tell me your coping mechanism or tell me if i should get a tiny diamond nose piercing.  i’m not taking this mid-life crisis lying down, punkers!

soa the reason i’ve been absent from the blogosphere is because i was moving into an apartment. and the reason i was moving into an apartment was because i was separating from my husband after 20+ years of marriage, raising a family and building a home together. i’m not going into all of the heavy stuff on my blog out of love and respect for mr. punker.

but i sure as shit am going to talk about all of the superficial consequences this has wrought.  (why oh why do i use nouns like “shit” and verbs like “wrought” in the same goddamn sentence? because i can, punkers, because i can. )

anyhussy, here are some of my first impressions of being on my own in an apartment:

i miss having a hose on my kitchen sink. how are you supposed to fill the water reservoir of your keurig coffeemaker without a hose?

how do you get rid of the food debris in your sink without a garbage disposal? especially when you don’t have a motherfucking hose!

nordstrom’s is really expensive.

how do you know if it’s a cockroach or a beetle? (please tell me cockroaches don’t exist in the burbs.)

raising the lid on a dumpster really skeeves me out.

what did people do before coat closets and innovative storage solutions? (i had to buy a fucking garment rack and send the rest of my babies to goodwill.)

take my advice: one needs at least a two bedroom apartment to have enough space for shoes.

just because the previous owner and his/her cat are gone, the fucking linen closet still smells like cat piss litter box ammonia pungent blechhh something fierce.

gonzo volcanic rock bags really work as an odor eliminator. (paid advertisement welcome.)

i think the girl downstairs leaves a pair of size 13 men’s work boots outside of her door as a deterrent because i’ve never seen a male coming or going from her place. brilliant actually.

the property manager refers to me as sweetie. ”i’ll put in a work ticket for you, sweetie.”  and the maintenance man calls me senora. “toilet paper holder es ok now, senora.”

ulta, bed bath and beyond, and victoria’s secrets coupons have not followed me to my new address. grrrrr.

this was my first housewarming gift from the glitter gang bangers, a vapid blonde, absence of alternatives, wicked shawn, buggin word, duffmano, brilliant sulk, for the birds, and lagunatic.

isn't it the glitteriest, happiest rubber ducky key chain you've ever seen? i think i will name her "bijou." whaddaya think?

and the real kicker …

i have to lay down my franzia box in the fridge. when i want to tap it, i have to pull it out and put it on the counter. wtf whirlpool engineers!  there’s a minimum shelf height for a refrigerator and it should include ample head room for an upright franzia box!

ps: i also want to thank sister merry hellish, the barreness, and buggin word for the posts they wrote/dedicated to me during this trying time. your love means the world to me.

i’m back from my too brief winter island getaway. we went to jamaica, mon. and anyone who has seen my pictures can tell i had my period.

it’s not enough that i just look at water and become bloated. i was bloated when i arrived.

don’t ya hate having your period when you’re on vacation? you men know what i mean, right? first, there’s the bloating issue which doesn’t complement eating massive amounts of vacation food (meaning just say yes to everything) and drinking like arthur (meaning it’s noon, time for my first of 82 rum punches).

second, there’s the tampon issue. who wants to have to think about changing a tampon while on the beach? but if you don’t, you might get that dreaded toxic shock syndrome. what is that anyway? and has anyone ever gotten it? my mother acted like everyone got it if they didn’t change their tampon every 2 hours.

let’s just say i’m negligent when it comes to changing my tampon. i’ve definitely left a tampon in for more than 8 hours. in fact, one time i remember forgetting it was in all day. i even had the sex with it in, and neither my partner or me realized it. so maybe it was blotto sex, but still.

it’s all pretty gross i know. but even the design of a tampon is twisted. there’s this stupid string hanging out of the critical entry to your lady vessel just acting like a giant wick, able to absorb all sorts of nasty bacterials, yeasties, paper mites, bed bugs, and dare i say fecal matter. *twitching trying to shake THAT the fuck off*

so what the fuck tampon makers? couldn’t we get a little plastic handle or knob or something instead of the wick?

though it’s definitely better than the alternative: the frightful maxi pad.  i realize some people may have to wear them after a procedure or something, but why would anyone choose to sit in a pool of dismantled endometrium?  (<– omg laughing hysterically. i wish i could take credit for that but i copped it from wikipedia. i still get credit for realizing the disturbing impact of these two words.)

i’m no scientist but i think when your body expels something its a clear indication it should be kicked to the curb and taken away by tony soprano. not cushioned by a tempurpedic mattress and held touching your delicate skin.

i give one helluva vacation review, don’t i? 

oh ok, here are a couple of pretty beach pics to erase everything i just wrote from your mind. peace out, punkers.

the daily spot

Bathing

View from the chair

Solitude in Sound (my new agey title. so stupid)

Artsy sunset shot 1

Artsy sunset shot 2

some people are real scholarly bloggers like absence of alternatives, for the birds, or 20prospect. they use descriptive language and make compelling arguments. i’d like to be sophisticated like that, but you’ve probably noticed i’m not that fancy.

i try to make my goals realistic. i’d be happy even if i could write as good as missy elliot in this work it song:

If you a fly gal get your nails done
Get a pedicure, get your hair did
Boy, lift it up, let’s make a toast-a
Let’s get drunk, that’s gonna’ bring us closer
Don’t I look like a Halle Berry poster
See the Belvedere playin’ tricks on you
Girlfriend wanna be like me, never
You won’t find a bitch that’s even better
I make you hot as Las Vegas weather
Listen up close while I take it backwards
I’m not a prostitute, but I could give you what you want
I love your braids and your mouth full of floss
Love the way my ass go bum-bum-bum-bum
Keep your eyes on my bum-bum-bum-bum-bum
And think you can handle this gadonk-a-donk-donk
Take my thong off and my ass go boom

take my thong off and my ass go boom? that is some powerful imagery. you agree right?

i’m totally phoning this post in because holy tanuki balls i’m slammed at work. by the way that was a reference to the tom robbins book, villa incognito. you have to respect a book which opens with:

 ”It has been reported that Tanuki fell from the sky using his scrotum as a parachute.”

see tanuki’s scrotum is proportionately larger than the scrota of elephants, whales, and the jolly green giant.

so i declare that reference makes me literary and some shit.

i’m also trying to plan a trip to the carribean. which doesn’t exactly make me a starving and tortured writer person, but i can always drink excessively and take some happy pills to simulate the agony.

speaking of agony, fucking pms. it’s killing me this week.  and why doesn’t anybody tell you not to go to the grocery store with pms? they tell you not to go hungry but it’s much worse to go with pms. guess what i ended up with in my cart?

pepperoni and cheese stromboli
cheesy scalloped potatoes
tater tots
strawberry toaster strudel

there is something wrong with me.

actually four of them in two weeks! but who’s counting. fuck yeah, i’m counting. but only because i can. i’m not one of these superbloggers who receives a bajillion awards. i can count the awards i’ve received on one hand. so, i’m school girl giddy over these awards because i am cursed with the ”seeks approval of others” neurosis. i blame my mother. and before you label me as having a victim mentality, you should know even my therapist said i can blame her. 

so here they are and you should definitely click on them because they gave me an award. no, click on them because they’ll like me more for sending traffic their way. oh alright, click on them because they’re cuddly, lovable and full of the awesome. 

from brahm at alfred lives here

from sandi at being peachy

from nikki at my cyber house rules

from sister merry hellish at inside out and backwards

it seems that the raw power of my writing (and by raw power, i just mean raw, as in uncultivated) isn’t enough for me to earn these awards. there are rules. i’m pretty sure we all know how i feel about rules, but i’m willing to suck up and play along, because in this case i happen to respect the proverbial man.

to a point.

three awards means three sets of rules and i sure as shit can’t keep them all straight. there was something about listing things you don’t know about me, answering a set of questions and pimping out other bodacious bloggers.

so you’ll get what i give. (in other words i want to pick and choose which ones i do.)

If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? If you aren’t anonymous, do you wish you’d started out anonymously, so that you could be anonymous now?

yes, i’m anonymous for the most part. despite the title of this post, my mother should never see this blog. she’d spend the rest of her days crying. and criticizing me like she’s so wont to do:

“karen johnson is always friendly and smiling. why don’t you smile more?”
“what do you call that color in your dining room? that’s um different.”
“john and i don’t eat fatty foods like that.”
“don’t you feel exposed without any window treatments?”
“you spent how much on dinner? you’re just going to shit it out the next day.” 
“why don’t you dress more feminine like claire mcdonnell?”

Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side. 

so ma, you want me to dress better? how’s this “too drunk to fuck” dead kennedys tshirt? i think it’s stellar.

What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?

my mother. now get me a fucking sledgehammer.

Is there something that you still want to accomplish in life?

i want to grow an emotional on/off switch so i can assimilate in the world of fucking robots aka corporate america. or else, i want to work for someecards.

If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?

email or read blogs. my A.D.D. makes reading books hard. unless they’re mini books, which i collect just for this reason. (chalk up one thing you didn’t know about me). 

or unless it’s this book by elly which is about to be picked up by a publisher any second. when you read the first chapter, you’ll know why–you won’t be able to take your eyes off the screen.  

and no way do i want to talk on the phone. talking on the phone reminds me of my mother.   

another thing you didn’t know about me is that i like my betty crocker cheesy scalloped potatoes cooked 10 minutes extra so that they are plenty tender and a layer of crispy brown cheese forms on the top and sides of the casserole dish.   

i recently discovered this sauce at the local vietnamese restuarant. it’s my new fave:   

introducing my new line of valentine’s day cards: “voices in my head.”

i made them over at someecards because i don’t have a graphics designer and they give you these crazy ez templates to use.

if you happen to like any of them, you can vote for individual cards by clicking on the image or vote for all of them by clicking here. (if i get lots of votes, maybe i’ll win the editor’s pick, and then maybe they’ll want to hire me. a girl can dream big can’t she?)

happy valentine’s week punkers! xo♥xo♥xo♥

are they over yet?

them, the holidays. they over?

no, of course not. we of excess and gluttony need one more round of overindulgence and self-destruction. motherfucking awesome.

i’d like to tell you that i’m all resolved, absolved and involved in the new year. but, i’m still looking out at all of you wondering how you have it in you to remain spirited, social, and drug-free.

i always wonder what those of you with faith do when things seem dark and hopeless? i mean isn’t that why you have faith, so things don’t seem all dark and hopeless? at least being an atheist, i’m not pissed at god for feeling low and estranged. one less person to be mad at and blame is kind of a win, don’t ya think? unless of course god is within, so god is me; therefore, i’m just feeling more wrath with myself. that actually sounds about right.

oh i know i should be all ”to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.“

turn, turn, turn.

but i don’t fucking get it. every time should be a time to laugh, embrace, and dance. fuck the times to weep, mourn, break down, hate, lose, etc. are they really necessary? i’m done with those times, just like i’m over the ass sore that is the holidays.

so i wont talk about those times in 2010 that were supposed to provide some kind of ‘leveling,’ ya know to keep us all humble. like the bp oil spill, teabaggers election wins, jessie james’ infidelity, arizona’s anti-immigration law, bristol palin’s psa, prop 8 supporters, bill donahue blaming the gays for pedophilia, etc.

thrash, thrash, thrash.

this ain’t no grammys, no oscars, no disco, no fooling around, this is just the shit i like from 2010 presented in categories i like:

indie album: high violet by the national (it’s my new testament. their album, alligator, is my 13 commandments. hey, i’m very religious — god is within me, remember — so 10 commandments weren’t enough.)

pop song i couldn’t resist: love the way you lie by eminem and rhianna. (shut up, it’s like a punk pop song. ‘sides, bitch got pipes and i totally sound like her when i wail in the car.)

ukele song: http://bugginword.com/2010/09/24/uke-me-away/ (ok, i may be self-absorbed, but i still suffer.)

breaththrough movie: the kids are alright (color me a lezzy cuz i have the hots for annette bening and juliane moore. then again there’s mark ruffalo. so color me bi-curious.)

salacious sex scene in a movie: casey affleck and jessica alba in killer inside me (not for the faint-hearted and really sick to like any part of this ultra violent film. but my dreams don’t lie.)

rocker tshirt: tie between “it’s motherfucking booze time” (check it here) and “i think i brained my damage” (here).

caught on tape: joe biden to president obama on the passage of health care reform, “it’s a big fucking deal” (vp with a dirty mouth = hawt.)

commercial worth watching: tie between the kia hamsters doing the black sheep and kevin bacon talking about kevin bacon. (i don’t know what product this latter one is for, but who doesn’t love kevin bacon crossing his fingers wishing he could turn into kevin bacon.)

actual comedy: modern family (lmao every week. should be on hbo for added irreverence.)

dramedy: nurse jackie (girl likes herself some narcotics. why didn’t i consider nursing?)

real drama: tie between dexter and mad men (serial killer who slays serial killers vs. stylistic ad biz show. that’s a toughie, right?)

useful technology: ipad (internet on the train with a large screen for my over 40 eyes + name jokes = no brainer.)

memorable talk show moment: conan obrien doing freebird on his farewell show. (dude can rock out with his sub-woofer out. and he tickles my funny bone.)

depraved blog: vodka and ground beef (i’d link you to it but for some reason it’s like gone. without notice. wtf!)

intriguing blog commenter: tie between bugginword and dufmanno. (both make me feel like i’m swirling in some kind of an imaginarium. that’s a good thing, btw.)

awesome gift giver: three way tie between subwow, wicked shawn and a vapid blonde. (i retire my tiara to these sexy, amazing girls who all blew my mind this year.)

rad nail polish design: fuck u on lindsay lohan’s middle finger (how much do i want to wear this in the corporate conference room!)

book without flowery language: tie between squirrel seeks chipmunk by david sedaris and life by keith richards (each of these artists are iconic and the fiercest in their respective crafts: satirist and rock star.)

and since i’m still wallowing in my suckdom, i’d like to end on bad note. why jimmy choo, why?

uggs aren't pretty to begin with, why bedazzle them?

holy guacamole i got a package from a secret admirer this week. inside was the book insulting english by peter novobatzky and ammon shea. the front flap reads:

“at last, a compendium of ingenuously insulting words for every occasion, for everyone who’s been stymied by the level of sloth, bad looks, and low intelligence of his fellow man . . . You can’t change the tiresome creatures around you , but now you can describe them behind their backs with pleasing specificity.”

but that’s it, no greeting, no packing slip, no anything. the return address on the package was:

k. paul
8714 W. Olympic Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90064

i can’t find anything associated with this address on the interwebz. also (and i’m very sorry secret admirer if you are reading this and i assume you are because this gift is rather apropos if you’ve read my blog), this books smells like draino, mothballs and anthrax — all in one. i can’t imagine where this book was stored but something tells me there is a tomahawk and nunchuck collection in the same room.

so i’m not sure if i should be flattered or if you’re trying to poison me and why i keep sniffing the book when clearly i’m inhaling anthrax spores.

i’m pretty sure i should be flattered though because it’s a $17.95 hard cover book (plus UPS shipping). yeah, i looked at the price. like you don’t google the cost of gifts you receive? just like you don’t raid the medicine cabinets of friends and family for unused narcotics? don’t try to punk a punker.

i mean if it’s a really fantastic gift, i won’t spy the price.  like this one from absence of alternatives:

i myself am an exceptional gift giver. it’s on my resume cuz it’s a legit talent. in fact, i should be a professional gift buyer. i pride myself on finding just the right gift for the person and not the right priced gift. so no, you won’t see me out on black friday grabbing flannel pajamas for the people on my list just because it’s the doorbuster. i’d much rather spend the extra money and create a splash.

back to the book. being the giving type, i thought i’d share some of the new words i’ve learned from my book. it’s like the motherfucking gift that keeps giving. (this book made me realize i haven’t been cursing nearly enough in my posts lately. so maybe that was the point of the gift.)

nihilarian  /NAI ih LAIR ee an/ n — a person with a meaningless job.
“having trouble dragging yourself to the office? nihilarian career services can help. we train thousands for exciting careers in such fields as iguana grooming, figurine arranging and electric toothbrush repair.”

scrag  /SKRAG/ n – a lean and bony person
“you can never be too rich or too thin,” the unhappy little scrag said to herself, washing down her guilty feast of half a rice cake and a stalk of celery with a diet protein shake on her way home from ultimate pilates class.”

bedizen /bee DIZ en/ v — to dress in a flashy or vulgar manner.
“most of the time, our aunt martha was a quietly unattractive person. when fully bedizened for a special occasion, however, such as one of her semiannual dates with the local butcher, she transformed in a scarecrow-like monstrosity.”

maybe you could use one of our new words in a sentence. or maybe you can help me identify my secret admirer. or maybe you can tell me the best/worst gift you’ve ever received. just leave me a comment, bitch.

there’s a gaping hole where my soul used to be. i need to get out of corporate america. mostly because of the pudsuckers i talked about in my last post. it just makes my blood boil that these princesses executives are grossly over compensated and they’re not even doing anything great. they’re not changing the way the world does business, saving lives, or doing anything to prolong the female erection.

au contraire! too many of them are actually running businesses into the ground (e.g., the american bankers and automotive execs).

i have to believe the execs at the likes of franzia and apple, whose companies are doing great things, don’t behave like the rest of these corporate asshats by taking their money for nothing and chicks for free.

the other reason i have to get out is because my mental illness isn’t really compatible with corporate america. there isn’t a name for my mental illness, other than “my mental illness,” because it’s a mixed bag of mental maladies, including but not limited to:

blushing disorder– i hate the spotlight and have issues with authority figures. you have to lovvvvee the spotlight to succeed in corporate america. substance not required.

high-low disorder — i could conquer the world during my manic phase, but i could junk punch a bitch during my low phase.

german disorder – i hate my lack of perfection and criticism thereof. believe me, i’m my own worst critic so i don’t need any help in this department.

irish disorder — i believe drinking and occasional recreational drug use should be part of the creative process. “The problem with some people is that when they aren’t drunk, they’re sober.”  ~W.B.Yeats

punk disorder– i despise conservative clothes, jewelry and hairstyles. why can’t a girl wear rock tee shirts, jeans, and doc martens to work and still be taken seriously?

night owl disorder– i prefer to work when i’m inspired, which doesn’t always occur during the set hours of 9-5.

UV disorder– i’m wilting under fluorescent lights. i need frequent doses of the UV rays to thrive.

george carlin disorder — there’s rarely a sentence formed in my mind that doesn’t have shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits so it’s a little hard to get anything out of my mouth because it requires reprocessing. and let me tell you, my filter is deteriorating with age.

so i’ve explored two alternative ideas, but they have flaws:

photographer– i’d need to be a fine arts photographer, like nan goldin, cindy sherman, diane arbus, robert frank, robert mapplethorpe or larry clark. i wouldn’t want to do babies, weddings or sports. commercial photography might be good if it was fashion or portrait photography like the work of annie leibowitz or richard avedon. but i think it’s a little late in the game for me here.

greeting card writer — hello, have you seen 500 days of summer? but here’s the rub: print is a dying breed in the wake of facebook, twitter, and free e-greetings. ideally sommecards would be a target but often, they’re too mean. hilarious to read, but not sendable.  i would need to start an edgy online greeting card company, without the insult and free factor. anyone in? designers, email me.

if you have any other ideas for me, let me know.

on the up side, everything is well in my little blogosphere. i’ve felt the bloggy love and have bestowed it on those whose writing continues to inspire and entertain me. recently, i received this award, from not one but two beautiful bloggers, sister merry hellish and the barreness.

the rule is i’m supposed to name 10 others to give the award, but the truth is i couldn’t pick just 10. everyone listed in punk places is worthy of this award, so read them all!

cuz i have a exceptional taste in writers and they’re all dougie like that.