How I Plan to Become an Overnight Internet Sensation

I can't tell you how many times I've cursed myself for not being the creator of the Hipster Olympics YouTube video. I find it so frustrating that I spend so much creative energy trying to be snarky and witty when all I need is a blog like "Stuffonmycat.com", "Dontevenreply.com" , or "Passiveaggressivenotes.com" (all of which you should check out because they're funny as hell). All you have to do to make some web advertising coin is snap some footage of your baby on pain killers dancing to Beyonce or Photoshop Bea Arthur's face onto a naked playmate's body and everyone's emailing it to everyone overnight.

Whywontanyofthisshitchargemyphone.com

This is a forum for people who have a seemingly ample supply of power cords, none of which are compatible with their cell phone. Am I right?

Namethatstink.com

I'm in the process of figuring out a way to upload smells. You could ask a forum of housewives, "Is this milk bad?". It could be a sort of trivia game if I can get it all worked out. Is it hamster cage? Or chicken Piccata? Anyway, it could work.

Howdoyouevenusethis.com

I know that anyone who's anyone uses one of these things to make their coffee. But how the hell does it work? Someone gave me one as a house-warming gift and I just want to know how to use it.

Theavocadosibuybutnevereatbeforetheyrot.com

This is a forum for people like me who buy more than one avocado at a time and always end up throwing them out because you put them on the window sill and forgot all about them. Oh, and I've tried that little experiment where you shove toothpicks in the pit and try to make it grow. It doesn't work. I end up searching all over the kitchen for the funky smell until I realize it's moldy water in a Dixie cup and all I've grown is staph.

Hipsterporch.com

This is a site that caters again to hipsters. For some reason, people love to post pictures of hipsters and Brooklyn and bicycles on the internet. Here is a picture of my hipster porch. Notice the scooter and bicycles which suggest we're very active, juxtaposed against the ashtray filled with a giant pile of cigarette butts.

Acaseforeuthenasia.com

This is a human rights cause that's really close to my heart. There's a growing epidemic of dogs chewing shit up. This week it was just my Vans, but next week it could be my face. I know this issue is controversial but I'm just trying to raise awareness.



The following photo was taken at my place of work were I have to clean up after a two-year-old and his five cats. You can't see it in the picture, obviously, but there is a nanny-cam in this room. When I am confronted with the footage of me seeing this mess, acknowledging it, snapping a picture of it with my cell phone and then leaving it exactly where I found it, I will refer them to my nanny worker's rights campaign website,

Notinmyjobdescription.gov

The preceding photo can also be found on Thingsthatmakemedryheave.com.

To save on-the-go gals like me some money, I have come up with,

Proteinbartastetest.com

This one was gross. Have you ever accidentally eaten deodorant? I might have guessed had I read the ingredients, one of which was "pea powder".

So, those are a few of my ideas. I'd love to know what people think. Also, if you think you can do any better, by all means...

Why I Might be a Bad Person - 1

Have you seen the Burger King commercials with the father and son who are cursed with tiny hands? Well, if you haven't seen it, the whole shtick is that this guy is explaining to his son that he has miniature hands and is sorry to have passed this unfortunate trait on to his offspring. And while life will be a struggle in many ways with this defect, there is some redemption thanks to Burger King's Junior Whopper, which fits perfectly into their hands made entirely of pinky-fingers. They can order the baby version of the fast-food sandwich and tell everyone its the grown-up version because it looks like the big-boy burger, relatively speaking, when they wrap their tiny digits around it.

I could have saved Burger King's advertising department a shoot-load of money. Instead of hiring some Russian computer science major to digitally shrink the actors' hands, they could have used this guy I know who actually has hands that small. He would have done it for cheap, too, because I am fairly certain that no one will hire this guy to do anything else since he has frighteningly tiny appendages.

I have so many hang-ups but usually I'm able to overlook even the most egregious of physical issues including halitosis, webbed toes and even a laser-eye (and I know it's "lazy eye" and there's probably even a less-offensive name for it but a good friend of mine once coined it a "laser eye" because she said it was as if the thing was shooting a jerky blue light beam in different directions, making the imaginary zeeeeeeeee! zeeeeeeeee! zeeeeeeeeee! noise as it threatened to sever everyone's heads). However, I can't stand to be anywhere near this person and his toddler hands.

I don't think I can do them any justice by describing them in words. So, if you could get your digital camera and take a photo of your own hand and then zoom out as far as possible. Or, even better, upload the photo onto your computer and open it in Photoshop - I know Photoshop is hard to use but I think there is a tool that is represented by a minus (-) sign - just click the minus sign until the computer sends you some kind of error message. Now, print out the image on a piece of paper and take it to Kinko's (which I think now is actually just FedEx) and put it on the Xerox machine and shrink the shrunken Photoshop version down as far as it will allow. No, wait, actually, if you could ask someone in a blue apron for some assistance because I think they keep the machine you need behind the counter. Oh, wait a second. Scrap all that. You know when you're browsing the web and the mouse cursor turns into that little hand when you go to click on a link....that's it! Those are his hands.

But his hands aren't a cute little cartoon version of a Mickey Mouse glove. They're real human hands and they're not cute. And boy oh boy I cannot stand to look at them, let alone be touched by them. One evening we saw this fellow out at a bar and he came over to say hello. Now, whenever I see him, I take comfort in reminding myself not to look at them and this usually works but on this night it didn't help a lick.

He'd clearly been drinking all day because he had no concept of the imaginary bubble we're all supposed to respect when speaking to one another. He was very close to me and speaking some nonsense that I can't report on because I was too busy telling myself not to look at his hands. I'm not sure what I said to prompt him to do what he did next but I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it. Let's just say I said something like.

"Ha ha, you're pretty drunk, huh?

And then, the unspeakable happened....Ok...here goes... He "shushed" me. But instead of shushing me by placing his finger up to his own mouth, he put his finger on MY mouth!

Asa knows how I feel about this guy's baby hands. He knows how I feel not just because he's heard me talking about it before but although he'll never admit it, he hates those baby hands as much as I do. He's just a better person than I am, that closet baby-hand hater! Anyway, he looked at me and had this astonished expression on his face. It was as if he was waiting for me to react as though I'd walked through a spider web. And while I felt like I'd walked through one inside my heart, I remained comp0sed, laughed it off and took a big swig of my wine.

Eventually the guy moved on to gross someone else out and I haven't seen him since but I think about that night all of the time. I mean, what's wrong with me? Huh? The guys hands aren't bloody or pus-y (pussy?sp?) or even a little sweaty and I can't let it go.

This is why I might be a bad person, reason #1.

Just the Tip

You Gotta Be Fucking Kidding Me!


A group of yuppie friends are out at dinner. They're all sitting around a big table and the air is filled with conversations about work and play and life in general. One guy, Frank, turns to his friend Jim and mentions that his mother is interested in having some cosmetic surgery at his private practice.

"Say, Jim, how much does a thing like vaginal reconstruction cost?" asks Frank.

"You know what Frank, don't you worry about it. We'll work something out. Your mother deserves only the best!" Jim assures him.

"I know my dad's really gonna appreciate that!" chuckles Frank as they clank their glasses of twelve-year-old scotch.

Their wives are having a different conversation altogether:

"You know Jenny, I've noticed that since so many people are poor right now, that Rosa is putting a little extra elbow grease into scrubbing those toilets. And you're not going to believe this, but I think she's been studying English!"

"Tell me about it Kimberly! Luis has been putting in extra hours, unpaid! My only complaint is that he's always kneeling and praying before using any equipment. It kind of causes a scene. He is so petrified he'll end up like his brother Raul, footless, jobless and deported after a nasty incident with a faulty lawnmower. It's actually pretty adorable!" giggles Jenny.

"I hate to say it but this recession, or whatever it is, is about the best thing that's ever happened to my picture window!" laughs Kimberly.


Their dinner and conversations go on like this for awhile. Everyone is enjoying expensive food and libations. Someone orders some vodka and caviar. Someone else orders a side of lobster tails to take home to their Peikapoo. One of the ladies orders a glass of Dom in which to dab her napkin so that she can try to remove the spot of Opus One she has spilled on her white mink. Everyone is indulging and having a good time.

Then, the waitress brings the check. She hands it to Frank. Frank opens the thing up, has a look at the bill, looks up at the table and asks, "So, who had the....?"


REALLY Frank?!

Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank....Frank Frank Bo Bank, Banana Fanna Fo Frank, Mee My Mo Mank..... Frank.

FRANK!

You got to ask yourself, Frank, WTFWJD? Do you think Jesus would make his fellow fat-cat and his wife split the bill? NO! Frank. He wouldn't. And I can tell by looking at you and your Hummer that you love Jesus so don't disappoint him by being a total ass-hat.


I'm pretty poor. I mean, I'm not poor-poor. I have all of my teeth and I smell fine. I'm just on the bottom of the middle. We always pay our bills and mortgage on or around the times that they're due. We get by but some months, just barely. We eat in a lot. We save spaghetti sauce jars and use them as drinking glasses. I work tirelessly all spring, pulling weeds and hoeing myself out so that we don't have to buy a single tomato all summer.

And you know what? I have never uttered the words at dinner, "who had the...?". No, in fact, if you're standing in line next to me at Subway, I'll pay for your footlong and make it a combo. No sweat. I don't know what it is, but I cannot stand to nitpick over an itemized receipt. And I find it so quintessentially rich, white, American to divide a dinner bill, tallying up each person's or couple's every individual morsel before adding a twelve-percent tip.

First of all, it's totally classless. Second, it is the most annoying thing to put a waitress through. I mean, you might as well walk in at 9:59 when the kitchen closes at 10 because she's going to be there all night running your six different credit cards and making change anyway. Ok, at the beginning of dinner you are allowed to tell her, "Say, sweetcheeks, we're gonna be on one check and they're gonna be on another,". I don't love this, but this is totally acceptable. She's got it all nice and organized right from the beginning and you each just had her your black American Expresses and don't worry, you didn't accidentally buy your friends anything.

This could quite possibly be one of my many, many, many neuroses. I understand that we're not all ballers and can't be picking up everyone's tab all of the time. But if you're out with friends and you don't despise them so much that you think you may go out with them again sometime, then do the classy thing and take turns.

OR, you can play a little game I like to call "Just the Tip". My sister and I love this one. We'll have lunch twice a month or so and alternate. One time, I'll get the bill and she'll get the tip and the next time, vice-versa. Get it? Yeah, and we get to have a giggle over it. Even though it's always the same routine, when the waitress brings that little black book, we can't help but say,

"Hey, you wanna play just the tip?"
"Just the tip? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, it's so much better than having to deal with the whole thing,"
"Yeah, totally. You should do just the tip, just to see how it feels,"
"Ok, I'm just putting the tip in here,"
"Ok, how was it? Was it ok? You only put just the tip in there, right?"
"Yes, yes, don't worry. It was just the tip,".

Mrs. Vaughn

Mrs. Vaughn:

I work as a nanny. I am qualified to do something that some would consider more important, but the economy sucks, so I work as a nanny. And what is do is important. It’s important to the two year old who is LUCKY to have me.

As we take leisurely walks around the neighborhood, pointing to bits of nature and mailboxes and guessing their colors incorrectly, I can't help but notice what a great job I'm doing. I've taught him to spell his name and count to twelve. I fix him miniature cheese omelets for breakfast and tell him his broccoli florets are tiny trees so he'll eat them. We go to the park and I let him toss whole slices of bread into the pond and we watch the ducks tug-of-war.

I can’t help but envy this kid. Sure, his parents work too much and he doesn’t see them as frequently as kids in families who have the luxury of keeping one parent at home, but he has me. He has this cool-ass-nanny. And I have Mrs. Vaughn to thank for that; God rest her soul.

Mrs. Vaughn was a total bitch. She was one of my childhood babysitters - one of the more significant ones, I’d say. She was an older woman, probably in her sixties. Actually, maybe she was thirty-three and just seemed really old to me in her elastic-waist pants, housecoats and moo-moos. She had long acrylic fingernails - not the less trashy ones squared-off with the white tips - but fingernails so overgrown that they curled under at the end. She was totally unable to use a calculator, microwave or telephone - touch-tone or rotary. For that matter, thank god there were never any emergencies so dire that she might have had to call any authorities.

I knew she was married at some point from the air-brushed family photo hanging over the television in her living room. I always wondered though, what had happened to her husband. I imagine she murdered him.

She had a grandson too, named Bobby. Bobby would occasionally recite a swear-word he'd learned from his grandmother. She would then not only threaten to wash his mouth out with soap, but would actually do it. She'd sit him up on the counter, grab him by the hair and tilt his head back. She'd then squirt Ajax in his mouth and watch him cough and choke before giving him a glass of water to wash it out. He'd be crying while large bubbles grew and burst in between gasps. She'd say, "I'll teach you to fuckin' cuss in my presence! You better respect me boy!"

When my mother dropped me and my little sister off, often times there were several other children of various ages hanging around. Lets be clear though, that this was not a licensed daycare facility. This was the 80's, after all. You know, that time before the 90’s when people bothered to use things like nanny-cams, or even show up earlier than expected just to check-in. No, this was the 80's which was the decade just after the 70's - a time my parents longed to revisit twice a month for a crazy night and were grateful that Ms. Vaughn could oblige. The 80's was a time before childproofing, before you inspected your child for bruises that weren’t there when you dropped them off. If they were alive when you came to retrieve them, they were probably ok - they might turn up with a bite-mark on their neck or missing their eyelashes but if they were breathing, as far as my parents were concerned, Mrs. Vaughn had done her job.

Once that front door closed, Mrs. Vaughn would hurry us into a baby-gated playroom full of toys - toys with masking tape yard-sale price tags all over them, many of which had been chewed either by animal or child. Some were sets that were missing pieces and some were pieces that were missing sets, but anyway we made it work. You may have played “kitchen” for example, but instead of making a delicious plastic fried egg, you’d make a delicious plastic fried screwdriver from the missing tool belt. There were some entertaining moments, though. We’d pretend we were poor like Mrs. Vaughn, complaining about the rising cost of individually wrapped slices of cheese-food-product. We'd mock her, lovingly cradling baby dolls one second and in another, after hearing a pretend whimper, smacking them around, cursing and shaming them, and dragging them by the hair into the corner.

While left to our own devices in Mrs. Vaughn’s playroom, Ms. Vaughn would put on her “stories”, plopped down in front of the rabbit ears in the next room. We all learned the hard way that at this point, you were not to disturb her. If you had to pee, you knew to ask before your parents left the premises and if you were really smart, you declined any beverage offer in the few hours before you left your own house. But when you’re six, your bladder is six and you and your six-year-old bladder were going to have to go eventually, and for that, you were going to get it.

Simply put, if you bothered Mrs. Vaughn, she’d hit you. She’d smack your little hand and then drag you with your arm over your head, hanging by a tendon from its socket, and toss you into the bathroom. She’d wait for you to be finished and then she’d hit you again on the way back to the playroom.

While it was impossible to escape her wrath entirely, I found the loopholes. Ms. Vaughn didn’t know her own loopholes, but I did. I was smarter than Ms. Vaughn.

When she smacked your fat little hand, she had a distinct habit of doling out a slap for every syllable she shouted at you. It sounds strange but It went something like this: “Don’t (slap) you (slap) nev-(slap) er (slap) in-(slap) ter-(slap) rupt (slap) my (slap) sto- (slap) ries (slap) so (slap) you (slap) can (slap) take (slap) a (slap) stu-(slap) pid (slap) piss (slap) nev-(slap) er (slap) ag-(slap) gin!”

It took me so long to figure it out. I had been potty trained at eighteen months and for four-and-a-half years, the drill was to speak up when you had to go. Ms. Vaughn was able to undo all of that learning, all of the applause whenever I avoided an accident, the relinquishment of the fear of falling in, the satisfaction of the flush. She had un-potty trained me.

I found to my initial surprise, that if I went ahead and wet my pants, the punishment was much less severe. It would usually go something like : “I’ve (slap) told (slap) you (slap) we (slap) don’t (slap) wet (slap) our (slap) pants!” Do the math. Fewer syllables, fewer smacks, less pain. Then, Ms. Vaughn would change my clothes (as my mother had been asked to pack extras but never bothered to inquire as to her kindergartner‘s sudden inability to hold it).

And while I’d still take a few blows, I comforted myself with the notion that I had not only avoided a more severe punishment, but had forced her to have to change my wet, urine-soaked Osh-Koshes.

Survival - my grandfather would say I had learned a great life-lesson learning how to handle Ms. Vaughn and should I ever find myself in Nam or some other dangerous place, surrounded by "gooks" or "towel-heads", I might get out of there alive, so I ought to be grateful.

I had a small amount of success with this methodology for a fairly long time or, what seemed like a long time to me. Eventually, she adjusted her policy. One evening, while my parents were away on an overnight date, Ms. Vaughn blitzed me.

I relieved myself in my own clothes as usual and waited patiently until she noticed. She came in, saw the wet spot and smacked me a little, as I had prepared for her to do. She snatched me by the arm and escorted me angrily into the bedroom and as usual, she yanked down my pants and my shirt over my head, rug-burning my little ears. All was going as expected.

But then, the routine changed. She grabbed me sternly by my armpits and tossed me onto the baby changing table. What was I doing up there?

“You want to wet your pants like a little stupid baby? Huh? Ok. Well, we’ll dress you up like a big, fat baby!” she shouted.

“Huh?”

“Lets see what you look like, baby New Year! Lets see what a big fat baby you are!” At this point she was laughing at me. I wasn’t sure what the joke was, exactly, but I was a bit relieved that she was giggling.

But then, she did the unthinkable. She grabbed a diaper from below, pushed me onto my back and grabbed me by the legs. She shoved the white, papery thing under my butt and ripped the tabs across my stomach as tight as they would go. She grabbed me again by the armpits, stood me up, stepped back and took a long look.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! You’re a big, fat, redheaded baby, you stupid baby!” she cackled as she stared at me, standing there with my butt-cheeks hanging out the side and my belly over the top. A chill came over me and goose bumps popped out all over.

“C-c-can I have my clothes now, please?” I begged. I knew there were extras. We were on an overnight stay and I saw my mother pack them with my own two eyes.

“No way, baby. You’re gonna wear a diaper so you can wet your stupid self all you want. You like wetting yourself so much, why don’t you do it right now!” she said as she put me on the floor. “Hey, go back in the playroom and show your little sister your new outfit, baby,”.

I shook my head. No way I was going in there on my own, although I knew she would put me in there any second. She held my hand and called around the corner, “Get ready! Get ready to see the new stupid baby!” and she shoved me out in front of my audience. The other kids looked up at me. I expected raucous laughter, but my sense was that the others feared the same could easily happen to them. They just looked away and pretended to be busy playing “tool belt breakfast“.

I was cold and nervous. I didn’t feel like playing, so I sat awkwardly in the corner, hoping that at any moment my punishment would be over with. I mean, could she possibly keep me in that diaper for very long? It was cutting off the circulation in my stumpy little legs.

Some time passed. Its hard to say how long, but my mind had drifted somewhere else for awhile. Then, the phone rang. I could tell by the conversation that it was Mrs. Vaughn’s daughter, Dotty. Dotty lived two houses down the street from Ms. Vaughn and they were very close. They seemed to share the same unfettered love for poodles, brass and particle board furniture, the color “dusty rose”, and physically and psychologically abusing children.

“Oh girl, have I got something for you to see!” Ms. Vaughn exclaimed into the receiver. “I’m coming over. Just you wait up.”

At that point I was immediately comforted by the notion that Ms. Vaughn couldn’t leave us all here. She’d have to take us down to Dotty’s, so she’d have to finally dress me. Things were looking up. And, I was curious to see what surprise Ms. Vaughn had for Dotty. Was it a new macramé toilet tissue cozy?

I was the surprise, of course. She lined us up and led us down the street with me in front, waddling across the uneven pavement as she pointed to me and waved at passers-by. When we reached Dotty’s, she shoved me up the front steps, grabbed the other kids and hid around the side of the house while she whispered to me, “Ring it, baby!”

I did it. I just rang the bell. I gave in and rang the damn bell because I knew I was losing this fight and the sooner I cooperated, the sooner it’d be over. Dotty, a fatter, younger version of her mother, came leisurely to the door. When she saw me, she looked puzzled - but only for a second. She immediately realized that I was the surprise and she burst out laughing.

"Momma! You so bad!" she said to her mother as we walked up the steps into the ugly ranch-style house. When we got inside, the two pointed at me and laughed.

"How do you like our new baby? She likes to pee-pee in her panties like a little baby so we got her fixed up real good with a little baby diaper!".

When they got bored of humiliating me, they decided we should all convene in the dirt-patch they called the back-yard. All of the other kids took their places on the rusty swing-set or among the clumps of cat poop in the sandbox while stood silently and still behind a tree. Every so often Mrs. Vaughn would shout over at me, "Hey there baby! You need a new diapey?" and I would look down at my feet and shake my head.

I didn't speak a word the rest of the night. Eventually, Mrs. Vaughn put us to bed. I remember waking up in the middle of the night having to pee and realizing that I'd have to use the diaper. I woke up clammy and itching. I had developed a rash in only a few hours.

During breakfast I was still wearing the same diaper now soaked and heavy and droopy around my hips. I heard the phone ring again. This time, from the conversation, I could tell it was my mother. It sounded as if they were on their way to pick us up and I felt immediate relief.

Mrs. Vaughn took me into the bedroom. I thought for a moment that she'd change the diaper. In fact, I hoped that she would. My mother would see the diaper and what an awful thing this woman had done to me and would give Mrs. Vaughn an earful. She'd hopefully declare that we were never be left in her care again.

But she took the thing off and put me in my big-girl clothes. Then she said sternly, "Now your mommy and daddy don't want no more babies. You're lucky. I'm not gonna tell them how gross you are, wetting your pants like a little stupid baby or else they might give you away."

When I heard tires on gravel outside, I grabbed my sister by the wrist and ran to the front door. When the bell rang and Mrs. Vaughn opened the door, I burst into tears. My mother asked what was wrong and I froze. I said nothing. In fact, I said nothing about it until I was twenty-three.

Why Wizard Dog?

I have four dogs, the most famous of which is called Wizard. Actually, her full name is Wizard Dog but we only call her that when she's been bad: "Wizard Dog! Stop using my toothbrush!" or "Wizard Dog! You forgot to start the dryer!". But mostly when she's good, we just call her Wizard.

We have three others, too. One is called Luna and she is just a dog but has a bit of a wandering eye. If she has the opportunity and gets a wild hair up her ass, she will run away down the street and is just gone. She is insanely difficult to catch. Honestly, she's a total slut. This is because she isn't fixed and you can all take that up with my boyfriend (his dog).

Another is named Quentin - after Quentin Compson from the Faulkner novels, Absalom!Absalom! and The Sound and the Fury, but she's much too dumb to know the significance. I suppose I named her that to impress an English professor I was sort of in love with. She is missing an ear and it is not known if she lost it in a dogfight or was simply born with just the one. It's a good thing though, that she was only born with one ear because the 80's are totally coming back. We've nicknamed her "Side Ponytail". Either way, her equilibrium has always been a bit iffy and she's quite stupid but she is also the most loyal dog I have ever met.

And then, there is Brimley, a puppy with an old dog's face. He's like Benjamin Button or something. He was named by our friend Carter after Wilfred Brimley. You know, "diabetis"? If you don't know who he is, Google him or just watch a few hours of Lifetime and you're bound to run into him.

But Wizard is this most famous and the leader of the pack. She's half chihuahua, half miniature schnauzer. She is called Wizard Dog not because she is a wizard, but because she kills wizards.... Or, so I thought. You see, we once had this giant, chartreuse green, birdlike specimen - with a six or eight inch wingspan, on the glass of our back door. Wizard captured this creature. She actually batted at its near-lifeless body around the kitchen floor until it finally gave in to death and then, she chewed it to bits and coughed it up later.

My boyfriend let me know later that it was actually a lunar moth. It was quite beautiful, really, if you've ever seen one. And it was kind of a shame because the thing was just sort of peacefully sitting there. I suppose it is the circle of life - it was time for the thing to be tortured and killed, wizard or not. But if there ever is an actual wizard around, I envision a very similar scenario. Occasionally, I will look over at her and see that's she's chewing on something. Often times I can identify what's in her mouth as a cockroach, or a pen-cap, or her own feces. But sometimes I cannot tell what she's chewing on and I tell myself it's a wizard.

She also knows how to sit and will go to her crate on demand. We call that thing a crate, but really, its a cage. I like to say in a high-pitched, joyful voice, "Mommy has to leave now. Go to jail!" and she will happily scurry over and climb in. If you say anything in the right tone, they get excited. Sometimes I pet her and say,"Ooooh, Wizard, your breath is melting my head! Yes it is! Your head is so cute and tiny! Yes it is! Yes it is! I could just crush it in my hands! Yes I could! Yes I could! I could mangle your little frame in seconds! Yes I could! I could just squeeze the breath right our of your flimsy little body and chop you up into bits and saute you in Asa's vegetarian-only skillet and serve it up to him and tell him it's marinated tofu! Yes I could! And then I could say 'Surprise! You just ate a wizard dog!' Yes I could! Yes I could! Awwww...you're such a smelly dog! Yes you are!" and then she pants and looks at me with that sort of doggy-smile and then I give her a biscuit.

Wizard though, really has very little to do with this blog. She is pretty cute though, and "dog" rhymes with "blog", so there's that. But really, this is going to be about me and how I can't seem to get a job and why certain things in life make me the way that I am. Although, I think Wizard is probably much more likable and she has a job - one of the most interesting jobs ever, really, as a wizard hunter.

I have decided to start a blog because I think it's about time someone did. I mean, Jesus. Will someone start blogging already?

No, really I've started this because I can't seem to find a job. And I need to be clear. I actually DO have a job. I work as a nanny for this wonderful kid. And it's important to acknowledge that there are A LOT of people out there who don't even have that. My issue is basically that I know that I can do more than what I am doing - so can so many of the people who are stuck in positions they're over-qualified for. And after a vigilant search - a fruitless search, I have made peace with where I am right now and have taken this on as my creative outlet. I am hoping in doing this that the job thing will happen somewhat organically.

I've always been an occasional writer, but now seems like the time to start putting a few words down. I mean, I don't have a lot else to do.

So, I am going to start with a story about one of the weird things that happened to me as a kid. I have to say first, that I think weird shit happened to most, if not all of us. There are a lot of weirdos and creeps in the world and I think many of these people are only products of the weird shit that happened to them when they were kids. Many people will find some of this stuff to be a bit disturbing but will find it even more disturbing that I think it's all very funny. A lot of these things aren't exactly laughing matters...in some people's opinions. But it's my coping mechanism - the only way, really, that some can deal with the weight of it all. Don't get me wrong, I don't just poke fun at everthing. I definitely have a spectrum of emotions and those closest to me unfortunately, have to feel that wrath. Luck for those who actually read this, that I don't allow myself to get too intense about it in written words. Please just don't think that I take this stuff for granted. Also, some is not for the faint at heart but I make no apologies.