... sigh

I obsessively re-read my blog posts and check them for typos. If you find a typo, PLEASE TELL ME. I would die a thousand deaths if someone read this blog and considered me to be illiterate. This morning I was reading the last ten posts for linguistic integrity and (in)appropriate content and my mother asked what I was doing. I said I was reading my own blog, which sounds pretty damn egotistical now that I think about it. She asked me what my blog was about, so I read her the entry about feeding my children chicanery.

Her response: "Oh my GOD, you are not going to want your children to stick out of the crowd like that and not fit in. Sometimes I wonder if we're going to have to have DCFS remove your children and raise them ourselves."

My reply: "I suppose you're not the intended audience for this blog."

For the love of Wilco...!

Uh oh, EtOH!

Last night I crawled home at 4:30 am after a looooooong night of drinking. I woke up at 9 am and stumbled downstairs, a little drunk. I grabbed the sunday crossword puzzle and finished it in record time. Usually I get pissed off at one of the corners and lose interest. (You probably think I'm an idiot now, but whatever, we all have different skills. Mine are irrelevant blogging and Olympic-caliber dating. Yours are... crosswords? How fun for you.)

Next, I finished the quote acrostic. It's this bitch of a puzzle that I've been trying to beat for years... YEARS!!! Then I did the super jumble in less than 2 minutes. Last night in the bar, I couldn't calculate 20% tip on a $12 tab... and listen, I'm not THAT bad at math. It's $2.40, okay?

I wonder if alcohol changes the way the brain is balanced such that the power dynamic between hemispheres (or otherwise "opposing" brain regions) is upset? Finally, an fMRI study that doesn't bore me to death: how average regional BOLD activity changes before, during, and after copious alcohol consumption. Use each subject as his own control, provide an open bar and mingling with attractive strangers (to encourage excess imbibing), and make them get in the MRI machine to do word and math problems every four hours. I'd go to that party. I think the study would explain why so many great writers were also great drinkers, an issue of obvious interdisciplinary importance. What's that, NIH? What are "ethics"?

I am stereotypical

I have been having some boy problems lately and feeling pretty crappy. As in, on the verge of tears all the time crappy. But today I bought three pairs of REALLY CUTE SHOES and it makes me feel elated. As in, dancing around the house in my new shoes elated.

I think I'll go out on a bar crawl with my old drinkin' buddies wearing my new drinkin' shoes!

Ladies, you know when your hormones get out of control and you want to either love or scream at anything in your line of sight? Maybe that's just me. Anyway... I'll have a new post as soon as I stop taking out my inexplicable rage on my sock monkey. Poor sock monkey.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your livers.

One of the things I really like about myself is my ability to simultaneously be a lightweight and hold my liquor. I feel drunk after half a beer, but I don't feel sick after 12 shots of tequila. I'm Polish, German, Irish, and Native American, baby!

The only excuse I have for bragging about this is that I'm headed to Chicago for a week, and this means that my liver needs to get in gear. We don't pussyfoot around drinking in the windy city. I can't wait to get my hands on some pauper quality vodka.

I'm signed up to give blood when I come back. How drunk can you be when you do that? Just askin'.

GRE cuisine

I think when I have kids, I'm going to rename the foods I make for them for my own amusement. For example, I think it would be interesting to call lasagna "chicanery" and satiate my children with the dish before sending them to play at a friend's. Their friend's mother might ask them if they are hungry, and do they want a snack? To which my wonderful children might reply, "No thanks, we're full of chicanery."

Then all the other mommies in the kindergarten class will hang out at the PTA meetings (I won't be there because I don't support meaningless pseudo-government) and say, "Mrs. Twisby is one eccentric lady! But her unwashed, barefoot, hippie-named kids are way cuter than mine!"

MORE OF ME

If I ever go 2 weeks without posting again, don't worry your pretty little heads. You don't have to go through withdrawal from my obnoxious sentiments. I have added Twitter to my blog (upper right) and you can follow me, if you think you really need to, at the user name "twisby."

I almost never post what I'm actually doing because I could only post four times and that'd basically be it. Sleeping, at lab, at Weaver Street, bored. No, no, no; instead, my twitter account is a fountain of inappropriate goodness. Thanks, Internet, for giving me another venue upon which to wreak havoc.

Awkspring

My boyfriend and I like to talk about baby names a lot. I think it's important to agree on baby names with your partner in case you ever accidentally have a child with him. I'm pretty sure that he simply agrees with whatever I suggest because today I suggested the names Thorfinn and Fokkobosker, and he said they were "great." But really, a man's role in picking babynames is just to agree with the woman, isn't it? It is.

Thorfinn "Lightning Fish" Twisby: I think that's a pretty sweeeeeeeeet name. He'd probably be the most popular kid on the math team. I was the least popular kid on math team, so that would be quite a generational improvement.

Attack of the killer ovaries

It's hard to summon up the energy for a sarcastic and acerbic post when there is an imaginary raccoon inhabiting my uterus, trying to chew and claw its way out. WHY, UTERUS, WHY? Someday I am going to stuff a gigantic, months-overdue baby in there to teach it a lesson, and then let's see it try to backtalk me.

There are things this week that I MUST do but have negative desire to start doing. I'm going to blame my dangerous apathy on the raccoon -- settle down in there, Rocky! -- and my upcoming inebriated visit to Chicago. Life gets hard when you get to adulthood and don't find the adult things rewarding... things like "pride in a clean home." I find buying and eating giant chocolate chip cookies rewarding. However, bikini season is coming up and I don't find the day after said cookie-eating to be very rewarding at all. How does one make the shift between concrete childhood rewards and aesthetic adult reward? I fail.

Last week I watched the Grey's Anatomy season finale. Besides feeling bitter disappointment in myself for debasing my good taste, I felt no sadness in the potential deaths of the annoying blond doctor and the annoying short doctor. Television can only improve with less dynamic duos of bubbly blond ladies and bumbling babyfaced men. However, I did cry when I watched a dog food commercial, a Dove soap commercial, a talking dog on Disney Channel, and when Rocky Raccoon gnawed through the last throbbing shreds of my fallopian tubes.

Thank you for putting up with these disorganized, uterus-strangling-me Monday morning blues. Tune in next time when SO HELP ME THEY HAD BETTER BE GONE. Peace, love.

Joe the Plumber Uses the Dictionary

Joe the Plumber Slurs Gay People: I Would Never Let "Queers" Near My Children

All that press from the last election must have inspired Samuel Wurzelbacher to brush up on his learnin'. In the above article, "Joe the Plumber" takes it upon himself to define the word "queer" to the Huffington Post, adding, "People don't understand the dictionary."

I can understand your confusion, America. After all, Joe is concomitantly defending bigotry using the dictionary and defining marriage using the Bible. Seems backwards! Can you help me understand, Joe, the difference between church and state? Can you look it up in the dictionary for me?

And let me just say, I don't want Joe the Plumber near my children, just in case willfully ignorant bigotry is contagious.

Sorry I've been lazy about updating... My life is crazy. I'll be back with more inane rants as soon as I can. In the meantime, go read Fmylife.com for some equivalent embitterment.