Thursday, September 23, 2010

Snark of Righteousness, Spellcheck of Doom

I'm a terrible, terrible bloggess. Damnit. That's already taken. I'm a terrible, terrible blogmaster.  Blogmistress. Blogstress. Bloggera. Bloginator.


I'm totally keeping the last one. Hell, we're making buttons. More to come.


Oh, Christ. I've been away for a week. You can always tell when I've been away for a week because I start breaking out the HTML formatting like acne on a preteen's forehead.

You can also tell because my metaphors get exponentially weirder with every day I'm away.


I'm terrible because I left all of you for a week with Anne Geddes pictures plastered all over the Handbag. Shudder. I'm so sorry. Please fax your therapy bills over here, and I'll pay them off in Pez dispensers and misshapen knitted socks. Or misshapen knitted hipster beanies.

Now. Blog housekeeping. Go go gadget bullet points.

  • I'll be sketchily posting for awhile, as I'm moving and eventually I'll have to give up my internet box. And when that happens, I'll be too busy cutting myself and crying in the shower to post. Crying in the shower to "Nothing Compares to You." Great visual. You're welcome.
  • The fabulous Lilly over at A Pre-Life Crisis gave me an AWARD. That's right, kids, this little blog went from a flea-bitten nag to a pretty show pony in our brief interim.

    Mmm, you're right. Show pony? This blog? Too much. But at least I'm a versatile flea-bitten nag.

    So go check out Lilly's blog! Go! Now!

  • Miss Meg from Oh, hey reality tagged me in one of those fab STD posts where you get to learn all about your fellow show ponies and then pass that shit on. It's like herpes. Informative herpes.

    I actually really love these things, because they make me seriously re-evaluate my life and my stance on the Coke-Pepsi debate.

    Megan asked some great questions and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to answer them correctly because on tests I always forget my #2 pencil and then when I finally find one  it's always mechanical with all the writing rubbed off on the clip thing and I still worry if it's #2 but I decide to live life on the edge and use it anyway but the lead never comes out so you sit clicking for like eight minutes and everyone stares at you so you just have to sit there all casual in your too-small desk pretending you're nonchalant about the whole thing because it's completely normal to sweat profusely and silently barter with God to release the lead YOU KNOW IS IN THE GODDAMN PENCIL BECAUSE YOU CAN HEAR IT WHEN YOU SHAKE IT.

    So. Ahem. Questions.

    1) What do you most regret in life?
    Well, after that pencil tangent, I'm pretty sure my answer can't be anything BUT not bringing 2 crisply sharpened yellow Ticonderoga pencils to every exam. Close second: eating a Marie Calendar microwave pasta meal. That was past its expiration date. Unbeknownst to me.
    This is pretty much how the situation went down.
    No, I didn't make this for the blog. I emailed this out to my friends to explain why I wasn't going out margarita-ing for a friends' birthday.
    I wanted pity.

    I received mockery. In droves.

    2) Paper or plastic? Plastic used to be better, because it saved trees. Then it became paper, because of oil. I keep saying I'm going to crochet grocery bags and be cool. But Kermit was right with his It-Ain't -Easy doctrine re: being green. I keep making Spider-man blankets instead of grocery bags.

    Yeah. I actually made that. File that under "Guaranteed To Make Nicki Lose Followers."

    3) What is your favorite infrequently used word? Blast. As in, Blast! Foiled again. Or shenanigans.

    4) What was your favorite toy/game/thing to do/place to go growing up?The honest answer is reading. The worst punishment my parents ever gave me was to take away my books (and they only did it once--but I was a bitch and deserved it).

    I hated baby dolls. Never understood the fun in the whole "playing mom" thing. When I was 3, the only things I asked Santa for were two tractors. I got them. And I loved them.

    5) Describe yourself in five words. GO!

    Enjoys jumping through fountains naked.

    Or: Writer, Adventurer, Lover of Potatoes.

    6) What piece of literature/film of particular cinematic merit inspires you most? (Kidding. It doesn't have to be fancy. Just a book/movie. Or even a really long Youtube skit. Whatever. And it doesn't necessarily have to be inspiring.) Oh, jaysus. I was an English major. This could take forever. 
    I will never be able to pick what inspires me MOST. But in the interest of brevity (it's the soul of wit, y'all), I'll name the first thing that comes to mind: Shakespeare. God. Cliche. I know. I'm a huge fan. Like, in the nerdist kind of way. I know he's overrated. Shut up. I KNOW. But I'm in love. "O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright"? Christ. My heart flutters. Bard, you can be my muse of fire any day.

    No, that's not a euphemism for an STD.


Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Meet my New Lover

Things can get lonely in a big, empty house.

Oh, Nicki. Of all the horrible mistruths you have intentionally or unintentionally spun on this blog, that one may have been the worst. Rewrite:

Things can get lonely in a smallishly sized, extraordinarily cluttered, maddeningly devoid of color townhouse. Lonely even with an elderly albino ferret and an overenthusiastic Shepherd-Lab mix that is the living representation of Bambi on Ice. All spindly legs and enthusiasm, no coordination. Or brains. Or a mom.

I swear he's genetically modified. Nothing found in nature can run this awkwardly.
Well, maybe a platypus.

Well, things can get lonely unless there's a Top Chef marathon on and I've got a big ole bottle of tempranillo. Or it's Mad Men Night and I force invite my friends to dress like it's 1963, down whiskey, and act repressed. Or I'm playing a game with my next door neighbors called Domestic Dispute or Really Loud Rap Song?, in which I try to guess if the loud noises thumping through my walls are a domestic dispute and I need to call the authorities or if it's merely loud hip-hop they've chosen to blare at three in the morning.

Or, y'know,  my ceiling falls down.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, there is a new man in my life.

He's dark. He's bright. He's quick. He's well-connected. And I can look at him in full sunlight without squinting.


Look at his sexy "electronic ink" display and lightweight design. Take in his sultry page-turning buttons and his oh-so-considerate different font sizes, ranging from normal to semi-geriatric (perfect for my pre-coffee I JUST WOKE UP AND I FORGOT TO TAKE MY CONTACTS OUT LAST NIGHT  AND THE WORLD LOOKS FUZZY AND DISORIENTING AND WHY THE HELL DO THEY MAKE THE TWEETS SO SMALL" moments).

Yep. He's perfect. Now he just needs a name. I put out an incredibly vague twitter request ("My new Kindle/date needs a strong, masculine, and ridiculous name, something like Gustav, Pierre, or Sergei. Suggestions?") and I got some pretty good suggestions--Vladimir (Vlad), Dragomir, and Adolf. Yes, Adolf. Thanks, twitterverse.

I got it down to Anton Chekhov v. Fyodor Dostoevsky. Let's face it, Hemingway and Steinbeck just don't have the same vibe. 


Writer wise, my heart belongs to Chekhov. Always will. But I love Dostoevsky and who wouldn't love a Kindle named Fyodor?

So blog poll: Anton or Chekhov or Fyodor or Dostoevsky? 

My Kindle's birth certificate is in your hands.