Lipstick and Decisions

I’m baffled by people who wear a different color lipstick everyday.  They have half a dozen or a dozen choices sitting in their make up bin.  And every morning they decide to wear a particular color.  A different color.

It’s mind boggling.  I find a color that looks good on me and I wear it until the color is discontinued and then I spend an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to find the replacement.

But these folks DECIDE in the morning what color lipstick to wear.  Who can do that – make such a momentous decision when still grappling with morning fog? Its insane.

A lipstick color that is wrong can just suck all the self worth out of your day.  Seriously.  You walk into the bathroom at work and it screams at you about clowns and slut shaming and wall flowers and being ugly.  It’s a terrible thing having the wrong lipstick on.

It’s a risk.  Lipstick.  And people deliberately take this pointless risk every morning by not having a good safe choice that requires no thought. Instead they poke sticks at badgers by choosing, in the midst of a dense morning fog, a color that could define their entire day.

People.  DON’T DO THIS.  Take Aunt Sara’s advice.  Find a color – wear it every day.  Don’t tempt fate on a day when every fucking thing in the world will go wrong.  Because can you honestly grapple with computer failures and stupid clients and angry bosses when you have worn the WRONG lipstick?  Can you?

Exactly.  So don’t.  Find a nice safe choice and wear it.  Insurance Lipstick.

The person who magnetized the screwdriver

THAT person deserves a Nobel Prize.

Possibly the Peace Prize.

The total level of aggravation that was reduced in the world by this one small innovation was immense.  Awkwardly placed screw hole destined to make humans scream in frustration.  Fixed by magnet.  Dropped screws rolling into deep black holes previously unknown in the home.  No longer an issue.

When was the last time your life was that impacted by the Nobel Prize winner?

Never.

But the person who magnetized the screwdriver.  That person.  A HERO.  A Damn Hero.

Review of A Cat

3 out of 5 stars

Seller did not mention that parts continually fall off the model. Small, barely detectable parts then accumulate on all surfaces in detectable amounts. Its apparently supposed to do that, but its seriously inconvenient.

There was an attempt on the part of the manufacturer to create a system, within the model I obtained, to collect the parts before they fall off and then eject them in one place. But this is VERY disgusting and the ejection often takes place in a place inconvenient to myself.

Overall, I cannot recommend the model to anyone who has an issue with deep cleanliness.
There are redeeming “cute” and “cuddly” features, which keeps me from just throwing out the model in favor of a new vacuum cleaner. It’s probably a personal preference.

If you choose to keep the model, I would recommend training yourself to accept and ignore the constant interference that will be inflicted on you.  Since you chose to keep it, you probably love it, so throwing it across the room is not an option, however justified it may seem objectively.  Instead you must learn to adjust your daily functions to accommodate for whatever it wants to do. Because, its going to do it regardless.

Amazon is drunk. Someone call a taxi.

I clicked on “My Amazon” – which is a list of recommendations based on my viewing history.  Its seemed kind of OK.  And then it became clear that Amazon was abusing the punch bowl at this party.

First was the insult.tumblr_inline_o3xvjlc1251rnoq8u_540

Then it got that weird thing where things don’t add up:tumblr_inline_o3xvpslrmb1rnoq8u_540

And then it just stopped making any sense AT ALL:tumblr_inline_o3xvrjxosf1rnoq8u_540

And then things just got to be freaky creepy: tumblr_inline_o3xvtxb1ir1rnoq8u_540

Someone REALLY needs to call the taxi for Amazon.

Funny Story…

I used to be VERY VERY fat.  400lbs.

I wore dresses to work, but not pantyhose because being that fat and putting on pantyhose is similar in effort to walking up Everest.

I had a drawer full of underwear.  And I hated to do laundry.  I didn’t do the laundry until I had no underwear left to wear.  I never threw out underwear.  And so toward the end of the cycle I would be down to the “emergency” underwear.  Underwear with little or no elastic at the waist and legs.  Ugly, Granny underwear.  Giant Ugly Granny Underwear. Probably with at least one hole.

One day, I wore my emergency underwear to work, with a dress.  All day long the underwear slowly slid down my body.  I would find subtle ways to hold it up while walking, by keeping my hand on my hip. But mostly I focused on holding my legs together as much as possible when walking, so that even if the waist fell down and was hanging below my crotch, I still had the damn underwear on.

Several times a day I would go into the bathroom to correct the upside down Giant Granny Underwear situation.

After work, I stopped by the grocery store and then drove home.   I lived in a small uptown area.  The streets are lined with Mercedes, Range Rovers, the occasional Rolls.  Lots of upscale restaurants and boutiques.  People would stroll the sidewalks and socialize.

I parked my car across the street and down the block from my building.  The Giant Grannies had slowly crept downward while I was shopping.  But when I got out of the car, my hands filled with grocery bags, I could feel it was pretty bad.  Emergency Giant Ugly Granny Undies were moving into the upside down position.

I walked carefully, with my thighs clenched together, my hands too full of groceries to try and hold them up. Then I had to cross the street.  I stepped off the curb without incident.   I still had the Ugly Grannies held up at the crotch, but the waist was hanging down half way to my knees.

I reached the other side, stepped up on the curb, my legs parted and that was the end of it.  Giant Granny Underwear floated down to my ankles.

I stepped out of them and left them in the gutter, without a backward glance.  Like nothing had happened.

It was a defining moment in my life.

The next morning they were gone.  Someone picked up my Emergency Giant Ugly Granny Undies and took them home.

The Great Disappointment of Farting.

I like to sneeze.  I like the release of the pressure.  Its very satisfying.

I like to burp for similar reasons.

I don’t like to fart.  No sense of satisfaction for farts, which makes no sense.  Its the same idea – a sudden emission of gas that relieves pressure.

I don’t like coughing either – but coughing is occasionally painful, and usually not  relieving a pressure so much as a tickle.  So it makes more sense that it’s not satisfying.

But the fart.  The fart should be satisfying, but I just don’t get any satisfaction.

Farts are the popular underdog of human gas expelling.   They are funny and intrusive and embarrassing and annoying and smelly.  But they just don’t leave me wanting to do it again.

Thoughts While Cutting my Toenails:

The big toe nail could easily have evolved into a weapon.  Like the horn on a narwhale.

I have cut the back of my ankle with it twice in my life, when I haven’t cut it down properly

Just walking along barefoot, and BAM- I’m bleeding.

20,000 years ago I think I could have used it while fighting over an animal carcass.

These are the thoughts I have while cutting my toe nails.  I knew you’d want to know.  You’re welcome.

That Bitch, Winter, Showed Up.

Late and with an attitude.

I’m a bit peeved at the inappropriateness of Winter’s party dress this week.

It was 12 degrees at noon today when I went to work. Tonight the low is going to be 3 degrees.  THREE.

This is CINCINNATI, not Canada.  12 degrees is Canada, possibly warm sunny shores in Alaska, but it is NOT Cincinnati. We have a different agreement.

I’m just saying.  Someone needs to address it with her.  She’s getting all kinds of pushy and more than a bit trampy.

I’m sending a note to Weather HR.

Good Advice

Do you want to avoid pregnancy? Tie some goat innards or weasel testicles around your neck.

This is advice from the past.  Actual published advice according to Elizabeth P Archibald.  

Now, I know what you are thinking. “How ridiculous.  How ignorant.”  But you obviously have not thought it through.

How often do you suppose a woman with the fresh intestines of a goat wrapped around her neck gets laid?   (let alone a smelly weasel testicle) How often?

Exactly.  And abstinence, as the GOP is fond of reminding us, is a solution for avoiding pregnancy.

I wonder if the GOP has considered endorsing this insightful old method for birth control.  The tie-in is glorious.  Of course, would they be willing to have Obamacare pay for the wholesale slaughter of goats and the de-balling of weasels?  You know the de-balling of weasels cannot be cheap.

Good Advice – Sometimes its hard to implement.  But – Weasels & Goats are way cute.  They would make great advertising mascots.  mustela_nivalis_-british_wildlife_centre-4 goat-785289_960_720

Boycott Kellogg’s Cornflakes!!

I started 40 years ago when I realized the world also contained Captain Crunch and Cocoa Krispies, but still, a statement must be made.

John Harvey Kellogg invented corn flakes to stop people from masturbating.  I know!  Its horrible.  I can’t imagine why he was so against it.  Maybe he was doing it wrong?

Still, Corn Flakes are clearly an epicenter of sexual oppression.  Or at least get in the way of a good time.  Or something…

Anyway, we need to show that dead sexually repressed man a thing or two.

Stop the Madness – Don’t buy Corn Flakes, People!!!!

OK.  Are they are sending mixed messages here or is that just my imagination?  Because, frankly, Mr. Phelps is a mastabatory epicenter for many many people.  And I’m just saying this just doesn’t seem consistent with the previous Kellogg’s Corn Flake info.

I mean John Harvey Kellogg had a personality that would certainly stop masturbation cold.  And his face is NOT on any of the boxes. 

They are putting Michael Phelps and a particularly odd chicken on the boxes.

Also, I’m really not sure how the chicken relates.  Do chickens masturbate?  I think this chicken may be a masturbating king.  And I think we all know its partying downstairs to things that John Harvey Kellogg probably never even dreamed were possible.  Poor Man.

Maybe Poor John Harvey was just a victim of an age without Google.  I mean until we have been properly exposed, as it were, to the infinite variety of pleasurable perversions, we may never find our maturbatory niche.  Maybe we should be lamenting the sadness of his painfully hands free genitalia.

Well, I’m not sure where the modern Corn Flakery People stand on the subject of self pleasure, but let’s be safe.  Don’t eat them.  They taste like wall paper anyway.  The Captain always was a better time.