Somebunny Luvs U!!!!1

13 Apr

This week is the Dairy Queen’s 25th anniversary, and in celebration they’ve created the caramel brownie Blizzard. Trent and I decided to go help them celebrate. You know, it’s like—they’re having a birthday party. You know how sad people get when they have a party and no one shows up. Plus I love caramel. Perhaps the only thing I love more than caramel is brownies. It only seems fitting I don’t deprive myself of the things I love. I also went and picked up a nice sack of Tim Horton’s coffee to send to my parents this afternoon. Tim Horton’s is huge in Canada, and when we moved to the states, my parents were disheartened to discover it didn’t exist here (they had a coffee addiction). Fortunately, the Northeast is close enough to the border to have a few scattered Tim Horton’s around town, so I’m going to make them the happiest little Canadian couple ever and send them some beans.

I just read a girl’s status that said, “If you’re not a hemorrhoid, get off my ass.”

My question is, why would you give a hemorrhoid permission to stay on your ass? I don’t think that ‘things not allowed on your ass’ should be limited to tailgating drivers and nagging girlfriends. Am I wrong?

“Only 61 Days To Go!”

This is the alert that my Wedding Wire website is bringing to my attention in lieu of my upcoming wedding. It is also informing me that there are still 86 crucial tasks that I have not yet completed in order to have the perfect wedding. I wonder what these 86 tasks are. As far as I know, I only have to figure out who my florist is. Ignorance is bliss. I probably won’t check.

People keep asking me questions like, “Are you freaking out yet?” “What are your emotions like?” “Are you scared?” I’m not on death row, I’m getting hitched. Should I be freaking out? I guess most people do. I’m just really, REALLY excited. I mean, have you SEEN the menu? (Here’s a hint: there will be an abundance of stuffed mushrooms and crab cakes, and that’s just a teaser).

I do need assistance figuring out this whole marriage license deal though. Items to-do like this make me really, desperately want a personal assistant. Perhaps an Indian who wants nothing more than to please me and fulfill my every need (but not a prostitute). You know, complete day-to-day tasks and administrative work such as paying my bills, fetching my groceries, locating the best tanning salons, researching restaurants, TiVoing programs on Showtime. Anyone need a job?

I recently got confronted by someone whose status I had bashed on one of my latest blogs. This person informed me that they were a big fan of mine personally and professionally, but that they didn’t think making fun of their antics was a very nice thing to do. At first, I felt a small pang of remorse; you see, anytime I make fun of a real person (a.k.a. non-celebrity), I rarely make fun of the person themselves, but instead, something they did. Example: I might love my friend, but if they wear MC Hammer pants out on Friday night, I am not afraid to tell them and make a clever/mildly offensive joke about it. That’s just me. So, I almost felt bad, but then I realized this: if you can laugh at someone else’s expense, then you have to laugh at your own. In other words, if you can’t laugh at your own expense, then you’re not allowed to laugh at someone else’s. (Exact same idea, just, backwards. Some people need that. i.e. dyslexics). Now, if said person now reads this and feels further offended, then they have missed the point.

The point is this: If I make fun of you, you did something gay/stupid/embarrassing. That doesn’t mean I hate you (most times). I would be worthless if I took everything funny I said back. With that being said, if you are offended by something I write that may in some way pertain to you, but you religiously read my blogs, then stop. You can’t laugh at everyone else if you can’t laugh at yourself.

Moving right along.

Today I received the Easter package promised by my mother—the one containing the Cadbury Mini Eggs I had dreamed about. It was whimsical. My mom always goes way overboard with gifts. She still decorates both the outside and inside of my parcels with enormous, glittery stickers, decorative tape, and hearts drawn with Sharpie marker. Inside the festively decorated package was a zebra-print shoebox with a note on top.

“Becca, I was checking out in ShopKo when you texted me about your Mini Egg problem. I turned right around and went in to get you your eggs. Then I decided I may as well buy enough candy to fill a shoebox to make the package worthwhile. Enjoy. Love, Mom.”

The box was filled with Easter grass, stickers, Cadbury Creme Eggs, Russell Stover coconut cream eggs, two sacks of Cadbury Mini Eggs, and chocolate covered Peeps. Mmmm. Hello, ten pounds. My mom, she’s so cute.

ANYhooter, time for me to brew some tea and research marriage licenses some more. Adios, girls and boys.

“You’re telling me you’d rather have beaver teeth instead of thumbs?”


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