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Survival mode.

20 Feb

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I’ve been watching The Colony a little bit lately. If you are unfamiliar with the show, it is basically a reality show based on a social experiment (a la Survivor) in which people are placed in a simulated “end of times” scenario where there has been a giant disaster and people are left to fend for themselves: find food, shelter, create a safe environment, generate electricity, fight off marauders, etc. Basically they have to figure out how to survive and start over with little resources. The group consists of people who are experts in various fields. They have an electrician, a mechanic, a self-defense instructor, a nurse, a biologist, etc.

The point is, I would be useless in the end of times. I can’t do anything. If I were given the task of say, starting a fire, or wiring an electrical outlet, or gutting a fish, I would shit in my pants. What can I do? I mean….I could like, tell jokes. I wouldn’t be necessary to the survival or prosperity of the group. Basically they would kill me and eat me for food.

So I guess there’s that.

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I miraculously have to pee as soon as I get all of my gear on prior to snowboarding. It’s getting annoying. I purposely hydrate at night so that I don’t have to chug a half a gallon of liquids in the morning before I ride, causing me to pee one hundred and fifty times throughout the day, and just when I think I’ve emptied the tank and have put on my long-johns, socks, snowboard pants, Under Armour, thermal, fleece, and down coat, nature calls. Like clockwork. It’s irritating and inconvenient. I think my bladder is playing pranks on me. Can organs do that?

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I have progressed from just abusing the French vanilla coffee creamer in my tea by using unnecessary amounts of it to actually taking straight pulls from the bottle. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing beer bongs of vanilla creamer in the kitchen. This can only end badly. It’s just so damn delicious, you guys. How do they do it? WHY CAN’T ALL THINGS THAT ARE GOOD HAVE NO CALORIES?!?!?!?!?!?

Life’s not fair.

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I have started sending snail mail again lately. I love doing that. There’s just something about sending and receiving physical letters written with sparkly gel pens, covered in flamboyant stickers that really warms the heart, you know? Snail mail. So slow. They try to act like it’s not though. First class, priority—they all sound like the fastest one. It’s trickery.

In other news, the broken laptop situation turned out well, relatively speaking. I sold my broken computer to a dude who fixes computers for $300, and got the exact same 13″ Macbook that I had before for $700. Four hundred bucks to replace a computer isn’t so bad I guess. I’ll definitely be placing my computer on higher land from now on. No longer shall it share the same plane with liquids.

Well, time to go do other stuff. BYE!

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B:   “Are you gonna try that little jump?”

J:   “I don’t know, maybe.”

B:   “Even if you only get a couple inches, at least you’ll know what it feels like.”

J:   “That’s what she said.”

 

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Bearly there.

19 Feb

A television repair man working in New Jersey found a black bear in a customer’s basement. Apparently the bear had decided to hibernate in this old dude’s home.

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Can anyone explain to me how in the world a bear gets into someone’s house without them noticing? Rather, can anyone explain to me how a bear gets into someone’s house AT ALL? How does this happen?  Mice? Sure. Small and sneaky. Bats? They find their way in every now and again. Snakes too. Even birds—sometimes you get a bird in your house somehow, but a 500 pound BEAR? Did Smoky the Bear just waltz up to the front door, open it, and mosey down stairs with a sleeping bag to set up camp for the winter? Did Yogi just sneak in while old ass Dale was lethargically carrying in groceries, leaving the door open behind him? I don’t understand how something like this happens.

In other news, after a long search for my desperately sought-after 2008 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, I had finally found a few prospects on AutoTrader.com and Craigslist. Trent had been in Pennsylvania behind me for a couple weeks and would be returning the day before our Cancun trip, and I had been in Iowa looking online. We had come across a few, but they never ended up working out. Finally, one on Craigslist in Des Moines was looking like the perfect Jeep, and we had just one day to go check it out before we went to Mexico for a week. I get up that day and get ready, and wait for Trent to roll in from PA so we can hit the road.

The dogs start going ballistic, signaling that he had arrived, so I head to the front door to greet him before heading to Des Moines. I catch a glimpse out the window on my way down the stairs of a shiny, beastly, pearly black Jeep in the driveway. The trickery! He had had one the whole time. WOO!

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I run outside to go fondle my new vehicle. It is so lovely. I want to put my tongue on it. Fully loaded with navigation, a Hemi, 18s, leather seats, you name it. I am thrilled. I immediately fire her up to go for a test drive, opening the back door for Raleigh to come with. My dog then jumps in and immediately throws up in the back seat.

Anyway, in order to protect those lovely chromies from the harsh winter salty roads, we got some matte black rims for the cold season. All murdered out.

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Goodbye, Blazer. I will not be missing you. Well, time for me to go shhhnowboarding. Ta ta for now, boys and girls.

And trannies. I haven’t forgotten about you.

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B:   How’s that Jay-Z/Kanye concert going?

A:   Wild. The blacks are going wild.

B:   Haha. Great. Do you feel out of place since you’re not hooting and hollering and humping?

A:   Yes…all of the blacks ran to the front row of my section. I’m just sitting behind them. Haha.

B:   Typical.

A:   This arena just became a Baptist church; he’s singing “Jesus Walks.”

B:   hahaha. Excellent.

A:   The blurry man in the right corner is going to wild he might jump off this balcony.

Lost & Hound

18 Feb

I just spent over an hour f-cking chasing my roommate’s dog down a f-cking river, screaming and sobbing. In my snowboarding boots. I’m livid. I was literally screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, falling down in the snow, crying and cursing the gods. After sixty minutes, I left her for dead and she came back on her own ten minutes later. F-cking bitch.

I need one hundred beers.

In other news, last Saturday, a beautiful big white dog wandered into the apartment parking lot off the highway.

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He appeared to be a white german shepherd/wolf hybrid. He was a little timid at first, but quickly started playing with Raleigh and Bella. He was very friendly, so I invited him inside. He didn’t have a collar on, so I immediately took photos and posted an ad on Craigslist, along with calling the local animal shelters, animal control, and the police department to see if anyone had reported a missing pet. Nothing. I couldn’t possibly let this guy roam around on the busy highway, so we decided to hang on to him until we could locate its owners.

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Six days had passed, and no one seemed to be looking for this dog. We brought him in to a vet’s office to see if he had a microchip, but he had none. Ghost dog. He is the sweetest creature on earth. I love him. He loves me. I’ve been calling him “White Dog” this entire time and he responds to it now. Haha. He’s my shadow. Every  morning at 7:30 a.m., he sits on me. He’s such a lover. I desperately wanted to keep him.

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“Unfortunately,” one of the animal shelters I had contacted the day I had found White Dog called me yesterday and said that the owner was in there looking for the dog. I was flabbergasted that this owner waited six days to contact these pounds to find out if their pet had been found or not, but gave the guy permission to have the man call me. A Mexican man named Juan calls and says he’ll be by around six o’clock to pick White Dog up, whose real name was “Spike” (stupid). He lived literally directly across the highway from us. White Dog obviously loved me more than Juan. He never once tried to run back home. Haha. Anyway, I gave Juan two rubber balls I had bought White Dog because he loved them so much, and told him to keep the collar I had purchased him as well. He tried to offer me $100, but I didn’t take it.

Then I remembered White Dog did break my MacBook by spilling an entire glass of water across my keyboard. Oops. Wish I would have accepted the dollars.

I am devastated to have to let him go. I love that mutt, and miss him terribly. So does Raleigh. Someday I’ll steal him back.

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How is it that you’re always the only people in a Chinese restaurant? I have never been in an Asian restaurant that has been crowded, or even mildly occupied. It’s like, you and your mate walk in, and it’s a ghost town. Just you, all the employees, their children, and their children’s children. For some reason there are always still like eleven Asians working, and all of them rush to help you at once. How do these places stay open? I don’t even care. As long as they keep serving  delicious crab rangoon and fried rice, they can keep money laundering and drug selling in the back. I won’t ask questions.

I’ve been doing some traveling lately, and I’ve been observing the travel attire that people choose while flying. It pisses me off. I feel like I see more high heels at the airport than I do at the bars on a Friday night. You see people who dress up like they’re going to the prom in dresses, full hair and makeup like they’re about to meet the president. You’re flying to Tulsa, lady. Who are you trying to impress? Then there are the people that layer like they’re about to go watch the Iditarod with front row seats out in the open in great outdoor Alaska. Don’t you know you’re going to be stopped by TSA and asked to peel off your clothing layer by layer to ensure you aren’t concealing any weapons, you big stupid onion?

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Speaking of airport security, I have a few things to say about it. One: I don’t understand why they harass, inspect, and strip us to no end before getting on an airplane, but take zero measures whatsoever when boarding a bus, boat, train, taxi, etc. I’m annoyed. Two: I feel like I am the slowest person on earth when it comes time to go through the scanners. I try to take off my shoes, remove my liquids, take out my laptop, and get my jacket off as fast as possible, but I always feel like I can’t do it quick enough. Worse is getting all those items packed back up. I’m standing there scrambling to get it all back together as those plastic bins begin to pile up and block the entire conveyor belt. I panic.

WELL, time to go hang out with the wolf pack. Bi.

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“Kids these days. Carrying guns, raping each other—I mean, we used to literally chase a wheel down the street with sticks. I mean we were poor obviously.”

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A cut above the rest.

8 Feb

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.

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After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.

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I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.

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My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.

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“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

Time flies when you’re an alcoholic.

7 Feb

I’m afraid I might start drinking this french vanilla coffee creamer straight out of the jug. I’m glad there aren’t any straws nearby, or I’d be in some serious trouble. At least this kind is sugar free. Fifteen calories a tablespoon is better than sixty calories a tablespoon I guess. Hopefully I can just get ahold of myself and put the jug back in the fridge where it belongs.

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WELL, I apologize to all of you for not writing a single syllable for like 10 weeks. I have not been in this neck of the woods since the Jurassic Period. Contrary to popular theories out there, I have not been murdered, kidnapped, in a brain-damaging accident, or in Madagascar for the past month. I’ve just been drinking. A LOT. So sorry to keep you all biting your nails and staring longingly at your email accounts and mobile devices, waiting for a new fat steaming slice of Sheppard’s Pie to arrive. I’m back in action, boys and girls.

Let’s recap this gap in time:

1) Christmas happened.  I binge ate a holiday feast that would have made an Ameristar Casino buffet look like Tiny Tim’s Christmas dinner. For me, Christmas is about chugging 11 metric tons of gravy, shoveling sweet potatoes into my pie hole with my bare hands, stealing all the good parts of the turkey before anyone else has a chance to get to them, and consuming teeth-rotting amounts of Welch’s sparkling grape juice. I did all of those things and plunged deep into a coma afterward. It was good.

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2) New Year’s didn’t happen.  I awoke on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, feeling unwell. At first I thought it was day two of my life-threatening hang over, as I had gotten Lindsay Lohan wasted the Thursday before. After spending all day Friday with a skull-shattering headache and a hurting liver that would have killed me if it had hands and a loaded weapon, I figured my vodka-soda holocaust was just spilling over from Friday into Saturday.

I was wrong. My throat was aflame, I was sore and achey, and had what I like to refer to as “sick breath.”  By high noon, I had full blown strep throat. My fever was extreme. I was flip-flopping back and forth between menopausal hot flashes, bursting into sweat and watching steam rise off of my forehead to becoming frigid, icy cold, shuddering with the chills and freezing half to death. I spent 22 hours laying in my bed or on the couch, with half a dozen blankets stacked on me, shivering my ass off and sobbing like a baby.

I have never had strep throat before. My throat was hurting like a bitch, but I was so ill all day on Saturday that I never bothered to get up and investigate my throat at all until Sunday when I woke up. I busted out the flashlight on my Droid and took a look. “HO-ly f*ck.” I shouted. My throat was DISGUSTING. I have pictures, but I’m afraid to post them on the world wide web in fear of losing readers, and also my readers losing their lunch. It was extremely swollen, bright red and black (BLACK!), and nauseating. I have never seen anything like it. I thought I would die. This lasted for about four or five days, and then I finally kicked it. Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t get drunk on New Year’s, and that was depressing.

3) I went to Cancun, Mexico.  This was a 7-day free company trip that I took with 18 other co-workers from the ol’ roofing outfit. I have been to Mexico twice before on company trips, and let me tell you, it is a trip made for raging alcoholics who like to party. The last two all-inclusive resorts I stayed at had four bottles of liquor on tap INSIDE my hotel room, mounted on the wall for easy access, plus a mini fridge filled with beer, soda, and water that was safe to drink. Room service ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, wherein you could request whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and it would be delivered to your room, stat. Sixteen Sol beers, four plates of nachos del grande, a Scrabble board, and a few extra towels at 4:15 a.m.? No problem. Eduardo would show up with a shiny cart within minutes to suit your drunken desires. It was fantastic.

Everyone was wasted. Beginning at 8 am, Enrique Iglesias and Ke$ha songs would be blaring from the bars, drunken hooligans were playing chicken in the pools, doing shots of flaming Dr. Peppers, dropping beer bongs in the hot tubs, screaming like assholes and speaking Spanglish to the resort staff. This continued well into the night until we would head to the clubs (conveniently located just a couple blocks from the resort) around 11 pm, where we would rage until 3 or 4 am at clubs the size of football arenas. Little Mexican girls would prance around shooting water-guns filled with tequila into your face, free Jello shots came around every few minutes, and music would pound into the night until the wee hours of the morning. It was insane.

Why would I expect anything different from this trip?

We showed up to the resort on Saturday afternoon. After getting settled in, we began strolling around the property to see what kind of mayhem we would encounter. Instead of half-naked hotties doing strike-outs and crazy twenty-somethings being crazy drunken lunatics, we saw a lot of Florida-retirees in Tommy Bahama shirts and socks with sandals. Something was a little off.

After exploring the pools, beach, and restaurants, we realized we were basically at a 55+ retirement resort. Olds everywhere. There were tits on the beach, but the kind that fell below the bellybutton (just ask Trent). A lot of the bars on site closed at 11 pm. There was practically no music.

Mistakes were made.

Instead of spending seven days drunker than David Hasselhoff in 2005, I spent seven days eating my weight in resort food, which was also fine. We made up for the lack of binge drinking with actual activities, including snorkeling,

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deep sea fishing,

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eating (a lot),

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and the highlight of my trip, swimming with dolphins!

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Don’t worry, I still got really drunk.

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4) I had a baby.

Just kidding.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I will be posting more regularly again now that I’m back in the great state of Colorado and have nothing to do but snowboard and laze around like a bum. Ciao, folks.
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Me:   “Do we have any ranch dressing?”
Mom:   “I’m sure there’s some in the fridge.”
Me:   “Let me clarify—ranch dressing that didn’t expire in year 2000.”
Mom:   “I’m sure there is!”
Me:   “Oh here’s some. Let’s see……….great, February 2010.”
Mom:   “That’s not that bad!”
Me:   “MOM. TWO-THOUSAND TEN.

illin’.

11 Dec

I just scraped a bunch of skin off my knuckles while carrying my laundry basket down the narrow cinder-block walled staircase that leads into the basement. It’s impossible to put bandaids all over these wounds. I feel like I might have to take a rubber glove, fill it with Neosporin, and then just wear it for a few days. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.
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Just this morning I said, “It’s about that time of year again….that time of year where I get sick.”  Not three hours later, I find myself sniffling, sneezing, and moaning with the oncoming symptoms of an annoying cold. I am rather stuffed up over here. Also, my noggin is a poundin’, and my energy is at a bare minimum. On top of that, I can’t seem to heat up my body no matter what I do. I just put a sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and I had to stop myself from crawling right on in there to get toasty. I feel like doing nothing but merely existing on my couch in my sweat pants with tissues dangling from my nostrils, watching What Not To Wear.

That show has got me by the balls. I forgot how great it was. Are these people serious? Some of these individuals need electroshock therapy because of the things they’ve been wearing. I just watched an episode where this woman wore nothing but turtle items. Turtle everything. Shirts with turtles on them, giant gaudy turtle necklaces, turtle pants, turtle bracelets—and on top of all this turtle paraphernalia, she wore Crocs and mens cargo shorts. Bad.
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I’m glad I avoided living in a generation where people still used folding paper road maps to navigate their way through the world. I have been lucky enough to be blessed in the era of Map Quest, quickly evolving into Google Maps directions, then the invention of the GPS, followed by turn-by-turn navigation on my smart phone. Thank God. Can you imagine having to try to use a map the size of a table cloth whilst driving throughout a busy city trying to locate a Bank of America? Big creases through entire cities, ketchup stains on toll road signs, rips through the legend. What a nightmare. Mapping and driving is more dangerous than texting and driving. I am so happy to be able to just fire up the ol’ cell phone and say, “Send me to Omaha, Phone,” and it does. It just does.

….Droid. Droid does. You get it.
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I wish for someone to purchase me Hungry, Hungry Hippos for Christmas. I truly love that game. I also loved that game where the little fish went around the circular “pond” chomping their teeth together, and you had this tiny little fishing rod of sorts to catch them with. Memories. It’d be funny if they replaced the hippos in the game with really hungry people like Nicole Richie and Kate Moss and Mary-Kate Olsen. Except then the balls that the hippos chomp after wouldn’t be balls, they’d be diet pills.

Never mind.

SO, this week I will finally be returning to the glorious Midwest for the holidays. I can’t wait to see my fellow Council Bluffians and be a little irresponsible while donning Christmas sweaters on the reg. WHEW! I trust you all have delightful holiday plans this year. If not, maybe this will brighten your day:

I will be holding the next drawing on Sunday, December 18!

The next prize iiiiiis:
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This fantastic invention in which the classic puffy warm mitten meets the windshield ice scraper in a glorious marriage, keeping your extremities toasty while you scrape snow off your car in the frosty mornings this winter. The actual scraper-glove I’m giving away is even cooler than the one pictured above. This is a fantastic invention. To become eligible for prize drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie by email, and 2) leave comments! Every comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. Good luck!

Time to go. Bye now.

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B:   When do you think we’ll be hungry enough to eat our dessert?

A:   I hope soon.

Card Games.

23 Nov

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My eyelids are itching like Ke$ha’s crotch on a Saturday morning. Yesterday I treated myself to some nice amethyst colored eyeshadow, and today I am paying the consequences. You see, I have green eyes, and purple is really a great color for them. I religiously wore violet eyeliner for nearly two years, but had been simultaneously struggling with a weird eye infection. For several months, my eyelids had been swollen, red, irritated, and itchy. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Eventually it was so bad, I couldn’t wear any eye makeup besides mascara. After a few days of not wearing eyeliner period, my eye irritation went away. I went back to bedazzling my eyelids, and the crazy swollen eye came back. As it turns out, I am allergic specifically to purple dye in makeups. This is very irritating. Allergic to purple? How does this happen. Anyway, my eyelids are freaking out today. I’m regretting my rebellion against my biology.

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Why is it when you pick up a greeting card off of the shelf at the store, its proper place completely vanishes from sight. Suddenly you can’t find where it goes. At all. Where the f-ck did this birthday card come from? you wonder, completely flabbergasted. You’ve engaged in an involuntary game of Where’s Waldo, except in this case “Waldo” is a birthday card that sings “I’m too sexy for my hair.” The cards go Houdini on your ass, just like that. It’s like you pick up the card, and in the few short seconds it takes you to read it, the rest of the cards play musical chairs and the slot that it came from goes MIA. Next thing you know, you’re stuffing “Happy 30th Birthday” behind “Sorry for your loss.” No one’s the wiser.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’m going to be trying my hand in the kitchen. This pie is going to be a big win for me if I succeed. I love sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes are the elixir of my life. I hope this pie rocks. If it does, I’ll be bragging until Christmas. Then I’ll make it for Christmas, and I’ll be bragging until next Thanksgiving. It’s the circle of life.

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^ Some weird guy.

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My dog is dropping fart bombs like Nagasaki. If I didn’t know he loved me so much, I would begin to suspect that he was trying to pull an Auschwitz and gas me to death. It’s just one after another. His bowels are relentless. I wish he would just take a poop and get it over with. I’ve taken him out twice since this fart-fest has begun, and he trots around for a minute and resists the poop. JUST DROP THE DEUECE, RALEIGH!!!! Stop resisting nature.

Well, I wish I had more things to share with you nice boys and girls, but I just don’t have anything else to say. So….I guess….I guess that’s it.

FOR YOUR HEALTH!

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C:   I keep singing Adele outloud.

B:   Who doesn’t.

C:   I want to carry her voice with me in my pocket at all times. And take it out whenever I want to hear it.  I just invented the iPod.

Missed connections.

21 Nov

Listen everyone. I know you probably started to think that I had died or lost interest in writing or got into a horrific car accident damaging my brain so badly that I lost the ability to read, write, or eat solid foods, but I didn’t. The truth is….I’ve just been a lazy piece of shit. I am SO sorry. (For those of you who are reading this too quickly or who are stupid, that was seasoned heavily with sarcasm. In other words, I’m not sorry.)

Just kidding. I am sorry. I have dropped the ball and bored all of you readers who rely on this blog to make it through your shitty days at the office or your unstimulating college courses five days a week. Allow me to redeem myself. Nobody’s perfect, you guys.

ANYway, a lot has happened since the last time I blogged. I went shopping with Katie Holmes, I totaled my car, adopted a kitten, and was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Just kidding. My car still sucks, I hate cats, and I’m healthy as a horse. I’m not kidding about the Katie Holmes part though. My good friend (yeah right, she’s a bitch) Alison and I were shopping in Southside, and who did we find ourselves shopping right alongside but Katie Holmes. Literally like right next to. Like, we could have touched her. Good thing we didn’t though, because there were two or three body guards roaming around pretending to be shoppers who would have electrocuted us with cattle prodders had we even looked at her queer.

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I’ve done a lot of clothes-buying this month. It’s bad. I moved out here to Pennsylgaynia this spring with like two shirts and a pair of pants (not kidding). Then suddenly I decided I needed more clothes since I left 98% of my wardrobe back in Iowa, so I “spruced up” the ol’ wardrobe. Actually I replaced my whole wardrobe. Meh. That’s what money’s for, right? I have a really hard time refusing autumn and winter wear, you guys. Sweaters, cardigans, jeans, boots, mittens, coats—IT’S SO GREAT!!!!! Anyway, I need to be invited to a bunch of parties and dinners and happy hours to show them all off now. Send invitations to 403 YEAH RIGHT LIKE I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU STALKERS MY ADDRESS!!!!!!

I’m out of control.

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So the holidays are HERE! I’m very excited. I am deeply saddened however that I will not be spending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, being a glutton and stuffing my body with mountainous heaps of Thanksgiving fare.  😦   If I were back in glorious Iowa, I would currently be sitting at the kitchen table, blaring the Charlie Brown Christmas CD, chugging quarts of gravy, and consuming baked goods at an alarming rate. Oh boy. I have been whistling Anne Murray songs whilst traipsing up and down the grocery aisles, spreading Christmas cheer everywhere I go. I LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!

I’ve been using a lot of caps loc and exclamation points during this post. This is what happens when I let blogs build up inside me like this. Sorry for frightening those with heart conditions and/or pregnant or nursing women.

Anyway, since I am not going to be enjoying a Thanksgiving feast at the Sheppard residence this year, Trent and I are going to whip up some food ourselves. Granted, it won’t lay a finger on my mother’s gravy, but it’s better than eating Velveeta Shells & Cheese in celebration of the holiday. Our menu includes the following:

  • Pheasant green bean casserole (….Trent went hunting last week)
  • Chestnut stuffing
  • Sweet potato pie
  • Mashed potatoes
  • Whatever else is on sale
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In case you aren’t aware, I have the biggest hard-on for yams. I love yams. I found this recipe that someone posted for this sweet potato pie, and drooled all over my keyboard and decided to try it:
“Oh my gawd Becca, are you gluten intolerant? So cool that you’re trying to be healthy!”
Health has nothing to do with it, and I f-cking love gluten. This recipe just sounded dope. I used regular pre-made graham cracker crust, so there’s plenty of gluten to go around, folks.
Well, that’s all I’ve got in me for now. I will try to do this more often. OKAY?
Bye frans. Oh, and it’s not my birthday.

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T:   “I don’t think I want the dog getting on the bed anymore.”

B:   “Why!?!”

T:   “Because, babe. I watched him step in his own poop today. He stepped in his own poop.”

Panic room.

29 Oct

Hearing your phone ringing and trying desperately to find it in your purse is such a panicky feeling. You can hear it wailing away, louder, then quieter, then louder again as you dig through the mountain of junk in your purse, getting closer to it, then burying it under sixteen gas receipts and a pair of gloves again. You know time is running out the longer that ringing continues. It’s like trying to get a victim out of a burning building. You’re trying so hard, but the sand is quickly pouring out of that hour glass. Your window of success closing rapidly. And then it stops. 1 missed call. Your victim died of smoke inhalation and is now being swallowed in a fiery blaze in the elevator shaft. And you find that god forsaken phone two seconds after the person hangs up. Tragedy.

I guess you could always do what Lady Gaga does, and secure your phone to your head.

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I’m not recommending it though.

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So many things accumulate in one’s purse. When you first get a new handbag, you put just the bare necessities in it. You feel so pleased that everything is so neat. You simply have your keys, your wallet, your phone, a camera, chapstick, a pen, and a pair of sunglasses. Then a month later there’s deodorant, compact powder makeup, eleven pens, fourteen dollars in change, dog treats, lip gloss, perfume, a cold french fry, wadded up receipts, lotion, movie ticket stubs, Tylenol, crumbs, candy wrappers, free-floating pieces of gum, plastic silverware, water bottles, multiple pairs of sunglasses, babies, rodents. The list goes on. Really the only solution to this issue is buying a new purse. Cleaning it out is not an option. You simply must purchase a new handbag, and hand-pick the items out of your old purse that you wish to transfer into the new purse. The “necessities.” And so begins the cycle once again.

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I woke up today to snow falling. I was ecstatic. Two hours later after I emerged from my office building, the snow had quickly accumulated. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white, and the snow continued to fall heavily. Out came the Christmas music, immediately. I jovially chimed along with “Sleigh Bells” and “Jingle Bell Rock” in my car, dancing and stuffing Dove milk chocolate into my pie-hole all the while. This is what I typically do in celebration of the coming winter months. It’s really the only way to appropriately ring in the frosty weather.

WELL, I would write about more stuff, except that I can’t locate my phone (ironically), and all my blogging ideas are on it. So…….sorry. Bye.

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B:   “What color towels are you going to get?”

A:   “I like the yellow….and I also like the red. I think I’m going to get McDonald’s colors.”

Home is where Taco John’s is.

25 Oct

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Only a few more short weeks until I can travel back to the Dirty Bluffs of Iowa and be reunited with the homies and skanks I grew up with. One of the first things I will be doing upon my arrival back in the Midwest is getting Taco John’s. Apparently they don’t believe in Taco John’s in the eastern hemisphere of the country. They don’t believe in a lot of things in this area of the country though. Politeness, courtesy, selling alcohol, using the left lane on the highway, gas pumps that stick so you don’t have to hold them with your hand the entire time you fill up, efficient road systems, Bank of America, pet friendly apartments, kindness, fun. The list goes on. There is really nothing here to miss when I leave. Except Sheetz. Sheetz is the one savior this dismal place has to offer.

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It’s like QuikTrip, but better. They have DELICIOUS french fries, fantastic milkshakes and other beverages, nachos, sandwiches galore, free air, perks, hilarious slogans, the cleanest bathrooms you’ve ever seen, AND it’s open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Sigh. This I will miss, and this alone.

Tonight’s going to be a great night. It’s Taco Tuesday, and the X Factor is on. That is unless baseball decides to so rudely stick its ugly head into my television schedule YET again, in which case I will be writing a very harshly worded letter to the MLB, mark my word.

I wish Facebook chat had away messages like AIM did back in the day. AOL had it all figured out. “Stepped out to lunch.”   “On the phone.”  “Be right back.”  They even let you make your own. “Dog just puked on the carpet – be back in 5.”  “Sprinting after the mailman.”   “I ate Peking Garden for lunch, now I’m exploding in the bathroom.”  I don’t like to have to log off of Facebook just because I need to go stir my pasta and I’m afraid someone might chat me up and I won’t be there to answer politely. Can’t I just leave an away message? This is such a simple addition to the already complex chat system they’ve created. What’s one more detail?

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It’s the time of year again where my hands are permanent frozen blocks of ice until the weather consistently reaches temperatures above 72 degrees. Shaking hands is super awkward. The person reaches in for a warm firm shake and is met with a deathly cold ice hand. They always jolt back, wide-eyed as if they just reached out and got an electric shock. It’s unavoidable. Someone get me battery operated heater-mittens, would you?

WELL, time to go.

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“What’s ‘Ron’s weed room?'”

“It’s a big room full of weed, and it’s Ron’s.”