It’s the most dreadful time of the year.

It’s here again. Football season. I will hear nothing but football chatter, stat comparisons, and Fantasy draft banter day in and day out in my home for the next several months. The television will constantly be bogarted and nothing will cross that screen except large black men chasing a pigskin ball. If there are 365 days in a year, football is on 400 of those days. It seems as if the season never ends.

To help ring in the 2011/12 football season, allow me to again list things I would rather do than watch it.

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Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch Football – 2011.

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1.  Eat an entire roll of fiberglass insulation.

2.  Sprinkle poison ivy in my salad.

3.  Run a marathon with nothing but warm Vitamin D whole milk available to hydrate with.

4.  Wear a diaper under my pants every day for the rest of my life.

5.  Babysit.

6.  Clean toilets for a living.

7.  Wear overalls to a wedding.

8.  Get slapped in the face with a cactus on my birthday.

9.  Shit a cheese grater.

10. Use a keyboard that blasted an air horn with every letter that is typed.

11.  Eat a roll of toilet paper.

12.  Listen to nothing but Kidz Bop CDs for the rest of my life.

13.  Give birth to a minivan.

14.  Naturally smell like sulphur.

15.  Saw off my own head.

16.  Bitch slap Chuck Liddell.

17.  Sing a Nicki Minaj song in front of my grandma.

18.  Get stranded in the desert with nothing but a gallon of maple syrup.

19.  Only be allowed to use the toilet once a week.

20.  Live out of a Ford Tempo for an entire year.

21.  Drive a Kia Soul.

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You get the idea.

BYE!!!

___________________________________________________________________

J:   “I just ordered Pizza Hut online. In the ‘anything else we can do?’ box, I said, ‘Draw a dragon on the box.’ I’ll keep you posted.”

Lashing out.

“Up with the volume, down with the weight.”

This was the tag line for Almay’s latest mascara endorsed by Taylor Swift. “Down with the weight.”  As if the mascara I’ve been wearing all these years has been weighing down my eyelids and making it difficult to keep my eyes open because of its heaviness. As if my mascara is the reason that people sometimes mistake me for being partially Asian. Is that the best you can do, Almay?

I smell outrageously fantastic right now. I just purchased Boots brand “Coconut & Hibiscus” body butter and body wash, and I smell like a sexy, beachy babe. It’s taking just about every ounce of self control I have to not reach down and lick my forearm. I still might do it. I love things that smell good. If I were an out of control hoarder, I would spend every penny I earned on body washes, soaps, and lotions. It would be a financial disaster. At least it would be a good smelling, clean financial disaster.

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I wish my body permanently smelled like something awesome. Wouldn’t that be great? Instead of naturally smelling like raw onions and salt, we smelled like milk chocolate or Subway. That would be excellent. If I could permanently and naturally smell like something, my top choices would have to be the following:

1. Vanilla.  I love vanilla. Vanilla everything. Icing, cupcakes, cake batter, warm vanilla sugar—it gets me. It’s so warm and inviting and yummy. I would go all out. I would smear vanilla icing all over the top of my head and stick a birthday candle on the top of my scalp. People would want to put their tongues on me, not that they don’t already.

2.  Coconut.  Coconut is delicious. If there is a Whitman’s Sampler anywhere near by, you can count on finding the entire box having been rummaged through with bites taken out of every single chocolate with the rest left behind, and the two coconut filled ones vanished without a trace. I turn into a feral raccoon on boxes of chocolates to find myself those sweet, coveted coconut ones. I go “coconuts.” (Lolz)

3.  Brown sugar.  I could eat an entire bag of brown sugar with a spoon if it were allowed. It smells heavenly. It’s such a sweet, warm, delicious aroma. Who doesn’t love inhaling the sweet smell of baked goods? Again with the licking. I truly want to taste myself when I’m covered in brown sugar scented toiletries.

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4.  Ryan Gosling.  No one looks this good without smelling equally as sexy. I’m sure of it.

In other news, I discovered I can type 109 words per minute today with 95% accuracy which is pretty braggable. Since we’re visiting Bragville, I also scored 116 points today on Words With Friends on the words “tonga” and “jager.” I have no idea what “tonga” is, but I got a triple letter score on the J for both words, plus a triple word score on “jager.”  Who will pay me for these skills? Probably no one. Another talent gone to waste.

Well, time to go sniff myself.

….with my tongue.

________________________________________________________________

“I wish she was annoying so I could have gotten laid, then ignored her, and not have felt guilty about it.”

Pizza face.

I’ve been putting a lot of thought into what I would wish for if I had 5 wishes, because I have tons of time to do that between working and just being a bitch all the time. Genies are cropping up everywhere nowadays. I think I would probably wish for the following:

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1. Thick, luscious, long, dark eyelashes.  Even as a child, I spent almost every single birthday cake candle blow-out wish on being blessed with beautiful, voluminous black eyelashes. It never happened. I think I am single-handedly supporting the mascara industry. If my home and all my belongings were lost in a fire, the first thing I would go out and purchase is a tube of Covergirl Volume Exact mascara in “very black.” Like, if I could only bring 3 items with me while stranded on an island, one of those items would be mascara. I need it. I NEED it.

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2. I would wish I were able to eat whatever I wanted while maintaining a solid 118 pounds.   Eating cheesy bean and rice burritos and cruising the China Buffet on the reg is not conducive to keeping a hot body in real life, unfortunately. If I were able to stuff my face with delicious, fattening, greasy, carb-loaded food on the daily, I so would. My diet would consist of the following:

McDonald’s double cheeseburgers & french fries.

Haagen Dazs.

Caramel sauce. On everything.

Taco Bel cheesy bean & rice burritos. I don’t care what it’s made of.

General tso chicken, fried rice, & crab rangoon.

A shit ton of pasta.

Entire cheese pizzas.

Pillsbury Funfetti cake.

French fries.

Gallons upon gallons of Dr. Pepper.

Brownies.

More french fries.

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I’m a real fatty on the inside. Of course, if these items made up the entirety of my regular diet in real life, I would be next in line to participate in gastric bypass surgery. People would volunteer me to be cast in the next season of The Biggest Loser. I’d swell up like Kirstie Alley in 2009. It wouldn’t be pretty.

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3. The ability to control the weather.   This would really make my day. I would have an unreasonable amount of snow days. The temperature would never exceed 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Wicked thunderstorms would rock my world weekly. I would direct the properties of people who I hated to maintain a smothering 115 degrees plus 99% humidity. Ah, the power.

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4. Hand-eye coordination.  I have none.

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A potato would have a better chance of catching a frisbee than I. I’m bad at arm-sports. Being able to hit a wiffle ball or serve a volleyball would have really helped me fit in better during middle school PE, and would also increase my chances of survival during the event of a zombie takeover in which I may be required to fire a handgun.

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5.  Be able to strike people with high voltage electric current when they deserve it.

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I would really take advantage of this power. There are so many people I would love to zap the shit out of. Rude people, people who don’t get over on the interstate when I’m barreling down the entrance ramp, people who say “I seen you”—imagine the problems and bad habits I could fix. Just like a dog shock collar, except way, way worse. We already know it works. Just give me lightning bolt fingers.

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I don’t think this is so much to ask. I’ll be rubbing my lamp in the privacy of my bedroom now.

(That’s what they’re calling them these days. Wink.)

Gross.

Love,

Becca.

______________________________________________________________________

“China Town, picture taken about a block away from the site (sidewalk) I slept at due to a lack of funds for a hotel or hostel. Oh well, I ended up meeting a drunk homeless Mexican who gave me some good advice as to where to sleep if the police make me move… Then some guy came up to me with food and asked if I’d eaten that day which luckily I had because he thought I was a bum. Ha! Some people say NY is expensive, but it’s really not that bad if you just sleep on the streets.”

Pennsylgaynia.

I have lived and visited many, many places in and out of the country in my 23 years on this round (or flat, depending on who you’re talking to) earth, and after my travel experience, I can say without a doubt that western Pennsylvania is one of the most dismal, grumpy, rude places in all the world. I despise it. The people here (with a few exceptions) blow. They just absolutely blow. They don’t know how to drive, they don’t understand common courtesy, they’re rude, ignorant, ugly, and impolite, they don’t sell alcohol in the grocery store—-the list goes on and on. Which brings me to the meaty portion of this post:

Things that are better than western Pennsylvania:

1.  The DMV

2.  Bear attacks

3.  Ovarian cysts

4.  Income taxes

5.  Unplanned pregnancies

6.  Polio outbreaks

7.  Amputation

8.  Hangovers

9.  Paul Giamatti

10.  Ke$ha

11.  Heart attacks

12.  Prison

13.  The line at the post office on Christmas Eve

14.  Heroin addiction

15.  Headlice

16.  Wildfires

17.  Scabies

18.  Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” performance at the 2007 VMAs

19.  Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face

20.  Drawing blood

21.  Gas prices

22.  Charlie Sheen’s ability to be a school teacher

23.  Marshall Mathers’ emotional stability

24.  This:

25.  ….and this:

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That about sums it up.

Uncontrollable diarrhea > western Pennsylvania

The end.

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“Clogging the toilet is the worst. I hate close calls. The feeling you get after you realize you DIDN’T clog the toilet is exhilarating, especially at someone else’s home.”

Better late than never.

Sometimes you’re just late. If you’re me, you’re late all the time. You wake up late, you arrive late, your period is late (if you’re Farrah from Teen Mom). If you’re going to be late to something that someone more important than you is going to be pissed about, you need to be armed and ready with a solid excuse to pardon your tardiness. Creativity is essential, and you have to decorate your excuse with specific details, strengthening your claim. Here are a few old faithfuls I like to use on the reg when I’m running behind:

1)  My behind is running.  Diarrhea. No one wants to continue that conversation after you drop the D word. They can’t prove otherwise, and it’s an uncomfortable topic to discuss. Plus, everyone knows what sort of anal Armageddon follows a general tso chicken and pork fried dumplings meal at 11 o’clock at night before bed.

2)  My power went out and my alarm didn’t go off.  “It was the weirdest thing, I woke up and my clock was flashing. I guess the power on my block went out last night.”  Again, hard to prove otherwise. Unless of course your employer/professor calls bullshit on you for having a clock radio. I mean it is the 21st century after all. Everyone knows cell phones have replaced traditional alarm clocks across the board. Anyone with a clock radio is probably still Flintstoning their asses to work and still owns a computer that has a tower.

3)  I locked my keys in my car.  This is my number one most tried and true excuse. The ol’ standby. Who can argue with you about this? For one, you gain a little bit of sympathy for it. Everyone knows how unfortunate locking your keys inside your vehicle is. It’s frustrating. It’s one of the most inconvenient incidences one comes across in their everyday lives. The key to pulling this off effectively is to call ahead of time and sound really aggravated and distraught about the whole thing. “UGH, I’m so sorry, like an idiot I locked my keys in my car, and the locksmith won’t be here for another 20 minutes, SIGH,” you say, with dismay in your voice. Pardoned.

4)  I was behind a school bus the entire way here.  This has actually happened to me before, and this is why I know that it will legitimately make you late. Er go, it’s a great morning excuse. Buses are big, slow turners, they make frequent stops with pauses—they’re a punctuality killer. Similarly, if you live in a rural area such as Iowa, you can also say

5)  I was stuck behind a tractor on the highway.  This is truly frustrating. They go 15 miles per hour, tops. It’s an inevitable delay. Tractors are also huge. You can’t just by-pass a John Deere combine bumbling down the road. It’s like trying to pass a double-wide. You can’t see around it, you don’t know what’s coming on the other side—it’s a head-on collision waiting to happen. You’ve got not choice but to sluggishly crawl down the road as the cars build up behind you, congesting the entire highway. Everyone knows this. Great excuse.

6)  You let your dog out this morning and he ran 14 blocks down the street after the garbage man.  No responsible pet owner is just going to call it a loss and hope Rufus will be sitting patiently on the front porch when they arrive home from work 8 hours later. No. You go chasing him down the street like a delusional headcase in your pajamas and slippers with your coffee mug in hand, sloshing all over the sidewalk, screaming like a lunatic until you catch up with him two zip codes later. Dog running off = late. There’s no way around it.

Some people like to play the “family emergency” card. I for one do not. For starters, I feel like everyone and their dog uses that excuse for every absence ever. It’s played out. Don’t tell me your grandma died. I will call you a bold-faced liar. If you try to tell me you had a family emergency, I will demand paperwork and hospital bracelets to verify. I’ll get straight guerrilla on your ass with this one. Phone calls will be made. Documentation will be requested. You won’t get away with it.

Best of luck, boys and girls. Let me know which one works for you.

Your boss,

Rebecca

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“…what’s that, Nathan?”

“Apricot shimmer! Does it look pretty?”

“…..it….looks…pretty as a missile on our battle ship. BOOM! BLOOD, GUTS, FIRE!!! ….MAN things!”

Dead or Alive.

I don’t like that Facebook took the liberty of making hitting “enter” automatically post my commentary. Listen up, Zuckerberg minions—I am a punctuation, indentation, and properly spaced text user and abuser, and I don’t appreciate not being able to separate my thoughts into appropriate, respective paragraphs. No one wants to read big fat blocks of text. No one. The “comment” button was just fine. Bring it back.

Naturally, however, I found a way around it for those of you who are also bothered by this new adjustment: hold the shift key while pressing enter, and you can start a new paragraph. And please do. The shit most of you type on Facebook is annoying enough already. I can’t imagine how bothersome it’s going to be when it’s stupid AND long-winded.

It’s going to be really difficult adjusting to eating like 1200 calories a day again instead of 3,000 like I have been due to my extreme levels of daily activity here in the mountains. I have somehow actually managed to weigh 4 pounds less than I did at my wedding, which I spent at least six months eating nothing but ice cubes and lettuce for. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my diet has been made up completely of frozen microwaveable burritos, multiple bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch at a time, bread, spaghetti, Velveeta, ice cream, and Chinese food since I arrived in Colorado December 7th, over three months ago. In theory, I should weigh approximately as much as a calf.

 

Literally.

But when you’re snowboarding 4-6 hours a day, five or six days a week, hiking, and running around dog parks on the daily, you burn that shit off. Efficiently. I haven’t had this many carbs since college, and we all know how that turned out.

 

St. Patdrink’s day is 2/3 of the way over. I presume most of you are pooping out cucumber-looking terds that smell like Keystone Light, and throwing up cream of broccoli into the porcelain god, if you did things right. If you have been partying with your entourage, and were the first one to wake up, peel your face off the sticky linoleum floor, throw up in the kitchen sink, check your outgoing text messages and then log onto Facebook for clues as to what happened to you last night, you  might be wondering where your friends are, or if they are even still living. You know at least half of them made it back to wherever it is you are staying without getting arrested for public urination or sexual harassment, but you haven’t heard any of them stir in the other rooms. If you are worried that your friends have died, here’s a few tests you can run to find out:

1. Turn on Wheel Of Fortune. No matter how physically ill you are feeling, nothing except two broken legs can prevent someone from making their way to the couch in front of the television when they hear Wheel Of Fortune on the air.

2. Bang pots and pans together at an inappropriate decibel. Act like you are cleaning to avoid getting punched square in the face if this technique works. No one with a hangover from hell is going to allow this to go on for more than 30 seconds before launching out of bed, charging into the kitchen, and bulldozing the offender into the ground and beating them with a cheese grater.

3. Brew some deliciously aromatic coffee. It’s the best part of waking up.

If you’ve tried all of these techniques and nobody has stirred from the thick, dank darkness of their rooms, the last and final thing you can try is this:

4. Sneak out and bring back a hot, steaming bag of McDonald’s breakfast items. Even the dead will spring up and bash their faces into the roof of their coffins at the smell of a bacon, egg & cheese McGriddle. If you bring a sack of gloriously golden fried hash browns, delicious, hot breakfast sandwiches and pancakes, and nobody gets up to investigate/mooch, your friends are dead. Every last one of them is d.e.a.d.

Sorry.

Welp, bye.

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T: “Ah yeah, the Connecticut Ocean.”

B: “….what?”

T: “Isn’t that where this was? Connecticut?”

B: “…Yeah, but it’s definitely not ‘The Connecticut Ocean.'”

On the move.

In the past 18 months, I have lived in Council Bluffs, IA, Iowa City, IA, Mission, KS, Leawood, KS, Council Bluffs, IA again, Meriden, CT, Council Bluffs yet again, Mechanicsburg, PA, and, once again, Council Bluffs. In one month, I will be moving to Edwards, Colorado. If it hasn’t become obvious thus far, I’ve been doing a shit ton of packing and unpacking.

Both make me wish I were dead.

Things I would rather do than pack and/or unpack.

1. Move two entire tons of rice one single grain at a time across a football field.

2. Watch The Hills for 50 consecutive hours.

3. Get shot in the forehead with a nail gun.

4. Eat a couch.

5. Rake my yard with nothing but a toothbrush.

6. Eat an entire raw chicken.

7. Listen to nothing but country music for the rest of my life.

8. Break both my ankles and then have to walk home.

9. Sleep on a pile of hay for the rest of my life.

10. Walk around with a handful of gravel inside my shoes until 2013.

11. Shave my eyebrows.

12. Tattoo *~* HeArT </3 BrEaKeR*~* across my lower back.

13. Sleep outside for the month of November.

14. Swallow an entire roll of quarters, and then have to poop them out.

15. Lick the floor in a QuikTrip bathroom.

16. Dye my hair grey.

17. Wear white lipstick every day until I’m 30.

18. Dye my hair grey, and wear white lipstick every day til I’m 30.

19. French kiss a cactus.

20. Go farther with the cactus, and then give birth.

Ugh.

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“Are you wearing Booty Pop panties?”

“No, I’m just fat.”

I scream, you scream, we all scream for no reason.

The baby downstairs in the apartment below me is wailing. Absolutely wailing. What is it’s problem? I am two seconds from marching down there and tossing it out into the grass. Has it no manners?

Speaking of offspring, after my numerous status updates about my gravy craving in lieu of the upcoming holiday season, I got multiple, “Are you pregnant?!” replies.

Are you serious, people? The things I would rather do than have a child are unspeakable. Absolutely unspeakable. Here is a sampling:

Things I Would Rather Do Than Have A Child:

1. Eat an entire box of 1 1/4 inch galvanized nails.

2. Lick an electric stove coil.

3. Make out with William Hung.

4. Meet Kate Gosselin

5. Swim in cow manure.

6. Swallow a sea urchin.

7. Sleep in an airplane seat for six years.

8. Give up chocolate.

9. *~*tYpE LiKe tHiS fOr tHe rEsT oF mY LifE.*~*

10. Fight Chuck Norris.

11. Eat nothing but bay leaves for an entire month.

12. Become friends with Tyra Banks.

13. Get stepped on by a horse.

14. Sleep in Central Park alone.

15. Drink only vinegar for 10 days.

16. Jump off my second-story apartment balcony head-first.

17. Get hit by a car.

18. Change my name to Izabelle Sophia.

19. Never be allowed to wear eye makeup ever again.

20. Bicycle across the United States.

21. Do a mustard-bong.

22. Staple my tongue to a maple tree.

23. Fill my ears with honey and spend the night in Yellowstone National Park.

24. Smash a beehive inside a small closet.

25. Get slapped in the face with a cheese grater.

The end.

____________________________________________________

“I won’t be hard to find. I’m wearing a Darth Vader mask and I have a megaphone.”

Things I would rather do than watch football.

Football season has officially begun. Needless to say, Sundays have gone from my favorite day of the week to the very bottom of the shit list. After spending one Sunday watching football for six consecutive hours at a restaurant and nearly hanging myself with an electrical cord because of it, I decided I might want to find other activities to occupy myself with every Sunday from this point forward while my loving husband watches 290 pound men with testosterone levels spiked higher than Travis Barker’s mohawk stampede over one another after a pigskin ball.

Just so we’re clear, here is a brief list of some things I would rather do than watch football:

______________________

1. Make out with ZZ Top’s beard.

2. Read Kate Gosselin’s autobiography.

3. Listen to nothing but Heidi Montag’s album for an entire year.

4. Have a conversation about environmental issues with Paris Hilton.

5. Solder my eyelids shut.

6. Eat a porcupine whole.

7. Get up at 5 a.m. every day for the rest of my life.

8. Get this tattoo.

9. Or this one.

10. Drink nothing but maple syrup for one entire week.

11. Share needles with Bobby Brown.

12. Flame-broil my right arm.

13. Babysit.

14. Go without electricity or internet for the rest of the year.

15. Get pancreatic cancer.

16. Drink milk directly from a cow’s udder.

17. Meet Perez Hilton.

18. Walk on shattered glass.

19. Shave my head.

20. Bite my tongue off.

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If anyone is interested in any other examples, I can provide a few more. That is just a brief summary of some of the activities that first come to mind.

Needless to say, this last Sunday was spent doing things other than stomaching football. I went to a pet shelter and tortured myself with adorable puppies, cuddling and snuggling and harassing them to no end. Then I went and got myself an iced chai latte from Starbuck’s, purchased a snazzy new bellybutton ring, ate McDonald’s, and raided Yankee Candle. Someone might want to put a guard on my checking account. It’s that time of year again where Yankee Candle busts out all their holiday fare, and BOY does it smell good. Their holiday scents are irresistible. Christmas cupcake? Apple pie? Cinnamon bun? How do they do it?

I’m such a sucker for things that smell good. I recently purchased a couple of those oils that you burn over a small candle and the sweet, succulent aroma fills your house in no time. The particular scent I am burning at this time is called “Be Thankful,” a Thanksgiving inspired aroma. It’s sooooo gooooood. It’s like an intoxicating aroma of freshly baked goods, pies, gravy (I’m convinced), turkey, sweet potatoes—-Ohhh. It’s so delicious. Buy some. Right now. Go buy some right now.

I SAID NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry for yelling.

________________________

“Let’s play a game. It’s called ‘Guess What Jack Put In The Freezer.'”

“Uh……..a box of cereal?”

“Wrong. Netflix DVD.”

People who are less confused than Brett Favre.

1. Michael Jackson about his relationship with children.

2. Michael Jackson about his racial preference/identification.

3. Florida’s vote-counters.

4. Lindsay Lohan about her sexuality.

5. Jessica Simpson on various meat products.

6. Al Gore on “global warming.”

7. Tupac on whether he’s dead or not.

8. Barack Obama on pulling troops out of Afghanistan and Iraq (or not).

9. Oprah Winfrey in regards to her weight.

10. Cher’s “daughter” Chastity/Chaz on her gender.

11. Britney Spears on not sucking.

12. Heidi Montag and her understanding of plastic surgery limitations.

13. Jocelyn Wildenstein’s image of humanity.

14. Haddaway and their definition of “love.”

15. Tiger Woods and his understanding of the point of marriage and monogamy.

16. Catdog on whether they are a cat. Or a dog.

17. Prince and his beliefs about modern technology; more specifically, the relevancy of the internet.

18. Katelyn Faber and her definition of sexual assault.

19. Jennifer Lopez on choosing a husband.

20. Me and my understanding of the movie Inception.

—

I think Facebook should come up with a game application called Favreville. Similar to the current Farmville game, but let’s make it all about Bretty Favre. Updates and alerts on Favreville would say things like, “Brett needs more money to play another season! Can you help Brett reach 20 million dollars in Favreville?”

or,

“Looks like Brett needs more flexibility this season if Minnesota wants to win! Can you help the Vikings win the Superbowl by consenting to his conditions?”

and,

“It seems that Brett could be happier at Favreville right now; buy a pair of Wranglers and cheer Brett up!”

“It looks like Brett needs more attention or he’s going to pretend to retire again—can you Twitter about him and make him feel more important?”

Ridiculous. I can’t even spell “football” and I’m pissed off.

Bye.

———–

Cole: “Do it. Just do it.”

Me: “Adidas.”

Cole: “Isn’t that Nike?”

Me: “Yes.”

Cole: “….Oh.”