Fashion First.

I think instead of a “poke” button on Facebook, they should have a “pork” button.  Cole Martin porked Jessica Batten. Then everyone would know who was having sex with who.

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I ate an extra cheesy pizza Lunchable today. It reminded me of sitting in the back of the bus in overalls during a zoo field trip, attempting to stab a hole through an impenetrable Capri Sun. They used to make those things bullet proof. You basically needed a machine gun to get your straw into the container. You always had to pass your beverage around to your classmates to see if anyone could force entry into the foil pouch. By the time you got the straw in, you were exhausted and dehydrated and needed it pumped directly into your bloodstream.

The other thing about pizza Lunchables is that in the beginning as you assemble the first mini pizza, you feel like there is no possible way those two tiny piles of cheese are going to last you through the third pizza, so you do this cheese-reserve thing and your first pizza comes out like a food stamp ration. By the third pizza, you realize you have way over compensated. You’ve saved so much cheese you have too much to even fit on the third crust. That pizza is always the best one.

Anyway, back to the Lunchable.

A few months ago, the Lunchables caught my eye in the grocery store, and I thought, “Ooh! I could go for one of those.”  Then I remembered I didn’t own a microwave.

You’re confused. Listen, I microwave my Lunchables, and I don’t give a f-ck what you think about it. I like to melt the cheese and heat up the sauce. Is that a crime? It’s my life.

Recently, Trent looted a microwave that was on its way to the dumpster from a neighboring office, and now we finally have one. I went ahead and stocked up on a couple pizza Lunchables, and I couldn’t be happier.

I spent several hours in various airports last weekend in lieu of my trip back to Iowa, so I had a nice opportunity to see some real freaks. Let me start with the Asians. One of the Asians I saw was a young woman who appeared to be about 20 years old. She looked pretty normal at eye level, but then I looked down at her feet. She was wearing blue flip flops that had dozens of tiny pink and blue pastel colored inflated balloons that simulated bath bubbles, and each sandal had a tiny rubber duck on it.

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The next Asian I laid eyes on was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a translucent red plastic sun visor that had a solar powered fan that was positioned on the bill of the cap, pointing toward her face. It was pretty bad. It got worse though when her four year old son appeared with a matching solar powered visor in black.

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Later I glanced down to see a man with “BORN TO F-CK” tattooed on his toes, each letter on a single toe. That was an interesting choice.

Lastly, good old SkyMall had some material to gawk at as well. How about this douche:

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Oh great! They make it in cadet style. I’m not sure which is worse—the hat, or the tool’s face in the ad.

Back to the Asians. What is wrong with them?  Their style is so rotten. They’ve lost their minds. Why can’t they stick to things that they’re good at like developing technology and making fried rice? Stay away from the fashion industry, zipperheads. You can’t do it right.

Boy do I like their food though.

I’m having a lovely time with my new Droid X2. It’s taking a little while to teach it all the cuss words, but it’s catching on quickly. I am a little sad about the battery life, although what can I expect from it when I’m playing with it 16 hours a day.

WELL, that’s all for now, gals and non-gals. Cheerio.

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“You can’t pee in here, Wilfred.”

“Why? Everybody else is!”

I put my hand upon your hip. When I slip, you slip, we slip.

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I destroyed my body, mind, and spirit this weekend with sangria and the 100 foot slip and slide we built. I have one million scratches and scrapes. I look like I got into a fight with an alley cat and lost. The grass burns I have are so intensely painful. I feel like I’ve been ambushed by one thousand jellyfish. My skin is stinging so badly. I spent six or more hours on Sunday in the sun and did not apply a single drop of sunblock. I am severely sunburned. The burn coupled with the grass cuts are a real winning combination. I need a morphine drip.

As usual, the slip and slide battered my body and caused an unreasonable amount of bruising. My hip bones, elbows, ribs, and my left knee are swollen tender wounds. My muscles are in a bad way. I feel like I’ve been brutalized with a meat tenderizer. My core, triceps, and ribs feel like they participated in a P90X marathon of some kind that lasted for days. I’m so sore. I feel like I got hit by a bus.

Kelli goes big.

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It was a great time.

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Returning to the Midwest never loses its novelty. After spending a considerable amount of time in the eastern part of the country which is filled with wretched, grumpy, idiot people, coming back to Iowa is like being greeted by a million family members. Everyone is so nice, even strangers. Ahh, Iowa.

Iowa visits always mean countless consecutive nights of destroying my liver. I’m rather exhausted from the three day bender I just had. It will take a few days to recuperate.

Trent and I packed our bags and departed toward Kansas City for our 5 o’clock flight, only to arrive to discover that our flight had been cancelled. I would have known this had my cell phone remained alive so that Delta could contact me and let me know I had one more night to binge drink with my homies before heading back east. Unfortunately my Blackberry had a stroke and flatlined about 45 minutes outside of Council Bluffs, and we did not get this important notification about our flight cancellation, so we showed up at MCI ready to get onto our plane and were told we couldn’t fly to Pittsburgh until the next morning. Delta Airlines graciously comped us a hotel room at the Four Points Sheraton for the night. We were without wheels, so we were stuck in the hotel all evening, but there’s no better time to be stuck in a hotel room than Shark Week, am I right?

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Trent and I ended up cabbing it to the nearest Verizon store that afternoon and getting ourselves new smart phones. We entered the store intending on getting two iPhone4’s, but I got sold on the Droid X2 by the crafty salesman. It’s true though. The Droid does everything the iPhone does, except faster, and more for free. iPhone is just so freaking branded, people feel like anything else is a knock-off. Apple is really blunt about it, too.  “If you don’t have an iPhone, well….you just don’t have an iPhone.”  Right. The name makes all the difference. Functionality has nothing to do with it. Let’s not forget that Google is not exactly the Wal-Mart to Versace.

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Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Apple stuff, as I am a Macbook user myself. However, the Droid X2 has a duo-core processor so it is much faster, takes better photos and HD video, the phone is basically a flash drive that I can plug into my computer and drag and drop files into, almost any phone charger works for it, and pretty much every application I could ever want out there is free of charge. Mama likey.

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Effective starting now, Words With Friends will consume my entire life. I will stay up at night with red, glazed over eyes, glaring into my phone screen rearranging letters to hit the triple word score, biting my nails and welcoming the dawn with my addiction. It’s going to get intense. I become unnecessarily competitive with word games. They’re one of the only things I’m good at. On that note, if you wish to be made to look like a fool, I would love to engage in a violent round of Words With Friends with you if you do not have an archaic phone. My username is just Becca Switzer (super clever and all that). Bring it on!

Well, that’s all for now. It’s time for me to go consume delectable alcoholic edibles from my dear neighbor Bob. The man likes to bake, and I like to eat baked goods. It’s a good relationship.

Pie. I mean bye.

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“How many cups do you need?”

“None.”

To bee or not to bee.

In lieu of the recent tropical rainforest-esque weather and onslaught of never-ending torrential rains in PA, the plant life here has been growing wild and out of control. People’s yards are starting to look like a scene out of Jumanji. You know what they say; April showers bring May flowers. In this case, it brings May dandelions. Billions of them. What little square footage of yard we have at our apartment here in Greensburg is being taken over by dandelions. They are sprouting up every which way, dominating the yard and choking out the grass. Even more concerning, however, is how many bees they are attracting.

I have not yet been stung by a bee in my life. I have gone 23 nice long years avoiding it. Unfortunately, the odds are against me at this point. The bee to person ratio on our property is about 150 to 5. I’m screwed. Making my way from my vehicle to my front door is like walking through a battle zone every single day. These are no tiny honey bees, either. I’m talking bumble bees the size of Smart Cars zooming around by the hundreds. Not only am I afraid to be stung by one, but I’m almost equally afraid of being impaled by one. They dart around like little black and yellow fighter jets. Loud buzzing bombs just ready to attack. I’m terrified.

What delirious artist ever decided that this was an accurate portrayal of a giant, stinger-wielding bumble bee? What kind of rave drugs were they taking? (Get at me about them). How many bees do you see frolicking around your yard with a silly little smile on its face, handing out hugs? No.

Worse than being stung by a bumble bee however would be being stung by a wasp. Wasps are detestable, nasty creatures. What an awful insect. They look like miniature Satans. It’s like hell’s version of My Little Pony. They’re so evil-looking. Those stingers? Those sharp, jutting wings? They’re wicked insects. I will go absolutely ape-shit if I find myself in a compromising position with a wasp or wasps. You will see a lunatic come out of me that you’ve never seen before. I will do anything and everything to avoid being attacked by these ferocious devils. Pass me the Raid. If I see a wasp nest in progress in, on, or around my home, it’ll be bombs away, motherf*@#&rs. Hasta la vista.

One of the recent search terms entered to locate my blog by someone out in the cyber universe was this: stupod people at the gym

…Let’s play “spot the irony.”

On June 12th, I am finally eligible for a cell phone upgrade. Thank god. I am seconds away from breaking my Blackberry in half and feeding it to a bear. It’s slow, spastic, unresponsive—really it’s a vegetable. I may as well be trying to send text messages on a cucumber. Ugh. I don’t know what I’m going to replace this piece of shit with though. A Droid? An iPhone 4? The new HTC Thunderbolt? I don’t know anything about any of them. I know that the Thunderbolt has 4G capabilities. But I don’t know what that means either. Haha. I need to go to a Verizon store and play around on smart phones for six hours straight and have a salesman talk me into one and out of the others. We’ll see how it goes.

What smart phone do you kiddies out there in the universe have? Give me your input. I need it.

Love, peace, my phone’s a piece,

Rebecca.

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“Can I request to see someone else?”

“Yes, that is your right.”

“Well can I see someone else right now?”

“No, this is a doctor’s office. You have to set an appointment. This isn’t McDonald’s.”