Holy humidity, batman.

 

 

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Why do doors that open automatically for you with zero action and 100% convenience on your part say “caution?”  You don’t need to caution me that there is convenience ahead. You need to warn me when doors are NOT going to open up magically for me so I don’t body-slam it, break my nose and lose my dignity.  There should be warnings for the opposite. “Caution: Manual Door. If you don’t take action on this door, you will slam into it face first, breaking your glasses, stubbing your toe, and embarrassing yourself publicly.” 

The heat will take my life. It’s hell on earth. I don’t know how much longer I can survive it. It has been above 100 degrees for 8 weeks straight now, many of those days reaching temperatures above 113, day in and day out with the exception of perhaps two days where it dipped into the low 90s. I don’t understand! Why does the earth need to get this hot? We already have ovens, God. We can bake our Tombstone pizzas and Pillsbury croissants in our GE Profiles, we don’t need to set them on our driveway to make the magic happen.

My weather app has just stopped giving me “sunny” or “partly cloudy” clipart to illustrate what it’s going to be like outside. Instead, it just shows this:

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There are just no words to describe how awful this heat wave is.

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You know it’s hotter than balls when the weather channel has to start using creative adjectives to describe how life-sucking the temperatures are.

The other day, the weather forecast predicted temperatures to actually dip below 100 for the first time in weeks, and it said this: “Monday: 94. Colder.”  COLDER? COLDER, AccuWeather?! Go wash your mouth out with soap. Unless I will be needing to don a cardigan, don’t tell me it’s going to be “colder” when it’s 94 f-cking degrees.

I have been sweating like a bitch. I get home from work everyday smelling like the gorilla complex at the zoo. I have never been sweatier. The humidity is thicker than Queen Latifa’s thighs. I feel like I need to start wearing goggles and flippers just to get through it. I’m so glad I’m not a plant right now. They are all just shriveling up and dying off.

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Missouri canceled all their 4th of July fireworks shows due to the extreme fire hazards flaming fireworks would pose. The grass is drier than Ben Stein’s sense of humor. One rogue roman candle would light this place up like Chicago in 1871. WHEN WILL IT END?!

Winter sounds like a myth now. It’s like Big Foot. Only rumors of it exist, supported weakly by vague recollections older people have of it that they are barely able to describe anymore with their faded memories. I can’t wait to be cold again. I’m starting to go to the grocery store just to hang out in the frozen meats section just to remember what goosebumps feel like. Give me autumn or give me death!

Well, time to go watch those athletic freaks of nature blow my mind in the Olympics.

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“I made a whole batch of those cupcakes, so if you like them and you want more, just say the word. But if you don’t like them….then just don’t say anything.”

 

“You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on.”

What the f-ck does this mean? I just viewed a photo on Facebook of some drunk girls with “You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on (hearts/peace signs/other arbitrary symbols“ Picnik’ed across the top. This literally means nothing. It makes no sense of any kind. So…if I were to climb upon a weak table and do the macarena, I am a weakling? Looks like I had better find Arthur’s round table and bust a move to prove my strength.

m3, b3iN cUt3. ♥

^ Caption under some huge girl’s profile picture. Why.

It is a sad day in the world of social media.

Moving right along.

“2-in-1 conditioning shampoo” is bullshit. Hotels need to stop acting like putting a miniature bottle with two tablespoons of shampoo that supposedly simultaneously conditions your hair when you use it is going to fly. It’s not. Without 100% real, pure conditioner, my hair is a tangled, matted, impossible rat’s nest. If I shampooed my hair without following with conditioner and then attempted to comb through it, I would literally have to cut all of my hair off. Forcing a comb through the ratty mess would be like trying to force a cinder block down a bathtub drain. It would be like trying to comb a fork through a chain link fence. It wouldn’t happen.

I recently saw a commercial on television advertising Krazee Glue. It showed a man jumping off an enormous bridge with his bungee secured only with Krazee Glue. He survived, springing back into the air with a smile on his face. I’m ready to sue for false advertising. I recently tried to repair an earring with Krazee Glue, and it didn’t adhere the earring to the post for more than a few days before it fell apart again. And you’re trying to tell me that I can bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge secured with Krazee Glue and be just fine? Stop it. Super glue is good for gluing your fingers together by accident. That’s about it.

I woke up this morning to rumbling thunder and heavy rain. This continued until lunchtime when the skies cleared and the sun beamed down. A co-worker’s computer screen was open to the Weather Channel, and the hour-by-hour chance for precipitation said this:

1 pm – 10%

2 pm – 10%

3 pm – 100%

4 pm – 10%

5 pm – 10%

….How does the weather forecast go from a 10% chance of precipitation all the way up to a 100% chance, and directly back down to just a 10% chance in a single hour? Sure enough though, when 3 o’clock rolled around, thunder cracked overhead and it began to rain. Bizarre indeed.

WELL, time for me to go digest my wonton soup. Nom nom.

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“All I wish to do today is go metal detecting with you, followed by hardcore thrifting.

 

Haha….initially my phone auto corrected to ‘hardcore thrusting.’”

 

Red hot.

We got Comcast cable for our apartment here in Greensburg last week. This is the first time I have had cable television in over three years. Er go, I am now finally able to be in the loop about the major current events and goings-on in our world;  terrorist attacks, who’s pregnant, who died, who got arrested for coke charges,  the weather forecast. Usually I find out about these things via peoples’ vague and unclear Facebook status updates.  Suddenly I start seeing statuses that say things like,  “Praying for the people in Japan,”  and,  “I can’t imagine what it would like to be living in Japan right now,”  and I’m sitting here going, “What happened in Japan? Polio outbreak? Did SARS make a comeback? Was there a tsunami? Earthquake?”  I try connecting the dots, making my own assumptions and gathering clues until I get some sort of idea of what might have happened in Japan. It takes me at least six days to get the story straight.

Is The Weather Channel trying to seduce me? I’m sitting here minding my own business on the couch with my laptop in front of me, and suddenly this sultry jazz music starts oozing from my television. The lights dim. Suddenly I can smell oil and rose petals. I look up to see The Weather Channel showing me a low pressure system shifting across the northeast. What are they trying to do, get me to take my pants off? “It’s getting hot and sticky out there,” it says. Now I’m uncomfortable.

Moving on.

I just saw “Bridesmaids” starring Kristen Wiig. I laughed out loud like a little delirious lunatic child. Pretty good characters. Lots of great one liners. No demon-possessed squawking boy in the theater this time, although I did sit next to a little porker who couldn’t have been more than 9 years old, and he kept repeating all the swear words the entire time. We went through the entire movie without him commenting on any of the sex scenes, blowjob jokes, or beaver references, and then at the very end of the movie when “Annie” and “Rhoades” kiss, he yelled, “EWWWW!”

Kids are so stupid.

My armpits smell like wild roses. I am not being sarcastic. I didn’t just come from the gym after 40 minutes on the elliptical and am now making a joke about smelling nice when in reality I smell like the underside of Chris Farley’s belly.

My armpits actually do smell like delicious, fresh, wild roses. Dove “Wild Roses” deodorant crossed my path, and I couldn’t resist the temptation. I’ve been sniffing my underarms like an inpatient all weekend. My underarms are irresistible. It’s as fragrant as perfume. I’m delighted.

Starbursts has really figured their shit out. I’m delighted to find that they have cut right to the chase and started selling the best flavors without all the stupid ones in the same package. The best flavors being all the red ones, of course. Anyone who knows anything understands that the only good flavors belong to the red palette. They call it the “FaveReds.” Cherry, strawberry, fruit punch, and watermelon. Nothing but reds in the entire pack. What a great move. It wasn’t economical for me to purchase an entire bag of Starbursts if I was only going to pick out the red pieces and leave all the rest. What if I get a shit bag and only even get four reds in the entire package? They’ve finally cut out the middleman. I’m not the biggest fan of the watermelon, but I’ll take 75% deliciousness over a gamble any day.

Alright, peace out.

Becca.

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“It must be so nice to be married and have a family! Your kids—“

“Listen. Last night, I was at home making a really nice dinner for my family. My son comes in and says, ‘I want to order pizza!’  I said, ‘No honey, Mommy’s making dinner tonight.’ He says to me, ‘Go f*ck yourself, Mom.’  He’s nine.”