Common sense in retrograde.

Now that the U.S. midterm elections are over, we can all get back to business and focus on what’s really important: astrology.

I know, I know, people like to throw a lot of words around like “pseudoscience” or “quackery” or “what are you doing on my roof with that telescope you fucking weirdo?” when it comes to divining personal meaning from the cosmos. I used to be one of them.

Until I saw a sign.

Twelve of them, actually.

Sitting right there under my nose, languishing shamefully unnoticed in my spam folder, were one dozen all-important nuggets of pure, auspicious, life-altering gold.

A less open-minded person might not have given them a moment’s pause, might have even deleted them without a second glance, never knowing how close they came to enlightenment.

Be thankful I am not that person, and that I have decided to share this wisdom with you all instead of greedily keeping it to myself.

You’re welcome.


♈︎ Aries (Mar 20 – Apr 20):
Of course and why you’re going to always be do that it. Must follow their rules and guidelines, like it is hosted by another everyone.

♉︎ Taurus (Apr 20 – May 21):
Within these cases, the simple fact that you wish to read gets completely ignored. For this reason I continually go as well as read increasing amounts of his work.

♊︎ Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21):
For you to forget, without compromising an individual have to produce to people.
Users will start noticing the good content you link to, and they’ll start noticing you.
It’s likely that ALL analysts.

♋︎ Cancer (Jun 21 – Jul 23):
You need recognize what oodles of flab to optimize. Put your readers at ease by not being too bad-tempered. Now that’s the formula to making your advertising prospecting.

♌︎ Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 23):
Help make sure that a body’s running an authentic business. 

♍︎ Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 23):
You can be trying to sell. Now tend to be all to be able to make money, right?

♎︎ Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23):
Various other words, just before purchasing as exact as may in relation to its what outcome you want. A person never in order to present a blanket any baby with wrong name spelling and signature.

♏︎ Scorpio (Oct 23 – Nov 22):
Try it, a person not be sorry. It’s not that easy to create traffic into a website.
These used a few ideas nevertheless the choice really is endless.

♐︎ Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 22):
Dating apps open a world of choice to you.

♑︎ Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 20):
Do not stress yourself anymore thinking what gift to provide to friends. It may be that our prayers for justice activate the power of existence force is actually God. Look kept own the room, anywhere you go.

♒︎ Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18):
Are you able to guess what probably taken place? However, you prefer to be cautious because are unable to want to be too education.

♓︎ Pisces (Feb 18 – Mar 20):
Don’t wear seat belts lest you drown in your own urine?


The ice man cometh, AKA the 5 stages of Zamboni grief, illustrated poorly by The Nut.

I thought of this post last night while I was at the rink and dug it out again today for shits and giggles. My stick figure drawings are still no fancy blowfish, but I love them anyway.

Spoken Like A True Nut

I have a love-hate relationship with the Zamboni at my ice rink. Or any ice rink, really.

ZamboniProCon

On the one hand, public skating sessions always leave the ice horribly chewed up within minutes, as people who have no idea what they’re doing scratch and scrape their blades along torturously while hotshot hockey kids duck around them at Mach speeds and deliberately mark up every last pristine inch they can find by practicing sudden stops and irritating passers-by with showers of snow.

On the other hand, I instinctively consider anything that makes me get off the ice to be my natural enemy. Even if I was literally thirty seconds away from leaving on my own, how DARE you suggest I go sit down?!

You know how when people experience the loss of a loved one, they go through the five stages of grief?

That’s me every time that Zamboni bullies me…

View original post 305 more words

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but an irritating jingle.

Yesterday there was a wait at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I could have sat in the provided chairs and played games on my phone, or passed the time idly browsing the magazine racks, but instead I did the stupid thing and wandered aimlessly through the tattered remains of retail Halloween in the seasonal aisle.

I thought I would be okay so long as I didn’t make eye contact with any boxes or bags of leftover candy (lest they leap into my arms and beg piteously to come home with me), but in the process of avoiding the magnetic lure of empty calories, I locked eyes with something much worse.

“Hey Boss, you know how they call zombies ‘the living dead’? We should totes go literal with that!” “My god, Jenkins, you’re a genius!”

Let’s talk about all the problems I have with these.

First and foremost, WHY DO CHIA PETS STILL EXIST?! I cannot remotely comprehend how something that is basically Pet Rock 2.0 can still be bringing in enough money to still be a thing in this day and age. I don’t use the words “I can’t even” lightly, but holy shit, guys, I can’t even.

At least the original pets were kind of cute. A leafy green sheep, a verdant fluffy dog? How could you not find those at least somewhat endearing?

Except apparently they don’t do cute animals anymore. You know what they do do?

Chia Emojis.
Chia Duck Dynasty.
CHIA GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DONALD TRUMP.

And these idiot zombies.

Stop the planet, I want to get off.
I said STOP!
…it’s not stopping.
Fuck it, guess we’ll just have to soldier on.

Awful choice of subject matter aside (why Trump, Chia, WHYYYY?), it pains me how lazy these bastards have gotten with their design concepts. I mean, the whole point of stuff like the Chia puppy and the Chia head was that the ensuing greenery resembled quirky fur or hair.

Meanwhile, the designers of Dragging Drew and Restless Arm up there have oh so ingeniously used their employer’s trademark vegetation to represent…vegetation.

Gimme a minute, I don’t know if my brain is ready for that kind of in-depth visual mind-fuckery.

And there’s another thing; why do Dragging Drew and Creepy Holden get actual people names, but Restless Arm is just Restless Arm?

That arm belonged to someone, man. Whether it’s a grotesquely severed B-movie casualty in its own right or still attached to a body that’s frantically scrabbling to dig itself out, this is a piece of a person we’re talking about here, and it deserves to be honored as such. Even Thing from the Addams Family had a proper name, for god’s sake.

I’m gonna rechristen Restless Arm. Henceforth, he shall be known as Grabby Gary. Don’t you let your creators’ ableism get you down, Gary. You do you.

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I have your boobs.

I feel it necessary to inform you all that I just nearly sprained my neck in my haste to go back and reread a Facebook comment that I was 99% positive said, “I have your boobs.”

Well well. This day just got a couple of cup sizes more interesting, now didn’t it?

Me being me, by the halfway point of my double-take I was already doing what I do best: logic-ing up my own explanation for what could possibly have been meant by the statement without any regard whatsoever for context or common sense.

Four little words, so many potential interpretations. See if you can spot the correct one below.

(a) Commenter is holding the OP’s boobs for ransom but lacked any magazines or newspapers with which to construct a proper non-social-media ransom note, because really who has magazines or newspapers lying around the house these days when you can just access them all online?

(b) Commenter borrowed the OP’s boobs for the weekend and wants to return them but OP hasn’t been answering her texts, so commenter resorted to contacting her publicly on Facebook instead.

(c) Commenter is OP’s daughter. She’s always thought her mom had an awesome rack, is super stoked that genetics favored her with a matching set, and figured it was high time she let the world know it.

(d) OP was announcing an author Q&A and what the commenter actually said was, “I have your books,” and I’m just an idiot.

If you were around for my A to Z Challenge post where I mentioned my habit of cutting corners when I read and the hilariously baffling literary misunderstandings that ensue, then you’ll know the correct answer is (d).

You’d also think I’d be wise to my own shenanigans by now and jump to the conclusion of (d) myself in the first place, but you there you would be wrong.

So very wrong.

Bad Santa.

I experienced an extremely important revelation recently:

I should never be Santa.

I mean it. If by some terrible tragedy Santa falls off my roof and it turns out The Santa Clause is actually a thing and there’s a card in Old St. Nick’s pocket saying, “Yo dawg, put on my jacket!”, I am begging my friends, family and neighbors to keep me the hell away from that coat, because I guarantee that if I put it on and take over for the big guy, Christmas will be ruined forever.  Continue reading

The ice man cometh, AKA the 5 stages of Zamboni grief, illustrated poorly by The Nut.

I have a love-hate relationship with the Zamboni at my ice rink. Or any ice rink, really.

ZamboniProCon

On the one hand, public skating sessions always leave the ice horribly chewed up within minutes, as people who have no idea what they’re doing scratch and scrape their blades along torturously while hotshot hockey kids duck around them at Mach speeds and deliberately mark up every last pristine inch they can find by practicing sudden stops and irritating passers-by with showers of snow.

On the other hand, I instinctively consider anything that makes me get off the ice to be my natural enemy. Even if I was literally thirty seconds away from leaving on my own, how DARE you suggest I go sit down?!

You know how when people experience the loss of a loved one, they go through the five stages of grief?

That’s me every time that Zamboni bullies me off the ice. Continue reading

NanoPoblano, Day 21: 50 shades of betrayal.

Ladies (I’m being sexist here and assuming it’s mostly women who can relate to this one), do you ever feel an irrational sense of betrayal when your preferred brand of hair dye changes their packaging, or is it just me?

Okay, so I hate change in general when it comes to beauty products (but I didn’t ask for “new and improved” foundation, people, I liked the old one just fine the way it was thankyouveryfuckingmuch), but hair dye is, in my opinion, the worst offender.

Maybe it’s because I suck at noting down the precise code name and secret identity of my latest choice in boxed tress transformation that this riles me up so much. Did I last dye my hair with “medium reddish brown” or “radiant auburn”? Color number C53 or AK47?

Fuck if I know.

So when I get to the drugstore, what do I do? Why, I search for a familiar face, of course. I’m far better at remembering the model on the box than the written details of the hair hue she’s sporting. She’s my coif cousin. My shade sister. She gets me.

At least, she does until the cruel bastards at L’Oréal or Garnier or Clairol get it into their head that their packaging needs an update, and replace my pigment pal with some new tramp who apparently thinks she can just step in and take my bff’s place.

I DON’T THINK SO, MISSY.

You think you can just bump Sarah* off and waltz onto my dye box with those hipster bangs and resting bitch face, and I’m supposed to pretend we’re cool and play along? HUH?

Fuck that noise.

You just watch yourself.

Whore.


*Naturally I have no way of knowing what my hair bff’s real name actually was, so I just named her Sarah.

RIP, Sarah.

NanoPoblano, Day 19: Important things I have learned this week.

When I’m not busy blushing and begging people to stop praising me over my upcoming New York Times bestselling novel, due to hit shelves on November 23, 2062, I’m a regular person just like you.

(Okay, maybe a slightly better person than you. But I would never say that to your face.)

I’m not perfect (no really, stop protesting, I’m not), I don’t know everything (just most things), and I, too, am learning new facts about myself and the world I live in on a daily basis (like the fact that even if you’re a future famous author, people will still feel free to cut you off in traffic).

For instance, one situation being a future famous author doesn’t protect you from is accidentally overdoing it at the gym your first day back after a three week hiatus.

WHO KNEW?

Apparently skipping your usual upper body workout because your preferred resistance machines are all currently taken and deciding to go to town on your legs instead will have the result of making your legs very, very angry with you.

Especially when you remember you haven’t done calf raises in approximately two eons and decide in the adrenaline of the moment to do a few extra sets to make up for the lapse so you’ll look extra good in your new 4 inch heels at your husband’s work’s Christmas party on Saturday, because logic.

Make sure you do this on Monday, so your calves will still be nice and pissed at you for your weekly Wednesday skating night.

EMBRACE THE BURN.

Also, if possible, schedule this lapse in common sense so that it coincides with the draining and maintenance of your gym’s whirlpool so you’ll have absolutely no chance to relax in its hot bubbling bliss and let your riled-up leg muscles unwind a bit before they have to power walk back home in the freezing rain.


This is also a good week to be reminded of the fact that when the disposable coffee cups in the main lobby say “biodegradable” on them, they mean IMMEDIATELY.

Most days I remember to tote my industrial-sized travel mug with me when I have cause to visit the building wing with the “good coffee” at work, but on occasion I forget, and it’s then that I have to call on my speed drinking skills unless I want to witness composting in action at my own desk.

These ultra-biodegradable menaces of a paper cup display the requisite illustration of a large green leaf as proof of their environmental friendliness, and are covered in text extolling their own virtuous status as a fully renewable and compostable member of the temporary tableware industry whose contents could be extremely hot.

They do not, however, mention the fact that if you dare to take a break between sips, chances are your much-needed dose of scalding liquid alertness will just go ahead and start eating right through the bottom of the fucking cup.

As someone who enjoys drinking their coffee in a leisurely fashion from the lip of the cup as God intended instead of sucking it out frantically through a crater in the bottom as one does with a melting scoop of ice cream in a broken cone, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting my mug again anytime soon.


Speaking of things bursting loose from their containers, on Tuesday I took myself on a little mini-shopping trip to make sure I was fully stocked with the appropriate undergarments to ward off any potential fancy blowfish moments in my pretty new navy lace dress.

As I wandered through the lingerie department of the Hudson’s Bay Company, marveling at the sheer volume of shapewear and other self-loathing quick fixes available for purchase, I came upon a rack full of Spanx.

At this point I’m sure you’d have to have been living under a rock never to have heard of Spanx, but this was somehow the first time I’d ever been in the actual physical presence of the legend.

Spanx were all the rage on the wedding forums when I was a bride to be. I had never heard a bad word said about them, apart from the obvious cursing during the struggle to get into the damn things. “Magic!” everyone said. “I’ve never had such a perfect figure in my life!”

And now there the sainted garments were, dangling right in front of my nose. Of course I had to try them.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first: I failed at Spanx. I am the first person I am aware of (possibly the first person in recorded history, for all I know) on whom Spanx did not perform a miraculous demonstration of slimming and smoothing. Quite the opposite, in fact.

My Spanx CREATED fat rolls where there were none.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no size double zero Victoria’s Secret model with .5% bodyfat and a cellulite-repelling genetic heritage, but I do all right. All I was looking for was a little something to help keep the holiday food babies at bay.

Instead my midsection looked like someone’s failed attempt at making sausages.

Tearing myself away from the horrifying image in the dressing room mirror, I pulled out my phone and Googled Spanx’ sizing charts, wondering if I needed to go a size up.

Nope.

My measurements were spot-on. Apparently Spanx just hate me. I am incompatible with Spanx.

But I’ll say this, I had a whole new appreciation for my body in its natural state when I rolled that overpriced sausage casing back off. And you know what they say – the best things in life are free.

I look forward to many more enjoyable years of not purchasing Spanx.