I may or may not be losing my mind

Meanwhile, some girlfriends of mine and I are going to see Tom Green tonight. My memories of him include his bout with testicular cancer, being married to Drew Barrymore, and his MTV show from the 90's that made my inner 15-year-old boy laugh so hard root beer simultaneously foamed and squirted out of my nose.

My horoscope.com horoscope for yesterday:

"An unexpected opportunity could temporarily throw your life into disorder, Aquarius, but you will see from the start that this is a definite stroke of good luck that you shouldn't let pass. It could involve money, a chance to move to your dream home, or relationships in some way. Whatever it is, you're definitely going to be happy about it."

Last night, my about-to-fall-asleep brain threw me into thoughts of What if Tom Green gives me his phone number! Maybe he'll ask me to go on the road with him! And write for his blog! And then we begin a relationship! AND I MOVE TO CANADA!

That would definitely throw my life into disorder.

Wouldn't it be just my luck to have some wackadoo "stroke of good luck" like this? No, actually. It wouldn't. Because I'm the perpetual raffle ticket holder who never wins a goddamned thing.

It is fun to think about, say, strolling the streets of any foreign land with Anthony Bourdain or being courted by a some silly nutjob like Tom Green, though.

Day 14: This is way too good not to share again

You may have seen this post at Dooce, but I'm going to repost it anyway because this shit? EQUALS FUNNY. I'm still grossed out by Mariah Carey.

Jezebel's Comprehensive Glossary of Gifs.

Enjoy!

I have an assignment!

An acquaintance friend of mine out in Brooklyn is an editor of erotica. She compiles stories filled with various themes involving hot steamy sexy stories Penthouse Forum has a hard time topping. I think her resume includes editing Penthouse Forum. Pardon the use of "hard" and "topping." That'll make more sense in a sec.

One of the many things Rachel does is travel the states conducting workshops on just how one successfully writes a story of erotica. And one time? I went up to Minneapolis to kick it with my friend Courtney, also friends with Rachel, because Rachel was in town giving one of her workshops at a local Uptown dildo shop. Honestly, you guys, my initial thought was YEAH! The perfect reason to get to Minneapolis to see Courtney AND see what Rachel is all about!

I believe I missed the memo informing me "workshop" entails you, as in me, actually participating in the shop of work.

Me: Writing? No biggie.
Memo: EROTICA.
Me: Oh.

Although I'll spare the gory details, I will share the image of the Catholic girl in me burying her beet red face anywhere she could so as to not make eye contact. With anyone. Especially the 50-something balding man with Jeffrey Dahmer glasses, white unmarked van parked outside, detailing his erotic fantasies with the entire group. That's how I took every story each brave soul shared. No one else existed in the room but me. Like they were whispering each dirty detail to me in secret as I squirmed doing my best to slither away. Spotlight shining straight down on me as they described the intricacies of the wet dream they had had the other night.

Except for Courntey. Pretty sure her humor disguised the naughtiness, allowing me to laugh. Catholic, remember?

On to my recent assignment. Rachel is now conducting a virtual book tour for her latest compilation,Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission. Rachel requested friends with blogs help with her book tour. I have a blog. I am friends with Rachel. This is when I agreed via facebook to do my part to represent erotica writers everywhere. Wait. What?

Female submission. Not sure I even know what that is. BDSM? No idea. Rachel is trusting that I can deliver. So I'll be reviewing the book on May 18. Stay tuned, you guys. This? Should be good.

Wednesday April 28

You know? I totally want to commit to typing something, posting anything, at least once a day. Previous to this Come To Jesus moment, I would unfortunately psych myself out of posting because of the self-imposed pressure to be funny, unique, yet profound.

But you get nothing yet, my one known reader who passive-aggressively successfully encourages me to get to writing.

According to my banner, it is still winter. And we still drive The Sprinter. Perhaps some subtle updating is in order. This I can promise you.

Happiness is...

...being three-years-old and enjoying the endless comedic affect of a Whoopee Cushion.

Egan will walk around the house, puffing his slobbery breath into said cushion, then squeeze out the air close to your unsuspecting bum saying, "Mom, you have gas."

His own greatest audience, he laughs hysterically as he continues the process only to sit on the cushion himself in the middle of the kitchen floor, stating through belly-laughing hilarity, "I have gas."