I'm not white trash?

My mom pushed the "The house needs to be spotless" date until this evening.  Lucky me.  I went over after work to vacuum and dust the rest of the house.  There was one small problem.  My parents brand new vacuum cleaner broke.

Ridiculously expensive piece of shit

I'm super smart so I called the neighbors and asked to borrow theirs.  Apparently there is a time warp portal in between our house and theirs because THIS is what my dad came back with...

Seriously?  Is this from 1983?

I think even the Amish would laugh in the face of the person suggesting that this is a viable option to clean anything.  My dad, being the man's-man that he is, came up with this idea:

4.5 Horse Power Hey-o

Yup.  That's shop vac.  Unfortunately, the cord is short... don't worry - he has a solution for that, too.

The extension cord I had to haul around the house

Then there was the little problem that the shop vac's attachment would scratch the hardwood floors.  Once again, I came to the rescue.  I put the broken vacuum's attachment on the shop vac but it wouldn't stay... I asked my dad if he had any duct tape.  You should have seen the look on his face.  You would have thought I told him that I had a change of heart and was now a Republican.  Ricky-poo ran out to his work shop and picked his favorite roll and this was the final result.

Bobo.  Bobo as hell.

I finished cleaning the house and decided to take a gander at some old family photos before I left.  Sometimes I just like to remind myself that I have always been cute.  Would you like a sneak peek?

Sweet molest-ache, Ricky-poo

This is my father circa 1986.  This is also the exact same face I make everyday.  It's creepy how alike we are.  Speaking of creepy, this mustache is fucking killing me.  Good thing To Catch a Predator wasn't around back then or he'd be fuuuuuuuuucked.

Me and my momma 

Bahaha.  The 80s was great for hair.  Side note: if the quality of this picture was better you'd be able to see my boob.  You're welcome, fellas.

Worst costumes ever

This a pic of me and broseph.  Apparently my mom thought we should dress the same.  The costumes are horrible but we are the cutest pumpkins ever.

Proof I've had the 'fro since I was a youngin'

Straighteners weren't an option when I was young.  People (read: strangers) would come up to me and pull my curls.  And people wonder why I like my personal space... I was scarred as a child.

I wore my sunglasses at night.  And inside.

I've been totes legit since birth.  When I see this picture I imagine myself singing "I'ma a diva" by Be-nonce years before she even thought about the song.

I apologize for the poor quality of these gems.  Once I get my mother's scanner hooked up I will post more.

Side note:  I just went outside to give Gar-Bear my rent check and I'm fairly certain Captain Ron was out there talking to him.  I love midtown.  I love my neighbor and his super sketch friends.  I love my life.  And I love each and every one of you.

The song I chose tonight popped into my head as I was duct-taping the shop-vac.  If you never watch the videos I post, PLEASE make an exception tonight.  This video is hilarious.  Spoiler alert:  There are mullets.  There are button down muscle shirts.  There are too tight jeans.  There is awesomely bad dancing.  Basically everything I need in life.

It's not just my pride...

Bonjour mes amours!  I have a painful story to share with you today... painful for me, hopefully not for you.


I decided to take a field trip on my lunch break today.  I went to Oak Court mall to get my eyebrows did.  I have been wanting to try "threading" for quite some time.  I know several girls that have it done and love it.  "It feels like a slight pinch," one girl told me.  "It doesn't hurt any worse than waxing," said another.  I was hoping these bitches were right since Gracie told me it feels like getting a tattoo.  Here is my story:


I arrive at the mall right around 1:30.  Before I get out of my car, I decide to slip on a pair of flats in hopes that my trip will be a little quicker.  I get all of my shiz together - phone, keys and purse in hand, and once my second foot hits the concrete I face plant.  I'm talking my phone flies out of my hands; my keys fly under the car next to me; the contents of my purse scatter all around.  Apparently the people responsible for paving the parking lot decided to stop right where I parked.  I rolled my ankle?  Who knows.  All I know is that this only happens when I'm wearing stupid flats.  I should have taken this as a sign.  

I pick up all of my stuff, dust off my bruised legs {and ego} and make my way to BrowArt 23.  The place is empty.  No customers.  No employees. Nothing.  I sit and catch up on my twitter.  Five minutes pass, still no one.  I should have taken this as a sign.  But I'm bound and determined to do this so I wait ten minutes until the only employee finally comes in.  Homegirl doesn't apologize, she tells me to sit in the chair and assures me that it will only feel like a pinch.


She lied.  Homegirl LIED to me.  She starts doing whatever it is that she does and I immediately want to run away.  Actually, I want to punch her.  That's my initial reaction when confronted with pain - punch whatever/whomever is responsible for said discomfort.  I wish I could describe what it feels like but I can't seem to find the words.  It kind of feels like someone is slicing my eyebrow.  The pain causes my eyes to clench shut and start watering like whoa.  Homegirl keeps telling me to "relax."  What I wanted to say was, "Are you KIDDING me, bitch? I feel like I just slid down a slide full of razorblades ON MY FACE and landed in vat of lemon juice and hot sauce and you want me to RELAX?!"  Instead I just sit there and wipe the waterfall of tears away from cheeks. She finishes with the threading.  Homegirl then does the unthinkable.  She takes a cotton ball soaked in- what I imagine - could only be somewhere along the lines of pure grain alcohol and proceeds to saturate the poor eyebrows she just sliced and diced with an X-acto knife?  It's at this point that I honestly think about projectile vomiting all over the place.  In stupid her face.  On her stupid thread.  On the stupid chair.  ALL OVER.  I don't.  Homegirl finishes and hands me a mirror.  I some how manage to pry open my eyes to see that I'm not actually bleeding and that I DO, indeed, have eyebrows left.  She is standing there, looking at me with this shit eating grin.  All I could manage to say was, "Well that sucked."  And I walked away as fast as humanly possible.


Needless to say I will never, ever, ever, EVER be doing that again.  I can't imagine why anyone would do that more than once?  I know I'm a big sissy but give me a break.  This level of torture MAY be on par with water boarding.


In other news, it's Wine-sday and I WILL be celebrating.  Even if it's by myself.

It's a Britney Spears sex riot.

Glee is hilarious.  I don't watch it a lot but I made sure that I would be home for tonight's episode.  Britney Spears is {and has been since the ...Baby One More Time days} a serious guilty pleasure of mine.  I love everything about her.  I love the fact that she thinks that her ability to "sing"/dance means she can act {see Crossroads}. I love her even more now that I know she is was completely insane.  I knew she was going to make a comeback.  A fierce, no holds barred comeback with a renaissance of pop music as we know it.  She's Britney fucking Spears.  Just wait, people, another ones-a comin'.


This silly tv show was the only good thing about today.  I woke up at 8:14.  And I have to be at work at 8. Whoopsie-daisy.  I got to work in record time... and I looked a hot freaking mess.  Emphasis more on the mess than on the hot.  So I overslept and was late and my hair was a disaster.  Do you ever have one of those days where you aren't 100% sure whether or not you are awake or just dreaming?  I walked around like that all day long.  And if this whole day actually was a dream?  I have something to tell you, subconscious of mine, today was boring.  I'd prefer to have inappropriate sex dreams about co-workers than dream about working - like actually working - all day long.  Dulls-ville, USA.


Bah.  Ok.  Sorry for the super lame post today.  Dreamland day has not been good for my brain power.

Children = free labor

When I was younger, my parents had several nicknames for me.  There was Shamrock {such originality... I'm sure our Irish heritage had nothing to do with this?} and Sandy {that's a long story... short version: I was a weird fucking kid and wanted to be a dog}.  And then there was Cinderella.  This was rather fitting since I was positive that my parents had kids solely to do all of the things they didn't want to do... like clean the house from top to bottom and weed the gardens.  And pick up sticks {real life punishment, thanks Ricky poo}.  Since I was also a huge dick head in my younger years, I told them thousands of times their chores were borderline child abuse and I had every intention of calling 911.  And child services.  AND all my grandparents {note to self: threatening to call parents does not work on grownups}.  Alas, I grew up to be a somewhat well-adjusted adult... with a serious aversion to sticks, weeds and house work.

Now, don't get me wrong.  Rick and Les are two of the best parents a kid could ask for.  I can't remember a time that I ever wanted for anything {except for fucking Barbie Hot Wheels}.  And, like I said earlier, I was a gigantic asshole in my younger years.  I think that because my parents spoiled me as a child {slash they still do} AND because I was a horrid excuse for a daughter the first 23 years of my life I cannot tell them no.  Seriously.  I can't.  So when my mom called and asked me to help her get the house ready for some sort of inspection, of course I had to say yes.  I went over there this evening and there was a serious list of shiz to be done.  By when?  Oh, ya know... Wednesday.  Not gonna happen.  Ever.

My mom and I are outside putting the finishing touches on the patio when Ricky-poo comes outside.  To help, you ask?  Ha.  That's cute.  {He's been upstairs "working"/ looking up funny videos on youtube.}  After he questioned us about why we were finishing up for the evening he does a little... dance?  I'm not sure what it was but it was hilarious and it's times like these that I really need a camera crew following me around.  Next time I'll be sure to have my camera with me.

I now know a few things:

1.  I get my hoarding from my dad.  He had a baby acorn on his dresser because he said it was the smallest thing he'd ever seen.

2.  I get my genuine disdain for housework from my mother.

3.  Spider webs are gross.

4.  I have a perfect mix between my mom and dad's nose.

5.  My parents definitely only had children to do their bidding.  They are evil geniuses.  Every last one of them.

So tired.  Have a delicious week.  Sweetest dreams, my loves.

Tell me a story.

I'm not sure what it is about me but people like to tell me super weird things.  Things they definitely maybe shouldn't tell anyone else?  Especially a stranger.  Here's a sweet little example...


My sinuses suck.  I get sinus infections quite often so I frequent the Walgreen/Take Care Clinic down the street from my work for some serious antibiotics.  They are always stupid busy so I get to eavesdrop on people's conversations and spy some majorly delish daddies.  I finally get taken back to see the nurse practitioner?  I'm not sure if that's what she is... regardless, she writes me prescriptions and her name is Erin.  We're talking about what's wrong with me... boring, boring, boring.  Erin mentions how "adorable" my shoes are - since she is charge of giving me what I need I do not tell her that, perhaps, she means "smokin' hot" because there is no way in hell 5 inch black suede heels are in the same category as puppies and babies.  Erin starts telling me what prescription she is writing me, yada, yada, yada... she mentions my new birth control and tells me gross things I won't mention here.  Then she tip toes ever so gracefully up to the "too far for strangers" line.  She proceeds to tell me that if I don't eat with my antibiotics that I'll get "the shits."  Yes.  The person in charge of my well-being used the term "the shits."  Something tells me that isn't in any medical books.  Erin shoots me a truly bizarre look and continues on like that didn't happen.  {Ignoring the awkward is a personal favorite of mine.  I like her style.}  She goes on to tell me that some people like that.  Yup, still talking about poo here.  I don't know if Erin is aware that she is rapidly approaching the way too far line but she keeps on talking.  The next words out of her mouth confuse me, as I'm not even sure what it is or where it's located.  "A gall bladder," she says while looking at me like I should get exactly why she said this.  "{Awkward 30 second pause} I think people should get gall bladder removals if they suffer from chronic constipation... after you get that done you go 30 minutes after you eat."  Crickets may as well be chirping in the background because I have no idea why she is talking about this... apparently she could tell from my face and then it happens.  She jumped across the line.  Erin tells me that she "only poops every ten days."  Erin continues on for an extremely odd length of time.  Telling me all about her "rock hard" shadoobs.  Once she finished sharing the details of her bathroom habits she hands me my receipt, I tell her she needs to talk to a doctor about that and walk out the door.  I need to find a new Walgreens...


In other news, I have a new addiction.  Nail polish.  I'm completely obsessed.  I cannot walk into any sort of store that sells it and not walk out with at least one new color.  Case in point:  I went to Walgreens  twice today and left with three bottles of polish.  I got another new bottle last week at le Kroger.  Here's a taste of my newest and most favorite colors:

Revlon, Hot in Chocolate

Sally Hansen, Pacific Blue

O.P.I, Vodka & Caviar

Sally Hansen, Rockstar Pink

Now to decide what the color du jour will be... yum, yum, yum... love.  And holy shiz, sweet Lady Gaga, praise be all that is holy... Urban Fucking Outfitter is opening a store in the Cooper Young area.  Maybe I should go to church and praise baby jesus.  Or I can just pray at the altar of fashion when the store finally opens.  Yes.  That sounds like a much better idea.


P.S.:  I think vanity license plates are really stupid.  I know several people who have them.  I'm not really afraid to tell you I think it's fucking stupid.  I saw one today that was just dumb.  Unfortunately I was unable to get a picture but I did remember what it said.  It was on a new black Lexus LS10.  Blacked out windows.  Being driven by a... um, particularly suspect man.  The plates read: "IP8D4IT"  I wanted to flag him down and tell him the "8" was superfluous.  "Pah-eight" is actually just pronounced pād.  And something tells me, by the way you're driving, that you didn't actually "p8d" for it.


P.P.S.:  The website we use at work has daily inspirational quotes.  The one posted today said something along the lines of "Aim low and you'll never be disappointed."  Nothing like selling yourself short to make your life really worth living.


Happy Thursday!  I hope you all have a b-e-a-uuuuu-tiful Friday!

Come on sugar let me know.

Ugh.  Pure frustration is when you have a long and beautiful blog written about two wonderful yet silly topics and then poof.  It's gone.  All of it.  Every last whimsical note.  And to make matters worse, I can't remember the second topic.  It's time for me to webmd the symptoms of early onset Alzheimer's.

Instead of re-writing what I could barely remember in the first place, I went to the Deli for a few drinks.  Clearly a much better decision.  Plus I got to see the bartender I have the hots for.  Gracie said he looks like a ninja turtle.  If ninja turtle suddenly became synonymous with my lover than she's correct.


Here are a few things for Etsy and ModCloth that make me salivate.  Hope you all had a beautiful Wednesday.  It's officially fall and {according to my mother, Les} there are a Harvest moon.  She may have made that up knowing that I wouldn't care enough to google it.

I love everything about this. Except the button.

Who wouldn't want a wishbone necklace?

I love dinosaurs, too.

I want to snuggle with this. Oh, and I love the color.

Quick note: I love it when you comment.  I really do.  But if you just don't have the time to do so then there is a new feature down at the bottom... click on gnarly if you like what I'm saying. Click lame if you hate puppies.

This sweet jam that's gonna take it home tonight has been bouncing around in my head all week long.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.  Loveeeeee you.

Do NOT read this if you think I'm cool.

WARNING: If I have tricked you in any way, shape or form into thinking that I'm cool - albeit marginally - please skip over this post.  Forever.

I like myself.  I like myself a lot.  I think that I'm pretty awesome.  But I am not delusional.  I know that I'm pretty much the antithesis of cool.  I like lots of things that are fit for, say, teenagers?  Maybe even younger?  Since today has been particularly uneventful, I'm going to enlighten you as to why I'm a douche.  I call this list (feel free to judge the shiz out of me):

Why Shannon's a Douche

First Edition

• I read and quickly became obsessed with the Twilight series.  True story.  I'm totally Team Edward.  Jacob is a joke. Werewolves aren't REAL and everyone knows it.

• The CW.  Yes, this one is particularly hard to admit.  I haven't missed a day of Gossip Girl since it's inception.  And I have no plans of ever falling out of the loop.  Chuck Bass is the man of my dreams.  I think he's legal in real life so this is ok.  Right?  Don't worry... I'm not too proud to admit that I willingly watch both 90210 and One Tree Hill.

• I'm fully aware that my obsession with this little love bucket may land me in the county jail.  But I'm not really sure that I care.  I love him.  I love his stupid hair and his sick dance moves.  I love that he's going through puberty.  Yeah... it may be weird that I know that but let's ignore it.  He's the modern day Hanson.  Do you think it's bizarre that all four of those fellas look strikingly like pre-pubescent little girls and/or underdeveloped lesbians?  Definitely not a coincidence.

• Hello Kitty band aids.  First of all, Gracie tells me that band aids are for little kids.  Second of all, they are Hello Kitty.  Maybe I'm just mad that when I was younger we always had to have gross boy band-aids since my brother was a boy and my sister thought she was.  They really do make me feel better.  And by that I mean they make me smile... and make me question my maturity level.

That's all that I can think of for now.  You may have noticed this was only Edition one.  Don't you worry your pretty little faces... I will make it my duty to prove to you exactly why I am a douche.

I'm ready for bed.  It's 8:30.  Maybe I really am a little kid?

Take it easy, baby.

Happy Monday, boys and girls.  Was your day fantastic?  Mine was.  Although I still feel like I got hit by a truck, had all of my limbs removed and then sewn back on Macgyver style.  What is Macgyver style, you ask?  Well, I am not entirely sure.  I imagine that it involves the bones of a crow, three pieces of grape Bubbleyum and pinto beans.  Maybe some invisible ink, too.  Invisible ink is crucial to most situations.


Weekend recap:  I finished my first 5k.  I don't think I really cared about my time for the race's sake.  I really was super anxious to get home and put the finishing touches on my house for the party.  I'm glad I did it and I fully intend on doing it again but I will not, I repeat - WILL NOT - be planning a party for the same day as said race.  That's just silly.  Moving on:  My house warming party was better than I could have ever imagined.  It was a bright and sunny day filled with friends and family and all the jello shots a girl could want.  Seriously.  The jello shots were the best/worst idea I've ever had.  Word on the street is they lasted well into the evening which is impressive given that I was practically shoving them down people's throats.  Including the mailman.  Unfortunately, I didn't take as many pictures as I would have liked... I was too busy handing out / taking jello shots?  Yup, the confirmation can be found in my liver.  Or what's left of it.  In other news, I think my taste in men is expanding.  I used to stick to Americana.  Farm raised, corn bred - possibly inbred? - American as Bud light {BEFORE the sell out, naturally}.  I'm going to blame this broadening of my horizons on Bruno Mars and strikingly beautiful men of the same caliber.  And the hot little nugget I met this weekend.


Dream update:  I've stopped dreaming about one of my co-workers.  That's a plus.  Now I can look at him without blushing and imagining him naked.  I'm sure he'll be replaced.  Hopefully with something less embarrassing... I'd settle for someone who isn't married.  The grasshoppers are gone too.  Kat Von D made a cameo last night.  This would be awesome if she didn't scare me.


I have a little venting to do.  Rest assured it's only about silly, trivial things.  If you'd like to skip to the next section of things that I love, love, love... you have my permission.  Here is a list of 5 things that make me want to barf:

1. When people drag their feet, I imagine myself throwing rocks at them.  Or arrows.  Or maybe just tripping them with a big ol' stick.  It's ridiculous and unless you have some physical ailment that prevents you from picking your feet up OFF of the ground (and I'll need to see a doctor's note) then you had better lift those doggies up with each and every step.  Ew.
2. When people are trying to let you know that they've completely changed or something along those lines and they say they have done a "360."  Really?  You changed and then turned back into whatever it is you changed from?  Double ew.
3. Ann Curry.  UGH.  I wish I could pin point the exact time for you when she crawled under my skin and laid her seeds of hate but I can't.  I'm fairly certain she tortures small woodland creatures.  Like baby deer.  Or baby rabbits.  And eats babies for breakfast.  Human babies.  Every time either Meredith or Matt is on vacation I die - especially when they give her some stupid story to talk about and it requires any sort of emotion.  Because she whispers.  About everything.  Triple ew.
4. When you get a shot and it feels like someone knuckle-punched you right in the arm every hour, on the hour, for two whole days.  I got a B12 shot today and it does not feel very pleasant.  AT all.  Quadruple ew.
5. When people don't respond to emails.  My mother is very guilty of this - the most egregious faux pas of. All. Time.  Just answer my email.  Even if it's with a recording of Ann Curry's stupid whisper voice talking about how she's done a 360 on something while she's walking around 30 Rock dragging her feet.  Triple ew plus double ew.

Now on to the things I l-o-v-e today:

1. My friends and family.  After the best house warming party in the history of house warming parties, I have a renewed obsession with each and everyone of you.  I would NOT let Ann Curry eat you or your babies.
2. Reading other people's blogs.  Look at the side of this page... right above my followers and you'll see just a few of the ones I love.  Getting into people's minds and finding out more about them is my idea of a good time.
3. Modern Family.  The season premiere is FINALLY on this week.  When I watch this show I like to imagine that {insert your personal higher power here} was thinking of me in particular when they created this show.
4. Stalking people's status updates.  Yup.  Pretty much every post or link or picture posted brings a little joy to my heart.  Unless, of course, it's sad or depressing or Republican in nature.  That should go without saying.
5. pièce de résistance.... Lady Gaga.  Lady Gaga.  LADY GAGA.  I totally have a big, fat girl crush on her.  I love her.  AND she's going to NASHVILLE.  Baaaaah.  All of my dreams are coming true.

The list of things I love could go on for hours but I must go deep clean my house.  I hope that this week is the best week of your life.  Love you and you and you and yooooou

It's the freakin' weekend

Happy Cooper Young Fest day!


5k:  Check
Shower: Check
Orange and white dress with orange sandals to support my team:  Double check
Breakfast:  Pronto pup (with mustard) and mimosas  - Don't judge me.  Don't even think about it.




ESPN College Game Day just predicted that Florida was going to win.  I hope they are WRONG.  


Go Vols!!!!


My mimosas is empty.  Time for another.

Shots, shots, shots

 A mere 4 hours of work tomorrow then I'm off until Monday.  Can I get an aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamen for getting off work early on Fridays?  I can almost taste the weekend.  Tastes like jello, vodka and fried gator.  My to - do list {that I still haven't finished from earlier in the week} is anxiously awaiting to being tackled tomorrow so I won't be having a lot of free time.  I won't be having a lot of free time this weekend period but it will all be worth it.


Gracie came over tonight and helped me make an absurd number of jello shots.  It may be an illegal number.  All I know is we went through 2.5 handles of vodka and approximately 8 billion boxes of jello.  Give or take a box or two.  Here is what my fridge currently looks like:

• Pink lemonade (hidden)
• Half bottle of wine
• One bottle of champagne
• A tad bit of milk
• 3 string cheeses
• Jello shots.  Lots and lots of jello shots.

It's a good thing I don't cook.... otherwise I would have nowhere to put my food.  But who needs nourishment when you have jello shots?  Not this girl, that's fo sho.


I'm so very grateful I don't have to do these tomorrow.  My list is still stupid long.  But that's boring.  Would you like to know what I'm doing the rest of the weekend?  If not, stop reading and have a beautiful weekend.


Saturday morning I have my first 5k.  Hooray.  I have to be there at 7 fucking AM.  Boo, hiss.  Then my mother will be bringing me back home so I can shower, drink mimosas and prepare for Cooper Young fest!  I'm so excited!  It's also going to be my house warming party/ UT vs Florida viewing party.  And all that means is that my friends are coming by and drinking more than is medically advised.  I love a good day drunk.  It makes my heart sing.


If you are in the Memphis area and would like to join the partay head to the Cooper Young fest and look around.  You'll see us.


Nighty night, lovers.  I hope you all have beautiful tomorrows.

That's not the right thing to do.

This week seems to have lasted eons.  It's only Wednesday, in case you were wondering.  All day long I thought it was Friday.  Then I would correct myself and say it was Thursday.  When I finally realized it was Wednesday I thought about googling the most efficient way to off myself.  Speaking of, I had to work my stupid second job this evening.  I know I said I was going to stick it out for a month.  But I lied.  I can't stand it.  I hate every second of it.  It's boring and apparently weirdos hang out in bookstores.  Like the dude the was wearing a kilt and walking around juggling his family jewels.  {I'm going to add this to the list of why cajones creep me out}  Then there are the 3 or 4 old delusional old dudes that play some weird game with marbles.  These guys were clearly losers in highschool.  They wear acid washed, pleated jeans without belts.  And they tuck their shirts into these creepy ass jeans.  One was wearing a shirt that had some nerd joke on it and he thought he was smoking hot.  His name is Jeffrey.  I know this because my stupid second job makes me ask people their names.  Jeffrey has a velcro wallet.  Jeffrey wears glasses with the wrong prescription and likes to try to look UNDERNEATH the rims.  Jeffrey isn't like the other fellas in the group.  He clearly just joined because they other dudes have to explain the game to him.  I've tuned these conversations out because I can literally feel myself becoming boring just listening to them.  Anyway, Jeffrey likes to talk.  A lot.  He likes to talk about things I don't know about and things I really and truly don't give a fuck about.  Today, while Jeffrey was taking a dollar out of his sweeeet velcro wallet he started telling me about the living wage in California.  Cool, Jeffrey.  Then he complains about the price of a shot of espresso.  And asks me if there is anything I can do about it.  "No, Jeffrey, there is nothing I can do about it," I tell him.  He laughs maniacally at this.  And I go hide in the back until he disappears.

Today I decided I'm going to quit.  And I flip-flopped back and forth for most of the evening about whether I would actually go through with it.  I don't need a second job. I don't need the money.  I liked the idea of it because I would be working in a bookstore and I could read books and I thought there would be ample eye candy. Wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrooooong.  Ok, so there are the hot dads that come in but they are few and far between.  And I don't get to read.  And I work with a bunch of fuddy-duddies.  My decision to quit was practically made for me tonight.  And I will tell you why.  We have to wear these head sets and everyone can/does talk on them.  I work with a lot of people that think they are HIGH-larious.  They aren't.  This one old lady was talking about being too personal with customers and how you need to get them in and get them out.  "That's what she said" is/was the only thing I'd said over these godforsaken head sets and no one appreciated it.  Anyone who can't appreciate the art of a well timed "that's what she said joke" is dead to me.

On a lighter note, I went and saw my father before I went into work this evening.  He told me he would work on getting me some tickets to both the UT/Memphis game AND tickets to see the Colts play.  YESSSSSSAAAAA.  Back to the point:  I swear I think he does drugs.  Ricky-poo was asking me how to do something on this ipod (both of my parents are totally technologically challenged) so, naturally, I told him to google it.  His face dropped and he looked like I just punched him in the throat and he said "Shannon, that's not the right thing to do."  Then he turned around and walked away.  I'm still really confused what he meant by this.  Was he disappointed by my answer?  Surely not because "google it" is my answer to 9 out of every 10 questions.  Even if I know the answer I still will tell you to google it.

Ok.  Time for bed.  Tomorrow's Thursday.  Raise the roof.  Get it.

Butt Cheeck's P.S. Weenr fays.

I'm a habitual list maker.  I can - and will - turn any string of events, items, thoughts, ideas, etc into the best list you can imagine.  The ebb and flow of my lists are methodical and well thought out.  To-Do lists are an everyday occurrence in my chaotic life and the bane of my fucking existence.  The problem with these goddamn lists is that, regardless of it's importance, I can never finish them.  Or maybe it's just this one list in particular.  I need an assistant.  Just for this week.  Actually, I don't want to pay anyone to wash the four dishes in my sink or make the jello shots for this weekend or do anything else that's on my list... SO I guess I need motivation... or a slave.  That may be inappropriate.  And neither one of those is likely to happen.  Moving on...

Huffington post has quickly become one of my favorite websites.  While the validity of their "news" stories is questionable, the photo stories they post make me pee just a drop.  The one that made me the happiest today comes to you via some chill-rens.  

Weenr fays = my new insult.

Chill-rens...

That's one thing I always hated about school.  No pulling my pants down.

Drum roll for my favorite one.........

I love everything about this letter.  Especially when she says "How does it feel to have a grave?  Are you proud?"  The only thing I find a little disturbing about this letter is that Heather, the girl that wrote and submitted this letter, was TEN YEARS OLD when she asked her dead grandfather what kind of holidays they have once you die.  I feel like she should have had a better grip on death by that age...


One more thing.  I have a confession of sorts.  I've been dreaming a lot lately.  A LOT.  And they've been pretty vivid.  {Especially the ones involving jihad, grasshoppers and moths.}  But in true sexual predator fashion I've been having some... ahem... illicit dreams about people I shouldn't be.  My older, married, male co-workers, for example.  What makes these dreams all the more titillating {haha I'm funny} is that I don't remember them until I actually see the co-star of said dream.  So naturally I turn 8 different shades of red and usually giggle {because I'm a douche} which makes things even more awkward for me.  I'm hoping that tonight's dreams are PG-13 and don't involve seeing anyone naked.


Hope everyone has a brilliant tomorrow.  Raise your hand if you want to make out with Bob Dylan!  Even though he looks like an awkward lesbian, I'd be proud to carry his love child.