I still don’t know what I am going to dress up as for Halloween.
But there is nothing like the very last minute to figure out what I’m going to be…
Here are some options, and you guys let me know what you think, and tell me what you’re going to be!
I can be Olivia Newton John in her “Let’s get Physical” video.
Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka
“Daddy, I want a golden egg, NOOOWWW!”
Haru juku girl
…or a NASCAR fan.
The last time I dressed up I was 19, 20, and 21, and I did the slutty thing. This was for a few reasons:
Low self esteem
and I thought I was hot!
Please enjoy some embarrassing photos of me:
Here’s me as a slutty school girl
Here’s me as a sexy Wonder Woman. And the green/blue blob was my drag queen friend who had some very strategically placed foliage.
And here I am as a sexy/cute cowgirl. Hey, I’m all covered up! Yeah me, I guess my self esteem was on the rise that year.
Here are some recent photos of Berlyn being cute:
She loves her dog Zo-Zo very much.
She also loves the park…
…and belly slides!
And the swing…
And especially her da-da!
The Market keeps spiking in both directions! Mortgage crisis! Jobs at risk!!! People can’t travel, can’t afford milk, can’t buy gas!!
We all know it’s super shitty, and everybody keeps blaming crap on it…Then it got me thinking, what can I blame on the economy:
My low blog stats
Not fitting into my “so tight, I might get a yeast infection,” jeans
Puffy and purple under-eye circles
My daughter’s morning tantrums
Sarah Palin 2012
This hot, dry weather
My intolerance to lactose
Hannah Montana songs
I had a massage last night. Have you ever noticed that massages are kinda weird? I mean, think about it: there you are, totally naked while some stranger rubs you. Undies are of course optional. I chose to wear them. They make me feel safe and somehow less naked. On the day of the massage I decided it would be best if I abandoned my stretched out and faded knickers and traded them in for a pair of pretty undies with hearts on them. This is because I want my masseuse to know that not only am I adorable, hence the hearts, but I’m classy too, hence the absense of stains. I’m not all that modest, but something about being totally vulnerable on a massage table makes me aware of everything, and I’m pretty confident that she snuck a peek at my goodies when I flipped over.
I tried so hard to relax, I put my face in the hole, I closed my eyes, and focused on taking deep, cleansing breaths. I listened to the soft chimes and woodwinds, but my stupid thoughts kept interrupting me:
Can she see all my cellulite when she squishes my leg fat? What if I have a huge whitehead on my back and she’s afraid to massage near it, for fear that it might explode. I wonder what kind of shoes she’s wearing… they look like Asics, or maybe they’re New Balance. I wonder if my leg hair is offending her. Do they make special shoes just for masseuses? I wonder if she jogs in them too. I would, if I had a pair of nice athletic shoes that I had to wear to work. Oh, but wait, I don’t jog. Sometimes I consider jogging, but then I realize what hard work it is. And instead of sweating and wheezing, I think I’d rather watch the DIY network, eat avocado hummus, and dream up ways to use flagstone to adorn my landscaping. What if I farted right now? Would she giggle? Would I? Oh, crap, now I think I have to fart!! HOLD IT…STEADY. SQUEEZE IT, BECKEY! Okay, I’m good now. I think I am finally relaxed…
“Is the pressure alright?”
“Yeah, It’ss goood.”
*And no, I did not fart while getting my massage. I waited until after my masseuse left the room. I am a lady, after all.
Did any one see Saturday Night Live this weekend? Is it still on your Tivos, unwatched and lonely? Watch it damnit! Frick nasty it was funny.
For those of you who somehow missed it I shall recap, because I love you so much, you’re welcome, now bake me a cake with your gratitude, and make it snappy, and chocolate:
Sarah Palin was both charming and charismatic, but I couldn’t get over her Tacky with a capital T, patent leather knee boots with a stacked square heel, which was so 1997, it’s like she’s living in a cave…or…
Amy Pohler’s rap left me crying in a storm of my own salty, joyous tears. And I became hypnotized as I watched her baby-belly gyrate around while she fired fake shots at a man dressed in a moose costume.
Dear Saturday Night Live,
You are making me laugh so uncontrollably it is hard to control my urinary functions. I peed a little bit on my friends’ couch, and I hope they have some Folex handy, because pee-pee stains stuff.
Who else can rock crimped hair with a baret, blue Marni tights with green Louboutin heels, and still look hot as shit?
Can I share something with you? Super. Thanks a bunch. Yesterday I forgot to brush my teeth. Yup, there you have it, I’m disgusting. I had a cup of coffee and next thing I knew I was out the door. I smiled emphatically, I said, “how do you doooo?” to several people, and I bursted out in obnoxious laughter all without the security of having my teeth freshly brushed in the a.m. Of corse it did not dawn on me until after I did all those things, and it was not until later that I felt the gritty slime on my teeth that is only caused by neglect and the absence of a time honored morning ritual. So, if we exchanged words yesterday, I apologize, that was not the near by Chinese restaurant’s sewage that I told you you were smelling, it was my mouth.
For a few days in a row there have been rallies on a busy intersection a block away from my house. The rallies are regarding Prop 8, the one that keeps a marriage between a man and a woman. The strange thing is not the fact that people are rallying, it’s that the rally group alternates every day. One day it’s the folks for Prop 8, then the next day it’s the folks against Prop 8. As I drive by, I wave, regardless of who’s out there, but as I wave, I wonder: how did they coordinate what day they were supposed to be out there?
Did they all meet at the El Pollo Loco? Did they all get out their day planners and schedule their intersection rally time in between bites of their flautas? Afterwards did they go out back by the dumpsters and kick each other in the shins? These are things I need to know. Maybe I’ll ask next time I swing around the intersection. Oh, what if they were the same people, but with different signs and t-shirts? That would be so sneaky! Those sneaky folks. I need a flauta.
I hosted a party this weekend at my home, and if you weren’t there, you really missed out because there were sexy ladies, yummy snacks, and beautiful floral arrangements; and we all know that a party is just not a party without beautiful floral arrangements.
It was at this very moment where I discovered my codependence on pomegranate martinis with a sugared rim.
In this photo, I think Melinda is shielding my armpit from the peril of an unflattering glare with her perfectly manicured hand. She truly is a great friend.
Us and the Johnsons.
We all know that the party’s over when Chris is passed out with his hand somewhere questionable.
Tip: Do housework while sipping a zippy martini. Here’s why:
1. Cleaning out the pubes in the bathroom won’t seem as offensive
2. You’ll notice you have super human strength; lifting the couches to dust underneath will be a breeze, and you’ll wonder why you’ve never thought of that before.
3. Your multitasking savvy just got a whole lot savvier. Doing 2 things at once will seem like child’s play, and you’ll suddenly be taking on 6 tasks at once: yet none will get finished…
My fingernails are filthy, I got bleach on my 120 dollar sweat pants, and my armpits are dewy and stinky, but I don’t give a rat’s ass because I’m slightly buzzed and my house is clean!! Zing zandan! Thanks Kettle One.