Just when I thought the world couldn’t get any freakin’ lazier….along comes Pinterest. What is this magic timesucker Pinterest? Well, before if you wanted to surf the web for pictures of cute dogs, delicious food and hilarious photos, you actually had to type that into the google-machine and click on links. Now, you can just click on Pinterest and everyone has done the work for you:

Cute pictures of dogs? Check.

Other people’s clothes? Check.

Hilarious photos? Annnnnnd Check.

It’s all there…along with a unusually LARGE collection of photos of engagement rings. What the what? I still haven’t that figured one out. Someone please explain what the obsession is with that bag of crazy. And if that doesn’t bake your noodle…people comment randomly on the links. None of this deep thought shit because I’ve seen “that looks fierce” more times that appears in an episode of “What Not to Wear.”   

Seriously, has anyone really figured out what Pinterest is for? And why do you have to ask for an invitation to join? It’s like a reverse cult. You aren’t sure why you keep going back, but you do. You start jonesin’ for it like a junkie jonses for a fix. What are people imagining themselves wearing today? While they shop for imaginary rings and post photos of amazingly cute dogs? And for the love of Pete, why haven’t I been saving my old ketchup bottles to use for pancake batter?

On second thought, that just looks disgusting.

But it DOES seem easy.

Damn you Pinterest, Damn you.

No. Not all at once. I hear that the average commute to work is about 30 minutes each way. Which is about 250 hours a year – what can you do with 250 hours? Rosetta Stone claims you can learn Korean in 250 hours (just level 1) which gives the ability to ask where the restroom is, and where can you find a fried pie from McDonald’s. I took 2 years of Spanish and all I really know how to say with confidence is: 
 
“Donde esta la zapateria?”  …. “Where is the shoe store?”

Seriously? That’s my takeaway? Not useful phrases like:

What else? Pilots have to fly 250 hours to qualify for license. Yet there isn’t a requirement to take the driving exam. Who else finds this disturbing? Flying in open air where there usually aren’t any people, just angry birds. But driving….you just need a car. And it doesn’t even have to be your car. Which reminds me of an awesome song “Beerrun” 

B-double-e-double-r-u-n….Beer run.

B-double-e-double-r-u-n….Beeeeeer ruuuuun.

All you need is 10 and a fiver, a car and a key and a sober driver…. B-double-e-double-r-u-n….Beer run.

What were we talking about?

Yeah. Just go with me on this one.

You know what I need? I need serenity now. Which works out great, because you can learn to be a Yoga master in about 250 hours. Okay, like a flexible person can become a Yogi (the master, not the bear) in 250 hours. Not me, I’m too busy asking where you got those cute shoes…and then looking for a 10 and a fiver.

Donde esta el sober driver?

Dudes, it has been FOREVER since we talked. What the hell is wrong with me? Oh yeah, it’s December. Which is kind of like the opposite of that show “The Biggest Loser.” We’re all on a fat-train to hell, and it’s stopping at a donut shop, a chicken shack, and a burger joint (twice) before we get there. I mean, seriously? I could eat all day. We already went through the whole freaky-ass holiday dessert story, so let’s just call it what it is…if December doesn’t end soon, I may die.

And not in the figurative emo-eyeliner wearing hipster kind of die.

I mean, clogged-arteries-sugar-coma kind of die. Not that I’m usually this unhealthy (I run, I play racquetball, I occasionally take the stairs), but in December the wheels are off the fucking bus when it comes to any kind of fitness. You see, much like the rest of you, I suffer from a syndrome I have dubbed BusyLazyitis. It’s a technical term. It’s basically that we’re all busy as hell and then when we aren’t busy, we are lazy bitches wrapped in Snuggies watching television and scarfing down treats like there’s no tomorrow.

You know who you are. In the pink bunny footie pajamas.

I know. I know. We should all take better care of ourselves. We should all live in moderation. I say BULLSHIT, it’s December. We’re weak. We’re so easily manipulated into one more cookie, one more slice of pie, and for the love of Pete pass that bowl of gravy. Because if wanting that hot, salty gravy goodness is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

I’m totally glad that the holiday season is coming to a close, even though it means we are locked in until Spring. I need to detox like Lindsay Lohan after a long weekend in Vegas….or actually, just any day if you’re Lindsay Lohan. I will miss the constant barrage of bizarro-food, and also the constant joy of days off. But it’s getting out of hand, I tellya….getting OUT OF HAND.

If you need in on this intervention, we meet on Thursdays at the donut shop on Main.

And yes, they will dip that glazed number in a vat of fudge if you ask.

What? You can’t expect me to quit cold turkey? Mmmm. Turkey.

Don’t judge…I can feel your look.

Let’s not digress from the important point here – when food ceases to look like food…well, let’s just say “Houston, we have a problem”…. a delicious, delicious problem. Who doesn’t love a good cookie? I think Martha Stewart unleased a strange desire to franken-freakin-stein everything in your pantry to create a monstrocity for your nearest and dearest.

Now that it’s the holiday season, this army of crazy confections are running buck wild at house parties, office parties and showing up in cookie tins all over time. It’s madness, I tell you. Sugary madness.  It’s starts around Halloween – where they suck you in with regular candy. Then Thanksgiving pushes the envelope a little more with the freaky ass jello mold. And before you know, you’re jonesing for the a fix from the neighbor that bakes the pretzels covered in fudge, rolled in candy, dipped in white chocolate, and sprinkled with mini-M&Ms.

Then right when you finally get a fairly decent 24-hour sugar buzz going….the cold hard truth of January bitch slaps you. Gone are the plates of cookies decorated to look like all Santa’s reindeer and spiked hot chocolate….replaced with stale-ass donuts and burnt coffee. Granted, Santa’s reindeer looked like a hot mess… colored sugar all gunked up and those sugar plums looked like sad, sad jujubees. Did I eat some anyway. Oh yeah.

Dudes. I’d like to think I’m fairly normal. Okay. Normal enough. But there are days where I would lose my effin’ head if it wasn’t attached to my effin’ body. I put my keys down on the table, I turned around…and those suckers were frickin’ gone. So after tearing ass through the house. I found them.

In the refrigerator.

Oh, and that’s just incident number one. So later, I’m at work. You know. Working. And then I’m taking off for lunch and I’m trying to find my phone because I’m addicted to it and I can’t even have a meal without it. Don’t judge. You know you do it, too. And I’m getting all bothered and pissed that I can’t find it. Then I realize….

It’s in my hand.

And the clincher? I was actually talking on it at the time.

I think my mind completely forgot that’s what a phone is actually for. Kind of like how fast food restaurants forget that they are supposed to serve food…and then things like the McGriddle are born. Granted, I loves me a McGriddle. But that isn’t food, at best, it’s a food substitute. A freakin’ delicious maple-y food substitute. Great. Now I’m hungry. This happens every time I watch “Super Size Me”… I always want to go get a Big Mac.

But let me get to incident number two, which involves the weather. I hate it when it’s cold in the morning and then hot in the afternoon. I’m talking “jacket weather” cold. Which I wear IN to the office and then forget to take OUT of the office. Then by the end of the week, I got, like, 4 jackets at the office and then I end up freezing my ass off on Friday because I’ve run out of jackets. And then I got to lug 4 jackets home from the office, and the security guard is giving me the stink-eye because I look like some crazy jacket thief. Not that I care about the stink-eye. Brass balls over here, brass balls.

I’ve actually had to start leaving a little note on my computer to remind me to take my jacket home. Like some crazy Alzheimer’s patient. I would put a reminder on my phone.

If I could find the damn thing.

It’s probably in the refrigerator.

It’s weird going to the store during the day. I’m talking about during the work week. It’s like that first time you see your gradeschool teacher at the grocery store. In the produce section. In flip flops. Okay, okay, the flip flops were a bit much, but you get the idea. It’s that kind of weird. Anyway, the Mr and I had a Halloween party last weekend, so the week prior, I was at just about EVERY store in town (twice).  And let me tell you, those ladies at Hobby Lobby take their fabric very seriously. They’ll cut you.

No, seriously. They. Will. Cut. You.

I’m not talking stores like Target. Target during the day is pretty much the same as Target at night or the weekends. That’s why we love Target. I’m talking about those “other” stores – you know, the ones you have to go to because they sell specialty items. Like fabric, weird cooking utensils, and clothing with various “holes” cut out. What? Don’t give me that look….you know what I’m talking about.

Hobby Lobby and GardenRidge. Sure, these stores look like they’d be all laid back and cool. But they take their crafts REALLY seriously. Kind of like when you’re going to customs at the airport and they ask if you want to declare something…and you totally want to declare that you’re fucking drunk. Yeah. They don’t think that’s funny. The TSA was not issued a sense of humor with that snazzy uniform.

But back to Hobby Lobby. Don’t be fooled. They are spry. And not at all sweet. Some crazy lady was buying about 80 different kinds of material at the Fabric Counter to make some bizarre teapot-themed quilt or 500 outfits for her dog. She was waving that tape measure around like a pair of wilty nunchucks. Oh, did I mention she had the crazy eyes. And a long pinkie nail. Which instantly means that she must be a cocaine-snorting-quiltin’-lunatic. I recommend that you steer clear of that geriatric ninja.

Office Supply Stores.  Nobody shops here. They are actually surprised when they see you. They also stalk you as you’re walking through the aisles. Because I look like the type of person about to steal a whole mess o’ paper clips. Really? I think I still have the box I stole from work 8 years ago. Take that, Staples!

Malls. I’ve only got 2 words for you: Stroller Patrol. They are locked into a heated gangwar with the Mall Walkers for turf. You can spot the Stroller crowd by their Starbucks while Walkers pack rolled up newspapers. I almost got caught in the middle of a scuffle in front of Sbarro’s. I was scared shitless…but it did smell delicious. From what I can gather, everything from Steve’s Apple Store to the Neiman’s is Stroller territory, if you venture to the end with the Vitamin Store and that weird embroidery shop, then you’re in Walker-ville. I am pretty sure the food court is up for grabs. Don’t be fooled by their Shape-up footwear or the Kenneth Cole blinged out strollers…..

They. Will. Cut. You.  

I know, I know. TV isn’t real. But sometimes I think they are just phoning it in with their set ups. I also know that we’re not a tough crowd to reach – that would explain why the NEWS is still on. A friend of mine “accidently” watched it yesterday… I wasn’t even sure that the news was still out there. Doesn’t everyone get their late-breaking shit from the interwebs? The only “News” I would be interested in watching would feature Huey Lewis, who possibly was in DieHard. But that’s not the point, the point is that there are some things that totally wouldn’t fly in the real world – which is why I don’t watch regular TV, if it ain’t on cable, then I ain’t watching it.

People randomly walking in to your apartment and eating your food. In the real world, that is called “home invasion” and in some states, they can legally shoot you for that. Granted, if someone rolled in and started eating some of my unfrosted Blueberry PopTarts or banana oatmeal, they better be fast on their feet, because I will THROW DOWN.

Everyone is hot, but no one is dating. Seriously? Even the dorks are good looking. Now, I’m not saying dorks can’t be goodlooking and/or innately cool – I’m just saying that if all it took was some Axe Body Spray and a trip to Abercrombie and Fitch…then we’re on to something as a society and Cosmo or Maxim should totally make a quiz about this. But lest we forget, none of them are dating each other – even though they’re single! What is this madness?

Everyone meets cute. They bump into potential flings in elevators or by jumping into the same cab in the rain, or by starting out hating each other, but secretly longing for each other. OMFG. I think I just described the plot to every Romantic Comedy EVER MADE. Real people meet through their friends (which further supports my theory above). Or they meet at work. That’s totally not taboo anymore. Unless you accidently grope the wrong person in the elevator.

Not that that’s happened to me. Seriously. No. This is totally based on a story I heard from a friend.

And finally, they all have apartments in cool cities that they can’t possibly afford. Really? You wait tables and you got 1200 square feet overlooking the park? That’s the one that gets me. Because I know my first apartment was a shithole. Everyone’s first apartment is a shithole. That’s why it’s your FIRST apartment. You gotta be knee-deep in paper-thin walls, surrounded by fucked up neighbors, and the occasional gunshot at 3am to know that you need a good job to get a decent place. That’s way more enticement than the high school guidance counselor gave you. I think they gave me a pamphlet. Way to go the extra mile.

Granted, I tend to watch shows that feature zombies, vampires and serial killers. Talk about not being grounded in reality.

But at least they all have jobs. Good ones.

And good apartments.  

Have you ever looked back at what you post on Facebook? I was actually kinda amused/somewhat shocked/intrigued by the abbreviated phrases that I have been spewing out to my friends. Granted, I did this unscientific search on my iPhone, not my computer – so the screen was small, and it only showed me the first 3-5 words of my posts.

I know that I’m not one of those syrupy sweet posters that talk about love and puppies and rainbows. Neither am I the one putting together a chronicle of my day: (you know who you are)…”I’m eating breakfast!/Driving home!/ Getting ice cream!/Taking a Shit”) – let’s hope all those events happened seperately.
 
I have come to the conclusion that I must have Tourrette’s Syndrome or I’m borderline certifiable. I figured out that like different food groups, I have different post groups – and I’m leaving out the boring ones (Happy birthday/Congratulations/Glad you’re outta prison).

SERIOUSLY: THESE ARE ACTUAL POSTS I HAVE MADE:

The Food Group (or commonly known as “I am obsessed with food, specifically, pie”)

Best pie.

Those cakes are the best!

Lemon? That sounds awesome!

Pie is awesome.

You had me at Burger King

An entire food truck for…

I have an affinity for quoting REALLY great movies:

220…221…whatever it takes (Mr Mom)

Gimme some sugar, baby (Evil Dead)

Mooooon river…… (Fletch)

Superfly TNT…that’s all I have …(Pulp Fiction)

This. Is. Sparta! (300)

I also like talking about people’s mothers:

You kiss your mother with that mouth?

Happy birthday to yo’ momma

Here are some deep thoughts that I am seriously thinking about needlepointing onto a pillow:

It’s all in the knees.
Babies are great…like veal.
Mark Twain speaks the truth.
That may truly blow the commode.
Drinking ALWAYS makes it better.

My favorite words are “dude” and “awesome”:

Dude, it’s a dry heat.

Dude, that is awesome
Two words: Awe. Some.

Finally, I bring you the WTF Category. For the life of me, I can’t imagine what type of conversation I could have been having – because this shit is wheels-off-the-bus crazy.

                Way to raise “Hell”vetica, Mike
                As in, like, crack?
                Are you fucking serious?! 
                You do love Disneyland…
                Was it exorcist quality?
                You got a falcon?
                You’re about to start singing…
                That was so awful…I think
                Well played. Vince. Well played.
                You only have one? 
                That shut is funny. Syphilis you…
                The “chalk eater”…
                Just so klassy…with a “k”

Good to know that these amazing words of wisdom are being saved for future generations. I just hope they enjoy reading them while eating pie. Speaking of pie – and how my world apparently revolves around it….
I leave you dudes with this post nugget of awesome-ness: “Shut your goddamn pie-hole.”

To someone’s mother, no less.

I gotta get back to work……AFTER I eat these HoneyBuns.