Monthly Archives: July 2010

I dedicate this Random Day to my friend Sophie.

Things you can do in a parking lot while you’re waiting for someone else to get to the office because you forgot your keys:

  • Play games on your phone.
  • Text people who have nothing better to do than post a blog that 12 people read (but one of them might be Chris Hardwick, so shut your filthy mouth).
  • Stalk your enemies on facebook.
  • Kick rocks.
  • Check that your tires have the proper amount of air in them.
  • Short nap.
  • Pick a flower and play “he loves me, he loves me not” (just make sure the flower has an odd number of petals).
  • Run to the store to buy some sidewalk chalk and start decorating.
  • Test how secure your office really is by breaking a window or two.
  • Look for penis-shaped clouds in the sky.
  • Prank call some people.
  • Make yourself an impromptu breakfast using only what you find in your car – several sonic mints and half a pack of cigarettes.
  • Contemplate your existence.
  • Write “Don’t wash me, I like to be dirty” in the dirt on someone’s window.
  • Call in sick and go back to bed.

There you go, Soph. Plenty of options.

(If anyone has some better options, please leave them in the comments.)


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A haiku inspired by my morning commute.

Brave armadillo

Hiding in your hard, tough shell

No match for a car


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Panties, panties, panties. Well, just the one pair actually.

So. Where were we?

Ah, yes. Mitch Hedberg.

I think I was in junior high when I fell in love with Mitch Hedberg. I saw him on Comedy Central (I think this was back when it was just called The Comedy Channel. Also, I was watching via the super old-school satellite dishes. The kind that take up a whole side of your yard, and you’d have to press the number of the satellite, and the dish would move and pass over other satellites, so you’d see glimpses of, like, Japanese cooking shows and the NASA channel, and in a few seconds, you’d be on the right satellite, and then you’d have to pick what channel you wanted on that satellite. I think The Comedy Channel was on satellite F4. That satellite had all the best channels.)

Anyway, the first few times I saw him, I came in late and missed his name. And this was before the days of the almighty guide button. So I just called him the beatnik comic. And I decided that someday he would be my mistress.

So, years went by. At some point I learned his name. And my love for him remained strong. Then, in college, I (finally) met a few people who knew and loved him almost as much as I did.

One day, word came through the internet that Mitch Hedberg was coming to DFW. Yay!

But also – I was quite poor. I couldn’t afford a ticket, so I couldn’t go to the show. Boo.

But I decided I still needed to seize this opportunity. One of my friends was going, and so I sent a pair of my underwear along with him for Mitch Hedberg to sign. (A friend of mine also sent her underwear. Her name is [REDACTED].)

Now, my friend who was going to the show was named Charles (pronounced CHAR’ less*). Charles and I had been like siblings from the start. We even called each other brother and sister (whichever was gender-appropriate, depending on who was speaking). My friend, [REDACTED], also referred to Charles as her brother. This is important to the story.

So Charles goes to the comedy show, and afterward, knowing that an unspeakable penalty awaits him if he comes back with unsigned panties**, hurries around the back of the club to catch Mitch Hedberg before he leaves. And he’s just in time – Mitch and his entourage, including a woman whose name I can only assume is Lynn with two Ns, are almost at the getaway car.

Charles shouts, “Mister Hedberg!”

They turn to look.

“Could I get your autograph?”

They give some kind of affirmative response. Charles goes up to Mitch Hedberg, and hands him…two pairs of panties.

They all look at him. They look at the panties. At him again.

Charles is a strapping young man, but these panties just don’t look like they would fit him.

Charles says, “It’s okay, they’re not mine. They’re my sisters’.”

Now they look even more confused.

Lynn-with-two-Ns protests. “Ew. Don’t sign those. You don’t know where they’ve been.”

Mitch Hedberg bravely takes the panties and says, “I never signed panties before.”

And then he signed them. Mine and [REDACTED]’s. With his actual hand.

And here’s the proof, modeled by my couch pillow:

Hell, yay-yeah! Mitch Mothafuckin Hedberg!

When choosing which panties you want signed by a celebrity, it is imperative that you pick something cute.

See? Spiders are adorable.

Also, apparently Mitch Hedberg kept the cap to Charles’s sharpie. I’ve never heard the end of that. A perfectly good sharpie gone to waste, all so I could have my panties signed.

Yeah, I hear you Charles. What a goddamn tragedy.

*I can’t figure out how to make a schwa. Just pretend that E is a schwa.
**I don’t know what. But I’m creative, I could’ve figured something out. I think I gave him some sort of vague threat involving his balls.

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Two confessions, two apologies.

I had so many plans for posts this week, blog-clickers. Seriously, you would’ve had something new and fabulous to read every day. But somehow, I never got around to any of it. And I think I know why.

I need to confess something: I sort of miss my tiny apartment. Only sort of. And only in specific situations. But this happens to be one of them.

See, in my old apartment, the computer was in the living room, just a few feet away from the couch. So my husband and I would spend a lot of afternoons with one of us watching tv or playing a video game, and the other would be on the internet…or playing a video game. What?

But now, the computer is in a whole separate room. Which means that computer time = alone time. Not only that, but I’m extremely jumpy, and if I’m by myself for any length of time, I get really absorbed in my own thoughts. So when I’m having computer/alone time, and my husband walks in, I react like it’s Michael Myers. (Not Mike Myers. Well, not 90s Mike Myers.) Which is to say, I jump about nine feet in the air and accuse my husband of sneaking up on me while spewing profanities. (To be clear, I’m the one spewing profanities. I’m not accusing him of sneaking up on me while spewing profanities. That would make it much harder to sneak up on someone.)

All of this means that computer time = alone time = having the proverbial shit scared out of me. (It’s only proverbial shit, people. Don’t get any ideas.)

So anyway. Sorry.


One of the posts I’m planning is the story of Mitch Hedberg signing my underwear. I even took pictures of the underwear. (Not on me. Worry not, Dad.)

So that will be my first post with pictures. I’m a little nervous, I’m not gonna lie. Will I conquer this technical challenge? Stay tuned.

*cue organ music*


Nerds vs. Bigots.

Why does Fred Phelps even care about Comic Con? Have colleges stopped putting on productions of The Laramie Project?

(I have another confession: I don’t like The Laramie Project. It’s right up my alley, I should really love it, I know. But it’s kind of boring to me. I just don’t generally like plays where all the cast members play several different characters without ever changing costume. It makes me think, “Did I accidentally go to an acting workshop instead of a play?”)

(Is that mean? Sorry again.)

Anyway, I particularly love the guy in the Bender costume with the “KILL ALL HUMANS” sign. Yay Bender!


So, I was reviewing my tag cloud, and I realized I have only one post in which I mention books. Yeesh. Ten-year-old me would be so ashamed of 26*-year-old me. I need to do some readin’.

Right now, I’m wanting to read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which I haven’t yet read for some reason. Anyone have a copy I could borrow?


An update from the car situation: the Acura is dead. Boo.

So now we have to buy a new car.

I’ve never actually bought a car. It sucks so far. Salesmen are annoying. Now I understand the stereotype.


Let’s see, I feel like I should have another confession, to make it three.


Okay. I love Tears For Fears. They’re splendid. Every time I hear any of their songs, I think of the end of Real Genius, with the popcorn exploding out the windows of Dr. Hathaway’s house. And that movie is transcendent, so why wouldn’t I feel good about a band that reminds me of it?

You know what? I take it back. This isn’t a confession, because there’s no reason for me to be ashamed of my love of Tears For Fears.

*Last year, my birthday sucked so bad that I decided it didn’t merit getting older. So I skipped that year, and now I’m still 26.


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You can thank me later. Or right now. It’s whatever.

I’m just stopping by for a quick post today, but I had to get this out into the world right away.

I know I’m late to the game on this, but I just want to make sure you’re all watching Louie on FX. I’ve been DVRing it and I finally watched the first two episodes last night.

Oh my god.

You need to be watching this show.

Watch this scene and tell me where else on television you’d see a scene like it.

Louie is like Men of a Certain Age‘s weird cousin.

Oh, you should also be watching Men of a Certain Age.

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Also, we still don’t have a refrigerator.

After much to-do, and some major developments over the weekend, it’s time for the story of my very long (although actually two days shorter than normal) week.

I’m at work on Tuesday (Monday was a holiday), when I get a phone call from my husband telling me he got fired.

Getting fired sucks. And he sounds really upset. But this is the first bad news I’ve gotten in a while, so I feel safe looking on the bright side. Which is that he hated that job, and that we hadn’t had a day off together in weeks because he worked every weekend.

Also, my husband is really good at finding a new job. I chose to be not worried.

I had visited my parents over the weekend, and they asked us to give some of their home-grown zucchini to my in-laws. So, that night, Adam set off to do exactly that.

An hour or so later, I get a phone call from Adam. He’s been in a wreck.

Don’t worry, he’s fine. But the car was not. The entire front passenger-side panel was trying to escape. Adam had to tie it so it didn’t fall off.

Okay, now I’m a little upset. I love that car. Also, it’s not technically mine – it’s my parents’. So now I have to call them and tell them we wrecked their car.

Luckily, it was the other person’s fault, so their insurance will cover everything – including a rental for us.

That was Tuesday.

Adam’s chin is on the ground at this point. I do my best to keep spirits up – his and mine. Then he says that magical phrase: “Bad things always come in threes. We’ve still got one more coming.”

Dude. Not if you don’t remind the universe that it still owes you one.

So I think it’s pretty clear that Adam is to blame for what happened next.

Wednesday morning, I call my parents and let them know what happened. They were surprisingly calm about the whole thing, and just said to make sure we got it fixed as soon as possible. Can do.

Adam takes the car into a collision center, where the shop takes care of all the insurance crap for you. And they give us a rental – a giant truck.

Now, I’ll most likely be the one driving this rental car, and I hate driving giant trucks. So this is not ideal. They tell us they’ll probably get something else in tomorrow, and we can trade it in then. Okay.

Meanwhile, I’m driving our other car, the Acura. This car has been with me for a long time. It’s seen my best times and my worst times. I had a few months when I essentially lived out of this car. It’s my baby. Also, it’s completely paid off. So there’s a lot to like about this car. But it does have one major flaw.

It’s air conditioner no longer works.

It’s summer. In Texas.

So this sucks.

But you know what? At least we have another car. There was a time in the not-too-distant past where, if my primary vehicle was out of commission for some reason, I’d be screwed. So what if I’m sweaty when I get to work, and when I get back from lunch, and when I get home? It could be worse.

Now, another thing about the Acura is that it’s been overheating lately. But it would only happen at stop lights when the car was idling. Once it got out on the highway, it would cool down.

I’m sure you see where this is going.

Thursday, I was on my way back from lunch, and the car starts overheating. I’m aware of it, but I assume it will be like all the other times, and it’ll just cool down once I reach highway speed.

Yeah. That doesn’t happen.

The car just gets hotter and hotter. I call Adam, to tell him I’m not sure I’ll make it all the way back to my office. He’s at the movies with a friend, so he didn’t answer right away. Finally, I get him on the phone and he says, “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll come get the car this afternoon and you can take the rental.”

If you say so.

Now, as you know – thanks to Adam – the universe is looking to complete the trilogy of shit.

So of course my car breaks down at the stop light two blocks away from my office.

I call Adam back. He’s on his way. I eat my lunch under an overpass in 100 degree heat.

So this is where I decided to call it. I took a sick day on Friday, just to end the week so we’d be out of the danger zone.

(When you have a series of bad things happen, you’re vulnerable for the whole rest of the week. If you can make it to the end of the week, you’ll be fine.)

So we ended the week with one out of the two of us employed, and with two out of two cars in the shop.

After that, we had a great weekend. Without Adam’s job keeping us apart, we actually got to spend time together. There was big blog news on Friday. I got to help with the filming of scene I wrote on Saturday. And on Sunday Adam and I saw – I’m not even kidding – a double rainbow.

I’m taking it as a sign that we’re on an upswing.


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If I were Chris Hardwick, I’d click this link.

So, if you haven’t visited the site in a while, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.

Anyway, you missed a lot.

Most notably, Chris Hardwick visited my site (please note my measured, articulate response). Yeah, I’m pretty fucking¬†impossible to live with right now.

Whereas most sane people would see the culmination of their internet campaigns as a victory and just move on, I’m going to keep plugging away.

What does that mean exactly? I’m not really sure.

For now, all it means is that I’m going to continue to (try to) lure Chris Hardwick over here until he’s a semi-regular commenter.

So, for you, Chris Hardwick, I’ve added a tag called Hardwick Bait. I promise not to tag every single post as Hardwick bait. Just stuff I think you might be interested in. And by the way, if you’re searching for a term to describe me to the authorities, I prefer “nerdist enthusiast” over “blog stalker.”

In other news, I went to my very first filming of a scene I wrote today. I was the sound guy. Or, more accurately, the pole holder. But it did open up the opportunity for a nice vaudevillian joke – ¬†“I’ve been holding a boom for two hours and boy are my arms tired.”

Anyway, once the scene is cut together, I’ll be posting it here, of course. I couldn’t keep my real writing from my twelve loyal blog readers (Thirteen if you count Chris Hardwick. (At least. (Yes, this is a parenthetical inside a parenthetical inside a parenthetical. (I’m probably doing this because I went to see Inception last night. (It involves dreams-within-dreams. (It was really good. (What was I talking about?))))))).

As my friend Bethany said, it looks like the universe felt it owed me for the crappy week it gave me. Yes, I will be telling you that story at some point.

Also, you should all click on those Chris Hardwick links. They’re mostly to the Nerdist Podcasts, and there’s nary a person I wouldn’t ask to sign my underwear.

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