Yahoo’s most popular news story last week was (for real, y’all) breaking news about an ant invasion in my neighborhood.  I heard there was also some sort of earthquake somewhere, but it wasn’t in America so no one cares.  Anyway, Victor suggested a pet anteater might stem the coming invasion so I went on the net and found this ”I’ve got a sick anteater” forum which is the most unintentionally hysterical thing I’ve seen all week.  A few of my favorite lines: 

sarah~ My anteater is getting extremly sick what should i do?

dj ~IT’S A WILD ING ANIMAL SO LEAVE IT IN THE WILD you arrogant human. You make me sick.

Me from where i live ~ Hi I would be intersted in buying any of your large birds or any animals that die.

Julii ~ OK, now that we’ve established Sarah has an anteater…MAYBE SOMEONE CAN HELP HER WITH HER QUESTION.

Bigshlong247~ hey guys so i have 3 anteaters going cheep, I;m seeling them at about 600 dollars a pop, sound good?

anteaterfan420 ~ Sorry to hear your anteater is sick. Sometimes it is their food. Have you tried ants?

“Have you tried ants?”

Awesomeness.

Fascinating side-note: The anteater salesman had a chick interested in buying one but she was a little leery.  Like you can’t trust a guy named “BigShlong” peddling $600 anteaters on the internet  Come on, people.

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I’ve been asking the Houston Chronicle why Good Mom/Bad Mom never gets on the front page anymore and apparently they are not appreciative of titles about giving your child crotch concussions or arousing lude videos from Sesame Street.  I was going to apologize to my co-author Mindy for bringing down the tone of what’s supposed to be a sweet mommy blog and then I saw the post she just put up entitled “Orgy tomorrow night…Be there!” So basically we’re even and will never be on the front page again.

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Remember the Party for the People at Blogher?  I’m hearing from a few chicks that they’re feeling intimidated about RSVPing which makes me sad because seriously, people?  I hid in the bathroom at the last party and I have extreme anxiety disorder.  If I can go, you can go.  And when you get there just walk up to me and say “I don’t know anybody.  Help me.” and I will.  Because Blogher is all about acceptance and sisterhood and getting some of Dooce’s hair in a bag and chicks who are all too weird to relate to people in real life so they turned to blogging instead.  Everyone there feels like an idiot and secretly is terrified and sick to their stomach.  Come and be sick with us.  

PS.  Free booze while it lasts

Xanax, a glass of wine and a long hot bath: the perfect accidental suicide way to end the day.

PS.  Why is it that some people kill themselves and don’t leave notes?  It’s not like you’re in a hurry or anything.  If I were to kill myself I would totally leave a note (unless I was in terrible pain from a cheetah attack) so if I die and there isn’t one then probably someone murdered me.  I bet if I did write a suicide note it’d probably have a typo in it and I wouldn’t see it until right before the poison hit and I’d be all “Oh shit, wait..is that how you spell ‘repugnant’?  Because that looks wrong” and that would totally be my last thought.  I should look up repugnant now just to be on the safe side.

PPS.  Speaking of misspellings, whenever I spellcheck my post and I don’t have typos my blog is like “DING!  You Don’t Have Any Misspellings!” like it’s all shocked that I actually spelled shit right for once.  It makes me feel kind of proud and insulted all at the same time.

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In totally non-suicide-related news. Hubba Bubba is just not even trying anymore:

Way to phone it in, Hubba Bubba.

Comment of the day: The best way to off yourself would be to do it in some remote place. But then just before you take the big sleep come up with some super cool scavenger hunt and mail it to someone you really don’t like and promise them there would be a big prize at the end. Ta-da, it’s YOU! That would be the best last laugh in the history of the world. Not that I’m saying you should do that, but it would be totally awesome.

P.S. If you ever send me a scavenger hunt I’ll be totally on to you.

P.P.S. I had GLOP for dinner last night. It was supposed to be nachos. Either way, yummy. ~The Original Lisa

Alternate) comment of the day: So, if you overdosed on Xanax and wine in the bath, would that be OD’ing? Or drowning? And if a cheetah attacked you WHILE you were going under, what would THAT be? Because that stuff is really important to know. I mean, it goes on your death certificate and in the Wikipedia article about you. And “Cheetah Attack while Drowning due to Overdose” is way too long to be on a death certificate.   I think I would have to set up some kind of Rube Goldberg contraption in order to off myself. Something like, you know, a ball rolls down a ramp made of Legos and hits a mouse in the butt which startles the mouse and makes it run on a wheel which powers a lighter where the flame burns through a piece of string that is attached to a mallet which knocks a toaster into the bathtub. Something like that. Because how awesome would that look on a death certificate?

Cause of Death: Rube Goldberged ~jm

You know how some people are always like, “Oh, I wish I could fly” like that would be so kick-ass?  I bet it totally wouldn’t be.  I bet it’s like people in wheelchairs who are all “Oh, I wish I could run” and you’re like “Well I’ll tell you, it’s overrated.”  I once had to run a mile in junior high and I totally threw up all over the track.  I bet it’s like that if you’re a bird too.  Like, it looks all kick-ass and soary but really it’s hard and your boobs get in the way and later you hurt in places you didn’t even know existed.  Like your…I dunno…wing fingers. 

I wonder if birds ever throw up if they have to fly too much?  Don’t birds throw up into their babies mouths anyway?  I wonder if any of them ever get really sick and their babies are all “Don’t let that shit go to waste!” and the mama is like “NO, THIS IS REAL VOMIT.  I just flew a mile for fuck’s sake!  You don’t want to eat this.” 

PS. This post came from an extraordinarily large file titled “Shit that shouldn’t be published”. 

Aptly named.

Comment of the day:  I tried taking up running last year. I thought my iPod would be the perfect motivator, but I was too cheap to buy an actual case for it, so since I don’t have much in the form of boobs, I just put the iPod inside my sports bra. Now when I want to skip a song, it looks like I’m fondling myself. ~ Duchess Jane

Are you following me on twitter?  If not, you missed the mini-rants that made Victor have to hide the knives last week.  Here’s a taste:

**For some reason, my fave site (sk*rt) is changing their name. On an entirely unrelated note, I HATE Skirt! Magazine.**

**For those of you who are confused on the two skirt references of my last twitter, let me elaborate…**

**…Skirt! Magazine is a giant, pushy corporation that sucks ass and might give you VD. (In my opinion.) **

**Sk-rt.com is an amazing website run by 3 amazing women and they rescue kittens in their spare time. And perform miracles on crippled dogs.**

**You should help sk-rt.com find a new name and you should burn down kiosks that offer skirt! magazine. Metaphorically speaking, of course. **

Many of you questioned what the deal was with these insane ravings. You can read about it here. Basically Skirt! Magazine is a free mag like the penny saver that talks like it’s all about girl power but is owned and controlled mainly by dudes who like to sue my friends.  My friends started Sk-rt.com which is an awesome website that’s like digg for girls and promotes chicks (including myself) and then many, many months later Skirt! Magazine buys skirt.com and decides to sue sk-rt.com for the name.  (Keep in mind that sk-rt is more popular than Skirt! Mag and Sk-rt is all “Hey, why don’t we throw some parties together!  Girl power!  We’re advertising you for free!  Have a cupcake!” and Skirt! Mag is all “Sure!  But first we’ll steal your design and sic our condescending lawyers on you since you’re a bunch of stupid girls with no money.  Have a cupcake (filled with poison), stupid girls!”  Then when Skirt! mag loses their dumbass lawsuit (because they are obviously TOTALLY in the wrong) Skirt! just threatens to keep on suing and making my friend’s lives hell because they are a huge company with money to burn and they know that my friends are just three friends who started a website for fun and don’t want to have to deal with this kind of crap.  So rather than spend their kid’s college funds in legal bills my friends decided to just change their name because they don’t want to deal with the negativity anymore.  I, on the other hand, wallow in negativity for fun and can’t stand the idea of these hypocritical assholes getting away with being all “Girl power!” while suing the very women who embody “girl power”.  If you have skirt! mag on your blogroll I’d encourage you to delete like I did.  I encourage you to write about it and to get the word out that bullying isn’t right and that you can’t hide behind a ”we love women!” facade while secretly sending out horrible threatening letters to awesome chicks without that sort of nasty behavior getting noticed.  I’m not sure how long this post will stay up before I get some sort of threatening letter myself but at least I’ll know that I got the word out to a few people and really, at the rate this company is going, we’re all going to be sued by them eventually anyway.  In fact, if you are even wearing a skirt right now I think you’re pretty much fucked. 

Bullying is wrong, whether it’s in the schoolyard, the workplace or the boardroom, and like my mama always said, “If you stand up to a big bully you’ll see the real small person hiding behind the facade”.  And she’s right because if you peek under Skirt! Mags skirt all you’re going to see is a dick.   (Actually a bunch of dicks if you want to get all technical.) 

Anyway, sk-rt.com has shed it’s skirt and is now kirtsy.com which is a better name anyway and in honor of the new name I’m taking off my skirt too.  Yay for public indecency! 

And just so that you don’t get them confused…

Skirt! Mag = Assholes who probably have tiny penises.

Kirtsy = Fabulous website that you should be using to promote your own writing and to discover awesome crap and was started by these three chicks who I know in real life and who kick ass and do not have penises:

PS.  If you write about this leave me a link in the comments and I will totally pimp it out here.

PPS.  All of this is completely my opinion and as far as I know Skirt! Mag didn’t actually give anyone poisoned cupcakes even though I bet they totally wanted to.

Updated: Holy crap, people.  Twitter is abuzz with this and new posts keep coming out.  Just a few:  Riveter Girl, Imelda Bettinger, TLC, Daria, Kelby Carr, Viva La Feminista, Gwen Bell, Chris Heuer, South End Blend, Pensieve, Dutch Blitz, Mommy’s Martini, Oh My Stinking Heck and Mother Bumper. 

Updated again: And they just keep rolling in…Girls Guide to Blogging, Cynical Nymph, A Cowboy’s Wife, I’m no better than u, Mommy Bytes, Defining someday, Trusted MD, Ed T, View Through My Cracked Window, I-Obsess, White Trash Mom and DollyMix. and I’m probably missing a ton more.

Power to the people, y’all.

Comment of the day:  Hey you know the SKIRT magazine distribution box on Main street by midtown? it um, fell over and was hit by the metro train this morning. I did a small kirtsy as it passed. ~ skirth8rt

So according to my blog keyword search, a crazy amount of people are insanely paranoid about ninjas and are crap spellers. I mean, I’m obviously not one to cast stones after my recent, tiny ninja punctuation crisis but this shit is ridiculous.  I mean, no judgment and I totally can’t tell which of you got here by butchering ninja phrases but really?  In the last month 70 different people found this blog while looking for what I can only imagine is some sort of proof that there are, in fact…

Ninjas.

Everywhere. 

Their psychotic leavings in order of popularity:

I know you’re thinking that it couldn’t get worse but you would be wrong:

And I’m not even going to bring up the searches for “ningas” which are apparently “everywear”.  Of which there are more than two.  Searches, that is.  Not “ningas”.

In conclusion, I have to say that you people are. freaking. paranoid.   Ninjas are not everywhere and even if they were, you wouldn’t see them anyway.  Because their fucking ninjas.  I mean, there’re ninjas.  Fuck.  Now I’m doing it.

PS.  Just because a ninja won’t sleep with you that doesn’t make her a whore, Todd.

PPS.  I know what you’re thinking.  You’re all “Wait a minute!  If she can’t see who is using those searches then how did she know that was Todd gettin’ all pissy about the ninja whores?!” 

And the answer is that you were actually right to be paranoid.  Ninjas are everywhere.

Nah, I’m just kidding.  Everyone knows Todd’s a freak about propositioning ninjas all the time.  It’s embarrassing.  Also Todd, those aren’t ninjas.  They’re pandas and they just aren’t that into you.  This is why you keep getting banned from zoos.

PS.  I wrote this whole post on xanax.  You can’t even tell, right?

Comment of the day:  Re: “Ninja whores” Is that the whore of a ninja or just a really fast, sneaky whore? Like they jump out in the middle of the night, fuck you, take your money, and you’re all like. Huh? What just happened? ~ctina1973

I know I promised you a kick-ass ninja story but I just have to quickly respond to the 23rd person to threaten to unsubscribe to Mama Drama if I don’t hurry up and write a post there.  I don’t write there anymore.  I write at Good Mom/Bad Mom.  And you should read it because it’s awesome and yesterday I accidentally published a curse word there and it totally slid past the censors so right now you can read “shit” on the Houston Chronicle until they read this and fire me from a blog that I don’t actually get paid for anyway.  Wait…is that “firing”?  It’s probably more like “banning”.  Anyway, today’s post is all about how I single-handedly destroyed a commune, got sewer water on me in front of an internet celebrity, and made my kid sell alcohol to strangers.  For real.  You should go read it before I get fired banned.

Ninja story is a-comin’, swear to God.

PS.  Conversation I just had with my coworker…

Me:  If I’m writing about plural ninjas should I use an apostrophe?

Coworker:  No. 

Me:  Are you sure?

Coworker (patronizingly):  *sigh*  Do the ninjas own something?

Me:  No, they’re just there.  You know, being ninjas.  Why?  Is it different if it’s possessive?

Coworker:  Yes.  How do you not know this?

Me:  Ninja punctuation is hard!

Comment of the day (which is either really insulting or just taken completely out of context): Um, I didn’t find SHIT over there. Just CRAP.  ~Faith

My first thought is “Why am I naked?” and my second is “Whose donkey is this?”

Part 2 of meeting Guy Kawasaki:

 1.  I just valeted my car for the first time in my entire life.  Valet:  Wait…ma’am, I need your keys.  Me:  How am I supposed to open my car later if you have my keys?  Valet:  Wow.  You’re retarded. 

2.  Somehow I get into the VIP room.  Very important guy I’ve never seen before warmly welcomes me and tells me he’s heard all about me.  I thank him and tell him how unsettling it is to walk into a room of strangers who know so much about my vagina.  The look on his face tells me he has obviously not heard about me at all.  He runs away leaves quickly.  He looked like Stephen Hawking except without the wheelchair and more shocked.

2a.  The VIP room has sushi and people who do not include Guy Kawasaki.  I tell everyone he’s probably off snorting coke on the back of the toilet seat.  Responsible businessmen in the room begin to look very uncomfortable.  I realize I’m the only person not wearing business-ish attire:

(photo courtesy of the wondrous Ed Schipul who is too nice to sue me for defacing his work.)

3.  Guy’s speech is about to begin.  I sit several rows back so I can sketch pictures of my cat.  Dwight does a few lines of the horrific intro speech I wrote for him.  He leaves out all the “vagina’s” but does the part about Guy murdering the drifter and even says “shit” out loud.  I am very proud of him.

4.  Guy is talking about his formula to do a pre-money evaluation to find out how much you are worth.  I like my way better.  I start with the amount of money I spend on booze annually.  Every time I’m impressed with myself I add $1,000.  If I have to pull an all-nighter I get a pony.  If I have to give someone a handjob I get a unicorn.  Blowjobs = Flying unicorn.  (And stapling chicken wings to a horse does not count.  I’m not falling for that shit again, Nathan.)

5.  “All you white people look the same to me.”  “I like to shoot glocks.”  “Things that end in vowels are bad.”  ~ Quotes that make me think Guy Kawasaki kicks ass.

6.  “Here’s a business idea:  Buy dead horses.  Sell them to dogs.”  ~ Quotes that make me wonder why Guy Kawasaki isn’t homeless.

7.  Guy K. asks if there are any V.C’s in the room and some guy is all “Right here, yo!”.  And I’m like, “Um, white dude?  There is no way you are a Viet Cong”.  Later someone tells me V.C. means “Venture Capitalist”.  I’m too busy worrying about how to get my keys back from the valet to care.

8.  Guy just said that to succeed you need to “make it rain” and I was the only person in the audience to laugh out loud.  Turns out that phrase doesn’t always mean throwing wads of dollar bills at strippers.  I pretend I was just laughing about something someone said on my bluetooth (which is totally imaginary).

9.  Guy’s advice:  “Hire infected people”.  Hey good news, Uncle Frank!   Oh wait…he’s not talking about syphilis.

10:  Guy is showing off Alltop and looks at the first sentence of our latest Good Mom/Bad Mom post and is all “Boooooring. Your first sentence sucks, loser.”  And I’m like, ”But no!  It’s all about Scientology and Grindhouse and punching teens with hammers!”  I sound like a crazy person.  From now on all my first sentences  will be fascinating crap about drinking cobra blood or waking up naked with donkeys or something.

11. Guy’s thoughts about potential customers: “I’m thinking: That’s my money in her purse.  How do I get it out of her purse and into mywallet?”  I suggest mugging her.  Wait…this is probably why he has a glock.  OhMyGod, I bet he really did kill that drifter.

That is totally hot.

.

**To be continued unless I get distracted which you know I totally will.  In case I forget, remind me to tell you about how I (seriously, no joke) almost killed Guy Kawasaki. **

And then I woke up naked with a donkey.

PS.  My next post is going to be about ninjas.  Ninjas!  See, I’m distracted already.

Comment of the day:  I was pretty impressed with the flying unicorn for a BJ.  What must butt stuff get you?! ~ Alice

 What I just heard on the radio: “…and as of today over a million shoes have been donated to Feed the Children in Darfur.”

Me to myself:  The hell?  Why are we feeding shoes to children?  Oh waaaait.  Now I get it.  Ha!  I should blog this.  I should totally find the sound bite for this commercial and say something about how “these barefoot kids wouldn’t have this problem if they’d just quit eating their shoes”.  ‘Cause there is nothing funnier than a slapstick misunderstanding about starving, barefoot African children.  

I bet there will be a lot of funny people with me when I get to hell.

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The comment(s) of the day:

 You know Dianne Rehm on NPR? I had this ex-boyfriend who was all, “Why the hell is her voice all fucked up? Why can’t she talk right.”  Then we found out she has some sort of horrible throat disease that she has overcome in order to do radio broadcasting.  To which I said, “Why don’t you go kick a puppy and kill a kitten, now?” ~Law School Hot Mama

You know, it’s all about perspective.  Which is like the similar relief effort the Bush administration is trying to push through to offer free AIDS vaccines with pancake batter. ~furiousball

That’s like that line in the song “Fly Like an Eagle” saying “I want to shoe the children with no shoes on their feet”.  Every time I hear it I comment to whomever I’m with “That’s awful. Why would they want to shoot children with no shoes?”.  Everyone ignores me. Why? ~Lindsay

So last year I was totally verklempt to have snagged an invite to attend a pre-blogher party thrown by the cool kids and I spent the entire time I was there hiding in the bathroom wishing I’d brought more anti-anxiety pills.  Which is why this year I was shocked to be asked to actually co-host the party.  I suspect it’s some sort of cruel joke and that halfway through the night I’ll find myself drenched in pig blood with half-naked girls throwing tampons at me.   Which actually?  Kinda sounds hot. 

 Anyway, the hosts this year are famous, hysterical, paranoid, amazing, Canadian and socially retarded so if you fall into any of these categories you are invited.  And best of all?  Free booze from our fab sponsors!  RSVP here, bitches.  It starts at 8.

And for those of you who can’t go, I suggest prostitution.  It’s an excellent money-maker, plus you can make your own hours.  And for those of you who think you’re too good for prostitution (you’re not) we’re attempting to put together a live video feed so we can toast, twitter and chat with you in real-time even if you’re at home but I suck at this crap so someone who can teach me about it  who can do this for me please email me and I will be your best friend forever or set you up with a prostitute.  Your choice.

This is where I’d mention all the people pitching in to get us tanked but I’m supposed to put that little R-with-a-circle-around-it behind their names and I don’t know how to do that so instead I’ll just show you pretty pictures of them: 

Oooh.  Pretty.

Now get to hooking people.  That plane ticket to San Francisco isn’t going to earn itself.

*PS.  Feel free to steal the party button for yourself.  Power to the people.

Confused?  That’s because you’ve probably mistakenly come to the last place first.  You should really start at the first place first.  I’m surprised you didn’t know that.

Note for the confused:  If you are even remotely thinking of coming to the BlogHer conference this year then you need to go here right now and follow the path back here.  If you aren’t coming then you can just skip this whole post and pretend it’s just some drunken, raunchy come-on.  Much like the sort of thing that happens at BlogHer.  Which is precisely why you need to come.

More (and probably far less esoteric) party details to follow…

Comment of the day:  I’m going to have been so starved for vodka by the time this party hits that I may just be shrieking BEST PARTY EVER on a continuous hight-pitched loop, but you’ll just have to forgive me for that.  ~ Her Bad Mother

Part one of the Guy Kawasaki experience:  (I’m too hung over to write the rest but I swear, it’s coming and is mortifying/awesome/surprisingly porn-related.)

Evil Dwight from the Chronicle thought I should introduce Guy at the Houston Technology Center speaking event.  I assured him that was the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with.  He insisted.  I reminded him that I can’t stop saying the word ”vagina” even especially when I’m on a microphone.  Then I wrote up a little “What I would say” speech to show him how terrifically pear-shaped this all could have gone.  He was horrified.  But entertained.  So he did read a very small, censored part of my speech when he introduced Guy.

This is the full, original speech:

My name is Jenny Lawson and I write for The Bloggess and Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle.  I was pretty shocked when they asked me to introduce Guy because most people know that I’m unable to talk for more than 15 seconds without cursing inappropriately so it’ll be a pleasant surprise for all involved if I can manage not say the c word or start talking about ”vagina’s” up here.

Guy Kawasaki first came on my radar several months ago when our pseudo-editor, Dwight Silverman of the Chronicle, emailed to tell us that our parenting blog had been picked up by Guy Kawasaki’s Alltop site and that this was “very significant”.  And actually it was very significant, both because the recognition was nice and also because it marked one of the first emails I got from Dwight that didn’t tell me to stop using the f word or posting inappropriate dildo videos on the Chronicle.  So, being a typical southern gentlewoman, I decided to email Guy and thank him, which I did.  It was an email which may have included a few curse words and ended with me telling Guy I had no idea who he was and asking if he was the guy who invented the motorcycle.  Unsurprisingly, Dwight was not pleased.  But surprisingly, Guy actually wrote me back and thus began months of email correspondence between us.  Granted, it was somewhat one-sided, with me sending long, rambling emails about lap dances and my paraplegic cat and Guy sending back short one-liners such as his most recent email to me which stated simply “Very funny dick story.  Your bizarre business proposal needs work.”  Which? He’s right on one part.

So I decided I should find out who this guy actually is and why when I tell people that he’s emailing me half of them stare at me blankly and the other half totally freak out and pee themselves in excitement.  I decided to look on Wikipedia because that shit is always accurate and here’s what I found out:

Guy Kawasaki did not invent the motorcycle.  He did, however, invent the internet.  Or maybe something to help the internet.  I’m really not sure because I got bored and stopped reading.  Then when he was 30 he killed a drifter and totally got away with it.  I’m not entirely certain that’s true but it makes for an interesting story.  And really? (*long stare at Guy*)  Prove you didn’t kill a drifter.  You can’t.  I rest my case.

But none of that really matters (except to the drifter’s parents who were probably pretty broken up about the whole affair).  What does matter though is that Guy Kawasaki kicks ass.  That Guy Kawasaki is totally famous.  That Guy Kawasaki is a genius who looks a little like Jackie Chan and could probably take you out with a roundhouse kick if he wanted to.  And, most importantly, that Guy Kawasaki is here with us tonight.

So without further ado, I give you…Guy Kawasaki.

Vagina.

There’s a lot of shit being thrown around right not regarding the whole “mommybloggers are exploiting their children” topic that is making the rounds lately.  It’s not a new topic.  From the first time I wrote about my kid peeing on the floor and the cats drinking it, I’ve been asked if I thought it was really appropriate to be sharing such intimate details about my child’s life and I’ve always said the same thing:  I’m not sharing intimate details of her life.  I’m sharing intimate details of mine.  She just happens to be in it.  That sounds selfish and narcissistic but guess what?  So does having a blog. 

When I was a kid I wrote dumb stories all the time.  When I was a teen I got all gothy and expressed myself with bad poetry and sulking.  In college I made disturbing screenprints of people cutting off their own fingers and did angry public poetry readings.  After college I moved to making bizarre, eerie dollhouses and journaled like mad.  And now?  I blog.  It’s my form of creative expression and it makes me a better person.  Sometimes it’s funny.  Sometimes it’s sad.  Sometimes it gets me hatemail.  But all the time it is me, and just because I am someone’s mom, or wife, or daughter, or friend that does not mean that I should have any less of a “voice” than I had before.  If anything I should have more of a voice, because I have a hell of a lot more to say than I did when I was 20. 

Limits are good and (surprisingly) I do have them but would I ever stop blogging just because my kid turned into a mortified teen and told me she wanted me to stop blogging?  No, because teenagers are stupid.  I should know.  I date them.  I was one.  And just as I’m going to have to soldier through the years when Hailey decides to shave her head or considers joining the Hare Krishnas, she will have to soldier through having a mother who is who she is:  Fucked-up, horrifyingly unfiltered, but basically a decent chick.  And hopefully we will both learn to appreciate those points in each other.

Except for the cult thing because I am not afraid to burn down a compound of Hare Krishnas to get my daughter back.  That’s just how I roll, Krishnas.  Fair warning.

PS.  Tonight I’m having dinner with Guy Kawasaki.  It’ll be weird seeing him without using binoculars.  And without him being in the shower.  I think I’ll pop out the lenses and use them when I talk to him at dinner just so I’ll feel more at home.  That won’t be weird at all.

Comment of the day:  I’m not cool enough to be exploited.

I love ya lady, but in a totally healthy way, it’s not like I print all of your posts out and plaster them all over the extra bedroom that no one really knows about and light my Jenny candles each night, repeating The Bloggessitudes…

“Oh in Houston a lady that lives
with a husband named Victor and a kid with kitten armpits

she talks about subjects so ribald and bold
she has nice getaway sticks and hates to smell mold”

and then i dress up in a curlers and hold a blow dryer whilst staring blankly into a mirror.

because that’s what would do if they had a problem.

*nervous laugh*

~furiousball