There’s Probably Lots Of Better Stuff Than This To Read On The Internet

Posted: January 20, 2012 | Author: Jen O. | Filed under: Boring stuff you don't care about, How do you categorize "crazy"?, Stuff I love | 6 Comments »

Where have I been for the past week? Well…um…in the exact same spot I was when I last spoke to you? Literally. Pathetic and my buttcheeks are numb. But it’s the truth and I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m in the same chair and I’ve been doing the same thing all week.

Polyvore. Oh, you damn, dirty, devil. You’re like dress up dolls for grown ups with low standards for entertainment and long attention spans and I CAN’T QUIT YOU.

This week, I wore the following:

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Again, not exactly exact outfit matches, but really, really close.

And in between micro-documenting my day-to-day outfits, I’ve also created entire collections inspired by fictional characters. OH, YES I DID. It’s literally the funnest thing ever if you’re a super huge loser nerd with no friends and no life and a tendency to become obsessed with stupid stuff. Literally. I’ll save you having to look at every single set because THEY ARE PLENTY, but go ahead and clickity click if you’re curious.

Despicable Me, including Margo, Edith, Agnes, Gru, Vector and the Minions.

Alice In Wonderland, including Alice, The Mad Hatter, Cheshire Cat, The White Rabbit and The Queen Of Hearts.

And all ten of the Official Disney Princesses, which includes Cinderella, Snow White, Aurora, Belle, Ariel, Mulan, Pocahontas, Jasmine, Tiana, and Rapunzel.

Because I am no where near ready to admit I have a problem (yeah, this doesn’t feel like rock-bottom to me), my next project is The Wizard Of Oz. Then Disney Villains. And then I DON’T KNOW WHAT BUT I’M EXCITED AND OH, GOD SOMEONE KILL ME.

I fromise* I’ll snap out of it soon. I can see that this is starting to get ridiculous; I’m just not ready to do anything about it yet. In the meantime, you should probably follow me on Pinterest, where I pin all my best Polyvore boards. And then we can fully cultivate this problem together. As a team.

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* fromise is what you say when you want someone to think you just made a promise, but you didn’t technically promise anything, so you really can’t be held accountable for your actions.

Attack Of The Flesh Eating Bees*

Posted: July 7, 2011 | Author: Jen O. | Filed under: How do you categorize "crazy"?, Skool is for nurds | Tags: ants, bees, bugs, insects, picnics | 10 Comments »

* Blogger lesson #648 – sensationalize your posts by adding ridiculous titles in order to bait readers into thinking what you have to say is more interesting than it actually is.

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At lunch I went to my mom’s, as per usual. Normally I’ll go to my house, eat, then head over there to visit the kids for a few minutes before I have to go back to work. It’s a tough life, I know. But today the weather was so nice, warm but not too hot, and so there would be a picnic lunch at her house and I was invited. In fact, not only was it a picnic lunch, complete with blanket spread out on the lawn, but we roasted wieners over the fire pit on sticks, ate potato salad, popsicles and cheese strings, and the kids ran around with no shoes on. Not a bad way to spend a lunch hour, is what I’m saying.

While I was sitting, eating the first of two popsicles, I lazily and absent-mindedly stared at a piece of hotdog on a plate. It was just a lonely piece, rejected when dessert appeared, sitting by itself, minding its own business.

And then along came a bee.

Bees, I’ve always understood, are attracted to sweet things. Flowers, melted candy on a sidewalk, a bowl of discarded ice cream, sticky fingers. That is what is in their nature to collect and bring back to the hive. That’s what they eat. Pollen and nectar, right? And yet this bee, who seemed to me to be like any other bee I’ve seen, flew right up to that chunk of hotdog, land less than gracefully on its broken end and began a very thorough investigation.

I decided not to shoo it away. It’s a bee, right, so he’ll realize this wiener isn’t a flower soon enough and fly away. No harm, no foul, no need to scare the wee thing. But then it started gnawing away at it. Using his little pinchy things on his mouth and his two front legs, he sawed off a piece about the size of his own head, tucked it under his middle two legs, and flew off. Again, very ungracefully. The hotdog chunk seemed to weigh only slightly more than this little bee was used to carrying.

Well, I thought, that was odd. A meat-eating bee. Huh.

And then he came back. Did the whole thing again. I had my mom watch as my witness. A meat-eating bee.

I even Googled it. “What do bees eat?” is what I asked. And every page I clicked on confirmed my suspicions – pollen and nectar, pollen and nectar, pollen and nectar. Not once did I see that bees eat meat or meat-like substances or really food at all. No hotdogs, no beef or pork byproducts, no tofu dogs. Pollen and nectar.

So either the end is nigh and otherwise vegan insects have begun feasting on the flesh of mammals or this bee has made a deal with some ants or something. Maybe the ants have some kind of mob thing going on where they’ll protect the bee hive from whatever predators steal honey in exchange for human food. Or they’ve adopted an orphan ant as one of their own but the ant requires more than just pollen and nectar to survive and so, being a good adoptive daddy, the bee seeks out alternate food sources, including and not limited to, all beef wieners.

All’s I know is if the bees are eating meat now, you can count me out of stepping outside ever again.

I’m going to lose readers because of this one.

Posted: February 15, 2011 | Author: Jen O. | Filed under: How do you categorize "crazy"?, Let's keep it PG, Petting the peeves, The world is full of crazies, Whatever | Tags: Justin Beiber | 23 Comments »

I am the Devil’s Advocate. I see both sides of a situation and even if I stand firmly on one side, I am overwhelmingly compelled to argue for the other. I can debate anything (except when it comes to kids and animals – I’m ALWAYS on their side and will CUT YOU DOWN WITH FURY AND VIOLENCE if you’re not) and I do, even when I don’t WANT to.

This is all a disclaimer for what I’m about to present.

You shouldn’t hate Justin Beiber.

*ducks under the desk*

HEAR ME OUT BEFORE YOU LEAVE.

Sure, YOU may not like his music, but that’s fine. You’re not supposed to like his music. Unless you are a 12 year old girl. Are you? If you’re not, then you shouldn’t even try to listen to his music. It’s not for you. He didn’t make it for you and he probably doesn’t even want you to listen to it. He wants girls to swoon over him, and you’re not that girl.

I just can’t for the life of me understand Beiber Haters. If you don’t like his music, don’t listen to it. Don’t go see his movie. Don’t buy the Beiber Doll. Cut your hair to a respectable length and be done with it. You don’t have to go on and on about how TERRIBLE his music is and how much you HATE him, because really? You HATE a person you’ve never met in person? You don’t KNOW him well enough to HATE him. He didn’t do anything to you.

Does your car only get one station? No? Then change it if a song of his comes on. TV only have one channel? No? Change it when his movie adverts air. You are not being forced to see or hear or enjoy or even LIKE him, but that doesn’t mean you have to HATE him.

And you know what you sound like when you complain about him endlessly? Your parents. Did your parents like your music when you were growing up? Probably not. Their parents didn’t like they’re music, either. Elvis was sin personified, afterall.

Justin is a kid who likes music. If you look at it objectively, he’s not that bad, either. There are many other “artists” who are less talented than him. Again, I don’t LIKE his music and I think his hair is weird, but I don’t feel qualified to say I HATE him. In fact, besides the five second clip that plays during the preview for his movie, I can honestly say I’ve never heard his music. WHICH IS HOW IT SHOULD BE. I am a 31 year old GROWN WOMAN; I’m not SUPPOSED to have an opinion about something that is clearly and purposely for tweens. It’s none of my damn business.

As adults, we shouldn’t judge things made for children. We are not the target demographic. Grownups are not SUPPOSED to like Justin Beiber, so saying that you don’t like Justin Beiber is like saying you don’t like playing with Barbies. My response is “Good. So, you’re NOT a mental and emotional child. ‘Cause if you DID like him, that would be weird.”

I don’t want kids liking my music (except my own kids so that I can listen to what I want in the car without them complaining) and I’m sure kids don’t want me liking their music. So there. Can we come to some sort of agreement? A calm rationale that ends all the Beiber bashing?

We get it. You don’t like his music. I’m sure he’s heartbroken, crying in a gold plated hot tub filled with hundred dollar bills and Victoria Secret models.

Everything has feelings, you know.

Posted: January 5, 2011 | Author: Jen O. | Filed under: How do you categorize "crazy"?, The world is full of crazies, Too late to apologize, Whatever | 14 Comments »

Things I currently feel sorry for: that Barbie over there on the floor, the chair at the far end of the kitchen table, the entire basement, my t-shirts at the bottom of the drawer, the half of a cinnamon bun on the counter, all the books I own but failed to read before I bought a new one, my dining room.

The Barbie was just thrown there, without thought for her position. She’s face down and her arm is wretched over to the side, awkwardly. It looks like it would hurt terribly.

And the chair is the one that never gets sat on. We all have assigned seating (thanks to cruise director, Eirinn) and that chair was left out of the plan. It rarely feels the warmth of a butt.

My whole basement only ever gets used to throw junk in and to do the laundry. It’s barren and neglected. Concrete walls and exposed ducts don’t make for a very cozy room.

My t-shirts that have the misfortune of living at the bottom of my drawer have been forgotten. When searching for a top, I grab what’s easiest accessed, and that, unfortunately is not those on the bottom.

The cinnamon bun has been halved. Too small for a grown up and the little ones have no interest in food that has been portion controlled. They’d much rather take a full sized bun and waste half. Which is exactly what happened.

The books I’ve bought but neglected to read before replacing them with newer books must feel like the older kids at the orphanage. Am I ever going to read them? Probably. Eventually. Yes. But until then, they must wait on the shelf, wondering.

My dining room is pretty. So pretty. Decorated with care and thought. AND THEN ABANDONED WITHOUT REGARD. It currently is being used to hold Christmas gifts that haven’t been assigned a home as of yet. Rarely is there any dining in that room.

All of these things make me sad.

See what just happened there? With the crazy? Yeah, that’s what happens in my head. I feel sorry for things that are just things and then it makes me sad because I just called the things “just things”.

And, my lawdy, people, the turmoil that the Toy Story series has put me through. SEE? I TOLD YOU THINGS HAD FEELINGS. We got the girls Jesse The Cowgirl and Woody for Christmas. The replica type toys that look exactly like those in the movies and because of this SICKNESS I have, I have not-so-subtly been encouraging the kids to adopt them as their new favourite toys. I’ve convinced Eirinn that she wants to sleep with Jesse at night. I’m terribly protective of the way they treat the dolls, too. I panic and yell “DON’T HOLD THEM BY THE STRING!” just in case they break. Jesse and Woody would be sad if their strings broke.

But do you know what’s the worst part about all of this nuttery? The grossly abnormal amount of time I spend thinking about the toy box we have in our basement filled with the girls’ secondary toys. The Forgotten Toys. They don’t get played with anymore. They just sit down there, in the dark, wondering if the girls still love them. They probably hope that every time the basement door opens, it’s one of the kids coming down to play with them. And then, when it’s not, they probably cry little toy tears.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS INSIDE MY HEAD, PEOPLE.

Regaining the title of The Face Of Murder Sheds

Posted: November 23, 2010 | Author: Jen O. | Filed under: Grown Up Talk, How do you categorize "crazy"?, Photos, Quirks, Sometimes it's all about me, The world is full of crazies, Too late to apologize | 9 Comments »

You know what really chaps my ass? When I’m no longer The Face of Murder Sheds. Oh, yes, folks. Google no longer deems me worthy of representing Murder Sheds, which is so insulting I can barely see straight. Who are they to say I’m not the World’s Leading Expert on Murder Sheds? Because I totally am. Did you even know what a murder shed was until I told you? What’s that? You don’t know what a murder shed is? Well, allow me to enlighten you because despite what Google says, I know Murder Sheds better than anyone.

Murder Shed –noun

1. a slight or rude structure built for shelter from prying eyes, storage of captives, bodies of victims, meat hooks etc.

2. a large, strongly built structure, often open at the sides or end, usually with a secret room beneath the floor boards.

Sure, everyone knows that. But what people may not know, and what makes me such an expert, is that a “murder shed” doesn’t have to be a shed, per se. A murder shed can just as effectively be a well insulated attic, or a dark unfinished basement, or even an apartment in a sketchy neighbourhood. Anywhere suitable for a variety of deviant behaviours.

Horror movies ALWAYS have murder sheds. Be it a run-down old barn or a dug-out bunker in a corn field or under the cellar stairs. There are chains and hooks and saws of varying severity. There’s never any electricity and it’s where the ill-fated protagonists variably run to when being chased by their masked adversaries. Short of a lit marquee advertising “GET MURDERED HERE!”, they’re clearly Places Of Doom.

The Murder Shed barn from The Last Exorcism, for example.

And let me be very clear about all this – I don’t condone actions which require a Murder Shed. I feel weird having to clarify, but we all know The Internets these days. I kid about a Murder Shed and suddenly I’m a Dahmer apologist. I’m not. Just to be clear. I do, however, have a weird thing about finding a real Murder Shed. When I drive through the ghetto (like that happens ALL the time), I habitually look in the windows of the buildings along the streets, waiting to find some fishiness. Simply a morbid fascination, I suppose.

And so, when we (royal we) built our own shed, it was nicknamed The Murder Shed. It’s where I keep my fictional meat hooks and all my proper kidnapping supplies. There’s a pretend underground bunker. The doors are fake padlocked to prevent any nosy neighbours from snooping and blowing my faux cover. It’s extra pretty on the outside to distract from the make believe house of horrors on the inside.

This is why I’m so confused by Google. Have you ever heard anyone so prolific on the subject of murder sheds? No. No, you haven’t. Perhaps it was a lack of pictorial options? Well, I can fix that, too.