And on a sadder note. . .

Today would've been my brother's 25th birthday.  You know, if he hadn't gotten into a truck with a drunk driver and gotten himself killed. 

Things I'm NOT doing today in order to commemorate his birthday:

Going to Beal City.

Watching Bad Boys or Speed and reciting all the words.

Reading It Zwibble, the Star-Touched Dinosaur from memory.

Writing a heartfelt memorial tribute for the wedding program.

Drinking a Mt. Dew and Southern Comfort cocktail.

Checking the facebook group dedicated to him to see if any of his idiot friends remembered his birthday.  (Just kidding, totally just did that.)

Eating all the Oreos in the package but one.

Making knee-jerk decisions about going to law school or moving in with a moron.

Driving drunk.


Things I am doing, apparently:
Going shopping.
Cleaning my closet.

Writing a bitter, unfunny blog post.

Have a super awesome weekend! 
S. . .

Parenthetical: (This is why I can't have nice things.)

So last week, I had this brilliant idea for a blog post that would detail all of the reasons that I should not pump my own gas.  More specifically:

My coat is white.
It is cold out.
It is hot out.
I'm wearing inappropriate footwear.
I could catch on fire.
The card reader might not read my card and think I stole the gas and then I could lose my license.  And die.
I might forget my zip code.
I might get gas all over my matching white gloves.
I might get gas on my actual hands.
I might hit "pay inside" by mistake, go inside to pre-pay, over-pump by 41 cents and then have to have a manager approve the transaction, after some humiliation ensues from the implication of not having $20 on my debit card (Not that that hasn't happened.  And at the Dollar General no less.).
I might also forget which side the gas tank is on, drive up on the wrong side, drive around to the right side, and still be on the wrong side.  (In my defense, I've only done that, like, twice.)
Finally, I might use my entire body to try to push the button that says "Pay Outside with Credit" and fail.  Hard.  Three times.  (Um, apparently the ice storm-Snowpocalpyse 2011-broke the buttons.  Maybe they should post a sign?)

Now, I know there are states (Oregon and New Jersey, after some intense google researching) that will not allow individuals to pump their own gas (or something, I didn't really look into it that well).  But I'm not moving to New Jersey for obvious reasons, and I'm not moving to Oregon for reasons that are even more obvious (too many people riding bikes).  So I'm stuck here, pumping my own damn gas, much to the horror of myself and the entire community.  That was what I was going to write about last week, and I decided that maybe it really wasn't that clever after all, so I held off.

Unfortunately, today I have a reasons for not only why I shouldn't pump my own gas, but why I shouldn't be driving at all (and also why I should not have nice things.) 

Today, I could not get the key out of the ignition of my car.

"What?"  You say.  You say, "Well, it must still be in gear!  Put it in park!"  You say, "Well, did you turn the key to off?"

Sadly, no.  No, I did not put the car in park.  No, I did not make sure the key was off.

Instead, I opted to panic.  OHMYGOD I can't get the key out of the ignition!  Must beat car!  Must FORCE key from ignition!  Cannot leave keys in car in parking lot of Planned Parenthood (btw, really, Indiana?  Really?  Where am I going to get my free abortions now?  Google it if you're not sure where I'm going with this.) 


I won, to say the least.  I extracted my precious key from the evil grip of the G6's ignition.  Ha!  It's because I'm a WINNER.


And then I put the key back in to start my car and get on with my day (bank, post office, general glamor).

Guess what, kids?  Key won't turn.  What the?  Why won't the?  I'm jiggling it. . . and what?  Fuck, I broke the car.

First call:  Mom.
Me:  Hey, um, so my key won't turn.
Mom:  Huh?  Did you jiggle it?
Me:  Yes, jiggled it.
Mom:  Well, here, talk to your uncle.
*shuffling*
*explanation*
Uncle:  Well, try jiggling the key.
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, I did that.  Nothing.
Uncle:  *proceeds with litany of other suggestions to no avail*  Call Grandpa.

Second call:
Me:  Hey Gramp.  *explanation*
G:  Well, did you jiggle the key?  It's probably just locked up.
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, that doesn't do anything.
G:  *proceeds with litany of other suggestions to no avail*  Well, let me think about it and I'll call you back.

Third call:
Me:  Um, honey, I'm outside Planned Parenthood and my key won't turn.
JK:  *hears "my key is stuck in ignition."  (cannot promise that I didn't say that)*  Did you try jiggling the key?
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, I keep trying that.  Nothing.
JK:  Okay, well, I will google it.
Me:  Okay, hold on, Grandpa's calling.

Fourth call:
G:  Okay, put the car in neutral, then go see if you can push the car-what's in front of you?
Me:  A brick wall.  But there's like 7 or 8 feet before that.
G:  Okay, see if you can push the car forward.
Me:  *uses entire very compact body to move car forward*
G:  Okay, see if you can do it while it's in park.
Me:  *cannot do it in park*
G:  Okay, well, how about if you release the steering wheel and jiggle the steering wheel to try to get it to lock.  Can you move the steering wheel?
Me:  I think so.  *uses entire very compact body to yank steering wheel all the way around dozens of times in effort to lock steering wheel*
Meantime:  get text from JK, still under impression that key is stuck in ignition, with instructions to merely wait 20-30 minutes and see what it does then.

*Hang up with Grandpa.  Jaywalk across busy street to Walgreen's, where I first draw suspicion by spending too much time looking at those Sally Hansen nail polish strips, then overhear what I think is an old man (definitely an old woman) say that society is going to hell in a handbasket.  Intrigued, I draw closer to her, only to hear that society is going to hell in a handbasket for two reasons:  1.  nobody puts their carts away and 2.  because of the nymphos.  Leave Walgreen's with magazine because I see a mechanic's waiting room in my future.*

JK's technique=fail.

Call insurance company.  No, you do not have roadside assistance, but it can be added to your coverage for only $1.90 every six months!  Super.

Call local mechanic.  Get advice.  Get tow truck number.

JK arrives.  JK is smiling.  JK thinks I am silly damsel in distress.  *very distressed*

JK sits in car for 42 seconds.  Car starts. 

"WHAT THE FUCK!??!!??"

JK says, "You just gotta jiggle the key, babe."

You have *got* to be kidding me.

Call mom.
Call grandpa.
Call poor local mechanic.

Come home.  Make meringue with real sugar and eat almost all of it with spatula.  Drink bottle of wine.  Order Chinese.  Take three hour nap.  Blog.

Am sore as fuck from all the jiggling.

Am idiot.  Am never leaving house again.

S. . .

Don't call me a crafter! (I've been here for years.)

So.....I've started my own "creation" blog.  I'd say "craft" blog, but that makes me wanna die. just. a. little. bit.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, cause let's be honest, I'm a total crafter.  But in a contemporary way.  Now buy my shit.

So I woke up at 5am this morning and couldn't get back to sleep.  This would have been a perfect opportunity to get my fat ass out of bed and Get. In. The. Gym.  You know, as someone who has not lost weight and will be in a bikini in 5 weeks.....So yeah, that did not happen.  Want to know what I did?  Sure you do!  I got up.  I did.  I got ready for work in a FLASH I tell you, a flash, with this crazy amount of adrenaline pumping through my veins.  Why, you ask (you're asking, I just know it) because I knew that the minute I was all ready I could dash down to the creation station and craft create!  For like an hour before work!  An hour to make rosettes and such lovelies out of felt for the St. Patrick's Day Yarn Wreath! I knew I would be creating in the evening (cause I sold this one!) So I did.  I watched the news (cause I'm super up on what's doin) drank my coffee, and cut and rolled and hot glued my ass off until 7:10am.  Yeah I did.

So, don't call me a crafter.  I'm a creator.  Of crafty shit.  :)

Oh, and this is what I made, just in case you're interested.  (you are, right?)

6am craziness.

PS, S... is a super skinny bitch.

B.Chen.

Allegedly Christian Skinny Bitch

Since B is over making magic happen (in the form of majorly creative endeavors such as yarn wreaths and cute little felties) at http://bcheniful.blogspot.com/, I will once again grace you with my presence.  And no, I'm not going to apologize for waiting four days, because this blog is NOT called "Sorry I Have a Life and Didn't Blog."  Word.


Now then.  It should probably be mentioned that I'm a skinny bitch now.  After the bar exam at the end of July, I joined Weight Watchers.  I was hesitant at first because well, WW is for fat chicks.  And if not for those inventions known as mirrors, cameras, and plus size jeans, I may never have gone.  But I did, and skinny bitch got a medal today for losing 51.4 pounds.  To celebrate, I bought a tiny dress, some tiny bikinis, and did a lap around the condo whilst dragging along one of JK's 50 pound dumbbell thingies.  You know, just to see how far I've come.  The point of this is, if you're fat, go to WW and get skinny.  There is no easier thing in life, and I don't feel bad that you're fat anymore because that's how easy it is to change (legitimate health problems other than rampant obesity obviously excepted).

On another note, I've noticed a strange phenomenon here in the upper bible belt, or the Bible FUPA, as I like to call it.  I keep being accused of being a Christian.  It usually happens when I'm working at the bookstore (as you'll recall, I am an underemployed lawyer taking it like a champ), and people come in and expect me to know the difference between bible versions (I can point them to a poster at the end of the aisle, FWIW).  Sometimes they also suggest that I should read intriguing titles such as "Heaven is for Real" or "The Shack."  Apparently they think because I am white, Midwestern, and polite, I must believe in jeebus too.  Or maybe they think I am a dirty goat-fucking Atheist (the sweater sets don't fool anyone, you see) and are trying to save me.  I don't assume that anyone I encounter is of a particular religion, so I find it rather presumptuous of strangers to accuse me of being Christian.  I've never been accused of being Muslim, Buddhist, or Jewish, BTW, which may be a proximity thing, since most of the population around here is actually Christian.  Just once I'd like to have some nice Jewish grandma tell me to read the Torah.  Fingers crossed.


S. . .

Ugh, Seriously.

My excuse for blogger absentia is much simpler than B's back-breaking snow shoveling Snowpocalypse experience:  I'm sick of me.  That's right, I said it.  I'm so sick of me.  Now, to give you a little context, I'm in the throes of wedding planning, and we're down to (what's that, theknot.com?) 46 days.  My mom and I have managed to brand this wedding with the fervor of Frito Lay launching a new Doritos flavor.  That means our wedding logo is fucking all over my house.  If you're not sick of seeing it yet, you will be.  I'm even almost sick of ampersands, which is something I thought I'd never ever say. 

The wedding itself, also known as the Elopement Gone Awry (EGA for short, TM, © ) is taking place in St. Thomas, which is great for a crazy control freak like me, because I have no control whatsoever.  It's even better because I can actively pretend like I don't care about the details, because as much as I love control, I despise wedding traditions.  In fact, at the beginning of our engagement, JK and I made a list of things not allowed at the wedding, which we still abide by to this day.  What, no archaic bouquet toss, where my lovely single girlfriends can fight tooth and nail over some dead flowers just so that they may be so lucky as to land a man?  No property exchange between my dad and my new husband?  ('cause I have news for you:  I have a law degree, but $100,000 in student loan debt, no job, and a fiance on a teacher's salary.  You're not getting rid of me that easily, Daddio.)  And no garter retrieval, complete with hard hat and spelunking gear, as I coyly giggle and pretend that my beloved is going where no man has gone before?  I'll take "Things that make me want to barf" for $1000, Alex.  (I will concede that we kept the cake-smashing only after diligent research and blatant, unabashed love for delicious sugary frosting, even when it's smeared all over my face.)

The good thing is that no matter how many hours I've wasted looking at overpriced poufy white dresses, arguing with JK over changing my name, and annoying the shit out of my best friends by bombarding them with arts and crafts projects, musical demands, and requesting their presence at a non-drinking bridal shower, it will be all over soon, and we'll be married.  Not only that, we get to have a kick-ass vacation with all of our awesome friends and family.  So yeah, I bitch because I can, but seriously, aren't you sick of me now, too?

S . . .

Talk about confessions....

I'm already having trouble keep up with this blog....that's no good cause it's only been 3 days.....


It's a good thing I don't have kids....Sorry sweetie, Mommy's too busy being awesome to make time for you.  Ha!


So what have I been "soooo busy" doing since my initial Tuesday blog?  Well, I'll tell you because I know you're all dying to know:


Wednesday = Adult Snow Day.  Waist-high drifts and angry husbands winds.  
What should have been a lazy morning sleeping in till noon started with Bacon at our bedroom door at 2am, crying to be let in.  Then there was J Chen crying looking out the window at 4am, giving me the play-by-play and making me get out of bed to witness Snowmaggedan 2011.  By the time J's 7:30am alarm went off, I was seriously exhausted and over it.  So hung out at my Creation Station.  The. Entire. Day.  


Except for that hour of hell.......  


You know those people that get angry when they clean?  Like, get out of their way, they're effing CLEANING right now and they're pissed at you.  I once had a roommate like that.  I have a mother and an aunt like that.  This is probably why I don't clean now....Anyway, my point is that this is exactly how J was acting while we were clearing the 90-ft drifts in our once only kinda-snowy driveway.  


One shovel--that I just bought, thanks.  One snow blower.  One super thrilled husband.  And me, the eternal optimist.  Guess who got the shovel?  Listen, I know that I'm not some delicate creature and I do appreciate the non-gym workout, but come on!, give your "little" wife a break!  90-ft drifts people!  And here I am, standing on top of them, trying to move Mt. Snowapocalypse with a freaking plastic shovel.  BUT, I'm still a good sport--of course--and am laughing and making the best of this I can.  My other half....well he's pissed.  And doesn't find me even the least bit adorable as I giggle and snap pictures of this crazy shit.  What.Ever.  Long story short long, the damn snow blower broke at the end and I hightailed my ass inside.  And drank.

Ooooh, confession time, huh?

Here's mine:  Fewer things make me happier than discovering a Dog the Bounty Hunter marathon on A&E.  Just a quick glance at Dog's beautiful, flowing blonde mullet and Beth's gravity-defying rack can break me from the deepest funk.  And don't even get me started on the rest of the family:   

Baby Lyssa, (inexplicably still referred to as Baby, a la Jennifer Grey's Baby on Dirty Dancing) luring the bad guys to the door!  

Leland, with his long skinny braid and heart of gold!   

Bumbling Duane Lee, Dog's namesake, so agile!  

Bobby, the most adorable old man, usually in charge of watching the door least likely to have a criminal come out of it.   

And all willing to take orders from a woman who wears fingerless gloves to display her perfect pink manicure.  And have I mentioned Beth's rack?   

All that, plus fake guns, bulletproof vests, prayer circles, and a beautiful Hawaiian setting.  Amen, bitches!  Get me a glass of wine, I'll be over there on the couch.  (Or a tub of butter, but that's a confession for another day. . .)

S. . .