I made a wiener cat...

... I really didn't intend on it. It just happened.

I've been crocheting amigurumi toys for a bit now, and I really enjoy it. I thought I'd make a kitty for my daughter. A peachy-pink, sweet little kitten for her to squeeze and love. I followed the pattern exactly as it was written, right down to the last stitch. I sewed on the arms, then the ears, and finally the tail. That was when I noticed something horrible. I'd created the yarn kitty equivalent to Ron Jeremy. Not only is it a wiener cat, it's a well endowed  wiener cat. And the peachy-pink color isn't helping the situation. Now I feel weird removing the offending tail. Seems cruel and unusual somehow. I'm at a loss.

Front...                                                                                       Uh, Back...   

A Christmas Gift... for Me.

Bat Fight. A game of honor and diplomacy.

http://FunnyOrDie.com/m/253e

Ugh...

I think that at least one writer at Yahoo must be burned out. In an attempt to list the pro and cons of buying certain Christmas gifts, they totally forgot one thing; to have a list of items that would actually be appropriate CHIRISTMAS GIFTS! All five things they listed on the main page would be the lamest gifts in the world.
First example, a bathroom scale. A scale? Are you freaking kidding me? The fatty holidays are upon us and they want some assy person to buy a loved one a scale? Is the writer trying to entice people to commit Christmas-related physical abuse so they have a shocking new epidemic to report on in January?
Next on the list, an alarm clock. This is just stupid. What do you tell the person you get this little gem for? "When I saw this alarm clock, I thought of you... because you make me angry every morning?" 
Third, men's rain boots. The lameness of this gift makes me want to slap someone's face. The only excuse for getting someone rain boots is if they are under ten years old or they work on a fishing boat.
Number four: leaf mulcher. Hooray! "Here, Honey, now get your lazy arse to work! Those leaves aren't going to mulch themselves!" Items that create a chore are NOT GIFTS! No!
And finally, item five... roasting pans. I don't even feel like I need to explain why this is a horrible gift. I wouldn't fault the recipient of this gift if (and when) upon opening it, they throw it directly at the giver.
These items aren't things I wouldn't want in general, but if they were given to me as Christmas gifts, I'd put them in a pile in the front yard, light them on fire, and roast chestnuts over the flames. Then they'd serve their christmasy purpose.

Merry Christmas!

http://shopping.yahoo.com/articles/yshoppingarticles/482/worth-it-or-not-a-shopping-guide/

Three Consecutive Ho’s

I can’t explain why I’ve felt that there’s a little empty space in my holiday spirit cloud (I picture it as a cloud. I don’t’ know why.) I haven’t felt like baking, sewing, listening to a spoof Christmas song or buying gifts. That’s just not like me. Then, oh glorious day, I discovered what’s been missing this Christmas. And here she is. The Christmas Tree Hat. This isn’t some crappy little felt or yarn hat. It’s an actual small-ish artificial pine tree with tinsel and lights and I’m hoping there’s a wild squirrel in there, too! Thank you, stupid.com. Thank you for filling the empty spot in my holiday spirit cloud with a fake tree hat.   

Fast Food Hook-up

I’m a round girl. I never intended on becoming one, but for reasons unknown, food has become a huge comfort to me. Maybe I saw a hamburger getting a beat down when I was young, and that fostered a need in me to keep them (and all lard containing foods) hidden in the warm and squishy safety of my belly.

Anywho, that’s where this story starts. I was rescuing a chicken sandwich and some waffle fries from a Chick-fil-a. I always find it entertaining to be especially nice to the workers at Chick-fil-a. It’s quite clear that friendliness is stressed by management at the Chick, and they all say “It’s my pleasure!” in excess. When you’re overly nice in return, they go into overdrive and suddenly everything is their “pleasure.” It’s good, creepy fun. Now, the gentleman on this particular visit was exceptionally nice. He sounded like the movie phone guy, only I didn’t have to press buttons on my phone for 15 minutes to get what I wanted. After I placed my pleasure giving order, I pulled around to the drive-thru window. And there he was. He was a geek, through and through. Don’t get me wrong, “geek” isn’t a bad word to me. I love geeks! More power to the video game playing, comic book loving, Star Wars quoting ladies and fellas. This particular geek had definitely, and recently, felt the glory of World of Warcraft. Chubby, scruffy, 30ish, be-spectacled geek. I instantly liked him.

After he kindly asked what condiments it would be his pleasure to give me, he gently and apologetically notified me that it would only be 30 more seconds until my once healthy potatoes would be crispy and fried to golden perfection. He seemed nervous while he waited, not knowing what else he could do for me to pleasure himself. Then, finally, the food arrived and he handed it out the window. “Here you go, Love,” he said, and gave me a warm smile. Love, eh?

So, I guess there’s more to the customer service at Chick-fil-a than simple friendliness, because I think the geek and I have to get engaged after all that pleasure and love business. I need to make an honest geek out of him. Wonder if I should propose dressed as Lara Croft…? On second thought, I’ll go as Jabba.

Note to Self

I genuinely like reading blogs. I like seeing what friends are up to, getting inspired by the creativity I see, even reading about spiritual crap. It’s so personal. I almost feel like I’m spying on people; looking in their windows while wondering if I can break in to go through their underwear drawer.

Then I start to feel bad about myself. “Why can’t I be that crafty?” “Compared to that, my photography looks like I took the pictures in a closet with a dollar store disposable camera.” “My decorating is gay in a totally non-fabulous way.” “My butt is SO much bigger than hers, and not awesome OR Kardashian-y.” “My garden might as well be devoured by locusts, because it will never look as good as that one.” “I never do fun things with my kids like she does; they’re gonna grow up emotionally stunted.” “Why can’t I be religious like that? All church makes me want to do is roll my eyes or cry.” Yada yada yada...

But I guess I can find peace in knowing that I can’t possibly be the only one that feels inferior. I’ve only met a few people who REALLY think they’ve got everything down perfectly, and I wouldn’t want to read their blogs anyway. So, blog on, you talented, happy, glorious goons! My butt and I are going to go crochet a sweater that will probably end up resembling a pile of broken twigs wearing a hat. 

MUCUS!

Sick! Literally! Thanks to my overwhelming friendliness I probably will be soon. Working near someone with an audibly drippy nasal issue makes my skin crawl. Now, I’m not completely heartless, and I feel for the plight of the snotty, but Honey, don’t shake my hand if you’re gonna wipe your goo-bag face with it immediately afterwards! I know that’s not the first wipe of the day, and now I feel like lying in a vat of Purell and crying. There are certain protocols for the person who decides to come to work with an illness.

Protocol 1: No contact with the un-gross. If you are insistent on entering a highly populated place while diseased, then NO TOUCHY!

Protocol 2: Drug yourself. While I generally discourage the use of drugs, if you’re sick in public, DOPE UP, PAL! There have been amazing advances in the cold and flu fighting industry. Get one that makes you dry up like a prune and consume liberally.

Protocol 3: No horking. K. I am aware of the complicated situation that occurs while sick when you are unable to remove a wad of boogs with traditional blowing. Horking is the only option. Here’s the thing. That sound is repulsive, but not as repulsive as the knowledge that the horker has just swallowed a bunch of green goodness. Hork in the bathroom. I don’t wanna be a party to your mucus munching.

Please keep the protocols in mind, sickos.