The Coronation of The Sun King

File this under "Times when I wish I had a camera phone."

Yesterday, as I waited in the lobby of Cancerville Clinic for my dad to pick me up, I spotted a guy wandering about in a black parka-like jacket. Pretty normal looking from the front, but when he walked past me, I got an eye full. Across the back of the jacket was emblazoned this mosaic of images: Obama's profile, the White House, "44th President", and a bunch of other stuff I couldn't quite make out. All in little red, white, and blue rhinestone. Rhinestones. As in BEDAZZLER.

For real.

Rhinestones.

Seriously.

The President. The RHINESTONE President.

It really was a bit too much.

And that's all I have about that.

Cuteness Abounds

Yeah, those horrible pit bulls. Watch until the end. You'll be mush.

The good life @ Yahoo! Video

Space Invaders

Taking a look out of the window, it looks like any other grey, rainy November morning. I don't spot either of the following 1.)Fire reigning down and the four horseman of the apocalypse descending to Earth to signal the end of times 2.) Rainbows, unicorns, gold doubloons, and hark the herald angels sing.

So the beat goes on.

And I still have leukemia. The only "change" I am really concerned about right at this particular moment is if the president-elect can come down here and lay hands on me and heal my cancery ass. Call me selfish, but right now I've got bigger fish to fry.

One thing I did read this morning that troubled me is the talk that the embargoes may now be lifted from Cuba with the new administration. Okay,first how about Cuba clean up their human rights(especially in regards to gays), reinstate religious freedom, freedom of the press, end censorship of books and the jailing of librarians, and start letting their people leave legally if they want to instead of forcing them to paddle the sea in homemade boats. Hey, how's that for a thought? You want some embargoes lifted? Work for them.

Last week, we had an invasion of sorts in the Amos household. I meant to write about at the time, but I think I was pretty well traumatized by the whole thing. On and off since we moved into this house (and actually we had the same trouble in our rental house from back in the day), we've had issues with camel crickets. For those of you unfamiliar with what a camel cricket is (also known in some circles as spider crickets), feast your eyes:

Yum, I know. These little boogers are even more revolting up close and personal, and they can jump like nobody's business. It may not look like it, but camel crickets can actually get pretty big, with legs and all enough to cover most of the palm of my hand. For some reason, they have always reminded me of the face suckers from the Alien movies. You know, these guys:
The sight of one of these things in the house is enough to paralyze both The Mister and me. Alastair just points at them and says, "Big bug, mommy." Of course there was that time about nine months ago when he walked into the kitchen carrying the carcass of a camel cricket, "Mommy, what's this, mommy?" I nearly peed myself and vomited and passed out all at the same time. But instead I managed to swoop down and snatch it away from him, exclaiming "Dead bug! Gross!" Oh how I hope one never jumps on him; he'll be traumatized. Then should that happen, I foresee hysterical panic all around at the mere mention of a camel cricket.

Occasionally, our cats will come through in their roles as latent hunters and catch a couple. Rarely though do they kill them, but choose instead to rip off their jumping legs, making them more interesting playthings. Once bored with the camel cricket, they generally leave its not-dead-yet body in the middle of the floor or their food bowl. Our favorite choice of dispatching these little buggers is the vacuum cleaner; sucks 'em right up with minimal contact on our part.

A year or two ago, my dad came and poked around under our house, sealing off potential entry points for the accursed creatures, and it seemed to work. We had minimal intrusions. Apparently, they've found a way back into the house because with the temperature drop last week, these hopping scourge of the earth were back with a vengeance. One night in particular, we dispatched somewhere between ten and twelve camel crickets in matter of a few hours. It felt like every time we came down stairs there were two or three more in the kitchen or dining room or careening around the den or the laundry room. I had these nightmare visions of the floor covered in these jumping minions of Satan. I felt like Ripley, fighting off the never-ending swarm of acid-spitting predators.

Since then, their presence has declined with the odd bugger popping up here and there, as if the word got out about the Purple Weapon of Mass Destruction (aka the Dyson vacuum) welded by the humans. The camel crickets are more weary of mounting another large invasion any time soon. But we are vigilant.

Here's to one good thing about The Big House: no stinking camel crickets.

Oh and one more thing. I'm losing what little hair I have left. AGAIN. And this time it's a mangy look I'm sporting. There's a nice clean bald spot on the top of my head. Hotness. Chemotastic hotness.

Step to the Beat, y'all

I'd love to relay in sordid detail the 30-second beat down between two teenage boys that I witnessed at the end of my street whilst getting my mail yesterday. However, I am woefully behind on my e-mailing. It's positively pathetic. Tonight I am going to try and catch up on all my unanswered e-mails.

So, I'll leave you with a few things to munch on until next I post something of interest.

I've been writing for a few other blogs lately. Check them out here and here.

Despite being an only child, I love to share, especially when a song gets stuck in my head. If you've been watching the Olympics, you'll probably recognize it.

And here's enough cuteness to crash your computer.



As a parent, you hope that your child will come to love or at least appreciate the same things you do. After our visit to King's Dominion on Sunday, I'm delighted to report that Little A is blossoming into a bona fide thrill seeker. Long may he ride roller coasters with Mommy and Daddy.

Quiet Days

Now that I am off the antibiotics, I get less attention from the nursing staff here.  But that's not to say that they don't like coming and hanging out with me.  A large percentage of the nursing staff is close to my age or younger, and I guess that's why they like taking a little break from their daily patient workload to come chat and chill in the nutty bald gal's room.

Yesterday, my nurse told me I was the healthiest leukemia patient they had on the floor.  If only my bone marrow would get that message and start doing it's dang job.  Dang it.

My days have been pretty quiet as of late.  This morning I organized my library of books, CDs, and DVDs.  Because of the great generosity of friends and readers, I still have quite a stack of unread books.  I thought I'd catalog the various titles I've read since my incarceration in the Big House.  Here they are, in no particular order, what I've read in the past month (And don't be insulted if the book you gifted/lent me hasn't made the list.  I go with what my mood and brain are itching to read at that moment, but trust me, every book will be consumed in good time.):

Hell House by Richard Matheson

20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill

How Sassy Changed My Life by Kara Jesella and Marisa Meltzer

Suite Francaise by  Irene Nemirovsky

A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

Blackgas by Warren Ellis (disturbed the bejeebers out of me)

Heroes, Vol. 1 graphic novel

Duma Key by Stephen King

Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories

Soul Kitchen by Poppy Z. Brite

The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde

Twelve books.  Considering I've been here a month, that works out to about three books a week.  Not too shabby.  This isn't counting the fact that I've read my body weight in magazines, nor the daily little nibbles I take from various devotional books. I'm in the process of reading More Jesus, Less Religion by Stephen Arterburn.  And I've watched a fair share of movies and I'm almost through the first season of Arrested Development (then on to tackle season one of Veronica Mars).

My next book was sent to me from my great Yankee girlfriend, Maureen, who also sent me Bunny Suicides.  I'll next be cracking open G. K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday.  Whatever comes out of my stay here in the Big House, at least I can say I'm well-read.

What the heck was up with Lost last night?  Could they cram more stuff into one episode?  It was like one of those food brick burritos from Chipotle.  The back story and plot twists were just oozing out all over the place like sour cream and guacamole. 

And just in time for Mother's Day, there's this insanity.  Holy junk, lady.  Give your poor uterus a rest.

Finally, an experience that one would only have in the Big House: I woke this morning to find a blood-filled syringe lying next to my thigh.  Not a cause for alarm but weird nonetheless.  Man, I love it here.

Five For Friday

Five Concepts That Are Universally Accepted Amongst Women But Are Also Universally Puzzling To Men

1. Period underwear.

2. Pairs of black shoes are like Lay's Potato Chips. You just can't have one. Or five. Or twelve...

3. Yes, we may bitch about our wide asses or chubby tummies or fat thighs, but dammit there are just times when a girl has to stand in the kitchen and gorge herself stupid on Oreos/cheesecake/ice cream straight from the tub/semi-sweet chocolate chips. We are well aware that it's counterproductive, so don't give us that raised eyebrow of scorn.

4. While we might be married or attached or otherwise off the market, there are times when we just want to get all dolled up, go out for overpriced drinks with the girls, and revel in the thought that we are being ogled.

5. (Contributed by co-editor, ahamos) Late in the evening, when our significant others' brains are addled with fatigue, we feel the need to have deep, thoughtful discussions, particularly about weighty topics like the health and stability and future of our relationships.

Maybe ask for directions first.

How people stumble upon my lil' half acre of the interwebs is of immense fascination to me. I know that probably half of the ten people that read my blog are friends here in the RVA and the other half are my "internet" buddies from over Pajiba way. But apparently on a pretty regular basis, my site pops up during random web searches, and the keywords that direct people here to Whoa, Camel are pretty darn interesting. Here is a sample of some of the more curious ones:

alabama literary review 2008 horror fiction
youtube whoa camel whoa
odd looks because i am smoking a pipe
how to know between female and male rolly polly
what mixes with spiknard to give nice smell
fucking women in chd
what god smells like
i am 54 years old never been kissed i am a virgin
arsty farsty camel
overly revealing wedding dresses
amanda's driving school-mini
rosita zoe cadabby hate
body like whoa story
what is the thing which comes in once a year
films camel war western

Most of these kind of sort of make sense based on what I write but are still kind of peculiar. Wonder if any of these poor hapless searchers ended up sitting a spell and reading my blatherings?

Which makes me wonder: how did you, fair readers, flip over this rock under which I blog to find me?

Like Bullets in a Revolver

Imitation is the greatest form of flattery, right? Then I give props to Miz Jamie as I rip off her latest blog post.

Can you describe the entirety of your life in six words? Such is the question posed by the new book, Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

After providing several of her own examples, Jamie presented the tiny memoir challenge to the readers of her blog, and here's what Yours Truly cooked up:

Late bloomer finally flowers, quickly wilts.

Not bad, huh? Especially considering poetry was never my forte; I couldn't get brevity right, not to mention rhyme and meter. And I hate, hated haiku.

So what's your life in six words?

My Bedside Table

One of the perks of not being a famous person is that, should you expire unexpectedly in your bedroom, the media will not pick over the supposed contents of your nightstand with the feverish attention of a bunch of sci-fi geeks at a Cloverfield screening. (You probably also won't suffer the indignity of your dead body being discovered by a pea-brained masseuse whose first instinct was not to call 991 but an Olson twin.) In reality, the objects cluttered on even a non-famous person's nightstand are probably sufficiently random as to raise a few suspicions should they perish in an untimely manner nearby.

I was thinking about this yesterday whilst dusting my bedroom furniture and trying to pare down the amazing amount of stuff on my bedside table. So I made a list of the things lying about (before I did my cleaning):

• Bag of Ricola cough drops (original flavor)
• Box of Target Sleep Aid tablets
• Bottle of Multivitamins (For Her!)
• Hand cream
• 3M skin crack care (because I have the hands of a longshoreman)
• Hair clip
• Two journals (sadly neglected)
• Seven books, some partially read (ranging from three humorous meditations on parenting/motherhood, two zombie novels, a weight loss/health book, and a novel I'm reviewing for another blogger)
• One bead and jewelry making supply catalog
• Eight magazines (various issues of Craft, ReadyMade, Better Homes and Gardens, Real Simple, and Domino)
• A cracked drink coaster
• Daily Bible readings pamphlet (Every year I pick one of these up at church with every intention of reading the Bible in its entirety. I have yet to actually get through March.)

I can only imagine what a stranger, looking for a sensational story behind my untimely demise, would make of my collection. Would they speculate that my death could be attributed to a fatal interaction between store brand sleeping pills and the calcium in my women's multivitamins? That I was depressed over my parental shortcomings and had turned to books and cough medications to alleviate my sadness? Perhaps I had foreseen my death which would explain the religious tract and fascination with the undead? Maybe I was working as a dishwasher at the local Mexican restaurant to support my hidden meth addiction hence the dry, cracking hands?

Goodness knows, the field day someone would have should I be found dead beside my purse. The sheer volume and magnitude of the contents of Big Orange would be enough to fill an entire tabloid's worth of speculative bunk.

When you step back and examine your own life, there's as much randomness as any public figure's. The only difference is that we don't have the jackals from TMZ recording the minutiae of our daily existence. Of course, Britney Spears is still a sociopathic hillbilly retard, paparazzi or no paparazzi.

So what are you hiding on your bedside table?

Canadians Are Some Messed Up Folks

But very concerned about workplace safety.



Here's another one.



But wait! There's more.

Five For Friday (Late Night Edition)

Five Things for Which I am Thankful but That Won't Be Mentioned 'Round the Family Thanksgiving Table

1. Tampons: Duh.

2. Contraception (particularly the little pill form): Duh. Also.

3. Coconut Rum: Because it mixes well with Diet Coke. Sometimes a girl likes to get her drink on AND still fight the chub.

4. Running Shorts With Built-In Underwear: Bliss is a wedgie-free jog about the neighborhood.

5. Those Morons Up Before the Ass Crack of Dawn Today to Buy a Bunch of Cheap Crap They Probably Don't Need: God bless, their relentless spending keeps our overly consumer-based economy afloat. Hopefully by the time they've hit old age and start bleeding the government dry in social services because they, in their spendthrift younger years, never saved for retirement, I will have whisked myself away to some exotic locale to while away my golden years.

Five For Friday

My Five Best Contributions to the English Language

1. Jihoobahlyboobly (spelling approximated): In one of Eddie Murphy's old standup routines, he riffed on his nephews (spawn of wolf-face sister-in-law) and how when they talked it sounded like "Goony Goo Goo". I think that was the genesis of jihoobahlyboobly which means anything that looks or sounds like total nonsense, also a mildly derogatory term. Remember those Debbie Allen choreographed dance routines that were smooshed awkwardly into the Academy Awards ceremonies? Jihoobahlyboobly, dear readers. Jihoobahlyboobly.

2. "to go banana bread": My variation on "going bananas". Only going banana bread is a more elevated level of crazy. You're not just bananas crazy; you've taken crazy, mashed it with a fork, and made a baked good out of it.

3. Adding definite articles at random to nouns: We totally ripped this off of the good people of Dinwiddie, VA who in turn probably ripped it off of the Germans. It started when we began referring to cable television as "The Cable" (As in, "It's going to be hard to follow the new season of Project Runway since we no longer have The Cable."")and has since been adopted by other words ("Star Jones had The Gastric, you know."), including proper nouns like "The Costco". Since embracing the definite article and all its greatness, the trend has caught on with some of our friends. My college roommate who lives in Seattle is now spreading The Love for The on the West Coast.

4. Smacktacular: My own personal portmanteau, smacktacular is used to describe greatness with a high gloss sheen of lunacy. Extreme Elimination Challenge is the embodiment of smacktacular. As are demolition derbies at the State Fair.

(On a totally unrelated note, portmanteau is one of my new favorite words. I think I might name my future Etsy store Portmanteau if I don't go with my standby alter ego, AlabamaPink)

5. Vincinity: Everyone has at least word one they stumble over, tongue fat in the mouth uncooperative with the brain's signals. Vicinity was that word for me, and for years, I lived under the assumption that my mangled pronunciation of vincinity was the right way to say it. And for some bizarre reason, no one ever corrected me. Until I met my husband, and he put me in my place. I tried in vain to make my pronunciation work, hoping I could with my own goofy version of aphasia add a little Mandaness to the lexicon. Eventually my husband wore me down. Now I pronounce it properly, but every time the word is poised to leave my lips, I have to hesitate and force my mouth to mold the letters properly. Old habits and such don't just lie down without a fight.

Hell, yeah.

And coincidentally this is my 200th post! Crack open the Bollinger, baby.

Lazy Girl

It's one of those days. Rainy and cold. I'm wearing sweatpants and no makeup. Haven't left the house at all. My eyes are sore. I'm tired. And I don't feel like blogging anything original, let along five things for Friday.

Instead, in honor of my ten-year college reunion this weekend (which will most likely be lame but Adrian and I look forward to revisiting the scenes of our many crimes.), is something I posted recently on MySpace. (Yes, I am on MySpace.)



This probably won't mean a thing to 98% of the ten people who read this blog. It's a little like experiencing my college years vicariously.

Have a great weekend.

I'm off to have a Coke Zero and maybe clean a bathroom.

*************************************************************************************

To My Fellow Veterans of the College of William and Mary

A while ago, I stumbled across this list Adrian and I put together Homecoming 2000, after a mere three post-collegiate years. We had visited campus and noticed a lot of changes since our tenure. We started a list of things, good and bad, that have altered or disappeared completely from the campus culture. It was a funny, bittersweet little trip down that rocky road known as Memory Lane.

When we venture down to the 'burg in a few days, I am sure we'll notice a lot more changes to the good old alma mater. Should be interesting.

I thought I’d share the list with you. Give you a few laughs. Make you glad you got out of there when you did. Or maybe wish you were back.

(Some of these may be before or after your time. We started W&M in the fall of 1993 and graduated in the spring of 1997.)

Gone But Not Forgotten:
1. The Williamsburg Theater: Remember when everyone had a schedule in their room with the movies they wanted to see circled?
2. Marriott
3. The old, OLD bookstore before Barnes and Noble cleaned everything up. When all the textbooks were crammed back in that little room.
4. Knowing what is at the bottom of Crim Dell. Shopping cart anyone?
5. Prince George’s
6. Ernestine at the Caf, God rest her soul. Back when she knew EVERYONE’s name and didn’t just call you “Boo”.
7. Registering for classes with those scantron, fill-in-the-bubbles sheets.
8. The post office in the basement of Old Dominion.
9. Tercentenary Hall. When it was Tercentenary Hall.
10. Free-for-all frat parties. Did anyone ever write their real name on those lists?
11. Life without a Target or a Ukrop’s. We had to shop at Roses and Food Lion, dammit.
12. Nick’s Pewter Plate Pancake House
13. Thursday night raves at Psi U.
14. Real concerts at the Hall.
15. Halogen lights
16. When the candy counter sold cigarettes.
17. Alternatives
18. Mama’s (Old campus thing.)
19. X Phi Tau parties (New campus thing.)
20. The Leaf and College before they cleaned up and became respectable.
21. PiKa had a house. So did Sigma Nu. (Wait, does that mean there’s no more Liquid Lunch? Let’s hope that someone has picked up the banner.)
22. Smoking was allowing in PBK. Not that it ever stopped anyone afterwards…
23. Those first computer-generated picture id cards. The ones where your face rubbed off after about six months.
24. The great cast of characters that included Erkel, Crazy Smiling Girl, Dave Soul, Butt-Bag Boy, and others.
25. Chain voice mails
26. There once was no such thing as a “substance-free” dorm.
27. 412 parties
28. The Hippie House
29. Artistic expression on your dorm room door
30. Days before cable TV and unlimited Internet access. What did we do? Study?

And for good measure, here are a few things that hopefully never change…
1. William and Mary-Land of a Thousand Joggers
2. If you didn’t have seasonal allergies before you came to W&M, you graduated with them.
3. Streaking the Sunken Gardens… God help us.
4. The Great Hunt for a Parking Spot
5. Beast
6. 100+ degrees and 99% humidity on move-in day
7. The “crosswalks” that every 80-year-old tourist driving a land yacht ignores
8. Ghost tours
9. The smoker’s contingency on the porch of Tucker
10. Mug Night
11. Grand Illumination and the Yule Log ceremony
12. Ringing the bell
13. Those little kiosks covered with posters
14. The many accapella groups on campus. Wasn’t the per student ratio 10:1?
15. The Ninth Level of Hell, otherwise known as Freshman Orientation
16. Fire drills at 4 a.m.
17. Bread ends and house
18. The subway tunnel under Jamestown Road
19. The Walk of Shame
20. Going to the health center for a sore throat and being asked if you were pregnant.

Five For Friday

Late Edition

Five Stores I Could Never Work in But Would Love to Anyway

1. Anthropologie: Whimsical and eccentric fashions, fun books, funky housewares, lovely jewelry, adorable hats. Instead of giving me a paycheck, the manager would be running a tab.

2. Betsey Johnson: See above. I'd be broke-ass but fabulous and probably whippet thin so as to fit into all her precious dresses.

3. Any book selling establishment like Borders (big box chain) or Creatures and Crooks (local independent shop): With my severe addiction to the printed word, employing me at a book store would be like hiring Lindsey Lohan to man the counter at the DEA evidence lock up. Enable me, baby.

4. Sephora: I loves me some product.

5. Jean-Jacques Bakery or any patisserie: As much as I adore baking, a few months working there and I'd looks like a gall-darned hippo. Yummy.

Random Ruminations

We caught a new episode of Sesame Street the other day. Tyra Banks was one of the celebrity guests, and as usual, she was terrifying. Her scariness seemed to be amplified because I was watching it with my infant son. I wanted to shield his eyes.

Anderson Cooper was also on the episode, and I'll have to say that while I do not care for his reporting, he was one of the best celebrity guests they've had on the show in a while.

Prairie Dawn has a new hair style. I hate it.

It's been ages since Momma and Daddy A went to see a movie. I'm dying to catch a flick. Any babysitters out there?

Yesterday, Little A and I made good use of our tax dollars and visited story time at the library and a local park. Little A is still telling me about how he sang songs and played with books and a bear.

ER has now been relegated to visual stimulus while I run on the elliptical machine. But I am captivated every time Stanley Tucci's on screen, even removing my Shufflelufagus earbuds to have a listen.

So Life isn't half-bad. The procedural crime part of the show seems like filler for the mystery of Charlie Crewes false imprisonment. That and I love Damian Lewis.

As sunset now comes earlier and earlier in the evening, I'm back to running in the dark. Guess it's time to find that ninja running partner.

And cross another missing friend off my list. I flipped over the right rock and found Ezra.

That's all for now. Time to bleach the sink! Yee Haw!

Five For Friday

I think I know myself pretty well having had 32 years to gaze at my navel and contemplate my own existence. So when people question statements I make about what I would and would not do, implying that they somehow know me better, I want to hock and spit.

Before the birth of my son, I stated frequently that I would not go through labor and delivery of my child moaning, shrieking, and making a general ass of myself. It's this Pride Thing I've got. Women would look down their noses at me and say with a sneer, "Oh, but you never know." Fuck you, bitches. I let out nary a scream (save for one big push at the end) or shriek. This Potty Mouth Queen only let one expletive slip from her lips in the entire 12 hours.

So there. When I say I am going to do or not do something, I meant it.

Now having said all that, tonight I am running in a 5K at Maymont. In my Fat Girl days, I used to proudly declare that I only ran when chased. Sometimes, I do go back and eat my words. But I don't make it a habit. That narsty little Pride Thing rearing its shiny head again.

Five Things I Will Never Do:

1. Eat Lobster: No amount of prodding and cajoling will ever convince me that giant sea roaches are potable. I don't reach down to the ground, pick up bugs, rip their legs off, and dip them in butter. It makes no sense to eat one just because some fisherman pulled it out of a net. I've tasted crab; it's nasty. Lobster meat will not pass these lips, unless the entire world's food supply disappears, save for lobster. Then I best get me a lot of ketchup.

2. Get remarried: Every time I see one of those eHarmony or Match.com commercials, I look over at Adrian and tell him he is not going leave me or die before me. If that's what dating is like now, God help me, I'm just staying single and chaste. After being in a relationship with the same person for nearly 13 years, I can't even fathom starting all over from scratch. Besides, it's a miracle of God that I found someone wacky enough to be willing to marry me in the first place. Lightening rarely strikes twice.

3. Get a face lift/Botox injections: I have a healthy amount of vanity. My goal each day is leave the house wearing at least mascara. I dye my hair and spend a good chunk of change on cosmetics and skin care. Recently, I've noticed faint creases developing along the sides of my nose and mouth. (I really gotta stop smiling.)

No way in hell am I going to shoot effing BOTULISM in my face to smooth a few wrinkles. Similarly, I will deal with looking like a crone before I have some surgeon cut my face, peel the skin away from my skull, and then pull it tighter. Gross, gross, gross. Maybe, just maybe, by the time I need to start worrying about looking old, some new cosmetic procedure will be developed that requires neither injections of deadly diseases to paralyze the face nor scalpels and skin peeling. Or maybe I will age as beautifully as Helen Mirren. She's a fox.

4. Go on a cruise: Trapped on a huge boat with a bunch of strangers. Floating aimlessly in open water. 24-hour buffets festering under heat lamps. A cold sweat is breaking out across my forehead as I type. Just the thought of being on a cruise ship brings me to the edge of a panic attack.

5. Be photographed/painted/filmed in the nude: I see my naked body at least once a day, and let me assure you, the rest of the world doesn't need to be subjected to it. I've already exposed the unsuspecting public to my body clad in a bikini. It's just better for everyone if I keep my clothes on and refrain from creating any permanent image of my nekkidness. Don't even get me started on how I would never in a million years film myself having sex. *Shudder* I can't even grasp the concept of why people would do such a thing.

Je veux les bonbons!

Five For Friday

At one time or another, we've all been mocked or insulted or gotten excessively negative feedback. Having a fat, awkward adolescence and participating in the performing arts for a number of years (Auditions: oh the humanity!), I've racked up a considerable list of insults during my life.

Here are five of the most interesting:

1. This shithead kid sat in front of me in my sixth-grade English class. One day, shithead kid turned around and asked me if the picture of a pig on my shirt was my family crest. As I stood to leave at the end of class, I "accidentally" hit him in the face with my bookbag. Whoops.

2. I had a girl friend in high school break up with me to go hang out with her new BFF. Her reasoning for no longer wanting me as her friend: Because this new girl stood a better chance of helping her get a boyfriend than I did. Yeah, bitch, last time I checked you still list yourself as "single" on MySpace. How's that boyfriend hunt going?

3. After listening to a friend bemoan his lack of a date for his fraternity formal, I offered to go with him. "No," he replied, "I want take someone pretty." Believe it or not, we are still friends, exchanging Christmas cards and everything.

4. A college professor once described me as a "handsome woman". You know what a handsome woman is? A handsome woman is Queen Victoria or Ilsa who works at the Lego factory in Baden Baden. Guys, if the only thing nice you can think of to say about a woman is that she's "handsome", keep your flippin' trap shut.

5. Another guy friend in college told me that I reminded him of "those naked women in old paintings." I believe he was referencing something like this or this. Even though he vehemently denied such connotations, I told him it was the most creative way of calling me fat that I'd ever heard.

BOB SAGET!

Anyone who blasphemes Bob Saget can't be all that bad in my book. No matter how crappy a criminal they are.


Repost: Worlds Dumbest Criminal - Watch more free videos