car accidents make people ugly

there will be no more photographs until the removal of the trendy neck collar as it presses my face up into my forehead and makes me look much fatter and much more unacttractive than i actually am.

i do not appreciate the internets spreading the rumor that i am fat and unattractive! i want a settlement!

and yes, more pills.


(i have to go get a lawyer. *weep*)

wombat has too much time on his hands

but it's the good kind of time, that any normal person clearly spends photoshopping hungry muppets onto my head. i especially appreciate how i look all complacent-like, completely unaware of the amphibious poop i'm about to become. must be all the pills.

and now, more pills!


(thanks wombat! you rule)

the gift that keeps on giving!

so here's an artists rendering of my accident, otherwise known as the christmas gift that never ends.



basically, the guy took a left directly into my car, smooshing in my door and my shoulder.

which leads me to part two of the gift, a rental car. in the exact make and model and year of the car (ALSO A RENTAL) that hit me. atleast now i understand why he hit me. the car sucks so badly he was just trying to make the pain stop.

and speaking of pain.... the best so far--part three of my gift:

here's me in hour three of my emergency room visit:

please don't judge me. i look like doodie.

and in hour six:
you'll note that Boy brought me a lovely flower,
which nicely complements my hospital pallor.

and after eight and a half hours at the emergency room, here's me today:

i'm on vicodin! yay!

i also get a snazzy new collar to wear for ten days. i'm trying to play it down with a kicky green scarf, but really, i think you can still tell.

and to think
this is the cause of all my misery... but i will tell you all about that another time, maybe when the bats stop swirling and i can you know, move my neck, or drink without a straw or whatever.

i'm gonna go take more pills. thank you internets for your support. i will be patchy in my attendance until the drugs run out. i'm sure you understand.

worst christmas ever

woo hoo!

yay me!

i am the luckiest girl EVER because i got a car accident for christmas!

i wanted to blog more fully today, but i have to deal with some of this really fun insurance stuff. maybe i will tell you all about it tomorrow.

it's a good story actually, how i was just trying to do something nice for some teensy tiny abandoned kittens and i got smooshed. karma loves me, yes she does.

it was awesome. you know, how christmas/hannukah should be.

i am not dead

though i think i may have pooped a faberge egg.

hope you all have merry merry christmases and happy happy hannukahs.

see you soon! (maybe monday?)

you might want to consider taking cover

i am, apparently, stressed out.

i know this because i may or may not have pooped approximately 3418756 times in the last three to four days. my stomach feels like a cement mixer. words like coagulate, congeal,and vomit come to mind. tiny somersaulting hate bugs are colonizing my digestive system. there are aliens on earth and they are in my belly right this very moment.

i actually drank a GRAPE flavored gatorade, which is pretty much unheard of. it's like a jew eating a bacon double cheeseburger. it's just not done. let the smiting begin.

i think boon has a cold, as his nose appears to be running (complete with crusty little cat boogers) and he's all sneezie and with the funy breathing. he probably has the bird flu. i always end up with defective pets. he still hasn't eaten that i'm aware of, though i may have intruded upon him exorcising his hate bugs this morning. i was tempted to take a picture. would that have been too much?

i get to leave work early today, and then i don't have to return till january third. i will still be here (on the internets) i think though, as i have not much to do other than knit, work on some other martha-type projects, and you know, poop. it might help me jump start my resolution to lose some pounds.

i'm pretty sure i could poop ten pounds by the new year at this rate.

which brings up an interesting question...

if one were to weigh their poop, would they go directly on the scale, or remove it from the toilet bowl? and if removed from the bowl, would the poops have to be dried so as not to corrupt the numbers with "water weight?"

this is fascinating stuff people. pulitzer prize.



author's note:
i have pooped twice during the writing of this post,
which was begun at 10:52 a.m. pst

destiny brought us together

points of business before actual bloggerie:

1. gwen stefani is pregnant. i know she is excited, as she has been singing about it for the last 3 albums. i am excited because she might actually go inside for a while and put some clothes on. i have what could amount to a whole post to say about her, but really, it's mostly big words and psychological crap. and who needs that?

2. if you have not yet submitted a gname for the gnome, or if you have further brilliance (or stupidity) to share, please either scroll down or go here and do so.

and now... destiny brought us together

boon is my soulmate.

i know this now.

i know this with every fiber of my being, but mostly with the hand that holds the pooper scooper. the empty pooper scooper. i have found a few cakes of pee in the clumping litter, but as of yet, there has been no el poopo.

it's probably because he hasn't eaten since friday morning (i'm not worried. nope. not worried. not at all. i'm just anxious and jittery from all the cocaine! ha!), but i still consider it a miracle. i mean, how often do you find a companion whose faerie system is so compatable with your own? it's hard work what they do, and this just makes it easier. i try to do whatever i can to make the lives of others better, like using a turn signal, washing my hands regularly, holding doors, baking healthful and delicious treats, and if need be, not pooping for days on end.

of course, sometimes the faeries need an excuse to stick around for a while (right now they are holed up in my apartment waiting for big after christmas sales). that's when i really put in effort, sometimes requiring their presence up to even or eight times a day. they bring gatorade and pedialyte pops on those days because, as you know, faeries are way considerate.

come to think of it, pickles really doesn't eat much either. i'm concerned that maybe there's some sort of pro-ana pet site they have access too.

thinspiration?

it's that time again!

you knew it would happen. i promised it would.

"the time has come," the walrus said,
"to talk of many things:
of shoes- and ships- and sealing wax-
of cabbages- and kings—
and why the sea is boiling hot-
and whether pigs have wings."

don’t worry. i’m not going to eat you with a loaf of bread and a nice bordeaux. i’d like to, and i’m sure the majority of you would be rather tasty, but i like vodka and the whole vodka/people thing just doesn’t sit right.

that can mean only one thing. i got another cat!

i kid, i kid. Boy would murder me. and not in the choke-me-a-little-because-it-feels-good, ooh yeah don’t stop kind of way.

you may remember a little thing called the cow by any other name contest, and its result, the beatific and unimitable reverend barfolomew frumpkin lee.

and you may be familiar with a little interest (preoccupation? obsession?) of mine called gnomes (see September 20). they give my life meaning, and it’s not just me. crazy aunt purl finds them intriguing as well. we have exemplary taste in folk creatures.

so! today marks day one of



i will (as i do) send prizes to the winner/winners, which will clearly be the best prizes EVER because i rule. and also because i like to buy weird stuff and send it to people!

i have provided here some photographic evidence of the gnome’s existence. please use it to your advantage when choosing his new moniker, as he will be residing in my office and thus should maybe not be named anything like, “shithead,” “fuckface,” or “bob.”

not a morning gnome.

back away from the kibbles, dog!

he’s a better driver than everyone else on wilshire.

undefeated debate team champion!

terminated personnel files make for good reading!

getting some bush.

with ellen’s headless chicken, made by lady linoleum


spending some quality time with the other under appreciated folk creatures

historical fiction? gnome porn.


gnow gname that gnome!

i cannot keep a secret

i have apparently been in the family way. that's right. all last week when i was spouting the usual, "find me my crystal meth, gnomes, faeries, poop, etc" my family was getting ready to grow. it was stretching and pulling itself into a new shape, to make room for the little guy. and his litter box.

on friday, after my secret santa*, there was this little thing called a winter festival at work, where in they sell voodoo raffle tickets and i try fruitlessly to win things like ipods and stila cosmetics and tickets to laphil. i did however, bring home a cat.

actual conversation:

me: hi [petname redacted because i desire to return home this evening]. i love you. how are you feeling?

Boy: fine... what do you want?

me: a cat? can i have a cat?

Boy: no.

me: he's really really cute and sweet and-

Boy: no.

and behold the results of this conversation:



so! presenting, in his internets debut, the second incredibly handsome redhead sleeping in my bed...

BOON



i have used some of my incredibly futuristic software to once again give you a more accurate depiction of his inordinate amount of appeal. please use these two photographs as teaching aides; you should become fully acquainted with boon's face as he will soon rule us all.

on our first date, at the adoption booth

on my kitchen table, where he should be

he likes to spend a lot of time hiding here, but i believe that eventually, by which i mean "when the tree gets tossed out on its ass," he will come out more fully.

pickles and boon have taken to circling around one another slowly, like they're each just waiting for the other to shout, "draw!" and then they'll pull out their colts and change their names to earp. i believe that they will eventually be friends, by which i mean "when boon becomes familiar enough with the territory to beat pickles into submission."

pickles has also been engaging in some retaliatory snuggling, trying to get as much attention/affection/lap time as possible, which is really enjoyable. i love having a 65 pound labrador sit on me. it's fun.

Boy and boon have reached a mutual agreement, the details of which are shady at best, but i'm pretty sure the main points are that they will both love me and have red hair.

and the origin of boon's name? in norwegian folklore (i am the biggest nerd EVER) a guardian spirit called the fylgja protects children from bad dreams. brian froud drew this creature and it has long been a favorite painting of mine. as a frequent nightmare sufferer, i like this idea, as i'm hoping the cat will save me from the nazis.

also, i'm a heavy drinker and i like apple wine.

and a theme song to take us out... cue the tabernacle choir.

who's the orange feline type
that's a love machine worth all the hype?
boon!
ya damn right!

who is the one that would lick the neck
of his brother and sister?
boon!
can you dig it?

who's the cat that won't cop out
when there's danger all about?
boon!
right on!

they say this cat boon is a bad mother
shut your mouth!
i'm talkin' 'bout boon.
then we can dig it!

he's a complicated kittie
but no one understands him but his woman
he's boon!




*i got a purse.

will you still love me tomorrow?

i have no time to post today.

i'm sorry.


i will probably not post tomorrow either... i have a lunch meeting, but one that involves "secret santa" so maybe i will have some schwag to show you after.

you hate me now, i know.

are you all taking me off your blogrolls?

have i been forsaken?

classic holiday tales with miss kendra

today, masterpiece theatre (fancy schmancy spelling means it must be good) presents another classic holiday tale for your consideration.

sit back with a nice glass (mug? thermos? dixie cup?) of nog, maybe some roasted nuts, and enjoy.

and now our feature presentation

i forgot this number on my list yesterday, probably because i blocked the pain out of my memory. either that or it was the drugs again.

3: number of brides seen. also number of times Boy pulled me suddenly in an opposite direction.

and now, a short documentary chronicling my weekend, starring santa as Boy, and ultra-sexy mrs. claus as a totally believable me.

did you miss me?

we were somewhere around barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. i remember saying something like "i feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." and suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car...

i started to freak out thinking maybe Boy roofied me or something, you know, to loosen my legs a little (joke's on him! everyone knows i'm a big slut!), but then i realized it was just the three bottles of flinstones gummie vitamins messing with me. you know how it is.

and now i return to you unharmed (mostly). i suppose that means vegas was a total bust.

there's really no efficient way to tell you about this weekend, so i feel the best option is vegas inspired- i'm getting it down to the numbers.

7.5: minutes it took us to slowly creep down the stairs and out to the car just in case pickles went all it puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again on William.

175: number of dollars i allowed myself for the trip.

<4: number of hours it took to get from west la to vegas, baby!

90: average speed i was driving in order to accomplish this feat.

12: approximate number of seconds before i laid in with the, "so which chapel is our elvis waiting at?" jokes

3: approximate number of miles our hotel was from the strip

492: number of miles our room was from the hotel entrance. (it also had two "full" size beds, which works out really nicely for a couple whose combined height is about twelve feet.)

1: number of nights we stayed in that room, because Boy is a MAN and he took control!

1000000000000: times better the new room was, with its ginormous bed and close proximity to the casino

2941561042398716: exact number of times i tried to ravage him due to his peep-pleasing MANness

2: square inches of un-chafed skin left after all that ravaging (send ointments and creams please!)

11: number of hours slept, per night, on average.

0: number of hours daylight seen, per day, on average.

21069587610394651029341508746298721597: calories consumed. this is the really important information people, so pay attention.

8: strips of bacon

5: sausages (two link, three patty)

4: donuts (three crumb, one cinnamon roll)

3: plates spaghetti, with two rolls each

4: helpings home fries

3: chicken lettuce wraps (this is as close as i get to asian cuisine. Boy doesn't like it. *WEEP*)

1: mushroom burger with fries (at "america," the restaurant in new york, new york that has a giant 3-d map on its ceiling.)

1.33: giant 1/2 pound hotdogs ($1.50 each! circus circus rules!)

and of those, the thing i would most likely eat again? the hotdogs. those were some big, cheap, and delicious weiners.

2: number of times seriously considered flashing the aerial contortionist at circus circus.

.25: number of times the faeries visited me this weekend (apparently they were held up at the agricultural checkpoint at the california state line.)

11.85: dollars won playing nickels at "slots of fun"

46.25: dollars won playing quarter "wheel of fortune" at the frontier

18: number of dollars "up" that leaves me. i'm a winner! *shimmy shakes* i'm confident that this money will not change me, except for the fact that now i will own you all.

21: casinos visited this trip

9: cigarettes smoked (and that was one too many.)

10: disco ball mirrored 15 foot candycane decorations. but wait, there's more. vegas does christmas right, what with the trees in every available doorway and the lights and the illegal mexicans handing out flyers in their fuzzy little santa hats. if that doesn't say christmas, then it probably says, "putas a su puerta en treinta minutos o menos."

8347987346: men in cowboy hats named "cody," "wade," or "clay"

8347987346: pounds of sparkles and makeup bedazzling the women that came with cody, wade and clay

0: number of times i was married by elvis, which is shocking in its own right because seriously, who wouldn't want to marry me, but even more shocking with all those rodeo guys around. (because mmmmm cowboys, and also mmmm cowboys.)

and also there might have been some drinking, and um, i may or may not have fallen down the stairs outside of paris. and that fall may or may not have been a nose dive into the pavement that resulted in bloodied black and blue knees.

so that's all. you heard me. keep it moving, nothing to see here.

i'm still tired (and i may or may not be hurting in the knee-al region).

damn my natural charm

as i'm sure you're aware, i am awesome. if by awesome one means, "pretty ok sometimes, unless there's something more interesting around, like um, a hott chick (for the boys), or a skein of yarn (embrace the inner granny!) or a pile of poop (wombat and monkey, but possibly others. you don't need to tell me if this short list includes you. i don't want to know.)"

because of said awesome, my presence was requested at a knitting tutorial during my lunch hour, which is when i normally write my spectacularly brilliant blogs.

unfortunately for you, i am leaving for vegas tonight! w00t! we found someone to stay with pickles, which we hope will go smoothly, but will most likely result in large quantities of dog urine and possible tears on the part of Will, the guy who had best not wear my panties.

i expect that while i'm gone no one will do, say, or post anything worthwhile. you should however tell me where the hell you live. some of you i know (i'm selling your addresses on ebay), but what the hell. put your pin on my map, please. all of you. lurkers included. i wasn't going to do this frappr dealie but if i'm going to plan my campaign for worldwide domination properly, i should know where my key supporters might be.

either that or i'm coming to getcha.

greased lightning

i was once a smaller miss kendra, many years ago. not much smaller, granted, seeing as i was in the jabillionth percentile on those height growth charts doctors do, but small for me i guess.

i have proof.

note my brilliant use of a personal toilet seat,
assuring me that i would sit only in my own plume.

anyway, at this age (and for several years surrounding it) i had a favorite song. while i have previously made claims that i have no shame, i do find myself hesitating to admit that i had a 60 minute cassette tape (30 minutes, each side) of peter paul and mary's puff the magic dragon over and over again.

and again.

this led to my childhood nickname of puff. (please note that if you call me puff i will sew pillows from your skin.) my parents called me this for many years, until like most children do, i evolved.

i soon became obsessed with penguins and their assorted arctic friends. my family spent many a visit to the new england aquarium trekking back to the penguin exhibit so i could witness their feed times (ALL of their feed times) and dream of one day becoming a fish-slinger myself. ahhh, the dreams of children.

later, i pretty much made it clear that if my father did not procure for me the five foot stuffed penguin from a local shop's christmas display window, that i would never forgive him, eventually growing up to be a stripper and marrying some gun-toting bud swiller. or maybe a mormon. as any good parent would do, he acquiesced. the penguin lived in my bedroom, like a giant velour penguin should, and sometimes served as a bed.

this is when they started calling me puffin.
clever, huh?

i have had many nicknames since, including but not limited to: kat, lucy, that drunk girl, kendrita, and kennebunkport.

today i got a new one.

Squiggle is learning to knit. she saw one of the students had on her dream scarf, and so wanted to send this student to me so i could peruse said scarf and get the scoop.

Squiggle: can you do me a favor and go show this scarf to miss kendra?

student: who?

Squiggle: you know. miss kendra. you know.

student: you mean greased lightning?

Squiggle: what?

student: you know, because she dresses like she's from the fifties, like in that movie grease. so greased lightning.

that's right.

i'm automatic. i'm systematic. i'm hydromatic...
why i'm greased lightnin'!

and a rousing chorus of you know that i ain't braggin', she's a real pussy wagon - greased lightnin' should seal the deal...

rub a dub dub

just so we're clear on yesterday, i will be a totally hot senior who will gladly accept most applications for old people sex. to assure you of the quality of what you'll be getting, i have used some specially formulated aging software to give you a peek into my future. you know, it's really too bad you can't see my body in this shot, but i assure you, it's smokin. i'm even wearing lipliner, because i know how to attract a man. or woman. i'm not gonna count out the ladies because at that age, the pickins' are just getting slimmer.

and i will not smell like either bologna or cheerios. thank you.


so remember the jack nicholson character in "as good as it gets?" this is what i am becoming. minus the unkempt eyebrows and serial killer smile of course. actually, the smile is questionable. but i keep my eyebrows in check. (i love you tweezers! don't ever leave me! let's spend an hour or so together tonight.)

i bring my own plastic silverware to work for lunch, because i am disgusted by all the grubby hands that reach into the drawer for a spoon each day. for i know all... i see all!

mostly, i see you people in the bathroom, rinsing your hands after using the facilites. rinsing! with cool water! did the germs pay you off? are they getting your kid into princeton in return for you allowing them to breed? USE SOAP! please!

this is about to get a little gross, so all of you who aren't the common wombat should consider yourselves warned. wombat, you might want to grab some popcorn or something.

i once read about how the average bathroom is covered in fecal bacteria because when the toilet flushes, little particles of waste are thrown up into the air. most private bathrooms have a cover, which is helpful, but still. this is why i like to keep my toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.

public bathrooms have no covers, and they flush with industrial strength. many many times a day. everytime i hear it i see a mushroom cloud of poop germs blocking the sun. i want to wrap myself in plastic everytime i walk in there.

i also read an article about how smells are really only tiny little particles of the substance that are finding their way into the nose. knowing that, i have become more and more chagrined at having to use public restrooms, where all kinds of smells have a way of appearing.

for instance, beyond the usual type of smell one might encounter... i recently entered a stall and assumed the position, only to be surrounded by the lingering odor of the last occupant-- distinctly human-- sour skin like. i can only assume it was the last occupant, as i do not make a habit of sniffing strangers or coworkers, but really. unless you are me and smell like cookies, please endeavor to keep your stink to yourself.

i am sufficiently grossed out now. i must go wash myself.

preferably in a sterile bathtub full of purel. me and howard hughes, and howie mandel*. but despite the obvious sexiness of this situation, because it would defeat the purpose, none of us touching. especially the dead one.

*a dead guy and two jews in bathtub jokes are so trendy right now, i just had to get in on it. sorry.

only 43 years of sex left

before my "real" post, i have two small matters of business to attend to.

1. i am mailing holiday goodness today, so keep your eyes open. i was going to say peeled, but i bet someone would actually try to peel their eyes and i will not be held responsible for that. we're not all mensa material, and that's ok.

2. dear lady who was in the stall next to me: what did you eat? nevermind. i probably don't want to know.

and begin post:

last night, as is our custom, Boy and i watched desperate housewives. (kimberly shaw is awesome! gruesome scars are way hott.) and teri hatcher's character, um, lois lane, no wait.... um, the too skinny neurotic lady... oh i know this one! ally mcbeal! no? that's not it... um, let me check. be right back.

her name is susan? if abc says so. i could've sworn it was one of those other ones though.

anyways, "susan" tries to get to know her father, a skeevie old man who, in a show low point, gets busted for solicitation. seriously, it was low... but then again, how could they beat the bree doll? i totally want one.



but the old man's excuse for why he tried to get "professional help" was totally a show high point! very very high! he claims the internets (i know them!) had popups (say it ain't so!) that got him all hot and bothered, forcing him to seek release. full release, if you will. what kind of lowlife blames his wandering penis on the internets?

and why can't he just go home and get some wifely lovin? asks "susan," if that is her name, which is a really good question.

because the wife is a sixty-eight year old woman, who doesn't ring his bell.

his probably seventy year old bell.

cut to Boy and miss kendra, sitting together on the couch.

me: will i still ring your bell when i'm sixty-eight?

Boy: eeeeewww! no! you'll be old! sixty-eight is old!

me: you'll be old too! you'll be seventy-four! so does this mean you don't want to have old people sex with me?

Boy: no way! you'll have cracks and crevices and folds and you'll smell! old people smell!

you heard it here first. in 43 years i will be available for old people sex, as Boy will not be partaking. i'm accepting applications now so that i can plan ahead, you know, tailor the smell of my cracks and folds to your specific taste. because maybe you like the kind of old people who smell like mothballs- i can buy some. i think i saw some on sale.

or maybe you like the kind of old people who smell like onions and meat. i'll start cooking now so the odors can seep in, and you know, really stick. i can do it. i have time. only 43 more years baby, and i'm all yours. *roar*

don't fear the firefox

i got a new computer at work. it's less crappy than the other one, but not by much.

its one redeeming characteristic is that i can now use mozilla firefox instead of bill gates's demon spawn internet explorer.

that's what i thought anyway, until i realized that the firefox is a terrifying beast of epic proportions, watching my every move. and someone who watches your every move is almost always plotting against you. in my experience.

which is vast.

behold, the clear and incriminatory evidence supporting my wild claims:



i mean, really, just look at those razor sharp claws! and the blood dripping from his teeth! he's clearly a killer.



good grief! it appears that he's fashioned some sort of shiv! run for your lives!



ok. i'm tired. bring on the weekend.

the internets are magic

last night, after i worked on some more holiday goodness (hint) i spent some time getting better aquainted with the internets. last time we had a date like this, i found some website of a guy putting stuff on his cat to see how long it would take for the cat to wake up. the "game" was not harmful, but it had a funny name that revolved around whatever the cat's name was, and which i can't remember. it was something nonsensical, like madagascar jackelope, or tiddlywinks, or george w. bush. anyway, if you have seen this site, please tell me! i have not been able to find it and i. must. see. the. cat. again.

anyway, back to me and those sexy internets: first i lowered the lights and poured us some drinks so we could feel more comfortable and um, drunk. then i pulled out the hookah so we would be ready for "touch my belly," (not a euphamism) where i found a very interesting picture of a man touching gideon's belly. but wait! the site is called touch my belly, so why is this picture different from all the other pictures of people touching gideon's belly? (ma nishtana ha-picture ha-zeh mi-kol ha-pictures? oh my god. was that jew humor? yes, yes it was.)

it's different because the guy touching gideon is exactly what Boy would look like if he were a slightly older fat biker growing a zz top beard. seriously. exactly like it.

which freaked me the hell out. see for yourselves.



and since that picture was so entertaining, i wanted to see what else the internets had to offer. with a little searching, we discovered what Boy would look like if he were a slightly older fat biker princess ballerina.



and if he were a slightly older fat biker elf: (the holiday spirit! it moves me!)



and now back to your regularly scheduled workday.