Miss the show on Saturday? Check out the highlight reel!
It went a little something like this:
@slackmistress"I'm fine...we're all fine here....how're you?"
Edited to add:
I'm hunched over my computer, trying to solve a file conversion issue. Will is checking his Fantasy Baseball scores, his bare feet propped up on the file cabinet.
Me: Can you...? My gaze trails down to his feet.
Me: I was just tempted to pull your toe hair just now.
Will: DON'T DO THAT! He tucks his feet under his desk, away from my grabby paws.
Will: It's an issue of personal space.
Will: I would rather you hide a roll of quarters from the Nazis up my butt than have you pull my toehair!
Me: I'm holding you to that!
BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!) has moved to Ustream. We apologize for jumping around, but after losing multiple recordings at StickAm and then receiving no response to our inquiries, we've decided it's time to try something new. As always, my now-with-more-flavor husband has a brand new FAQ here.
So grab a drink and we'll see you tonight!
There's a saying that tone is lost in email. I'd extend that to the blogging/commenting world, too, as the quirky quip inside our head slung like a sassy gunfighter sometimes sounds like the drunken ramblings of car-bomber on the page. Our intentions end up clear as mud.
I've said before that I take everything at a compliment. And for the most part, that's true. When I receive particularly terrible hate mail, I try to remind myself that at least they're reading. Someone who considers me a disgusting fat pig and your husband will leave you not only has taken the time to study and reflect upon my everysingleentry in my blog and everysinglepicture on my Flickr, but thinks that my husband is a hot piece of ass, but they've also made the effort to click on my email link and write fourteen lines of badly-constructed prose. Sometimes more than once. Even my regular readers don't do that.
Every so often, he Universe highlights the ways in which I am a terrible human being. I know this is surprising to exactly four of you who think that in my spare time, I'm out there solving cancer. So for those four of you (the rest of you can just sit back and nod, smug in the fact that my comeuppance is bound to comeup)
It's a Good Thing She's Pretty:
Yesterday I took Daisy the WonderDog out for her afternoon constitution. Normally, Daisy looks something like this:
Of course, we don't have a yard, but if we did, I assure you, that's what she'd look like right now.
However, Daisy can be wooed out of her slumber by a multitude of things: the sound of Will getting cookies in the kitchen (she's partial to vanilla Jo-Jos), the doorbell, and the word "outside." While on these daily strolls, she leaves peemail wherever she goes (lifting her leg, natch - there's more than one alpha bitch in this house), she says hello to all of the neighborhood children, and she checks under cars for cats.
Y'see, Daisy hates cats. Hates. Cats. In fact, Daisy has a whole stand-up comedy bit on cats that goes something like this:
Why did the cat cross the road? Because CATS are STUPID!
(I've got her with a comedy coach, working on some additional material.)
Cats get the freeze-point-bark-flip out-jump-twist-bark treatment.
Yesterday, we walked in a different directions, a few streets up and a few streets over. There was new grass to eat and new places to pee...when she saw them.
Cats, standing on pillars. Six feet in the air, one paw raised. Teeth cared, ready for battle.
She looked up incredulously. It...it couldn't be! She sniffed precariously, reared back, and sniffed again. She jumped, then froze, then jumped. The cats didn't move an inch.
THEY WERE NOT AFRAID OF HER.
That's because they looked like this:
Now you may be saying to yourself, "Self, that doesn't make slackmistress a terrible human being! In fact, it makes me want to send her a shoebox full of twenties! Or print out the flatmistress and take pictures with her! Or buy SlackStuff!" But no, my friends, that's not what makes me terrible.
What makes me terrible is that I took her back there again today.
Don't forget this Saturday night...BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!) 8pm PST. Cancel your plans with Actual Human Beings and come hang out with us. We're funnier, anyway. And we won't drink your booze. (Unless you want us to.)
ABD = All But Dissertation. A play on this. Great, now that I had to explain the joke, it's not funny. Thanks, jerks.
Nerd Prom, that is. Comic-Con takes place this weekend, and yours truly will not be in attendance. This is the first year that I didn't book a hotel room and cancel it at the last minute.
Will and I were offered free tickets by multiple people, but we turned them down as we didn't want to just go down there for the day. Because for me, Comic-Con is about the parties. One hundred thousand nerds in a fifteen block radius PLUS alcohol? = Happy Slackmistress.
Well, at least as long as the deodorant held out.
But my favorite Comic-Con moment?
Smokin’ with Master Shake.
I'm at the Adult Swim party where I promptly get separated from my date. No worries; I belly up to the bar and suck down a vodka tonic when I recognize the guy standing next to me - also alone - from last year’s party.
We meet again, Master Shake.
He looked at me. You look familiar.
We shared a cigarette at last year’s party.
He nodded. Shall we?
We head outside, joined by a couple of friends of his that we pick up from the crowd. I take out the pack of Vanilla Cloves
I bought just for the occasion. The four of us stand and smoke. The conversation turns to picking up women. As a Nerd Yenta, I can't resist.
I'm not really great at picking up women, he confides.
This is what you do, I tell him, you turn to a girl, and say I’m Master Shake. Wanna fuck?
He laughs. I don’t think that would work.
Then you’re talking to the wrong girls.
With that, I smile, drop my cigarette, grind it out with my boot heel, and head back inside.
He's married now, so maybe he took my advice?
Have fun at Nerd Prom, y'all. Maybe I'll come down next year.
However, feel free to bring the flatmistress:
(Image by Rick Hasney.)
One of the reasons I wanted to get a job outside the house (outside of the whole "it pays" thing) was so I could start being around humans again. There's something about the solitary confinement of writerdom that begins as quirky, making-small-talk-with-the-houseplants-about-your-web-stats sorta thing and ends in a zenith of Kurtzian proportions. Thankfully I have yet to craft a hat out of The Bloggess but time will certainly tell.
My descent has translated into the way I assemble meals throughout the day, out of bits and bites that don't necessarily match but fulfill my necessary nutritional blocks. A pear, a banana, a protein bar; a block of tofue with some hot sauce, a piece of string cheese. My outfits have followed suit; right now I'm sporting pink workout pants, a purple tank top, a red bandana, and old pair of glasses. I don't think of a look so much as "is my ass covered?" But even then I haven't always been successful. (Note to self: toss out jeans when the ass is missing.)
I was once told that I should have my own reality show, but this week the cameras would catch me assisting Will with the zit on the bridge of his nose, plunging the bathroom sink, getting high off the bathroom cleaner fumes and sniffing Daisy's ears to figure out if she's got an infection. (I'm not so much the Dog Whisperer as the Ear Snifferer.) My reality show would be something akin to Dirty Jobs meets Real World: Hobos.
I have been spotted in the Real World, mind you. And not only in flatmistressian proportions (you are still flatmistressing, yes?) but at SocialMediaCamp, where I realize that I may not work in Social Media, but I start to feel I know everyone who knows everyone, like the Kevin Bacon of the Internet. Tickets were being given out for SummerMashMeet, but I opted out as I had to work early on Saturday (and meet JT.)
Time out for a question: can anyone explain to this Internet D-Lister why they have the 'Red Carpet' at Social Media Parties? Many thanks.
Back to real life, where I'm going to take my pink-clad ass, do some WiiFit, write a bit, and maybe make a sculpture out of dog hair and fingernail clippings. Ciao.
If you're a junkie and can't afford your next fix, I highly (ahem) suggest coming over and cleaning the Detective Agency Bathroom. The combination of uber-chemicals and the tiny enclosed space will keep you in a drug-induced haze for at least the next seven hours. Best of all: it's free!
This may be the most brilliant idea that I have ever imagined. However, I just spent the last thirty minutes scrubbing the crap (ahem) out of the Detective Agency Bathroom.
Decide for yourself if those two are related.
Thanks to all who came out for BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!) last night. I believe it was our most successful chat yet, pulling in just over 400 viewers. You'll have to take our work on that, as while we recorded the chat for posterity, StickAm crapped out with a error message and it looks like those wo hours are lost to the ages. (Previous chats can be viewed here.)
Will has a recap over here, but I think the night can be summed up with Will being the meat in a Bud Cort-Steve McQueen sandwich. If you don't know what I'm tlaking about, make sure to tune in next time!