the slack daily

PLEASE DON'T BURN YOUR PENIS!

Sometimes, I use a flat iron my hair. This probably comes as no shock to you all, although the times I mess about with my hair are few and far between. I have two looks: ponytail and non-ponytail.

"GREAT PONYTAIL!" - no, one ever*

Every time I turn on the flat iron - every single time - I tell Will that it's on, and careful not to burn himself.

This is even though:

1. The flat iron is on my vanity.
2. Will has never expressed any interest in touching anything on my vanity.
3. Will has never touched my flat iron, ever.

It's akin to yelling at him to look both ways before crossing the street. Or to stop at stop signs. Or not to gamble away half of all of the money we have in the world ($1000) the night before our wedding.

A few years ago, he asked me why I did this.A reasonable question. Which demanded my reasonable answer:

When I'm flat ironing my hair, it's usually because we're getting to go somewhere. Which means you're getting ready to go somewhere. Which means that you're just out of the shower. Which means you're naked. Which means you could burn your penis on the flat iron and hey if that's what you want to do, fine, but what kind of wife would I be if I didn't at least warn you?

Please don't burn your penis on the flat iron, kids.

What are your random acts of nonsensical advice?

 

 

 

 

 

 

*I stole this from someone on Twitter but I don't remember who and I can't find it. If you can recall, please send me the link so I'm not a dirty stealerpants.

One to Grow On.

 

Hey Nina, Can I Pick Your Brain for Free?

If you want to pick my brain for free, ask yourself these three questions:

1. Am I having sex with you?
2. Am I related to you?
3. Are we BFFs?

If you answered "yes" to any of those questions, then feel free to hit me up.  Otherwise, please ask about my rates.

Why I'll Die in the Zombie Apocalypse But That's Okay Because Chances Are You'll Already Be a Zombie By Then, Too.

So last night was the premiere of the much-anticipated Walking Dead, which began with a law enforcement official shooting a little zombie girl holding a stuffed bunny*.

Will: They don't waste any time, do they?

Me: She was a zombie, it's what you do.

I will have to turn in my Nerd Card when I admit that I haven't read the graphic novel. Not by choice, it's just that usually when I remember things I want to buy/read/see I am nowhere near a place to buy/read/see them. When I heard that Walking Dead was going to be made into a series I decided I wouldn't read the source material, but go back afterwards and see if there was anything I missed. I'm a completist that way. (You can give me my Nerd Card back now.)

Watching disaster movies (which while they skew horror, you could argue that they're easily disaster movies as well) always make me wonder how I'd react in the same scenario. I realized that while Will and I had discussed our wishes for what happens to us after we die or have to go on life support (Will has said he wants the plug pulled as soon as his pants go out of fashion), but we hadn't discussed what happens after we become undead.

I told Will that I would be upset if he didn't shoot me when I became a zombie. Unless I was a hot zombie, because then I'd want him to first take photo to show everyone what a hot zombie I made. Then he could shoot me. Never turn down a decent photo op.

But if we didn't end up zombies, what then?

But it's moments like these that I am reminded of a not-so-long-ago project of mine called the Post-Apocalyptic Workout, in which I was documenting my prep work for the Zombie Apocalypse.

Everyone always imagines themselves the hero but let's face it, most of us aren't. Most of us are just the hangers-on looking for someone to tell us what to do and then arguing when they tell us what we don't want to hear.  Like how I shouldn't go back for me dog.

This is why I'm going to die during the Zombie Apocalypse: I'm going back for my dog.

Will and I have a joke that's not really a joke but we say it in that ha-ha way which means this is serious but we're going to pretend it's not that we can both walk, so saving Daisy is our number one priority in any situation. Daisy is not Lassie. She will not pull you out of the well and call you an ambulance and mix you a drink at the end of a long day.

No, Daisy is the con artist of dogs, making you feel like you are the most important thing in her world at any given time. Daisy hates cats and dogs and squirrels, but Daisy does one thing better than any other animal on the planet, and that is that she LOVES YOU AND ONLY YOU.

In our ragtag group of survivors, when people would be going on about their parents and their kids and their wounded (listen, if zombies movies have taught me anything, it's that you gotta shoot the  wounded), I will wave that all off and say dasvidaniya, suckers I'm not leaving my dog who won't protect us from the zombies and in fact probably draw the zombies to us because her penchant for butt chewing sounds like Darth Vader attached to a Hoover vaccum so you'd better go on without us.

In summation: The Walking Dead is awesome and when my inevitable zombiefying happens in the apocalypse**, please do me a favor and take me down in one shot.

 

*The only moment of cringe-worthiness for me was when Mr. Law Enforcement Official co-opted a horse to ride into the city. I knew it wasn't going to end well. And it didn't. (Although you could argue that it ended well for the zombies.)

You asshole! I screamed at the TV while Will reminded me that it wasn't a real horse.

**This means IF I AM ACTUALLY A ZOMBIE. Not if I tell you I feel like a zombie or if I'm just sleepy. I have to be eating actual human*** brains.

***Clarified because I have been know to eat non-human brains.

It Gets Better.

He used to tell me that I smelled like diapers.

He sat behind me in nearly every class in Junior High due to the cruel nature of the alphabet. He whispered sweet nothings into my ear.

You're fat. You're ugly.

You smell like diapers.

I n Miss Stebel's homeroom I ran for Homeroom President. It wasn't the top job - that was Class Representative*.  I didn't think it would make me popular, but I thought it was something.  A position. Maybe it would come with a little respect.

He decided to run against me.

I ran a campaign. There were posters and 3-minute speech written on index cards. I wore a skirt and my hair in a bun and felt presidential.

He went up there and said "Vote for Me" and sat back down and continued his barrage of insults as I sat, smiling back the intense feeling of shame that I could feel radiating out from every pore.

He won.

...

He ran into someone I know recently.

He is balding and paunchy and imagines himself a writer.

He doesn't do anything even remotely writer-like.

When my name was brought up, he said "oh yeah, I remember her."

He would love to do what I do.

Maybe when he pops up, I won't remember him.

Life has a way of working itself out.

I'm 38 years old...and it gets better.

 

*I ended up winning Class Representative in Seventh Grade because there were no popular people in my class. I would go to Student Council meetings early so I could pick out my seat before the popular people got there. Because if I got there after they did, the only choice I would have was to sit down next to them. And then they would proceed to slide their chairs to the other side of the room. 

I ran for Vice-President of Student Council at the end of Seventh Grade, hoping still that I could change things from the inside. When I lost...again...I decided that I would stop concentrating on an group that truly didn't want me and start devoting my time to friends who did.

 

(Crossposted to my Tumblr.)

The Bastard Known as Not Me.

I was locked out of my Gmail account today. I thought it odd, but managed to unlock it within minutes. I had a slew of undeliverable messages sent back as spam, which means that either:

1) Someone forged my headers (annoying) or;
2) Someone hacked into my email (beyond annoying.)

Thankfully I can tell who's accessed my account by checking my access logs.

How do you do this? Just log into Gmail, then scroll down to the bottom.

Click on "details," which will bring up a list of IP addresses that have been used to access your Gmail account.

I would have definitely remembered if I was in Croatia this morning.

I did everything here and downloaded MacScan and changed all of my passwords to a) different passwords that are b) less hackable. Of course, now I've made them so intricate that I won't be able to log into anything else, ever. But neither will anyone else!

In the meantime, please be on the lookout for Not Me.

Artist's rendering of the crime.

Now go be a smartypants and change all of your passwords. And if you received an email from me inviting you to chat on a Russian Mail Order Bride site, I JUST WANT YOU TO BE LOVED IS THAT SO WRONG?

The Internet Fuck-Off Rule.

Today I got up early, walked & medicated Daisy and set her up in her crate, and headed down to USC to check out the Transmedia S/Telling the Story conference.

I knew I wouldn't be able to stay all day - Will leaves the house at 7am and doesn't get back until 8pm most days - so I'd need to be back mid-afternoon to walk and care for Daisy.

A few minutes after I turned onto Jefferson I heard the WHOOMP!

Then the tire warning light went off.

I drive a Mini, which has run-flat tires. But they're not magic. I pulled over to assess the damage and realized that the tire was deflating more quickly than normal. I could try to make it home in the thick of traffic and hope that I didn't damage the wheel.

Or I could call AAA, get towed to the tire place. My tires were nearly bald - they're the ones that came with the car when I bought it. Seven years ago.

I called AAA, called Just Tires, and then hopped on Twitter while I waited.

I was deluged with Tweets asking me if I needed anything. And then came the DMs, which alerted me to the fact that I was doing this all WRONG.

Why didn't I just change the tire myself? Why didn't I try to drive home? Why did I think I needed new tires? Why was I making fun of the guys in the rape van who offered me a backup plan in case Will and I didn't work out? Why didn't I just walk home?

I understand any time you put something on the Internet, people are going to comment. But I believe it's time to explain my Internet Fuck-Off Rule.

If I have asked or solicited advice, then I am obligated to politely listen to said advice, even if I don't agree with it or plan on taking it.

If I have not asked for or solicited advice, I am free to tell you to Fuck Off when advice is offered.

And I admit I was wrong about the rape van comments. It turns out the area I broke down in hasn't had a reported rape in seven days!

Just a whole bunch of violent robberies. (From LAPD Crime Maps.)

Things I Learned From Superbowl Ads.

1. I shouldn't abort my child because one day she may have the chance to become a GoDaddy Girl.

2. The Lilly Ledbetter Act now extends to personal hygiene products! Men now get the opportunity to buy smelly products they don't need. FINALLY, equal opportunity! You've come a long way, baby.

3. Costumers on commercials have a secret stash of slight-used tidy-whiteys. (I can only hope they receive hazard pay.)

4. What was missing was the Robert Blake/OJ Simpson crossover ad where they meet at the Sbarro in the mall food court after being dragged shopping by their overbearing wives.

5. Mrs. Tebow might reassess her position on the right to choose if she was forced to sit in First Class with an E*Trade baby.

Winners? Anyone who got paid to create that violent, misogynistic, and most importantly UNFUNNY piece of crap. Viva mediocrity!

Also a winner? Willie Ames, who did a fabulous job singing at the halftime show. I think he's proved to Hollywood that he's finally ready for the way-overdue Pirate Movie 2.

Losers? All of us who didn't fast-forward through the commercials. I like my misogynists classy. (Looking at you, Don Draper.)

You can find the rest of my Livetweets from the Superbowl here. And while you're at it, check out Caissie St. Onge, Tom Scharpling, Paul F. Tompkins and Sara Benincasa.

Advice You'll (Hopefully) Never Use: Let's Be Friends?

If you're going to accuse someone of stealing your porn name:

Don't friend them on random social networking sites.

 

The Hollywood version of this story would have us discover that we are long lost twins. Like The Parent Trap. But with boobs.

Advice You'll (Hopefully) Never Use: Peeping Toms

When I moved in to The Detective Agency, Will told me three things:

1. The neighbors are like vampires. Do not invite them inside the house.
2. Sometimes the septic system backs up into the tub.*
3. Keep the drapes shut and make sure that the shade is pulled down on the bathroom window before showering. Because one of our neighbors is a Peeping Tom.

This apartment has a long history. It's been handed down from person to person for the past twenty years, tracing  back to Will's ex-fiancee's half-sister's boyfriend.  Along with a set of keys and a reminder that the landlady will go through the garbage for hidden treasures, so make sure to throw your porn in the neighbor's trash or donate it to the porn-less during the holidays, those three rules should be carved in stone and mounted our doorframe like a Hobo Mezuzah.

When I wake up in the morning or before I shower for the day, I hear a cough, I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, and sure enough, there's Tom, lurking like a Peeping Ninja. Americans sometimes get branded as weak and lazy, but wind, rain, sleet or snow, nothing deters our man. His level of commitment to his craft is commendable.  And with the downturn in the economy and the rise of unemployment, many people suddenly have more time and less cash. We're going to need to find cheaper hobbies. So with that in mind, I've compiled a list of five do's and don'ts for the beginning Peeper.

1. DON'T peep when you have a cold.  You may be able to camouflage yourself in the bushes, but your hacking cough and runny nose will give you away.  If you're going to peep while sick, stock up on Nyquil.  Sure, you might pass out in the bushes and get discovered, but people will just think you're a drunk!

2. DO vary your wardrobe. Yes, the Internet these days is all about "branding" but branding doesn't work well as a Peeper. If you're going to be lurking in trees and around windows, don't wear a signature leather vest and aviator sunglasses unless you can fake that you've have amnesia for 25 years and think that you're an extra in "Magnum, P.I." This is why mimes and furries don't have successful peeping careers.

3. DON'T smoke. Don't you watch Law & Order: CSI? They always catch the bad guy from cigarette butts left at the crime scene. If you're going to smoke, wear lipstick. As a woman, you'll look good for your mug shot. As a man, at least you'll confuse them.

4. DO have business. Improv comics and actors talk about having "business" - something they're doing when opening a scene. Make up your story beforehand and practice acting like you're doing that instead of peeping. This the one case where a mime can corner the peeping market. Get trapped in a box right outside your intended's window. 

Note: Make sure that your business seems plausible, and use it only for peeping in medias res. Do not use it for post-peeping purposes, such as coming to my side door and asking me if my water pressure is okay because "I heard you taking a shower."

5. DON'T peep at home. Unless you live in a building like mine, which is the weird, creepy building on the nicest block. Then we just advertise that as A Unique Brand of Hobo Charm.

And that's it for Advice You'll (Hopefully) Never Use, with your host the slackmistress.  Thanks for not playing along!

*This is a lie. Not that it's not true, but a lie in that Will didn't tell me this. Details here.