the slack daily

Do. Not. Want.

Yesterday evening, I checked Facebook before I went to bed. Now those of you on Facebook know that every day, they have a different "virtual gift" to give out. It's an application similar to the virtual martinis, virtual hugs, virtual ass slaps, and virtual assault charges that you can indulge in while you sit at your cubicle.  Virtual gifts usually cost a dollar, but they don't accept virtual money. Funny about that.

Anyway, today's featured virtual gift?

Chicken McNuggets.

Get 'em before they run out!

I don't want McNuggets in my real world. but in my virtual world - the world where I can choose to look like anything I want, be anything I want, lay the smackdown on anything I want, and yes, eat anything I want, McNuggets don't even barely make the list.

In my virtual world, I want to be six feet tall with tits that defy gravity. I want to have purple hair, glowing eyes, and flesh that's rotting off my body. I want a face tattoo. I want to shiv unsuspecting members of the Alliance and ride flying lions.

I do not want McNuggets.

Things that do not belong in my virtual world:

1. Puppy Kickers.
2. Child Molesters.
3. President Bush.
4. Fat Thighs.
5. McNuggets.

Note: there is an issue with commenting currently. This is a TypePad issue, and they're working on it.

Target: My Little Floozy?

Awww, look you guys! Entertainment Earth is offering a My Little Pony Ponyville Ice Cream Shake Diner Playset for the holidays.  Isn't it the cutest?

Let's read the product description:

• Scootaloo's milkshake brings all the mustangs to the yard
• And they're like, it's better than yours
• Damn right, it's better than yours
• She could teach you but she'd have to charge

Yeah, that seems appropriate for ages three and up.  Here's the incredibly catchy original.


Click to biggify:




(Via Jezebel!)

On Writing. And STDs.

(Click to biggify)

...but Genital Herpes just invited me to this killer party Syphilis is throwing!

In my brief forays around Internetland, I've been seeing a lot of people complaining about Writer's Block. Or that they have nothing to write about. Which is all well and good. Not everyone approaches writing the same way, and not everyone writes for the same reason.

I will say this: if you have ever considered writing for a living, Writer's Block is a luxury that you can't afford. Writing is not always fun. It's not always productive. It's not always good.

But when you're a writer, it's your job.

There's a romanticized idea that writers sit in coffeeshops, cracking wise, perhaps wearing a jaunty beret. We congregate like the Algonquin Round Table, where we dish like Mrs. Parker while sucking back drinks.

(The only thing I have in common with Mrs. Parker is a love of hats. And maybe a drinking problem.)

Again, if you're writing for fun, if you're writing for a hobby, if you're writing because you like to see words on a screen, this doesn't apply. But for anyone considering a career doing this very thing, remember it's a job.

When it's going well, there's nothing like it.

But when it's going horribly, you still have to show up.

(Unless gonorrhea shows up and finishes this book for me. Then we'd totally be BFFs.)

What Every Child Wants.

Have you heard of the Build-a-Bear Workshop? In malls around the country you can show up, select a stuffed animal of your choice, and 'build' him to your specifications. Clothes and sounds and colors and of course, an extra dose of love.

My cold, black heart is not accepting such applications at the moment, although I did write my own homage to the Build-A-Bear. Alas, I was not allowed to call it "Stuff Me, Fluff Me, Fill Me With Hate."

I had thought I was the only person possessed of such a heart. However, yesterday I was relieved to discover I was not the only one when I found this in my email:

Now you can mix up your new best friend, bake him up in the oven...and eat him.

That's the way I like all my new best friends. Thanks, Williams-Sonoma!

If I Didn't Shower, I'd be Eva Frickin' Mendes.

Wednesdays I work my shift at the gym. They usually go something like this:

9:37pm [Tuesday night]: Awesome, I'll get to bed in a couple of minutes and rock out seven hours of sleep!
9:42pm: I need to stop saying things like rock out.
9:47pm: The kids don't say "rock out" anymore, do they?
11:47pm: After an exhaustive google search, a smattering of MySpace pages, an IM conversation with a friend's daughter and four glasses of wine - a medical necessity on the last part. (I need to dull my senses before feasting my retinas on the visual vomit that is the 'Space so I don't collpase into an epileptic seizure.)
12:02am: bedtime!
1:14am: If I fall asleep now, I can get three hours of sleep.
2:49am: I am totally awake. But I still get two more hours.  Score!
4:46am: [ALARM]
5:01am: Dear Ex-Agent: I hope you come down with a raging case of crotch scorpions.

Then it's off to work.  I shower, in the sense that I stand naked, half-asleep under the showerhead like a post-roofie cocktail sorority girl.  I needed to wash my hair yesterday, as I was walking that fine line between super shiny and can I get grease with that?, but, y'know, I was going to work at the gym.  Where I rent spin shoes to people.  Where I pick up sweaty towels.  The only glamorous part is when famous people sweat on me (this esteemed list includes: Nicole Kidman, Alicia Silverstone, and Justin Timberlake.)

In short: I look like a sleep-deprived chubby, greasy-haired zombie who's just been through a gangbang with with bunch of ultramarathoners who have neglected to shower post-race.

(But, y'know, I have a good personality.)

Post-work, I headed out to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner.  I needed to hit both the Ralph's and the Trader Joe's, so I pointed my car East toward LaBrea where the stores are located across the street from each other.  I was in the Trader Joe's in the dairy aisle (picking up feta cheese for that evening's greek chicken salad) when I noticed him staring at me. 

He caught me looking and looked away, so I took a moment to study his face.  I may forget your name, but I never forget a face.  Nope, not even remotely familiar.  Slight fauxhawk, big sunglasses. Sort of generic hipster.  I continued shopping.  I could feel him still staring at me, and I began to wonder if maybe he was a blog reader?  The only place I ever ran into readers was in the Trader Joes.

I reached over someone to grab a package of smoked turkey breast when I realized that someone was him.  He smiled.

I'm sorry, he told me, I can't stop staring.  I find myself inexplicably drawn to you.  He had a slight British accent.

Maybe I look like your sister, I responded, none-too-helpfully.

He laughed.  I shouldn't say inexplicably, he said.  Actually, you're totally my type. I just, I've never seen someone who just was completely my type.

His voice shook a bit. I realized he was nervous.

Is that crazy? he asked, I would ask--

I held up my left hand.  Thank you so much, I told him, but I'm married.

He laughed, almost relieved.

Okay, then.  He turned to walk away.  Wait.

I waited.

Happily? he asked.

Happily, I responded.

He's a lucky man.  And you can't blame a bloke for trying!

We went our separate ways.  I was at the checkout when he finished up at the checkout a few aisles down, and he waved as he left. 

Clearly the key to sexiness is looking like you don't give a shit.  If I hadn't showered, I'd be Eva frickin' Mendes.

... Also: a many thanks to The Bloggess for listing me as one of the people who she'd want at her dinner party.  I don't think I'll steal a baby, since they can't hold their liquor.  Showering is currently undecided.

WHO WILL THINK OF THE SLACKMISTRESS?!

Will said to me the other day, every time I think I've told every story I have to tell, it turns out there's just one more. 

You're so lucky you were brought up poor, I told him.  You have way more blog fodder than the rest of us who had enough to eat.*

On our live chat last Saturday, I suggested that Will and I should have a baby.  Not because we want one, mind you, but because we were raised by American sitcoms, and that's what you do when you run out of material.  You could also waterski over a shark wearing a leather jacket. (Uh, you wearing the jacket. Not the shark.) But alas, Will can't drive a speedboat 'cause he hates water.  And wind. And sharks unless they're Jabber-Jaw. 

However, there is that whole thing with raising a baby.  I heard that you can't just crate them and leave them with a greenie.  This is probably why I have never been allowed to babysit SlackNiece (and Godchild) j.  Although I think it has more to do with the fact that wee little j. knows that her sippy cup holds "baby juice" while her тетушка's (Russian for auntie - we pronounce it more like tcheu-chi.  Think tchotchke) cup holds, well, тетушка juice. 

Think Auntie Mame with no money and a hip flask.

So then I had the brilliant idea that people should pay us not to have a baby.  Do you realize that there are no, I repeat, no charities in the Los Angeles area to assist a woman who is an unemployed television writers to not have a child?  A grave oversight, indeed.

WHO WILL THINK OF THE SLACKMISTRESS?!

Hrm.  Maybe I should start a religion instead.

*I didn't actually say this.**
**Okay, I did, but I was joking.***
***Mostly.

I Heard There Was Porn on This Here Innernet!

The most frequent search term that brings people to this blog is "nice tits."  Tossing that term into Google doesn't even have me as a search result on the first, or the second, or the third, fourth, or fifth page of search results.

Which means there is a certain level of commitment these tit-seekers have to their craft.  They don't just settle for the first thing that comes their way; no, they spelunk those dark caverns of Internet Porn.  These heroes, these Connoisseurs of Cans ponder.  They analyze. I imagine that they have some sort of tit logarithm, (sort of like drunk algebra)  to separate the nice tits from the okay tits from the tits with a great personality, no really, just give them a chance. 

Except that the results for "nice tits" and this particular blog will bring you to the following two stories:

1. I am accosted in the Whole Foods parking lot, proving that hippies with money can be just as assholic as frat boys without.

2. Scott Baio and I have a moment.

It's not surprising when these Measurers of Mammaries click once, click twice, and that third click takes them home like the Ruby Slippers of Porn.  It's not surprising one bit.

What is surprising is that three seconds later, they're back on my site, because they've modified their search...to "REALLY nice tits."

Nazis, Toehair, & Tech.

Sunday, 2:43pm

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.

Will: What?

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.

Me: Wow.

Will: It's an issue of personal space.

Me: Okaaaaay.

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!

ABD Horrrible.

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:

One too many?

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.

Until yesterday.

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:

But, y'know, tackier.

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.

Life/Death.

Things that make me die a little inside:

• Hearing from someone that they took a check that was mistakenly sent to their house and wrote on the envelope "no longer lives here."  To be fair, they did email me about it - just to an email address that I haven't used in two years (and I haven't used to correspond with them in just as long.) 
• having a woman refer to me as "girl."  Not as in "she's such a cute girl" (I'll live with that) or "Girl, get it together!"  (sassy!) but as in "Girl, there's no toilet paper in the bathroom."

Oddly enough, those are also the same things that make me feel stabby.

Things that make life worth living:

• WE HAVE A WII.  (And a Wii Fit!)  Don't tell Will that Wii Sports sneaks in some exercise with his game-playing.  He's a purist that way.
• We had a GREAT chat last night.  My thank-you speech, here.
• We've decided to make BeTheMarriage Live! (On Ice!) a regular fixture, so check out the details here. For those too lazy to click: this Saturday, June 28th at 9pm PST.  BYOB.

I hate blogging in lists, but I hate not blogging even more.

Also!  SlackMom celebrates her second 31st birthday today!  Happy Birthday SlackMom!

My favorite SlackMom story here.