Friday, January 28, 2011

Bitches Need to Hide Their Snatch 'Til April

Look. New rule: If you're older than the temperature your snatch goes into hibernation. This doesn't mean if you've got a regular lay you have to sew it up during the cold weather months.

It means if you're blessed enough to have someone that wants to screw when it's 12 degrees outside you keep that shit wrapped up nice and warm. So your boo is doubly appreciative. Why do you think there are so many September and October babies? Because folks get bored and try to find a warm place to hide the salami.

There is no need whatsoever to wear your shortest strapless ensemble to the bar when it is literally 20 degrees outside. Then you just look dumb. Apparently this is a popular look. This is mostly why I'm single, because I refuse to succumb. I'm a righteous bia-tch and will always be. Anyone who has told you that I'm a nice person is a liar. I'm not. And I revel in it. Immensely.

I was informed this evening that my name is Nicole and I work for the YMCA and I'm a bitch. Too bad he got half of it right. I work for a 4-letter acronym and am a total bitch. But call me Nicole and see if I don't bust a cap in your ass. Try me. I'm ghetto. Ask me about my high-school.

The point being this: If you're older than the temperature, PUT ON PANTS. No one likes a frostbitten snatch. At least I'm assuming as much. Frankly, lesbians scare me. A lot.

I mean I support their right to love snatch and all; it just scares me. I don't think you can ever really trust anyone in a sports bra toting a Smirnoff Ice.

Besides, if you're a li-besian drinking Smirnoff Ice is it really worth it? Think about it. . .

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

An Interesting Bit of Information

Working in a Biology department you often see strange packages in the office. Pails of eyeballs, buckets of ibuprofen, ribbiting boxes, baby goats, the occasional preserved cat, but today takes the cake.

Do you know how much it costs to purchase a human skull?

Yes, an actual human skull. One that inhabited a body previous to it's current position of being in a case, in a box. A skull that once housed someone's brains and eyeballs. Do you know how they clean said skull? They put it in a box with some insects and the insects chew it clean.

But back to the original point, it costs around about $1600 to purchase a human skull. If that's a little steep for your price range, the price drops considerably if you're willing to settle for fewer teeth. For 3-7 teeth you're looking at about $700.

Is it just me or does that not seem astronomically cheap? I don't know about you but I'm rather partial to my skull. I think it plays a vital role in my general health and well being. And if I had to put a price tag on it, it would be quite a sight more than $1600.

Before you crack jokes about having a big head, take that into your calculations and you'll see I'm correct.

If you live to be 32 years old then that is an average price of $50 a year. 64 years and thats only $25 a year. I would think that an aged skull appreciates in value rather than depreciates, kind of like a good wine. They both gain 'body' with age. (Oh come on. You know that's funny.) Plus $50 a year for a skull is damn good price! Considering that you NEED your skull. Shit, Steve Jobs probably paid 10 or 20 times that price for a kidney and you only need one of those. Just think about it. If your best friend died and someone tried to offer you $70K for your friend and you looked on the invoice and saw that they only paid you $1600 for the skull; you'd be livid. Think about it terms of demand. Granted skulls are probably not a high demand item but still, I revert to my point that you need your skull. That to me is pretty demanding.

I understand that when you're dead you don't really need anything but still, it's creepy to think that your skull, the one that sits on top of your neck and surrounds your brains, houses your eyeballs and chews your food is less than $2K once you're done with it.

It kind of makes wearing a helmet seem less important. Why protect something that cheap? The next time I get on my bike I'm totally wearing kidney guards. At least you can make a profit off of those.

Friday, January 21, 2011

At least the snacks were good.

'The American Red Cross urgently needs blood.'

This is what Jennifer from the ARC said on my voicemail. Yes, the Red Cross solicits you and your blood type. Repeatedly. Unabashedly. It's kind of obnoxious.

Being the good samaritan that I am I called them back and made an appointment to go give blood. (If any of you reading this ever receive a blood transfusion of A+ blood, I expect a personal Thank-You note. And flowers. While we're on the subject, I'd like to say that I'm pleasantly surprised that my blood is reasonably intelligent and scored so well on it's testing. A+ for the win bitches.) First you check in and get a number. I felt special because the guy checking me in told me that even though I was #26 in line, I was #1 in his book for donating blood. Then I felt less special as he told persons, #27, #28 and #29 the same thing. I imagine this is in his script. You then read the literature that tells you unless you're an angel or celibate or heterosexual and been married for 207 years you can't give blood. Luckily I've been celibate for a while now, not by choice, but I can't seem to buy a good lay lately. Onward I go.

Then it's the finger stick which hurts un-neccessarily bad. It's absurd. You'd think with the advent of modern nanotechnology and advances in medicine they could come up with a lancet that doesn't make you scream 'Fuck' when it pricks your finger. Note: the Red Cross people do not appreciate the word 'Fuck,' especially when screamed. Band-aid applied, hemoglobin analyzed, pulse taken and thermometer shoved under tongue and you're now ready to validate that you haven't had sex with African monkeys who dance in a Conga-line dressed like Charo for fun. For what it's worth my resting pulse rate is 60. Boo-yah! Thank you spin class.
At this point a new lady comes to review my answers and asks me the last time I ate. I obviously looked hungry. So I had some cheddar cheese crackers and apple juice. I'm feeling pretty good.

Then I go sit in that blood-giving/letting chair which really needs a more comfortable head pillow. The ones on there aren't so hot. Then comes the iodine. Which I know she swabbed at least three times. I'm always skeptical in these peoples ability to extract blood from you by routine venipuncture in a pain free manner. I normally cry and fuss and hem and haw and it all is for naught so I tried to be calm and brave. It helps if you don't watch.

The stick, the sting and bingo the needle is in and we've proceeded onward with the vampiric blood letting. Then she does the stupidest thing ever. She puts this little gauze square over the needle in my arm so all I see is tube of blood. I'm okay with this because blood doesn't make me woozy. It's the needle I have problems with.

My problem with sitting still doing nothing is that eventually I become bored and must fidget. That is when the precariously placed gauze square falls off my arm and I get a good look at the 'needle' in my vein.

Canal is more like it. There was a cocktail straw in my arm. For serious. Take a second to think of a cocktail straw. Notice how open the diameter is. You can suck up chunks of citrus fruits through it. I know this because I use my cocktail straw to smush the limes in my G &; T's. That was what was in my arm. You could have driven the USS Roosevelt through it.

I tried to recover from that. I never did.

Then Nurse 'What-Hurts' comes over to take it out. Does she hold the needle still while she's unceremoniously and carelessly ripping tape off my arm and ripping out about 47 hairs? Nooooo. So when I say 'That hurts!' what does she say? 'What hurts?' 'Oh I don't know. The GIANT FUCKING NEEDLE IN MY ARM MAYBE?'

Once again I will repeat my earlier supposition that the Red Cross frowns upon the F-bomb, which makes them decidedly un-fun in my book. But they did give me all the fig newtons and real soda I wanted so I'm inclined to hate them a little less.

Good snacks can take you pretty far in esteem in my book.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

If only I was physically constipated.

I have this really big issue that I need to blog about except for everytime that I sit down to do just that I can't ever get it out. I write some funny stuff and then it just stops mid-way through the story. The funniness (Is that a word?) just stops.

I'm a completely visual person and when I write I normally visualize myself opening my mouth and the evidence/story/words come purging forth from my system. Now I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It's like I'm a bad bulimic. I'm ready to purge but totally forgot to binge; I've pulled the trigger but forgot to load the gun. I usually have exactly zero problems having explosive emotional diarrhea in which everything that I'm feeling or experiencing presents itself. But recently I've been stumped, or stopped up rather.

Think about it; I've been reduced to poo metaphors.

Speaking of poo metaphors and imagery, have you ever read 'Love in the Time of Cholera' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Seeing as how Cholera is a totally gross disease dealing with the malfeasance of one's gastrointestinal tract, the book essentially reads as a couple of fuck sessions between a couple of shit sessions. Actually for a dude with some serious health issues he gets around pretty well. Mostly I figure Marquez is trying to juxtapose his diarrhea with his emotional stolidity. He can never let himself be emotionally fluid so his bowels pick up the slack; when he's in the midst of gastrointestinal duress he is incapable of expressing himself emotionally.

Or Marquez is telling you to avoid drinking the water when travelling abroad.

The point of all this really is just that I'm stuck. I guess whenever it is that I reach some subconcious accord with my issue then I'll be able to write about it. At least if I was physically constipated I could fix that with some apple juice and dulcolax.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Fine, you do not want to go to gym. I will punish you with this blaring alarm.

I had the best of intentions this morning. I was going to the gym after work. Then work actually happened. After that, the bus ride home. By the end of that adventure I was in no mood to do anything but eat, flop around on the couch and watch re-runs of Mad Men to see Don Draper (Who I'm very afraid that I may be developing actual feelings for. It's scary, I know.).

Apparently God was angry with my choice.

The exact minute that I had on my pajamas, had my dinner laid out before me, lounging under my blanket, with the credits to Mad Men rolling, Voila! Yes, that aggravating noise would be the building fire alarm.

I spent some time in the industrial setting working in an actual factory where there are literally 12 different alarms for everything ranging from a CO2 dump (To extinguish a fire on a machine.) to an alarm for tornadoes and heavy winds. You haven't heard annoying until the wailing cacophony of the same note falling flat and rising sharp in rapid succession for minutes on end. But I will say this about our fire alarms; our fire alarm has the added bonus of a very pleasant woman coming on to tell us that 'A fire has been detected on an adjacent floor. Please be ready to evacuate if needed.' This is in addition to the aggravating siren like wailing of the alarm.

Of course the cat goes ape-shit and dives under my roomate's bed. For the first several minutes I continued to eat my dinner and listen to this nice woman repeatedly tell me that at some poorly defined point in the future I may need to evacuate. Then I decided that maybe I should ready myself and the cat. I put my real clothes back on (Look if I am caught outside of the apartment building while it burns to the ground I'm reasonably sure that Sex on Skates will be there and I can't be caught in my oh-so-alluring holey plaid pajama pants. He may want to seek solace in my arms and I need to be looking my best for that.) and go to fetch the cat. I never did find her cat carrier so I guess if I had ever managed to get her out from under the bed I would've just dumped her in a pillow case. To be safe I texted my roomate that the building was on fire and told him his cat loved him. I neglected to mention my plan of tossing her in the shower and shutting the doors with the water on to protect her from the encroaching flames.

As it turns out, some asshat set their microwave to the 'Manhattan Project' setting to cook their popcorn. The building never was on fire and avoided burning down. For 15 minutes I listened to the nice woman tell me over the intercom system to get ready to evacuate. Do you know what that accomplishes? Absolutely nothing. What do I do once I'm prepared to evacuate? Do I actually evacuate or do I just stand around waiting on her instructions? And how prepared do I need to be? Is this a drop everything and run emergency or do I have time to grab some things? Will there be a follow up message of an equally polite woman directing me to evacuate? Or will it be some maniac screaming 'Run for your lives!' and 'Please take the stairs in case of emergency'?

Wouldn't it just be simpler to direct people to evacuate? It seems to me they're sending a somewhat ambiguous message. 'You may have to evacuate but we're not really sure where the fire is yet or if there is a fire or hell, it may just be a blip in the system, but keep on the lookout just in case. And remember, rent is past-due after the 5th!' In public school they send you outside no matter what, shouldn't the same principle be applied here?

I ask you, in the case of fires is there really room for ambiguity?

Thursday, January 13, 2011

My opinion on an article I just read.

Here is the article I just read: Article.

It's an article about why boys play with sticks. It goes onto talk about the gender disparity of toy choices between small children. Boys like to play with things that move and that sticks often resemble weapons and boys like to tear/maim/kill shit so naturally they like sticks. They go on to say that girls are not so judicious in their toy choices.

First of all, I take offense to their evidence that girls will play with whatever. Um, hello, that just means that girls are adaptable and boys are brats. I am sticking my tongue out to the author of the article.

I know, I know. I'm a grown-up. Can't you tell?

Secondly, I can tell you why boys play with sticks and it has nothing to do with their preference for moving parts or their predilection for manipulating things. Well it kind of does have something to do with their penchant to manipulate things.

It's because they have a penis. And they're taught at an early age that you cannot sit around playing with your penis all day long so what's the second best option? Play with something that resembles your penis. Hello, phallus type objects?  Swords, guns, monuments, etc.

I'll leave you with this link and then you can tell me I'm wrong.

Didn't think so.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

My New Diet

If you read this blog (I often wonder who actually reads it. I get exactly zero spam which makes me believe no one bothers to read it. Even spammers. Or I was brilliant in picking such a long, long blog URL. We'll go with the second one.) you're already familiar with the idea that I'm easily obsessable. Meaning I obsess over things quite easily. Or that I am easy to obsess about; I don't want to toot my own horn but hey, toot-toot. What I really mean is that I clearly have too much free time on my hands so I need something to obsess about so I don't get bored.

For a while it was the fact that I'm single. I've moved on from that. Now I'm obsessed with my body, it's image and my weight. And maybe the vulva puppet. But that's because I want to take it places and photograph it making people uncomfortable as possible. For some reason this amuses me to no end.

As you may or may not know I go to the gym quite regularly. I go to spin class at least 4 times a week although most weeks I attend 6 classes. And do you know where it's gotten me? Nowhere.

I guess you could make the point that you don't go anywhere on a stationary bike and I couldn't argue with you.

My point is this. Since I started attending spin class regularly last spring I've lost about 8 pounds.

I know that 8 pounds is a good bit of weight but I need to lose 4 or 5 times that much and I don't especially want to wait another 4 years to do it. I've started this new diet because according to my personal trainer (Yes, I have one. I told you I was obsessed.) I don't get enough protein. Now I have protein shakes and eat almonds by the handful. Veggie burgers and hummus, eaten regularly. Broccoli, brussel sprouts, green beans and squash, again and again on them I continue to gnash. I haven't had a grain that wasn't whole grain in at least a week. I haven't had mayonnaise in 2. I HAVE NOT had mayonnaise in 2 WEEKS. 2 WEEKS. (This may not seem odd to you but it's a miracle I'm still alive and kicking. I live for mayonnaise. I love mayonnaise so much that I don't even have to look up how to spell it. That is how much I love mayonnaise.) I fantasized about biscuits earlier this evening. Biscuits. Saying the word causes me pain and agony.

So tonight at the gym I weighed myself. Yes, I've gained almost 2 pounds.

I hate my new diet.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

This is a Public Service Announcement

Attention: This is a public service announcement brought to your attention by your local blogger, Anna Gray in efforts to raise your awareness about the upcoming rip in the space/time continuum.

As you may or may not know there is a scheduled blip in the fabric of time around about February 23rd. It will be a closed loop interference in which 3 years will be lost. Minors will not be affected by this interference. As particpants you may either elect to do one of the two following options:

1. You may choose to eliminate the past three years, a sequential series of three years previous to last year or three non-sequential years after the age of 16 and up to but not beyond the current year. Elimination involves the clearing of one's memory and personal history which can include: past boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers/spouses, legal accusations and poor body modification decisions. It excludes: legal ramifications and convictions, education decisions, and poor financial decisions because let's face it, that shit follows you for life.

If you choose this option you must eliminate the entire three years. Any time not eliminated would cause a discordance amongst the interference loop and the space/time continuum must be modified in concordance amongst all participating parties.

2. Option 2 eliminates the clearance of personal history and memory. It merely eliminates the 3 year time period while retaining all the past occurances both good and bad. This is the more costly option as our time organization specialists will have to reorganize your past according to the loss of time. You will be required to select no less than 15 but no more than 21 instances and/or milestones for your new timeline to be constructed around. You'll need to provide your dedicated organization specialist with the numerical order in which these instances occured for proper time compression to occur. A failure to do so could result in your entrance into an infinite repeating loop of time wherein you re-live whichever instances you placed out of order. These loops are extremely dangerous and next to impossible to exit once entered. Any attempt on your part to purposefully enter into a repeated loop will result in the automatic deletion of three years at the discretion of your time organization specialist. Every attempt will be made to compress your 3 year timeline of your choice but this too will be at the discretion of your time organization specialist. Please note that only sequential time periods can be compressed as non-sequential time lines would result in hairpins and these are not easy to excise.

Please everyone place the upcoming shift on your calendars and adjust your age accordingly. The DMV will be mailing you a new ID with your updated birthdate. You will notice that it will be three years later than your previous birthdate. Please do not panic as we anticipate this to be an easy and painless transition. Any questions and/or comments can be directed to your alarm/clock radio. If you were unaware your clock radio is your direct line to the time/space continuum administration and your concerns will be addressed in the order they are received.

Most importantly it should be noted that all birthday cards, balloons, cakes and other paraphernalia for Anna should represent the change in time shift making her 25 years of age again.

Thank you for your continued attention to this very important public service announcement.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Moxy on the Move - The Doctor's Office

After a long hiatus Moxy is back! With a friend, Peaco!

Over the Christmas holiday they both traveled to the doctor for their annual checkup.

Moxy and Peaco patiently await the doctor.

That's Peaco on the left. He loves, loves, loves to Dance! He came to our little family from our friend Cyndy and is extremely excited to become a part of the Moxy on the Move segments. Whenever you see him from this point on he'll be groovin' to the music!

 They're now sitting on the table awaiting their exams.

Moxy was quite concerned that the nurse hadn't torn off the old paper from the previous patient so she demanded that they not touch the icky paper. Peaco is trying to be nice so he acquiesced to her request. 

 I'm not exactly sure how you take an Uglydoll's blood pressure.

Moxy was quite perturbed after the blood pressure reading. Mostly because she felt that her high blood pressure could be attributed to the fact that they were taking it over her whole body and also that her insides were being squished. 

 Oh Peaco, you're not a baby!

Here Peaco is just being funny. He's not really a baby but he is a whopper! Look at the scale, it's totally tipped to the right. Oh Peaco.

Please be sure and check back for our next adventure soon to come! I promise. (I totally have to make good on it to because now they outnumber me. Eek!)

Vulvas for Volvo

There is one reason and one reason only why I will never own a Volvo. I cannot see, hear or read 'Volvo' without thinking 'vulva'.

Especially the new commercials where they're trying to shirk the soccer mom/despondent teenage boy stereotype of Volvo drivers. Instead of old and stodgy they're going for 'hot' and integrating lots of sizzle and reds in their commercials which causes me to think of vulvas with genital warts. Before I thought of old, crumbly vulvas that hadn't seen any action in a while which only supports their notion of the 'safe' vulva. I mean Volvo.

Now they're sexy and naughty and dirty. Actually I'm surprised that they haven't resorted to flashing up subliminal images of snatch during the commercials. (Which now that I think about it could explain a lot.) If you go buy one they probably give you a complimentary bottle of Vulva Original, 'a beguiling vaginal scent' that is clearly advertised as 'not a perfume.' (Seriously, I can't make this shit up.) Or there is the ever popular Wondrous Vulva Puppet. Take your pick.

Anyway, the point here is that they've got a company with a really poor choice of name. I can't honestly give you an honest evaluation of the branding because all I can think about concerning Volvo is vaginas. I suppose they've got a point though. All those men out there buying Lamborghini's and Ferrari's are essentially saying 'Look at my penis. I've got enough money to drive around in a super-sized model of it. Complete with leather interior.' It is only appropriate they have an equally valid representation of where to park their Hummer.

I imagine this is where those smart-cars come from.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

My New Year's Non-Resolutions/Decisions/General Ideas and Inclinations

I haven't posted as often recently due to the fact that I've been super busy and I feel I've written myself into the corner. I now feel that whatever I post has to be fan-fucking-tastic before it reaches the interwebs via my blog and I just don't have that many good ideas. So here is the token list of the things I want to do in the New Year:

1. I'm working 'mother-fucker' into my everyday lexicon. I'm kind of in love with it right now and I feel it's under-represented by my cultural/social strata.

2. I'm trying to clean up my language.

3. I would like my life to follow a less contradictory nature. That would probably clear up a lot of stress.

4. I will finally confront my fear of postal workers and go to the post office to get a passport. See below.

5. An extended vacation to a foreign land will occur. It will be a tropical land where all the cabana boys are named Hector and the national past-time is drinking Mai-Tai's and dancing 'til dawn.

6. I am going to keep my room clean. Shut up. I know, I'm not 12 but I am lazy.

7. I would work on being lazy but that's somewhat difficult as that would require me to not be lazy which we've already established I am by the fact that I need to work on it which essentially proves that being un-lazy is mathematically impossible.

8. I don't have anything to go here, I'm just trying to fill up some space because it's stupid to have a list of 9 things. If this were a conversation this would be the semi-awkward pause. Yup, still pausing. Just a little longer. How was your holiday season? Good, good. We're almost done pausing awkwardly. Awesome, we're done. Way to hang in there.

9. I will read more books with pictures. For no reason really, I just like books with pictures and for that matter I'd like to read more in general. More recent adult fiction instead of old stodgy dead authors. I'm starting to lag behind on Jeopardy.

10. Lastly I'd like to be more compassionate. I'm going to make a concerted effort to talk less smack about people and be more supportive of my friends and family. I'm fully convinced that it will reap only good things for me.