How are you today? I'm superfantastic.

There was a time a few years ago when I had four jobs at once. That only marginally relates, but I like to point it out.

I started training this week for a second job in the evenings. 

(What, you ask, how can you possibly do that?  Aren’t you working hard enough already?!?!  Oh, Internet, your concern for my wellbeing is sweet, but bear in mind that I do little to nothing for the first eight hours of my working day.  It’s true.) 

This is just a temporary job scoring the essay portion of state standardized tests.  (Wait, do you think that by profiting from the Testing Industrialized Complex, I am tacitly agreeing to No Child Left Behind?  I had not thought of that.)  (Oh crap.)

Starting next week, I’ll sit and score essays for four hours every evening, but first I must sit and receive training for four hours every evening this week.  It seems like an interesting group and I've met some nice people already.  BUT.  We have assigned seats and unfortunately, I have been assigned to sit in front of the Complainey Twins. 

So, ok, they're not really twins.  They are of different races and genders and are roughly thirty years apart in age.  One bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Yuk while the other, in a word, doesn't.  But my, how they share their love of complaining.  Much, someone else in the class pointed out, like these two.  Except far less amusing.

The Complainey Twins have done this scoring thing before.  They know all of the answers better than our trainers do.  I know this because they loudly answer every question that anyone asks at the very same time that our trainer is answering it.  They openly disagree with most of what the trainer is saying.  They complain about every damn thing that anyone says or does.  They are worse than the sixteen year-old girls I used to teach who at least had the decency to mutter this is stupid under their breath rather than saying it right out loud.

Last night we did our first exercise.  The Complainey Twins did not do so well.  This is not because they were wrong in any way.  No, the many people from the scoring company and state education association who set the answers are incorrect.  See, the Complainey Twins can and do loudly explain why each of their answers was, in fact, correct.  It is all of the rest of us who are wrong.  Obviously.

I, on the other hand, got mostly the same answers that we were intended to get.  Almost all of them, in fact.  It turns out that I am a test scoring prodigy!  Who knew?  Too bad that my one gift can only ever result in seasonal work.  I suppose I will just have to content myself with the knowledge that I do possess latent genius, even if it will never bring me wealth or glory.  Tragic, yes, but such is often the plight of the extremely gifted, I suppose.

Don't worry about me getting a big head out of all of this.  I still have my friends the Complainey Twins to remind me that I probably just suck.

Taking it out on the celebrities. And feeling pretty ok about it.

It is Monday morning and I am crabby.  So let us make fun of people!  Shall we?

Oh, Jennifer Hudson.  Everyone adores you.  We are so happy for you even as we envy your talent and luscious lips.  Your dress is quite nice.  But whoever convinced you that you needed that horrible, shiny little Dracula-collared capelet should be kicked firmly in the shins.

Nicole, it is nice to see you in a color that doesn't match your deathly pallor.  But any dress the description of which can include the words "giant bow" should be avoided.  I would have thought that we all could have learned this lesson from the bridesmaid dresses of the 90s.

This goes double for you, Anne Hathaway.

J Lo: your dress?  Meh.  Your husband?  Looks like a corpse.

What is...why would...but...sigh.

Now Melissa, why would you go and sink all of that money into Botox only to cover your expressionless forehead with giant bangs?  It just doesn't make economic sense.  Your black nail polish, however, is quite fetching.

Yikes.  That is just A LOT of hair gel.  I have not seen this much hair gel in one photo since those pinups of NKOTB that I ripped out of Tiger Beat.

Speaking of NKOTB (look - a segue!) Donnie's little brother was there.  Marky Mark was in fact nominated for Best Supporting Actor.  What's next, the Funky Bunch for Best Original Screenplay?  Ha!  Oh, I just never get tired of the Funky Bunch jokes.  But you know who I bet does?

Who knew that Elizabeth Shue was there?  And what happened to her?  Not as in, "where has she been all of this time" but really - WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?

Star date 986725343098: Eddie thought he could use all of the little mirrors on my dress to check his teeth before giving his acceptance speech.  Then that old man won instead.  Goshdarnit!

That stern-looking man behind Penelope is on the look-out for PETA members who might try to douse Penelope with red paint.  How many flamingos had to die to make that skirt, Penelope?

Kate Winslet, you look lovely.  As usual.

As did Reese Witherspoon and Helen Mirren and probably plenty of other people.  Leonardo DiCaprio continued to look fourteen years old.  Then some people won awards.  Some of them made long speeches and I stayed up too late.  The end.

How Not to Date Me

Ok, yes I ripped off the idea for this post here.  And yes, it is a bad idea to rip off a post that is so well-written and hilarious because mine can only look shoddy by comparison.  But it seemed like there was some good material to mine here and, let's face it, I don't do enough interesting things to generate material for this blog.  So an idea is an idea and without further ado, How Not to Date Me: A Field Guide.

• If you are younger than I am, do not purchase movie tickets on our first date by pulling out your old college ID and asking for “one student, one adult”.  Maybe it saved you a couple of bucks, but it also made me feel like your babysitter.

• Additionally, when I am already feeling old, it is best not to execute a Luke Duke style hood roll when crossing to your side of the car.

• Do not mock my drink choice by calling it a “girl drink”.  a) I am a girl.  b) Your obvious desire for me to drink heavily on this, our first date, acts as a Giant Red Flag.

• Unless someone other than your mom has told you that you are a talented writer, do not promise me a big surprise which turns out to be you taking me to a park in order to read me the poem that you wrote for me.  Perhaps this approach works on girls who are not offended by the butchering of the English language.  I am not one of those girls.  This was the worst poem ever and also a harbinger of certain relationship doom.

• Do not tell me that you’re going to a hockey game with some friends and have an extra ticket and when I accept said ticket, assume that we are going on a date.  If you want to ask me out, ask me out.

• Holding my hand in public is nice.  Holding my hand at all times, no matter how much this inconveniences us, in order to demonstrate to any area males that I belong to you is caveman behavior.  I am not going to cheat on you.  But I am going to break up with you.

• Do not refer to your parents as your best friends.  Actually, you know what?  Go ahead and do that.  What with you being up front about it, I can end things more quickly.

• If we’re going to meet up at your place around dinner time for our first date, inviting me in to watch videos of your band and offering me nothing but Mountain Dew will not get you a second date.

• I don't expect you to pay for everything.  But waiting until we're at the counter at Blockbuster to say, "uh, do you have any money?" is not ok.  You may have thought that we were going to be "watching" that movie, but let me tell you, we'll be WATCHING that movie.  Eyes on the screen, cheapskate.

• Do not, DO NOT, expect me to get in the back seat because your dogs are already sitting in the front.  This actually happened to someone else, but I think I’m safe in stating that this is a universal rule of how not to date any girl ever.

So there you have it, fellas.  How TO date me?  Yeah, you still have to figure that one out for yourself.  What?  They'll kick me out of Girl Club if I make it too easy!

I don't really like to talk about my flair.

Count 'em - 15 pieces.

Lisa, Jenny, and Krystal hosted a party on Saturday which required guests to dress as a character from a movie. 

Here, Krystal demonstrates that a side ponytail is practical AND stylish.  I bet she's going to get some good use out of that imitation Caboodle. 

I didn't get a photo of Jenny, who in a bold move, went as Jenny.  From Forrest Gump, that is.

Remember how Penelope Cruz wore glasses in Sahara to demonstrate that she was a scientist?  Melissa wore my glasses on her head to demonstrate that she was Penelope Cruz in Sahara.  Based on this photo, you would have no idea that Melissa is suffering from The Plague.  People should not be allowed to look better sick than I do well.

Lisa went as Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.  I think she just wanted to look nicer than the rest of us.  Unfortunately, she was not able to convince either cat to dress up as a purse dog.

There you can see Matt and Marcus in the background.  Matt came as John Wayne and Marcus as an Urban Cowboy.  They quickly learned that showing up together dressed as cowboys would lead to innumerable Brokeback Mountain jokes.

Fewer people got Amy's costume, which is unfortunate since it was brilliant.  She is Olive from Little Miss Sunshine.  The resemblance in uncanny, except for the extra three feet in height.

And you?  Who would you have dressed up as, had you only been so fortunate as to have been invited?  Maybe you'll try a little harder next year.  We are not above bribes.

Valentine's Day: Whoop-dee-frickin-doo.

I'm not sure why I feel compelled to post about this at all.  But I will ask you this one question, Internet: is 9:45 am too early to begin eating chocolate on Valentine's Day, do you think?

If you'd like to actually read something amusing about this most superfantastic. of all days, go here.

And have a good one.  Or have some chocolate.

I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me you can call me Aunt Lori

So, exciting news from last night!  I paid $1.98 for gas!  Yes, less than $2/gallon!  Oh, and also I am going to be an aunt!

My sister-in-law is pregnant, due somewhere in the neighborhood of October.  They announced this last night by giving my parents the Valentine present of a sonogram picture.  (My parents were also pleased with my Valentine present, the announcement that I am not pregnant.  This is a gift that I intend to keep on giving for years to come.)  Far short of agreeing on any actual names for the baby, my brother and sister-in-law cannot even agree on a novelty nickname for their baby-to-be.  Dawn has decided on Dot, since this is basically what the sonogram picture currently shows (although my dad thought it looked like a picture of Mars) while Dan has chosen to christen his unborn child Spanky Flatbottom.  He has also threatened to whisper to the baby, grow a penis, grow a penis...  We assured him that it was already too late.

But on to more important things: what sort of aunt do I intend to be?  Well.  I plan to be the cool aunt who my niece or nephew eventually wants to run away and live with.  (Not that I will permit this to actually happen.  And should it, Dan and Dawn, know that your child will be returned to you posthaste.)  Think Auntie Mame for the new millennium.  Except without the part where my brother and sister-in-law die, leaving me with custody.  No, just the part where I am fun and worldly and possibly have a butler.

And now, a note to Target: yes, you will now be receiving the .01% of my income that had previously eluded you, thanks to your right-there-in-the-aisle-that-I-have-to-walk-past adorable baby products.  Remember the part where Auntie Mame got really poor because of the Depression?  I have a feeling that you, Target, will be my Great Depression.  But at least Dot Flatbottom Graham will never want for fashionable bibs.

Also, Baby, I won't really call you Betty.  Or any of the names on your dad's list, but I'm pretty sure your mom will see to that.

With Valentine's Day approaching, a note to men.

No matter how many skillions of commercials may tell you otherwise, most of us do not want a diamond heart pendant for Valentine's Day.  That is all.

Super(waffle)bowl 2007

I bet your Superbowl party didn't have wafflebowl football cupcakes.  I'm just saying.

These were made by Amy, of course.  We hosted a small gathering here with cupcakes, queso, and homemade pizza rolls.  And alcohol.  And if you think, just because this was an all girl party, that there wasn't screaming and cursing at the TV, think again:

I was a little torn about which team to cheer for.  See, as a Packer fan, I have an instinctual desire to see the Bears lose.  And yet, I always root for the NFC team in the Superbowl.  Also, the Packers beat the Bears, and wouldn't it have been impressive for them to have beaten the World Champions?  In the end, I guess I wound up yelling for the Bears, mostly because Melissa was the person most into the game and was screaming for the Colts.  Our party was nothing if not Fair and Balanced. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I was pretty excited about Prince performing at half-time.  (Am I the only one who has noticed a trend in halftime performers ever since the Janet Jackson incident?  Namely that none of them have breasts?)  And when he started performing Purple Rain in the rain I had a scary thought.  Maybe Prince controls the weather.  It's just a theory. 

I would like to thank Prince for performing both Purple Rain and Let's Go Crazy.  I don't know what that business in the middle was, but it certainly did not involve a little red corvette, raspberry beret, OR doves of any sort.  And, for me, the show was worse for it.

In the end, of course, the Colts triumphed.  I found it a little surprising, considering that they were playing out in the elements, which doesn't tend to be easy for nancyboys who play in domes.  But well done, Colts.  And too bad, Bears.

And too bad for all of us, because now there's no football for a solid six months.  What's a girl to do with her Sundays?  And Monday nights?  And pent up fist-shaking fury?

And most importantly: would you like a cupcake?  We've got leftovers.