Take the Easy Way Out

I think it would be fun to have a doppleganger. A mini version of myself, and all that entails: an over- emotional, strong willed, my-way-or-no-way, hilarious, dramatic, over-reacting, super cute, super sensitive, adorable, tantrum-throwing, scowling, evil-eye-giving, when-I'm-not-happy-nobody's-happy little replica of Bone Junior. How fun would that be?

But creating a mini-me would involve a lot of work - find a guy, convince him to bed me, get all big and pregnant; and then there's the whole giving birth thing, which makes me want to throw up in my mouth.

So I figured, why go to all that trouble when my sister can just do it for me? It's a lot easier to have someone else create an over-emotional, strong willed, my-way-or-no-way, hilarious, dramatic, over-reacting, super cute, super sensitive, adorable, tantrum-throwing, scowling, evil-eye-giving, when-I'm-not-happy-nobody's-happy little replica of Bone Junior.


Life's going to be fun with this little doppleganger.

The Night All My Dreams Came True; or, Forget Diamonds - Spanx Are a Girl's Best Friend

When my roommate Tiff called me last Friday night, I was standing in line at Walmart. When she asked, "Do you want to go to the AMA's with me on Sunday?" I literally screamed, "OH MY GOSH THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME!" The details started to come out, and that's when I first started to pee myself. We'd be flying to LA on Sunday morning, getting all whored up and sexy-like, walking the red carpet, going to the show, then going to a fancy dinner afterwards and flying back Monday morning, all on someone else's dime. Cause Tiff just has the hookups like that.

That's also the moment when I started to panic because I had absolutely nothing to wear, on top of the fact that I am not classy or cultured enough to walk a freaking red carpet and pull it off without tripping, sweating, swearing, embarrassing Tiff, or all of the above. But when in my life would I ever get this chance again?

48 hours and one big shopping trip later, I was following Tiff off the plane at LAX to a big fancy black car with a big fancy driver. We only had a short time at the hotel before we were supposed to make our red carpet debut, and I knew it would take a decent amount of time to wrangle myself into my Spanx, so the primping (read: whoring-up) began immediately. Please to enjoy a photo journey featuring my shameless begging for pictures with celebrities, about a million gratuitous shots of my ginormous bazoombas, and the moment when my wildest dream came true.

We REALLY WERE on the red carpet.

And we REALLY WERE at the AMA's.

I love how absolutely NO ONE with a camera behind me is the least bit interested in me. Seriously, look closely. Not ONE person is looking at me.

Again, not a SINGLE person looking at us! How is the kid in skinny jeans getting interviewed and we don't even get a look?

I'm sure you're looking at this picture, thinking to yourself, "Who IS that guy? He looks familiar but I can't tell who it is..."

Yes, you are correct, it's The Situation. I know, I know. I ran all up on him and was like shouting in his face, MIKE CAN I GET A PICTURE WITH YOU! which you will find was a recurring theme throughout the red carpet walk. When I texted Johanna that I'd met THE ACTUAL SITUATION, the first thing she wanted to know was what he smelled like. Pure animal magentism. And Cover Girl makeup, because I'm pretty sure he was wearing more foundation than me. Notice the lines shaved in the side of his head. Of all the times I needed to have a "You're a Douche" card...But who am I to talk? I accosted him and forced him to take a picture with me - I freely admit that I have no shame. I would also like to point out that I haven't been to a tanning bed in a looooooooooooong time, and I'm still the same color as him. Win.

I got thisclose to Heidi Klum. She was so glamorous and tall when she breezed by me, all elegant and gorgeous and I just screamed HEIDI! at her. I know.

Then I got thisclose to Usher. That cascading blonde hair on the left is Tiff, trying to get thisclose to Usher but...

... his bodyguard literally manhandled her out of the way. There's me on the left, doing the dinosaur roar / excited laugh and probably screaming USHER! USHER! Also, Usher is a lot smaller in real life than I thought he would be.

I don't know who these guys are, but everyone else was taking their picture, so I started to panic and think that maybe it was someone super famous and I was too busy sweating to realize who it was, so I took their picture too. If you recognize either of these people, please let me know.

With our host, Jeff.

And now, a break from the photos so that I can relay the story of The Most Amazing Moment of My Life or At Least Top Five. When I was thirteen, I was IN LOVE with Gavin Rossdale. You might remember him as the lead singer or Bush, or as Gwen Stefani's husband, or more recently, as the guy who sang the song for the trailer of that really horrible awful movie "Nights in Rodanthe", which, if you couldn't tell, I totally hated that movie. But I still totally had love for Gavin.

I never got to see Bush in concert, I just loved him with all of my heart and soul and being from a very far distance. My sister can attest to this. I. Loved. Him. I cannot emphasize this enough. "Sixteen Stone" was the first CD that my sister and I bought. Did I mention that I loved him?

So we're standing on the red carpet and the fire marshal starts ushering us to keep moving. Then, I spotted him. I was sweating and shaking and then I started screaming THAT'S GAVIN ROSSDALE THAT'S GAVIN ROSSDALE OH MY GOSH IT'S GAVIN ROSSDALE! And the fire marshal kept pushing us along, and ushers were literally shoving us to move.

I was desperate and panicky that I'd come all this way just to SEE Gavin from a distance, just like I'd loved him all these years. And there was no way that I had loved him for like twenty years and spotted him on the red carpet and was just going to get pushed away.

I turned to the marshal with tears in my eyes and begged, "Sir, you don't understand! That. Man. Down there? He was my first rock star love. His was the first cd I EVER bought. I HAVE to meet him! Please! PLEASE!!!!"

I'm not sure if it was understanding or pity, or if the fire marshal just thought I was so pathetic that it was easier to let me have my way then it would be to deal with the repurcussions. Because if he'd said no, I probably would've dropped to my knees and begged and cried. But he let me go back to wait for Gavin to finish his interview so that I could verbally and physically molest him.

As had been par for the course with every other celbrity I saw, I pretty much rushed Gavin as if I was a linebacker trying to sack him, and then I verbally vomited all over him. Do you ever have those moments when you hear yourself talking, and in your head you're thinking SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST STOP TALKING! but for some reason you just keep talking? That was me.

"GAVIN OH MY GOSH CAN I PLEASE TAKE A PICTURE WITH YOU!?!?!?? YOURS WAS THE FIRST CD I EVER BOUGHT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH SERIOUSLY THIS IS THE GREATEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE!" I think I might have been crying when he actually put his arm around me. This photo is the definition of pure elation.

And that's the story of the greatest moment of my life.

Inside, waiting for the show to start.

This is how Tiff and I looked after Justin Bieber won for like the millionth time.

The show was awesome, the performances were SO fun to watch, I was on cloud nine and I didn't think things could possibly get any more amazing. And then? NKOTBSB took the stage. That's New Kids on the Block / Backstreet Boys, for those of you who are not twelve year old tweens. And this is the moment when I myself transformed back into a twelve year old tween, screaming and absolutely freaking out. And I continued to scream and freak out for the entire performance. You might remember that I have major love for the New Kids as well. Some loves just never die.

We went to a fancy sushi restaurant after the show, where we spotted A Black Eyed Pea. Just one of them. (Will. I . Am). Notice how I have a fork in front of me? That's because we were only about ten seconds into the first course when Jeff noticed that I can't use chop sticks, but I was trying to fake it anyway because I didn't want to appear un-classy. I was more or less stabbing the sushi with the chop sticks, and Jeff was probably embarrassed so he asked the waiter to bring me a fork. Fail.

You're probably looking at the picture and thinking, "If you didn't want to appear un-classy, perhaps you should have re-thought the whole holding-the-giant-lobster-claw-for-the-picture thing." And you'd be right, because after taking this shot, Jeff was like, "Um, how about one withOUT the claw?" Fail.

By the end of the night, my feet hurt so bad that I was leaning on whatever structure I could find for support. This is the lobby of our hotel, where every person walking around looked like they could potentially be famous.
One last parting shot to document that once upon a time, I was pretty dang hot. And I didn't spend twenty minutes sweating and forcing myself into Spanx for nothing. A million thanks to Tiff for letting me be part of something that was so awesome.

Happy Birthday Sister!

Bone Senior hits a milestone today - she has officially left her twenties behind. She's the older, wiser, more logical, less emotional of the Bone Sisters. She knows me better than just about anyone else in this world. She knows when I need her to listen to me cry, and when I need her to crack open an egg of wisdom over my head when I'm crying. She is my best friend, and I don't know what I'd do without her.

She's the most amazing mother to her kids, and she inspires me every day. She can make just about anything - key lime pie, throw pillows, Halloween costumes - you name it, she can make it. She even learned how to crochet this year.

Speaking of milestones, I thought I'd post a few pictures of some of my favorite Bone Sisters milestones. Sorry for the poor quality pictures, but I think you get the jist. The jist being, of course, that we have always been this freaking cute, and she has always had those adorable dimples. And also there was a time when we looked like boys.
Happy Birthday Sister! I love you like a fat kid loves cake.

'Tis Officially the Season

You know how I know that it's officially the holiday season? When I hear my first "Feliz Navidad" of the year. It's the song I hate more than any. Other. Christmas. Song. Ever. As Dane Cook would say, it's the sound that makes me want to punch infants.

How much do I hate "Feliz Navidad"? So much that as soon as it came on the radio, I texted my good friend Jen.

Me: I'm listening to my first official "Feliz Navidad" of the year. Even worse, it's CELINE DION.

Jen: Ugh! She should definitely stick to French!

Me: She should stick to pounding herself in the chest.

Aaaaaaaaaand that about sums up my feelings for both "Feliz Navidad" and SA-leen DEE-yon.

Happy holidays.

Can I Just Vent For a Minute?

There are times when I go weeks without blogging because nothing happens that I feel is funny enough to blog about. I feel like my blog should only have witty stories, or that no one would want to read anything from debbie downer. I feel like I'm expected to always be upbeat and humorous.

But tonight, I am debbie downer, and I just need to bitch a little, so bear with me.

I realize that most of the people who read my blog are my friends, or they read it because it makes them laugh, and there are people who I don't even know that read it and maybe they think hey, this girl is pretty kick ass. But I also realize that there are people who read my blog because they like to make fun or me, or tear me down, or talk about me in their circles of friends. There are people who take any cheap shot they can get, and they use my blog as a way to make themselves feel better because ... that's just what they do. Like my ass-hat ex-boyfriend who so bravely commented "anonymously" that I should have gotten liposuction instead of getting a boob job. You know, high caliber people like that. Haters.

Those Haters will probably revel in this post and use it as one more example for them to prove that their better than me, happier than me, prettier than me, thinner than me, on and on and on...the truth of the matter is that Haters will always find a reason to hate, and I revel in the fact that I've never stooped to their level.

But I also realized that I've held back from blogging a lot of things out of fear of the Haters. Fear that they'd find one more thing to make fun of, one more piece of evidence to support their belief that they're better than me, or to add one more tally mark to their count of how pathetic I am.

Here's the truth: I'm human too. I have bad days, I have good days, I have really bad days, and I have batshit crazy moments. I have ups and downs and funny stories and sad stories, and I only ever blog about the good stuff because I don't want to give the Haters any more ammo against me.

And then tonight I thought, why do I care? Why do the opinions of a handful of people bother me to the point where I'm not able to be my true self on my own blog? By allowing them to censor me, I'm only empowering them further.

No more.

I am who I am, and you can take me or leave me. If you don't like me, stop reading my blog. Stop checking every day to see if there's something you can make fun of, because guess what: I make fun of MYSELF way more than you ever can. The difference is that I'm not doing it out of spite or hate. I laugh at myself because sometimes that's the only way to get through life. I'd rather laugh my way through my miserable life than tear someone else down to make myself feel better.

So Haters, go ahead and scoff at my pictures, call me fat and ugly and whatever else makes you feel better. Because your opinions do not dictate how I live my life, and certainly do not dictate how I feel about myself.

There will always be people that don't like me - that's a fact, and that's just the way it is. There will always be people who think my blog is stupid, who think I'm lame, and who will tear me down because really, they are miserable. And I feel sorry for them, because sure, there are people I don't like, but I don't pick apart their faults and tear them down just to make myself feel better. I recognize that if I'm not happy with myself, then ripping someone else apart isn't going to make a bit of difference.

Things have been hard for me, and I'm sure the Haters will love to hear that. But that's the absolute truth. Through this hard time, I've accepted the realization that I cannot change other people. All I can change is how I react to them. Change myself, change MY attitude and perception, and maybe the Haters will no longer affect me.

So that's my conscious decision. Hate all you want, gossip all you want, nit pick and tear me down - it's all on you, because I choose to no longer allow your negativity to bring me down.

Please consider this my double-fingered crotch-check, my final farewell to fear and haters. Enjoy the view.

How to Pull Off the Greatest Prank Ever

Setting: Road trip to Las Vegas for Lady's Birthday Weekend Extravaganza

Location: About 50 yards off random frontage road in the desert

Coordinators: Bone Junior and Gina

Materials Needed:
- Flashlight
- Shovel
- Gloves
- Black trash bag
- Duct tape
- Metal detector
- Elvis torso
- Two friends from Philadelphia (Lady and Fred) who have never seen the actual desert, and who want to go treasure hunting

Prep Time: About thirty minutes.

Actual Prank Time: About ten minutes, plus drive time.

Payoff: Priceless

Phase One: The Setup

1. Strap in creepy Elvis torso for the ride.

2. Drive towards Vegas.

3. About ten miles outside the strip, choose a random frontage exit that looks remote enough to make it feel like you're actually in the desert, but not so remote that you feel like you might actually get chopped up and buried out there.

4. Make ready the materials.



5. Put Elvis in the trash bag.

6. Wrap duct tape around his neck and torso.
7. Rip a hole in the top of the trash bag and pull some of Elvis' hair through it.


8. Stumble through broken glass, tumbleweeds, and pricker bushes, testing the ground with the shovel, until you find a suitable spot to dig.

9. Start digging until you hit bedrock about two inches down, then move to another spot.

10. Repeat steps 8-9.

11. Finally resort to more or less covering Elvis with rocks and dirt, convincing yourself that it totally blends in with the rest of the desert. And it kind of does.

12. Test the metal detector to make sure you can find Elvis again.

Phase Two: The Build Up

1. Spend the next two days talking to Fred and Lady about how much fun it will be to go treasure hunting in the desert.

2. Continue insisting that it really will be fun.

3. Seriously Fred, I don't care how tired you are, we're going out to the freaking desert.

4. Don't take no for an answer.


Phase Three: The Payoff

1. Drive back to random frontage exit that looks remote enough to make it feel like you're actually in the desert, but not so remote that you feel like you might actually get chopped up and buried out there.

2. Spend a few minutes nonchalantly moseying around, waving the metal detector around in the manner of a treasure hunter.

3. Gradually nonchalantly mosey your way over to the burial site.

4. When the metal detector starts going crazy, jump around excitedly and insist that Fred start digging.

5. Maniacally giggle to yourself as Fred jumps on board, shouting, "This could really BE something!"

6. As Fred uncovers a garbage bag and tuft of hair, start to freak out. Also, start filming.

7. Continue to freak out as more of the torso gets unearthed. Then start to feel bad / laugh when Lady starts to really freak out- pacing nervously and declaring, "WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW! WE ARE GOING TO GET MURDERED! LOOK AT MY EYE! LOOK AT MY NERVOUS EYE! MY NERVOUS EYE IS WATERING! WE NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW!"

8. Laugh so hard that you start crying when Lady and Fred slowly start to realize that this is not, in fact, an actual dead body.

9. Apologize profusely to Lady, who is still shaking like a leaf. But don't really be sorry, because you just pulled off The Greatest Prank Ever. And you have the video to prove it.

How Bone Does Classy

Last Thursday was Tiff's birthday. (Tiff is my gorgeous roommate, and she asked me to make up a fake name for her on my blog, but the only thing I can think of is Fitt, and that makes it sound like she has palsy or something, so sorry Tiff, we're sticking with Tiff.)

So, last Thursday was Tiff's birthday, and one of her other friends was hosting a dinner party on Friday. We'll call this other friend "The Hostess". Friday morning, I called The Hostess and asked her if there was anything she needed me to bring. She listed off a few items, no big deal, and then, almost as an after-thought, she said, "Oh, and can you bring a classy centerpiece as well?"

Pause.

Me: "Um, could you be more specific?" Read: Have we ever met and do you realize that my idea of a classy centerpiece is an Oscar cake that always has the potential to come out looking like a penis?

Hostess: "Well, some type of centerpiece for the table. Maybe a hanging balloon chandelier? The colors are green and whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhite..."

Me: "Oh. Ok. Um. When you say 'hanging balloon chandelier'.....?" Read: Seriously, have we met?

Hostess: "You know, with fancy balloons."

Pause.

Me: "Fancy balloons?" Read: Like the huge mylar ones shaped like animals?

Hostess: "Right, like the really metallic, shiny, fancy balloons."

By this time, I'm picturing the balloons that were in my senior prom photo backdrop.

Me: "And there is a color scheme? How fancy IS this dinner?" Read: Because seriously, if you're expecting me to wear a dress, you are sorely mistaken.

Hostess: "Yes, the colors are green and whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhite. Like a granny-smith-apple green."

Me: "Great. Ok. Sounds good." Read: All I heard was 'granny smith apple', so that's what you're getting.

At this point, I dialed Bone Senior in a panic and shouted at her, "WHAT THE HECK IS A HANGING BALLOON CHANDELIER!" and I felt much better when she'd never heard of one either.

She suggested that I get a wide vase and fill it with granny smith apples. And then my mind began to wander to a wonderous place. A wonderous place filled with green apples and marshmallows.

And that's exactly the kind of classy centerpiece The Hostess got. I wish I'd taken a picture of her face when I showed up with it. Actually, I wish I'd taken a picture of a LOT of her facial expressions aimed at me that night, but we'll get to that in a minute.

Back to the classy centerpiece. I told The Hostess that it was 'agriculture chic', and pointed out that it was, in fact, completely in line with the color scheme. But she didn't seem amused.

I went out to the back patio and proudly put my centerpiece at the center of the fancy table. I stood back to admire my work, then went back inside to await Tiff's arrival.


The beautiful table spread.

What's that? You don't see the classy centerpiece I made?



Can you see it now? No? Oh wait.
















Maybe you can't see it because when I went inside, The Hostess went outside, and banished my centerpiece to the table that would be used for our dirty dishes.







I was not happy.

As the dinner preparations went on, I became even more unhappy. Particularly because everything that The Hostess asked me to help with, I didn't know how to do. Such as make whipping cream. (Shut up, I KNOW, ok?!) I thought all you had to do was whip it. When I asked The Hostess to confirm this and confessed to her that I'd never made whipped cream before, I swear her jaw hit the counter.

The blender and whipping cream were promptly taken away from me and given to someone more capable. And The Hostess gave me a new job.

"How about you go over there and keep an eye on the rice?" she politely asked. Note: the rice was cooking in a rice cooker.

"Ok, do I have to stir it or anything?" Read: I meant this as a serious question, because if I've never made whipped cream, what makes you think I've ever used a rice cooker?

"Nope, just keep an eye on it. It will shut off by itself when it's done, then you can just scoop it into this container."

"Um. Ok." Read: Just because I don't know how to make whipped cream, doesn't mean that I can't recognize a bullshit job when I'm given one.

Seriously? Keep an eye on this rice cooker that will shut itself off and you don't have to do anything except literally STAND HERE AND WATCH IT? I know that I don't know how to cook, but even I'm not dumb enough to think that watching a rice cooker is meaningful or helpful in any way.
So that's what I did. I literally watched the rice cooker.


And watched it some more.

Thank goodness Tiff showed up. Goodness knows what might have happened if I hadn't kept an eye on the rice. The whole night might have been ruined.

And she appreciated my center piece. And in all the group photos, I insisted on holding the center piece in front of me. Yes, I really did.

That's just what you get when you put me in charge of something "classy."