In My Face

So I guess you're tired of watching me and Zac doing the dance of love...

I steal most of my good lines from the tv show Scrubs. In your endo, the moth joke, etc. One of my favorites is the number one best comeback of all time: "So's your face." I say it to almost everything, especially when it doesn't make sense.

When the accountant told me that my budget was off? "So's your face."

When the excavator said that the house we're working on is ugly and lopsided? "So's your face."

When the superintendent texted me that he saw me staring at my own boobs? "So's your face."

After delivering all these primo insults, I was a little taken aback when the Spanish-speaking tile guy (who last week, when he asked if I was Mexican and I said no; then asked if my mother was Mexican) used my own line against me.

Bone Junior: The tile in the kitchen looks really good.

Tile Guy: So's your face.

Bone Junior: Blink blink. Um, what?

Tile Guy: Your face looks good.

Bone Junior: I don't speak Spanish...

And that's how well I take a compliment.

In the Meantime

As much as it shames me to admit it, I'm so gay for Zac Effron. But my heart belongs to Batman. And apparently I'm twelve.

Please to enjoy.

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A Physics Equation

Super sweet Mustang + 80 mph + giant rubber tire in the middle of the freeway =

And the correct answer is: cracked & scratched bumper, busted AC condenser, dented radiator, broken scratch guard, broken fuel line clips, and the grand finale - lower grill completely gone.

Total damage = $1,113.51

I am so glad I didn't pay to have my bumper fixed when that sweeper attachment jumped out in front of me...

The only thing that made me feel better was when I was leaning across the table to help a 3-year-old girl color, and she exclaimed, "Hey! Dem your boobies!"

Yes they are, sweet child. Yes, they are.

Thanks, Dad.

Last night, I was talking on the phone to my dad, when he felt the need crack open an egg of wisdom over my head.

Bone Daddy: Dear, if you want to get married, you have to do two things. First, stop being such a wise ass; and second, stop being so flip. Those things can be intimidating.

Bone Junior: Really? Because I happen to find those qualities quite endearing.

First of all, I don't even know what it means to be 'flip'. Then again, this is coming from the same man who on the night of my senior prom, told me I looked 'very sharp.'

And here I thought I wasn't married because I don't cook. Thank goodness for the wisdom of fathers.

In Your Face, Hizznizzle

Today I found an article on MSN that ranked the ten best fan bases in the NFL. Hizznizzle, and all Cowboys fans, please to enjoy the results.

#10 - Dallas Cowboys

This fan base, which was really a bunch of bandwagon jumpers during the Aikman-Irvin-Emmitt dynasty, transformed into diehards. With fans in every city, "America's Team" has become wildly popular. Simple folks flock to the star and seem to be enamored with it, but the rules about cheering for a team you have no connection with is still a violation.

#9 - Chicago Bears

Where else can you not put any kind of offensive threat on the field for 20-some years and still have a packed stadium every season? Bears fans come out regardless of the terrible management keeps rolling out players such as Grossman, Orton, Griese, Benson, Salaam, Enis, etc.

And the number one fan base in the NFL IS.....

#1 - Philadelphia Eagles

Some might call this biased, but the most passionate fans in all of sports are without question Philadelphia Eagles fans. They're cold-blooded and probably give KC a run for their money as being the loudest. They are by far the most knowledgeable fans in the league, and invented the perfect "boo." What cemented Philadelphia fans' reputation as the most amoral, loathsome collection in sports is famously called The Booing of Santa Claus. You would boo and throw snow balls too if Santa came out drunk in a half-done costume. Eagles' fans must deal with sports owners whose actions have not produced a champion in 25 years. The Eagles haven't hoisted a championship flag in 48 years, but the waiting list for season tickets is so long that you could sell out three stadiums full of Eagles fans for games.And this is where my gloating begins - it's officially football season!!

The Park City Mustang Show: Where All My Wildest Dreams Came True

Saturday morning I got a call from a co-worker, telling me that I had to get my butt up to Park City because there were about two hundred Mustangs lining Main Street.

A few hours later, I was strolling down Main Street with a huge ridiculous grin plastered on my face, oooh-ing and aaah-ing at all the different Mustangs, and getting amazing ideas to pimp my ride. Mirrors!! On the inside of the hood!!!

This one was my hands down, absolute favorite. It has all the common elements of things that I love: purple, sparkly, bad ass, and has horses on it.

Let's take a closer look...

Aaaaaaaand let's take an even closer look...That's right. I'm not above shamelessly drawing attention to my little ta ta's.
Really I just wanted you to be able to see what my shirt says.
Find your own variation at www.savethetatas.com.

Finally!!

Something amazing and incredible happened this morning. Something I'd been waiting for months to say finally came to be.

In our weekly team meeting, as per usual the conversation had become peppered with "That's what she said" lines from the estimator.

Mitch: Hey guys, can we please stop with all the sexual innuendo?

Bone Junior: In YOUR endo!

So I admit that I totally ripped this line from "Scrubs", but I've been waiting for SO LONG for the perfect opportunity to use it, that I don't care if it's stolen - the pay off was worth it.

Snooty? Snotty.

It's fair to say that I get made fun of on a daily basis for the way I pronounce certain words. (Anyone from Pennsylvania will identify with what I'm talking about here). For example, 'horrible' is 'harrible'; 'orange' is 'ahrange'; 'forehead' is 'farhead', etc etc. My crowning glory is 'wood-er' (water).

Whenever I use any of these words at work, a co-worker will immediately stop and say, "What's wood-er?" My typical response is, "Oh, I'm sorry. Waaaaahhhhhhhhhter." Sigh. Eye roll. It drags out a lot of conversations.

I'm so tired of being "corrected" and I'm so arrogant that I called into a morning radio show to correct the on-air host for her pronunciation of "Reading Railroad", a la Monopoly. Unfortunately, instead of sounding educated, I sounded just plain pompous.

"Um, hiiii. I was just calling to tell you that it's pronounced Redding? Not Reading Railroad? Yeeeeah. It was originally the Philadelphia and Redding railroad, before the Redding company split off in the 1920's?....yeah, and there's a city in Pennsylvania named Redding, and there's even a baseball team called the Redding Phillies.... I'm from there? So, you know....yeah."

I am such an ass.

Character Witness

This weekend, on our way home from the pool, Nicole and I were comparing sun damage. She gets cute freckles all across her shoulders while I am uniformly the color of deck stain.

Bone Junior: I wish I got freckles like you. It adds character.

Nicole: (Sigh) Bone Junior, if you had any more character, I don't know what I'd do with you.

Case in Point: If you ever get pulled over for going 64 in a 35, make sure the cop has a sense of humor before handing him this when he asks for your license and registration:Otherwise he might threaten to slap you with falsely identifying yourself along with a hefty speeding ticket. Hypothetically.

Because I'm a Grownup

My recent "Anonymous" post got a lot of attention, hence the comments. And while it warmed my heart to get everyone's general agreement that Anonymous isn't worth another minute of my time, there were some hilarious, strongly worded comments that I loved, but I chose not to post.

Why? Mostly because I don't want to start some kind of underhanded war with Anonymous. I just want to let it lie, because I made my point. Posting those comments would be juvenile.

And then I emailed the comments to my friends so that we'll have one more thing to laugh about together. Because that's the mature thing to do.

Mobile Shout Out Part 3

Happy Anniversary Hoss & Rose!

Here's to another four years of student hood!

It seems like just yesterday I was looking at these pictures and peeing myself and making everyone at work come look at them and peeing some more from laughing so hard. This is my favorite memory of you, which might be kind of weird, since I wasn't even there... maybe it's because my sister is cracking up as you're suffering and dry heaving, and I know that had I been there, I would've done the exact same thing. The exact same thing as in cracking up, not as in dry heaving and suffering.

Here's Looking at You, Anonymous

You know what's awesome about having Sitemeter on your blog?

Let's say, hypothetically, "someone" named "anonymous" looked at your blog and left a really mean comment; hypothetically, saying that you should have gotten lipo instead of getting new boobs.

Hypothetically, with the help of Sitemeter, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person was. You could find out their IP address, their longitude and latitude, their server provider, what time they left the comment, how long they looked at your blog, how often they look at your blog, where they were before they got to your blog, and where they went after.

And putting all these elements together, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person is that feels the need to anonymously post his opinion about your body. But instead of posting that information, you could choose to take the high road. Because it's someone that you actually know, and now he knows that you know it's him - because he reads your blog regularly.

And your best defense is to take pleasure in the fact that you know he's not worth another second of your time or thoughts.

Hypothetically.

Mobile Shout Out Part 2

Happy Anniversary, Andi & Adam!It seems like only four years ago that we were playing bachelorette games in your grandma's basement. Remember this handsome fella?

Good times, noodle salad. Happy four years!!

Mobile Shout Out

Happy Anniversary, Barbie & Mike!

It seems like only yesterday when I was sleeping on the couch at the colony and you came home from a date and didn't know I was on the couch and I awkwardly heard you making out at the door.

Congrats on your anniversary - you've been able to awkwardly make out whenever you want for seven years now. Way to go!

This is What 1380 CC's of Saline Looks Like

I decided to forgo posting the 'before' pictures because they were so unflattering; and really, the less everyone sees of my small, sad little boobies, the better. Suffice it to say that it didn't look like I had boobs until I put on my padded uplift bra. That being said...

Ta da!
There is still some swelling, so I'm wearing an ace bandage to strap them down for another week. But not too shabby for two weeks after surgery, eh??

It's Been a Tramautic Week

During the course of the past seven days, I have done the following:

- Thrown up in Erin's car;

- Had nightmares that a small man was sitting on my chest suffocating me;

- Nearly passed out when the nurse yanked the surgical tape off my brand new boobs, ripping the skin off in the process and causing blisters;

- Didn't poop for six days;

- Slept sitting up every night;

- Had an emotional breakdown when I took my first post-surgery shower (three days after surgery...I know. I'm gross) and saw my bruised, battered, and broken looking new boobs in the mirror. Crying and wailing continued when I tried to raise my arms to wash my hair for the first time;

- Had an emotional recovery when I bought my first cute new bra and rejoiced at the size.

And then... there was last night. I don't know if I can recount the details of the most horrific, traumatic, terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

First I need to explain that for the past week (and for the next two weeks) my brand new boobs are wrapped in an ace bandage (otherwise they'd pop out the top of my turtleneck) and I have to wear a granny bra on top of that. It's quite the attractive combination.

Last night, due to the fact that I live in the desert, I was sleeping on top of my covers in my skivvies. And by skivvies, I'm referring of course to the sexy hot granny bra and ace bandage. I was thisclose to falling asleep when in my semi-sleep stupor, I felt something crawling on my hand.

I sat straight up in bed and flailed my hand before leaping up and turning on the lamp. If it was a fly, no big deal. But if it was the alternative...a spider...I had to have a visual, hone in on the target, and destroy it.

I spent several minutes scouring my bed and all surrounding areas, but didn't find whatever had been crawling on me. Which made me feel even more unsettled. If I could just see it and know what was there...

I finally convinced myself that it had only been a fly and went to turn the lamp off. When I looked down, I nearly fainted from fright. There, on my brand new boob, was a huge crusty spider. Right. On. My. Boob.

As you can imagine, I let out a manly wail and started to flail, except it was more of a panicked waving motion, as my boobs are so sore, I didn't dare touch them. Not only did the spider not fall off, but it proceeded to crawl across the ace bandage towards my brand new cleavage.

At this point, I started to cry and flail more violently, except this time I bent forward at the waist and did some kind of shimmy (which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and all sexy like) in an effort to stop the spider from reaching my actual skin. Which somehow incredibly shook the spider off my body to the floor, where I promptly grabbed a sneaker and bashed the living hell out of it, crying the whole time.

I'm amazed that my neighbors didn't come over to make sure I hadn't been raped and pillaged.

Then again, judging from the screams they heard, they probably thought I was a man.

Still Alive

I'm still alive, and almost four pounds heavier!

As I'm still coming out of my percocet-induced haze, I haven't been doing much except for laying around and having nightmares that someone is sitting on my chest trying to suffocate me.

And I owe a million thank-you's to all the people who have called, texted, and emailed to see how I'm doing. And especially to Erin and Nicole for their round-the-clock nursing duties. And also sorry to Erin for puking in her car.

"After" pictures to come as soon as my chest doesn't look like a battered wife anymore.

My Car Got Gang Banged

I looked out the office window today and was not at all surprised to see the latest stunt of three superintendents:And yes, I am one of "those people" who parks way far away from everyone else to avoid door dings, and now, gang bangs.

In Which I Become A Woman

"Dad, now that I'm twenty-six, and an adult, I've made the decision to get a boob job."

Blink. Blink.

My sixty-year-old father sat across from me last weekend and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I'd eloped with my twice-my-age boyfriend at the Little Chapel in the Woods at Graceland, and by the way, I'm having his love child and can we stay with you for awhile? Then he proceeded to unload on me all of his fatherly "wisdom"; and by "wisdom" I mean, "I'm your father and I know everything about everything and there is no way in hell I'm supportive of the fact that you're making a huge mistake that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Suffice it to say, breaking my big news to my dad did not go well.

But for the rest of you, I hope that breaking my big news goes much better.That, my friends, is a preview of the "After" result of my boob job which is happening...IN ONE WEEK! Yes, really. And everyone is invited to a "Bon Voyage Bone Junior's Boobies" dinner this Saturday night.

So if I don't blog much for the next little bit, it's probably due to a combination of the following reasons:

- My stomach is in knots as the surgery gets closer;

- I'm working on a eulogy for my sad little boobies;

- I'm shopping for all my post-op necessities: a large bra, lots of water, crackers, Benadryl, Step Up 2: The Streets on DVD, and lots of Percocet;

- I'm recovering from the pure exhilaration of seeing the midnight showing of The Dark Knight this Thursday;

- I'm so freaking excited to finally get ginormous bazoombas.

Where Do These People Come From and How Do They Always Find Me?

You know what I don't understand? I don't understand why some people think its okay to go up to a stranger and just blurt out whatever they're thinking.

Like when I was waiting for my two-hours-delayed flight at the Philadelphia Airport on Monday, quietly enjoying a peanut butter cup blizzard thingy from TCBY, and an older black businessman comes right up to me and says, "You know you shouldn't be eating that."

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: Are you saying that I'm fat?

Businessman: Um, no, ahem, no no no, I'm just saying it's bad for you.

Bone Junior: (shoving another spoonful into my mouth) Right, well thanks for the heads up, but its frozen yogurt, so it's not that bad, and I'm going to keep eating it disirregardless of your opinion.

At this point, any normal person would take the hint that they've already crossed the line with me and would go away. Not this guy. He continued to stand there and tried to engage me in conversation to the point of calling me a Phoenician from ancient Mesopotamia because of my skin coloring. Other topics touched upon include Barack Obama, my nose, my birth order, my age, him asking me to guess his age, and his opinion that if he had lived during the times of slavery that he would have been an ideal candidate for breeding. Yes, really.

The conversation ended when he told me that he believed we were kindred spirits and that he could see it in my eyes.

Buh-bye.