Monthly Archives: June 2012

the devil wears knock-off Keds

Growing up, I didn’t really get the chance to experience all the Awesome Stuff that comes with grandparents but I did luck out with some Really Cool Aunts.  My Aunt G, gifted / cursed with only sons, used my presence as an excuse to do Cool Girl Stuff that her boys were too busy playing basketball or hitting each other to do: namely, crafts.

Fondest memory: buying cheap white canvas tennis shoes and puffy paint at the Venture and taking them back to her house to decorate. Oh my Lord that woman knew the most direct path to my heart. Side note: Do kids even use puffy paint anymore? I certainly hope so. How depressing if they don’t. Anyway, she watched patiently while I covered each shoe in random red, blue and yellow squiggles – could it have been more 1989? – her hands slowly moving ever-so-closer to the bottles of unused paint.

Suddenly, her hand snapped up a tube of red, making her own squiggles on the shoe. “Oh, the Devil made me do it! The Devil made me do it!” she yelped as I giggled, not at all upset that she was sharing in my delight.

Again and again this happened, each time blaming her loss of self-control on Satan himself. And each time, I howled with laughter.

By the time we were finished, those shoes were probably one hot mess of a pair. But unlike the paint, which I probably picked off in a weeks’ time, the memory has stuck with me. Maybe – hopefully – one day I’ll sit down for a craft-a-palooza with someone else’s child. I know that I, too, won’t be able to stop myself from joining in the fun.

But why would I want to?

How to clean a popcorn ceiling

If you are anything like me, Dear Reader(s), you enjoy keeping a clean home. Also: drinking wine straight from the bottle.*

Cleanliness is next to godliness, they say, and if that is truly the case Jesus H. Christ Hisself has spent some time in my kitchen. There’s a reason I keep the wine around.

But even the nit-pickiest of housekeepers has an Achilles’ heel: the one area, nook or cranny they just can’t clean to their liking. Some might use creative means to amend the problem: moving an area rug over a floor stain, for instance. Or replacing those bright light bulbs with some of lower wattage. If you can’t see it, it ain’t dirty – am I right?

The bane of my existence, however, happens to be my apartment’s ceiling.

Specifically, the dreaded Popcorn Ceiling:

side note: none of the angles pictured here are actually 90 degrees. My entire apartment is like some sort of avant-garde architectural experiment.

Seriously, whoever decided this was a Good Idea should be drug out into the street and shot.**

It’s like some jackass was all “Oh, man, this space is much too clean! You know what it needs? Some fucking debris stuck to the ceiling!”

So when it comes to this clusterfuck of interior design, what is one to do? Simple! Just follow these easy steps and your home will soon be free of allergen-breeding stalactites!

1. Determine the area of ceiling you wish to clean.
Don’t know where to start? Try looking above you. Which area of the room appears to be infested with hordes of spiders? Go there.

2. Collect your supplies.
I suggest dust rags and “canned air,” which is one of those First World inventions of which I’d deny existence if I was ever cornered by, say, a starving Kenyan. “What? No! My country cannot possibly be so stupid and wasteful as to sell cans of air!”

3. Plan your approach.
A sturdy chair or stepladder will do. Unless you are personally eight feet tall, you will need assistance to get up close and personal with the ceiling. Also suggested: a spotter.

4. Supplies in hand, you will begin your attack.
First, spray some canned air onto the surface in question. Do not be alarmed when pieces of the ceiling seem to disintegrate and fall to the floor, onto the kitchen table, into the open mouths of your young children, etc;. This is part of the Cleaning Process.

5.  Repeat the process of spraying air and batting fruitlessly at the falling flotsam and jetsam.
Nearly lose your balance on the chair.
Call for your spotter.
She is probably in the kitchen, with the wine.

6. You will soon become irritated at your lack of progress.
This is natural; screaming obscenities, stomping on the floor and opening up another bottle of wine are all expected responses.

7. Merlot-fortified, begin your assault again in earnest.
Except – what the fuck? Is that a mosquito bite? On my leg? How did it — ? Oh God, it itches. What the–?

8. Jesus! There’s another one! What the hell? Are they, like, living in my ceiling? Oh sweet chocolate Christ. There’s one on my face. THERE IS A FUCKING MOSQUITO BITE ON MY FACE. Oh, Lord, are they attracted to the wine?

Be careful; your spotter is on a Taco Bell run.

11. Call your landlord, because this is a lost cause. Break your lease and move, and for God’s sakes MAKE SURE YOUR NEW PLACE DOESN’T HAVE A POPCORN CEILING.

12. Even if it has a dishwasher. I’m dead serious.

*Not simultaneously per se, but I’m always up for a challenge.
**Juanita-ism right there. Another favorite? “People are hung by their toenails for less than that.” This usually refers to someone taking away her morning coffee.

Mama said they was my magic shoes…

Uh, check out these swanky new kicks I got today.

No, really, they are tiiiiiiiiight.

In a cool, hip way. Not a diminishing-circulation way.

See fo’ yo’self:

Hello gorgeous, foot-cradling, babies.

Apparently I am signed up to run some race in August. Apparently my registration fee is already paid and apparently I am going to run this thing whether or not my feet have fallen off, which is what was about to happen before these beauties came into my life.

Have I ever run in any kind of organized thing? Nope!

Do I think there is a very good chance that I will permanently maim myself before August? Yup!

But am I still excited anyway? Oh, fuck yes!


Note to self:

Hey, Julie! Next time you start feeling lousy about your lack of Life Accomplishments READ THIS.

Everyone else: you can read it too, but no hard feelings if you skip over this one.

I make lists. Scratch that: I make lists like Bradley Nowell plays the guitar: like a motherfuckin’ riot. My entire life organized in this fashion. I live and die by los listos.

For the most part, they are actual, physical lists: wherever I go, a notepad or scrap of paper is never more than two meters from my person. But sometimes, the lists are mental in nature, and these are the worst, because these aren’t so much lists as they’re Really Unbalanced Comparisons That A Chemical Glitch In My Brain Sometimes Can’t Rein In And Instead Lets Them Go Fucking CRAZY.

But we’ll call them mental lists.

I’m realizing lately as I fucking type this that the Mental Lists lose their psychological power once written down. In the same way that making a grocery list frees up my brain-bin for more useless information important facts,* listing out some of my biggest worries and insecurities somehow diminishes them.

Well aren’t we just a fucking psychologist all of a sudden, eh?

No. For reals.

Let me demonstrate some of the shit that rattles around in my head from time-to-time:
1. I am 30 years old. Most of my friends are married. Most have kids. Some have two. Some have THREE. Some have already been married AND DIVORCED. WHAT THE HELL?
Wait, what? Are you saying you wish you were 30 years old and already divorced and a single mom? Or is it the lack of diaper-changing and snot-sucking that’s gettin’ you down? Julie, you are a selfish, selfish so-and-so who doesn’t even like sharing a goddamned blanket with another person. You think you’re ready to share your whole fucking life? Oh, HELL no, girl. You best back this train up.

2. But I…
No. Shut the fuck up.

3. I have a Master’s Degree from a good school in a program respected in its field yet have not worked in that field in almost three years. I have essentially used my diploma as a very expensive shit-wipe.
Oh, I’m sorry Miss Whiny Pants, were you complaining that you have a fucking job? A job that allows you to pay for a roof over your head, food on your table, and internet on your computer? You pay your bills, have a little savings, and can afford name-brand dishwasher detergent, which everyone knows is a waste of money even though you just fucking bought some why did you do that? Seriously. Stop talking.

4. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let’s face it.
Okaaaay. What the hell’s stopping you?

5. I… uh…
Yeah. Exactly. Go write that fucking play or whatever the hell you keep thinking about, you lazy motherfucker. Jesus! Did you forget how to structure your time?

6. Yeah, well, all these other fuckers have done tons more shit than I by the time they were my age…
Okay, seriously: close that gaping hole in your face and think for a fucking minute. Are you dead or dying? No. So unless you plan on hula-hooping in traffic this afternoon, you’re probably not going anywhere for awhile.

You’ve got it good, you ingrate: you have a steady job with good hours that still allows you free time to pursue the things you’ve always wanted to do – so just fucking do it. You are surrounded by family and friends who love you, and that includes the children that some necrotic part of your gray matter seems to think you “need.” Borrow one or two for the afternoon sometime, see if you still feel that way. Ha!

You’re a good person who does good shit. Sure, you haven’t won the Nobel Prize For Handing Out Menus or anything, but you’re good at your job, goddamnit. You even like doing it most of the time! You work with some pretty kick-ass people with thankfully short memories: fuck ups on Monday are forgotten by Saturday.

And the world goes fuckin’ round and round.

There, there, Julie. Aw, who’s a whiny bitch? Are you a whiny bitch who responds well to rational self-criticism? Yes you are! Yes you are!

Jesus, you’re exhausting sometimes.



* Bet ya thought I was going to put in some kind of Crazy-Ass Random Fact here, huh?


Forget pissing your drawers; when it comes to the super-funny stuff, Brother offers a very simple reply:

I shat.

If I send him a text he finds worthy of his laughter, it’s the highest form of approval he can muster. “I’m shitting” is another one. To hear him speak of soiling himself is, really, the ultimate compliment he can bestow.

I had to provide that little intro, because leading off with “I read this and lost control of my bowels” is a little random, even for this site.

First, go read this. Now.

Second, I dare you to not read any more from this site (warning: it’s a royal – yet worthwhile-  time-suck). But start with the link I gave you. I COULD NOT HAVE SAID IT ANY FUCKING BETTER MYSELF. Hoe-lee hell.

Third, there is no third.

You’re welcome.

Ja Rule? Are you out there?

Uh, guys? A few days ago when I logged into this site to fiddle with the settings I noticed I had 28 email subscribers.

Today I have 199.

That cannot possibly be right.

Not because this blog isn’t a work of goddamned genius; I mean, we can all agree that never in the history of internet bullshittery has there been a more glorious jewel of perfect… uh, majestic… um…

Yeah, anyway.

I can’t help but wonder if the current tagline I’m using (THIS SITE IS TOTALLY *NOT* PORN. I SWEAR, in case you’ve not checked your Internet History in awhile)* was somehow picked up by a spambot. Or a cache of pervos.

Either way, welcome Spammers And/ Or Pervos: Welcome to The Sloppy Copy! I sure as shit hope: a) you’re real (not necessarily in a J-Lo way, but that’s cool too) and b) you’re a fan of Seinfeld.

Because this blog, too, is about absolutely nothing.

*Sigh. Okay, I changed it. You’re (sort of) welcome.

That can’t be legal.

Ok, first, can we all agree that sometimes you’re on the Internet and something completely random catches your eye, and – maybe against your better judgment – you click the link and you end up reading about identical triplets born in Pennsylvania?

If you just said “Disagree” you are a lying liar. Get the hell off my blog.

Damn kids.

Anyway, all that link-clicking recently led me to this – of which I tried to make some sense.

After I laughed so hard I lost control of all bodily functions, of course:

For the record, I still don’t understand what it means. Search Uncle Google about “black triplets” and that’s exactly what you get.

Also, porn.

Anyone care to enlighten me?

Not about the porn, please. I’m pretty sure I can figure that bit out.



Most days, I consider myself to be an averagely-intelligent person. Sometimes when I’m feelin’ frisky, I even bump that up to “above-average.”

Other days, however, I can’t help but think that I’m making Forrest Gump looking like a goddamn rocket scientist.

Yesterday was one of those days. In a fit of reckless spending,* I recently upgraded my Netflix subscription to include actual DVDs in addition to the unlimited streaming option (completely unpaid endorsement: I fucking love Netflix. That is all). To my delight, my first discs arrived yesterday. As I was feeling like – to quote a friend “a plate of warmed-over ass” (thanks, BK!) – I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball on the sofa, drink some hot tea (well, maybe while curled up in an upright position) and watch some mindless television.

Oh, except I can’t figure out how to hook up my DVD player.

I mean, it’s not like I’ve lived here over a year or anything, in the meantime playing DVDs on a complicated system that connects my television as a sort of second monitor for my laptop. I’m not often known to do things the “easy way,” for the record.

“It can’t be as complicated as I’m making it out to be,” I thought as I began my intrepid Adventure Behind The Television. “There are only so many combinations of cords and inputs and outputs, right?”

About 78,392. If you’re counting.

Armed with the instructions to the television, this is where things start to get interesting.

If by “interesting” I mean “swear-y.”

Seriously? Seriously? These instructions do not make any fucking sense. What the hell? THIS IS NOT EVEN A COMPLETE SENTENCE. “Connect the cord of the to the output?” The cord of the what? The what?!


And then my head exploded.

There’s more to the story, involving another DVD player and more cussing, but the short of it is this:

If you are reading this, I will make you cookies – any kind of cookies you want – to hook up my DVD player.

I’m serious: Anything your little heart desires. Bam. Yours. All you have to do is figure out how to do it. And it has to, you know, actually work.  You’re more than welcome to stay for a DVD viewing party afterwards, but be warned: I have no plans to watch this current television series in order. I pick the episodes I want to see and fill in the rest later. Or maybe never. Also: there’s a lot of shooting. Followed by mumbling.** So the volume usually ranges between 15 to 95.

To recap: You make my DVD player work. I make you cookies. WIN-FUCKING-WIN.


*Or, more accurately, I recently became infatuated with some obscure character actor who apparently only appears in television shows and films not available for instant streaming.
**Um, there is a lot of shooting and mumbling in this television program. Not, like, in my house.

autocorrective asphyxiation

Beginning with one weirdly autocorrected text sent to Juanita, I decided to send the rest of my messages to her sans proofreading and with little regard for, you know, accuracy.

Let me preface this by saying I don’t have one of those fancy-pants smart phones. Mine flips open and has buttons roughly the size of Kennedy half dollars. I have it set to “T9,” which I think means “Sorry, no matter how many times you type the word twatwaffle [read: a lot] it will still fail to auto-enter it for you.”

Here goes:

Me: Before i proofread that message it said this:
can i runs cz the bank no the way god so i can
deposit my commission check

Juanita: LOL  LOL LOL Thanks you just made my day!

I just type too east

You just sent me a message that said
I prefer to type to the west.

I know… I left it that way on purpose… Which ORIGINALLY said
‘I let it that way no surprore’ LOL LOL


I keep laughing out loud. My boss must think I’m nuts. OR…
i’m laughi out love. My boss must think i’m ous


For the rest of today i will send all my texts without
proofreading them first. It will be like a puzzle for you!

That sounds like fun

For of maybe. Not you

You’ll be off work in 3 hrs!

I can hardly wast

Sorry i can’t help myself i’m trying to type extra east for you

It’s just east enough

Would rather i ou tzue too west or north or snug for you


it’s ok . i unresptane sometimes you just
iota have clean coteir


Lol that made it sound glid you were intui am cocooc

I’ll stop when you say so. Maybe this is only funny to me

What I wouldn’t give for a thesaurus or
a book on how to decode gibberish!

My coteirs are ready for the dryer. Be right back.

How’d they  turn out@ nice and dr x i hope


GOOD. Betweel the Yumzos of up we text like two
old ladiegs standing in the mifflod of the parking lot


LOL with all hue are trying to run you over
and hotling and wel GET OUT OF OXY


I hear That’s a bad place. Very rough apes

Apes are like that. You sure you aren’t gonna
get in dutch for all these messages?

No big boss man is gone and i’ve finished all my real work


Literaly@ slip i slip to my lot my darling

LOL…I’m not having any trouble understanding
your messages… NOW THAT IS SCARY !

Yes that is i little frightiengi