Won't You Take Me to Funky Town?

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010, in the early hours before coffee has made me human

I was kind of in a funk at the weekend for some reason. The bad kind of funk, where everything's depressing, not the good kind where you groove on down to some Hendrix while smoking a fat, suspicious substance and sporting six inch platforms, purple bell-bottoms and an Afro perm big enough to hide a large family of Mormons. You know what I'm talking about. I know you people and your sexy, retro habits. You really ought to get that hole in your bedroom wall fixed by the way... You never know who's looking through that thing.

Anyway, I was in a funk, probably because it seems to have rained for a month straight and the skies are boring and grey and you know when you really want to go do something, but you don’t know what and even if you did, you probably couldn’t anyway, because it’s rainy and chilly? Well it was like that. Even the buildings look depressed. I didn’t even want to paint, or play my guitar, or use the computer, or do anything at all constructive. I just wanted to stay home and sulk while I whined to myself about how the weather is conspiring to make me insane.

Because obviously, I have a long way to go in that respect.

I'm telling you right now, however, next weekend will be different, because I'm going to have a bucket of frozen margaritas ready, mellowing in my freezer, so that rain or shine, either way I won't give a goddamn hooey. The heavens can spit soccer-ball-sized hail for all I care, because I'll be lying in the middle of the floor, my face red as a baboon's ass and a gigantic grin plastered on my face, while my veins fill up with delicious tequila. I'm actually thinking of mixing it up this time around and along with the usual tequila maybe using Malibu instead of Triple Sec, to get a little Caribbean, coconut, palm tree loving going in my 'ritas. What do you think? Worth a try? I say so! There's nothing an imperial fuckload of coconut rum can't cure, right?

Well, except maybe cancer. Or AIDS. Or Heidi Montag. Or gangrene...

Ok, rephrasing a little, let's just say that mood wise, there's nothing coconut rum can't cure and leave it at that.

Anyway, yes, Malibu is a kickass drink. If it's your clearly false opinion that it's a 'pussy lady drink', I'm not going to argue with you as I don't care, mainly because it's goddamn delicious. In fact, here's something you should try one hot, summer's day and then come back to me with your lame Malibu insults, hosers. 

Pay attention here because you'll thank me for this afterwards. Pour a double shot of Malibu in a tall sundae glass, add two scoops of vanilla or coconut ice cream and fill the rest with Sprite. Stir gently. Voila! A coconutty, alcoholic ice cream float! I warn you though, it's so good you might actually have a little secret orgasm in your mouth. Shhhhh.

Ok. I think it's time for coffee. Have a funk-free Tuesday, peeps.

That's Why They Call Me Mr. Fahrenheit...

Friday, June 11th, 2010, in the wee small hours of the morning
Well hey! I see it's Friday and you're all looking casual-Friday-super-cool. Sort of like people who have a party on their mind. Or even just the weekend. You're all smokin'! Work it, baby!

I'm up late! There's a shock to absolutely no one. But Friday is my day of procrastinating my ass off when I should be using it to do laundry and clean toilets and cook things to freeze that I can eat for dinner next week when I know I'll be too lazy to want to cook and do Zumba, instead of what I actually do, which is sit around painting in my old, sexy, grey velour, paint-splashed sweatpants and hair that screams "I just drank a quart of Turpentine and slept in a hedge!" while sipping Coke Zero, singing along to old Queen songs and farting.

If you'd like to date me, line up here.

And yes, I said Coke Zero. Coke Zero is my new best friend. I mean you all know my alliance to Diet Pepsi, right? I'm a Pepsi girl first and foremost. But lately, I don't know. Something's been afoot and I've been hitting the Zero good and hard. It might be because it's always on sale and I'm cheap, or it could be I'm traversing a sketchy period of insomnia again and it's messing with my brain. Either way, I know it's shocking, but try to breathe. I know you must be thinking, "What's next, will she stop pining after cake and request a banana? Have we entered a parallel universe?"

Don't tell anyone ok? It'll be our secret.

Something that isn't a secret is that Jenny is having a giveaway on her blog where you can enter to win a beach bubble bag thingie (you have to click that link to her blog and go find it, suckers), however, as I appeared to be non eligible to enter as I don't do the social networking thing, I told her I was going to make a voodoo doll in her likeness and stick a pin in her head and she suddenly got all contrite and told me I could be in the competition after all because I am wonderful (or because she is wicked scared of me). But if you all would like a beach bag go and enter. Tell her I sent you and she'll be your bitch.

A Valid Argument Against Beer

Wednesday, June 9th, early in the ay-em

Well hi! It's me again. Please don't pass out, I know it's only been two days and everything, yet here I am again, taking up space in your update list or whatever the hell you people use to find new bloggy things.

I should tell you right now that I have had some beer. Just to make it clear in case service is somewhat patchy or possibly grammatically illegal.

Lovely, cold, icy, fizzy, golden beer. I am obviously a pussy, because even a few beers seems to make me all fuzzy and warm and a little bit disoriented. Gone are the days of drinking all night, dancing to embarrassing songs with a traffic cone on my head and puking in the cab on the way home. No Sir, I am a grown up lady with dignity. I keep my top ON.

It's weird though. I'm drinking Coors Lite, for Christ's sakes. You'd think that wouldn't make a mouse drunk! Well it just goes to show doesn't it? Upwards and onwards.

Anyway, I was going to tell you about these awesome key lime cookies I found today, but I really can't be assed. Although I sort of just did. Well, they're really delicious, anyhow. Let's leave it there. Your mind can do the rest.

You know what else happens when I've had beer? I sound all Scottish. As I was just telling someone earlier, I sound like Groundskeeper Willie and Gerard Butler had a baby. But a really sexy baby. And I'm not even Scottish!

OK, yes, I am. But it would be much funnier if I was say....some other nationality that isn't Scottish.

I've also painted two more little canvas boards. I know, I know. This blog's become all about memes and me telling the world I am an awesome painting machine lately and it's really quite sad. I agree. I truly do. 

So yes. That's what I've done this evening and last. Painted things and drank beer and gone grocery shopping and eaten a Subway BLT (minus the "L" because lettuce, my friends, is for rabbits. So it was really more of a "BT". Only you know...not British Telecom). Oh! And I clunked my elbow getting out of the car and said a new bad word. I said, "son-of-a-fuck-knocker!"

I know what you're thinking too. You're thinking, "Why did you even bother posting this nonsense?" and I will reply with, "Because I can." And that should suffice, crankypants. See you all tomorrow when I refuse to have a hangover. Nighty.

Update: I had a little hangover when I got up at 7am. A little man with a jackhammer in my brain. Lesson learned.

Short, Random, Good Smelling Things

Tuesday, May 25th, 2010
Random Thing 1: Woe is my crampy lady belly. Holy crap, it’s like Mother Nature put a porcupine in my tubes while I was asleep and told it to find its own way out. All because Eve ate that stupid apple. Or something.

Random Thing 2: Today, since ‘Bath and Body Works’ were out of my sacred, signature Black Raspberry Vanilla body cream (seriously, WTF, how am I to continue smelling like the Queen of All Awesome Things without that?!) I had to content myself by buying something from their new Summer Vanillas range – namely the apricot body lotion which smells so good on, I might shut myself in a closet and lick myself later. I might have to get the lemon one too, sometime. I’m a fruity gal, what can I tell you? I smell goddamn delicious.

Random Thing 3: I have to confess something. Usually, I’d keep such a shameful admission to myself but I have to come right out and say it. I love “Wipeout”. I know, I know, I’m an avid game-show hater but that show just hits me right in my funny bone. You might say it gives me a funny boner (you might not). Really it’s all about the Big Balls. The Big Balls are the tits (so to speak). You can’t sit there straight-faced and tell me seriously that grown-up people of all ages, sizes and ethnicities, aren’t effing hilarious when covered in mud and being bounced mercilessly into icy water, off of gigantic red, wobbly balls. Don’t even try. You can’t. If you want to see what I’m talking about GO HERE. You laughed, right? Of course you did. Or else you’re dead.

Random Thing 4: “Lost” is over, I’m in mourning, Tuesday nights are a void not even “Glee” can fill (Is it just me or has “Glee” lost some of its sizzle after that three month hiatus it had in the winter?) For those of you who asked, yes I did like the ending to “Lost” – even more now than I did when I first watched it on Sunday, when I loved the island part of the ending but frowned a bit and thought “Seriously?” at the sideways part of things – but I think once I thought about it and figured out what was what, properly, I approve!

Don’t go discussing it in the comments though, I know a couple of people are watching it from the start who haven’t seen the show before, so you know….don’t be an asshole. That’s my job.

Random Thing 5: I have a new friend. His name is Lefty and he’s a cow, in a stylin’ necklace (supplied by some little Mexican guy on a beach – don’t ask). 

Now some may say, “Wow, Veg. He’s a freaking COW therefore, do you think maybe, he might be a SHE?” And to that I reply, “Bite my bum, I make the rules because I am my own Jacob and this is MY island.” (See? That was totally a “Lost” joke. I’m topical.) Besides he has horns. Men are horny. That’s how it goes.

On that fascinating note, I’m going now to have a beer. Goodnight.

Smells Like Summer

Yes indeedy, my little cupcakes! Nothing puts a calm, serene grin on an Assassin’s face quite like summer. The feeling of the warm sun on your skin, making your hair shiny, burning your cheeks and your conk and making you look like an alcoholic for the first couple of weeks till it tans… And by “you” I totally, 100%, mean “me”.

And although it’s only May, it’s been around the 80 degrees mark all week with a nice breeze. It's like freaking San Diego here! Take that Red!

However, being almost summer makes a person start frowning and pulling at their fleshy bits in disgust and thinking about making those fleshy bits a bit smaller. You see, having just emerged from a cold winter spent mostly watching TV, painting and eating scads of cheese and chocolate and doing virtually nothing that involves breaking a sweat at all, spring means shedding the consequences of such sedentary behaviour, eating fruit again and doing something more energetic with your spare time.

So that means walking where possible. Which is fine. I made playlists for every occasion because Lord knows I cannot walk anywhere without a playlist because that would involve suffering my own company for an hour without entertainment. The horror!

And also? Zumba.

Yes, you heard me right. Zumba. As in Latiny-gyratey-dance aerobics.

You can stop laughing now. I appreciate your skepticism, I truly do, because I have about as much dancing talent as a drunk man with one leg and vertigo. I’m ok with this. I’d love to be a natural lithe, snaky-hipped, all abs and rubber bones, sexing-up-the-dancefloor type of mover, but clearly I’m not. So I just do the best I can and have fun with it. So what if I look like someone who’s in desperate need of a bathroom? So what if my expression is less, “Hey baby, I’m hot!” and more “Good God, hemorrhoids are a bitch!”, I have FUN damn it.

Besides, I only do it at home for now, not in public for heaven’s sakes. If I was doing actual classes I’m sure I’d be on YouTube by now under, “Hilarious Rhythm-challenged Halfwit, Dancing like cripple”.

Only, you know…with less grammar. Because it’s YouTube. It’d probably be more, “Yo Batshit Crazy Beeyatch Gitz Grooveh”.

It’s all Alyson's fault. I use her full name because that’s what people do when they want to let certain other people know that they’ve been a bad girl. She introduced me to Zumba, therefore, is fully responsible for me looking like a constipated ostrich. And also because I watched some demos and thought “That looks fun, how hard can it be?”

Yeah. Now I not only dance like I’m on drugs, I ache everywhere it’s possible to ache and so I now walk like it too. So thanks for that Aly. Truly.

So when I haven’t been Zumbaing my ass off in the mornings to wake me up, I’ve been painting in a nice, leisurely fashion, in a paint-covered, oversized t-shirt and cut off, drawstring sweat pants and flip flops (and that combo is as sexy as it sounds, people) so all in all, I think balance is achieved. For now at least. Between that and the fact I am hideously addicted to Kashi’s Fruit & Grain bars in Chocolate Raspberry, I am a contented little fucker.

Talking of painting, I finished another Airstream. I now have twelve Airstreams in my series. I’m a freaking Airstream maniac. I decided not to fret about this and just embrace it.

So yeah. Back to work. Have a lovely afternoon my little pumpernickel buns!

Stuff and Nonsense

Holy crap, people. I’m either getting lazier or busier, I can’t decide which it is. Either way, you’re all getting a well-deserved break from my ramblings lately, for which I expect a thank you compensation from each of you in the form of moist, delicious sponge cake. Just bake a fabulously decadent cake and overnight it to: Veg’s Belly, c/o Veg, Awesomeville.

You’ll be delighted to learn my cough is on the way out. It’s about time. My neighbours were getting annoyed with the walls rattling from my giant, heaving, phlegmy bosom. OK, my bosom’s not that giant but my cough sure was. It was quite pitiful. I actually coughed so hard at one point, that I managed to pull a muscle in my neck and lower head that I didn’t know existed! I might even have discovered it for science. I am that talented.

 Anyway, that hurt. Quite a bit. Especially if I tried to turn my head to the right at all. Ibuprofen was my best friend for a while there. That and pouting a lot.

What else have I done lately? Well, despite my legendary hermitty tendencies, I attended a little art party gathering in honour of my paintings (or as I call them “the precious”), where I did my once yearly social butterfly bit, talked a lot of nonsense about art, which I know eff all about outside of my own stuff, then once I reached maximum entertainment overload, went and locked myself in a tiny room with a lemon cake and rocked in the corner for half an hour till I felt pure again. Hallelujah! It’s hard being anti-social you know. It takes work. Cake helps.

Everything Is Wal*Mart’s Fault

Well hey there!

One day I’m actually going to have something to say instead of updates on my well being, which I know you’re all on the edge of your seats about at all times. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m obviously of primo importance. It won’t be today though. Sorry.

My stupid cold, which I thought had disintegrated more than a week ago, decided to just relocate to my chest, so now as well as sniffling and sounding like I am living in a tunnel, I now appear to have coughed up a lung. I can feel it rattling around in there, looser than Lindsay Lohan’s knicker elastic. Each rasping rumble sounds like an evil quake surging forth from the core of the Earth.

And my rib cage feels like Jenna Jameson after she’s been pounded by Tito Ortiz. Take that in whichever manner you like, they all work. Holy shit, this is the cold that never dies.

The best part of it is that people look at you in horror in public, like you’re carrying that plague that causes humans to turn into zombies, in movies. They gather their whiny offspring and herd them away from the danger zone, worried eyes never leaving your red, spluttering face, as though tracking a wild animal, lest you suddenly spring up and eat the heads off of their babies. There’s really no need, people. For a start, WalMart has a McDonald’s. I always choose tasty, salty fries over baby heads, when presented with the choice.

Well except that one time. But really, that was the baby’s fault for looking so delicious and meaty.

At least for once I could stand proudly in line at the cashier and know I, with my lung rumbling, red nose and big, wet sneezes that shook the roof, was every bit as annoying as that shrieking kid behind me who didn’t want to get out of the cart.

Hey lady, why are you whipping out a face mask? Do you not savour breathing in my asbestos-ridden cough breath?

I consider my annoyance a small but satisfying victory. That and the fact WalMart has a pitiful cheese selection so I am forced to buy the best cheese there is, Armstrong – in a big, fuck off block of strong cheddar. It’s that or that plastic shit toddlers eat or that they put on movie nachos.

It’s also WalMart’s fault that after two fringeless years, I now have bangs again. I happened to pass a mirror as I was cart-bashing random, hyperactive toddlers out of the way, in my haste to get from the skincare aisle to the chocolate department (don’t stand in the way of a chocolate run, brats, especially by a lady fueled by evil and PMS!) and thought “Fuck me, it’s that wookie dude from ‘Star Wars’!” then realized, with defeated resignation that no. That is most definitely ME. So I went home and had a hot date with some scissors.

It’s all better now. Nothing to see here.