So a certain male who may or may not be a member of my household has a nail biting problem. Said male has tried various methods to rid himself of this habit. None of them worked. Until now.

Said male has heard about the nail polish that is supposed to dissuade one from nail-biting but was unable to find this polish at the store. Said male decided to make do with the next best thing: press-on nails.

Said male applied the fake nails to said hands and successfully evaded the nail biting for the better part of a day. The plan went off without a hitch, until said male realized the implications of wearing fake nails and hurriedly cut them off his fingers, with no one being the wiser.

Or at least no one would have been the wiser if he hadn’t left evidence (said male’s mother really did him a disservice by not teaching him to clean up after himself).

The bottom line is: the idea of said male bringing hookers back to the house is much more appealing than the alternative: said male dancing around the house in Lee Press On Nails.

And if I come home today to the remnants of a pink tutu, I’m going to be forced to intervene by way of violence.

Let’s just hope I don’t break a nail while doing it. Mine or his.

I don’t know what the fuck happened. What I do know is that, apparently, some trick was cutting her fake nails in my kitchen yesterday. This trick is not me, as I’m violently opposed to acrylic. Plus, I’m afraid fake nails would get ripped off my hands when I mountain bike. Either way, the tips are not mine.

Which leads me to conclude one or more of the following:

1. Scott and/or Ben are buying hookers again. My vote is for Ben since Scott is in Vegas and will be bringing back hookers to his hotel room, not our kitchen.

2. Scott has been watching too much Dexter. He didn’t have a cop dad to teach him how not to get caught, so he left the evidence for all the world to see. I better have a talk with him about this. Time to revise the murder kit.

3. I am slacking in my bitchiness, because clearly all parties involved do not understand that leaving things on the counter is punishable by death.

Sigh. I don’t have the energy to deal with this, so perhaps I’ll turn the other cheek.

Yeah, right.

We must also celebrate the birth of my BFF, Sarah. I’d call her a saint, but then she’d think I’m calling her a Mormon and she’d probably hurt me. So I’ll just call her awesome instead. (Please note: the word awesome is not used with sarcasm.)

Last year I wrote a bday tribute to both of them, and I’m reposting it this year because it’s Monday and I’m still recovering from yesterday’s drinkfest….errrr…football game. Also, I’m pretty lazy.

Without further ado:

It’s my BFF Sarah’s bday today, and even though she hates sharing, she has to share this day with another important woman in my life, my mother.

I’m sure Sarah won’t mind (or at least she’ll get over it), because my mom is an amazing woman, just like her mom. In fact, our mothers are friends and probably spend equal amounts of time praying for their daughters to come back to the fold. Sadly, both Sarah and I kissed the Celestial Kingdom goodbye long, long ago. We’ll probably get a free pass in, anyway, because our mothers are that Saintly (and yes, that’s the Latter Day kind). And if we don’t get in, we’ll be having a blast, raising hell in…..hell.

I am the spitting image of my mother in mind, body, and soul. Well….okay, maybe not the body part. I look exactly like my mom, only I got shorted in the chest area and overcompensated in the ass/thigh area. It’s sad that at almost 60, my mom looks better in Lycra than I do. But it’s obviously because Jesus loves her more. She praises him on a daily basis, where I cuss him on a daily basis.

So really, it’s my own fault. But perhaps if I had been blessed with the perfect body to begin with, I might actually believe there was a Jesus and that he could make miracles happen.

And, Jesus, just in case you’re reading this? It’s not too late, buddy. I promise I’ll stop making fun of you if you’ll make my legs 2 inches longer and my chest 2 cup sizes bigger. Swear.

So now, let me talk about my girl Sarah. Sarah is one of my best friends, but so much more. She’s a kindred spirit. She and I are so alike and share many, many things together, including a head full of anxiety, a closet full of shoes, and a desparate need for chocolate to be legally acknowledged as its own food group.

In fact, the biggest difference between us and the one thing that could possibly drive us apart is her absolute hatred of math. I have a plan to win her over, only I need her to come visit me for it to work.

Another part of my evil plan involves luring her away from SLC so she can move in with me and my BF here in SD. I might also allow Daisy to come, as long as Sarah doesn’t mind my taping a vacuum hose to Daisy’s tail and making her wear socks made of Swiffer dusters so that not only does she not leave nasty pet hair and such all over, but she’ll actually clean up after herself, thereby making her the best pet ever. Sarah will thank me by letting me win our nightly pillow fights and giving me the last glass of wine out of the bottle.

Yeah, right.

Needless to say, these two women are one of the main reasons I contemplate moving back to Utah sometimes. Neither of them seems to be budging on the whole Moving to San Diego for Year Round Sun and Kel plan. Sarah seems to think fall boots are better than year-round flip flops. And mom has the whole wanting to be around other freaks….err….Mormons. So even though they clearly don’t have their priorities straight, I love them anyway.

Happy birthday, ladies. I love you!

I’m still trying to figure out which of us is the evil twin. Probably it’s her, since she’s a regular church-goer. Everyone knows that people who believe in God are not to be trusted.

Anyway, in our attempt to avoid trick-or-treaters at all costs, Scott and I were supposed to go to a party. We ended up going to see Zombieland instead.

Then we had a couple of drinks and headed home. I was all in zombie/I’ve had a few margaritas mode, so when we arrived home and saw our neighbors’ house, I was more than a little frightened by the fact that, apparently, our neighbors had turned into zombies:

But, thankfully, they weren’t zombies, just victims of the swine flu:

I’m not gonna lie. I don’t blame them for getting the swine flu, but I do blame them for the massive amounts of trick-or-treaters that plague our neighborhood.

Thankfully, we avoided the masses, as we didn’t arrive home until almost 10. Of course, there was one last cluster of kids/parents begging for candy. And when they knocked on our door, we, of course, told the parents to fuck off and that they were horrible human beings for keeping their children up so late.

But we still gave them candy.

Only because my ass can’t handle anymore chocolate. Or at least my jeans can’t.

Halloween ain’t no joke, and neither are my thighs after all that candy.

Happy Halloween.

Thank God it’s over.

I mean, it’s okay for now, but in, say, a year or more I’m going to have kids and won’t I want to devote my energy to them?

Wait. Did I just say that?

That sounded entirely too adult-like.

Let me redeem myself by showing an outfit that is probably entirely too teeny-bopper-like:

Oh, and did I mention that I made this myself? I mean, sure, I bought the dress at the store, but it used to be a bubble skirt and I totally talked my sister-in-law to un-bubbling it for me. Plus, I sewed the seam in a straighter line so that it didn’t poof out so dramatically.

Which is the basically the same thing as my having made the dress.

Finally, after more than a year, that damn sewing machine seems like a good investment.

Wonder if there’s time for me to sew myself a costume before that party I’m going to tomorrow night? Hmmmm…..

Happy Friday!

Just sayin’.

The biggest annoyance is her stalkerism via emails and promotions. I’d say I get somewhere in the vicinity of 4 emails a week leading me to believe that paying a gazillion dollars for a bra is hot. But don’t worry, there’s a 10% discount that ends THIS SUNDAY so I better buy now.

I fell for it the first 10 times, but I’m no sucker. I get it now. There’s always a sale. Plus I’ll always be short. Thus, buying the Miracle Bra has failed to make me grow a foot or lose the 80 pounds it would take to be that hot.

Let’s face it: they’ll never call me The Body or give me my own talk show in which I talk endlessly about myself and tell people to kiss my fat ass. (Plus, I don’t speak that much German and my ass might really be fat.)

In short: I’ll never look like that.

But it’s a nice thought.

So this bitch? This bitch will continue to buy $20 bras at Target. Because what’s hot is not succumbing to something that makes me feel inferior.

Or whatever.

Peace.

Yeah, because, you know, if I woke up looking like that, my first thought would definitely be “I wonder if i should go to work?” and NOT “What the fuck happened last night, and why do I suddenly look like Jennifer Love-Hewitt?”

At this point, I would like the to thank the CDC for telling me that, in this siutation, I should just stay home. Trust and believe: this bitch WILL STAY HOME.

Happy Hump Day.

My newest gig is waking up in the 4 o’clock hour sans alarm. Of course, I also go to bed before 9. I’m pretty sure this means I’m lame. Or just really, really old.

Which I can totally handle. I mean, I grew up in Utah, so I’m already a fan of Jello, and fuck yeah do I want discounts on my Village Inn breakfast.

Only….am I still allowed to use the word “fuck” now that I’m old? And is it still acceptable that I wear Lycra? Because I refuse to bike without it.

Also, I refuse to wear heels with polyester pants and a track jacket. That’s not really my style. Give me a GD mumu, I’m all over that noise. Plus, now that I’m old, I don’t think it matters how much cellulite is on my ass, so bring on the chocolate cake.

I might also be able to get away with forgetting things like going to work on Monday mornings or bathing myself.

In summary, I think I like being old. The perks far outweigh the negatives, which include such things as having to wear a diaper. All that means is that I don’t have to stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I can just pee in place.

This is a win-win situation.

Life is sweet. Peace out.

Which, even though we have to buy costumes, is probably cheaper in the long run. Our GD neighborhood is, apparently, considered “fancy”, so kids far and wide flock to it in hopes of getting good candy. Pretty sure our house is getting egged this year. Which is just as well, because it will match the egg from, like 3 years ago that we haven’t bothered to wash off.

Now who’s fancy?

So we went to a costume store to find costumes, and I’ve realized my choices of costumes are endless: slutty nurse, slutty cop, whoreish bartender, sexy bumble bee…..the list goes on and on.

It’s obvious what I need to dress up as this Halloween.

A witch. And, contrary to popular practice, I’m not going to slut it out. I hate being cliche.

Now excuse me while I go hop in my SUV, hit Starbucks, and have 2.5 kids.

Happy Monday!

I just can’t be bothered with the little details in life.

So fall in San Diego raises whole new issues with me. It’s hot here, unless you count my scooter ride to work in the morning, in which case the weather more closely resembles Siberia or Hilary Clinton’s vagina: cold and unwelcoming.

So, then, like, I don’t know what to wear. I have to wear something that I won’t sweat my balls off in, but if I wear shorts or a sundress, I’ll freeze on my way to work.

I have come up with the perfect solution. Last year, forgetting that I was 30 and not 12, I bought some leg warmers. And then I completely chickened out on wearing them.

But I’m here to tell you that leg warmers, when used in the following way, are completely acceptable on an adult:

Oh yeah, that’s hot stuff right there. If only I hadn’t temporarily misplaced (allegedly lost) my black skull scarf. Then this look would be complete and scream “I’m desperate to reclaim my youth but, Goddamit, I’m warm.”

Oh, well.

It’s Friday, bitches!