200 posts later...

... and I'm still alive and kicking. Sort of. Can we all just pretend this isn't my 200th post? Not that I'm any good at celebrating these sorts of things, in blogger world or the real world. If it weren't for Twin, I would never remember anyone's birthday, and forget about anniversaries. You're on your own with those.

And while I'm on the topic of birthdays, one of the cutest little boys in the whole entire world just had his first birthday. Yup, that's right, little Benny Bugger just turned one. Happy Birthday, Benny Bugger. Sorry I couldn't be there for the festivities.

He likes cake.

And check out the sweet cakes my sister made for Benny Bugger. (One was for his real birthday, and the other was for his birthday party with friends and family. My sister is one of those moms who wouldn't let her sons have cake until their first birthday. Don't judge her. I think it's cute.)

The concept was good, but the execution could have been cleaner.

Coolest cake ever.

I'm sure my sis would want you to know that the first cake was designed by big bro', Owen, who's 3. I think he was in charge of the sprinkles. I'm extremely impressed by the second cake, which I heard only took a mere 4 hours to make. And here I thought she lacked cake making talent. Or maybe she just told me that so I would make her cakes for her. Guess who'll be making her own cakes from now on?

In other birthday news, the G-Man had his birthday this past weekend. He decided a night in Alexandria with a bunch of friends was the way to celebrate. So a bunch of us got a few hotel rooms in Alexandria on Friday night, and we all got gloriously wasted. Or maybe that was just me. But check out the sweet room. I love the picture above the bed. Much better than your typical hotel art.

I totally dive-bombed this bed. Multiple times.
And then I had to stop because I hurt myself.

In related news. You know how I'm super coordinated and totally classy? Of course you do. Well, remember how I had that gnarly toe injury not that long ago? Well guess what? I did it again. Yup. I stubbed my toe up pretty good Friday night, and if it weren't for that previous toe injury, which happened in the safety of a bedroom, while I was sober, I would totally blame the alcohol and the uneven sidewalks of Alexandria. But, also seeing as I had tripped on the uneven bricks earlier in the evening, before any alcohol was consumed, well, I don't think I can blame the alcohol. But maybe I can blame the sidewalks. Or maybe not. I am, after all, the kind of person who takes one thing off of a shelf in the closet and then has eight other things come crashing down on my head. Or the kind of person whose ten lb. purse falls on my head while using the restroom in Target (don't ask).

And since I am in a sharing kind of mood, I have a picture to share with you.

WARNING: PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYES IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH AND/OR CAN'T TOLERATE PICTURES THAT SHOW:

a) TOES
b) GENERAL GROSSNESS
c) TOENAILS IN DESPERATE NEED OF A NEW PAINT JOB or
d) ALL OF THE ABOVE

YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. SERIOUSLY, LOOK AWAY. DON'T GO ANY FURTHER. I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST LUNCHES.

In all its glory, I present to you, my new toe injury...

 

You can click on it to enlarge it. You know you want to.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Wait, haven't we seen this toe injury before?" Well, no, you haven't, but you have seen this toe injured before. And it is quite similar to the last injury, but it is, in fact, a brand new injury. And because I'm in such a good mood today and don't want to make you work too hard (it is Monday, after all), here's a pic of the last toe injury for comparison.

And because you're not grossed out enough (Wait, is there anyone left reading this?), I must add that the new toe injury had two skin flaps that needed to be removed as well as some gravel, some mashed up toenail, and a fuzzy. And there was blood. Lots of blood.

And my birthday gift to the G-Man? He got to clean my toe up on Friday. And then I let him pick gravel out of it with tweezers. Hey, after last year's present, a lousy flying lesson, in a real plane and everything, I knew I had to step it up this year (hee hee. Get it? Step it up? Well, I thought it was funny). And really, what man wouldn't prefer bloody appendages over a flying lesson?

And for the few of you who made it through this travesty I call my 200th post... thanks. Here's hoping I have enough shit to talk about for another 200 posts.

"Oh, that's classy"

Oh my god. I lost a follower. What the hell? This isn't really doing much for my self-esteem or my state-of-mind. I mean, we all know how fragile I've been lately, right? You know, being unemployed, practically friendless, possibly homeless...

I mean, really, I'm already on my way to becoming a full-fledged drunk. I'm about one-step away from taking up residency on a street corner and drinking with bums. 

How did this happen? What did I do? Why? WHY?

Was it all my gangrene toe pics? My rants about being sans toilet paper? Am I swearing too much? Am I not being funny enough? It's hard to be funny when you're in the deep, dark hole of depression. Did someone just realize that I'm not as sweet and innocent as they initially thought? I mean, that's fine. I'm used to that. Happens to me all the time.

I kind of wish there were some sort of exit interview whenever you want to stop following a blog. That would be great. I would fill it out. You know, like when I stopped following that one blog, I would have answered,

"I stopped following you because you stopped posting. My blog roll was getting a bit long, and I needed to clean house. End of story." 

Or that time I stopped following that other blog, I would have said,  

"You're blog has become a pimp. When I first started following you, you talked about your interesting life. Now all you do is pimp out products that you review so you can get them for free. If I was interested in that sort of thing, I'd watch QVC."

I mean, when you dump a person you usually give a reason, right? When you stop being friends with someone (in the real world) there's usually a reason, right? When you stop talking to your family members you usually have a reason, right?

At any rate, I lost a follower, but on the bright side, I gained two, so I guess the world just righted itself (the rejection still stings though).

On another note...

I attended that fancy* little award ceremony I told you all about... alone, because I'm cool like that. Everyone else had family-type people there and significant others and what not. Not me though. I went stag. It wasn't really that big of an issue for me, at least not until we got to the point in the ceremony where you had to go up to shake the hand of the President,** accept your piece of paper, pause, and smile so your proud parents could take a gazillion photos of you.

Graduates all around me were going up to accept their awards, parents and boyfriends were rushing down the aisles to capture their baby's shining moment, *flash*! *flash*! *flash*!

That is, until... they announced... my name. I hobbled down to the front of the room, well aware of  the fact that all eyes were on me, at which point I wished I had taken the time to iron my skirt and done something more with my hair. Then the President grabbed my hand with his death-grip-I-refuse-to-let-you-go handshake, forcing me to pause, flashing his cheesy smile, and I was all like,

"Dude. What are you trying to do to me here? Do you see anyone rushing down for this photo op? No. Do you see any bright lights going off? No. Please, let's not drag this out. Everyone's looking at me. Just let go of my hand and let me slink back to my seat."

Not that I was in any rush to get back to my seat. I had the great luck of sitting next to this professor who was vaguely familiar looking, but not someone I actually knew. After we exchanged pleasantries she pointed to my bandaged toe and said,  

"Oh, that's nice."  

You know, in a very snooty, mocking tone of voice, kind of like she was thinking, 

"Oh, that's nice, you're at an award ceremony where you're going to be shaking hands with the President of the college and you chose to wear sandals with your nasty, bandaged toe hanging out?"

I then felt the need to defend my toe as well as my choice of footwear. I mean, it took me two hours to decide on an outfit that was business casual and would look okay with the only pair of fancy sandals I own because my toe refused to be shoved into a pair of closed-toe shoes. So, back off, lady, back off!

To top it all off, I hadn't had time to make coffee that morning so I was suffering from the worst headache in the history of caffeine withdrawl. Needless to say, as soon as the thing was over, I hightailed it out of there.

Oh, but the embarrassment wasn't over yet... 

As I was making my way to the arts building to clean my office out, Mother Nature decided to send a nice big gust of wind my way, snatching my award out of my hands and blowing it far, far away from me. And yes, I then became that person, desperately chasing that elusive piece of paper down the sidewalk in giant leaps and bounds, all the while trying not to land on my toe (or the award) because not only did it still hurt from the previous wound, but I had also managed to cut the bottom of the same toe on the corner of a table-top easel while getting dressed earlier in the day. I know what you're thinking***, "For the love of god, why weren't you wearing shoes?" Oh, but I was. As luck would have it, that easel managed to maneuver its corner in between my shoe and my toe just as I was stepping down. Stupid luck.

At any rate, here I am, in the 90° heat, chasing my award down the sidewalk like a crippled gazelle (I was going to use antelope, but gazelle just sounds more graceful, which of course, I am), cursing the wind for its mischievous antics, trying desperately to hold my skirt down, all the while getting more and more annoyed because every time that dang paper was in reach, the wind whipped it out of my way again.

Finally, the award came to rest, wrapped around the legs of some poor passerby. As I'm peeling the paper off and wiping the sweat from my face, I hear,  

"Oh, that's classy." 

I look up, brushing my disheveled hair from my eyes, and wouldn't you know it, it's the same professor I was seated next to during the ceremony.

Sonofabitch. Well yeah, lady, it just so happens I am the epitome of class. Obviously she doesn't read my blog, or she would know this. Whatever. I just earned my Masters degree and I'm an Outstanding graduate, so back off, lady, back the fuck off!

* They had chocolate covered strawberries, cannolis, a cheese tray AND a punch bowl filled with cranberry juice. Nice.

** Incidentally, there were some graduates who hugged the President when accepting their awards. What kind of nerd do you have to be to be on a hugging-basis with the President of the college?

*** Actually, you were probably thinking, "How the hell did you manage to step on a table-top easel?" Good question. As it happens, everything that I own that belongs somewhere other than on the floor is currently on the floor of my room.