6 Trends I'd Like to See Die in 2011

    

1. Mustaches. Enough already. Yeah, they were amusing for a bit, but now? It's time to move on. Let's leave the 'staches for the funky grandpas and Burt Reynolds. 

Men's Facial Hair Trend I'd Like to See in 2011: Bushy eyebrows. 

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2. Bacon. Personally, I love bacon. As a food. Do I want to wear it/sleep on it/hang it on my wall/become friends with it on Facebook? No. Can we please put bacon back where it belongs? In the frying pan.

Meat Trend I'd Like to See for 2011: Purchasing locally raised meat and poultry from independently owned farms.

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3. Cupcakes. Honestly, I liked cupcakes better before they were trendy. They were quick. They were easy. And you didn't feel guilty after eating one like you would after eating a mongo slice of cake. I'm happy the world is finally getting over them so I can now enjoy them again.

Baked Good Trend I'd Like to See in 2011: Cup-pies, à la Chuck's cute little desserts from Pushing Daisies.

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4. Skinny Jeans. Let's call an orange an orange, shall we? These are restyled tapered jeans. They weren't cool in the 80s/90s and they sure as sh*t aren't cool now. And unless you have the body of a tween, you're not going to be able to pull these things off. No, you're not. And if you think you are, you're friends are lying to you.

     

Jean Trend I'd Like to See in 2011: Jeans made from 100% cotton.

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5. Pajamas as Clothing. This has been an ongoing hot topic, and as long as I continue to see adults wearing their pjs in public, I'm going to continue to be against it. Wearing your jammies all day while hungover and in the safety of your own home? Okay. Wearing them outside of said home? Not okay.

Intimates Trend I'd Like to See: Slips (worn as they were meant to be worn, as undergarments, not clothing).

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6. Longer, Shaggier Hair on Men. This trend has been around long before that twit, Justin Bieber (my nephew has been rocking it for years). I say enough already! Go get a damn haircut already! (You look like a girl).

Men's Hair Trend I'd Like to See in 2011: The powdered wig.

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What trends would you like to send to the grave?

In Which I Was Almost Raped and Murdered in the Produce Aisle.

  

(but not really.)

Picture this...

It's Sunday evening, around 7:00pm. I had finally mustered up the ambition to tackle the dreaded chore of grocery shopping [shudder]. I drove down the road, (about 3 blocks) to the nearest grocery store. Let's call it The Flower of a Plant (in an attempt to avoid traffic to my blog from people googling coupons for their local store. It's bad enough these phrases keep sending people my way: "swimming pool ass crack," "tater tots and whiskey shots ain't much of a menu lyric," and, my all time favorite, "blonde puke". But I digress).

Not the store I went to

I pulled into the parking lot, which looked relatively empty. I happily parked my car, far enough away from the store to not feel lazy, but close enough to not dread the walk back. I double checked for the necessities- shopping list, wallet and cell, before exiting the vehicle. With everything safe and secure, I proceeded to the entrance of the store. 

The following is a reenactment of the inner dialogue running through my head during my grocery shopping experience.

"Well, this is nice. I guess it won't be so bad. Doesn't look like it will be crowded at all."

"Oh look. That man is about to put his cart in the corral. Maybe he'll offer it to me instead."

"Or maybe not. That was a weird look he gave me. Whatever. I'll just get a cart when I get inside. Wow, grocery shopping might actually be okay tonight."

"Huh. There are quite a few people hanging out front of the entrance. That's weird. Whatever. Maybe they're all waiting for someone to bring the car around."

"Huh. So I guess I just have to weave my way around them to get into the store. That's a little inconsiderate. Whatever."

"Wait. Why are they all looking at me? Weird. Is my flannel showing? I knew I should have changed first."

"Man. That one lady was huge."

"Alright, time to get my cart... off to the produce section... where is the produce section? Oh! There it is! Wow, it sure is tiny. That's what she said! Ha! Score."

"There sure are a lot of men shopping late at night. But... uh... they don't have any carts, and they're not carrying anything... that sure is odd. Wait a minute. Are they looking at me? Why are they looking at me?"

"Wait. Is that man approaching me? Phew. No, he's just headed for the grapes."

The preferred fruit of sexual predators

"Grapes? What man goes into the store for just grapes? Huh. That's odd. Wait. Is he approaching me now? Oh, phew. No, he's just looking at the apples. Just... like... I'm looking at the apples... okay... time to move on..."

"Whoa. Where did those men come from? They weren't in the produce aisle a moment ago. And they're not even looking at the food. They're looking at me! Uh... next aisle, next aisle!"

"Phew. It's empty. Now, what was it I needed in this aisle again...? Oh, right... Pickles!"

"What the hell? Is that the same guy with the grapes? Did he...? Did he just walk by and look down this aisle? Ack! There he goes again."

"Okay. Okay. I'm just being paranoid. It's been a long day. I'm tired..."

"Wait a minute... now I know those men aren't shopping for anything, and I know they're just standing around looking at me. This is totally freaky. What else is on this list? How many more aisles? Maybe if I just move on, they'll go away"

"Phew. It worked. Time to get the chicken and ground turkey..."

As I was browsing the poultry, an employee from the meat department approached me. In broken English, he asked, "Uh... where you from?"

"What the fuck? What does he mean, where am I from? What kind of question is that."

I looked up from the chicken breasts, and answered, "Uh, down the street?" It was at this moment that I really took a look around me. Standing a little ways down were three to four Hispanic men, just milling around and talking to each other. As I looked around the rest of the store, I noticed that most of the other customers were also Hispanic men. 

And this is when my newly discovered racist gene took over.

"Oh shit. I... don't think... I... belong here. Where are all the women? Fuck, where are all the white people? No wonder everyone's looking at me. The fluorescent lights are probably reflecting off of me in a way they're not used to seeing around here. Fuck."

"Okay, I just need to get the milk and the yogurt and the cheese..."

"Fuck. I forgot the bagels. Bagels be damned, I'm not going back for them."

"Fuuuuuck. I forgot the beer. Whatever. Tonight we drink whiskey."

Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.

And then, in surprisingly record-breaking speed, and as calmly as possible, I finished my grocery shopping, terrified of disturbing the locals, all while enduring the looks that my paranoid imagination viewed as hostile and quite possibly deadly. 

I hurried to the parking lot and threw the bags into my car, oblivious to the delicate cans-on-the-bottom-bread-on-the-top grocery bag loading strategy. And then I drove away as fast as my little car would let me.

****************************************

After relaying my experience to a co-worker the following day, she had this to say, "Yeah, aside from One Who Visits Stores in Search of Merchandise or Bargains, The Flower of a Plant is the worst grocery store to go to. My husband won't even let me go there alone. You should go to A Person or Thing of Great Size, that's the white people store."

And this is why the G-Man will be responsible for all the grocery shopping from now on.

(p.s. Remember when the only thing I had to worry about on my trips to the grocery store was whether or not the bum on the corner had peanut allergies? I kind of sort of miss that.)

Got Me Some Tickets to That There Gun Show

Since you've all Steve G.'s been dying to hear about the gun show I attended on Saturday, here ya go. (FYI- I didn't take any of these pictures. I had my camera with me but I was too afraid to take it out. Some pics were taken from the gun show's website. Others were swiped from Google images.)

Last Saturday I attended The Nation's Gun Show in Chantilly, VA with the G-Man. I knew that there wasn't even a tiny fraction of me that wanted to go to the gun show. I knew that it would be painful and torturous and would come quite close to being as horrific as that awful time I was dragged to InfoComm in Orlando last year. Boy was I ever wrong. The Nation's Gun Show was a hundred times worse than InfoComm where at least they had flashy lights to distract me, TVs to entertain me, and AV geeks to ogle after me. And there was free booze and food and an entirely free, catered party at the Hard Rock Cafe to get smashed at. And when I had had enough of the actual InfoComm event (and I was only there for an hour) I was able to sit by the pool for the rest of the week. Heck. I even got to go to Sea World. The Nation's Gun Show? Not so much fun.

The gun show was loaded.

First of all, I was told that we wouldn't be at the show for long, which in my mind, meant no more than an hour. In reality it meant that we were there for an hour and a half, made it through only half of the show, took a break for a late lunch, and then returned for another hour and a half for the rest of the show. To say that it was the worst experience of my life might be stretching it a bit, but not by much. For the ease of reading, I've broken down the highlights and lowlights of the gun show into some handy dandy lists.

 If only it were this empty when we were there. Whatever. It still would have sucked.

Things That Shocked Me About the Gun Show

1. It cost $12 per adult to get in (I did not pay for my ticket).
2. People were walking around with guns slung over their shoulders.
3. People were walking around with descriptions of said guns taped to their bodies in case anyone was interested in buying them.
4. There was a lot of Nazi paraphernalia. I mean, a lot.
5. I didn't get hit on at all. Not once. (This is a good thing. Usually at events where there are a lot of a particular kind of man in attendance all women get hit on).
6. There were very few women in attendance.
7. Most of the women in attendance were pregnant.
8. There was very little camo.
9. There were a lot of American Eagle polo shirts.

 Apparently there's a large market for Nazi souvenirs.

 

Things That I Hated About the Gun Show

1. My claustrophobia kicked into high gear.
2. As a result of my claustrophobia, my anxiety level was through the roof.
3. It was impossible to walk around with out bumping into at least three other people while doing so.
4. There were a lot of overweight men there.
5. There was a lot of body odor.
6. There was a lot of man cleavage.
7. There was a lot of butt cleavage.
8. I'm pretty sure there were Klan members in attendance.
9. I'm pretty sure everyone there were McCain and Palin supporters (well, maybe not Palin, she is a woman after all, and the only place a woman should be is in the kitchen).
10. I'm pretty sure there were many wife beaters in attendance.
11. We were told that New York was a communist state (actually, I wasn't told this, the G-Man was, as no one at the show spoke to or looked directly at me. Good times).

 This guy probably wasn't there, but if he had been, I'm sure he would have fit right in.

Things That Entertained Me About the Gun Show

1. People watching.
2. Identifying the serial killers.
3. Being ignored by every single vendor there.
4. Not having to feign interest in anything people were selling.

DUE TO PUBLIC SAFETY ISSUES AND INSURANCE REQUIREMENTS, THERE WILL BE NO LOADED GUNS, OR MAGAZINES, ALLOWED ON THE SHOW FLOOR. THIS APPLIES TO VENDORS AS WELL AS THE GENERAL PUBLIC. SORRY, BUT WITHOUT MEETING THE INSURANCE REQUIREMENTS THE SHOW CANNOT GO ON, AND AS MUCH AS WE MIGHT AGREE ( or disagree ) WITH YOUR OBJECTIONS, WE MUCH PREFER TO CONTINUE THE SHOW IN SPITE OF THIS SMALL INCONVENIENCE. THIS MATTER IS NOT OUR POLICY OR DECISION, BUT WE CANNOT AND WILL NOT CHANGE IT OR MAKE EXCEPTIONS.     

The gun show Word of Caution

  

The place was packed, folks. I mean, wall-to-wall rednecks/meat heads/douchebags. I spent most of the time trying to find quiet little corners of empty space among the vendors' booths to hide in. In fact, the entire time we were there, I touched a total of two things (three if you count madly clutching my purse. Four if you count madly gripping the back of the G-Man's shirt lest I be sucked into a sea of overweight, stinky, Republicans)- 1) a collection of wartime advertisements and 2) a beautiful dragonfly fabric some gun vendor was using as a table cloth.

The only thing I was interested in at the gun show. The vendor probably thought I was a weirdo.

It would probably come as no surprise to you all that I insisted we get out of there ASAP. If I never attend another gun show in my life, it will be too soon.

Facebook may be my downfall.

I'm sure it will come as no surprise to everyone that my weekends are usually filled with some pretty wild and crazy moments. Many of these moments I would prefer not to relive as they usually involve liquor-fueled antics of Lindsay Lohan magnitude. Of course, I have no problem taming things down a bit for small weekend recaps on this here blog, but it's okay, most of you don't know me IRL, meaning you weren't witness to my weekend shenanigans and therefore I can reveal as little or as much of my shameful behavior to you as I choose. And I am A-okay with that.

Unfortunately, there's this thing that exists now called Facebook. I'm currently involved in a love/hate relationship with Facebook. When I first joined Facebook, it was at the insistence of my sisters and my grad school classmates. Facebook was a great place for me to keep in touch with my sisters, and it was a great place for my grad school chums and I to have open discussions with each other and vent about the horrors of grad school. Of course, then Facebook became a place to reconnect with old high school friends and old college friends and old co-workers and new acquaintances, and so on and so on. 

Where I used to find myself logging on to check out new pics of my nephews or see what important deadline I may have missed, I now find myself logging on to conduct damage control.* For some bizarre reason, there are people out there (mostly females) who like to bring cameras with them everywhere and document everything they do. It is inevitable that at least one of these people will cross paths with me on the weekends. Unfortunately. In any social situation I'm involved in, I find myself making mental notes of who has cameras/phones, and wondering, "are they friends with me on Facebook"? That way, come Monday morning, when I'm feeling like a living, breathing human being again, I can jump onto Facebook and untag myself in all the incriminating pics, and pray to God that very few of my Facebook friends saw them. 

I am not naive enough to think that people IRL are unaware of my extracurricular activities, but that does not mean that I want everyone and their brothers to know. Believe it or not, it is very important to me to have people respect me. They don't need to like me, but respect me? Yes, please. And nothing can eat away more quickly at someone's respect than a drunken photo. True story. 

There are many different aspects of my life. There are some aspects of my life that I would like to keep separate from each other. I tend to be a very private person (this blog being the exception), and when it comes to the things I do IRL being shared with everyone I know, well, I believe less is more. Unfortunately, Facebook makes this harder and harder to do. For example, my former grad school classmates know me as an intelligent, hard working, respectful, kick-ass art teacher. And yes, they also know that I like to let loose on the weekends, but they have never been witness to my really wild moments, and I would like to keep it this way. These people are my colleagues, my peers. Someday they may even help me to get a job. Someday they may even be my co-workers. I would like to keep their respect.

Unfortunately, not everyone out there thinks the way that I do. There are people who have no problem posting hundreds of pics of themselves drunk and dancing on bar tops. There are people out there who have no problem letting the world know that their lovey-dovey, hunny-bunny, sweetie-pie just came back from work and they're so excited to have them home. I am not one of these people. Of course, I am only human, and from time to time I am prone to a loss of good judgment, resulting in over-sharing on Facebook as well, but these moments are few and far between. I work very hard to try and control what aspects of my life are known to those who barely know me, those who used to know me, those who know me well, and those who know me too well. 

Information and dirt is readily available to anyone who knows where to find it. People are getting fired all the time for Facebook pictures. In fact, this past semester, we had an angry school call our office, demanding to have a student teacher removed from their school because students had found pictures of her posing in a bikini on the internet. They didn't want someone like that in their school. This was mortifying to me because I couldn't imagine how awful that poor girl felt, but what I found to be even more mortifying was that Boss Lady immediately jumped on the web to search for the pics. After she found them, she immediately emailed the link to numerous friends and colleagues, exclaiming, "Can you believe how stupid this student teacher is?" The poor girl has probably had her career ruined before it even began and has now become a bit of a celebrity in our tiny little world.

Embarrassing pics of celebrities can be found everywhere. And when celebs cry to be left alone and go to great lengths to keep their lives private, people inevitably rebut, this is the price you pay to be famous. No one thinks twice about the damage they are doing to others when they gleefully snap away photos of drunk celebs, half-naked celebs, celebs fighting, celebs sans underwear, and so on and so on. 

But what about those of us who aren't celebrities? What about those of us who didn't sign up for full disclosure of our personal lives? How do we keep our antics off the internet and hidden from the world? In a day and age where everyone has digital cameras and iPhones and camera phones and speedy internet access, can we expect our lives to truly remain private?

* I understand that my crazy antics will have to be brought under control, and probably the sooner the better. But regardless, my behavior does not give anyone permission to tag me in every embarrassing photo of me. Thank you very much.

Microwave mishaps -or- How my MacGyver skills created Nutella, or something like that.

 

Lately, the microwave and I have not been friends. I don't know why, but for some reason the microwave, who up until recently took four hours to heat a cup of coffee, is now burning all my shit. Like the time it burned the cheese I was melting on top of a plate of nachos (Mmmm... nachos...). Or the time the spinney-plate-thing wouldn't spin and half my bag of Pop-Secret became a smoldering popcorn ball of burntness. Or the time it used some microwave voo-doo to produce a burnt, sugary tumor in the center of the peanut butter chips I was melting (okay, that one may have been my fault). Or the time it set fire to the paper towel I was using as a splatter cloth while I was heating up some soup. 

See? Not friends. So really, I shouldn't have been too surprised when what I'm about to tell you happened.

Remember last week when I was all PMS-ey? Well, I was totally jonesing for some chocolate, and since I was determined not to leave the house and have to deal with the public, I had to make do with what was in the house (can I just interject here and talk about how shocked I am that I live with 5 other females and there is never, ever any chocolate in this house? I mean seriously, what gives?). 

Long story short, the only chocolate I could scrounge up was the container of chocolate chips that my landlord uses for his vegan cookies. He also happens to have two containers of peanut butter chips. So, I took a handful of one, and then I took a handful of the other and dumped them into a little cup. Well, at this point, my eyes happened upon the scant amount of cinnamon-sugar I had leftover from breakfast and immediately thought, "Sweet! Cinnamon-sugar dusted peanut butter and chocolate chips would so hit the spot right now!" So I poured it over the chips and mixed that shit up bartender style.

(Source)

It only took a few shakes for me to realize that the cinnamon-sugar was not coating my chips like I had envisioned. After a few seconds of MacGyver-type trouble-shooting problem-solving thinking, I concluded that my best option would be to nuke the chips for a few seconds to moisten them up, which of course, would allow the cinnamon-sugar to adhere better. I. Am. A. Genius.

I bet you know where this is headed already, right? Yeah, so I popped the mug o' chips into the 'wave and hit the 30-second auto button ('cause it's easier). My slightly ADD-brain proceeded to take me on a tour through the freezer and refrigerator looking for god-only-knows what, completely forgetting about the mug o' chips. Until the inevitable beep-beep-beep sounded. 

Crap!

If you know anything about chocolate and peanut butter chips and their relationship with the microwave, then you know that nuking them for 30 seconds is a tad extreme when your goal is to moisten your chips. I knew this and I had every intention to stop the microwave at 10-15 seconds, but like I said before, my ADD-brain took over and I lost focus. 

Needless to say, I proceeded to melt the chips, mix them up and created my own, slightly different, version of Nutella. I then slathered it on some bread and made myself a sandwich. In case you're wondering, it wasn't all that great. Peanut butter and chocolate chips are all well and good when eaten by hand, as god intended, but as a spreadable spread, with cinnamon and sugar mixed in? Not so much. Too decadent, in my opinion.

So, in conclusion...

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+

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=

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and inevitably, this will follow...

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Sometimes the party takes you places that you didn't really plan on going*

                      

Which is exactly why I will not be writing about my weekend shenanigans. Instead I will give you a quick synopsis:

There were vegan cookies and "foul bowels."** 
There was good food, bad conversation and awkwardness. 

There were old friends, new friends and Rock Band. 

There were bad movies, bad hangovers and bad pizza. 

There were shots of whiskey, glasses of wine and Russian beer. 

There was a pretty skirt, a pretty dress and dirty boots.
There was birthday cake, bruschetta and endive.

There were all-time new lows reached, new experiences had and old habits revisited. 

There was no thesis writing. 

There were tears (but not many).

There were bumps and bruises, scrapes and muscle soreness.

There was a ¢25 Blizzard from Dairy Queen®.

          

(Source)

* Brought to you by "Thrash Unreal" by Against Me! (Source)
** Thanks for my new fave phrase, Krissy Sue!

I finally crossed the line...

     

...and became THAT person. Yeah, that's right, I committed the cardinal sin of FWI... Facebooking While Intoxicated.

Typically, I'm pretty good at drinking and living at the same time. This is because I usually stick with alcohol that I KNOW I can handle. Like beer. And wine. And whiskey. The moment I stray from my tried and true and trusted, all hell breaks loose. 

(Um, dear Sister, and you know who you are, if you're reading this, please be warned that I am about to disclose some information that may shock and appall you. You may not want to continue reading. Or maybe you do. Maybe at this point in our lives the things you learn about me no longer disgust you. Who knows, but you've been warned. Proceed at your own risk.)

I've done some pretty embarrassing and shameful things while intoxicated, and 9 times out of 10, these things occurred during a liquor*-induced black-out (LIBO). I try to avoid my danger drinks at all cost, but every now and again, all good sense disappears and I venture from my safe zone. Again, this doesn't happen that frequently, maybe two or three (or maybe four) times a year, give or take a few. 

The fallout from these ventures is usually so devastating that I'm shamed into refraining from liquor consumption for months. I may or may not have lost a job as a result of a LIBO. I may or may not have had to move out of town because of a LIBO. I may or may not have lost acquaintances who had the potential of becoming good friends because I was too embarrassed to look them in the face as a result of a LIBO. And since, once upon a time, someone told me that 3 is a good number to use when giving examples, I'll stop there. 

So, back to my FWI... My good friend from NYC, SMos**, is staying with me this week while she camps out in our school's library for twelve-hour thesis writing sessions. I'm happy to have her here because it reminds me that I'm not suffering alone in thesis writing hell. Plus, I miss having a good friend around who I can really talk to. Well, after two days of typing, typing, typing, our tired and burnt-out brains decided that it would be a GREAT IDEA to have MARGARITAS, yaaaaaaaaaay!!

(I must inform you, tequila and I have a very rocky history. It would be fair to say that tequila is numero uno on my list of danger drinks. Scratch that, it's numero dos. Van Gogh Vodka is number one. That shit is crazy!!! For whatever reason, when SMos suggested margaritas, I really thought this was the best idea I had ever heard of, tequila be damned!)

Seeing as how neither one of us has ever made margaritas before (you would think two experienced drinkers in their early thirties would have, at some point in time, learned how to make a margarita. Yeah.... no.) we picked up a pre-made mix*** and a 10 oz bottle of tequila (in hind-sight, this could have been the flaw in our plan).

Alright, so fast forward to 3 am when we're out of booze, have probably pissed off all my roommates, and we're drunk to the point where we've been over sharing with each other for the last two hours. No more booze = bedtime. I'm secretly thrilled that I'm still well aware of my surroundings, can carry on a conversation and, most importantly, have not slipped into a LIBO. I'm thinking my reintroduction to tequila ain't going so badly. So I stumble into my bedroom, strip, hop into bed and fall fast asleep.

Or so I thought. 

Imagine it's about 9:00am, I'm seriously hungover, or, more accurately, still drunk, and I know there's no chance in hell I'm doing anything that day that I can't do while simultaneously enjoying the comfort of my bed. I assess my body for damages and discover only one mystery bruise, one mystery scrape but plenty of mysterious muscle soreness. I reflect on the evening and am psyched that I can recollect going to bed, so I conclude that despite the aforementioned mysteries, nothing went down last night to cause me any concern. I pull out my laptop and decide to check in with the world, all the while super proud of myself for NOT making an ass of myself the previous evening****. 

Then I log on to Facebook... and there it is. Evidence that I did not in fact fall fast asleep but, in fact, at some point between hopping into bed and traveling off to dreamland, I slipped into the LIBO and not only logged onto Facebook, but I also decided to profess my friend-love for a long-time male friend and beg for someone to hire me because, as I so eloquently put it, I'M A DAMN GOOD TEACHER. I also felt the need to inform the Facebook world that not only was I drunk, but my dear Sister would be disappointed in me if she knew, so Shhhh... don't tell her. Ugh! I embarrass me. 

Thankfully, my long-time friend is well aware of my drunken antics and actually expressed his amazement at my ability to not only drunk-post with NO grammatical or spelling errors, but to still manage to use big words and sound gosh-darn intelligent. Despite his praise, my shame got the best of me, and I quickly deleted that shit, praying that the Facebook world chose to sleep in that morning and thus were unaware of my talent at FWI+.

* whiskey excluded. For some weird, freakish reason, I can drink this stuff all night and not experience an LIBO.

** identity concealed in order to spare her the shame and embarrassment of being associated with me.

 *** which, by the way, already contains liquor. We knew this, but in all our infinite wisdom, we KNEW the mix would not be potent enough for the kind of drunk we were hoping for.

**** I know what you're thinking. How much of an ass can I make out of myself when I'm drinking with a good friend in the safety of my own kitchen? Oh, trust me, one can make a HUGE ass of oneself in that situation.

+ but seeing as how it was Friday morning, the odds of this being true were pretty slim.

                  
UPDATE: It seems I also managed to send a message via Facebook while I was FWI. I'm so proud of myself, really, I am. The fallout from the drunk messaging wasn't so bad, in fact, it resulted in a discussion that needed to be had. So all-in-all, everything is A-okay! (Curiously enough, it didn't even occur to the recipient of the drunk message that I was under the influence at the time, despite the 4 am time stamp. Evidently, I am quite articulate while drunk in the wee hours of the morning. Good for me... I think.)

I ain't no fool. And it's not my month.

  

I desperately plead of you, future parents, please, for the love of all that is good and holy, please, please take your child into consideration before you name him or her. Think about the fact that he or she will need to live with this name for his or her ENTIRE LIFE. Neglecting to do so may result in your child resenting his or her name for his or her ENTIRE LIFE and quite possibly resenting you in the process.

Trust me on this one. I know. Sticking your child with an unfortunate name will have horrendous consequences. Not for you, but for your child. Say, for example, you name him or her after a month (this is purely hypothetical, of course), your child may have to suffer through a lifetime of exchanges and bad jokes quite similar to the following (not that I would know. I'm just saying.)...

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? It's not April. It's June!"

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? It's not April. It's October!"

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? It's not April. It's March!" (you get the idea, right?)

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? Does that mean you were born in April?"

"No, I was born in January."

"Then why did your parents name you April?"

"I honestly don't know."

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? Does that mean you were born in April?"

"No, I was born in January."

"Then why didn't your parents name you January?"

"Because that would have been stupid, obviously."

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? You must bring flowers when you shower, right?" (sly wink)

"Oh for the love of god"

"What's your name?"

"April."

"April? And your middle initial is 'M'?"

"Yes"

"As in April May?" (hahaha)

"No."

"What's your name?"

"April"

"April? So this must be May and June." (pointing at your two sisters)

"Wow, you're clever."

"Does anyone know what the date is tomorrow?"

"It's April 1st."

"April? April! It's your month!"

"No, really, it isn't."

Or my all time least favorite...

(In a sing-song voice) "April showers brings... the boys!"

"WTF?"

I once worked with a Chef who actually had an original April joke, and it really was clever. I wish I could remember it...

And for your entertainment, in honor of today... 

April, acting looking like a fool (because apparently I deleted all the foolish acting pics from my computer. Sorry)...