My house is legally uninhabitable.
I’m being threatened by Meth Ghosts.
I’m still tripping over and dodging around boxes, and am beginning to feel like my best-case scenario will be one in which I’m mostly unpacked when it’s time to call the movers next year.
Now feels like a good time to take another look at the search terms, doesn’t it?
I aspire to be the sort of person who sorts things, so let’s pretend I did that m’kay?* In fact, WordPress feeds them to me in order from the most common to the one-offs, which is why it’s so weird that the #1 most googled phrase that brought people to this blog (so far, this year) was…
No joke here; I’m legit concerned for you. You don’t seem to know how the internet works. You know that amazon sells things (amazing things! Things like vagina pumps and count chocula and toilet lights) and you know that google is a way to search for things… but then you google “amazon” and somehow click past 800 or so pages of actual amazon results to get to my blog, where I tell you about the time I returned a vibrator? I mean, it’s a good story and I’ll never stop telling it, but I’m guessing what you really wanted was to buy a little something for your grandkids and now you know they sell vagina pumps and your life is different. I’m sorry. Maybe next time you’ll stick to the first page of results, huh?
You have found your people. My only sadness is that more people didn’t get here this way: less than half as many as the “amazon” route. Seriously, we need to do something about that epidemic. That was not sarcasm. Nor was that. Dammit, I’m talking to the wrong crowd. Let’s move on…
I do those. Just not today, sorry.
I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the internet lied to you. As of our publication date (whatever it is, take a look around) there is still no vendor that gives anything cool for rusted scrap. It’s junk. Rubbish. Get rid of it—you’re going to finish your first game, your New Game Plus, and your New Game Plus+ and they still won’t put in anything fancy for the rusted scrap. They’ve forgotten about it. They had a plan and biffed it. But we’re getting a sequel so don’t despair!
There’ll probably be some new rubbish you can’t unload in the next game.
I feel like there’s a chance you googled this looking for a funny story about a man accidentally buying the wrong underwear—which is what I provided, in which case you didn’t leave disappointed—but it’s far more likely that you were looking for something else and forgot to click over to image search. Let me help you:
Okay, are you one of the people who keeps googling “amazon?” Related to them? What the actual fuck is going on?
Google, get your shit together. I’m thrilled for the traffic, but these people clearly did not end up where they wanted to be.
Actually, google, don’t change a thing. Maybe, like the TARDIS, you didn’t take them where they wanted to go but rather got them where they needed to go.
That is all. Thank you.
Are your eyebrows sliding down your face? Because maybe.
In all seriousness, probably no. And that’s coming from someone who had a fucking terrible Botox experience. The only people I told what was wrong at the time were Internet Strangers (you all) and the doctors. And my best friend because she lives far away and is an expert at dealing with my tears over the phone—but even she didn’t hear right away. (I’m a big fan of stuffing my feelings way down inside until I make myself sick.) A couple of people asked if I was feeling alright—I looked sad, all the time—and I would put them off by saying I was just tired or had a headache, but I mostly didn’t go out as much and when I did I pulled my hair up tight and put on more makeup than even I usually do. People, for the most part, are not great at noticing what doesn’t affect them, and that includes your face.
Sorry to disappoint but as we established, there is no way he didn’t pee on napping strangers instead of into the ocean. I promise, if he ever actually pees in the ocean, I will tell you all about it.
woman pee in the ocean story
Wow. I mean… I guess you’re right. I’ve let you down there, haven’t I? In my defense, I spent a lot of time at the beach as a kid, so I’ve peed in two oceans. A lot. Like, there’s a good chance that any shellfish you eat today have at least a little of my pee in them. It’s fine—I’ve always been well-hydrated, so my pee is probably safe. But I told you the story of how my husband tried to pee in the ocean and ended up tinkling on tourists instead and totally neglected your (legitimate!) need for a story about someone peeing in the ocean, and that was unfair of me. I’m sorry.
Umm… Well, I guess probably the first time I peed in the ocean (like, outside of a diaper) was one day at the beach—we would have been somewhere in southern California, if it matters to anyone—and my mother was carrying me out into the waves “to get me used to the water.” I was loving it and terrified all at the same time, in the manner of children, and kept trying to climb up to her shoulders. She kept pulling me back down and carrying me on her hip, repeating that she was not Dad and she couldn’t carry me on her shoulders. I remember looking out at the distant water and being filled with awe at the glassy colors and the candy-like foam. The shush of the waves was the companion to my heartbeat and I never wanted to leave—I felt utterly save, even as I squealed when the cold water lashed a little higher than before and started my climbing cycle all over again. Somehow, I got it into my head that the froth on those beautiful, perfect, stained glass waves looked like candyfluff and when the next wave came I opened my mouth to welcome it in.
My poor mother had no time to stop me; she watched, helpless, as I gulped in a mouthfull of foamy seawater and couldn’t spit it out fast enough. Literally—I’d taken in too much and couldn’t eject it because some was stuck at the back of my throat. If you’ve never tasted seawater before, you might think it’s merely salty; you are wrong. Go wade out into the waves and swish some of that froth around in your mouth—it will change your taste buds forever.
Anyway, in all the frantic spitting and heaving and thrashing around, I’m pretty sure I peed in the ocean and on my mom. Next!
Highly recommend. I mean, I’ve never needed mine, but it’s nice to know he’s there. I wish there was a service for this, you know? Ooh, or what if there was a husband backup service! Like you can backup your computer or phone, why not your husband? Billion-dollar idea—somebody get on this.
I host a lot of guessing games here—okay, not a “lot,” not even as many as I’d like, but I do them from time to time. The usual format is, “my husband and I were in this situation—can you guess what he did/said next?” Not once has he correctly “guessed” what he, the man himself, actually did.
So I’m afraid I cannot recommend guessing games for husbands. I enjoy guessing games about husbands, and will continue to play them, but if a man can’t be trusted to remember what he did when he’s got the full transcript of the preceding conversation in front of him, he’s just never going to excel at guessing games.
It’s when you get really frustrated with your adorable fuzzball and start screaming incoherent threats at them while they blink at you, secure in the knowledge that you won’t do a damned thing to actually hurt them. See also: unfortunate post titles I regretted when my adorable little man died and Facebook reminded me that I’d threatened to harm him for stealing socks. I wish he was still with me, stealing my socks.
This question is not funny. Next!
I did to! But I’m thinking I’ll also love this one because, while these people don’t put cheese on everything, I smell amazing barbecue fucking everywhere. At all hours. Seriously, we ran out for emergency ice cream at like 11:30 one night and drove past a barbecue place that was not only open but smelled so good I got hungry all over again.
Honey, I’ve got to put on my own mask before I can assist you. That’s the rule.
The good news is, reading and subscribing to this blog is a great way to learn how to live with your engineer—it’s basically a master class I’m offering for free, online, with humorous gifs thrown in.
post comments on how to get my husband back
Get him back for what? Did he turn the lights off while you were in the bathroom? I fucking hate when they do that.
Oh, you meant… okay, yeah. This isn’t that kind of site. I may have to address this in a separate spam filter post. But if I had some advice for people in your situation, it would be this: why do you want someone you have to convince to be with you? That sounds suspiciously like work, and you’re going to have to maintain that for, like, ever. Your philosophy of marriage may differ from mine, but in my version, I get to wear sweatpants and go about with unwashed hair and show him the weird rash and bruises in my armpits (true fucking story, my friends) and he still thinks I’m so goddamned sexy he’d rather do me right there on the living room floor than eat an entire platter of tacos. And it’s a tile floor, so… not comfortable. And he loves tacos.
I’m not saying any one relationship is better than another, but… actually, yeah. Mine is better than one in which you had to chase the other person down and trick them or debate them into coming back to you with reasoned arguments and perky determination. Go forth and find some mutual feelings and treat each other well. I promise, you’ll like it soooo much better than this icky feeling of pining for someone who’s done with you.
This made so little sense to me, my googly friend, I was seriously about to just leave it off the list. But then the last one was kind of a downer and I don’t like the next one much either so I said, “What the hell,”** and plugged your search into google.
And for whatever reason, I’m the second result. Now, my next reaction was to say, “Fuck that, it’s a totally irrelevant search and has nothing to do with the post,” but then I scrolled down a bit (hell yeah I clicked my own link!) and remembered this was one of my favorite posts and I totally want to do more Deleted Scenes posts, so here it is again. Thank you, Internet Weirdo, for finding me.
* I’ve just realized that I did, sort of. I combined a few that were really similar (some had quotes, for example, or different spacing) and I eliminated the image searches. Because those are boring.
** I actually said it. Out loud. Never doubt that that’s what I’m doing while I write.