This just in! Josh Hartnett is being hospitalized for excruciating abdominal pain.
Hmmm…these symptoms sound familiar. Could it be that Josh Hartnett has the Crohn’s Disease like yours truly? I hope not, of course. But seriously, I’ve been waiting for someone of significant celebrity status to make Crohn’s the new Darfur. Hit me with a cool t-shirt at least! I mean, if Paris Hilton had it you KNOW they would have found a cure by now. Hot. Hurry, world!
Here’s a photo of Josh Hartnett possibly making a nasty disease look even nastier. In a good way.
Here’s hoping for more non-surgical solutions than what I had. It would be a shame to bust up that frontside. Ba-dow!*
*Meh, nevermind. I retract that Ba-dow. He’s not that cute. But speedy recovery!
Congratulations, me. I won this dress from eBay over the weekend. And by won, I mean that I have to pay for it.
It’s a vintage “child’s dress” but says it’s perfect for a small adult. Which is what I am. A slightly comically-undersized version of a grown-up. Hey kids! If you like grown-ups then you’re gonna love Lil Grown-Up! Available at a store near you.
Yet another 5 things that may cause my untimely death:
1. Rabid Central Park squirrel attack. 2. Hair color poisoning from constant re-defining of self. 3. Allergic reaction to cockroach feces. 4. DIY Coconut Water blood transfusion. 5. “Karoshi” (the japanese word for “death from overwork”)
I adore Esquire’s "10 Things You Don’t Know About Women" written by she-celebs. Not sure if they’re still printing these, but here are a few of my faves featured in the magazine. Insert “I KNOW, RIGHT! You go girl.” and a limp arm high-five chick style.
"I look like a fool in a dress if you’re in a T-shirt and jeans, but we look like a stylish couple if you add a blazer. Unrequired fanciness is the cutest thing ever." -Mindy Kaling (writer + kelly kapoor on The Office) because I love to dress up and like it when boys do, too.
"The best parts of your body don’t even know they are attractive. So don’t get too knocked out about your six-pack because it’s really your earlobes that make us hear the wokka wokka music." -Ana Gasteyer because of Husband’s olive, pheromone-drenched neck.
"Never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless she’s in the hospital, feet in stirrups, pushing out a baby." -Maya Rudolph because this is the worst.
"If you’re funny, we will sleep with you." -Julia Louis Dreyfus because with the kind of girls I roll with, it works every time.
"It doesn’t matter how big the bauble, how fabu the restaurant — the time you spent on that pencil drawing of our eye or that haiku written on the vintage hotel stationery you found in Omaha is what truly steals our hearts." -Sandra Oh because of Husband’s handmade cards.
"Beware the vagina, because it can read minds. You should also listen very closely to the vagina. It is a storyteller and a dreamer of dreams." -Maya Rudolph because it’s funny cause it’s true.
"Girls like it when you nickname them something smaller than a bread box. Chickadee. Pat of Butter. Baby Mouse. This makes us feel tiny and adorable. Space Heater and Minivan do not." -Mindy Kaling (writer + kelly kapoor on The Office) because Husband sometimes calls me TicTac.
Today is going to be in the sixties. I love the sixties! Bitchin’! Bright, sunny sun. Previously frigid new yorkers actually smiling. Smiling! I’m smiling, too. And in celebration of this day, I purchased myself a spring present on the Interwebs:
Sure to add a nautical spring to my springy step. Also and plus…I’m getting my hair did on Tuesday. Thinking about hitting up some highlights in honor of this sneak peek appearance of the sun. I love you, sun!
Plans are the best. And they’re even better when the plans are with three other girls. Whole real live actual girls! I can’t be completely sure, but I suspect there might be talking and laughing that might occur. And I know for sure there will be eating and drinking. We’re heading to Pure, a fancy pants raw food restaurant a la that scene in SATC where Samantha meets Smith. However, I’ll take meeting new friends over sexy up-and-coming male underwear models anytime.
Why wait 9 months to have a baby when you can have one in 9 seconds? No brainer! All you have to do is CLICK. So many new additions to The Coulter family to introduce you to. Time flies when you’re makin’ fake babies!
Meet our sweet Jyrus.
And our little troublemaker Ginger Cy.
And our “oops” baby, Bradley Coulter-Pitt. (Husband treats him like his own. SO SWEET!)
And our “oops I did it again” baby, Lil’ Chrissy Brown. A messy and often dangerous situation with a cute little outcome!
And, I hate to play favorites but sometimes you have to be honest with yourself. This little one is THE TWINKLE of my eye. Meet Jessie, Jr.
Finally, I can’t help but brag about my work partner’s latest addition Demonica. SO ADORABLE.
Note: The face of my jess on jess asexually reproduced sponge baby will haunt my dreams for the rest of my days. DON’T. SPONGE BABY.
After 6-ish years of reading Dooce every morning, I get to sit down this morning and write a blog about how I met her. Um, awesome. Last night I met up with mamalikes at Barnes and Noble in Tribeca (she used to be one of my super duper superiors at an agency I worked at in PDX and is now my fave cross-country commiserator). She got there early and snagged us really good seats and a copy of the book for each of us. Over the Barnes and Noble intercom, an employee would chime in…”This evening we welcome Heather B. Armstrong to read from her new book ‘It Sucked and then I Cried”. I love when people who don’t normally say “sucked” say it because for some reason they really push it out extra hard and it sounds totally obscene. SUUUUCKED.
At 7pm the organizer announced Heather and she came out to the podium. The crowd was pretty giant and we all cheered timidly and then louder because, I mean, everyone there felt like high-class stalkers at this point. We’ve all known what this person has done every day for, well, years. I can’t say that about most of my friends and family.
It’s kind of gross.
When she greeted us she was a little shy and joking about her prom hair and red lipstick. One of the first things she said was “I’ve never done this before” which is refreshing to hear from any successful person at the peak of success. She read a couple pages on two subjects covered in her new book. SHE. WAS. HILARIOUS. Those of you seeing her in PDX or Seattle have lots of laughs and creepy staring to do. Enjoy yourself.
After she read and did a Q&A, they excused each row individually to go up and have her sign their book. I got a:
For Jess Much love! Heather B. Armstrong
Pretty good, pretty good. mamlikes and I each got a photo with her via mama’s iPhone (because I’m a douche and forgot my memory card. DON’T, SELF). My pic turned out pretty good. But her pic? I got nervous and failed miserably. It looks kind of like this:
Please accept my heartfelt apology for buckling under dooce pressure. I tripped at the finish line. I’m a piece of buttered Douche Baguette, the original Douche Bigalow, my homies call me Doucheface Killah and if I was an animal I’d be a Douche-O-Potamus.
After our dooce lovefest we were hungry. VERY hungry. We both had a little of that familier low-blood-shoog crazy in the eye. Ahhh, I love hanging out with another girl who has the crazy in the eye, looks across the table and says “Fried?”
Yes, mama, I do fried.
We landed at a delicious spot for sushi in Tribeca. They had a Godfather BIG MAKI Roll with Fried Oyster and Gorgonzola that knocked my Lindsey Lohan stretch pants right off. Good book, good accomplice, good jokes, good food inserted in mouth. A tote perf Tues. Cue the BIG MAKI!
Well, my face is totally famous and everywhere. While working at That One Coffee Company, employees were asked to submit photos for a chance to be included on the new label for the “Create your own tumbler” travel cup. You know, the one where you can Mod Podge photos of your kids, cats or drunk fun-having friends to take to work with you as a remember of why you go to work in the first place. College/Fancy Feast/Grandpa’s cough medicine.
Anyhooters, I submitted a photo from my honeymoon and it made it in! In fact, on the cup I am the only non-child or non-animal present. I am the only example of an adult that the corporation (one of the biggest corporations!) was willing to print and put forth.
I am the face of corporations.
Ok, that’s overkill. But my face is repeated at least 30 times at every Starbucks store in the world. Sip on that, Paris Hilton. I bought one of the cups yesterday while ducking into the coffeehouse to use the bathroom. It went like this:
"Hey barista. Want to know what’s awesome? That’s me. On the cup."
"Oh. 10 dollars."
Ouch, barista. Here’s the label that is inside the cup:
Buy a “Create your own tumbler” travel cup and SUPPORT MY FACE*. And here’s the original photo (taken by world-renowned corporate photographer Cyrus T. Coulter):
*All proceeds actually go straight to That One Coffee Company. Them’s the breaks.
ToNIGHT as in THIS night I get to go see Heather B. Armstrong aka Dooce read from her book “It Sucked Then I Cried”. I’ve been reading her blog daily for many, many years and I am thrilled to be able to see the funny in action and just a few blocks from my apartment no less. AND it’s going to be a girl date and mutual Dooce lovefest with THIS funny chick. Yeah, I pretty much can’t wait.
She’s reeeeeeal funny and always on lists like “top 20 most powerful blogs” ahead of TMZ and the likes. If you’re not a child-bearer, married person, dog-lover, ex-mormon or blogger and are curious as to why you would ever want to get into a mommy blog, here what she’s says in the “ABOUT THIS SITE” section:
"My name is Heather B. Armstrong. Some of you may remember me as Heather B. Hamilton. I am married to a charming geek named Jon. We live in Salt Lake City, Utah, with our five-year-old daughter, Leta Elise, our six-year-old SuperMutt, Chuck, and a one-year-old miniature Australian Shepherd, Coco. The chaos in our house is unreal.
I am a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) or a Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker. I do both equally well.
In a previous life I was a web designer. I lived in Los Angeles, California, for several years where I worked for drug-addicted executives and discovered what life was like as a recovering Mormon. This means that life was filled with PowerPoint templates and lethal amounts of tequila. I dated several actors and met a handful of celebrities. Everything you’ve ever heard about Los Angeles is absolutely true, especially the parts about traffic and actors: they really are that bad.
I grew up in a small suburb of Memphis, Tennessee, and graduated valedictorian of Bartlett High School in 1993. The reason I am telling you about the valedictorian part is because being able to say, “I was the valedictorian” is the only privilege I ever got in life from achieving that goal. No one ever hired me because I was valedictorian. The lesson to be learned from this is: AIM LOW. Save yourself the time.
My parents raised me Mormon, and I grew up believing that the Mormon Church was true. In fact, I never had a cup of coffee until I was 23 years old. I had pre-marital sex for the first time at age 22, but BY GOD I waited an extra year for the coffee. There had better be a special place in heaven for me.
I attended BYU from 1993-1997 and graduated with a degree in English. I firmly believe that BYU is the most horrible place on Earth, worse even than Disneyland. The one skill I learned in college that serves me well now is not how to solve differential equations or how to write a paper deconstructing The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, it’s how to distrust organized religion. I am no longer a practicing Mormon or someone who believes that Rush Limbaugh speaks to God. My family is understandably disappointed.
I started this website in February 2001. A year later I was fired from my job for this website because I had written stories that included people in my workplace. My advice to you is BE YE NOT SO STUPID. Never write about work on the internet unless your boss knows and sanctions the fact that YOU ARE WRITING ABOUT WORK ON THE INTERNET. If you are the boss, however, you should be aware that when you order Prada online and then talk about it out loud that you are making it very hard for those around you to take you seriously.
This website chronicles my life from a time when I was single and making a lot of money as a web designer in Los Angeles, to when I was dating the man who would become my husband, to when I lost my job and lived life as an unemployed drunk, to when I married my husband and moved to Utah, to when I became pregnant, to when I threw up and became unbearably swollen during the pregnancy, to the birth, to the aftermath, to the postpartum depression that landed me in a mental hospital. I’m better now.
In October 2005 I began running enough ads on this website that my husband was able to quit his job and become a Stay at Home Father (SAHF) or a Shit Ass Ho Fuckingbadass. He takes both very seriously. This website now supports my family.
I love bourbon, chips and salsa, Britpop, and television that excels at being really awful.”
Go Netflix The Wackness. Do it. It’s a coming-of-age story about a teenage boy in 1994 NYC. Apart from one pretty bad-rogue performance by that one actress previously responsible for 50% of little Michelle Tanner, the movie is great. I mean dope. It’s dope!
"Know what your problem is, Shapiro? It’s that you just have this really shitty way of looking at things, ya know? I don’t have that problem. I just look at the dopeness. But you, it’s like you just look at the wackness, ya know?"
Last night, The Coulters had a very-New-York-City evening. Husband took me to see Late Show with David Letterman! We checked in at 4:30 to discover that we’d been picked to be one of 30 people who get to sit in the front two rows. We rolled VIP-style getting to wait inside the Ed Sullivan Theater where it was warm and got some special comedic treatment before seating us.
The warm-up comedian was funny and the band (with Paul Shaffer!) was cheesy and awesome. Finally, David Letterman came out and let the audience ask him a few questions before the taping commenced. Had Husband been chosen to ask a question he was going to ask:
"What do you think Chuck Norris is doing RIGHT NOW?"
Hilarity would have ensued. Instead someone asked him if he regretted getting out of the weather reporting business to which he laughed and said “yeah, I do.”
After the Q+A, the announcer (Alan Kalter! The original ginger child!) got to business and Letterman shot right into monologue-mode. He was standing RIGHT in front of us and made long meaningful comedic and newlywed eye contact with me several times. We totally bonded over our striking similarities. Also, the man is iconic and the man is funny. I love the blend of classic, almost outdated joke-telling mixed with more random current humor.
So, everyone totally thought we were there to tape last night’s show, but because of all the pesky basketball that’s on we were actually there to tape this Wednesday night’s show. Which is WAY better in regards to celebrity bang for no buck. And it’s sweeps week! Here’s who graced the stage:
Christina Applegate (OMFG, so pretty). This was the glam look she was basically sporting:
Also in the line-up was Jim Gaffigan (hilarious comedian) and musician Jesse Harris in a surprise duet with Norah Jones (I mean, I have her CD and stuff). Gaffigan Hot Pocket break:
Holy star power, Batgirl. We have never clapped to a beat and created canned-laughter so much in our lives! If you catch the show on Wednesday night, you will be able to see us sitting on the very end of the second row in an audience shot during the commercial break between Jim Gaffigan and Norah Jones. Right when they say “Jason Segel” who is the guest Thursday night. You might notice my tiny face light up next to the Jason Segel graphic. I mean, it’s the closest we’ve ever been together.
After the show we watched a few of the guests get into their prospective town cars. Husband iPhone stalkerazzi shot of Jim Gaffigan:
Don’t, shiny brown head. The we headed back to The Vil for some slices and beer at John’s on Bleeker. BEST. PIZZA. EVER.
While we were waiting for a booth, my Cy-Dar went off, looked over my shoulder and spotted this among the thousands of carvings on the restaurant walls:
Also, Husband’s name is Cyrus. There. I said it. After our bellies were full and we had pizza glow we went home, snuggled on the couch with Walter and watched a movie. A perfect case of the Mondays.
Last night I dreamt the most HILARIOUS premise for a comedy sketch ever created. I casted it in my head with well-known comedic celebrities and watched the whole thing play out. Danny DeVito, even! I laughed and laughed and laughed. The belly kind. Then I woke up and giggled to myself on the way to the bathroom. I went back to sleep and replayed it again. STILL HILARIOUS.
I woke up to go to work this morning and realized it’s not funny. At all.
This morning while I was walking to work a man looked right at me and a light bulb went off above his head. He had a brilliant idea he just HAD to share with someone and I was right there. He says, “That’s it! Oh m’god. THAT’S the cover of my album. (maniacal laghing) I finally figured it out.”
Then he walked off to presumably go finish his debut R&B album.
Sometimes right after construction workers have covered and filled a line of work their doing on a sidewalk, it creates a long black strip of shiny asphalt. That asphalt is the same shape as a carpet. A RED carpet. Sometimes I walk down it and pretend I’m going into a premier party for something amazing I did. Like the premier of THE MOST HILARIOUS SKETCH EVER CREATED.
NAME! THAT! BRAND! Watch the below viral and see if you can, well, you know. Name the brand.
Hint: YES, I love this brand. Especially their sauce (most of you know the answer by now). And, finally, YES, the canine comical relief toward the middle sealed the deal when it came to posting this for your viewing pleasure.
Ok, ok, ok. So you REALLY want to close the deal on the cheering up of the girl. Where were we? Oh yeah, MEAT. After eating the aforementioned sandwich as big as your head, you’re going to be full and so will she. So you walk home. All the way from Times Square, you walk 50 city blocks back to your village apartment. On the way, you should probably pick up a bottle of fancy digestif, which is the latest rage. This would be a good one.
Wikipedia for Fernet states that this type of digestif, called amaro, is Italian which is exotic. It is made from over 40 herbs and spices and not only settles the stomach after a large meal, but it also cures baby colic and cholera.
You might also want to go to your favorite donut shop and pick up some chocolate ring donuts. WARNING: you will be too full to eat these the same night as the meatstravaganza. Don’t fret, they will be enjoyable while you’re watching Lost the following evening.
So, you’re home. Your legs are tired, you pour yourself and the girl who needs cheering up a tiny nip of Fernet, sit down on the couch like an entwined pretzel and cuddle with your small dog named Walter (or whatever clever name you’ve come up with for your small dog). Laugh about how Fernet-face is similar to Whisky-face (so potent, causes face to scrunch up like an old sea captain).
Then put on your cozies, grab some good books and head to bed. Bonus points if you had previously taken her to the best bookstore in NYC to choose a new book about a French Socialite turned brothel worker. Read until your eyelids get heavy and have a delicious night sleep. Inevitably wake up refreshed causing girl to completely forget why she bookmarked 25 psychiatrists in her neighborhood the day before.
Swoop her from her high-demand advertising job before it’s dark out.
Drag her by her pigtails onto the train and head uptown.
Crack a few jokes on the train to break the ice queen’s near-impenetrable forcefield.
Get off train at 30 Rock (the actual building) and take her allllll the way to the top. The top ‘o the rock. Be sure to plan it perfectly so that you can both bask in the sun as it sets (this will require googling “when does the sun set in nyc?” before you leave your village apartment). Don’t forget your iPhone so you can capture the cheering up process.
Let your eyes soak in the pretty.
Imagine things like cloud castles and flying dogs named Falcor. Try and blow kisses to the people on the top of the Empire State Building.
Take funny “pinhead” photos.
Laugh about just how funny it is!
’ Then when the sun starts to disappear into the Jersey horizon as Jersey girls everywhere are pressing down extra hard on their Lee press-on nails…
…and when the lights in Central Park start to twinkle…and the urban squirrels crawl into their manicured oak tree beds insulated with extra fat shoelaces and hamburger wrappers from Shake Shack …
…and as the tourists wearing weird green St. Patty’s tinsel wigs at the top of the Empire State Building are wondering if they should go to T.G.I. Fridays or Outback Steak House…
…there’s only one thing to do to cheer a girl up. GET HER SOME MEAT.
AHHHHH!!!!!!!! I can’t tell if I’m going to attack the sandwich or if it’s going to turn around, lock peppercorn eyes and eat me. Don’t, sandwich. Don’t. Ah, but there’s nothing better than a handsome man holding 10lbs. of pastrami and corned beef. I should probably marry this one.
P.S. a perf time to mention that another Heavenly Spy has bitten the dust and started a blog. It’s a How-to called HOW WOW POW WOW. Read away!
The kind a girl goes through, or whatever. The kind where you see cute little 7-year-old girls walking with their Greenwich Village Elementary classmates and it almost makes you cry because you can’t seem to grasp that feeling she’s having of just smiling and daydreaming. Fuck, dude. Growing up is the dumbest thing I ever did. And now I’m all wake-up, walk, work, walk, stairs, dinner, movie, sleep, start over. I need to insert one of the following: leave on tropical vacation adventure, deep face to face girl-talk with NWBFF, go shopping with free $1000 bill found by garbage can, write 500 sketches for comedy portfolio and impress entire NYC writing community with said sketches, get a snazzy spring hat.
I wish I could play piano and sing about it. Too bad I played piano for, like, 7 years and have forgotten everything. I also wish I could sew myself a 70’s fairy dress to flit around in all day. If I had a new dress and a new song that I made, my life might be better.
Last night I went on a complete* stranger girl date to a yummy vegan restaurant in The Vil. It could have been like this:
But it was way more like this:
So today I’m grateful for brave actions, serendipity, easy conversation, fresh starts, inspiration, new ideas and nice girls who don’t suck. And I’m grateful for all my friends back home who have set a stunning standard for new people in my life. The bar is high and I’m relieved each time I find someone in the same realm as you. Because it’s hard out here for a shrimp. Also, did I mention I miss you all? Le sigh…
*ok, not complete. More like a pseudo-stranger date. Had a blog crush on this and this (as recommended by Amanda). And since her awesomeness headquarters is Brooklyn, I emailed her.
Do people still get it? What are the symptoms? How did they figure out that citrus does the trick? Did they really eat oranges like apples, peel and all? Does that even taste good? Should I try it? Where can I find a picture of a bunch of grizzly pirates snacking on cute oranges post-pillage?
I heart birthdays (that aren’t mine). Especially when it’s the husband’s birthday because I get the job of planning it. And even though I usually over-plan and have a flair for kitschy activities, he always has a good time. Each year, I create a lo-fi invitation. A few examples:
Benihana and Bingo in Beaverton, OR. The bingo parlor was hi-larious.
Zoomin’ on go-carts and eating at Boom noodle. This one was seriously the best night out of 2008 for several people. The amount of hours we were able to sustain booze intake and smiles on our faces was unprecedented.
This year it was kind of a big birthday. As in major, epic, a milestoner. The largeness was best expressed using a photo of Cyrus and one very famous basketball player from a work shoot in LA. Photo by his brother Dylan.
We celebrated a few days early in Portland with friends. Dinner, drinks, VIP bowling, more drinks and karaoke. It looked kind of like this:
On his real birthday, I surprised him with a dinner for two at Otto in our hood (delish italian by Mario Batali) and tickets to see Will Ferrell’s “You’re Welcome America” on broadway. Husband had wanted to see a broadway show, but requested that there by no dancing with simultaneous singing. Nothing gives him a bigger douchechill than dudes in tuxedos doing jazz hands. So voila! Check out how awesome our seats were:
Then we went and got delicious slices of cake from Magnolia Bakery (double yum). For his birthday gift, I commissioned a painting of Walter The Dog from the very talented Amanda. It’s Super Walter! And it now lives on the wall in our bedroom. He loved it.
And for your viewing pleasure, a taste of the hilarity that is “You’re Welcome, America”. Dude, Will Ferrell for president (in 8 years, of course):
Thank you to everyone who came out to celebrate this year (especially those that drove 3 hours from Seattle and dancers who had a show the night before. ya’ll = the best).
Yesterday we recorded the voices for a spot that’s going into testing (as in, before we shoot it the client wants to make sure kids think it’s funny). It’s kind of a homebrew process, so we do the voices in place of profesh voice talent. Short story long, it turns out that I have the exact voice of a depressed pre-pubescent boy.
Have you ever laid your eyes on anything more wonderful? I shall name her Aurora II. It reminds me of an afternoon a few summers ago spent with Fae sitting barefoot on the beach in Santa Monica and having a sea shell contest. Prettiest and tiniest sea shell wins. Then we saw an actual dolphin and named her Aurora. True story.
There is magic in today. I can feel it.
"The mammal is entirely pink from tip to tail and has reddish eyes indicating it’s albinism. The skin appears smooth, glossy pink and without flaws. I have spotted it about 40 to 50 times in the time since the original sighting as it has apparently taken up residence with its family in the Calcasieu Ship Channel." As seen on Geekology.
Remember burlesque? The Heavenly Spies? James Blonde? It was only a handful of months ago that 90% of my brain was occupied with sequins, hot glue, satin, feathers and glitter upon glitter upon glitter for over two years. It makes a lonely New Yorkish wonder what all that grey matter up there is even doing without concepting shows, scheduling performances, editing music, designing (glueing) costumes and practicing every night. By practicing EVERY night, I mean practicing every other night and resigning ourselves to drinking wine and talking about practicing on the other nights. Then again, those were the nights our most chic ideas took flight.
It’s like the grey matter has turned into sad, grey jello. Bill Cosby is going to pop out from under my desk any second now and try to give me some fatherly advice. Or a free sweater.
After we were completely unpacked, I found a rogue pastie in my underwear drawer. It’s a tiny silver sequin pastie with sparkly numbers that read “52” from a spring baseball solo I never even performed. And it made me cry. A pastie. Made me. Cry. (insert a “there’s no crying in baseball, but there sure as hell is crying in burlesque” joke HERE.) What is James Blonde Brown to do? I’m taking improv and killing it at work. Reading books and spending good, qual time with Husband. But I’m looking for something around the corner. And I’m hoping that something is SPARKLY.
When I get up all in ya We can hear the angels calling us
So bad it’s good. And then it’s bad again. But then it’s good and it STAYS good. I gotta go call my sergeant and tell him I can’t finish my shift because I’m stuck in line at the social security office changing my name to Mrs. Carter.
Go ahead. Take a visual inhalation of the self-proclaimed crack baby of my dreams:
(Yeahh)… Doin a buck in the latest drop I got stopped by a lady cop Ha Ha… she got me thinking I can date a cop Ha Ha… cause her uniform pants are so tight She read me my rights She put me in nah car, she cut off all the lights She said I had the right to remain silent Now I got her hollering sounding like a siren Talkin’ bout… Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yea), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yea), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yea), And I know she the law, and she know I’m the boss And she know I can hide a-bove the law And she know I’m raw, she know it from the street And all she want me to do is fuck the police Talkin’ bout… Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yea), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee… (Yea),
When I get up all in ya We can hear the angels calling us (Yeahh) We can see the sunrise before us (Umm) And when I’m in that thang, I’ll make that body sang I make it say… Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yeah), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, (Like a cop car) Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yeah), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Heey)… I’ll make ya say…
Ha Ha… And after we got done I said lady what’s ya number she said 911 Haaa… emergency only Head doctor perform surgery on me Yeahh… and now I’m healed I make her wear nothing but handcuffs & heels And I beat it like a cop Rodney King baby yeah I beat it like a cop Ha Haaa… beat it like a cop Rodney King baby said beat it like a cop But I ain’t tryna be violent But I’ll do the time but her love is timeless … Mrs. Officer… I know you wish ya name was Mrs. Carter huh? Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee (Yeah), Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Like a cop car…
Mrs. Officer, Mrs. Officer Tell your lieutenant get them cuffs off of ya I’m kid kid… my face on every wanted poster I’m wanted by every lady cop all over That ass so big I catch a battery to hold ya My hands so big you thought I told ya to pull it over She pulled me over… pulled me out the rover Then she pulled me closer… do me in the back of the car Put me in handcuffs start ripping my pants off (all you heard on the dispatcher was…) Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee, Wee Ooh Wee Ooh Wee,
Maybe you can lock me up and throw away the key, Call your sergeant and tell him you can’t finish your shift… Cause it’s on… tonight… Breakfast in bed turns to breakfast & head, And I can’t wait to get it on… Wanna do it all night long… Mrs. Officer
Many of our friends write sweet monthly letters to their little ones on their baby blogs. They record important milestones, tribulations and especially the funny, quirky things they never stop discovering about their child. All with the intention of being able to show their baby when they are grown up. And maybe in hope of them gaining some perspective from the writings of a young, hip new mom (their mom!) raising them the most perfect way they know how.
Unfortunately, baby dog, you will never speak The English. Nor do you even know about the Internets. Or electricity. You do know that we’ve move to a new home, but you have no idea how far away it is from your last one. It’s kinda like when we make you go into that tiny room (elevator) and wait for no reason until the door opens back up. The good lord gypped* you in the time and space department.
But there are so many areas where you were more than not-gypped. Like the cuteness area, the personality area and the sweetness area. And although you still aren’t perfectly trained (and often take advantage of our pillows), you are 1/3 of The Coulters and we are still so in love with you. When I get home, you’ll be getting a very special trout feast and a few new toys that still have their squeakers in them. Thank you for being a good boy.
dog-mama + dog-papa
*My apologies if any Gypsies read this blog. I think your scarves, bells and various caverns are pretty cool.
First off, I am elated to have reached my 10th legit celeb sighting. This means I’m averaging exactly 2.5 celebrities per month. And it should be noted that I’m thankful for never having actually seen a severed half of a famous person. But I digress.
This last Saturday, Husband and I were grabbing some post-Gray’s-Papaya-Hot-Dog Gum at a news stand on 7th a couple blocks away from our place. I popped a minty piece in my mouth and we headed to the train station to mosey uptown for my improv class.
We walk a few steps when I notice two tall, pretty girls linking arms tight and walking our way. BFF brigade, twelve o’clock. The brunette? Lowly pedestrian. The blonde? Cameron Diaz! Now there’s a hearty womanwich of a sighting you can really sink your teeth into. *CHOMP*
The best part is that we made serious eye contact. Loooooong, meaningful eye contact. The kind of eye contact where she looked at my face, my outfit, and then my face again. I smiled and she smiled back. Did somebody say Diaz approved?
Hold on, I have to go update my resume immediately………………………Ok, I’m back. Yes, it all happened so fast. But is did happen, Husband as my witness. I like to think that we had a bit of a Charlie’s Angel/Heavenly Spy moment. She-spies unite! We probably would have had dinner or something, but I would have been late for improv. Sorry, girl. We can’t all be naturally talented actresses.