Thank you so much for coming to see my blog, "Brilliant Title."
I have moved the whole site (every post, I promise!) to a new URL.
Please visit http://brillianttitle.wordpress.com to see what else I have been coming up with.
If you're a follower here, I'd appreciate your support over there too!
Just one more click! Can you do it?
Loves!
Monday, April 2, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
This Is Not A Thesis
One year ago today, the inspiring woman whose words you are reading right now had the opportunity to expand the minds of her peers and instructors. She pushed the boundaries of traditional academia. She challenged the stuffy, unyielding rigors of the culminating project.
She almost didn't graduate from college.
That sure sounds like my fearless, rebellious self, doesn't it? Yeah, right.
Apparently, presenting my delightful powerpoint presentation and successfully not falling flat on my face was only a part of the gauntlet I was forced to run as I defended my Undergraduate Thesis. My project inspired a "productive discussion about what it means to be a thesis" within the group of faculty members asked/forced to participate.
Soooo...what you're saying is that after approving my proposal five months earlier and allowing me to turn in a 50 page manuscript with multiple mixed up deadlines, you then argued if it was even legit? That's awesome.
Yes, I was so proud of myself and that was definitely not the exact opposite of what I ever wanted to hear.
In honor of my friends who are pulling all nighters as we speak (Actually, it's not quite 10 am, so not as we speak, but over the course of the last several nights when we weren't speaking but I was sleeping. Plus we're not speaking right now. I know that. I really do.), I have compiled a list of things which are not theses. That way, if there is any confusion at their own defenses, they can turn to me, the ultimate authority.
Please note that this blog post is now peer-reviewed. Meaning you are my peers, and you are reviewing it as you read it. Sufficient? I think yes.
Things Which Are Not Theses
She almost didn't graduate from college.
That sure sounds like my fearless, rebellious self, doesn't it? Yeah, right.
Apparently, presenting my delightful powerpoint presentation and successfully not falling flat on my face was only a part of the gauntlet I was forced to run as I defended my Undergraduate Thesis. My project inspired a "productive discussion about what it means to be a thesis" within the group of faculty members asked/forced to participate.
Soooo...what you're saying is that after approving my proposal five months earlier and allowing me to turn in a 50 page manuscript with multiple mixed up deadlines, you then argued if it was even legit? That's awesome.
Yes, I was so proud of myself and that was definitely not the exact opposite of what I ever wanted to hear.
In honor of my friends who are pulling all nighters as we speak (Actually, it's not quite 10 am, so not as we speak, but over the course of the last several nights when we weren't speaking but I was sleeping. Plus we're not speaking right now. I know that. I really do.), I have compiled a list of things which are not theses. That way, if there is any confusion at their own defenses, they can turn to me, the ultimate authority.
Please note that this blog post is now peer-reviewed. Meaning you are my peers, and you are reviewing it as you read it. Sufficient? I think yes.
----------------
Things Which Are Not Theses
- A collection of used coffee filters.
- A demonstration of proper mopping techniques.
- A video recording of your phone alarm.
- A dramatic reading of "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
- First name alternatives to "Topanga."
- Acne cream.
- The perfect replica of your apartment...on The Sims.
- A campus wide flash mob involving bubble wrap and chewing gum.
- The 24-hour penguin cam on Discovery.com.
- Any quotation by Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.
- An interpretive dance to "The Call" by the Backstreet Boys.
- Post-it notes identifying the proper names and locations for all facial and body piercings. Clothing optional.
- A hockey brawl, complete with sweaty pads.
- A viral video of a baby who is afraid of her cat's whiskers.
- Botox.
---------
I hope this has clarified any confusion that my friends are facing. If not, you know how to get ahold of me. If you don't know how to get ahold of me, I probably want to keep it that way.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Bear Skin Rug
I am thinking about getting a bear skin rug. I am convinced that it will add greatly to my happiness.
I have been coming up with reasons why I need a bear skin rug, and in all of them, the voice of the bear in my head is distinctly akin to the Honey Badger. So that's a good enough reason to start with. Everyone needs an inner Honey Badger. Mine just happens to take the form of a seven foot tall Grizzly.
Oh yes, this is a Grizzly bear skin rug. Did I mention that? The brown, slightly mottled fur is going to play nicely with the blues in my couch, adding a rustic touch to my otherwise colonial style. It is important to show variety in your household so as to provide both comfort and intrigue in a home setting. Duh.
The teeth are also an important attribute. They represent my internal ambition, my ability to intimidate, and my vicious protection of things I hold dear. Also, my clean bill of health at my last dentist appointment.
Beady little eyeballs are a must. Eyes are the window to the soul, after all. How else would we be able to understand the great contradiction of this bear? The inner teddy, yearning for love and affection, mixed with the wild, untethered mammal of yore. It is a deeply complex creature, this future inhabitant of my residence.
Plus, it is going to make an excellent impression on any guests who visit my humble abode. It's got a certain something to it, doesn't it? Something that says, "Let's have a picnic!" and "One time I shot a man in Reno!"
Now, I'm not much of a betting woman, but I think this is a gamble which will pay off.
Mostly, I want a bear skin rug because my grandfather promised me one.
When he was in the hospital for the last time, he told me that, when he got his strength back, he would go back to Alaska (where he grew up) and shoot me a bear. "You need a rug," he'd tell me, "and I'm going to get it for you."
My grandpa and I didn't always get along. In fact, it wasn't until the last four years of his life-- the four years that I spent at his Alma mater and visited him on my own-- that we got along at all. We never fought, but we didn't mingle. We didn't chat. We definitely didn't make each other promises.
He loved each of us kids in his own way. It wasn't the best way or the easiest way, but it was still love. In the end, I got a promise from him. A promise that something sacred to him would become mine. A promise that his goal was to become better so he could make my life better. A promise that he wanted to provide me with a sense of home.
It has been exactly one year since my grandpa passed away.
I am thinking about getting a bear skin rug.
I have been coming up with reasons why I need a bear skin rug, and in all of them, the voice of the bear in my head is distinctly akin to the Honey Badger. So that's a good enough reason to start with. Everyone needs an inner Honey Badger. Mine just happens to take the form of a seven foot tall Grizzly.
Oh yes, this is a Grizzly bear skin rug. Did I mention that? The brown, slightly mottled fur is going to play nicely with the blues in my couch, adding a rustic touch to my otherwise colonial style. It is important to show variety in your household so as to provide both comfort and intrigue in a home setting. Duh.
The teeth are also an important attribute. They represent my internal ambition, my ability to intimidate, and my vicious protection of things I hold dear. Also, my clean bill of health at my last dentist appointment.
Beady little eyeballs are a must. Eyes are the window to the soul, after all. How else would we be able to understand the great contradiction of this bear? The inner teddy, yearning for love and affection, mixed with the wild, untethered mammal of yore. It is a deeply complex creature, this future inhabitant of my residence.
Plus, it is going to make an excellent impression on any guests who visit my humble abode. It's got a certain something to it, doesn't it? Something that says, "Let's have a picnic!" and "One time I shot a man in Reno!"
Now, I'm not much of a betting woman, but I think this is a gamble which will pay off.
--------------
Mostly, I want a bear skin rug because my grandfather promised me one.
When he was in the hospital for the last time, he told me that, when he got his strength back, he would go back to Alaska (where he grew up) and shoot me a bear. "You need a rug," he'd tell me, "and I'm going to get it for you."
My grandpa and I didn't always get along. In fact, it wasn't until the last four years of his life-- the four years that I spent at his Alma mater and visited him on my own-- that we got along at all. We never fought, but we didn't mingle. We didn't chat. We definitely didn't make each other promises.
He loved each of us kids in his own way. It wasn't the best way or the easiest way, but it was still love. In the end, I got a promise from him. A promise that something sacred to him would become mine. A promise that his goal was to become better so he could make my life better. A promise that he wanted to provide me with a sense of home.
It has been exactly one year since my grandpa passed away.
I am thinking about getting a bear skin rug.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Parking Lot Rage
Why, oh why did I get here at 10 o'clock in the morning? Everyone gets here at 10 o'clock in the morning. And what do they do?
They take up all the parking spaces, that's what they do. Then I have to drive around and--
Ooh!
Nope. She's getting out of the car, not getting in. Make up your mind, stupid.
Still driving. Around in circles. That's right, minivan, I see you. Good luck finding a spot up there. You're just going to turn around at the dead end. Just like me. Minivan doesn't make you special. It makes you obsolete. And also larger than my mid-sized sedan, which can fit into any parking space with unsnobbish convenience. Boom. Roasted.
Spot!
No!
Prius!
Stupid cars. Can't even take up a normal amount of space.
Around. And around. Door...opening...YES!
Follow you, oh yes I will, like a really bad stalker. An obvious stalker. An obvious stalker who wants your parking space. I don't want pictures. Don't flatter yourself. Your baby isn't that cute.
And I creep. And I creep. And my car is begging to be in neutral. And I creep some more.
Mhmmm...that's a good looking space. Right next to the fire hydrant. You know. Just in case. Short distance to the door. Full sun to warm up my seats when I get back inside. Oh yeah, worth the wait.
WHAT?!
You were NOT waiting for that spot, Different Minivan From The Last One I Saw! I WAS! I followed her! I wasted precious gas on her! I may have insulted her family, but I have earned this space!
Yep, I wave to you too. Curl my lip in a snarky smile. And then I wish parasite infested mosquitoes to house their bloodsucking colonies inside your dashboard.
Back to the dead end. Turn around again. Wonder if anyone would notice if I just rammed my car into that little hatchback? Not a big dent, just enough to say, "I deserve a better parking space than you because I'm just an all around better person."
Ugh. Jeep. Just pulled in and snagged that woman walking out the front door. Why didn't I just sit in front of the door?! Now he's parked, and I'm still circling like a one-eyed goldfish.
(I had a one-eyed goldfish. He could only swim around the bowl in one direction. Such a sad life.)
OH! YES! YES I SEE YOU! YOU'RE PARKED RIGHT THERE? IN THE SPOT THAT I JUST PASSED? I WILL REVERSE TO CLAIM IT! DON'T YOU WORRY! YOU WEREN'T ACTUALLY WORRIED BECAUSE IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER TO YOU WHERE I PARK! WHY AM I STILL YELLING?
Ok, I'm good now. Blinker is on. Left her enough room to back out of her space, but not enough to let someone else try to snag it. It is mine. My precious. Eww, never make that voice again. Ok, actually you can. Just not on a date. That's a good compromise.
Parked. Yes? Yes. Made it. Ha! Good luck, Stupid Car Just Entering The Parking Lot.
Oh, now you decide to leave. All of you. Wait. Really? You're all leaving? Right now? So they all get parking spaces? Just like that?
I hate you.
They take up all the parking spaces, that's what they do. Then I have to drive around and--
Ooh!
Nope. She's getting out of the car, not getting in. Make up your mind, stupid.
Still driving. Around in circles. That's right, minivan, I see you. Good luck finding a spot up there. You're just going to turn around at the dead end. Just like me. Minivan doesn't make you special. It makes you obsolete. And also larger than my mid-sized sedan, which can fit into any parking space with unsnobbish convenience. Boom. Roasted.
Spot!
No!
Prius!
Stupid cars. Can't even take up a normal amount of space.
Around. And around. Door...opening...YES!
Follow you, oh yes I will, like a really bad stalker. An obvious stalker. An obvious stalker who wants your parking space. I don't want pictures. Don't flatter yourself. Your baby isn't that cute.
And I creep. And I creep. And my car is begging to be in neutral. And I creep some more.
Mhmmm...that's a good looking space. Right next to the fire hydrant. You know. Just in case. Short distance to the door. Full sun to warm up my seats when I get back inside. Oh yeah, worth the wait.
WHAT?!
You were NOT waiting for that spot, Different Minivan From The Last One I Saw! I WAS! I followed her! I wasted precious gas on her! I may have insulted her family, but I have earned this space!
Yep, I wave to you too. Curl my lip in a snarky smile. And then I wish parasite infested mosquitoes to house their bloodsucking colonies inside your dashboard.
Back to the dead end. Turn around again. Wonder if anyone would notice if I just rammed my car into that little hatchback? Not a big dent, just enough to say, "I deserve a better parking space than you because I'm just an all around better person."
Ugh. Jeep. Just pulled in and snagged that woman walking out the front door. Why didn't I just sit in front of the door?! Now he's parked, and I'm still circling like a one-eyed goldfish.
(I had a one-eyed goldfish. He could only swim around the bowl in one direction. Such a sad life.)
OH! YES! YES I SEE YOU! YOU'RE PARKED RIGHT THERE? IN THE SPOT THAT I JUST PASSED? I WILL REVERSE TO CLAIM IT! DON'T YOU WORRY! YOU WEREN'T ACTUALLY WORRIED BECAUSE IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER TO YOU WHERE I PARK! WHY AM I STILL YELLING?
Ok, I'm good now. Blinker is on. Left her enough room to back out of her space, but not enough to let someone else try to snag it. It is mine. My precious. Eww, never make that voice again. Ok, actually you can. Just not on a date. That's a good compromise.
Parked. Yes? Yes. Made it. Ha! Good luck, Stupid Car Just Entering The Parking Lot.
Oh, now you decide to leave. All of you. Wait. Really? You're all leaving? Right now? So they all get parking spaces? Just like that?
I hate you.
_________________
Update: My post inspired this post
by my best friend Jeremy. It has nothing to do with parking lots.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The "M" Word
It was this past St. Patty's Day when I realized just how destructive the "M" word could be. It seems unobtrusive, when examined academically. We say it in the right context, and it feels intellectual. But bring it up casually, almost cavalierly, and it hits home. Hard.
Our party was, if not rip-roaring, at least pleasantly buzzing with lively conversation and green beer. All young professionals (or so we like to think of ourselves, with only a few of the participants still living with our parents), we were witty, dapper, and opinionated. We relished a well timed quotation. We discussed video game graphics, the substandard nature of pop music, and, of course, the food.
No one's plates were piled, exactly. We were grazing, if you will. A piece of bread here. A chunk of roasted pork there. A sip of punch a la green food coloring. A cookie. And then another cookie. And then another cookie.
That's when it happened. Our twenty-something egos were punched so forcefully in the stomach that it's a wonder no one graced the beige carpet with emerald vomit.
"God, it's going to suck when our metabolisms slow down."
Our party was, if not rip-roaring, at least pleasantly buzzing with lively conversation and green beer. All young professionals (or so we like to think of ourselves, with only a few of the participants still living with our parents), we were witty, dapper, and opinionated. We relished a well timed quotation. We discussed video game graphics, the substandard nature of pop music, and, of course, the food.
No one's plates were piled, exactly. We were grazing, if you will. A piece of bread here. A chunk of roasted pork there. A sip of punch a la green food coloring. A cookie. And then another cookie. And then another cookie.
That's when it happened. Our twenty-something egos were punched so forcefully in the stomach that it's a wonder no one graced the beige carpet with emerald vomit.
"God, it's going to suck when our metabolisms slow down."
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Reasons My 16-Year-Old Self Hates Me
Some people in this world spend their adolescence in tortured angst. They revel in breaking the rules, breaking the norm, and breaking the bank. After all, the world is there solely to serve teenagers, and yet often leaves them high and dry in the unending agony of "You just don't understand."
I had my taste of this. I wrote my poetry. I cried myself to sleep. But mostly...
I was a stuck up prig.
My greatest joy was in doing the "right" thing, even though it meant being a painfully boring individual. No reckless driving, because I was afraid of dying in a fiery car crash of doom. No skipping class, because participation points can make or break your college acceptance, duh. No makeup (for a few more years), because only girls-who-don't-keep-their-legs-closed cake on such a facade of insecure beauty. (I also didn't have acne yet. Things changed quickly.)
This week, my past self slapped me in the face. Not literally, both because that is impossible due to the laws of physics and because my past self does not believe in using violence to solve problems. (My college self almost believed in it once. The girl majorly screwed over my friend and she deserved a good slap across her pretty little mouth. I was going to give it to her, too, but then her pretty little mouth began vomiting. I held her hair. I really am a disgustingly nice person.)
These are the reasons my former teenage self loathes every fiber in my body.
I went to the gym today...for the fourth time in a week. No, 16yo me is not jealous that I almost beat her mile time (booyah!). She is angry that I ran over two and a half miles of my own volition, not under pain of a failing grade. And that I enjoyed it.
I shared a beer sampler with a friend...in the afternoon. Or didn't you know? Beer is the devil's drink, suitable only for slackers and criminals.
The words out of my mouth...are not necessarily the most eloquent of expressions. In fact, they often consist of the same word used in noun, verb, and adjective form. It's such a versatile word, I feel that it deserves this place of honor in my vocabulary. My past self believed that such words sent you to the inner circles of Hell or worse-- hurt people's feelings. Note: I have not outgrown my 16yo self enough to utter these words in the presence of my father. Or to write them on the Internet. My sincerest apologies for this circuitous avoidance of said words, but I just can't do it.
I love eating fish...and even worse...
I love eating spinach. I felt very entitled to eat only the least healthy foods in the world. My friends and I singlehandedly supported the local Taco Time. (How is it possible that one chain fast food restaurant can have better brand name root beer than the others? Nevertheless, they do.) Those things catch up to you in the form of gagging sounds from the crowd during bikini season.
I'm not pregnant. Thank the Good Lord. But 16yo me decided that babies needed to be popping out of...somewhere...about the time college was done. That way, I could have an entire softball team by the age of 40. Commence crossing legs now...
Wrinkles. On my forehead. From raising my eyebrows. In surprise, disbelief, and horror. Basically, because people are stupid. So I blame all of you.
I've never met Hillary Clinton. Old dreams involved working for the State Department. Can't you see me as a CIA agent? I can hardly make it through a French lesson and I'm afraid of grocery stores. Back away, suicide bombers. This girl's got game.
I still can't compose a list with which I am decently satisfied. 16yo me thought that 23yo me should be able to win the Pulitzer Prize. I'm working on it, ok?
I had my taste of this. I wrote my poetry. I cried myself to sleep. But mostly...
I was a stuck up prig.
My greatest joy was in doing the "right" thing, even though it meant being a painfully boring individual. No reckless driving, because I was afraid of dying in a fiery car crash of doom. No skipping class, because participation points can make or break your college acceptance, duh. No makeup (for a few more years), because only girls-who-don't-keep-their-legs-closed cake on such a facade of insecure beauty. (I also didn't have acne yet. Things changed quickly.)
This week, my past self slapped me in the face. Not literally, both because that is impossible due to the laws of physics and because my past self does not believe in using violence to solve problems. (My college self almost believed in it once. The girl majorly screwed over my friend and she deserved a good slap across her pretty little mouth. I was going to give it to her, too, but then her pretty little mouth began vomiting. I held her hair. I really am a disgustingly nice person.)
These are the reasons my former teenage self loathes every fiber in my body.
I went to the gym today...for the fourth time in a week. No, 16yo me is not jealous that I almost beat her mile time (booyah!). She is angry that I ran over two and a half miles of my own volition, not under pain of a failing grade. And that I enjoyed it.
I shared a beer sampler with a friend...in the afternoon. Or didn't you know? Beer is the devil's drink, suitable only for slackers and criminals.
The words out of my mouth...are not necessarily the most eloquent of expressions. In fact, they often consist of the same word used in noun, verb, and adjective form. It's such a versatile word, I feel that it deserves this place of honor in my vocabulary. My past self believed that such words sent you to the inner circles of Hell or worse-- hurt people's feelings. Note: I have not outgrown my 16yo self enough to utter these words in the presence of my father. Or to write them on the Internet. My sincerest apologies for this circuitous avoidance of said words, but I just can't do it.
I love eating fish...and even worse...
I love eating spinach. I felt very entitled to eat only the least healthy foods in the world. My friends and I singlehandedly supported the local Taco Time. (How is it possible that one chain fast food restaurant can have better brand name root beer than the others? Nevertheless, they do.) Those things catch up to you in the form of gagging sounds from the crowd during bikini season.
I'm not pregnant. Thank the Good Lord. But 16yo me decided that babies needed to be popping out of...somewhere...about the time college was done. That way, I could have an entire softball team by the age of 40. Commence crossing legs now...
Wrinkles. On my forehead. From raising my eyebrows. In surprise, disbelief, and horror. Basically, because people are stupid. So I blame all of you.
I've never met Hillary Clinton. Old dreams involved working for the State Department. Can't you see me as a CIA agent? I can hardly make it through a French lesson and I'm afraid of grocery stores. Back away, suicide bombers. This girl's got game.
I still can't compose a list with which I am decently satisfied. 16yo me thought that 23yo me should be able to win the Pulitzer Prize. I'm working on it, ok?
______________________
Any reasons your former, less enlightened selves hate who you've become?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Sir Mix-A-Lot And I Are Going To Have A Baking Party. You're Invited.
One time, I wrote a blog post titled Spatula Is A Funny Word. Also I'm A Homewrecker. Most people thought it was hilarious. One person was disappointed that I wasn't revealing myself as a Hollywood mistress. My purpose was really to sabotage the cutsie food blogs that are probably supported by drug dealers. Ok, I don't actually know that, but it makes me feel better about myself.
Here is my second attempt to create the anti-food-blog. It is being prompted only by the most delightful of baked goods-- cookies-- and the ways in which I manipulate them to my quirky personal relationships. No recipes. No "It's so easy! Just find some Indonesian eucalyptus powder and shower in rose petals first!" My way.
It should be noted that this is the first time I have ever put pictures into my blog, and they are ugly. Like the way Amanda Bynes says the word in She's The Man. Oooooooglay. That's rather the point. I didn't stage them. I didn't go out and by a new china hutch to display my food creations. I have better things to do. Like watch The Bachelor.
So here is the context for my anti-food-blog. For a combined Christmas/birthday present, my best guy friend from college bought me a souvenir from his trip to Italy-- a pair of cycling shorts in red, white, and green, with a printed picture of a certain piece of male anatomy on the front, modeled after Michaelangelo's famous sculpture "David." (See how I made that into a cultural reference instead of letting it get awkward? Oh, it's still awkward that he sent me penis pants? Don't worry, it is being added to the list of things I will bring up when I make a toast as his future wedding.)
I sent him a fantastic Christmas present, full of thought and love and chocolate chips. He is also a part of the six young men to whom I once gave Christmas boxers as a sign of my limitless affection. For his birthday present? Oh, it's on.
Can you tell what those are? Here, let me give you a closer look.
Those are butt cookies. Cookies shaped like butts. Cookies shaped like butts with an assortment of underwear choices, to be exact.
Thongs. Boy Shorts. Bikini Cut. Even some Granny Pantie style, although I made sure that they all had a little bit of cheek showing. Polka dots, hearts, ruffles, and stripes. I made them all.
And since underwear isn't worn just on the bottom half of a female, I also made these:
Boobs.
Well, boobs in bikinis/bras, but they're still boobs.
Wing Woman of the Year Award? Goes to me. We didn't even need to go to a bar. Here, my friend. Have some boobs.
Credit for the idea shall be given to the forwarded email that my mom received from a friend, and also to this blog, which is the first on the list if you google "butt cookies," for some icing ideas.
Thus ends my adorable "I love you so much, you're my best friend, I'm going to buy you nice things to show you how much I appreciate you" phase. It's done. I hate to think that this has started a present war between us, to see who can give the most ridiculous present, but that might be just what has happened. My birthday isn't for quite a while, so he's got a long time to think about it.
But he'll also be thinking about one very important fact as he ruminates on how superior my present giving skills are.
He liked the big butts, and he cannot lie.
Here is my second attempt to create the anti-food-blog. It is being prompted only by the most delightful of baked goods-- cookies-- and the ways in which I manipulate them to my quirky personal relationships. No recipes. No "It's so easy! Just find some Indonesian eucalyptus powder and shower in rose petals first!" My way.
It should be noted that this is the first time I have ever put pictures into my blog, and they are ugly. Like the way Amanda Bynes says the word in She's The Man. Oooooooglay. That's rather the point. I didn't stage them. I didn't go out and by a new china hutch to display my food creations. I have better things to do. Like watch The Bachelor.
So here is the context for my anti-food-blog. For a combined Christmas/birthday present, my best guy friend from college bought me a souvenir from his trip to Italy-- a pair of cycling shorts in red, white, and green, with a printed picture of a certain piece of male anatomy on the front, modeled after Michaelangelo's famous sculpture "David." (See how I made that into a cultural reference instead of letting it get awkward? Oh, it's still awkward that he sent me penis pants? Don't worry, it is being added to the list of things I will bring up when I make a toast as his future wedding.)
I sent him a fantastic Christmas present, full of thought and love and chocolate chips. He is also a part of the six young men to whom I once gave Christmas boxers as a sign of my limitless affection. For his birthday present? Oh, it's on.
Can you tell what those are? Here, let me give you a closer look.
Those are butt cookies. Cookies shaped like butts. Cookies shaped like butts with an assortment of underwear choices, to be exact.
Thongs. Boy Shorts. Bikini Cut. Even some Granny Pantie style, although I made sure that they all had a little bit of cheek showing. Polka dots, hearts, ruffles, and stripes. I made them all.
And since underwear isn't worn just on the bottom half of a female, I also made these:
Boobs.
Well, boobs in bikinis/bras, but they're still boobs.
Wing Woman of the Year Award? Goes to me. We didn't even need to go to a bar. Here, my friend. Have some boobs.
Credit for the idea shall be given to the forwarded email that my mom received from a friend, and also to this blog, which is the first on the list if you google "butt cookies," for some icing ideas.
Thus ends my adorable "I love you so much, you're my best friend, I'm going to buy you nice things to show you how much I appreciate you" phase. It's done. I hate to think that this has started a present war between us, to see who can give the most ridiculous present, but that might be just what has happened. My birthday isn't for quite a while, so he's got a long time to think about it.
But he'll also be thinking about one very important fact as he ruminates on how superior my present giving skills are.
He liked the big butts, and he cannot lie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)