Any time you go to a blogging conference or hear about blogging or really blog ever, you hear the word, “monetize” which, I recently learned, has NOTHING to do with Monet’s paintings. I feel both shocked and saddened – like my whole life has been a joke.
(I was also recently horrified to learn that “non-stick” does not ACTUALLY mean “non-stick)(nor do Crab Cakes have CAKE in them)(what is this world COMING to?)
Anyway, I’m not so great at monetizing anything, including my blog, because I’m not very good at anything. Also: who wants to read a hastily thrown together piece about why I think dish soap rules – even if it’s true? Not me.
But thanks to my cess-pool children, I do have a cold. And having a cold sucks. Much as I’d like to sit around the house, flailing my arms and raspily yelling, “WHY GOD, WHY?” I figured that this might be An Opportunity. A GOLDEN opportunity.
Oh yes, Pranksters, I think I finally know what to do to Monetize This Cold: I can become a temporary phone sex operator.
I can see it already.
Me (deep-voiced and raspy): “Hey baby.” *hack, hack, hack*
Him: “Um, so what are you doing right now?”
Me: “Drinking a diet coke and feeling sorry for myself. You?”
Him: “I meant, what are you wearing?”
Me: “A stained tanktop and some gauchos.”
Me: “The tank top is red.”
Him: “Um.”
Me: *coughs loudly*
Him: “So, uh, what do you want to do to me?”
Me: “I don’t know. Take flying lessons?”
Him: “I meant like, do you want to get me naked?”
Me: *sneezes wetly* “EW. NO. I don’t even know you.”
Him: “Do you want me to touch your breasts?”
Me: “GROSS, you creepy old fuck!”
Him: “This isn’t working.”
Me: “You got THAT right, Buddy.”
*clicks*
Hm. So maybe that’s a bad idea. Guess I’ll go back to Moneting things.
I remember when my friend Pashmina got back from her honeymoon. I think I’d just popped out Crotch Parasite #2 and had the approximate dimensions of a whale. Not to mention, aforementioned Crotch Parasite was constantly chomping on my nipple and/or pooping on me, so vacation was entirely out of the question. Hell, taking a leak alone was out of the question.
Anyway, Pashmina called me and blearily I answered the phone. She cheerfully informed me about the places they’d had The Sex, the great shit they’d done, the meals they’d eaten while I silently wept onto my very cranky baby. I hadn’t eaten a meal without the kid hanging off a body part in months. And sex? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
It was kinda mean of her, you know, describing all the cool shit she’d done while I sat at home and watched my television husband, Vincent D’Onofrio, quirkily solve murders.
But the swag at BlogHer is legendary, I’m sure even if you’ve never been, you’ve heard about it. Mostly from the sorts of people who get invited to private parties and shit, which, SO not me. I got a couple of mini-boxes of cereal and a fuckton of those stupid bags everyone gives out. I’m sure the maid service thanks me tremendously for leaving them behind.
This year, I got one thing – ONE thing – that may shock and impress you, Pranksters. ONE THING. And it impressed me so much that I’m STILL reminiscing about it, all Missed Connections style. Because I had to leave my ONE THING behind. Parting WAS truly sweet sorrow.
I got a fucking toothbrush.
GENIUS.
I know you probably think I’m being all sarcastic about it, but no, I’m not. I loved that toothbrush so much that I envisioned romantic fantasies – just me and the toothbrush dining by candlelight. Me and my beloved toothbrush running along a beach, holding, er, hands. Me and my toothbrush snuggling up together – I’d even get to be the Big Spoon (for once).
Brushing my teeth was a treat. I felt like a champion, my pearly whites all sparkling and clean, ready to take on the day. I was a WINNER thanks to that toothbrush.
(we all know packing a toothbrush is kinda bullshit because it gets all musty and shit)
On Sunday, it was time to bid my beloved farewell. I couldn’t take it home with me; no, our love was too pure to continue.
Sobs.
Missed Connection:
You: Johnson and Johnson toothbrush, 8 inches, blue and soft.
Me: Your Aunt Becky, leaving a hotel room.
If there’s one thing awesome about being crammed in a metal tube, hurtling through time and space with a bunch of mouth-breathing strangers, it’s this: SkyMall. Here’s what I’ll be buying myself for Christmas, or Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, or whatever holiday comes next.
Who WOULDN’T want an attic lady popping randomly into your attic? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO. Rather than wait for the bitchy old lady who owned my house to come over and demand money again, I’m going to buy myself a lady! Who can pop in and out of my house! She’s an instant party – or instant sea hag – for sure.
So what if the pool I have is 8 feet by 8 feet with a depth of three inches? No, seriously, SO WHAT?
I want a musical light show while I soak in my wee pool. Hell, EVERYONE will want to come over for a pool party then! Won’t they be surprised when my “pool” is really a “puddle.” A puddle with motherfucking music and LIGHTS.
I can hear the clamoring of my neighbors already.
I genuinely do not know how I do not own this yet. No, I mean it, I need this AND a pack of Old Milwaukee. Because while he SAYS he’s from Texas, I’m in Chicago, and there’s nothing trashier than things from Milwaukee. Like their shit-ass beer.
I require this above all else. He will go in my china cabinet, with my six-pack of Spam with Bacon. And he will reek of style and sophistication.
Originally, I thought this was a singing toilet, which is like a dream come true. I’ve always wanted a toilet that sang for me while I pooed, cheered for me after I flushed, and then did a nice jaunty you-just-peed number (perhaps a nice Gershwin piece or the theme from Sanford and Son) as I exited the bathroom.
I was a little disappointed to learn that no, in fact, this toilet didn’t sing to me. It will, however, prevent me from dunking in the toilet at three AM like an overly-large kicky-haired tea-bag. Which is minorly awesome.
I still want the singing toilet, dammit.
So last time I shopped at SkyMall, I decided the statue of the little boy peeing would be what went above my grave. Along with the gigantic angel statues and weeping out-of-work actors. But I’d never given any thought as to what I wanted BELOW my grave. Besides the towers of flowers.
This, Pranksters, is what I want coming out of my grave.
I can think of no better way to “honor” me than a frightening zombie with a little boy peeing on it.
And oh holy fuck, do you need to see this video. There are no words. Only awesome (it’s totally safe for work):
