Fake Face, Day 30

Hey Kling-dongs. 

That’s my new brand of plastic wrap with cartoon dicks all over it. To be used to cover the left over deviled eggs at your bachelorette party. 

Do people like deviled eggs? They seem like a staple at family parties. You see them arrive in their special little caddy but you never actually see people eating them. BUT, the mystery–there are never any left over because Uncle Marty throws his hands in the air and goes “awww who ate all the deviled eggs?!” and everyone laughs, except for Aunt Edy because she and Uncle Marty had a falling out years ago, in which Marty forgot about, but Edy still shoots stingy remarks about Marty under her breath to any female relative in near proximity. No one likes Edy, she should just let it go. 

But I digress. 

DAY 30.


QUESTION: What’s in your makeup bag? (revs blow torch, lowers mask)

As a person who dumps more money into Sephora than should be legally allowed, you’d think I’d be able to talk about all the super great things I have in my 5 different makeup bags that turn me from 8 year-old boy to 40-something drag superstar. But alas, I’m still trying to pull off  the “She’s All That” look before she actually turns “All That.”

So why do you need 3 different gold eyeliners for all those New Year’s parties you’re not going to? BECAUSE.

What about this $50 smokey eye palette? I NEEDED it and Pinterest gave me a vague idea of how to use it, so leave me alone I just want to rock the two black eyes that gorilla gave me when he punched me at the zoo. 

I enjoy makeup, but anything above “you don’t look completely dead” makes me feel like a clown. Everything in moderation. Except for things with sugar in them. You can have extra of that. 

Anyways, new topic, I have half an episode left of the X-Files and the last movie before that chapter of my life comes to a close. It’s bittersweet because X-Files was a crutch for me, BUT I mentioned that I would be starting some new (relative term) shows like Twin Peaks, The Sopranos, The Wire, etc. AND GUESS WHAT? I got a request from a lo-lite (my nickname for anyone who has ever enjoyed any of my humor in any capacity) to live-tweet my thoughts on Twin Peaks. The idea that anyone would want my opinion or reaction to anything is extraordinarily flattering. SO THANK YOU!


Lolo signing off.

Until next time, my Quispy Queens.


Hi kittens,

And hello to you guys too, but I’m mainly talking to my expansive kitten audience.

I haven’t been feeling very well (kittens, come lay on me please) so that’s why I’ve been mysteriously been absent from WordPressistan. 

But lots of crazy things are happening! Like…

I painted my nails black!

I downloaded a song!

I brushed my hair!

I AM very excited to tell you some big news coming up, but not yet, I don’t put out on the first date. Or the 108th blog post. I don’t know if this is 108, but it should be. It’s a nice number.

I’m working on getting pictures together for my post about my Showcase. My mother is sending me all the pictures she took, but she doesn’t have a smartphone so I’ll probably be getting them sometime in the next 6 months. 

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing with no owning a smartphone. But when you own a piece of shit and you don’t know how to work the piece of shit and your house is a dead zone then the results may vary. 

Also, if you’re wondering, which I know you’re not but I don’t care this is my blog so I’m going to tell you anyways, I titled this GooGooBooBoo because I’m being a big baby and taking a nappy because I don’t feel good. Please someone wipe my ass for me. I’m tired and sad. 

Okay! That’s all for me. 

See you next time, my Hooked-on-Bonnets!

Coke Whore

I’m sorry, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the cracking of my sweet, delicious Coke.

The cracking of the can, the first sip of crisp liquid love.

I’ve fallen back into my old habits.

When I was in 6th grade I would have a minimum of 5 cans per day, along with 2 meatball Hot Pockets. I stopped drinking it and lost a bunch of weight, but now over 2 years out of college I find myself standing in front of the display at CVS wondering which package will come home with Mama.

I touched that one, but I saw that one first. Well I can’t just choose between my children. You both can come home! (Cue me walking out of the store with a 12 pack under each arm.)

I get into my car and there are cans in all the designated cup holders. The trash bag in the back seat is filled to the brim with cans that clink around as a drive, just like Santa’s sleigh bells.

I didn’t really see the problem with it. I love what I love and it’s the one thing, you know, besides friends and family and bler blah barf, that I can rely on.

I did question myself as I was sitting at my desk, watching some stand-up, when reached for my Coke. I started to take a sip when I came out of my Coke haze and remembered I hadn’t put my Coke on my desk. I looked over at my night stand and my darling cherub sat there in all it’s beautiful red glory, shining like the angel of mercy it is.

I looked down at the Coke in my hand and realized it was probably from when I was cleaning my room the weekend prior.

That would explain the green fuzz growing around the mouth piece. I thought maybe this can came with it’s own terrarium. Got to be environmentally conscientious these days.

I mean, even the name Coke, sounds like the noise it makes when you open the can. The freshness. The bubbles dancing around on my tongue. Sweet relief.

At any rate that’s where I am, squealing with delight over a box of Cokes that still have the polar bears on the can, even though the box didn’t indicate they were the winter edition.

Now that is a true treasure.

Until next time, my Chipsqueaks!

Mama’s Gotta Brand New Tooth

Hey skeebermeisters!

I got me a brandy-new tooth in my face hole.

I realize that I have many face holes, but it’s in my biggest face hole with the rest of my teeth.

Following a 3 year diet consisting of 6 cokes and 2 Hot Pockets a day, one of my teeth rotted out into oblivion.

I swear I have nice teeth otherwise, this was in my “tween” years where my essential bodily upkeep was not up to normal standards. Unless you consider glittery eyebrows and white eyeliner normal.

I can’t chew on that side of my face for week. I chew aggressively so hopefully the right side of my jaw doesn’t turn into one giant beefed-up muscle.

I’ll take pictures if that happens.

Until next time, scuba boobs!

Please Haunt Me, Greg Giraldo

I’ve had a talent for willing bizarre things in my life. That includes both good and bad.

Some include:

  • Getting my favorite comedians to retweet me or mention me on a podcast.
  • Getting caught in the middle of a shootout.
  • Dancing around as a Van Halen girl on a movie set for 5 hours.
  • Having a homeless guy chase me through a parking lot and jangle his junk around while pointing at me.

All  instances that I followed coincidences to get to.

I like the idea of synchronicity and every time I’ve followed it, I’ve come out the other end with some sort of story to tell about it.

Greg Giraldo, an awesome comedian, keeps popping up.  In conversations, books,  and on TV. More than I’ve ever seen before, especially considering he died three years ago. I can’t turn a corner without someone mentioning him or some outlet referencing his stand-up.

It’s great, but it’s becoming unavoidable.

So I pulled up some video from his tribute special on Comedy Central. There’s a small segment of him describing his stand-up as “puckish.” I instantly thought of Puck from the Real World circa 1994. That and a Midsummer’s Night Dream poster with Michelle Pfeiffer on it, that hung in my 8th grade English class.

My ability to retain information has gone down since a six month stint in college, so I looked up “puckish.”

Essentially: “playful, in mischievous way.”

An adorable way to describe his comedy.

Then I thought to myself, I wish Greg Giraldo would haunt me and be my spirit guide in the world of comedy.

I thought on it for a while and thought of all the fun adventures we’d have.

Then I went and packed my crap up to go gym.

About ten minutes later, I went outside and opened the driver side door of my car and leaned across it. I threw my gym back to the passenger side, my ass is hanging out the door.


I turned around and looked at my house, thinking maybe my mom was trying to get my attention. Nothing was there.I turned back and started to climb into the car, ass still hanging out, I heard it again.


I turned around again, embarrassed, thinking someone was making fun of my ass and I hadn’t been sharp enough to catch them the first time. I turned back to the car.


I looked around again, at the door of the house, the windows, the neighbors houses, behind the cars. I felt like an asshole. Was someone playing a joke on me and my ass?

It wasn’t an animal, there was no one around, and I haven’t smelt burning feathers recently. It sounded like someone was trying to get my attention.

Awfully, PUCKISH, amiright?

I scrambled into the car, locked the doors, and drove on the lawn.

Could this be another stepping stone on the synchronicity trail?

I’m going to meditate more on this and I’ll let you know if I conjure up anything else.

Until next time, fart-ners.

Attempting Normal


Marc Maron’s new book, “Attempting Normal” comes out today.

I pre-ordered mine in hopes to get the signed poster that was being offered. I sent my e-mail requesting one last week but didn’t get a response (to confirm or deny) being able to get one. My neurosis and paranoia set in, so I figured I’d e-mail them today. I was panicking that they would hate me for my pestering persistence.

I tried to make the e-mail sound polite and professional as possible, but I accidentally left the subject as “FWD: YOUR BARNES AND NOBLE ORDER HAS SHIPPED.”

Shit. They might think it’s spam. But I’m not spam! Just a girl who wants a poster. Why do you think I bought the complete Rocko’s Modern Life DVD set? Free poster. Why do you think I sign up for road races and never run them. Free t-shirts. Any event I ever went to in college regardless of what it was in support of? Free. Friggen. T-SHIRTS.


I think there are still some posters left or if you just like reading printed words on dead trees, go here: http://www.wtfpod.com/dispatches/entries/pre_order_attempting_normal

I don’t know how to get links to say a phrase and not just say the whole link, so ignore my quackery*.

In other news, I left my granola bar on my desk and a sunbeam warmed it up so the yogurt part of it tasted like warm frosting. Normally, warm yogurt would make me want to throw up out my ass, but this was really good.

I also recently found out my favorite place to get coffee doesn’t sell strawberry or vanilla frosted doughnuts. I also recently found out I am not confident when writing the word “doughnut.” I figured I can at least get the strawberry ones around Valentine’s Day or maybe ever Breast Cancer Awareness month. I can’t really think of a holiday that would warrant vanilla frosted doughnuts.

Okay, my little circus freaks, until next time!

*I’m not entirely sure that’s a word, but WordPress isn’t telling me I’m wrong so I MUST be right.


I wrote this a few months back when I was taking writing classes with The Second City. I’m surprised that I still don’t completely hate it.



(Version #1)



Patricia-30’s, petite, employee

Marge-40’s, bulky woman

Frank-late 40’s, overweight, balding

Chuck-late 40’s, slightly overweight


(Lingerie shop in the middle of a busy shopping mall. Patrons walking in an out.)



    (To customers moving in and out of store)

Hi! How are you doin’ today? Need a bra fitting?

       (Rejected by customer)

No problem! If you need any help, my name is Patricia.

(To Marge)

Hi Ma’am! How may I help you today?


Yes, thank you. I’m looking to buy a new bra for my husband.


Oh, perfect! Do you know what size? What does he like?


We need to be measured again.

(Turns head away from Patricia, screams)


(Frank waddles over.)



Lift up your arms for the woman, Frank.

(Frank sighs, lifts up arms, exposes belly. Marge moves away, browses around store.)


Hey there, Frank! I’m Patricia.

(Wraps tape measure around Frank’s bust, notes measurements.)

Have you been measured before?


Uh, few years ago.


I can tell! (Giggles.) The bra you’re wearing doesn’t look too comfortable! Let’s get you out of that one and into something that fits your fuller bust.

(Glances around store, trying to find a bra for Frank to try on.)

Hm…Now Frank, do you prefer fuller coverage or plunge?


(Opens up more, less shy.)

You know, Patricia, I really like a little support. When I’m bending over to get the remote, I don’t want to be you know…falling out everywhere. I want some tasteful but still playful.


Great! Here we have this style. (Guides Frank to rack of bras.) We’ve got a new line with little footballs on them, this one has cars, and this one even has Ron White’s face on it!


I’ll try that one on.



 (Points. Takes car patterned bra to dressing room. Patricia waits in lobby of store. Frank tries on bra, walks out of room to examine in bigger mirrors.)

(Chuck walks out of dressing room, Frank has back towards Chuck.)


That you, Frank?

(Frank turns around.)


Oh, hey Chuck.


Marge got you here?



(Sighs. Looks back in mirror, looking at bra in different angles.)


Claudia doesn’t know I’m here, thought I’d surprise her with something special when she got home. Check out this one. Imagine me in this little number. (Holds up rhinestone studded bra.) Nice, huh?


Yeah, I guess.


What’s wrong, bud?



(Ad lib Chuck, “Oh come on”, “What is it?” etc.)

Well, it just seems a little silly. We spend all this money and time in buying new bras with cutesy little patterns on


them, rhinestones, and the whole she-bang, and it’s not like our wives even care about them. They don’t think about how long we spent trying to pick something special out for them. They just want what’s underneath.


Well, yeah. I mean the man’s breasts are the most egregious part of the body.


Erogenous. And I don’t mean that, but I mean it shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing. I want my wife to think I’m sexy for me.


Yeah well, you can thank the media for that one, pal. I for one, like buying something sexy for Claudia to see me in.


I don’t know. The standards for men are just outrageous these days! You see the men on the Victor’s Whispers commercials. No regular guy looks like that! Ripped abs, hairless body, diamond studded bra! Women just don’t understand what us men have to go through!

(Both turn back to go into their dressing rooms. Frank gets dressed. Comes back out and looks at self in large mirrors. Chuck stays in room, pokes head out.)


I wouldn’t worry about it, Frank. Marge loves you. At least you have a wife that doesn’t sit there with George Clooney posters all over the bedroom while you’re trying to make love to her! I can’t compare to him! So I don’t, and you shouldn’t either Frank.


Yeah, you know what Chuck, you’re right. I’m a good guy! I’m a great catch! They can keep their George Clooney’s and that soccer player guy, Devin Barkham or whatever. I’m great just being me!

(Tosses bra at Chuck’s face. Struts out of dressing room.)



Hm. (Shrugs. Quiet to self.) Go get her, Frankie.

(Walks out of dressing room in matching bra and thong. Ass facing audience as looks in mirror.)

Now you, sir, are one hot ticket. (Winks to self in mirror.)


Dogs and Stuff

This list is real old and real crappy. ENJOY!


Dog Names and Their Corresponding Traits

Rocky-  Big, Lovable, Dumb. Frequently knocks down trashcans and your grandmother.

Buddy-  Sweetheart, Looks cute in neckerchiefs, Attention whore. Brings in paper, shits in shoes.

Chelsea (or Kelly) –  Smart, Good with kids, Travels well. Stomach issues, diarrhea all over your summer home.

Skip-  Small, Fast, Sunny disposition. Prone to being hit by cars/elderly neighbors.

Pompom- Jealous, Fluffy, Plans for world domination. Fits easily in purse or glove box, will kill your children.

Roxy- Loyal, Abnormally long tongue, Loves swimming, and sunglasses. Might be a lesbian.

Tucker – Very intelligent, Military training, Long legs. Smarter than you, uses your MacBook Pro while you’re watching Girls. 


As I’m waiting for my hair straightener to reach white dwarf temperature levels, I’ll tell you a tale about how me and my cat were handcuffed together. This is our story.

Okay, so we weren’t “handcuffed” per say, but let me paint this rolling landscape for you. When I got home from work today, I wanted nothing more than to face plant onto my couch and recover from the last 9 hours spent without break (and without feeding my kitty faces). I walked in, turned off the alarm, and  saw Litty, my 14 year-old princess tabby, sitting like an angel from Kitten Heaven. Before I even had time to dive underneath the couch cushions, I was distracted by her soft fur, her big whiskers, and her cute meow-face. Naturally, I cooed at her and slung her over my left shoulder. She gripped her furry fingers into my shoulder blade as I scooped her bum in my hand. I was Rafiki and she was my Simba. That went on for about 30 seconds until the music stopped and  I hunched forward so she could help herself down.

Then disaster struck. One of her  jagged little claws snagged  in my H&M nine dollar pullover. A familiar tale that has only ended in peril.

I set my elbow on the arm of the couch, so she didn’t have to dangle from my shoulder, like Rose on the back of the Titanic. I knelt, she sat, staring at each other like arm wrestlers do before the match starts. Now normally, a stuck claw can be relieved by simply holding the kitty’s paw and pulling the shirt away from it. But your cat isn’t Litty. What should have been a quick fix was a seven minute foray in a Chinese finger trap hell. She pulled, I pulled, she pulled, I pulled. An intense tug-of-war. The minutes passed and I began to wonder who would die first. Would my mom come home to me laying lifeless on the floor, Litty sitting on my dead face?  I tried desperately to grab her paw to release us, but when I touched her tangled foot, she slapped me with the other one.

I contemplated taking my shirt off and  letting her keep it, but we were in front of a open window and my neighbor was out standing by his mailbox.

Then came the moment of clarity, I draped myself on the arm of the chair. Litty sat staring at me like it was somehow all my fault. I looked up at the clock, 7 minutes. “We can’t stay here forever, Litty. One of us has to make a sacrifice.”

She looked at me as if to say “Whatever, bitch” and turned to look out the window.

It was my only chance. She had looked away, and I took things into my own hands.

I grabbed her paw and ripped my shirt away and screeched, “WE’RE FREE!”

Her ears went flat and she whipped her head around, staring at me wide-eyed. I did a few victory kicks and said “What? No ‘thank you’?”

She stared at me, farted, and jumped down.

So there you have it. My straightener is sufficiently hot enough to murder curls and you’ve now heard my tale of woe for the day. Did you learn anything from it? Hopefully that love conquers all,the good guy always wins in the end, and that cat farts are the worst.