In the Martin family, we like to say, "Looks like someone took the slow train from Philly." That's code for "check out the slut."

I just realized that I have been watching The Office for three hours straight. That's right, I came home (early) from work, sat my ass on the sofa, and have been watching The Office ever since. Luckily, Heidi just called and tore me away from the television. So now I am indulging another addiction and that is you, dear Internets.

Heidi's boss gave her a gift certificate to a restaurant in the fancy new mall they built right next to our apartment. So that's where we're going for dinner. Because it's free. While there, I hope to engage in some trash talking of our friends and coworkers because that's what we do. Not really. Ok, maybe a little.

After work today, I had to stop and get gas (at the gas station, not at Taco Bell BWAHAA, thank you thank you, don't forget to tip your waitress). As I was standing at the pump, I opened the passenger side door to put my credit card away, which I heard you're not supposed to do in case your door like, I don't know, makes a spark and the entire city ignites in a fiery ball of . . . um . . . fire. Am I making this up? I don't know. Well, anyway, it turns out that ANOTHER reason you shouldn't open your door at the gas pump is that a BEE might fly in and start buzzing around the car interior all, "oooh, look at me . . . I'm a bee and I like flowers and ooooh, maybe there are some flowers in this car," well, there aren't, bee! Get out of my car now please!

I suppose I should mention that of all God's creatures, bees scare me the most. Even though I am a grown woman, a mature (heh) ADULT, if I see a bee I am still tempted to jump up and run away shrieking like a little girl. I used to be afraid to go to the amusement park because there are bees there and BEES STING YOU. Maybe some of you remember my bee episode from last spring? So, yes, I am scared of bees. Ok? Suck it. The next time you see a big, fat, hairy spider and want me to kill it for you I will just LAUGH. IN. YOUR. FACE.

Today, however, I gathered my courage to fight with this bee because you see . . . I knew I couldn't just stand there and wait for it to find the open door and fly far, far away because I really wanted to go home and watch The Office. And my desire to lust after John Krasinski far outweighs my fear of a tiny, insignificant little bee that might sting me and then call its bee friends and make fun of how easy I was to sting and, oh, also how I cried like, again, a little girl.

So, I took off my shoe, bracing myself to smack the shit out of that bee when, wouldn't you know it, that little bastard flew right out the open door. And it didn't even buzz my head! Sure, I got some weird looks for standing in the gas station parking lot holding one shoe in my hand while hopping on one foot, but I think I took an important step today.

eat me

The butt sandwich:

Oh gravity, stay the hell away from me

I think God or Karma or The Flying Spaghetti Monster is trying to tell me something. It's been a shitty week. First there was the car, then the shitty work schedule, oh and then the car again, and did I mention work? Then I woke up yesterday and my right eye was swollen. Swollen. Like Heidi had snuck into my room and punched me in the face while I was sleeping. Heidi, did you? Seriously, tell me. I hope I didn't get pinkeye from one of the tiny, unwashed, germ-infested miscreants (patients) that come into our office. Gross.

But anyway, worst of all, this morning I walked out of the apartment and a squirrel threw a nut at me! It didn't hit me (squirrels don't have very good aim) but it almost did. And I know what you're thinking. Squirrels aren't malicious creatures who sit in their trees plotting to overthrow the human race with an extensive array of nut ammunition. Well, I'm here to tell you that YES THEY ARE. They are starting a revolution. You can say I'm crazy (you won't be the first), but I saw the look in that squirrel's eye after he threw that nut at me. It said, "that was a warning, bitch . . . next time, oh next time you won't be so lucky."

So consider yourself warned, Internets.

I am downgrading the story from "incredibly hilarious" to "still funny but a little sad."

Earlier today I was catching up on TiVo'ed episodes of The Daily Show, and when I got to last night's episode I could have sworn the guest was the fucking PRESIDENT OF PAKISTAN. Now, I'm pretty tired so I could have been hallucinating but WOW.

Speaking of The Daily Show (I will use pretty much any excuse to bring up Jon Stewart, but you should know that by now), I found out a couple of weeks ago that they will be in Ohio in October. Ohio. THE STATE IN WHICH I LIVE. Of course, immediately after I found this out I went to the website to see if I could get tickets. There was an e-mail address you could use to inquire about how to get tickets so I, being the obsessive fan that I am, did so inquire only to be told that because of the response they weren't giving tickets away anymore. I almost cried. Ok, I did cry a little. No, I didn't. That's a lie. I need to stop that. Lying for no reason, I mean, not crying.

Here is the thing, Internets. I really want to go. I really, really want to go. But I don't have any money. So short of begging on the street corner, where I may be confused with something OTHER than a beggar, I need you to help me figure out how to sneak backstage or onto the tour bus or something. Also, I'm going to need one of these shirts and they're not selling them anymore so that could be a problem.

If this proves to be impossible, I can only pray that they do a piece on Touchdown Jesus*, because really . . . the entire country needs to be aware of what Ohio has to offer.

Help me, Jon Stewart. You're my only hope.

*Do you know what's funny about Touchdown Jesus? Besides the obvious, I mean. When you get off at that exit, almost the very first thing you see is a Hustler store.

Whatever, dude, you kissed a guy

Because my friends and I all have the mentality of 5th graders, whenever any of us has any kind of boy in the picture (platonic or otherwise), there is a mad, immature rush to put his number into our cell phones and pretend we are going to call him and say something embarrassing. This doesn't really scare me too much, because I doubt my friends can say much that I wouldn't say myself after a couple of drinks. But it does explain why I just found a strange entry in my cell phone for someone named "petes." From what I can recall, I tried to put the name "Peter" in my phone last summer after one of my friends had a couple run-ins with a boy named, you guessed it, Peter. Not "petes," and I'm guessing I spelled it that way because it's hard to see the letters on your phone when you're in a dark bar and you've had one too many shots of tequila but ANYWAY moving on. I doubt I ever got so far as to call him, because this was the phone number I had listed: 757. That's it. Just 757. Ok. This is why I should not be allowed to operate my cell phone while drinking. I wish my phone had a breathalyzer on it so it would like automatically hang up if I was too drunk to be operating it. Seriously. I should probably take my boss's cell phone number out of my phone. That's just asking for trouble.

Also, some of you may find this number useful: 440-328-3382.

So, Phoebe is doing this new annoying thing where she stares at a window and meows until you open the blinds. And then when you do open the blinds, she keeps staring at the window and meowing because she's trying to figure out if her fat ass will fit up there. It will.

Most of the time, anyway. I know she only wants up there because squirrels keep running by on the ledge outside. And it's not like she's gonna catch any of them! They're outside and even if they weren't it wouldn't matter. They're speedy and would probably kick Phoebe's ass even though they are like the gay mafia of the nature world. Also, she hardly even tries to catch bugs anymore! So her skills? Not so sharp. Fucking lazy cat. I knew I should have gotten a lion.

I can say what I want - I still got Nazi bullets in my ass.

Yesterday, I was pretty distracted with other things, namely my bitch car from hell, but I didn't really realize it until last night when I was talking to Heidi. And now . . . Conversations With My Roommate Because I am Lazy and Don't Know What Else To Write:

Heidi: So what are you going to do about your car?
Me: Well, my dad said that we should probably . . .
Heidi: Um.
Me: . . .
Heidi: What are you doing?
Me: I think my pajama pants are on backwards.
Heidi: I wondered.
Me: I mean, I don't normally look down the front of my pants when I talk to people.
Heidi: I'd hope not. Hello, ADD.

My pants were not on backwards. In case you were interested and don't pretend you weren't.

Conversations With My Roommate EXTRAVAGANZA

While watching America's Next Top Model:

Me: Miss J is kind of unfortunate looking.
Heidi: That's because he's stuck between being a man and a woman.
Me: He's walking the line. Just like Johnny Cash.
Heidi: Only Johnny Cash's line goes to StraightLand and Miss J's line goes to . . . aswirl aswirl!
Me: I never thought I'd bring up Johnny Cash during an episode of America's Next Top Model.
Heidi: Yeah, I think I just heard him roll over in his grave.
Johnny Cash: Seriously, girls, I'm tired and you talk about me all the time. Leave me alone.
Heidi: This is all Joaquin Phoenix's fault.

Fun in the kitchen:

Heidi: Did you pack your lunch yet?
Me: No.
Heidi: Oh, I'll get another loaf of bread out of the freezer.
Me: I think we're out.
Heidi: Already? Well, there's enough bread for one more sandwich.
Me: That's it?
Heidi: Unless you count the butts. And one of them is really little.
Me: I'll eat the butts.
Heidi: I don't like the butts.
Me: I'm too cheap NOT to eat the butts.
Heidi: My dad likes the butt.

That's when I laid on the floor for five minutes laughing and then I think I passed out a little.

And finally, today at work and totally not while we were supposed to be working because that would be wrong wrong wrong and no I DO NOT spend my work day e-mailing my friends, chatting on Gmail, and posting things to my blog and if you think otherwise I have just one thing to say and that is ERRONEOUS! Erroneous on both counts! Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about either so anyway:

(this was through e-mail, obviously, because Heidi and I do not work at the same place . . . probably a good thing)

Me: Do you think I could be a flight attendant?

Heidi: Um, no. You have to wear heels, push a cart, and serve drinks to people while staying on your feet and not spilling anything on yourself.*

Me: Haha! But can you imagine the pratfalls? Maybe I'd meet someone famous. Like John Krasinski!

Heidi: You might, but then they might be angry that you got them wet.

Me: No, I really think that if I spilled something on John Krasinski he would think, "my, who is this charming klutz of a girl! I must impregnate her immediately!"**

Heidi: You are dreaming big today.

Me: Well, I need something to occupy my time.

*I really think she's implying that I might be clumsy and I'm not sure where she's getting that

**I'm not really delusional, I just love me some John Krasinski and no I am also not stalking him***

***I'm not doing the footnote thing all the time to be cute, it's just that I'm too lazy to work this stuff into a proper entry