One Awkward Nude

Hi! How did you find this blog? Did you find me on facebook? Did I send you the link in a personal e-mail and then stand over your computer, watching you read, pointing out all of my favorite jokes that I wrote myself? Or did you stumble upon me by typing a word or phrase into your favorite search engine? Were you, perhaps, trying to view this young lady in the altogether?

WHAT is wrong with you?!!!, the fine host of your favorite weblog, has this tracker counter thinger that keeps track of the words and phrases people searched online that led them to this blog. In the yearish since I’ve been in operation, the #1 phrase on this list is not “awkward” or even “awkward year” or “people with restraining orders against Jon Hamm” but “Luna Lovegood Nude.”


Luna Lovegood, for all you nerds out there who don’t already have tix to the 12:06 AM showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Round Deux, is a very flighty, sort of ethereal, avant-garde little wizard who, by nature of her friendship with Harry Potter is, by all accounts, fictional. She is also, as evidenced by the photo above, a child.

Somehow, and I truly and honestly and litttrally can think of no good reason why, my blog has become a popular destination for pervmasters hoping to see this imaginary little lady naked. In addition to the phrase mentioned above, people have searched:“Luna Lovegood tits,” “Luna Lovegood + naked,” “Luna Lovegood trousers,” (that one’s a little classier, I guess?), “Luna Lovegood in the nud” (good spelling!) and“Fucking Luna Lovegood.” Yiiikes! I even have an international following, including at least one Hungarian creepster who searched both “Luna Lovegood meztelen” – which means naked – and “Luna Lovegood szex képek” –which I haven’t fully translated, for fear of what might show up on my work internet browser, but I’m pretty sure means sex tape. But this guy’s no match for my German reader(s), who have made “Luna Lovegood nackt” the fifth most popular search term. Heißen Sie willkommen zu meinem Blog!!!

I do realize that now by writing LUNA LOVEGOOD NUDE in this post 85 hundred times, I’m probably making my blog even more popular to these readers which I should be worried about but hey, all publicity is good publicity, right? (Right???) I’m just so sorry I can’t give them what they’re looking for. I guess they’ll have to settle for this:

Hummina HUMMINA!! Your move, Weasley!


One Awkward (and by Awkward, I mean gruesome) Obsession

I am so bored, you guys. So bored. The summer has set in and the publishing industry is no longer providing the thrills necessary to keep me going. I’m afraid I might not really like my job all that much. Like, I’d probably make out with it, maybe even go to second base, but I’m not sure I’d sleep with it. You know what I’m saying?!

What a good analogy. Hand me my Pulitzer, good sirs!

In my boredom, I’ve realized that the thing I like to do most is to write funny things (actually, the thing I like to do most is read comments after I write funny things and then sit and think about how many people like me) (not a joke) and I realize the only way I can become better at writing and maybe turn it into some sort of real job (or at least get more people to like me) is to do it every daaay. So I will! Or won’t. We’ll see.

I’ve had great intentions to write these past few weeks but I’m afraid my mind has been elsewhere. Specifically, the Orange County Courthouse in Orlando, FL, home of the Casey Anthony murder trial. My current obsession. Of all the things I love in this great world of ours, sensational murder cases would probably be in the top ten, somewhere after cheese and markers but slightly above peanut M&M’s. Also in the top ten: wine, facebook stalking and this picture:

But I digress. I am one of those sick, sick individuals who find pleasure hearing gruesome details of real life crimes. I’ve spent countless hours researching and forming opinions on all of the latest and greatest murders from Jon Benet Ramsey (little brother!) to Laci Peterson (husband, obviously) to Natalee Holloway (OMG ladies, never go off with strange men) to everyone’s fave Amanda Knox (guilty…by association!). I’ve been hot on the Casey Anthony story since it happened two years ago and, as much as I try to ignore the media circus, I just can’t quit you, Casey!

If you haven’t been following the trial, you need to put everything else aside, and I mean everything and check this shit out. Just go to literally any website in the whole world and you will find updates. Maybe set a Google alert? I don’t know just get involved. It is out of control, yo! Changes in alibis, wild stories concocted, a sticker is one of the main pieces of evidence. It is nuts! I love it! I hate myself so much for loving it!

The scariest thing is, some of the main evidence against the accused is a series of suspicious items in her web browser – searches for things like ‘chloroform’ and ‘neck breaking.’ While I’ve yet to google anything quite that specific, my web history would legit show searches such as “dead bodies in Long Island” and “who is the best serial killer ever?” I spent a full day reading this list from top to bottom:

And then morved on to this one:

Wow, this took a really weird turn.  Someone please validate my gruesome obsessions. Anyone? No one?


Yikes! Throw me in jail immediately.

One Awkward Trip

Hello friends! It’s hot as Hades up in the NYC! I hope you’re all staying cool. My tips for beating summer heat: put lots of ice cubes in your pinot grig, and make believe you’re living in Colonial Times. Works like a charm!

So! This weekend I traveled to gorgeous rural Western Pennsylvania with my gentleman-friend (#humblebrag) to attend a wedding of 2 of his college friends. This whole out-of-town with a significant-other, special event situation was just rife with possibilities for embarrassment – sharing a small hotel bathroom, meeting all of his friends, overzealously participating in the Cha-Cha Slide. There were so, so many ways this weekend could have gone horribly awry but Ol’ Hobags fucking nailed it, yo! I mean, there was this one minor thing where I maybe insulted religious people in front of a preacher’s son and this other time where I was trying to interact with this hot dog salesman and I wanted to say “your secret is safe with me!” (he’s an international spy), but I couldn’t remember how the saying went, so I just yelled “The secret is…!!” and then ran out of the store and then this one other thing where I spilled diet coke all over myself in a rest stop and my man-pal said it was “funny to watch me do things,” (romance!) but other than these small, minor items which so could have happened to anyone, I think I did pretty good for myself. Pretty, pretttty good.

 (If you’d like to make this a drinking game for every time I subtly remind the internet that I’m now getting laaaiiiyyyeedd on the regular, you can now take 3 sips of your iced wine.)

So I was obviously feeling super great about myself on Monday afternoon when I took the Bolt Bus back into the city. I got into Penn Station mid-afternoon, took the subway northward and walked 8 more blocks until, literally one block away from my apartment I realized: I’d left my entire suitcase in the bottom of the bus! All of my most treasured belongings (hair mousse, sandals, several dozen Hershey’s Kisses) were in that bag. I stopped in the middle of the street, started sobbing and did what any rational adult lady might do in such a situation: I called my momny. I don’t have “smart phone capabilities” because a) I’m poor and b) they didn’t have iPhones in Colonial times, so I had to frantically beg my mama to look up the Bolt Bus customer service number, while standing, sweating and crying on the sidewalk. I decided at this time that it would be in my best interest to head back towards the scene of the crime and started running, nay, sprinting, downtown in the direction whence I came. I manage to get a representative of Bolt Bus on the phone nearly right away so I’m just galloping down the street, screaming into my old-fashioned cell phone about my lost bag.

So this particular bag is this brand called Vera Bradley, which is like, so east-coast preppy and reminds me of about 85% of the girls I went to college with who are all, pearls and handbags and daddy’s money and blech. Yes, that’s such a stereotypical judgment and I love this bag and sorry if you’re reading this and you love Vera B, I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice person, I’m probably just jealous or something, but I couldn’t bring myself to identify the brand of the bag to the guy at lost and found. I guess I didn’t want them to think I was some kind of snooty jerk, or something? Like, name dropping brands? And also I thought that maybe Bolt Bus employees wouldn’t know this particular brand, so why say it? Which then made me fear I was being really racist and classist and they’d catch on and KNOW what a horrible, snobbish, east-coast, elite racist, awful person I am, so I was just running down the street, crying, yelling into the phone, actively worried about whether or not the guy working the Bolt Bus lost and found hotline thought I was a cool person when…I ran over a small child.

Just mowed that bitch down.

Mild exaggeration! What happened iiissss, I was plowing down the sidewalk, weaving through human traffic when I cut in front of a little girl, maybe like, 2 years old, pushing a baby-doll stroller. As I cut in front of her, she rear-ended my foot with her baby stroller which caused it to fall over, which in turn caused HER to fall over which in turn caused her to start crying and just as her lil tushie hit the pavement, the man on the other end of my cell phone announces that I have 20 minutes to make it 20 blocks downtown or the bus is leaving town – with my suitcase still on it! I’m already a pretentious, brand-name bag owner who is prejudiced against public transit workers and now I have to decide whether to help a crying child who I knocked to the ground or leave her lying there so I can go retrieve my lost hair products.

So I kicked her in the face and kept running.

Just kidding. I didn’t do that! I helped her up and took the subway to Penn Station and talked to the bus driver who did not seem to think I was a jerk in any way (if maybe a little bit flaky), and got my bag back, then I went home and life moved on like normal. But I find that ending a tad dull, so when retelling this story to your friends (you all do that, right?!) let’s stick with the part where I kicked the kid.