Botoxed Vulcan? yesh, pleez excush

Botoxed Vulcan?

yesh, pleez excush me
my jaw ish now paralyshed
from all the botoxsh

Jesus Mary Joseph and the camel, did you SEE Mary Matlin spinning after the Veep debate? The words were coming out, but her face wasn’t movin’. Scary. Plus, the triple kill Marge Simpson pearls were a little over the top. But I guess after a certain age you have to up your pearl strand count to match the layers of waddle. (“Oooh, she’s a three-stander? Thank-god I’m only at two”) I guess you can’t botox your neck.

Without further ado, I bring you the first Separated At Birth presented by Haiku of the Day (and please do not think less of me for being familiar with Star Trek characters):

I present Ms. “Can’t feel my face” Matlin:

And Ms. “Vulcan Chick from that one Star Trek show” T’Pol

Somebody’s stylist has been watching a lot, lot, lot of wanker sci-fi on UPN.

(PS. The Blogger spell check wants to replace “Botox” with “botch.” How very smart you are, Blogger Spell Check. Smart indeed.)

attack of the mums high

attack of the mums

high school homecoming
pounds upon pounds of trinkets
creating humpbacks

From what I gather, staggering through the high school hallways bedecked in copious amounts of jangling plastic crap and flammable ribbon is pretty much a Texas homecoming tradition. I know that kids in other states wear mums for homecoming – and mums are even a college homecoming tradition. For sheer gaudiness and reckless abandon for one’s spine, though, I think Texas has most states beat.

Back a thousand years ago (well, ten years ago) when I was in high school, the mum thing was a pretty big deal. They were giant and awful, but they weren’t entities to themselves like they are nowadays.

Nowadays we have this:


(for the punk rock sistah?)

And this:


(for the “just cart me to my classes in a wheelbarrow” gal)

And this, the coup de gras:


(for the “I want those bitches to see my fineness coming and going” girl)

Granted, I never did the homecoming thing in high school, so I don’t really understand the necessity of hanging baubles from my left boob. I was more the try-and-study-during-the-pep-rally-only-to-be-threatened-with-in-school-suspension-if-I-didn’t- get-my-butt-out-of-the-library-and-into-the-gym kind of girl. I was a nerd. Still am. So maybe I’m lacking the popular girl gene that helps people understand why ginormous alters to Michael’s Crafts and Arts stores are necessary to enjoy a football game.

Eh.

To each his own. I know the kids get really riled up for this stuff. They’re buying mums in fifth grade now, some of them. Crazy. But, whatever. If some poor lovesick kid wants to save his grass mowing money to buy a mum for his sweetheart, who am I to say that’s dopey? I once received a very nice 40-lb. bag of manure from a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day. (It was an inside joke – and a hysterical gift. But, you know, some girl’s would hate that.)

So power to the mums, I guess. Just as long as the girls wearing them stay away from open flames and windstorms.

(The photos by the way, are stolen from the October edition of Texas Co-Op Power, this awesome little magazine I get as a member of the Pedernales Electric Co-Op. The photog is Geno Esponda.)

boring, but cool a balloon

boring, but cool

a balloon Christine
attempt to kill was thwarted
thank you firefighters

This story is actually more boring than it sounds, but here it is anyway… three people in a hot air balloon crashed into some power lines. Everyone was OK, no one electrocuted, though the balloon did try to escape with someone still in the basket. The most interesting thing about this story is that the crash happened on a street where I used to live. The college efficiency apartment finally saw some action.

Oh, and the best part of the article… the last line.

Like what would the firefighters have used instead? A tinier hot air balloon? A jet pack? Go-go-gadget arms? Their on-staff Plasticman?

administrative monday have great idea

administrative monday

have great idea
but first must take care of this
blog bidness right now

Well, I don’t have a lot of time for a lengthy diatribe on homecoming mums or Fisher price training potties, but they’re forthcoming, I promise.

Right now I have a couple of stupid things to announce and then I have to go eat some grits and take the babe to the grocery store. Ah, exciting times. Exciting times.

My first big announcement is that I can wear my size 6 jeans again. Before you get happy for me, know this. I’ve actually moved up a size, not down. I’ve been trying to gain some weight for a while now and it looks like it may actually be working. Before you send me hate mail, let me just say this: When you’re on the skinny side of skinny, it’s not cool. People whisper that you’re anorexic or try to catch you barfing in the bathroom. They constantly harass you about your weight and how healthy you are, etc. For a while, this all stopped, because I managed to gain 48 pounds when I was pregnant. Crazy, I know. I didn’t really do it on purpose, it just happened. I turned into a Kari and a half. Then the wee one was born, I nursed (still am, actually) and I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight fairly quickly (though with a completely altered body type, stretch marks galore and all that fun stuff.) Anyway, I’m back into my size 6 jeans. Yay. Maybe a little meat on my booty will help me get pregnant, cause, damn, it just doesn’t seem to be working this time.

OK, next announcement: I joined Friendster. For the past few weeks I’ve been reading in people’s blogs and hearing friends talk about how cool Friendster is, so being the follower I am, I joined up. It’s kind of cool because you can track down old friends and spy on old boyfriends and stuff, but it seems like mostly a tool for dating. One cool thing is that I actually (sort of) found my friend Amy who’s lost out in San Francisco somewhere. I’ve been trying to track down this gal for over a year now, and bam, there she is on Friendster. The only problem is that her picture’s still up, but her profile is not. She hasn’t logged on for over year. Guess I’m a little late to the Friendster bandwagon. Oh well. At least I know that a year ago she was still alive. Cool.

If anybody out there in blogland wants me to add you to my eeny web of friends (or vice versa), leave a comment, or email me at karianne[at]gmail[dot]com and we can become BFF.

Third announcement… well, it’s not really an announcement, it’s a question: should I or shouldn’t I put up a Kerry/Edwards yard sign? I’m feeling a little manic about my support right now and I want to show it off. I know a yard sign won’t earn any votes and that it will probably alienate my neighbors (who are all crazy right-wing nuts from what I can tell). But then again, maybe there are some closet Democrats out here who want some support… I don’t want to get my house firebombed, but I also would like to show my support for the dems out there (however few and far between they are in the austin burbs). Whaddaya think?

Last thing: I know the Olympics poll is sadly outdated and, though, obnoxious, definitely not a poll of the week. I tried to do the ass thing, below, but it didn’t work. I’m working on a new poll. It’ll be up soon.

*** EDIT***
The new poll is up! Check it out over to the left. And if you care at all… the number one thing everyone misses most about the Olympics is seeing swimmers’ ass cracks. Hearing Paul Hamm talk came in a close second and watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh make out came in close third. No one gave a damn about Bob Costa’s lavender shirts, the crazy Greek lady’s wig, or the words “FIG” “rhythmic” and “doping.”

OK. I’m off to eat grits now.