tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76771282758185829192024-03-13T17:31:35.690-05:00mikeandkayla.comMikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11927519531494574802noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-20972488555728156462013-10-18T18:25:00.000-05:002013-10-21T15:53:01.773-05:00Something about getting naked in public. Eh, that placeholder wasn't actually supposed to be the title of this post, but it works.<br />
<br />
Anyway, as every wife knows, you can put something on the to do list but that doesn't mean he's gonna do it. Well "Blog" was put on the list. Then a tornado came through and ripped the list of the fridge. Worry not! The list was recovered from the rubble. But then the hamster ate it. :/<br />
<br />
Okay, that's only partially true. And by "partially true" I mean "completely false," but I felt the need to provide you with a reason for our hiatus. <i>Hiatus</i>. That's a good word. We're like an awesome TV show that completely devastates its viewership by announcing its winter hiatus. Or in our case our winter, spring, summer, and half of fall hiatus. Except we didn't announce it. And we can't promise that another hiatus isn't imminent. <i>But we're trying.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So what happened? Mike (that's me...you do remember me, right?) moved to Canada and started graduate school. Kayla fell in love (I wanted to use the "L" word <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/08/and-then-mike-died.html" target="_blank">here</a>, but Kayla pretty much threatened to rip my heart out through my nose because they hadn't actually used that word yet), started a new job, and finished graduate school.<br />
<br />
So we were both super busy. Heck, we both <b>are </b>super busy (I'm avoiding homework at this very moment!). I was also distracted by my other blogging efforts which included a blog devoted to immigrating to Québec (RIP) and another devoted to becoming a <strike>published author</strike> <a href="http://www.michaeljornlin.com/2013/09/im-coming-out.html" target="_blank">successful ventriloquist</a>. That latest version is still alive-ish, but I haven't had much time for ventriloquism-y stuff so I instead post motivational (ish...) <a href="http://www.michaeljornlin.com/2013/10/it-gets-better-except-men-still-suck.html" target="_blank">gay ramblings</a>.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Kayla and I recently discussed the fact that ridiculous things continue to happen to us even if we live in different countries and they're not happening to us simultaneously. So, we've decided to return to our loyal readers (reader? Hi, Mom!) and tell you about the crazy shit (Hi, Mom...) that continues to happen to us.<br />
<br />
So where to start for me? Well, there are a lot of challenges and mishaps that arise from moving to a new country. Cultural differences, a different language (I live in French-speaking Québec...hey, look, my bachelor's degree isn't so useless after all!), being <a href="http://www.michaeljornlin.com/2013/07/messieurs-et-dames.html" target="_blank">accosted by street performers</a>, and the list goes on and on.<br />
<br />
Still, none of it compares to the horror of what I experienced today.<br />
<br />
When writing this post I was <i>shocked</i> to discover the tag "working out" already existed. Turns out that once upon a time I posted about how<a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/02/michael-trevino-is-god-and-bigfoots-are.html" target="_blank"> I worked out (and my motivation)</a>. Well, that routine went the same way as the relationship I was in at the time.<br />
<br />
Anyway, last week I enrolled in the workout room at my university's athletic facility. As part of that enrollment I was entitled to a free meeting with a personal trainer to establish a workout routine. I was extremely nervous. Mainly because 1) I'd have to interact with someone (and worse, probably a straight guy!) and 2) I'd have to know the right vocabulary. A gym-going, French-speaking friend told me not to worry, that all the terms are in English. I was relieved to hear that. Unfortunately, the trainer was indeed a young straight dude. I don't know why they terrify me so much but they do. I arrived at the gym early and actually found myself trying to act more masculine as I paced waiting for my appointment. Seriously. Even I told myself I was being an idiot. Anyway, the trainer was super nice and I was very happy to have my routine all planned out. Finally! A routine put together just for me! After the trainer had showed me how to use all the machines, I did my first workout. It was pretty much a success and I headed to the locker room.<br />
<br />
I had gotten my routine, done my first workout, and was feeling very optimistic about the future. So I called my mom right away after leaving the gym and told her about my biggest accomplishment: "I SHOWERED IN PUBLIC."<br />
<br />
See, after my workout I was, as one would expect, sweaty. I needed a shower. I had brought shower things but I knew I'd never do it. Shower in public? NO WAY. I could have just gotten dressed and returned home to shower, but my O.H.D. (Obsessive Homosexual Disorder) got in the way. See, I have a relatively modest wardrobe (read: I'm broke) and if I went home sweaty, then the outfit I wore to the gym (before changing into workout clothes) would get all sweat-covered (too cold to just wear the gym outfit home) and be unwearable after showering at home. So I'd be on my second outfit of the day. PLUS it's Friday night so it was possible that I would go out tonight and I wasn't going to get ready for that right after the gym. So, my going out outfit would make a THIRD outfit in one day. I couldn't handle it. So, I SHOWERED AT THE GYM.<br />
<br />
Seriously, this is something I never thought I would do. Like ever. But I did. The gym has the classic big shower room with a dozen shower heads. <i>Fortunately</i>, it has four of these rooms...and one of them was unoccupied. So I raced to one of the corners, dropped my towel, and did the showery stuff. I hoped that the fact that I was facing the corner coupled with the sound of the running water would shield me from the knowledge of someone else entering the room. I got through my whole routine (okay, an abbreviated version...baby steps) before someone came in. By then I had towel in hand. SUCCESS! (As long as "success" means "hiding my man parts from other people at all costs.")<br />
<br />
On an unrelated (or is it?) note, I need beauty tips for the gym because there be some hotties up in there and I can't be looking like my "I just rolled out of bed" self. Which reminds me...am I the only person that showers before going to the gym? Cuz I did. And I'll shower again if I go out. Three showers in one day, totally normal, right?<br />
<br />
Also, I need a new <a href="http://i1111.photobucket.com/albums/h465/mikeandkayla/86d016ac.jpg" target="_blank">inspiration board</a>. Maybe an inspiration <i>wall.</i> I love working out. :)<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>UPDATE:</b><br />
Guys... Guys... I was so nervous on Friday that I just ran into the shower without much thought...or observation. Well today (Monday) I went back to the gym for my second workout (despite the fact that I'm still in so much pain from Friday's workout that it's difficult to wash my hands) and the locker room was much emptier. Guess what I found in a less rushed stroll into the shower area? Private stalls lining the wall of one of the four shower rooms. *sigh* This is pretty much what it means to be me.Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11927519531494574802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-70860057048929769692012-12-02T11:00:00.000-06:002012-12-02T11:00:04.584-06:00The Three Bedroom, One Bathroom Death Trap with Working Fireplace and Hardwood Floors.Evidently I’ve moved into some sort of slum without knowing it.<br />
<br />
When my roommates and I first walked through our apartment we were blinded by its charming woodwork and working fireplace. We loved the location, it had plenty of space, and it had off street parking! I love old buildings, so I was smitten and absolutely had to live here.<br />
<br />
I’m writing this post so I can look back on it next August when it’s time to move to a new place because I guarantee I’m going to fall head over heels for another old building and think that it’s a brilliant idea to move into a place that is falling apart around me.<br />
<br />
This whole fiasco began on the day we moved in. The previous tenants didn’t clean at ALL after they moved out, so we were left with grime everywhere. They also left nails in the walls and peeling paint. How sweet of them to make it as shabby chic as possible, right? But I still loved all the pretty woodwork and the awesome fireplace.<br />
<br />
Then our landlord informed us that he would be having the parking lot ripped out and repaved so we would have to park on the street (like peasants!) for two weeks. Again, just a minor annoyance that I was willing to get over for the sake of my cute apartment.<br />
<br />
Then on Sunday morning whilst I was sleeping in after long night of drinking, I heard a loud crash in the dining room. Being the paranoid person that I am, I assumed someone had tied a death threat to a brick and thrown it through the window. But, being still drunk I decided to wander out and see what the heck all the commotion was. It turned out the light fixture in our dining room decided to spontaneously fall from the ceiling and smash into a million pieces. I have no idea how I managed to avoid getting broken glass in my bare feet, since I walked around the whole damn dining room (a drunk Kayla is a stupid Kayla) before realizing that I should probably go put shoes on. Luckily, Boyfriend helped me clean it up. And when I say he helped me, I mean that he really did everything and I just kind of wandered around and tried to make the Swiffer Wet Jet work. I don’t know why he puts up with me.<br />
<br />
Upon closer inspection (I like to Sherlock Holmes the shit out of everything) I discovered that the fixture was being held on by nothing more than two rusty screws and some tape. Our upstairs neighbors like to stomp around like elephants and crank up the bass every weekend, so it was only a matter of time before SOMETHING fell. I’m just hoping the ceiling continues to hold up.<br />
<br />
When I arrived home from work the next day the ceiling fan had been replaced, which was delightful but puzzling because I had yet to email him about it breaking. I’m going to hope that one of my roommates emailed him first because the only other way he could have known is if he had the place bugged. I’m so not willing to delve into THAT theory.<br />
<br />
The cherry on top of this whole thing is that after I discovered the new fan, I also discovered that our toilet no longer flushed. Our indoor plumbing had been reduced to what amounts to a chamber pot.<br />
<br />
I can handle shit falling from the ceiling, but DO NOT mess with my plumbing, sir!<br />
<br />
I always have to try to fix things, even when I know NOTHING about how they work, so of course I had to open the toilet tank to see if I could tinker with it. Lo and behold, I discovered that the flusher was being operated by none other than a STRING and a PAPERCLIP.<br />
<br />
I’m not exaggerating. That’s all there was to it. And the string had broken, leaving our flusher inoperable.<br />
<br />
Being the MacGyver wannabe that I am, I immediately found a string and rigged it so we can flush and not have to live like heathens until this new little problem is fixed. Unfortnately, the string only works with the tank lid off so we now have the most ghetto looking toilet situation ever.<br />
<br />
At this point, I’m just waiting for total catastrophe. What’s going to happen next? Will our windows fall out of their frames? Will our couch fall through the ceiling and into the basement? It’s like a fun guessing game except everyone loses. Except our landlord of course, he’s laughing all the way to the bank.<br />
<br />
Oh, and now we have <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/11/this-has-all-makings-of-fantastic.html" target="_blank">murderers in the basement</a>. Probably.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-90113215106072297492012-11-25T13:37:00.000-06:002012-11-25T13:37:49.774-06:00This has all the makings of a fantastic Lifetime movie.<br />
Conversation between me and Emily. She's that Asian that <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/12/i-dont-even-know-why-she-likes-pie-you.html" target="_blank">wrote about pumpkin pie</a> last year. And I still have no idea how she eats pumpkin pie with chopsticks...but I digress.<br />
<br />
Me: After you're done brunching you should stop over and check my basement for murderers. Please? This is not a drill.<br />
<br />
Emily: ...are there typically murderers in your basement?<br />
<br />
Me: Not usually, but the outside door to the basement was open when I got home yesterday so I'm pretty sure there are murderers in there now.<br />
<br />
Emily: At least they're being nice and staying in the basement and not coming upstairs to bother you...<br />
<br />
Me: That's true. But I really need to do laundry and I feel like they're just too lazy to bother breaking into the main floor.<br />
<br />
Emily: Maybe if you just throw your laundry down the stairs, they'll wash it for you.<br />
<br />
Me: That's actually a good plan. Unless they wash them with poison that will kill me slowly. The cops would never figure it out.<br />
<br />
Emily: Do you have poison detergent down there? Or is it more of a BYOP deal?<br />
<br />
Me: Definitely BYOP. You think I have high-tech slow-killing poison detergent laying around???<br />
<br />
Emily: Well, if their plan is to kill you with slow-killing detergent, then you should be safe to go down there. No knives?<br />
<br />
Me: I'm not saying that's their plan. Killing someone slowly with detergent isn't as much fun as slicing and dicing. Probably.<br />
<br />
Emily: Probably. But they just bring slow-killing poison detergent JUST IN CASE? That seems impractical.<br />
<br />
Me: Maybe they were Boy Scouts. Aren't they supposed to always be prepared???<br />
<br />
Emily: Murderous Boy Scouts?!<br />
<br />
Me: I don't know! I just know this is totally unfair. I'm super nice about murderers. I'm totally pro-Dexter.<br />
<br />
Emily: But you're not a bad guy.<br />
<br />
Me: So...you're saying I should kill someone? So they make me part of their murderer club instead of killing me?<br />
<br />
Emily: ...yes.<br />
<br />
So now I'm pretty sure this murderer thing is just an elaborate scheme by my friends to get me to commit murder and end up in jail forever because there's no way I wouldn't get caught. I'm just not sneaky enough. Which means I have terrible friends. Or a little too much imagination for one person. One of those.<br />
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-47660556919542457962012-09-06T20:41:00.000-05:002012-09-06T20:41:20.896-05:00A case study on case studies. (Also, I love reading!)Okay, I know <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/09/awash-in-manliness.html" target="_blank">yesterday's post</a> seemed phoned in--okay, it was phoned in--but when Kayla was like "Put this on the blog!" I was all "But...but...but I have...um...I have to...um...look! Something shiny!" Unfortunately, unlike me, Kayla is not easily distracted. So I cheated because I love you and I figured a <strike>screenshit</strike> screenshot (though maybe the typo was more accurate...) was better than nothing.<br />
<br />
The good news is that I'm back for a second day in a row! The bad news is that I'm kind of phoning it in again...<br />
<br />
At least I'll give you a premise to this one:<br />
<br />
Kayla started her last year of graduate school this week and I'm in the process of applying to graduate school. (Attention university I applied to: the below is just a joke. Really...) (No seriously though, it is. I love reading. Like lots. I actually only like writing because I like to read so much that I'm afraid I'll run out of things to read if I don't write some stuff to keep the pot of book-like-things full.) (No, seriously though. Reading is totally fine with me.) (Really.)<br />
<br />
Oh and also I totally had to Google how to do a screenshot on a Macbook in order to give you the below so it's totally not phoning it in, right? And now I might not get into graduate school. See how much I love you?<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cWDtNvLW2Zo/UElKfMsyCrI/AAAAAAAAAMU/8CM2yc5ObPY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-09-06+at+8.13.47+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cWDtNvLW2Zo/UElKfMsyCrI/AAAAAAAAAMU/8CM2yc5ObPY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-09-06+at+8.13.47+PM.png" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-62400025603918924122012-09-05T16:43:00.000-05:002012-09-05T16:43:11.272-05:00Awash in manliness.<a href="http://i1111.photobucket.com/albums/h465/mikeandkayla/Untitled.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1111.photobucket.com/albums/h465/mikeandkayla/Untitled-1.png" border="0" alt="Untitled"></a>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11927519531494574802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-49773940592374860592012-08-23T21:12:00.000-05:002012-08-23T21:12:51.611-05:00And then Mike died.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, not really, but he did go to Canada and then he started
a new job. And now, apparently, he speaks in third person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for Kayla? Well she’s busy being adorable (read: gross) with her boyfriend.
No, Mike is not jealous, why do you ask?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point? We (they?) are still alive and we/they love and miss you.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-17335432290889357972012-08-01T10:00:00.000-05:002012-08-01T10:00:02.967-05:00Because I like a little danger in my life, and by "danger" I mean anxiety and by "a little" I mean TONS.Generally, I love quirky things. They're unpredictable and I find that endlessly amusing. However, one object that I would like to stop being quirky is my phone.<br />
<br />
I have that Blackberry flip phone thing (I have no idea what it's called) and I was so excited when I got it. I'd always wanted a Blackberry and the fact that I could get one in the form of a shiny purple flip phone was just the cherry on top. No pocket dialing, easy-to-use keyboard, and the completely necessary Twitter and Facebook apps led me to believe that this phone would be the best ever. We strolled blissfully into the sunset, my cute little Blackberry and I. <br />
<br />
Cut to 6 months later when I'm literally bashing my phone against the wall to make it unfreeze, because however quirky you may be, NOBODY wants their technology to be acting of its own volition.<br />
<br />
Recently it's started this new SUPER FUN feature where it throws all of my carefully selected settings right out the damn window and does whatever it pleases. Usually this occurs when something needs to be updated, even if it's something nonessential like an app. So when I take it to the Sprint store and am all "WTF you guys, this phone is the WORST," the Sprint Guys are all just like "Oh, well you need to download the latest version of the Facebook app. Don't worry, I'll do it for you," in a very patronizing sort of tone that makes me feel like an invalid (that's probably just in my head though because it's embarassing to be a 24 year old that can't fix something so simple on technology that she's been using since FOREVER.) <br />
<br />
This morning, my phone decided it was time to play games with poor fragile mind and changed the ringtone for my alarm. Now, this normally wouldn't have bothered me; I don't really care what sound my phone makes as long as it wakes me up.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my phone chose "Silent."<br />
<br />
Really, dude? Silent? There should be a freaking 24 digit passcode that has to be punched in before any phone can even BEGIN to change its owner's alarm to Silent. <br />
<br />
My mom has zero sympathy and just asked why I'm not using the alarm clock she bought me. Um, hello? Because that would require me taking it out of the box and setting it up, and why bother when I have a perfectly good phone that will wake me up MOST OF THE TIME.<br />
<br />
The saddest part about this is that I'll probably just continue playing Russian Roulette with my phone. Old habits die hard and I hate alarm clocks.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-76858416771792695312012-07-25T10:00:00.000-05:002012-07-25T10:00:02.881-05:00In which Kayla loses her mind over admittedly subpar television.I don't know how vocal I've been about my love for Glee on this blog, but from the first moment I heard Lea Michele belting out "Don't Stop Believin'" I was hooked. I happen to love musical theatre, so it was pretty much a no-brainer that I was going to be obsessed with Glee. The first season I got together with my musical-loving friends for every episode and watched with the sort of enraptured joy that is usually only present on the faces of small children on Christmas morning. And it didn't hurt that Lea Michele is a dead ringer for Idina Menzel, musical goddess divine. I've been lovingly calling her "Baby Idina" ever since. <br />
<br />
For three seasons I laughed and sobbed through each episode, usually while drinking more wine than is recommended. I really felt for these fictional characters with their drama-filled lives and I soaked up all of the emotional storylines. You can imagine how upset I was when it was first announced that several of the cast members, including Lea Michele (BABY IDINA! DON'T LEAVE ME!) would be graduating at the end of season three. But I knew that the integrity of the show would suffer if these kids stayed in high school for seven years so I told myself that it was necessary and that the show would carry on and continue to be as magical as ever. <br />
<br />
Throughout season three I prepared myself for the departure of many of my favorite characters. I really didn't know how I was going to go on without Rachel and Kurt, but I knew that I had to get through it somehow. It helped knowing that Blaine (YUM!) would still be around. I got through the last few episodes like a champ until it was time for the highly anticipated graduation episode. I wanted to watch it. I really did. But I just couldn't. I wasn't ready to say goodbye, and the episode sat unwatched in my DVR for ages.<br />
<br />
Just when I was finally ready to watch the episode and accept the loss of Rachel and Kurt from Glee, Mike told me that it had been announced that all 15 regular characters would be back for season 4. <br />
<br />
SAY WHAT!?!?!?<br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong here. I'm thrilled that I'm not actually losing my favorite characters. But seriously, Fox? I was a hot mess trying to get through this tough time as a fan of the show and I feel like you set this all up just to get awesome end-of-season ratings. I'm sure it worked, but way to be a total mindf***, you jerks. <br />
<br />
I told Mike that this reminded me of when Hannah Montana was supposed to be "ending." I was on a good ol' fashioned college spring break in Panama City Beach, FL when the "last" Hannah Montana episode was set to air. Luckily, I was sharing a hotel room with a few other devotees of the show so we got a bunch of junk food and camped out in our hotel to watch the final episode together. It was beautiful, and we all sobbed. And then at the very end? They announced that Hannah Montana Forever would be airing soon!<br />
<br />
Again...SAY WHAT!?!?! <br />
<br />
Do you seriously mean that I spent precious vacation time INSIDE to watch this STUPID EPISODE, which I CRIED over, just so you could CHANGE THE NAME of the show and get ratings???<br />
<br />
Mike found this entire thing extremely hilarious because he has no soul and can't understand my complex feelings about both Glee and several Disney Channel shows. Rude!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-50058978075508447562012-07-19T08:30:00.000-05:002012-07-19T09:37:33.711-05:00Llamas of equal or lesser valueYou should already know that we are HUGE fans of Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess. A few days ago she posted about wanting to purchase a <a href="http://thebloggess.com/2012/07/i-need-a-pony/" target="_blank">taxidermied pony</a>. Kayla and I totally agreed that this was a much needed purchase for Jenny and led to us contemplating the lack of large, stuffed animals in our own lives.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">Kayla: I think I'm more like Jenny than I realize because on Thursday I kept trying to convince the BF to buy this fake stuffed Llama for his new apartment.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">me: OMG I WANT A FAKE STUFFED LLAMA! WHERE CAN I BUY ONE?</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Kayla: I dunno. It was SO FESTIVE though. It had a sign around its neck that said "HOLA!" It was the happiest miniature fake Llama ever.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">me: Where did you see it?</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Kayla: Bastille Days. <span style="background-color: white;">Which? Kind of strange. I bet it would have been sold in 5 seconds flat if it had said "BONJOUR!"</span><span style="background-color: white;">And if it had been wearing a beret.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="background-color: white;">[Cue Google search.]</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">me: OMG THE REAL MINIATURE LLAMA FARM IS HAVING A BUY ONE GET ONE </span></div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">SALE! WE CAN BOTH GET ONE!</span></div><div class="p3"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h4L42EBFvSk/UAYRF8Kv0NI/AAAAAAAAAMA/6aimB6C2Ywc/s1600/llamasale.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h4L42EBFvSk/UAYRF8Kv0NI/AAAAAAAAAMA/6aimB6C2Ywc/s400/llamasale.jpeg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: <a href="http://valleyminiaturellamas.com/for-sale.html" target="_blank">ValleyMiniatureLlamas.com</a> </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">Kayla: WHAAAAT??? I</span><span style="background-color: white;">t's really sad that there would be "llamas of lesser value."</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">me: Yeah :( Will your parents let us keep a couple llamas at their place?</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Kayla: No. Probably not. <span style="background-color: white;">They'll have to be city llamas.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">me: We'll just have to get the smallest ones. We'll tell the police they are collies.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">Kayla: <span style="background-color: white;">Yes!</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2">me: <span style="background-color: white;">If we get two $1000 ones, that's $500 a llama which is a BARGAIN. We'd be dumb to pass it up.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">Kayla: SO dumb. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Christmas shopping = DONE. LLAMAS FOR EVERYBODY.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">me: YES. </span><span style="background-color: white;">They even have a package deal. 2 dudes and 6 dudettes for $4k. AND THEN WE CAN MAKE MORE LLAMAS!</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">Kayla: <span style="background-color: white;">AHHHH!!!! </span><span style="background-color: white;">And then you can make capes from their hair/fur/wool/whateverthefuckllamasaremadeof.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">me: YAY!</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p2"><span style="background-color: white;">This is definitely going to turn out well.</span></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-85336940236224621192012-07-16T08:30:00.000-05:002012-07-16T09:15:19.438-05:00PSA: Two-Speaker Fast Food Drive-Throughs<br />
<div class="p1">I have encountered many two-speaker fast food drive-throughs in Milwaukee; all without incidence. Then a month ago they installed one at the McDonald's in the suburb I work in and chaos ensued. Apparently hoity-toityness does not equal intelligence.<span style="background-color: white;"> I have decided to lay out for you exactly how these are supposed to work so that you can spread the word the next time you see an idiot doing it all wrong.</span></div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><div class="p1">How it is supposed to work: You are <i>supposed </i>to form a <b>single line</b> until one of two speakers becomes available, then the next person in line moves to the aforementioned speaker.</div><div class="p2"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HTgIS14Z_O0/UADsNptXdPI/AAAAAAAAALk/uombeg-RXSE/s1600/drivethrough1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HTgIS14Z_O0/UADsNptXdPI/AAAAAAAAALk/uombeg-RXSE/s400/drivethrough1.png" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how a rational person would do it.<br />
<br />
(I got my first Mac and therefore new drawing software. Please bear with me. I know these look like a preschooler did them--or worse...that they were done in Paint--but I promise I'll get back to where I was! Remember that <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/08/welcome-and-grace-periods-are-bullshit.html" target="_blank">cute bear with Kayla and I</a> that I drew for our debut post?)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">What is actually happening: Idiots are forming two separate lines, completely eliminating the benefit of this layout. When you have one lane that divides among two speakers, everyone gets the fastest possible service. This is the same reason that certain grocery stores and banks have one lane that leads to several cashiers or tellers.</div><div><br />
</div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tOenTBVVAEw/UADsRDTG4dI/AAAAAAAAALs/adNT--mC1o0/s1600/drivethrough2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tOenTBVVAEw/UADsRDTG4dI/AAAAAAAAALs/adNT--mC1o0/s400/drivethrough2.png" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad, bad fast food goers! No super sized double Big Mac meal (with a diet Coke) for you!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<br />
I suppose I really shouldn't be complaining. Yesterday I went to this McDonald's and all the cars had formed a line to the right of the lane that all the cars are <b>supposed</b> to line up in. Not only was the line out of place (and blocking traffic through the parking lot), but they were ALL going to the right speaker. So what did I do? I drove up the correct lane, straight to the left speaker, and placed my order without a wait. And no, I don't feel bad about it because they are all idiots.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p9GVnUff-xk/UADsUodWoLI/AAAAAAAAAL0/AndHtMqa8NA/s1600/drivethrough3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p9GVnUff-xk/UADsUodWoLI/AAAAAAAAAL0/AndHtMqa8NA/s400/drivethrough3.png" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I can profit from their idiocy if they do it this way.</td></tr></tbody></table>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-2915567167480904462012-07-03T15:00:00.000-05:002012-07-03T15:02:14.372-05:00I'm a catch: MINE!<span style="background-color: white;">We've already established that </span><a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/09/im-catch-im-tranny-except-im-not.html" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">I need to think before I speak</a><span style="background-color: white;"> and that some of my methods for wooing guys are a little </span><i style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/02/how-to-snag-hottie.html" target="_blank">unorthodox</a></i><span style="background-color: white;">. What you don't know is that what I've posted here is only the tip of the ice berg.</span><br />
<br />
As, I've previously stated, <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/06/online-dating.html" target="_blank">I seem to be incompatible with anyone who lives in the same state as me</a>. Thus, I'm required to go on dates with people who are not familiar with Milwaukee. A while ago I went on a date with someone who had just moved to the area (fresh meat, muhahaha... cough). We went to dinner and afterwards we decided that we were going to get a drink, but we had to decide where. I originally suggested a gay lounge I like, but then changed my mind, stating:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I don’t want to go to a gay bar, because I don’t want other gays to see you. I want you to be my little secret.”</blockquote>
I followed that with:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I’m just kidding. Kind of. Not really.”</blockquote>
Even after I said that he still went for drinks with me. Though it was probably because I had picked him up and he assumed he had to comply with my wishes if he didn’t want to end up tied up in my basement while I prepared to test various Saw-esque devices on him. Though that’s a silly thing for him to think because I don’t even have a basement.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-54804594734902314512012-06-28T10:00:00.000-05:002012-06-28T10:00:11.855-05:00I have a hard time understanding why I don't have a pool full of money yet.I had an epiphany the other day. I believe it was inspired by a recent visit to Hamburger Mary's in Milwaukee for HamBingo night. It was pretty much the standard bingo scenario. Except the numbers were being called by a drag queen and she did performances between games. And it was FAAAAABULOUS!<br />
<br />
I was sitting at Qdoba when I realized that it would be a much more interesting experience if my taco salad had been made by a drag queen. And then I realized that there isn't ANYTHING that wouldn't be improved by the prescence of a saucy gay in drag.<br />
<br />
Think about it.<br />
<br />
Funerals, weddings, baptisms, family reunions, garbage collection, Congress, divorce, sporting events, prom, doctor's offices, dentist visits, the DMV. <br />
<br />
Imagine each of those things. And then imagine them with a drag queen or two. <br />
<br />
SO MUCH BETTER, RIGHT???<br />
<br />
Drag queens are like clowns, except not FREAKING TERRIFYING. I don't know about you, but I've never had a nightmare about a drag queen trying to kill me. I've never run screaming for my mommy at the sight of a drag queen. Mostly I'm just jealous that their makeup always looks better than mine.<br />
<br />
And that's why I'm pro drag queen. Clowns can go back to hell where they came from. <br />
<br />
[A/N: I wasn't going to share this incredible idea with you guys because I was afraid someone would steal it and capitalize off my genius. But then I realized that I don't have any moneyyyyyyyy* and I probably need some financial backing to get this off the ground. So if you're interested in investing in my drag placement service, shoot me an email!]<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*Read that as if said by that crazy girl from Toddlers and Tiaras shown below. </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-23597-1326297497-22.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" rca="true" src="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-23597-1326297497-22.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-23597-1326297497-22.gif" target="_blank">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
And if you're not sure why on earth I would waste time watching this show, this is why:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-3175-1326297484-20.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" rca="true" src="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-3175-1326297484-20.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hurricanevanessa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/anigif_enhanced-buzz-3175-1326297484-20.gif" target="_blank">Image Source</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-65575547672326624632012-06-26T09:00:00.000-05:002012-06-26T09:10:36.183-05:00The Orgy Dance (not as fun as it sounds)<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>PDA</b>:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Public Displays of Affection, can be seen in the form of kissing, touching, groping, licking, nuzzling, cuddling, crossing hands into each other's opposite back pockets, etc. Usually spotted among new couples, frisky teenagers, and occasionally the 'young at heart' (god help us)."</span></span> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;">(via </span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=PDA" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;" target="_blank">Urban Dictionary</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;">)</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a time and place to show how you feel about your significant other (or that guy or girl you've been ogling across the bar awkwardly for the last four hours). Some people like PDA when they're coupled, some don't. Some people are okay seeing other couples displaying affection, others are not. Some people like to have orgy conga lines in bars with their significant other. And another couple. </span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday night I was at a Hybrid Lounge, a pretty chill bar in Milwaukee. They have a DJ and encourage dancing, but this isn't some giant club where you can do the nasty in the back room (do those actually exist?) and no one will notice. "The back room" at Hybrid happens to feature tables and a second bar. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, my friend and I were sitting at the back bar when suddenly I felt someone press against me. I turned to find four guys all rubbing up on each other in a four person sandwich, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">standing against the bar</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. You couldn't even tell who was coupled with who. Then they started making out with each other. It was so romantic. And by romantic I mean "gross." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I observed in amazement (read: horror) and then the inevitable happened: I had to use the restroom. I </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">always</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "break the seal<sup>1</sup>" </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">and end up having to leave my bar stool a dozen times an hour. I averted my eyes and made my escape around the "grouple." On my way back I encountered one tiny problem: I had been sitting at the end of the bar with the wall to my right and, in my absence, the orgy conga line had formed a wall running from the bar to that wall. I was cut off from my friend. What does one do in an awkward situation? </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Blend in.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> So I wrapped my arms around myself, pretended to make out with my shoulder, and danced (read: humped) my way through the line. </span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I made my way back to my bar stool in one piece only to find the bartender<sup>2</sup> searching frantically for a cleaning product strong enough to erase the stains--and scarring memories--from the bar. No such magical spray exists. My corneas may never heal. Nor will the clothes that I wore during my <i>encounter </i>and had to burn when I got home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><sup>1</sup> In my defense, I'm pretty sure the whole "breaking the seal" thing is a myth. I mean, of course you won't have to go to the bathroom more if you just fight the urge, because <i><b>your bladder will explode and you will die</b></i>. Fact. Probably</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><sup>2 </sup>This is definitely not the funniest post I've written, but I have a confession... I may or may not have only written this post because the cute bartender told me that I should give the bar a shout out on the blog. Not sure this was the kind of publicity he was looking for, but I can assure you that Hybrid is an awesome bar with awesome owners and awesome bartenders. And the occasional creepy patron. But hey, we wouldn't love people watching if everyone acted sane.</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-20711945355138316502012-06-22T11:00:00.000-05:002012-06-22T11:00:03.627-05:00Parents of America: Your child might be a junior douchecanoe.I really didn't intend to write another PSA, but I was outraged by those <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/06/21/us/new-york-bullied-bus-monitor/index.html?hpt=hp_c2" target="_blank">junior douchecanoes that were picking on that bus monitor</a>, Karen Klein. <br />
<br />
In my post about the <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/06/psa-on-miracle-of-childbirth-and.html" target="_blank">proper uses of social media</a> (hint: placenta is not one of them) I said that I don't really care how you're raising your kid as long as it's not torturing/maiming animals or other human beings or that you're not torturing/maiming it. Although those kids weren't physically harming Karen Klein, the things they said to her were some of the worst emotional abuse I've ever heard, especially from a child. <br />
<br />
When I was growing up I saw a lot of my friends' parents attempt to be their child's friend instead of being their parent. My parents were not my friends. My parents were parents. Don't get me wrong, I had fun with them. My mom played Donkey Kong with us (she was awesome at it) and my dad was always willing to make us laugh with his Kermit the Frog and Marvin the Martian voices. We had tickle wars (which inevitably ceased due to my high-pitched screaming or someone getting seriously injured), went camping (until we discovered how freaking awesome hotels are), and my childhood was pretty fantastic. <br />
<br />
None of this means that I didn't have an extremely healthy fear of my parents. I'm 24 years old and I'm still terrified of them. And that's probably why I've never been arrested. Yet. (Just kidding, Mom & Dad!)<br />
<br />
My point here is that if my parents ever found out that I had behaved the way those kids on the bus did, I probably would have been shipped off to military school. Sometimes I was a real asshole to my parents and my brother (my preteen years were not particularly kind to any of us), but I never would have been an asshole to Karen Klein who's just trying to do her job and make a living. <br />
<br />
I know some parents will try to excuse their child's lack of discipline by saying that it's really hard because both mom and dad have to work. Tough shit, parents! You decided to have a kid. Both of my parents worked too, and that doesn't mean I had free rein to run around terrorizing the neighborhood. Are you aware that <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/06/20/justice/florida-burned-teen/index.html?hpt=ju_c2" target="_blank">some kids in Florida set another kid on FIRE</a> because of a dispute over $40? <br />
<br />
Stop being your kid's friend. They have friends. Friends that will try to convince them that setting someone on fire is a totally legitimate thing to do. You need to be the parent that teaches them that emotionally abusing people and/or setting them on fire is wrong. If you think their fragile little minds can't handle being disciplined, just think the kind of damage that will be done to their minds when they inevitably end up in prison for disembowling someone over the last box of Twinkies at the grocery store. <br />
<br />
There's currently a fundraiser going on to send Karen Klein on a vacation. She only earns about $15,000 per year as a bus monitor and they were trying to raise $5,000. Amazingly, they've raised over $495,000 so far. There's still 29 days left in the campaign, so if you'd like to contribute you can do so <a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/loveforkarenhklein?c=comments#team" target="_blank">here.</a> The money certainly won't erase the abuse she's suffered at the hands of these little assholes, but it helps. Maybe she'll be able to retire!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-12467862294569957992012-06-21T12:00:00.000-05:002012-06-21T12:00:06.757-05:00A PSA on the Miracle of Childbirth and Appropriate Use of Facebook<br />
I decided to take a few minutes out of my extremely busy schedule to talk about something that has been plaguing me on Facebook for the better part of 3 months now.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*cue the Sarah McLachlan music*</div>
<br />
It has come to my attention that my Facebook friends have been procreating at an alarming rate. Even worse? These kids are actually LEGITIMATE, not teen pregnancies. So now I'm feeling ridiculously old and behind in life because I haven't popped out a kid yet.<br />
<br />
But probably the worst side effect of all is that my Facebook <strike>Stalker</strike> News Feed is full of the most alarming content.<br />
<br />
I'm not talking about the zillions of cute baby pictures. I actually enjoy those. I know there are some real Scrooges out there that go all HULK SMASH when their Facebook is overrun by infants, but I think all of your kids are just freaking adorable.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about the aspects of motherhood that are gross and/or controversial and that have no place on my social media feeds.<br />
<br />
Here are a few of examples:<br />
<br />
<strong>1. Breastfeeding.</strong> It's natural. It's good for your baby. It's a bonding experience. I get that, I really do. But if I see ONE MORE status proclaiming that "Breast is Best!" I'm going to lose my mind. First, don't you dare think you're a better mother just because you're breastfeeding your kid. Not everyone can do it and that's okay. Breastfeeding your kid until he's 4 doesn't make you some kind of super mom. The same is true on the flip side of this coin. If someone wants to breastfeed their kid until he's 4, that's nobody's business. You go on with your breastfeeding self, lady! I'm not a mom, but I think motherhood should be a lot less bitchy and judgmental. <br />
<br />
<strong>2. <strike>Crime Scene</strike> Delivery Photos.</strong> Again, I totally understand that birth is a natural part of the human existence, but until I experience it myself, I'd like to remain blissfully ignorant of exactly what I should expect when I'm expecting. That means I don't want to see any pictures of your kid covered in birth goo. I try to pretend you just rolled it in watery ketchup before taking pictures, but my brain keeps sabotaging that delusion. I understand that you might want pictures of your gooey newborn around just in case your kid questions if he/she was adopted or not, but social media can wait until it's been wiped clean and given a cute little outfit. <br />
<br />
<strong>3. <strike>Placenta.</strike> NO, don't cross that off. I'm serious. PLACENTA.</strong> This only happened once, but I'm still haunted. I know placenta is supposed to be super chic right now; for example, January Jones had hers made into pills that she takes everyday. I don't think I could do that without vomiting, but if placenta is your particular cup o' tea, you'll have no judgment from me. [That rhymes! I should put it on t-shirts!] HOWEVER, sharing placental [is this a word?] photographs on Facebook is so beyond inappropriate for several reasons. First, see above for my little rant about breastfeeding. Just because someone isn't going to EAT their placenta, doesn't mean they're a bad mom. And vice versa. No judging. Second, I came across that photo on my NEWS FEED while I was EATING my lunch. Which was leftover lasagna by the way, and which you RUINED with your gross picture. There is a time and a place for placenta. Facebook is NEVER the place. And my lunch break is NEVER the time. Got it? Good.<br />
<br />
In conclusion, I don't care how you choose to raise your kid. Unless you're teaching it to torture and/or maim animals and children or you are torturing and/or maiming your kid. As long as you're not breaking the law, how you give birth to and feed your kid is none of my business. Whatever you decide to do with your placenta is none of my business. <br />
<br />
And that is why I am BEGGING you to stop putting these things on Facebook. <br />
<br />
<strong>BECAUSE IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS AND I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! </strong>Thank you for your consideration in this matter.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-69387066151361909202012-06-19T08:30:00.000-05:002013-10-19T11:23:09.564-05:00"And then I ripped his limbs off."<br />
The other day Kayla and I were talking and I said something that not only wasn't funny but simply made no sense. Then the conversation continued as follows:<br />
<br />
Me: Sorry...I'm tired? I had a nightmare and was scared and had to go on Facebook in the middle of the night to get my mind off it. In the nightmare we were in a hotel and you're like "Who's that guy whose reflection is in the mirror?" And we turned around and he was a serial killer. And he wanted to eat our faces. And I ripped his arms off and one of his legs. And then was beating him on the ground by whipping him around by his other leg ala Hulk vs Loki in <i>The Avengers</i>. And you called the police. Then when the guy was unconscious we went to sleep cuz we're dumb and the police got there and were like "Oh, you're already asleep, we'll come get him in the morning." And I was like "No, no. It's fine." And then we turned on the lights and he was gone! And then I woke up and I was sure he was in the house.<br />
<br />
Then Kayla made face like this: o_O<br />
<br />
Kayla: You ripped off his limbs? And I thought I was scary.<br />
<br />
Me: Except his leg because I needed something to swing him around by.<br />
<br />
Kayla: I don't like your dreams. I'm never that stupid in my dreams. So, you thought he was in the house. What did you think he was going to do with only one leg and no arms?<br />
<br />
Me: Well I knew I was powerless in reality. And could be taken down with someone with only one limb Actually I think he would have just be creepy looking. It would have freaked me out even if he couldn't kill me.<br />
<br />
Kayla: I'm glad I got to be lazy in this dream. Was I just encouraging you to do your best?<br />
<br />
Me: I don't recall you really doing anything aside from calling 911. I was too busy beating shit out of him. I def got up and turned on all the lights in the house. And by "turned on all the lights in the house" I mean ran into the living room, flipped the one switch that would illuminate the whole place, screeched like a little girl, and ran back in my room.<br />
<br />
Kayla: Seriously? When I have nightmares I'm afraid to leave my bed.<br />
<br />
Me: I had to pee. There was water in the dream too. We had a boat. There was probably only water because I had to pee. And it was quicker to get from your house in the boonies to downtown via water in our boat than by driving. Even though there is not water that makes that path. And I have no idea where the serial killer came in.<br />
<br />
Kayla: So, we were at my house with a serial killer?<br />
<br />
Me: No, a hotel.<br />
<br />
Kayla: Then why did you say you thought he was in the house still? I'm confused.<br />
<br />
Me: I made reference while in the boat that it was funny how boating to downtown from your house was so much faster than driving. Perhaps it was your boat and you made the trip regularly. I'm not actually sure where the hotel and serial killer part fit in came in there. And I thought he was in my house when I woke up because I knew there was water in the dream because I had to pee and I knew we were in a hotel in the dream because we just got back from Vegas, but I had no explanation as to why there would be a serial killer in my dream so I, logically, assumed that he was real and actually in my house.<br />
<br />
Then Kayla made another face like O_o.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-42627788277365621522012-06-13T08:30:00.000-05:002012-06-13T08:33:31.928-05:00Mike and Kayla Meet The Bloggess.I tried to think of a clever title for this post, but it wasn’t really possible because I’m still freaking out about this. Last Saturday was really and truly the best day of my life. Mike and I made the long and treacherous journey to Chicago to meet our hero, Jenny Lawson a.k.a. <a href="http://thebloggess.com/" target="_blank">The Bloggess</a>.<br />
<br />
Okay. So it wasn’t very long. Or particularly treacherous. Except a semi got a flat tire in front of us so there were a few seconds where I did think we might die even though we were only going about 7mph.<br />
<br />
When I’m about to do something exciting it usually doesn’t sink in until the last possible second. We kept talking about how we were buzzing with excitement to meet Jenny, but I didn’t really *get* it until we got to the tent that she’d be speaking in and I saw her sitting in the front. Mike had been losing his mind over this the entire drive over, but when I saw Jenny I let out an embarrassing fangirl scream.<br />
<br />
Jenny read a chapter from her book that details a bout of particularly awful self-induced diarrhea, which was quite serendipitous because Mike had decided to bring a gift of Miralax. Because frankincense and myrrh are just sooo B.C. <br />
The reading was followed by a Q&A and I was astounded at how honest and open Jenny was in answering all of the questions. I laughed, I cried, and I learned that Pepto-Bismol can turn your tongue black [it’s totally normal, by the way].<br />
<br />
<i>I'm sooo glad Jenny wrote about Pepto turning your tongue black. It saved me from an embarrassing public tongue exorcism. - Mike (You didn't actually think I'd miss out on this post did you?)</i><br />
<br />
Then we stood in line to meet Jenny. We were ridiculously excited, so naturally we were just obnoxious in line. We had people laughing with our antics, which included me nearly getting Mike arrested after accusing him of cutting in line. I hadn’t noticed the security guard nearby, and I could have just DIED when she came over and got all up in his grill asking if he was skipping. I’m a GREAT friend.<br />
<br />
I also accidentally misted total strangers with my strange little mineral water spray while I was trying to keep Mike looking fresh. Oops. I did ensure them that it was just water, not some sort of chemical warfare. Luckily the security guard was absent for that.<br />
<br />
<i>And I may or may not have hit the lady in front of me in the head with a bottle of water. Though, honestly, that was far less offensive than if I would have hit her with the Miralax. I mean who wants a stranger implying that they look constipated or--worse--that they should try to lose a few pounds via laxative overdose*? -Mike (*For Christ's sake/our sake/Jenny's sake, read her book if you haven't already!)</i><br />
<br />
We expected Jenny to be really nice, but we totally didn’t think she’d know who the heck we are. Our plan was to introduce ourselves as Mike and Kayla and then tell her that we’re the ones that sent her a Bigfoot costume. [That’s a true story by the way.] So when it was finally our turn, we introduced ourselves and before we could say that we sent the costume she said, “Oh! Mike and Kayla! You guys are awesome!*”<br />
<br />
OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, SHE KNEW WHO WE WERE!<br />
<br />
<i>*She <u>may</u> have actually said, "Please don't touch me there," but we might have been <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/09/i-think-im-seizing-seriously-maybe.html" target="_blank">seizing</a> and not consciously aware of what was happening. Though I'm pretty sure she said we were awesome. Yes, let's go with that. -Mike</i>
<br />
<br />
I’m pretty sure my heart stopped for a little while, and I don’t remember much of what I said. It was probably something along the lines of “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you are so amazing, oh my god,” because I’m not a loser at ALL.<br />
<br />
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<i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Holy crap do I look pale. I swear I'm not usually <u>that</u> pale. It's probably from losing my lunch on Jenny's shoes. At least I didn't need my daily Miralax smoothie. -Mike</i>
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<br />
<br />
She really was the sweetest and my only regret is that I was too giddy to tell her just how much I admire her.<br />
<br />
And yes, that IS Copernicus the Homicidal Monkey clutching a Diet Coke. And the bottle of Miralax with a BOW on it, just in case you thought I was joking about that*.<br />
<br />
<i>Okay...so I may or may not be overly qualified (read: experienced) in the area of self-induced diarrhea--and Miralax is definitely the way to go--but I mean it's not like a hobby or anything. Really. -Mike</i><br />
<br />
If you haven’t checked out Jenny’s blog, you really need to go do that right now, click <a href="http://thebloggess.com/" target="_blank">here.</a> And I highly recommend her book, <i>Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: (A Mostly True Memoir), </i>available like, EVERYWHERE. But here’s a link to it on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lets-Pretend-Never-Happened-ebook/dp/B0065S8R38/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1339555678&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Amazon.</a><br />
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-1753990230062090272012-06-08T08:00:00.000-05:002012-06-08T08:00:05.696-05:00I'm sorry, are my wrinkles distracting you?I have been using online dating for a long time. Since way before it was socially acceptable...assuming that it has become socially acceptable by now. I was using it back in high school and scaring my mother out of her wits. Not sure if she thought I was going to get kidnapped or what but she didn't like it. All the more reason for me to do it. Just kidding, I'm totally not that kind of son. Really.<br />
<br />
Before I continue, it's worth noting that I am 25-years-old. Kayla and I have opted to stop aging once she turns 25 in November (the day before I <i>would</i> turn 26), but I can honestly say this is my first time being 25.<br />
<br />
My match situation is a little jacked up. Everyday OkCupid (my site of choice because it's free and they let you answer a bazillion questions in order to find a perfect match) gives you three new matches in a special inbox called your "quiver" and now <b>all</b> of mine are from out of state! Apparently I have been through EVERY GAY GUY IN MILWAUKEE (via online dating, you perv) and there is just no one left in the whole state of Wisconsin for me! In fact, my most recent ex was from Illinois. I had to drive for 1.5 hours to see him! Therefore, I get very excited when I get a message from someone in Milwaukee. It's always my hope that they are new to the site and just haven't showed up in my list of matches yet. Though no one new has seemed to join the site in the last two years as my normal (non-quiver) matches have been the same twenty guys FOREVER. If it hasn't happened, it isn't going to!<br />
<br />
Anyway, yesterday I received a message from a 19-year-old guy. It started:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Hey whatsup man?"</i></span></blockquote>
Okay...questionable choice of spelling, but I say/write "gonna" all the time so we can let that go.<br />
<br />
Then he followed with:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I looked at your preferences and was a bit disappointed that your in to older guys..." </span></i></blockquote>
It's true. I can't even seem to find a guy my own age who is on the same page as far as life goals, maturity, etc.<br />
<br />
Then he continued:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"...but then again you are an older guy.</i>" </span></blockquote>
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Ouch. </i>In his defense, he called me "older" and not "old," but I threw an absolute fit to Kayla when it happened. Since when am I "older" to someone who's old enough to be out of high school. HOW DID I LET THIS HAPPEN? I've been using anti-aging cream since I was 12, this should not be possible!<br />
<br />
Of course next this guy said:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"But I thought id message to that you sir are the MOST attractive guy iv seen on here." </span></i></blockquote>
TOO LATE BUDDY! Oh wait, what's at the end of the message there?<br />
<br />
Seeing as I'm so old he added:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Maybe we can be friends instead?" </span></i></blockquote>
Eff youuuu!!! Oh and, by the way, he sent this message at 10:48 PM. Well this <b>old man </b>was already in bed.<br />
<br />
And then when I hadn't responded by 8:12 AM this morning (because I was in bed last night and then at work this morning!) I got another message:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"I take it the even friends would not work."</i> </span></blockquote>
WTF? Us <b>old folk</b> have to work in the morning! I don't get paid to cruise OkCupid!<br />
<br />
It just gets better! Later today I received another message from a different guy:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"heeey... i read your profile and thought i'd message you; cuz you seem like a pretty cool guy.</i><i>because i'm so blunt, i'm just going to say: In all honesty, I doubt we'll be attracted towards (just cuz) each other, BUT I'd like to think we can be friends? :)"</i></span></blockquote>
Why wouldn't we be attracted to each other? Because I'm <b>SO OLD?!</b> I'm sorry, are my wrinkles distracting you???<br />
<br />
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***</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
On a happy note, today is the first day of Milwaukee's <a href="http://pridefest.com/" target="_blank">PrideFest</a>! I'm so excited! I will probably find a rich husband this weekend and run away to Europe. And by that I mean that I will be back, crying at my desk on <strike>Monday</strike> Tuesday, after I have recovered from spewing my pride all over the streets of Milwaukee. I'm still trying to convince Kayla that <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/03/adventures-on-michael-coaster.html" target="_blank">latex is the best look for her</a>. Happy Pride!</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-84735077062381385752012-06-06T07:00:00.000-05:002012-06-06T07:00:02.909-05:00What we meant by "Penguins 4 Sale!!!" was......everything we said in <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/11/penguins-4-sale.html" target="_blank">the effing post</a>. If you're going to do a web search for something as asinine*/awesome as "penguins for sale," at least read the fine print. In November we wrote about a web-site claiming to sell penguins. By titling our post "Penguins 4 Sale!!!" and then having our amazing readers (that's you!) read it (along with other SEO magic), we somehow ended up as the <a href="https://www.google.com/search?sugexp=chrome,mod=14&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&q=penguins+for+sale" target="_blank">third Google search result</a> when you search for "penguins for sale." Well <strike>one</strike> two poor souls didn't actually read the post, but instead jumped right to the contact page and sent me emails.<br />
<br />
(*I have no idea if I used that word correctly or not. I'm just trying to sound smart. A for effort?)<br />
<br />
Email #1:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi mike, </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm interested in buying a penguin but i would like some information on maintenance & on the penguin itself. What environment do they need? We live in south Florida ....</span></blockquote>
<br />
First I forwarded the email to Kayla saying, "I hope this is a joke..." but then how could I <i>not </i>have a little fun with it?<br />
<br />
My response:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi! </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So sorry it has taking so long to respond. We're up to our neck in spring hatchlings! </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">South Florida shouldn't be a problem as long as you can provide a good habitat. You will need a chest freezer connected to a small children's pool by way of a ramp or slide. This gives the penguin the water it needs as wells as direct access to a cold place to rest. You want to leave the lid open on the freezer of course. Make sure the pool is decent sized so the little one has plenty of room for activities. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some people also purchase a water bed and attach a special flange so that the penguin can go in and out of the waterbed as it pleases but that might disturb you while you're sleeping. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You will also need a continuous supply of fresh fish to feed the penguin. Speaking of fish, the penguin will be a baby when you get it of course so you will have to pre-chew its food for it. Premastication is perfectly normal. In fact, actress Alicia Silverstone is a big fan of the process. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me know if you have any more questions! </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks,<br />Mike</span></blockquote>
<br />
Her response:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi Michael, </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes I have another question. Where would I put the pool exactly & the freezer ?</span></blockquote>
<br />
My response:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh a covered patio or a room with a lot of windows would do. Penguins love scenery.<br /><br />Thank you,</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mike</span></blockquote>
Her response:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Oh okay, & how much are they ?</span> </span></blockquote>
<div class="im">
Then I confessed and told her that penguins are terrible pets (the fact that <b>*we* </b>are the third most relevant result for that search term should be a leading indicator of that) and invited her to actually READ the blog post that had started the process in the first place.</div>
<div class="im">
<br /></div>
<div class="im">
I waited to write about it thinking that she might respond to my last message, but she never did. I assumed (foolishly) that this would be a one time occurrence. Until Monday when ANOTHER person emailed me asking, "<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">do you have any fairy penguins for sale?</span>"</div>
<div class="im">
<br /></div>
<div class="im">
I got a little more creative with this one...</div>
<div class="im">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello, </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately we do not. It was a tough spring with the economy and all. I do have an excellent recipe for deep fried penguin wings though, if you're interested. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks,<br />Mike</span></blockquote>
<br />
<b>OMG! UPDATE!</b>
<br />
<br />
Well kind of. This hasn't even posted yet, but I had considered it to be done and Kayla had approved it, but then I received this response from the second emailer: <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"do you know when ur [sic] gonna have more[?]" </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here comes the fun part: Wanna play along? You know you do! <b>What should I respond?</b> Tell me in the comments!</span>
</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-7376523138104079622012-06-04T08:30:00.000-05:002012-06-04T08:30:02.212-05:00Then we saw a drug deal and now I know what I want to be when I grow up.Oh, Vegas. How we miss it! Everyday Kayla and I come up with new reasons why we need to return immediately. The only downside to Vegas is its shady nature. As <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/05/and-then-i-got-shanked.html" target="_blank">I mentioned</a> Vegas is a very dangerous place and we saw another fine example of this on our way back to the airport on our last day there.<br />
<br />
But, before I get to that, I would like to draw a little more attention to what an inspirational place Las Vegas is. I mentioned previously how we went to see <i>Cirque du Soleil ¨O¨ </i>and how spectacular it was. The show is entirely water based and totally blew me away. Well, the next day Kayla and I went to the pool and I had a spectacular idea. After recovering from <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/05/most-people-are-not-this-bad-at-wave.html" target="_blank">drowning</a>, I was inspired to test my limits and to determine if I was destined for a life in the water and on stage. I have a theatre background and was sure that I would be a <i>fabulous </i>addition to any <i>Cirque </i>show. Kayla and I were lounging in about four feet of water, waiting for the next wave, and I turned to her with a very simple request: ¨Throw me into the air.¨ I was ready to show the world my talents! But she just looked at me all like O_o like I was crazy or something. I clarified, ¨Just like four feet in the air. That's it." But I was met with another strange look. I pointed out that she was being a terrible friend by refusing to help me live out my dreams. She tried to counter by pointing out that she was not capable of throwing me into the air to which I took immediate offense, assuming she was calling me fat. I pointed out that the water was up past her waist and that the water always makes you stronger. She tried to say that it only works when the thing you're lifting is submerged as well, but really I think she just didn't want me to run away to join the <i>Cirque </i>and leave her behind.<br />
<br />
I decided that her greediness was not worth getting upset over and let it go which was totally fine because the next day we saw Terry Fator at the Mirage and I was once again inspired. Terry Fator is a ventriloquist who won season two of <i>America's Got Talent</i>. I have a confession to make: I am a closet ventriloquist. I first starting doing ventriloquism when I was like 9 or so. My parents gave me a Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop video entitled <i>Don't Wake Mom</i>. I'm assuming the point of this video was to allow my parents thirty more minutes of sleep on Saturday morning, but it had a much more serious effect than that. I'm not sure if every kid who saw that video (or any of Shari's work) knew that she was doing ventriloquism or not, but I figured it out and fell in love with the art. So when <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2012/05/we-live.html" target="_blank">I said</a> I was "<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">sanding a wooden dowel so that's it's smooth enough for comfortable recreational use" and your mind went into the gutter (exactly what I intended), I was actually talking about the headstick control for the ventriloquist dummy that I'm working on in my basement. Because everyone builds creepy talking dolls in their basement and that is so much more normal than where your mind went, perv. Anyway, seeing Terry Fator in all his amazingness only strengthened my love for the art. As did seeing a really bad ventriloquist get moved to the next round on the current season of <i>America's Got Talent. </i></span>So I am building myself a new friend. Partially to get famous and partially because I only have two friends and one lives in Ohio. Of course it figures that Kayla is almost as afraid of ventriloquist dummies as she is clowns. That said not only did she go to Terry Fator with me, but she is also going to see Jeff Dunham with me in August. And she's going to have to tolerate my taking my new dummy with me EVERYWHERE. But she will. Because she's a damn good friend. Either that or she's paid to chaperone me through life.<br />
<br />
As you can see, Vegas was quite inspirational. Except for the time when our shuttle bus driver stopped the bus in heavy traffic to make a fast moving hand-to-hand exchange with a guy on the side of the road. And by "side of the road," I mean in a hotel parking lot. And by "guy" I mean "valet." He definitely wasn't tipping the valet for giving him business. Nope, it was definitely a drug deal.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-63684094441868274842012-05-31T21:27:00.001-05:002012-05-31T21:27:12.775-05:00Most people are NOT this bad at wave pools.Mike has been recounting our fabulous adventures in Vegas for you, and to continue with that I’m going to tell you the story of how we drowned. Don’t worry! As Mike said, it didn’t stick. I think that means we’re immortal. Or that we’re so bad at everything that we can’t even drown properly. One of those.<br />
<br />
Mandalay Bay has a really awesome pool area. There’s a wave pool, a regular pool, a lazy river, and ton of lounge chairs on sand so you actually feel like you’re at the beach. Also, BOOZE. Lots and lots of booze. It’s my version of heaven. The pools especially come in handy when it’s 104 degrees out, aka so hot that your organs start to feel like they're boiling inside your body. So Mike and I developed a fantastic little routine to get a tan and stay cool:<br />
<br />
Step 1: Lay on your back. People-watch through your sunglasses.<br />
Step 2: Cool off in the pool!<br />
Step 3: Lay on your stomach. Read your Kindle. [You can’t really people watch from this angle because the chairs are so close together. If you look up you have a direct line of sight to the groin of the guy in the chair behind you. Awkward. This is why having a Kindle/book is important.]<br />
Step 4: Cool off in the pool!<br />
<br />
It was a pretty fool-proof plan. Except we forgot to account for the drowning.<br />
<br />
The wave pool didn’t look terribly intense, and it wasn’t our first time at this particular rodeo, so we strolled in with perhaps more confidence than we should have. This is always our downfall.<br />
<br />
We waded into the pool, enjoying the cool water and easing our way in at a leisurely pace. That was, until some angry lifeguards were all, “HEY! GET BEHIND THE BLUE LINE IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN HERE!” Because APPARENTLY we were supposed to fly in the pool at warp speed to get behind this silly “line” immediately after entering the water. I mean, do I resemble Michael Phelps in ANY way? No? Then why on EARTH would you expect that I can swim that fast?<br />
<br />
We picked up the pace, trying to get behind the line before the waves started, but then we noticed the mass of people behind that line, waiting for the waves, and waiting to crush us in our moment of stupidity. Panic set in as everyone started yelling to us that we had better get out of the way, while making outrageous MOVE-THE-F***-OUT-THE-WAY hand motions. We frantically tried to increase our pace. Which? NOT easy when you’re walking through thigh-high water and you don’t happen to be an Olympic swimmer.<br />
<br />
Then our ears filled with the sounds of rushing water. The waves were coming and we were STILL not to the magical “safe” line. I managed to get a little ahead of Mike. [Okay, I might have pushed him back to save myself. I’m not proud of that, but I panicked.]<br />
<br />
The waves rushed at us and it wasn’t long before I lost my footing and fell on my butt, carried forward by the force of the waves. Mike was excited because he thought he had managed to stay on his feet. He was feeling quite proud of himself until the wave drove me into his back and he fell onto my lap. I’m sure it all looked EXTREMELY graceful to the crowd.<br />
<br />
After we finished laughing hysterically [to keep from weeping out of embarrassment] Mike confessed that he didn’t know that it was me that had knocked him down and he had been terrified it was a total stranger. Although this story would have been MUCH more hilarious if he had landed in a stranger’s lap, the way it happened is so very Mike & Kayla.<br />
<br />
Fast forward about twenty minutes.<br />
<br />
After overcoming our earlier embarrassment, Mike and I were feeling quite daring. We found ourselves in the 6-7’ deep end of the pool. I’m not sure why either of us thought this was a good idea. I can only assume our state of stupidity was caused by far too much time in the sun.<br />
<br />
Forgetting that he was not, in fact, 8 feet tall, Mike decided to stop treading water and simply stand on the floor of the pool with his hands in the air. I treaded water and looked on in confusion, but just figured he had wanted to cool off with his head in the water. But then when his hands remained above water, I wondered if that was his way of telling me that he was drowning. I contemplated whether or not he required rescue, when his hands disappeared and I saw him FIXING HIS HAIR UNDERWATER. At this point I was really confused. Is he drowning and just wants to make sure his hair looks good when he dies? WHAT DO I DO?<br />
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Finally, he resurfaced. I asked what the hell he had been doing and he said that he had gone underwater by mistake, but then realized he probably looked like he was drowning [which he WAS] but he would rather have drowned looking cool than have to go through the embarrassment of being rescued by a lifeguard. Fixing his hair was just his way of acting natural.<br />
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Yes. Natural. Because EVERYBODY fixes their coif while submerged for extensive periods of time in a 7 foot pool.<br />
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At this point we realized that our time in the desert sun was probably causing some sort of permanent brain damage, so we went and bought some yummy frozen alcoholic beverages, got drunk, and then spent an hour giggling in our hotel room.<br />
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Like I said, FABULOUS ADVENTURES IN VEGAS!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-60826778542484009732012-05-29T10:00:00.000-05:002013-10-18T20:48:04.978-05:00And then I got shanked.Vegas is beautiful. And scary. Really. Effing. Scary.<br />
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There are two sides to the strip: the fancy side and the dumpy side. I don't know which direction is which or I would share, but the fancy side has hotels and the dumpy side has hobos. And good shopping apparently according to my co-worker Linda, but I was only concerned with the hoodlums.<br />
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So Sunday night (our first night in Vegas) we took a tram from Mandalay Bay (the hotel we stayed at) to the Luxor (the end of the line) and then walked to the Bellagio where <i>Cirque du Soleil "O" </i>is. Logically, not wanting to be shanked, we walked on the classy side of the street. It took at least six hours. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it was a long effing walk. The problem is that on that side of the street you have to go up and down like a dozen sets of stairs along the way so that you don´t get run over. At one point we had to walk through a mall just to get back down from a climb up a set of stairs. It literally makes the walk almost twice as long.<br />
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We arrived at the Bellagio dehydrated and exhausted (that would have been about hour 20 for me), but alive. We saw the show (which was the best amazing production IN ANY MEDIUM that I have ever seen and gave me my twelve-millionth life goal) and then walked back. This time we decided to treat safety as we had been money and said ¨Fuck it, it's vacation!¨ And walked on the dumpy side which is sooooo much nicer because there are no stairs! It was now hour 24 for me and not much better for the rest of the gang (Kayla and her AMAZING parents) and we were sooooo tired. So anyways, we're walking along and decided to stop at McDonald's for a late dinner. I'm only bringing that up because Kayla's mom made a funny when a drunk, young guy wandered in and made a fool of himself at which point Kayla's mom said,"I remember my first beer." Hilarious.<br />
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Anyways, we stuffed our faces and continued on. We did pretty well most the way. It probably helped that Kayla looked like she was so exhausted that she would take down anyone who looked at her the wrong way. Heels and exhaustion don't mix. We didn't have any issues until we neared the Luxor. Suddenly there was a VERY large many walking very close behind Kayla and me. Her parents were ahead of us. Kayla could probably have taken the guy down with a heel through the eye, but I couldn't leave anything to chance. So I let her get a step ahead of me. Chivalry is not dead. I took that step back so that I could take the knife. And by "take the knife," I mean ¨let the bad man stab me so that Kayla and her parents could get away." And then I died. Except that's a lie. Nothing happened. The guy was probably a librarian or something. Though if anyone is going to be a serial killer, wouldn't you expect it to be someone unlikely like a librarian?Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-64341269032970623042012-05-25T12:00:00.000-05:002012-05-25T13:34:26.191-05:00Judge Judy, death, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.First of all, let me say that I did not get put on the no fly list (there must be a delay) and we got to (and back from) Las Vegas safely. I know you were worried.<br />
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That said, we had a FABULOUS time and you will be hearing all about it. You will hear about my aspirations to join Cirque du Soleil (and how Kayla was a terrible friend and refused to help me attain my goal), about how we drown (don't worry, it didn't stick), my never-ending chivalry, and a drug deal gone wrong. But we have to start at the beginning. The beginning being what happened before we left.<br />
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So Saturday night, the day before we left for Vegas, I went to bed at the late hour of 7 PM. I had to get up at 3 on Sunday and I needed my beauty rest. So as I was lying in bed, I texted Kayla saying, "I'm waiting for Death. And by 'Death,' I mean 'Sleep.'" And then I started to think. And that never ends well. So I began to wonder if Death and Sleep are related. I mean, if you think about it, they're similar. I mean, what if Sleep (which I have clearly personified by my use of capitalization) is just a grim reaper in training? So, they grab their victims and they're all like "Okay, okay, I got this. Yeah, yeah...I got this. I can totally do this." But it's totally harder than it looks. And like the best they can do is knock their victim unconscious and hold them there. For a while. After six hours, they're sweating, and straining, and breathing all heavy and stuff. And their blood pressure is through the roof. Assuming they have blood. Anyways, eight hours in and that's it. They just aren't man enough. Or beast enough or whatever. And they let go and their victim wakes up. Seems legit to me. And then I was like, "But wait! What about insomniacs?" My only guess is that insomniacs have something about them that just drives these grim reapers crazy. Maybe something they're allergic too. Like maybe experienced grim reapers develop an immunity to it and that's why insomniacs don't live forever.<br />
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Anyways, eventually I fell asleep. But not until 9 PM. And then I woke up at 11 (still PM). I totally think my theory is right and I made the trainee nervous. He was totally like, "This guy is totally on to us." He was so worried about being found out that he just couldn't keep me under. The insomnia (which I don't regularly suffer from) was definitely not a result of excitement from the trip. It was definitely nervous grim reaper trainees.<br />
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Now it was 11 and I had to get up in four hours so I did the logical thing. I started thinking about Judge Judy. A while back I did some research about Judge Judy and other television court rooms. Why? Clearly because I want to be a judge on one of those shows. Mostly because I learned that they work like one week a month. And also because I like solving other peoples' problems. That's the same as telling people what to do, right? I learned that you don't even have to be a real judge. Many of them were judges before they got on TV but now they are just arbitrators. The two parties sign a contract to go with whatever the arbitrator ("judge") decides. They even get paid for being on the show AND the show pays any money that the defendant ends up owing. So if someone ever accidentally burns down my double wide while trying to make custom Barbies in my microwave, I know EXACTLY where I'm going. Also, please feel free to come to me for arbitration if someone ever burns down your double wide. Or bites your dog.<br />
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And then my alarm went off. I got a total of two hours of sleep before leaving for Vegas. I ended up being awake for 26 hours. I guess that's what I get for pissing off the grim reaper trainees. I probably shouldn't have blogged about this. Oh well, I didn't want to sleep tonight. Or ever again.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-39584490369572841712012-05-21T09:00:00.000-05:002012-05-21T09:00:06.720-05:00See, what I meant by "kill" was...I really don't understand my hair's absolute refusal to be blond given some of the things I do. One such example occurred on Friday.<br />
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On Friday Jenny, aka <a href="http://thebloggess.com/" target="_blank">The Bloggess</a> (in case you missed our infatuation with her see <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/09/bloggess-inspiration.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/09/bloggess-inspiration.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://www.mikeandkayla.com/2011/09/i-think-im-seizing-seriously-maybe.html" target="_blank">here</a>),<a href="https://twitter.com/#!/TheBloggess/status/203451504353488896" target="_blank"> invited President Obama to lunch</a> via Twitter :<br />
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“.@BarackObama : I'll be in dc in a few hours. Lunch? My treat. But only if it's sliders. I'm craving sliders."</div>
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I <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/OfficiallyMike/status/203504342832128002" target="_blank">retweeted</a>. Which is harmless. Unless you add the hashtag "<strong>#inviteiwouldkillfor</strong>."</div>
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It took me almost an hour to <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/OfficiallyMike/status/203517726168322048" target="_blank">realize</a> that using the word “kill” in a tweet to the President of the United States is probably not the smartest idea. Especially when expressing jealousy. This was bad enough in itself. Then Kayla <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/Officially_Kay/status/203519370893344768" target="_blank">reminded me</a> we were going to be flying to Vegas in two days. So <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/OfficiallyMike/status/203519614343323648" target="_blank">I figured</a> that I had a one way ticket to the no fly list. </div>
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But don't worry, Kayla <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/Officially_Kay/status/203520213717749760" target="_blank">reassured me</a>... </div>
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“It was bound to happen sooner or later.”</div>
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I wrote this post on Saturday and scheduled it to post on Monday. So if you're seeing it, we didn't have any problems at the airport yesterday. Or I'm in jail and unable to cancel this post.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7677128275818582919.post-21753865362218319282012-05-18T14:00:00.000-05:002012-05-19T07:51:04.418-05:00I'm stabby and fabby and gayyyy!<br />
I'm queer! (Well, actually I identify as "gay" but that doesn't rhyme.) I'm here! Get used to it!<br />
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Well, you follow this blog so you're probably already used to it. In fact you're probably thinking, "You spelled 'crazy' wrong."<br />
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But hear me out.<br />
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...<br />
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I suppose asking you to hear me out is more effective if I have a point.<br />
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But I don't.<br />
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I actually have no idea what I'm writing about. I think I just wanted to write a post with the title of this one. Because it's fabby. And fabby is a new word I created because at first I said "I'm stabby and flabby and gayyyy!" But then Kayla ruined it by pointing out that I'm not flabby. Well, not to her anyways. I don't like my body, but this isn't about my body-image issues (though I suppose it could be because then it would be about SOMETHING). I know I'm thin. It's just that the grandma of my best friend when I was nine said that I had the biggest boobs she's ever seen on a boy and I never got over it. Anyways, don't worry because I'm not anorexic or anything. I actually eat a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like everyone at Qdoba knows my order by heart. Except for the cute guy. Though he tries because I was just there and he put one of those jumbo burrito shells in the steamer as I walked up and then I ordered 3 tacos and he opened the steamer and threw the big shell away. It's the thought that counts. Especially when you have biceps like his.<br />
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...<br />
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Where was I going with this? Oh, yes: no where. I think it all started because of [things I can't mention because of certain people who read this blog] and then I felt really stabby. Well, not <i>actually</i> stabby, because I'm not homocidal. But I was angry. But I just got my hair done so I was rocking the whole fabulous and gay thing. And then I wanted to sing about it to Kayla. Via text message. And that's when I was all "I'm stabby and flabby and gayyyy!" Then she was like O_o because I'm not flabby. So I coined the term fabby because I couldn't think of any other words that rhymed with "stabby." And here we are. Though now I feel less stabby. I don't feel any less wronged but drooling over the cute guy at Qdoba helped. As did giggling about the girl in line ahead of me continually checking me out. I'm wearing a musical* shirt for Pete's sake! Do you need more than that?<br />
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*<i>Spring Awakening</i> if you must know. Though I didn't really like that show. That's what I get for buying the shirt BEFORE the show. The only positive thing is that I can say I saw Lea Michele live. Which I did. But please don't ask me how she was because I might meet her someday and I don't want any bad vibes between us. (Animosity? Is that word?)<br />
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P.S. Also, my going blond didn't go well. Because my hair is a bitch. Let me start by saying that I went to a professional. I didn't do it out of a box. Well, after our first attempt it was gold. Like very gold. So I just decided to live with it (meaning that I didn't actually tell my stylist that I didn't like it, but the lighting wasn't great so I was sure that it would be better in different light...but that's not true at all so really I'm just a bad client). So I lived with it for 8 hours and then I needed it fixed. My stylist is amazing and got me in to fix it. She put in new product that would make it a nice blond. Maybe not as light as I wanted, but at least I would be less stabby. Well, then I was a ginger. It was a very nice, natural red, but I want the sterotypes associated with blonds, not gingers (Sorry to my ginger friends!). So then my stylist was like "Fuck it! I'm dousing it in green so it becomes brown again." And while we're doing that another stylist was like, "Going back to natural?" And my stylist was like "Yeah. I put [random letters and numbers...okay probably not random] in and it turned red." And the other stylist was like, "[Not random letters and numbers] can't turn it red..." and my stylist was like "Exactly." So my hair is just an asshole.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0