I am ALL OVER the place this week!

Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear Snobbits!

I don’t really have a whole lot to say today (here, anyway), but wanted to let you know that I’ve been the super busiest this week elsewhere.

In case you missed it, I’m over at Insatiable Booksluts musicslutting it up with an anti-Valentine’s Day mix tape.  Click here for Valentine’s Day Can Suck It.

I’m also over at TipsyLit today talking about eReading with my kids.  You can find that post here.

Click!  Read!  Listen!  Comment!

I will love you even more than I already do if you do, promise!

romione

Cake is the Only Thing that Matters

HaaHA little over 3 years ago, I received an email from a friend on a particularly bad day.

Just click.  It’ll be better when you’re done reading.

This email came from someone whose taste I MOSTLY trusted, so I clicked.

And clicked and clicked.

And clicked some more.

And read all of Allie Brosh’s archives in a day and a half.

Then I subscribed and clicked each new post immediately.  And shared with everyone I knew.

By the time the Alot rolled around, I had made nearly everyone I knew read her blog with me.

At this point in time, I’m shocked if anyone says to me “I’ve never read Hyperbole and a Half,” because that’s just fucking WEIRD, yo.  “What do you have against the most honest hilarity on the internet,” I wonder to myself.  And then proceed to send many many links because that’s WHAT I DO.

I send this one.

And this one.

Sometimes this one (cos that’s the one that turned my husband into a fan).

Or this one, which caused this to happen:

Hand of God

Heather was that friend, obvs.

So, anyway.  I’m a fan.  I’ve been a fan for a while, and when Allie announced that there was going to be a Hyperbole and a Half book, it was pretty much case of “GODDAMNIT, TAKE MY MONEY RIGHT MEOW!” you know?

I managed to get approved for an ARC somehow and spent most of a day last week ignoring everything going on around me so that I could devour it in one sitting.

Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened (October 29, Touchstone/Simon and Schuster) is pretty much exactly what you’d expect it to be.

It’s split pretty evenly between new material and previously-published-on-the-blog material (only one of the above posts is included, though – you’ll have to read it to discover which), but in that Allie Brosh fashion we’ve come to love, each chapter/post shines with an honesty that is so unusual it comes across as incredibly refreshing and real.

Whether she’s talking about dealing with depression as an adult, or funny things she did as a child or what it’s like having dogs that don’t cope with moving well, Allie has a knack for putting you in her shoes that is rare.  I hope to someday be half the storyteller she is (seemingly without even trying).

You need to own this book.  You need to have this book on your coffee table so you can force it on your friends when they come to visit.  You need to buy this book for yourself and a copy for those people you know that will just GET it.  You need this book.

No joke.

Food is love, and I was married to cookies.

A few months back, Laura shared a link to a blog, then sj shared the link, and then I read the post.

It was a blog I hadn’t been aware of (hey, it happens…there are many ships on the blogosphere sea, and I can’t know about them all) and the minute I read the post, I was hooked. The author had a fresh voice, she was funny as hell, and she appreciated the use of the all-caps and the good old fashioned humorous ramble. Gotta love that.

So I became a faithful reader of Bitches Gotta Eat, and I think Samantha Irby might be my long-lost sister. A more vulgar sister who is a hell of a lot funnier than I am, but a long-lost sister nonetheless.

I was so excited to hear she had a book coming out. Which often is a warning sign; I tend to get pre-excited about things, and then I get them and they never live up to my impossibly high expectations.

No no Charlie! Meaty totally lived up to them.

It’s funny as hell, it’s got all my beloved all-caps, and when I read it outside of the house, I was often laughing inappropriately and then I’d have to pretend I was having a coughing fit or something. Because people think it’s weird when you’re laughing to yourself over your shiny orange-jacketed Kindle. It freaks them out a little.

Not only is it funny, though. It’s bitterly true. I kept highlighting things, and they weren’t the funny things. They were the TRUE things, like a rant about women being called bitter, and where true romance lies (in the little things, more so than the gigantic things) and eating our feelings.

Samantha Irby! I don’t exactly want to wear your skin like a cape, or anything, because you kind of need that skin, to hold in your organs, and such. But I think we should hang out and talk about things like disappointment and how delicious sausage is and intestinal distress and The Mindy Project. We would totally hang out and have ice cream and read shiny magazines and drool over handsome men but we don’t have to bring any home. I’m down with that. We’d probably have more fun without them, anyway.

MY new BFF. Hands off, yo.

If you hate cussing, do not read this book. Or if you hate graphic descriptions of sex and/or bodily functions, do not read this book. Or if you hate humor, or intelligence, or someone with a very LOUD, very ALL-CAPSY voice, or sarcastic use of today’s slang terms, avoid, avoid, avoid.

But the rest of you (and I think the rest of you might well be my people), you need to get this book. It’s seriously cheap, too. You can get it used on Amazon for super-inexpensive, even though it just came out; you can get it for less than $11 for your Kindle at the moment. And it’s worth it, you guys. It’ll make you laugh, but you’ll also relate. I know a lot of you will.

And then you’re going to want to hang out with her, too. Don’t you go stealing my new BFF. How rude are you, sincerely. No one likes your pilfery. For shame.Amy

111 years is far too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable Hobbits.

d with Dave

My grandmother passed away 10 years ago this month.  Her memorial service was held at the church she’d worked at for most of her adult life, and it was the first time my whole family had been together since my grandfather had passed away 10 years before that.

The night before the service, we’d all gone out for dinner, then spent a few hours walking around San Diego’s Gaslamp District.  At some point, someone (either my aunt or my dad) had purchased a stuffed dragon for my oldest son.

He’s obsessed with dragons, has been since he was super tiny.

The next day, we had the memorial, then went to the gravesite to watch my grandmother’s ashes be placed next to my grandfather’s, then we all went out to lunch before beginning our individual long trips home.

My uncle P. thinks he’s a jokester.  My oldest did not have much of a sense of humour (he would FLIP OUT if anyone dared to tell him he was being silly), so he was an easy target for P.’s shenanigans.  P. had been teasing my oldest (then only) about his new dragon all day.

“Oh, that’s not a dragon, that looks like a giraffe!”

etc.

Someone decided it would be a good idea to sit them next to each other for lunch.

Everyone was eating and laughing and talking about my grandmother.  It was a good time.

Until my son realized that his brand new dragon was missing.

He got up from his seat and started searching frantically.

Finally, he turned to P. and asked “Uncle P., have you seen my dragon?”

P. smirked.

“What, you mean that crocodile you’ve been carrying around?”

“Uncle P., it’s a dragon.  Can I have it, please?”

“Oh, that green panda?  Nope, haven’t seen it.”

I watched and listened, growing slightly concerned, but mostly wanting to see how this would play out.

Oldest boy asked several times and Uncle P.’s responses grew even more ridiculous.

Finally, my son says in a quiet voice:

“Give me back my dragon, you bastard.”

He then glanced at me and added “Please.”

I gasped.  I shrieked “OHMIGAWD, WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

“I SAID.  Give.  Me.  Back.  My.  Dragon.  You.  Bastard.”

“Please.”

The table was suddenly full of adults trying not to laugh and one incredibly irate four year old.

Uncle P. handed him back his dragon and I asked where he learned that word.

(I don’t swear in front of my kids, never have.  So I should have known the answer that was coming.)

He points at my dad and says “PopPop.  He said it last night.”

At that point the entire table and MOST of the surrounding restaurant dissolved into giggles.

…and my uncle is forever now referred to as Uncle Dragon Bastard.

*

Happy 14th birthday to my oldest.  What better way to celebrate than by sharing my favourite story of you as a child?  I have a difficult time reconciling the young man you’ve become with the little boy you were, but you make me smile in hundreds of ways every day.  I love that you share my love of all things bookish and my loathing of Peter Jackson.  I love that you go out of your way to make me laugh with clever wordplay and that you always apologize when you’ve been a little jerk.  I love you even though you’re taller than me (SIX FEET TALL ALREADY, WTF?) and you have better hair than I could have ever hoped to have.  I love that you’ve always been able to use words in their proper context after hearing them once, and I love you in spite of the fact that you’re now 14 and make me want to tear my hair out.

I love you.

Threatening PJ and wearing a What Would Brian Do? tee shirt?  Yeah, he's my kid.

Threatening PJ and wearing a “What Would Brian Do?” tee shirt? Yeah, he’s my kid.

Right in your ear, Peter Jackson. Right. In. Your. Ear.

I know, you guys.  I FUCKING KNOW, okay?  I know I need to stop looking at/reading/scoffing over news of the second (SECOND!) Hobbit movie.  I KNOW!

And yet, it’s totally one of those train wreck scenarios where I just can’t force myself to look away, and I can’t help it if it puts my blood pressure through the roof.  IT IS GOING TO HAPPEN ANYWAY, SO I MIGHT AS WELL BE PREPARED.

Like today.  I know this has been out for a few days, but I haven’t been online all that much and I am WOEFULLY behind on my blog reading so I just saw this earlier tonight.

This:

hobbit-desolation-of-smaug-barrels-sceneAnd my immediate reaction was summed up on twitter.

Because, you guys?  WTF IS THIS SHIT?

No, srsly.

If you read The Hobbit with us last summer (shameless plug), or have EVER read it ON YOUR OWN, you’ll know that this bit of derring-do was an important character moment for Bilbo Baggins.  By helping the dwarves escape the clutches of Lee Pace’s eyebrows Thranduil, Bilbo secured the trust of Thorin and Company.  NOT JUST because they escaped, but because he MADE SURE that they were all secure in their little barrel boats before braving the rapids without any sort of protection.

So.

What do we have here?

Well, initially we have this:

mirkwoodrapids

Susie is the best. She made this for me and I <3 her for it.

Because isn’t that what it looks like?

Someone (*cough*PeterJackson*cough*) just DROPPED A FUCKING THEME PARK IN THE MIDDLE OF MIDDLE-EARTH?!

Because it’s not enough that we’re bringing DEAD ORCS BACK TO LIFE, we have to add MOAR ACTION by making this some weird battle scene.

“BUT, SJ!” you cry.  “HOW CAN YOU KNOW IT WILL BE A BATTLE SCENE?  ARE YOU A WIZARD?!”

Allow me to draw your attention here:

WTAF

There is ZERO REASON for these arrows to be in these motherfucking barrels.  UNLESS there is some sort of ESCAPE BATTLE with the elves of Mirkwood.

Which, let’s ignore the fact that it doesn’t even fit with the (RIDICULOUS) already established LotR!Film canon.  LET’S JUST TALK ABOUT HOW FUCKING UNNECESSARY THIS WHOLE THING IS.

Because it is.  WHY?  WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE A HUGE SCENE?  WHY CAN’T SHIT JUST HAPPEN WHEN IT’S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN, MR JACKSON?

WHY DO YOU HATE ME WITH THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS?

What did I ever do to you?

And yet, with everything else that bothers me about this ONE SHOT, the thing I find most difficult to bear?

Look, Ma!  NO HANDS!

Look, Ma! NO HANDS!

If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go cry myself to sleep.