Stick to It

(Kind of) like a normal girl, I love kitties, horsies, and anything else remotely cute.

Especially this.

Minus this.

I recently rediscovered what all girls at one time or another had--a sticker collection.

Rainbows and unicorns make the world a happy place.

And, just because I collect(ed) unicorn stickers doesn't mean I'm all girly-ish. Because I'm not. I hate to do my hair...and the dishes. And, however cheesy as it may sound, my I'm Special stickers flooded my mind with a number of different emotions. (Does talking about feelings make me sound more maidenlike?) And, since I'm (kind of) like most girls, I overanalyzed every sticker I've ever seen.

Johnny gave me an orange with a sunKIST sticker on it. Do you think he wants to kiss me? Because that's kind of the vibe I've been getting, and maybe this sticker is him letting me know he wants to kiss me. Unless he didn't realize the sticker said KIST. Oh...maybe he doesn't even know that KIST sounds like kissed. But I still think he wants to kiss me. What do you think?

Here's my conclusion: Based on my *extensive research, I've found that most of my stickers fall under three categories (and, I'm assuming, these groups represent the majority of stickers ever to be printed). And, guess what! These categories are represented nicely by stickers from other girls!:

A) Femininity:

My baby yellow Volkswagen Beetle wasn't girly enough before I had to bring in the fairy Hello Kitty theme.

OMG! I just broke a nail shifting gears!!!!!

B) Playfulness:

Hehehe. My shoes have little bumper stickers on them!

C) Love:

Stickers in a card. Awwwwwwwww. Now where's the money?!

Yes, Casey, it DOES prove it. You're free.

So, I think I'll just keep doing what I do best.

And just keep sticking it...

If I roll up my sleeves...

...I'll look strong pounding the heck out of this dough

                              ...To the man.

That'll show him for blocking my view of The Decemberists!

*Perusing through my Hello Kitty sticker albums

The Definition of Disappointment

Do you notice anything wrong with this picture?

No, what's wrong is not the fact that that one dude is scratching "down there"...while being interrogated. It's also not wrong that he's smiling while doing it--because everyone who has ever been interrogated by a cop for raping a young, helpless girl scratches down there and smiles while being questioned. Certainly.

There's still something unsettling about this picture, though. The wrongdoing is tugging at my emotions and makes me want to cry. I cannot believe 20/20 has allowed this grave wrongdoing to appear on their show! Needless to say, I'm severely disappointed, 20/20.

You still don't see it?

Now do you see anything really, really wrong?

I was supposed to be watching 20/20's hour-long show on how a woman was stuffed in a suitcase, after being brutally raped, and dumped in a field left for dead. She survived. But as soon as I saw the horrid clip above, I lost any focus that I ever had (which was 46%) on the show. I just cannot say how let down 20/20 has made me feel. 20/20 is supposed to give insight into the world around us, that we may have not known otherwise, but all I can think of is how I can't trust this show as a news source if they can't even using correct spelling and punctuation. I've been watching 20/20 ever since Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters were the hosts, and never have I noticed mistakes on their show as I have within the past few weeks. What's up wit dat, yo?

Just in case you couldn't tell, my number one pet-peeve is when your and you're are used interchangeably. I don't care if you end your sentences with a preposition. I don't care if you start your sentence with because. I don't care if you overuse commas. I certainly don't care if your "sentence" isn't really a "sentence." Considering I write fragmented sentences all the time<---That's a sentence fragment. Heck, do I even care if you end a question with a period. Yes, but right now let's pretend that I don't.

You should never ever confuse your and you're because these two words have totally different meanings. Just as to, two, and too do. Just as there, their, and they're do. Just as hear and here do. Who's and whose. Then and than.

Confusing your and you're is like Eminem writing in his lyrics:

'Sup, homies?

I'm a wrapper.

Wanna be like me?

...Become a cracker.

But...he's NOT a wrapper--he's a rapper. How confused would his fans be if they read in People magazine, "Eminem, the wrapper, is touring San Francisco"? We wouldn't know whether Eminem had changed professions and now wraps gifts for a living. Or, we could think that People accidentally misprinted Eminem and it was supposed to say M&M. Then we start wondering to ourselves, I wonder why an M&M wrapper is on tour. What, did Justin Bieber touch it or something? Or, we could simply think whoever wrote that article is stupid because they don't know the difference between a rapper and a wrapper. Your homework assignment: Write a sentence using lose and another sentence using loose. Turn your homework into my comment section by 5 PM sharp.

To make it simple: you're=a contraction for the words you + are. So, anytime you would say "you are," you can just say you're.

Now that we've covered the your from the interrogation, it's time to move on to adding commas. Let's <------contraction for let + us look at this picture:

Which sentence do you think would be the correct sentence to use to describe this photo of Grams chewing on a piece of pizza?

Let's eat Grandma!

or

Let's eat, Grandma!

The first sentence is implying that you're shouting to your other family members that you're hecka excited to start chowing down on Grandma pizza. I know I'm a picky eater and all, but I don't think my grandma would taste very good.

But...I can infer from the second sentence that I'm yelling (because she can't hear) at Grandma that it's time to eat.

See how important commas are? Let's take a second look at our original sentence:

That's what your telling me right?

The above sentence makes virtually no sense. Confusion.

vs.

That's what you're telling me, right?

This is what I think you just told me. Am I correct? Muuuuuuch better.
 
Oh, and let me just say here and now that I wouldn't ever hire Elaine Benes to be my editor. My reasoning is based on one sentence I heard her say in one episode of Seinfeld: I could care less.

Okay, here we go. Another test. Is it:

I could care less

or

I couldn't care less

The second option is correct. If you "could care less", then why are you even talking about that subject??? When someone says this,  I couldn't care less about what they have to say because I'm so distracted by them saying I could care less. If you say "I COULDN'T care less," that means that there is nothing less that you care about. You're saying that you care so little already that you couldn't possibly care any less.

I'm willing to overlook your shortcomings, 20/20, if you promise not to disappoint again.

Oh, crap.

In other news, now that we're all in a cheery mood, head on over to Jess's blog to see my list of 10 Simple Things That Make Me Happy.

Art is Dead

What? You don't believe me? I don't lie. My grandma found him on the sink. She thought his lifeless body was a rock. A pet rock, I guess. When she picked him up and brought him closer to her eyes is when she realized that she was holding yet another one of my fish who had jumped to its demise.

Rest in Peace the Sewer,

Art

A baby's tombstone I discovered in Vallejo, CA

Since I started blogging in August, I've had the grand total of, uh, 4 fish dying:

-7 (named from a Seinfeld episode)
-Soda (named from a Seinfeld episode)
-Omega (he was a Betta fish. Get it?)
-Art (named from a Seinfeld episode)

Well, there aren't very many fish left in the sea bowl now. All I have left is Vandelay (named from a Seinfeld episode), who is nothing without his other half, Art (shh, don't tell him I said that). Art and Vandelay were a team. There just went together. They were like peanut butter and jelly, like salt and pepper, like yogurt and Cheez-its. Vandelay is going to miss Art. I think.

Art's Obituary Oh, Fishy Airy Ofishiary

Art, for the love of Cod, why'd you have to clam up? You should've cried for kelp. Dropped me a line. I could've tried not to be crabby, and would've been touchy-eely to your feelings. Oh, who am I kidding? I would've given you a bass-whooping. That must've been why you acted all koi, as if you were having a whale of time. Why were you hooked on acting fishy? I shouldn't have fallen for this bait, you little shellfish shrimp.

Art, you were named after one of the most notorious non-existent TV characters of all time: Art Vandelay. And now I'm disappointed that you've gone off the air, much like Seinfeld. Now you're exported, like Art Vandelay.

Tuna in soon for the next obituary.

The Morning After

Gulp.

What did I DO last night?

My memory has once again failed me the morning after. Not to my surprise, once again, I have left a trail of evidence for myself to discover the following morning.

Laptop history from last night says I tried joining a dating website under the username IAmNOTAllergicToYou. Oh boy. La-di-da-di-da. I'll just delete the profile and then this little five hour "phase" in my life has been erased. There, much better.

Wait, what's this? I've uncovered yet another "secret" gem: YouTube reveals my brother, his fiance, and I made a karaoke video wherein I'm the star of the remake to "I'm Too Sexy."

I'm scared to search further.

"Shannon, you're super funny when you're like that," my brother reveals to me as I make my public appearance for the day, "you need to be like that every night."

I cringe inside that my impaired judgment could have led my body to participate in such activities. Gosh. It's at this moment that I've made yet another grim discovery. Not only was I cringing on the inside. I was cringing on the outside, as well. A bruise shines brightly on my arm, from bumping into walls from last night's stagger.

I check my phone to further investigate last night's escapade and discover that I made a phone call at 12:30 in the morning. Who knows what the crap I said? Oh, that's right, the owner of the voicemail does. I hope I didn't say anything too revealing or embarrassing, but being under this substance kind of warps your mind. 

Now this is getting interesting.

"Do you still find that one joke funny?" My brother asks, "because you couldn't stop laughing at it last night?"

"What joke?"

"What does a gay horse eat? Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaay."

Oh, dear. I'm in worse shape than I thought.

"Or, how about this one: Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill?" He's just teasing me now.

"Why?"

"To get to the bottom!" He says with a grin.

No. Now I'm in worse shape than I thought.

Trying to get away from real-life, I step into my grandma's room. She's pretty entertaining. Maybe she can lead my mind away from my last night's behaviors.

"Hi, Shannon. Did you have a good night last night?" She asks with enthusiasm.

"Yeah...I slept well."

"Good. Because I have plenty more where that came from--let me know if you want anymore. I want to give some to your mom, but she won't take it. You should talk her into using it."

"Okay," I lied.

The Seinfeld theme song goes off. I've received a text. No, wait, my phone's just reminding me that I have unread texts.

"I'm glad you didn't drive here last night in that state of mind," my friend had lovingly texted me.

Surely my judgment was impaired--but to want to drive somewhere under that condition, go out in public like that. I couldn't be more ashamed of myself...

...when I'm on Ambien.

Life's Hardest Questions Answered

How would you respond to this question: Would you rather fight two hundred two year olds or two hundred chihuahuas?

Hard question, right? Well, this is only one of eight questions I had to answer.

If you would like to view my shrewd sheepish shining answers to some difficult questions, then you should head on over to the lovely Simply Kate's blog. You'll be in for a treat. Literally. Sometimes she has pictures of really yummy-in-my-tummy-looking food on her blog. Well, maybe not literally. Her blog isn't a brownie. But her blog sure is sweet! Figuratively. I haven't licked my monitor, so I don't know what her blog literally tastes like. But go over there anyways, you won't be disappointed--she's fun, cute, and...sweet (it's okay, I can honestly say that--I just licked my screen. But it actually tastes more dusty than anything).

Update: I've decided to post my interview on my blog, too.

1. Tell us about you and your blog. (Not really a question, but go with it)

I’m Shannon and I’m short, shy, and sharp. Please take note that all of these adjectives start with “sh,” and in conjunction, are supposed to help you remember my shrewd sheepish shining name. If these techniques fail your memory, then maybe my blog’s name, Shanimal’s Crackers, will be easier to remember. That name is a bit more creative and only played a tad on words.

Oh, man. Like, really, I don’t know how to describe my blog. But I will tell you the definition of my name. Shannon means “short and wise.” I’m not even making that up. And I will say this fact to anyone I come in contact with because it makes me feel Shpecial.

Back to the non-question at hand, I guess my blog could be considered a “humor” blog, but don’t quote me on that. Yeah, pretend those quotation marks aren’t even in the previous sentence—I’m too lazy to delete them.

2. What is your favorite book?

You know what series I find absolutely hilarious? Don’t laugh—or, go ahead and laugh…just not at me—but I recently read all the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series, and those books are pure entertainment. Just my type.

Oh, do I come off sounding unintelligent? Let’s rectify that (dang, I knew I set the bar too high by describing myself as “sharp.” Next time I’ll use the word “shabby.”). I also really like serious books, too: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and The Help.

3. What makes you a nerd?

Well, if loving Diary of a Wimpy Kid doesn’t, then I don’t know what does. Okaaaaaay, fine, I have a list:

-I like lists

-I mainly listen to 90’s music

-I love cats

-I like Michael Jackson jokes

-I like pun jokes

-I am a punctuation/spelling activist

-I am currently listening to “Carol o f the Bells,” by John Williams, from the Home Alone soundtrack

-I collect board games

-I just downloaded Disneyland’s “Main Street’s Electrical Light Parade” song because it reminds me of the electrical light parade, which makes me happy. I liked all the shiny lights…and Disneyland

-I say “hecka”

-I currently reside in Utah. (Joke. Not the part about me living here, but the part about it making me a nerd. I only said that living in Utah makes me a nerd because I know you, Katie, are from here…you can stop laughing at this hilarious joke now…)

-I hang out with my grandma…and enjoy it

-I can’t believe I forgot this, but …I love Mario! (Not to be confused with the singer, I’m talking about the Mario who’s the star of this joke: What kind of pants does Mario wear? Denim, denim, denim *say it to the tune of the music from when Mario’s underg round*)

4. You have three hours to live. What do you do?

Cry.

5. Describe the perfect sandwich!

Sharp cheddar cheese and mustard. No joke. I remember being in, like, third grade and my mom had made me a cheese sandwich (mustard is ALWAYS involved, sometimes with chips wedged between the cheese and bread—preferably salt and vinegar…or Fritos…or Doritos…or…Cheetos…or cheddar and sour cream…or…). I was minding my own business, going about taking a bite out of my sandwich, when a classmate asked, “Did your mom forget to melt the cheese?” I was too embarrassed to tell the truth. Well, now I’m not afraid to say it to the entire Internet world: No, the cheese wasn’t ever meant to be melted.

This reminds me: I was at some relatives’ a few years ago. One of my cousins was, like, “I’m hungry. I’m going to have a snack.” Then I saw this:

Melted Cheese on a Plate

Weird. There’s not even mustard (or chips…or bread) to accompany it.

6. What would be your ideal job?

I have no idea. One that I love, where the cash flows in, while I do the minimal amount of work. Let me know if you’ve heard of it.

7. What is the most important thing in your life?

Probably my family.

8. Would you rather fight two hundred two year olds or two hundred chihuahuas?

Either way, it’s not a fair fight. I’d surely win.

The Finger

They don't yield to others who are in the roundabout first.
They don't pull far enough into the intersection when trying to make a left turn.
They don't slow down on yellow lights.
They stop on "merge" and go on "yield."
They are the best at not checking their blind spots when switching lanes.
They pull right in front of you from a sidestreet, only to go 10 mph.
They won't pull to the front slot at gas stations if it means going around the car parked in the second slot.

They are Pootah drivers. Whoops, that slipped. What I meant to say is that they are Utard drivers. Geez, I don't know what I'm thinking. Ahem. Utah drivers.

And I'll tell you what, while driving with Grandma here, I've never heard her this upset since the time I accidentally deleted her recording of The Show Where It's Okay For Men to Have Polyamorous Relationships, The Show Where Moms Are Even Proud That Their Son or Daughter is Featured on This "I Knew I Loved You Before I Met You" Garbage For All to See The Bachelor. But, the drivers here are what they are and it can't be changed. Well, maybe they can change, one driver at a time. Thanks to my grandma...

[True Story] Grams and I are coasting along the freeway, trying to make good time on the pothole-covered road for the 50 miles we had to drive. Grandma has never driven a car before in her life, but she's great at giving directions, "Look out for that big truck," "Watch out for this truck. They scare me," and "You never know what these trucks are going to do."

Well, it's not the big rigs that she needs to be scared of. It's the plethora of minivans.

So there we are, enjoying ourselves, listening to Intergalactic by the Beastie Boys (my grandma thinks my music has "good beats." Sometimes I'm grateful she can't hear very well). But, Grandma should've really taken this verse to heart:

Too sweet to be sour
too nice to be mean
On the tough guy style
I'm not too keen

because right as these lyrics blew threw my only working speaker, a blue minivan started making its way into our lane, putting only a few inches between our cars. Pretty soon, she was halfway in our lane, pushing us over the shoulder of road before she even noticed we were there. When she got back to where she belonged (Drivers Ed, anyone?) in her lane, I made sure to speed up some that I wasn't driving adjacent to her the whole time. But not before Grams felt the need to show the non-checking-blindspot driver who's boss.

How could this sweet, little 82 year old woman, who looks forward to Saturday nights when Lawrence Welk airs its millionth rerun, put bad drivers in their place?

Grams and Kudos, January 2011

The 3 simple steps to letting Utah drivers know they're in the wrong, according to Grandma:

1. Say to other passengers in your car, "Did you see that? [Bad Word]. I'm going to give 'em the finger."
2. Turn to face the bad driver, look her straight in the eye and mutter: You Stupid. (This is more effective if you draw it out to: You Stuuuuuuupid.)
3. Give her "The Finger." Don't just give it to her, but shake it madly, fiercely, as if your finger is Charlie Sheen on drugs Charlie Sheen.

"That'll show 'em."

We continued driving this never-ending-of-construction freeway to our destination, having already survived becoming roadkill, yet still not making a dent in the miles we had left to cover. But after dealing with Utah drivers, you know before even starting your engine, there's a to-do list that you NEED to review.

The 3 simple steps you need to do before driving in Utah:

1. Buckle your seat belt
2. Say a prayer
3. Have your secret weapon in hand (The Finger)

because you don't know what these drivers are going to do. Actually, yes you do.

The next song that came on from my mixed CD: Too Legit to Quit by MC Hammer (Why, yes, I do like listening to quality 90's music, thanks for asking). Then it happenend again. Another one of THEM failed to check their blindspot and, once again, started moving into my lane (Déjà vu, anyone?)--the same lane I've been in the whole time. This minivan, with I love my family but not enough to check my blindspots meticulously plastered on the vehicle's exterior, only realized that, yes, a car is already occupying this lane by the time he was already halfway in our lane.

These lyrics from Too Legit to Quit should be Grandma's theme:

I choose to abuse, misuse, and confuse
Competitors who think they're makin' up all the rules, fools

because as we sped up to pass this typical Utah driver, Grandma uncovered her secret weapon.

CAUTION: The next picture has a PG-13 rating. Please don't view if you're easily offended...

The Finger: Point and Shake the Index Finger

***The Finger also works great outside of driving.
-Did someone knock over your lawn gnome and walk away? Give 'em The Finger.
-Someone stole a cookie from your cookie jar? The Finger.
-Kim Kardashian made a single? The "Other" Finger.

Happy Feet's Replacement

After learning a ton from this article, I've come to the conclusion that I have mostly healthy (and happy) feet. Oh, and that I'm pretty healthy, too. Pshh, I only experience one of those symptoms listed in 18 Things Your Feet Say About Your Health. One. Out of 18. That means I'm ONLY 5.55% messed up. Therefore, I'm declaring myself to be the new happy feet spokesperson. How do you like my slogan:

Forget gellin' like a felon,
how about gettin' jiggy wit it
like a midget?

Let's see here, 100-5.55=94.45. I'm 94.45% good, people! I think this means that when I was in elementary school and on crutches, and a girl started a rumor to her class that I was faking the whole "having bad feet" thing, she was right. I guess I really didn't have feet problems! What joyous news that I've only just uncovered.

Now that I've realized how happy and healthy my feet are, I can't help but wonder if I only had 6 foot surgeries because the podiatrist has a foot fetish and just wanted alone time--with my feet--while I laid unconscious on the operating table for seven hours each time. Hmm. If that's the case, it's not any of my business, really.

Man, I'm starting to think deeply now. Are articles supposed to make you reflect on past experiences in your life?

As I reflect on my numerous surgeries, I'm now starting to wonder why I had that grueling back surgery that left me in a back brace for months--the same surgery that stunted my ability to grow taller. I could've been 5'4". 5'4"! Life changing.

Do you think that back specialist just wanted alone time to sneak a peek at my feet, too (rush Shannon to the operating table!...eh, let's knock her out for 8 hours this time)? I don't care. He could've messed with my feet and I wouldn't have known the difference. My feet already look like Fred Flintstone's feet--how much more could they get screwed up? Oh, that's right, they got screwed up on my fourth surgery when many screws and pins were meticulously placed inside each of my feet, only to have the screws removed from one foot on my sixth surgery.

At least I was able to write a fifth grade award-winning autobiographical incident about my back surgery. I guess my teacher loved reading about me being under the influence of anesthesia, all the while using my bunny stuffed animal to play Peek-a-Boo with the doctors and nurses. The darndest things those kids do.

...but I didn't have the foot surgeries for nothing! I have actually benefited from these apparently not-needed surgeries, believe it or not. Without them, how in the world would I be privileged enough to park in a handicapped spot for sixth months (besides stealing my grandma's sign...which I don't do...)? How else would I be able to go through the exits of Disneyland rides--waiting 5 minutes instead of 90--without having a wheelchair? How else could I have the excuse to race my grandma in one of those motorized carts at Wal-Mart? If you look helpless, remember, people are scared to approach you and tell you NOT to be doing something (Excuse me, ma'am, but you probably shouldn't be going more than 5 miles per hour on that wheelchair. You might hit someone. [Reminder to self: NEVER let Grandma drive a motorized cart in Disneyland again]). And, lastly, how in the heck would I be able to get out of mowing the lawn for 2 weeks?

Do you think that girl dressed as a nerd at that last Halloween dance, who complimented me on my feet, rather than my costume ("I just want to tell you that you have the cutest feet!") was really telling me that my feet look healthy, and therefore, happy?

My Frankenstein foot.

I wonder.

Happy S.A.D.!

Happy S.A.D.!

(Singles
Awareness
Day)

All the single ladies,

all the single ladies

If you don't like it

then you should get on the Internet

Wha-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Wha-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Ladies, are you tired of being alone on Valentine's Day with no one except your teddy bear, Freckles, to cuddle? Exhausted of eating at your candlelit table set for two only to gaze across your nice china into the deep chocolate-mousse-colored eyes of...Freckles? Tired of snuggling under a blanket with your good friends, Ben and Jerry, to watch You've Got Mail with Freckles clinging at your side? Exhausted of receiving a dozen red roses unexpectedly at work with the note "Can't bear to be without you" only to discover the note's in Freckle's handwriting?

Freckles the Bear

If you're suffering from any of these symptoms, don't worry. There IS help. Now introducing the solution to all your problems: Internet dating!! Satisfaction 35% guaranteed! Within minutes of joining, you'll have intelligent, dashing, funny-as-heck guys knocking on the door to your heart.

A personal message from one of our satisfied customers (we'll call her Sheltered Shan):

Girls, you don't have to feel alone anymore! Internet dating DOES work. Within 3 minutes of joining, I had a boyfriend. A real guy who wanted to date me. Not some guy in a freckled bear costume who stalks me via Facebook.

I have even saved our very first words spoken to each other over the Internet so that it can go into my scrapbook of how he and I first met!! :) :)

My-Soon-to-be-Boyfriend: hi want to date?

Me: Heck yeah!! Where have you been all my life?

My-Now-Boyfriend (See, isn't it easy?! Yay!): here in utah lets do something its friday :)

Me: You're right, it is Friday--I'm glad you know the days of the week. Look, I've already found a smart one!!! Before we meet, though, I have certain questions that need to be answered:

1. What are your feelings on the World of Warcraft?

2. Would you be willing to teach me how to play the guitar?

3. Are you weird? (If you answer yes, it doesn't necessarily rule you out, but I need to be prepared.) Asking him directly if he's weird is a good way to make sure that he isn't weird. But I'm already so in love by this point, that I don't care if he answers yes.

My-Ever-So-Endearing-Boyfriend: I have played guitar for 6 years and give lessons He's suuuuper talented!!!!! :), I could get you started this week, never played world of warcraft, and im wierd but would love to give you lessons i charge 10 bucks a lesson I don't even care that he isn't using punctuation, or that he spelled "wierd" wrong. And why should I?

Me: What? No lesson discount?

So give me an example of how you're weird. There are many different variations of being weird, like weird weird, cool weird, geek weird, Twilight weird, or socially awkward.

I'm glad you haven't played World of Warcraft. I haven't either. Aww, look, we already have things in common!

The-Man-I'm-Probably-Going-to-Marry: thats 10 bucks a hour guitar lessons from private people is more for a half a hour Aww, would you look at that? He's sharing his talent at such a low cost--he's charitable and giving!, not to weird, just like to have fun you want to have a lesson monday?

Me: I don't currently own a guitar. I was seriously considering getting one to take lessons, though.

When you first messaged me "hi want to date," were you breaking the ice or did you really think a girl would just respond with yes and then you were dating? I need to know if it was love at first sight for him as it was for me!

My-Man: were over im breaking up with you. Learn how to play guitar though, if you ever need a teacher you know where to find me

Me-in-a-Pool-of-Tears-Barely-Able-to-Cope-Trying-to-See-Past-the-Salty-Fluid-Flowing-Onto-My-Cheeks: Do you think it would be weird to give lessons to your ex? I could see how that could potentially be really awkward.

-----------------

Okay, girls, isn't this a wonderful example of how to get a boyfriend in time for your candlelit table that's already set for two (just overlook the part where we broke up, please)?

Here's a hint to a successful Internet relationship: if you meet him in person right off the bat before chatting to him online first, you're bound not to be broken up within 8 minutes. Also, don't ask him questions before meeting. This tends to scare him away. That's why I didn't end up marrying the love of my life. Follow these simple steps and you're bound to get the guaranteed results: snuggling up under a blanket with a real man, not your besties Ben and Jerry...or Freckles.

Love bunches over the Internet,

Sheltered Shan

WARNING: Side effects may include: lying, upset stomachs, stalking, earaches, and weirdos.

Note: The above dialogue is an actual conversation (and the whole entire conversation, nonetheless...yes, it started with "hi want to date?") that a friend and I had with some dude online. Please don't try this at home--unless you take precautions, or just want a laugh.

My Long, Lost Friend

In one of my previous posts, I wrote about some random number in Michigan who kept sending me picture texts.

The last text I had received from them was waaaaaaaay back in August. Yet, today, as I was cleaning, my phone vibrates. Seriously wondering who would text me in the wee hours of the morning (11:00 AM), I'm hesitant to look at the text I'd received. Much to my surprise and sheer delight, it was Random Michigan Number!!! Oh, how I've missed thee and the excitement thou brings into my life.

Their text:

Lunch at Sushi Thai in Cary NC

I don't know why Random Michigan Number feels the need to share with me everywhere they eat. They probably know that I enjoy eating from the fact that I named my cat after chocolate, but then again, I don't know. Maybe they send a mass text message to everyone in their contact list bragging about everywhere they've eaten in the country. And somehow, I'm in their contacts. Fine by me, whatever floats your boat...

My reply text:

Skittles Lunch in Bed

Their next text: Omigosh!
Guess I won't be hearing from Random Michigan Number again for a long while (give or take 6 months). 'Til next time...and I must say, I'm really looking forward to a picture of a grilled cheese sandwich with the caption Lunch in Hawaii. Because only then would I be jealous.

RMN sent me another picture--in less than 6 months, too. :) I think (s)he may just ♥ me.

A Good Listener

A good listener is someone you can talk to because they are actually listening to what you are saying. Supposedly, "good listeners" give auditory feedback to let you know they're listening, but with Belinda, I don't even have to worry that I'm not receiving the auditory feedback. If I'm in the middle of talking, I'm not listening for her Mmm-hmms, I sees, or Yeah, I understands...because I can plainly see from her face that she is, in fact, listening.

I mean, if I tell her my infamous Michael Jackson joke, I'm sensing the shock she's feeling--based on her facial expresion. (And, yeah, I would prefer a shocked reaction over no reaction...)

If I told her that the song isn't really called Like a Cheese Stick, she's displaying the surprised look. Thank goodness there's one other person out there, besides me, who thought that's what the lyrics really were! Otherwise, I would've felt like an idiot...

If I told her that my grandma got a high rating on HotorNot.com, once again, I'm getting the expression of unbelievable...but honestly, I don't know why she would find it unbelievable that my grandma got a high rating. I mean, it's pretty obvious Gram's a "looker."

If I told her that The Office plans to continue without Steve Carrell, I would get the impression that she's completely stunned (like the rest of us).

But what really wins me over is when I talk to Belinda about guys (or lack thereof). I can say, "Yeah, I haven't been asked out on a date in eight years," and she has an expression written all over her face that gives me a boost of self-confidence--she looks astounded. And really, that makes me feel good. It lets me know that even she can't believe I haven't been asked out and she too, is thinking, What's wrong with these guys? I can even say to her, "Oh, I don't think he likes me like that," and she'll look just as surprised. She doesn't need to say, "Shannon, you're wrong, he really does like you like that," because I can just read her face and it tells me more than any words ever could.

And this, my friends, is why I like talking to Belinda...because she always looks so interested and surprised at what I have to say.

Suga Moma

I was just perusing through some old emails, reminiscing on good (and bad) times. My email is like a treasure trove of Shannon-ness. No, really. I've had the same email address since I was, like, 13, so just by browsing, you can easily see how I've grown in maturity (but not in height) within the past twelve years. Nah, not really. Anyways, as I was scrolling through the past decade of my life, I found an old email of a text conversation that I had with a random stranger. Apparently people mistakenly text me a lot? And apparently I like to act like I know these people who mistakenly text me? And apparently I like to save these weird little conversations that I have with strangers? Yes, yes, and uh-huuuuh. They (*cough, cough* meaning my parents) don't call me Shenanigans for nothin'.

August 2007:

Strange Number: How is jr. high so far? whats your favorite class? -aunt michl

Me: PE cuz I like all the eye candy

SN: ben!!! :)

Me: ssshhh, dont tell my parents...

SN: dont worry! its our secret!

Me: thanks youre da best! did i tell u i have a gf?

SN: no...is she cute? whats her name?

Me: yah i wouldnt date someone whos uuuugly...her name is ashley but were not official yet. we only been out once.

SN: blond? brown? black hair? long or short? eye color? maybe you should send a pic

Me: shes my suga moma

(attached was this picture):


Welp, I never heard from Aunt Michl again. I guess she thought Ben's girlfriend had flunked 8th grade one too many times...

Don't worry, Grandma, you're still hot! Just ask your friends on Hotornot! And your Hotornot friends wouldn't even care if, or how many times you've flunked 8th grade...because they think you're tasty just like that corndog you're eating. Mmm-hmm.

Sidenote: I got this approved by Grams before posting it. I told her that she was a "sugar mama," to which she replied, "Yeah, I am." Haha. Love you, Grandma!

Catwoman

Halloween was just around the corner and I needed a costume for work on Friday. It was the end of work on Thursday and as I was walking a student to the bus, I asked him, "What should I be for Halloween?"

"You could be a princess...or...angel...or...Batman's girlfriend." I only have three options according to this kid, huh? And they're all sweet things...

Later that night I went a saw a play called Hotel Frankenstein, and ended up coming home late. Still with no costume idea for the next morning. Then...voila! It hit me. I won't be Batman's girlfriend as the kid suggested, but I will be the "kind of the antithesis of bats"--Catwoman. Think about it, I love cats, and I'm (kind of) a woman. Perfect!

So, at about midnight I was running around finding things to piece together to create my costume.

The next morning, at about 7, after putting my costume on and looking ready for Halloween fun at work, I go in to show my grandma my costume. She says to me, "You look beautiful!" Thanks, Grams, that's exactly what I was going for in my Catwoman costume.

I arrive at work at 8:04 AM. Four minutes late. Dang it. But it was worth it because I had to wake up earlier than usual to get ready for the Halloween party that we'll be having at work all day. As I walk into the classroom, my boss says, "Now, I have to ask, who are you supposed to be?" Isn't it obvious?...or was she making a joke? I don't know.

The day moves on. Adults at the school are complimenting me on my outfit. I don't think the kids quite understood who I was, but I don't blame them, because how would they know who Catwoman is? They're still young.

After work I head on over to a stake bowling activity. In my Catwoman costume. My mom warned me to change before I went because there could be guys there, and how am I supposed to attract guys in that outfit? Mom, are you telling me that Halle Berry looked better as Catwoman than I do? Fine, okay, anybody would look better than me as Catwoman. But...I thought I was being creative...because looking around, no other girl was dressed as Catwoman. This tells me that 1) either I'm really creative, or 2) other girls, for some reason, would not want to dress as a woman in cat attire.

I think the reason other people were not dressed in the same outfit as me was for both reasons, actually. I'm just really creative...because I was the REAL cat woman. Who wants to even pretend to be a REAL cat woman when you can be some girl who wears cat ears and a tail and gets into trouble? I was representing all the REAL cat women out there in the real world. The ones who strive to give cats good lives. The ones who care more about their cats than they do themselves. The ones who have names for all 37 of their cats and who can tell you each individual cat's favorite meal. Let's give a round of applause, for these are the true cat heroes. I will be joining these women (if I'm lucky enough to be accepted into their clan) so I was actually dressed as myself in 25 years--wearing a pink bathrobe, my glasses, curlers in hair, bright blue eyeshadow, rosy red cheeks, bright pink lipstick, lines drawn on my face for wrinkles, bright orange Halloween cat socks, and leopard-printed slippers. Not to mention, I had cat stuffed animals hanging out of my robe's pockets.

*This is the reason why my grandma told me I looked beautiful--because I was dressed as HER (I was using her makeup and robe). Grams also likes cats.

*This is the reason why my boss asked who I was--because I pretty much look like that everyday at work and she couldn't decipher whether I was really dressed for Halloween or not.

*This is the reason why I couldn't attract guys in my outfit--because why would they want someone who wears slippers in public?

Well, folks, let me say: I was kind of dressed up. Kind of myself. But I don't think Halle Berry could play the part of Catwoman quite as well as I can.

Picture Day

Tomorrow is picture day. Great. I haven't had a "picture day" since high school. It's been so long that I've forgotten what I'm supposed to do. Just sit there and look pretty? Well, as you can see from these two pictures I've posted, I AM quite the looker. But I find it strange that the only person who comments on just how beautiful I am is Grandma--hey, and she wasn't even wearing her glasses when she said that. I must really have knocked her spectacles off with my incredibly good looks.

I work at an elementary school, right? So, staff gets a free packet of pictures...of themselves. What the heck am I supposed to do with pictures of myself?? Despite what you may think, I'm not the type to frame a picture of myself and set it on the nightstand next to my bed so that it's the last thing I see before I go to sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up. One can only view so much beauty during the day, so I need a break from my flawless face, just to keep me grounded...that's why I will not frame a picture of myself and put it next to MY bed. But, there is a guest room in our home and I think I will frame this old picture of me (the one where I'm wearing a super stylish hat) and put it next to that bed. I'm sure this picture would give the guests pleasant dreams.

Now, as to what to do with the pictures I take tomorrow--of course, my coworkers are helpful--both of them told me to hand out my pictures to guys. Umm...yeah...fantastic idea! My response to that? "Okay. On the back of the picture it'll say Hi, I'm Single. Nice to meet you." And just by seeing my beautiful face the guys will be like, How in the world is this gorgeous woman still single? Oh, and in fine print her picture says "Best country line dancer"? I CANNOT pass her up!

I hope my picture tomorrow turns out as stunning out these two. But, I'm just not sure I can top these pictures--I had a brilliant smile, good hair, and my body is not in an awkward position...at all. I'm just not sure I will be able to pull that off again. Wish me luck that I can look as good tomorrow as I did in these. It would mean a lot. Hey, maybe I'll even send you one of my pictures for supporting me (I am going to have like, 50, so I could even send one to your grandma). Wouldn't you just love that? And I know the perfect place for it: on your nightstand. That way you could have a natural night light--from the glow that I radiate--my picture would just brighten your day or night.

An Ode (Except Not Really) to the Hottest Grandma on the Net

August 2007

Who would combine puka shells with a purple/teal-mixed-animal-print blouse? None other than my grams! You have to admit they look great together too. To top off the outfit just throw on a tilted hat...ah, now the look's complete. This is just another ordinary picture that I have of Grams. But what's not so ordinary is the story behind the picture. Story time, children. Like, really, take a deep breath, relax, and take off your socks because they're about to be blown away...unless you've already taken your socks off, that is.

A few years ago I was bedridden due to major surgery. What to do with all my free time? Join hotornot.com of course! But, naturally, I would never join that site, so I had this brilliant idea to post a picture of Grams--the exact same picture in this post--on that site.

Her profile:

Username: SugaMoma
Age: 22
About Me: 'Sup, homie Gs? I'm looking for my gangsta love. He must love being spoiled. Rapping career a must (that way he could serenade with sweet lullabies like Eminem's "Mockingbird"). Must drive a cadillac--the lower the better. Sometimes it's hard getting into those things. Must be willing to call me Shawty. I'd appreciate it if he frequently throws up the Westside sign in my presence. Must sag his drawers regularly as if he has a loaded diaper--I feel accomplished playing the role of a mamacita. Bonus: have at least one gold tooth. Hollaback, dawgs. Word.

Success! She had wannabe rappers writing her from all over the country and to top it all off, her "hot or not" rating was an average in the high 8s (now I feel special when people tell me I look exactly like her)! I suspect, though, that she was receiving such high scores because there were 90 year old men on that site who came across her picture and thought she was the most beautiful creature the Internet had ever seen. Or, I'm not going to rule this out either; but maybe, just maybe, she was receiving such high scores because her profile and picture were hilarious. No, I think the first scenario is more likely. Unfortunately, some little party-pooper had to go along and report my grandma's picture to the authorities, and needless to say, we were banned from that site because a picture of a little "old" lady was in the same category with girls in their 20s, and that's clearly against the rules. Shame. Who says 22 year olds can't have wrinkles?

A couple of months ago I went with my friend to her ward's opening social and had to play one of those "get-to-know-you" kind of games...you know, the games you try to avoid. In an attempt to try and spice up the question, What's one thing you've done that you don't think anyone else in this room has ever done before?, I told everyone who came to me with a pencil and paper (I would never tell this story to people in my ward) that I had posted my gram's picture on that wretched site. By the end, everyone had known that my grams is HOT (mainly because the person in charge of the social read my answer out loud to the whole entire group, thanks). I guess the person in charge of the social gathering would rate my quirky story as an 8.8--you have to admit, though, that hearing about someone's grandma attracting rappers is 11 times more interesting than learning that someone climbed Mount Everest. Pshh. The Mount Everest story would probably only rate at a 5.3.

Now when someone comes up to Grams and says, You're so cute!, she now knows to respond with Actually, I'm hot. Just ask the Internet.

***No grandmas were harmed in the making of this blog.