Future New York Times Bestsellers

Here are a few books that, given a contract and enough money, I could easily write, as I have material just pouring out of my ears:

Don’t Get Sick...or Hurt…or Have Bad Eye Sight: One girl’s guide to living carefully for those people who will never have a job that provides health insurance.

The Decline and Fall of a Promising American Mind

101 Ways to Sacrifice for Your Child so She Can End up Working in a Factory Anyway

Oh! The Place You WON’T Go… A List of Jobs You Will Never Get with Your Communications Degree

Confessions of a Broke Chick: the non-fiction version of Confessions of a Shopaholic, but less funny, without the Prada bags, and there’s no fulfilling career by the last chapter

You Chose Poorly: one woman’s discovery that burning yourself out in law school would still be preferable to seriously considering selling an ovum for money

Secrets of Living Cheaply: ordering more bread right before you leave a restaurant, stealing mini coffee creamers for later use, and other sneaky tips

Eat. Pray. Write a Few Bad Checks.

How to Not Succeed in Business While Trying Pretty Hard

Graduation Day: the Yoko Ono of the Best Days of My Life

I Did My Best …and other lies I tell myself to help me sleep at night

8 Things your Parents Taught You to Help You Succeed, 2^nd ed. Now with new content! “The Dire Consequences of forgetting/ignoring those lessons

I Blame the Economy: things to say to make you appear less pathetic at social gatherings

Top 10 Tops that Don’t Utilize Your Degree

I Graduated Summa Cum Laude! …and no one cares

Shut Your Mouth: politics, my virginity, and other taboo workplace topics

But I Want Pretty Things! How a well-educated middle-class woman found herself $1200 in debt

My Car Hates Me: rattles, scraping sounds and weird odors that indicate you are horrible at choosing reliable transportation

Now HERE is a list of books that, no matter how badly I might want to, or how well they would sell, I would be unable to write:

How to Find Your Soulmate in College

Picking a Major: growing job markets and fields of study

Budgeting for Dummies

Being Skinny is Hard Too!

Who Needs Toilet Paper? 20 Secrets to Living Well on a Budget

Genie in a Bottle: my career as Christina Aguilera’s back-up dancer

Fly Me to the Moon: how to snag a rocket scientist husband

3.97: why my college GPA made all the difference

Lessons from a newly-minted functioning member of society

Guys, guess what?? I finally became an adult! No, that does not mean I got busted for a crime, had a surprise pregnancy or sat all the way through The English Patient without falling asleep or killing myself. What it means INSTEAD is that I finally moved out of my parents’ house and got my own apartment…all me, just me. Not even a pet. ‘Cause I don’t have $300 plus $20 extra a month to be tacked onto my rent to own a cat. I mean, ‘cause I’m a lone wolf…aaawwOOOOoooo… Ahem…anyway.

So I’ve compiled a list of things I have learned since striking out on my own. You could say that with great responsibility has come great wisdom. But then you’d be terribly misquoting the Spiderman line, so you should probably just say that this had better be good, Ashlee, because you haven’t posted anything in approximately a hugezillion years and I’ve forgotten all about this blog so you’re going to have to coax me back with this ONE POST. No pressure. And we’re off!

1. Seeing as how the closest I’ve ever come to living alone was having a very introverted homeowner allow me to crash at her house in the summer of 2010, and seeing as how she already had pretty much anything I could need as far as housewares go, I figured out very quickly for myself that THIS CRAP IS EXPENSIVE. I waited this long to move out so I could get “the best” of everything and not have to have hand-me-downs, and I’ve gone through about $3200 in groceries, dish sets, a mattress, a couch, a dining set, living room tables, a TV, a TV stand, lamps, blankets, rugs, cleaning supplies, baking sheets, pans, Tupperware, towels, sheets, and toilet paper. And that’s AFTER my mom was awesome and spent an exorbitant—albeit generous—amount of money in helping me. I started from scratch and IT HURT.
   
   
2. The following movies are banned from your list of things you can watch once you’re living on your own: Taken, Silence of the Lambs, Cellular, Enough, What Lies Beneath, Ransom, Firewall, Panic Room (because you will not have one), any other movie where women are attacked or abducted…and From Justin to Kelly…just ‘cause it was reeeeally bad. Even if you live in an incredibly safe complex where the parking is all full when you get home at one in the morning because people are in bed and not making meth in their kitchen, you haven’t heard a gunshot (you’re pretty sure) since you moved in, no one has keyed your car after you got the best parking space and it was pouring rain, and the guys on the 3^rd floor balcony stopped staring you down after a mere 14 times of you walking in from your vehicle, you will still gain a new sense of terror at being a single girl in a big apartment without even a guard-gerbil. (little known fact: gerbils are excellent watch-animals. And I DON’T EVEN HAVE ONE. Yeah, they were used in WWII to guard the Nazi work camps at night…totally 100% verified. *finishes Wikipedia page to back up made-up fact*) Aaaand we’re back. Living in a safe apartment building filled with nice Hispanic families and couples quietly shacking up together will not stop you from locking your door in between each trip back out to your car to get all of your grocery bags, or almost severing your arm in an attempt to grab your keys out of the lock and shut the door before someone in the completely deserted hallway forces their way in behind you and turns you into a Lifetime movie-of-the-month.
   
   
3. You might develop a slight case of paranoia…which is not paranoia if it’s totally justified.
   
   
4. Things look a little different when you’re paying for everything. You lose a lot of weight because you don’t want to open the fridge and waste electricity. You will leave your iPod plugged in or run your sound machine all night but you rethink running the microwave…does a hot dog REALLY need to be cooked all the way through? You debate whether you really need to go to the bathroom after dark. And it turns out you can do a lot of everyday things without the lights on. Who needs light to wash dishes, straighten hair, put on makeup, or read? Old people are very jealous of this talent. “You’ve got such young eyes,” they say. Thank you, Grandma. Yes I do. And now that I’ve finished Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix using only the glow of my alarm clock for light, I only need to squint a LITTLE to see road signs in broad daylight. Also, you find that cable and Internet get too much credit. Internet? That’s what Panera Bread is for! Who needs to update Facebook more than once a week? It’s not like you have tons of news after moving into a new place or anything. It’s FUN to have 57 notifications every time you log on. These are the lies you will tell yourself to keep from taking a knife to your throat. …Although it probably wouldn’t be a successful suicide, what with the lights off.
   
   
5. You discover whether you are ACTUALLY a slob or if, deep down and too scared of the piles of clothes to come out of hiding, you have a semi-competent housekeeper inside you. This will be revealed the first time you make a meal (I use the term “meal” very loosely, as it really should read “grilled cheese, strawberry Jell-O, a Poptart, and a tumbler of cheap white wine”). You will either leave the skillet on the stove and the spatula-flipper-thingy in the sink, or you will have an epiphany. “If I don’t clean up my shiz-nit [paraphrase], no one else is going to.” No one is going to yell at you to wash your brownie pan but then begrudgingly do it anyway because it’s taking up her whole sink and even though she raised you better than that she’s a longsuffering mother and wife. Nope, that’s you now…only without the wife or mother part...and you’re not really suffering either. Point is, you’re now the vacuumer, toilet cleaner, laundry folder, and brownie-pan-washer. Lucky you. You can either rise to the challenge and enjoy the fact that Mommy doesn’t hold your hand anymore, or you can become one of those people on Hoarders that thought the scuttling under your mountain of five-year-old newspapers and used Kleenex’s was probably just the cat you lost six years ago…until the cleaners find that cat flattened under your bed/table/couch/toilet. For the record, I rose to the occasion, even BEFORE I ate my meal…because even without cable, that wretched show sticks with you. Bleck.
   
   
6. There are about a million and six ways of preparing an egg, and all of them are fast, cheap, easy (except for Eggs Benedict—Hollandaise, are you kidding me right now?), and pretty much taste all exactly the same, so you’re really just changing the shape and texture of the egg to tell your brain that your diet is full of variety and so that, if asked, you can cook “a whole bunch of things.” Also, grilled cheese and soup is highly underrated. You can eat these every day, even if you didn’t just come in from making a fort on a snow-day. Go ahead, cut the crusts off and slice it into quarters. Your guard-gerbil will not judge you.
   
   
7. If at all possible, find a place that has something amazing called “radiant heat.” …I think that’s the name. All that the feeble-minded women like myself need to know about this is that it means there are no vents in the ceiling or the floor for heat. There are pipes in the floor instead, which is great. You can’t hear anything from your upstairs neighbor except occasional footsteps. There’s no blaring music, no crying kids, no sounds of people doing the no-pants dance, no trumpet practice, no screaming at people halfway around the globe because your Marine unit got blown up by some Latvians while you were trying to get supplies from a tank…er…supply transport…yeah I’m pretty ignorant of these military video game things…so…WMD’s, Desert Storm, Panzers, and, uh…OO-RAH. Anyway, point being that it’s blessedly quiet because there are no vents anywhere. Although maybe the vents have nothing to do with it and my upstairs neighbor is just very quiet because he’s breeding cockroaches to put into the ears of his victims after he carves lines from The Iliad into their backs to lead the FBI on a wild chase until he finishes his twisted mission from the devil and uses me as his final work of sick art. …See bullet point #3. So, yeah, the radiant heat thing is nice.
   
   
8. When you go grocery shopping (as you really should do, since eggs are great but even they need to be replenished, and it’s hard to take them in to work every day), you will probably go a little crazy buying all your favorite things, because YOU FINALLY CAN! You can buy Pop-Tarts and Count Chocula cereal and bacon and perogies and Jell-O and cheese…so much cheese. You will quickly discover, however, that you probably shouldn’t binge on all these things in the first few days, because once all your favorite things are GONE, you don’t have the fallback plan of your mother’s crappy health food that is at least better than nothing. You just have nothing. So, if you don’t want to find a new thing that you have to restock every other day, probably go a little easy on the “I can buy any food I want and eat as much as I want at all hours of the day” approach. A 2^nd shift job is a great way to make sure this happens. I get off work at 12:30am, so I might have a small snack at home while winding down with The Office reruns, then I go to bed at 3am, get up at noon, eat a real meal (cereal, toast and orange juice—yes, my noontime meal is breakfast; don’t judge), go to work at 2:30—where I can’t snack because my college degree has apparently given me just enough skill and experience to work in a factory—and I get a 20-minute lunch break which is just enough time to scarf down a Lean Cuisine or some Mac n’ Cheese (surprisingly not that bad for you in the normal serving size...which is not a whole box, unfortunately). So on a good day where I get all the meals I am physically able to get, I eat two meals-ish. Not square meals, not fancy, and not deliciously greasy. In this way, you don’t go through many groceries and you actually stop resembling a sausage still wrapped in its casing. …Aaaand now I’m adding sausage to the grocery list.

Things I will not be telling my kids if I ever want them to believe I'm cool

Embarrassing moments. Like farts, we all have them; some people have no problem talking about them, and others are a bit more private about them. I keep my farts a secret, but I WILL tell you some of my most embarrassing moments. How's THAT for an A+ introduction?!? My high school English professor might have written next to this, "Crude, but effective." Thaaaat's me!

My freshman year of college, I stayed out past curfew (that's right, curfew at college) so I could stay late after a concert and hang out with the band. They were from my school anyway, but they were still Indie rock stars (in my eyes) and therefore infinitely cool. We went to the equally infinitely cool but also very classy International House of Pancakes, because even in the "big city" that's the only thing open past 11. I have said on this blog before that I learn all my humor from funnier people, and that was especially true my freshman year. I hadn't quite learned the subtle art of stealing STYLE of humor...no, I preferred the easier method of directly quoting lesser-known comedians without credit. People assumed it was my material, and I gladly let them. I tended to be overshadowed by my even more outgoing and much funnier friends, so any leg-up I could get was incredibly helpful. We sat across from the lead singer, a very gangly, redheaded, quiet, inexplicably-godlike guy who could sing the ugly off a Klingon woman. Yeah, that good. Seriously, if you see a picture you won't get it, but somehow he's really hot. So I decided now would be a fantastic time to show off my totally original comedy. I said, "But really, I don't get why they call it 'IHOP.' I never leave here feeling like hopping. Shouldn't they call it, 'I...barely move' or 'I...need a wheelbarrow'?" And I got a really good laugh out of it from friends and band members alike. Then Corey softly, almost hesitantly, chimes in with, "Didn't a comedian say that?" Tennis-match style, everyone swivels to look at me. "Uh...yeah," I croak. "It was Jim Gaffigan. Thanks, Corey." Then I proceeded to turn 6 shades of red and get a flash of my future, filled with disappointment and disillusionment as a humorist. CBFF Christi still tells that story to anyone who starts to think I'm sort of funny...or anyone who will listen to her if I start to think I might be funny.

I currently sell furniture at a major company in Michigan. One day I was showing a man a bedroom set for his spare room, and he asked me to figure out the price on the whole group, but he wasn't going to buy it that day. If we know they're not going to buy that day we have to get a second person to try to convince them to buy it then, or at least to give them two people's names to hopefully remember when (if) they come back in. So I got an older man named Bill who has been there about twenty years. Bill chatted him up for a bit while I got the prices written down on my card, and I put Bill's name on the card as well. I handed it to the man, showed him both our names for when he came back, and he said, "Could you write down some identifiers too?" Confused, I said, "Sure," and took the card back. I looked at it for a second and next to Bill's name I wrote, "Older man w/ glasses" and next to my name I wrote, "Young, dark hair" and showed him what I'd written. He looked at it straight-faced and said, "That's great. ...Could you also write down what the furniture looks like?"

We had a male gym teacher in high school who also taught Bible classes, history classes, coached soccer (JV and Varsity, both the boys' and the girls' teams), and was married to the Physics/Chemistry/Earth Science teacher/volleyball coach. Yeah, it was a small school. Seniors babysat their kid in the halls during their afternoon classes. His favorite thing to do was have us play indoor soccer. It didn't take much organization, we all knew the rules, he could sit in the corner and watch videos of the boys' games, and his girls could practice for spring season. I had discovered the awesome and oh-so-cool tearaway pants, and since they were PANTS I didn't see a reason to wear shorts under them. That's just begging to sweat through your underwear and get some serious swass* that you'd have to deal with for the rest of the school-day. BFF Cori told me on a few occasions that I should wear shorts, but I would not. I was going to march to the beat of my own drum, be a unique butterfly that intimidated people and that's why I never got asked out, and other cliches my mom told me during the 9.7 years I was in my awkward stage. While playing indoor soccer one day, I ran after the ball (which meant all eyes were on me), and hooked my thumb between two of the snaps accidentally, thereby revealing to everyone the utility and efficiency of tearaway pants...and also my underwear. I instantly collapsed like a rag doll, desperately trying to reattach a few of the snaps and possibly disappear into the floor as well. Unsure whether to laugh or cry hysterically, I settled for shaky laughter and misty eyes. Unfortunately, our teacher occasionally looked up from his soccer tapes and chose those few minutes as a good time to check in on our game. We didn't make eye contact for a week.

*Update: I realize I never explained "swass." This is what my coworker Tom affectionately calls "swamp ass," or the point in the day when you're sweating enough that your damp underwear begins to chafe your buttocks. And it's very uncomfortable. And apparently he gets it a lot at work. Because he sweats like my mom during a hot flash.

New Kind of Post...

OK, so I'm sorry to inform you of this but...I've been drinking tonight. GASP yes I drink sometimes. Seriously not very often. Like BARELY ever. What are you, my mother? I'm old enoough, get off it!

It's a good thing I'm very careful about my spelling/grammar...you might never know I've been drinking except for my random thought-jumps. Yes, that's an awesome new word I just made up. Thought-jumps. Use it...but give me credit or you'll owe me $3 every time you say it. Yes, I've definitely copyrighted that word just now. No, not kidding.

OK, yes, I was kidding just then.

Wanna hear a funny story? Too bad, you're going to hear my story instead. (haha...self-deprecating humor joke) Anyway, so last night I came home from work with my name-tag on because my job is one of those awesome ones where you have to wear a name-tag and someone who barely graduated high school could get my job and I'm not sure why I work there because I graduated college with a 3.95. Uhhhhh, anyway, I was still wearing my name-tag when I got home, so I thought, "OK put it in your coat because you would NEVER go without your coat at this time of year, so you'll definitely bring your coat to work with you tomorrow, and you'll thusly have your badge tomorrow." (Thusly: a very awesome old-English word like THUS but cooler because everything's cooler when you add an -ly) It was a foolproof plan. FOOLPROOF I TELL YOU. ...So I got dressed today and wore a sweater-coat and THUSLY (again, awesome) did NOT wear my coat. WHAT are the odds? Crazy, man. Life is crazy.

Just as randomly, I made a new best friend. Don't tell Cori or Christi. Her name is Katie. (something about that "K" sound, apparently I love friends with a "K" sounding name) Anyway, she's my best-work-buddy-Tom's girlfriend, and I love her. That's not just the alcohol. She's super sweet and funny and best of all she thinks I'M FUNNY which gives her like a gazillion points in the "Points towards becoming Ashlee's new BFF" category...which is really the only category in life that matters at all. Besides salvation. ...Where did THAT come from? And salvation isn't a point system at all! ...See where this thought-jump thing became an awesome word to copyright? Genius. Point of the story (cuz even I lost interest in it): I love her and will keep her forever.

I also replied to an eharmony.com message in this inebriated state. GASP yes I am on eharmony. As of like 2 weeks ago. OK, the thing is, it's like my friend Alex and her love of peanut butter on pizza, I couldn't KNOW it was awful until I tried it (the pizza, that is). Then I did and guess what? it was WRETCHED. But I didn't know until I tried it. Same thing of online dating. Don't hate until you have tried it. YES it's super lame. NO I don't think it's the only way I could ever find someone who "completes me." MAYBE I think Mr. Right's on there. Whatever, that's unimportant...this blog isn't about me. WHO AM I KIDDING of course it is! Anyway, I replied to a guy that I don't really like, so I don't really care if I'm slightly sloshed when I reply to him.

OK, this is not the comedic gold that I try so hard to put on here every time I post something new, but I felt bad about not posting in a little while. I hope all 3.5 of my viewers enjoy this, and I'll try to post something that I've legitimately thought out very soon. Thanks all!

God bless us, every one!!! (Tiny Tim???...where did that COME FROM?? This Christmas spirit thing is really getting to me, and it's annoying...)

Warning: Leaving PC Area; Enter at Own Risk

I apologize to all my die-hard fans that have been on the verge of suicide without an update from me for the past (few?) month(s). So sorry. I’ve been working about 50 hours a week making a pittance selling furniture to the cheapest people on earth. Nope, not Jews. Old Dutch people. No, seriously, those Holocaust survivors have nothing on Hollanders. They come in driving brand new Buicks but want me to cut them a deal on a $100 ottoman. I could make a fortune if my boss gave me $5 every time I ask someone how they’re doing and they tell me they’re “just looking.” One of my favorite lines (yes, that means this has happened more than once) is when they want me to show them the $88 mattresses and I tell them I wouldn’t put a dog on those, but show them anyway. They see it, feel the metal springs through the 1/8 inch thick padding and say, “Well, it’s just for my daughter. She’s only 8. It’ll be fine. And delivery’s free, right?” Really? If you’re going to buy this POS mattress for your kid and you DON’T want to spend as much on delivery as you did on that mattress, I think you can fold down the seats of your Escalade and just find a way to git ‘er done, you cheap son of a – Anyway. Even the Asian people know how to blow me off. When they’re not trying to get me to pay their sales tax, give them free delivery and throw in a couch for 20 bucks, they give me the same “just looking” as everyone else…except that they’re more like “just rooking”. Oh, sure, they just nod, smile and act like they don’t understand English when I explain to them that if I give more than $200 off a $500 chair I'll make about 27 cents, but they sure know “just rooking.” Is that the first thing they teach them in ESL class? After “free derivery?” and “no, is too much, we go Big Rots instead” of course.

This is shaping up to be a very racist post. First the Jews and now the Asians. Is there a major people group I have NOT offended? I’m sure I can fit them in here somewhere. Oh…yeah…I found them. I knew I was missing a large, dark part of the population. But I can’t. I’ll tell a short anecdote of someone ELSE’S un-PC-ness instead. (**Did anyone else say "PC-ness" out loud and hear "penis"? Was that just me? OK, yes, I'm a 12-year-old boy laughs when someone says "pianist"...anyway...) My boss this summer (not the cool young one but the ignorant older woman) was in a meeting with some very…diverse…members of the Fort Wayne community and kept saying “Afro-Americans.” My cool boss was mortified. He thought he was going to get shot. When he related it to me, of course I laughed heartily at his uncomfortable expense. Also, one of my co-workers asked me the last name of this black guy who works next door to us, and my friend Tom said he was pretty sure his last name was “Blackman. Brian D. Blackman.” AAAAND…she believed him. She probably would have called him Mr. Blackman if we hadn’t set her straight. (For any slow readers/auditory learners out there, say "Brian...D. Blackman" out loud...a few more times...you'll get it eventually.)

…And don’t get me started on the Mexicans!! Sorry, I had to. I actually have nothing bad to say about them. They might not be here legally, but they pay with cash and they don’t typically come back to complain. However, we have ONE Hispanic woman that works at our store, and I’ve tried not to stereotype and joke that every Hispanic person that comes through the door knows her, BUT THEY DO. Even if they don’t ask for her the second I greet them, I work with them for 5 minutes and they ALL—WITHOUT EXCEPTION—ask, “Does Maria work today?” I’d also make a ton of money if my bosses paid me $5 every time THAT happens.

Tom and I were the “lucky” ones who got to walk in the Holland Parade of Lights behind the store truck tonight, and I decided to make the most of it and pass out my business cards; I even did Tom a favor and wrote his name on them. But then TOM (who, by the way, typically has no qualms about making a fool out of himself) got really embarrassed when I went into the crowd and asked if anyone needed a mattress or a sofa!! It’s called networking!? I was singing along with the Christmas carols and dancing with Jingle Bell Rock, so clearly they would rather work with me than a creepy old man who watches them lie on a mattress for 20 minutes. If those people come back in with my card and I split half the deal with Tom, he’s not going to be so embarrassed, is he? Eh, he probably will be anyway. But he’ll still be spending that commission check, regardless of how embarrassed he was at the way I got them to come to the store, won’t he? How very “Tale of the Little Red Hen” of him…or…some other fable that accurately mirrors this real-life story.

In other news, this week is the busiest my social life has been in like…a month. Dinner with family tonight, out to the brewery wearing ugly Christmas sweaters with Tom and my new/his friend Katie tomorrow, date on Thursday, and maybe something Friday. Is this what normal extroverts feel like?

…And on Black Friday I had an Indian woman with curried B.O. coming from every pore.

Ah...bigotry mission accomplished. CBFF Christi would be so proud.

Update: I retract any and all statements that may have offended Asians, Dutch people, Mexicans, Africans, African-Americans (who I think actually go by "black" now?? not sure), and God's chosen people, the Jews. We all have tendencies and quirks that make us unique and set us apart from everyone else, but that does not mean that one race/people/creed is better than another, and until we break the cycle of hate and satirical "truth," we will never be truly ONE.

Update again: I retract my retraction. It's a freakin' humor blog. Get some thicker skin, ya PC Commies.

Getting to Know You, aka the most I'll ever quote The King and I

(I'm not a huge fan of that musical, though I love MANY THOUSANDS of others)

I’m not sure we’re really acquainted. Although, except for the monkey that follows my blog (seriously, I’m flattered, but WHO ARE YOU?), you DO know me. But to anyone who might stumble upon this site by accident or random Kevin-Bacon-game bunny trail from some person to me, and be indubitably struck by my quirky brilliance, I will describe myself to you a bit more. And perhaps you who know me will be enlightened further.

I’m an original copy-cat. But Ashlee, what does that mean? you undoubtedly ask. Answer: anything that you read on this blog that makes you laugh has probably been stolen—in format, not in content. I don’t plagiarize, everything on this site is really made up from my weird mind, but my humor is not my own. I have learned how to be funny from my CBFF Christi and a few funny people I read. Allie of Hyperbole and a Half fame is one of those funny people. Dave Barry is another. Self-deprecation and run-on sentences with too many adjectives come from these people. So, don’t stop reading me, but read them too. You probably won’t think I’m that funny anymore, but they’re hysterical.

I’m a NERD. Not even a geek, because geeks are cool and get to go to awesome stuff like Comic-Con and Star Wars conventions and gamer expos. Nope, I’m just a nerd. I graduated college Summa Cum Laude with a 3.95 GPA, I correct everyone’s grammar (if not out loud, in my head), I am the ONLY one in my family that finds my engineer father’s dry humor hilarious, and I think of puns all the time that I don’t actually say because, as a rule, all of my peers would look at me like their grandfather wouldn’t even make a joke that lame. I know this because on the few disastrous occasions when I have tested out one of these puns that seem oh-so-witty in my mind, this is the reaction I have gotten:
Hence, the whole stealing-other-styles-of-humor thing. My dad would have laughed hysterically…or at least understood the joke and chuckled to placate me. But no one else finds it truly funny. (Super-fun side note: if you take my advice and look at the blog I mentioned, you will see that even my style of artwork is stolen from Allie)

I have a very obsessive personality. It doesn’t take much for me to like something...and when I like something, I LOVE IT. Examples: 1) CBFF Christi told me she loves the show Dexter. I watched three seasons in about a month to be caught up with her. 2) Lost: I got sick of hearing all the hype without understanding what they were talking about, so I watched four seasons in a month and a half, even when it got unbelievably stupid and more than usually impossible. When I got like this in college, CBFF knew that if she walked into our room and I was there, I was going to be watching the show of the month, whatever it was. And she was going to hear synopses of the episodes because I’m also very expressive and can’t help but laugh or go “aw” or something when I’m watching a show with my headphones in. She was always very patient and pretended to be avidly interested in the nuances of shows she had never seen and characters she had never heard of. IMDB is my enabler in this obsession. It is far too easy to search for the movie I’ve just seen and figure out why that supporting actor looks so familiar. Then I have five movies he’s been in RIGHT on the tip of my tongue in case someone says, “I don’t think I remember who you’re talking about. What else has he done?” Which happens surprisingly often (I don’t have too many film-geeks for friends). When LOTR came out (and if you don’t know/can’t figure out what that stands for, just stop reading my blog right now), my dad and I went to a flea market and bought a replica of Sting (complete with “made in Pakistan” on the blade), my parents gave me the Evenstar necklace for Christmas, and I learned all the Elvish phrases in the (first) movie. Don’t bother telling me how pathetic I am, I already know. It’s totally another “dad” characteristic: my dad watched Phantom of the Opera and we all saw the musical together at Western Michigan University when I was 18 (four years ago) and he would STILL watch that movie every other night if my mom didn’t put her foot down. We also bought all three Extended Versions of LOTR and he tries to make it a tradition to watch all three over a Christmas vacation weekend. It’s pretty unsuccessful, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s really obsessive, and so am I.

I do things specifically so people will think I’m cooler—usually guys. Example: guns are pretty cool, and I like shooting targets with my dad and learning how to make bullets because it’s an obscure skill that I will never use but that is fun to have in my arsenal (ha, arsenal…guns…see? That’s my natural humor: LAME). But I really like that I know just enough about guns to seem cool to a guy who has a small to moderate gun knowledge, i.e. every single American guy on the planet except those who know way too much about guns. I mean, even the pacifists I know who would never own a gun in real life play a crap-ton of video games equipped with armories that would make a trigger-happy 19 year old Marine go, “Umm, I think that might be a little overkill.” Also, I recently had WAY too much car trouble than should be allowed for a broke college grad living far from home with no job and an essentially brand-new car. So I did a lot of Googling about crankshaft position sensors, limit-home settings, camshafts, and spark plugs. To any mechanic trying to screw me over or tempted to think I was gullible and ignorant, I threw in JUST enough car lingo to make them think otherwise. A very useful tool. Also, I think Star Wars and Star Trek really are cool (see above weird fact #3 about me), but I want to know so much more random trivia about it JUST so I will be cooler in the eyes of fellow geeks of the male gender, which is invariably who I am always attracted to even though I desperately wish I would fall for the rugged, muscular, exotic guys who are well-read and well-traveled (side note: this is exactly like my male friend who wants to date a redhead—or just Amy Adams—more than anything in the world, but always dates girls of other hair color—usually with brown hair and glasses). And lastly, I like some video games, but my skill level is very much a typical girl skill level (very low) and I only like Mario kind of stuff, and only on the N64. It’s my favorite system, for sure. But I like movies a lot, and some video games like Oblivion and Assassin’s Creed are a lot like movies because there’s a good storyline, and Fallout 3 is pretty cool too. However, though I don’t play them and don’t get geeked out about graphics or awesome moves or anything, I will watch a guy play video games for a good two or three hours 1) to spend time with someone of the opposite sex, and 2) so he will think I like video games and therefore am cool. I will never attempt to pick up a controller, even if I am offered an opportunity, because without fail I will be outed as a less-than-devoted gamer. This has led to many a yawn-stifling evening watching a friend free the demon-warrior-ghost from his crypt only to slay him with rapid-fire thumb movements and save the medieval kingdom from inevitable destruction by genetically altered goblins.

So, that sums up the weird world of ME…for now. There is just so much more that I’m not willing to share with you…namely because I would be hesitant to share it with a therapist, let alone you crazies/future employers/possible lovers on the Internet. And…you…know who you are??

If I suddenly triple my follower count from this post I’ll add more wacky facts about myself, but I’m out of ideas at the moment so I’ll try to eat my Comedy Wheaties in the morning to keep up my humor-strength. Might take awhile. I know, I know…you’re ALL waiting with bated breath. Especially that monkey.

Get some popcorn and a loved one to squeeze in terror...or a Snuggie if you're completely alone in the world.

Yesssss…something crazy finally happened to me. This is the most ridiculous thing to ever occur in my life. Weirder than two friends coming out to me, weirder than having a huge crush on my cousin when I was 8, weirder than bringing a dead bird to class in 2^nd grade…they all pale in comparison. The bird thing is a close second, but really they can’t compare because this was straight out of a chainsaw slasher movie. I’m not even sure if those two horror genres are allowed to be in films together, but that’s how scary this was. OK, enough build-up. Grab some popcorn and a friend’s hand (or the hand of someone you’re interested in; more power to you) and get ready.

My office did an event one Saturday and needed a HUGE tent for it, but we had no budget to rent one. We called every contact we had on Thursday and had a woman at the WWII museum call us back and say they had a 30x60 tent we could use. The museum is about 40 minutes away, but it was the only option we had, so we were pretty excited about it. Once we made the trip to the museum, a woman came out and said, “Yeah, John’s going to come and talk to you about the tent. There’s a slight issue with it.” The issue? It was destroyed A YEAR AGO in a huge storm. How badly was it destroyed? Well, we had the lovely John to tell us that bit of news. The top probably had huge tears in it, but for some reason he didn’t know for sure. He DID know, however, that many of the supporting poles were broken. He also knew that even if they weren’t, there is no way our vehicles would have been able to fit the poles. So…they couldn’t inform us of any of this before we came all the way out to the middle of nowhere??? This was just pissing us off at this point, by the way. The chainsaw-slasher part is still to come. John asked us if we want to see the tent anyway, just in case it’s still usable somehow. Well, we DID drive THREE vehicles FORTY minutes out of our way. Contrary to what John may think, we do not actually take time out of our incredibly busy schedules to take three vehicles just to visit the WWII museum on a whim. So, yeah, we would like to see the tent. So, he told us to follow him. We crossed the street and drove into what was essentially a field with an overgrown gravel path…and a barn in the middle of the field. This barn is something out of “Deliverance.” Also, it was raining; as if this setting wasn’t creepy enough. So John let us all into this barn thing, and we walked into a semi-lit, fairly-empty garage area with Russian words spray-painted all over the walls and a random filing cabinet or two. One of the interns informs us that he’s fairly certain one of the sections of Russian graffiti says “murder.” Garbage and random junk littered the floor, which I’m sure also houses about a billion types of viral infection. But what we did NOT see is anything that could pass as a tent. So John escorted us to another room, which looked like it could be the basement of a creepy house where people do drugs and make pornos. That doesn’t happen in this room, though. Nope, this room gave subtle hints that the barn had been broken into and used as a party barn by teenagers. These subtle hints included, but were not limited to, the fifteen-odd empty handles of vodka, the two doors that had been lain out as beer pong tables, the fifty empty red Solo cups and the hundred or so Natty Light cans strewn on the floor, the counter, the sofa, and the stained and ratty carpet. Combine this with the low ceiling, the flickering fluorescent lighting and the feeling that any second I would find the pentagram and skulls where these kids had done animal sacrifices and I was just a little creeped out when John shut off the lights and I WAS STILL IN THE ROOM. Two other interns were just in front of me, and with no small amount of shame do I relate to you that in a life-threatening situation, there would be no gallantry from this girl. No, I shrieked and clawed the backs of the guys in front of me to make sure I was no longer the last person in the room. Huh-uh, I’ve seen scary movies; I know that the person in the back and the person in the front always get it. And the virgin is always the first to go, so DOUBLE WHAMMY. So, John moved a filing cabinet from in front of a different door and left us all in the creepy party-garage/date-rape house/E-is-for-ecstasy room. Then my boss (who is only two years older than me so we get along really well) saw the stairs leading up to a second level, and he goes, “I’m going to go check it out!” Of course, this is where in a REAL scary movie he would have been killed off because once you split up you are just begging for the ax-murderer with half a face and some serious mommy issues to come find you and peel off your epidermis in its entirety to complete his zoot-suit-o’-skin (femur-cane sold separately).

But the real version is infinitely creepier and potentially really sad too. He came back downstairs where we were all still waiting for John and said, “Umm, it’s really weird up there.” While this was not a shocker to any of us, we asked him to explain. Apparently the upstairs area was split into a bunch of teeny TEENY rooms with a bed and a bathroom each, and the words “Know why you live” were written on the staircase. First thought: we’re definitely going to be killed. Second thought: tell CBFF Christi and BFF Corrin where I am and what John looks like so they’ll know who to look for during the investigation into our mysterious disappearance. Third thought, less funny: this sounds a lot like a human trafficking scheme. That thought has bugged me ever since we left that underage-drinking Russian crackhouse with a chop shop on the side for a little extra revenue, actually. But it’s not funny to think or write about, so I’ll skip it and go back to the funny-creepiness.

The second my boss related to us the teeny rooms that I’m sure were just places for the wasted teens to hook up with a bit more privacy, John freaked us all out by pushing back through the tiny door with the filing cabinet in front of it and telling us he found a storage area outside that may contain the tent. Remember? We’re looking for a TENT. I know, it’s a little hard to remember why on EARTH we were putting ourselves in so much danger in the first place. To refresh your memory, it’s because we love our jobs so FREAKING much and take pride in our work and want to put forth the best DARN event possible. Yeah… Anyway, we all traipsed outside in the drizzling rain and see four storage-area-garages all sitting next to the barn building. Though we were now out of the dusty, ratty porn-barn and in the daylight, we were no longer visible from the road, i.e. no witnesses. FAAAAAN-tastic. As John opened up the first of the garages, we began to get an even stronger sense that we were in a bad Stephen King novel. I’m not even sure if there ARE any bad Stephen King novels, but you get the idea. Think that really crappy “Wrong Turn” movie and anything with clowns in it. We saw faded, once-brightly painted picnic tables stacked on top of each other, old carnival signs, clown faces peeking out at us from behind old holey tarps, and I THINK parts of a merry-go-round or carousel. TERR. IF. EYING. (I know that’s not how you spell terrifying, but it works better this way phonetically) As we were all half-heartedly looking for the tent that is supposedly buried under all these old horror-movie props, just wanting to make it out alive and not really caring about the tent anymore, all of a sudden one of us looked up and John was carrying around a spool of chain in one hand. YES, he ACTUALLY had a chain dangling from one of his hands. I’m not creative enough to make this crap up. Calm, rational, and realistic person that I am, I tugged on everyone’s sleeve that I could get a grip on and squeaked, “He’s got a chain, you guys! He’s definitely going to kill us!” My boss told me to get into his car and have 911 on speed dial. Now, I sincerely can’t tell you guys if we were all serious or not. He was half-joking like the rest of us. But I really can’t figure out if we were all scaring ourselves into hysteria and were laughing because we were all terrified, or just laughing it off because we knew it seemed horrifying but was really harmless. Anyway, partly to get out of the rain, and partly because I felt one of us should have a chance of survival in case John started swinging that chain around, I got into the car and just watched. John had mentioned that his “friend” (accomplice) might know where the tent was, but we didn’t see him call this friend; suddenly this other guy appeared out of NOWHERE and said, “So you guys didn’t find that tent yet, huh?” WHAT. THE. HECK. We didn’t know how he knew where we were, how he knew what we were looking for, and why his umbrella tip had a semi-sharpened look to it, but we were not about to stick around to find out. John (who at some point had put down the chain) and his friend opened up the second garage and we found TENTS! Remember tents? So we wouldn’t get rained out for our event? Barely, right? Tents by the score, poles in the upper thousands, of all different shapes and sizes. We were almost home free. But not quite. We quickly discovered that we couldn’t lift a tent out of the garage to see if it was undamaged, and even if we could somehow manage that impossible task, there was no way to know which poles went with it. And even if we could somehow manage THAT, neither the poles NOR the tent would fit into any of our vehicles. ALL of which John or one of his deranged cohorts COULD have learned for us with just a little bit of digging BEFORE we drove 40 minutes out there and spent the better part of a morning trying not to get axed, or herpes…herpes’ed? Anyway, the second we learned it was useless to try with these tents, we hightailed it out of that house of death and made our way safely back to the office…and it didn’t even rain the next day.

Point: I’M STILL ALIVE! End.

Tay-Tay speaks to me...

So, I know it's been awhile since I put anything on here...not super long, but too long for my taste. Anyway, a new funny post is in the works and I will be posting it shortly...'cause I know ALL my avid readers care EVER so much. Anyway, it's going to be a GREAT story.

The purpose of this post is just to briefly give a shout-out to NOT getting married today!! Yay!! Seriously, this is not sarcastic or a cover for the deep deep pain I feel. I'm not opposed to marriage, and I'm not going to rant about what a completely manipulative, cowardly person filled with committment and trust issues who pulled a Chris-Farley-in-Tommy-Boy-with-his-pretty-pet-biscuit my ex is. No, I'm better than that. No really, that was for humorous purposes only. I applaud his cowardice wrapped in a nice "this is the right thing to do" candy-coated shell, because it really was the right thing, for me anyway.

I still think marriage is great, but HOLY CRAP people my age should NOT be getting married. No seriously, all the marriages on Facebook of people I graduated with or who are not even graduated YET, they FA-REAK me out. Maybe they knew who they were much more than I did, but I didn't come into who I really was until after the break-up. And MAN I'm cool. Haha. I mean, I have flaws for sure, but I really like myself. I really hope I don't have to be single to like myself, because what a drag that would be. A vow: whenever my next relationship is (and I'm NOT looking for one in the near future), I will NOT immediately turn into a needy insecure super-bitch. Because I'm not that person, and I don't know what it is about men I get into relationships with that turns me into that psycho.

So, to anyone in an unhappy marriage because you got married too young or you didn't live life as much as you wanted to before you got married or you didn't know what a total bastard your husband was until after you said "I do," I am going to party it up for ALL YA'LL's sake tonight! Two of my best friends are coming out to the Fort to hang out with me, and we are going to have so much fun. Actually, I asked them to come out in case I was really depressed and weepy today, but I woke up relaxed and stress-free, no crying (a small miracle for the woman with tears PERPETUALLY coming out of her face) and wondering how on EARTH a mere 8 months ago I actually thought I would be ready and happy to be ANYONE's wife starting today, let alone HIS wife.

I have way too much to do for myself and by myself before I'm ready to become the sweet, stay-at-home, forget my dreams because his are more important, "dinner's on the table, sweetheart!" wife that my dear BLIND high school and college friends are becoming so easily, like lemmings to the cliff. Again, NOT hating on the institution of marriage, just the choices most of my peers are making.

So, move to Chicago to follow CBFF Christi? I can do that. Italy? hello, gelato! Paris? well, some things are out the question no matter how much freedom you have. But Australia? have you HEARD the men talk? YES PLEASE. Law school? ...meh, why not.

"Back then I swore I was gonna marry him someday, but I realized some bigger dreams of mine." Oh Tay-Tay (Swift, that is)...I may not be a multi-award-winning recording artist, but I feel ya. Sing it, girl.

So...I'll probably lose all 3 of my followers by telling you this...

Reader, sit right down and your dear aunt Ashlee will tell you the tale of when I asked a millionaire if I could live with him for the summer. Hold on tight, this is not a pretty story.

To begin, I knew this was crazy when I did it, but College BFF Christi tried out for a reality TV show in Chicago, and when I looked at her like she was kind of nuts, she said, “Why not? At least I can say I tried. People can’t make fun of me because they didn’t even try and I did.” This inspired me to try my own crazy, at-least-I-tried thing. Spoiler alert: CBFF is NOT on a reality TV show, and our plans worked out equally well for both of us.

So, I was watching Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo late one night (a mistake already, I KNOW). Please don’t lose all respect for me yet. By the end of the story, fine; but not yet. If you don’t know what the show is, a 2-sentence explanation: these millionaires hire a professional matchmaker to find classy, non-gold-digger dates for them and they have a mixer where they can’t exchange numbers, then a mini-date with two people of their choice, then one big date with one of those people. Patti (Matchmaker) calls and sees how it went and then we get an update on if they see each other again. It’s like all the fun of Bachelor but not in a freaking long, ridiculously dramatic season. And this really cute guy was on it (Trevor) and he’s from the city right in between where I went to college and where I’m working this summer. I think my mom suggested this jokingly, but of course I got really desperate for a cheap/free place to live this summer and took her suggestion. He’s a Christian, which is a total plus for her. She said I should live with him for the summer and then he would inevitably fall in love with me and I would be set and not have to choose a career (well, I added that career part; I’m sure she expects me to become a fabulously wealthy lawyer even if I marry the prince of Monaco…who IS single, by the way…but that’s beside the point). I did some creepy Internet stalking research and discovered how old he was (26? I legitimately forgot so I can’t be that crazy…OK OK, I still am) and that actually he lives somewhere else but his PARENTS live in the town that Millionaire Matchmaker said he lived in, and that made it better because while he probably wouldn’t let me live with him alone, his parents might be OK with taking in a charity/mental case for two short months. I was home while I saw this, and as I returned to school and my summer living/pay situation got more and more dismal, I got more and more distraught and desperate. So I found him on Facebook and sent him THIS (commentary in italics):

Hello. You don't know me, and even though I don't really know you, I have a very weird question. I'm a senior at *I’m not telling you guys* College, and I have an internship in Fort Wayne this summer, with Senator *So-and-so*'s office. I'm making essentially a pittance, and I can't really afford rent anywhere. And, your family has a big farm in *some Indiana* City. (I know, I know...this already sounds insane as I type it...believe me, I'm aware.)

*I thought admitting it would make it seem less creepy. It didn’t.*

Anyway, I was wondering if, one nice Christian person to another, your family might consider letting me stay with them in *town where they live*, just for the summer.

*Make myself sound respectable and show him already we have something in common.*

I could pay them $100 a month at most. I'm an honest, clean, responsible Christian girl who just needs a place to stay for cheap.

*Lies, all lies. I’m semi-messy, rarely on time, stay up too late and sleep through my alarm—which puts responsible out the window.*

Even though I don't know your family, it's pretty obviously from the very little I know of you that they are wonderful Christian people, so that makes this (only slightly) less scary than finding a roommate on Craigslist.

*See, two birds with one stone: brown-nose AND let him know I’m trying to AVOID crazy…would an insane person really care about avoiding other insane people??*

I could have just gotten their number out of the white pages, but I couldn't decide which way would be creepier--you getting a Facebook message from a total stranger or your parents getting a call from a stranger asking for a place to stay. Unfortunately, I now realize they are BOTH equally creepy.

*Yes they are.*

So, you can completely disregard this message if you find it intrusive and presumptuous, but I'm CLEARLY at the end of my rope here with such a desperate request. On the off chance that you DON'T immediately delete this, and if you would feel more comfortable after meeting me, you can do that

*not that I really want you to meet me and think I’m pretty or anything*; or we can set up a meeting with your parents.

OK, YES...to get it out of the way, because I'm sure you're wondering, I DID see you on Millionaire Matchmaker...it was 1 AM and I was bored...but that's really beside the point.

*No, it’s not. It’s very much THE POINT.*

You just stuck in my head for some reason, maybe because you were so close to *some town where my college is*. Maybe because God wanted me to at least ask for your help (as I'm not always good about that).

*Again with throwing the religion card in there, just in case he had forgotten from a minute ago.*

Please just prayerfully consider it, and thank you for even reading to the end of this message.

*Yeah, BIG assumption there.*

AND, believe it or not, he actually replied: My parents are great people but believe me you don't want to live with them haha....I will let you know if I hear of anything around Columbia City.

I had to add that last period, by the way. While I was just grateful to get a reply and not a restraining order, the more I read it to friends who couldn’t believe the story until I read both messages to them, the more I was like “YOU’RE a millionaire? YOU were on TV as this classy, rich guy and you can’t even use a PERIOD??” And to just throw “haha” in there like it goes with the rest of that sentence…I mean, come ON. Also, it made me unbelievably curious as to what kind of people his parents are to make him say that. Are they conservative? monkish-ly quiet? sheep-humping hicks? Do they decorate their house with clowns? I’ll never know.

Anyway, since then I have met two people who know him and know the family and I told the story to one of them and he thought it was hysterical instead of crazy. Maybe a little crazy, but he mercifully kept that to himself…unlike the other coworkers in the room who immediately mass-texted and Tweeted it and gave me REALLY weird looks for the rest of the day. He said he could picture Trevor saying something like that, and that he was too nice to think it was creepy. And if he doesn’t think I’m unbelievably crazy and disturbed, then clearly he’s not mentally right and it’s a good thing I didn’t live with him this summer. Whew, dodged a bullet on that one.

And that, children, is the story of how your aunt Ashlee ALMOST lived with a millionaire/got her first restraining order.

A Letter to My Cereal

Dear Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Bunches:

I love you. You are delicious. But if we are going to have a beautiful relationship together, we need to start with honesty. You are overkill. When I tell people about how delicious you are, I’m going to sound like an idiot because that’s what your name does to me. “Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon BUNCHES.” Really? Did the marketing team of Post cereal, Honey Bunches of Oats division, even have a meeting when you were developed? Or was someone just like, “Hey, we have this new cereal with cinnamon bunches; what should we call it?” And the rest of the team was like, “Just say ‘with Cinnamon Bunches.” Didn’t ONE person stand up in that meeting and go, “But we already have ‘Bunches’ in the name…isn’t that a little redundant?” I have to think that someone at least thought it. Is your company full of spineless zombie lemmings? No one in your entire corporation knows any synonyms for “bunches?” I think that should be a job requirement. “Clusters” is an excellent alternative. It’s perfect; the cinnamon parts are totally cluster-like. Or you could really change it up and go for something entirely different. I mean, I don’t have a marketing degree or even much of a marketing mindset, but you totally could have set yourself apart as this new, completely awesome cereal in the cereal aisle if you had gone with an advertising approach where you crossed out Honey and wrote in “Cinnamon!” (With or without the exclamation mark, it’s up to you. I’m not the marketing guru here. Then again, neither is your team of geniuses, apparently.) Then instead of your consumer walking down the cereal aisle and saying, “Oh my word, seriously? Has Honey Bunches of Oats come out with ANOTHER variety? When is this going to stop?!” they will be saying, “Wait, is this the same thing as the other ones? Is the honey flavor gone entirely? Have they taken out the honey bunches? Did Honey Bunches have to take a mandatory retirement? Was there some sort of big falling-out between Honey and Oats? Did Honey have a scandalous affair with one of the staffers? Are they trying to confuse me by covering it up? Was there an epic battle between Honey and Cinnamon and Cinnamon won and now it’s trying to take over the world one cereal at a time? …I’ll buy some.” See, confusion creates interest, and interest sells cereal. Plus, you don’t put the new part at the end of the title. No one will get that far because people are lazy about reading. Plus PLUS, everyone knows that cinnamon is better than honey. Just saying.

On a final note, we are having another fight now, because I have said the word “bunches” so many times in my head that it doesn’t sound real anymore. Bunches could not possibly be a real word. So thanks for that.

I’m still eating you again tomorrow morning, though.

All my love,

Ashlee