I’m Not Sure Why I’m Not A Famous Marketing Person, Either

by Guilty Squid on February 1, 2013

Some­times, when I have had a day full of peo­ple and their talk­ing to me, I will cruise Fab.com to decom­press and clear my head and it’s just so full of fun and ran­dom that I can’t help myself. Which is why I will occa­sion­ally send screen caps of things that I see on there with my own com­men­tary to my friends over iMes­sage. No, I don’t know why they let me have their phone num­bers either.

bargains

 

 

wonka style

But then the other night, I found this lit­tle piece of awesome.

awesome

So I showed the guy pal and said, “I just found the most awe­some floor mat in the his­tory of floors. Like, seri­ously, if Cae­sar were alive today he’d be all, “WHY DON’T I HAVE THAT ON MY FLOORS?” and I’d be all, “Because Cleopa­tra didn’t really love you, man. Tough, but true. Also, BACK OFF, CAESAR, THAT GUY DIDN’T ACTUALLY COME WITH THE FLOOR MAT!”

Then he did that “polite” response thing that called it dif­fer­ent and kinda creepy.

Which made me feel like he wasn’t really get­ting how awe­some this was, which meant it was time to pull out my crazy great mar­ket­ing skills.

If he were mine, I’d put thought bub­bles over his head and change them out every­day. He’d say things like “Aaar­rgh!” on Talk Like A Pirate Day, and “There isn’t always room for Jello.” or “Excuse me, buddy, but my eye sock­ets are up HERE.” Peo­ple would be afraid of his creepy and stay out of my space, which makes him like a warn­ing sign or a guard dog, only bet­ter because you don’t have to feed him or take him to the vet, so he’s actu­ally sav­ing you money. It’s prac­ti­cally irre­spon­si­ble to not own him, and doesn’t fis­cal respon­si­bil­ity mat­ter to you at all?

I’ve named him Bartholomew and I feel like we were meant to be friends. Fated, even. He could live in my office. Well, you know, as the remains of the dead. Which wouldn’t be weird at all. I have a friend who has dead stuffed rodents in clothes that she keeps in her office. If any­thing, Bartholomew shows how nor­mal I really am here.

Really, Bartholomew is just mis­un­der­stood. I mean, look how he’s always smil­ing! I think we all could use a lit­tle more Bartholomew in our lives. Except for maybe Grandma. Because, old. Pos­si­bly because start­ing another rumor about Jello at the home will get me in trou­ble. I’m not entirely sure that being banned from a nurs­ing home is going to give me street cred. 

 

Him: Mas­ter­card or Visa?

Then later I admit­ted that I didn’t order Bartholomew and so I was sad because it’s hard let­ting go after break­ing up with a floor mat you didn’t actu­ally own.

And he told me I should get some rest, and that it’s always hard the first time, but by the time you break up with your sec­ond floor mat you never own, it’s much easier.

I’m just so lucky to have such great sup­port in the min­utes of heart­break not buy­ing a floor mat can bring.

{ 1 comment }

Things Like This Are Exactly Why Things Go Wrong For Rodney.

by Guilty Squid on January 11, 2013

Last month, my friend Rod­ney sent me a mes­sage and asked if I’d read his book and give him my feed­back on it. And then he kept ask­ing me over and over again to tell him that I liked it. Basi­cally he was becom­ing just like that inse­cure girl who keeps ask­ing her boyfriend right before he dumps her and she goes all future episode of Snapped on him, “But you love me, right? Really love me?”

So just for my own enter­tain­ment, I’ve been string­ing him along on post­ing about his book, because I’m ter­ri­bly ADHD, and also? Next time let me pub­lish when I want to, Rod­ney. Because then stuff hap­pens and some­thing shiny flies past and OH MY GOD DID APPLE RELEASE A NEW SHINY THING I MUST HAVE?

*blinks*

For a minute, I actu­ally for­got what I was doing here.

Right, the BOOK.

perf6.690x9.610.indd

So, you know how some­times you’re read­ing some­thing when you’re in a crowded place and want to help pass the time, so you’re not so bored? And then you find your­self read­ing some­thing so damn funny that you’re basi­cally chok­ing your­self to death to not laugh out loud because it’d be totally inap­pro­pri­ate to burst out in uncon­trol­lable laugh­ter at Grandpa’s funeral. That’s Rodney’s book, you guys. It’s the book you’d be read­ing and find your­self laugh­ing so hard you’d have every­one star­ing at you.

Then, because I’ve got a short atten­tion span, I fin­ished his book and then went back to being enter­tained with games of Cards Against Human­ity. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a card game for hor­ri­ble peo­ple. Which is basi­cally awe­some. There are two sets of cards — the black cards and the white cards and the point is to make the most hor­ri­bly inap­pro­pri­ate and hilar­i­ous phrase pos­si­ble with the cards. It’s basi­cally fill in the blank on crack meets drunk mad libs and they have a really slutty baby. There’s noth­ing about that not to love.

Which is how the idea of a set of Cards Against Human­ity cards based on Rodney’s book “Things Go Wrong For Me” for you to add to your own CAH game was born. So here you can down­load your very own, exclu­sive to only the peo­ple who who click “down­load” and any­one else who might click down­load just to see what the hell I’m talk­ing about. And exclu­sive is rel­a­tive here. There’s mil­lions of peo­ple in other coun­tries who don’t even have inter­net that will never get a copy of this and even if they did, they’d be all, “WTF? Why wouldn’t you give us inter­net? Or money? You asshole.”

You totally aren’t an ass­hole, you’re just in the EXCLUSIVE GROUP.

Click Here to Down­load the Rod­ney Lacroix “Things Go Wrong For Me” CAH sheets.

 

You’re wel­come.

You should fol­low Rod­ney on Twit­ter, where I fre­quently make his jokes fun­nier.  And seri­ously, buy his book, I promise you, you will laugh.

BarnesNoblercg pubamazon

 

 

P.S. Yes, Rod­ney, I liked your book. 

{ 3 comments }

What I Think About

by Guilty Squid on December 17, 2012

chase

I’ve been, like every­one, really, been able to do lit­tle more since Fri­day than think of the 20 chil­dren who were killed in their school, in their classrooms.

avielle

josephineI’ve been think­ing about the my own chil­dren, like every par­ent, and feel­ing my heart break at the hor­ri­ble loss, and feel­ing the need to hold my own young child close, to hold on a lit­tle bit tighter to her. To want to pro­tect her inno­cence a lit­tle longer. To have my own inno­cence back.

daniel

allisonAnd sure, I’ve thought about the big debates rag­ing all over. I’ve thought about all the issues being dis­cussed — but right now? Right now, my heart just can’t stop think­ing of these children.

grace

I can’t stop think­ing about the hol­i­days — hol­i­days with­out 20 beau­ti­ful faces. Of the wrapped gifts that won’t be opened. Of the New Year start­ing, short by 20 sweet smiles.

benjaminI’m think­ing about their friends. Chil­dren who didn’t know that lit­tle chil­dren ever died. Who’ve lived through more vio­lence in less than ten min­utes than I have ever encoun­tered in my life­time. Who have, at such a ten­der age, will never feel com­pletely safe in school again. Who are learn­ing about human mor­tal­ity, in a way no one, ever, should.

charlotteana

I think about their sib­lings. The loss that they can’t under­stand. The hole in their world that no one can ever under­stand. And I look at my own chil­dren. How their rela­tion­ship with each other is so unique, a bond that only the two of them could ever share. And I know, I know that the grief over the loss of that rela­tion­ship isn’t one that will ever com­pletely fade. And my heart breaks all over again for these children.

madeline

oliviaI think about the sur­viv­ing staff at the school. How they are brac­ing them­selves to edu­cate the sur­viv­ing stu­dents in a world that is bro­ken. How they will be the ones who will put aside their own fears, their own pain, their own heart­break to put the pieces back together for the rest of the stu­dents and together forge a new “nor­mal” for the children.

catherine

dylan

I think about the first respon­ders, who unflinch­ingly ran into a com­pletely unknown­si­t­u­a­tion, to do what­ever needed to be done to help the chil­dren inside. I think about the inves­ti­ga­tors, the med­ical exam­in­ers, every­one who has taken over the care of those twenty chil­dren and done so with such respect, such care, such com­pas­sion. Who have seen hor­rors that are just unimag­in­able, and who are tire­less in their quest to pro­vide what­ever answers they might be able to find, if any.

caroline

jamesI think of the com­mu­nity, who will sup­port twenty fam­i­lies through a week of funer­als, while they try to help each other heal. As they try to find a way to reas­sure their chil­dren that they are safe, and while they try to reas­sure them­selves that their chil­dren are safe. While they try to find the courage to let their chil­dren back into a nor­mal that once again puts them out in the world. While they try to find the strength to not live in fear. While they learn how to let go, lit­tle by lit­tle, and help their chil­dren not be afraid. While they try to adjust to a world that is dif­fer­ent, and they try to find a way to make things okay again.

jessica

noahI think so much of their par­ents. Of twenty moth­ers and fathers who, not so long ago, held their lit­tle new­born in their arms and in the blink of an eye were tak­ing that same baby into their first day of school. I think of them, as they move through these days, car­ing for their other chil­dren while half of their heart has been for­ever removed from their body. I hurt for them. I hurt for what I imag­ine it’s like for them, and yet I know, I don’t have any real idea what it’s really like for them.

jack

emilieI think of the amaz­ing for­give­ness I’ve seen, of the amaz­ing gen­eros­ity that’s been shown. And I doubt I’d have the abil­ity to be so full of grace in such moments.

jesse

I think of my daugh­ter. My sweet lit­tle girl, who loves her school so much. Who loves her school “fam­ily” so much. Who adores her teach­ers, her prin­ci­pal, her coun­selor, her art, music and PE coaches. Who walks through her school feel­ing happy, loved, and safe. My child who has cried for the chil­dren who died Fri­day. Who cried for the teach­ers, the prin­ci­pal. Who wor­ried about the chil­dren of the adults who died. Who asked me, “How are grown-ups going to keep us safe?”  I think of my lit­tle girl, who asked me, “What would you do if I die?” And the pain that ques­tion cre­ated in my heart isn’t one I can describe.

Today, my heart and my mind is with those twenty chil­dren, their fam­i­lies, and yes — with my own child.

I don’t have any­thing pro­found to add to all the trib­utes, all the thoughts already expressed by oth­ers. I don’t have any extreme opin­ions to share on any of the polit­i­cal debates.

Today, I’m just a mom who is heart­bro­ken for the chil­dren, the fam­i­lies, and the community.

 

 

{ 7 comments }

Previous Posts