Yes, Yes, Happy Freaking New Year.

My resolution this year is simple: I'm not making any resolutions. So far, aside from resolving not to make any resolutions, I've totally stuck to my resolution.

(Aside: TiVo is watching "The Twilight Zone" as I type, and despite the obvious humor in the fact that tiny Michelin men are attacking a cliched country woman who apparently lives in a kitchen with an attic, I'm mildly terrified. Laura hates aliens.)

The thing about resolutions is, no one ever follows them. And when I say no one, I sort of mean no one, but I mostly mean me.

Now. If I WERE to make resolutions, they would go something like this:

1. Remind TiVo to watch less SciFi channel.
2. Eat less, drink more.
3. Exercise, like, all the time.
4. Sing karaoke whenever possible.
5. Fix life, find love, get raise, become perfectly happy.

You can see the obvious unachievability of most of those (possible exception: #5), and therefore understand my resolution to remain unresolved.

I think I'm going out for a drink.

([EDIT]: Turns out the little Michelin men were actually astronauts from EARTH, and the country woman was a crazy giant on some other planet! Damn you, "The Twilight Zone", and your crazy twists and turns...)

Whaaat? (Holier Than Chow)

Um, guys, I just heard the craziest thing... apparently JESUS is the reason for the season! Christ, I had no idea. Did you?

I mean, surely the real reason for the season (as if the season really needs a reason) is presents and/or alcohol, am I right? And singing. Definitely singing. Oh, and delicious cookies, for sure. And Santa, Santa's a good reason what with the jolliness and all. Mistletoe is pretty high on everyone's list, probably, because who doesn't love a good sneak-attack kissing incident? Turkey and yams, right? All good reasons.

Cranberry sauce, while mildly tasty, is probably not a really good reason for the season, though. I mean, I'm glad they threw it in as a complement, but... cranberry sauce alone can't carry a whole season.

Cheese would be a good reason for a season, but probably not this particular season.

I've heard tell that chestnuts roasting on an open fire might be vying for reason status, but it seems to me that's a rather hazardous event on which to base an entire season.

Getting out of school, man, that's a REALLY good season reason.

But Jesus? Come ON, people. No way.

The Proverbial Witch's Tit

How cold do you think a witch's tit actually is? I mean, if you think about it, she's got all those cumbersome black robes on and is constantly standing over that big iron cauldron just stirring away... I don't think that bitch's witch tits are very cold at all. Maybe when she's flying through the air on her broom and whatnot (drafty little ride), but otherwise I suspect those lil nips are quite warm. The cliche should be changed, probably, to "GREEN as a witch's tit". Because, I know you'll all agree, that's far more interesting to imagine.

My tangentially obscured point is that I'm here at work freezing my ass (which is not green) off and wishing I had a big iron cauldron by which to warm myself (and/or cook up spells). I love winter coats and stripey scarves as much as the next girl, but I hate being cold. It's like, how the hell am I supposed to amuse people with my irreverant myspace blog if my fingers are too icy to type? skjhuiebc. And speaking of witch tits, it takes a lot more effort to pick a bra when your office is eighty-twelve degrees below zero.

I'm just saying, the witch? She doesn't have it so bad. Walk a mile, witchy pants, walk a mile.
(EDIT: Hahaha, you should so try saying "bitch's witch tits" ten times fast...)

Who Happens To Be Your Mother?

Do you ever wonder if the Snickers bar has some intrinsic nutritional value thanks to the peanuts? Call me crazy, but when I eat one I get the feeling that somehow it's more meal-like than your average candy bar. Sort of like drinking dark beer.

Speaking of peanuts, I think peanut butter may be one of the most perfect food items on the planet - second only to cheese, and squeezing in just above cheese-on-pasta.

To review:

a) Snickers - nutrition? I think so.

b) Order of perfect foods:

1. Cheese
2. Peanut Butter
3. Cheese-on-pasta.

c) There is no c).

Such a lady, but dancin' like a HO.

I'm Jane Public. Not PUBIC, you pervs, PUBLIC. What I mean is, if it's marketed to the masses, I'm sure to love it - like Kelly Clarkson and tube tops and institutionalized racism. Juuuust kidding, I HATE tube tops.

(This blog wasn't meant to be about tube tops, but now that I've mentioned them, can we discuss for a minute? Gather round. The tube top does NOT look good on ANYONE. There aren't exceptions, people, I don't care if you have tiny breasts or tiny man-boobs (I'm an equal opportunity tube top hatah), it still looks like ass. Not hot j. lo ass, either - real and true ass.)

But I digress. Jane Public. So there's this song out right now called "London Bridge". Maybe you've heard it? It's by this classy young lady named Fergie... whom I'd like to take this opportunity to out as a member of Kids Incorporated back in the day. Yes, remember precious little Stacy Ferguson with the hot-rolled bangs? She's living proof that B-grade child stardom and hard liquor will get you everywhere in life. Anyhow, "London Bridge". It's a blatant rip-off of Gwen Stefani's 2005 infectious cheerleader hit "Holla Back Girl", and is written so badly that they have to repeat the first verse to get it to radio length, but, you all must admit, it has a certain charm. It's a tidge past its heyday right now, but I've been listening to CDs (COUGHjourney'sgreatesthits) so much that I still get that happy I'm-one-of-the-crowd feeling when I hear that familiar and catchy, "Oh, SNAP!"

Oh, SNAP! Haha, I'm dancing in my chair right now...

Ok, I'm over it. (Mostly.) This seems like a good time to ask you sweet readers what your favorite guilty pleasure pop songs are, but... yeah, I don't really care. Go on about your days, please.

Jane

Used Picker - in need of extensive repairs

My picker is clearly broken.

I could write blog upon blog of "hilarious" stories about all the idiots and assholes I attract...

Like the one who knocked on my head McFly-style...

Or the one who explained, on the first date, how he was suing his ex-fiancee...

Or the one who told me I had DSL (that's Dick Sucking Lips for those of you who, like me, naively think of internet options)...

Or the prince charming who passed by me in a bar, took a big whiff, and said in a delightfully genuine Boomhauer voice, "My friend says you smell good." (I made out with him, of course.)...

Or the one I affectionately call The Jewelry Thief, who wooed me and then absconded with my diamond earrings for a month (a little SWF stalking on my part returned them safely to me)...

Or, one of my personal favorites, the guy who insisted on referring to one of his bodily fluids (cough) as "baby batter"...

And that's just the tip of the iceberg, my beautiful readers, I really could go on for hours. Something about my beautiful face and sweet nature inspires men to great heights of cancelling, dodging, flaking, dropping the ball, and sucking in general. I'm like Helen of Troy for losers - the face that launched a thousand dips.

So, please, someone buy my picker. Take it far away from me so I can get a new one that actually works. I know some of you women have good ones, and I'm on the brink of going all Robin Hood on your lucky asses.

Oodelally, bitches, oodelally.

I Chime In... (Poise & Rationality)

So, I wouldn't say I'm a health nut or anything. I mean, sure, I exercise and I try to choose foods that don't feed my heart-attack fetish, but I love some bad food. For instance, I'm fairly sure I could shove an entire $5.72 wedge of brie into my mouth and still go all baby bird for more. But there IS a line, people.

Meet the Philly Cheesesteak Thickburger. I thought at first it might just be a cheeseburger that tastes like a cheesesteak, but it's actually a big fat cheeseburger with a big fat cheesesteak on TOP. That's not just a crossing of the line, that's a whole ten lords a-leapin' right over the damn line. Um, really, America, must we indulge in self-destructive eating so blatantly? Apparently we must.And speaking of indulging in meat, all hot-blooded, big-lipped, 30-something women should really spend an evening in Fayetteville, North Carolina (often called Fayettenam or Fayettestan). Home to Fort Bragg and a hop-skip-jump from Pope Air Force Base, this Olive Garden town may seem like it hasn't much to offer a girl, but the male-to-female ratio is delicious. And it's not just the ratio which will taunt your tastebuds - most of the scandalously young men who live there spend much of their days doing manly things like running around with guns, so they're a treat for the peepers, too. I could have kept this secret all to myself, ladies, but I'm a giver. Go, get you some. The meat may be rare, but at least it's not covered in cheesesteak.