08.18.11

I FAILED. shit.

At least a megajillion a few times a week, I get an email asking “Pssst- be real with me here. Have you been cheating on your Project, young lady?” First, I would like to thank these people for calling me a young lady. And second, YES, I did cheat. Once. In December. Kickin’ it old school with my shame post from December. 
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When my family moved from a podunk town in South Korea to a slightly-less-but-still-relatively podunk town in Texas, I had two things working against me. One, I was a dumber-than-average 5-year-old, and two, I didn’t know a lick of English.

Shortly after we moved, my mom got wind of the Great American Concept- garage sales. Every weekend, she convinced my reluctant dad to drive around while she scoped out random neighborhoods for steals and deals.

As we were walking home after kindergarten one day, my mom spotted a garage an apartment sale in a unit close to our own.

I was still trying to learn to speak me some American, so I didn’t understand what the mother-and-daughter duo were saying.  Before I knew it, we were inside their apartment. Were we taking a tour? Were we looking at additional items for sale? Who the hell knows; I was five.

In the daughter’s room, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. Yes! I’d been eyeing one at the local five-and-dime, and I couldn’t believe I was going to get one that day…at garage apartment sale prices, no less.

I started carrying it around. In my mind, we were already at home and I was adoring it and loving it and playing with it. God, I loved America. I asked how much they wanted for the doll in broken English as we were about to exit.

The next five minutes were a little fuzzy. All I could piece together was that the doll was NOT for sale and the little girl was getting a little worried that I was doing some sort of immigrant five-finger discount.

I didn’t take that baby home. My mom refused to buy it for me full price. Damn you, garage sales, for teaching my mother to think everything should cost a quarter.

At Target this week, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. I wanted to bring it home for Cal so that she wouldn’t have any repressed Monchhichi doll issues as an adult.

Who am I kidding?? She doesn’t even know what a Monchhichi doll is!

I wanted it for myself, but shit, you know, The Project. I stood in front of the display for nearly ten minutes. I gave myself a little pep talk. Surely, I should be able to walk away from a furr-baby.

Apparently, the market rate for doom is $9.29. I bought it. It’s official. I’m a Project Fuck-up.

I thought about returning my new friend, Chhichi, but I’ve already kissed her and petted her and licked her face, so I’m not sure Target wants her back.

A DOLL did me in, folks. I hate myself. But only when I’m not busy kissing Chhichi’s face

Is there anything you desperately wanted as a kid but never got? Would you still buy it today?

P.S. Friends, I’m an asshole. I haven’t been keeping up on Twitter. If you’re already following me, would you do me a huge favor and leave your Twitter handle in your comment today? That way, I know who’s who, and I can follow y’all back. I’m @noshoppingliz, by the way.

top photo via blueq.com
August 18, 2011
08.15.11

Monday Dare: Uh-oh, you got found out.

Every Monday, I’m picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help, and Possible Fun to Have. It’s a list I made before The Project started, and I’m still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I’m calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words “challenge” or “goal.”

This week: Fuck the fuckers

I am furious.

Since it’s the last month of my Project, I wanted to talk about the positive things I’ve learned over the year. Things like how to be grateful and how to enjoy the small pleasures in my day-to-day life. Today, I wanted to talk about bucket lists. But there’s been a change of plan. We need to talk about fuckers.

What’s a fucker?

A fucker is a person who brings you down. He or she is a person who makes you feel sadness or stress or anger or discontent.

I feel all of those things right now.

This morning, I punched in a search on the internet. I wanted to find a picture for today’s post. Surprisingly, the search turned up an image from my own blog.

How very strange. This is clearly a mistake. 

Sadly, it wasn’t a mistake. When I clicked the image, it sent me to another site. After perusing the site for a few minutes, I realized that it had been stealing my posts in their entirety since November. With no credit back to this blog.He has also posted pictures of minors and original artwork from other blogs as his own without permission or credit to the original source.

I’d like to say that I handled the situation with class and dignity. I’d say it, but I’d be lying. I sent a very unladylike message to the owner of the site. I also spent most of the morning contacting the other blogs that have unknowingly supplied this motherfucker thief with material.

I don’t have a funny story for you today. I do, however, have a request.

If you are a blogger, please take a minute to do an internet search of key phrases from your blog. Make a list of ten or fifteen things that are signature “you” phrases. Maybe search for the names of your kids or pets or the name of that unfortunate date you talked about two years ago. Add a Google Alert for key phrases and your blog name. Once a month, type your own name into an internet search.

I am not linking to the offending site because I refuse to give them traffic.

Pattrick- You got found out. You should run. (Y’all it’s a GUY who spells his name with two T’s. I don’t want to crack a smile here, but I can’t help it. Oh Pattrick, you weird son of a bitch.)

I’d like to punch this fool, but instead, I’m going to put on my Big Peoples Pants and try to calmly resolve the situation- by eating some Necco wafers and watching Little House on the Prairie.

Friends, I need some tips. How do you stay calm when your inner gangsta wants to come out?
image via dominik.soup.io

August 15, 2011