This isn't boring, I SWEAR.

Leah has started standing recently. She's been pulling herself up in her crib for some time, but inspiration struck one day when she realized most furniture is good climbing fodder, and since then she's been climbing everything. Child development is amazing, how it can be both sudden and slow.

No one really wants to hear you go on about your baby though. A friend who is a boy even mentioned yesterday that all women talk about are kids and babies and it "must be a girl thing." I politely disagree, since this isn't the first time I've heard that complaint, but it's the first time I've heard it from a non-woman. My friend Heidi refers to children as "The Worst STD." I choose not to dissect this statement, because I think it's fucking funny. Being a parent does not mean losing your since of humor.

I understand where baby-complainers are coming from, though. I feel the same way about people who drone on about their pets. They are a huge part of your life (as are babies) and you're going to mention them, and I won't mind, especially if it's genuinely interesting or funny, until half an hour later when we're going through the inventory of dead knick-knacks your schnauzer ate.

I try not to bore people outside of my obviously interested family and immediate friends, but I do like to mention Leah's developments here and there. I'm around her constantly, I don't have much else going on in my life. The thing is though, every moment is precious to you as a parent, but all babies start crawling. All of them start walking. It does not make them exceptional. Not trying to downplay the loving feeling I get from Leah babbling at me while propped up on the couch as she is now, but other people aren't going to find that remarkable. Her 6 of 10 total teeth coming in the last 6 weeks have been more Hell than awesome, but damn, am I proud of her for doing what her body is programmed to do that she has no conscious knowledge of. That does not mean everyone else thinks it's cool.

That said, I would like to share some more humorous advancements Leah has made in the last few weeks:

Dancing. Hot Damn, does that kid love to dance. At anything. Lapping dog water gets her hips shaking.

Fear of the vacuum cleaner. Hysterical. Probably not for her, but it's usually brief. I have friends who've gone on and on about their pet's fear of household appliances, so I'm allowing it a few sentences.

Screaming with manic delight at the sight of cats. She gets that from me.

Beast Mode Affection Attacks. Leah will hurt you from hugs and kisses, like a squeezing, spitting machine of unstoppable love. Painful and adorable.

She can say "poop."

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After writing about how people don't like it when you talk about your kids, followed by me talking about my kid, I think this was a successful hypocrisy blog.

The post only makes sense if you read the last post.

Shaving the pants has been fitted with a definition by none other than Pilar herself.

"Shaving the pants immediately made me think of drunk dancing at a club/bar when some random dude grinds his erect penis all up on your jeans."

10 point for Gryffindor! (Or whatever Harry Potter house Kylie is in. I think it would be Ravenclaw actually.)

In contrast of my feminist ranting, here's a tip on smooth shaving!

If you are like me, you're entire body is covered in hair. At least it's mostly blonde hair, but still. I'm like an Aryan sasquatch. "Pilar" means "covered in hair," and that would be my name if the Beatles had written a song in Spanish instead of French (real name: Michelle.) Pilar was actually Kylie's name in Spanish class, and I went with the more stripper-tastic Claudia, (I was sick of Margarita) but I digress.

My razor budget takes up a bigger chunk of my non-existent income than I would prefer, and I was internetting the other day and discovered a nifty trick I would like to elaborate on: Sharpening cheapo razors.

Shave per usual with a new razor.

Take your now slightly dull razor before next use or after initial use; just make sure it's dry.

Take out a piece of sturdy denim. Maybe it's jeans, maybe it's a vest with a Slayer patch poorly ironed on the back. Your call, so long as it has six inches or so of denim at least razor width in...width. Lay it on a flat surface, smooth it out. Applying slight pressure, run the razor in reverse direction on the denim about a dozen times, swiftly. Remember, opposite direction of how you actually use the razor, don't shave the pants. "Shaving the pants" will become a dirty dance or sexual maneuver once I think of something appropriate to go behind it.

If your razor is completely dull to the point of cheese-grater like horrors, fear not. Swiping a good 50+ times will return it to nearly new quality. That sounds time consuming, but I did it today and it took all of 30 seconds. I also shaved, and it fucking worked like a dream. I'm so excited and mad at myself at the same time. I could have saved so much money over so many years.

Further info: This process works by evening out any slight bending that occurs while shaving (and consequently catches on your skin and misses hairs) more than it does any actual sharpening, but it does that as well.

Also, if your razor has a moisture strip, consider a funeral service first. It's toast, but if you lotion before and after you should be fine, and just be sure to use ample amounts of cream/gel/soap/whatever.

For razor bumps on the bikini line, consider washing the area with an acne cleanser containing an active ingredient, like sialic acid or benzoyl peroxide, before and after shaving.

I hope you've been inspired to be less hairy. Or not.

Good News, Everyone!

I got a star on Gawker/Jezebel for worthwhile commenting, which is weird because I've posted something maybe dozen times, barely anything compared to people who comment on every article, every day. Certain starred commentators seem to appear at the bottom of every article. I almost never even bother logging in. Half the time I can't even get it fucking work anyway. I noticed one day I was "approved" by one of the writers, and had no idea what that entailed, or cared. They did directly answer one of my "Ask a Guy" questions which was also a featured comment. I was pleased, but it was such a generic question about male anatomy, I assumed it was a coincidence and that other girls had probably asked something similar. Either way, I logged in today to discover I'm valuable in the eyes of quasi-feminist bloggers. Hurray!

As previously mentioned, I can rarely get the log in to work, and right now is one of those times, despite the fact I had no problem an hour ago. I am determined to make this work, since I wanted to share my question in this humble blog. It's brilliant guys, just brilliant, riveting stuff:

"After every guy I know eschewed the idea of what I call "The Snakebite Handjob" of twisting hands in the opposite directions over the dick, I no longer trust Cosmo. That being said; What do we do with the balls? I know it supposed to be something, but what?"

Balls, man. Anyway, half a dozen dudes were surveyed and they answered this with a paragraph or two of personal experience. I cannot find the article after five minutes of trying. I am a terrible, lazy blogger. I do not deserve a star. You don't need to read it anyway, since long story short was "Eh, don't worry about it."

Upon reviewing my comments a minute ago, the real reason I think I got a star is because every other post is about 30 Rock. The New Yorker feminists of Jez love them some 30 Rock. Most feminists simply love Tina Fey, and I am one of those, for sure.

While we are on the subject of sexy feminists, My friend Erika has a wonderful blog about lady issues you should really check out. I was very close to posting a blog about the Manic Pixie Dream girl and her evolving role in the media, but she beat me to it. Her feelings match mine on the subject, and I have a comment on that particular post that's probably longer than this post right here. The whole blog is good stuff, and thought provoking. Plus, Erika's a total babe.

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I wanted to part from this rando-post with a song I happened to catch on Pop-Up Video the other day. God, I love Pop-Up Video. I also love this song, and Dizzy Up The Girl was the first actual CD I bought with my actual money. It made me all but forget about the Wilson Philips cassette I pilfered from my mom. The entire album is late-90s alternative gold, and I still love it to this day. Warner Bros has the actual video blocked from embedding, but I recommend it if you dig the nostalgia like I do. I was 10 when I fell in love with Johnny Rzeznik, and I pretty much owe him for kicking off puberty.

This video has the lyrics at least. Enjoy.

Every time I think it's 2011, someone mindfucks me into the thinking it's still the 50s.

...But I don't want to talk about that (FOOLED YOU.) I want to talk about Blink motherfucking 182. The new single is stellar. They're coming back, people. I don't care if they do so successfully or not, all I know is I love Blink so very, very much. Enough to write a blog about them. This is a big deal because, in case you haven't noticed, I'm fucking lazy with this. Also if you notice, I swear a lot more as of late. This is what hanging out with a 17 year old boy on a daily basis does to you. Love you, little brother. You fucking fuck.

Listening to Blink 182 is a lot like hanging out with a 17 year old boy, too, with such great albums as Dude Ranch and Enema of the State, and uh, Take Off You Pants and Jacket. That one went over my head for a while, but I got it eventually. I'll be the first to admit, if sophomoric humor is done with stitches of actual wit, what's not to like? Puns and stroke jokes? Maybe that is why I want to be a linguistics major.

Despite the seriousness of their most recent works, I would love to see them live in hopes of a few good dick gags along with a few of the gems that got me through Junior High. I would also love to hear their more serious works, as they prove despite the poop-humor, they are actually fantastic song writers. I have a friend who's going to see them with MCR and invited me along, but the teething, expensive creature rolling at my feet, be damned! I'm (literally) looking at you, daughter. Aw, she blew raspberry at me. I love her again.

Adorable side tracks aside, I can remember my first encounter with Blink outside of the radio. I was in 4th or 5th grade and my cousin and I had stolen her older sister's Enema CD booklet to read the dirty, dirty lyrics and giggle. I didn't actually HEAR any of the songs for months after that, but I was taken with "Wendy Clear" and "Going Away to College" which still remain among my favorites. What followed was a complete juvenile love affair. Because of that love affair, I never would have researched into who they toured with and influenced them. By the time I was in high school, I was immersed in this "punk" business I know and love. The self-titled album came out and I was smitten all over again, even though admitting to liking Blink was a HUGE faux pas in the oddly intimidating Rhinelander punk scene. Yes, a town of 8,000 had/has a punk scene. We also have had packs of juggalos before they were cool to make fun of them too. Anyway, despite the serious Blink haters, I wore my over-sized black Blink 182 t-shirt for my school picture my freshman year. The lisping fashionista who took the photo made fun of me the whole time. I'm scowling in the picture in all my glorious teenage angst.

The break-up seriously bothered me, but I feel I saw it coming, or I'm just making that up in retrospect. Angel and Airwaves was kind of cool, +44 was even cooler, and...Travis Barker's reality stints passed me by, but it was no Blink. The reunion was enough to get my lady aparts a-twitter, my mouth a-jabberin', and my fiancee a-taunting. ("Dude Ranch is the only album that matters!")

I'm SO excited to hear more, so excited for Lacey's mere potential to go the concert, and so excited for my heroes. In conclusion, here is a song that isn't Blink 182, but has all the members in it, for the sake of blog-title related mind-fuckery.

I do have a soul, it just manifests itself pretty uselessly.

I recently came upon a quote in an article about fascinations with dead or missing children. Referring specifically to the Casey Anthony trial, a woman related her feelings to every mother in the world, saying we all should feel obligated to care about this and compelled to follow it.

...Mmm. No, no I don't. For one, I don't plan on killing my kid. There is no empathy there. For two, I'm a total puss. I go out of my way to avoid reading headlines about dead babies. Or dead children. Or dead dogs, dead wildlife, and ESPECIALLY dead cats. I still have trouble watching the scene in Homeward Bound were the cat goes over the waterfall, even though I know Sassy is just fine in the end.

As much as I love morbidity, I find no humor or interest when it applies to the innocent.*

*In a realistic context, to be fair. I mean, if we're talking Itchy and Scratchy...

Lovies.

It's Leah's 9 month anniversary of life today, and it's Father's Day. Happy celebrations to the two most important creatures in my life. I have a headache so bad it's making me nauseous, or I'm so nauseous I have a headache. Either way, I'm going to try and keep this half of a hot dog now and show you this picture instead.

That's better.

I decided I want my blog thumbnail when/if I post these to facebook to be attractive. Nothing says "inviting" like a leering Steve Buscemi.

This blog is a lot like Seinfeld; about nothing.

The only person I think I got into this band was a girl my boyfriend cheated on me with, and consequently left me for. So that's sad, and other people should check out the Green Day/Devo side project "The Network." Their album "Money Money 2020" was on sale at Sam Goody when I was 15. I bought it on a whim without ever hearing it, and I loved everything about it at the time. New wave-y, silly, different, I loved the Cure, and Bloc Party didn't exist yet. If you like early Bloc Party, you might like the linked song, Roshambo. That song features their most serious lyrical content though, and with that it may not be the best representation. The whole thing is basically a future kitsch joke, but a really catchy one.

Since it's hip to be narcissistic about your food these days, I thought it would be good idea to start blogging cookbook style about how I reincarnate shitty leftovers into even worse for you breakfast foods. I realized the only recipes I have are breakfast burritos and "pizza eggs" and that there is nothing novel about either of them and that I'm just high.

Saw this today. I don't care how unethical and impractical it is, it will be my first extravagant crazed billionare purchase.

This apartment has blessed me with eccentric neighbors. Aside from the elderly wino who stole our mail, they've all been delightful.

I hate it when you can tell a male author has written a badly crafted female character. It's not the weaklings that bother me, it's the unrealistic ball busting lady detective who's tough but sensual and her flaws are really collateral of good personality traits (re: "Perfectionist nature gets in the way.") Stephen King fortunately doesn't have this problem (I'm looking at you, Koontz.) I highly recommend Lisey's Story.

More Network. This song is not only funny, but it's weirdly catchy. I dare you to listen to all of it. It's called "Spike."

This is a joke. So, who wants to go tanning with me?

I was curious about tanning the other day. Not that I can tan, but I wouldn't complain if it happened. I just thought one session would be nice; heat and light in 10 minutes of doing absolutely nothing, locked away. I google the local Sunburst Tanning and discover I can't take anything with "Diva" in its name seriously, nor do I think I could sit under "guided facial lights." Furthermore, I find the whole thing gross, vain and kind of creepy, as well as the "facts" on the site definitely misleading to one's health. How can people get behind something like that?

*lights cigarette*

Rubbish for sure.

Wanting to know and learn everything is problematic, even outside of the obvious. Yeah, yeah, not obtainable, impossible, synonyms for all that can't happen. But the more you learn, the more you become aware of what there is to know that you don't know yet. You feel less knowledgeable with this new awareness of just how much knowledge you have to grasp. You spend your entire life just feeling dumber and dumber when your goal was to be smart.

You can tell I am not a foodie.

I'd like to talk about the Olive Garden. I mentioned earlier my affinity for pasta, and fake Italian food is near and dear to me. Tex Mex is equally, if not more, near and dear to me, and I have zero complaints about any remotely South of the Border style place I've eaten at. This includes Taco Bell. If hot sauce is involved, I am not picky, 33% beef an all. However, I have been to the Olive Garden, and I did not feel like family.

Basically, it's Fizzolis in a nicer package and with more garlic. That's the secret to everything: more garlic. If anyone tells you different, they are lying. If garlic is not appropriate (and I can't really think of many scenarios where it isn't) the secondary option is more Lawry's. (Seasoned salt of course. Do they do anything else?) None of those people at the Gardino (that's what I imagine would be Italian for garden) were trained in Italy. They were trained in re-hydrating and reheating though, on par with your local McDonald's.

Anyway, I have never been on an actual "date" to the Olive Garden, but two noteworthy times I was escorted by male friends, so it was surely assumed by the wait-staff it was a date. The first time was with my very first real (ex)boyfriend I actually had dated years prior. In was an innocent romance based on a love of skate punk and Adult Swim, amicable split at 6 months. Not bad for 15. Anyway, years later I was visiting him along with several other friends in Madison. Matt was 18, and I had just turned 18, and our first maneuver post-seating was to see if we could get wine. The waiter smirked at us, as this was 2007, and I weighed barely a 100 pounds and probably looked 12. I think Matt was wearing a Rancid t-shirt. After asking for ID, Matt simply answered "Eh, it was worth a shot." We discussed whether we should fake a break-up fight, and decided post not-getting-wine, it would be better to stay on good behavior. The pasta was over-priced, not bad, but I've doctored better Alfredo from Wal Mart. "But Shelly, this is the extent of your cooking skills!" you say. True, but I'm working on it.

The second fake date was with my friend, Dan Resch, who's name I always say in it's entirety since I know so many "Dans" and it's only two syllables. We were visiting Dan Resch's ailing mother in Madison (same Olive Garden!) and decided to go to the Olive Garden (Yeah, the same one!)

I briefly considered trying to get a snobby bottle of something again; I was only a few months shy of my 21st, had 30 lbs on my 18 year old self and wasn't dressed like a total hooligan. I've never bothered owning a fake ID however, since living in the Northwoods, these things aren't necessary for girls in certain (most) bars. Dan Resch however, despite being barely a year younger than me, only needs to shave once every couple weeks. Wine was not happening yet again. We also discussed faking a break-up, or at least a dramatic fight. I think wine would have made it more appropriate and believable. I doubt we could actually pull this off, since just talking about was enough to incite giggling. Plus, I didn't want to get kicked out prior to the shrimp scampi sampler; it was actually quite good, but once again, I could make something just as delicious at home. Crunchy garlic bread, shrimp in garlic butter with cherry tomatoes and ripe olives? Some sprinkle-y green herbs? It was neat looking, although once again over-priced. But man, garlic. The keys to life.

I will give them this: the waiters were all cute and flirty. Cute and flirty are just as important qualities in a serving career as speed and order accuracy. Patience helps, I guess. I have none, so I'm not quick to judge others. For example, I don't know where to go with blog, but rather than sit and think of something, I'm just going to roll with this bullshit segue I'm hammering out right now.

Last week, I ate Alfredo with sauteed baby bellas over three cheese stuffed tortellini. For breakfast. At 6 in the morning. This house has also gone through two shakers of garlic powder since we moved in 6 months ago, as well as countless jars of hot giardinera. We don't fuck around with our bullshit Italian. At least once a week, we eat a pasta and marinara based dish, as experimented by me with added ingredients, varying herbs, meats, vegetables and peppers. Although I want to learn it someday,

I don't speak any Italiano (that's Spanish for Italian!**), but sometimes I spew out random Spanish cooking -related phrases with gusto while I'm making spaghetti and pretend like I'm cultured. It never tastes the same as the last time I made it. But there's always tons garlic.



**It's also Italian for Italian. That was a joke.

Well, well, well. I hope you people understand satire.

This is my rambling intro-mission-statement, kids. Welcome to the bloggy blog.

I can't see the word "blog" without thinking "bloggity blog blog." much like Evan can't hear a British accent without instantly mocking it.

For the time being, I have no energy to put into HTML. Half the reason I create blogs is kill several hours editing layouts to my liking. It's good to have hobbies, right? I also need to get a more sophisticated picture, something that shows I'm "indie" but not trying to hard, pretending like someone else took the picture, possibly wearing my glasses to appear smarter. Although I've been known to dabble in vanity and have given the myspace angle the old college try back in the day, I typically lose motivation for self portraits. If only I had that self portrait I did in high school. Ink outline over acryllic wash of surreal colors. I think my face was green.

This is off to a good start for a blog titled "mumbling rubbish" eh? I got the idea for the name while describing the actions of Charlie Sheen in a recent dream I had. He was my roommate and he only appeared to me draped in hookers and speaking incoherently. Nothing about this put me off quite as much as him neglecting the dishes. Good to know where your priorities are, subconscious.

Well, I plan to rant about politics, praise things that are already praised too much (beer), talk about my daughter's bowel movements, and fulfill my New Year's Resolution of not dumbing myself down for fear of offending people. So, here's to new blogs, new beginnings, and further alienating my conservative friends. (YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH AMERICA! LOVE YOU!)