Don’t know who Juanita Weasel is? DO YOU LIVE UNDER A ROCK? 

If you click the first link about the Juanita meme challenge and skim through the comments, you’ll see a lot of funny memes. Oh, internet, you crack my shit up. I want to hug all of you with your hilarious, geeky sense of humor. 

But I win. 

Because this is my blog and I said so. 

I have seen this meme EVERYWHERE on Facebook, so I stole it, and made it better.

If you understand this, YOU WIN. But you don’t win more than me. I made it. 

I almost settled for a meme that said, “Juanita doesn’t want to feed. She wants to hunt!” But this, in my mind, was funnier. I may yet make one anyway. 

WE WERE ALL THINKING IT. Juanita just had the balls to say it. 

UPDATE: I had to add one more.

Juanita goes musical.

Oh, and have I mentioned? HE’S WALKING NOW.

The thing is, I’m not really much of a drinker. I never have been. I can’t relate to CW TV shows with high school kids at parties. Then there’s the inevitable dilemma of trying to hide the smell and stumbling from two bottles of Smirnoff Ice from parents.

Snore.

I never understood why someone would want to waste a Saturday night doing something they couldn’t remember, when instead they could spend 12 straight hours searching for all the Stardust locations in Legend of Dragoon. 

                                    
                      I’m going to spend the next 3 hours screaming at
                             a cheating superboss. Fuck you, Faust.

In fact, I didn’t have my first taste of alcohol until I was 19. And it was purely by accident. 

I was at a LASO (Latin American Student Organization) Christmas party with other members and Spanish professors. The professors were kind enough to make sure those under the drinking age still had champagne to toast with, even though it was the non-alcoholic equivalent of Sprite in a fancy glass. 

                                    
                                            The champagne is a lie. 

As you may have already guessed, I got one of the “grown-up” glasses. I vaguely remember saying to a friend, “Boy, that sure is some tasty Sprite.” What a rebel, I know. When my professor realized the mistake (and it was painfully apparent to anyone in the room because my face glowed a nice tomato color), he laughed and assured me he would not inform the authorities.

Just in case he decided to be a dirty double-crosser, I called my husband—then boyfriend/manslave—to walk me back to my dorm room. I may or may not have been crying from the fear of getting caught when he answered his phone.

When you grow up with barely functioning alcoholics as I did, you learn quickly just how much alcohol can fuck up your life. Watching Dawson’s Creek kids drink and have fun has a different meaning when you see your dad drink himself into a coma. Nightly. Explaining to the fire department why your dad was setting a tree on fire in the backyard, naked, is not something they teach you in 7th grade Civics class.

                                    
                                       He…had a really rough day at work.

When I do drink, on that rare occasion—minus that first exposure—I handle it surprisingly well for a girl of my size. I think I was wrong in saying my first drink was at 19. It was probably MUCH earlier. It likely goes way back to my zygote stage in life. Drinking’s in my blood, and I handle it like a pro.

I say all of this because it took me a long time to learn about moderation. “Responsible drinking” wasn’t a phrase I heard growing up. (And it’s certainly not one your friends teach you in college.) To me, drinking was either: you don’t drink or you get so shit-faced you can’t remember when you fell through a coffee table and why you tattooed Eddie’s name and number to your butt cheek.

                                                   I hate Eddie.

Since then, I’ve learned it’s okay to have a glass of wine before bed without having to worry I won’t wake up until 4pm the next day. (I think they call this, “growing up.”) In fact, if I’m having a particularly difficult time writing, a glass of wine will loosen me up enough to squash that asshole internal editor.

As one of my very favorites said: “Write drunk; edit sober.” ― Ernest Hemingway

The moral of this post (I think?): Drink and write. Don’t drink and drive, people.

NOTE: As a zygote, I partied with all the best people, including Bill Cameron. He’s really awesome and writes some amazing books. He also wears a snazzy vest. You should check him out.

I’ve made no secret of my fear of clowns. Stephen King has left me scarred for life. (Thanks, jerk.) The Elf on the Shelf is creepier. He has the Chucky-like smile that makes you afraid he’s going to procreate with other Elves and then we’ll have an infestation of horror no exterminator can eradicate. Not even Michael Bay could rid the world of “Buddys” with explosions.

To prove the Elf on the Shelf is up to no good in our neighborhoods, I’ve made a list (with pictures) of things LESS CREEPY than this holiday bastard.

Spread the word.

All LESS creepy. Are you beginning to understand why we should rid the world of this “evil little helper?”

Have other things less creepy than the Elf on the Shelf? Let me know in the comments. I may need to amend this post to show others the full atrocity that is “Buddy.”

The thing is, I have a kid now and technically I’m responsible for him. I’ve been trying to “grow” for his sake, so it isn’t like the blind leading the blind-and-unable-to-walk, but it’s hard.

Like this whole, “not swearing” thing. On Twitter I try to be more professional than the walking bag of swear words I am in real life, but sometimes, dammit is the very best word for the situation. And really, there just isn’t a non-swear word equivalent of fuck. But I use that one more sparingly.

See? Growth.

But it isn’t the swear words that make people in public say to their spouses, “Honey, do you still have CPS on speed dial?”

It’s the things that fall out of my mouth without thinking.

A few examples:

• “If you pee on me ONE MORE TIME, your orange dinosaur gets it.”
• “Hey, where’d your balls go?”
• “Go ahead and lick the outlet. See what happens. *waits* Hurts, don’t it?”
• “STOP CHEWING ON THE DOG.”
• “No, you cannot play with that box of tampons. Too bad. You’re just going to have to cry about it.”
• “Harry Potter is to be played with gently. This isn’t a trashy afternoon soap opera, you know.”
• “Ew. What is that smell? IS THAT YOU? Get out of my car. Get out.”
• “If you don’t go to sleep RIGHT NOW, I’m putting you in the closet.”
• “Why are you eating ALL OF MY DIRT? That stuff’s not cheap. I have buy it at Lowe’s like everyone else.” 
• “You have flushed the toilet 87 times. Has it lost it’s novelty yet or are you just flaunting the fact that we have running water?”

Of course, all of these could be also be directed at my husband. Sometimes he needs to be put in the corner and reminded who’s boss.

Do you have kids or an unruly husband? Or maybe even a pet? What are some of the funny things you say to them?

The glamorous life of a writer.

My laptop is saturated with drool. Luckily, it isn’t felt through the internet. That I know of. If I got some on you, I’m sorry. Gross, isn’t it?

maureenjohnsonbooks:

karmaisawierdname asked you: So I just started NaNoWrimo and I am wondering what we should do if we feel like our writing is kinda going downhill. I was just writing a little bit (and I know I’m still at the beginning but…) and I just thought it wasn’t very good and it really discouraged me.

NaNoWriMo Advice from Auntie MJ

Yea, that really happened. You know, Nathan and I are on a first name Twitter handle basis. We go way back before Earth That Was got used up.

HERE’S THE NEWS: Much Ado About Nothing starring….all of the actors listed on that site.

The important thing to take from all of this is that NATHAN FILLION and SEAN MAHER will be in a movie. TOGETHER.

Upon hearing the news, I imagined this was all a big promotional scam on Joss Whedon’s part. By MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, he really meant: SERENITY 2: WASH IS A REAVER.

But alas, it seems like it might just be another retelling of the Bard’s tale. I sent Nathan a DM on Twitter, asking for confirmation, or at the VERY LEAST an answer to whether or not it would AT LEAST be like Baz Luhrmann’s rendition of Romeo & Juliet. Not that I don’t love a good, honest, Kenneth Branagh Shakespeare movie, but let’s not WASTE Nathan Fillion’s gun-slinging talent.

So he sent me a few ON-SET photos. Keep in mind, THESE ARE ACTUAL, NOT PHOTOSHOPPED PICTURES.

I think we ALL expected Nathan to play Benedick and Sean Maher to play Claudio. Right? RIGHT? Well, you probably didn’t think that because, well, I JUST TOLD YOU they were making the movie. You didn’t have time to think it through.

I forgive you.

I KNEW IT. Though I’m not sure why Denzel Washington and Keanu Reeves are in this movie. I didn’t see them on the site. YOU RASCAL, JOSS WHEDON. You photoshopped over the REAL actors’ faces to hide their identity. I bet if we pulled off that poor photoshop mask, we’d see Gina Torres and Adam Baldwin.

IT IS A SEQUEL.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Oh, and in case you STILL want to doubt Nathan’s love for me:

MWAH.

This morning was just an average conversation for us: 

Hubs: Okay, I’ve got my purple shirt for Spirit Day and my pink shoelaces for Breast Cancer Awareness month. It’s a good thing I’m secure in my marriage. 

Me: *cough* Cover up. *cough* Hon, they already think you’re gay. You TOLD them your wedding ring was from your BOYFRIEND. This isn’t going to surprise them. 

Hubs: What are you going to do when one of these days I actually DO come out of the closet? 

Me: I’d be happy for you. But I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. 

Hubs: ….?

Me: Give you a divorce.

Hubs: WHAT? What if I’m in LOVE? You’re going to deny me my happiness? 

Me: Let’s face it, we’ve got a good thing going. I’m comfortable. I don’t plan on showing off these bad boys until my 30’s when I go crazy from suburbia overload. Get used to having me around. Now, I have to leave for work. 

Hubs: I’ll bring the divorce papers to you at the office. 

Me: Okay, but make sure you make a big show of it. It’s not worth it unless you overact it. 

Hubs: And I’ll get all dressed up and make out with your gay coworker. 

Me: He’s cute! But he’s not going to touch you dressed like that.

Hubs: I can get dressed up! Shirt, tie, nice shoes. 

Me: Eh…don’t forget the hair. You’ve got a long way to go before you learn all about gay etiquette. 

Hubs: Yea, yea.

Me: LOVE YOU! Bring home someone cute!

He loves me. 

As a child I was, how you say, interested in the “end result.” Inexplicably, I needed money at 6 years old, and I needed it bad. I thought, “What can I do that won’t interrupt my daily playing schedule, but still bring in the COLD HARD CASH?” 

(I blame Nickelodeon for this—I didn’t just say “money” or even “moola.” Money was something to shout about. It was also formed in blocks and possibly frozen.)

 This the point in my life where I began making money off of mud pies. 

I was a master of my craft. I inspected each pie thoroughly. Too lumpy, too runny, not solid enough from sitting in the sun—Quality was important. Luckily for me, there were plenty of neighborhood kids to boss around.

And I was bossy. 

When I had stockpiled enough of the final product, I forced my manservant (my younger sister) to carry the goods, and off we went door to door brilliantly selling what I considered to be a top notch work of art. After skillfully showing off the superb texture of the mud—which had been sitting outside for NO LESS than three days—I moved on to the special features, the leaves, bits of twigs, and for an added cost, the berries. 

Some neighbors would graciously decline the need for a mud pie—clearly, they were unable to recognize such an exquisite masterpiece—but others would gently tell me to leave it sitting on the porch and they would hand over the (rightly deserved) TWO quarters for my efforts. 

Once I outgrew the mud pies (because seriously, MUD PIES?), I moved on to REAL art. 

Drawings, both sketches and colored pictures of Pokemon. 

That’s right. At 13 years old, the Pokemon craze hit my household HARD. Charmander, Bulbasaur, Pikachu, Squirtle, THE WHOLE 151 MEMBER GANG was welcome in my art studio. (All those new Pokemon can kiss my ass.) This time, I didn’t need slaves helpers. I did my own drawings and reaped the rewards. 

Again, I went door to door (really, parents, I could’ve been kidnapped, or turned into an interior decorator) and sold my precious pieces of SPARKLE. 

I look back and wonder, Where has that charming little girl gone? The girl who was so cute with her crooked teeth and flyaway hair that she convinced little old ladies to buy MUD. In VIRGINIA.

All we had was MUD.

I think she’s trapped in a little old lady’s house, probably still staring at cat wallpaper while listening to the Greatest Hits of the 1850’s.