The Digital Version of Having Fun In a Paper Bag.

An illustrated transcript of a text conversation between BFF and I:

Birv: Blech. Sometimes I just wish I had someone that followed me around and gave me manly, reassuring hugs. I need one today!

BFF: Me too! Who would you hire?

Birv: Good question! Definitely someone older... for some reason this brand of hug needs to have some manly experience behind it. I'd vote either Jon Hamm or Nathan Fillion. You?



BFF: I love Nathan. But I got to go with my heart on this and say Scooby Douche. Those arms would pop a baby like a balloon.

(Scooby Douche is the one on the right. He is on Ghost Hunters. I do not know his actual name. BFF, despite vowing to marry him someday, doesn't either.) CORRECTION: Scooby Douche is on Ghost Adventures...(Not having cable, and knowing there are 700,000 paranormal shows on those reality channels, I was forced to choose one...mainly because I am lazy and opening a separate web page to Google the real name would just be so. much. work.) Cat-fish has become even more awesome in my eyes with her knowledge of the stupid crap that I fill my days with- thank you for making me not feel like a total loser by knowing who I am talking about!

Birv: I bet he smells like Calvin Klein Obsession and Strawberry protein smoothie.

BFF: Yes! And hair salon.

Birv: New game! What do our favorite men smell like? Alexander Skarsgaard. Go.

BFF: Leather! And musk. NPH!

Birv: White tic tacs, fresh baked bread and magic. Joel McHale!

BFF: Mmmmmm! Oatmeal, Abercrombie Woods and whiskey. Obama!

Birv: New books, bonfire and Irish Spring Soap. Puck!


BFF: Suntan lotion, pot and dollar bills. Seth MacFarlane.


Birv: New Car, Colgate and the faintest hint of Acqua di Gio. Joseph Gordon Levitt!

BFF: Spearmint Gum, Cedar and honeysuckle. He has a touch of girly something.

Birv: Agreed. A little something sweet!

BFF: Rick Moranis.


Birv: Old Spice, Coffee and vintage comic book. Bill Murray.

BFF: YES! Especially the coffee! Cold cream, cigarette enhanced tweed and wood shavings. RPatz.

Birv: Stale cigarettes, well-used shoes and laundry that's been left in the washer too long. Zachary Levi!
For the record, this photo is proof that nerds are hot. PHWOAR!

BFF: Aftershave, vanilla and Endust for electronics. George Clooney!

Birv: Espresso, rosemary and shoe polish. Conan O'Brien.

BFF: Polyester, TUMS and mashed potatoes.



It may be important to note that this went on for three solid hours and 154 texts before we realized we should probably really focus on work.

Join the game!

Look At You, Being All Crafty

I really love Christina Hendricks. We all know she is on Mad Men, one of my favorite shows of the moment. She was also in Joss Whedon's Firefly, which holds a special place in my heart, and makes her infinitely cooler. Much has been made of her goddess figure, and she is, whether she really wants to be or not, becoming the poster child for body acceptance, and the fashion industry allowing women to actually have hips and tits and not be forced to look like a 10 year old Asian boy. For this I thank her. Above all, she seems to accept this with grace, even though it has to become extremely irritating that anytime she is spoken about in an article it is about her body, and any adjectives used to describe her are not about her personality, but something akin to "The curvy star of Mad Men...blah blah blah". Her patience is far greater than mine.

Well now, she's just become about a billion times cooler. In a slightly manic daze of overconfidence in my own home-ec skills, I have recently decided that I am going to be a quilter. It turns out that Etsy.com is a really great place not only to find adorable and amazing finished crafts (and some other things), but some truly funky fabrics, and so I have been poring through Etsy for cute fabric like it's my job.

So today, I googled Etsy, and came across this little article in the Google News section about my new girlfriend from Today.com: Christina Hendricks is modeling scarves for her friend Tamara Mello on Etsy. COMEONHOWCOOLISTHAT?! My little crafting heart just went pitter patter. I wonder if she knits. I don't, but if she did, I would learn, so that if I ever met her, I could be like "hey, I knit too- want to come over and watch old movies and knit scarves together?" We could lounge in jammy pants and drink wine and eat too much whole-wheat pasta and talk about what Jon Hamm is like, and whether he really smells like cedar and fresh laundry (like he does in my mind).

Her friend's shop is Blackbird Design House, and it features all sorts of tasteful felted crafts. I actually don't understand felting. I have asked BFF (my crafting encyclopedia) about it a billion times, and I still don't understand how it works. Do you felt things onto things that are already knitted, like scarves? Do you just start with unwoven wool and punch it with a needle a billion times until it magically becomes a sweater? How do you make designs with it? Why would anyone want these felted soaps?

GUESS WHERE I'M GOING TOMORROW?!?!

EEEEEEEEE!!! I'm so excited. Storytime! Ahhh London... a place of mystery, a place of wonder, a place where you can STILL see Cats.

Which we did. And then bought the soundtrack on tape. And played it in our room all the time. One particularly giddy night, BFF and I were skipping down the hall of our dorm singing Jellicle Cats. I wish we could say we were drunk or high, but we sure weren't. Just made of awesome.

Our dorm was weird, and had 2 steps up in the middle of the hallway, then 2 steps down about 20 feet away for no reason. As BFF and I tried to skip up the steps, I made it and kept dancing down the hall. BFF... didn't. I turned, because she was no longer by me, and watched in horror as BFF pinballed down the hallway: hitting one wall, and then, desperately trying to right herself, caroming off the other, only to fall in great somersaulting fashion.

I swear TO THIS DAY it happened in slow motion. BFF's eyes never left mine; her face horrified and her head shaking as if to say, "There's no way I can get out of this one." I did nothing to help her... I was too far away. And laughing WAY too hard.

Moral of the story? Never dance down the hall in your shower shoes.

Don't feel too bad for BFF. Later that night, during our only round of blood-sport Frisbee with our friend Gabe, I took a frisbee to the face (I'm not... coordinated). I also fell off the 3 foot garden wall as I was trying to make a super-sweet jump to get the frisbee that had fallen over the side. Didn't quite stick the landing.

Hazards of Body Piercings.

Ha ha this picture. We never met that guy before! And yet he was so willing to pose with us for stupid photos. Also... these are the same overalls I was wearing as the last picture... different day. That may even be the same shirt.

Anyway:

BFF never really willingly does embarrassingly stupid things. She leaves that to me. Most of the stories I find hilarious about BFF are things that happen TO her... such as the time (Freshman year, yet again! man... good times) she got her eyebrow pierced.

Getting the piercing was never really the issue. Like any rebellious 18 year old, it was almost her duty to get it (as were the tattoos we got the next year). The real story begins when it became noticeably infected... like dark red streaks running down her face infected.

Let me explain a little bit about BFF. She's very precise, very organized, and very detail-oriented (sidebar: it's very helpful for those with a scattered brain to have someone like this in your life.). You give her directions, she. will. follow. them. So when BFF got directions from Iron Age about keeping her piercing clean and infection-free... you better believe that she followed them TO THE LETTER. Still, despite twice daily cleanings, turnings, and all that other crap you have to do with metal in your face, BFF's eyebrow got super-duper infected.

We've discussed the annoyance of the gift of sight on this blog before. Let me give you, verbatim, the conversation that BFF had with every single person that looked at her:

"Ooh... what happened there?"

"My piercing got infected."

"Hmm... looks like it really hurts!"

"Well, it sure doesn't feel great..."

"Have you been washing it?"

"...yeah."

This happened for about 4 days, until one cold fall day, BFF had enough. Coming into the cafeteria from a late class (Remember late classes? Remember cafeterias? Ours had a make-your-own waffle bar. Delicious.), the conversation with someone at our table started out the normal way:

"Ooh, what happened there?"

"My piercing got infected."

"Hmm... Looks like it really hurts!"

"It doesn't feel great..."

"Have you been washing it?"

Let me interject here with another note about BFF. It takes a long time, but when BFF snaps, it's not pretty. Unless you aren't the person she snaps on. Then it's fucking hilarious.

"NO! I'VE BEEN PISSING ON MY HANDS AND RUBBING IT IN!" *Smacks caf table really fucking hard then walks away*

Honestly, one of the funniest things I've ever heard her say.

Duct Tape Is NOT Your Friend, or, How I Learned I'll ALWAYS Need a Bra.

Man, I clung to those overalls for a looong time. Today's stroll down BFF Memory Lane takes us about a month into our freshman year.

BFF and I went to Webster University... a teeny tiny fine arts school that housed about 800 students when we attended. Since the school was so tiny, and perhaps because of the desire of the population to re-live a happier high school existence (freaks & geeks unite!), Webster had sock hops and dances about twice a quarter. They always had themes... Halloween, Christmas, and, in this particular instance, the Pajama Jammy Jam. It was our first dance, and in a fit of determination to fix my self confidence (well, and try to get laid), I picked up a little "sum'n sexxxy" for the dance on our monthly snack stock-up trip (juice boxes, ramen, and Nutter Butters- staples of college life) to the Kmart with Miles. Awwww yeah.

I picked out a plum-colored satin nighty... longish, not too revealing, just enough to get that "gee, I'd like to tap that" thought in some gentlemen's heads. At least, that's what it looked like on the rack. Remember... this is the '90s, heyday of the "slipdress" (thanks for that one, Princess Di!).

Most of you that read this blog have known me for quite a while, or at least have seen me at some point in your lives. I'm pretty sure you all realized that nothing I'm sporting in the "chestal region" is a recent development. I realized in the store getting a thin-strapped satin nighty was a risky maneuver. But me, I've thought ahead. I'm prepared. I was the recent recipient of a very early viral email (what would later be credited as a cautionary tale) about how to keep the "girls" in check. I drag BFF into the Home Supplies aisle.

BFF: "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Birv: "Pshhhht YES. I mean... you could see it in the picture, but only because her dress was so low-cut. I'm not THAT slutty."

BFF: "How will you keep it from tearing your skin off?"

Birv: "Well... masking tape isn't as sticky as the other stuff. I'll use that by my skin, you know, like volleyball players do (!), and then the duct tape over that to keep them from bouncing around. It'll work, trust me! (The famous last words of anyone embarking on a stupid endeavor.)"

BFF: "Oooookaaay..."

We hustle back to the dorm rooms to get ready for our very first dance. BFF is ready quickly, adorably in a set of cotton jammies. Time for her to help Sultry Susie Birv get ready. The viral email doesn't really show how much tape was used to replace a bra, or how it was put on. Plus, that girl doesn't have tits the size of watermelons to deal with. I decide one strip for "Nip THO Prevention" and cleavage enhancement won't be enough. Best to wrap the whole kit & kaboodle (kabooble?) up, boob tube style, for good measure.

I employ a dubious (and remarkably gracious) BFF to start at my back and start wrapping like a mummy with the masking tape, while I hold the girls in place. We're standing in the middle of my dorm, hoping to god that my roommate doesn't walk in, as this would just take WAY too much explaining. After some awkward moments in which we try to figure out the nipple situation-I end up just taking care of that area myself (To this date, I have never seen BFF's goods. She insists she's seen far too much of mine.)- the masking tape layer is on. It's taken up the entire roll, which doesn't fill me with self-confidence and poise. In fact, it's pretty sweaty, and isn't exactly forming to my body like I envisioned it would; it's lumpy as hell and poking me in the arms when I try to put them at my sides.

Never one to do stupid things in a half-assed manner, I press on. So what if sweat is pooling in my cleavage, as well as dripping down my back? This kind of strapless bra beauty comes at a price. Once the duct tape is on, smoothing everything out- I'll look vixenish and gorgeous. A red-headed Marilyn (hah!). I make BFF start with the mummy wrap one more time.

Laughing the whole time, BFF finishes the job. It's getting hot in my room, and with two rolls of tape on my chest, it's pretty hard to inhale. I have no idea how anyone in their right mind would willingly wear a corset. But still...I'm gonna look friggin' sweet at that dance. I may not be able to sit down or bend over except at right angles (that much tape is actually pretty rigid), and the breathing thing may make it really hard to, you know, actually dance, but still. Who cares? I'm going to meet someone cute! I just know it! (All right, I'll be honest, what was going through my mind is "Tyson will finally notice me! Tyson will finally notice me!" Ahhh.... crushes)

An hour later, I'm ready for the actual nighty. I need assistance getting it on, as I can't lift my arms above my shoulders without serious threat of ripping off my nips (turns out masking tape is stickier than one would think), so BFF helps out. It barely fits over my homemade strapless bra. Never accounted for adding what must have been an inch of tape to my bustline.

It's totally not working. the duct tape only makes the peaks and points of the rest of the tape more prominent, the sweat dripping down my back to my ass is making a spot on my dress the size of Lake Michigan, and now every time I breathe, you can hear a weird crackling noise as the dress rubs across the tape.

BFF is trying to be loyal, and not laugh her ass off. She's failing miserably. I'm trying to convince myself that it is acceptable to go in public looking (and sounding) like an HVAC unit. I am also failing miserably. I finally decide (as sweat begins to work it's way out of my cleavage and I look more and more like a linebacker after a July practice in Florida) to give up on the taping and wear a bra and a sweater. So much for sex kitten appeal. I try to take the tape off.

This proves more difficult than it seems. My body heat has fused the glue of all the tape together. BFF runs to her room, and comes back, sniggering, with a giant pair of scissors (BFF is always prepared), and cuts through what basically adds up to a full torso cast.

Remember how I said I couldn't raise my arms without serious damage? This is nothing, NOTHING compared to trying to pull 80 layers of tape off my boobs. Guess what? That skin is pretty sensitive. And has apparently absorbed the first layer of tape like a she-wolf adopts a foundling boy. IT WILL NOT LET GO.

BFF is now crying laughing, unable to stand. She's now content to watch me suffer in pulling my modern body armor off while lounging in comfort in her Sailor Moon jammies on my bed. I finally get the tape off 1/2 an hour later, and we head to the dance in defeat- my hair 6 inches bigger in a poof of sweaty humidity from my frenzied fight with the tape demons.

Imeet no one (or have anyone notice me) at the party. Probably pretty lucky in that- I have red marks on my boobs for a full week after, and I look like a leper.

Just for shiggles... the viral email that prompted this is below. Enjoy.

BFF Request!!

If BFF asks for something, I do it. So when BFF asked for a Storytime Countdown until I visit for New Moon, I was only happy to oblige. We're pretty funny, so I think everyone will enjoy it. If not, well, too bad. It's my blog and I'll post what I want.

Sooooo.... Storytime! We'll start at the beginning- the day BFF and I first met.

Imagine a tender, innocent Birv (Well. More innocent than I am now, anyway. Shut up! Why are you laughing?), her parents just having left after moving her into the dorm. My college fantasy of giggle-filled, slumber party nights with a popular, bouncy ponytailed, cheerleader-type roommate to bring me out of my cynical shell had just been dashed when my roommate Nancy showed up to our room (toting only two laundry bags of clothes and full-size fridge, by the by), and I honestly thought she was her brother. "Oh hey, you must be with Nancy. Aren't you a nice brother to bring that fridge up here?" "I AM Nancy." "oh...." (Not sure where my fantasy came from, as I knew that my alma mater was a gay haven from the college visit. My hag training started EARLY). Anyway, after a brief introduction, Nancy went off- and I'm not making any sort of stereotype joke, I swear to god it's true- to her very first softball practice, and I was left in my room alone.

Webster has some decent dorms- rather than have communal showers in the halls, the rooms are set up suite-style, with two rooms to a bathroom. Not to get overly familiar, but you know how when you're traveling, you're digestion gets a little... off? Well. The time comes for me. I gotta go. I had seen the blonde girl next door moving in with her parents, but, being too shy to do any more than wave, I hadn't spoken to her yet. But her door to the bathroom is open.

Seriously? This is my introduction? Awesome. But... I GOTTA GO. So I can either slam the door in her face without any explanation, or I can tell her why I'm closing the door. My thought process? How bitchy is that girl that just shut the door for no reason?! So the first words I ever speak to BFF are these: "I'm really sorry, and I want to make sure that you know that it's not because I don't want to get to know you, but I'm closing your bathroom door. Because, well, I have to go poop." (Yes, I'm a master of the overshare.)

The reason I know BFF and I were meant to be BFF's? Her response: "I'm so glad you're the first to poop here, because I didn't want it to have to be me!"