I expected this snafu to be remedied within hours. I suppose they're very busy.

It just occured to me that if I truly want to be a Blogebrity, I shouldn't post photos of myself, shorn and makeup-less, grimacing into the cam, my mouth a rictus of pain. In other words, the poo face is unfabulous.

Here's how I would prefer to be seen by the Blogebrity committee: hair extensions in place, face carefully painted, cocktail in hand.

I plan to remain all dolled up like this for the moving men, who are arriving in 45 minutes to drag all the furniture out of my soon-to-be-remodeled rumpus room. Jonny says a gangbang scenario is totally kosher-- in fact, encouraged. That husband of mine!

I'm not one of those bloggers who concerns herself with the blogging "scene," if there is such a thing. I'm pretty introverted by nature (no fooling), and even kind messages from strangers tend to trip my freak-out circuitry. Attend a blog-con in a strange city? I'd rather swill piss. Too many new people.

In fact, I don't even classify myself as a blogger-- more as a writer who lazily employs an electronic medium for self-publishing purposes. I couldn't cop a real writing gig in 2001, so I hand-coded a cornball site where I could post florid, self-centered rants about my own misfortune. The idea of an online community of LMFAO!-ing kinfolk didn't occur to me. Sure, I've swapped my share of links in an attempt to inflate my own hit count (and recognize bitches wit' talent) but I've never been an Uberblogger by any stretch of the vajay-jay.

That said, I'm fairly certain I'm one of a very select few bloggers who's actually had their blog adapted into a book by a major publisher. MOVIE STUFF NOTWITHSTANDING. I'm not even going to involve Juno in this shameless audit. I'm saying, consider the book as its own entity. Consider the fact that this blog was my only springboard. Then tell me why I'm not on the Blogebrity list.

Is it because I'm ugly? Obscene? Too smart? Not smart enough? Should I have replied to those well-meaning emails from Denmark? Should I have participated in those titillating personality surveys that beseech me to inform all my friends of my Favorite Snack and Hopes for the Future?

(The answers, for those who yearn: Chex Mix and total war.)

Somehow, I must have fucked up somewhere along the way. How am I not a Blogebrity? I mean, if Blogebrity status is determined solely by numbers, then I understand. I don't get a ton of hits relative to other blogs, but I like that. I like our exclusivity, don't you? We're a special club, you and I! We like pussy. I offer up my pussy to you, with gratitude. You can always rely on me to lay it all out there, whereas other bloggers simply allude to their darker yearnings.

Damn you, Blogebrity! Will I never be good enough?

(And yes, I noticed they include an email address so wannabes can "beg us to call you cool" or some such nonsense. Rest assured that I do not beg unless Jonny is waving his dick in my face.)

Jonny is currently eight songs deep into a self-penned, self-produced record, and it is so good I could cry. And I'm not just saying that because it's my wifely duty-- my wifely duties are purely physical. Read more about it here.

Sartorially speaking, I can't seem to drag my tattooed carcass into 2006. I see what the little 19-year-old girls are wearing out, and I can't hang. You see, I like to outfit myself in things that make me look attractive. They needn't be dull-- God knows I love my fake hair and animal prints-- but they do need to flatter My Humps and be somewhat wearable.

Here are some trends I will not/cannot wear:

'80s-inspired pumps: Heartbreaking, because I have stripping-related problems with my left foot and therefore am forced to wear to manly, broad-soled kicks with sufficient cushioning. Anything with a pointy toe or even a suggestion of a heel is raus for this client. I live in cowboy boots and Converse, even when they completely ruin the line of my outfit, because normal shoes make me whimper in pain. Karma? On Saturday, I went to Nordstrom Rack and bought a pair of pink Chinese Laundry ballet flats because they reminded me of the Sam & Libby craze of 1991. However, that's as dainty as I can possibly get. Plus--and I swear this isn't just sour grapes--those trendy little pumps are U-G-L-Y and they ain't got no alibi. Mischa Barton, you look stupid.

Leggings: You're pulling my fucking chain, right? This might be a textbook case of "if you were old enough to wear it the first time around, don't try again." I was the Duchess of Leggings in the seventh grade. I wore them with tunics, bolero jackets, Beefy Tees silkscreened with Donnie Wahlberg's smiling face. I weighed about a buck-five at the time, so I was able to pull off the look with some success. Now? Not so much. Even if I could squeeze into a pair of leggings, the effect would be totally George Lucas (Industrial Cellulite and Magic.) I'm not having it.

High-waisted, tapered-leg jeans: NO, NO, NO! Boot cut jeans are a present from Jesus. They flatter everyone. They negotiate my girlish curves, rather than straining against them. And they can take a boy's ass from broke to Brokeback in seconds. Tapered jeans are a hardship, a pox upon mankind. They flatter no one. There is a photo of me at 17--lithe, lissome, you bet-- wearing a pair of tapered Gap slim-fits. In the photo, I look like a 40-year-old mother of 5 simply because those jeans were so suck-ugly. I beseech everyone, thin or fat, please don't convince jeans manufacturers that we want to wear these things again. Vote with your dollar, your lira, whatevs.

Oh yeah: Hilary Duff? Fuck you for wearing those stupid Sass and Bide jeans and convincing US Weekly that we all need to follow suit. Plus, that's $238 you could have given to Haylie.

A bunch of layered cotton tops: This look adds bulk I'd sooner avoid, plus I can scarcely be arsed to wash one shirt, let alone 5. Also, it's very hard to nip-out through that much fabric, and you guys know how much I enjoy intentionally nipping-out. Diablo the Braless Wonder: bringing uncomfortable silences to meetings and parties everywhere!

So that's that. I'm not a total stick in the mud when it comes to trends-- I'm doing the huge sunglasses thing like everyone else, and I even bought that masochistic goo that stings your lips and makes them look plump (subtly plump, not Jessica Simpson-on-Restylane plump.) But I can't be totally au courant. It just wouldn't look hot.

******

In other news, I taught Sunday School at my church yesterday! Really-- I had the second, third and fourth graders, who had some surprisingly deep questions about the existence of the Easter Bunny. I stammered about the importance of blind faith for a few minutes, and then we made arts and crafts pertaining to a treacly-but-touching book about Jesus. I love pretending to be normal, even if it's only for an hour.

My brother is here today. He's never been to Minneapolis, despite the fact that I've lived here for over three years. I'm not bitter or anything. J/K! LMFAO!

I just took him to Psycho Suzi's, my default impress-the-guests haunt. Visitors are always instantly charmed by the tiki decor and the punk waitresses and the soapy-tasting cocktails. God knows I love those cheese curds! I may have cheated on the diet just a smidge this afternoon.

It would be rude and untoward of me to blog all afternoon with a sibling in the house, so I'll sum this up in haste: Barnabas is adorable.

See, I am so domestic! Behold, a jaunty sash of variegated wool yarn, handmade by me this very afternoon. I'm going to give this to my friend Trixi because she's always knitting me cool shit, including the infamous Fruity Pebbles Shawl.

Next week: I share my recipe for homemade whipped cream-- it involves rapid Kegels. See, I'll never let things get boring around here. Honest engine.

Speaking of manual labor and pleasures of the hearth, I am back on a handjob kick. Handjobs rule. Sometimes a good handjob can be even more endearing than reverse-cowgirl pyrotechnics. Plus, handjobs can be sweetly impersonal in dating situations. A handjob whispers, "I like you." It's a loose, light, no pressure type of mack. You don't have to worry that Handjob Girl (or Handjob Guy) is planning to drag you back to Skokie to meet her folks. It's a handjob. Likewise, if you're in an established relationship, a handjob says "I still like you" or "I'm sorry the Ambien doesn't work anymore-- let me help." Dang it, handjobs are NICE! And I'm trying to be nice lately!

Today's activity: doctoring an old pirate sock to make a gay-looking muscle shirt for Barnabas.

At least it fits him. When I put a standard-sized Chihuahua sweater on him, he waddles for a few disoriented moments, then tips over in defeat. Microscopic puppies call for drastic DIY measures! I think he likes the stripes-- he keeps wagging his tail and prancing.

I swear, I do have work to do.

Mr. Corey Anderson, the rock star. Many happy returns! And by that I mean "return my kiwi-strawberry lube already, I need it."

It's a special day. A day for true soulmates to share foie gras and champagne before embarking on the Anal Train to Cum Junction. Toot toot!

I have never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day (or holidays in general, with the exception of Saint Patrick's Pope-Sanctioned Guinness Binge, which I quite enjoy). I'd wager that 60% of Americans yearly have a disappointing (or downright shitty) Valentine's Day, and I can't bring myself to get behind a holiday that casts a dysthymic pall over the majority of the population. Imagine if Christmas was so exclusionary. Oh wait, it is. See what I mean? Holidays: lame. Treating regular days like holidays: awesome. It's the pirate way.

That said, I'm a lucky girl because I have an extremely romantic husband who enjoys holidays. He already got me a faux-croc dog tote so I can haul Barnabas to all my pressing engagements. Actually "haul" inaccurately implies physical effort-- Barnabas is apparently composed of helium and goosedown and could be carried with ease by a frail toddler. Right now B is napping on my lap, completely unaware of how sickeningly cute his dog ass is. His head lolls to one side. He smells like puppy shampoo and undistilled innocence. The World's Cutest Penis stares heavenward, a monument to canine perfection.

OK, here's my deal: Romance happens accidentally. We all know this. It happens when you don't expect it to or don't want it to or have given up hope. Valentine's Day is akin to fucking a guy who keeps asking "Are you going to come?" I mean, just let it happen, Elijah. God.

I hope everyone has a good one, regardless! I love you, honey.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Mike Saul!