Tuesday, March 29, 2011

I must really be on a roll, here.

**I'll be working 3rd shift this week, starting Wednesday, so I'm trying to adjust my sleep schedule *again.* The only reason I say this is so that you won't judge me for my indignation at being awakened at 3:30 pm.**

Today I got up around 11 am, ate, watched a horrible movie which I am POSITIVE that I've seen before but sure don't remember when it was, wished I had remembered watching it because then I would have remembered not to watch it again but now it's too late because I'm already watching it so I might as well finish it, read a little, then went back to bed around 1:30. Eventually Hubby came home, came into the bedroom and woke me up (as he always does when I'm trying to sleep...), chatted with  me for a bit, grabbed the laptop and went back into the living room. I heard our dog (who shall from now on be referred to as The Princess, despite being male) moving around quite a bit so I thought to myself as I was drifting back off to sleep "Huh, he's probably gotta go outside." I heard The Hubby grumbling at him before taking him outside, but then I was completely out and heard nothing else.

So when my phone rang around 3:30 I was a little surprised to see it was The Hubby calling. I was about to growl at him for being lazy enough to call me from another room in the house (not that big of a house, ya'll!), but then I remembered that none of that other stuff had happened. It was just a dream. Sonofabitch.

Thursday, March 24, 2011


Dear "The Office,"

Hi. I am a big fan of the American version of your show.  I'm sure I would also be a fan of the original British version had I ever watched it, but alas, I never have. Perhaps if I had, I would have become a fan of the whole shebang sooner than a couple months ago.

You see, what has kept me from watching all this time is the person playing Michael Scott. I have harbored a healthy (perhaps not-so healthy, really) dislike for Steve Carell for... well, pretty much forever. He seems to play the same character no matter what he is doing, and although it obviously has worked very well for him, I hate that character. Very strongly. It causes a serious, visceral reaction, where I want to growl and throw something at the screen. I still feel this reaction when it comes to his "work," but things have changed. I have made this exception.

A few months ago, Dear Hubby began watching the show on Netflix. It was on our only TV constantly, and since we have a smallish house and Dear Hubby considers ear-blasting to be the only acceptable volume level I simply could not escape either the sight or sound of it. He had expressed surprise from the beginning that I didn't like the show, since it definitely seemed to match my sense of humor. Turns out, he was right... once immersion in the show helped me to focus on the other characters, who are AWESOME, I came to love the show. Granted, I still wanted to punch Steve Carell in the face, but I was more easily able to overlook his antics and appreciate the way other characters interacted with him.

Imagine my dismay tonight when I tuned in to a new episode (Super amazing, by the way!! Loved it!!), and finally discovered Will Ferrell would definitely be replacing Carrell. The anticipation/dread has been building since I heard he would be leaving, because I have only just gotten to where I can tolerate him, and could only see things getting worse with the new "boss". I had no idea. The only person I hate worse than Steve Carrell is Will Fucking Ferrell. Well, Will Fucking Ferrell, Tom Cruise, and Sean Connery (I know, that one seems blasphemous to many but it's a long story...). But I knew there was no chance the replacement would be Misters Cruise or Connery, and I had heard the rumors about Ferrell. My only consolation is that Will Ferrell will only be *temporary*--rumors are that Will Arnett will eventually be moving into the position, and I'm okay with him. But still... I'm not sure how many episodes will be featuring Douchecanoe Ferrell, so I don't know how many chunks of hair will be missing from my head by the time he's gone. I can only hope that my schedule will be such that I am simply unable to watch. Please remember your reluctant fans when it comes to casting in the future. I'm sure I will eventually cave into the curiosity and watch these dreaded episodes, but please understand that it will be past folded arms and narrowed eyes. Best of luck!

The ZB


I've been working from 5 am - 1 pm this week, (yay for working again!) but so far it sucks. Big time. My body has firmly decided that it prefers a sleep schedule that does not want anything to do with this particular work schedule. In theory, it's nice to be getting off work early in the afternoon, but it doesn't matter if I'm so exhausted from not being able to sleep the night before that I just go home and go to bed. Yesterday I took a nap right after I got home, and was feeling like American Idol comes on too late for me to watch it these days. I was worried I'd already be in bed by 7. But the nap helped tremendously, so I was able to wait until *after* watching that horrible, awful, addicting show before passing out. Today wasn't so bad, though, so maybe I'm starting to adjust. Fingers are crossed.

The other night (during the two hours I was able to kind of sleep) I had a hilariously bizarre dream. (Note: I frequently have bizarre dreams, but more on that later. Perhaps another post.) In this particular dream, I was walking through my house because I couldn't sleep. I heard someone stop in front of our house, so I went to the window to see what was going on. Of course, in this dream I was naked, so I didn't want whoever it was to see me. But I had all the lights on in the house despite the late hour, so I *knew* they knew someone was up. Turns out it was a friend of a friend, who in the dream I remember lives down the street because I remember him having stopped by on his way home a few times. In reality, he does not live nearby and has never been to our house. I recognized him *in the dark* because he was driving his Blazer and had his tattooed arm hanging out the window. Again, in reality he does not own a Blazer and doesn't have tattoos covering his arms. But in the dream, it was TOTALLY my friend, and I DEFINITELY did not want him to see me naked. We're not that close. So I decided to text him to let him know that I was just getting ready for bed, and I wasn't trying to be rude. Again. I do not even have this person's phone number. Are you getting the weirdness? But then it gets awesome.

Fast forward a little bit (because I can't remember what happened between these parts of the dream...), and suddenly I'm running outside (dressed now, of course) because I found out that *someone* had let my cats outside. They are strictly inside cats, except for a few dramatic escape attempts that make yet another story for another time. So I'm going outside after them, and when I'm going to scoop up one of the cats (we shall call her The Pants, the other cat shall be called Juggabutt) from the ditch across the street, neighbors outside barbecuing (Note: It's still nighttime when I should be sleeping). I look off to the left because OMG THERE'S A COUGAR AND A LEOPARD!!! And they looked irritated. So I scoop up The Pants and scramble to find Juggabutt to take her inside too before the BIG cats decide it's dinner time. Then suddenly The Pants and Juggabutt aren't an issue anymore, because they run inside all on their own when the big cats decide they're interested in *me.*  Luckily, the leopard disappeared (I guess my brain decided that THAT was a little too bizarre, therefore not believable enough to maintain a presence in the dream.), but the cougar moved into my driveway close to my garage. Also luckily, some random chick (who I believe was responsible for my kitties being outside) was standing behind the cougar (who stood up on his hind legs and walked menacingly over to me) holding an ice pick and a kitchen knife. I knew that it was my purpose to kill this vicious kitty, so I ice-picked him in the heart. He gave me this pitiful "How could you??" look, paws outstretched in true Jesus form, then proceeded to not die. So I cut him with the kitchen knife. He finally collapsed on the ground, but still was not dead. I ran inside.

*Fast forward*  I look out the window and see the cougar lying on the ground, flopping around all melodramatic, but clearly faking it. I mean, he was really milking it. It was like a bad movie. He wanted pity, and apparently he was never going to die. Then I hear something in the laundry room, so I go in there and find that same damn woman digging my dog out of a laundry basket full of clothes. (???) I ask her what the hell she is doing, and she says "I think he wants to go outside." So I of course say, "What the fuck are you thinking, woman? There's a goddamn COUGAR outside!!" She scoffs. So I tell her I will PROVE IT TO HER, and take her to the front door. And wouldn't you know it, that damn cougar is sitting on my porch, staring at my door, pitiful face and all. I decide to call the police, and they say "Yeah, we had come by there earlier after one of the neighbors called about a cougar, but we figured you could take care of it, so we left. How's that situation going, by the way?"  I started to tell them about my ice pick misadventure... when my alarm went off.   When I later tell my hubby that I dreamed a cougar was outside, he simply shrugs and says, "Eh, Pants would have taken care of it. She's a tough kitty." *Facepalm*

Monday, March 21, 2011


So... been messing around on the computer pretty much all day. Trying to get this blogging thing figured out, but I keep getting sidetracked. I was checking out some of the stuff that Google Reader recommends for me based on what I'm already reading. Some of the recommendations are right up my alley, some not so much... I enjoy quite a few different "genres" of blog topics, so I'm sure poor Google Reader doesn't quite know what to recommend to me.

These were some of the posts that showed up as suggestions today (Note: These are blog/article titles, not the titles of the hosting websites, and you should also most definitely click on them):
Things You Shouldn't Put In Your Vagina
How Pee Helps Us Understand Social Media
Photos of Basset Hounds Running (And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like.)

HOW DID THEY KNOW!?!? I may be in love... There were some truly amazing pages recommended, in any case, so maybe I can try making sharing the awesomeness I come across a semi-regular thing that I do.

However, Reader also assumes I'm interested in blogs about cooking and tech stuff, so I know they are DEFINITELY capable of making errors in judgement.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Damn you, St. Patrick's Day. Damn you.

Apparently today is a holiday of sorts. A holiday of green beer, green baked goods, leprechauns or otherwise small jaunty Irishmen, shamrocks, bad accents, parades, limericks and other bad poetry, and an assortment of other stereotypes insulting to the proud Irish people. Well, I assume they would be insulted if they weren't too drunk to notice. *BA DUMP-BUMP*

It's also a day that I declare dedicated to whores and assholes, be they Irish or be they... not Irish. Bear with me on this one: What happens on St. Patrick's day through all the drinking and the green cake crumbs pasted all over the faces of office-workers desperate to believe they're having fun?  You get pinched if you're not wearing green. This is where the whores and assholes come in.

These assholes are most likely easy to spot based on their totally original "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" tee-shirts, pins, trucker hats, belt buckles, and beer helmets, as well as the bloodshot eyes, leering grin and the stench of their mother's disappointment. (Odds are you would already recognize this particular breed from their tendency to otherwise be sporting gel-spiked hair while wearing Ed Hardy tees or message shirts saying things like "I'm not as drunk as you think I am". They probably also frequently quote Dane Cook.)

But you must also be on the lookout from the whores, who, let's face it, act like they're just wanting to get a pinch from one of the assholes. They're the ones who will wear no obvious green, only to giggle and fake outrage when pinched, as they beg you to look into their eyes--because their EYES are green, silly! *giggle giggle* (*facepalm* Everyone knows that doesn't count!) Or they'll slyly attempt to peel down the waistband of their too-tight skinny jeans to show their potential suitor their bright green panties. "See? I'm wearing green!" *eyelash-bat giggle giggle*  You might think they're just looking for an ass-pinch, fellas. But then they'll be furious when you do it, as well they should be. Never pinch a stranger's ass, even if that stranger appears to be a whore.

Keep in mind the poor fellow who mistakenly thinks St. Patrick's Day is a trumped up holiday and therefore forgets that some random day in March dictates the color tie he should wear. Or the person who vehemently despises the color green due to the inability to find anything that doesn't look like strained peas or baby shit when they're wearing it. Or someone who is colorblind and therefore buys everything in colors that they can easily distinguish, green being a typical blind spot. None of this matters to me.

I despise holidays which *force* you to participate with an immediate, physically violent punishment for neglecting this duty. This is the only one I can think of right now. Therefore it gets all of my loathing. Even New Year's Eve is somewhat forced because you are *forced* to accept that you didn't even come close to sticking to the previous year's resolution, and you might as well donate that size six "goal dress" to your more attractive sister. She had picked it out anyway, knowing damn well your fat ass wasn't gonna be laying off those pints of Ben & Jerry's anytime soon. But nobody pinches you for not "participating."  This is where the "assholes" come in, and trust me, they're out in full force and drunk to boot on this particular holiday. No matter what your excuse, if you're not sporting at least a green sticker you're getting pinched. True assholes will pinch even if you've got some green, claiming they didn't see it anyway. These are the bastards that'll be sneaking up behind everyone to pinch them, because most people will be able to at least find something to pin to the front of their shirt, but might not think of the vulnerable back of their shirt.

In any case, I don't like being forced to participate in a holiday of any sort through the threat of violence. And to me, a pinch is violent. (I bruise easily.) However, I must admit that it's a highly persuasive threat, due to the bruising factor, so I'm wearing greenish cargo pants and green knee socks. My shirt is black and gray, though. *Boosh*  You pinch me, I'm calling the motherfucking cops. Asshole.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Maybe should've thought that through a little better.

I've been sick since Monday (the sniffling, coughing, can't-sleep-because-I-can't-breathe kind; not the puking your guts out kind, luckily(?)), have been off work without pay for now *two* weeks, and am anxiously waiting to see if that two will stretch to *three* weeks or if I can keep crossing my fingers and hoping that next week I will be back bringing in some money.

Yet I still have a smile on my face, because two things I had ordered came in today. It's hard NOT to be happy when you're reading a book called "You Might Be A Zombie and Other Bad News", from the editors of Cracked.com, and knowing that when you finish that one you will be reading a book called "5 Very Good Reasons To Punch A Dolphin In The Mouth" by Matthew Inman, creater of the oh-so-hilarious theoatmeal.com.

Yes, I am that person. The one who spends a ridiculous amount of her free time--and time best spent in more useful pursuits--on websites with absolutely no purpose other than pointing out the obvious, making you feel like an uneducated idiot, and making you laugh hysterically. And to make it even better, now they put it in book form. To put on the coffee table that I no longer have. So I can have the opportunity to pay for content I could get for free on the internet. So I don't have to go through all the effort of *turning on my computer* anymore. Which I still will, anyway.

So they win... But now if I'm talking to a friend about a hilarious website I can give them a book they won't read instead of a link they won't click. Awesome. 

Monday, March 14, 2011

But seriously, why did it end up there?!

Was just commenting on this about the hubby's (and seemingly all men's) tendency to try to "fix" the problems of those nearest and dearest to their hearts. How considerate of them, really, but in all honesty most of us ladies just need to vent sometimes and be heard. We want to know that someone knows we are dealing with something we don't like, whether it's major life decisions or the need to switch the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer (dealing with said load of laundry after it's ready to be put away is back to being a major life decision...), and that they support us and know we work hard and every miniscule action is a drastic battle to change our lives, and that we obviously deserve a medal for the sacrifices we make and the obstacles we overcome on a daily basis.

How dare they presume to offer advice when we don't ask for it! Especially logical, sound advice which makes perfect sense, except for the fact that THAT is totally irrelevant at that point.

Especially when it's MY hubby, who automatically jumps to the assumption that if he can't find a certain screwdriver (which naturally he was the last person to use), it must have been stolen. Or *I* must have done something with it. I don't know how many times he has stomped around the room asking what *I* did with [insert random object here] (<-----Side note: *tee hee*). Usually something that typically I don't have much need for. And the more time he spends looking for it, the more frustrated he gets, making him less likely to find it. I refer to this as him going "mad-blind." I frequently have to look for things because he goes "mad-blind" and neglects to look NEXT TO areas he would typically put the things, underneath things near the areas he would typically put the things, or on the floor near areas he would typically put the things. Eventually I'll help him look for it, despite his protests that he doesn't need my help, he can find it or (suddenly) he probably doesn't even really need it, or maybe he could borrow one from his dad, and why would I be able to find it when he can't? Obviously it's gone. The look on his face when I find it after 15 seconds is priceless. The love I feel for him knowing we're just going to go through the same process a few more times before the week's out is even better.

We have fun with it now, though. At least now, after a few years of going through this constantly, as soon as something is discovered to be "missing" one of us will smile, sigh, and sadly say "Someone must have stolen it..." So although I very deeply want to punch him in the face for offering advice and not just commiserating when I'm whining/complaining to him about whatever, I don't. Because we all have our flaws.

Yesterday, I found the Holy Grail of his missing items, a certain screwdriver, on top of the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Even *I* was baffled by that one. Those tricksy thieves.

Friday, March 11, 2011

*CLUNK* "What was that noise?" "Oh, my jaw just hit the floor. Then my eyes rolled back and I passed out from terror."

Have just been reading about the oh-so-wonderful hCG diet. You know, the one where you inject yourself daily with human choriogonadotropin. This is a hormone found only in pregnant women, allowing them to move excess fat to the fetus, so that it will have enough in the event that the mother doesn't take in enough nutrients to adequately support fetal growth during the pregnancy.

Since it only affects those troublesome areas of belly, thighs, hips, and booty (because those are areas where excess fat isn't physically necessary, but tends to pile up much to the chagrin of millions of men and women worldwide), once the lucky dieter has melted off those pounds, they become "immune" to the treatment and must wait about six weeks for it to fully cycle out of their system before starting another round. Of course more than three or four cycles of "treatment" aren't recommended. In theory, they shouldn't be necessary, because it is supposed to keep the weight off... just like every other diet claims to do. Some of the side effects may be headaches, increased risks of blood clots, restlessness, ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (which is potentially life-threatening), and depression. Also, not-surprisingly, one might experience symptoms commonly experienced during pregnancy. Oh, and PREGNANCY can also be an unfortunate side effect, since although the FDA hasn't approved this for dieting purposes (here's hoping that move isn't made anytime soon!), they HAVE approved hCG as a fertility drug. So *there* people trying to lose massive amounts of weight through bad decision-making. Your bad decision could lead to the need for healthy weight gain.

Did I forget to mention the part about... ? Yep. Knew I was forgetting something. And it's a good one, too. You're going to love it. YOU'RE ONLY ALLOWED TO EAT 500 CALORIES A DAY. Of course nobody on a diet would ever admit to experiencing hunger pangs, so apparently they're not bothered by this after the first few days. Please see this helpful guide for tips straight from the horse's mouth (that is, the mouth of Dr. Simeons, who established the "diet regimen" in the 1950s): ...And start at page 6 for the real wow factor. Please, please PLEASE note that I am very much against this diet, and am providing this link for entertainment purposes only. If the sarcasm and incredulous nature of the post thus far has not come through, I sincerely apologize. On my end of the computer, I feel like my eyes are about to pop out from shaking my head so much with sheer amazement. People truly amaze me with the dangerous lengths they will go to to lose weight. Not to mention that the shots can cost about $10 apiece, and the "consultation" visits. If you use that website, you can get a 30-day supply for $89.95, in drop form rather than injection; $69.99 for the supplement that provides energy, works as an appetite suppressant, and naturally is good for stress relief as well. Then there's the box containing twelve 30 gram packets of "meal replacement powder" for $39.99. How many of those do you think you'd need? This *basic* package would run you a total of almost $200, but one might also choose a 60-day supply (note: they do not recommend being on the "diet" for more than about 40 days in a "treatment") for a meager $159.95. Besides, think of all the money you're saving on food! Come on now, that's a deal! *stabs self in eye*

Alright people, this is ridiculous. Apparently this diet has made a dramatic resurgence in popularity, they're giving these injections in all kinds of places. Or they're neatly avoiding potential medical career suicide by showing dieters how to do the injections themselves, even that first injection. Even if this "diet" tricks your body into thinking it's all cool, limiting yourself to 500 calories a day is astonishing in its ignorance. At that rate, as many others on the interwebs have said, whatever you're shooting yourself up with doesn't matter. However, the upside is that they don't exactly recommend exercise with this particular diet... Gee. Wonder why? Dizziness?  Pssh. Obviously anyone not expecting dizziness during exercise when you're only ingesting 500 calories a day just isn't serious about their diet. They should probably stop.

No, seriously. Please.    


Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Maybe one day my posts will be sunshine and light...

Off work this week, going a little crazy. Today was the kind of day that not even wearing my Mortimer the Panda hat could fix. I'm trying to find a new job, because I don't like not knowing how things are going to happen. Not sure if anything's going to come up. Resumes have been sent out, applications have been turned in, contacts have been . . . well, I haven't got that far yet. I'm having problems getting to that point. But who knows. Did a lot of running around town today, chasing the dog around, forgetting to pick up more dog treats, cleaning off the coffee table we're supposed to be getting rid of, and it's been pouring down rain all day, leaving the yard a flooded, muddy mess. By the time the hubby got home from work I had a sad going on. Bright spot: Stopped and treated myself to some ice cream, despite the rain.

My current job is temporary with a *chance* of becoming full-time and permanent after 6 months, and I don't know how many of these unpaid "vacation" weeks to expect. One of my deep-seated, neurotic, obsessive needs is for stability and consistency in my life. I know there is always a chance that your time at a company won't last, but I'm not used to a definite timeline to expect to become obsolete. So I'm looking for other options, but prepared to stay if I can't find anything. That puts the panicking off for 5 more months, which actually is much more like something I would do. But I've been lucky enough so far to not have to leave a job without having another one lined up, and would like to continue that trend. Complicating matters slightly, even though this isn't my ideal job by any stretch of the imagination, it could eventually pay well if I get promoted to supervisor or if I get kept on full-time, and I don't know if whatever else I could find would pay the same. And although it's frustrating at times (aren't they all?), it's definitely a do-able job.


Fuck. In all honesty, my biggest problems are my ego and self-esteem. I'm trying to maintain those things at a manageable, healthy level, since they've been suffering from a pretty big nosedive over the past few months. Granted, they weren't that high to begin with, but they were at levels that were a major improvement over where they've been the majority of my life. But now I've become an asshole, wanting to tie my self-esteem to what I'm doing to make money, and being disgusted disappointed in myself for not being where I wanted to be. I want to do something at least close to my "chosen field," but today I applied at a grocery store. And honestly, if my old job called back right now saying that a position had opened up, I don't know if I would take it. I don't think I'm ready to go back there to the same problems, even if the work meant a hell of a lot to me. I guess, though, that this is why I left there and took this job in the first place: To try and figure out what I want. And I've kinda figured that out, but I can't get to that point for a while. It needs funding, and for now, that means. . . this, I guess. This up-in-the-air bullshit that I really can't stand. Maybe I've set my standards too high. I swore I'd never go back to retail, but I have totally applied for positions in retail. I just need to get over myself. The majority of people with  my major end up doing something totally unrelated to what they went to school for, and I'm sure they didn't plan on that, so why should I be any different? I'll keep working on that. I hope that anyone who reads this will see some improvements in mood and tone over time. I just hate feeling like I'm back in this funk again. Maybe soon I'll post something I had written about being in the depths of my depression, so you'll know where I'm coming from, and hopefully you'll get to see me moving beyond that. Some day.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Recent Thoughts

. . .It's totally not fair how when you're unable to get to sleep all you can think about is how much you need to get to sleep, which leads to higher stress levels and adds to your insomnia.

. . .If I had a pink Vespa, I would name it Princess. Then I would have a Princess Vespa, and people might think twice about wanting to run over it when I would inevitably park it in a parking space for a car when there are clearly-marked spaces provided for motorcycle parking in the damn work parking lot. After all, it's only common courtesy to park in the appropriate space for your mode of transportation, especially when parking your pink Vespa in a car space means someone else has to park way far away from the factory. But "Princess" Vespa might be too much for a would-be Vespa-destroyer to run over, since it may have the power of the Schwartz with it, or at least a fella with a large man-dog ready to defend it's honor at any time.

. . .I really want a pink Vespa now, and I don't even have a deep and abiding love for the color pink.

. . .Lollipops and Popsicles are similar in many ways, and it is not funny for the "Lollipop Guild" song from The Wizard of Oz to pop into your head when you are packing Popsicles into boxes. In fact, it may cause you to yell "FUCK!!" really loudly when you are packing said Popsicles into boxes.

. . .If Hubs went to work at a factory making sweets of whatever sort, could I refer to him as a sugar daddy even if it's totally not regarding finances?

. . .Having Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" stuck in your head (or actually hearing it playing if you're lucky...) can always improve your day, or at least the moment.

. . .I love tattooed men...

. . ."I swear I am not here with the sole intention of ruining your goddamn day!!"

. . .On the celebrity-related front:  Wow, Tom Cruise really did ruin use of the word "glib," but it's a pretty funny-sounding word anyway. Also, WTF Charlie Sheen?!

. . .I also thought about situations where "LBVS" (laughing but very serious) would be appropriate. "My sister's daughter was placed in protective custody after she choked on a button that popped off of the male stripper's costume at her 6th birthday party... LBVS." "I think that homeless woman gave me herpes... LBVS." "My 92-year-old grandmother was just killed in a skydiving accident... LBVS." "I thought this was tuna. The can says Chicken of the Sea... so is it chicken? LBVS."

. . .People should not change their names on social networking sites for any reason other than it being legally changed in the real world, too. I almost deleted someone because I thought some random person I didn't know had somehow managed to become a Facebook friend. Also, it's hard to look at profile pics on your phone when you're trying to determine who the hell this strange person is. Let's just say this person went from the initials "L.H." to "J.S." on the profile. No reason, no comment about why.

. . .My panda hat is now named Mortimer. Mortimer the Panda. And he, like "Bohemian Rhapsody," can always improve my mood. That, and saying "That's what she said." Or "So's your face."