Archive | December, 2010

What. The. Fuck.

29 Dec


Dear Sports Optical Marketing,

This is not okay. This was not flagged as spam.

I am baffled and infuriated at your lack of: 1. Tact and 2. General Good Decision Making in Marketing.

It’s one thing to include the link to your blog/website in a comment you make on a post–you put thought into that comment, so plug away.


You chose to advertise for yourself, for FREE, in a grammatically incorrect manner on a blog which has absolutely nothing to do with your service.

I live in Dallas. I do not bike.

I do not approve of your bullshit.

Please, dear readers, remember that when you comment, comment well. If you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say it. Comments are not merely a platform for your free advertisement. Comments are a lifeblood of a blog. I want to hear what you say. I want to know what you think. So do so many other bloggers in this world who work so hard to make you smile, laugh, think, and take a little time out of life for you every day.

Do not. DO NOT. Do not whore me out for your benefit.

Jesus Christ, at least buy me a fucking drink or something.

To my own commenters: I love you. You do so well. You have no idea the joy I feel when I see the comments that you post on my blog. I can’t believe that anyone reads my stuff at all, so when you comment, you make me feel like less of a failure.


Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: What I Gave

27 Dec

I’m currently shithoused in a condo in the Colorado mountains, awaiting my day on the slopes on Wednesday, still shithoused but wearing my knee brace.

I’ll update you on my Christmasventures another day. It’s been joy(rum)filled.

Thus far, I have recommended products for you that have gone untested by my vigorous standards.

I saved a few recommendations for y’all until after I tested them within my own family and friends. I wanted to make sure that there would be no injuries, no explosions, no maimed penguins (at least, not without reportable hilarity) because as you well know, I am a sucker for scientific exploration.

1. Hand-Crafted Love

Nothing says, “I like you more than I do most people,” than homemade gifts.

Or does it say, “I’m fucking cheap.” Damnit, now I’m self-conscious again.

This all started with Simone Bernhard, of Chapeaux by Simone, who is adorable and makes fantastic hats and helped me endlessly when I asked on Twitter one fateful night, “Does anyone know how to cross-stitch?” Simone almost immediately answered that she did, and then shit went downhill from there.

$13 IHaveNoFuckingClueWhyThisIsAGoodIdea

Suddenly, it went from making one silly thing to four (Simone? Did I not tell you? Yours is almost finished.) Then, after mangled fingers and endless repetitions of “FUCK THIS SHIT. WHY DOES THIS KEEP KNOTTING UP,” we have the finished product.

How did this happen.

To Elizabeth, a dear friend from Flourish-in-Progress and a mostly Texas Native:

To Lana, for various reasons up to and including and incident with vaginas at Fast Eddie’s:

To Grace, in folksy remembrance of our favorite song, Fancy by Reba McEntire:

Nothing says love like framed dirty words.

2. I’m here, and I ALWAYS WILL BE.

Have you seen that stupid fucking Kay commercial where the grown ass woman needs her stalker boyfriend to protect her from the drizzle outside?

Piss off, ma’am.

A good idea nonetheless. I don’t live terribly close to my family, so what better gift than to be with them? Forever. Frozen in time. With eyes that stare into your very soul and with each passing minute drive you deeper into insanity and hatred for your family.

Grace received this in the mail about a month ago.

Don't judge me. It was a transitional haircut. And clothing choice.

Step 1: Find the worst possible picture of yourself

Step 2: Go to, and order a cardboard standee, starting at only TEN FUCKING DOLLARS.

Step 3: Tell no one. Await the joy.

This is the one Ma received. Yes, that is butterfly spandex.

What is the best gift you ever gave?

7 Holiday Fuck Arounds I Hope Don’t Happen Again This Year

22 Dec

It’s been difficult to have a Christmas spirit today. I’m wandering around my home in an old jiu-jitsu shirt and cheerleading pants that are around 9 years old, frantically cleaning, wrapping, listing, and packing in anticipation of a vacation and my mother in law taking care of my cats while we are away–dildos and booze have been hidden (not that she would use either of those items. What the fuck is wrong with you, Leaguers?).

My house is a fucking hurricane of glitter, 409, and Long Island Iced Teas.

While every December threatens to destroy my mind with social events galore and the destruction of my hyper-organized (read: OCD) sensibilities in the wake of and their ridiculous shipping methods, I have the hope that this year will not be as bad as it has been in the past.

1. The Lubricated Christmas

When I was 8, my great grandmother gave me half a jar of vaseline with a tissue in it. Grace, 12, got 7 Bic Pens.

Yes, I know there was kindness in giving behind it. But at 8, what I saw in that gift bag was rejection. A lack of blisters for years and years to come, yes, but still–slippery, awful rejection.

The Sparkle Makes it Better

2. We Didn’t Have Motherfucking Rudolph.

This is, I think, one of my mom’s fondest memories of our family.

I’m baffled by this logic.

We used to live in the Texas Panhandle, and my stepdad, for a while, lived in Denver. My mom wanted us to be a family for Christmas, which God himself did not approve of, and on Christmas Eve, struck EVERY ROAD IN BETWEEN AMARILLO AND DENVER WITH A BLIZZARD TO END ALL BLIZZARDS.

Every road was closed. I remember being sad, but again, I still believed in Santa, and was certain that if we were not together on that day, Santa and Jesus wouldn’t leave any gifts.

So mom found a map, and we took backroads the whole way, driving 30 miles an hour through 2 feet of snow in her GMC. What was a 6 hour MAX trip turned into 14 hours.

Mom thought it was a bonding experience. To her, we were pioneers, or Postmen, who would stop at nothing for holiday cheer.

Grace and I did not comprehend or appreciate her Oregon Trail attitude. It remains as a memory of spite.

Tell Pa We're A-Comin

Did you know that it is Federal law to play Christmas Songs all day and night on Christmas Eve, and that I have heard literally EVERY version of Jingle bells? It haunts my dreams.

3. The Sunnyside Up Christmas

That same 14 hour Christmas, where the three of us drove so long in such horrible conditions to be with the the stepdad, he refused to spring for the $10 a plate brunch at the Adam’s Mark Hotel (which included entrance to the Gingerbread Competition Hall). That was too steep for the Ingalls Girls.

So we ate our Christmas meal at the Sunnyside Up Cafe, which apparently was the gathering place for every drug dealer in Denver (hooray for terrible alliteration).

Keep in mind, y’all, I was like, 9.

When the man behind us grabbed my cheek and said how cute I was, and what was a young girl like me doing on the bad side of town *wink*, we were done.

4. I’m Cool, My Face Broke My Fall

Adrian LOVES to snowboard. He’s very good at it. He’s that crazy bastard you see on a double black diamond, balls to the wall as fast as he can.

I prefer to go very, very slowly down some fairly flat runs.

But last year, while he was trying to teach me how to go toe-side on my board, I decided I’d make him proud and show off a little, going a lot faster than I usually do.

I pictured myself swishing by him, dazzling him with his wife’s talents.

In reality, I caught a tree branch sticking up out of the snow on the front edge of my board, flipped over 360 degrees in the air, and landed, with all my weight, on my face. 2 feet from Adrian. Mouth fulla’ snow and everything.

Have you ever seen the grape stomping accident video on YouTube? I made those noises.

But Snowier and With A Snowboard. Sexy.

5. Ma and the Mouse

Before it got destroyed in one of our house fires, we used to have a train that went around the tree. It was delightful. It spread cheer and some smoke-like substance for miles around (and subsequently, was only on for about 10 minutes or so at a time, as the “steam” created a pneumonia machine in our home).

One year, while Grace and I were putting it together, Ma spotted a mouse in the caboose of the train. Mice were not unusual for us, we lived in the country and a mouse or two was nothing to balk at.

However, a mouse in the caboose was panic-worthy.

Grace and I spent an hour building an impenetrable fortress around the train to trap said mouse. Upon poking the mouse to get him dart into the mixing bowl prison, Grace promptly discovered it was a Goddamn ball of lint.


Not a Folded Mouse

6. Christmas At Normandy Beach

At my Granny’s house, we enjoy playing games at Christmas. But you know how I go too far with things?

That’s an inherited trait.

If you’ve never played Spoons, it can be a rather raucous game. This is proven by the many, many battle wounds my aunt has given each and every one of us over the years.

This woman is about 5′ tall, weighs about 57 pounds, and has taken a linebacker to the floor of the dining room for his spoon. Just last year, she bit Grace on the thumb, scarred my wrist, broke a sturdy chair, and destroyed a STEEL spoon. Decimated.

What was once a fun game for the game’s sake, has now become Russian Roulette on the Beaches of Normandy. Only those willing to die can come out alive.

Like Sophia Patrillo in Deer Hunter.

7. The Christmas that Didn’t Wash Off

Grace and I used to own pigs for 4-H.

What I mean to say is, we have always been classy ladies.

If you have never smelled pig smells, then you don’t know how horrible and permeating they can be. What has been smelled, cannot be unsmelled–or washed off. Ever.

So, as we are preparing to leave for my Granny’s house, we go to feed said pigs. Grace, almost immediately, falls into the pig pen, right into a massive mud hole.

Mom, as you know from the 14-Hour Christmas, is one for never looking back, and pushing forward in the face of even the most stupid conditions. She did not allow Grace and I to go home and wash off–and in her anger at us, slammed the door to the truck on her hand, breaking 4 of her fingers horribly in the process.

She never even flinched.

We drove 2 hours to my Granny’s House smelling horribly of pigshit and staring, half in awe and half in ardent disgust,  at Ma’s mangled hand.


Here's a Tree that Looks Like Untamed Bush. Welcome.

What’s the worst or funniest Christmas you have ever had?

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Store Etiquette Refresher

20 Dec

1. Child Appropriate Behavior

I don’t have children. I don’t think I want children. I’m resentful of unruly children.

However, after teaching children for many many years, I realize that sometimes, there’s nothing you can do about a screaming child. Could be hungry, could be tired, could be a demon–who knows. You’ve done what you can think of short of pleading to the Gods of the Backyardigans, but they’re on a screaming, punching, crying tirade. You’ve tried. I see that. I sympathize with you, and will make a sadly empathetic frowny face as I walk by you.

Inappropriate Action That Really Took Place: As Grace witnessed on Saturday, to strap your three-year-old to the sunshade of your stroller with your belt.

Appropriate Action: Shame your child. Shame them and implant horrible fears of abandonment into their hearts. Don’t be afraid to use Santa. “Do you think for one second that I will not trade you in for a starving, grateful, well-behaved child in Africa? Did you know Santa also offers that service? Child swapping? Well, you’ll find out on Christmas, I guess.”

2. Check-Out Load Evaluation

There’s a shitload of people in this Wal-Mart. So many, in fact, that there are no carts available, so I decided to grab my ranch, croutons, and gallon of milk and just carry them up to the checkout.

But Ma’am, I am aware you saw me walking towards express checkout, and I am even more acutely aware that you FUCKING SPRINTED to the line with your CART loaded with ONE PACK OF TISSUE PAPER AND HAIR DYE. Fuck you to death, ma’am.

Inappropriate Action That Really Took Place: Not everyone is aware of the rule that if you have a cart and the person behind you does not, you let them go ahead–I forgive you for this. However, you chose to leave your cart behind you in the line so I cannot even set my things down. You know you’re doing it, too, because you’re purposely not making eye contact with me. Then, when we both make it to the parking lot at the same time, YOU STILL BRING YOUR CART WITH YOU WITH YOUR ONE BAG IN IT, YOU LEAVE YOUR CART NEXT TO MY CAR.

Appropriate Action: Shove your cart into the women’s clothing section–a jungle conveniently located right behind the express lane. I’ll be checked out and in my car by the time you get back. I’ll wait for you to go to your car, then when you leave your cart, I’ll hold it until you pull out. At the last moment, I’ll shove your cart in front of your car as you drive away.


3. Grocery Cart Traffic

Yes, we all need M&M’s. I know this, for I am in the aisle with you. There are a lot of people here. My cart will come close to you, but for the love of my crippling social anxiety and claustrophobia, I will absolutely not touch you with it. I promise.

Inappropriate Action That Really Took Place: When my cart comes within 6 inches of you so I can grab some taco shells, you shove it back into my shins as hard as you can.

Appropriate Action: Do you see the panic in my eyes? I should remain unprovoked. If you shove a cart at me, be ready for Adrian, a man with many Black Belts, to swoop down from the juice aisle like a Hungarian Ninja and wreak havoc on your salami.

4. General Shopping Behavior

I know you don’t like to shop for Christmas either. The mall is packed, traffic sucks, you’re way behind schedule–I get it. WE ALL ARE.

Inappropriate Action That Really Took Place: Throwing your elbows straight out like you’re an rampaging square dancer when you’re grabbing some bows. Watching me reach for that candle and snatching it out of my hands. Wearing a too-small velour sweat suit and Uggs with your Jersey accent to the customer service counter in Target and trying to return a two-year-old car charger that broke last week. The Manager, and everyone in line will be angry at you.

Appropriate Action: IT’S CHRISTMAS, MOTHERFUCKERS. Show some joy, some sympathy. If you hate shopping that much, give to charity instead–The Bloggess proved how many people would kill to be in your shoes this year. Remind yourself that we’re all in this together, and the retail salespeople have it the worst this time of year.

Be kind. Remember what you have. Be grateful for what you have around you. And remember what you’re here for–a Merry Christmas and a HAPPY New Year.

PS-Booze Helps.

What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever seen holiday shopping?

Noa Gavin Presents: Games for Boring Meetings

15 Dec

Have you even been stuck in a meeting, the likes of which make you want to sizzle your corneas with a butane torch to have something to do? Well, friend, me too!

I mean, haven’t we all? Lucky for you–I’ve found many games that one can play to assuage your growing hatred for humanity without letting your boss know you’re not listening to any part of the “game changing plan”!

Game 1: George Bush Mouth

You Need: A mouth, a window/mirror, and a sense of danger.
How to Play: This game needs to be anticipated prior to the meeting. Place yourself near a window or mirror. Furrow your brows as if you’re thinking very hard, then, try to make your mouth as small as you can possibly make it, using all the dimensions of space! It’s good to start using a pencil/pen in your mouth, to give you a goal to shoot for! Even if you get caught, you look Uberfocused!
If this is the first time you’ve played, then make sure no one else can see your dumb ass. The more experienced you get–the more fun it is to fuck with people! Extra points if you have a companion to compete with. Whoever has the most anus-similar mouth when asked a question by a superior WINS!

Game 2: Space Invaders

You Need: A wheelie chair for Roundtable, a stationary chair for Classroom, a sense of comedic timing, a history of drinking games
How to Play: In either setting, you’ll need a “Trigger Word,” appropriate to the tone of the meeting.
Safety Training: “Hazard.”
Sexual Harassment Seminar: “Inappropriate, or Touching”
CPR Certification: “Chest.”
Motivational: “Goal.”
Classroom Style Meeting: Position yourself in the flunkie row. Assume the “I’m Interested In This Company’s Future” posture–lean forward, pen on paper. When you hear the Trigger Word, move forward an inch. Keep doing so until you are crotch to ass to the person in front of you.
Roundtable Style Meeting: Leapfrog! Every time you hear the Trigger Word, quickly zoom around the person to your left. Can you make it back to your original spot by meeting’s end? YOU LOSE, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU WORK IN A DEAD-END JOB!
Space Invaders is also fun to play with a friend. Choose separate Trigger Words and RACE!

Game 3: Table Bangers

You Need: To have a FANTASTIC rack, an obscenely low-cut shirt, a pen
How to Play: Pull down your shirt, show a little bra (or some nip, if you’re daring enough) and tally mark the Wang Bangs you hear on the conference table! Game can be played in rounds, for a longer meeting–simply change-up the way you display your water coolers while taking a blazer-straightening break in between.

Conversations with a Search Engine

13 Dec

Based off of search terms which led to me.

“Oh, Noa?”

“Hey, what’s up? So glad you found me.”

“Street Luge.”

“Oh, um. Yeah, sorry, I don’t know much about it.”

“Street Luge.”

“I only wrote about that once, and, really, just said street luge one time in that post.”

“Street Luge.”

“I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“Street Luge.”

“Motherfucker. I wrote ONE SENTENCE about it ONE TIME. HOW THE FUCK–”

“Velociraptor Costume.”

“OH! Okay, yeah, I do have some suggestions for you. Let me get them out.”

“Velociraptors love cupcakes.”

“Haha, yeah, I suppose they might. If they were children-filled.”

“john wayne cuckoo clock before christmas”

“You might be seriously disappointed in my content on that particular item.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hey. It’s a fucking John Wayne CUCKOO CLOCK. Or if you say it quickly, it’s John Wayne’s Cockoo Cluck. How is that not funny?”

“Man luge doubles.”

“What. The. Fuck. Sir.”

“She look tomy penis.”

“No, she certainly does not.”

“Trust no one.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that’s a good choice with you.”

“Lesbians in Lingere.”

“How much lesbian? Oprah is not even kind of a lesbian.”

“Gay bikers in Lingere.”

“I don’t think I have any of those here.”

“Button Crafty motherfucker.”

“I suppose Gay Bikers might be button crafty.”

“Always wearing tinted glasses.”

“Gay bikers don’t wear them, I think. Just Drag queens.”

“Drag queen in panties?”

“I’m fresh out of non-hetero references.”

“Prepare your anus nerd.”

“I hardly find that appropriate conversation, sir.”

“Point blank vagina.”

“If I wasn’t okay with the butthole suggestion, what makes you think this was okay?”

“Street Luge Boards.”


Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Lost Loved Ones

8 Dec

Holidays are especially difficult when you’ve lost a loved one recently. Christmas time means family time, and it’s a painful reminder of what you’ve lost.

But thanks to me, you don’t have to be in pain forever.

1. LifeGem: Curing your grief with SPARKLE

Time for some Razzle Dazzle

What. The. Fuck. Is. This.

I lost my Dad when I was three, but I cannot, for the life of me, imagine wearing him as a diamond around my neck for the past 20 years. Nor do I think he would have preferred that.

I know my sister recently lost the center stone of her wedding ring at an Aggie Football game–can you imagine losing Nana between the bleachers?

Or worse, having to explain to a date that it’s your two dead cats you’re wearing in your ears? De-fucking-lightful.

I’m sure this is a great option for some people (coughParisHiltoncoughcough), but I can’t imagine not looking like a stalker with this.

2. Perpetual Pet AKA Frozen Friends:

Cisco: As he was in life.

I love my pets like children–they sleep in my bed, I carry them around like infants, and I spoil them rotten.

But when they die, they die. I do not wish to have a constant reminder of their passing awkwardly poised on my sidetable. With headphones. And sunglasses. Staring back at me with cold, dead eyes.

Do you vacuum it to clean it? Is there a dead pet polish?

I’m so confused.

3. Amazon recommends Sleepless in Seattle.

I hate this movie.

In checking Amazon’s “Gifts for the Grieving,” list–this little movie made an appearance. Because nothing will help heal the heart of your best friend who just lost her husband than a shitty love story featuring mother fucking Meg Ryan.

You might as well ring her doorbell, and then punch her right in the crotch. It has the same sentiment behind it.

4. Photo Playing Cards

A full house? Not anymore. Oh. I made myself sad...shit.

I’ve seen memorial photographs. Hell, I have one on my fireplace of my dad and I. But I’d rather not be reminded of a loved one’s passing while I’m playing a drinking game with some friends. Or drunkenly gambling away millions in a Rotary Club Sponsored Poker Tournament/Fun Run.


“Ma’am, we’ll have to ask you to leave.”


“That’s fine ma’am, please pack up your things.”


“Ma’am, don’t make me call the Texas Rangers.”

Let me imagination get away with me there for a second.

If you love your family, please don’t buy them this shit.


Comment of The Day:


in a sick kind of way, I kinda want a Life Gem… just to screw with people.
“Oh, that’s a lovely necklace!”
“It was my Nana.”
“It was your Nana’s?”
“You’re not listening.”

How to Make a Kickass TV Show

6 Dec

Pre-Gaming Historical Re-enactments with Poorly Groomed Actors

1 Dec

If you’ve ever been to Dallas, the one thing you have to do is take visitors to Medieval Times.

Mom had taken Grace and I when we were kids, and it was totally fucking awesome. We were both given carnations by the Knights, we cheered for our badasses, and all was well.

So when Mom and Grace came to see me not too long ago, before I could even ask where they wanted to eat dinner, Grace said, “Let’s go to Medieval Times.” (And yes, we called their hotline, 1-800-WE-JOUST, but only because I wanted to see if the call center answered with, “I joust.” They didn’t)

If you’ve never been (and you totally should go), Medieval Times is a vague historical re-enactment of a knight battle in…Medieval Times. Everyone addresses you as M’Lord or M’Lady, which fuels your sense of self-worth, you are assigned a knight with a corresponding color crown, you take some pictures, eat some pretty damn good food, and watch a show. All around, a good time.

We were assigned to the Red Knight, and Grace and I were already excited. Adrian was, as usual in these situations, a patient observer in our overzealousness, and Mom was…less enthusiastic. We immediately put our crowns on (everyone but Mom), took our picture with THE FALCONER (the Falcon shit on the floor in the middle of the picture. A special memory) and entered into “The Bazaar,” where MT was hocking $50 princess crowns and featured a ridiculously large bar.

“Let’s Pre-Game, Grace.”

Those fateful words would determine how the rest of the night went.

It Begins.

See that margarita? That $23 margarita had an entire bottle of tequila in it. Grace’s $12 beer was the size of my thigh.


The original picture, before Adrian took the camera from my Ma.

We drank, and drank, and drank, and cheered, “Hip-Hip-HOORAY” for the birthday kids who were being Knighted and brought shame upon our family name for being shithoused at a fucking Family Fun Center.

It didn’t get any better when we got inside to watch the show. We were seated in the Red Section (thank God for color-coding, because my drunk ass had no idea where we were going), in a row with a family with two young boys. The waiter for our row gave this speech, “I’m Dave and and I’ll be serving you tonight. Place your cups this way for tea, and this way for water. And (pointing at Grace and I) if you want something from the bar, and I know you will, let me know.”

Thanks for calling me out, Dave. I’ll take my whole chicken now.

Dave also explains that the entire show is about how everyone hates the Green Knight, especially…THE RED KNIGHT, and that the only way to win is to cheer the loudest. Grace and I both used to be cheerleaders, and now that we’re hot-messing it at MT, we’re about the tear the house down. Don’t taunt me with victory-via-douchery. I will show you the fuck up.

Adrian calmly observes and eats the food, Mom tries to shimmy away from us, clearly embarrassed that we are her children, and Grace and I BRING IT.


Mom telling Leo how awful we are.

The Red section started off as the quietest section, but we would not stand for it. By the beginning of the MAIN EVENT, 2 drunk bitches had the entire section on their feet. That night, 9 year old boys learned the meaning of, “Don’t be a pussy, you Red Bastard!”

Long story short, the Red Knight lost like a bitch to the Yellow Knight. As we stand to leave, the King says, “the knights will be available for pictures shortly in the lobby.”

This was our chance to polish off the night spectacularly. So we waited, and waited, and waited, and when he emerged, the motherfucker headed straight for the bar and threw back 3 shots of tequila.

“Hey, do you mind if we get a picture with you?”

“Huh? Yeah.”



“We pre-gamed for you fight, you know.”

“Huh, wish I would have been able to.”

“Yeah. Then maybe you’d have won.”

And then we ran out the door to our mother shouting after us, “Girls! Quit it! You are making a spectacle of yourselves, damnit!”