How About "Lolo's Blog of Fabulousness?"

I am suffering from an existential crisis right now.

Actually, I'm not sure if it's existential (or if I even spelled that right), because I've never been totally clear on what "existential" means, despite having taken a philosophy class called "The Existentialists" in college. Wait, no, that was "The Empiricists." Or maybe "The Experimentalists"?

Anyway, I'm in crisis. My crisis is this; my life is so not-fun right now, even I am bored reading about it. This blog is starting to seem like an exercise in self-absorption, and not even an interesting one.

So I'm looking for a new direction. Maybe I'll keep my fashion claws sharp and change this blog from "Thai one on" (see as how I'm not in Thailand anymore, Toto) to "I hate what you're wearing." Or. . .what?

So I'm looking for suggestions. Both serious and funny.

I GOT IN!!

Lolo's going to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising!! Yay for me!!

Because inside I'm 12 going on 8. . .

Yo Mama's So Ugly...


- Yo Mama's so ugly, when she joined an ugly contest, they said "Sorry, no professionals"
- Yo Mama's so ugly, just after she was born, her mother said, "What a treasure!" and her father said, "Yeah! Let's go bury it!"
- Yo Mama's so ugly, they push her face into dough to make gorilla cookies.
- Yo Mama's so ugly, when she was born, the doctor slapped the wrong end.
- Yo Mama's so ugly, they didn't make a costume for her when she tried out for Star Wars.
- Yo Mama's so ugly, when she walks down the street in September, people say, "Damn! Is it Halloween already?"
- Yo Mama's so ugly, her mom had to feed her with a sling shot.
- Yo Mama's so ugly, she had to trick-or-treat over the phone.
- Yo mama's so ugly, she's like Taco Bell. When people see her, they run for the border.
- Yo mama's so ugly, it looks like her neck threw up.
- Yo mama's so ugly, rice crispies won't even talk to her.
- Yo mama's so ugly, she scares people even with the lights out.
- Yo mama's so ugly, they pay her to put her clothes on in strip joints.
- Yo mama's so ugly, when your dad wants to have sex in the car, he tells her to get out.
- Yo mama's so ugly, that your father takes her to work with him so that he doesn't have to kiss her goodbye.
- Yo mama's so ugly, I took her to the zoo, guy at the door said "Thanks for bringing her back."

Maybe I Just Like to Say "Butt"

A woman called today with the best last name EVER. Seriously. I've never heard such a cool name.

Her last name was Hurlbutt.

Say it to yourself, and see if you don't smile. Hurlbutt. Hurl, butt. Butt hurl. Hurlbutt.

I really wish my last name was Hurlbutt. Because even though my kids would be teased and people would snicker behind my back, I would laugh out loud every time I said my own name, and how many people can say that?

Lizzie Borden Took an Axe, Gave Her Father 40 Whacks. . .

We have a 5th dog, suddenly. It's my late grandmother's dog, a tan miniature Chihuahua named Lizzie (which, yes, I think is an awful name, but at least it isn't Lulu or Sassy, both alternatives suggested in all earnestness by my sister), but she's been living with my aunt in Chico until last weekend. My aunt's a little. . .eccentric (Welcome to Understatementville, Population:Me), so my step-dad brought Lizzie to stay with us for a bit. She allegedly cost $500 and weighs all of 5 lbs, which means she cost approximately $100 bucks a lb, or $6.25 an ounce. That's practically as much as crack cocaine. And she doesn't give you nearly the same effect when you sniff her.

But she's really, really cute. She can really run, her little legs a blur beneath her, but she looks so awkward with her butt up and her elbows flying (knees? I don't know, the little points at the back of her legs). She looks like she's about to run smack into a building. And her bark is more like a quack, but she nearly shakes herself off her (tiny) feet with the effort of barking at all the big bad noises.

I am in danger of developing a serious crush here.

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you just have to talk to one through a nifty headset

Since Wednesday I've been filling in for my step-dad's receptionist, who was kind enough to go on vacation just when I most needed money. Jack runs a non-profit legal office for low-income senior citizens, which should tell you a bit about why I felt the need to educate poverty-stricken children in Thailand.

It's not bad work, actually. Most callers just want someone to listen to them and make sympathetic noises, which, I've discovered, I'm exceptionally good at. I haven't yet reached Jack's level of proficiency, which allows him to wander the office, make copies, write letters, juggle cans of Pepsi, and debug computers while listening and making sympathetic noises, but I'm working on it. All in good time, my child.

There are some challenges (read: wack-jobs) though. Like the British guy who began to yell at the top of his (non-senior-sounding) lungs when I told him the next available appointment was July 5th and insisted I accomodate him because he almost married a member of the royal family, was in the Guiness Book of World Records TWICE for the most blood donated, and could quote Shakespeare. (That "first kill all the lawyers" line was totally out of context, I might add.) Or the guy who wants to sue his neighbor for accusing him of being a child molester and he refused to die with people thinking such horrible things about him, but in the meantime, I sound like I'm so young and have such a pretty voice. Nuttier'n a fruitcake, Jack says. (I assume fruitcakes have a lot of nuts here. I really wouldn't know, but they must, or else why would everyone use them as an example of nuttiness?) They also like to talk about their laparoscomies and oxygen tanks and the time they had surgery on their kidneys.

In other news. . .wait, there is no other news. I forgot, I'm the world's most boring human because I need to save every penny if I'm going to move out of my parents' basement before someone kills someone else with a hatchet.

He's Gotta Wear Shades

On Friday, two pretty cool things happened.

One, I turned 23. Please, don't all start cheering at once. I'm not particularly interested in being 23. 22 was fine. 21 was even better. I could have stayed 21 for a long, long time. 23 is that depressing age where you're still too young to have accomplished anything really interesting but old enough that you COULD have accomplished something really interesting, if you were anything special.

Two, my brother Sam graduated from high school, which, though graduations are usually pretty dull, I found much more exciting than my birthday. Sam has such a bright future- he's spending a month in Europe this summer, before beginning at Juilliard in the fall. (Did I spell that right? I'm never sure.) I think I might be more excited than he is - because he doesn't even REALIZE how much EFFING FUN and how many EFFING COOL EXPERIENCES he's going to have. I can't wait, for him. And for myself, because now I have someone to send to Canal St. for quality fake designer handbags. Sa-weet.