Contact

That title is only partly a lie. I also have short, sausage looking fingers. It all depends on the angle.

My body is doing some sorty of crazy Al Gore shit. I’m plumping up for the winter just like he does, only I didn’t mean to. He gets all Santa fat-like to save on heating costs. My fat was a total accident. It just sorta snuck up on me. My fat cells are total bitches like that.

With that said, I gotta find a new gym–one that doesn’t have an Arctic Circle within a twenty mile radius. Those pumpkin pie shakes will be the death of me. Until I find a new gym I decided the park is the best place for me. Not only is it a total pumpkin pie free zone, but maybe seeing skinny fit chicks will encourage me.

I put my workout clothes on and was just about to leave the house when I had the most brilliant idea ever: WHAT if someone made a pumpkin pie flavored protein shake? That would solve everything.

I turned around and ran to my computer. Google paved the way to heaven. I was so happy that I spent the next hour researching which protein powders have the lowest sugar. I’m all over this health shit.

BUT I was so tired from my research I decided to take a nap instead of going to the gym. It’s no wonder my jeans are tight.

To read this week’s “That’s What She Said” column for In Utah This Week go here.

I downloaded an iPhone app that provides affirmations as needed. I thought this would be a great way to learn to be more appreciative of what I have, and hopefully learn how to be a little more positive.

That’s not what happened.

My sarcasm and pessimism kicked in. I argued with ever single affirmation, which, as you can imagine, has the exact opposite effect… not to mention I look like a crazy person fighting in public with my phone.

I'd rather the universe pour me a glass of wine.

Stupid phone obviously can't see my muffin top.

Highest vibration means vibrators right? Because every second would pretty much break my vagina.

The 7-11 is open. Me? Not so much.

I'd be a lot MORE beautiful if this damn zit would go away.

Let go of anger? Pfff. What would I blog about?

I'd be happier if my pug jammies were clean.

Energy? Oh hell no. I'm ready for bed right now.

Until yesterday I was convinced everyone who owns, or uses a bluetooth headset is a giant assface.

Don’t give me your safe driving bullshit. If I can talk on the phone, eat a grilled cheese sandwich, keep a pug away from said sandwich while driving, then you can use a phone. If you can’t, please pull your car over.

Yes, I’m serious.

But wait, remember the “until yesterday” part? Yeah.

Last night, my niece, Hannah called me from her dad’s douchetooth. Usually I hang up on people using them, but you can’t do that to a five-year-old.

When Hannah and I talk on the phone it’s usually a two minute conversation, but with the douchetooth she talked for twenty minutes. I know everything there is to know about her life. I know that hot dogs don’t come with pink glitter sauce, her brother doesn’t have any girlfriends, that her bedroom walls just got painted green and that she loves me to the moon and back. Pretty much it was the best conversation I’ve ever had on the phone. And that makes me incredibly happy.

Well, except the part about the pink glitter sauce. That I gotta fix ASAP.

I’ve always known I’m pretty. Unlike other pugs I’ve never struggled with self-esteem issues. I’m beautiful inside and out. Despite what Sarah says, even my farts are lovely. They smell like unicorn and pink glitter. And sometimes rainbows… that sorta depends on what I had for dinner.

I am pug goddess; hear me roar!

I live a pretty sweet life. I get to nap a lot and occasionally bark at the new mail lady. I think Sarah is incredibly jealous, because last week she yelled at me to get off the fucking couch and get a job. Rather than poop in her closet, I went out and landed a modeling job. That’ll show her.

Wait, I’m not sure what it will show her. I mean that’s what she wanted, but still she’s dead to me until she apologizes and feeds me treats.

Anyway.

Behold my first modeling job:

This is an ad for Harmons grocery store. If you shop there (and you should because Sarah’s friend Danielle works there) pick up a copy of the October ‘Keepin’ it Fresh’ to either frame, or display on the refrigerator.

Don’t worry my sweet, little lambs I’ll still remember the little people when I land the cover of Doggy Vogue. I’m a sweet bitch like that.

I haven’t blogged much this week. Quite honestly I feel that I haven’t had anything worthwhile to add to the interwebs. Not that I ever do, but I’m tired, busy and emotionally drained. Welcome to life as a 33-year-old student.

Last night I logged into my blog email and found the below email. I was reminded that I really do have the best blog readers. Sure, I get the occasional hate mail and comments that leave me gasping for air, but it’s the good stuff that makes blogging worth it.

Thanks to reader Chris for making life just a little brighter. I’m going to drink a glass of wine in your honor. You know the one with a kangaroo on the bottle. Or is it a wallaby? I get that so confused.

Dear Miss Nielson,

I’m writing to you from Australia as I quite literally just stumbled across you on twitter…

Which has now lead me here and I felt it would be a crime to not…

1) Mention that your tweets rock!
2) … actually I have no point 2… which now begs the question… why have I been such a douche bag and written in point form…?

Anyway love the blog so just thought I would drop you a line and tell you that your work is… kinda like a hot tub filled with melted chocolate and naked midgets!

Seriously love it!

Anyway have a beautiful weekend!

Chris

P.S. Your profile photo is criminal!!! (We use the word ‘criminal’ over here in Aus sometimes instead of ‘hot’ and now I have successfully chalked up douche bag comment no.2 for using a douche bag word like ‘criminal’)

P.P.S Please ignore the first P.S.

My lovely lady editor, Amy, is on vacation. I took full advantage and published a column all about the word ‘douche‘. I’ve always wondered how many times I could get that word into the magazine. The answer to that is 20.

I had dinner last night with my mom and aunt to celebrate my mom’s birthday. I love my family, but have decided never, EVER to eat with them in public again.

My mom is a nurse, so at least 90% of our conversations disgust me. I don’t need to know about someone’s post pregnancy blood clot over a Cobb salad. She’s forever trying to ruin good food with her gross-out stories. It’s like freaking “Fear Factor” for my mouth.

Fettuccini Alfredo is forever ruined my talk of a colonoscopy.

Egg salad and Salmonella talk don’t mix.

The smell of a Club sandwich will forever remind me of butt boils.

Bran muffins remind me of chopped off fingers.

The list is so long I’m considering developing the “Dinners with Kathy” diet plan and selling it for millions. Of course I’ll give my mom a sizeable cut of the action. The remainder of the money will be used for therapy. I’m gonna need it.

I also think that letting me peruse the clearance section of the local craft store was a very bad idea, albeit a fun one!

It’s no secret that I’m obsessive as shit, which wouldn’t be so bad if I could choose what to obsess over BUT I CAN’T.

This is why the backyard is completely weed free, but my house still isn’t unpacked.

When I learn to control my obsessive behavior I’ll probably rule the world. And my world won’t have weeds unless they are pink, glittery and smell like unicorn farts.