Before I start, did I just write the best post title ever? I think so…

Anyway, I usually don’t give two shits about shoes, but recently I’ve had a little crushy crush on some Crocs.

pink crocs: the new black?

Gardening shoes—that’s what my coworker called them.

If you’re unfamiliar, Crocs are only slightly sexier than your grandma’s galoshes. Made of a foam-like material that’s resistant to both bacteria and odor, Crocs are an orthopedists dream. Available in a variety of garish colors and showing up everywhere from the beach to the bistro, Crocs are also a fashionista’s worst nightmare.

Love em? Hate em? There are plenty of folks on both sides of the fence.

Me, I’m a fan.

… Of course I’m also a fan of jewelry made from poop, so that’s not saying much. But I digress.

moose nugget earrings: they’re the shit!

Anyway, I’ll admit it. I bought a pair of Crocs today. And I did it because they’re totally trendy.

Truth is, two weeks ago I thought Crocs were super fugly. But I’ve seen a lot of the controversial kicks since, and now I think they’re fab.

It’s funny how, if you see enough of something stupid, it starts to seem kind of sweet, kind of awesome.

Yeah … so anyone else totally stoked about Snakes on a Plane?

Heh.

But anyway, I’m kind of curious. What do you think dear hannihaus readers? Do we have any Crocophiles in the haus? Do we have haters interested in putting up a Croc block? Whether you’re like “oh hello” or “oh hell no,” I wanna hear what you have to say. Speak up in comments.

When my kitties do it, they typically tussle around the living room. When Blogher’s get together, the cat fights happen online.

And the proverbial fur is a-flyin’ my friends.

It was the post that sparked a thousand “oh shits.” Last weekend, even before the festivities had officially kicked off, Blogher was buzzing. Someone had done the naughty, naughty—someone wrote that they hated mommy bloggers.

*Cue that hissing sound Mom makes when she’s mad*

So I have this policy. Although sometimes I’d *really* like too—so.hard.to.bite.tongue.here—I don’t write about bloggers I dislike. We have the same hobby and even if I feel their banal writing isn’t worth putting in a cage for my gramma’s parakeet to crap on, I’m not gonna say shit about it here.

But I will say “shit” here.

A friend of the haus asked me what I thought about Mommy Bloggate. I thought this was an interesting question being as I’m not a mother … but I could likely be considered a mother f*-er.

Thinking long and hard about this, I have to say censorship sucks. If there’s one place you should feel free to make catty comments while sitting in your undies (*hem* yes, I am rocking the Blue Mondays), it’s on the Internet.

That being said, I’m not particularly thick-skinned, (probably because I’ve split my pants in public more times than Lindsey Lohan’s had a nip slip), so I tend to eschew topics that will alienate large percentages of my readership, and concentrate instead on more crowd-pleasing fare—rectal exams, farts and boners, for example.

Plus the thing is, if I was going to attack someone in the blogosphere, I sure as hell wouldn’t go for the bloggin’ mommies. Those mothers are EVERYWHERE. I wouldn’t be surprised if—in an attempt to quietly take control of the WWW—they had some sort of alliance forming, a Mommy Mafia if you will.

I’d be afraid if I said something mean about the God Mothers, they’d send Sister Celeste out to hide by my basement and break my kneecaps. Or at the very least, she’d spank my ass with a spoon and put me in the corner.

Another reason I don’t mess with the mommies is that they have these fantastic powers. While I can only get it to shoot from my nose, mommies can get milk to spray out their breasts!

Tell me that’s not fantastic.

I mean, I can’t get my boobs to fill a B cup, and there are moms out there using theirs to nurture new life!

…

Oh who am I kidding, I can barely rock the A … but still, moms + boobs + controversy = I kind of love it.

—–
And what do you think dear hannihaus readers? I know we have a good mix of Mommies and Nonnies here—1,2,3 comment!

When I was a little girl, my dad always told me I could be anything I wanted to be. And I really believed this.

So when I decided at age 9—after reading tons of A.A. Milne and Joan Aiken— to become a writer, it didn’t seem unfathomable that 14 years later that’s exactly what I’d do—make a career of writing.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, people actually pay me to write. Crazy, non?

Now if only I could get paid for eating organic raisins and smelling like a dirty hippy—then I’d *really* make bank.

But anyway, realistically, this be-anything-you-wanna-be mentality can only take you so far. While I’m sure it would be utterly fabulous, I could never be a Solid Gold Dancer or globe-trotting male model.

I simply don’t possess the requisite funk and junk, respectively.

So when I read today that Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham is penning a new book, I pretty much crapped my pants.

Where does this one get off writing a book?

By her own account she’s never even read one.

In 2005, the British twit was quoted as saying, “”I haven’t read a book in my life. I haven’t got enough time…” This is an interesting statement coming from someone who published her own autobiography in 2002(!).

Seriously, asking Posh Spice to write a book is like asking a shaky, old granny to wax your hoo hoo—it’s probably possible, but it’s not a very good idea.

But there again, neither is wearing assless chaps in public. But that didn’t stop Posh.

Posh spice: when she’s not writing books, she’s out roping steer.

Happy Assless-Chap Friday everyone!

In an article entitled Operation Removes Lightbulb from Anus, doctors report a first-of-kind extraction took place in Pakistan this week.

Anal extraction: bad news for bugs with lights on their butts

Pakistani prisoner, Fateh Mohammad said pain in his lower abdomen sent him to a hospital, where doctors found and removed a lightbulb lodged in his naughty place.

A relieved Mohammad thanked Allah for his speedy recovery, but says he doesn’t know how the bulb found its way into his barnhole in the first place.

Speculators have a few theories though. Most involve sex with an inmate named Bubba, a GE SoftWhite, and some KY.
…

In any event, the extraction means good things for patients requiring this type of surgery. The same technique used to remove the light from Mohammad’s ass can also be used to remove other things from other peoples asses—take for example, the burr from up Star Jones’s.

In related news, fireflies in the Middle East are in a panic.

On the streets of Islamabad, one firefly could be heard telling another firefly, “I don’t know what this lightbulb thing means for us, but if I were you man, I’d watch your ass—like literally.”

I was talking with Fancypants today and we got on the topic of religion. It turns out he was raised in a strict, Lutheran household.

“Growing up,” he told me, “I was always going to church, taking communion, whatever.

“For several years I even took special bible study classes. At the end of them we had to take a test and I scored higher than all the other kids. I even did better than this dude who was in seminary.”

I told him that was awesome, that he must know a lot about the bible. And then—intrigued by this Mysterious Lutheran Exam that was years in the making—I asked him, what was the test like?

I expected Fancypants to say taking it was incredible—a religious experience in every sense of the word. I thought my friend might confess that the intermingling of intellectual and spiritual scholarship had changed him indelibly. I imagined him imparting wise words about the faith-based teachings that had served him well through the tremulous adult years wherein the sins of the flesh and flask are readily at hand.

Yes, I expected Fancypants to share something truly punctilious, truly profound.

Instead he said the test was, “F*-ing hard.”

And the funny thing is, I heard that’s exactly what the Israelites used to say about the unleavened bread that sustained them for 40 years in the desert—that it was f*-ing hard.

And that all that fiber-rich unleavened bread goodness made going #2 real f*-ing easy.

So that’s why I figure Fancypants might really know his (holy) shit, after all.

I’ve worn many hats in my life. I’ve been a daughter, sister, writer, tutor, advisor, girl scout, first out, Nutrition Nazi, New Age Mama, jackass, sassafrass, weirdo and WILF—(that’s, “Wife I’d Like To F-“), all at various points throughout the years.

Of all these plethora of hats, the one I liked least—the one I don’t talk about—was a purple hand-knit, hand-me-down I wore when I was 9.

In Florida around September, you can buy warm fleece mittens, scarves and hats from Gap bins for nearly nothing. That’s because the kids who live here have no use for them. Florida kids grow up learning to surf and use sunscreen. They know *nothing* about donning twelve layers—long johns, wool socks, wool hats, snow pants, whatever—just so you can step out your front door on a cold, winter morning.

In deed, the only blizzards Florida kids are ever exposed to come in paper cups and are sold at the DQ for two bucks a pop.

But Alaskan kids, they are hardcore. Growing up, I can’t tell you the number of times I had to walk five miles to school in a snowstorm.

… Mostly because I never did—have to walk five miles in a snowstorm, that is.

Contrary to popular belief folks, I’M NOT CRAZY!

But yeah, I did have to walk like 50 feet to the bus stop on more than one brisk-ass occasion.

And that was hell.

… But of course actually riding the bus, once it got to the stop, was worse.

And it was on the bus that the purple hat shit went down (when my lunch came up).

It was a clear, cold day, probably in the 20s. Like all the other kids on Bus 13, I was wrapped tight in my winter clothes like a Vienna sausage in a Pillsbury cresent roll. On top of my head was the lilac hat, entirely too conical, but warm nonetheless.

Five minutes from home I started feeling it. My stomach rumbled and the chunks began rising in my throat. Eyes wide with horror, I realized I was about to become that kid.

I was about to become The Kid Who Barfed On The Bus.

Panicked, I nudged my seatmate who only gave a cursory glance, being as she was otherwise engaged in showing off her stickerbook collection to the seat behind us.

No matter though, in a matter of seconds I had her full attention.

Like a 21-gun salute, I omitted a series of burps that erupted from my mouth just moments before the spew did.

In retrospect, I should’ve vomited on my seatmate. After all, in my later years—aided and abetted by such wonderful concoctions as candy + keg beer—I became very good at puking on people. (Just ask Bliss, Justin, Michiel, Anne, Andy, Blake, Tony, Eric, Smug, etc.)

But no, inexplicably, on Bus 13, in the interim between belch and barf, I’d ripped the purple hat from my head and was using it as a receptacle.

… And then I gave the hat full of yack to my mom.

And then she understood why I never got into the gifted program at school.

The end.

So I went to the library today, which is—next to being lodged underneath some sweaty Goth’s cavernous armpit at a My Chemical Romance show—my favorite pastime.

And I know you’re like WTF.

I mean, a writer who likes books? Who woulda thunk it?

Shiiiit son.

But seriously, the library to me is like a strip club to sex fiends.

I think the only difference is, I don’t get particularly put off when the object of my attention is on its periodicals.

But yeah, so I’m at the library today and I walk up to this counter that says “Returns.” I’m carrying this stack of overdue books, so I toss them onto one of eight piles of paperbacks stacked 15 deep.

Behind said stacks is a woman who appears to be a librarian—the giveaway: she’s processing the returned books, running that pen-looking thing over the barcodes and placing them on some sort of rolling cart.

And I ask this librarian, “Hey, do you know where I can find This Organic Life: Confessions of an Urban Homesteader? I’ve been looking, but I haven’t seen it.”

Dead serious, the librarian answered:

“Check in non-fiction 648. If you can’t find it there, you’re going to have to ask a librarian where it is.”

…

And I just stood there, dumbfounded.

I mean, who the eff was this imposter manhandling the bestsellers? Isn’t that a librarian’s job?

Noting my deer-in-the-headlights gaze, the Woman Who Was Not A Librarian attempted to qualify her statement about why I should seek professional help (literarily speaking) with:

“This place is just filled with books!”

And that my friends, was the understatement of the year.

Last night I had a dream. And that alone is pretty impressive, because —while I’m pretty good at daydreaming (about vegan brownies and boys who wear makeup *yum*)—I hardly ever have the kind of dreams that occur in the nighttime.

And when I do, they are often of the nightmare variety.

This is upsetting … mostly because I don’t care for horses. Those big-ass eyeballs are totally terrifying. Given the choice, I’d much rather have nighthares than nightmares.

Because let’s face it, Peter Cottontail really isn’t that creepy.

Anyway, the most amazing part of last night’s dream was the eff. I don’t remember what my companion did to warrant such an outburst, but for some reason I screamed it at the top of my lungs.

“Eff you!” —that’s what I said.

But actually I didn’t say “eff,” not exactly.

Quite out of character, I said the real thing. And there aint nothing like the real thing, baby.

That’s right, dear hannihaus readers, last night your mistress uttered the naughty, naughty.

In my dream, I said: EFF-YOO-SEE-KAY

And I would never use that word in real life.

That’s partly because its sounds retarded coming out of my mouth. I mean some folks sound all awkward-like when they drop the F bomb. They’re like giddy little girls teetering in their mommy’s heels. And since I’m twelve, I should probably stick with the flats, metaphorically speaking.

Another reason I don’t use the f- word is, that I am a lady.

…

And I’ll kick the dumb slut’s ass who says otherwise. Shit-talking, jackass, dickhead, motherfunky, hellcat beyotches can kiss my left nut. Well, except I don’t have a damn left nut, but you bastards get my drift.

Til next…adieu!

—–
Update: ok its 12:43pm on 06.06.06. I currently have 6 comments in the que and i’ve 666 hits so far today. Creepy? Mayhaps.

Every couple months or so, I get a nastygram. Sometimes they’re warranted, most times—ref. the infamous Hänni Horseface— they’re not. And the topic that gets folks most hot and bothered is the assumption that I, your kind and gentle mistress, have an unfair bias.

Shhh, the critics say, George Bush may hate black people, but …

*gasp*

Hänni hates fat people!

… And I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.

Not even a little bit.

Seriously, eff that shit.

On my list of things Hänni hates, fat people don’t even rank. Look:

If you examine figure A. Retarded.Graph, you’ll notice there’s no “fat folks” on it. Know why? Because—unlike the cocktail wieners that are contributing to my irreconcilable bitchiness—those of us who are overweight do not give me particular pause.

And I resent people accusing me otherwise.

The god’s honest truth is, I don’t care if you’re seven pounds or 700 pounds—If you think fart jokes are funny, then you’re alright with me.

A hannihaus reader asked, what’s my beef against fat people?

My answer is pretty simple: I don’t have one.

On a walk the other day, I crossed paths with an acquaintance. We’ll call this guy, Senor Pantalone.

Senor Pantalone has always struck me as strange. To start, he’s got this Charlie Brown face—completely nondescript and entirely featureless save for two black holes where his eyes should be. And when he walks, he often stumbles. It’s like there’s a hiccup in his step, it’s like he’s a wind-up toy running out of motion.

And I don’t know S. Pantalone that well—like I said, he’s an acquaintance—but what I do know is, his peculiarity extends past his faceless face and the stop-and-go gait.

Case in point: the other day, out on the walk, I noticed he was wearing lady’s pants.

And not just any lady’s pants.

The Senor, (who is fairly slim), was wearing lady’s fat pants.

Said pants were pastelly gray and made of a cheap, stretchy knit most commonly seen in the women’s athletic department at stores like Wal-Mart, Target or Sears. The legs, straight and long were stovepipe style with no taper at the ankle—a look favored by those XX’s who are reticent to accentuate meaty calves.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, the Senor’s pants were strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

*ba dum bum ching—thank you, I’ll be here all night*

But yeah, we parted ways and I didn’t think any more about S. Pantalone’s pantalones … until I saw him next … and he was wearing lady’s fat pants again(!).

These ones were identical to the first, except for the color which was pale lavender/light denim.

And I wondered, where on earth was this man getting these large lady’s pants?

The most obvious answer was that the pants belonged to his wife. The only problem with this theory is: dude is divorced.

But still …

Though I never met the missus, the children—the little Pantalones— they are chunky monkeys. If forced to wage a guess, I’d say their mom was too.

Senor Pantalone *had* to be wearing Mom’s pants.

And I bet those stretch pants are what sent the couple careening toward splitsville.

Here’s how I imagine things went down:

One night, deep in conversation, Senior Pantalone probably told his wife he wanted to wear the pants in the family.

And that would’ve been fine by wifey except …

the pants S. Pantalone wanted to wear were hers.

And she probably wasn’t into that.

But I digress.