Thursday, January 31, 2013


I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of awesome at games. I crush my opponents at Scrabble, checkers, and spades. And Battleship? Psh! Don't even try me.

(I do suck at mind games though. Please don't try those on me, 'cause I will totes lose.)

But if you, lovey, would like to challenge me to a friendly game of skee-ball or perhaps we could have a dance fight on the Xbox, I gladly accept.

I will warn you, however, that I am a Black-belt gamer:

All's fair in love and Wii.
It's totally okay to cover your opponent's eyes, according to the rules I make up when it suits me. As long as you only do it sometimes, and as long as you don't do it to me. Then it's perfectly fine.

No worries, lovebugs. My kids are used to my competitive side. Actually our entire family consists of champion fun-havers. Nothing like chillaxin' with a game after a long, hard day at daycare. Am I right, guys?

A family that plays together, stays together.
My favorite games are the specialty ones, like the Monopoly-St. Louis version, or the chess game using Lord of the Rings pieces, or like this:
But please don't let the sweet jewels fool ya, besties. And let's not twist my love for you when I tell you that I will thrash a challenger with my super-cute Dominoes. Believe that.

I've learned a lot on my path to being self-proclaimed Game Champion. You know what's an invaluable part of kicking someone's butt in a game? The art of the bluff. Sometimes you can shake someone's confidence just by convincing them you've already won. They've half given up before it's even started. Winning!

And the face is essential. Anyone who's ever watched a poker tournament will tell you that. If you're not good at bluffing with the eyes, follow the pro's lead and rock sunglasses. Hide half your face with a baseball cap or hoodie. Just whatever you do, you've gotta master the face. When you get ready to play, you need to have your poker face on, or your game face on, or maybe even your "O" face on. Whatever it takes. Never let 'em see you sweat. No matter how hot it gets in that hoodie.

Exhibit A:
Poker face.

You see? I could probably kick ass on one of those bore-me-to-death poker shows on ESPN. In fact, I think I will go ahead and enter myself. Right after I learn to play poker.

Exhibit B:
Tic-tac-toe face.
You see what I did there? Because my game face is right on point, my opponent had no clue I was beating him and calling him a "ho," all at once. Mad skills.

Exhibit C:
Memory face.
And that, my friends, is how it's done. Give good face. Play like a pro. Win repeatedly, and then send me a commission on any gambling earnings.

Play on, playa!

*Does the Sammy Sosa finger kiss, chest touch, peace sign* 
*struts out*

Wednesday, January 30, 2013


You know what I love? Bad ass chicks, that's what.

Chicks rule!

What's not to love?

Michelle Rodrigez, Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes, Ugly Betty, Betty White, and Betty Boop? I heart all of those chicks. They're all hardcore, they're all hot, and they could all whoop Chris Brown one-on-one.

You know, I remember the very first lady who really made me realize girls are indeed way better than boys.
Picture it: I'm a mature 9 year-old, taking time out of my busy summer Atari-playing to dream up a grown-up job that wouldn't take too much time away from my future career as a model/actress/wife-of-Michael Jackson. That's when my insta-fave new show, "Hunter," came on, and I saw her. Dee Dee McCall.

*heavenly choir sounds here*

I've never been in roll call, but I'm sure it goes down like this:
80's hair? Check.
Extra eyeliner and lipstick? Check.
Dangly earrings and gold headband? Check.
Alright, McCall, you're totes ready for badass chick patrol.
From the very first time I watched that show, I quickly made up my mind to abandon my future life as a Hollywood glamazon. That super-gorgeous police chick made me do an about-face, and I had my mind dead-set, for about the entire next decade, on being a police chick also. For all of my young life, I never wavered from that goal.

Well, until I went off to college as a Criminal Justice major and realized being a cop isn't as glam as I'd thought. Turns out, it's actually a wee bit dangerous.


That's when I turned to a life of crime. And by "crime," I mean moving back in with my parents in order to spend Saturday nights playing Scrabble with my mom. But it was still a life of crime, if you think about it. Being such a devout word-nerd is kinda criminal.

Spelling is sexy!
(Can someone get me a shirt with that on there?)

Speaking of sexy spellers, my reigning badass girl I still crush on is this chick:

You guys know of my love for Jennifer Weiner. In fact, I just started re-reading "Then Came You" again last night. I can't think of any other author whose words yank me in like hers. And the way she champions for girls non-stop, no matter who the Goliath may be, is purely inspiring. I would never, ever have the guts, courage, or wit to stand up for women the way she does. I heart her so hard, if I was still in school, I'd graffiti all my notebooks with Helena Weiner. (I still do graffiti, but usually I just trace "Helena luvs weiners" in the dirt on my car.)
But you know what, loveys? I'll tell you about the chick that rocked my face all-the-way off. That lady was the gem I had the pleasure of calling my very own Grammy.

Today would have been her birthday, and she would've likely cooked up some vile concoction nobody except my brother Jeff would eat. Ah, my Grammy.
She was famous for her love of all things purple, for always having the best candies on hand, and for always making her best effort to look amazeballs, even through a tough fight with an asshole opponent named Cancer.

"Does this breathing tube make my butt look big?"

It's funny, the things you remember about people.
Impressions are everything.
For me, the impression was that she embodied badassness. One example? At the start of one of her many chemo rounds, Grammy took a quick therapy detour from the hospital to the beauty salon and had them dye her hair purple. Ha! That's a chick with moxie!

If it were me, I'd sob myself into a stupor over knowing my hair would fall out. What a complete time-suck over something so stupid, right?

Not this gal. She, (in her own sweet way), was kinda flipping cancer the bird and yelling "YOLO!" That's my homegirl.

Purple hair, way before Kelly Osbourne. Trend-setter!
Impressions are everything, loveys. I hope I have made one on you. I won't be here forever, obvs, and I ain't leaving you jack, so that impression is all you'll have of me.

I hope you will remember me as a girl who would do anything to make you smile, a girl who would do anything to offer needed comfort, and a girl who will go down in the books as being a bad ass chick.

What impression will you leave?

R.I.P. Helen Inside-Out.
Love never dies.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013


I've been feeling a little down lately, loveys. And not in the cool, "Girl, I'm down for whatevah!" kinda way. I mean the "I miss parts of my old Pacific Coast life" kinda down.

I miss la familia I moved away from:

It's okay. We're all family here.
I miss the friends I never see anymore. Those chicks are my family. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have a pack of friends like that again in my life, then I realize hell no, I won't, then I go eat my feelings.

What? A boob grab is like a handshake in our funky bunch.


I never really know what to do about the bluey-blues, so I went back to bed. Just as I was pulling the covers over my head and screaming a promise to never come out, a photo on my nightstand caught my eye.

A pic that reminded me my Missouri life isn't exactly Misery.

This was taken last month with a couple of friends, one of whom I've known for about 20 years. (So I can only say nice stuff about her, 'cause she knows my whole rap sheet.)

Party over here!
Not my smartest idea to wedge myself between the two models on either end, but nevertheless, that party was a blast. I had so much fun, it was only after I'd arrived home around 4:00 in the morning, that I realized I'd danced my feet into temporary paralysis.

Score 1 for the Lou!

You know what else? We also have great food here in St. Louis. Gus's Pretzels, Sweetie Pies and Ted Drewe's are legendary here.

My personal fave, though, is this place, MILE 277:

Don't go, unless you're ready for them to rock your face off.

Not just because I have personally pranked every one of the kitchen and management staff there. Allegedly.

And not just because I worked there.

Best waitress ever. No, for serious.
My mom told me so.

But this place is just fun waiting to happen. The incredible food is just a bonus, really. I mean, they've got dancing, live bands, DJ battles, model searches, and Bike Night. Yes, please! 

Also a little reality TV show action going on at Mile 277.

Plus, they've got the best Jager-bombs, Irish car-bombs and even the best photobombs:

Maybe the professional dance crew won't notice me ruining their
show for this shot if I blend in with a super-slick move of my own.

*chuckles at her own buffoonery*

I feel my spirits lifting at this point. Shall I proceed? Yes, I shall.

So now I'm remembering why I came back home, to St. Louis, after all those years in Los Angeles. I have friends, I have fun, and most importantly, I have lots and lots of family. I even have my own makeshift fam of co-workers, people I just met, and childhood buds.

And also the random stray I snatched, claimed as my own, and hid under my bed:

My precious...

Just kidding. That's my bud. My brother from another mother. And father. We're totes not related. But I seriously couldn't love him more if I'd created him myself.

And can we talk about our local talent? Nelly, Cedric the Entertainer, the Cardinals...Duh. But we're also overflowing with talent you might not have ever heard of, like this kid, L.Frost:
Kid to the left, in the air. Bam! That's talent.

Just a little billboard he graced.

You may have seen him in magazines, or on a billboard, or dancing with Chris Brown. Or if you stake out his house long enough, you can get a nice candid like this before you're arrested:

(Or if you're not as hardcore as me, you can just follow him here on Twitter, or in my sexy-time dreams or here on Facebook.)
Seriously, the kid's going places. Keep your eyes on the Lou, loveys. Artists galore here, I promise. 

Okay, okay, okay. Pity party of the past is officially over. I'm glad and grateful to be right here, right now. :)

My heart lives here.

Thanks, loveys.
You know who you are.
Your sweet words, nice texts, and loving emails are really, really what keep me cheesin'.

Monday, January 28, 2013


I've been sick this past week, loveys.

*cough, cough*

And not just my usual Monday-itis. I mean, for reals sick. These flu cooties are totally kicking my butt. And I can never remember if Mom told me to feed a fever and starve a cold, or vice versa? So I just cover all my bases and gorge them both.

Feed a cold, a fever, a boredom, a thirst...Whatever. Just feed it.

At first, a day off work is ok. I mean, you can stay in your jammies all day, watch DVDs, and throw out the handy "But I'm sick!" excuse every time somebody asks for something. Woo-hoo!

But then the next sick day comes, and the next, and the next, and it goes from Woo-hoo! to What-the-heck?! There's only so much lazy-palooza* I want to exhibit.
*lay-zee-puh-LOO-zuh: The act of being so lazy, you may as well be comatose. Ex: Not brushing your teeth for so many days, even the family dog (who ass-sniffs for recreation), can't stand the funk.

There's only so much liver damage I can handle with all these OTC meds I'm abusing, and only so many prank texts I can send from my deathbed, and only so many times I can call and beg my boss not to fire me.

You know I firmly believe the 3 very best cures to anything are: 1) Laughs, 2) Love and 3) Time. That's it.

Now, they don't always work right that minute (that's where good drugs come in handy), but I promise you, they all work. I'll demonstrate:
Disclaimer: I've never been to medical school, so I'm not a doctor, but when George Clooney was on "ER," I used to masturbate to his picture like twice a week, so I'm pretty qualified to dish on anatomy.

  1. Laughs. You should always try this one first, but I can't right now. My esophagus feels like I've deep-throated my nail file, so let's pass on this one for the time being.
  2. Love. I don't want to give anyone else my cooties, so I'll pass on this one also. (And despite my husband's argument that he's safe from my germs if I just bend over and use my pillow as a SARS mask, I'm still keeping my distance. Plus, he's never once jerked off to Clooney, so he's not reliable intel on medical matters like me.)
  3. Time. Ah, this one I can roll with. But how to make time not crawl by when you're ill?


I've gone through the offerings at RedBox, eaten everything in the house that wasn't expired, and surfed every corner of the internet, thanks to the Wi-Fi I stole from my neighbor. *looks around for ideas* So now what?

It just so happens that during my stolen internet time, I stumbled upon a flower. I fell in love with this flower, loveys. Not because I was delusional from all my meds. And not just because I'm a girl, and girls like flowers. It was because this flower was created by someone's hand, and is breathtakingly gorgeous. It's hard for me not to be jealous of such a God-given talent.


That's pure talent. *bows down*
 You guys know I love artistry. I love talent and creativity. And the idea that someone drew something so beautiful, made me want it. I contacted the artist, but was out of luck--the drawing was taken. So I did the next best thing, and recreated it! All. By. Myself. For serious!

Loveys, I want you to know that I have never had an art class, except the ones forced on us in school. I never even had a desire to draw. In fact, I think I've only watched that Afro-wearing white guy draw "happy little clouds" once in my whole life.

But when I recreated this artist's work, I realized that I too have been blessed with The Gift! *sniffle*

Please have tissues and smelling salts handy. And when your eyes fall upon my work, imagine heavenly choir sounds.

I should probably go work for Disney or something.

I know, I know. I'm wasting my time writing. I should really go into drawing.

If you turn it sideways, it could just
as easily become a napping gorilla. Genius!

Someone get Hallmark on the line!

Self-taught coloring. I'm like the Bieber of crayons.

Or maybe I'll do cartoons. The possibilities are endless really. No, wait. I've got it! I think I'll become the sketch artist for WANTED posters. Yes! Picture it:

This flu cootie is wanted for assault and battery on Helena's immune system.
The reward is knowing you did a good deed. Oh, and a cookie. I'll also give you a cookie.

Notice the artistry used in my colored pencils. Of course, I'm way skinny here, but that's just because the pencil takes off 10 pounds.
And yes, flu cooties DO have handle-bar mustaches. Duh. How else will you know they're evil? Well, there is one other way to tell...

The effing curly-toed shoes. Eww. Can I just tell you how much I loathe seeing a perfectly hot dude rocking these horrendous shoes? Please, somebody, anybody, make it stop! See how wrong it is?

Friends don't let men wear curly-toed shoes.
 I know we all have different tastes, styles and levels of visual acuity, so allow me to break it down for you.

You may see this:

No, no, no!
 But all I see is this:

No one, and I mean no one, should wear curly-toed shoes, unless their first name is Genie.
Or Elf.
Or Wicked Witch.
(Or if you need to emergency-slalom away from a really crappy date.)
But that's it!
Seriously, who thinks these look good?


(I was going to use my newfound illustrator skills to draw these fugly shoes for you besties, but I wanted to show that they do exist in real life, and inform you that anyone caught wearing them should be strongly encouraged to burn them.)

Well, I've dished totally legit medical advice, taught valuable time-wasting techniques, and discovered my new talent. So I guess I'll sign off now, before the codeine cough syrup wears off and I realize the embarrassment I've caused myself here.
xoxo Lovebugs!

Monday, January 21, 2013


I’ll never change the world like Martin Luther King did, loveys. Not even close.

But in my own tiny ways, I still set out to do good. I’ll admit, I am an extremely lazy do-gooder though. Sure, I’ll write a check. I will donate to the Salvation Army kettle on my way out of the grocery store. I’ll even egg the shit out of my friend’s cheating ex’s house. Pretty much just your charitable basics.

So on this day that we celebrate Dr. King, I got to thinking about what I can do to really make an impact on this world.


WWAJD? (What would Angelina Jolie do?)

Immediately after this thought popped into my head, a tiny hand knocked at my door. And there stood my first answer.

*snaps fingers* That’s it!

That knock came from a Girl Scout. Aha! My chance to do good! (Suck it, Brangelina!) Did you know that about 70% of the money raised by those cookies goes to the girls, some of whom also break off a chunk of change to other charities, and even to our troops overseas?
(The other 30% goes to the bakers, duh. Those tree elves don’t just work for free!)
Aside from the obvious deliciousness, the impact of buying those cookies goes way further than just your hips, I swear.
Go. Find the nearest Girl Scout and buy a box of every flavor.
I should also point out that recent studies show that eating Girl Scout cookies instantly makes you happier.*

Party in my mouth!

*That study was conducted by the University of MyMouth.

I truly think the easiest act we can carry out as do-gooders is just practicing gratitude. For me, the right words can give me a legit mood boost. I’ve learned that little things can really brighten someone’s day. Smile at people. Offer a compliment:

See? A little flattery goes a long way.

And for crying out loud, let’s remember to thank people who truly are out here bettering society. Let’s examine some of our most heroic and badass do-gooders, shall we?


"Hola, maestra. Gracias por todo."

Not only do teachers have the thankless job of wrangling, coddling and intelligizing our children, but now they also have to know defensive tactics in order to protect our babies in class!? And all for just enough pay to barely scrape by without welfare, if they’re lucky. (FYI - That word I just made up will make it into Webster’s one day. "in-TELL-i-jy-zing"; verb, meaning: to instill intelligence in people who would otherwise be total dummies... And I’ll have a teacher to thank for that too.)

Loveys, check out this pic from Guns N Hoses. These are an awesome series of events, held in various cities, to raise money for Backstoppers. Wow. Something like this really rocks my face off. Here are our women and men in red and blue, taking time out from saving our sorry asses to train and fight, in order to raise money for other women and men in red and blue who sacrificed everything, saving our sorry asses.
(Go ahead and read that back. I'll wait.) Seriously. Please thank them.

"Let's wrap this up. Gotta get back to saving sorry asses."

Nurses are incredible! I’ve long believed there is nothing these ladies and gents can’t do. I think they’re just born with stomachs of steel, so I actually tested that assumption one night. I once had a nurse who – in the span of 5 minutes – rubbed my back while I cried like a newborn, held back my hair so I could puke, and wipe my butt when I was physically unable.
And that wasn’t even at the hospital, you guys. No, I was just drunk in the bathroom of a nightclub. (Super-awkward way to meet someone, by the way.)

Police officers.
You guys know that I always joke about how hot and sexy men in general cops are. I mean, even the puny ones look all buff when they're rockin’ the Kevlar. And the gun and badge are all I really need to overlook the occasional ticket. I mean, they’re just so freaking beautiful in that uniform, and so brave and extra-gorgeous when they get all rescuey! Ooh, and you know I just love a man who takes charge, and…

Wait. What was I supposed to be writing about again?

*taps chin*

Where’s my train of thought? *looks around the room* It was just here a minute ago...

Oh, yes. Thanking Officer Friendly!

One bit of advice though. When you go to thank a police officer, just don’t get too overzealous. It’s kind of frowned upon. I don't know. Maybe they just have a hard time receiving stalking gratitude, but they get kinda pissed when you lay it on a little too thick. The details are fuzzy, but it's something about crossing over from grateful to “creepy.”

My stalking conviction will eventually be expunged, but you, sir,
will still be dead inside! (Sidebar: I think I just wrote Taylor Swift's
next heartbreak single there.)

And there you have it, lovebugs. My super-easy plan to change the immediate vicinity world. One small gesture at a time.

Thursday, January 17, 2013


I'd never make it in Hollywood.

For one thing, I don't have any of the cool vices required. I never smoke cigarettes or do drugs. I don't even drink alcohol more than a few times a year. (Lame, I know.)

What I do struggle with, though, is sugar. It's not as sweet as it sounds, besties.

*solemn head shake*

I swear it's an actual addiction. You wouldn't know it though, by the shamefully low number of sugar-busting rehab facilities or outreach programs for gluttons like me. Where's my help? Psh! More tax dollars at waste.

Anyhoo, since there is no Lick-erette patch to ease my cravings or any insurance coverage for my withdrawals, I am forced to kick my habit on my own. Cold turkey.

But if you think my journey is any easier than Lohan's, think again.

It happens, as so many addictions do, with temptation...wanting to belong, or be comforted, or some other excuse I come up with.

Love at 1st bite?

And sometimes it's not even my fault at all. Like when you're driving somewhere, then mentally drift off - just for a sec - then arrive at your destination not really remembering the drive. It happens to all of us. I can't really be faulted here. And more times than not, it's really like my utensils have a mind all their own.

"Well, hello there, sweetie."

You see? Clearly, she has a mind of her own. So she typically works up the courage, psychs herself up, and after a deep breath, decides to approach the yummy dish.

Innocent, right? No different than, say, me at a bar buffet.

So without any conscious effort, I eat the dessert(s). And also whatever was left on the plate by my husband. And anything my kids didn't finish. And/or my co-workers, friends, and the people at the next table over. Just so I don't waste. 'Cause that's bad for the environment, or something like that.

And then, the shame of my overdose, combined with the embarrassment of the overhang around my waistband, rears its ugly head and makes me feel all the more like crap.

"Shut the fork up, damsel in diabetes!"

So what happens next? You guessed it.

"I only wanted to spoon."
 I go and eat my feelings.

It's a vicious cycle. But one that I am now ready to break. This time for serious. The first step is admitting my problem, loveys. Hi, my name is Helena, and I'm a sweetheart sugarholic.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

My hump, my hump, my hump (Day).

Happy Hump Day, loveys! Here we are, smooshed inside the middle of another winter week. Just gotta get over the hump, and then we're off to our weekend.

You know, whenever I hear the word "hump," I immediately think of two things: 1) A dog in heat.

"I like it bloggy-style."

And 2) Digital Underground.

'Memba them? "Watch me do the Humpty Hump." Man, those were the days!

I apologize to any of you who didn't have the privilege of rockin' out to Digital Underground way back when; long before they were known as "the dude in the nose" and Tupac's humble beginnings.

You young whipper-snappers really missed out, not only on a dance even the elderly could do, but also an incredible fashion statement. Eons before Lady Gaga ever had Little Monsters, Digital Underground had Little Humpers. See?

I once got busy in a Social House Burger King bathroom.

Then, of course, The Black Eyes Peas gave us yet another glorious reason to make every day hump day:

"Get you love-drunk off my hump!"

I swear, ever since that song came out, I'm super paranoid about someone busting me out for staring at their humps.

Hey, buddy. My eyes are up here!

I know what you're thinking, now that you've read this blog post.

"Well, there's two minutes of my life I can't get back."

And you're right. (Three minutes if literacy isn't your strong suit.) But the silver lining? You're two minutes further over the hump!

Have a great 1/2 week, guys! :)

Monday, January 14, 2013


You know me, lovey. I don't ask for much. But you also know how much I love stuff.

So it should come as no surprise that I come to you now, asking for help with my obsession.

I'm no hoarder. Not even much of a shopper, or yard-saler. No, what I covet most in my random collection of must-haves are items that someone else has. I tend to want something owned by my nearest and dearest loveys. You know you've done it too; someone else has something you never even noticed before, and now, you need it. (It doesn't matter that you haven't done that since elementary school. Now, back to me.)

I don't ask for much. But I would like to have the shirt off your back.

See this t-shirt? It doesn't matter that it's a size XXL, and that it could fit you and me at the same time. What matters is that I only had to beg my brother for it for about a half-hour before he caved. Score!

Funny graphic tees are my weakness!

My latest score is a coffee mug from a co-worker. There's nothing special at all about this mug, guys. Except for his inexplicable tie to it. He carried it around like it was physically attached to his arm. Anytime he left his desk, so did the mug. Either he was way too attached to it, or he was deathly afraid of being roofied if he left it for 5 seconds. Whatever the case, I helped him with his addiction, and asked him if I could have it. That mug is happily sitting in my kitchen, now bedazzled and renamed Snoop Muggy Mug. I know, I need help.

I also like to trade my super-scores. Like this nifty Power Balance bracelet, for example. I'd just gotten it in black from my lovey Miguel, when I saw someone else with the exact same bracelet in red. Yes, please!
(Sidebar: This bracelet gave me no power whatsoever. I fully expected a full-on He-Man transformation when I put it on. I may sue.)

He-Man voice: "I have the power!"
Except it didn't go down like that at all.

 And then there's this little gem, taken right from my big sister's kitchen:

Lost a wing during the trip, but still cute as can bee.
(Ha! See what I did there?)

Remember back in school, the crappy art project we had to make, only to bring them home and have Mom "accidentally" drop it so it smashed into fragments, and had to be thrown away? No? Oh. I guess that was just me.

Anyhoo, this was something my little brother Nim made:

Nim's pal Dan dabbed brown paint on there.
Just in case it wasn't already fugly enough.

No, not when he was 5 years old. He was like 17. And both his hands work just fine, thank you. So you can see the level of effort involved. Didn't matter to me though. He made it, I coveted it, and here it sits, in my family room, on top of the bookshelf, behind the candles and under a stack of books. Proudly displayed.

I'm not denying I have a problem. Not at all. Actually, that's why I'm here now, asking you for help. I can't do this alone, loveys, and that's where you come in.

Remember, I don't ask for much. So I need you to step it up, and really have my back here. Almost like an intervention, except an outervention is what this situation actually calls for. 

What I really need...what will totally quiet the beast that is my Stuffaholism, guys, is this hat:

"I make this look good," said Bruno's hat to Bruno's face.

Not a hat similar to that. And not a hat from some crappy designer fedora line he's promoting. No. What I want; what I need is that. very. hat.
Now is that so much to ask?