The Many Faces of “Excuse Me”

Last weekend, I went on a vacation that involved a resort, a lake, and a lot of amazing food.

My dad and I rode 26 miles on our bikes to get there, and it occurred to me that the best memories I have with him are on two wheels. We race each other, check that the other is hydrated, joke and tell stories, and argue much less than when we’re on the ground. And when it got to be 100 degrees (at least) with that heat radiating back from the blacktop into our faces, we both plunged our faces into a rest stop drinking fountain and ended up with sweat in our eyes. I laughed. I can’t remember if he did. He might’ve smiled, but as I said…I was basically blind.

We went on the vacation for a convention for my dad’s work. A bunch of awesome, smart, hardworking lawyers gathering to continue to learn about their profession…we go every year, and every year I leave that place wanting to be a lawyer. For about 3 days, that is, until I remember how difficult and stressful their jobs are (albeit rewarding). Anyway, there are a lot of dinner receptions every year, and we eat really nice food and dance like nerds and I explain that my name isn’t Cathy or Pappy (yeah, that happened this year).

But what I ended up marveling at is what I would like to call “The Many Faces of Excuse Me.” People are really passive, especially on the west side of the country where I live, and we can get really angry but apparently don’t want anyone else to know it (?) so we say excuse me. A snooty woman practically flattened me in a restroom and I asked for her forgiveness. A bellman (bellboy, for he was nothing but an ignorant teenage boy) practically broke my body in half by thundering into an elevator with a large cart before my sister and I could even think about getting out. Excuse me. Rude.

So here they are. There are probably more, so feel free to list them in the comments section. Excuse me for not thinking of them all.

1. Excuse me is the normal way to ask for forgiveness when you have accidentally trodden on someone’s foot or elbowed their baby or thrown their food on the ground.

2. EXCUSE ME! is the semi passive way of saying “I am in the right spot but you, you bumbling oaf, have stepped into my personal bubble and should know better. However, since you seem to lack every social grace ever, I will instead blame this whole incident on myself.”

3. Excuuuuuuuse meeee! is the sassy way of saying “I am smarter than you, and I just laid a truth bomb out for you, but you can’t take it, so I’m gonna pretend I feel bad for hurting your feelings. Spoiler: I don’t feel bad.” Basically, this one is what sorority girls would call “sorry-not-sorry.”

4. Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse meeeeeeeeeeeeeee… Steve Martin being ridiculous.

5.  Excuse you! “B#*#&@&*##(@*!**#(&#*@(*# you #*$*I@#**#$I@ my toe #*$**@# blood everywhere ###$U(*(@*@*@*@@@ OH HELL NO.”

And that, my friends, is how to survive at a resort in the Pacific Northwest. Cheers, best of luck, and…wait, you didn’t like this post?

Well, excuse me.



Harry Potter HAHAs

Okay kids, buckle up. I found this bookmarked on my computer as “Harry Potter HAHA” so you know it’s good. Readysetgo.

P.S. Can I please enroll in Swoopy Cloak 301, Intro to Cape Ripple?

Separate but Equal: A Gym Doctrine

First of all, I am super stoked that I hit 1,000 subscribers today, my little muffins! So thanks for reading and loving me (or hate-reading my blog, though I don’t know if that’s a thing…) and making my life that little bit better. Moving on…

I  gained a million few pounds in the last two years. It’s not a huge deal, except that I can’t fit into any of my pants. Or shirts. Or coats. Basically, I can’t fit into my clothes anymore, and it’s a really depressing feeling. I have shed many a tear over favorite dresses that can no longer squeeze themselves over my now-large lady bits. When I say lady bits, I mean my boobs, y’all, not my nether regions. Calm down.

Anyway, since I got home from school two weeks ago, I have started eating really well (so much salad, so little time) and going to the gym 6 days a week. Remember, weeks are 7 days long, so that’s pretty impressive for a person who barely likes doing a sit up at home, let alone in a crowded gym. I am seriously committed to losing what Sarah Millican so rightly called the “cake shelf” because it’s “where I store my cakes.”

I have lost 7 lbs already, y’all. That is what the British would call “half a stone.” So I’m doin’ it, ladies and gentlemen. Doin’ it good. But. I hate the gym. So. Much.

How is my lumpy self supposed to work out when Wonder Woman is running at 100 mph next to me on the tread mill? As I hoof along, she’s practically flying on wings of glory, making me look like a sad sack of sweaty potatoes, and it’s a bit difficult to concentrate when you 1) can’t breathe and 2) now hate yourself and everyone else in the gym. Also, what’s with people wearing so much makeup to the gym? I look like a 15 year old boy, and my hair is all nasty, because that’s what you should look like at the gym. I’m not gonna put on makeup at 9 in the morning just so I can sweat it into my eyes. Besides, I’ll have to shower afterward anyway, because really, nobody wants to smell this after 45 minutes of elliptical/weights/abs madness. Plus, everyone at the gym judges you when you don’t look perfect, but…am I supposed to work out before my workout so I can be fit as a fiddle and look perfect at the gym? I thought that would be defeating the purpose…

With all this in mind, I’d like to propose separate gyms for different body types. Short, tiny, skinny people who used to be gymnasts can go to one gym, where all the equipment is miniature. Bros who want to work on their pecs and have their nipples pierced (it’s a thing, guys, I saw it with my own eyes and now I can never go back) can go to another gym, where the walls are covered with mirrors so they can look at themselves while they “get swoll.” And those of us who are going to the gym because we need to can have our own gym. There would be no Food Network shows playing, because I don’t need to see some lady with too-white teeth bake a cake I’ll never be able to eat while I sweat out of my eyes on a stationary bike. There would also only be one mirror, and that mirror would be in the weight room so you can make sure your form is right. Otherwise, no mirrors. I cannot be motivated when I look into the mirror and instantly want to cry.

Also, and this might be the most important part, all the guys working behind the front desk would be specifically attracted to women of a curvier persuasion. And they’d all be gorgeous, and I wouldn’t feel weird walking in and talking to them because I would know they wanted to take my hand and by my husband.

Take notes, gym CEOs everywhere. This is the next big thing.

Cappy Writes: A Disney Channel Original Series

In high school, I was voted “Most Likely to Star in Her Own Disney Channel Show.” Which makes sense, if you think about it, since I wear glittery pants that have iron-on patches and seriously weird flared bottoms. Also, I’m zany! So, I’ve decided I should probably start writing my show, since it’s my destiny anyway!

Opening credits: Cue montage! Girls painting their nails on a blanket at the park. Boy pushing back his hair and smiling at the camera. Parents laughing and shaking their heads at their kids’ antics. Oh, the antics! Boys TP-ing a house. Girls pillow-fighting. More antics!

Doin’ her thing and havin’ some fun! Every day is brand newwww! Look at Cappy, she’s the zaniest one! Out of her entire crewwwww! Cappy, Cappy, writin’ and angstin’ and learnin’ guitar. Cappy, Cappy, she’s a little bizarre! YEAH!

Girl (Cappy) crosses her arms, turns and smiles at the camera, then loses her balance and falls over. A pan flies into the air.

We see Cappy, a tall, blonde teen sitting atop her bed, clicking away on the keys of her laptop. Cappy’s room is super girly; Christmas lights hang around the ceiling and an orange tie-dyed comforter covers her small bed. A One Direction poster hangs on the wall facing the bed. Cappy, a hippie at heart, wears a peace sign necklace and about 400 bangles on each wrist. They clank together as she types.

An IM from Cappy’s best friend Mira pops up on the computer:

cutiegrl44: hey girlie! how’s the writing going?

capattack: good! can’t figure out how to end the story tho. do Trey and Cassie end up together or no?

cutiegrl44: they totes get together! just like you and Thad will!

Cappy sighs and logs off messenger, looking back at the story she’s been writing. “I just wish Thad knew who I was,” she mumbles.

Cut to the hallway of Cedar Swings High School, where Thad is leaning up against his bright green locker and laughs with his soccer buddies. His blonde Beiber-esque hair flops into his eyes, and he combs a finger through it to clear his line of vision. Cappy and Mira walk by quickly, and Cappy avoids his gaze as usual. After they pass him, Mira hisses, “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY HI?” Mira is tiny and feisty, and her curls bounce as she talks.

“He doesn’t even know me. And I don’t know what to say!”

At that moment, Thad looks over, catches her eye, and smiles a very wide, very white smile. He pushes his hair back again, then shakes his head around a little. Cappy swoons so hard she falls over.

Cut to credits.

Next week on Cappy Writes!

Thad might smile at Cappy again, but it’s unclear from the preview. Cappy looks confused about how to end her story. Mira and Thad talk about something, probably Cappy, but that’s also unclear. Thad does more hair pushing. Someone starts a food fight in the cafeteria. Mashed potatoes fly and antics ensue.


imagesIn 2004, a male pair of chinstrap penguins hatched an egg they had been given to incubate at the Central Park Zoo. They adopted a baby, y’all! They helped that little penguito hatch like proper parents! Since then, at least 20 homosexual penguins have been recorded in Japan, and….well, basically, without giving you a list of all of them, there have been quite a few instances of homosexual penguins at zoos. And probably in the wild, but Wikipedia isn’t exactly that great of a resource.

But here’s a question that just begs to be asked: Have you seen any gay penguins get married? No. They’re all dressed up in their tuxes, practically begging for a classy wedding, and what do we do? We call them “life partners,” say they’re cute, but we don’t give them the rights they deserve. We don’t let them squawk their vows before an arctic fox priest says, “You may now peck the bride/groom/penguin.” We don’t let them have a reception and throw bouquets at other macaroni penguins, or cut the cake with their short little wing-flipper things.

Until Buddy and Pedro can tie the knot and waddle down the aisle together, I will remain unmarried. I won’t do it until the gay penguins can.

“But Cappy,” you ask, “is this just your excuse for dying sad and alone surrounded by 12 cats?” Yes, dear muffins, it is. It is mostly an excuse because I live in a house full of girls and don’t tend to meet the fellas too much. But it is also a fight for penguin marriage equality!

I urge you to follow in my footsteps. Do it for Mac and Roni, the macaroni penguins who just want to show the world their love. Do it for America. Do it for equality! DO IT FOR CUTE LITTLE TUXEDOED BIRDS EVERYWHERE!

Special thanks to my Clean Sister Alaina for being the first one to shout, “NOT UNTIL THE PENGUINS CAN!”

It Went A Little Like This…

One of my dearest readers, Hans, asked me to write a post about my first kiss, and Ben was rather anxious to get another post out of me as soon as possible, so I thought I’d throw modesty to the wind and tell you all one more time how awesome I can be. 

I was a bit of a late bloomer in the kissing department, shocking as that may be (I know you all think I’m a floozy, don’t lie), so my first kiss happened the summer after I graduated from high school. I’d gone over to my best guy friend’s house in the evening, and we were sitting on his couch and chatting. I hate to admit it, but I really liked someone else at the time and we were talking about how that person was a jerk to me, and I started crying.

Y’all, I started crying all over his shirt. Mascara and snot were involved, cuz I’m the sexiest person ever, and I’m really good at being around boys. And then he kissed me, and I laughed really hard afterward…somehow I always knew I’d do that, who really knows why. Probably because I’m a nervous laugher, with just a touch of the clinically insane about me. I felt bad because he looked a little terrified, but I told him it wasn’t anything he’d done and that was the end of that!

Well, and then we dated for over a year, so I guess that wasn’t really the end of anything. But that’s another story, and one that nobody needs to hear.

Welcome to my love life, y’all! It’s a bit bland, but it’s what I’ve got!

How To: Name Your Baby

baby nameSo, I know my name is Cappy, and that might confuse some people. It might make other people angry that I’m writing a post about naming children when it seems that my parents named me under a haze of marijuana smoke and black lights. (Surprisingly enough, they didn’t. To get the full story behind my name, click here.) But I, an extremely opinionated and slightly grumpy blogger, figured I had something to say, so I might as well say it. Listen up, and save the crazy names for middle names.

1. Don’t give your kid a bizarre-noun-name. There’s nothing worse (or easier to make fun of) than a kid named after a tree (Aspen is alright, Birch is not).
Girl Examples: Harp, Cedar, Dream, Muse, Petri.
Boy Examples: Wrangler, Trick, Track, Cannon, Knight.
Exceptions include: Joy, Hope, Iris, May, June, Daisy. Don’t get too exotic with your flowers…your kid shouldn’t be named Hibiscus or Anthurium. There are no exceptions for boys except maybe August. Maybe.

2. Avoid names of continents, countries or cities.
Girl Examples: Africa, Europe, Italy, Wales (that one’s for more reasons than one).
Boy Examples: Scotland, Denmark.
Exceptions: There are a lot of exceptions. One of my sorority sisters is named Britain and I think that’s delightful. Someone else I know is named Sicily. But don’t call them Zimbabwe or Seattle or something, cuz that just sounds weird…and sounds like you’ve decided any word that exists can be a name.

3. Don’t turn your girl-child into a stripper. You shouldn’t be allowed to name your kid Chastity, because even if she’s the most chaste girl in the world, everyone will think she’s a dirty tramp.
Girl Examples: Verity, Charity, Trinity, Cinnamon (fun fact: I had a hamster named Cinnamon. Yep, just ruined it for you).
Boy Examples: Well, don’t name your boy after a girl stripper, cuz that’s just wrong. And don’t name him Magic Mike.
Exceptions: There are no exceptions.

4. Don’t go all Gwyneth Paltrow on your kid.
Girl Examples: Apple, Orange, Banana, Pear, Peanut, Flute, Lute…the list goes on.
Boy Examples: Rocket, Explosive, Banjo, Guitar, Picolo.
Exceptions: If Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn’t like it, you can use it.

5. You are not a flower child, and neither is your one-second-old baby.
Girl Examples: Wind, Flower, Breeze, Whisper, Peace, Love, Mist.
Boy Example: Random, Earth, Strength, Virility, Rain.
Exceptions: Skye might be acceptable, but only if they grow up to be super awesome.

6. Never, EVER, name your child after where they were conceived. Ever.
I met a girl named Kastle once and she said it was because right before she was born her parents went to this Italian castle and stayed there and loved it…I guarantee they did the don’t in there and she is the product of their sordid night on a bed made of stone. Don’t do it.
On another note, don’t tell your kid where they were conceived. 

7. After I’ve said all this, try not to name your kid the same thing as everyone else they’ll grow up with. It’s annoying growing up and being known as “Morgan F” because there are 5 other Morgans in your class. I’m not going to give examples, because they’re so obvious. Also, I feel like I’m going to offend everyone I know if I do.

Of course, there are a million exceptions and I’m a jerk about names, but a great rule of thumb is DO NOT NAME YOUR CHILD ANYTHING SARAH PALIN WOULD NAME HERS. Except Piper, cuz that’s cute.

I Got Married at a Party

With this ring, I thee...see ya.

With this ring, I thee…see ya.

Once, I was married for about three seconds. Well, okay, that’s a lie, but it felt that way.

I should start by saying that I don’t really go to parties, because:

1. Drinking is illegal for me, as I’m only 19 and in the U.S. you have to be 21. Which I personally think is a mistake, since everyone in college wants to drink and will find a way to do it whether it’s legal or not, but that’s beside the point.

2. Most parties in college consist of a lot of alcohol consumed by a lot of people.

3. See number 1.

So I don’t tend to go out to parties much, but about two months ago I did, (and didn’t drink, Mom!) and was having a lovely time dancing on my own (because boys are afraid of my sick moves) when my friend noticed a guy standing behind me, staring at me. She thought this meant that he wanted to dance, but I personally thought it was because he was out of his mind on a whole lot of illegal substances which could potentially have put him in the hospital. But at this point, he was at least semi-responsive and looking at me, and somehow managed to ask me if I’d like to dance. I said yes, mainly because I am an awkward monkey and don’t know how to talk to someone whose blood is half alcohol and half weed.

We had been dancing for about 3 seconds when he rubbed my butt. With his hand. In a very…rubby…way. And then he removed his hand from my trouser area (thank goodness) and held my hand. Really strongly, in an “I am now dating you” sort of way. I know this sounds so ridiculous, but I think it was one of the nicest hand-holding experiences I’ve had, creepy guy/butt rub aside. And then he looked deep into my eyes, and might’ve continued to my soul had he not been so wasted that his gaze shifted to my ear.

The point is, I got a butt rub, hand hold, and soul-searching gaze all in about 10 seconds before he walked away, at which point I busted out laughing for about a year. Because really, I could’ve been creeped out or offended, but this sort of thing would only happen to me. My friends? Would’ve danced with a normal fellow and had nice conversation. Me? Butt rub hand hold all the way.

Oh, and did I mention that I sat about 10 feet away from him in my class two days later? Yeah. I see him all the time. Best part? He doesn’t remember. But I do. I remember. And he is my husband. My creepy, slightly rapey husband.


Happy Holidays! I’m Better Than You

3069914518_26770c90dfDear Friends,

It’s that season once more! The season of giving (to me) and snowmen and hot cocoa, which means its time to read my annual Holiday Letter of Self-Obsession.

As you all know, my Pulitzer Prize winning novel “This is Why I’m Hot” came out last year to rave reviews, so I’m pretty loaded now.

After my divorce from my brain surgeon husband (don’t worry, my divorce lawyers were better than his and I came away with the condo in the Bahamas and his mother’s antique diamond ring) I’ve been living a glamorous single life. Divorcing George was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, since our long relationship of one year really meant a lot to me (and he was seriously gorgeous), but the grief weight I lost was totally worth it!

In the wake of my book’s success and my very public divorce, I was hard at work on my new autobiography “The Life and Times of Me: The Jet-Setting Single Gal Who Still Manages to Make the Men Swoon” which came out last month.

I method-wrote the heck out of that book (by which I mean I travelled to every major Caribbean city and tanned for 3 hours a day in order to collect enough data to write a really sexy book about passion and mangos). I was like Daniel Day-Lewis, but feminine and a writer. And sexy.

I have also really enjoyed meeting my fans on my world book tour these past few weeks. The little people really do love me, and I’d like to thank them all for standing in line for hours while I sat in a chair drinking tea and receiving gifts from them. I want to say this: I appreciate your concern for me after my divorce, but if I get one more self-help book from you idiotic nothings, I will sue you all. Love you!

I’m now relaxing at my beach cottage in Florida with my man-servant Juan (who I met in yoga class). Juan is very flexible, soI’m enjoying life. I hope you have all been as fortunate as me this year, though I very much doubt it. If any of you are in Florida over the holidays, I would love to help set you up at a nearby cottage (for a small fee, of course). Stay beautiful…but not as beautiful as me.




One Organic Hazelnut

While we’re on the topic of the election, I thought I should share with you a poem that I heard last year.
At my previous university, I went to open mic night every week to listen to music and poetry. Of course, I loved some of the musicians and hated others (everyone seemed to think that if you play a ukulele while you sing, you’re automatically amazing). But the one gem I found was too great not to share with the whole of the internet. A middle aged man came in, sat down, was quiet for probably an entire minute, then recited:

The 2012 Election:
I need a president who is anti-war and pro-life
So I’m voting for…none of the above.
Oh! One organic hazelnut.

I’d like to point out that when he talked about the hazelnut, he pulled one out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth…

So that happened.

Cheers everyone, and make sure you vote for one of the above :)