Sometimes the most terrifying thing is one's own self...

Man oh man, something funny happened last night. So, I live in a house of cat extremes: I have one cat who is inordinately large, and one cat who is inordinately small. I call them "The Fat Man" and "Tiny" (their real names are Flea and Clementine, but real names are for squares).The Fat Man is a solid 20 pounds of pure fantastic-ness, while my little cat Tiny is 7 pounds of wicked adorable-ness, and she has the littlest cat feet ever. She's so cute and sweet, it's impossible to take her seriously when she's mad.It's like when a little kid gets all mad and starts acting tough. So, when she hisses at people, they pretty much giggle and point, then go about their business completely unaffected by the altercation. And when she gets super mad, she puffs-out her tail to tremendous proportions (she's a short-haired cat), and walks sideways like a crab...it's fucking awesome, but hardly intimidating.

So, last night, I'm watching me some TV, as I am known to do, and I hear my little cat growling at something, then I hear some loud knocking sounds. I get's up, and wander over to the general area of the noise, and I see my little cat, all puffy-tailed and hissing, batting at her own reflection in the back door. And she was really going at it. Full on hitting and growling, like the reflection just talked smack about her Mama or something. Anyway, it was damn funny, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Classic pet humor, realized in my living room, much to my delight.

Enough with the sucker punching!

Yeah, I hit myself in the face with my laptop this afternoon. No reason, it's not like I didn't listen to myself or something, and I certainly wasn't sassing myself, so I didn't deserve a beating, I just got karmicly unlucky I guess. See, I was trying to get out of this big-ass bean bag chair in this meeting room we have at work, and I wore a dress to work today, so getting out of said beanbag chair gracefully was *challenging*. I managed to keep my knees locked together, so no one got the pleasure of seeing my cookie place, but in an effort to stay chaste, I lost track of where my damned ole computer was. So, here I am, thinking I'm all kinds of fly cause I swung myself out of that beanbag chair in such a way that Jane Austen would have reveared and cannonized, then I cold-cocked myself in the left eye with my Think Pad. Fucking IBM and their "Think Pads", always trying to keep a sister down. Anyway, I got a red mark and a bruise, but it's cool. I'm gonna tell people I'm been prize fighting again, that way folks will think I'm tough, but mysterious.

I would like a slice of your finest cock...I mean CAKE!

Me and my pal Siler went to lunch at Cindy's deli last week, and boy howdy, it was tasty! Cindy's is a lovely little anachronism located right next to the Casket Store at 75 and Royal Lane (you've seen the Casket Store, don't act like you haven't...it's HUGE, how could you not have seen it...don't be embarrassed, I won't think you're weird for noticing it). Anyway, Cindy's is this big-ass NY Style Deli joint with maroon boths, fantastic pastel art and about a million old people, and they still have an actively populated smoking section, cause they old school. All of their waitresses are salty broads who make you feel uncomfortable, but you also kind of feel like you deserve it, so it's okay. If you feel like a samich or perhaps a nice breakfast item, Cindy's is your joint. Even if you want one of them weirdo samiches like "tongue" or "lox", Cindy's has got your freaky-ass covered. Plus, they have this great section of bakery-fresh goods. Bagels...check, danishes...check, cookies....check. Shit man, it's all there. Baklava...check. So, me and Siler is all done eating, so we goes to the front to pay the bill, right. See, the cashier is right next to the bakery display area, and this being Siler's first time, I wasn't surprised when she wondered off to check out the delicious wares. She's gone a few minutes, then she comes back over to me, all giggling and shit. The she say's "you got to check this out..." So I walks over there, and I see the cake displays, and I think "wow, those cakes look grand! I wish I had a whole cake, I'd eat the hell outta that cake...mmmmm...cake". Then Siler points to this one cake in particular, and I'm like, "okay, that's a nice carrot cake...what's so funny abo.....OH SNAP!" The cake looked to be decorated with a whole bunch of wangs...complete with balls. Cock Cake! It. Was. Awesome. So awesome, I took a picture of it with ye olde camera phone. Enjoy!

Look at this creepy cat

I'm having a bad day, so I went to a stock photography site and looked at pictures of cats to cheer me up. This one was escpecially funny.

With Excellent Cow Leather

Now, I'm not a very fancy gal, but I like me some sparkly shoes every now and then. And come on, who doesn't. Communists...that's who. Anyway, to me, when one is looking to buy some snazzy, sparkly shoes, nothing quite compares to those beaded, flea market flats you can get for 10-20 bucks. Dang, they're purdy! And they come in almost every color of the rainbow, which is gear, fab and all that. Cause I like to mix it up a bit: black shirt, blue jeans, RED beaded-flea-market-shoes! Pow! It's like style just kicked you in the gooch, and you liked it. So here's the deal, I have been looking for a pair of these suckers in bright, grass green, cause I lika-the-green, and green-lika-me. Not sea green, not olive green...GRASS green. Problem is, flea markets don't think this is a very marketable color, so I haven't ever seen it on the shelf. But, since I'm a smart lady, I decided to cruise on up to the information super highway, and see if I can find me some shiny green shoes. Guess what? I can't find that shit anywhere. What the fuck, man? I can find a face cream made out of snail "leavings", but no green shoes? Lame. The one good thing about my search was getting to read all the rad headlines from vendors in third world countries, like "Made with excellent cow leather". Made me want to buy a pair even though they didn't come in any color but baby blue (a weak, paltry shade if there ever was one). But seriously, they are made of EXCELLENT cow leather...imagine the quality! I bet those shoes are so fine they would make Sinatra look like a hobo.

You know what's inappropriate to wear to work? Tube tops.

Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a casual work place enviornment as much as the next gal, but I draw the line at anything that requires the wearer to go braless. Shut-up guys, I know you like a little swingy-swingy during the day, but this isn't about what you want, it's about what "I" want.

Let me break some things down for you good people: the gals that wear tube tops at work, don't look good in them. Buxoum blonde goddess-types ain't your coworkers, unless you happen to work at a strip club or Hooters. You're coworkers are the skinny, mousy-types who have a face like a foot, and that's who's gonna show up on Tuesday morning, rockin'it in the tube (this principal also applies to those tanktops that have the super skinny straps as well as micro mini skirts). Another truth about tube tops, women that wear them are wearing them because they want sex. Now. With whatever will have them. Which is fine, if you at "da club". I, however, do not work at "da club", so I don't need to know who's hot for it. I'd just like to assume that all my coworkers are sexless drones so I don't have to think about any of them bumpin' uglies. If I do think about a coworker gettin' down, it's a super hot dude, and I think about him gettin' down with your truly, but that's for my private time. The last thing I want to imagine is some dried-up old hag who's ovaries have long since shriveled up like raisins, bouncin' around during my status meetings hoping to get a little of the sweet-sweet over lunch. Gross. Moral of the story, for Godsake, will you cover yourself!

I am the conferece call MASTA!

So far, I have successfully used the words "masturbatory" and "vaginal canal" in conference calls this year. Praise me, for I am great.

The "vaginal canal" one was delighful, because it was said in a room full of dudes, and they freaked the shit out when I said it. But, it's not like I just whipped "vaginal canal" out of nowhere or anything, our clients are Always and Tampax, and we are doing a teaching module for tampon insertion with an animation house in town, and they didn't have the anatomy of the lady parts correct. They had this crazy, tubelookin' thing they called the vagina, and that ain't right. The vagina isn't some massive, gaping tunnel, man! It's a muscular structure...look it up on the inter-web, you'll see I'm right. How they hell do you think tampons stay up there, magic? I assure yu, they do not.

Anyway, "masturbatory" was even more great, because it truly did come out of nowhere. That was said back when I was in DC, and my whole team was on a conference call with these dingleberries in NYC who work for some hot-shot ad agency up there. And man, they were wearing my ass out with all there "suggestions" for our work. They'd say shit, and we'd be like "yeah, we tried that, and it didn't work visually, but thanks for suggesting it", and these guys would not relent with their bullshit "ideas". Over and over and over again with these bad, lame suggestions, and they were just not hearing us when we said "no". So finally, I spoke up and said "you know, we CAN do that for you guys, but frankly, it would be purely masturbatory at this point". Jaws dropped. It rocked. And guess what? Those turd-burgelers backed the shit off.

Blogda rules, end of story.

P.S. I hope Walter reads this, he get's so uncomfortable when women talk about anything crass or dirty. Tee-hee!

I sucker-punched myself last week

Yeah, you read that right…I sucker-punched myself, right below my right tittie. Ever see those exercise bands with handles on them? You know, great for travel…you can stuff’em in a suitcase, then whip’em out for a nice resistance workout in your hotel room (or, if you freaky, they have many more creative uses). Anyway, I have a set of these bad boys, and I took them with me on a business trip to Chicago last week. The cool thing about these bands of mine is that they have this ball-like attachment (see pic below) you can use to anchor the bands to a door. What you do is, close the ball part on the other side of the door, then lock the door, and use the bands for such exercises as chest presses, triceps pull-downs, etc. They whole set-up is pretty grand, providing your door has a good lock. Okay, so the stage has been set: hotel room in Chicago, exercise bands, Bogda and a door (the front door). So, Bogda shuts the ball attachment on the other side of the door, then flips the safety lock (also known as a "Grizzly"swing-type Door Guard, pictured above) shut, and proceeds to do some thoroughly righteous lat rows. Bogda loves her some lat rows, because Bogda has a strong, Polish back. So, after a few reps, something horrid happened. Completely out of nowhere, the door FLIES OPEN! The ball thing comes flyin’ at me at about 50 mile per hour and sucker-punches me square in the upper chest-lower-tittie region. It hurt. A lot. I have a bruise. A big one. And after it happened, I grabbed my chest and just rocked back and forth going “aaaahhhhh…….eeeeesssshhhhh” over and over again. But then I was okay. I wish someone had been in the room with me, that whole exchange had to have been really damn funny to watch. I’m a walking slap-stick comedy show over here! Which is why you love me.

Old and Busted

Well, tomorrow is July 26th, which is my birthday, and this year, I'm turning 30...which is quite a milestone for us ladies. By now, I should have gotten married, birthed a baby or two and have set up house someplace. And I should have a few pairs of Mom jeans to round it all out.

Yeah, so none of that has happened, and I'm okay with it...well, most of it. I sure the fuck don't need any kids, the whole idea is repugnent to me to be honest with you. Nothing that big needs to be coming out of my cookie place, and I certainly have no desire to be strapped into a huge mortgage, so Dream House Bogda isn't out of the box either. But, I really thought I would be married by now, or at least be with the guy who I want to be married to. And, for a long time, I thought I had found that dude, but after 6 and a half years of dating, he passed on the opportunity to take me off the market, so I'm no where close to finding Mr. Right. And damned if that ain't depressing. I mean, I'm pretty rad. I'm smart, funny, cute, and I can make chicken soup from a chicken, what more do you fuckers want from me? Other than gigantic, football-sized jugs, cause that ain't gonna happen.

So, all in all, Bogda is less than super-chuffed about this upcoming event. In less than 7 hours, the flower of my youth will be cruely plucked, and I will go from new hottness to old and busted. Which blows. I need to get laid.

Random Greatness

My pal Miker hipped me to these funny cat pics, enjoy!

My meeting skillz are dope

So, I'm in a meeting this afternoon with the head of Project Management, an Associate Creative Director, 2 Designers, an Information Architect, and a Writer, and I volunteer to plug my laptop into the big screen so we can all look at the same document together. I'm cool like that, see? So, I plugs my laptop in, and we go through the first file, which is a 6 page PDF of designs for a website we are working on. Everything goes swimmingly, no issues. The work was good, the comments were minimal. So, we move onto the next file, which is a JPG. I opens it up, and the design looks great. We make some comments, then the designer leans over to me and says "there should be one more page". Now, I'm new to the world of PCs, so I assume that the arrow at the bottom of the player means that I can advance to the next page in the file. Silly me. Apparently, Windows Picture and Fax Viewer just cycles through all the pictures you have in your "My Pictures" folder. So, that being said, the very next picture in my "My Pictures Folder" was this:







Needless to say, hilarity ensued, and I laughed nervously, then turned red. Good times.

Eulogy for my friend Howard

When I was 12, our dog Fuzzy acted like he was some crabby old man, so we decided to get him a puppy to perk him up a bit. Pop found an ad in the paper for black standard schnauzer puppies, and we thought we'd go check'em out. So, we dragged our asses out to BFE, saw the puppies, and promptly left with my favorite one, the little male with floppy ears. We named him Howard, and he was my dog.

He did all the cool puppy things: he cocked his head to the side when he was confused, he barked at his own reflection, he fell over for no good reason, and he tormented Fuzzy like it was his job. Howard used to do this thing where he would run up under Fuzzy (also a schnauzer), grab his beard, and then take off running like hell. Half the time, Howard just pulled out Fuzz's beard, but the other half, Fuzz actually got hauled along for the journey. This game was short-lived, Fuzzy's beard got chewed/pulled off, so he had a saucy moustache for about 6 months, which was hilarious. Dogs+moustaches=awesome, it's a mathematical fact.

As Howard grew up, he was my constant companion. Howard became a stunningly beautiful dog who was a true gentleman and an emapthetic soul. Sometimes, he would walk over to me, put his head in my lap, then look up at me and wag his tail, that would just kill me.

Unfortunately, Howard died this past Friday, and I miss my friend desperately.

Gird your loins

Every once in a while, something special finds its way into your life. Sometimes that could be a stray kitten or a great new job, but once in a blue moon, that "something special" will fuck you up for life. Something that is the stuff of nightmares. That type of "something special" wandered into my life courtesy of my pal Wilksey.

Wilksey calls me one day to say that she sent me something neat in the mail, and to keep my eyes open for it. Then she giggled in a way that made me uncomfortable. She sent it to my office, because it was to be a "good luck in your new job" type gifty. So, I waits, and I waits, then I waits some more. Finally, I get this big-ass brown box in the mail. So, I scamper back to my cube, box under my arm, and I start cutting open that bad boy. And let me tell you, this sucker is packaged well. I was begining to think she had sent me a Ming Vase or something equally as exotic and or breakable. Finally, I get to the lastlayer of packing material, and this fantastic sight greets me:





Behold...CLOWN! Don't act like this didn't freak you out...you know it did.

P.S. Wilksey said the lady that sold her this crazy thing suggested she hang it in a baby's room. What kind of fucked-up parent would do that to a sweet, little baby? That's the kind of shit that makes your baby a ward of the state.

Why does this always happen to me?

For some reason, the past few sets of neighbors I have had, feel the need to construct a bar out of their garage, which, as we all know, is where the cars go. Don't get me wrong, I'm a social-type gal, but I do not want drunk fuckers puking/pissing/buggin' me when I am trying to get some shut-eye. And furthermore, garages are gross. They have oil stains, bad smells and about a million spiders...they are not for socializing. And certainly not for entertaining your guests at 3:00 am on a Tuesday.

The first time this became a problem was when 4 college-looking boys moved in next door. They never closed their garage door, so it didn't take me long to see that they had actually built a bar in the garage. And not a nice one either...a real crappy, built from wood stolen from the Wal-Mart build site down the road type bar. The ambiance was completed with plastic palm trees and some lawn chairs. Which is fine, to each his own, right? The line got crossed when they messed with my peaceful, quite bedtime. Breaking up an impromptu golf game in the parking lot at 3:16 am on a Tuesday is not peaceful. Not in the least. So, after putting up with Delta House and their shenanigans, my patience paid off and the frat boys were booted-out after only 3 months. And man oh man, they must have jacked that place up...there was this huge steam cleaning van parked outside of that apartment for 3 days. "Good riddance to bad rubbish" I thought (yes, I have the internal dialogue of a crabby old man).

That thought lasted about 2 weeks, then the new folks moved in. At first, they were an elusive bunch, but I knew they were in there, because they always play their TV at volume level 11. But, I've only ever seen the lady who lives there, and she's a crusty-lookin'fake blond with grand fake tits and beef jerky for a face (sounds hot, right?). These lovely folks lulled me into a false sense of security for a few days before opening their garage to reveal a bigger, better-financed garage bar, complete with 3 neon beer signs. What the fuck, man? I think they even have astro turf in there too for some reason. And, to be fair, they really haven't been disruptive...yet.

But once bitten, twice shy, right? And seriously, I just don't understand why all my neighbors need a mother freakin' bar next to the room that I sleep in. That's where I sleep for crap's sake! I love sleeping...don't try to fuck me out of some sleep, garage-bar neighbors! Don't make me cut you, garage-bar neighbors! I'll pull a razor outta my titties and I'LL CUT YOU!

Hulk smash!

So, I walked into the Ladies Room at work the other day, and I was met by an unusual sight: the toilet seat from stall #1 had been completely ripped-off and discarded. Now, that's the first time I have ever seen a toilet seat that had been ripped-off, so naturally, it gave me pause. It's not like those things are held on with gum and a twist-tie either, those suckers are bolted down and stuff, so it has to take some reasonable amount of force to dislodge 'em. Which is why the whole scene gave me pause. I mean, women in general are quite courteous bathroom-goers: we always flush (except at movie theaters for some reason), we let each other know if there is no toilet paper in a stall, we don't ahem..."miss" the toilet or splash our salty leavings on the floor, etc. So, how exactly did this ripped-off seat come to be in such a state? My theory: the Incredible Hulk dropped a deuce in the Ladies Room, at my office building. You've seen how he gets when he's agitated...I bet he's the type to really wreck a joint when he makes "a deposit". Think about it: the Hulk's strength can't be limited to just his arms and legs and stuff, he probably has a wicked-strong butt hole too. One so mighty that the mere act of defecating rips rooms apart! You know I'm right. When you think about it, you can only come to this, the most logical of conclusions: Hulk broke my bathroom. God help us if he ever ties into some Wolf Brand chili. The only way to deal with that sort of situation is to cleanse the building with fire.

Making quite a splash at the new job

Alright, so it's my first week at work here at my fancy new job, and us new hires had to go to this SUPER boring timesheet training class. These cats at my new job use a system called Vantage, and it is the least intuitive program I have ever encountered (besides Illustrator). I’m pretty sure I have to kill Gannon and get the extra heart before I can log my time. Anyway, I’m sitting next to my pal Kelly, who I’ve know for a few years through my pal Ben, and he makes a comment about my desktop wallpaper. Now, I have a lame PC laptop, which I have brought with me to said meeting, and in an effort to jazz it up a bit, I put a picture of Domo Kun a.k.a. the Poop Monster (see attached) as my wallpaper. "Who's this Domo Kun fellow?" you ask. Domo Kun is rad. He’s a funny little mascot for the Japanese TV station NKH. He’s brown and fuzzy, with rather sharp teeth, and he lives with a wise old rabbit,his favorite food is seasoned beef and potatoes, and he is just plain awesome looking. So, Kelly is clearly impressed with Domo Kun by now, and wants to know more about him. Since the meeting about timesheets hadn’t really started, I figured that I have time to Goggle the words “Poop Monster” to get some more facts and pics of my little friend Domo Kun. Seems like a reasonable course of action, right? I mean, that's how I found my desktop pic of Domo Kun and all, so where's the harm? So, pictures this: it’s my first week of my brand-new job, I’m in a stuffy meeting, and my pal Kelly asked me if there are other pics of Domo Kun out there. I says “of course!”, then I do my Google search for "Poop Monster". The FIRST thing on the list of sites is a link titled “monster poop”, so I click it. BAM! Up comes the picture of some dude’s toilet bowl, which contains the dude’s insanely long shit…a shit so mighty, he took a picture of it and placed in the interweb. And here it is now, full-screen big on my laptop. I turned beet-red, then cracked up like nobody’s business…the kind of cracking-up that involved loud cackling and a snort or two. And poor Kelly was just staring in open mouthed-awe at my screen. Oh yeah…I know how to make an impression. I=cool.

I just had a meeting with Ivan Drago

Remember Rocky IV? Of course you do, you’re a red-blooded American! Rocky had to defeat communism and avenge Apollo Creed’s death by flying to Moscow to beat the tar out of Ivan Drago (stoically played by TV’s Dolf Lundgren). Remember how big Ivan Drago was, and how he’s all pimp when he says to Rocky “I must break you”. That was rad. Anyway, back to my story. So, I’m in a meeting this morning, and I sit down next to this big dude I have never met before. He introduces himself and he sounds so much like Drago it’s momentarily stunning. Man, this guy was fan-freaking-tastic I tell’s ya. His name is Vadim, and he speaks with the deepest, Russian-ist accent of all time. He even says things like “Facebook is making the things like the applications”. That is so damn cool. It was like having a meeting with a James Bond villain. I don’t remember most of what he said because I was too fascinated by his voice. And because I kept imagining him in a black suit and eye patch, laughing and gently stroking a cat while having a GQ-lookin’ dude lowered into a tank full of sharks. He is awesome, and if I ever have a bar fighting team, he is so on it.

Does anyone even read this anymore?

If so, booty, booty, booty!

Leave me a comment if you're oout there, and want a real posting instead of "booty".

Screw You Amber Gosney For Tagging Me...again: Five Things You'd Rather Not Know About Me

Yeah, yeah, yeah...another one these lame "lists about me". I can't help it, if I break the chain, dead puppies will rain down on me from the heavens and no one will ask me to prom or something like that. So, here it goes, 5 things you'd rather not know about me:

1.) I can do a really good creepy, pedophile voice. No, it's true, ask around. I can make your skin crawl with this creepy-creeperson voice, it's a true talent. Normally I use this voice when I'm describing some dude I saw on the bus.

2.) I think goats are really funny.

3.) I love show-tunes. Period. Show-tunes are like sweet, sweet crack rock when I'm on a road trip. I can sing the entire scores of South Pacific, Evita, Oklahoma, A Chorus Line, Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, and Aspects of Love. I fucking dare you to test me.

4.) My knowledge of the Simpsons is almost encyclopedic. No, I'm not a shut in, I just likes what I likes...and I likes the Simpsons. Don;t be a hater.

5.) I can make chicken soup from a chicken, which makes me very domestic and highly eligible for marriage. So, line up boys and take a stab at this fine piece of possible wife.

The Tesla

Some dumb-ass named a concept car "the Tesla". No, I'm serious, "the Tesla"...as in the 80's hair metal band who's claim to fame is a cover of the song "Signs". I want some one to be fired for this. In the world on concept cars, names mean a lot. I mean, you're selling the idea of a ride so mind-blowing, it can't even exist yet, so it has to sound impressive. Names like the "Challenger" or the "Nagare" sound pretty bad-ass, right? Damn right they do! Try and pretend you don't want one right now, I dare you. Of course you want one, cause they sound like the kind of car that makes other cars crap themselves with shame. That's what a name should do. From an outside perspective, the formula seems pretty simple here: either appropriate a cool noun that already has street-cred, or just make up a word that has no meaning, but sounds cool. It's so simple...elegant, even. The formula works, so why stray, right? Just do what they always do and you'll get a good result. What you don't do is raid your 35-year old, shut-in cousin's LP collection. A concept car named after a crap hair band? Come one. Some one didn't do their research on this one. Why stop there? Why not introduce the Chrysler "Ratt"? Or the Toyota "Whitesnake"? Nothing's stopping you, take them all! Obviously you haven't got any better ideas...you shameless hacks. Now, some of you out there may be thinking, "but Blogda, the Tesla is also a unit of magnetic flux density equal to the magnitude of the magnetic field vector necessary to produce a force of one newton on a charge of one coulomb moving perpendicular to the direction of the magnetic field vector with a velocity of one meter per second. A dude named Nikola Tesla determined that." To you people I say, "no one else knows that, you geeks!" And don't try and tell me that the car people didn't know they were using borrowed interest with this name. Marketing departments aren't full of engineers, they're full of chaps and lassies like me, and I know who Tesla was...and what America will think when they here that name. And they ain't gonna think of anything but "Signs, signs, everywhere the signs! Do this, don't do that! Can't you read the signs!?" Well, I hope you're proud of yourselves, Tesla creators. No matter how bad-ass your car may be (and trust me, it is bad-ass), half of America will know it's named after a crap hair band who can't even get gigs doing middle school homecoming dances. If I had a rolled-up newspaper, I'd smack you on the nose, cause you've been bad.