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Yesterday, my new boss, with only two weeks of experience as a store manager under his belt, decided to give me some tips on improving my department, of which I’ve been the head for three years, including this gem:

“You should probably try to work faster.”

Thanks, Tony Robbins.

Then, my mom texted me, from California:

“I am at the Dr. I just found out I have diabetes. Wow.”

Teen Girl had something up her butt, sideways. When I knocked on her door to tell her about the crappiness of my day, she was annoyed with my existence:

“WHAT??”

I decided to sit, quietly, while on my dinner break from work, and pick out a few chords on the one thing I knew I could count on to make me feel better… my ukulele.

Trust me when I say that I’m no virtuoso. In fact, I fucking suck. I, someone with no musical experience, whatsoever, saved up and bought the tiny instrument last year, in a fit of creativity, but never picked it up. I mean, I hadn’t so much as strummed it, even once. It lie dormant in my closet for over six months.

I would search for something, non-ukulele related, from time to time, and remember that it existed.

“I should really try that thing out,” I’d think to myself. But wouldn’t. I was trying out lots of new things, and couldn’t bear to fail at one more.

Finally, I was asked to do a live storytelling/comedy/variety-type show with a fellow local creative. We discussed the show and what we each wanted to do.

“Oh, and I’m going to play the ukulele.”

“I didn’t know you played the ukulele.”

“I don’t.”

I had two months, and I vowed to teach myself to play this thing, completely foreign to me. Time went by, a venue was chosen, press releases were written, stories compiled, jokes created, ukulele NOT learned.

It started to feel like a cloud hanging over me, the ukulele in the closet. I know how Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle felt, having him in the cupboard under the stairs. Always with the existing, that thing! Finally, I sat down to try it.

I visited a hundred websites and watched a million YouTube videos with it in my hands, trying to figure out how to make it sing. I chose a piece with the least number of chord changes possible and set out, not to learn the instrument, but to play ONE SONG. Just one. To prove to myself that I could.

It was like magic. Stress melted, a smile appeared, and I felt like I suddenly spoke the same language as a million strangers. After all, music is the same all over the world.

I’m probably only slightly better today than I was that day, back in January. And the live show came and went, without me feeling confident enough to include the ukulele. But, any time my anxiety climbed, I could pick it up and pick out my one song, whispering the lyrics, and feel better. Which is a priceless commodity in my world.

When I came home yesterday, and all the badness was tapping me on the shoulder, and the teen was slamming her emotional door in my face, I knew I had to pick it up.

But something was wrong.

It was wet. It was sticky.

It was filled with cat puke.

The vomit was dried in big clumps, and the wood was soaked through with whatever juices cats have in their stomachs. Pure evil, obviously.

I started crying, immediately. And tweeted, naturally.

My friend, Lara, who runs a wonderful blog, called My Milk Glass Heart, reached out and asked what was wrong. I was back at work and could only give the barest of details, lest I start crying again.

I went about my day, not being able to forget about my poor little uke, and how much I hated that cat. I hibernated for the rest of the night.

This morning, I had two curious text messages.

“Check your twitter! You’re gonna get a new ukulele!”

and

“Just ordered your ukulele! I’ll let you know when it gets here! People are awesome!”

I headed to twitter, to find…

this…

and this…

So, thank you, secret internet friends, who made this possible. And Lara, who is one of the kindest people I know.

I can now forgive the evildoer (which is good, because her bowl is empty and her litterbox is full), and get on with my life. Well, not yet. But soon.

I’ll also be investing in a case, and getting my cat some help for her issues. I just know there’s a cat whisperer out there, somewhere, dying to trade services for advertising space.

And, in case you wondered, my song is this, with much love to my friend Gina, at The Feminist Breeder:

Click here to view the embedded video.

So, one of the lovely women I met in person at BlogHer, but was already a fan of, asked if I would take home a, ahem, marital aid that she was pimping, and then link to the, ahem, marital aid company on my site. Now, as much as I’d sell out like an American Idol contestant for so much as a sandwich, that sort of thing is usually not my cup of tea. Believe it or not, I’m awkwardly sex goddessy enough that I’ve been asked before and politely declined, by which I meant haven’t returned any of the emails I’ve received. However, I lovelovelove Sandy at ToyWithMe.com on a deeply personal level, PLUS she held a demo model against my arm and I felt the power of her buzzing beauty and I just couldn’t resist. Plus, she’s a redhead so, you know, me-ow.

Here’s the link (the only requirement): we-vibe.com

This here’s all Jen: Dudes, this vibrator is so amazing that you’ll think “Whatever, FYM, we know you’re easy so why should we trust you? I’m mean, WE’RE not easy” but you’d totally be missing out. It’s all buzzy on the inside AND the outside and I need A LOT of buzz because I maybe self love kind of frequently and it’s got power to spare. The site SAYS the we-vibe is for couples and I see how it could be and would be just fab but I’m not currently in a humping relationship so I didn’t try it out for a long time, just waiting for Prince Charming to ride up on his stallion and ask if I had a sex toy that I wanted some help testing then, finally, just decided to try it on my own. When recommending the we-vibe to a friend I said “You know, if someone else were sharing this experience with me, I’d just be irritated that they got in the way of the MOST AMAZING ORGASMS OF MY LIFE.”

So, to sum up my experience with the we-vibe, I refer you to a tweet I wrote earlier this evening:

I got a new vibrator and now have to have talks w/myself about why it’s important to leave the house sometimes.

Break your piggy bank, sell a kidney, take out a second mortgage, or just tell your husband or boyfriend that if he buys it for you, you both win. Do it.

And, if you aren’t already reading ToyWithMe.com, you are missing out on great writers waxing poetic (and hilarious) about my favorite subject. Do that, too.

Ooh, and courtesy of TheMouthyHousewives.com, whose party I attended at BlogHer, my hot UPS guy delivered an LG vacuum to my door the other day. Housework is like Abu Ghraib to me, but without the fun photo ops, so, to be honest, it’s still wrapped and in the box, but it looks sweet as crap and I kind of can’t wait to try it.

When it arrived, I texted a friend with the news. I also told him that I had all hardwood floors (which the box claims it still cleans efficiently) and that I hate housework.

“So you won $400 worth of ironic comedy?”

Yes.

@Superfluously
Name: Superfluously
Web: Burlaphead the Stronger
Bio: As cute as abortin’!

My favorite tweets:

Oh, no way! This stand-up comedian is wearing the same sadness I am!

Just caught a glimpse of myself with my shirt tucked into my boxers. I have never felt like more of a threat to society.

I’m not allowed to screenings of my childhood home videos because everybody hates spoilers.

The best cups of coffee come with a change of underwear.

You say, “Busted sink that fires water in all directions.” I say “Advanced future sink that washes multiple dishes at once. And the window.”

Man, that contrarian I just ate did NOT agree with me.

Poop jokes? Self-deprication? An avatar that says “Yeah, I’m up for the lead in the Beakman’s World movie, what of it?” He makes me laugh on the regs and I’m not just saying that because he paid me to.

Leave a comment with your twitter handle and who your favorite follows are, then stay tuned for my next pick.

@Schindizzle
Name: Greg Schindler
Location: Palo Alto, Calif.
Web: FunnyOrDie.com
Bio: I’m Funny Or Die’s marketing manager and a plus-sized hand model. I believe one’s character is best revealed by their reverence for Patrick Duffy.

My favorite tweets:

Dear nosy Target cashier: It’s not illegal to buy a teddy bear, Vaseline and Tiger Beat magazine at the same time.

For an organization seeking volunteers, the Boys & Girls Club sure is picky about who it lets give free massages as its events.

The most realistic aspect of Home Alone is that burglars are OK with trying to murder an 8-year-old, but too pious to curse.

Throwing away the lid as soon as I open a carton of ice cream is the most shameful yet honest habit in my life.

How could you not love him?

Give me a shout in the comments with your twitter handle and who your favorite follows are, then stay tuned for my next twitter pick.

Yep. See also: PMS

I’ll have to take your word for it.

In high school, a teacher told me that an orgasm was the best cure for cramps. I just thought she was coming on to me.

Is there anything orgasms CAN’T do?

Cuddle. whompwhomp

They’re probably not great at doing taxes either.

I am going to blog this conversation.

They are terrible typers and never comment on things friends post on their FB wall.

They make terrible cabbies, because they’re always getting lost.

I think I heard one mutter something anti-Semitic once.

They’re as confusing as an episode of Lost and, like George Bush, they don’t care about black people.

They leave their sprinklers on when it’s raining and take up two spaces in parking lots.

They can make you feel lonely, even on a subway car full of judgy people telling you to pull your panties up.

They executive produced Sex and the City 2.

They greenlighted Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami and keep telling Kathy Griffin that she’s funny.

They write all of Justin Beiber’s songs AND cut his hair.

They eat all the cookies and act like they’re doing you a favor because you “said you wanted to lose weight”.

They almost ended Tiger Woods’ career.

They failed to end Willie Aames’ career on the grounds that “Charles in Charge was a delight”.

They bought Liz Taylor her first whiskey and water and horse tranquilizer cocktail AND they directed “Cocktail”.

They gave Pam Anderson and Tommy Lee the hep, then filmed them having sex and released it on the internet, making men everywhere feel inadequate.

Not everywhere. I’m going to cuddle with my orgasm. Text ya later.

Fuck Yeah, Motherhood! on Blogger Body Calendar

“Me too. Barf.”

“I know, right? Actually, I wish I hated it more. It’s cool to resent your kids.”

“And write a book about it. ‘My Kids Ruined My Life’.”

“But everybody’s kids ruin everybody’s lives.”

“Yeah. That’s what makes it relatable.”

Passive-Aggressive Notes