tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4049669165427652952024-03-14T02:19:23.943-05:00...A PENNY FOR MADDE'S THOUGHTS......a Nickel for a SMOOCH...
'cuz I'm a LADY!Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-68362329903189737802016-04-21T15:08:00.001-05:002016-04-21T15:08:28.715-05:00Write Something Funny...<div class="p1">
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<span class="s1">[A girl sits at her computer and says, “Alright...time to write something funny!”]</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Funny. Hmmm.. Ok. Let’s write something funny, self. What’s funny? Do you know what’s funny. Let’s start with cats. People think cats are funny, right?</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><b>I’ve had two cats in my life. Casimir tried to strangle himself on the leash I put him on when I was in the 4th grade. He ended up with fluid in his lungs, but he survived. </b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>...Nah, that’s not funny. Don’t share that. People will feel sad for Casimir. Do you have any other funny cat stories, self? Try to lighten up the mood with this next cat story, ok? Keep it light. People need light.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><b>One time I was housesitting for a cat and he got stung by a bee. Suddenly his head ballooned up to the size of a small basketball. When I took him to the vet they said he couldn't stay the night and I had to transfer him to another vet's office. Boy...was THAT a drive. </b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>...Stop it. Another cat injury story, Madde? Don’t share that story. Also, why does every cat in your car have some sort of emergency? People aren't going to trust you with their cats.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>So I'm in the car, this cat's got this kitty IV in, and I'm all, "THIS IS NUTS!"</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> ... STOP NOW. Let’s try and move away from cats. You knew the cat road was dangerous. Just drive past cats.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>...What else you got?</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>Alright, I can do this. What else is funny? People love bad date stories. Do you have any bad date stories, Madde? </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><b>I went out on a Tinder date a few months ago. You see, my therapist had advised I stop my pattern of dating emotionally unavailable comedians, because I was too emotionally AVAILABLE. </b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>Nobody wants to hear about the therapist I stopped seeing, self. Go back to the date story. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></i><b>So we get to lunch and he says, “You know that you are the only girl who has ever said ‘Thank you’ when I buy lunch?” I was appalled by this. How many bimbos was this doofus going out with, and why was I the only one who had skimmed Emily Post?</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></b><i>People want to hear how I screwed up. Tell a story about something awful that you've done. Stop looking like the victim. Nobody wants to date the victim, Madde.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></i><b>One time on a date I made the following joke: “This has been fun. Maybe we can go out again sometime, presuming neither of us gets cancer and dies in the next week.” Really bad move on my part, turns out his father had just been diagnosed with cancer that week. He’s still alive, but I only know that because i’ve Facebook stalked the son who refused to ever call me again. </b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></b><i>Alright, regroup. You sound like a crazy person. Let’s try a new topic. What about funny things you see on the street? New York has tons of funny things that happen on the street. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></i><b>Today I saw a homeless man peeing in a trash can....INTO the trash can. Can he get a ticket for this? Is this littering? </b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>That is the end of this story? </i></span><i>That's all you had? </i></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Ok...try a new observation story. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Try to make it a STORY. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></i><b>Everyone has had that experience where you’re on the train and suddenly you realize the man in the corner is jerking off into a McDonald’s bag and staring at you, right?</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></b><i>I bet this isn’t a universal experience. What is wrong with you? Nobody wants to hear a stranger jerk off story. Try something universal. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></i><b>I had 2 martinis and a vanilla soft serve ice cream last night. When I woke up this morning I had a horrible headache. I came to the horrible realization that I was hung over, not from the martinis, but from the ice cream. </b></span></div>
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<i>It always comes down to your butt, Madde....</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Regroup. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>You know what? I’m trying to write a funny blog and it’s just not working. I’m just going to take some time and go eat an ice cream cone while I gather my thoughts. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>...no. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>...no ice cream. </i></span></div>
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Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-14219818846473809782015-07-02T18:33:00.001-05:002015-07-02T18:33:24.488-05:00My Super Mean 16!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I pride myself on my theories. In fact, I’m known for my theories. I’m the Einstein of dumb theories, you might say. Need a theory about the unknown human diarrhea sac? I’ve got it for you. Longing for a theory about how the internet is a passing fad? Come at me, bro. Desire a theory about how test tube babies are really made in a lab and fed with fish food until they are ready to be “born” and then are popped out of their test tubes into a crib? There it is. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My latest theory: <i>I believe that most people don’t emotionally mature past the age of 16. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My therapist once told me that people don’t truly “know themselves” until their mid-70s. That we are spending our whole lives getting to know this human brain and soul we were given, and then reach some Maya Angelou-esque enlightenment when we head on up to our seventh decade. While Dr. “Madde stopped going to you after you gave her a lecture about dating comedians” might have been convincing in his argument, I believe a certain percentage of people just decide to stop evolving and getting to know themselves after they’ve gotten their driver’s license and smoked pot in the back of their parent’s caravan. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Take for example Bravo’s “Real Housewives” franchise. King Andy Cohen has made millions of dollars off of filming grown ass women who agree that screaming at each other in restaurants, pulling out the weaves of their neighbor, and coining phrases like “I’m Gone with the Wind fabulous, bitch!!” are appropriate and suitable ways to handle human interactions with their peers. And America watches. Well--I watch...And my mom...And most people I trust. We all watch and say, “Can you believe it? Can you believe these women? How juvenile!” and convince ourselves that we don’t partake in the some version of this in our lives--albeit with less diamond rings and our own lines of Pinot Grigio. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>When I was 16, I had a high tolerance and thirst for petty arguments about boys, gossip rings about who did what to who’s what, and most things 16 year olds spend their days chatting away about. At 27, my tolerance has evolved. Now I silently feel rage when girl in women’s clothing steals a man from my clutches. I still gossip* about who did what to who’s what, but now in closed circles with my gal pals over someone else’s line of Pinot Grigio, we have a laugh, and then move on.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> (*A side note on gossip: anyone who says they don’t gossip is a filthy liar. We all share stories and are interested in what is going on in the beds, homes, cars, side cars, and mopeds of the people around us. It is a matter of whether you share this information KNOWING it will hurt someone’s feelings (BAD GOSSIP..don’t do it!!), or whether you are being a human being who observes out loud (STILL NOT GREAT GOSSIP...but we’ve all done it! So don’t try and cast stones at others when you have done it yourself, toots. Mmmmk?). Ok. Gossip tangent over.) </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> What I DO NOT have tolerance for is the thoughtless and unkind behavior that one might forgive a 16 year old for, but in your mid 20s-90s is unacceptable. I recently had an experience in which someone was incredibly unkind to me. As an adult woman, I thought that surely this was an unintentional act of unkindness that I could honestly and earnestly come to this person about, we would chat it over, they would apologize, there might even be a hug or two, and we could move on. Oh, no, no, no, no...no. I was shocked to hear that all of the unkind behavior had actually been calculated, they did not feel badly for what they had done, and they weren’t planning on being kind any time soon. Cooooooool.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>This situation got me thinking. If someone ever approached me and asked me to be kind to them, what would my answer be? Well, turns out my answer would never be NO. Great news! This might be the sign that I’m on my way to emotionally evolving past the age of 16. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do I gossip? Yes, I do. It’s not vicious gossip. I never set out to hurt people, but I do observe humanity out loud, which would be put into the category of “gossip.” So ya, I do it. Stone me. Think the worst of me, if you’d like... </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do I spend an unusual amount of time staring at my nose pores? Sure. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do I still struggle with parallel parking? Of course. It’s an inhumane activity to ask me to do while I’m holding my Cappuccino. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do I have crushes on boys, and weirdly giggle if they are around, then lose capacity to work my mouth when talking is required? Kind of, and I promise I’ll see a doctor about it soon. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Does my mother still pay my cell phone bill? .....no comment..(..but I will say that we are on a family plan, and Mama Gibba has invited me many times to pay my share, and my schedule has made me unavailable for negotiations on this. No further comments will be offered at this time). </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My point? I’m in my mid-to-late-20s and yes, I certainly behave like a teenage girl sometimes, but I am proud to say that emotionally, I might have gained perspective on how to treat others with respect, kindness, love, and thoughtfulness. I’m certainly not at Maya Angelou status, but I am proud to say I want to be better and I have gained a perspective on my capacity for compassion.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>When I’m treated poorly as an adult, I try to figure out why my first instinct is to feel compassion for the shit head who shit all over my head. I was never bullied as a teenager, but, like most teenagers, I certainly didn’t always feel like I fit in. It didn’t feel great, it made me second guess who I was, why I was, and if I was worth it. And you know what that experience taught me? I am me, I was put on this Earth to be the best version of me, I am good enough, and I am more than worth it. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Strangely enough, it wasn’t until I became an adult that I faced actual bullying. People who are perceived me in a certain way and think negatively of me for whatever that reason is. People who believe if they break me, it will give them strength. Or, you know, just some assholes who don’t feel too great about themselves. I don’t think these things are reserved just for teenagers. People don’t always grow out of feeling shitty about themselves. The teenage bully becomes the 27 year old bully who calculates how to make their peers feel sadness. The bullied 16 year old becomes the 32 year old with a superiority complex and alarming high self-esteem that is really masking the damage they endured in their teens by talking down to others and making you feel less. They resort to their tactics they used as a youth, or the tactics that were used against them when they were younger to make them feel less than. We don’t grow out of that unless we make a conscious choice to want to be better. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>So this is what I’m asking. Let’s all try to do better. Gossiping about boys, smoking weed in vans, and stuffing our bras is in good fun. That stuff can stay, but what if we all try to show kindness and compassion to those around us? After all, wasn’t being a teenager hard enough? Nobody wants to go through round two, we’ll all just get acne again. </span></div>
Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-69962948102131789012013-12-20T17:45:00.001-06:002013-12-20T17:45:09.193-06:00Pepe Le Pew School for the Smooches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Christmas is usually a time of charitable giving. My recent transition to New York City has left me with cash that can only be used for $1 pizza and rent. In an effort to be more charitable and give back to the community this season, I decided to offer my heart and time by doing some volunteer work. Finding a volunteer position that would accentuate my unique skills proved to be a challenge. I surely would burn my hands on chowder at the soup kitchens. I've WebMd'd myself enough to know that I'm probably susceptible to carpel tunnel, so bell ringing for the Salvation Army is out. (Also, they hate gay people and they can go Fa-la-la-la themselves.) So what did I decide to do??<br />
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This Christmas I have clocked a lot of volunteer hours...</div>
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<b><u>Kissing boys who kind of don't deserve kisses because they don't kinda know how to give kisses, so I've been kissing them in hopes that they kinda learn how to give kisses to other girls who actually kinda like them a lot more than I kinda like them...ya know? But I'm super nice about it because I'm doing charity work and that's nice of me. I'm not mean. I promise. It sounds like I'm super mean, but I'm not. It's charity. I'm writing it off on my taxes. I'm super nice. Stop judging me. Kisses. </u></b></div>
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I've yet to finish my Christmas shopping because I've been changing lives around the country one kiss at a time. I don't want to brag, but if Santa were bringing kisses around the world on Christmas night, he would be as exhausted as I am right now. No disrespect to Santa for what he does, but honestly---he has no idea what hard work my Christmas charitable acts have been. Thanks for making Jack-In-The-Boxes, KrissyKring-sicorns, but we all have had to work this Christmas. I don't get cookies, I get chapped lips and a sense of sadness and empathy that can't be cured by extra calories. </div>
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I'm sure my efforts have already inspired you to do your own charitable kissy-faced acts, so allow me to answer some of your burning questions. </div>
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Q: <i>How can you tell a charitable-worthy tragic kisser from a kissy face champion?</i> </div>
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A: It is with greatest sadness that I inform you--you can't. Unfortunately you must wander the world in search of those in need. If you kiss them, you will know. </div>
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Q: <i>Someone has approached me with fish lips, what do I do?</i></div>
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GO (far away from the) FISH!</div>
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A: Great question. Firstly, I want you to know that you are safe. You are not about to kiss a fish, you are about to kiss a human (I hope. It might be a fish, check for gills). Tell the fish-human that they are not a fish. Avoid water. Just give a simple kiss. Also, wear a life vest. </div>
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Q: <i>My kissing charity case comes at me with a lot of open eye action. What do I do?</i></div>
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A: Open eye kissers come from a place of fear that they will miss all of beauty if they close their eyes. Carry a blind fold with you at all times. Put it on open eye kissers and don't give them a choice about it. It creeps us all out to be watched during kissy times, but they are not in a place to hear it right now. </div>
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Q: <i>They make their lips look like a butthole. Help. </i></div>
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A: Understandably, many people think this is a butt face move. My work with this population has expanded my knowledge on this particular move. Kissers who use (what is known on the street as) "butt hole mouth," were usually trained in the school of Pepe Le Pew School for the Smooches. </div>
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Without continued education, most kissers will only know what they learned in PLPSS. Direct them to the University of Phoenix. There they will find many resources, such as the opportunity to major in "Kissing Normal". </div>
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Q: <i>Someone bit my nostril. I let it happen. Is this ok?</i></div>
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A: It's certainly not appropriate, but quite normal. Gently take their teeth off your nose-hole and tell them in no way, shape, or form is this sanitary or sexy. Use your new nose hole to put in a fun nose piercing. </div>
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So I shall leave you with this, charitable kissing humans. </div>
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Kissing is fun. Kissing is great. </div>
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But with kisses, comes great kiss responsibility. </div>
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Kisses can be tragic. Kisses can be awkward. </div>
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Don't let it happen to you. </div>
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If you stumble upon someone who needs some kiss help, </div>
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just say it. </div>
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No one wants their face licked, nostril bitten, or lip sucked off their face forever. </div>
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They will thank you in the end. </div>
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Plus, who doesn't love kisses! </div>
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Now go out there and kiss a friend! </div>
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Bring Chapstick!</div>
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SMOOCHES! </div>
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-75801728369740545722013-12-03T19:41:00.005-06:002013-12-03T19:41:53.727-06:00The Magic of the MistleWOAH<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Should I use my elf tongue?"</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Well, well, well--look who it is. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Hello there, Christmas!</b></span></div>
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That's right, our beloved Christmastime is upon us. As I sit and write this blog, I can't help but gaze out the window at the falling snow. While sipping my berry tea and listening to lil' Johnny Mathis serenade me with some "White Christmas," I think---Gosh darnit, I love Christmastime. No matter your religion, your beliefs, your bank account, Christmas is a time of hope, giving, hugs, giving of hugs, endless cookie consumption, and of course, a time for love, love, love. And this season, like many of you, I'm sure, you can find me at all Christmas parties, patiently waiting underneath the mistletoe.<br />
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What is it about Christmas and love? For me, it always seems to go hand and hand. No Christmas is complete without the little hope that perhaps this is the year Santa will leave me a handsome, funny, kind, patient, and emotionally-stable human man creature underneath my tree. You know, right next to my "My Little Pony" box set and novelty days of the week underwear. And every year--no box set, no undies, no human man creature. I comfort myself by saying, "Santa couldn't get him down the chimney. He's probably up on the roof pining for me. I love that about him."</div>
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Perhaps those of us in cold climates simply want another warm body to place itself upon us and provide us the heat we so rightfully deserve, but I'm pretty sure people in all climates look for love this time of year. I believe it is what I shall call the " 'Love Actually' Complex." The idea that any of us could find love under the glow of Christmas candles from the street windows and snag ourselves a Hugh Grant-level handsome Prime Minister of England. Why? Because it's Christmas--- and those things happen at Christmas. We believe that the magic of Christmas will put love magic into our hearts and bring us sledding right into each other's arms. </div>
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In a crazy twist of doomed fate, I fell in love last Christmas. Real love. Head over heels, "Oh my god! I can't focus on trimming this tree!", "This is what Mariah Carey Christmas albums are talking about!!" kind of love. Truth be told I had fallen in love with him years before, but surely it was the magic of Christmas that brought us together. Holding mittens, jingling bells in an adorable manner with promise that the other one won't get mad for overzealous jingling, sipping cocoa, excitedly wrapping his specially ordered Batman footie pajamas, but one thing never happened last Christmas when I gave him my heart---<i>we never kissed underneath the mistletoe. I blame THIS for our demise. </i></div>
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According to the very reliable Wikipedia, the tradition of mistletoe dates back to the ancient Babylonian-Assyrian Empire. While women back in the Baby-Ass Empsicorns would stand patiently underneath the mistletoe outside the temples of the goddesses of beauty and love, the modern woman can be found underneath plastic mistletoe at an office party, clutching room temperature egg nog, and wondering why her Spanks seem to have teeth and are eating away at her belly fat. Back in the Baby-Ass Empsicorns, a kiss underneath the mistletoe ensured that the woman would be filled fertility and was betrothed to the man forever. Either way, ladies and dude ladies continue to wait for that magical Christmas smooch-a-roo, with hopes that it means FOREVER.<br />
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So this Christmas requires a change. Everyone get ready to stand under that mistletoe and have your Christmas game faces on because this Christmas we will all find love. We have to. We must. Santa has let us down too many times, it is up to us now. Allow me to share some of my...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><b><u><i>CHRISTMAS MISTLETOE </i></u></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><b><u><i>DO's AND DON'Ts!</i></u></b></span></div>
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<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DO</b> stand under the mistletoe with an inviting smile on your face. </span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T </b>look like a crazy person freshly off a Christmas bender.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DO </b>make sure you have an Altoid tin handy. Holiday cased meats can make for an unsavory kissing mouth igloo environment. </span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T </b>yell at potential kissing partners to "GET OVER UNDERNEATH THIS MISTLETOE AND PUT YOUR CANDY CANE IN MY MOUTH, YOU SON OF AN ELF!!!!"</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DO </b>giggle coyly when you notice "Oh gosh--looks like we are underneath the mistletoe. I don't know what we should do...(giggle giggle)"</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T </b>say the above line if you are gonna be super awkward about it. </span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DO </b>let the magic of Christmas overcome you underneath the mistletoe. </span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T </b>carry your mistletoe around with you on a stick and wave it around in crowds. </span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T </b>make a sign and place it on your chest that says, "I'm single. Let's do this. Jingle Jingle, bitches."</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>DON'T YOU DARE ask your poor kissing partner to marry you after a drunken mistletoe debacle that one of you thinks is funny and the other one thinks is love. It's not love. I'm almost positive it won't be. Unless it is, in which case--mazel! But unless it is that magical Christmas moment of true mistletoe magic love--don't be a fucking crazy person about it. </b></span></li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY KISSING! xoxox</b></span></div>
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-79810912712779775462013-11-07T13:43:00.001-06:002013-11-07T13:52:07.403-06:00BARBRA STREISAND, TAKE THE WHEEL. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HELLO BROOKLYN!! </td></tr>
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I arrived at JFK International Airpot at 10:02 am. A midwestern bumpkin, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and dressed in an outfit fit for a Lower East Side, New York street goddess circa 1965. So many bangles, rings on every finger, at least 13 scarves, and a teal turban wrapped around my head. New York City?? I'm Madde Gibba and I have arrived!<br />
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Everything I knew about my new home in Brooklyn I had learned from Barbra Streisand retrospectives I had seen on Kennedy Center Honors, PBS documentaries, or the legendary movie "Funny Girl." Surely it would be streets filled with apple salesmen, children on wooden boxes shouting the daily news, and street dancing--lots of street dancing.<br />
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I knew my neighborhood was going to be different from the world of St. Paul, Minnesota that I had grown so accustomed to over my 25 years on this earth, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was to be magical. I was headed to historic Crown Heights, Brooklyn. An up and coming neighborhood described to me as a charming "Hacidican" neighborhood--Hacidic Jews and Jamaicans living in a beautiful melting pot of harmony.<br />
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The buildings were beautiful on that cab ride in. The streets lined with all those trees I had always heard kept growing in Brooklyn. And then the cab driver stopped in front of a historic grey stone. I looked around, not a single tree in sight. "Well, here goes nothing," I mumbled to myself, the cab driver rolling his eyes as this over-accesorised 20-something gave herself a pep talk in the middle of Crown Heights, "Barbra Streisand, take the wheel!"<br />
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I rang the bell. A man answered the door wearing tiny green underpants, with nothing more than his back hair sweater to keep him warm. As I carried my bags into my new unknown home, I couldn't help but steal a sniff of his comforting back hair. "Hmmm...he smells like bacon," I thought. "I fucking hate this place already."<br />
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It's hard to pinpoint exactly when the panic attack started, but the overwhelming wafts of bacon back and street trash sent me into a tail spin that would last an entire 48 hours.<br />
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Throwing myself on basement futon that would now serve as my temporary cocoon of comfort, I took in the gravity of this decision I had made to move all the way across the country-seemingly on a whim. Outside my window children played and screamed in the schoolyard one block over. "There are kids here," I thought, "I bet they rarely get murdered." My assumptions were wrong as I pulled up my phone to read an article about the local 1 year old child who had been out walking with his parents weeks before and had been shot through the head by some of his father's gang co-workers. Then the shrill barks of dogs started, followed by the terrifying screams of children--sending me into a full blown spiral. "There is an elementary school next door-for dogs, rabid fucking dogs."<br />
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Running up the spiral staircase to the ground level kitchen, I knew it was surely the darkness of the basement that had sent me panicking. Yes, all I needed was some air from the kitchen windows, light from the sunshine outside, and maybe even a granola bar. Yes, this was probably a low-blood sugar situation. As I stared out into the street, feeling the blood inside of me begin to cool, the two men appeared on my front stoop. Exchanging shouts as they threw a tool box at each other and screamed "Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. In this toolbox. Drugs." Great, a drug deal! No sooner had the most subtle drug dealers in the world departed for the hardware store, that a man appeared at my window wearing a plastic bag for a hat. "Hey bitch." he said as sweetly as a man calling you bitch can say, "You wanna piece of this, momma? I bet you have a sweet pink (<i>I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO TELL YOU WHAT HE SAID BECAUSE THE WORDS MAKE ME SAD INSIDE....) </i>You want me to pound your ass?" I slowly turned my head to the window, granola bar hanging from my mouth, "You know what? No. No, I don't think so. Thank you." Promptly closing the curtains and beginning my second descent into the darkness down the spiral staircase of doom.<br />
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As I slow-motioned crumbled into the floor in a puddle of my bangles and culturally-insensitive turban, I mumbled over and over "Barbra Streisand never dealt with this bullshit in HER Brooklyn."<br />
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Hours passed as I stayed in that ball on that cold, hard floor, quietly sobbing so Bacon Back upstairs didn't hear me crumble into a million broken dreams, as I listened to the sweet sounds of Rabid Dog Elementary outside.<br />
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I don't remember regaining the strength to order those fried wontons, but there they were being stuffed into my mouth for hours as I lay like a beached whale on the basement floor asking Tina Fey Netflix to take the wheel.<br />
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<u>Day 2: </u></div>
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It was the lights of the cop cars outside the kitchen window that woke me from my slumber the next morning. Surely a fire alarm had gone off or something by accident next door. It certainly wasn't probably, most likely, oh jeeze, it certainly maybe had something to do with the fight I heard last night--probably. You see the neighbors next door didn't seem to be getting along last night. Two people shouted all night saying "Bitch, you don't know how lucky you are to have this sac.", he said. "Oh, I'll leave you and you can go fuck your own Red Lobster" she shouted back. And so I had fallen asleep to the sweet lullaby of Red Lobster fucking.<br />
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In and out all day, cops, detectives, medical examiners. "Law and Order" was probably, most likely, oh geeze, it certainly maybe was being filmed outside my apartment building. Hours passed with more and more people passing through. I sat at my kitchen table, chewing on a granola bar, and hoping for Jerry Orbach and Ice-T to appear from around the corner and saying something witty, when there it was. Being wheeled into a medical examimners van--a black body bag. I'll just assume they tripped and had fallen on a heart attack. "Welcome to the neighborhood" the dead body in the bag DIDN'T say to me.<br />
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I live in Brooklyn now. Madde Gibba's Brooklyn--not Barbra Streisand's, Madde Gibba's.<br />
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(PLEASE NOTE THAT SINCE THIS PIECE WAS WRITTEN, MADDE HAS MOVED TO WILLIAMSBURG WITH SOME OF THE MOST CHARMING LADIES SHE HAS EVER MET. SHE LOVES HER APARTMENT, HER NEIGHBORHOOD, HER LIFE. THINGS ARE FINE. CALM DOWN. SHE'S FINE. SHE JUST WAS GOING THROUGH A TIME. SHE'S FINE NOW. SUPER FINE. LIKE TOTALLY FINE. FINE. F-I-N-E.)</div>
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Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-3028468947011655992013-11-05T10:32:00.001-06:002013-11-05T10:32:26.500-06:00People. People who need people...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Everyone in New York seems to be in love these days. How do I know this? I ride the subway with all the lovers. A morning commute into the city is not complete until you have had an impossibly hip duo of lovebirds wedge themselves into the train car, insisting that be the moment they put their tongue in the other person's mouth, while you sit below them silently wondering why life isn't fair. <div>
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A particularly insufferable duo stood above me this morning. The lady complaining, "My roommate doesn't even put her nail polish away after she's done doing her Pinterest nail art," while her impossibly hip boyfriend comforted her by saying, "Well babe, that's the economic tyranny of not being able to afford living by yourself." After I retrieved my eyes that had rolled all the way to the back of my head, I realized something about these ninkumpoops-- they were the other person's person. We all need our people to share our inane thoughts with, and that usually comes in the form of a lover of some sort. A lover who will love you despite your absurdity, and listen to your theories about how your fridge might have a monster inside it. That's what your people do for you, they put up with you. </div>
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Without a Boris to my Natasha these days, I find that my own inane thoughts have nowhere to go. If they aren't accidentally being texted to ex's (Tragic, don't do it. I know you want to, but just don't. It's not worth it. There's a reason you two broke up and it's probably because you share too much. Just don't.), they usually come out in the form of absurd text messages to my friends, who entertain me slightly by pretending to give two shakes of a leg about the thing I saw, or the thing I did, or the thing that I just need someone else to know in case I'm eaten by a rat in the middle of the night-- but we both know it's not their job. That's the job of a boyfriend.....or a therapist, a very patient and well-paid therapist. Or ya know what? A blog. I have this blog sitting right here, why don't I just get some of those things out. </div>
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(Photo credit: Courtney McLean. Sorry I was ignoring you, girl. I was probs texting someone something they didn't give a poo about.)</div>
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TEXT MESSAGES MEANT FOR A BOYFRIEND: </div>
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-Can you OD on soy? I think I'm od'ing on soy. I love soy. </div>
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-I think my leg is broken. I'm walking on it and it totally feels broken. </div>
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-I made a hat out of feathers and noodles! Wanna see it? </div>
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-Is quinoa a thing you can do for breakfast? You know what, I'm just gonna do it. I'm doing it! ....How's your Mom?</div>
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-I saw a dog who looked like a man outside my apartment today. I should have taken a picture. I didn't. I hate myself....How's work? </div>
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-Is it too early to listen to "The Christmas Shoes" song? 'Cuz I just turned it on, and I'm loving it. I want a wonton. Get me a wonton. I love you. </div>
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-I found a lone tap shoe on the ground. I took it home. Tell no one. </div>
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-Would you rather ride an elephant and have it talk to you, or pee in space and float in your own pee puddle? </div>
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-Some kid was doing hip hop on the train and I was really into it--UNTIL HE KICKED ME IN THE SHIN! ...How's your day?</div>
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-I sat on my own donut. </div>
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-If plants could talk, do you think they'd thank me for watering them? Or do you think they'd be like super prideful about it? I'd like to think they'd thank me. </div>
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-Does your mom know I exist? I emailed her and she hasn't responded. I love her. Tell her that, ok? Ugh. Whatever. </div>
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-I'm eating KALE!!!!!!!!</div>
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-I love you a lot. That is all. </div>
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At the end of the day, we all need our people. Our people forgive our neuroses, they might actually even consider them charming. Without our people we feel lost. So in a city of 8 million people, there's bound to be one person who wants to be someone else's people, right? I'd like to think so. Until I find one, I will keep to myself the fact that I keep sitting on my own donut. </div>
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xo, </div>
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MaddeBelle</div>
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Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-75331196452424250422013-11-04T15:32:00.002-06:002013-11-04T15:42:18.153-06:00A Gal Grows in Brooklyn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lun26zVvozE/UngQ752XB5I/AAAAAAAAA7g/pR2CSyYRUeY/s1600/998315_10103769472932960_829599582_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lun26zVvozE/UngQ752XB5I/AAAAAAAAA7g/pR2CSyYRUeY/s320/998315_10103769472932960_829599582_n.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
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(Madde gets into her bed and snuggles in next to her Twilight Sparkle stuffed animal. She takes her computer off her bedside table. Pulls up Safari and types in <i>"Does Madde Gibba have a blog she forgot about?"</i> http://maddebelle.blogspot.com/ appears on the screen. She blows the dust off, types in her password, and gets going on her new chapter....)<br />
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Why hello there. Perhaps you've read this blog before, perhaps you're just stumbling upon it now. Whatever your reason for being here, I say to you...WHAAAAAAAAAAAAATT UPPPPP?????????<br />
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Since we last met I have picked up and moved from Minnesota to Brooklyn, New York. I now live in a land of skinny jeans, ironically large and/or tiny hats, glasses that have lenses the size of a giant baby cheek, and IPA's that "you've probably never heard about." So basically, I just picked up and moved to Minneapolis 2.0. So why not dust off my blog and have a go at sharing too many of my opinions? After all, people can only take so many Facebook status updates before blocking me. So consider this blog my apology to all my Facebook friends who have had to deal with "vaguebooking" and instagram overload.<br />
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Ready. Set. Brooklyn.<br />
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xoxo, MaddeBelle<br />
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-34578504434890703632011-11-27T22:34:00.001-06:002011-11-27T22:59:47.000-06:00An Open Letter to...THE CHRISTMAS HIPPO!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Christmas Hippo,<br />
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Well, looks like she asked and she did receive. She wanted you and only you would do, and now you sit in her garage. If I may ask, how often are you getting your promised massage? I bet not often, right? She can barely do her weekly chores of trash emptying and Grandma time. Gee whiz, buddy--I am sorry.<br />
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Listen, I heard about the chimney incident on Christmas Eve. That little child said Santa wouldn't mind, but we both know from the scars on your tummy that he minded alright. Not only did he mind, but that old man struggled! He had no choice but to enter through that dirty chimney hole! He's Santa! That's his thing! I know you're a Hippo, but let's talk logic here. It's hard to stuff a fat animal down a chimney! Yes, I called you fat. You are a fat water dinosaur! You belong in the water, not in a moderatly sized claw foot tub in a suburban two-car garage! You're a water dinosaur! DINOSAUR! OF THE WATER!<br />
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Chins up, Christmas Hippo. It <i>will</i> get better for you. Here's the plan. When that selfish little bratty girl goes to sleep this Christmas Eve, I'm going to break into her room, verbally shame her as she sleeps, grab a Fresca from the kitchen, find the garage key, enjoy the Fresca, open the garage, empty your tub, get another Fresca from the kitchen, enjoy half of the second Fresca, and get you the heck out of that 2-car garage. Meet me by the Hello Kitty bike Santa brought that selfish little bratty girl last Christmas that she never touched after she saw you standing there. I'll be the girl holding the two cans of Fresca!<br />
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xo,<br />
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Madde<br />
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-83963071329940735852011-09-04T18:28:00.000-05:002011-11-27T23:20:31.475-06:00Oh, hi. I'm back.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Oh, hi. Yup, I'm back at the blog! Crazy to be back. Ha. Ya. Funny. (awkward silence) You well? Well, that's good, I guess. Me too. Right. Ok. Well. Hmmm...Alright.<br />
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....Are you mad at me? Are we in a fight? Mmmk, well I'm not even going to insult you with an apology this time. Summer happened. I was enjoying it. People drift apart. It happens. It doesn't mean I don't care about you. No really! Look, I know you're upset. All I can do is promise that it won't happen again...until next summer, or until I get really busy again. You understand, right?<br />
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....can we hug? Please? (Hug your computer. Do it. Do it RIGHT NOW!).....Wow, I know I feel better. Do you?<br />
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I love you. Keep reading. I'm not the girl who cried Blog, je promise.<br />
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Now, who's ready to hear my skewed perspective on the world?? Let's dive in!<br />
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xoxoMadde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-9298438827390722422011-06-21T15:42:00.000-05:002011-06-21T15:42:42.032-05:00Here comes the Debbie Downer...oh, and the Bride! Bum. Bum. BumBum. (RICE!)<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span>W<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">hen I was 5 my Mother’s cousin flew the whole family out to Seattle to attend her extremely lavish and gigantic fairytale wedding. As the flower girls, my sister and I wore matching white dresses that complimented our matching bowl cuts quite nicely. 5-year old Madde thought this wedding was fabulous because her dress was soaked in sparkles and she got a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the flight home. 23-year old Madde has evolved into think that this wedding and most weddings are pretty redic. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You see when I turned 23 there was a definite gigantic shift in my life. Suddenly, without warning, my friends started getting engaged and popping out real, live babies! WHAAAT? Because my childhood bowl haircut screwed with my oxygen-intake levels, I have been left incredibly self-involved, and subsequently I can’t help but wonder what this whole wedding business says about </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">me</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. Here I am at age 23, in what I’ve liked to dub my “Second Puberty,” being distracted by cute boys and playing the field, while my dear childhood friends have found their soul mates and are starting their families. It seemed like just yesterday the same friends were dressing like hussies and flaunting their foobs (future boobs) for any boy who has just sprouted 2 chest hairs. What happened?? When did we stop being little girls and start becoming women? </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">(....Alright, let’s talk about the elephant in the room....Yes, I just nearly quoted a Britney Spears song, but stay with me on this one!)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Weddings are a big deal, I hear. Upon reflection, I realized that my 5-year old fabulous wedding experience was the only significant wedding I had ever attended, and the extent of my wedding knowledge stems from years of extensive Romantic Comedy viewing, and seeing “Bridesmaids”...Twice. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My dear sister, with whom I shared the darling matching bowl cut, will be getting married this September, and the fam and I are beyond excited for her new marriage! We really like the boy, we really like her, we really like this wedding. She’s 4 years older than I and I still think...”Woah! You’re a baby! How are you getting married right now?” I had what Oprah likes to call an “Ah-ha! Moment” recently. A major “Ah-ha! Moment” that changed everything...for now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> "Ah-ha" with me for a moment...</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">With weddings come Maid-of-Honor duties, gift buying anxiety, brushing up on the Chicken Dance pressure, and looking appropriate/ showering responsibilities. There are multiple levels of anxiety when it comes to wedding talk with my friends and fam. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><u>Level 1: </u></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Insane pressure that this one day has to be ultimate perfection, and all involved are responsible for facilitating the success of this event. This is the level in which you feel like the ultimate wedding planner and imagine reality TV show crews following you around and capturing all this high-stress drama. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><u><i><b>Level 2: </b></i></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Bizarre self-involved stress time in which you linger for a moment and wonder if YOU will ever get married yourself. I'm assuming this is a self-soothing mechanism that is the only thing that prevents level 1 from making your head shoot off from the stress of the flower arrangements. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><u> Level 2.5: </u></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The level where you try to explain to your family and pals just exactly WHY you are NOT bringing a “plus one” to the wedding. At some point they will get this weird look on their faces and then say, “Don’t you have a fun gay bestie you could bring! You guys could wear matching outfits!” After crying from the judgement factor, you then consider bringing an actual straight man, but opt out of it because you’re not ready to explain to other guests how he’s NOT your boyfriend, just a friend, and then <u>they</u> proceed through the buffet line and talk about how they always figured you were a lesbian, and how someone had heard you were moving to Iowa very soon with your life-partner, Janet Thunderpaws. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><u><i><b>Level 3:</b></i></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> The most selfish of all the levels. Here is where you wonder if your dear friends or family will still have time for you in their lives after they get married and become an old maid or father-like man. :) This level requires faith and trust that no matter how fabulous their new husband or wife is, you remain even MORE fabulous. And yes, it is a competition. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of the day weddings force me to put aside my cynical side for a day and really believe in everlasting love and adoration between two people who love each other. It’s easy to make jokes and be a Debbie Downer when it comes to love. Hell! I’ve devoted over 200 blogs to this very topic (excluding my recent blog about my belly button...you can’t love a belly button...or can you??? I bet Janet Thunderpaws loves hers), but weddings are a time for optimism and the celebration of love. So, with the impending weddings of my dear love ones, I make this promise: I will celebrate all love. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If my extensive RomCom watching research has taught me anything it would be this, </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You can’t truly love someone else if you don’t truly believe it exists. </span></span></div>
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Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-69111758859501404922011-06-17T15:59:00.003-05:002011-06-17T15:59:29.518-05:00An Ode to my Belly Button<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(Warning: I am about to over-share.)</div>
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I'm not sure if I was nibbled on by a bug or what happened, but my belly button has been giving me some grief lately. Yes, my belly button. It upsets me. To deal with the angst, I offer you a very special blog entry....</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><i><u>On Ode To My Belly Button</u></i></span></div>
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Hey there little button man.</div>
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<i>Hi. Hello. Bonjour. </i></div>
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Look at how you sit there and stare at me with your little button eye. </div>
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<i>Staring. With. Your. Button. Eye</i>. </div>
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Yes, I'm looking at you in a mirror. </div>
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That is the only way I can see you face to face. </div>
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<i>Like. A. Man. Button.</i></div>
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When I stare down at you from up here, it is like I am a bird. </div>
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<i>Flutter. Flutter. Fly. Fly. </i></div>
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A bird that stares at belly buttons as she soars on by. </div>
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Don't worry. I'm a friend, not a foe.</div>
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I shall not try to eat you like a tree mouse. </div>
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<i>Chompy. Chomp. Crunch party.</i></div>
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Belly button, you have always been there for me. </div>
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I mean, where else would you be? </div>
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<i>Belly. Button. Convention. In. Santa. Fe. </i></div>
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I'm assuming someone I know tied you to me when I was born. </div>
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<i>Twisty. Twisty. Tie, tie. </i></div>
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Thank you for staying around for the party. </div>
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<i>Enjoy. The. Punch.</i> </div>
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I know sometimes I hide you from the public.</div>
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Sensible tshirts and legging tops have kept you my little secret. </div>
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I wanted it that way. </div>
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<i>Secret. Belly. Button. Spy.</i> </div>
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I don't think poorly of you. </div>
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You're a great pal. </div>
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Always there to give me a squeeze. </div>
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<i>Belly. Button. Squeeze.</i> <i>Party.</i></div>
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If I could squeeze you like a navel orange...and make juice...</div>
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I wouldn't. </div>
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<i>Respect. </i></div>
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I keep you lint free as a gift to you from me. </div>
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I don't want you feeling like you're some type of second-rate citizen. </div>
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You're important, just like all the other buttons. </div>
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<i>Staples. Easy. Button. Ain't. Got. Nothin. On. You</i></div>
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Never leave my tummy belly button. </div>
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Stay with me forever. </div>
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We'll get through this. </div>
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<i>Promise. Promise. Pinky swear. </i></div>
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-38943987280526084872011-06-16T00:28:00.004-05:002011-06-16T00:29:07.929-05:00An Open Letter to..DOGS HANGING OUT OF CAR WINDOWS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Dogs Hanging Out of Car Windows,</div>
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Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING can make me happier than seeing you guys hangin' out of the window of a speeding automobile. Tongues flappin' in the breeze, fur flying with wild abandon, a single doggie ear slapping against the car door frame. This is the picture of summer joy. </div>
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I love how much you love that highway wind. I do worry about flying objects sometimes, but not for long. Why? Because when you hang out of that car window you give me all sorts of hope. And my biggest hope is that a semi doesn't fly by and smack your little dog head off, but that won't happen, right?? Give me hope, doggies. Give me hope. </div>
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Sure, would I like you guys strapped in safe in the back seat of the car? </div>
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Maybe. But if we held you down, how would you bring me so much joy on the highway? HOW WOULD YOU DO THAT? </div>
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Keep pokin' your heads out of those cars, gang! I can't promise I won't run into you with my car because I'm so distracted by the adorability factor of the situation, but if I do run into you, forgive me, and when you get back from the vet, don't stop highway head pokin' outin'! </div>
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xoxo, </div>
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Me</div>
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<br />Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-91307311124811027932011-06-15T23:53:00.000-05:002011-06-15T23:53:39.111-05:00"OMG!!! PUT YOUR FACE ON MY FACE!" The Tale of a Drunken Texter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5O0iuX7xYDo/Tfk4LNMfiuI/AAAAAAAAAlU/olaAqiWLWVY/s1600/drunk-full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5O0iuX7xYDo/Tfk4LNMfiuI/AAAAAAAAAlU/olaAqiWLWVY/s1600/drunk-full.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>So I went to a party held in a fort the other night (that's another story...don't ask. No seriously, don't ask). Perhaps it was the fort, perhaps it was the heat, whatever the perhaps may have been.. people were in fine drunken form. Some drunk chick drunkenly got my friends number that night and has continued with her drunkiness ever since. My response? Not cute.<br />
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Cellphones have been around for awhile, so you'd think people would have learned how to use them responsibly by now, but unfortunately there seems to be a grey-zone when it comes to drunk texting.<br />
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Drunk texting is Flirtexting's ugly step-sister. You know, that ugly little creature who is only let out of the basement after the dinner party guests have gone home for the evening. (<i>Let me explain this metaphor for you. You see in this scenario the "ugly creature" is the drunk texter, the "basement" would be their soul or perhaps the bounds of their self-control, and I'm going to let the "dinner party" just </i><i>be a "dinner party" because you can get super drunk at dinner parties.... if you're tacky, I guess.) </i><br />
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Sure there are certainly situations in which the drunk text can happen, is forgivable and sometimes even charming, but those times are walking a very fine line. If you are sending me drunk texts from Bonnaroo while you listen to your newest fav indie band, Daddy's Little Kitten Fairy Bomb, and it requires me to have to put my phone on silent...we're in trouble. A picture text of you in a sombrero eating a corn on the cob? Cute. 12 pictures of a weird rash you found on your leg after running through a swamp? Not cute.<br />
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Drunk texting gets even more tragic when the combo of "vodka + cellphone + smitten-dom" is involved. People think that professions of love via text message with the statement<i> "i'm super drunky...and i think you're all sorts of hot sauce!!! PUT YOUR FACE ON MY FACE!"</i> makes it all ok. In some ways it makes it may make it worse. First, you can't say that you like someone to their face? Second, you have to be 4 vodka tonics in to have truth spew out of your blow hole? Third, putting your face on someone else's face sounds.....aggressive. This makes me sad-sauce--and intrigued?<br />
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I know what you're thinking.....Am I completely innocent of this drunken text messaging behavior? Certainly not. I enjoy a sensible cocktail buzz and reckless texting as much as the next girl, but there's a point when shame must set in. Do I enjoy my stock excuse "Ooooo supey sorry about that one! You know how I get with a few pinot grigio's under my belt! Woo!"? Certainly not. As the sender and recipient of these drunken text messages, I will say that their amusing factor just becomes a little awkward turtle sometimes.<br />
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The problem with the drunken crush texts is that eventually you will come face-to-face with the textee. And when those faces meet, they may not be face-ON-face. Why? Well mainly because you both feel supey awkward about what was said. The non-drunk one assumes that the drunk one knew exactly what was said in that text message, and the drunk one assumes that the non-drunk one will pretend like it never happened and/or profess their love to them back. It's a cycle of awkward turtle. And if that awkward turtle were mine...I'd set it free in the ocean where it didn't get cell phone reception.<br />
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Ladies and gentlemen of the world, may I ask one thing of you this summer! Please avoid cellphones and hard alcohol combinations, for they will only lead to regrettable decisions, awkward turtle faces, and possible pregnancy.Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-32466182579932083192011-06-06T12:52:00.000-05:002011-06-06T12:52:50.493-05:00An Open Letter to...Women that Wear Bikinis as Street-wear!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7WtmfJYA5Q/Te0QtRcL8bI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/OiZnzhLG05o/s1600/bikini-fail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7WtmfJYA5Q/Te0QtRcL8bI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/OiZnzhLG05o/s320/bikini-fail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dear Women that Wear Bikinis as Street-wear, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ladies, ladies, ladies. As the sun has become a fixture in our daily lives, so have the winds of change that seemed to have stolen your clothes right off your body. Swimwear is appropriate for the following places: pools, beaches, tanning beds, prancing around your house and looking in mirrors after you've lost that 10 lbs you've always resented. Swimwear is NOT, I repeat, NOT appropriate for the following places: restaurants, street corners, grocery stores, the theater. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The swimwear as street-wear phenomenon that seems to have taken over the nations youth (and sometimes the.... not so youth) is always a shock to the system when I'm walking into an establishment and remembered to bring my clothes AND put them on my body. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Let's just think about this for a moment. Say for instance you whipped out your old lady underpants. You know, the ones you wear when your cute undies are in the laundry and you can't bear the thought of going commando! Let's say you whipped those out and wore them on a leisurely stroll down the street. What makes that so different from your bikini bottoms, ladies? The rip in the bum of the old lady unders? That weird discoloration on the left cheek fabric? The control top? Basically what I'm saying here is that when you wear your swim suit out as street-wear it is no different from prancing about in your jacked-up underwear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'm just sayin....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">On a separate note, I would also like to inquire where you got that suit because it's supey cutesies!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">xo, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Madde </div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-69535282900561691632011-06-06T12:12:00.001-05:002011-06-06T12:12:44.753-05:00Summer lovin' had me a blast....Summer lo---wait,wait...why are you so awkward?<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm baaaaaaaaaack!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After a short hiatus, I have returned to the blogsicles. Yay! </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div>I have been tirelessly out in <i><u>this</u></i> field researching all things love, boys, girls, questionables, chipmunks, awkward turtle situations, and many more! What did I learn in this field? Well for starters, wear sun screen. There's nothing more uncomfy than being burnt to a crisp while you're trying to get your flirt on.<br />
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So, won't you join me for my summer adventures in redic sitches and things I'll probs regret writing and putting on the internets? (I think it may be a summer of a lot of abreevs...it's hot out, you gots to save timesicles!)<br />
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Yay!<br />
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xo, MaddeMadde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-23784531387721726922011-03-30T17:35:00.002-05:002011-03-30T17:42:15.476-05:00Balls in your face!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zJPQWsCaIyI/TZOq235pCkI/AAAAAAAAAlI/bNavTgu97WY/s1600/field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zJPQWsCaIyI/TZOq235pCkI/AAAAAAAAAlI/bNavTgu97WY/s400/field.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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We're always told by our Mothers to "play the field" with men before we settle down. To try and test out all the possible superstar players before we sign onto the all-star team. As one who has no athletic skill to speak of, I find it supey challenging to "play the game".<br />
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I played softball once in middle school and the team decided I would be super strong way, way far out in the outfield. There I was, sun beating on my pale skin, nervous beads of sweat dripping from my tiny brow. My hand got super hot so I opted to take that leather paw off and place it on the grass where it would surely cool off. Suddenly...BAM!! a ball comes flying way, way far out into the outfield. I could tell by the disappointed looks on my teammates faces, this wasn't supposed to happen. Unprepared and so panic-stricken that pee streamed down my leg like Niagara Falls in a rainy season, I reached my piggy arms up to the sky...BAM!! BALL IN THE FACE! Fail.<br />
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The dating pool in your 20s is a lot like getting a ball in your face. I'm out in the outfield of the world, just waiting for a man to come around, after awhile I've taken off my leather paw because surely I don't need it, and then BAM! Balls in my face! Not literal balls...well....No, no, no. No literal balls are on my face out in public. Oh gosh, this metaphor has gone in a direction I could never have imagined. Jeeze.<br />
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Ok, what I mean to say is this: Men are like balls and I'm out in the outfield waiting to catch one. I become so distracted and bored when no balls come out in my direction, I take off my hand armor. Then suddenly out of NOWHERE comes a ball and I'm not prepared to catch it. It just hits my face. I'm just known as "Madde Ball Face" for the rest of <s>middle school</s> my 20s.<br />
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Basically what I'm saying is I need to learn how to catch a ball or else Ima get hit in the face.Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-35547825444790689792011-03-28T10:45:00.001-05:002011-03-28T10:46:04.125-05:00An Open Letter to...THE CUTE OLD WOMAN WHO TOLD ME TO "F@#$ OFF!"!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iOgwY26CQGs/TZCqlT5AFyI/AAAAAAAAAlA/XALraHYeXJs/s1600/old_lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iOgwY26CQGs/TZCqlT5AFyI/AAAAAAAAAlA/XALraHYeXJs/s320/old_lady.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Dear The Cute Old Woman Who Told Me To "F#$* OFF!",<br />
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Well, well, well, aren't we a Bitter Betty? Listen lady, you came to an interactive show that I was in and I was simply asking you where your "happy face" was? Those words coming out of your face are certainly not happy, nor are they respectful. For shame.<br />
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Where'd you get a mouth like that Toots? Ever heard of a little thing called the swear jar? Someone owes it $5! $5 seem a little steep to you, Mouth? Well perhaps you shouldn't have told me to "F*&@ off!" TWICE!<br />
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Ma'am, I am but a wee and lowly actor, working for scraps and my shift cocktail after the show, your words have cut me to the core. Interactive theater should be a positive and enlightening experience of human beings coming together to create a magical and inspiring environment of make-believe! I have a copy of the script and no where in the character descriptions page is a "cute old woman who crushes the dreams of a young actor by use of her potty mouth" ever mentioned! <br />
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Today I ask you to look in the mirror and ask yourself some questions like "What would Meryl Streep do?". I believe Meryl is a good role-model for you in your aged state. Meryl Streep would never tell a youngin' to "F*#@ Off" and neither should you.<br />
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God bless and F--WOOPS!.... God bless again.<br />
<br />
xo,<br />
<br />
MeMadde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-14947714504669220872011-03-27T15:54:00.002-05:002011-03-27T16:05:39.259-05:00Me, Myself, and I: How to Date Yourself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tkPTicDTgRY/TY-AUiPsGyI/AAAAAAAAAk0/NrQiDgwUgHE/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tkPTicDTgRY/TY-AUiPsGyI/AAAAAAAAAk0/NrQiDgwUgHE/s320/photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ooooo la la! Look! I got flowers this week! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And who gave them to me? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Go on! Go on! Let your minds wander! Who do you think gave me flowers?? Ooo la la! Giggle giggle)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Well.....I'll give you some hints.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This person is kind, charming, funnyish, thoughtful, intelligent-ish, and sometimes adorable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">They like me a lot. They are lovable, capable, and gosh-darnit, people like them!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Who was it?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>ME! </u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yup, I bought those little daisies for myself! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Who says you can't date yourself? I'm gonna do it! I'm just gonna do it! (Wait! Mmmk..I bet a lot of people say that's not ok. I retract that statement! No wait, no I don't. I don't retract that statement at all. Pretend like this parentheses never happened. Ugh. Now I've confused us all! You guys, I'm really sorry. I suggest you go back to the top of this blog post and start reading again, when you get to the part where I say "Who says you can't date yourself?" don't read the part in the parentheses. Just move forward. Let's just pretend this doesn't exist. Ok. Let's try this again.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(TAKE 2)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Who says you can't date yourself? I'm gonna do it! I'm just gonna do it! There's so much pressure to find a mate, but how well do we really know the mate we already have? Me and myself: Celebrating our 23rd Anniversary on May 21st. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I did a little self-reflection about me. Fun fact about me: I'm a naturally anxious human being. My friends, my pillow pets, my family, and even my doctor all think I should just chill out a wee bit. When I sat down and thought about Anxious Me, I realized I don't give myself enough lovin' (please quickly remove your mind from the gutter so that we may continue....have you retreieved it? Wonderful. Let's move on!). Sure, I eat well and I like to hit up the Y every once and awhile <a href="http://maddebelle.blogspot.com/2011/03/dear-stairmasters-you-deceiving-little.html">(When I can figure out how to use the stairmaster!!)</a>, but when was the last time I did something nice for me? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I started trying something out, a little something here, a little something there, and you know what?? It WORKED! I wouldn't say Anxious Me is gone, but I have certainly chilled out a lot! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, how do you date yourself? Some tips:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>1. Flowers:</u></i></b> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Buy yourself flowers and place them by your bed. When you wake up in the morning and smell the glorious smells of spring wafting from your bedside table, you can't help but be happy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>2. Tea Dates: </u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Take yourself out on a tea date! Go to your local Tea Garden with your favorite book and spend an hour reading and being fabulous. (If I may suggest a book title "Mr. FunnyPants" by Michael Showalter has changed my life. Pick it up.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>3. Smile Parties: </u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Guess what! You got invited to a party! It's called a SMILE PARTY! And if you don't wear a smile to the SMILE PARTY, your ass is getting kicked out! When is the party? It's RIGHT NOW! Hope you have your smile swagger on! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>4. Sweeten Up! </u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">No one wants to date a Debbie Downer, even you! So sweeten up! I'm sure if a scientist did an experiment about people being grumpy pants, they would find that no one likes a grumpy pants. That's scientific research right there! So put a smile on your face and a song in your heart! Sweeten up! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>5. Do you like those shoes? Buy them:</u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Let us not get out of hand with this tip! I don't want you to end up homeless with a fabulous shoe collection, but if you see a pair that speak to you--purchase them. I guarantee that while you are dating yourself, your date will ALWAYS notice your shoes! (You know why? Because you're dating yourself!...and you bought them....Are you getting this yet?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>6. Never pass up a time to be fabulous:</u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It is a well-known fact that when faced with a date with another human being many people spend some time looking nice for that person. So why not look nice for yourself? Spring dresses or casual bow ties too much for you on a daily basis? Then let's start with a shower! Take one! Your self-date doesn't want a Stinky Sammy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>7: Museums, Zoos, and Movies! Oh My! </u></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That new exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Art calling your name? Go to it! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Baby animals being born at a rapid rate at the Minnesota Zoo? Go to them!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Want to see the new "Jane Eyre" movie and have a good cry? Go to it!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There is absolutely no reason for one to miss out on the fabulousness of the city around them because they are a party of one! Go out into the world and see the things you love! The great part about this? Invite others to double date with you and yourself!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So why is dating yourself so important? Because new men come and go, but you are with yourself forever. Get to know you! You'll like them a lot! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-78367921406658769922011-03-27T13:12:00.002-05:002011-03-27T13:13:39.921-05:00An Open Letter to...Stairmasters!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k57cZqTmlUE/TY95BaHNCJI/AAAAAAAAAks/JbhfHIffy9k/s1600/navy-warning-man-jumping-off-the-stairs-funny-caps_design.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k57cZqTmlUE/TY95BaHNCJI/AAAAAAAAAks/JbhfHIffy9k/s320/navy-warning-man-jumping-off-the-stairs-funny-caps_design.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Dear Stairmasters,<br />
<br />
You deceiving little monster, you! Yesterday I decided to "shake things up!" at the gymsicles. What a mistake that was! There I was, standing in front of you like an idiot! Why you gotta be so hard to understand, Stairmaster??<br />
<br />
I came to you for a session of bum-bum toning and all you gave me was a session of looking stupid in front of all the other gym-goers at the Y. Here's what truly blows my mind, Stairmaster. I ALREADY <i>MASTERED</i> HOW TO WALK UP STAIRS! I went to a prep-school for gods sake! Do you think we even needed to be taught stair skills at a prep-school? No, we did not. We were such smarty-pants they just ASSUMED we could walk up stairs.<br />
<br />
I have been graduated from said fancy school for many years now, is it possible I forgot how to walk up stairs? No, it is not. So here I am, in front of a Stairmaster in my early 20s baffled at it's functionality. Here's why you're so tricky, Stairmaster. YOU'RE NOT ACTUALLY STAIRS! I came to you excepting something of a stationary escalator and all I got were two platforms that rapidly fell to the floor when I stepped upon them.<br />
<br />
Stairmaster, let's make a compromise. I'll leave you alone and you actually do what you came to do...BE STATIONARY MECHANICAL STAIRS!<br />
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If you need me you can find me on the elliptical.<br />
<br />
xo,<br />
<br />
MaddeMadde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-39231502266357680362011-03-06T12:40:00.000-06:002011-03-06T12:40:47.287-06:00An Open Letter to...PEOPLE WHO WERE ACTUALLY RAISED BY WOLVES!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-gH5VOcO6t8c/TXPPi2o9MwI/AAAAAAAAAkg/jAuctipZByA/s1600/698279_3456_625x1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-gH5VOcO6t8c/TXPPi2o9MwI/AAAAAAAAAkg/jAuctipZByA/s320/698279_3456_625x1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Dear People Who Were ACTUALLY Raised By Wolves,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm really sorry about what we've been saying about you guys. Seriously, I'm really, really sorry. Please don't eat me, I said I was sorry. Put your fangs away, I'm apologizing for the world, you guys. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm sure your wolf upbringing was really great, in fact--I KNOW it was a great. My mother certainly didn't teach me how to make a bed out of sticks, leaves, and the skin of a bear! That is really a life skill that you can take with you down the road. You've got a beautiful singing howl! Everyone in your choir thinks so. Your dad is really nice, a little bit of an attitude of "I'm so awesome 'cuz I'm a dude!!", but super nice. Your wolf family really prepared you for the world. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I guess what I'm saying is I'm sorry. I'm sorry that everyone has spoken about you in such a negative way. I know it's not fair and I'm sure it makes you sad/hungry to eat people sometimes. I hope you can forgive the world and we can cut it out with this wolf hate-speech. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hey! Next time I'm having deer at my house for dinner, you should totes come over for a nibble! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">xo, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Madde</div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-38019854638054225492011-03-05T20:52:00.000-06:002011-03-05T20:52:13.083-06:00Where's Lame-O????<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-bSbjOepnDT4/TXFTls4JmlI/AAAAAAAAAkc/ZF9tMk0ZzeM/s1600/WALDO+THING.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" l6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-bSbjOepnDT4/TXFTls4JmlI/AAAAAAAAAkc/ZF9tMk0ZzeM/s400/WALDO+THING.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Where's Waldo?" books always chapped my hide as a young pup. I spent countless days, hours, and minutes of my youth searching high and low for a weird man dressed like a candy cane. Guess what....I rarely found him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were led to believe that Waldo was the "perfect man". For if he weren't perfect, why would we spend so much time looking for his stupid face?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> I looked high, I looked low. I looked for him in the ocean, I looked for him in the town square. I looked for him in Egypt, I looked for him in London. I was always looking for Mr. Waldo Perfect Pants! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then it would happen, there he was! I had finally found him! Hiding behind that monkey in the middle of the rainforest! There was Mr. Waldo Perfect Pants, himself! I had found him! Woo!! ...........Ummm...now what? Do I just stare at him forever? The joy of finding him certainly couldn't last forever! I was forced to turn the page. Start a new journey with him. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With each new page, I grew more and more frustrated. The more times I found Waldo and then awkwardly stared at him for an extended period of time, the more I realized how incredibly flawed this little man truly was. He was constantly on the run, couldn't make a commitment to me on any page, and wouldn't stop wearing that stupid-ass hat! Waldo wasn't perfect, he was just a lame dude with commitment issues and a bad wardrobe! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I look back at the books now, I'm far more interested in the characters that surround commitment-phobe Waldo. That handsome man selling fruit in the town square, or the man walking the 14 dogs through Paris. Waldo never brought me food, nor did he even suggest that he had an interest in animals! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We spend our days searching for what we think the perfect man or lady is, combing through the crowds of gentlemen callers and adorable ladies, searching for that one person that we think is what we want and need! When we stop looking for that Mr/Mrs. Perfect Pants for just one second, we will stumble upon the ones who are <i>actually</i> the most perfect for us. The ones who's quirks are out in the open, the ones who aren't so insecure that they have to hide behind a fountain while you are putting yourself out there in the town square (in the completely non-prostitute way, of course!). And maybe, just maybe, if we're lucky enough...Mr. Perfect will be wearing an adorable hat! </div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-44826118033763919922011-02-23T15:18:00.000-06:002011-02-23T15:18:05.818-06:00GUEST BLOGGER TIME! WOO! Emily Schmidt's "Awkward Times"<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">.....5, 6, 7 8! IT'S GUEST BLOGGER TIME! WOO! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GssbSxOW5U/TWVpIB_qodI/AAAAAAAAAkY/PbFz-sE9KKc/s1600/10426_833997709749_838824_48229780_6970340_n-1%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GssbSxOW5U/TWVpIB_qodI/AAAAAAAAAkY/PbFz-sE9KKc/s320/10426_833997709749_838824_48229780_6970340_n-1%255B1%255D.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">EMILY SCHMIDT is...</span></strong></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">*an improviser</span></strong></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">*a smarty-pants</span></strong></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">*an NYU grad (ooo la la)</span></strong></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"> *a super funny lady</span></strong></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">*my friend...jealous?</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm super pumped to welcome Ms. Emily Schmidt to my blog today! You must think I'm a lazypants and don't like writing my own blog, but fear not, Judgey McJudgersocks...I just think Emily is super funny. Here's what's great about Emily, she actually went to college and got a degree in writing-related stuff. I ain't got no edumacation in that written word thang. No sireeeeee. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So please do me a favor and give a round of applause from your laptop for....EMILY SCHMIDT! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">****************************************************************</div><br />
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Awkward is playing dress-up in kindergarten and having feet too big to fit in your friend’s mom’s heels. Awkward is a fifth grader forced to listen to her elderly teacher talk about her miscarriage. Awkward is your freshman roommate trying to burn you with a lighter in the dorm elevator as a “joke” and so “you can know what it feels like.” <br />
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“Awkward” became a part of our everyday vernacular again some years ago, like those stupid tiny-heeled boots that make me look like a circus monkey. Everyone and everything was suddenly awkward. For those of us really and truly cursed with the inability to make correct social decisions, this is still painful. That was our word, really all we could cling to in the middle of the night - that, and our mismatched bedsheets. <br />
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Suddenly, it was perfectly acceptable for my genetically-favored classmates to apply the wrong shade of lip gloss and, “OMG it was SOO awkward!!” Is it? Is it really that awkward when I have to walk around un-showered and wearing a garbage bag for Newspaper hazing? Do you understand how greasy my hair gets if I don’t wash it every morning? Yeah. Let’s rethink. <br />
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Being awkward became hip, and that’s when events in my life got a little bit out of control. Hispters made things complicated when they introduced the everyday personal application of irony. Suddenly, I could buy a Betty White t-shirt instead of having to make my own with iron-on Google images. What was cool? What was weird? How is anyone who is normally socially disadvantaged supposed to navigate the irony?<br />
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What happened was that people started rewarding me for finding myself in awkward situations and it became funny - a novelty, like kids gathering around a fireplace to listen to their decrepit grandpa tell stories about the war (this never happened to anyone, ever).<br />
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My interior flow chart is permanently effed. Instead of appropriately avoiding bad situations, I head straight for them, as if they were free Jimmy Fallon mustache rides. Where everyone else would take a sharp left, back to start, I follow the arrows around the contorted map until even my therapist has no words for me.<br />
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It’s subconscious. If someone doesn’t want to be friends with me, due to whatever circumstance, it becomes my personal goal to make that person my best friend. I will go out of my way to say hi, invite them to events and generally create various uncomfortable situations. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late. These, of course, make for funny stories but at what price? My dignity? Well...that’s long gone. <br />
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Really, it’s no one’s fault but my own. I was born this way, consistently taller and lurkier than all of my peers and ready with the most inappropriate comment possible. Maybe I should be thanking hipsters for making me and my actions more acceptable to society. Instead of being shunned, I’m now part of an elite group that will unwillingly sacrifice themselves for a truly awkward story. <br />
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So, I guess the next time you find yourself surrounded by TOO MANY attractive and interesting boys, all vying for your attention, be more delicate when choosing to describe the circumstance. That, my lady friend, is not awkward. Leave this word to those of us who, if ever in that situation, would accidentally bring up our periods with food in our teeth and find a way to deeply offend at least two of them. And then fall down while trying to get off the bar stool gracefully. That is the correct application of the word.Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-53148341532009259472011-02-21T22:34:00.001-06:002011-02-21T22:36:37.656-06:00An OPEN LETTER TO NOSE PICKIN' CAR DRIVERS!Traffic has been wacky these days and allowed me a lot of daydreaming time in the car. I have noticed an amazing new trend with drivers...NOSE PICKERS! I now present to you an OPEN LETTER TO NOSE PICKIN' CAR DRIVERS!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E9AXehWlp0o/TWM6s5ezarI/AAAAAAAAAkI/Z0RB-j8uU0w/s1600/nose-picking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E9AXehWlp0o/TWM6s5ezarI/AAAAAAAAAkI/Z0RB-j8uU0w/s320/nose-picking.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dear NOSE PICKIN' CAR DRIVERS,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Whatcha lookin' for up there, folks? Gold? Treasure? Your keys? Your license and registration?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Whatever you're searching for--I can see you really digging from over here in my car. And let me tell you, it is intense what is happening over there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I suppose I can appreciate your private nose picking time. I would much rather have you digging in your car, rather than a table next to me at Chino, but I must say it's hard to sip on my Jamba Juice while I watch you scavenging for your breakfast. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I commend your perseverance at stoplights, and even your multi-tasking abilities while driving, picking, and singing along to Katy Perry's "Firework". Well done, chap.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I wonder many things while I watch you at this stop light. May I list them for you?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">1. Do you have a tiny dashboard kleenex kit you could use?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2. Do you sanitize your steering wheel before letting a valet park it?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">3. What happens when you find what you're looking for?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">4. Is this something you do alone, or just while the kids from the carpool are in the back of the van?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">5. Have you considered tinted windows?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">6. Is this a self-soothing method you use to deal with stressful traffic situations?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">7. Do you know I'm watching you?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">8. Do you care that I'm watching you?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">9. Do you do this with hopes that it will encourage me to pick as well?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">...and finally!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">10. WHY ARE YOU PICKING YOUR NOSE WHILE DRIVING?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Mmmk. Just some thoughts for you. Happy picking!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">xo,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Me</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-59734539203345714792011-02-21T22:19:00.000-06:002011-02-21T22:19:31.812-06:00If I were stuck in the snow, would you help me?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Snowpocolypse 2.0 hit the Twin Cities yesterday and today. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Oh, joy! More snow(Booooo!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3W5ats6X4nU/TWMtlLjtvHI/AAAAAAAAAkE/4h3hNDBk1q8/s1600/car-in-snow-thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3W5ats6X4nU/TWMtlLjtvHI/AAAAAAAAAkE/4h3hNDBk1q8/s320/car-in-snow-thumb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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There is a general unspoken rule among most Minnesotans when it comes to snow time. If you are in the vicinity of a person in a stuck car around blizzard season, you stop and help them. Today I experienced some of the most appalling behavior by some young gents EVER.<br />
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As my Jetta attempted to get out of a snowbank at the end of my ally today, I came upon 4 or 5 twenty-something dudes complete with snow-blowers and shovels. As I got down on my hands and knees in the snow trying to dig my way out, these dudes just stared at me. Finally I got up from the snow and asked to borrow one of their shovels. They threw it in my general direction and then continued to stand and chat by their pick-up truck. There I was on all fours, then on my twos, digging and shoveling. Not ONCE did these very strong men offer to even push the Jetta for a second. I dug for quite some time and then stuck the shovel in a snowbank by the car while I tried to drive out of the ditch sitch. As I sit in the car, foot pounding on the pedal, screaming at the Jetta to "just budge an inch!!!", I hear a knock on my window. One of the dudes stands at the window and says, "I'm taking my shovel back now. Peace out."<br />
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Yup. That's right. A petite blonde chick attempts to get her Jetta out of the snow for more than 25 minutes in front of 5 dudes that could have easily given her a shove, and they take their shovel back and go on their merry way. Trashy. <br />
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Here's the thing about this situation, I'm perfectly aware that it was not their "job" or "duty" to help ME out with my problem, but they were standing right there with their fancy snow machines for almost a half hour WATCHING me struggle, and they did nothing. No push, no dig, no words of encouragement as frozen tears sped down my cheeks. Nothing.<br />
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I have spoken in the past about the importance of being a gentleman, and today was an astonishing example of how it seems as though being a gentleman doesn't seem to matter to a large portion modern men. In the past week alone I have walked through doors with dudes who let it slam in my face, been called nasty little names by boys who clearly lack a filter, and just been glared at with some stink-eyes. It's really too bad and I hope that this is "just a phase".<br />
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To the gentlemen that I have in my life: you're goodies, stay that way, and a lady will swoop you up reaaaaal quick.<br />
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To the boys who would like to be gentlemen, but are struggling through your "douchey" phase right now: It's not cute anymore. Knock it off and put on a nice, clean shirt too.Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-404966916542765295.post-75317759291343431762011-01-20T15:45:00.002-06:002011-01-23T00:13:56.846-06:00An Open Letter to...The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear :( Sad-facedIf you follow <a href="http://www.maddebelle2.blogspot.com/">Madde Belle: A CLOSET CASE</a>. you would know that I am currently in Kalamazoo, Michigan for the week with the fam. Kalamazoo, a quaint college town, truly is everything Frank Sinatra once told us it was (wait, was it Franky that sang a ditty about Kalamazoo? Who knows!) <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://multipleinfusions.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/gt-synergy-trilogy-kombucha.jpg&imgrefurl=http://multipleinfusions.com/%3Fp%3D1225&usg=__HTH8wzVTVSWXFmNurz5XYDbHWtI=&h=675&w=900&sz=71&hl=en&start=16&sig2=Yc95SaB-yuUu_f0hNNZszQ&zoom=1&itbs=1&tbnid=lnerhB16hsinQM:&tbnh=110&tbnw=146&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dkombucha%2Bjuice%26hl%3Den%26gbv%3D2%26tbs%3Disch:1&ei=Jac4TfXvK4uSgQe0vOShCA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="246" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTxL1fVMYbzMfRC1aHE0RS4dv7UVByox-1F6u3uXk38CpxW8IfIbkD2Ns4l" style="border-bottom: #ccc 1px solid; border-left: #ccc 1px solid; border-right: #ccc 1px solid; border-top: #ccc 1px solid; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; vertical-align: bottom;" width="326" /></a></div><br />
Anywho, when traveling I try my best to keep my routines intact, which includes my weekly Kombucha Juice indulgence (fermented Chinese tea that smells weird funky, but makes me feel awesome funky!). Well wouldn't you know that my Kombucha was nowhere to be found in K-A-L-A-M-A-Z-O-O--and we have one person to blame...L-O-H-A-N. I now present to you my open letter to...The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear. <br />
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<div align="center"><img height="205" src="http://www.screenhead.com/funny/LOHAN323.JPG" width="320" /></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Dear The Red-Headed Actress Who Made Kombucha Disappear,</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Not cool, lady-friend...not cool at all. Looks like you've "TRAP"ped us again. You see, just when I was becoming spirtually connected to my Kombucha juice, you just happened to violate your pesky little probation and blame who? My beloved Kombucha--when in actuality you should have been blaming it on the "aa-aa-aa-aaa-aaa-alcohol" (Thank you, Jamie Foxx). </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><strike>MEAN GIRL</strike> Red-Headed Actress, I commend you on your sobriety now (for seers, good job!), but it was not Kombucha's fault that you were going out to the clubs and suckling on the nose candy and sippin' on Gin and Juice, was it? Kombucha had minimal effect on your sobriety level, yet the moment you pointed your finger their way, my presh kombuch was taken away from the stores for "re-formulation". And let me tell you something--he didn't come back the same man. No, no, no. He is simply a shadow of his former self. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">There was a time this summer when I lost all hope and was certain that I would no longer be able to look forward to an afternoon buzz from a beverage sold in the produce department of my grocery store, but somehow, by the grace of Jesus, Buddha, God, and Barbra Streisand-- they have returned. Well--sorta. Yes, they've made a return--but I doubt they will ever fully bounce back. Certainly no bounce to be found in the Michigan suburbs. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">So here I am today. <br />
No buzz, no fermentation, no nothin'. <br />
I'm forced to drink water. <br />
And I'm in Michigan. <br />
Thank you very much. <br />
Maybe you and your little car, HERBIE, could scooch on up here and bring me a Cranberry Kombucha fresh from an L.A. co-op. Think about it. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">xo,</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Me </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Madde Gibba http://www.blogger.com/profile/08049616023050741522noreply@blogger.com1