This weekend friends of ours (since high school) were in town visiting. Yesterday we all decided to go to the local ice cream shop. When I say the local ice cream shop, that's really what I mean. We have Dairy Queen and several other ice cream places in town, but this particular ice cream shop is THE place for ice cream. It's quaint. You walk up to an outside window to order. They only have 3 flavors - chocolate, vanilla, and one that changes weekly. But it is damn good ice cream. (I remember one time being there with my family as a kid, and another family was waiting in line behind us. They told us that they had just moved to the area and asked if there were any other ice cream places around. "Like Baskin Robbins?" one of the kids asked hopefully. Dad told them this was THE place for ice cream, and the entire family looked very disappointed. I hadn't heard of Baskin Robbins at the time, but looking back on it, I figure they must have been loathe to go from 31 flavors to 3. Welcome to Redneck Valley, SUCKERS!)

Anyway, we went to the local ice cream shop, sat down at some tables along the side of the building, and were chatting it up. Our friends were telling us about how while they were in town they kept running into people from high school in the most unexpected places. I then told a story about one day this spring when I ran into a guy from high school. He'd asked me how Rob was and if he was still working for the same company, blah blah blah. Halfway through the conversation he said something that made me realize that he thought the Rob I was married to was Mr. Mojo. And I didn't even bother to correct him. It's a funny misunderstanding if you know us because...well, it just is. Anyway, as you might imagine, in order to tell this story I had to evoke the name of Mr. Mojo at least 8 or 9 times. And because everyone was laughing at the multiple misunderstandings throughout my story, I was talking LOUDLY to be heard over them.

So as I finished the story I looked up to see none other than MR. MOJO heading our way. God, I say his name and he just materializes out of fucking nowhere. How does he do that?!

He had been ordering ice cream, minding his own business, when he heard my voice which was repeatedly saying his name. So of course he had to come over to find out what the hell I was saying about him. And what was I saying about him? Oh, nothing much. Just that some dude out there thinks I'm Mr. Mojo's wife. And I didn't bother to correct him.

Add to that The Email and I must look like a goddamn Mr. Mojo stalker.

Did I mention Google thinks I'm fucking my husband's boss?

I've already documented many of the google searches for which I'm a top result. (See the google goddess topic.) But there's more to me than an award-winning haircut and long sexy legs/rock hard abs/buns of steel.

Here are a few of the random searches that bring people to klog:

peek a boo bikini contributions (#2 result)
Sounds like a good cause....

leah remini thong (#3 result)
No comment.

dijon shit translation (#3 result)
selling pitch items lint roller (#3 result)
Huh?

I feel I provide a service to many googlers, giving them the information they so desperately need. I am the #1 search result for:

Full House park
Thanks to me, no one will have to quest for the Full House house like I did.

people who have candy on their desks get higher raises
Take that John Tesh! People will get the TRUTH here!

reasons to commit adultery
Rob says I should be especially proud of this one.

And of course, I am the #1 search result for:
kelly loves john stamos
johnn stamos loves kelly
john stamos and kelly
john stamos loves
john stamos thinks kelly is hot

It seems my haircut just keeps winning recognition. I am now the #2 result for cute rock girl haircut. How cool is that? My hair does whip around rather rock girl-esque. And the tongue is very rock girl, don't you think? Check it:

And finally. I'm not a top search result for this one, but I feel it is worth mentioning that someone found my blog by searching wife fucking husband's boss.

I just learned that our clothes dryer possesses the novel feature depicted here:

We recommend keeping this setting toggled to "On" in order to avoid excessive electrical bills and to reduce the risk of fire.

I've heard it said that sick men act like babies. Whining, whimpering, pathetic, helpless babies.

And I am here to tell you that IT IS TRUE. Oh my google, is it ever true. Last night at 10:45 I ran to the grocery store to buy him cough syrup and cough drops because he was threatening to kill himself if the coughing fits didn't. Thirty minutes after taking the cough syrup, he was STILL coughing and bemoaning that it wasn't working, why wasn't it working, would it ever work? and then all of a sudden he was OUT. And at that moment I knew the relief of a mother whose fussy child FINALLY falls asleep. And I just might have poured some vodka down his throat while he was sleeping. You know, to mix with the cough syrup and ensure that he wouldn't wake up for the rest of the night. You know, for his own good. I'm not saying that I did, just that I might have.