Let's amp up the window washing.

The other day, window washers assaulted the building I'm working in. And by "assaulted," I mean that they were just doing their job. But they startled the crap out of nearly everyone.

Three of these acrobatic men all slammed into our 25th floor windows at the same time. Then the rubbery sounds of squeegees waved through the air like blasts of buckshot.

But it was still cool. Many of us grabbed our phones to snap photos as the Peter-Pan-like shadows danced behind the blinds.

"Perhaps we should wave," I suggested. "They probably don't get too much human interaction when office folks are trying to ignore them."

"I bet they get flashed a lot," a guy commented.

Shortly after, I walked home. And another building was being washed by these brave men.

And as I watched from the sidewalk, I thought to myself, window washing could be even more entertaining if retired Cirque du Soleil performers did it.

Think about it. A flexible clown scaling up the side of a glass building without a rope, tumbling and stretching as he artfully removes dirt and grime above the streets.

Together, the crew of clowns would spin and dance. Operatic music would play, and just as it reaches a crescendo ...

... the clowns fall, spinning to earth.

The crowds which have gathered below would gasp. They would their faces behind quivering hands. Others would stare as the colorful clowns twisted and flailed, fighting gravity's strong grip.

And then, just as it seems too late, they would all land on ledges and light post with the litheness of cats. The whole descent was a part of the show, the audience would realize. Then applause and cheers would explode from the masses.

And the window washers would dash off into the sky, leaving behind a sparkling building and an amazed group of onlookers.

I want to be more than an ACD.

In the advertising world, ACD stands for Associate Creative Director. Usually it means you have a teensy bit of power (but not much, it's still a creative job in advertising) and a few more responsibilities.

But it's a lame title. ACD? Come on.

I don't want to be an ACD ever. But I do want to be an ACDC. Because that would fucking rock.

What does the extra C stand for?

• Copywriting
• Cock-punching.
• of Creative (again).
• Awesome (yeah, there's no C, wanna fight about it?)

As the sole ACDC in the creative department, I would promise to only wear shiny, leather pants. Perhaps even pleather. I would grow my hair too long and tease it to the ceiling. Every meeting would end with my throwing a chair through a window. No windows? I'd rip the marker board off of the wall.

When I'd enter a room, smoke would billow through the door along with me. Lunches would be metal--served off of the bodies of hot people. And I would never sit on someone's desk. I'd just prop a foot up on it, and stretch as I explained whatever I would be explaining.

Every day would start with a guitar solo and end with an encore. And you bet your sweet ass that all of my friends would get backstage passes to my office.

Yep, I want to be an ACDC. In fact, I think every office should have one.

Still rocking out on YummyAwesome.com.

My partner in crime, the DirtyCanadian, has decided that if our Facebook page can get 100 fans by Halloween, we each must eat 100 pieces of candy back to back.

The part of me that loves my way-to-expensive designer jeans is screaming, "Noooooo!"

But the four-year-old girl in my is screaming, "CANDY!"

So what defines a piece of candy? Because I could totally cop out and eat 100 jelly beans. Although, that's still a shit ton of jelly beans, the more I think about it.

Although, baby Snickers bars sound good. Or Rolos.

Just not Tootsie Rolls. I hate those. They look and taste like little chocolate turds.

ACL almost killed me. Again.

Consider my most recent trip to the popular Austin City Limits musical festival my swan song.

Because there's no way I can go back again. Unless the city of Austin manages to install huge filters to suck the dust and allergens out of the air.

Two years ago, simply attending ACL put me in the hospital and resulted in weeks of crazy steroid treatments to flush out my lungs and get me breathing normally again.

Because I'm the pathetic asthma kid.

So I didn't go last year. But this year, my sweet husband begged me to attend. And I was terrified. Because I remember how bad I felt. And I remember thinking I was going to die as my air supply slowly shut off. And I remember how the first clinic we went to wouldn't accept my health insurance and wouldn't treat me despite the fact that I could barely stand.

So I went. I listened to the music. even enjoyed it. I ate the food and drank many cans of delicious tea.

And I put my vanity aside and wore a mask over my mouth and nose so I'd be filtering the nasties out of my inspired air.

But alas, this wasn't good enough. After rushing to the medical tent and undergoing a breathing treatment (and the possible chance of being carted out of the festival in an ambulance), living this entire week with a cough that exceeds safe volume, a faucet for a nose, and exhausting my inhaler, I've decided that ACL just isn't for me.

Austin, to you I cry, "Uncle."

What is wrong with children's toys?

My sister and I were Barbie girls. We had tons of Barbies (don't you dare call them dolls), multiple cars, the dream house.

The works.

And since our childhood, Barbie has undergone multiple rounds of plastic surgery to shrink her bust, expand her waist, and reshape her hips. Because several people felt that her unrealistic body was prompting little girls to eat less and wear less.

Barbie has also been dating Ken for decades. And both of them have also undergone procedures to make sure their genitalia is as un-genital like as possible.

Because God forbid some little girl knows that men have penises and women have ass cracks.

Yet today, toddlers are given these toys.

Yo Gabba Gabba character, a giant dildo with one eye

Sing-A-Ma-Jig, looks to go along great with the above Gabba

And all I'm going to say about these horrific toys is this:
If Barbie is considered dirty, what in the hell do people say about these creepy toys? Usually these items are illegal in the state of Texas unless labeled "cake topper."

Next bachelorette party I attend, guess what the bride is getting.

I'd hate to hear what Freud thought of this.

Today, after a considerable amount of job-related stressors attacked me like buck shot, I realized that I was working with left my hand firmly wrapped around my throat.

And I panicked a bit.

Not only because I looked weird in my masochistic pose, but because I was so subconsciously angered by a particular project that I was trying to off myself in public.

Did anyone see? And if so, why didn't anyone stop me?

I have  dangerously expressive gestures anyway. (Another writer who shares my plight works by the manta "hide your face.") It's not unusual for someone to walk by me and make some comment about my being deep in thought, frustrated, or elated. I'll smile when I write something I enjoy. I'll slap my forehead when I write something particularly bad (or someone makes an asinine comment). Or I'll blankly stare out the window, at ceiling tiles, or at my pencil cup as I search for the right grouping of words.

All of this when something small happens. I over exaggerate with my body what I'm feeling on the inside.

But never before have I so unknowingly slipped a hand around my throat and started to squeeze.

Perhaps it's time to take up a new hobby.

I have a deal for the bed bugs.

Dear Bed Bugs,

I have a few family members around the country who've had to deal with exterminating you. And the whole experience sounds awful.

Steaming furniture. Bagging books. Washing everything including curtains. Temporarily moving out. Spending assloads of money.

I don't want to do any of that.

So I'll cut you a deal, Bed Bugs. I hear that you like tasty tasty blood. In fact, I hear you love it. So I will gladly give you a lip-smacky vial of my sweet vegetarian blood every week if you promise not to infest my home.

I'll even deliver it to wherever you'd like.

Think about it. Fragrant, veggie blood. I'll even eat extra fruit so it's super sugary with hints of citrus. And just think, you won't have to try and break through my skin. Extra bonus!

Act now, Bed Bugs. I'm completely serious.