In Search of The Sun

The cold winds of a winter that have held on to us with their icy grasp have continued to blow and I can’t help but wonder if it will ever end. I’m thinking my down coat will forever become fastened permanently into my wardrobe like the houseguest that refuses to leave. The idea of a warm spring has vanished along with the dreams of gardening a bit early and a green lawn by June. If the weather doesn’t soon cooperate with my yearning for warmth, I could be forced to celebrate another Christmas season a few whole seasons too early. At least with Christmas, there’s some iota of merriment and good cheer. Right now, it’s only dismal loathing of the continual grey skies and minus temperatures. I think I saw a robin shiver this morning. Ugh.
The only bright light on the horizon is the hope of sunny skies, and eventual day or two of above freezing temps. Other than that, we slug along and continue to hope, rescuing our spurned gloves and hats from the bin marked WINTER SHIT for yet another day of arctic air and snowy forecasts. I’ve given in to the notion that my running shorts will only come in to use for that one spectacular day in July when the Gods of Summer bless us with a few hours of sun and heat, and we forget all the polar vortexes and frozen windshields of the previous months. That one cloudless day when we can actually go outside, peel off our winterized coats and outerwear and revel in the warmth of the sun and the glorious hours of daylight we have been envisioning all the long winter. That one dream-like day when the sun shines out of the skies like a beacon of glory and heat, beaming its rays upon our skin, vanquishing the toxic frost that seems to have formed in our bones.
Until such a day, I sit at my desk in my down parka, my fingers numb with the icy bite of cold, my nose dripping from the frosty air, hoping for a glimpse of that big ball of fire we used to call SUN….

Look!  There it is!  Ahhh...warm....

Look! There it is! Ahhh…warm….

 

 

 

The Email

The following is an actual email I JUST SENT to all of my DH ladies.  THEY’RE GOING TO BE AFTER ME SOON!!
  Enjoy…

Dear Things,

It is with a heavy heart that I must send you this email.  You have all been trusted and dear friends of mine and I realize this news may come as a shock to you, but I really must impart this most disturbing turn of events.

I don’t want you all to be dismayed by this news or have it shatter your ideal image of me (just go with it), but I feel you all must know the truth.  I have spent the better part of the afternoon rehearsing how I would say this without causing you pain or therapy for your families.  I have agonized how I would word it gently and without undue stress, however there is no easy way. 

I BURNED A BAG OF POPCORN. IT’S NOT JUST BURNT.  IT’S BLACK. TOTALLY INEDIBLE.  FUCKING TOTALLY BLACK. LIKE NOT EVEN REASONABLE.

There.  I’ve said it.  I’ve managed to pick out the white bits, but really it’s the goddamned microwave’s fault! 

THAT’S WHAT THE POPCORN BUTTON IS FOR. 

Seriously, if that button wasn’t there we would have to estimate the cooking time and who among us gives a shit about that? Oh, right.  Nurse Betty.  My bad.

Look it's Nurse Betty waiting for the popcorn!!

Look it’s Nurse Betty waiting for the popcorn!!

But other than Bree-Clone, who would stand at the microwave waiting for the popcorn to pop.  Watching minute after minute, interminable second after second as the popcorn slowly comes to white puffy heaven, only this time it went to black pieces of soot-like filth. I have more important shit to be at, like, HELLOOO, spider solitaire and ma wonderful stu-dents!  Ugh…

Anywho, I thought I would just let you all know this awful news before you heard it from God knows where and the RNC is called and they want all the surveillance tape from the cameras in the building to document what truly went down.

Jeesh, it’s not like I left a burned bag lying carelessly on the side of the road, or anything….

I appreciate your understanding and truly value our friendship.  I hope you all find a way to forgive me and move on from all of this undue tragedy.

Yours in popcorn-popping,

K

Saving the World One GPS At A Time

D1: OH MY GOD THE DOG JUST SHIT AND NOW SHE’S PLAYING IN IT! 

Me:  Perhaps you should tell her to stop

D1: OH MY GOD NOW SHE’S RUNNING ALL OVER THE HOUSE!  EWWWWW!!

Me:  Perhaps you could catch her so it doesn’t infest the floors with dog feces

D1: OH MY GOD SHE THINKS I’M PLAYING WITH HER AND NOW SHE WON’T STOP! 

Me:  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

D1: IT’S NOT FUNNY!!

Me:  I used to have to run after you for the exact same thing when you were a baby!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

D1:  WHAT??!!  That’s not helping.

Me:  No, but it is funny….

What?  It wasn't me!  WANNA PLAY?!

What? It wasn’t me! WANNA PLAY?!

Below is an excerpt from an email I sent to ma DH ladies last week.  It seemed to generate a lot of discussion.  Hmmm….

Now that spring has sprung and kids have already begun to get lost, I suggest the following to keep the kiddies safe and the mommies sane:

 

* have a GPS locator installed on your kids’ shoes.  It saves a lot of texting, calling, yelling, screaming and crying.  AND, it’s kickass to have a GPS installed in your kid’s shoe.  True Story.

 

* Circulate a map of the area with the areas highlighted where the bodies may be buried with instructions that the kids stay away from there.  Then, because we know our children so well, have zombie-like mannequins buried in very shallow graves so when they do look for them, they will have the shit scared out of them.  Then they can come running home and you can all say what all mothers have been destined to say for centuries “I told you never to go there!!  Listen to your mother!  I know what I”m talking about!  Now get upstairs and put on clean underwear!”  

 

* Post signs for a non-existent neighbourhood watch program and install fake video cameras at every lamp post.  It’s creepy and the kids will be ominously looking skyward and waving at the cameras.  Visitors to the street will wonder what the fuck is wrong with these kids who are randomly waving and looking at the lampposts.  They’ll call city hall and then city hall will inspect the street, find the name-withheld-for-obvious-reason’s in violation of every lawn infraction imaginable and evict them.   Perfect. Solution. 

 

I could so solve the world’s socio-economic problems if just given half a chance and some alcohol…

 

This is why I get invited to DH every other week.  I may actually do some of this shit!

Fart Dreams. What Else Is There?

The voices in my head that reverberate incessantly are retaliating in the most resourceful way they can by imposing the oddest dreams imaginable during my REM or whatever it’s called, sleep.  Last night I dreamt about snot and farts.  No really.  The epitome of class and the higher echelons of elegance.  Snot and farts.  My dreams are awesome. 

At one point in the dream, I had a huge booger that was in my nose and the only way to extract it was with tweezers.  When I did, it was a green ball with spikes. Not that I usually pick my nose…or use tweezers for that purpose.  BUT A SNOT BALL WITH SPIKES?!  Who dreams up that shit?  Apparently, I do.  Twelve year old boys everywhere want me as their mom. 

Later in my dream I am participating in a ritual dance of sorts where I am prancing and flailing around as if to dance in procession when suddenly “SQQQQUUUUUEEEEETTTTTT” goes my ass in rhythm to the music.  I stop.  The AUDIENCE, yes, AUDIENCE, withdraws into silent disgust in my abhorrent display of gassiness.  With little choice but to look elsewhere in bewilderment as to the source of the fart, I blame it on a young faceless girl behind me.  “Oh, no that was all you princess” somebody said…I turn to a giggling audience and walk silently offstage, the blond girl following haplessly behind me only to hear, once again a “SSSQQQQUUUUEEEETTTT”.  That was her and I look appalled and not at all impressed that she had the absolute gall to copy me.  I am mortified that she just farted in front of MY AUDIENCE.  Wait…didn’t I just do that?  Yeah, but it’s okay for me.  I was dancing.  Totally justified.  And maybe a little fucked. up.

I’m not entirely sure why these dreams are haunting me in a most peculiar way.  There were other nuances to the dream that I can’t describe just for the mere fact they were so bizarre that I probably would not be able to do them justice.  I mean, when one dreams of spiked snot balls…it’s all a little weird isn’t it?

I’ve had weird dreams that involve people that have been dead for years.  The creepiest one was the other night.  I dreamt I was at my brother’s funeral again. He died in 1986 in a motorcycle accident.  I dreamt that I was at his funeral, but it wasn’t HIS  funeral.  it was different with different people and my boss was there.  There was nowhere for family to sit as our seats were taken and I kept saying “This isn’t my brother’s funeral. That was a long time ago.  This isn’t it” and then the dream ended.  I found out last week, one of the DH lady’s cousin died tragically in a motorcycle accident the day after I had that dream.   Kinda creepy, huh?  As I learned more about him, he closely mirrored my brother….

So, I’m hoping my dream tonight isn’t a tragic one.  I’ll also take one without the spikey snot balls and farts, thank you very much. Maybe one involving Johnny Depp and chocolate???  Hmmm….

 

My sign...notice the decorative heart and flowers...I think Hubby should rethink his position on this.  It's awesome

What I said after all my dreaming…

Attack of The Crows

Current events in our city has prompted this drawing.  Crows are attacking innocent peeps in a terrifying Hitchockian manner!  Residents walking downtown minding their own business and totally not shouting or mocking the birds.  Observe:

A picture is worth a thousand words...or at least a few hundred

A picture is worth a thousand words…or at least a few hundred

Now you are officially informed.

Pray for us….or send slingshots.  At least that way we could charge admission to the public for their chance to play the game called “Scare The Crap out of the Crows” If someone actually hits one, they win a free bucket o’chicken.

Artwork by Kayjai

 

 

Not The Turkey-Carving Stabbing Story You Were Expecting

I have come to the realization that my friends accept my blogging as a means for me to express my inner self.  They’ve also come to expect a wiseass sarcastic bitch who likes to rant on about the terminally painful experience of filling up the gas tank every week or cleaning out the bathroom drawer.  (Incidentally, I found ten boxes of dental floss in there.  Ten!  Who the fuck has ten boxes of dental floss?  We should use that to string up the dog when she pees on the floor…No, I’m not really considering that, put the phone down.  PETA doesn’t give a shit about me and my dog anyway…they’re more worried about the seal hunt….oh, yeah…don’t look over there.  Move along peeps…nothing to see there…did I ever tell you the story about how I stabbed myself in the arm while carving a turkey?  True story.)  The sealers are now forming a posse to down my blog.  What…my distraction story about the turkey-carving incident wasn’t sufficient?  Crap.

dental floss

Anywho, my friends think my idle rambling is probably good for my mental health…and their eardrums.  I know for a fact that I was a bit inebriated on Friday night and I started droning on about shit I can’t even remember.  Shit.  Dammit…what was it?  It doesn’t matter…what does matter is that they are not bored to tears listening to me ramble on about how my brand new kitchen table has little itty bitty stab marks all over it from D1 doing her ‘building-a-leg-bone-out-of-Styrofoam-project’.  Yep.  Stab marks.  Hubby is still having a coronary…

They (ma peeps) are so supportive…and non-judgmental.  It’s really quite unusual, I think.  They just think my blog is like that scar from the turkey- carving incident.  A part of me that’s not going away so they might as well read my shit and move on, or ignore my shit and move on.   Either way, it’s all good.  And I can usually tell who’s read my blog posts.If I refer to the cart I took to the grocery store as my ‘special needs’ one, and I get a snigger from one of the peeps, I know that she’s read a post I did about shopping.  Same as if I refer to something else I wrote in a previous post that I can’t remember right now because it’s Monday and I’m lucky if I remember my fucking name, and I get a similar reaction and not a look that says “OMG she’s fucking insane and gone and drank the funny kool-aid again’, then I know that she has read what I wrote.  So I can tell.

God, that so sounded like a threat.  I meant it in a totally accepting and non-threatening kind of way.  Just like when I told a co-worker to ‘man-up’.  Totally non-threatening and acquiescent.  See?  Not only are you reading an idle rambling of somebody who needs to find inner peace through bead work, your vocabulary is improving.  I should be listed under the ‘educational’ blogs.  You’re learning shit, yo.

So, in closing,  my peeps are supportive and awesome, sealers are hunting seals, I stabbed myself while carving a turkey and have the scar to prove it and we are in the possession of way too much dental floss.

The End

This And The Other Word

Friday squirrel

It’s finally Friday and I’m thankful that I have a gathering to look forward to.  I’ve been swilling around in doggie duties, laundry and work this week and I feel like I should sit back and drink a few with my buds.  My peeps.  Let’s eat, drink and be merry…not that we never are.  There’s plenty of frivolity in the ‘hood.  Maybe even a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner will be sung…okay, not exactly sung so much as strangled out from the vocal chords of a drunk woman strung out on the extreme amounts of alcohol and carbohydrate deprivation.  In my ever attempts at losing a few extra pounds of woman-mass, I have decided to restrict my carb intake while simultaneously upping my veggie/fruit combo.  Of course I refuse to totally do without wine, chocolate and coffee so they remain a steadfast part of my diet.  I should start my own regime and call it “The Winos Guide To Losing A Few Pounds While Still Enjoying Her Midlife Crisis In A Drunken Stuper”   The business plan practically writes itself.

Recent events have me yelling ‘Hell’s yah!’ in my jammies on my front lawn.   I was so going to provide links to the main story, but my lawyer, Vinnie Buttowski, has advised me that that  probably isn’t in my best interest. (as an aside, I hate the word ‘that’ and to use it double in a sentence has me near convulsions of grammatical anxiety so extreme I may just wet myself in spite) (as a double aside, this paragraph originally took up half the post, but again, I was advised to ‘shut the fuck up’ so, yeah.  This is it, yo)   So, instead I’ll distract you with this:

If you haven’t noticed and most of you haven’t as you can’t actually see me, my ‘no carb’ thing that I have been slaving at for two weeks has resulted in a little loss of sponge around my middle.  It’s going well and I am enjoying the freedom that only no- carb can do for you…eating multitudes of veggies and almonds and having peeps taunt me incessantly with croissants and cookies.  They’re fucking awesome.  They love me so much they feel the need to parade treats in front of me like a feral cat walking nonchalantly in front of an old person with a cane. Lovely, really…come a little closer I’ll show you the new cane I bought.  It’s very shiny and heavy….