Let’s Be Friends*!

*no seriously!

So (drink) (and someday I will repost all the rules to the Biblio Diva drinking game so that those of you who are new to us, I’m talking to YOU Canadians, can play along at home because I have faith in you and your livers and their ability to withstand anything because they have already withstood decades worth of Tim Horton’s coffee, Molson, Justin Beiber and Nickleback) (Also, Dear Canadians, please stop telling your talentless musicians where the US border is, because we REALLY don’t need another Avril Lavigne or Celine Dion or Alanis Morisette. We already have a Kanye to deal with and he’s kind of a handful. Just point them in the other direction and they will all end up in the North Pole. Although if 3 Inches of Blood or Death From Above 1979 or DOA are asking you can give them directions…and I know you will because you are Canadian and, by nature, very polite and helpful. I feel like this is the most peaceful and humane solution for everyone) (and at this point I should just start over because even I have lost track of what’s going on with all these parentheses).

Starting over….So (you still have to drink), I super have NO friends, and I know what you’re thinking; “How is that possible?” you shriek, outraged. “You are so charming and erudite and generous and beautiful and intelligent and you know how to get free booze, like, anywhere you go and you are great at outrunning the police! Those are all tremendously attractive qualities in a human being!” except I can totally hear that you are saying it sarcastically, even if it is all true, so it kind of loses some impact…although the sentiment is appreciated even if you could not get through the delivery without laughing.

The fact is that when you COMPLETELY dismantle your life or it just falls apart in one way or another, whether by choice or by happenstance, it can make it difficult to keep people around. Not everyone is going to understand what’s going on, also, not everyone is going to care. It was easy for me at first to blame my lack of a social life on closing my bookstore or having to move far away from Renton, which was the admitted center of most of my social interactions, or never having any money (because unemployment often results in being poor). But I think it runs deeper than that. I think some people were really uncomfortable with the choices I made and it was easier for them to just fade away than to try to understand why I was making them. Now admittedly, whenever my life goes through sweeping changes it always seems to be more of a scorched earth kind of scenario than I ever intend when starting out. My chronic misbehavior is probably to blame for my instability but the thing is, I’ve always been this way. Y’all knew that when you first came along for the ride! But that’s the thing about people like me; people gravitate towards us because we are fun, irreverent, risky, a little scary, a lot crazy….and we know how to get free booze, like anywhere. We are very good at making friends but not very good at convincing them to stay.

That being said I am currently accepting applications for besties right now (I am sort of imagining people just losing their shit like when bitches find out that the episode of Oprah they are attending the taping of is the ‘favorite things’ episode)! And it’s crunch time, motherfuckers! I am getting married in 4 months (HOLY SHIT! FOUR FUCKING MONTHS!) and I need someone to stand up there with me and pretend to care about my getting married because, Goddamnit, I am already down one person who was supposed to walk me down the aisle. So, if you’re interested in being my Maid of (questionable) Honor read on.

  • You get to wear whatever you want. Within reason. No white. No blue seersucker because that’s what I’ll be wearing. No pants, it’s a wedding for godsakes! No florals, no feather boas, no tiaras, no fishnets (unless they’re like nude, then I support that move), no latex, no denim, NO corduroy, none of that 1990’s flouncy crushed velvet bullshit, in fact you can’t even come if you’re gonna wear that shit, I am already ashamed of knowing you.
  • You will literally be the only person up there with me so it’s impossible for you to be the “fat bridesmaid” because you will be the ONLY bridesmaid! Plus, I am pretty fat so there’s even a chance that you will be the “skinny bridesmaid”!
  • I won’t make you throw me any ridiculous parties because I have been to enough wedding showers to know that no one has any fun at them because who gives a fat shit about your monogrammed bath towels or your stupid fucking china pattern…let’s go get wasted and rip off a limousine! (It’s really a wonder that I have a dearth of compatible humans in my life…)
  • You must be female (sorry Sojin). While I am totally always in search of my new gay best friend (ISOGBF) I feel like my maid of honor should be an actual maid….not like a housekeeper….although if you are, that would certainly not rule you out….I am fine with whatever you do for a living…I am NO classist! I guess if you euthanized baby otters or worked on the Trump campaign for a living that might sour our potential relationship just a little.
  • Must tolerate or better yet celebrate excessive cussing, excessive drinking, excessive sarcasm, excessive laughing at my own jokes, excessive inappropriate exposure of my bare ass in public, excessive always being the person in the bar who is saying something REALLY offensive when the music dies down, excessive air concertina, excessive insistence that you “haven’t lived until you have woken up with vomit in your ears”, excessive talking of and enthusiasm for nearly all things related to Marvel or DC comics (this one’s really important), excessive squealing at pictures of baby miniature ponies,  excessive belief in Bigfoot, excessive excesses, unicorns, and children because I have one of those and it’s probably best that you learn to like him…or I will cut you.
  • Must be Catholic….not because I am Catholic or even religious but I figure if you’re Catholic you might have at least a fighting chance at keeping up with me where alcoholism is concerned. I will also consider Godless heathens of all stripes and lapsed Mormons because you guys totally kick ass to drink with!
  • You totally don’t have to make a toast or write a speech because you will probably have nothing to say about me because we will have just met and your cover will totally be blown if you get up there and start talking about what a good person I am because EVERYONE knows that’s not true.
  • I won’t make you pose for cheesy “bridesmaid” photos with your panties exposed because apparently that’s a thing. As a matter of fact I won’t make you pose for any photos, not because I don’t want pictures of you and our beautiful (and completely manufactured) friendship but because I am too poor to hire a photographer.
  • You must be my Bartlett. That is to say it is required that you will carry my flask and it will be your job to know and even anticipate when the dispensation of said flask is required.
  • Must be awesome at providing cover for someone who frequently feels the need to urinate in public, also, how are your holding-back-hair skills?
  • Must protect my secret identities.
  • Must already be able fit into the sidekick costume of your now deceased predecessor.

If this sounds like you, please submit your application to become best friends and eventual Maid of (dis)Honor in the comment section. And just so you know how serious I am about this, this whole post was supposed to be how I wanted to throw a Funko party where we all order a bunch of those blank Funko Pop characters and then decorate them, presumably while drinking wine and chatting and, with any luck, having a nice time.

Blank-Female-e-Male-DIY-Pop-Vinyl-Figure-01

So when I couldn’t think of anyone to invite (that might actually show up) to my imaginary Funko party that I may or may not have I started to get a little freaked out. That’s when I realized I have NO friends. If I can’t even get people to come decorate vinyl dolls with me even when I offer them free booze how can I expect anyone to want to be my Maid of Honor? How can I even consider asking someone at this point without feeling like a complete ass? The answer is I can’t….and I do. I am going to have to stand up there alone and I am going to have to be okay with it.

Maybe someday I will learn how to hang onto to people. Maybe someday I will learn how to be the kind of person worth hanging onto. For now….I hope I made you laugh. XOXO

Also, wouldn’t a Funko decorating party be super fun?! I would totally go to that even if I were (not a typo) the one throwing it!

 

 

 

 

 

The Lament of the Fancy Hamster

Several weeks back I was out on a date…with my five-year-old son, who is pretty much an excellent date because we always do whatever I want and there’s never that awkward moment where both of you reach for the check and you have to pretend like you actually want to pay for shit, but admittedly that’s mostly because we shoplift whenever possible.

First we went to Starbucks because I had gift cards and you can bet your sweet buns that my broke ass does not go to Starbucks unless someone else is paying for it…or maybe if it were a rioting/looting kind of situation but even then I would probably go to the jewelry store (higher black market resale value) or the bookstore (I am an enormous nerd) before I went to Starbucks but I guess if I got really thirsty after all the looting and rioting I would definitely go to Starbucks to loot some passion tea lemonade  and a couple of those petite vanilla bean scones or something because I am certainly not going to loot a small, independently owned coffee shop because, obviously, I have morals!

At Starbucks Bo had his usual, hot chocolate (where are we on needlessly abbreviating hot chocolate to HoCho ala FroYo? Let’s make it a thing!) and a heated croissant and I mine; iced americano, black. After Starbucks we decided to go to Uwajimaya because I thought it might be fun to look at live crabs and squid and origami sets and the dead eyes of so many Hello Kitties. But as we walked across the shopping center towards Uwajimaya we were sidetracked by Blue Sierra Pet Store!!! And it was the best thing EVER!!!!

It was basically like going to the Zoo except so much more awesome. Right when we walked in the first thing we see are BUNNIES! BUNNIES EVERYWHERE!!!! And as if that weren’t enough a nice young lady comes up and asks “Would you like to hold one of the bunnies?” and I’m like “FUCK YES, I WANNA HOLD ONE!” Except I didn’t say that, not out loud anyway but I said it with every vibrating cell in body. So within 12 seconds of walking into this place I was being handed adorable, fluffy bunnies….and I was HOME! After bunny fondling time was over (and admittedly I went back several more times because I had to try out ALL the bunnies…or at least the amiable ones that would have me) we went to look at the aquarium section wherein Bo loudly declared that everything we saw was either an electric eel or a “mutant megalodon shark” and while I am certain we did not see a mutant or even a non-mutant megalodon shark they legit had a motherfucking electric eel and I almost peed my pants! I was super excited about it….I think Bo was marginally unimpressed, which can happen sometimes when you meet your heroes and they don’t live up to your expectations.

What Bo WAS super excited about were the tarantulas. Like I said, this was several many weeks ago when he was super obsessed with this movie he found on Netflix (while surfing around unsupervised because, obviously, I am a horrible parent) called “Big Ass Spider”. Luckily he cannot read and I convinced him that the name of the movie was “Big Ol’ Spider”. The movie is one of those cheesy made-for-SyFy Channel type things like “Dino-Croc” or “Octoprechaun” (some say it’s half Leprechaun half octopus…others say it’s more of a 70/30 split), or “Vampodile” (clearly about a vampiric crocodile who is also GIANT and probably a robot, of course) or “The Hunt for the Mutant Weresquid” (which I would TOTALLY watch the shit out of if someone were to actually make) or (this is the last one, I swear) “Frankenweasel”. In any case, I watched this movie with Bo (despite my keen, irrational and downright psychotic fear of spiders) and it was pretty good. It had some gross but mostly cartoonish violence in it, what with the giant Black Widow rampaging through downtown L.A., stabbing people with its legs and ensnaring them in its sticky web, no language (that he doesn’t regularly hear at home), no nudity and it was actually pretty funny so I let him watch it and, predictably, it became the ONLY thing he wanted to watch for a solid 3 weeks. He became enthralled with spiders which led to my getting him a bunch of books on spiders which I then had to force myself to read to him. But through Bo’s infatuation I was able to relax a little on the spider issue; it became easier for me to look at pictures of spiders and my formerly unreasonable phobia was tempering…slightly.

Walking around the pet store and unwittingly wandering into one particular corner only to realize that you are actually surrounded by tarantulas was NOT making me feel all that reasonable regarding my phobia but I played it cool. I wanted to run the other way whilst doing that thing where all your limbs shake, you wildly flail your arms about your head clawing at your hair and skin, screaming “GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”. But I did not do that. I lifted Bo up so he could see into all the little terrariums and check out all the spiders. He thought it was all pretty cool for about 3 minutes which is as long as he can sustain enthusiasm for any one thing.

After looking at the spiders I went back to the bunny area because I needed a fluffy bunny palate cleanser. Then it was on to the rodents and that’s where I saw this:

FANCY HAMPSTER

Sorry about the shitty picture. I did not have my picture-taking phone on me at the time, just my phone that can actually make calls….at least when I pay the bill.

As one might imagine, I got pretty excited when I saw this, but as I peered into the hamster enclosure all I saw was a regular hamster. There was literally NOTHING fancy about him (or her, I didn’t check). But honestly, how does one differentiate fancy hamsters from those that are non-fancy? This was a question I pondered well into that evening. Bottom line, when someone tells me a hamster is “fancy” there are a few things I expect to see so I made an example of what I think a “Fancy Hamster” should look like. See below:

The Fanciest of Hamsters

THIS, THIS IS WHAT I EXPECT when promised a “fancy hamster”! A hamster wearing a red, velvet cape, bowtie, monacle and top hat, sipping brandy and posing with his fancy walking stick and his prize-winning thoroughbred racehorse, Princess Butterscotch Mittenhaus III, next to an open box of Cohibas and a bottle of the world’s most expensive champagne while the library of the Hearst Castle! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!? I think not!

Undoubtedly, THAT is the fanciest of hamsters. They did not have any like this one at the pet store, presumably because he kept spilling his snifter of brandy every time he tried to take in onto his gilded hamster wheel and his miniature Cohibas and Armand de Brignac kept getting stolen from his cage and they could not afford to keep replacing them because Cohibas and Armand de Brignac are super expensive, even when they are hamster-sized.

All in all, despite the tarantulas and dearth of fanciness in the hamster department, Bo and I had a lovely time at the pet store and we cannot wait to go back…and save the $14.00 they charge you to get into the goddamn zoo these days! Also, I cannot remember that last time I went to the zoo and someone just handed me a bunny rabbit, SO THERE ZOO! SUCK IT!!!

I wanted to leave you with this. This is the opening 130 seconds of “Big Ass Spider” set to Storm Large’s cover of the Pixie’s “Where is my Mind” and it is motherfucking SUBLIME! Enjoy! XOXO

A Little Thing

My Dad’s memorial/wake/celebration of life thingy was yesterday (I started this on Sunday so “yesterday” was actually Saturday) and I wrote a little speech thing to kind of get the sharing ball rolling:

“I write a humor blog and when I have had the occasion, in the past, to do live readings I usually start off by talking about one of my greatest inspirations; my Dad. Those of you that knew him well, knew him peripherally or just stood in the same room with him for any length of time whatsoever, knew that Scott was rude, crude, crass, foul, vulgar, uncouth, tactless, classless, tasteless, coarse, obscene, profane, blue, purple and perhaps even off-color. Scott wove cussing into every day discourse with the stealth of a ninja and the precision of a surgeon. He loved dirty jokes. In fact when I was 6 he taught me a joke, the meaning of which I was totally unable to grasp until I was a little bit older but that did not stop me from sharing it with everyone at the family reunion that Summer. Here it is; What do a 747 and a peroxide blonde have in common? They both have a black box (pauses for laughter). At 6 years old I genuinely thought I understood this joke in that I believed that the black box that the bleach blonde had, referred to the box in which her hair dye came from the store…turns out I was wrong about that. 

The story I usually tell people about Dad is so inappropriate that I almost don’t want to share it today….almost. [BOAT STORY]
(This was actually copied directly from my notes wherein I did not write out the boat story. And no, I will not write out the boat story. I tell it at the beginning of nearly every live reading I have ever done, so chances are a lot of you have heard it. It would also lose something in print because if you cannot hear it in Scott’s voice [which, of course, at this point is impossible] you should at least hear it told with my impression of Scott. It would be no good in print…and also I don’t want anymore hate mail this week. Long story still pretty long, if you want to hear the boat story you have to come see me read…or just bump into me in line at the grocery store; I’ll totally tell it to you there)
My Dad taught me that it was better to laugh first, and last and every occasion in between. I am deeply blessed to have his wonderful sense of humor as well as his high tolerance for alcohol, his impossibly Scandinavian whiteness, his love for having fun, being outside, setting things on fire, camping, fishing, star-gazing, rivers, beaches, animals, loud music, laughter, dancing (not well, but dancing nonetheless), drinking, eating, and bullshitting. I think one of things I admired most about Scott was that he could make friends with anyone, and often did, as we can very well see looking around here today. Thank you all so much for coming, and I hope we can all share some wonderful memories and celebrate a man for whom we all cared very deeply and who cared very deeply for all of us. 
Sharing Scott’s love with all of you has served only to grow it, not incrementally but exponentially. Scott always had room for one more, at his table, in his home, in his heart whether you were human, canine, feline or my old roommate Rob’s rabbit that he didn’t want anymore, Scott would welcome you. And for those who would say that his passing so early on in life is a tragedy that could have been prevented; prevented with prudence or moderation to them I would say that there are those of us who would prefer to live our OWN life as opposed to a LONG life by someone else’s rules. Thank you!”
It was an awesome day! A difficult, nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching, confusing, sorrowful, unforgettable, awesome day and I really, really, really appreciate everyone who came out to show their love for Scotty. Everyone who laughed and cried and drank and shared, you made my day and I am sure a lot of others’ day as well. A few “thank yous” and “shouts out” to people who went above and beyond the make the day not only bearable but actually pretty darn okay:
I wanted to thank Skyler Cesarone for the beer, albeit Scott would never have touched an IPA I was very grateful, as I am sure most attendees were, that everyone could come together and raise a glass in Scott’s honor. Thank you so very much! Also, it was great catching up!
Sharon Lambert, I know you’ll never read this which is why I feel free to say that while I am fully aware that your eagerness to host my Father’s wake was not entirely egalitarian I nonetheless thank you so much for your hospitality, your reaching out to make the day possible and above all, your friendship with my Father which I know he valued a great deal. Also, I will be by later on tonight to pick up my Mom’s coat. See you then!
Those Pedersen Women, all of whom have married names now, and all of whom are my Sisters-in-law and for that I count myself amongst the luckiest gals alive. Thank you all for seeing that glazed look of confusion and uselessness in my eyes and knowing that it was your time to shine. When I could not handle it all three of you knew exactly when and how to take charge. You are a blessing to me and to everyone who knows you, of that I am sure!!!
Thank you to everyone who stepped up to share a story! I am sorry if there were any that I missed while I was out back sobbing in the horseshoe pit.
I know that just because we had a memorial does not mean that memorializing or remembering is over. It does help me, in the broader scope of things, to start to move on if such a thing can be done, but I will be celebrating Scott’s life every day for the rest of mine! I love you, Daddy! I miss you more than I can aptly express and I just hope that you are comfortable and happy and proud, wherever you are! XOXO

Dear Kelli, You are Internetting Wrong

I just noticed this post to the Facebook page from nearly two weeks ago; our good friend Kelli has struck again because I think she might be bored or a glutton for punishment or, after reading her bizarre, error-laden and nonsensical tirades I am leaning towards, just super high on drugs. I guess she saw that I published her comments that she made (publicly) regarding the death of my father and I am guessing she recognized her Facebook profile pic in some of the screen shots I used because I don’t think “words” are really her thing. In any case here’s….whatever the fuck this is:

screenshot1

screenshot2

Okay, where to begin; I am guessing the “threats” and the “private co[n]vo (?)” to which she is referring were actually made by/had with someone else that Kelli is currently arguing with on the internet because I published every word that I wrote to her (I even wrote about how she wouldn’t let me write anything else to her; “I did, however, try to write back to Kelli, just to ask her if she was a robot but her messenger account informed me that “this user is not currently accepting messages from you at this time”)…..because I am not ashamed of the things I say to other people, even when I totally should be. Last I checked, suggesting that someone had magical life-giving abilities that protect those around them from mortality does not count as a “threat”, but then again I have not looked the word up in the dictionary in a few weeks so I admit that I may need a refresher course. But I am guessing that this thing happens all the time to people like Kelli; I think she’s easily confused and has trouble with “facts”…and the proper placement of vowels(I just wanted to be sure that everyone could hear the sarcastic air quotes around that).
Although I am positive that the Renton Police department have me well on their radar I doubt it has anything to do with this blog or with defamation (which Kelli totally spelled correctly, big hand for her) or with Kelli. Disorderly conduct, shoplifting, public indecency, jaywalking, public intoxication, failure to yield; probably one of those. I would also like to point out that Kelli claims to know me (from Delancy’s (?) one of the few bars in Renton to which I have actually never been…SWING AND A MISS!) but I think we can all agree that if Kelli really knew me she would not have chosen the word “narrow” to describe my ass. For my ass might be many things; narrow is emphatically not one of them. As for Kelli’s being a disabled veteran, I thank her for her service and for her sacrifice. Your brave and noble service to your country, however, does not make you above any and all scrutiny regarding your conduct. Doing something good once or even for decades does not “buy you a pass” to treat others poorly. Goodness and decency (at least this is what I have heard because I am obviously out of my depth here) are not stored up in a bank or on one side of a scale just waiting to be balanced out with your shitty behavior; they just exist inside of you…well maybe not YOU but some people, for sure.
Remember, Kelli, you are the one who saw a person suffering and chose to kick them while they were down and then ran away from your words as soon as someone (not even me) called you out on your rudeness. I understand that some people just HAVE TO have an opinion about EVERYTHING they actually take the time to skim while sitting on the toilet. That’s just the way some humans are. I also understand that not everyone is capable of realizing that their opinions were unpopular and just shrugging off the whole experience. Some people need to feel like they are accomplishing something great or changing minds or at the very least scaring people by making strange and confusing claims about “dragging [my] narrow ass (still giggling) into court”. And I am here to tell Kelli that she is, in fact, totally accomplishing something great by continuing our befuddling and, at times, contentious relationship: I sat down at the computer and thought “What the fuck am I going to write about?” Then I saw Kelli’s posts and I was like “Shit Yeah! I ain’t gotta do shit ’cause this loopy bitch is giving me GOLD!” I figure if we can keep this up I won’t have to do ANY real, actual work, and y’all can just read the Kelli Brown Blog!
Also, (drink) I just wanted to say that I LOVE how she wrote these posts, at 5:00 am, as if she were addressing “the masses”…yeah all the many masses of people who read this blog! Also, also, I hate to burst Kelli’s bubble but no one can see her posts unless I choose to share them, WHICH I TOTALLY DID!
I love you guys all so very much! Thanks for making things wonderful, even you, Kelli! Remember to be kind to one another even when it’s the more difficult choice…or not. Do whatever you want, I’ll always accept you but mostly because my expectations regarding human behavior are remarkably low. XOXO

The Often Confusing and Terrifying World of Stock Images

I figured we all (an by “we all” I mean me) could use a break from all the “my Dad’s dead” monotony, plus I wrote this right before I got the first call from the hospital so I pretty much did not have to do anything which is how I like things. Enjoy!

So (drink), in my other life I am a graphic designer which makes me sound more important or more educated or more grown up than I actually am. In reality I make ads for newspapers which is actually a lot of fun. I get to play with art and make things and play with typography and really what more could an artsy, word-loving, font nerd want out of life? More money, that’s what….but that is not my point although I do totally have one, I swear.

In our various peregrinations as graphic artists we look at a ton of art, stock photography, vector images, clipart etc. each and every day. And sometimes we find exactly what we are looking for and other times we find so much more than we set out to find! Which is why I decided to make a special folder at work, on one of our servers, where the whole creative team in my office could drop pictures they found that were more curiosity than anything else: Images so horrifying, poorly executed, head-scratchingly vexing, and downright ugly that they defy reason and imagination! I made a “Horrible Stock Art” folder and, if I ever get off my lazy ass, am totally going to make a Tumblr out of all the terrifying things in there. The best part is that with 16 artist working in one creative hub, new stuff gets downloaded every day!

In the meantime I decided it would be fun to share some of the images here!
*Crowd Roars*
So here are some of them in all their bizarre, tacky, irrelevant glory! Enjoy!

03042918915159xshs_X_th_C

Admittedly, when I first looked at this I thought it was a real person just wearing a super creepy mask but no, it’s a statue…smoking a cigar, because why the fuck not!

 

dv755043

You should see the picture of him before meth.

 

Its called presenting

It’s called “presenting”. 

 

is he smelling her crotch

Is he smelling her crotch? 

 

i have no words

I have no words… I really don’t. Or maybe I am just saving them for a worse picture than this one, if that is at all possible.

 

OMG is that a discman

HOLY FUCK! Is that a discman?

 

wax martha graham

I know this is supposed to look like Martha Graham but it kind of just looks like the wax statue of an awkward Carol Burnett in the process of melting.

 

this monk knows how to party

This monk knows how to jam out…either that or he’s putting out an imaginary fire.

 

scary clown drag queen ballarino

I call ’em like I see ’em…and here I see a scary drag queen clown ballerino.

 

i madethis in Paint for you_mom

“LOOK MOM! I made this for you in Paint!”

 

I have no idea for what scenario this would be appropriate

I have no idea for what scenario this image would be appropriate.

 

DancingManCar3HC1102_X_th_C

And here we have a headless man romancing an anthropomorphic female car!

 

bells palsy ballarina

And this is a ballerina and her tremendously severe case of bells palsy.

 

axe dog

????

 

thisWILLhurtabit

This WILL hurt a bit.

c3dbfc552ffc4528f8ff41f970ea88d6

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

thug life

#ThugLife

 

twogreattastesthattastegreattogether

Now THAT is my kind of Doctor!

 

stock-vector-strange-and-horrible-girl-illustration-with-diamond-sketch-art-tattoo-333274838

And you thought YOUR kidney stones were a bitch!

 

enhanced-22521-1400016682-17

A one-eyed butcher or blackjack dealer flashing “East Side” while listening to an abacus.

 

underwater nun

I am super confused right now.

 

WHAT_THE

NOM NOM NOM!

 

yum gasoline

This seems like a perfectly reasonable thing although, if she still has beer left why has she already switched to gasoline? 

 

This baby looks like Vic Mackey

This baby looks exactly like Vic Mackey!

 

thefutureiscorn

THE FUTURE IS CORN!!!

 

Terrible Snowman 465052944

I have never felt this much pity for a snowman before. Everyone knows the pointy end of the carrot faces out! What the fuck is wrong with society? 

 

the murderer

This bitch is all, “Yep, I killed him! What the fuck are you going to do about it?”

 

STOPLOOKINGATME

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP LOOKING AT ME!

 

sociopath

I have so many questions: what did that fish ever do to her? Why is she so happy about killing that fish and probably losing a digit in the process? Is that Bridget Fonda? Is she cosplaying “Reservoir Dogs”?

 

infants and champagne

“Join us for the further adventures of Drunk Baby! In his next adventure he gets taken away by CPS!”

 

ishedeathorjesus

Is that supposed to be Death or Jesus? I legitimately want to know the answer to this.

 

Title

This baby LOVES rat poison and also looks like River Phoenix from “Stand By Me”.

 

mommyslittlearsonist

Mommy’s little arsonist!

 

Mr. Princess

Okay, I supposed this could be explained if he were a mayor and his last name was actually Princess. 

 

shrunkenheaddoctor

I am not sure why this doctor has a shrunken head…either that or he’s borrowed the suit that David Byrne wore in “Stop Making Sense”. And for the love of all that is holy, please put down the Goddamn baby and walk away slowly! 

I have an excellent caption for this

“Oh-Em-Gee, Guys! Look how much fun we’re having! Or at least that’s how it will look when I post this to Instagram!” Also, one of those dudes is getting REAL lucky this new year’s eve. Also, also it just occurred to me that those people are probably all related, or at least were all made in the same factory…you know, the one that made Taylor Swift.

 

I am plotting your eventual murder

Man’s thought: “I am plotting your eventual murder.” Woman’s thought: “There’s just no ‘right time’ to tell him he’s not the father.”

 

deer god

Deer God!

 

Title

THIS! This makes me super uncomfortable. It’s just so creepy on so many levels; she’s clearly supposed to be his daughter but he is awkwardly embracing her mid-section as if she were pregnant with his child….also, she’s like 10.

 

Title

It says “Sick Cookie” (which, on its own totally makes perfect sense, right?) but all I see is a sick meatball.

 

cake pillow

Okay, this actually seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do….for those of us who would like to have a constant supply of cake in our bed, right next to our mouth.

 

 

BabyNewYear05_X_th_C

Ladies and Gentlemen, in this evening’s performance Baby New Year will be played by Ralph Kramden!

 

BabyNewYear10_X_th_C

Okay, presumably if you are looking through stock images to place in advertisements you are an artist and as an artist you would clearly know that this, as art, is a steaming pile of shit.

 

Caesar Cruz once said that “art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable”. Frankly I am not sure which of those I started out as but I am definitely disturbed now and none of these are comforting me AT ALL!

What really blows my mind is not how much bizarre stock photography we find but how much really, truly awful artwork. Why, for the love of Jebus, would anyone whose job title included the word “artist” use something that looked like it was made by a moderately talented German Shepard using the 1985 version of Paintbrush Pro? Particularly when most of us could make something 30 times less crappy in a matter of minutes? I’ll tell you why, because laziness and we don’t get paid enough to care. I hope this made you laugh or at least wonder how someone could go their entire life without being taught how to properly assemble a snowman. XOXO

 

 

 

The Accidental Eulogy I Wrote for My Dad While Trolling a Troll!

So as a blogger and a person who has a reasonable grasp of common sense (I did not say I always employed said common sense) I rarely get bent out of shape about what people say (to me or anyone else) on the internet. I pretty much avoid comment sections because they are typically populated by the pond scum of humanity who STILL think that because they have a computer someone should give a shit about their opinion (says the blogger…ironically). But, when people comment on the shit I write, I totally read those because, DUH! And that is how I made my new bestest friend, Kelli! Kelli decided that it would be appropriate, nay, her duty to inform me that the way I chose to deal with the health complications and inevitable death of my Father was just not to her particular liking. Normally I would have just ignored it; see I don’t even delete negative or shitty comments or the people who write them because even that is paying them too much attention. But this was not a normal day, this was the day after my Dad died. So, when it became clear that Kelli had put up the force shields around her snotty comment making it so that me, as page manage could not reply, I decided to write her a personal message. But before we get into that below is a screenshot of her original comment:

 

Below is what I wrote to Kelli:

Hi Kelli,
I thought you and I could get to know one another since you seem to be so incredibly knowledgeable about all things, especially how other people should deal with the profound loss of a loved one. Now, I’ll admit, my Dad only died about *checks imaginary watch on wrist* 38 hours ago so it is possible that I have transitioned to the “anger” stage of grief, but I was wondering if you could tell me exactly HOW I should be dealing with my Dad’s death? He wasn’t elderly, you know. We weren’t expecting this. Oh, his name was Scott by the way, his friends that he grew up with called him Scooter. He was hilarious, generous, friendly, proud and the most non-judgmental person you could meet. He loved his children, his friends, his family, his two sister, his 94 year old mother, his ex-wife (the mother of his children) and his dogs with passion and fervor. He was a wonderful, flawed, giving, inappropriate, soulful, joyful human being and yesterday morning I held his dead body in my arms and cried into his neck and tried to say goodbye as best I knew how. If only you had been there to instruct me on how I should have been behaving more properly in that moment. Or, who knows, maybe you are fucking magical and simply knowing YOU protects those you love from death…that must be it since you have clearly never lost anyone important to you. Except maybe one of your 18 cats (I am just making an intuitive leap here because your Facebook page has a shit ton of pictures of cats, no humans oddly enough, and cats don’t live very long).

Sincerely,
Your Newest Bestest Friend Who Never Tires of Hearing Your Completely Baseless Opinions
Dacia Hanson
XOXO

I don’t know what I hoped to achieve, if anything, by reaching out to the pearl-clutching Kelli but I felt that the result was a very nice tribute to Dad so it is probably what I will end up reading at his memorial service. I was definitely not expecting a reply, mostly because when you message someone with whom you are not friends the likelihood that they will see your message is typically slim. But she, in her unrelenting and infinite wisdom, TOTALLY WROTE BACK TO ME!!!

conversations with kelli

Whaaaaa….?

confused Jackie Chan

Even Jackie Chan is confused….

jack

Call me crazy….But I think this bitch might be fucking stupid!

 

What the….? At this point I was kind of bummed because it was clear that I could not pursue my campaign against this person because she was obviously….how to put this delicately….a fucking retard (I am violently aware that is a hot button term and has been deemed politically incorrect and that enlightened humans should not use it in derision but I am not using it in derision I am genuinely making an assessment that this person is mentally deficient or at the very least cannot read). Yeah, I was a little bummed that I couldn’t really be mad at a person who had no idea what she was talking about because she couldn’t read but all in all it was a nice distraction on a day I could really use one.

I did, however, try to write back to Kelli, just to ask her if she was a robot but her messenger account informed me that “this user is not currently accepting messages from you at this time”. Okay, we’ve all done stupid shit on the internet that we regret (lord knows I have) but I believe there two kinds of people on this earth; the kind that do stupid shit on the internet but then realize they either should not have done that stupid shit or do not want to deal with the fallout of said stupid shit so they block and ban and delete and claim they were “hacked” (like anyone would bother hacking you, you fucking useless nobody) and move to India and change their name and join a holy house where the internet does not exist OR the people who do stupid shit on the internet then watch with amusement while the rest of the world gets bent out of shape about it. In my opinion (which we can all agree doesn’t much matter) you might as well just own your stupid shit because there really is no running from it…that’s why god invented screenshots.

So I was ready to walk away when I saw this!

“So Old Renton Book Exchange and The Biblio Diva are one in the same! How Narcissistic of you. Shall I publish your little post, remember we’re best friends now peanut. [sic]” (and no, I did not get a screenshot of this which sort of blows my previous point out of the water but who gives a shit).

Okay, first of all, I super love my new nickname! Secondly, excellent detective work, Sherlock! You totally get a gold star! Thirdly, of course I am a narcissist; I am a blogger which automatically means that I am blessed with the unique ability to overlook my own irrelevance! Fourthly (and I am fairly certain that’s not a real word), her threat to “publish” what I had written to her was hilarious because if I write it, I am not doing it for my goddamn health! OF COURSE I AM GOING TO PUBLISH THAT SHIT! I am lazy as fuck and that was like a good 300 words. You are stupider than I thought if you think I was just gonna waste those on you! Sheesh!

hello mcfly

HELLO! McFLY! ANYBODY HOME?!?!

So, any decent human being would have learned some sort of valuable lesson by now but I think we can all agree that I am nowhere near being a decent human being. I am thankful to Kelli for distracting me from my misery for a few hours and I hope she reads this so she knows that she was helpful, because, at the end of the day, I am pretty sure that’s all she really wants; to help people.

Hey, I love you guys. Thanks to everyone who read (all of) yesterday’s post (and comprehended it in its entirety) and thank you for just being here and making life seem a little less horrible and a lot less pointless (that was a double negative). Everyone who took time out of their day yesterday to send me their love or prayers or thoughts or offer their condolences I owe you an enormous “thank you”, an enormous hug and probably an enormous martini! XOXO

This was Supposed to Have a Happy Ending…But Alas

I was at work on Wednesday, in our usual Wednesday afternoon production meeting. When the meeting let out I sat down at my desk and, because I had no real work to do, started to write a post for my blog. I then checked my phone. I saw that I had two missed calls and 3 texts. The calls had come from my brother which could only mean one thing; my Dad was in the hospital again. The texts were from two of my Dad’s roommates and one from my brother. I picked up my phone and went into the hallway to call him back. I listened while he told me that Dad had passed out in Home Depot, that his heart had stopped and that his ICD (or implantable cardioverter defibrillator or, if you want to get technical, the “shock box” that lives in his chest) had not recovered him from the spell. His roommate/friend/special lady person (not going to get into that now because it could not be more irrelevant), Erica, was with him and luckily Erica is a nurse. She performed CPR on him for 15 minutes while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. I don’t know how many of you have ever performed CPR or even watched someone perform CPR but it is a monumentally difficult task, physically and emotionally, to sustain for even 5 minutes straight so to Erica I say thank you, thank Sweet Muscly Jesus for you and your being there.

When the paramedics arrived they took him to UW Valley Medical Center in Renton. He had hit his head when he went down…and now it occurs to me that I should probably explain why my Dad passes out all the times and ends up in the hospital all the time. About 10 years ago my Dad started passing out, no one knew why. He eventually had a spell that landed him in the hospital where they discovered that he had a golf-ball sized tumor ON his heart. The weird part is they had no idea how long it had been there. Some of the doctors thought it was possible that it had been there all his life and was just now starting to cause problems. After many pokings and proddings and tests it was determined that this enormous mass on his heart was not cancerous, not malignant and not really doing anything anyone could find fault with so he was released and told to go live his life. Which is exactly what he did, occasionally passing out along the way, until May of 2011. It was May 26th at about 8:45 in the morning and Dad was driving the service truck for his work when he passed out at the wheel.

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This is the actual picture of the actual remains of my Dad’s work truck taken from the Tacoma News Tribune.

After being taken to the hospital by paramedics and being cleared for any major life-threatening injuries, doctors began to examine why this was happening. It was determined that my Dad had Atrial Fibrillation (AF) which is the most common form of arrhythmia, a problem with the rate or rhythm of the heartbeat. During an arrhythmia, the heart can beat too fast, too slow, or with an irregular rhythm. A-fib causes his heart to function at a significantly decreased efficiency than a normal, healthy heart. His A-fib is thought to be caused by or at least exacerbated by the mass on his heart and his A-fib has, ostensibly, caused him to develop congestive heart failure (his body, and chest in particular take on fluid at a rapid rate and because of his decreased heart function he is unable to move the fluid around and distribute it throughout his body causing enormous amounts of pressure to build up in his chest and on his lungs making it difficult for him to breathe) and the congestive heart failure causes him to pass out. After the accident in 2011 was when they installed the shock box in his chest. Since then he does not drive (legally anyhow) and was forced to quit working. His heart functions at about a level of 10% efficiency which, as you might imagine, is not too great.

When my Dad arrived at the hospital Wednesday afternoon he was going from bad to worse. He had to be intubated, he was unable to breathe on his own, his heart had stopped, completely, at least 6 times that the medical staff was able to determine from the cached data on his shock box, he had two heart attacks and had been defibrillated like 12 times. It was not looking good but his heart, we quickly learned, was to be least of our concerns.

After I spoke with my brother I decided to leave work. Something felt different about this time. I picked up Bo and headed down I-5. I was in downtown Seattle when I got another call from my brother, except when I answered it was his wife. She said “you’d better get down here” and proceeded to inform me that Dad was not breathing on his own and it was not looking good. I called Josh and asked him to meet me at the hospital; whatever was happening there I knew that I could not take Bo with me to see it. I got my visitor’s pass after handing Bo off to Josh and went into the ER. My sister-in-law was standing outside the room. She came up to me and delivered the broad strokes; he had hit his head, he had bleeding on his brain, they might have to do surgery, it would be tonight… I could barely stand up, everything around me went watery, nothing would hold still. I walked into the room, determined not to lose my shit, and promptly lost my shit. Dad was on a respirator, sedated, in a large room with every piece of intimidating medical equipment on the planet hooked up to him or shoved inside of him. It was not easy to see him underneath the confusing, twisted, labyrinth of medical technology.

Before I knew what was happening my brother and I were being swept out of the room by someone in neurosurgery who wanted to “speak with us about our options”, which sounded like a thinly veiled attempt at not being foreboding. It did not work. We were now in another room, a small room that had only one purpose; this is where they told you the bad news. An impossibly tall man with a gentle demeanor spoke to us about what we could expect from my father’s condition moving forward. It was all very vaguely worded and presented in hypotheticals. And then we were being lead back to the room of medical and technological marvels to be shown my father’s CT scan. The tall man pointed out the white, shadowy area that covered the better part of the left side of my Dad’s brain. The cardiologist joined us, admitting that the brain was not his area of expertise but his casual positivity seemed, if not encouraging, at least comforting.

I went out to the lobby and found Bo and Josh. I asked Josh to go grab me some cigarettes while I took Bo to the cafeteria to get something at least resembling dinner. I picked at a salad and Bo ignored everything in the way of food while he and another little boy at a nearby table struck up a lively conversation about the grossness of zombies. Josh called. We left the cafeteria and met him in the upper parking lot, presumably far enough away from the hospital proper where I could smoke without noticeably violating hospital rules. Just as I lit up my Mom and Aunt pulled up. We spoke briefly and I told them to go ahead and that I’d be in shortly. I got Bo’s things out of one car and put into the other, preparing him to go home with Josh. I got a call from my sister-in-law saying that the neurosurgeon was coming down and needed to talk to me and my brother.

I went back into the hospital after seeing off Josh and Bo. We went back into the tiny room where bad news is delivered. There were more of us in there now; me, my brother and sister-in-law, my mom and my aunt. The neurosurgeon was there with the tall man I now understood to be his surgical assistant. He had small, beady pig eyes like a dead shark or Tony Romo. He was wearing his surgery hat and had a faint air of dude-bro-ness about him. He started to explain that the bleeding on my father’s brain was quite severe. He said that surgery could relieve any pressure that might exist but it would also probably kill him; that with his heart and respiratory health he may not even survive anesthesia and that even if he survived surgery we would most like be a vegetable. Okay, so what happens if we don’t operate, doc? Well, if you don’t operate the swelling or pressure (if there is any) might go away on its own but your Dad will probably still be a vegetable. Don’t get me wrong, pig-eyes had a fine bedside manner and, frankly, getting him to give it to us straight did take a little cajoling.

The gist of what he was trying to say and only half succeeding was that brain injuries like the one my father had were typically traumatic and the likelihood that he would make anything close to a full recovery was not probable and, in his opinion not plausible. He basically said there was almost no chance that my father would be the same man he was before this ordeal. We were in a difficult spot. We had to decide between doing nothing and doing something but no matter what the results would not be good and would probably be the same. I, for one, could not see the point in having my Dad’s skull cut open to relieve pressure that might not exist in a procedure that would most probably kill him for the result of his definitely being on life support for the rest of forever…I mean, fiscally alone it did not make sense, let alone all those other really good reasons to not cut someone’s skull open. I was about to pass out and could not look at pig-eyes anymore so I left the room and went to my Dad. I sat by his bed and cried while holding his hand. I leaned into his ear and said, “Daddy? Can you hear me?” He opened his eyes and nodded. I said, “I love you.” and he mouthed around the respirator that he loved me too. I could simply not reconcile that he was a lost cause at that point, that he was as good as broccoli and we should all just save ourselves the trouble and pull the plug, which is pretty much what pig-eyes over in the other room was getting at.

Once the decision was made (with no help from me) to NOT operate my Dad was able to be moved upstairs to the ICU. His fate, at this point still seemed murky. It was difficult to determine how much communication he was capable of between the heavy sedation and the roadblock of intubation. For the next few hours we just went in and out of his room, getting him settled, trying to gauge the severity of his brain injury. Trying to shake off our Sophie’s Choice ordeal that was still haunting all of us. We was a little more awake now; Erica and her husband Andy (I told you, not now) had shown up and we all went into his room in shifts, two at a time. It was quickly determined that not only was Dad awake, he was aware of what was going on, he knew everyone who had come in to visit. In short, he was the same man as he had been that morning before the fall! We did not know what, if any, effects to his motor function had been suffered but we could breathe a little bit easier knowing that Dad was, from what we could tell, still Dad.

The other visitors trickled out of the ICU, leaving me, my brother and his wife. We decided food and whiskey were in order….okay they decided food was in order, I decided whiskey was in order. After whiskey and poutine and fried pickles and buffalo wings and tater tots or as I like to call it, grief’s smorgasbord, we went back to the hospital. I fell asleep for a little while on the fold-out chair. I woke up around 1 am and decided there wasn’t anything else I could do. I went home.

The next day he was off the respirator and breathing on his own. He was fully awake and aware, all in all, himself, that is to say he was ornery, cussing at the nursing staff and bitching about not being able to pee (he a tube up his pee-hole so he was able to pee just not in the earthy and satisfying way he wanted to).

The next few days were strange. We were still coming down off the high of knowing that Dad was not, as predicted, going to be a vegetable, but the road ahead of him was still roughly cobbled and dimly lit. On Friday evening he was moved out of the ICU which we all viewed as an immensely positive turn of events. His Mother and Sisters had come up California on Thursday (alerted and alarmed since we were told he was most likely going to be a shell of his former self); we spent the better part of Thursday assuring them that we did not jump the gun in calling them and that the night before we were told that his brain injury was most likely going to kill him because by the time their flight had landed on Thursday morning his brain injury had been all but forgotten.

Despite his ability to shake off an enormous blood clot on his brain as if it were nothing more than a hangnail he still had his heart to worry about. He struggled to breathe normally, exacerbated by the fact that the chest compressions from all the CPR he had endured on Wednesday had left his ribs deeply bruised making it nearly impossible for him to draw a deep breath or cough.

He was moved back into the ICU on Saturday night/early Sunday morning because of trouble breathing. I went down to the hospital on Sunday before I had to work. He had not been intubated, thankfully, but he was wearing an oxygen mask or bi-pap but he was able to talk while wearing it and able to take it off at times. My brother, his wife and I sat in Dad’s room for hours, joking and laughing, sometimes with Dad and sometimes at him; Ian (my brother) worked on RC car body he was preparing to paint, Kayrn (his wife) played a puzzle game on her phone and joked with me while I sketched in one of my many books. At one point Dad suggested that a unicorn I had drawn on the whiteboard hanging up in his hospital room should “shove its horn up the nurse’s ass”. It was a beautiful day outside and the room had huge, south-facing windows and was flooded with light. I helped my Dad drink soda and told him what his oxygen saturation levels were when he obsessively asked every 74 seconds. When I had to leave for work around 4 in the afternoon I hugged him and kissed his forehead and told him that I loved him and that I would see him the next day.

hospital white board 1

*********************************************************************

I started writing this on Sunday night and it was supposed to be a story about how my Dad beat the odds, refusing to succumb to the grim predictions of the neurosurgeon who said he was going to be a vacant invalid for his remaining days, if, in fact he had any days remaining at all.

My Dad passed away yesterday morning just before 6 am.

Seasonal Affective Disaster

I am not a fan of Winter. I understand that Winter, in theory, has its charms; sparkling, bucolic snow-covered landscapes, glittering icicles hanging from eaves, the opportunity to wear lots of adorable scarves and hats with animal ears, sitting by the fireplace in fluffy socks, hot chocolate, hot chocolate with Bailey’s (mmmm, creamy), hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps, hot buttered rum, hot toddies, whiskey. In practice, Winter in the Northwest in an exercise in how much misery the human soul can endure before it implodes and just goes all Michael Douglas a la “Falling Down”. It really is a wonder that more of us are not climbing atop bell towers with semi-automatic rifles, although this could simply be due to the distinct dearth of bell towers and not any lack of desire to just fucking snap on the part of the general public.

The real Northwest Winter, not the bright, crisp, evergreen Northwest Winter made up by tourism bureaus and pictured in chambers of commerce brochures, is an endless, dark, miserable, sodden, mold-covered pile of rancid bald eagle carcasses. And, yes, that IS how I really feel so you can totally refrain from sarcastically (stupidly) asking me to tell you how I really feel.

Lets start with the length of Winter. Everyone who has lived in Washington for any period of time has heard the adage that we get 9 months of rain and 3 weeks (yes, weeks) of sunshine. While the part about 9 straight months of rain is reasonably accurate, Northwest Summers are fucking magical and if you tell ANYONE I will cut you! Yes, Northwest Winters are long, longer than a lot of other places in the US? Not really but they seem longer because of the constant, merciless and unrelenting rain….and the darkness!!! Don’t get me fucking started on the darkness!!! Oh unh-unh, you done did it now! There is nothing more depressing, more defeating than waking up in the goddamn dark, driving to work in the goddamn dark, going to work all day where, you assume, there might be some light out but you don’t really know because the closest thing to natural light you will see that day is the soulless, white glow of your computer screen and then driving home in the goddamn dark just to do it all over again the next day. This is why the suicide rates in December and January far outweigh those in any other months. Also, it’s possible that I did not research that at all and totally just made up that statistic, but it’s probably true, right? I mean you totally believed it.

EVERYTHING, AND I MEAN EVERY FUCKING THING IS WET!!! Your shoes are wet, your socks are wet, the cuffs of your pants are wet, your hair is wet, your floors are wet, your ceiling is wet. NOTHING EVER DRIES OFF FOR THE ENTIRE GODFORSAKEN SEASON!!!  And all this pervasive moisture results in mold, lots and lots of mold. As anyone who has lived in a house or apartment in Puget Sound that was built before 1990 can tell you mold is everywhere!!! You make tamales in your 1907 third story two by two one time and you have mold for the rest of your goddamn life. Mold in the window sills and mold on the bathroom ceiling, in every little far corner of your house it is hiding, waiting like the proverbial stalking butler to kill you, quietly, in your sleep. Why anyone would not update a 1923 house with a bathroom fan is beyond me! A bathroom fan is a necessity for a mold-free home and a happy marriage. There is always that period of time, in mid January, when you and your family have been sick for what feels like 3 solid months, that you start to look around your house and see the mold creeping out of every porous surface and you instantly become convinced that you all have black lung and the only thing to do is to get everyone hazmat suits and respirators and turn your home into final scene from E.T.. Either that or a controlled burn.

Depression, at least mine, is always worse in the Winter. I could sleep for 14 hours a day in the Winter time and still be tired, miserable, cranky and constantly on the verge of stepping off the subway platform onto the tracks….although this whole subway scenario is metaphorical in this case because this is Seattle and we have an embarrassingly bad public transit system. Let’s just say that in the Winter, the string that holds me here, to this earth, is even more taut than usual. Every Winter is bad but for some reason, this one has been a bear. Not the sweet, furry, cuddly kind of bear either. It has been a rabid bear, with irritable bowel syndrome and a nasty hangnail and all he really wants in the world is to crush his enemies, see them driven before him and to hear the lamentations of their women (kudos to those of you who caught the “Conan the Barbarian” reference as it was not even thinly veiled. Hahahaha! Conan the Bar-Bear-ian!!! Good God, I need a hobby or some tequila, either of those would be good). Winter basically just causes me to go batshit (see above), like even more than usual.

One last thing (only because I am writing time is quickly running into my drinking time) that I hate about Winter is that it’s fucking COLD! I hate doing anything when it’s cold. The effort it takes to drag my tired corpse out of bed is Herculean enough when it is not nineteen fucking degrees out! Add to that the fact that there is typically a warm, snuggly and obscenely sexy man in my bed….yes, Josh, I am talking about you (he’s totally scratching his head right now going “what man does she have in her bed and why have I not seen any videos?”). I fucking HATE taking a shower when it is cold almost as much as I hate getting out of bed and seeings as how, in the natural progression of things, one directly follows the other….well, you get what I mean. In fact there are very few things that can compel me to take off my clothes at all when it is cold, actually, I can only think of one, maybe two but we don’t have a hot tub so let’s just call it one thing. And, fortuitously, that one thing will totally help warm you up!

So I guess that’s it kids. Winter sucks. We all endure it. Lots of whiskey, lots of sex and fluffy socks make it all bearable…and speaking of bears… (I can hear the collective groan from all the way over here behind my computer screen)

I give you Conan the Bar-Bear-ian!!!! This guy definitely knows what is best in life, and it’s homemade marshmallows and the utter destruction of your foes!

conan-the-barbearian_bg

 

This is what happens when graphic designers have too much time on their hands. XOXO

Not All Stepmothers Are Wicked but Mine Was

I recently read the Facebook post of a friend’s son who was having some trouble with a step-parent. It seemed like it went well beyond the normal teenage, “you’re not my real dad” bullshit. It sounded like the step-parent in question was really, truly awful. In any case I just wanted to reassure this young person that what they are feeling is valid and that others have been there before. I wanted to share my story with him…maybe it will help, maybe it will help me.

My parents split up when I was 10. To be painfully accurate they told my brother and I they were getting a divorce exactly one week before my 10th birthday. To be fair they had their reasons for the timing; I was born on their 3rd wedding anniversary and who can really blame them for not wanting to suffer through another celebration of their love for one another that no longer existed. I remember my 10th birthday party; it was perfect, a beach party on Lake Sammamish at Idlewood Park on a gorgeous August afternoon. I got the “Lil’ Swimmer” Cabbage Patch doll after which I had been pining. Everything should have been wonderful but I could not feel anything. I knew I was supposed to be happy, but I just could not find it inside myself.

But time marches on as it is wont to do. Less than a year after the divorce my Dad remarried, choosing for his second wife, in his infinite wisdom, Gail Deering. A former high school…girlfriend is the wrong word but you kind of get what I mean…of his who had recently appeared back in his life…as if by MAGIC! In any case she would have had you believe that in all the interim years she had done nothing but pine away for my father. What she was really doing in those interim years was getting pregnant at 17. She married the father of her twins (yes twins, a boy and a girl), Joe. Joe died when the babies were about 2, I think it was a car accident or motorcycle accident and I am fairly certain that alcohol and/or (most probably “and”) drugs were involved. At that point Gail decided that raising two babies on her own was too hard so she left the twins with her mother (who had obviously done a stellar job with her) in favor of biker gangs and heroin.

It was a good life but one can only make a respectable living off the money they earn hustling pool and arm wresting for so long before they start to yearn for life’s simpler pleasures; settling down, making a permanent home somewhere, reconnecting with your abandoned children and their social security checks, etc. And that was Gail in a nutshell; she was always trying to run a hustle. She never worked while I knew her and she was almost always in the process of litigation with former employers over an on-the-job injury or an L&I claim or a disability claim. She worked very hard to not have to work. Which was good because her lifestyle of drinking all day didn’t really jibe with full-time employment anyhow.

Gail was an alcoholic (at first). Not to say that my Dad is not an alcoholic but to this day I could count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times I have actually seen my Dad “drunk”. Gail was drunk every night. She was a large, brutish woman and a mean drunk. I always marveled at my Dad’s ability to maintain a blind spot for what a mean-spirited human being she was. I had never met anyone prior to Gail in whom I could find absolutely no redeeming qualities. And I did not want to feel that way about her. I did not want to play out some ridiculous, archetypal, fairytale horror show starring none other than THE WICKED STEPMOTHER! But that was what I got.

Once when I was twelve, and spending the weekend at my Dad’s, Gail and Dad had been drinking all day which led to Gail and Dad fighting all evening. I watched my father get so angry with her that he put his fist through the laundry room door. Her response to this was to hit my father over the head with a dining room chair. She literally broke a solid-wood dining chair over his goddamn head. In the midst of the chaos and the screaming I demanded to be taken out of that house immediately. I gathered up my things while Gail flung a litany of curses at me and my father. I was a “spoiled little bitch” and “a wimp” and “a little fucking princess” for not wanting to watch my father endure another blow to head with whatever piece furniture was next on her hit list. My Dad agreed to take me to his mom’s house. I don’t know why I did not ask to be taken home, to my Mom, but I think there was an unspoken agreement that that was a humiliation my Dad was simply unable to bear after all the other indignities he had suffered. I stood on the side of Highway 9 in the driving rain while my Dad called his mother’s house from a pay phone. There was blood running down the side of his head and out of his ear when he turned to me, while waiting for someone on the other end of the phone to pick up, and said “I think I made a mistake.” That was 1992. Fifteen years later he finally left her.

For fifteen years I was mostly estranged from my father because my stepmother made it too difficult to have a relationship with him. For fifteen years I wondered how he could be so blind, how could he not see what she was doing to us? For fifteen years I genuinely and earnestly wished my stepmother dead. For fifteen years of I was afraid to visit or call my Dad because I would have to go through her. 

In the last 10 years of their marriage Gail’s behavior grew more erratic as her alcohol and drug abuse grew more inclusive and indiscriminate. She abused prescription pain killers to the point that she had gone into cardiac arrest twice in as many months and she wasn’t even 40 years old. She began to traffic drugs, selling pain killers that she would get from her croaker of a doctor and using the money to buy meth or other street drugs. All the while my Dad remained either in denial or complacent due to the income brought in by the selling of drugs.

Towards the end she was painfully thin (having always been on the heavy side before), covered in sores, withered well beyond her years and always high on one thing or the other. But it wasn’t until she got a gun that my dad decided that whatever he might have to give up, it was not worth risking his life. He took off in the middle of night and left her, his house, all his belongings, every photograph, every possession and he had never been a richer man, for he was free.

I remember when I found out that he had left Gail; it was as if I became 50 pounds lighter. I was thrilled for my Dad, thrilled for us, thrilled at the possibility of a real relationship with him! And I was so angry that he hadn’t done it sooner. I don’t know if I will ever fully forgive him for the years we lost.

About 3 or 4 years after my Dad and Gail had split up he called me. I was at work; I remember it was just after Bo was born and I was sitting in the slipper chair at the shop nursing him when my cell phone rang. It was my Dad, telling me that Gail had (finally) died (of a drug overdose because DUH!). Into the phone said the first thing that came to my mind, “Well,” I sighed, “Ding-Dong!”. I had wished for it for so long, so many times but I knew that when it actually happened I would feel a little bit bad, but you know what? I totally didn’t, that bitch can rot in hell for all I care and I am glad she is gone. She was a fucking cancer and she corroded everything she touched.

I know this story doesn’t offer any salient advice or some great moral or lesson…other than if you wait long enough, all the people you hate will eventually die. I just wanted to let my young friend know that I understand what he is going through and if he ever needs to talk….well, you know where I am.

Also, sorry this isn’t funny. I promise to be less depressing very soon! XOXO

FUCK CANCER!

Alan Rickman and David Bowie died this week which sort of makes me think that god has something against 69 year old British Dudes who are awesome. I don’t have anything funny to say about the loss of these two beautiful, uniquely talented, stunning man-creatures. I just wanted to mention them, mourn them and take a moment to say FUCK CANCER! Fuck you for striking both these men down, fuck you for taking so many lives every day that don’t get media attention, the lives that go unnoticed, fuck you for defying medical and scientific odds and technology, fuck you for tearing our loved ones away from us far too soon, fuck you for the children who are left motherless and the mothers who are forced to mourn their children, fuck you for the families you leave broken and the scars that will never heal, fuck you for all the detritus you leave in your wake but fuck you most of all for the little ones. The completely innocent lives that you take are the most damning, the most enraging, the most confounding and the most tragic. We may never understand your motives but we will never cease working to stop you in your stupid, fucking tracks! FUCK YOU!!!!! FUCK YOU, CANCER, FUCK YOU!!!!!

Enjoy these neoclassical style paintings of Mr. Bowie and Mr. Rickman (no, neither of them held the Queen’s title of “Sir” however BOTH men were offered a knighthood and both, for various reasons, turned it down).

4-David-Bowie1alan-rickman-army-general-painting