Wednesday, December 28, 2011

How to kill a Christmas tree

This past Christmas was the fattest Christmas I have ever had.
My husband made lasagna, we had pumpkin pie and sugar plums. By the end of the day I was like…….
Now that all the feasting frenzy is over and all the Christmas cards burned for warmth. I wonder, what the hell am I supposed to do with this Christmas tree?  We live in the woods, is it silly to leave a tree on the side of the road for pickup when you live in the woods? Do We just drag the tree into the forest and shoot it?
Death by firing squad?
Do I make Gabriel Byrnes do it for me?
Maybe I can bury the tree in the pet cemetery?
 Ok, alright bad idea. 
I guess I’m doing this the old fashioned way. 

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Clothes shopping

I need clothes.
I never shop.

Times being what they are, if I do get to shopping, it’s at a thrift store to buy dead peoples clothes. Now everything has built up to its predictable conclusion. I am out of everything, all my socks have holes, all my pants are falling apart and my shirts look like I was attacked by Mothra. My husband says there is room in the budget to get a few things. He wants to take me shopping. It’s been such a long time since I have gone shopping in a normal department store. I don’t even remember what size I am. I hope I remember how to try on clothes.
 Ass on top right?

Thursday, December 22, 2011


My Mom is a Christmas freak.

 We had boxes upon boxes filled with Christmas decorations piled in our garage. Old card board boxes, old department store bags, and once in a glorious while a Rubbermaid bin. Every one of them covered in dust and infested with spiders. I hated helping Mom get all the stuff out, it was always a battle to get the d├ęcor away from some jumbo Christmas spider.  
Mom had made a bunch of Holiday crafts, wreaths and decor with tons of colorful lights and bows. Now that I look back I’m surprised the house didn’t burn down.
 The lights would get so hot that the adorable craft pieces would be exuding heat. In particular were these bulbs that have a tube with colored water inside. The bulb heats up the water and then bubbles run through the tube. It looks cool, but they were so dangerous. And as a stupid child I just had to touch them over and over again. 
On Christmas eve, Mom would caution me to clean my room. Because if Santa showed up and saw I had a dirty room he would know I was a naughty child and not give me presents. Apparently  it never occurred to Santa that a clean freak psychotic child could exist. In any case, cleaning my room was just not going to happen. What I did do, was shove everything under my bed and in my closet. I never had closet monsters or under the bed monsters as a result.
Every Christmas morning I would be the first one up, at 3am, then 4am and finally at 6am. My sister would come get me out of bed and we would go harass my brother till he got up and then all sneak downstairs. Being the youngest of 3 children, I always received the most presents. At the time I didn’t ask any questions. I always had a pile of presents the next morning.  “Ha! Ha! Santa you sucker!”
The first thing we would go for was the stockings. They were always filled with copious amounts of candy and tiny gifts. Rolo’s is the breakfast of champions by the way. 
 I’d get harassed by my sister to do the impression of that kid Randy from A Christmas story film.   “Whoopee that’s mine!”

Eventually our parents would wake and join us. Sort of, they were kind of zombified on the couch. We’d tear through every single present as though the antidote were in it.
Not comb our hair all day, then pass out from a sugar overdose. Ok, that was just me. I couldn’t be bothered with hygiene, I had Barbies to play with.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Andy's underwear harness

 Andy dog has this bad habit of getting overly excited and trying to jump all over people. Even if I have him leashed he will strangle himself to try and get to someone. 
I’m concerned about him getting hurt this way. I’m worried one day when he’s freaking out, he’ll tug one tug too much and his little doggy eye’s will pop out. 
I decided to get him some sort of harness. And just the other day in the grocery store I found a harness I saw advertised on T.V. It was a right price, I figured what the heck and bought it. 
It looks like underwear. Like kinky fish net underwear. We hang it next to his leash on the back door. Every time I walk by it, I can’t help thinking how much like freaky bondage undies it looks like. I guess it’s better than having his eye balls pop out. 

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Tourettes kid

In our old apartment, most of our wall was shared with our neighbors. They had a son, 11ish, who was home most of the day. I used to wonder why he was never at school. It didn’t take long to find out. At the same time I found out our apartment walls were paper thin. “F@#king Bitch! F@#king Bitch!” All. Day. Long.
It was constant, only ever those two words. Only sometimes he might shout it differently.
Longer. “F@@@######kingggggggg Biiiitttccchhh!”  Like “Pigs in space!” Or faster “F#king Bitch!”

Obviously this kid has Tourette’s or something. So I wasn’t angry, in fact it became part of the background noise. Then for a while there was no profane screaming for a week or so.
Just as well, my husband and I had a friend staying with us. We saw the sights, ate too much food, so far a pleasant visit. One night, as we were all getting ready to eat more food.  It began. “F@@@@#####king Bitch!”
 It seemed louder than ever, it was a little hard to ignore. The foul mouthed screaming persisted for another hour.  It was almost frantic sounding. Maybe that’s all this poor kid knew how to say? And he might be pinned underneath a bag of jumbo Doritos or something? And only I can save him? But no really, I went over to ask the kid if he could curse a little softer. I rang the bell, expecting a parent or something to answer the door. Instead I heard a bunch of clumsy shuffling and banging around.
 Silence for a few seconds, then a shadow passed over the peep hole in the door. I looked at it. They said something to the tune of “Ackgrumphlp!” and then more crashing I rang the bell once more. Only silence. I went back to my apartment, maybe the kid is home alone and I just terrified him? In any case he was quiet the rest of the night.
Some months later, I was working at my little desk nook thing. From the wall facing me I heard the yelling start up again. 

 “F@#king Bitch! F@#king Bitch! F@@@######kingggggggg Biiiitttccchhh!.......SHIT!”      

Oh my stars, he just said shit! The first time I had ever heard anything different from him. Of all the words screamed, all the same and finally one glorious change. Shit! I knocked on the wall, and yelled “I’m proud of you!”

Monday, December 19, 2011

Home alone

My husband had an overnight business trip a few days ago. 

It would be my first time home alone overnight in the new place. Being home alone never bothered me before. Even as a kid, I always thought I was so cool because I could watch horror flicks alone at night. But this time I was in the woods. Yes it makes a difference!  

I knew every noise, every creak would send my imagination running. Plus Andy would do that thing that he does, where he suddenly stops and looks at a door or window. As though  someone were there. I'd be wrapped in my blanket, kicking myself for having ever read so much about serial killers.
 I braced myself for a sleepless night.

A night with all the monsters and Dracula’s and bigfoots scratching at the doors. Setting off the motion detection lights then knocking the power out, making the walls bleed and raiding the fridge. I weighed my options on protection. A small reasonable knife, or a giant carving knife? If Dracula busts into the house I feel confident I can whoop him. Zombies, I can handle, well no more than 2 at a time. Bigfoot is misunderstood  as we all know, I’m sure we will become friends. If Gillman shows up I’m doomed. 

I was sure at the end of the evening I was going to feel thoroughly ridiculous. The night came, and it wasn’t bad at all. My dog and I fell asleep on the couch watching assorted Bela Lugosi flicks. After a while we shuffled off to bed. If there were any monsters, they were very quiet.  

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Stranded on a desert island

If I was stranded on a desert island and could only bring with me one book, album and person….

The person I would bring, would be Paula Dean. 
The book I would bring “How to cook people.”
My Album “Complete Madness”.

Mrs. Dean loves to feed people, I think she would be okay with it. She may even give me tips on how to make her more delicious. With her food preferences I imagine she tastes like a ham wrapped in bacon and rolled in butter and brown sugar.
I know what you’re thinking, “A best of Album?” Yes it’s true, it’s my island of unimaginable horror, so plbbbb!  In reality Paula Dean is enough person, to keep me fed for a longer period of time. Thus increasing my chances of being rescued.  After all there’s no sense in having 2 starving people on the island.

I admit after making my decision, my husband pointed out that fat people are not necessarily good eats.  After all they are filled with fat, not meat. So here I am on a desert island, I have Paula Dean in a bamboo cage and she’s all gristle. I bet I can just leave her in the sun, and lick her forehead every hour. The amount of butter and bacon oozing from her pores should hold enough calories to sustain me. I guess it’s better this way, I can’t imagine how I’d carve up a person using only a coconut.
 At least we’d have good tunes.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

The Fat Lady dance

Another fun character in our old apartment building was the “Fat lady”.

It was warm weather, I had all the windows open save for one. There were two men painting that side of the building today. So I had to leave one window closed.
 I was on the floor surrounded by a bunch of papers for work. Getting very tired and very disenchanted with how the remainder of my day was looking like. Then I heard it…

“Yoo hoooooo!”
Yoo hoo? Who the hell actually says that?
“Yoo hoooooo!” There it was again, flirty and melodic. 

I looked out my window onto the 3rd floor rooftop garden below. 
The day is saved, there is a fat lady dancing in the garden.  

She’s rocking a beehive hairdo,and being careful not to spill her glass of red wine as she gyrates, all four hundred pounds of her.
 She’s dancing for the 2 men painting the building. They have a radio playing, some saucy Latin music.  She is raising her arms like a flamenco dancer, swaying her hips, twisting her little feet. Every fold bulging under the strain of her shirt. Every hip thrust a lesson in g-force.The painters seem uneasy, perhaps a little frightened. But they smile at her anyway. I do what any person would do. I scramble to get my camera.

I'm terrified I will be caught but I have to do this. No one will ever believe the sheer awesomeness of this moment unless I catch it on film. After some hasty footage from the edge of the window, I feel I’ve pushed my luck enough.
I spend the rest of the day occasionally looking out my window to see the fat lady.
“She’s still dancing Ohmygawd.” Only difference is she freshened her wine, its white now. 

After this incident, I saw the fat lady on several occasions dancing in the roof top garden. With a glass of wine and her i-pod. Standing on one of the planters. Looking at the city below and dancing her heart out. I came to depend on seeing the fat lady dance. It made me feel happy actually, if she skipped a day I was disappointed. But if she was out there doing her thing, I could carry on with my day contently.
If the Fat Lady is dancing all is right with the world. Perhaps the fat Lady is still out there dancing, looking for love, drinking tons of wine. My cap is off to you, Dance Fat Lady, dance!