The 6 Stages of Moving

Another large life change that has happened in my life since my blogging demise: my change of residence. All in all I feel I don't move super well. I blame my parents. Damn that stable upbringing, it really didn't teach me much in the way of a mobile lifestyle. Anyways, since I have moved once a year since leaving the annoyingly steadfast nest, I have realized some trends. This should come as no surprise to you, being as I know that the 3 of you still out there turn to me for my genius observations on all things in life... but I digress. The point is, I now know that there are some things about moving that must remain the same…They always come to pass. Yes, my supper supporters, I have found the 6 stages of moving...

STAGE 1: Denial
Despite looming deadlines, subject completely rejects location change and at times takes on strange, time-consuming, and messy projects that directly counteract the act of moving.

STAGE 2: Anger
Subject grows temperamental, and suddenly the fact that current dwelling is only a few cinder blocks above a makeshift homeless shanty means nothing.... the thought of greener pastures, upon which subject could frolic in new dwelling, no longer appeals.

STAGE 3: Cursing Your Country
Instead of taking responsibility for 3 yoga mats, subject turns on country for creating a materialistic monster. Oprah reruns might be involved, as well as private screenings of Blood Diamond, all allowing subject to conclude that it is America's fault for fostering this materialism, not the fact that someone felt that every book ever written could be useful sometime in one's lifetime….

STAGE 4: Purge
Subject attempts to remove all belongings and keeps (what i have deemed) an apocalyptic kit - one outfit generally involving a scarf, a few simple tools, one electronic device of choice, one random item, and possibly a handsome black man like Will Smith to protect them.

STAGE 5: Acceptance 
Subject has come to terms with the fact that soon they will leave current dwelling and that it will happen with or without all their prized belongings. Most likely with all possessions, prized and unprized alike, because now it is too late to purge anything… Curses, too much thinking about Will Smith in Stage 4…

STAGE 6: Panic
Due to the fact that the purging stage ended quickly, possibly with tears, subject is found on a mountain of things with very many of them pokey and very few of them packed. Due to looming U-Haul appointments and lease endings, subject becomes darty-eyed and concerned about ever leaving. Subject starts to feel strange, agoraphobia starts to creep in…

Now, depending on timeline/roommate situation, Stage 2 can turn into super rage and then you really have a party. Additionally, if you are moving soon, I recommend a few episodes of Hoarders, it can really do wonders for inspiration...

I'm Back

Well, good news my faithful followers, I have not died, despite the fact that it may have appeared that way. I don't have much of an excuse, except to say that the once kind, loving embrace of higher education turned strangling.

One of the greatest developments of my slightly below-average life is that, through non-sexual means, I have figured out how to see movies for free. Now, what better way for me to come back than with my amazing sarcasm, guidance, and general life lessons and an overview of the 2 most glorious movies I have seen since I dropped off the face of the earth.

The Avengers - not to tell you how right I am, but let us review: 
     --coveted things that glow, check. This time in a convient travel-size staff, cause that's how all the cool kids accesorize. 
     --deformity. In this case it's more of a lack of hygene and ability to work shampoo into one's daily routine, but same thing.
     --cool toys. In addition to the general awesomeness that comes with his glowing walking stick, it can also sort of beam him to another planet. Nothing says great vacay from planning the oh-so-stressful Earth-taking-over like chilling off-planet. It's exhausting trying to control everyone, just ask George Bush; I bet he wishes his ranch was another planet... 
     --posse. Sometimes its a burden being so right.... let's review: Avengers, like 5 people in epic need of some trust circle exercises, vs. greasy Gandoff with a giant alien army. Some people feel that you can't be friends with those you command, but due to my desire to command a small army of my own, I'd like to think there is a chance...

Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter - this is probably the greatest movie of the year. As a movie-goer, it gives you more than just simply watching a movie, it gives you so many questions that allow for self reflection.... here is what was going through my mind.
     -- Is this real life?
     -- This movie makes me a little embarrassed to be a human being... This is even worse than when I watched the Real Housewives Reunion and felt my soul die.
     -- If I wasn't a human what would I be?
     --(During horse fight over and on top stampeding horses) Suck it Mufasa, if you were a real father you could have overcome a few wildebeests... 
     -- Is this real life?
     -- What about Abraham screams vampire hunter? Must have been the top hat, that's why I never took Buffy seriously... 
     -- Turns out vampires were in charge of slavery. I wish I had that angle in my history class in college freshman year...
     -- Hitler must have been a werewolf.

Additionally, I would like to report that while there have been no confirmed sightings of the devil, it is apparent that he is alive, well, and working with Nicholas Cage's people. How else would a second Ghost Rider have been made?

There is so much more, my reliable readers, but since you have been denied my greatness for so long we have to ease back into this. Stay tuned.

Halloween Horrors

Last year at this time i was trying to deicide what my costume was to be for this Hallows Eve. I was then and now concerned with those sexy fairies i saw flitting around beer can pyramids on the handful of nights around Halloween. I am now out of alcoholic soaked years of college, and moved on to the big city, alas, it appears that even though i thought the slutty black cat had gone away, it appears that it came back the very next day, much like symptoms of common STD's. Anyway, in addition to my previous rules i have added a few more that one should take into account as they stumble about tomorrow.

1. Costume Size: there is your real age, then your Halloween age. While you may be in your early 20's, many find themselves in a costume meant for a small tike ages 3 to 5. Allow me to clarify, oh Drunken Slutmonster: 3 to 5 is the age of the toddler that should be in your "sexy" Thomas the Train outfit. That “3 to 5” on the package is an age, not how many drinks it’s guessing you had before you walked into that innocent Wallgreens and decided that it would be “supercute!”

2. Ears and Tails: despite what you think, just adding ears and a tail do not make a costume; they make a deformity. They do not justify you squeezing into a unitard and calling it a kitty. Maybe you feel that they represent evolution, but if that were true you would have been dead many moons ago.

3. Make-up: sadly, due to ‘The Jersey Shore’ and the downfall of humanity, the makeup people put on on Halloween is only allegedly different from their everyday regimen, but I'm not so sure. Anyone that has been to a party with twenty-somethings in this post-‘Hangover’ era knows that people, mostly ladies, do show up to parties wearing makeup that is very similar to that of a zombie. On the 31st, they just add a nose and some whiskers.

4. Bra: A bra does not a costume make no good idea starts with opening your dresser drawer and investigating your intimates. If you have a deep desire to go out in your bra and don't have the money to really explore that desire with a heavy dose of counseling and/or pills, i suggest 2 options. Honesty, like saying your a stripper, go go dancer, or any other occupation that would send your mother into a deep pit of despair they are never ones for a lot of clothing coverage. OR abstract, like telling people you are a reason for divorce, or just plain republican denial, people will understand and probably think you are more intelligent than you really are. 

5. Bastardization: as a general rule, one should not recycle costumes that you wore in your infant/toddler years when, I am told, you were cute. I don't care what way you slice it, pumpkin + baby = cute and a bit squishy, but pumpkin + anyone over the age of 6 = boob cover. Moral of the story: stop bastardizing your youth and move away from the newborn section at Walmart.

6. Accessorizes: throwing on a cape, or wings to ones usual outfit also does not qualify as a costume. I'm just as proud as the next person that you can still fit into jumpers from baby Gap and call it a party outfit, but you need a bit more effort. Additionally, you can't just carry anything with you as you stumble about in a garment that has been wildly accepted as a shirt despite the fact that you wear it as a dress. Once i was a girl wearing what a assume was originally a scarf and a teddybear. Confused? Cause i sure was, the only thing i could think of was that she was going as regression, reminding us all that it takes one night too hard before you are back at home asking about nap time. 

And so as you can see, my mysterious munchkins, it’s not that easy when, due to the life choices of others, Halloween becomes a whole different kind of scary when the sun goes down.

Small Man, Big Vault

Well we have survived the holidays my brave bookworms.  Now the real survival begins, trying not to succumb to the suicidal tendencies that winter brings forth. For those of you that do not have the pleasure of living somewhere down south you know that for the next few months here in the pacific northwest we have the pleasure of weather and a general environment that is akin to being stuck inside a fat old pigeon, gray and damp. I like to dull the ache that is depression by going to a darker place, so that in comparison the weather outside is cheerful, that's right i go to the movies.

Recently I went and saw Mission Impossible 3. I was drawn to this movie because of its half empty pessimistic title, and its munchkin of a leading man. You should not be surprised to know that Tom Cruise is still his same old self; strange and crazy. However, there is now a level of frustration (40% sexual 60% napoleon) that can be found under his smaller than normal couch jumping self. The upside to all of this is that I know now what's up in an action spy movie and I will share them with you.

1. Russians: Sadly they are never the good guys. If something is going down there are some Russians up in there and they tend to not be the nicest. I'm sorry that's just how it is.

2. The silver brief case: There is no way that someone can be just carrying one of those bad boys to work... then of course someone steals it and what not. This is not the stealth that is needed. Let's be real, what are they carrying in those brief cases that were used on the moon? Something small. My solution, fanny packs. Normally I don't condone their usage but in this case it is smart. No one expects a remote explosive in a fanny pack, better yet very few feel comfortable enough in their sexuality to reach for said explosive and run the risk of handling a very different projectile...

3. Small special thing big vault: Without fail as something the size of a matchbox is stored in a vault that also doubles as a racket ball court. I have decided that this is a bad guy over compensation issue, big vault, big truck, hiding small explosive....

In conclusion, unless this weather changes I will be forced to become, not a cat burglar, but a full on panther. I'm coming for you tom cruise, I lowered my line of vision.  I see you and the lolly pop guild that you command.... I'm coming.

Holiday Survival Part 2

Well, for some of you school is a thing of the past, gone are the days of writing papers about the usage of slug slime and its effect on the environments near and around retirement communities. You can frolic about and not have to deal with the blinding panic that comes with exams that judge your very being in 90 minutes or less... i'm not bitter... But its always comforting to know that family is always there to judge you. They seem to plan and condition themselves with intensity that could only be akin to what an olympic athlete goes through... but i digress, moving on. For those who are trapped at home with prying questions, i have come up with some evasive maneuvers as we work our way through the holidays...

1. Working hard or hardly working?
-- Just because you have joined the workforce, does not mean you have also aged 70 years and suddenly wear suspenders and sit around the water cooler talking about your new mini van. Life is not over, to avoid the "my first real job stories" its best to do imply that you aren't doing anything that someone can relate to.

EX: "If i were to choose i would say hardly working, that's the best part about being a call girl, i can make my own hours..."

2. I can't believe you're so old!
--It seems no matter when people saw you last you are getting older, imagine that. The bright side is that at least in a few years they won't be able to ask that anymore, but the key to evasion is just the right amount of snarkiness so that there will be no rebuttal.

EX: "I am getting older, but the Grim Reaper hasn't asked to be my facebook friend yet so i think i still have a few good years left."

3. How's life in the real world?
--Look just because our lives my have been built on a foundation of red plastic cups, running on a mixture of redbull and some sort of drink that would even make Kanye envious, and we functioned on a sleeping schedule that raccoons revered does not mean that we were not in the real world. We were in the real-ish world, very close to the real thing.

EX: To be honest there is no come back from this, partly because its hard not to be a total beezy and also because after the afore-mentioned words were uttered i was then standing over the unconscious body of a senior.

And so my frolicking followers, i hope that you survived everything and had a happy holidays.

Holiday Survival Part 1

Last Christmas i spent some time south of the border pondering a career change and i gave you, my benevolent bookworms, some advice in ways to survive these coming days as we move out of Sharing Season and into the Season of giving. These tips are mostly for those who still find themselves deep within the strangling clutches of academia. At the time i figured that i would have left  the hallowed ivy cover womb that is college and be out in the world. This, is not the case, and so i have a need for this once again, i hope it will help you, seeing as it is of little comfort to me as i softly weep over my degree every morning before class.

These answers are to avoid any of the when i was your age talk, as well as mildly disturb the person who has made it their mission to interview you...

1. The sexual update/mate selection question

-- i find that this works best by going the complete other direction, and don’t be afraid to be specific

EX: “You know i’m not so much into boys anymore, i’m really attracted to aliens, but not just any, only the ones from 2 galaxies down, and 1 over”

2. What’s your major/life study?

--this is a formula start with The History of - followed by a word that means hard to find (rare, unique, obscure) - then a random country - and last anything you could find in a library or museum 

EX: “I’m studying The History of Obscure Madagascar Statues”

3.What is the best/most important thing you have learned in college/your life?

--this is where one really must avoid the stories of the olden days of 1920. Now you can go two routes the honest

EX: “i’ve really learned the effects of large amounts of alcohol on the body and property that’s not mine”

or the other option of a class that you really learned a lot in, again a formula, Dr. - followed by the 2 names of tool bags that you can think of - “and his class on the” - an SAT word (juxtaposition, globalization, opposition...) - of - a food of any kind 

EX: “The class i learned the most in was definitely Dr. Phil Trump’s and his class on the Juxtaposition of Mashed Potatoes"

4. And then of course the future plans talk

--Tell them you are planning to join and organization/group, but everyone knows someone who was in the peace corps, or red cross and no one wants to sit through that boredom... so simply choose a emotion - and follow it by something you would find in a city

EX: “I think i’m going to join the group Happy School Busses/Angry Sidewalks its all about getting kinds to school, and repairing the cracks in their own emotional sidewalks.” 


Stay tuned for part 2 for those who are in the real world, because as we know, nothing saves you from prying questions from your family. 

Dear Screaming Dysfunctional Couple that Lives Above me

Dear Screaming Dysfunctional Couple that Lives Above me,

To say that it is late would be an understatement. The entire cast of Jersey Shore went to sleep almost an hour ago. I also have to say that I both commend and am appalled by the fact that you can scream for hours while doing what I can only assume to be a square dance. makes me think of home. I personally never really considered that my yelling points would really be driven home had I added a do-si-do at the end. 

At first I wasn't sure that there was a man involved in this dysfunction at all, since all I could hear were the rambling cries of a cat-lady in the making. However, as I lay awake imagining what type of instrument could go through a ceiling yet is easy to camouflage upon moving out, I hear the distinct murmur of a man who knows he is fighting a losing battle. This is further verified as this gentleman tries to work his way out of the dog mansion he finds himself in with what seems to be a bad two-step. And to the woman with the voice range Mariah Carrey would envy: we get it. he doesn't appreciate you. The first 12 times you screeched it I was unclear, but now I understand. He is ungrateful. Blah-blah-blah. Go get a kitten that will be the start of what I'm sure will be a loving pack for your later years, and drown your sorrows in ice cream. I think Ben and Jerry's actually makes a flavor called Bitterness. You might gain 800 pounds and fall through my ceiling, but at least it will keep your mouth busy.

Wishing you strep throat resulting in voice loss,

Sidney

Season of Sharing

Congratulations to all of you, my fantastical followers! We have survived the Thanksgiving coma and are now on to that awkward time in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. As we all know, the second you stand up from the table after eating, we are assaulted with dancing snowmen, creepy nutcrackers, and Santa hats on everything. Let’s just call these few weeks the Season of Sharing: we’re not quite ready to give, but have a small bit of kindness that allows for some joint usage of personal items. Here are some other things that make this time unique.

1. No longer are there the leaves of fall surrounding you in a blanket of bright, lovely colors. They have now all fallen on the ground and created this awesome brownish-yellow mush on the sidewalk which makes a delightful Sharing Season slip-n-slide for all those attempting to live their life.

2. Bad holiday movies are everywhere. Lifetime (the channel of reverie and fear, as you may have noticed) and other, lesser channels have an amazing ability to find things that could not be removed from Christmas, and make many movies about them. In the last few years, the trend has been golden retrievers. I have seen more than a few commercials for holiday movies involving one of Air Bud’s many progeny on multiple channels as I flip quickly away from my holiday nemesis Kay Jewelers. They’re cute, but let’s be real—they really only bring to mind toilet paper.

3. Decorations. Now, I think it is safe to say that Christmas lights really do make everything better. Where I take issue is when we go completely off the map with random creatures. Let us think this system through: random animal (armadillo) + accessories (Santa hat and scarf) x Christmas-like setting (giant, inflatable snow globe) DOES NOT EQUAL PROPER HOLIDAY DECORATIONS. Honestly. They will stick anything into a 6ft inflatable snow globe.

And so, my revered readers, we will suffer through these few weeks of this strange Season of Sharing together. Have no fear.

Every Kill Begins with Kay

Attention to all who come here: someone answered my plea and/or appreciated my well-placed mass suicide joke enough to become a follower. This is a big day for me, partly because I was proposed to in a coffee shop this morning at 6:30 a.m. by a person I believe to be crazy. I think this is because he was more concerned with my soft pants (the champions of clothing that they are for all who dare to have an educational experience before 10 a.m.), than he was with our future. But more importantly, I have another follower. You might think to yourself, “Hey, this lovely and caring person decided to follow you many moons ago. Why so late?” Well, that brings me to my amazing update as to what I have been doing of late.

Fearing the TV: To all who know me, these are some strong words. Let’s be real—there is almost nothing that can part me from that box of awesome, but for now I watch with caution. Why, you may ask, my elegant eleven? It is that time of year where not a channel is safe from “Every Kiss Begins with K.” Time for some sub-points up in here. . .

a. You, Kay Jewelers, are forcing me to creep all up in some romantic moment between some moderately good-looking couple in their pajamas. What do they want from me? I would just like to point out that if not for the jingle, this could easily be a herpes commercial (“I have herpes. . .” “And I have no desire to get them in the future.” “To apologize for cheating, I got her this stupid diamond necklace to show her that just because we can’t have sex anymore, I do not resent buying her things and having a good snuggle. . .”).
b. Any child who has ever had the misfortune of seeing their parents make out isn’t plotting ways to see it again, let along hiding behind a corner watching.
c. There is a time and a place for the great gift of jewelry, but any sort of mild disaster isn’t one of them. A cozy cabin lightning storm? Might as well be the crazy All State guy.

If you haven’t seen any of these commercials, I’m sorry to sound like a loon. And I totally get it—cable reception must suck under your rock.

Emergency Contacts and Lies

I was thinking about my emergency contacts, mostly because I was driving. Having not gotten the racecar-driver gene despite my last name being McLaren, I can admit--and both my sister and a dead bobcat can attest to--my incompetence behind the wheel. This made me think about my family and who specifically I would want to receive the call in an emergency, As I thought more, I realized that they have, in fact, been lying to me for all these years. Here are the little white/gray/dark black lies they have uttered throughout the years:

1. Brownie Points: Call me impressionable, but I did many things in my youth under the misapprehension that I could somehow cash in all these "points" for some sort of reward, much like the a businessman cashing in his frequent flyer bonus. I had visions of frolicking at Disneyland (alone, because my sister did not share my quest for the most brownie points), or Epcot Center, or at least Dairy Queen. . . In fact, I have so many accrued, unused brownie points I am practically diabetic. Oh, mother-- you got away with it then, but no more.

2. God's Country: For many years, I made a pilgrimage to God's Country with my mother and sister. Where is this Great Land of the Higher Power? Ohio. More specifically, Cleveland. My grandfather told me this when I asked him why he never left. If you've ever been anywhere near Cleveland, or looked at the bottom of your coffee cup before you've thrown it away, you have an idea of how false this truly is. . . I can safely say Ohio is not a place people are fighting wars over.

3. Slight Pinch: This nonsense is told to us for many moons as we grow up. I think the first time I heard it was as I was being born. . . It is always a lie or an exaggeration. If by "pinch" they mean eye-crossing, searing pain, then, hey-- they are right on! If they mean "pinch" as in "Oh, pinch me! I think I'm dreaming!", they are way, way off. So whenever I hear this expression, I immediately start to cringe and even bodily recoil because I know what's coming. And it's not slight in any way, shape, or form.

So I have decided that my former family members might not be getting the call.

One Year Ago...

Four [one, actually, but who’s counting?] score and about one year ago I came into your lives. I know that everyone has this day written on their calendar and are overjoyed that I write to you every week or so. In a year writing to you, my fair follower, I have learned many things, and so I will share them—and some stats—on this the day of my one year anniversary. . .

1. I have 10 followers. Of those, I believe that four actually follow me and the rest are just supportive. To those who read on the sly, I say FOLLOW ME, partly because it will make me feel good and partly because I have a whole batch of Kool-Aid that will go bad if you don’t (see how I just weave mass suicide humor in with ease? Where was that more than a year ago?).

2. My most viewed post is “Dear Drunk Girl Weaving Outside My Window” with 46 views. I think that this is the case because everyone has the pleasure of knowing a young alcoholic that can’t tell time and understands my disapproval.

3. My total page views are 2,138. This is respectable, and I will pretend that most of these views aren’t from people related to me partly because this could be true seeing as my father probably can’t even find this blog, and partly because it will soothe my agitated self-worth.

4. As to the future, have no fear my contagious comrades, I will be here for a long time. Everything in this world annoys me and so I will never run out of bothersome people that make for lovely rules and regulations on how not to lead a life. I hope all ten of you stay with me.

Halloween Hangups

Well my clamoring comrades, I write to you in the throws of a conundrum my great and brilliant mind is trying to work out. I am currently attempting to assemble a Halloween costume. Normally this would not be a mental hurdle, save for the fact that I am no longer a young, bright-eyed child of single digit years. Today, at my age there are some rules I have found that must be followed, otherwise some sort of public ridicule will follow (and its Halloween so that could mean a number of things...). I will now share them with you along with my dazzling comments, because i know the 4.7 people that read this will be thankful.

1. Costume Size: there is your real age, then your Halloween age. While you may be in your early 20's, many find themselves in a costume meant for a small tike ages 3 to 5. Allow me to clarify, oh Drunken Slutmonster: 3 to 5 is the age of the toddler that should be in your "sexy" Thomas the Train outfit. That “3 to 5” on the package is an age, not how many drinks it’s guessing you had before you walked into that innocent Wallgreens and decided that it would be “supercute!”

2. Ears and Tails: despite what you think, just adding ears and a tail do not make a costume; they make a deformity. They do not justify you squeezing into a unitard and calling it a kitty. Maybe you feel that they represent evolution, but if that were true you would have been dead many moons ago.

3. Make-up: sadly, due to ‘The Jersey Shore’ and the downfall of humanity, the makeup people put on on Halloween is only allegedly different from their everyday regimen, but I'm not so sure. Anyone that has been to a party with twenty-somethings in this post-‘Hangover’ era knows that people, mostly ladies, do show up to parties wearing makeup that is very similar to that of a zombie. On the 31st, they just add a nose and some whiskers.

4. Bastardization: as a general rule, one should not recycle costumes that you wore in your infant/toddler years when, I am told, you were cute. I don't care what way you slice it, pumpkin + baby = cute and a bit squishy, but pumpkin + anyone over the age of 6 = boob cover. Moral of the story: stop bastardizing your youth and move away from the intimates section at Walmart.


And so as you can see, my mysterious munchkins, it’s not that easy when, due to the life choices of others, Halloween becomes a whole different kind of scary when the sun goes down.

In Fear with the Shades Drawn

So, for those ten people who care and are wondering what I have been up to lately—what might be on my brilliant young mind—I thought I would share the recent highlights with you:

1. I live in fear of the Snickers woman. I fully believe that it’s not just me—everyone has to be scared of her. It is not enough that we must be visually assaulted by our favorite childhood characters—slutted up and worn 12-sizes-too-small by girls that have just drunkenly stumbled off the bus from Playboyville (yes, I believe that in a few years, Hugh Hefner will have a town); Now we, like so many diabetics, live in fear of caramel and nougat.

2. I also might be arrested in the near future. And this brings me to my next point in the line of this week’s winners. So I will tell you a tale, part horror, part fall-of-humanity—all the makings of a good story. Before I begin though, let me just say that I plan on having this face until I’m 67 and 3 months, and that means expressions should be made at a minimum. . . but I digress. Anyway. It begins on the bus going home. It was crowded, so a man sat down next to me. I began apologizing for my portfolio, a large black canvas case, which was in his way. To be nice (and because I was bored), I asked him about what his major was and whatnot. After we talked about that he said, “Let me guess. . . You’re an artist?”

This is where things went a big awry. I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “No, I’m not an artist. I’m a freelance assassin.” I realize upon looking back that I maybe should have smiled, indicating that this was, in fact, a joke. However, that is not my MO, so I just looked at him. He got a bit uncomfortable and asked, “So. . . What’s in the bag?” I replied, “Long distance rifle, scopes, hand guns. . . You know, the basics.” Again, this was a time a smile might have been appropriate, but instead I held his gaze and stared him down. Let’s just say things got really uncomfortable. Long silence. And then the bus pulled away from the stop. Twenty-three minutes of awkward

I live in fear of the Snickers woman, adult Tinker Bells, and law enforcement. I sit with the shades drawn. . .

Dear Men of the World

Today I was almost spit on as I was walking down the street. This disgusting act was not aimed at me, but it would have landed upon me if I had not been careful. This harrowing experience has prompted me to put angry fingers to keys. . .

Dear Men of the World,

Why is it that you feel every fluid that is produced by your body is a substance that people would want you to share? Apparently, life is different with a ding-a-ling, but I for one (and I feel comfortable speaking here for all women), do not have a desire to see or come in contact with any liquid your body produces. Somewhere along the line, your less-evolved brains made some misguided conclusion in regards to this subject, and have been harassing the finer sex with it ever since. We do not, in fact, feel overjoyed watching you pee, spit, sweat, or release the Underpants Navy on or upon poor, unsuspecting civil structures or landscape-- are you trying to punish the bush? Let's leave it at this: unless we ask (which we probably won't), let's have a rule that states that this swill that you are so fond of stays only within your dwelling. Furthermore, this nectar that you produce with such pride should stay primarily in the bathroom, unless asked otherwise. And let's face it: you have a hard enough time containing things even in a controlled environment. I can say, with almost complete certainty, that you are many steps away from awesome, and in an effort to raise your rank-- do this for me. Please. I beg you. If something of yours gets on me again, I will flip a lid. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Sidney

City Symphony

As some of you may know, i have now officially moved to a city whose population is above "embarrassing". I think it is now safe to say that i have moved out of the sticks, past the covered wagons, and on to moderate adulthood. For those of you i have left behind to frolic with Bambi and friends, the city is a nosy place. It is filled with horns, sirens, strange people, and assault. Through this one can receive a unwelcome symphony of sounds at any time of the day or night. And so, my randy reader, i will share with you some of these glorious noises, and what they do to the poor people that must listen to them all day and night...

a) Sirens: when you hear a siren you think death, somewhere in this city there is an old lady that is pinned under a beam with a hungry-looking cat and things aren't looking up. Then, of course, you lay awake thinking of death and destruction, war, all that, this is followed by some glorious nightmares and when you wake up in the morning you are a Republican. I think that a good way to combat all this worry would be to have different sirens for different situations; kitten-up-a-tree would sound very different than 5-alarm-fire-with-Lifetime-movie-to-be-made-soon. It would save everyone a lot of worry. The downside to this is that people, not me, upon recognizing different alarm bells, may take it upon themselves to be the evolutionary soldier we all wish was out there and not get out of the way. Some kittens need to learn lessons... the hard way.

b) Car Alarms: while car alarms are frequent, people that will go attend to them seem few and far between. We all know that our car has an alarm, we just don't know what it sounds like, thus defeating the purpose. I think, in my infinite wisdom, that car alarms should be like a ring tone, you can program some angry rapper into the car and when you hear Eminem's angry voice going on and on about his wife you know that someone is after your car. Additionally, if a person has 'Bubbly Toes' by Jack Johnson as his alarm...rob him, life is about learning bust his car up.

c) Crazy Ramblings: in a city known for its atheism we still have many who feel that a certain someone is coming back and he is not a happy camper. The only way to really avoid this is with a noise-canceling pillow which they have yet to invent, and as a footnote they should make it fireproof so that it can easily fit in your carry-on on your way to hell.

And so i believe, my fabulous follower, that with these small minor adjustments, the city in which i reside would be a less stressful symphony of sounds; bottom line, upgrade. I have not, however, found a solution to my rapping neighbors, besides a uncomfortable murder-suicide so stay tuned.

Owling Birthday

Last weekend was my birthday dinner. As I journeyed home, i suppose i should have known the night would be weird seeing as on my way home there was a clearence sale at the gun store; nonetheless i carried on. My house is a cross between a murderer's paradise and a place that would be perfect for growing weed. The point is it's in the middle of nowhere and if things didn't go well and my parents got me more airplane booze no one could hear them scream as i quietly beat them with small bottles. The evening started off normal enough-my parents have become mildly obsessed with happy hour (and, oddly enough, biscotti) and so we had libations and cheese. We talked of this and that, despite the fact that i was in close-to-paralyzing fear about what was wrapped in cartoon paper sitting in the living room.

For some reason my mother thought it wise to drink to my 22 years as well as my father's new change as he slipped out of the working class and into a life of leisure (and if he has his way, gleefully making weather vanes for all those who need to know where the wind blows). The house was filled with things from his office cubical: a 900-pound coat rack he black smithed, and signs from homeless people that he decided he should collect. It occured to me that my father's cubical could have been on hoarders, and i was happy if i could get out of the house without inheriting any of his bum sign collection.

Anyway somehow we got on the subject of owl calls, yes that was not a typo, there may have been some wine from my father ex-colege. My mother, an avid bird observer, swore that the way to remember a great horned owl was from its distinctive call "who cooks for you you you". My father, whose commuting partner was a professional owl caller, told him a different story.

And so my birthday dinner was spent with my father hooting over and over and my mother on the verge of divorce. My sister, the diplomat that she is, googled the owl call and we found that my father's very convincing owl call was indeed the correct one.

Not only was this issue put to bed but i realized that my mother had been lying to me all these years and when we had hunted for an owl that only seem to appear in our chicken coop for a good nibble, we were hunting in vain. In the end i received pillow cases, no booze, travel-size or otherwise, and somehow that 6,000 pound coat rack is in my car. I did learn some lessons, my loveable literary, and that is that one should always ask for things for one's birthday, that alcohol and bird calls do not mix, and that i wish i made this up.

Birthday Blunders

Today is my 22 birthday (i know, so much humor and intelligence in one so young and beautiful). I realize that after the big 2-1 there is very little to look forward to in the coming years besides a crisis or two and social security, and let's face we have good anti-psychotics and social security is a dream we will never realize, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, the point is, there's not a lot going on. I have learned, however, that there a few things that start to happen on and around one's birthday once they begin to enter their third decade. That being said, i will now share with you some insights into my date-of-birth dilemmas...

1. Date: now that i have left the nest my birthday falls on a time when normally, in my nomadic existence, i have moved. This leads to me asking for strange and useful things for my birthday such as light bulbs and extension cords. While this gift is well received in the moment, it doesn't leave you with much.

2. Presents: for some reason as you get older it becomes harder and harder to find items that you need or want. This is not to say that they do not exist, but on the month that is your birthday somehow everything leaves your head and you become almost un-American in your lack of desire for material goods. That being said, it is time to tell you a tale of the past about this strange phenomenon and how my parents chose to deal with it with regards to their eldest daughter.

For my 21st birthday i could not come up with things for my parents to get me. This is not a new occurrence for me, but nonetheless my parents chose to deal with it in a unconventional manner. A few days before we celebrated my glorious birth my parents had cleaned out the pantry. I, however, was unaware of this fact and was delighted to see 20 or so presents waiting for me. As i proceeded to open each small individual present i was more and more surprised by its content. I had managed to acquire 10 bottles of airplane/minibar-sized alcoholic beverages that appeared to have survived Prohibition. In addition, i also received a onion-shaped bottle opener that may or may not have been a gift at my parents' wedding, and last but certainly not least, a jug of wine. Not only was this jug of wine in a jug that is no longer manufactured, it was also from when my father was in college. This jug had seen both Bushes as president, it also had content that could be used to removed battery acid.

To conclude, i haven't ask for anything again this year and i fear the result, stay tuned.

Regretfully Remiss

As you may have noticed, i have been neglect in my duties to bring you my important thoughts. I apologize to the ten people that it affected and thought that i would give you an update as to what is happening in my life at the moment:

1. Moving - i have now officially moved to the big city. There have been many amendments to the country-bumkin-hillbilly lifestyle from which i was raised and so far there has not been anything too awkward

2. Neighbors - i was so happy to learn that the people that live below me are aspiring rappers. Every night i have the privilege, no let's say the pleasure, of listening to them warble on about whatever middle class white people discuss in the form of rap, ice ice baby?

3. Movies - this is a twofold experience. First, i went to see the Help, and all i wanted before my dose of period racism was some good previews. However, after the 5 minutes of previews i was overwhelmed with the urge to be anything other than human so that i would not be lumped in with the moderately brain dead people that are going to watch these movies. And so i pose this question to the world: how many movies does one need about a very special horse, or people beating the crap out of each other? We have Black Beauty, Secretariat and Mr Ed (even though they have yet to see the feature-length possibilities therein) so check on the equine movies. Then there is some strange need to watch aging actors sweat, overcome difficulty and pummel each other multiple times over a number of decades. that seems a bit much, even if the new twist is brother vs brother, just go into any self-respecting American family with a bunch of kids and you can see this very movie, maybe a light version as they won’t be big men yet, but nonetheless it is the same plot. 

Then, as if i wasn't punished enough, i found myself at the movies yet again watching the uplifting and comical Contagion. Before i begin, let me just say that everything is probably a moot point because very soon we will all die. Also STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING. And since it is flu season you are going to thank me for this gentle reminder… By the time i went to see this movie my apartment was all furnished so all i had to do was stop and get 100 cans of soup, and all the antibacterial hand wash there was in the store,  and i'm in for the decade.

And so, my valiant viewer, i apologize and will now be giving you a more frequent does of epic sarcasm.

Lessons From Embezzlement to Stewed Turtle

My time in this sticky paradise is coming to a close, and in light of learning something from this experience I shall reflect on my time here in the land of riches and embezzlement...

A) From rich people: the key to really reveling in one's richness is multidimensional. First, living in a place with no taxes allows you to blow your cash on things that really matter and therefore help you look and truly seem Trump-like. For starters gates; every rich person needs them. It allows one to pretend like you are entering your own country and thus makes you feel every important. Fountains are next. It doesn't matter what the fountain is, they scream "money" even if they also subtly yell "pornographic". Lastly, location. You can't be rich unless you live in a place that has a name that can be mistaken for some sort of a landmark. Vistas, hills, and lakes allow a community to feel that they have some sort of claim to geographical fame. When I'm older I will own and live in a gated community called Vista Hills Lake. Cha ching.

B) My humor is not international: this was a sad revelation due in part to the fact that I wanted to purchase my Vista Hills Lake property from my comical practices. No, my valuable viewer, sarcasm is not universal. They say that smiling is, but I don't believe it. Propaganda from Botox companies.

C) I am morally opposed to eating sea turtle: You never know how you will react to something until it is put in front of you with a stewed fin protruding from the bowl.

D) I have morals: who knew?

So I suppose you could say that in this soul-searching mission I have learned something about myself. Sadly, I also lost part of my soul by trying to be chipper 9 hours a day with children. I am happy to be coming back stateside, but part of me fears that I have lost my comical touch...

International Stupidity

My schedule on this overgrown rock is a strenuous one. Between avoiding chickens, harassing iguanas, and beating creepy Jamaicans off with sticks, I barely have a moment to myself. However, there are a few precious minutes to look around. My view of white sand beaches and palm trees is generally obstructed by one thing: stupid people. So recently I said to myself (because I'm always alone): people are not the brightest of creatures. As soon as this earth-shaking morsel of knowledge took root in my brain, I started noticing the epic dumb dumb-ities that seem to be international. So what did I do? Why, I accumulated my research to share with you, my literary lovebugs. This is groundbreaking, so pay attention.

Things that make people look dumb no matter what nationality:

1) Doors-despite the fact that "push" and "pull", in both action and the written word, were taught to all in the "see-spot-run" first grade sector of our education, it still seems to stump people over and over again. Some people, upon bring truly stumped by this brain-hand coordination, even give up all together. Sadly, with automatic doors these people can still get sustenance instead of starving and thus finishing the last link in the evolutionary chain.

2) Straws-this is another coordination issue. See straw, conquer straw. When people get too cocky and attempt to master the straw without proper eye contact, one then looks like a fish dying out of water. Sad sight.

3) Stupid Checks-I'm not sure anyone thinks that their money will be taken seriously when someone writes a check with kittens in a basket or Beanie Babies. You might as well pay with monopoly money. Although checks that look like monopoly money would be clever and ironic. I'm marketing that.

4) Taking pictures of your food-I have yet to understand this. We're all glad you aren't a Olsen twin, but eating is nothing new. Unless your server has sculpted a replica of the Statue of Liberty out of your calamari, I don't care.

And so since I have no one here to warn in my solitude, I warn you, my blushing bookworm.