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