Happy 2018… I guess?

I still can’t believe that it is 2018.  It seems like yesterday I was drinking champagne and looking back on the death-filled shit show of 2016.  Then I spent the last week in a bout of depression-drinking reflecting on how 2017 turned out to be an even greater catastrophe.  I shouldn’t have been surprised given the world we live in, but apparently there is some seed of optimism in me after all.  I just keep it deeply hidden inside the unrelenting anxiety ball of my brain.

Around 1:00 AM on the first all I kept thinking was that I need to go encase Betty White in bubble wrap because nothing is ever allowed to happen to her…ever!  I need her around because she gives me hope.  Betty starred in the Golden Girls when she was 63!  That’s when it started.  She was 70 when in the last episode.  70!  And that was ages ago!  Since then she has made dozens of movies and television shows.  She has brought joy and laughter to everything she touches.  The woman just gets better with age.

At this point in my life I realize that I may need a few more years…or decades…to reach my full potential.  I need for Betty to be around to remind me it is possible.

So stay strong Betty White, and Happy New Year to all.  Here’s hoping 2018 is less of a train wreck!


My dad is accident prone.  That is sort of an understatement.   The doctors at the local ER sort of know him by name.  Which is why my mother and I regularly have text exchanges like this:

Yeah, she’s even reached that point when taking him to the doctor herself seems unnecessary.  He’ll be fine.  Unless some appendage is actually separated from his body as a whole she no longer really considers it an emergency.

That’s because my dad loves to work with wood.  Really he is working with saws, a lathe, axes, knives, drills and other various sharp and/or pointy objects.  The wood part is really secondary.  Anyway over the years his hands, fingers, arms, face, chest, and even once a part more precious to men than any other have gotten in the way of something sharp.

All in all he has really come out ok.  He is missing one finger and parts of a few others.  He’s got a bunch of scars.  There is no feeling left in several other fingers, but that is actually a good thing, less pain next time he cuts them.

So yeah, texts like this are pretty common.  And dad is lucky that chicks like mom dig scars.


Lately I haven’t posted much, not because I haven’t been writing posts, but because all of the posts I have written are so horrendously depressing I felt guilty at the thought of forcing people to read them.  I’m not kidding those posts would suck the happy out of a room quicker than a turd in the punch bowl.  Anyway, I figured today perhaps I should write something that will not make even the vampires bleed tears.

So let’s talk about the X Box.  My husband has our X Box hooked up to do facial recognition and voice control for our television.  Honestly it is scary as shit to think that the folks over at Microsoft get a live feed of me streaking across the living room to get my pants from the dryer, but I try not to ruminate on it too much.  Besides all the other things the X Box does with the television are pretty cool.

It is fun to sit down and have the television pop up an avatar of you and say, “Hi Kelly.”  But honestly I feel like I missed out on a little opportunity there.  I should have given myself a more interested name so X Box would say something fun like, “Hi You Sexy Dame, You,”  or, “Hi Glitter-Bug Yum Yum,”  or maybe, “Hi Brilliant and Ravishing Goddess of All Things Good In The World,” so that every time I watch television I get a little self esteem boost.

Aside from just welcoming me X Box lets me do all sorts of other things like changing channels and inputs just by talking to it.  Which is awesome, except my mouth seems broken.  When I want to watch a DVD I have to switch the input.  So I say, “X Box go to Blue Ray Player.”  The problem is every damn time I try to say that what falls out of my mouth is something to the effect of, “X Box go to Boo Way Player.”  At which time the X Box chastises me and is like, “What the fuck lady, I don’t know what the hell you want me to do.  Learn to talk right, dammit!”  I have tried and tried to say it correctly, but it always comes out wrong.  Thank god I have no speech impediment in real life; mine seems only to emerge when speaking to electronics.  I have no idea why.  I suspect Nargles steal my ability to speak clearly to the X Box.  #Nargles #Firstworldproblems

Foot In Mouth Patient Zero

I suffer from chronic foot in mouth disease, which is basically an affliction causing me to vigorously shove my own foot into my mouth using only my words.  It afflicts me more than I would like to admit.

I find myself constantly saying shit and then realizing I have inadvertently insulted someone.  Or worse, I give an opinion only to recognize that I have horrified everyone in the room, or I instantly look foolish as said opinion is promptly ruled ridiculous by the party at large.  This leads me to believe I should never, ever say what I am thinking because somehow it is always wrong.  It is also the reason I don’t like leaving my house; when I am sent into the wild there is no telling what will spew from my lips.  Probably a foot, actually, as chances are I have already managed to shove it in there.

It seems safer just to shut up and never say anything out loud.  Once I have shoved my foot in my mouth I feel so terrible that I want to crawl in a hole and die.  This ins and outs of interpersonal communication baffle me.  Just when I think I’m doing ok I say some shit and then commence the sleepless night replaying it in my head and cringing.   Nothing I can say can make anything better.  It totally blows.

I just want to be a good person, but it is really hard to exist with my mouth taped shut.    

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

The Grammy’s were last night.  I didn’t watch them, but it did remind me of a question that has baffled me for many years.  How come British and Australian people have accents when they talk but not when they sing?  WTF?

I don’t even want to admit how long it took me to figure out that Adele was a Brit.  She sounds like a damn red blooded American when she sings.  But listen to her talk and the vowels are stretched as far as possible.  It’s bizarre.  How come she doesn’t sing that way?

Last week I saw Keith Urban on the Today show.  That is about the time I remembered he was Australian because you would never know that when you hear him sing.  He sounds like he is straight out of Nashville, not New South Wales.

And Mumford and Sons are the worst offenders.  They sound more American than the Beach Boys when they sing.  Yet somehow they are from England!

I do not understand.  Why is it that singing erases accents?  The only accent I have found that is strong enough to remain even in song is the god-damned southern drawl.  Of course that would be the one that sticks.

I Am So Qualified

Recently I have realized there are several jobs for which I would totally kick ass at:

1. Ice Cream Taster (I never get brain freeze.  Perhaps I just have an exceptionally warm mouth…or I may be lacking a brain.  The jury is still out.)

2. Kitten Snuggler

3. Sloth Race Winner (That’s a race with all sloths…except for me…and I would totally win.)

4. Sofa Tester

5. Massage Therapy Test Dummy (People could rub my back all day long, you know, for practice.)

6. Cheese Maker

7. Movie and Television Critic

8. Professional Napper (I would get paid to take naps for people who don’t have time to take their own naps.)

9. Plastic Peeler (I will come to your house and peel that amazingly thin layer of plastic off all your new electronics.)

10. Palace and Castle Squatter (Have a palace, or a castle?  Need someone to live in it for you?  I’m your girl!)

I’m writing up my new resume now.

Happy New Year

The holiday season is finally over—THANK GOD!  I have a severe love/hate relationship with November and December.  Before they happen I get all excited.  I get distracted by the ribbons and glitter.  Anticipation builds with each day that passes as more and more of my surrounding turn into winder wonderland scenes.

Even the cats look forward to time lounging around under the christmas tree, nibbling at the needles and gift bows, then puking them up a few hours later.  I think they love hearing my cries when I find a mushy fresh pile of technicolor cat vomit with my bare foot.

The build up to the holidays is incredible.  But much like the 12th piece of pie, too much of a good thing can induce misery.  It’s not so much that I don’t enjoy the holidays as they happen, but more that I am just incredibly glad they are over and I can resume normal life.

By January all the hours of wrapping, decorating, baking, shopping, and cleaning have just exhausted me.  I am ready to get back to normal.  De-clutter.  Rest.  Work.  I still can’t help but find my relationship with November and December perplexing.  I’m so glad they roll around every year, and boy can I not wait until they are over.

So here’s wishing you and yours a wonderful New Year full of joy and productivity, and hopefully minimal cat puke!

Spiderlegs, Spiderlegs

I am getting older.  So far it has been going ok, if you ignore the early onset arthritis I got at 29 and the missing body parts the doctors have had to remove.  Other than that, I’ve been fine.

However, yesterday I was laying in bed and I was looking at my pasty white legs.  I noticed a few more spider veins than usual.  Ugh.  Another side effect of aging.

That is about the time I got pissed. WTF!  Why the hell don’t spider veins come with some sort of superpower.  Spiderman gets to shoot webs from his wrists and swing around New York.  I get nothing but the possibility of a massive bill from a dermatologist to correct things.

I cry sexism!  If men got spider veins more than women, I bet there would naturally be some sort of super power attached.  This is bullshit!  If I am going to be turning into a spider from the legs down I deserve compensation.  I want to be able to swing around on silk, or maybe climb walls, or even just have the ability to bite someone that pisses me off.  I’m not picky.

Never Listen To Yourself!

Ever hear a recording of your voice?  It’s horrifying.  When I hear my voice, not only do I cringe, but I also feels bad for everyone else in the world that has to listen to me speak.

From inside my own head I don’t mind my speaking voice so much. But dear god, my voice recorded is like nails on a chalkboard.  It is grating, annoying, and most of all it doesn’t sound like me at all.   I think it is one weird trick the gods played on us to make us think we sound one way only to discover we actually sound like a tone deaf laughing hyena.

I plan to cope by just pretending everyone else hears me like I sound in my own head.  Otherwise I may never utter another word out loud for as long as I live.  Come to think of it though, some people might be more happy if I did the latter.

Toilet Paper…The Shit Has Hit The Fan

Earlier in the week I went on a shopping trip.  It was glamorous, let me tell you.  Among the items on my list was toilet paper.  Everybody poops.  Anyway, as I wandered down that aisle I realized just how confusing toilet paper math has gotten.  It is out of freaking out of hand!

photo credit: The New York Times

It is a Mega Roll?  Well according to the packages 12 Mega Rolls is equal to 24 Big rolls.  But WTF is a Big Roll?  I found the Big Rolls, but then I decided I really only needed a Regular Roll.  I went looking for that and it seems everyone’s shit is out of control, because regular sized rolls don’t exist anymore.

Then I saw that another company offered a Jumbo roll that evidently equals twice the size of a Double Roll, which is just damn confusing.  The Double Roll is apparently twice the size of a Standard Roll, so we are definitely dealing with exponents here people.  Anyway, don’t even try to locate the Standard Roll because it seems to also no longer survive in the wilds of the toilet paper aisle.

Then the really funny math starts when you look at how they describe the types of paper.  Apparently a single square of Premium paper has the cleaning power of four squares from the Regular two ply brand.  This I find terrifying because I fear that means some idiot is trying to wipe his bum with only one square of paper, eww.

But wait there’s more.  The Ripples are fucking magical.  At least that is what it seems, as the packaging says Ripples beat out Quilted squares ten to one.  What ever the hell that means.  But don’t go over and reference the Quilted brand because it will tell you Quilted squares are better for your butt and also cure breast cancer…or they are donating to the research or something.  I don’t know, at this point I had begun to pace the aisle while frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog in captivity.

I would tell you about the Soft and Strong versus Ultra Soft debate, but I think that may induce me to seizure.  Honestly if you want more information, may I direct you to the Good Housekeeping Review and Testing site on the internets. Because apparently toilet paper is now so complex that the wise folks over at Good Housekeeping felt the need to analyze important factors such as absorbency, plumbing response, paper break down, and thickness of all the major brands in order to provide you, the consumer, with the definitive guide to the 20 best toilet papers.  Happy Reading.

This is freaking out of hand.  Somebody find me a Sears Catalogue.  I’m going to put it by the pot and kick it old school one page at a time.