Man of My Dreams

When I was very, very small, I had a dream.  In this dream, a bad man was executed.  First, his skin was peeled off.  Then, his muscles were boiled off.  His skeleton fell apart, and so he was nothing but veins and teeth and eyeballs.

He didn't die--in fact, he managed to escape into the woods.

I've always been prone to recurring dreams, and as I watched and rewatched the bad man's unsuccessful execution, he watched me.  In perfect dream-logic, I knew he was angry at me for witnessing his humiliation and escape.  And that when he got better, he would come for me.

He did.

It took a couple of years, but I dreamt of a house.  A giant, ancient, four-story house where the rooms were connected by balconies overlooking a central great room.  I was in my early teens at this point, and Antiques Roadshow was pretty much the greatest thing ever.  So while the adults argued over boring legal stuff, I went exploring in rooms untouched for years.

He was following me.

Not obviously, but lurking in shadows and flitting out of the furthest reaches of my field of vision as I turned my head.  He was keeping some distance, so I pretended I didn't see him.  I slowly began making my way back to the great room, where the adults still shouted.  I still stopped in several rooms--my curiosity was unabated, and I didn't want to blow my cover.  As I got closer to the stairs, I realized:  He knew I knew.  He was teasing me, luring me into a false sense of security. 

I abandoned a trunk of clothes and toys and hurried to the door, trying to look casual.  The staircase was a large stone spiral, and the sound of my footsteps was so much louder than I wished--not casual at all.  I abandoned that tack and ran.  The man--all in black, with a hoodie or jacket pulled up so I could never see his face--his footsteps echoed above me, gaining on me.

I missed the door to the first floor, which would have led me to the great room, to my family.  It was too far from the stairs to that huge room, and he was too close behind me.  I'd never make it.  I kept going down.

There were several basements, and all of them were twisty and confusing and damp and cold and dark.  It seemed I could keep going down those stairs forever.  But he was very close behind me now, just around the bend of the spiral.  Desperate, I ducked into a room and hid behind the open door.

There was immediate silence.  Had the man in black run past me?  Or was he standing on the other side of my door, relishing my fear while he waited for the perfect moment to grab me?

I wake up at this point. 

I've had this dream so often now that I know that house backwards and forwards.  I know all the basements now, and where the kitchen is (on the far side of the house on the first floor, with a large table for prepping), and what the exterior looks like (large tidy lawn, bushes below the first floor windows, six stairs leading to the heavy double front doors, columns holding the balcony above).

But the man in black isn't trapped in this house.  He lurks in dreams about my job, about grocery shopping, about cupcakes and any other crazy thing that swirls through my sleeping brain.  In these other dreams, he's at his scariest--he waits.

FAQs

These are the most common questions I receive.  Here are the anxiously-awaited answers. 

I'm sorry.



1)  Can you help me with my English homework?
Sure.  That money I spent on college ought to be put to some sort of use.

2)  What's with the possums?
I don't know.  It's the best kind of mystery.

3)  What should I read next?
A book.

4)  What are you wearing?
Long underwear in a dingy gray, two pairs of socks, old sweat pants, a hoody two sizes too big, and a parka.  Or if that floats your boat, whatever you think is gross.

5)  Are you a feminazi?
If a dude called out another dude for being a douche, does that make him a dudenazi?

6)  Why do so many crazy things happen to you?  Do you make them up?
Sadly, no.  It's serendipity.  And a lack of social and/or motor skills.

7)  Can I someday be as awesome as your dog?
No. 

8)  Nine, Ten, or Eleven?
Ten.  Obviously.  The hair.  And below that, the... sneakers.

9)  You say you are from Wisconsin.  Do you like cheese?
Only if it squeaks.

10)  Who is your hero?
My nana.  I once went to her in an existential crisis.  She took one look at me and said, "Suck it up.  You're a Whoozit*."
*Name changed to protect me from the marsupial-lovers.

11)  How do you get through each day?
On my monitor, I have a shrine to the Virgin Mary, Superman, and Britney Spears. 

Well, I Guess They've Got to Shop Somewhere.

So, my dad sometimes reads this blog.  Hi Dad!  The work you did on your yard this weekend looks great!  Please stop reading this post now, 'kay?

I was just at Marshalls, shopping for underpants.  Like you do.  And maybe I was looking at the not not-sexy underpants, if you get my drift.  Because I'm an adult (sort of) and I shouldn't have to feel embarrassed about that.

Something on the other side of the rack caused me to look up.  I'd like to think it was devine intervention, but judging by what happened next, probably not.

With my hands full of skimpy underwear, I locked eyes across the rack with a nun.

Good Lord.

I'm Getting a Bit Worried.

I've done nothing ridiculous in about a week now.

I haven't accidentally spoken out of turn or nearly killed myself with hilarious results.

I haven't experienced the absurd.

Is this blog doomed?  Am I done doing silly things and being egotistical enough that I think my happenings simply must be shared with the entire Internet?  Have I finally achieved adulthood?!





Oh, never mind.  There's the absurdity I was looking for.

Here's some more:

This kid has got it right.

And, here's a (sort of NSFW but absolutely hysterical) gif series of David Tennant and the Stress Ball.


(True:  Dear Internet,  I less than three you so hard right now.)

Prepare to Squee

Okay, guys, I have to apologize.  I was going to do a proper blog post today, but I ate too much macaroni and cheese instead.

So here is a comic to distract you from the sense of loss I'm sure you're feeling right now:

(You'll have to go to the link to embiggen, sorry.)  Thanks go to my friend Marcin for sending this to me!


(True:  The words "I really want to see warm bodies" may have just come out of my mouth, but I meant the movie Warm Bodies, with no implications that the bodies I normally see are cold.  Or that I see any bodies.  Crap.  There's really just no way to turn that around, is there?  On the plus side, at least my co-workers think I am a harmless sort of strange.)

Sometimes, I Think I'm the Only Pineapple in This Fruitbasket.

Thoughts from the past week:

• It doesn't count if it doesn't set off the fire alarm.
• I've been drinking just one Mt. Dew for three days now, and I have yet to kill anyone.  Someone give me a ribbon.  Quick now, before I fall asleep.
• I indulged in a bit too much holiday cheer, and I'm going to Mexico this spring.  Crap.
• That's why I'm cutting back the Mt. Dew.
• This might be the worst diet ever.
• Stink the Cat keeps trying to eat all the expensive dog food.  Isn't it dogs that are supposed to eat everything?  One more example of how my life is totally upside down.
• Acai juice and my sleepy owl hat will cure just about anything.
• Bankers do not appreciate sleepy owl hats.
• Fictitious blue PVC corsets never stop being funny.

The meds the doctor's got me on for this supercold have got me up most of the night.  Like, all week.  I'd like to blame this post on that, but let's be honest, here...

This is my normal.


(True:  But seriously, why is that whenever I make a pizza, the fire alarm goes off, but it doesn't when I set an actual fire?  I feel that might be a design flaw.)

Imagine Some Really Hot Chick with Her Mouth Open. That Might Help.

The disappointment, that is, because confession:  I am a huge tease.  And this is not a real post, so that's double the disappointment.

I hear "vodka" is Russian for "survival,"* though, so take a double shot and you're welcome.

But here's the tease part--are you ready for it?

Next week, I have a BIG ANNOUNCEMENT to make.  And it involves cool stuff and you're not going to want to miss out...



(True:  *I have a source for this--beer.  Although beer has lied to me in the past...)

This is My Obligatory Thanksgiving Post.

I really hate Thanksgiving sap.  And Christmas sap.  And Valentine's Day sap.  And rom-com sap.  And that Folger's commercial with the young man coming home for the holidays.  And tree sap.

Maybe I'm just an ungrateful bitch.  Or maybe contrived sentiment just makes me want to puke.

There are, however, some things I am very happy to have:

• Caffeine, which gets me through most days murder-charge-free.
• My microwave, which is my second favorite enabler.
• My mother's pity for me and my lack of cooking skills. (I.e., leftovers.)
• Netflix, my first favorite enabler.
• My Sister the Lawyer not killing me when my phone's evil alter ego answered her calls seven consecutive times while simultaneously scrolling through every option and screen the phone has to offer--all while on key lock in my purse.
• This:

• And the fact that you read this blog even though I'm mental.

(True:  In the above poem, there really should be a semicolon, not a comma.)

I'm Totally Going to Be in Trouble with the Man Upstairs...

. . . But it's got to be said:  Angels are jerks.  I have a lot of evidence for this theory.  Pretty much everywhere I turn, I see a Jerk Angel.
Doctor Who:

The charges:  Angels that eat your life and send you into the past to die in obscurity without Facebook in bad history clothes.

Via

Verdict?  Toothy Jerks That Needs a Manicure.


Supernatural:

The charges:  Angels that call you "maggot," beat you up a lot, only need you for your "meat suit," and are pro-apocolypse.

Via

Verdict?  Cataclysmic Jerks.


Collections:

The charges:  Congregating (pun absolutely intended) in groups of seemingly-benign-but-actually-super-creepy flocks/hosts/flights.  Generally found in a "TV room."  Very judgmental.  Sometimes look stoned, or like they eat children.

Via

Verdict?  Creepy Stare-y Jerks.


Look, I don't really have a problem with angels--in the same way I don't have a problem with most people.  By all means, go about you business, oh winged one.  Just stay away from me.  And don't go all "watching over me," either.  Because I mostly don't wear pants.  And I definitely don't want to talk to one.  I want niether the "awe and terror" they they always seem to inspire, nor the explanations that will inevitably follow and land me in a nuthouse.  You know Mary didn't have an easy time saying, "Hey, Joe, I've got the Big Guy's bun in the oven.  No, not that biker from the bar last month, the Big Guy Upstairs.  It's a, you know, miracle?"


(True:  Seriously, angel tree-toppers give me the heebies.  Something about the blank eyes...  Worse even than porcelain dolls.)

And the Award Goes To...

If you are reading this, it probably means that it's finally happened.  I've finally achieved my (literally) life-long dream of getting a Darwin Award.  I've taken the liberty of writing a speech--obviously one of you dear readers will need to read it for me at the ceremony.  (I've included some notes on delivery.)

First of all, I'd like to thank my mom and my maternal grandmother, who showed me how to bear clumsiness with dignity if not grace.  Pause for laughter.

Thanks also to my dad and My Sister the Lawyer for teaching me that gracelessness is best when the amusement is shared.  And to my friend Seven, because sometimes, that amusement needs to be shared with a sharp jab to someone's kidney.  Pause for laughter.

To the members of the swing dancing club (If you put air quotes around the word "swing," I will personally come back from hell to haunt your ass.) I was part of in college:  I owe you so much.  Not only did your lessons help me learn to at least not embarrass myself (so much) dancing, they also taught me to walk without running into walls.  Mostly.  And that's probably what kept me alive for so long.  And to all the leads who partnered me:  Despite all the times I stepped on your feet, elbowed you in the gut, and once head-butted you during an aerial in a place that could constitute sexual harassment, you never once gave up on me.  Or filed charges.  Thank you.  And I'm really glad your insurance company ended up covering that procedure after all.

Finally, I know I didn't likely die in a dignified manner.  I quite possibly didn't have pants on.  But please, if you could, remember me just like I was that one time in that photo taken in 2006, where I don't look like a complete derp with stupid hair.  Yes, I know that memory will be false, but it's my last wish.  Not my dying wish, obviously, because I'm already dead, but my last, post-mortem wish.  Or I guess it could be my first post-mortem wish, if one of you develops an affinity for ouija boards. 

If you try to contact me by ouija board, I will totally just make "your mom" jokes.  So, yeah.  (Please stop reading now.  I've clearly derailed.)





Via



(True:  This is not an attempt to fake my own death.  Just to be clear.)

"Consummation" is not the act of consuming. Sadly.

In the last sixty hours or so, I have eaten:

• Two cartons of Bob Evans mashed potatoes topped with about half a pound of butter
• An entire bag of pita chips topped with roasted red pepper hummus
• A whole order of cheesy sticks from the local pizza place  (Theoretically, they are cheese-topped breadsticks, but that's not quite right.  They're really about two pounds of buttered cheese with just enough crust underneath to hold them together--if you eat fast.)
• Three big-as-your-head tacos
• A package of Godiva truffles
• A pomegranate
• A water buffalo

(One of the above is a lie.)

This is what happens when I'm over-tired, over-stressed, and too busy marathoning "Supernatural" to bother cooking.  I feel like a cow.  On the plus side, I'm mostly sort of don't feel homicidal.  And that's an improvement.


(True:  I actually lost a pound.  You hate me now, don't you?)

A Handy Guide to Halloween Costumes and Life

(Humming...)  It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, although presents are pretty damn wonderful.  I'm talking about Halloween, the one day of the year that responsible adults are still allowed to play dress-up.  By this point of the year, I usually have a detailed plan for what I'm going to dress up as and how to make that happen.  (I never buy pre-fab costumes.)  This fall, however, I'm running behind.  As I consider my options, there are several questions I keep in mind to keep myself on track.

And you should, too.

Question 1:  Could this costume be called "Naughty (Blank)" or "Sexy (Blank)?"
Because when it comes to costumes, both of these words are interchangeable with "whore."  One part of the costume can be of the come-hither variety without overdoing it.  (I flatter myself that I managed to pull off a Puss in Boots costume with red thigh-high boots.  But then, I paired them with a full cape and a modest top.  And, of course, pants.  Which leads me to Question 2...)

Via

Via

There is a happy medium...

Question 2:  Are there pants?

A banded top does not count.  Nor does any skirt short enough that you might get herpes from sitting on a bar stool.  Leggings might be okay with a tunic-length top, as long as they are opaque.  If they aren't, they are tights.  And tights are not pants.  Basically, keep your butt out of sight, please.

Question 3:  Will there be visible belly button?

This is not the 90s.  Start over.

Question 4:  Is this costume seasonally appropriate?

Seriously.  If you're running around in a tube top/mini skirt/high heeled sandals and it's snowing, you're not doing it right.

Question 5:  Is it lazy?

 Look, if you want to grab a pair of cat ears to wear with your everyday clothes, more power to you.  But don't blame me if people think you're more boring than watching other people watch paint dry.

Question 6:  Is it recognizable?

Don't get me wrong, I totally do obscure characters from literature all the time.  (That didn't come out quite right, but whatever.)  Even semi-sort-of-not-obscure characters, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland is probably going to get some questions.  But if you're going to dress up as a Jessie Drummond from Super What?, don't go crying into your beer when nobody gets it.  This is especially important with gender-bending costumes.

Question 7:  Can you sit/move in the costume?

If your costume is a pimento olive made out of chicken wire, consider this:  you may not fit into a car.  And you definitely won't fit through a bus door.  Your ass is walking.

A summary:

• Be creative.
• Wear clothes.
• Use your noggin, just a little.

All points that will serve you well in life--I promise.

(True:  Less than six weeks to the big day, and I'm still undecided?!  Seriously starting to panic...  Also, I have to say I do actually really like the crazy cat lady costume above.)

Remember Me? That Blogger Who Isn't Dead? (Yet.)

You guys.  Did you know that tomorrow, September 13th, is Defy Superstition Day?  I think it's funny that the one superstition no one will be defying will be the whole Friday the 13th thing.

I was going to write about all the superstitions I was going to bash my way through tomorrow, but I'm beginning to realize there is a difference between being superstitious and being crazy.

Things I'm not afraid of (aka, things other people are apparently afraid of):

• Black cats
• Walking under a ladder
• Breaking a mirror
• Opening an umbrella indoors
• Crows, ravens, and albatross
• Sidewalk cracks
• Red sky in morning

Things I am afraid of (aka, why yes, I am neurotic):

• Putting mail in one of those big, blue, public mailboxes
• Not checking at least twice to see if my car doors are well and truly locked
• Making any noise whatsoever when my neighbor comes or goes
• Giving everything (even inanimate objects) less-than-equal treatment (All of my stuffed animals were shown no favoritism when I was a child.)
• The Gremlins under the bed
• Books that aren't alphabetized by author (though by genre, then by author is acceptable.)

So maybe I'll mail you letter and then be mean to a frying pan, or something.




(True:  A friend did throw spare change on the floor of my new car for good luck, and I am sort of afraid of picking it up...)

Breath Mints of DOOOOM!

Even though I no longer run karaoke, I still go pretty regularly.  It's usually a nice mix of people I know and new faces.  Some of those new faces do not approve of me.

For example, the time I was sitting by a bar buddy and her friend, who I'd never met before.  New Face seemed like a nice enough lady, and we chatted casually for a while.  It seemed natural enough to offer her a mint when I opened the tin to grab one myself.

New Face took a long, hard look at the tin and finally said, "No thanks, I'm a Christian."  And then she got up to grab another beer, finding another seat when she'd been served.

Via

Later, by the light of a lone, black, chicken blood-scented candle, I spun a maraschino cherry on the lid of my Mystifying Mints, and the stem pointed to "Good Bye," and I realized what a terrible person I am.  But at least I'm a terrible person with devilishly fresh breath.


(True:  The pointer thingy that comes with a Ouija board is called a "planchette."  I know this because I read trashy romance novels.)