WNW: Florida Lady

Because nothing says "wacky" (at least to me) like German synthesizer rap.

Caution: take care not to look directly at the 1980s. Doing so could result in permanent blindness.

Withstanding Christmas

Holy shit, for the first time since Christmas Eve I'm not paralyzed with excruciating headaches! Is this what it feels like to live without pain? Why, it's a Christmas Miracle!

No, really, my Christmas Day was spent in a haze of agony, medication, and bedrest. I hope yours was better than mine.

I am attempting to get back into the swing of writing, but I'm still only at half-arse. Therefore I shall give you a week of allegedly funny YouTube videos accompanied by some vaguely relevant commentary.

Enjoy.

If I don't see you again tonight...

.. have a Merry Christmas, everyone.

Now I am off on the 6-hour round trip to retrieve my sister from the Orlando Airport.

Yes, I have to deal with both airport traffic AND last-minute shopping traffic. Plus however long I have to wait in arrival purgatory.

Truly, Hell holds no horrors for me any more.

WNW: Ding Dong

Link.

WNW: Saaremetsad

Because who hasn't wanted to see a live-action parody of the Simpsons opening sequence set in turn of the century Estonia?

GIANT MOONBATS, that's who.




Der linkenmaachen.

Madness to my Method

I have done it.

By jove, by jingo, by golly and by gum, I have done it.

I have figured out how to survive this holiday season whilst (isn't whilst such a good word? I love the way it makes my lips feel. Such an awesome word, and criminally underused. Much like betwixt, athwart, and recumbent. I say we start a campaign to bring these words back into common parlance! [Parlance is another good word, but it at least isn't criminally under-used. {Yet.}]) at the same time (doesn't "whilst" actually mean "at the same time"? Now I am am confused) finding a way to celebrate Khaotica.

Specifically, I intend to go mad.

Batshit insane.

Utterly toys in the attic, to be rather proverbial about it.

Henceforth, I shall be quite Figgy Pudding, and don't tell me I can't, Mr. Yule Log, or I'll cut your Dickens off.

It'll be fun, won't it? Yes. The Bobbitt cats in the pantry said as much.

Bah humbuggery

This is a post I really haven't wanted to write, and I've been putting it off.

My intent was to leave the... eulogy-thing... up for a few days, because if I had posted immediately after that it would have had all the emotional impact of saying, "In today's news, my friend had a miscarriage, and we are all sad. And now, sports."

And then, I dunno. Faithful readers know how cranky I get this time of year, what with the rampant commercialization and the enforced merriment and the rigid adherence to observing holiday doctrine.

To top it all off, it looks like the Christmas Spirit threw up all over our house. It took us a week to put up all the lights. And this year, we are having three trees.

Three. Christmas. Trees.

Because one isn't enough, is it? It isn't sufficient that we have a huge (artificial) tree featuring the past five years of Hallmark's ornamental dreck, along with a "Best Of" rotation from the past two decades, oh no, we need an International Tree for all the ornaments we've collected in our travels, and then yes by golly we need a Wolf Tree, covered in expensive lupine-themed baubles, so that our dogs have a place for their presents!

That grinding sound you hear are my back teeth gnashing together. There isn't enough alcohol in this house to get me through the holidays, especially when my sister comes to visit.

Let me tell you about my sister. Oh, let me.

Don't get me wrong, I love my sister. I just love her over there. Preferably out of state. Because you see, there is a rule among Southern families which states that once every generation, there needs to be a spinster aunt, with far more cats than is healthy, who teaches school and plays the organ at church. This is my sister, Scarlett, and yes, she is named after the Gone With the Wind character.

If you people think I am Inappropriate Girl, you have yet to see my sister in action. She will -- in polite, mixed company -- refer to one of her cats as "my pussy." This is not done out of innocence about the slang term, either. This is her "reclaiming the word" or somesuch.

Yet when I suggest she just name one of her cats "Vulva", suddenly I'm the bad one.

She's also more than a little fundie and charismatic with her faith, which wouldn't be a problem in and of itself, but she also has the charming habit of wielding it like a truncheon. If you want to win any arguments with this woman, you'd best know your Bible verses to back up your positions.

She's also ten years older than me, and every time she comes visit, I am once again not only the youngest but the baby of the family. I have to establish my competence on a regular basis, and it frustrates me so much I want to scream and pull my hair and smash crockery into bits.

Which brings me to my final point. Khaotica is upon us, and for the life of me, I can't think of anything to do which doesn't violate the single, cardinal rule of "Thou shalt not harsh anyone else's merriment." Really, all I want to do is tear down all the lights and smash the tacky decorations and turn off the enforced cheerful music and just have a nice, quiet, calm, tranquil, dark, still, ZEN Christmas. You know, softly singing "Silent Night" in the dark, and then curl up on the couch with a glass of eggnog to look at the tree for a while before going to bed.

If I ever have a family of my own -- which I sincerely doubt at this point -- while I may have a Christmas tree, I'm never putting presents under it. The tree is just decoration. Instead, I'm going to have a live-size manger (baby Jesus doll optional) and the presents are going to be arrayed around THAT. It's subversive in a subtle, traditional, laid-back kind of way.

So yeah. You folks have a happy feast of St. Excessivus. I'm gonna go outside in the mid-70 degree night and look at stars until I feel at peace with the world again.

To my friend, Jeannie

I cannot imagine what you are going through right now.

I know you are grieving, in agony over your loss.

Anything I can think to say or do seems insignificant in the face of this monumental tragedy.

I am powerless to comfort you, and that rips me apart. And then I realize that I am thinking about my feelings and not yours, and that makes me feel like a terrible friend. And then I realize I am again thinking about me and not you.

I am so sorry that I cannot grasp this slippery, spherical tragedy. It runs through my fingers like water, and then I look at you, and I see it clings to you like white phosphorous, sticking and burning through your soul.

I am so sorry that I am secretly relieved this has never, ever happened to me, and I silently hope it never will. I know this doesn't make me a bad person, only human, but I still feel like a cretin for feeling this way.

If I could fix this, I would.

If I could have stopped this, I would have.

If your miscarriage had been a wild animal or a madman I would beat it to death with a tire iron, and then mount its head on a pike as an object lesson to the world that NO ONE HURTS MY FRIENDS AND LIVES.

I wish I could comfort you in a way that could actually bring you respite.

I wish I could spirit you away to a safe haven where you will never ever be hurt like this again. And I would stand guard there, like the angel at the gate to Eden, with a flaming sword and the resolve that the only things which entered would be those things which you desired, and woe be unto the unwelcome.

I can do none of these things.

Instead, all I can do is tell you that I hurt for you, and with you.

I will share your burden, if you will let me. Cry on my shoulder, scream in my ear, beat my breast with your fists. You cannot hurt me any more than you yourself are hurting.

I love you.

I will not attempt to take this pain from you. It is yours, and precious, because I know what it means to you.

Just know that I hurt with you, and you will never, EVER, be alone.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Redefining goals

So... I have succeeded in my goal of completing Chapter 4 of my novel by the end of November. I did this mainly by not realizing I had finished it.

No, really. This is going to sound like cheap rationalization but I promise it's not. No fewer than three people agree with my decision here, so even though I feel like I'm cheating by not having met my estimated wordcount for the chapter, I'm going to stick with my instinct that it's finished.

Originally there was going to be more back-and-forth with Netty, but Teresa informed me in no uncertain terms that she was going to spend the next few hours studying her scrapbook and don't disturb her, dammit. And she really needs to see a doctor to get that hand looked at. So if she's going to quietly read until they get to a hospital, that's pretty boring to write about. I can get maybe a paragraph out of it.

The hospital visit, however, is gold. But that changes the dynamic of the conversation. All of this says "Next chapter" to me rather than "scene change".

So, yeah. I succeeded in my November goal of finishing chapter 4. Hooray.

Why then do I feel like a cheating cheater?

Sigh.