Dark humor kicks ass

Perhaps it should also go without saying that my birthday party theme involves swine flu -- be there, or be bacon.

Bipolar brainworms.

My crazy-girl brain has a thing for songs. Specifically, songs that can get stuck in my head for a minimum of 18 hours at time. It's just how I roll. Er, yo.

But today's dueling songs are enough to drive a girl to drink. (Pauses. Sips chardonnay. Sighs happily. Refills glass.)

Ready? How's this for eff'd up?

Right Round, by Flo Rida. (Yes, "rida." I know.) And, By Way of Sorrow, by Dar Williams, as part of Cry Cry Cry.

I can't embed the video for the first one, but you can listen to the second here:





In fact, I like the second one so much, I'm hoping to learn how to play it on the fiddle. Want to hear another version? Here you go.

Mawhahaha. Happy Earth Day.

Thanks go to Someecards.com for this and my lovely pal who sent this to me, noting that we're both doing our part to help the save planet.

Happy Earth Day!

Contest, baby.

Inspired by my lengthy haikus, I thought I'd host a teeny contest. Best original haiku* on the original post (or on this one), gets a lovely special prize handmade by yours truly.

Deadline to enter is midnight CT Wednesday. Oh, and I reserve the right to use the random number generator thingy to pick a winner if they're too good for me to pick on my own.

Ready? Set? Go!

Five, Seven, Five.

Remiss in blogging,
So, instead, haikus for you.
My life in April:

Cold in Chicago.
Oh, right! No surprise there. Sigh.
That's why we need booze.

April showers, huh?
Who knew that included snow?
Why do I live here?

Fuck you, Midwest. Grrr.
I bet flowers are blooming
in Atlanta right now.

Behold! A nice spring
day. Surely this won't last. Ha.
Mother Nature. Mean.

Tax Day came and went.
I miss my refund. It ran
straight to Visa card.

Boy got last of stuff.
Breakups still suck, months later.
Why are eyes leaking?

Baking treats with friends
reminds me how fortunate
I am to be loved.

Easter morning church.
Sunrise service at the lake.
Woot! New beginnings.

Bike versus taxi.
Guess who won? Sounds worse than you
would think. Am badass cyclist.

Sewing for my quilt.
Bride friends need sewing help, too.
One woman thread fiend.

Friends came to visit.
YAY! But too much stress to clean.
Next time: maid service.

Four people in my
small 700-square-foot
condo. Friends, or die.

We saw Ira Glass!!
This American Life! LIVE!
Am NPR nerd.

Jay taught mutt to heel
in a block at a half. Huh?
Me? Four years. No luck.

No luck at making
birds for friend's wedding cake top.
They look like monsters.

Am murderer of
plants. Accidental, of course.
No green thumb for me.

Crashing book club in
Milwaukee next month. We are
reading Lolita.

My pants still won't fit.
Whatever. Time to kick this
funk in the ass. POW!

Saw flowers blooming.
That must mean there is still hope.
Spring's eternal, right?

Like haikus a lot?
Leave me one below. Best one
might just win a prize.

ADDENDUM:
Contest is on. Best haiku posted by Wednesday at midnight CT wins a crafty surprise.

Tylenol PM 1, Noodles O

I take my sleep seriously. My friends know I become progressively less pleasant (some might even say a twee bit bitchy) after 10 p.m. I live and die by 300-thread count Egyptian cotton. And I have, on more than one occasion, excused myself from a social gathering so I could take a nap. (What? Like you haven't?)

My coworker and I were emphatically discussing our mutual love of sleep so deep and sound _ the kind where you find yourself in one of those hit-the-pillow-and-don't-move a muscle-for-HOURS states _ that I said if we substituted sex for sleep, some people might get turned on listening to us.

All of this is background to establish the fact that when I'm not sleeping well, I'll do almost anything -- ANYTHING -- in my power to return to my happy sleep place. This includes, but is not limited to, the magnificence that is a hefty dose of Tylenol PM.

Which brings me to last night, around 11:30 p.m., roughly two hours after I first crawled into my lovely new, crisp covers. (Btw, my new sheets are the absolute and total bomb.)

There I am, (possibly snoring) when I hear it. Someone is talking and says: "Oh my god."

I jerk awake and open my eyes to see there, standing by my bed is ... HOLY BEJESUS ... a person.

My sleepy, Tylenol PM-addled brain rapidly begins to process this situation as my heart starts beating in overdrive.

Who is it? Duh. Obviously it's someone that's there to kill me and murder me in my sleep. This someone, appears to be unusually skinny and sort of short. And, why are they speaking? Shouldn't they be taking care of business? Are they as distraught about the chaos of exploded clothes in my bedroom as I am? Is that why they said "Oh my god?" Or are they just some weird sleep-watcher, you know, like Edward in Twilight? Do they want to rob me of my oh-so-valuable collection of Amy Butler fabrics? What if they're here to dognap Macy?

Blink. Blink.

I try to focus my very blind eyes at this mysterious, unmoving figure, while laying VERY VERY STILL so they don't know I'm awake.

Blink. Blink.

Something doesn't make sense. Why would a stranger be standing by my bedroom doorway? Much less judge me on my volume of dirty laundry?

Blink. Blink.

Maybe it's not a person.

Blink. Blink.

Maybe it's ... the dressing table? The door? Whatever. Furniture can't speak.

At this point, I'm as wide awake as a tweeked-out-on Tylenol PM person can be, which doesn't say much, although does explain why I have not done the very logical thing of turning on the lights to see who, in fact, this mass murderer is and what they want with cute little me. (OMG, maybe it's a prince who's come to whisk me away to someplace where I can live with the tiara I so rightly deserve... Maybe it's Publishers Clearinghouse?! EEP?! Is there such thing as a Cheese Fairy? A girl can dream...)

Instead, I do what any other dog-loving, lives alone, single girl would do. I look for the mutt.

Who, at the moment, happens to be spooning with me. Snoring.

Blink. Er... blink?

And only then, as my eyes start to focus on what is, in fact, just my dressing table in the moonlight, do I realize that there can't, realistically, be a crazed, psychopathic killer standing at my bedside wielding a cleaver dripping with blood. Or, even a minor European royal who has come at an inopportune time to bring me gifts of brie and gouda. Because, if there was, my dog _ who can't let someone go up or down the condo building stairs without becoming apoplectic _ would have most assuredly thought to bark.

And that voice? The one that woke me up in the first place? Um, yeah. It sort of sounds like me.

Fuuuuuuck.

And with that, I went back to sleep.

Moral of the story: Tylenol PM may or may not produce night-talking and shadow-fueled delusions. But damn, if it isn't worth it for some Grade A shut eye.

Dreams become reality.

You'd think that given the Hallmarkish title of this blog post, I'd be writing about great achievements and hardwork and, like, puppies and sunshine and babies and eep!!

Ha.

If you do, then you do not, apparently, know me or my deeply honed sense of sarcasm very well.

Let's rewind, if you will, to Saturday night when one passed-out-from-exhaustion Noodles collapses in bed. And so begins my night of weird dreams. There was one about being on an airliner that crash landed onto an interstate, but then we kept taxi-ing along the highway along with traffic and no one would listen when I demanded to be LET OFF THE PLANE! RIGHT! NOW! There was something work related and equally as traumatic. And then there was the weird dream that the mutt was puking on my covers.

Oddly, the dog vomit wasn't the most vivid of the trio. But it was definitely one that I remember, right down to seeing her move over the side of the bed where The (Ex) Boy used to sleep (good girl, btw, Macy) and seeing her tail bounce as she heaved.

In the words of the young prince of Denmark, according to Mr. Shakespeare, "To die. To sleep. To sleep: perchance to dream."

I wake up the next morning thinking, hum, weird night. Then my something hits my nose. Weird smell.

You can probably see where this is going. Plane crash? Work drama? Both slumbery, subconscious visions. Macy vomit? Not so much.

Sigh, indeed.

"Newspapers are like blogs. That leave ink on your hands."

Ah, Mr. Colbert. Touche.

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm /

Up next!

Isn't it weird how inspiration strikes?

I was scrolling through my reader today and saw these super-fun blocks that Nettie, of A Quilt is Nice, made for her virtual quilting bees. I really liked her second-to-last block and it was what I needed to get started on my next project: simple, fun and not painful enough to make me consider bodily harm like my still-unfinished blooming nine patch.

Meanwhile, a charm pack of Anna Marie Horner's Good Folks collection came in the mail from Whipstitch and bam... I knew what I was going to do.


I'm sorting through my stash for purples, pinks, blues, and greens and making nine patch blocks out of five-by-five inch squares. Since I'm obsessed with fabric by Amy Butler, Heather Bailey, Art Gallery and, of course, the aforementioned Anna Marie Horner, it will pretty be made up entirely of their designs. Of course, to make a queen-size bed spread, I need 508 blocks -- assuming my math is correct.

I'm hoping to get everything cut this week and then start piecing the squares into blocks to get a sense of what goes and what doesn't.

Woot for new projects! (Even if, er, the old ones aren't done yet.)

March can bite me.

In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? Fat freakin' chance.

Want visual proof? Here's my neighbor's gate yesterday morning.


This shot was taken about 30 seconds before I discovered that not one, but two of my boots had sprung leaks. Of course, I'm karmicly challenged when it comes to snow gear, so, I spent the day with parading around in my caribou-emblazoned purple-and-blue socks trying to get my feet to dry between errands.

Remember growing up how your mom always said to wear good underwear so in case you were in an accident and you had to go to the hospital, you wouldn't be embarrassed? (Please, please, please tell me this was a universal Mom Lesson. If not, a certain someone and I are going to have a twee chat.) Well, it turns out that the same applies to ugly socks during snow/rain. Because I really LOVED walking around the hallways of the Old Town School of Folk Music in my socks featuring mammals of the Alaskan wilderness. (Also, come to think of it, you never know when you'll *meet* someone, so that alone is enough reason to banish the granny panties forever.)

The snow wasn't that bad _ even if it was heavy and wet. All told, we got about 3 inches here in the city. Totally manageable and at least it's _ hopefully _ the last snow of the season. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because I refuse to buy another set of boots. At least for the time being.

Word Nerd Alert

I may have a profoundly dirty mouth, but rest assured, I'm a total word nerd at heart. A grammar goddess. A lexicon lady. A worldly wordster. Er. Yeah.

So, you can imagine the audible screech o' glee I emitted today when I the interwebs lead me to the OED's "Ask Oxford" section. I was on a mission to find out the longest monosyllabic word. (The boss lady brainstormed "twelve." I drew a blank.)

OED says:

"the one most commonly cited is screeched (nine letters). However, one ought to mention also scratched, scrounged, scrunched, stretched, and the plural nouns straights and strengths (all with nine letters)."

Then I found more questions and answers:

_ Want to know what comes after "thrice"? Nothing.
_ The antonym for misogynist? Misandris.
_ The collective term for a group of cats? A clowder.

BAM!!!

Meanwhile, a lovely former co-worker tweeted about Schott's Vocab blog over at the New York Times. Among my current favorite entries: bossnapping; econocide; twitturgy.

Schott's has great fun phrases, which I live to make up. And OED has great trivia info as well as, well, just about everything else.

Outside of my job, words and language are important to me. And they're an important part of how I see and interact with people. True story: I once went out on a date with a guy simply because his e-mail questioned why "bling" was being added to the OED. I was smitten. Meanwhile, I have rejected dudes who can't use the correct it's/its they're/their/there or you're/your. (I know, I'm sometimes a bitch. It's just part of my charm.)

What's your favorite word nerd thing? Or do you have a pet peeve?

Oh, Etsy. I heart thee.

I freakin' love Etsy. It's true. I'm an addict. My list of favorite stores is stacking up big-time. Today, during a mid-afternoon break, I decided to buy this.

For the record, my mom is probably reading this now and rolling her eyes. Meanwhile, I'm cackling like a madwoman.


This, of course, begs the question: What's your favorite Etsy store? Send me links so I can add to my stash!

I am 12.

Why? Because I'm sitting in my jammies, watching Twilight. And I couldn't be more excited.

Although, as proof of my actual almost-28ness (btw, people, 54 shopping days until my birthday!), I'm also drinking wine.

Fuck yeah. Sometimes, adulthood rocks.

Wedding craftivity goes to the birds.

Currer Bell, my lovely bff, is getting herself hitched to the one and only Hot Pants. And I couldn't be more thrilled. (I cried like a baby on her engagement day. And that was BEFORE I started drinking myself silly on mimosa-fueled goodness.)

Since I love all things crafty, I've volunteered to help the auspicious bride-to-be with some projects. And I'm totally psyched. At the moment, we're going to try to make cute bird cake toppers much like these by Peonies and Polaroids.


Adorable, no?

It also looks like the awesome peeps (Ha! Peeps! Get it? Birds? Peeps! I crack my shit up.) over at Spool Sewing have a bird pattern that we could modify as well, adding some feet, eyes, glasses, veils etc.



Ms. Bell will be visiting next month and we're going to try to make the love birds then and banish the boys to the Wii. Watcha think? Got any suggestions of patterns or modifications?

Chances of being mocked?

My quest to make my pants fit has taken a dangerous detour, brought down by wine, Thai food, pasta of all varieties, pizza, cookies, and my No. 1 weakness: cheese.

But now that snow isn't blowing my face every day, I at least feel inspired to move more. Including movement that involves hauling my ever-growing ass the mile-long walk to the gym. To motivate myself, I did what any shopaholic would do and bought a sassy shirt while I was in Maryland this weekend.

But now I question whether this was really the best idea I've ever had. Especially when it comes to being in a public setting with my boobs flailing around while I huff and puff on the elliptical machine.



Thoughts?