The best things to come out of my Brimfield State Fair trawling this fall wasn't the Bakelite octopus brooch that now festoons my coat or even my Miller Gaffney stalking episode (I am 78 years old and love Market Warriors --- Please give me all of your Metamucil and Murder, She Wrote VHS tapes). It was this license plate/sticker combo on a dealer's ( Read more... )

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Or, alternately, 'Shit I Can Do On a First Date and Still Get Asked Out Again.'

( It's like an inside joke I always miss )

Hopeful supplicant here with a question for you, internet genus loci:

Having no local equivalent of a Delphic oracle, I tried to replicate the experience in a half-assed modern DIY fashion with some shredded cheese that’s started squarely down the path of exploding with mold. Sadly, the vapors didn’t bring about any miraculous insight into anything ( Read more... )

On Monday, I received the latest addition to my stable of questionable-at-best footwear. The bright-pink peacock feather motif plays right into the crazy bird girl aesthetic that I’ve regrettably crafted for myself, and is just more ammunition for those around me to not only take a match and kerosene to my wardrobe, but to drag me kicking and ( Read more... )

After lopping off the top of his middle finger Civil War amputation-style, my dad has decided that being down one hand has taken his driving skills from merely ‘errant Zeppelin in a category 3 hurricane’ levels of unpredictability to the bowels-evacuating depths of terror that could only be matched by a jointly-produced Korean/French horror film. ( Read more... )

It's been six months today.

You'll never see this.

Scenarios like shuffling off to an empty bed or silently eating alone (when I eat at all) still sting with the predictable poignancy one would expect after seven years.

It's in the quietest, most mundane moments at night when it hits me the hardest though, slamming into me like a jet engine ( Read more... )

When visiting my elderly grandmother, there are naturally only so many viable activity choices. She’s 94, deaf as a haddock, slow as creeping Jesus, and rocking a case of ennui so acute that a legion of teen wannabe hipsters should be wearing American Apparel tees with her face on them. Eating with her can be arduous; if she is the one to prepare ( Read more... )

I think I broke two of my toes, y'all. In my mad rush to get myself, five grocery bags, the mail, and my precious caramel iced latte into my house, I took what can only be described as an epic, wicked digger on my front steps.

( Cut for melodrama, gross descriptions, and a picture of my injured foot. You've been warned. I mean it. )

Interspersed between breaking up assorted parrot fights and frantically cleaning up shards of glass following an epic throw-down with the dishwasher wherein several glasses lost their lives (it's safe to say that there was no winner), I accomplished the following:

( Per the sage advice of the Dead Kennedys, c'mon for the ride and hop with the jet set tonight... )