I'm hoping this year will be the year when I finally receive a Hallmark card from the cats.

Here is a video tribute I made for my Mom two years ago on Mother's Day:

"Don't you know I'm looocccooo?"

 

What else have I been doing (since I became creatively numb)?

1. Moving

After receiving an at-work phone call on February 29th letting me know that I had 30 days to vacate my condo because the soul-sucking, corporate wiener-faces changed their minds about letting me stay another six months due to their astounding success at weaseling stupid (and I mean that tenderly) young people into "renting to own" their overpriced, piece of shit, botched-plumbing infected, oops-- the ceiling caved in, wanna-be high-class condo units. I wasn't exactly devastated. This meant that my precious Facebook time would be freed from the responsibility of posting hourly, sailor-talk ridden, condo complex crucifixions about the latest condo-related drama I was pissed off about. Finally I could get back things that were important, like sharing internet cat memes, and sexually objectifying Ryan Gosling.

 

"Do-able."

Despite making four donation drop offs at Value Village prior to moving, and throwing out enough useless, hoarder-esque crap to make me feel like I was single handedly going to be that asshole who destroys planet earth, moving day was still The Worst Day of My Life (since the last time I moved), and I swear to the internet, here and now, that I will never again move without hiring professional movers. Thank you for all your help, family, but you can now breathe a sigh of relief that you'll never have to move my shit again. On a positive note, I didn't experience my ceremonial melt down until the day after I moved, and unlike the last time I moved, when I wandered around my new place, disoriented from sleep deprivation with my pants around my ankles while I searched for toilet paper and bawled, this melt down was short lived and I had my pants on.

Final verdict: I love my new place, and my current landlord is key.

2. Sleeping

I have recently resumed a common practice referred to as "sleeping," although my body has yet to accept that 7:00 AM is not woo-hoo, just got off work time, or that I am not a senior citizen, and maybe I don't have to wake up at 7:00 AM every weekend to crotchet, make scones for my imaginary grandchildren, and watch 100 Huntley Street.

3. Trying to dress like an adult

This is another work in progress. Most days I can fake it, but some days, like last Friday, I throw a chunky necklace over a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt and I'm like, no one will ever notice.

4. Reading and journaling

I just finished a book called The Journal of Helene Berr, and I was inspired to start a private journal (again), largely because it seemed like a no-rules way to keep pen to paper during my "creative winter." I can confidently say that my current journal is the first journal I've ever written that isn't strictly a daily report on Why Boys Are Disappointing.

5. Watching Twin Peaks

Speaking of being disappointed in people, I'm disappointed that none of my elders bothered to inform me how awesome Twin Peaks is, seeing as how I was too young to understand it when it aired. A simple, "duuude, you n-e-e-d to watch Twin Peaks when you reach adulthood" from my mother would have meant a lot to me. Or an "OMG, it's, like, totally Lynchian, except unlike David Lynch's movies, it has a PLOT, and doesn't play out like a really, really, really, really bad drug trip," from my father would have been appreciated, too. Thank you, internet, you're always there to guide me towards therapeutically smutty entertainment when my proudly un-hip parents let me down.

Interesting factoid to bring this blog post full circle - The first time I saw Twin Peak's character, Lucy Moran in action, I thought, hmm, look at that-- exactly how I perceive myself at my new job.

Check out 2:54-3:20, 3:36- 3:50, and 4:13-4:50, to be precise:

Socks and Bartholomew III, September 1993

Grade 2, Ms. Meowstein's class, Kittydale Elementary

The Christmas season has passed, and I feel blessed to now be spared from the auditory terrorism of Christmas carols that made blood ooze from my ears like strawberry jam. However, my artificial Christmas tree still stands tall, its once charming demeanor now exuding a stale, almost offensive egotism, like some overly manicured douche bag taking up space in the corner of my living room. "LOL," says my douche bag Christmas tree, "better add overcome chronic procrastination to your list of New Years Resolutions, you lazy @!$%!."

The only resolution I made this New Years was to resume regular postings, here, on my website, regardless of how ridiculous the rest of my life gets.

Oops.

. . . . . . .  WHAT?

The only down fall was that no one in my family bothered to tell me that Bah Humbuggery had been cancelled this year and that we were planning a legit gift swap. IT'S NOT LIKE I DIDN'T ASK, EITHER. So when I walked into my parents house with my boxes of chocolate and I noticed all the presents under the tree, I realized that, yep, this was definitely the year that I was going to walk away as the asshole, which was compounded by the fact that the "I love you, but fuck it, here's some money" cheque I wrote Laura was made out in her maiden name, because I subconsciously refuse to acknowledge that her ex-husband exists.

I did donate to a handful of charities in honor of my family after recalling the sponsorship of love Will n' Matt gave to the exploited babies in Cambodia in 2009 - you should probably read about it here. And although I knew that the money had gone to better causes than the accumulation of random shit, I still felt like that socially awkward relative who makes everyone personalized welcome plaques for their front entrance from recycled newsprint and raffia paper.

After experiencing a strange Christmas Eve, I was inspired, largely by Liz, to write my own version of Twas The Night Before Christmas, and I read it at my family's Christmas gift opening. Here is the internet-friendly version:

Twas The Night Before Christmas, And Shit Got Weird

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my complex, not a creature was stirring, not even the usual suspects. I was alone in my apartment, feeling a little laissez faire, in hopes that dawn's sunrise soon would be there.

(Photo of Red Deer sunrise by TrevorGB)

The kitties were nestled all snug in my bed, while visions of the muchly missed, albeit diarrhea inducing, Whiskas wet formula danced in their heads. Snortie with her horrific hair cut, and I in my new cat shirt, lay lounging in bed feeling less than alert.

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the door I flew like a flash, and unlocked the dead bolt, even though I looked like white trash.

The hallway remained quiet and dimly lit, surely to hide the shoddy construction that the owners won't admit. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an elderly woman in leopard print pajama gear.

Thinking her husband was ill, I responded with grave worry, But soon realized she had Alzheimer disease, and it was making her mind blurry. More rapid than an eagle, I grabbed my keys and my phone, and began a long journey through the complex to take the little old lady home.

(art work by Kelli Doyle)

"You're the only one who would answer your door," she said in appreciation,"That's because this place is full of douche bags, and human abominations." I asked her her last name, and she said it was Price,
so I tracked down the number of her suite through the intercom device.

Back up we went to walk into a strange condo and hope for the best, for if it were the wrong one, it may become one hell of an awkward conquest. The suite sat dormant and the little old lady swore it was not her home, but I continued on my mission and threw out a bone.

"Hello?," I called out, not once, but twice, and from the bedroom came the stir of a man-- her husband-- thank God almighty and his son, Jesus Christ.

"She's never wandered before," he told me, his face angered and worried. "You're going to have to go in a home," her face now shamed and covered in flurry.

We said our goodbyes and shared a melancholy hug, then I went to the lobby for a tea, where I met a man drinking his fourth egg nog mug. This was his first Christmas since separating from his wife, and while he was thrilled to have his boys with him, this wasn't the easiest time in his life.

He was excited to be done wrapping the gifts, even despite his recent down falls, although he admitted he wasn't good at this kind of stuff, and all the presents looked like "fucking footballs."

(watch the youtube video of Flippycat being wrapped)

And it was on this eve that I was reminded of my blessings, from the health of my family, to my wicked ass car and its heated-seat dressings. Some people score the ideal and their Christmases are cheered, for others, life goes on, and sometimes shit gets weird.

Because it takes a village.

It's been a few months since she left our mutual work place after securing a higher paying, future-friendly man job (which I am immensely fucking proud of her for) and the withdrawal I've experienced from not seeing her everyday in a semi-controlled environment has been emotionally jarring, especially considering the Gary Busey style of dysfunction that has not only filled the void of her absence, but has leaked into other avenues of my life like toxic decomp, and for those who aren't familiar with bio hazard clean up, that means "liquid body rot."

When we approached each other under the fluorescent halo of the asphalt parking lot, she shone like an angel, or possibly an original My Little Pony circa 1988, like Baby Apple:

Or maybe more like Princess Sparkle:

 Wow, so pretty.

Oh, sorry, guys. Vagina, here. I get easily distracted by sparkly things.

The kiddies were waiting in the car as her and I attempted to jam two months worth of random, story recaps into a five minute conversation. Meanwhile, Gavin, her middle child, the one with the tendency to defy rules, and who I admit to having a soft spot for (go figure, as my mother said), bounced around the interior of her Mini Vans Can Go Fuck Themselves sports car, his chipmunk-inated child voice nattering away at the speed of light as he projected it out the window towards us.

"LOJO!!!! LOJO!!!! LOOWW-JOOOO!!"

I waved enthusiastically.

"R THER PRESENTS CHRISTMAS GIFTS SERPRIZE SANTA DO U HAVE SOME OMG AWESUM STUFF CHRISTMAS . . . . YAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!"

I assured him that I did, indeed have some loot for him and his siblings, who at this point, were sitting in the back seat sharing eye rolls.

BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING!, his miniature body continued to ricochet off the car's interior as Laura and I resumed our conversation, and as we discussed the art of ball-breaking douche bag idiots, suddenly a familiar sound resonated from the background.

"VVVRRRooom. vvvrrrOOOM. VVVRRRooom. vvvrrrOOOM . . .

. . . VVVRRRooom."

"GAVIN!," Laura turned towards him with the dexterity of a Soviet sniper. "The automatic windows work. We got it. Thanks, buddy. NOW CHILL OUT!"

He flashed her a mischievous, albeit accomplished smile, the same smile I make when I break the will of a boyfriend from dedicating hours to perfecting my James Hetfield growl, or I sing the Don's Tire and Auto radio'mericial in a munchkin voice for the 20th time in a row.

When it was time to go, Gavin escaped from the car, his Little Person legs moving at an astronomical speed, and when he gave me a hug, all I could think was, "shit, I really hope he likes the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit."

According to Laura, the kits were well received.

How to Make Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kits (for Kids):

1. Similar to an emergency road kit, the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit needs to be contained in some sort of sealable unit. A small tackle box would work. I made mine out of Crayola craft kits with the art materials removed.

2. Stickers. Cool stickers are a must, and while it was easy to find stickers that were appropriate for three year old Lili Bug, finding the right adornments for the boys was a more difficult feat. Some of the best stickers I used, such as the bullet hole stickers, were actually car decals that were purchased at Canadian Tire. A superior, more economical idea is to buy printable sticker sheets and create your own custom stickers (could be stickers of real-life zombies, ninjas, bio hazard symbols, favorite band logos, AK-47s, etc.), and I would have done this if my printer hadn't finally succeeded at committing suicide the week before Christmas, but unfortunately, I bought it at Staples, so it had been depressed for a while.

3. The zombie kits should include a well balanced combination of zombie resistance tools and non-zombie related goodies that reflect the child's interests, especially if the zombie kit is for a younger child, as my zombie kits were. You don't have to be a mommy blogger to know that children have the attention span of gold fish, and they do not yet possess the intellectual or emotional maturity to fully comprehend the value of preparing for the zombie apocalypse. So, throw in a few shiny objects and items that scream, "whooaa, BAD ASS!" and you should still come away as the crazy, albeit half-ass cool, surrogate Aunt.

Zombie Resistance identification badges were included in all the kids' kits, as were Nerf guns, although slightly larger models for the boys, and according to Laura, the I.D. badge was a big hit with Gavin. If I were to do it again, I would make more official looking badges on my computer if it had still had a pulse, but the most I could muster for this was printing off photos of the kids at my parents house and creating the rest of the badges by hand. For those who are crafty with graphic design, you could have a lot of fun with these.

WARNING:

Asshole Hazard - Before giving a Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit as a gift to a child whom is not your own, make sure to warn/ touch base with the parent(s) to make sure that they are okay with its contents, both on a moral level, and also on a mental health level, because the last thing you want to do is instigate a familial break down that causes Mom to lock herself in the bathroom with a bottle of prescription pain killers as the kids wage war on each other by shooting each other in the face with Nerf guns.

That about covers the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit tutorial. A timeless and practical gift that can be tweeked to adhere to children of any age, and teaches the important value of zombie survival preparedness.

Those days happen though, at least to me, when I get tired of all the bullshit and require a (somewhat forced) emotional release that usually ends up making me look like the kind of woman who posts images of kitty/unicorn hybrids on a blog. It's easy to get caught up in the negative aspects of life, and the unanswerable questions we impose on the lord, like why are those so many douche bags in the world, Raptor Jesus?, but sometimes those same things that weigh on our souls can bring us joy.

Via mockery.

That being said, I bring you Steve Who Works At Site, which appears to be the masterpiece of some Fort Mac boys looking to blow off a little steam, and is some of the best Alberta related comic relief I've enjoyed since Fubar II. While this series of Xtranormal cartoons may not be meaningful, or even make sense to those who haven't experienced Alberta oil culture, or more specifically, those who haven't lived or worked up in Fort McMurray, for those of us who have: LOL.

"If you have a nice rack, like to do blow in the Digger's bathroom, and like men with a big wallet, give me a shout-- I work at site."

"I have to catch my Diversified bus to the site so I can make a difference by driving around in fucking circles."