The cold is wrong. So, so wrong. And when I say wrong I mean evil. If there is a hell, my friends, it most certainly is cold.
There are people who say they like the cold. These people are either filthy, lying humans, or they are aliens from another planet. These are the douchebags who'll chime in with, "Oh I'd rather be cold because you can always put on more clothes." What kind of retarded thing is that to say? I mean, seriously. When I'm wearing tights, pants, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks, shoes, a jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, AND mittens, then no, asshole, I really can't put on any more clothes. And I'm still fucking cold. And my face feels like a sheet of pain.
Waiting for a bus in Chicago one nipple-achingly cold day, I had a startling realization: The only thing AT THAT MOMENT between me and death (fucking DEATH!) was four layers of fabric. If I didn't have these thin pieces of fabric and thread wrapped all around me, I would die in a matter of hours. Granted, it would be the groovy kind of death where you go numb and hallucinate, but it would still be death. That's when I decided to move back to Savannah where I'm more likely to die in a tank top and flip flops.
That's also when I realized that cold places are not a human's natural environment. I understand that we as a species have evolved through ice ages and have established civilizations in all but the coldest regions of our planet, but just because we lived to love another day doesn't mean we were meant for the cold.
First of all, we don't have fur. Seriously. My husband is of Russian/Eastern European Jewish descent. He is quite swarthy. He's the kind of guy with 5 o'clock shadow at 9 am. And yet he still lacks the follicular fortitude to brave out even the mildest of Southern winters without some form of clothing.
Second of all, in cold climates, there is very little of what humans call food growing. I understand that we all live near grocery stores now, but I'm just sayin'. The plants and animals we eat tend to thrive best in temperate and tropical climates.
And last, but not least, opportunities for reproduction and the subsequent survival of your genes are seriously hampered by a cold environment. I mean, come on now, when was the last time you had really good lovin' when it was cold? Maybe it's me, but I just don't enjoy getting all excited just to have my husband reach up my shirt and touch the warm skin of my belly with his Icy Cold Fingers of Death. And he's not really turned on by hearing me screech, "Don't touch my skin! Jesus Fucking Christ your hands are cold!"
I should really stop bitchin'. I live in Savannah, where the average winter high is 60 degrees. And there always seems to be at least one week out of every winter month that's 75 and sunny. And I love the occasional winter thunderstorms. And the ever blooming flowers. And the live oaks that keep their coats of thick, shiny leaves on all winter long. I guess if you've gotta do winter and you can't afford Hawaii, Savannah's not a bad place to weather out the winter.
But still. It's cold outside RIGHT NOW and I'm pissed about it. My skin is as dry and cracked as my sense of humor and I'm sick of freezing and shivering 10 seconds after my hot shower is over. I'm going to have another cup of coffee and crank up the heat.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Reduce, Reuse, Re-- oh, fuck it...
Apparently, Savannah's New Year's Resolution for 2009 is to recycle more. The city, after much pressure from concerned environmental citizens (I totally signed that petition), and much argument about how much it would cost us, finally relented and started a single stream recycling program. Our first pickup is next Wednesday. At first, I was thrilled.
A few weeks ago, a truck that was big enough to make Liam jump and squeal (hey, he's not even 2) rolled through the neighborhood, dropping off sleek, new black and yellow bins, complete with informational packets (god I love informational packets).
How exciting. I've always prided myself on being environmentally conscious. I eat very little meat. I buy fair trade goods and shop mostly from small, locally owned businesses. I even voted for Al Gore. I've just never recycled -- mostly because I've never lived in a place where it was possible. So now that Savannah has joined the 21st century and implemented a recycling program, the ball is in my court.
I was so excited. The helpful informational packet described the utmost in ease. Simply rinse your containers and place them in the bin. Cool.
Wait, what? I have to wash my trash before I throw it away? That's adding a step, isn't it? Oh, shit I'm in trouble.
Yes, my passionate environmentalism has just crashed head on into the brick wall of my laziness.
I can't just put stuff in the bin. That's outside. I need new containers for the house. And even though they said don't separate shit, I can't just dump the tin cans in with the glass beer bottles. And they said no wet cardboard, which means I have to store it in my house until pickup day (EVERYTHING gets wet outside in Savannah). So now, in my kitchen, are 3 new bins taking up valuable kitchen space, and I can't throw anything away without washing it and sorting it carefully into its bin. It seriously makes me want to eat baby seals and drive a hummer while littering.
I can't believe I am washing my fucking garbage. The planet is fucked.
I mean, seriously. I'm one of the eco-minded neo-hippie douchebags, and I'm sitting here at my computer looking at 2 soda cans and a yogurt cup in the living room trash can that I was just too lazy to walk all the way to the kitchen to rinse.
Like everything else in my life, I'm working on it. Until I get really good at recycling, I'll just have to content myself with feeling superior because I don't own a car. In your FACE, Oil Dependency!
A few weeks ago, a truck that was big enough to make Liam jump and squeal (hey, he's not even 2) rolled through the neighborhood, dropping off sleek, new black and yellow bins, complete with informational packets (god I love informational packets).
How exciting. I've always prided myself on being environmentally conscious. I eat very little meat. I buy fair trade goods and shop mostly from small, locally owned businesses. I even voted for Al Gore. I've just never recycled -- mostly because I've never lived in a place where it was possible. So now that Savannah has joined the 21st century and implemented a recycling program, the ball is in my court.
I was so excited. The helpful informational packet described the utmost in ease. Simply rinse your containers and place them in the bin. Cool.
Wait, what? I have to wash my trash before I throw it away? That's adding a step, isn't it? Oh, shit I'm in trouble.
Yes, my passionate environmentalism has just crashed head on into the brick wall of my laziness.
I can't just put stuff in the bin. That's outside. I need new containers for the house. And even though they said don't separate shit, I can't just dump the tin cans in with the glass beer bottles. And they said no wet cardboard, which means I have to store it in my house until pickup day (EVERYTHING gets wet outside in Savannah). So now, in my kitchen, are 3 new bins taking up valuable kitchen space, and I can't throw anything away without washing it and sorting it carefully into its bin. It seriously makes me want to eat baby seals and drive a hummer while littering.
I can't believe I am washing my fucking garbage. The planet is fucked.
I mean, seriously. I'm one of the eco-minded neo-hippie douchebags, and I'm sitting here at my computer looking at 2 soda cans and a yogurt cup in the living room trash can that I was just too lazy to walk all the way to the kitchen to rinse.
Like everything else in my life, I'm working on it. Until I get really good at recycling, I'll just have to content myself with feeling superior because I don't own a car. In your FACE, Oil Dependency!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Reign of Terror is Over
We gather here tonight to pay tribute to the most depraved, unscrupulous, in-your-face, asshole pirate the world has ever known. He was a badass motherfucker who took no prisoners and never compromised unless forced at gunpoint. He was a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I'm speaking, of course, about my cat Punkin.
Yes, Punkin J. "Poopstain" Morgan III, the Scourge of Ardsley Park (also known around the neighborhood as "That Fucking Cat"), died last night after a short fight with a big car. He was 12 years old. Which is a lot older in cat years.
So we've been crying about it all day and now it's time to party. In honor of my Irish roots, tonight Scott and I are having a good old fashioned wake. We are drinking beer and talking about what a great fuckin' guy that Punkin was. And in honor of Scott's Jewish roots, we're covering all the mirrors and sitting Shiva (but probably just for tonight -- I mean, seriously).
For those of you who knew Punkin, have a drink in his memory. For those who never met this gloriously evil cat, here are a few highlights from the life of a plain orange cat.
1. He was a Texan.
2. My brother-in-law called him The Murderer. Punkin's lifetime kill list includes: lizards, mice, rats, moles, snakes, birds (robins, blue jays, mockingbirds, fucking pigeons!), and too many squirrels to count. One year on my birthday (I swear I am not making this up) he brought me three dead squirrels and laid them in a pile, nose to tail.
3. He never backed down from a fight. I once saw him square off with a mastiff.
4. He used to supervise my baths. One time his tail caught on fire from one of the candles. I put it out before it burned his skin, but it melted the hair on his tail and I had to hold him down, cursing and screaming while I cut it off him. The hair, not his tail.
5. Sometimes, he would just start meowing randomly at 4 am. Nothing would stop him. Asshole.
6. Speaking of assholes, if you didn't pay attention to him when he wanted, he'd slowly and casually back up and put his asshole on the back of your hand or your book or whatever was keeping you from him. It was totally irritating.
7. He was the smartest cat I ever met. He was a problem solver. He figured out how to open doors, tupperware containers, and hook and eye closures for cabinets. We had to keep all our food in locked pantries and cabinets or he'd break in and just help himself to whatever. If he had thumbs, he would have ruled the world.
These are just a few. There are so many others. Like the time my roommate Toby and I watched him throw a dead blue jay in the air for half an hour just so he could "catch" it over and over again. Or the time he stole a cookie twice the size of his head right from the table in front of me when I looked the other way for 2 seconds. Or how he always looked at me like I was the asshole.
So on that note, raise your glass and drink to a hell of a guy who just happened to be a cat. Seize the day and live your life with no apologies. It's what Punkin would have wanted.
Yes, Punkin J. "Poopstain" Morgan III, the Scourge of Ardsley Park (also known around the neighborhood as "That Fucking Cat"), died last night after a short fight with a big car. He was 12 years old. Which is a lot older in cat years.
So we've been crying about it all day and now it's time to party. In honor of my Irish roots, tonight Scott and I are having a good old fashioned wake. We are drinking beer and talking about what a great fuckin' guy that Punkin was. And in honor of Scott's Jewish roots, we're covering all the mirrors and sitting Shiva (but probably just for tonight -- I mean, seriously).
For those of you who knew Punkin, have a drink in his memory. For those who never met this gloriously evil cat, here are a few highlights from the life of a plain orange cat.
1. He was a Texan.
2. My brother-in-law called him The Murderer. Punkin's lifetime kill list includes: lizards, mice, rats, moles, snakes, birds (robins, blue jays, mockingbirds, fucking pigeons!), and too many squirrels to count. One year on my birthday (I swear I am not making this up) he brought me three dead squirrels and laid them in a pile, nose to tail.
3. He never backed down from a fight. I once saw him square off with a mastiff.
4. He used to supervise my baths. One time his tail caught on fire from one of the candles. I put it out before it burned his skin, but it melted the hair on his tail and I had to hold him down, cursing and screaming while I cut it off him. The hair, not his tail.
5. Sometimes, he would just start meowing randomly at 4 am. Nothing would stop him. Asshole.
6. Speaking of assholes, if you didn't pay attention to him when he wanted, he'd slowly and casually back up and put his asshole on the back of your hand or your book or whatever was keeping you from him. It was totally irritating.
7. He was the smartest cat I ever met. He was a problem solver. He figured out how to open doors, tupperware containers, and hook and eye closures for cabinets. We had to keep all our food in locked pantries and cabinets or he'd break in and just help himself to whatever. If he had thumbs, he would have ruled the world.
These are just a few. There are so many others. Like the time my roommate Toby and I watched him throw a dead blue jay in the air for half an hour just so he could "catch" it over and over again. Or the time he stole a cookie twice the size of his head right from the table in front of me when I looked the other way for 2 seconds. Or how he always looked at me like I was the asshole.
So on that note, raise your glass and drink to a hell of a guy who just happened to be a cat. Seize the day and live your life with no apologies. It's what Punkin would have wanted.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Happy New Year! Not that I give a shit, really. I'm not trying to kill anyone's buzz or anything, it's just not one of my favorite holidays.
I do love making resolutions, though. I love declaring things, generally speaking, so New Year's Resolutions are my kind of fun. This year, I resolve to lose weight and call my mother more.
Ha-ha, seriously.
This year, I have decided to make New Year's Resolutions that I am actually going to keep.
1. I will take more naps. I will go down for a nap immediately when my kid does after lunch. Fuck the dishes. Fuck the phone calls. Fuck getting high and reading comedy articles online at Cracked.com. I swear I shall sleep in the middle of the day, snuggled under blankets and at least one cat.
2. I will finally admit that I fucking hate to cook and hereby swear to avoid it at all costs. Unless I need to make my vegetarian chili with cornbread. And even then, I shall complain the entire time I make it. This I solemnly swear.
3. I will give up the last shreds of hope that I will ever have any sort of fashion sense. I will abandon myself to this truth and wear whatever the fuck I want. I already started. Yesterday, I wore the clothes I slept in the night before (which I'd gone to bed in after wearing all day the day before THAT). It was great. I didn't wear a bra and my hair looked like crows were nesting in it. This is just an example, of course.
4. I will stop apologizing for shit I don't mean. I've been wanting to give over to this one for a while now, and I've already been practicing. This encompasses everything from the little, everyday apologies like saying "I'm sorry" to people when they bump into me, to the big apologies like, "I'm sorry I called you an asshole and kicked your chair." I'm really not sorry for much that I do (though some of it I probably should be), so I'm going to stop saying it.
And finally, 5. I will enjoy myself as much as I possibly can. I am a hedonist. A pleasure seeker. A person of deep appetites. This year I will indulge in them all with no shame or fear.
I hope everyone reading this has a great year. Learn, play, make jokes and have fun. It is the key to living in the Monkeysphere. (If you don't get the last joke, read on at: http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html -- it's worth the read)
I do love making resolutions, though. I love declaring things, generally speaking, so New Year's Resolutions are my kind of fun. This year, I resolve to lose weight and call my mother more.
Ha-ha, seriously.
This year, I have decided to make New Year's Resolutions that I am actually going to keep.
1. I will take more naps. I will go down for a nap immediately when my kid does after lunch. Fuck the dishes. Fuck the phone calls. Fuck getting high and reading comedy articles online at Cracked.com. I swear I shall sleep in the middle of the day, snuggled under blankets and at least one cat.
2. I will finally admit that I fucking hate to cook and hereby swear to avoid it at all costs. Unless I need to make my vegetarian chili with cornbread. And even then, I shall complain the entire time I make it. This I solemnly swear.
3. I will give up the last shreds of hope that I will ever have any sort of fashion sense. I will abandon myself to this truth and wear whatever the fuck I want. I already started. Yesterday, I wore the clothes I slept in the night before (which I'd gone to bed in after wearing all day the day before THAT). It was great. I didn't wear a bra and my hair looked like crows were nesting in it. This is just an example, of course.
4. I will stop apologizing for shit I don't mean. I've been wanting to give over to this one for a while now, and I've already been practicing. This encompasses everything from the little, everyday apologies like saying "I'm sorry" to people when they bump into me, to the big apologies like, "I'm sorry I called you an asshole and kicked your chair." I'm really not sorry for much that I do (though some of it I probably should be), so I'm going to stop saying it.
And finally, 5. I will enjoy myself as much as I possibly can. I am a hedonist. A pleasure seeker. A person of deep appetites. This year I will indulge in them all with no shame or fear.
I hope everyone reading this has a great year. Learn, play, make jokes and have fun. It is the key to living in the Monkeysphere. (If you don't get the last joke, read on at: http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html -- it's worth the read)
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