Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Oh neglected blog...

...how I miss you so. I would pay more attention to you if it wasn't for that whole censoring thing I have to do from time to time. But alas, you are always here, waiting for me diligently to return and pay attention to you. Sort of like those assholes at Best Buy when I miss a payment for the now dead laptop I bought five years ago.

Many things are going on, yet nothing is going on. It's a strange dichotomy that my life is now days. For a big thumbs down, my cat died, and that sucked donkey balls. For a big thumbs up, I'm trying to do something productive with my time. But thus far, getting divorced is significantly less aggravating and was a shitload faster than trying to work for free.

I'm finding that I have to redefine what it is I consider to be bees and/or honey. I'm turning 40 in t-minus seven months. As it stands right now, I worry the only souls who will be celebrating with me will be my husband...because he has to...and my cats. The cats will be awesome when I'm sixty, and I can proudly tote my Cray-zee Cat Lady Status around as if it was a Birkin bag. But for now, it's an odd place of suck.

I find myself stuck between a fart and a can of Glade. Perhaps it's a fucktarded version of midlife crisis? Or maybe it's the voices in my head who are now trying to do the speaking for me? But I find my ability to connect to people outside of a teeny tiny micro-circle just about impossible. As I trip and fumble over words that seemed to come so easily not but a year ago, I now struggle to even speak at a tone that's even considered audible. Additionally, my patience for things that I once thought I'd always have patience for has vanished into a wisp of air; slightly visible, and with peculiar disdain for most topics of conversation.

Obviously, my biggest concern is I'm unintentionally alienating people who are very dear to me, or those I would like to get to know better. I enjoy my quiet time, but flat out isolation at my own hands was something I never signed up for. If that was really in the cards for me, I would have moved to Dallas with aforementioned ex husband, and been the country club outsider, yankee ho bag that Pam gives it rough to on Big Rich Texas.

This is not healthy. I know it. I'm trying to figure out what to do about it. Good manners, common morality, and maturity should tell me to be the solution to my issues, and not add to the cause of them. Because it's a thin wire I'm standing on, as I try to decide if companionship with some is worth the bullshittery that comes along with it. I would like to think that in the long run it is. My problem is clearly brought upon myself. Because at this point I'm old enough to do a better job of picking companions.

Unless it's a cat. Cats are awesome.

So I'm going to self explore, and see what I can conjure up here on my e-happy space. My premise remains the same; I do solemnly swear to continue to strive to be less rude than most people around me. I want to see where this journey takes me, and where the last stop is before I turn 40. From there, hopefully I'll have figured some shit out. Or at least have been gifted with a lifetime subscription to Cat Fancy.

In the meantime, to keep in the spirit of things, I'd just like to say that people who take calls at the dinner table after being 45 minutes for the meal in the first place, should have their phones confiscated and the firebombed before their very eyes, and then be forever deprived of dessert.

You know it's true.


Wednesday, June 1, 2011

It's all Compton up in the RP.

So, here's a short one in attempt to get back into the swing of things.

So...OBVIOUSLY...it's summer in Rogers Park, which means that all the kiddies, and by kiddies I mean the stereotypical boiz in da hood the news likes to warn us about nightly, finally get to stretch their arms out and shake off the winter blues. Boys will be boys, and after a never ending winter, they're a little stir crazy.

What a better way to release tension and enjoy the summer air than with a peaceful bike ride, down a tree lined street, the breeze gently kissing your skin, the golden ember of a tranquil sun setting magnificently before your eyes.

That and emptying your clip into the the ass of that punk who owes your ass money or some shit that I can't even pretend to understand the dynamics of. I sincerely say I'm sure his reasons were real and totally justifiable in his own mind. But that's another blog for another time.

All I know is, I'm sitting here in my crib, chillin' with my new favorite drink, The Britney Spears Special, (wine and lemonade in a plastic tumbler with a curly straw,) and I hear the echoing sounds of a Saturday Night Special ring through out the courtyard.

Then the whole building gets all 227, hanging out of their windows, myself included, hoping to (not) see a body. Because there's nothing more shiteous than having to hose wash blood stains off of the side walk. That shit never comes out. It's terrible for property value, and attracts ants by the millions.

So, this kid, now that he's sufficiently finished his bike ride, and made his point be known that he was none to pleased with the young man down the block, ditches his bike and gets the fuck outta there before the yuppies can come swarming like ants to a blood stain and bees to honey.

So here's the bees; shootin' up some trick at dusk on a busy street is rude AND unprofessional. Do that shit in an alley, basement, a corn field, a foreclosed house, or some other place where it'll be a while before someone finds that shit. Not where swarms of people can see you, and more so, get hit by your bullets. If you think the cops are going to be all argy bargy about attempted murder of your peers on the street, just think how cranky they'll be if you should kill a tax payer. The Alderman needs that money to make our streets safer. He's doing such a BANG up job of it thus far.

Here's the honey; the whole building came together in unity to compare notes, stare at the cops, play the lambada with caution tape that marked the crime scene, and eye the discarded bike, laying all lonely like in the gateway.

That poor bike. Just a few moments before, it was enjoying a ride with it's owner. Ten minutes goes by, and an elderly man is thinking of ways to grab the thing for himself. I didn't ask why. I just said if it meant that much to him, I would look the other way. That bike was probably stolen three times before. So why not let it live out its life with an old man who'll probably sell it for scrap metal, or possibly use it for his own bike-by shooting?

All snark and shit aside, I'm really not in the mood to spend a summer worrying about getting shot up while I'm walking my pugs, or trolling the streets for parking. With the housing market the way it is, ain't no one going anywhere anytime soon. I'd pack my own heat, but I think it's illegal, and my aim is only good when I'm standing still.

Tis true! I have the paper thing with the outline of the dude on it, all shot up in the kill zone. Not bad for a first timer. But I was in Texas when I did it. Being a good shot is in the air, so you have no choice but to inhale the sweet stench of gun powder, aim, and pull that trigger.

Yup. Not too keen about a long, shoot'em up summer. It'll make me long for the days when I was so fucked up in the head I refused to leave the fucking house. I may have been crazy, but I wasn't worried about getting shot at while walking the dogs.

Until the next time...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Are you shittin' me?

That’s what I asked my Mother in Law as we left the Homegoods today.

Yes, I know it’s rude to announce “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME” in the middle of the Homegoods. But it needed to be said.

In the check out line before us, stood a woman, some item in her hand, red sticker to indicate that it was half off stuck upon it, demanding her money back.

That’s not at all rude. One should ask for a refund when one is unhappy with ones purchase.

However, according to the Poor Dude Behind the Register, the SKU indicated that the particular item she was trying to return was purchased in May, 2009.

Because there’s some bullshit tradition about the customer always being right, this Poor Dude Behind the Register was able to offer her half off from the half off she paid for it during the last decade. That’s pretty generous, considering this item had probably been regifted (red sticker in tact) about half a dozen times, and eventually banished to a plastic bag from another store, where it sat in the trunk of this woman’s 2010 leased Mercedes S Class, since December 2010.

Bitch wasn’t happy. She asked if she could get the full refund if she came back with a receipt, to which I declared “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME??”

She’s got to be shitting someone. She can’t be real. I had to rub my eyes and make for sure I was looking at an actual woman. Because it took a seriously jumbo size pair of nads for ANYONE to walk into a store and demand a full refund on some shit they bought two years ago.

This chick has never heard of Ebay? Or Craigslist? Or Goodwill? Because times are tough. Someone else could really benefit from the $5.00 refund she was going get back to use at the Starbucks across the lot. (Where she'd demand a Sanka, I'm sure.)

I could have used it for a tank and a half of gas. Or better yet, to buy some poster board and glitter markers so I could have made a giant sign that said "ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME" and protested against "Absurd Refunds" outside of the store.

Because...are you shittin’ me? If you’re going to nut up so hard core you need to demand a refund like that, at least do it gracefully, and humbly. Say please, thank you, so sorry for the trouble, and tell a white lie like “I don’t know where the time went.”

“I’m coming back with the receipt.” Why didn’t she come in with the receipt in the first place? As if that’s her trump card. She’s getting that $5.00 at any cost!! You know bitches mean business when they bust out a tore up, faded receipt that probably once served as a plate for the chewed, flavor drained gum from her pool boy.

The bees say “She’s not shittin’ you. Now stop swearing in public, you resolution buster.”



Sunday, March 13, 2011

I'm all old and shizz today.

No seriously. It's the last year of my 30's.

There's some rumor going around that 40 is the new 30, and hopefully that crap is true. I don't feel 39. I feel like my head is up my ass like I did at 29, just not as deep. There's some light at the end of the butt-tunnel, unlike ten years ago, when all there was nothing but shit for as far as the eye could see.

I don't know where ten years went. I mean, I KNOW where they went, but I cannot believe they went the way they did. A two year hospital "stay," a two year trip to the e-wilds of internets, two marriages, a new family, two homes, three jobs, a layoff, a relapse here-n-there, and an odd revolving door of people.

Though I haven't been posting as much as I want to, the ideas have been piling up. I have this giant, metropolis sized pile of post its that house my so called creativity, scribbled in shorthand during red light stops or in line at the drive thru D&D. I just add that stuff to the endless note book of shit that lists what I'm supposed to be doing around the house so I can answer people with a straight face when they ask "what do you do?"


And then they stare at me. They don't ask why. They just say "must be nice."

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's hell because I spend all my time organizing how I'll spend my time. It's a futile battle, because by doing that, time is totally wasted. I asked for pills to help me push through, but the powers that be said that they're worried I'll stay awake for a month straight, stop eating, and drop to a size 4 like that last time.

As if it was such a bad thing. They're just jealous. Haters! I was productive and skinny, just like society deems all people to be.

But annnyyywhooreee...

Am I any closer to being the person I ever thought I'd become? Thankfully, no. But I'm starting to like myself more, and it only took me 30 some years to begin to be able to do that.

I'm glad to say that my biggest dramas these days is that my sick cat peed on the wall and then tried to dry hump my other sick cat. I'm not sure when the cat got freaky, but I do know there's now a water bottle with his name on it. Dry humping is one thing. Golden showers is a big Bozo No-No. My home is not one of ill-repute. Dirty lil' pussy cat.

Annnyyywhoooreee...Yup. 39.

Life begins at 40, which is the new 30. Which means I have an extra 10 years to pull my head completely out of my ass, and for that, I am forever grateful.


Saturday, February 26, 2011

No, I didn't go AWOL.

Not that the three of you who read this noticed.

Hi you three!! *waves!*

I had to get some shizz straightened out in order to have an attention span long enough to write something that makes sense. At least, write something that makes sense to me. You just never know where that trip down the rabbit hole is going to take a person.

Sadly, after a damned good fight, my sweet puppy of 16 years, Casey, passed away from cancer.

Of course, there are always those kind folks who say "So what, it's just a dog." To them, I say "go fuck yourself, hard, raw, with no love, no money, no digits, a vicious hangover, and with no note in the morning."

She wasn't just a dog to me. She was my four legged, little hellion of a child. She did everything just as a child does. She shamelessly destroyed some of my most treasured pieces of crap. She trashed the house with in mere minutes after I had spent hours cleaning it. She mouthed off to me after I denied her a favorite treat because of naughty behavior, such as trying to eat a bird to show off to the pug that she's a bad ass bitch. Birds aside, she'd indulge in a gluttonous feast on food that was too rich for her, and then puke everywhere. She'd defiantly run away when I'd call her. She cost me more money than I could ever dream of spending in a PetSmart. On some days, she'd seem to openly like her father more than me. Pretty much just like a bona fide, flesh and blood child.

But none of that mattered, because she was the little, furry light in my life.

Casey's Auntie Kim said it the best, "She was there for all of the shit." And she was.

After being unheard of, and presumed dead for almost a decade, Mickey Rourke won some award for some movie. When he took the podium, his Oscar or whatever in his hand, he thanked his dogs. He wasn't fuckin' around either. Because sometimes, when the chips are down, shit is stinkin', and the people you think have your back have hit the floor, man's best friend is usually still there, trashing your house and eating your food.

For 16 years, I was truly blessed to have Casey in my corner. She was a devoted girl, and I knew I was lucky to have such a sweet puppy in my life. Midnight potty calls, the occasional stolen pork chop, and the $25 weekly tab in rawhides were a small price to pay for her happiness, and to show her how much I love her.

The house is quiet, and there's an odd emptiness with out her here. It's so quiet that I can't write. But I'm slowly getting used to not throwing my unwanted sandwich to the floor for her to come by and instantly chow it before I've even called her name.


Casey, my Schluppy Puppy, climbin' on yo' couch, eyein' yo dinner cookin'. Hide yo' noms. She eatin' everything up here.

Next week, back to business. But for now, I miss my puppy.


Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Good Deed Bees

My Girl Steph is trying to get some money together so she can continue getting her college education. Personally, I think the girl is so smart she should be one of THOSE people colleges pay to have them grace their Hazing Week with an appearance before they go on to graduate Magna Cum Laude. But I may be biased, since I think she's the cat's pajamas.

So, easy peasy; read and vote.

Merci Bees Very Much!

Help me win a $3,000 college scholarship. Vote for my essay!

Shoe Marketing

I learned a Bit o’ Honey coming straight from the Streets over this past weekend. It was so exciting!! There’s nothing I love more than discovering the process of customs and protocol of all cultures, both sub-cultures and those exploited on TLC.

For real. Shizz gets me off.

So I was just happier than a hipster after a Band of Horses show at the IHOP at 4:00AM to be told that THIS VISUAL supposedly means something...



Oh my God, shoes.

Back in the good old days, when I was a wee tot, when you saw shoes thrown up on a power line, it only meant one thing; that bullies were afoot, that some kid kissed the ground, got himself a wedgie so atomic that it could split an atom, and was then left to run home in barefooted shame to his momma.

Now-a-days, I guess shoes on a wire supposedly means that DRUG R US is in business, and it’s in business in the building where the shoes are.

WHO KNEW?? Well, those in street drug trade, I suppose. But, I did not! Now I have been informed!!

Granted, I’m not usually looking up at the sky and admiring the view when in the alley. I’m trying to not get run over, trying to dodge The Dog Molester (another blog for another time.) or I’m semi-creeping the building across from ours so I can admire Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy from afar. (Also another blog for another time.)

Not for me, of course. For Kaydee, because I’m always looking out for my girl.

I have to start making a list of these blogs for another time. The Dog Molester is notorious for both being rude and molesting dogs. Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy is a walking embodiment of all that is hot and glorious in all of Rogers Park. Not just a feast for the eyes, Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy goes out of his way to wave hello to you from down the alley, and makes sincere small talk that isn't uncomfortable or is forced out like a hard turd.

May we take a moment to honor Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy just on principle alone.........

........So those kicks may have been kickin’ it up there for a while. We did have some emo-kids that were squatting in a unit, and using my beloved back gate and dumpster as their own VIP entry way to their assessment free living arrangement. But I haven’t seen any wayward college kids in our courtyards, coppin’ a squat Indian style, and hijacking a wireless connection whilst they wait for “that guy with the key” to come home so they can “get their shit and catch the Greyhound to Cali for Coachella” in a while. So, business is probably closed for the winter. Or even better, permanently.

But yeah; shoes on a wire. Not as pretty as birds on a wire, but much more creative for supposed marketing purposes.

And now you know too!


FWIW; Should this Bit o Honey be completely incorrect, unfounded, or a mere urban legend, please let me know. CORRECT knowledge is even more powerful!