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!

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Joys of Snowmageddon

Snowmaggedon 2011 has done more than bring most of the country to a grinding halt. Not only has it shown that maybe Al Gore wasn’t making Pee Pants over the state of the environment just to stroke his own peen and make some sweet, crazy money on his scary as hell movie. But also it has shown that just because you may be knee deep in snow, doesn’t mean you’re knee deep in ass hats too.

So far, this blizzard has been the best thing to happen to my Lil’ Hood here since a few of the peeps who chill in the alley scored a box of perfectly good workout DVDs during an impromptu garbage pick last summer. People have just come together, no questions asked, and for no other reason than for the sake of doing it.

It makes all the cold little bees all warm and fuzzy in their frosty, bee-sicle hearts.

In the wake of the storm, here at my building, one dude began the coalition to shovel the courtyard. I think it started with just him, but it wasn’t before long that the courtyard was like Whoville, everyone all happy, shovels in hand, making merry as they did their digging thing. While I, The Grinch, was still in bed, trying to shake off the sleep hangover I had for only getting about three hours of shut eye. Staring at the purty snow out the window, and watching an all night DeGrassi marathon on TeenNick will do that to you.

I believe that is was The King of the Condo Snow Shovelers, who was responsible for building a kick ass igloo for the wee ones to chill out in. It's good for it to be there so the kiddies can keep busy while their parents attempt to rescue their cars from unbridled snow carnage. I wanted to get a pic of said igloo for you, but I was only lucky enough to admire it from afar. If I get too close, my Pug would be unstoppable to do his own kind of “chilling” out in it, and then I get one of those “shitty” letters taped to my door with a demand of funds for his $50 “dump.”

I’m getting my pun on. This amuses only me. I own it.

Besides, snow piles of any kind are like the flames and pee dogs are the moths. It’s clean, it’s pretty, and it beckons with all of its bright glory. Dogs just can’t help themselves. Just another reason why I’m a dog walking, alley dweller. But alas, another blog for another pee-tastic time.

Since I was late to the front courtyard party, and also inspired by the love, I attempted to join in the do gooding, dig out by trying to shovel the back porch so the stairs would once again look like stairs, and not a black diamond ski run, as seen here...


When I was finished with it, it was passable at best. However, I wasn’t woman enough to work my way up to the second and third floors. Not for not trying, but because other than tossing the snow over my shoulder and onto the alley below, I seriously had no fucking idea on where to put that “shit.” With my luck, I’d get one of those “shitty” notes stuck to my door about both dog and snow “dumping,” and that would’ve “bummed” me out.

Holysnowballs with these bad puns. I’m so sorry. No more Stella Artois and chocolate cherry booze candies for me. At least not until breakfast.

If there’s another round of snow, I’m setting my alarm, busting out The Barefoot Contessa recipe for blueberry muffins, and I’ll be out there, watching people shovel and build igloos while I serve up some noms. That’ll be my little contribution.

A side of honey butter with those muffins, of course.

Brrr bee!