Pier Review

Anemic sun halo captured at Holland State Beach, July 19, 2018

 

Walking the public pier along the Holland State Beach allows one to appreciate both an exercise in free speech and the quasi-felonious joys of graffiti expressionism.

I have never been so brave or confident in what I had to say that I was willing to risk a $250 fine and possible jail time to tag a public edifice in order to say it.*

Vandalism is, at the very least, a misdemeanor offense, but what I want to know is…is it art?

And if it is art, what is it saying?

Based on my hour spent cataloging this year’s liberal art tributes on the rusting canvas of the masses, the message depends on the viewer:

Positivity Abounds:

Travooo captures the elusive qualities of LOVE  in swirling suggestions while boldly stating that it is all underscored by the balance to be found in the harmony of Yin and Yang.

 

If you look hard enough, you can find answers.

Although….you may also be left wondering what the question was.

Thoughts from Danny Duncan!

Danny thinks “It’s fine!”

But, he scrawled his sentiments in a tucked away place on an overhead pipe, so I suspect he’s playing it cool.

I bet Danny knows where the milk is!

 

Some people put themselves out there, courting ridicule…possibly unaware that a Tinder Date may be using a pseudonym.

If you know of anyone actually named Edelweiss, I will retract my skepticism.

Everyone has an opinion…whether that opinion is worth scrawling on a pier support is in the eye of the beholder.

Watch out, Amos Kiks.Palmbos, you have an admirer. 

Dreams are apparently dictated with impermanent ink scrawled on a blue-green background and will melt with time and the coming rains.

Actually, this was one of my favorites…googly eyed smiley face not withstanding.

Lacking the words to express their deeper emotions, some fall back on a classic:

!!!HIGH 5!!! 

Friends slap high fives (or low ones) wherever they can.

The Green Hand Gang numbers at least five!

 

Some HIGH FIVES bury the headline:

Amos Kiks.Palmb Strikes again.  

OTHER HIGH FIVES come with best wishes from ON HIGH!

Apparently the Green Hand Gang are followers of the BIG PINK HAND IN THE SKY.

 

Emotions run high…leaving some confused…knotting their hair with suspense.

Will Jeffrey or Won’t Jeffrey?

This strange smokestack-like object serves no discernible purpose. Does someone out there know what this does?

 

Perhaps the message echoes an earlier time—a plea for Peace, Love and Hope symbolized by a badly divided pie chart?

All you need is a Sharpie marker and an earnest sentiment and the sky is your oyster.

The VEGANS were a bit demanding and psychedelically so:

Spred Luv…and dictionaries!

Cock–the other white meat. Now comes in vegan flavor. (This is where we find out who really reads the subtitles.)

 

Some pier polluters promote poignant pleas:

Ignore the scrawled ‘Anus’ overhead. Focus on the question, Kiki!

Perhaps what you take from the message boardwalk is only that which you brought with you?***

For example.

FORSOOTH, FIE, ALAS

One word scrawled among the masses stood out. I was astounded that classics such as Shakespearean language describing a two-week time frame have made it to modern vernacular (even if the spelling hadn’t):

Then, later, during a rare session of live tv watching, I was bombarded by a commercial which dispelled my illusions. (And possibly also my allusions.)

I almost despaired to have lost a belabored delusion of the persistence of language.

 

But then, after watching King Lear drop bodies at Grand Valley State University, I decided that Fortnite actually is a modern variant of Shakespearean storytelling—if only Shakespeare had lived in the age of the rocket launcher.

---

GOOGLE FAILED ME. WHEN I TRIED SEARCHING THE TERM ‘SHAKESPEARE’ AND ‘ROCKET LAUNCHER’ I GOT AN ARTICLE FOR THE ROYAL SHAKESPEARE COMPANY LAUNCHING A NEW VEGAN MENU:

I TOLD YOU THOSE VEGANS WERE PUSHY!

It seemed an obvious thing to me that there should be an image of Shakespeare with a rocket launcher…SO I MADE ONE:

I make judgments about people writing graffiti but, apparently, I have no problem stealing copyrighted images to abuse my own artistic license.

Z’WOUNDS…that was a long way to go for a laugh.

Now, back to the boardwalk…

---

Lost in a Sunset

If art is a medium of expression, then I believe those who congregate at the water’s edge to exchange selfies and tag nearby crumbling infrastructure are at least trying to get a message out.

Or, maybe they are all just succumbing to…

I wanted this for my title, but that seemed like cheating.

Maybe this isn’t art.

But I say, “Let he who is without talent, shut the hell up.”

And let it be what it is.

Breathless

Endless

Speechless

Timeless

*-*-*

THE BEST

I too will be “Forever Faffi”

The need to express ourselves, our souls, may be the most human characteristic.

That we do it in a destructive, transitory medium is even more so.

Will words someday become anachronisms?

After digital communication leaps past verbal utterances to an all-emoticon communication system—how will we express nuanced emotions?

The phrase a “picture is worth a thousand words” takes on a scary new meaning when all you have is a demented smiley face to look at.

Be grateful it’s not an eggplant.

Until that day, cherish words, however they are conveyed.

Whatever cryptic message they share may be just for you!

Maybe the mystic words will heal what is broken. 

Release what is hidden.

Find what is lost!

OR MAYBE NOT…

Maybe a body just needs to scream into the void and hope that someone, somewhere, is listening:

I’m sorry?

 

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*I vandalize the internet from the safety of my blog instead.

**The internet laws have not yet caught up with the violations of free speech rampant in the digital stratospheres. When I become dictator of the universe, trolls will be hunted for sport.

***I suspect I’m stealing this line from Yoda. Or Harry Potter. A writer somewhere is feeling a sharp pang of plagiarism.

 

Eighteen Years to Tumescence

Do you like a stinking good time?

Do you appreciate the rare? The exotic? The exceedingly slow burn to coition?

Do you savor the anticipation an eighteen-year wait brings?

Then you may be ready for the giant phallus. The amorphophallus titanum to be precise.

*

If you happened to wander into Meijer Gardens this week, you may have stumbled across the shy and retiring Titan Arum–a bloom colloquially referred to as a Corpse Flower.*

I’ve been a long-time fan of the gardens, but even I was caught by surprise about the arrival of the local beauty–nicknamed Putricia for her odiferous nature. On impulse, I dashed to the gardens on Tuesday to get this shot of her before she made her full-blown debut. The garden staff estimated that she wouldn’t fully bloom until Friday…but they were to be caught off guard.

Putricia on Tuesday, spathe still tightly furled like a virgin’s nightgown before deflowering.

Wednesday night, the spathe–or giant solitary petal that goes around the spadix (the stabby, sword-like center spike) was still tightly closed.**

For a better description, you can go to the Chicago Botanic Garden’s website for a great breakdown of the particulars. The site was extremely helpful in providing the follow image to steal:

Rumors abound around this hard-to-get coquette. According to this chart, it may bloom every four to five years. I’ve read elsewhere, it can take much longer because it relies on perfect conditions being met in order to propagate. The flower is in danger of becoming extinct in nature because of habitat loss and other causes.

At the Meijer Gardens, Putricia took eighteen years before she was ready to blossom. But she is finally strutting her stuff. And perhaps because she was so slow in arriving, she hurried up her appearance in time for me to dash over to meet her on Thursday. And, I have to say, she put on quite a stately show.

At this point in the line, you aren’t even half-way there.

I couldn’t say how many people came, but the lines curled throughout the building when I was there. If you are brave, you might get to see her yourself–at least, for the next 24 hours anyway.

If you want to save your feet (and nose) the effort, a link to video of the flower’s expansion, you can find it in this article located in the Detroit News.

Here’s the picture I snapped with my cell phone:

Thursday, a mad crush awaited anyone who dared to visit the Queen of Meijer Gardens!

Personally, I wasn’t overwhelmed with the stench by the time I got to her. She’d already lost some of her bloom. (Probably being visited by thousands of people takes a toll on a girl.)

Whether standing in line for over two hours for a minute in the limelight with this sultry Sumatran Stinker is your idea of fun, only you can decide.

As for me, I am happy that I went and hope we can look forward to a bright future ahead.

And now, I have camping to get packed for.  My son is totally puzzled as to why I would bother to stop and chat with you for this long anyway. For this reason, I’m attributing any typos to his impatience.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*Strangely enough, no one requests a corpse flower for their bridal bouquet. Probably due to having to wait decades to ensure you’ll have one in time for the nuptials.

**Look, I’m not a botanist. There’s plenty of sites you can go to for actual plant terminology and description. But we both know you aren’t going there, are you?!

 

 

 

Good Grief

Sometimes I am caught unawares by the shock of death.

Even thirteen years later, I still grieve.

It catches me in odd moments.

Like today, watching the Monk series finale.

Where, eight years after the show ended, I have my own Monk moment.

 

*

Monk was a silly crime dramedy about a detective so torn by the death of his wife, he is unable to function without a massive number of coping skills that seem laughable to the world around him. These mechanisms for survival include: obsessive compulsive neatness, rigid need for control and cleanliness and order.* These tics are detrimental to his mental health and impede his ability to work in a normal job. They make for funny television, but a miserable reality.

I never saw the series when it was running. Back in 2002 I was living in Chicago, alternately trying to be a teacher and trying to get pregnant and failing at both. Then I succeeded in pregnancy, but completely tanked at teaching. But I had a husband and a son, so I kept going.

Until 2005, when my husband died.

And I stopped.

I stopped functioning, except at a nominal level where I met basic needs of my son and I cocooned myself from any changes that meant I had to face life.

I missed the entire span of the eight Monk seasons and only stumbled on it in its rerun afterlife where nothing ever truly dies.

And, today, I got to watch Adrian Monk resolve the death of his wife.

The scene that no one else probably thought two cents about was the fact that Monk couldn’t sleep in the center of his bed. He hugged the side, leaving room for Trudy, the memory of his wife forever impressed on her side of the bed.

When all the secrets are revealed in the last episode, the series is wrapped up in a tidy bow. Monk is sleeping, stretched out, in the center of the mattress and is seemingly unaware of the change in his rituals and patterns of behavior that have subsided with the peace of finally knowing. He is able to go on.

I still sleep on my side of the bed. I have never moved from it, no matter what bed I choose. It is probably just habit. A comfortable placement of nearness to the shelf where I put my glasses. The fact that I can only sleep facing one direction.

But it’s true, I can’t move to the center of the bed. Even if it is a small twin-sized mattress. I cling to the edge as if it were a thread from the past. Where I shared a space with someone else.

And that never goes away.

So, today, I cried. Because I remembered.

And never can forget.**

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*I am not like Monk. If anything, I am the anti-Monk. I do not clean, and obsessively hang on to everything, creating piles of junk that might possibly qualify me for a hoarders episode. I do however have an obsessive compulsive need to watch television that makes me cry, apparently.

**And the next day my period started with a raging bang. I suspect I was also a target of my hormones.

 

 

 

Tick-Tock, Time’s Up.

For thirty seconds today, I thought my dishes were all clean.

*Tick*

As my son’s bus pulled up to drop him off,

*Tick*

I was putting the last cup in the cupboard.

*Tick*

The sink was empty.

*Tick*

So was the dishwasher.

*Tick*

I sometimes wish I could hit a “Pause” button.

*Tick*

My son would freeze, mid-step, off the bus.

*Tick*

The grass would not grow, undoing my work mowing in 90 degree heat.

*Tick*

And I could breathe deep of the scents of life.

*Tick*

The smell of the thyme the mower blades edged along with the grass.

*Tick*

The newly-minted caulk from the resealed tub.

*Tick*

Signs of progress, and yet…

*Tick*

I can’t help but wish I could stop the hands from moving.

*Tick*

The To Do list never really stops growing.

*Tick*

That the unpaid bills could wait just a little bit longer…

*Tick*

Life is like an insistence bomb.

*Tick*

It goes on whether you want it to or not.

*Tick*…*Tick*…*Tick*

You just have to ignore the *ticks*…

*Tick*

Or suffer a case of time disease.

 

Watching Plants Grow and Avoiding Murder

For anyone not neck-deep in the hat-phantasmic hoopla surrounding the royal wedding, allow me to present a less drama-soaked alternative: watching plants grow!

*

It occurs to me, that I have watched too many episodes of Midsomer Murders–a British television show on air since 1997 that refuses to die no matter how many casting changes occur.*

If you know the genre, there typically is a picturesque village holding a Medieval Faire with costumed residents oozing quaintness and exhibiting occasional homicidal tendencies.

If you are unfamiliar, I recommend a movie by Simon Pegg called “Hot Fuzz” that crystallizes the best and worst bits about the deceptively serene English countryside:

The thing that captures my attention more than the body count, is the number of community fêtes thrown. There’s like, what, one every episode? It makes me wonder if it is a national British pastime to dress in Ye Olde itchy togs and con people into playing cheesy parlor games for the sake of the church roof fund!

This brings me to today’s topic: American Block Parties.

Most block parties are an organized potluck gathering on barricaded side streets with no other function than to bring a community together to eat. Saturday gives me the opportunity to attend one that is equal parts British Fête Fundraiser and old-fashioned American street festival.

The occasion calls for a gathering of myriad talents to raise awareness and funds for the aptly named Wellhouse. The day’s event is the 6th Annual Heirloom Plant Sale.

Wellhouse is a community program that buys local houses, renovates dilapidated neighborhoods, and provides housing and skills training for formerly homeless residents. They also promote a ‘growing’ community with an emphasis on sustainable practices and energy conservation along with farm gardening.**

Wellhouse hosts a plant sale each year. You go for the plants. You stay for that little something extra you won’t find at your local greenhouse: community!

At first, I beeline to pick up the greenery I want to fill out the barren landscape choked with crabgrass and despair that is my backyard.

Sadly no one was dressed in a jester’s motley with tinkling bells on their pointy hat. On the upside, no one was murdered either.

Per usual, my teenage son has a trajectory of his own.

I keep dragging the man-child away from one table in particular. (I need to ogle flowers with exotic names like ‘Clemson’ and ‘Hyssop’, don’tcha know.)

Even better than they look. Seriously dangerous baked goods by Coco Reneé.

I promise my child a specialty cupcake just so I can plant shop. (Twist my arm.)

I don’t know how good the chocolate cupcake with chocolate whipped frosting was, I just know it took my son less time to inhale said cupcake than it took to remove the wrapper.

I pick the one with the raspberry garnish.

I have no regrets.

If you want more rib-sticking eats, you might hit up the royalty-hued catering provided by Purple Blaze, a hybrid of Southern and Ethiopian cooking.

Sadly, I have no time to sample their fare, mostly because the boy-child is pushing me to go, however, even I as a non-meat eater have to say the wafting odor of barbecue is positively mouth watering.

Smelled good enough to make me question my vegetarian leanings.

You wouldn’t think there is be more in store at the festivities, but you’d be wrong. The gray, overcast sky can’t put a damper on the upbeat spirits.

There are white-tented tables with various arts for sale. My arms are mostly full of greenery, but I stop to admire the selections.

There were some truly amazing prints to peruse courtesy of Red Hydrant Press.

Putting the ‘Press’ back into printing.

And fabulous arts of the crafted clay variety provided by WMCAT or the West Michigan Center for Arts & Technology.

Here’s CC showing off her colorful floral-designed Pot:

Before long, my son is dragging me toward our Prius in a desperate bid for freedom, but I chat and take pictures as if this isn’t killing him slowly.

From left to right: Teacher Jo Nicholson with students, CC and Alayna, kindly posing for no reason or explanation at all. Really, they are lucky I’m not a serial killer.

Moving between lazy droplets of rain, it is possible to find your smile while listening to The Fabulous Vans.

From left to right: Ryan Gravelle (wearing the cat shirt his girlfriend gave him), Timmy Van on guitar, and daughter, Sierra Van, on ukelele and vocals.

As I am packing up my car to go, I chat with the guitarist who is setting up for a performance. We exchange brief biographies, the way strangers do.***

I point to my kid who is slumping, hang-dog, in the car since mommy isn’t hopping to like he hopes. Timmy points to his daughter, Sierra, still polishing off some ribs at a nearby picnic table. He brags about her musicality and involvement in local choirs.

“You wouldn’t be biased about her talents at AlL?” I joke.

Her dad laughs and denies partiality, “Of course not.”

We talk about kids and music for a bit.

I bemoan my teenager’s rebellion against piano and ask whether he has to badger her to follow in her father’s footsteps? He assures me that she’s the one who wants sing.

He can’t say enough great things about her. Apparently, she’s even influenced the music they play.

“We usually play classic rock covers–like Led Zepplin’s “A Whole Lot of Love” but Sierra sings from some of her favorites: Twenty-One Pilots or One Republic.”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt him. “Did you say Twenty-one Republics?”

He corrects me without laughing, much. By now, the rest of the band has loped over, and agrees to stage a picture for me. I hear them play as I drive away. Their enthusiasm isn’t in the least dampened by the drizzly venue.

*

I spent the rest of the day trying to plant things while simultaneously killing as many weeds as I can.

In the spirit that embodies fine British murder mystery programming, there’s been a summer fête, someone has to die!

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*Regarding Midsomer’s Suspicious Death Rate: I do wonder how a fictional hamlet apparently no bigger than Rhode Island can survive quadruple homicides on a weekly basis without running out of people?

**I totally stole the Wellhouse information from a flyer available at the front table.

***Even though we all know about serial killers, no one expects them. They are like the Spanish Inquisition this way.

 

Que sera, sera cerebellum…

Spring still isn’t here. Do you know how I know this? Two words: Slug Brain.

*

I have an uninvited guest who invades my corpus callosum during cold weather.  Let’s call him Sluggo–assuming the copyright statutes on the Popeye franchise has lapsed. Apparently, Sluggo has decided to turn my brain into a collective.*

He has invited friends and they are slowly taking over the only unused space available–the squishy crevices in my cerebellum. He and his cohort hog the remote–watching the home shopping network at top volume. And for some reasons, their fearless leader keeps insisting that cheese is a fruit.  Sluggo is one pushy mollusk.

There’s popcorn everywhere and somebody drank the last of the orange juice, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me. I forget to look on the way to the bathroom and, invariably, there is a slippery trail threatening to break my neck. (The less said about this, the better.) Someone is going to get hurt.**

Anyway, if anyone wonders when the blog will finally start generating a buzz with it’s cutting-edge content and thought-provoking insights, ask yourself this: When will the gastropod extravaganza end and things can get back to normal?

Only Sluggo knows and he’s not talking.***

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*Resistance is futile…and leaves a slimy trail.

**I hurt my brain trying to understand the difference between a gastropod with a shell (snail) and one without (slug). And since that is the major difference between the two, that is saying something. I’m just not sure what…

***Send salt.

 

50 Shades of Earl Grey Crème…

Wanted: A naughty cup of tea with a bergamot bite.

I’m on my knees.

I’m begging for relief.

Aching for that particular and distinct pleasure that only a true acolyte of the libatious arts can attain. But alas…

My cup is empty.

I am truly lost without my Earl Grey Crème.

————————

 

The week I learned that Teavana was going to close its doors, I went straight to the mall, plunked down a piece of plastic and ordered an obscene amount of tea–something near 7 pounds–because that was the minimum I could order to get 30% off the total price. I did not even look at the receipt when I signed it. No price was too high a cost to pay.*

You think 7 pounds doesn’t sound like a lot?  Imagine the backpack sized tea parcels they gave me–I’m sure I looked like a tea mule smuggling fine grade, uncut pure leaf addiction–I’d show you…but I drank it all.

In less than a year, my precious was gone.

Thanks to: http://www.vitamin-ha.com/gollum-memes-14-pics/ for coming up with a Gollum/Tea meme.

 

I swore I wouldn’t buy any more tea until I have drunk some of the thousands of other teas in the many, many containers I already possess.

You think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

I have issues. Crazy, manic, matcha-based issues.

 

I’ve stuck by my resolution not to succumb to temptation. Not to bend. Not to splay myself prostrate crying

“Why have the tea gods abandoned me? WHY?”

I’ve been sucking down Twinnings Chai to sublimate my desires. I sugar it. I even use the latte foamer that makes me feel like a pampered princess…until I have to clean it.

IT’S ONLY DAY THREE!

I’VE CRACKED.

 

I am now hunting for a replacement.

How hard can it be to find a fragrant facsimile?

A delicious doppleganger?

A tantalizing taste bud teaser to pleasure the palate? A tea that will make me whimper when it’s gone bottom’s up!**

I’m putting out an ad to the area tea purveyors:

“I’m a sweet young thing looking for the bad boy I’ve been missing…oh where, oh where is my Earl Grey Crème?

Fortunately, the internet is ready to cater to most discerning clientele.

Clickety, click, ka-ching!

So, bring on the Adagio Moonlight loose leaf and the Earl Grey Crème wares of Art of Tea–I can’t wait to sample your charms!***

Hurry to me, my darling. I’m waiting for you!

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*I lied. I did look at the receipt. The total was shocking, and this was after the discount. And, though I did not faint, it was only because I was afraid I would drop my complimentary cup of tea in the process.

**I want a tea that will own me, make me say “Thank you! May I have another!”

***This post may be a sign that I need an intervention…or a really dominant cup of tea.

 

Things To Do On Valentine’s Day When You Are Single…

For some, February 14th might as well be called “Sorry-You-Are-Unlovable Day.”

It is the annual event loners celebrate by default when Valentine’s Day rolls around like the hemorrhoid of holidays it is.  Honestly, I’m surprised there isn’t a bleak, dark corner of the Hallmark aisle already dedicated to us.

More gems like this available at https://jezebel.com

I could be petty and jealous and secretly hate everyone in a relationship on this one particular day of the year.* But it would take energy I totally lack to lift my middle finger and wave it about.

So, instead of moping about being unlucky in love, I am coming up with my sure-fire Emergency Preparedness List of getting through the Cupid-Vomit-Thong-Up-The-Butt-Overpriced-Hormone-Drenched Extravaganza that is February 14th. Feel free to add suggestions.

THE SINGLE PERSON’S ANTI-VALENTINE’S DAY VACCINATION SCHEDULE:

1. Shower and put on the good underwear. You know the ones–breathable, big enough to cover your dignity and not low crawl up your ass when you walk. **
2. Drink something fizzy and pink with an umbrella. Now, the only umbrellas I own are the collapsible kind that are half-broken, so one side droops down to guide the water down your collar. If this means I’m going to look like a mad woman with a Shirley Temple addiction, too bad.
3. Buy those raspberries. I never buy fruit out of season as it is an unjustified expense. Screw that. I deserve me some fuzzy, deliciousness.***
4. If you want flowers or candy–buy them. But I highly encourage you do it on February 15th when it all goes miraculously on sale.
5. Massage chairs at the mall take credit cards. Ten dollars will make you forget about all your troubles–at least for a little while. Wear a mask if you are a moaner.
6. Indulge. Read a book. Actually focus on the words and ignore that weird noise in the other room. I’m sure whatever it was can be replaced…or will heal.
7. Heat blankets in the dryer (or stove, whatever) and then curl up with them just before you open that book. It’s totally worth the fire hazards if you lose track of the time. Trust me. I know. Some books are worth dying for.
8. Plan an escape from dull reality with friends and keep it. It doesn’t have to be this day. Just knowing you are going out with people you like is a joy. It gives you something to look forward to being outside of yourself. Speaking of self…
9. Love the one you’re with. Take that however you want. Just don’t post any incriminating pictures on Facebook.
10. Be kind to yourself. Take back the day. It’s not just for lovers any more.

You know that ideal world where everyone is nice and caring and thinks about what you need? (No? Me neither.) Make sure you take time be that person for yourself for this one day. Be your own valentine.

(And if anyone snickers at you when they catch you hugging yourself–punch them, hard, and tell them it was a love tap from me.)

Nothing screams “You is special!” like a nice tiara.

And if you have your own recommendations for surviving this un-celebration, please leave a note below. It’s a cold, cruel world for single people on February 14th. It’s good to know we’re not alone.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*Why limit myself to just one day? I prefer to spread my loathing out in a nice, even layer throughout the year. Like a bitter chocolate frosting that burns upon contact.

**I may have to go shopping…I’m not sure I still own any good underwear.

***Please do not take this as an invitation to insinuate a smutty association between raspberries and men’s genitalia. I’d like to eat them again one day. What? No! Of course I mean the fruit!! What did you think I meant? It’s people like you who are ruining the internet.

————————–You Read This Far Bonus_______________________

Please check out Jezebel.com and all the less safe Anti-Valentine’s cards I didn’t choose from. You’re welcome.

Or, if you want to walk on the wicked side, I found this little number on Disturbed Stranger: I Killed Cupid

Warning, this isn’t the kind of gentle humor you are used to on my playground. This is dark-side-of-the-moon, do you [expletive deleted] your mother with that mouth? kind of dark. In fact, NEVER google Dead Cupid. It was a disturbing journey all around.

I need another bath now.

The Beast

This is a test of the limits of my abilities to get this post to Facebook, come hell or high water.

TheDustSeason

I have fed the beast and still he screams

In fevered, agonizing dreams

His cries resound without surcease

You cannot fill this endless beast

 

He hungers, hungers, hungers still

Though every market basket spills

With trifles, desires, colored bright,

His aching need you cannot fight

 

No food can fill this gaping maw

A cornucopia is but a stall

A smidge, a nosh, a brief repast

Nothing you bring can ever last.

 

Before the final course is served

(Regardless of whether it’s deserved.)

You plead, you beg,

“Let this be enough!”

He gestures to refill the trough!

 

For some a feast would not suffice.

The hunger exceeding fields of rice

You cannot nourish, cannot swallow

That some are born with legs so hollow!

 

So bear your burden, feed the wish

Engorge the bottomless abyss

Stoke the fire, prime the steam

So someday you may once more…

View original post 116 more words

Don’t Lick This Card…

I started this post about ten days ago…but caught the flu so bad, I couldn’t finish writing it. I kind of collapsed instead.  I am finally crawling back up on my personal hobby horse–the bedeviling holiday traditions that trap you in a tinsel choke-hold and won’t let go!

 

***

 

I won’t say that I am single-handedly keeping Hallmark alive, but of my entire family, I am the only one I know who sends holiday cards because I have to and despite the fact that I lost all religious affiliation years ago.

I have never been diagnosed with OCD (?Overly Cheerful Demeanor?), but it’s the only explanation I can find for why I put up a Christmas Solstice Tree, bake and decorate a bajillion festive cookies and, of course, send out the ubiquitous holiday cards.

It’s a sickness really.

I waited too late this year though. The holiday came and went (a Day Early) and I had yet to write out a single card. You’d think this was a sign! Maybe this year would be the year? Can I break the cycle?

Turns out…no. I can’t.

Four boxes of holiday cards at the ready—espousing nicely generic season greetings—printed family photo montage highlighting 2017 high (and low) points ready to go, festive stamps at hand, I sat at a table and manically wrote out a personalized greeting to everyone on my list.*

Did I mention I was suffering the worst plague at the time and, maybe, started hallucinating about half-way through the pile?**

To say some of my cards were a bit weird…well…I really wish I had taken pictures of some of the better entries. Fortunately, friends were willing to send me a few as proof of madness friendship.  Seeing them now, they don’t sound nearly as weird as I thought they were at the time.

But, I do remember a few choice comments I wrote:

“Dear Boston-Family,

Please remember on New Years Day to toss a roast beef out your front door before heading out. This is to feed the dragon perched on your gables. It need not be cooked—many dragons prefer a raw gift—but a nice sear is also appreciated.

Do not forget to watch for acid-spitting lizards though. They are much more temperamental and you’d be advised to crawl out a side window to avoid them…”

 

The longer I wrote, the more like a cry for help some of the cards started to resemble:

Dear Chicago Friends,

“I do not understand why or how this tradition started?! Nobody writes physical mail anymore! What is the point? This is going to reach you well past the New Year and, honestly, I’ll probably have babbled ten times equally dull daily complaints on Facebook. Maybe next year I’ll just do that. I’ll Tweet my greetings! Except, that I am a Luddite, and eschew Twitter. Not just because a certain member of our government has made it his bilious verbal diarrhea playground…but because I have standards. Dammit.

I practically accused my California cousins of outright smugness in their choice of vacating Michigan winters for the dubious joys of living on the San Andreas Fault:

 

Then there were the feeble attempts at humor involving the likely contagion I was spreading this season:

Dear Philly Friend,

“…can you catch depression when you catch a cold? Mostly it’s the fact that I had all of my cookie rolled, cut, baked and nearly all frosted when this cold happened. As a result, I didn’t dare send them to anyone…for fear of spreading the contagion…

Apparently, I’m less circumspect with card distribution. Don’t lick this card. You’ve been warned. Probably too late though. You’ve already licked it haven’t you? Sigh. Oh Well, swift recovery to us both in 2018!”

Then I hit the wall I always hit after about four hours of writing inane holiday greetings (interjected with subliminal pleas for the madness to stop–see below). I start doodling to fill up the dreaded white space:

 

I have a list of about sixty people to whom I send cards. I had enough holiday stamps for about half of the list…after that, you got a Wonder Woman or Star Trek stamp depending on your likeliest affiliation. When in doubt, I used one commemorating the eclipse!

The later on the list your name appears, the weirder the card entry you’ll likely get. Also, the more my dyslexia and spoonerisms would crop up.

I can only imagine what the person getting this one thought of it all…

I am planning on writing a carol entitled: “May All Your Coccyges Be Bright!”

 

I have no choice. I have to send them. Then again, THEY have no choice, poor people, but to accept them. And secretly, I hope they like them and send me one in return.   It is the obsessive compulsive gift that keeps on giving!

In the end…only Hallmark really wins.

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes*:

*I cannot send a blank card. Really. Unless I am at death’s door, so a few of you may have one of these rare creatures. When I hit that marathon writer wall, I autographed a few and called it good. I’m still shuddering from the absence of ink though.

**I started to feel a little human, but the persistent cough worried me. So I went to a med center and caught a completely different virus. If this piece is unfinished, I probably died mid-sent…

 

 

Erk…Ack…arghh…Aaaaaahhhhh….