Wrinkly And Squinty-Eyed

Recently I was asked to donate a very popular drink charm set for a Facebook giveaway. Not a blog giveaway. Not an Etsy Team giveaway. A Facebook giveaway. I never heard of such a thing and I was skeptical. As well I should have been.

I looked into this person's Facebook page and didn't see much. Lots of links that I didn't have time to click. Then I went to look at the person's Etsy shop. Yikes.

The shop was all about crochet. Crocheted things for babies. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, except for the fact that she used those true-to-life rubber babies as models. I'm so grossed out by those things I can't even tell you. I was so distracted by these wrinkly, squinty-eyed things that I couldn't even get a good look at the product for sale. Rubber...babies. That's just wrong and bad.

Here's the thing. This person wants to pay tribute to the anniversary of The Wizard of Oz. She wants people to donate their beautiful work, their hard work, their work that they don't model on rubber babies, so she can just give it away.  I don't suppose she's got any of her own things to give away either.  She's just going to list this stuff as "Free Giveaway Stuff" on her Facebook page, people are going to get it for free and that will be that. She's not showcasing particular artists or crafters. I speculate that her reasoning for doing this, on Facebook, is so people follow her, look at her, give her Facebook numbers she can brag about. She's not doing a service for the particular people whose things she's giving away. She's not paying tribute to the work that goes into these special giveaway items. She's not going to encourage anyone to shop at these people's Etsy shops. She's giving away good stuff so people pay attention to her. It just all kind of made me sick. 

It all got me thinking about donations in general. Not just donating created items, but also donating clothes and household items to charities. Why do people donate? Why do they not?

I'm not above donating something to make myself look good. If someone wanted to write a blog post about me, interview me, and request that I donate something for one of their lucky readers to win, I'd probably do it. I'd do it because it would benefit me.

On the other hand, I donate a lot of things from my house that I don't use anymore. Clothes, bedding, small appliances, books...lots and lots of things. I don't donate them to make myself look good, I donate them because I want to get things that are useless to me (but still in fine condition) out of my house. OK, in that respect it benefits me - a less cluttered house is always a good thing. But I'm not looking for people to admire me because I'm donating something. In a way, when I make my donations I'm having a giveaway too. But I'm not doing it on Facebook and I'm giving away my own things. I'm not looking for the praise. I'm not even looking for a tax break.

I just thought this person's methods were in bad taste and had a disrespect for my work. She didn't even give an opinion of why she thought my item would be a good giveaway item, like "what a clever idea," or "these are so cute." It's all about her. Sorry honey, but when it comes to my business it's pretty much all about me. Unless she can guarantee this giveaway will bring more business to me, I'm not interested. Oh, there's one exception to that rule: some craft fairs will ask you to donate something worth at least $10 for a silent auction or raffle. The proceeds for something like that goes to the organization sponsoring the craft fair. I'm all for that and will gladly donate for their cause.

I sound so selfish about this, but seriously, I can't get those damn rubber babies out of my mind. Ick.

Not Exactly Jesus, But Just As Impressive

I've been away for a while and it seems I've lost touch with my dark side, my angry side, my snarky side, my downright hateful side.  That side is a huge part of me and frankly, I've missed it.  Enough of the Suzy Creamcheese I'm forced to show on my other blog ~ I'm tired of pretending to be always cheerful, creative, upbeat and perky.  I'm so much more myself when I let my mean out.

This post isn't exactly about mean, but is pretty disgusting and the subject matter made me think of another post I wrote, which made me think of Faux Ma, which in turn poked at that part of me which has been repressed for the sake of tolerant harmony and support.

The other day Boyfriend and I were having our little dinner together.  It had been a busy day for Boyfriend so instead of either of us cooking he brought home some Bruegger's bagle sandwiches.  To go along with them we had some potato chips.

I'm not one to get all hyped up over seeing the face of Jesus in an overdone tortilla or the image of the Virgin Mary peering through the crust of a freshly baked loaf of bread.  But people travel from far and wide to get a glimpse of these occurrences, claiming they're divine, a message from God.  Nor do I get too excited over vegetables that grow to look the face of Richard Nixon or Abraham Lincoln.  Like the holy images, these vegetables become famous enough to make the local news.

As Boyfriend and I were munching away on our sandwiches and chatting away about our day I picked up a potato chip.  My eyes widened a snicker came out of my nose as it would a nasty-minded 4th grader.  I showed the chip to Boyfriend and all he could say was, "Good God."  Neither of us could eat the potato chip and still, to this day, sits in a pretty green bowl on our kitchen countertop.  It seems wrong to throw away such a freakish creation, and yet neither of us could bring ourselves to eat it.

I'm not kidding you.  It's a cooter chip.  Feast your eyes on this crispy vision of loveliness.  I ask you, could you eat it?  Do you think I should contact the local news team to cover this story?  Would people come from other lands to get a glimpse of, or even worship, the cooter chip?  Could I make millions off of this?  Have I completely lost my mind in spending time photographing and writing about the cooter chip?  Am I a lesbian?  The questions just keep coming and I can't decide what to make of it all.

What would you do if you came across a cooter chip on your plate?  Would you blush?  Would you gobble it up before anyone could identify the fact that you were eating a cooter in plain view?  Would you pass it around to show all of your friends? 

Such is the life of someone who doesn't get out much, looking for fame and fortune in the discovery of a cooter chip.  I doubt anything will become of my find, but here it will stay for all of eternity, on Meredith's blog filled with all things childish and disgusting.

Fie Fo

Dear Charlotte,
Thank you.
Love,
Blackie



Do you mean it ?
Do you mean it ?
Do you mean it ?
Why don't you mean it ?
Why do I follow you and where do you go
Aah aah aah aah aah aah

You've never seen nothing like it no never in your life
Like going up to heaven and then coming back alive
Let me tell you all about it
And the world will so allow it
Ooh give me a little time to choose
Water babies singing in a lily-pool delight
Blue powder monkeys praying in the dead of night
Here comes the Black Queen, poking in the pile
Fie-fo the black Queen, marching single file
Take this, take that, bring them down to size
March to the Black Queen
Put them in the cellar with the naughty boys
A little nigger sugar then a rub-a-dub-a baby oil
(aah aah) black on (aah aah), black on every finger nail and toe
We've only begun - begun
Make this, make that, keep making all that noise
March to the Black Queen
Now I've got a belly-full
You can be my sugar-baby, you can be my honey-chile, yes
La laa la laa la laa la laa la la la la la laa
La laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa la laa
A voice from behind me reminds me
(tra la laa tra la laa aaah)
Spread out your wings you are an angel
Remember to deliver with the speed of light
A little bit of love and joy
Everything you do (will bear a will) bears a will and a why and a wherefore
A little bit of love and joy
In each and every soul lies a man, very soon he'll deceive and discover
But even till the end of his life, he'll bring a little love
Aah ah aah
La la la la laa
Ah ah ah ah aah
Ah la la la laa
I reign with my left hand, I rule with my right
I'm lord of all darkness, I'm Queen of the night
I've got the power - now do the march of the Black Queen
My life is in your hands, I'll fo and I'll fie
I'll be what you make me, I'll do what you like
I'll be a bad boy - I'll be your bad boy - I'll do the march of the Black Queen
Ah aah ah aah
Ah aah ah aah
Walking true to style
She's vulgar 'buse and vile
Fie-fo the Black Queen, tattoos all her pies
She boils and she bakes, and she never dots her "I's"
She's our leader
La la la la laa la la laa
La la la la la laa
Forget your singalongs and your lullabies
Surrender to the city of the fireflies
Dance with the devil in beat with the band
To hell with all of you hand-in-hand
But now it's time to be gone - (la la la laaa) forever - forever
La la la laaa aaah aah aah aaah
Written by Freddie Mercury.
Sung by Freddie Mercury.

Pinky! Get Off The Rail!

OK, well, I keep bugging a blogger friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for fear she will get defensive and lash out in a most unbecoming way) to get busy and write on her blog for crying out loud.  What in the hell do you create a blog for if you aren't going to write on it?  Well, I realized it's been a while since I've written on my own blog so I guess I can't cast stones. 

But because I love to cast stones and need to feel superior to most people in general I decided to dash off a little post here.  I have no idea what it's going to say, which means it will be completely worthless, but at least I'll have a new post up, which is more than I can say for some people who haven't written anything in over a year. 

Psychology Lesson:  The defense mechanism labeled Projection in the immature stage (as opposed to the neurotic stage or the pathological stage) is defined as a reducing anxiety by attributing one's own unacknowledged unacceptable/unwanted thoughts and emotions [or blog-writing practices] to another. 

Long and short, I'm the mental one because not only am I not writing blog posts I also have an immature need to blame other people for not writing blog posts while ignoring the fact that I don't write blog posts.

See?  I told you this would amount to nothing.  Except dig this...

Get it?  Pink Freud.  Good thing I take my psychology degree so seriously.  On the other hand, Dr. Freud would probably applaud my healthy superego, which is nice enough to let my ego make jokes in order to soothe my otherwise troubled emotional state. 

Begosh And Begorrah

Today I *ahem* "celebrate" thirty-one years of service with the public sector. I know, I've been with this job longer than a lot of you have been alive, but I assure you it was very unintentional. Thirty-one years of beige walls. Thirty-one years of customers who suck the life right out of you, some with really sad stories and others who manipulate the system to avoid being productive members of society. Thirty-one years of seeing different administrations come and go. I especially loved the last six years of no raise, which will probably remain the trend until I retire. At this point of my working life I can say it will all be worth it only when I'm loafing around in a hammock collecting my pension.

Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Happy that, to whomever welcomes the greeting. I don't normally go to my day job on St. Patrick's Day, my work anniversary, because St. Patrick's Day in St. Paul, MN can be a little rambunctious. I recall many years ago having to take the bus to and from work, and the ride home on St. Patrick's Day usually consisted of much raucous talk and even a bit of puking. Lovely. And no, the raucous talk and puking didn't come from me. Eventually I just stopped going to work on that day all together to avoid the sour smell of barf. The tradition stuck even after I started driving a car to work.

I'm not really sure why I'm at the day job today, after many many years of skipping it. Perhaps the job zombies ate my brain while I wasn't looking. Whatever the reason I want you to pity me, and also admire my persistence and dedication. I need this from you, because frankly, thirty-one years doesn't much matter to those whom I serve.

Turn Around

It was a small house on the side of a mountain, and the middle of the night.  I was watching this video when I realized we wouldn't be together forever; in fact, it was the end that night.  You woke up and came to sit with me as I watched.  You had no idea...

Oh My God (Say That In Your Best Valley Girl Voice)

OK, what could be better for my 200th post than a movie review?  Only one of the best movies ever!

Boyfriend and I were sitting around on Saturday night with our 735 channels of cable TV and chose to watch the SyFy original movie Mega Python vs. Gatoroid.  I am not even shitting you.  And don't judge us.  I know you have your stupid guilty pleasure TV shows so you are in no position to throw your self-righteous stones.

First of all there is not much "versus" going on as mostly the giant alligators and pythons are pretty much eating people more than they are each other.  Which definitely makes a better movie, but I'm just saying the title should be Mega Pythons And Gatoroids vs. Small And Wimpy People.

Of course the cast is phenomenal.  Remember Tiffany?  Remember Debbie Gibson?

Oh yeah, they were hot in the '80s, or so I've heard.  I wasn't into the little girl music, but that's another story.  These young ladies aren't young anymore.  And before you get all over me for trashing women who age I just want to say they're they're old has-beens doing a B movie.  The formula for success is adding up nicely for Mega Python vs. Gatoroid. 

The girls were wearing these exact outfits in the movie throughout all of their struggles with the mutant amphibians.  Boyfriend was just waiting for a costume malfunction but not once did Debbie's dress slip off nor did Tiff's boobs fall out.  However, he was blessed with a cat fight between the two.



There was also a special guest cameo by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees.  He was hired to play at the soiree at which the girls had their cat fight, but the second before he was going to sing he was swallowed up by a giant snake.

I highly recommend seeing this movie if you'd like to see the oldsters fighting off big scaly things with stuff like sticks and floating rifles.  I'd also go out on a limb and say the special effects of this movie are about the worst I've ever seen.  Best part about it?  The heroines can't survive with their skinny legs and undulating boobs.  Yep, they too become vittles for the snakes and gators. 

Now that I've totally spoiled the movie for you, go watch it.  Because seriously?  You totally need to laugh this hard. 

A Letter To An Aspiring Writer

Dear Aspiring Writer (you know who you are),

I'm here to tell you that you must write that novel of yours.  Why am I nagging at you?  Because recently I was given this for free (by a shirtless cowboy, no less):

Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch.  It's a Harlequin Romance.  And guess what?  I read it.  *hangs head in shame*  In, like, ten minutes.  And I'm telling you right now you need to get going on that novel.  You so can do it. 

Okay, I know I'm not a big one to talk as you know I haven't written anything nearly close to a novel, or even kept up with this blog very well, but I've been writing otherwise, published or not, so shut up.

Apparently, according to Crime Scene At Cardwell Ranch, you don't even need to use big words or create complex characters to write a bona fide novel.  Just so you know.

Just sit down at that computer and write.  Please.  The world needs to read something other than a romance novel written by a person who goes by the name B. J.  That's just disgusting.

Tell you what.  I'll take you to see the cowboy and he can give you a copy of this very same book.  You can read it and see what your competition is.  You will be inspired.  You will be motivated.  You will be so moved to prove to yourself that you can do it.  And if you aren't inspired, motivated, or moved, you'll at least get to see a very young, cut cowboy who gives away smutty romance novels for a living. 

Yours in literary excellence (wishful dreaming at least),

Meredith

Can't Get It Out Of My Head

All morning I've had a song in my head.  It's a song I learned as a child, probably as early as toddler age.  I suppose it should make me feel comforted - you know, like I was a little kid again in the arms of my protective and loving family.  Except it doesn't.

I know a little pussy
Her coat is silver grey
She lives down in the meadow
Not very far away
She'll always be a pussy
She'll never be a cat
Well she's a pussywillow
So what do you think of that
Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow
SCAT!

I feel like a lesbian pervert.  Help me, please.

Girls, Take Notice

OK, this video makes me laugh because the older I get the more stupid "beauty" gets and it comforts me to know others feel the same way. 

However, there should also be a video about how stupid it is to drop the f-bomb every twenty seconds.  Not that I never do it.  OK, I do it a lot.  I just wanted to warn you all before you blast this from your speakers at work.

I Better Use Blunt Scissors For The Paper Chain Cuz I'm Feeling Pretty Stabbity

Well I'm just beside myself these days.  I have a shitload of things to do and I'm just too tired to do any of it.  I blame Boyfriend.  No, it's not about climbing to the heights of ecstasy every night.  I blame the pirouetts and jitterbugs he performs just as I'm about to fall asleep - while he's fast asleep.  Not only does he jump around and kick the mattress constantly, he's got one of the worst snores of anyone I've ever known, and then he blows his breath right on me, irritating my delicate skin while I'm trying to sleep.  It's starting to piss me off.  Oh yeah, he feels all bad when he sees me sleeping on the couch in the morning after he's had the bed to himself all night long, but his guilt just doesn't fill me with the energy I need to get through the day.  Sorry, hon.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to tolerate my stupid-ass job.  I'm surrounded by beige all day long.  And the air is so damn cold in the office I welcome going out into the sweltering summer heat and the end of the day and then deny Boyfriend any conditioned air in our house because damn it, I'm chilled to the bone from being at work.  Not only that, the whole principle behind my job has morphed into something so disgusting and wrong and I feel like I should quit just for the high ethics I hold.  I gave up giving money to panhandlers the day one of them didn't say "thank you," so why should I support an agency that gives money to people with pretend mental disorders who work harder to get free government money and finagle their way around the system than they would have to at a real job?  I could write a year's worth of posts on the scandal of it all, but that's not what this post is about.

This post is about the what-ifs.  What if I didn't have to go to a job every day?  My mother says when we aren't working at a job we must fill our time doing volunteer work.  She was going to rock crack babies when she retired.  Didn't ever see that come to fruition, or any other volunteer work on her part except for doing church lady stuff for free, which doesn't count because church activities are questionable regarding their productivity.  She still believes her children should be productive in the community whether or not they are getting paid for it.  Piffle. 

Now I know there are a lot of you out there who are without jobs against your choice.  Boo-hoo.  I also know there are a lot of people out there who got laid off of their jobs and it was the best thing that ever happened to them.  I secretly wish that would happen to me because I'm too chicken-shit to up and actually quit my job.  But for those of you who have the luxury of time and options, quit your complaining.  There are plenty of us who would kill to be in your position right now, except we have to work to support the unemployment benefits you're getting.

If I didn't have to go to work for someone else for forty hours a week I would...

1.  not care if Boyfriend kept me up all night long with this thrashing and snoring because I could sleep during the day (very vampiresque).

2. not have to look at morons pacing back and forth in the public building hallway with phones growing out of their ears instead of doing the job they're paid to do.

3.  win a prize for inventing a technique aimed at the permanent elimination of the dust bunny population in my house.

4.  cook dinner for my darling Boyfriend every night of the week.

5.  iron clothes at least once a week, except I guess I wouldn't have to because I wouldn't be working for the dress code nazis like I do now. 

6.  beat computer Solitaire more than 4% of the time like I do now.

7.  improve my appearance and hygiene because a) I'd have more time to pay attention to such details and b) I'd like myself much more and would consider myself worthy of luxurious baths and consistent good hair days.

8.  laugh in the faces of those who pity me for being unemployed and say to them "you wish you could sit around eating bon-bons and watching I Dream Of Jeannie reruns while simultaneously knowing there are no dust bunnies within a city block's radius of you."

9.  become the next hottest thing in social media

10. write a blog post more than once a month, which would in turn make me an awesome writer and I'd be sought after for ad space on my blog and hunted down by publishers everywhere begging me to write a book.

I could go on and on.  My house would be exquisitely decorated, or at least be freshly painted.  My car would be washed and waxed all the time.  I would be friggin' June Cleaver and love every minute of it.  I'd even master the art of frosting a cupcake.

Until then I can only count the days to retirement and hope to God I don't die before then.  I have a plan to create a paper chain made of very colorful construction paper marking the weeks remaining (well over 200) until my official retirement.  I think I'll hang it on the bullet-proof glass protecting my work space, just to cheer things up a little.

Despair

Life just stinks too much since that one good weekend.

It makes me want to never have good times again for fear of realizing

how utterly senseless my regular times are.

You can't be yourself when you're officious...

That's the curse of a government job.

Maude said that.

I wish I could sleep for a week.

Then clean the house for a week.

Then cook all of my favorite food for a week.

Then watch movies for a week.

Then read an entire book in a matter of days rather than months.

I wish I could sit and do nothing

without thinking I should be doing something

because I have no time to do everything

I need to do

And plus, why can't everyone just be normal?

My standards of normal aren't that stringent.

Beam me up Scotty

There's no sign of intelligent life here.

Mixing The Literal With The Figurative

Has anyone ever told you you have dancing eyes?  This is going just a little bit too far.

A Touching Moment

OK, I don't know why I'm posting this. It makes me uncomfortable on so many levels. I guess I won't be happy until others are as uncomfortable as I am.

What Next? (Or...Can't I Just Ride Out The Wave In Peace?)

Well, if I'm not mistaken these flippin' Nazis have placed even more restrictions on my computer at work.  I can't upload photos to my blog.  I can't upload photos for my Etsy site (to remain nameless).  I can't do anything having to do with photos.  Is it just a glitch today?  Or is this some cruel joke played on a person who devoted threw away thirty years of her life in service to the people of America?  Isn't it bad enough I haven't had a raise in, geez, I don't know how many years?  Isn't it bad enough I have to now fret over the security of my pension?  But now the big shots have to take away my lunch hour free time computer use too?  You can all just go to hell, and take your suck-ass computer-head toadies with you.

(Pardon the lack of pictures in this post.  It totally isn't my fault.)

OK, Ick

I've been rather repulsed by society lately.  I'm sick of over population and even sicker of the fact that the country is being overpopulated by and with dolts and psychos.  I know I sound like some old, right-wing, intolerante crabby-ass hag when I talk like this, but seriously, do we want people like this becoming the majority?  There's lots of crap in the gene pool if you ask me.

For more pictures of the shining (and currently breeding) members of society, check out this site.  And God help us all.

New TV Show

Boyfriend is just so clever.  I think he should move out to Hollywood and become the next TV show creator genius.  I love the way his mind works.  He proposes a new show with hosts Tom Bergeron

and Mike Rowe

The show?  America's Dirtiest Home Videos.

Huh?!  I told you it was genius.

You Can't Impress Me

What you want me to see...

What I actually see...

Gadgets You Can't Live Without

Hi kids. It's been a while since I've posted anything here. My excuse? I've been busy getting into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and sucking my thumb as a result of the stupidity of the world today. I know a guy who smokes dope to deal with that same stupidity, but I decided thumb sucking is better. While it is funny looking, it doesn't make me act like a complete moron.

And speaking of morons, who the hell doesn't know how to crack an egg? I learned how to crack an egg in 2nd grade. That would be seven years old. I never did get the hang of cracking an egg with one hand, but cracking an egg effectively I have indeed mastered.

However, this post isn't about how brilliant I am. It's about how much space I have in my kitchen, which is none. It's also about the ineptitude encouraged in our society. Gadgets are for suckers. And gadgets that crack an egg for you are for moronic suckers. Check this out...



OK, first of all, EZ Cracker.  While it is an appropriate name for a gadget like this, makes me think of a white southern girl who puts out. Second of all, what kind of spaz cracks an egg like that, or cleans up the mess of spilled egg with a Kleenex?  I'll admit separating an egg can be a little more challenging, but the poor boob separating the egg in the commerical is just too stupid to live.  But wait! That's not all. While I couldn't find the official commercial for it, there is also a gadget that actually scrambles an egg before it's out of the shell! Who doesn't need that?



Call me Amish, but I believe in cracking an egg with your own two hands (or one if your not a chimp like me) and scrambling it with a utencil found in every kitchen. It's called a fork.

Now if you'll excuse me I have a thumb to suck. Or perhaps instead of focusing on what society is coming to I should go forth and multiply, populating the earth with the genius that allows me such amazing coordination skills to crack and scramble an egg.

It's Eastertime!

Photo and creative artwork compliments of Terry, the genius behind Bent Objects (some work available here)