The Idea of New Years Eve Often Differs From the Reality

New Years is such a lovely idea. 

One often assumes that it will look something like this: 

We are sophisticated and shiny and we are having a sophisticated shiny conversation about shiny worldly things!!! Yay New Years Eve!!

But I bartended for too many years and I know better.

See, New Years is amateur night. Like St. Patrick's Day (where, if you're lucky, you too can see green puke on the sidewalk!!), or July 4th, or any other holiday where folks get out to get nasty with this idea that because this night is a holiday, it's special, and thus it's fine to act akin to a yeti just flown in from the deep Canadian outback. It's the FuckItAll feeling coupled with a profound need to do something really, really epic on the last night of the year. And it gets to everyone.

It is almost always impossible to reach this goal, however, and in the festering wake of anticlimax, usually everyone just gets Ham.Mered. 

This does not, generally speaking, end well.

And New Years does not, generally speaking, end the way it started: as a shiny dream that borders on delusion, which is really how I start every weekend, but with New Years the fall from grace is just that much higher.

This is usually closer to reality:

Even if you are a seasoned bar veteran, going out on New Years is asking for trouble. 

It's quite likely you'll end up on the wrong side of midnight with barf in your hair and only one shoe.  It's also quite likely that you will hear a stranger's really creepy personal secrets that will make you wonder about the purpose of life on this planet and the future of our species. It's even quite likely that at some point in the evening you'll look up from the frosty side of a Jaeger shot that some dude named Mikey just bought you, and– while admiring his epic non-ironic 'stache and the fact that he's still on the barstool despite the drunkslouch, you'll wonder how the hell you ended up here. You don't do Jaeger shots since that time when you were 20 and you had to get hosed down before your roommates let you in the house.* 

Anyway, I'm staying in with a nice ginormo glass of wine and, if I can convince Cpt Awesomepants, cartoons. I am a party ANIMAL. 

Tip your bartender, people. Drive safe. Happy New Years. 

*fictional. Sort of. It was very nice of them. 


The Problems With Cooking an 18lb Turkey For Two People Are Numerous

We stayed home for Christmas this year, as the dog is bitey and Special Needs (on 'roids, has issues, likes to nom things like human calves) and so I made an epic EPIC dinner of turkey and stuffing and cranberry and taters and salad (which neither of us ate, but it looked pretty!) and pie (which I bought. I do not understand the baking.) and it was awesome as I've never cooked a turkey before in my life. 

It turned out perfectly. Cpt Awesomepants even took a pretty picture:
HELL TO THE YEAH (sorry vegetarians, I can't help myself. If it makes you feel any better, it was Hutterite born and raised, lived a very happy life, and probably never saw a single hormone injection or the inside of a "free range" cage.

And then we ate as much as we possibly could between the two of us before falling asleep while watching Hogfather (which I love and Cpt Awesomepants puts up with, which seems to work just fine for everyone). 

Problems occurred shortly thereafter. The turkey was 18 pounds. An 18 pound turkey is just slightly too much for two people. 

My fridge: 

I am awash in turkey bits. I think we might have eaten about 4 pounds now? 14 to go.
We will win, turkey, we will win.


I'm Angry About Disney Princesses. This is a Rant. There Will be Bad Words. Be Prepared. Kthx!

Ok that's not entirely true. I don't mind Ariel, who is very obviously a vapid, insipid, relatively spineless (but cute and oh so perky in her shell bikini!!) 13 or 14 year old who knows no better than to fall desperately in love with the first totally white-bred prince she lays eyes on. 
everyone is so fucking happy under the sea!! yaaay!

And then she's all DADDY I WANT!! and yada yada, things get turned into weird sea cucumber looking things...

we are not amused.
 by an evil sea witch (who is really the only interesting character in that damn movie)...
Oh, Ursula, we hardly knew ye

and then everyone lives happily ever after because Eric likes fish jailbait. Smooch!!

the end.
Ariel's pretty useless, but she never really pretends to be anything else, so I'm (mostly) cool with that. Ditto with Jasmine. She has a frickin' TIGER. I approve.
tigers make you cool. jsyk.

But Belle. Oh Belle. How I abhor you, you ridiculous piece of paint and computer vector.
I think deep thoughts and no one understands me :(

This is kind of an odd thing to have issue with all of a sudden, but I was brushing my teeth the other night and singing Disney in my head (like you do when you grew up in the 90's and those songs get surgically interwoven into your very brain chemistry and gray matter so that during random moments for the rest of your life you will catch yourself singing them without ever having intended to do so) and I was thinking of the lyrics of Belle's first song.

There goes the baker with his tray like always,
the same old bread and rolls to sellllll

(because I, at 15, am so worldly and-- concurrently-- world weary that even this freshly baked French bread that is so insanely good and sought after by half the world is totally lamesauce to me. Bakers? Also lame.)

every morning just the same,
since the morning that we came
to this poor provincial town

(because I, at 15, know all about this shit. French history is clearly what I've been reading about in all my books. Also? I am using Provincial to mean quaint but I am neglecting to acknowledge the fact that Provincial is also a thinly veiled insult, meaning unsophisticated, like those cute but stupid bridge and tunnel folk I must put up with every day. Poor me.)

Good Morning Belle! Good Morning Monsieur! Where are you off to? The book shop! I just finished the most wonderful story about a beanstalk and an ogre and...

I dance and stuff!

(okay so I'm not reading about French history. I, who am smarter than everyone else in this pathetic town, am reading about Jack and the fucking Beanstalk. I apparently do not know that this is a fricking fairy tale, which is usually part of a compilation of fairy tales, thus disabling it from being an entire book. Also? Part of my world weariness and smug better-than-thou attitude comes from not having access to better reading material. It is a really good thing that I'm about to meet a giant castle-bound French bigfoot/yeti/abominable snowman who has a penchant for cute young things and likes to fight timberwolves in his spare time. Hey he has a library!! HOT!! Also? Stoked about the talking chandelier. He has a french accent! This means he is sophisticated.*)


*I am not pointing out the irony of a chandelier with a French accent in what is clearly supposed to be France. It is too obvious.

Disney, I want my brain matter back. You bastards. 


My Honeymoon, phase 1; or The Last Part of My Last Three-ish Months; or I'm Pretty Sure I Should Never Be The One To Choose the Travel Destination Ever, Ever Again.

Once upon a time I got married. It was neat. 

Then there was a honeymoon. It was here:

It started perfectly. For 24 hours, it was the beach-rum-infested-paradise-dream-happy that you think of when you think honeymoon. 

Cpt Awesompants shot this photo, for he is awesome. Awesomepants.

24 hours. Just 24. We went kayaking. I got a sunburn. We ate lobster. We slept like the dead, in full recovery from wedding mania that had consumed us for the better part of six months. 

And then it ended, because this happened: 

This is Irene. She is white and fluffy and fucking evil.

This is a better, more satellite-y picture: 

It's like winning the lottery! Or getting shot. A little of both. More of the latter. 

All I can say is: denial + laziness + rum + not wanting to pack up and leave a day after arriving (when it took two days to get there in the first damn place) + blind faith in the incredibly sturdy cabin we were staying in = very foolish decision to stay put = honeymoon that is ruined by hurricane.

After all, I said-- I'm from Vermont. How bad could it possibly be?
After all, he said-- I'm used to crazy weather. How bad could it possibly be?

In retrospect, it was just slightly worse than we could have ever, in our wildest dreams, imagined it could possibly be. It was kind of the like the time Frodo was all: the EYE!! I'm naked and stuff!!! and Sam was all: I CARRY YOU!! and then there was a giant spider, or maybe it was the other way around, but it was all terrible and awful and exhausting and doomy and then the spider bit Frodo. Which is just adding insult to injury.

Part of my recalcitrance to skeedaddle was due to the fact that I'd already once been through the mayhem of evacuating a city because of a hurricane and it was a rather stupid and unnecessary experience. It was in Savannah in my first year of art school (where yes-- I did indeed learn to draw stick figures!!) and it was hurricane Floyd and the entire city was ordered to skip out and go to wherever else like Atlanta at the same time on the same highway which then became an immediate parking lot.

I, of course, didn't have any gas in my car (because buying gas is for sissies) but had volunteered to drive a few friends to Atlanta. So we went to the gas station. This took four hours. Immediately afterwards we got in an accident (I mean this literally, as it happened when we were pulling out of the parking space at the Circle K after buying gas and enough skittles to.. ahem... survive a hurricane). The insurance company calls lasted another hour. We got back in the car, turned around towards Savannah, and decided to chance it.
It rained a little. The wind blew some moss off trees. It was epically anticlimactic.

Perhaps ironically, Floyd was the last hurricane to really hit (and-- concurrently-- utterly fuck up) Cat Island.

Date. With. Destiny. 

End phase 1. Phase 2 up next.


Waking Up To No Pastries is NOT AWESOME

Sometimes I grind my teeth at night.

By sometimes, I mean constantly. 

By grind, I mean my lower jaw tries to attack and destroy my upper jaw with fury and anger and a deadly vendetta to break each upper tooth into a million tiny pieces through sheer force of will and jihad-like determination. And vice versa. 

My jaw apparently hates itself. 

My teeth don't actually look like this. This is an abstract portrait. 
But it's cool, because apparently this happens to a lot of people, which is why they invented splints (or night guards, or whatever you want to call them). A splint is essentially a hard plastic guard that fits over your upper or lower toofs and prevents said toofs from massacring each other, like they seem to want to do. If you've ever played a sport where your mouth was in constant jeopardy of being thwacked upon by another object (such as a hockey stick, puck, ice skate, soccer ball, football, baseball, ball of any kind, human head or other random body part that tends to hurt, on impact, far more than it should), then you know what a splint is. 

I've had like 7. Or 8. I lost count. I chew threw them. My dentist thinks I am a circus freak with my INSANO DESTROYER MANDIBLES. 

Anyway... as long as I have a splint in while I sleep, my jaw cannot hurt itself. Or each other. That is a headachey sentence. 

The downside of the splint is that sometimes... I dream about food. I am chewing, after all, on something that isn't tooth. The imagination runs wild. 

Which is usually kind of fun because I love food. And I love pastries. I love pastries. And I can chew away on the magical dream pastries as I sleep because it's not hurting anything (except for the dream pastries, as I am eating the hell out of them).

What is NOT awesome is when I wake up and there are NO PASTRIES. There is only a piece of plastic and NO PASTRIES.

No pastries = NOT Awesome.


The Dog; or– Part 2 of My Last Three(ish) Months

Can you impulse purchase a puppy?

YES! I know this because I did.

One morning cpt awesomepants and I were sitting drinking the normal gallon of coffee and doing jack-all when our favorite neighbor knocked on our door and was all: "you want this newspaper? I no want it." And then I saw an add for puppies and I was all "PUUUUPPPPPIEESSSS!!!" like you do, so we went to go visit them (with no intention of purchasing, which was just fucking dumb. I have no metaphor. Ok wait yes I do– it's like going to Vegas and being all: I'm NOT going to gamble. Sure, Senator. Sure.)

So we went to visit puppies. They were German Shepherds. I love German Shepherds.

And then this happened:
death by cuteness

I charge anyone (who is not a sociopath, psychopath, or just general asshole) to go "look at puppies" without falling. in. love. And then demanding to keep one. Like you did in fourth grade. With that kitten. Which your mom succumbed to, because your whining had reached a fever pitch and was sort of starting to scare people. Not that I know that story personally, or anything*.
This is exactly what I did with Cpt Awesomepants.

Well, that's not entirely true. First we decided to "talk it over," which consisted of going for a drive whilst I monologued about HOW WE NEEDED A DOG and we needed a dog RIGHT NOW, and how our lives would be INFINITELY BETTER with a dog, and how we should go back IMMEDIATELY and buy one.

So we did.

The breeder took a bunch of information from us and upon confirming that we were not buying this ridiculously expensive pet to 1.harvest her organs, 2.get her knocked up, or 3.train her into CUJO to kill turkeys or whatever you do with Cujo on his off days. And then she took our money and told us to come get her in a few weeks.

Which we did. I'm skipping this part. It's boring and includes all the normal we-didn't-sleep-for-awhile and the-rug-will-never-be-the-same and wow-I've-been-covered-in-pee-for-three-weeks new puppy drama. Yada yada.


everything went utterly, absurdly, and abysmally wrong. There is no way to adequately explain the insanity that occurred during the phase of time where our dog got horribly sick in a step-by-step manner, so I'm not even going to try.

Suffice it to say that you get a dog never once thinking that it will turn into an endless nightmare of vet visits and mayhem and no sleep at all and fevers and more fevers and 16 courses of antibiotics and hospitalization and ultrasounds and possible kidney disease and possible auto immune disorders and possible dwarfism and calls to aforementioned vet at all hours of the day and night resulting in a shaved belly and shaved paws and multiple blood samples and chasing after your dog at 6am to get a urine sample and mind bogglingly high bills for doggy antacid and steroids which then make your dog really, really thirsty and all but incontinent but finally, finally reduce the evil fever but also disable your dog from regrowing any hair on the shaved parts so that three months later she still has no belly fur.

No, you get a dog thinking (as I did): Cute! Fluffy!! Will sit and do stuff when I say so!!! Yaaaay!!!


All I can say is... it's been a steep learning curve. And steroids are my new best friend.

 And now for some cuteness:
*note shaved forearms. It's cool, we're starting a fashion trend. 

and shaved belly. She looks like a piglet. 

a piglet with a mowhawk. 

The end.

*She was a really nice cat, and we had her for 14 years.


Zombie Pancakes.

Sometimes zombies happen. 

blaargh brains. and syrup. and brains. but mostly syrup.

Like my pancake this morning, which was looking at me funny like it was going to jump up and eat me (with syrup! which is understandable. Syrup is the best thing ever.) so I acted defensively and ate its face.

It was tasty.

The end.


Happy Birthday Cpt Awesomepants

So before I got the doom cold, it was Captain Awesomepants' birthday. 

I drew this to show that even if there was a zombiepocalypse (which, seriously? probably gonna happen. note: make sure you have a chainsaw. Or a double headed axe on hand. Or a katana. But don't leave them lying around because then your neighbors will be all jealous), we'd not only survive but we'd still be all barf-inducing and mooshy and gross all our friends out. The ones that survive, anyway. The ones that read this blog and had the foresight to get a katana

yaaay carnage!!
Happy Birthday. I love you so much I even gave you the chainsaw. 


The Alarm Clock

This is how I wake up sometimes. 

And then, when I am fully awake, it apparently is nap time for the princess. 

And though I would never do this, oh, the temptation.


NyQuil vs Coffee


Cpt Awesomepants (who gave me the doom cold and then gave me the NyQuil because he's a pusher) told me this morning that the NyQuil has probably worn off by now but I do NOT agree because despite the 2.5 cups of black-like-Sauron's-soul coffee I still feel like so: 

my hair is making even less sense than normal.

I think NyQuil wins.