24 August, 2014

hello hitler (again)

crusty juggler and i have been going to an antique mall around these here parts, and coming out almost invariably laden with lovely whatsits, trinkets, and doodads, mainly of the jewellery and linen tea towel variety, inexpensive and pretty and happiness-making.

the mall stocks everything imaginable, including, imagine that, a print from the munich archives of a watercolour painting by one adolf hitler. it's an innocuous and utterly forgettable work, if not for the artist. each time we go to the antique mall, i walk over to see if hitler is still there. he is.

post-antiquing, we went out for some hamburgers and beer. invariably*, talk turned to hitler.

moi: i keep checking to see if somebody's bought it. and nobody ever does. i wish somebody would.

d: i think you need to be the change you want to see in the world. buy the damn print.


*not really. we rarely talk about hitler. we're more likely to talk about vaginas which are a far more pleasant topic all around…unless you're in your twenties, i suppose.

18 August, 2014

the victim remains in serious but stable condition. the culprit has been apprehended.

last week i stabbed myself in the base of my left middle finger and promptly came as close to fainting as i ever get,* not because of the pain (which was nowhere near the worst i had ever inflicted upon myself over the many years of attempted self-mutilation), nor because of the blood (which, though copious, was neither worrisomely profuse nor oddly coloured), but because i immediately realised that there was a profound difference between slicing off even a generous portion of one's finger tip (guilty as charged on multiple occasions - one more reason i could not get into a life of crime: my papillary lines are far too peculiar for simple acid-based augmentation) and jabbing the business end of a sharp knife directly and rather deeply into a fairly complex piece of machinery that is the finger. as i stood there in shock, with my hand in my mouth (i was afraid to look), mister monkey calmly turned on the cold water tap and directed me to stick my hand in it while he went hunting for a bandaid. i stood there for a while and then got hit by said faint spell, and went down hard on my knees while my heart pounded in my ears and i began to hyperventilate. eventually i made my way to the couch (i may have either lurched or crawled; the memory is fuzzy), where i was brought water, hydrogen peroxide, and a band-aid by my ridiculously calm husband**. i eventually made my way back to the land of the fully conscious and went to work.

today i was slicing beets when mr. monkey came home. he came up to me and when i turned to give him a hug and a kiss, i inadvertently (and inexplicably) stabbed him in the sternum. it produced no more than a small red dot, but made me wonder if i should give up cookery all together, or perhaps blend the fuck out of whole things, just so that we both can live.


*close enough to wish i would actually faint. it is not a pleasant state. nothing even remotely dainty or elegant about it, thank you very much.

**you may or may not recall that he, and his entire family, is closely related to fainting goats and drops at the smallest provocation.

05 August, 2014

personally, i think you're wrong

crusty juggler, miz meow, and i went to a pop up art show put on by two upstanding young men, one of whom is a co-worker of mine. there was alcohol (red wine? yes please! down the front of my silk dress? mais oui! how'd you know?!), snacks of various provenance and varying level of delicious greasiness, and hordes and hordes of adorable youthful hipsters. the crowd was pleasant, friendly, and perfectly willing to speak to the geriatric division (i.e. us). crusty took off early (i can completely understand - had i not been flying on the extroverted end of my 50/50 extro/intro spectrum, i would have done the same), leaving me and miz meow to work the crowd. a very hot sweaty hour later we too left and walked home together laughing about how absolutely delicious it is to shock the very young - and this generation seems eminently shockable - by saying things like…vagina, or talking about topics even vaguely sexual. they are so cute, these ones - they blush and stutter and you can actually see them cringe physically as their body attempts to get rid of the toxins.

if i can't enjoy my old age by randomly shouting "VAGINA!" at young people, then i refuse to get old.

03 August, 2014

enough with the fluffy shit!

last night we had an indian-themed dinner party. we made indian food and decided to forego the usual dressing up on account of it being goddamn fucking hot and humid, because, you know, india is an arctic country and all that. personally, i just didn't feel like being draped in floaty shit and the indian earrings that i do have are so heavy that my heat exhausted ears could not handle them. they are also likely made of the sort of metal that turns green when exposed to sweat, and not in a classy old world copper cupola sort of way, but more of a need-to-amputate, jesus-god-what-happened-to-your-skin sort of way. i mean, i don't know, they might be made of high quality pseudo gold, but i have a nagging suspicion that this is not the case. i refuse to place my ears in harm's way for a dinner party, you know?

the highlights of the night include me licking large quantities of delicious mango lassi from the counter after i spilled it. there are pictures. some are on facebook. i am ok with this because at the time, i was already rather tipsy, and thought that this was the funniest thing ever: pictures of me lapping up the lassi from the counter top, lassi on my nose and all over my face. ha ha! SO funny. ahem. yes. throughout the night i kept finding lassi on my top, then my pants. i'm fairly certain there was lassi on every part of my clothing. still, je ne regrette rien, on account of it being fucking delicious. crusty juggler can come to my house and make mango lassi any time.

sadly, much mango lassi also spilled on my delicious sliced pickles, and, rather than waste them i washed them in the sink and then revinegarated them. i am nothing if not crafty and dedicated to pickles. you know it's a good night when you find yourself washing pickle slices in the kitchen sink, amirite?

speaking of french, i announced at a certain point in the evening my intention to speak only french to the dog, mainly because i hate the dog*, and neither one of its owners speaks french, which then would free me to say what i really think without offending its wonderful owners. in unrelated news, my repertoire of french insults is sadly lacking.

at another certain point in the evening, we came up with an idea of a musical called "hello, hitler," the eponymous theme song of which became the theme song for the night. as a polish person, i feel i can sing about hitler - it's the entitlement of my people. yes.

there was also an entirely unscientific ear survey - turns out half of the group have weird ass squishy ears, and half of us have normal ears. there was much walking around and touching of ears…mainly by me. because science.

on the way home a possible conflict arose when crusty juggler asked mr. monkey to stop licking his tongue at her, sparking the discussion on whether one can actually lick one's own tongue. we tried and made the sorts of noises five people** would make when attempting to lick their own tongues. afterward, there was much speculation about whether we were, in fact, as funny as we found ourselves to be. i think we were. jury's still out.


*haven't met many dogs in my life that i hated. i've disliked a couple, but this one? hoooo boy. i. hate. this. bitch. seriously - a two-faced psychotic little yapper with some serious psychological issues.

**80% of whom were inebriated