It was weird.  And awesome.

At first I thought the title translated to “What’s With The Night War, Stinky?” but according to people on twitter it’s more like “Is This Actually Happening, Or What?”  Which makes slightly more sense, but I kind of like my interpretation better. Also, Hamlet Von Schnitzel is now a Dracula for some reason, and I thought my cat was checking out the German magazine article about me, but apparently he just wanted to hide his face because he’d rather not be associated with this whole debacle.  Fair enough.

Also, I asked Victor what “Psycho” translated to in English and turns out it just means “Psycho”.  So I guess there wasn’t a lot lost in translation after all.  And now we can all speak a word of German, so technically I think this means that my blog is now considered educational.  And world-renowned.  And a little psycho.

Just as it should be.

It’s a stupid superstition but one I still struggle to shake as (for me) it’s wrapped into a weird layer of OCD-based terror.  In my mind, every time some one says the unlucky number, everything becomes unlucky for everyone who has just heard that number, and only saying it again will cancel the negative effects.  Except that it’s impossible to know exactly if you’re on the lucky or unlucky side of life, and so maybe you say the unlucky number to get you out of an unlucky period but then you get your arm chopped off and then you realize that you were in the unlucky period before, so you say it again and then your leg falls off because you’ve just said the unlucky number too many times and fate is now pissed that you’re fucking with her.  This all makes sense in my head.

That’s why yesterday at my friend Laura’s house I was a bit of a nervous wreck entering the first day of this terribly named year.  And so we decided to change the name.  To “The Library.”  At first I thought this just made me feel immediately better because the booze had just kicked in, but now I’m perfectly sober and I’m in the second day in The Library and I feel so terribly comforted.

(by Johanna Ljungblom)

In The Library you are safe.  It smells of old books and worlds you’ve yet to explore.  It smells of worlds you’ve loved that beckon you back.  It smells of the bacon sandwich the guy in the corner has smuggled in while he devours words and food, not sure which is more filling.

In the library you are prepping.

Everything that happens in the library is just preparation for the next year.  That means if you fuck something up this year it’s fine.  This whole year is just practice.  The library is made for that.  Maybe you spend the year writing a book no one will ever read.  Maybe you spend the year recuperating from last year.  Maybe you burn the Thanksgiving turkey and forget an important birthday.  It’s okay.  It happened in The Library.  It was just practice for next year.  Maybe it’s insanity, or maybe it’s just me, but somehow I think we all need a year in The Library.  A year where it’s safe to make mistakes.  A year where it’s okay to have to escape and stare out the window without someone asking you when you’re going to get back to work and fix your life.  A year where we all whisper quietly about our plans and our wishes and dreams and darkest fears.  A year in The Library.  A year of getting lost in dusty, forgotten corners, and a year of finding the want.  (The want to leave.  The want to play.  The want to shrug off the dreams and walk out in the sunlight.  The want to pounce on 2014 with glee and rapture.)

The Library opened yesterday.  It closes 51.9 weeks from now.

Welcome.

me:  Yeah, there were three bills and a box of dead hamster.

Victor:  *sigh*

me:  Everyone gets bills, babe.  You can’t escape bills.  It’s not personal.

Victor:  Mhm.

me: You aren’t going to ask about the box of dead hamster?

Victor:  Nope.

me:  Because I kind of really need you too.

Victor:  Nope.  Don’t care.  Don’t want to be involved.

me:  Because it was sent to me anonymously and it’s kind of freaking me out.  Someone sent me a box of dead hamster in the mail and I don’t even know what that means.  Is it some sort of code?  Is it a threat?  I’m not even sure it’s a hamster.  Or why it has wings.

Victor:  Hamsters don’t have wings.

me:  I KNOW.  THAT’S WHY IT’S SO UNSETTLING.

Victor:  FINE.  Show me your dead hamster.

me:  Finally.

I think the wings are made of human skin.

Victor:  That’s…not a hamster.

me:  You’re saying that because of the wings, right?  But they’re detachable.

Victor:  No.  I mean it looks too big to be a hamster.  I think it’s a guinea pig.

me:  Or a small dog.

Victor: And why is it crunchy?

me: RIGHT?  

Victor: It’s like it’s filled with cellophane.

me:  Or corn flakes.

Victor:  Why would someone fill a hamster with corn flakes?

me:  WHY WOULD SOMEONE SEND ME A BOX OF DEAD HAMSTER?  I THINK WE CAN THROW LOGIC OUT THE WINDOW HERE, Victor.

Victor:  That ship has sailed.  You probably bought it yourself and just forgot.

me:  I think I would remember if I bought a box of dead hamster.

Victor:  Remember when you bought that cobra and forgot that you bought it until you opened it?

me:  Mmm…not really.

Victor:  Well, it happened.

me:  Now I’m craving corn flakes.

Victor:  Stop talking.

PS.  Did you send me a box of dead hamster?  Is there a hidden meaning?  Is the crunchy noise inside of it a note explaining it?  Is the hamster an envelope?  For the love of God, someone help me.

PPS.  The cats fucking LOVE Mr. Squeaky.  If that’s what his name is.

Look at you, Mr. Squeaky. You. Are. Perfect.

Come here, you. Give us some snuggles.

And a few minutes ago…it arrived.

Knock-knock, motherfucker.

That’s right, y’all.  Anyone can have a dead pony, but it takes a specially fucked up kind of birthday wish to end up with a dead pegasus.

(Special note for those of you who are horrified that I support the slaughter of pegasuses:  It’s actually a zebra colt mannequin covered with old, leftover cow and goose pieces.  You can tell because of the stitching and also because pegasuses are much bigger in real life.)

But don’t tell that to Hunter S. Thomcat:

It's like The Never Ending Story, part 12.

NEVER GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS, YOU GUYS.

It’s a Beyonce-the-Giant-Metal-Chicken popsicle-stick puppet and it’s awesome.

Just click on the widget on my sidebar and it’ll let you print it out for free.  Give it to your kid.  Freak out the guy in the next cubicle.  Decorate your office.  Plus, they’re making more bloggess-style puppetry, so every week you can see what they’ve come up with next.

PS.  Is this the most professional, least profanity-laden post I’ve ever written?  Shit yeah it is.

The girl who made it is actually INSIDE of it. And possibly about to get shot.

It was made of awesome, and I was able to verify that the wolf died of old age/kidney failure so I could buy it with a clear conscience and PETA couldn’t throw blood at me when I wore it at formal events.  I told Victor that I would name him “Wolf Blitzer” and that I would use him as a sleeping bag on cold airplanes (and also to menace anyone who took my arm-rest.)  Victor pointed out that airport security gets uptight about snow globes and nail-clippers so they probably wouldn’t let me bring a wolf on a plane as carry-on, but I was already formulating a plan to make Wolf Blitzer my service-animal-companion since I have chronic panic attacks, and airplanes have to recognize disabilities.  Like the disability of not being able to be relax on a cold plane without some xanax and a dead wolf snuggie named Wolf Blitzer.  Victor started to argue with me but then he gave up because Wolf Blitzer was very expensive and he knew I couldn’t justify paying that much for a blanket with claws.  And he was right.  Which is why I immediately went on Kickstarter to submit an application for a fundraiser to help me pay for a dead wolf to wear on plane rides.  I labeled it under “Performance Art” and promised to repay patrons by sharing photos of me wearing it to the Twilight opening.

**********

Kickstarter responded almost immediately:  ”Thank you for taking the time to share your idea. Unfortunately, this isn’t the right fit for Kickstarter.”  Because apparently Kickstarter doesn’t appreciate helping people with disabilities.

**********

I was about to give up when I found out that the person I’d originally chosen to read my audiobook (James Earl Jones) was not responding to my emails and so instead I would have to read my own damn book, and I told my agent that I’d do it but only if I could be paid in dead wolf snuggies.  Then there was an awkward pause and I explained that I’d wear it while recording my book, and that way Wolf Blitzer would be a tax deduction, and she said she needed to go.  Probably because talking about tax law is super-boring.

**********

When I explained to Zhon (the girl who made Wolf Blitzer) that I needed him quickly (because I was Team Jacob and needed him for opening weekend) she didn’t even pause to question me.  Because she’s awesome.  And also because she once made a life-size Tauntaun to wear, so she’s really not in any position to judge me.

**********

me: I just bought Wolf Blitzer so that I can wear him to see Twilight-part-whatever, but you can’t yell at me because he didn’t cost anything.

Victor:  How the hell did that happen?

me:  I bartered for him in trade for narrating my own audiobook.

Victor:  AND THIS IS WHY YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE FINANCIAL DECISIONS WITHOUT ME.

me:  No way.  That was a great financial decision.  I feel all in touch with my 1/64th Native American heritage.  I just bartered a story for a dead wolf head-dress.  I’m like Pocahontas, but with an audiobook.

Victor:  My head hurts.

**********

Wolf Blitzer arrived.  And he was MAGNIFICENT.  But Victor refused to take me and my dead wolf to the movies because apparently he’s Team Edward.  Luckily, my friends Maile and Laura were willing to come along for the ride.  Laura dressed up as a member of the Volturi because we thought it would be funny to have some sort of West Side Story dance-fight at the theater.  Maile hadn’t actually read the Twilight books and so I tried to convince her to wear my Bigfoot costume, and I told her that Bigfoot totally played a huge part in this movie.  And then at the end I’d be like “I can’t believe they cut the Bigfoot part out!  He was so integral to the book!” but Maile has known me for far too long to trust me and so instead she dressed up as a very cynical friend who doesn’t understand how fun it is to wear a Bigfoot costume to the movies.

**********

We laughed.  We cried.  Maile saw some very conservative looking friends and casually  introduced Laura and I without explaining at all why we were dressed as werewolves and Draculas.  I took a picture with a very brave stranger who asked what my deal was.  I told her I was here to see the Muppet Movie.  She looked confused.

My work there was done.

**********

 You want pictures, don’t you?  Fine.  Here they are.  Because Wolf Blitzer and I love you.  Much more than Kickstarter does.  Apparently.

Buying my ticket. And yes, it was a little embarrassing. A women in her 30's going to see Twilight, I mean. Not wearing Wolf Blitzer. Wolf Blitzer is awesome.

"Holy crap, is that a Volturi? Don'tcomeoverhereDon'tcomeoverhereDon't - Oh shit."

It's fine. She's tweeting. Just keep your head down and she probably won't even notice.

Fuck. She noticed. Awk-ward.

Eventually they let us into the theater and we drank copiously.  Laura and I rooted for our respective teams and Maile photographed the debacle.  It’s sort of amazing that we weren’t kicked out of the theater.

Twilight movies are like the girl version of watching the Superbowl. In that they can only be enjoyed when really drunk.

And it was awesome, except for the part when all the werewolves started talking to each other WITH THEIR MINDS and then it got really stupid and I leaned over to Laura and Maile and whispered, “Okay.  Right now, for the first time all night?  I’m kind of embarrassed to be wearing a giant wolf suit.”  And they nodded sympathetically, because that’s what good friends do.

The magic of the theater. And friends. And Wolf Blitzer.

If you don’t like Halloween, miniatures, or horror books you should just skip this post.  Seriously.

If you’re a long-term reader you already know that I’ve been slowly building a haunted dollhouse for the last eleven years.

It’s filled with references to horror/fantasy books and movies that made me the possibly-twisted person I am today, and every year around Halloween I give an update showing the latest pictures.  This year, however, I’ve been fighting off a bit of depression (which is exactly why I love to make tiny bottles of bezoars or miniature Victorian vampire killing kits, so I can escape from reality when I need to) so I haven’t been up to writing anything about it yet.  Luckily, I didn’t have to, because other sweet people did it for me.

Click here to check out the slideshow on Kirtsy featuring all of my very latest dollhouse pics.

And then click here to see even more on HGTV.

Happy Halloween, y’all.

PS.  I have allusions to hundreds of books and movies in the dollhouse, but I always worry that I’m missing some.  Leave me a comment with the horror/fantasy books that made your mind change in fabulous ways and I’ll check them out.

**********

It all started with a tweet I sent out a few months ago, linking to the blog of an antique store that was selling something fantastic and horrible…

me:  HOLY SHITSNACKS.  SOMEONE BUY THIS FOR ME:

Follow-up tweet:

 ************

Conversation with Victor on the phone (several minutes later, when I realized he’d probably read my twitter feed):

me:  Hey.  I just bought a honey-badger killing a python.

Victor: Who is this?

me:  No, seriously.  I just emailed you a picture.  The cobra-mongers said I could rent it for $100, but it’s only $300 to keep it and renting is like throwing money away.  That’s what Dave Ramsey always says.

Victor: You bought two dead animals – killing each other – because renting them is a bad investment?

me:  And also because I suck at returning things.  I still have VHS tapes from Blockbuster that I’ve never returned.

Victor: *sigh*

me:  This is awesome because it’s like a naked honey-badger death/Cobra match.  There is no part of that that doesn’t scream “BUY ME”.  Plus, the cobra looks so damn happy.  He’s like “HI FRIEND!” and the honey-badger is all “I WILL END YOU” and the cobra’s like “WOULD YOU LIKE A NUTTER-BUTTER?  THEY ARE DELICIOUS.”  And the honey-badger is like “I WILL MAKE YOUR SKIN INTO A SWEATER.”

Victor:  Wtf?

me:  Oh my God, they’re totally us.  Guess which one is me?

Victor:  The cobra.

me:  EXACTLY.  I’m going to make a whole cartoon just based on honey-badger and cobra.

Victor (opening the picture):  Oh, holy shit.  Honey, seriously?  You paid money for this?  It’s not even a honey-badger.  It’s a mongoose with mange.  It’s Rikki-Tikki-Tavi from Kipling.

me:  Which is even better.  It’s a death-match with a moral.  How often do you buy a death-match that comes with its own story?  Almost never.

Victor:  And where are you planning on putting this monstrosity?

me:  I hadn’t thought that far ahead.  It was an impulse buy.  It’s like when you buy gum at the check-out counter.  You don’t go in for it, but you buy it.  And then the whole family appreciates it later.  This is just like gum. AWESOME DEATH-MATCH GUM.

Victor: I need you to stop talking now.

***********

 Two weeks later:

me:  EEEEAAAAAAHH!

Victor:  What the fuck?  What’s wrong?

me:  I JUST OPENED A PACKAGE AND THERE WAS A COBRA IN IT.

Victor:  Um, you mean the cobra you ordered?

me:  Oh holy shit, my heart is racing.  I totally forgot I bought it.

Victor:  Of course you did.

me:  Wow.  You know when you’re opening a package and there’s a cobra in it and you’re all “WHO IN THE FUCK SENT ME A COBR-Oh, wait.  This is probably the cobra I ordered”?

Victor:  Nope.  No one knows what that’s like.

me:  Ugh.  I hate that feeling.  I’m so freaked out now I don’t even want to open the rest of it.  They should have put a warning on the outside.

Victor:  Something like, “Here’s the cobra you ordered.  Dumb-ass”?

me:  No, because then the post office would confiscate it.  There’s a sign up at the post office that says you can’t mail fireworks or puppies.  If you can’t mail a puppy I’m pretty sure that you can’t mail cobras either.  That’s basic logic.

Victor:  ”Logic” doesn’t enter into any part of this debacle.

The most unadorable nom nom picture ever.

***********

Then I waited to be less creeped out by them, but they were quickly losing their whimsy and I started to suspect they were planning to kill me in my sleep.  Plus, Ferris Mewler developed an unhealthy obsession with the mongoose.

And with the snake.

And in the end I decided to just put them both outside in the garage so they could scare away other cobras and mongeese.

It’s totally working.

PS. Look.  I made new cards for my shop:

This one is for romance.

And this one is for when your spouse thinks you’ve spent too much money on shoes or power-tools or whatever.  Unless you spent too much money on a mongoose/cobra deathmatch.  Then this card is not applicable.

Her History teacher asked the class to write down what they knew about Copernicus and turn it in.  This is what she handed in:

Says Mariah:

“I got the paper back later that day with a red minus on the top. I’m guessing this is because my paper was so spot on he was too astonished to finish the A+ he was writing.

Also he probably should have been more specific as to which Copernicus we were writing about.”

PS.  I did point out to Mariah that it’s possible she got a minus because she misspelled my name.  The devil is in the details, Mariah.  And also probably in Copernicus.

The internet’s a weird place, y’all.

UPDATED:  Please stop emailing me to ask me to approve your friend request to Copernicus.  I swear to God that’s not me or Victor and I honestly have no clue who it is.  Judging from the disturbing -yet vaguely cheery- updates, it might actually be the real Copernicus.  Stranger things have happened.

This is not an optical illusion. It's an eight-foot metal chicken.

I almost drove into a mailbox, and when I got out and asked the clerk about it he said that his boss had just bought it because “apparently lots of people have been calling and asking about big metal chickens all of a sudden“.  Then I said, “How very odd. But, do you have anything larger?” and he looked at me like he was considering calling the police.  I probably wouldn’t have bought it anyway, but I do kind of love the thought of Victor driving up to see a metal chicken peering angrily over the roof of our house from the backyard.  I’d return it the next day though, probably.  Because my home owners association is an asshole.

PS.  In surprisingly related news, this morning Victor opened the door to find another Beyoncé on the porch.

It's Beyonce. But travel-sized.

Fortunately this one was only 2 inches tall.  It’s an exact, 2-D replica of the Beyoncé statue (with the flying pig on his head) that I had made in resin.  For Victor’s desk.

PPS.  If you want your own tiny Beyoncé statue you can buy it right here for under $20.  You’ve gotta add your own caption though.  I added mine with a piece of a post-it note, so that I can change the saying every time I hide Beyoncé somewhere else.  Like tomorrow I’m going to leave a note on it that says “WHERE THE TOWELS AT?”  And this morning I’m leaving Beyoncé on the pile of laundry on the bathroom floor with a note saying “Really, dude? Is this where the dirty clothes belong?”  Because Beyoncé is a teaching tool.

UPDATED: Victor says Beyoncé would be more effective if the dirty clothes on the floor weren’t all mine.  I think maybe Victor just doesn’t understand how passive-aggressive chicken-notes work.

Just got back from Utah.  More on that later, but right now I just want to say that my blog and email have been ill for the last 24 hours, but I’m moving to a bigger server so it should be fixed.  Also, I am severely jet-lagged so I have nothing funny to say.  Except that I just looked up “jet lag” on Wikipedia and it said that scientists have helped hamsters recover from jet-lag by giving them viagra.  Which means that at one point there were a bunch of people flying hamsters with tiny erections to exotic locations in the name of science. Which I think is just proof that scientists are high all the time.

Also, I’m pretty sure cancer still exists, right?  Meanwhile, people are bringing drugged, involuntarily-aroused hamsters on planes, and I’m not even allowed to bring my diet coke through security.  This is exactly the kind of thing I’d take a stand against if it wasn’t for the fact that I don’t even know what the hell I’d write on that picket sign.

PS.  The study also notes that the hamster study “is considered an off-label use by the drug’s manufacturer“.  Which seems like a lost opportunity, because who doesn’t want to use erection meds to cure your hamsters of jet-lag?  Apparently the people who make viagra don’t.  Because they hate your hamster.

PPS.  I can afford the upgrade so no worries, but if you want to help me pay for the bigger server you can buy something at my horrifically inappropriate store. Or you could send me a briefcase of unmarked bills.  Or get me a grant for hamster-erection studies.  Apparently there’s a lot of money in that.

Halfway through the guy told me to “smell” I was all “What?” and I opened my eyes and his hands were over my face like he was just about to smother me and I yelled “WHAT?” and he said, “I said ‘smell‘” and so I did and it was eucalyptus. I assume that’s some kind of aromatherapy but I have to think that the relaxation gained from smelling eucalyptus is not worth the stress you get from thinking you were going to be smothered.  Maybe it’s just me.  Then he rubbed the eucalyptus into my body.  Except by “rubbed” I mean “punched.”  I smell like I got beaten up by a koala bear.

Then he started pulling on my limbs and pushing them back in and it was kind of like if a class of kindergartners were told to kill you using only their hands and feet.  Then he tried to dislocate my arm.  Not on purpose, but he kept doing this thing and my arm was getting crunchy(?) and so he pushed harder and then I realized that he was trying to align my shoulder-blade except that I’m double-jointed and so he was trying to fix something unfixable and so I’m all, “Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.  You can move on”

Then he asked, “Um, have you ever had an allergic reaction to lotions or essential oils?” and I was all “No, why?” and he told me that my arm was really red and I was all, “Oh, that’s because YOU JUST TRIED TO DISLOCATE MY SHOULDERBLADE” but I didn’t say that out loud because at this point I was a little afraid that he was going to murder me, because who enjoys inflicting that much pressure on someone?  Sadists, that’s who.  But then it turns out that I am allergic to the oils, or that maybe I’m just breaking out in hives from the stress of my stress-relieving massage.

The only good part was when it was over and the guy was all “Make sure you drink a lot so you can flush your body of the toxins” and so I was all “Hell yeah” but when I got home and poured myself my second booze-slushie Victor said, “Water.  You’re supposed to drink water” and I was all “He was not specific“.

And that’s why there are so many typos in this post.  Because I’m therapeutically drunk and sort of bruised and dislocated.  That was not relaxing at all.  Next time I’m just skipping straight to the drunk part.

It’s all right here.  You’re welcome.

PS.  I just want to point out that I never get invited to go on Oprah or The Today Show to discuss important world events, but I have become a media darling regarding zombies, pissing off William Shatner and using taxidermied boar heads to save Christmas.

Mission accomplished.

Me, as I assume I will look two months into the zombie apocalypse. But not because I've been eaten. More likely because I'll accidentally cut off my own arm. I'm just really clumsy.

I made it for cats who don’t want to wear your damn shirts.

But they didn’t have any cat models at my online store so instead I used a baby but then I photo-shopped my cats face on it for my blog because I was like “Who is going to find this shirt without first going through my blog?  No one, obviously.”  But turns out that “Shirley from Florida” found it and was not amused and went to the trouble to look me up, which honestly is probably not that much trouble considering that my store has my picture and name all over it.  She was actually quite nice and explained that this shirt was terribly inappropriate and I was all “Okay, technically you’re right because it’s labeled as G-rated even though it clearly has lots of profanity on it, but the target audience for the shirt can’t read anyway so I’m not too worried.  Plus, it’s less of an ad for a shirt, and more of an ad about why you shouldn’t buy that shirt” and then she explained that she was more concerned with the fact that I was selling a shirt for babies that told people to undress them and also said “Please steal me” on the back and that’s when I realized that she had no idea this shirt was for cats (even though it CLEARLY says it’s for cats in the title).  Still, she had a point and I don’t want to be responsible for someone accidentally buying a shirt for their baby that promotes them getting kidnapped so I went back to the drawing board and found out that zazzle totally does have pet clothes.   Which would be awesome except they don’t have any cat models and they only let you write stuff on one side of the shirt so I can’t even get my whole message across because dog bellies are too small to write t-shirt slogans on, apparently.  Also, the item description written by zazzle goes on and on about the stitching on the “leg holes” and it’s a shirt.  I’m pretty sure shirts don’t have leg-holes, zazzle. Now we’re all confused.

Also, this shirt seems *way* too tight. This feels like an American Apparel ad and now I'm uncomfortable.

PS.  Victor says they probably wrote “leg-holes” because “dogs don’t have arms”.  And this is exactly why Victor isn’t allowed to pick out pets without me.  Because he’d come home with an armless dog and think that was totally normal.  I don’t have time to take care of an armless dog, you guys.  I can barely take care of myself.

PPS.  It is possible that zazzle doesn’t offer cat models simply because they agree with my initial idea that cats shouldn’t wear t-shirts.  So, I guess, touche, Zazzle.  Also, I want to point out that Zazzle does not pay me for all this advertising because I’m not a whore. Except that Zazzle is a company I’m using to sell merchandise.  So I guess I am a whore.  One that isn’t very good with business deals.

PPPS.  Dear Zazzle: You owe me like a billion dollars in advertising.