I’m not even sure who the enemy is anymore.

Yesterday I was an hour late for an appointment because Victor changed the time on my clocks to be correct, even though he knows I intentionally refuse to “spring forward” during Daylight Savings Time because that’s the way I silently protest having to wake up earlier than ever.  I realize it’s a silent protest that affects no one, but I just can’t bring myself to re-set my clocks, because that would be like admitting that Daylight Savings Time is right.  Instead I keep my clocks the same and just remember that it’s an hour off, and then a half-year later when time changes back I’m like, “That’s right, asshole.  I waited you out and YOU changed.  I didn’t.  I WIN AND YOU LOSE.  AGAIN.”  And then I laugh maniacally and Victor shakes his head because he doesn’t understand the importance of celebrating victories against inanimate objects or ideas.  And that’s probably why he got so defensive when I yelled at him for reseting my car clock without telling me and making me late, and he was like “It’s my fault because I fixed something that was broken?” and I yelled, “YOU CAVED TO THE MAN, VICTOR” and he said “YOU CAN’T FIGHT TIME MOVING FORWARD BY SIMPLY IGNORING CLOCKS.”  And he might have a point (one deeper than I care to admit at the moment) but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still exhausted from the time change and that I don’t understand why Daylight Savings Time is still relevant in today’s world.  If anything, I think we should have Daylight Savings Week, where we set the calendar back a week every six months so that everyone can catch up on TV and get a one week extension on all deadlines.  Victor pointed out that this would totally fuck up the calendar, but I countered that we could just fast-forward through September each year because most people hate September anyway.  If I was President this would totally happen.  And also I’d give tax breaks to people who are kind to animals, or who use their blinkers correctly.  Double tax breaks for people who take dogs for car rides just for fun, or who gently shake the world for the better, or who invent new kinds of cake.

Victor says if I was President the world would turn into anarchy in the first year.

I think Victor is seriously underestimating me.

****************

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up:

Painting courtesy of @fattieart (J Rose)

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by SilkWords, which is like a choose-your-own-adventure story, but with less death and more adult erotica.  Today you can check out a new story for free.  It’s quite fascinating, but I can’t help but think that most of my real choices would be “Stay home and eat a bag of tator tots” or “Laugh inappropriately during the 0rgy.”  This is probably why fantasy stories are better.  Speaking of which, when I first saw the banner for this story I was like “Is that dude vacuuming?  Wow.  That is kinda sexy” but then I looked closer and turns out it’s a whip.  I like the vacuuming idea though.  “Make the shirtless man vacuum while you eat Doritos.”  I would totally choose that every time.   

Thank you.

I’m incredibly lucky to have an amazing group of people in this tribe who are so supportive and lovely and wonderful to me and to each other.  Even when I get critical comments or emails they’re mostly things like,

“I like you a lot, but you’re sort of stupid.  But I still like you.  And maybe you know you’re stupid and that makes you smart and I’m stupid for not getting it.  You’ve given me a headache.  Hugs.”

or

“You are very funny, but if you don’t stop putting two spaces at the end of each sentence I will hunt you down and set fire to your cats.  Have a blessed day.”

or

“Women like you should be forcibly stoned.”

I agree with the last one, but I might be misunderstanding the intent.  On the second, I can’t stop with the two spaces after a sentence.  I wrote on an old-fashioned type-writer (the kind that has its own suitcase) for years before word processors became popular and I’m stuck in my old ways.  At this point you’re lucky I don’t use white-out to correct my posts.  The first critique is very flattering, as Edith Bunker and Gracie Allen are great heroes of mine and I do try to emulate them at times, and it’s also nice because when I unintentionally say something incredibly stupid (quite often) people just dismiss it as being part of my satirical hyperbole instead of me actually being stupid.  Do not be fooled.  I’m actually very stupid.  But I’m aware of it and I think that’s what makes me vaguely entertaining.  I can say illogical, ridiculous things and people will laugh at me (and with me) because most people are just as illogical and ridiculous as I am, but they try to hide it in the real world and they find great relief in finding like-minded, happy and self-aware stupid people here on this blog.  Some are doctors, engineers, astronomers, even a large number of rocket scientists, and they are all happily stupid.  Which is lovely because the wisest people you’ll ever meet are those who know that they know nothing.  Someone said that once.  I’m pretty sure it was Edith Bunker.

I don’t have good way to end this.  I just wanted to say thanks.  This last month has been difficult.  I had a cancer scare, found out I was sicker than I thought, had to go on narcolepsy meds, missed out on a family trip to Japan because my anxiety flared up, and spent much of the last 6 weeks helping with Victor’s meemaw, who hasn’t left the hospital since February.  The good news is that I don’t have cancer, I got meds for my sickness (more on that when I feel like I can talk about it), Victor and Hailey went to Japan together and had fabulous bonding time, and meemaw was moved to rehab today and looks 100% better and we might get to bring her back home in another week.

Things are looking up.  Thanks for looking out for me when they were down, even if you didn’t know about it.  It makes a difference.  You make a difference.  I love your stupid faces.

Choosing life insurance is like gambling, but you never know if you win because you’re dead.

A few weeks ago I started the process of getting life insurance.  I work for myself and so I don’t have a company to take care of this crap for me so an insurance woman showed up with a lot of needles to draw blood, an EKG machine and a shitload of questions.  I did fine except for when she asked what caused my clinical depression and I explained that it was just chemical and she explained that that wasn’t an answer and that depression had to be caused by a situation. Then I blinked and pointed out that if that were true, this very situation would be one that would give me depression.

Then yesterday I heard back and found out that I’m too much of a risk for good life insurance, which is sort of ridiculous because I’m pretty much guaranteed to die.  It’s a fairly common side-effect of life.  Regardless, the insurance salesman told me I could get still get insurance, but that I just wasn’t a “preferred customer”.  Which sort of sounded okay actually because if you’re a “preferred life insurance customer” I think that means they’d prefer it if you died.  Victor says that’s not what it means at all, but I think he’s just saying that because he qualified as “preferred” and he’s rubbing my nose in it.  Regardless, I got a few policy offers even though they cost way more than any of Victor’s quotes and it sort of sucks because basically they’re charging me more to die, and it seems like that ought to be one of the few things I get to do for free.

Frankly, I can’t even tell if that’s insulting or if it’s just their way of encouraging me to outlive Victor just out of spite.

Pimp out your shit. Not literally though. Unless you’re selling feces. Then you might have a problem.

Just a quick thank you.  The cost to keep this blog up are stupid expensive but I’m incredibly lucky that so many people support the blog by buying space in the sidebars.  Lots of them are writers and bloggers themselves and you should totally do yourself a favor and check them out because they’re lovely, and also because they are better than chocolate tacos.  Chocotacos. Great.  Now I want a chocotaco.

Also, the people who buy ads here keep me from having to do irritating things like break up posts into several pages, or having pop-up ads, or slide-shows to artificially manipulate page views.  We owe them all a drink.  Or five.

A regular blog post is coming but this morning I just want to say thanks to anyone who has ever supported this blog, either by advertising, by supporting my advertisers, by buying a book or something from my store, or who simply left fabulous comments which vigorously disprove the “DON’T READ THE COMMENTS” law of the internet.  I love you guys.

Also, I realize that lots of you know of or have fascinating shit that you’d probably like to pimp out and so today I’m opening up comments to let you pimp out whatever thing you think needs more attention.  Charities, kick-starters, books you love, etsy shops, your favorite blog post, videos that make you laugh, something you made that you’re really proud of, whatever.   (Try to limit it to less than 3 sentences though because most of us have ADD here.)

And seriously, thank you.  You keep my world going around.  Someone bring me a chocotaco.

Say no to bullshit.

You know when you don’t get invited to the party that everyone else is at, or you’re not at some conference that everyone else is tweeting about and you start feel bad for yourself?  But then you realize that you’d really rather be getting a root canal than making forced small talk at a loud, crowded party and so instead you put on your pajamas and read trashy books that you love but don’t want to read in public, and then you go hunting for something to eat and there are banana popsicles and you dip them in malibu rum and they freeze and make a lactose-free pina colada THAT YOU CAN ACTUALLY EAT, and right then?  Right then is when you realize that you win.

You.

Win.

The end.

Appreciate it.

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up:

shit I did when I wasn't here

What you missed in my shop (Named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by JustGoGirl, a company that designed a product to help active women who are normal in that they will pee a bit when doing a hard workout, or jumping rope, or running marathons, so that you don’t have to pretend that’s crotch sweat on your leggings.  I can’t recommend them because I don’t work out enough to pee but I have friends who love them.  They’re holding a contest in April for a chance to win a FitBit Flex.  You should check them out here.

It might just be me.

So, I saw this at a thrift shop and I couldn’t stop laughing.

bobbet

And Victor looked at me strangely for a second and then he got it and laughed and then the clerk was like “I don’t get it.  What’s so funny?” and I explained that it was funny that there was a metal tube with a snipping hole in it called “The Bobbet” and that the slogan was “Just a turn and there’s your worm.”  And she still didn’t get it so I said “You know.  For cutting penises off?” And then she asked us to leave.

Is it just me?  Am I too old?  Do average people not know penis-severing stories?

It takes a lot to faze me. Consider me fazed.

So, I get weird shit in the mail all the time because I have readers who know me and who see weird shit and automatically think of me.  I’d like to think that’s a compliment.  Last week someone sent me a severed hand on a stick.  I’ve gotten scrotums and cobras and a box of dead hamster and books on Victorian venereal diseases and old taxidermy manuals and each time I think “My God, I’ve found my tribe” and Victor thinks “Is it too late to divorce her?”  And the answer to both of these is a resounding “Oh, hell yes“.

And today I opened a box from a reader (Stefano) who I once met at a reading.  He is lovely and Italian and he found this in a small shop in New York and thought I needed to have it because his wife was afraid it was going to eat their faces off while they slept.

She has a point, Stefano.

Hi.  You're never going to sleep again.

Hi. You’re never going to sleep again.

Hang on.  I’m shrinking down more pictures.  You need to see the rest of this but it’s publishing slowly.  Probably because this creature is busy eating your computer screen so it can get to you.  Just saying.

More coming…

Photo #2 for everyone going “WHAT IS THAT?”.  It’s a mermaid, you guys.  Obviously.

Like Sea Monkeys if they were on steroids and wanted to eat you.

Like Sea Monkeys, if they were on steroids and then you forgot to feed them and then they crawled out of their tank and wanted to eat you.

It would be easier to say that this terror doesn’t belong in my house, except that it fits perfectly between the insect funeral scenes and the dead mice playing musical instruments.

I didn't even add a filter here.  It exudes it's own filter.

I didn’t even add a filter here. It exudes it’s own filter.

It looks shocked.  It might be mocking me.

It looks shocked. Or it might be mocking me.  Frankly, everyone in the house looks a lot like this at the moment.

There’s grass and stuff in its mouth and I want to take it out but I’m pretty sure that’s a trick to get you to feed yourself to it.  Not falling for it, mermaid.

Regardless, the bar has been set, people.

Stefano, my hat is off to you.  Also, please clean out a spare bedroom as we will be sleeping at your house until we have ours blessed by a priest.  A young one and an old one.

PS.  Someone asked what the cats think of it.  Ferris Mewler is hidden in a cupboard.  Hunter S. Thomcat is keeping an eye on the situation.

He'll never eat fish again.

He’ll never eat fish again.