Connecticut: Spelled Funny, Smells Funnier

Wednesday, April 27th, 2011 – leftover chocolate, knee squeaking, large albatross like bird projectile shitting on window

Howdy, my little jelly beans!  Are we all ready to learn something, humongously interesting about Connecticut?  Well get comfortable and let’s begin! 

What can I tell you, weary blogland, about the great state of Connecticut?  Connecticut has a ‘c’ in the middle just to confuse people.  Not me though.  I am a spelling God.  As most of you know, Connecticut is technically a state in the New England area, although we all know that really it’s just New York City’s bitch.  Some people would have you believe it has its own personality and awesomeness ratio, but it’s just a suburb of NYC, let’s be brutally honest here. 

Now let’s get down to business.  Connecticut was the fifth state of the original 13, and nowadays is a small, densely populated pudding of posh, hoity toity, wealthy residents and people who’d murder your granny for a sniff of cheap scotch and even cheaper ladies’ panties. 

The state’s name is an English bastardization of the original Algonquian name “quinatucquet” which translates loosely as, “big, superfluous suburb of New York” or I may be lying, but I don’t think so.  Its early settlers were Dutch and English and fights constantly broke out in the neighbourhood over who wore the silliest garb – the English with their powdered white wigs or the Dutch with their giant, comical wooden shoes.  Occasionally, an unfortunate interbreed would don both and be executed for witchcraft.   Or I could have totally made that up, I’ll let you decide.

The thing most people like to say about Connecticut, apart from the whole NYC thing is, “Yah, yah, I like…went to Yale, I am totally rich and ivy league smart!”  and then they recount the time they rented a mini bus in the dead of night to drive up to Harvard and play a totally bitchin’ prank on those Masshole losers by replacing their team mascot with a bald chicken or something equally, scorn inducing.  We’ll be impressed when you replace their mascot with a UNICORN, Yaley.

Ready for the obligatory heathen count?  Don’t get too excited.  According to Wikipedia, which incidentally will accept information from any clearly drunk and illiterate person with a keyboard, only 1% of Connecticutters (heh!) are heathens, but I’m inclined to not quite believe that statistic, especially since the list of percentages for all the different religious entities was suspiciously long and when I used my vast arithmetic skills to add up the percentages of Connecticut’s religious residents, it equalled 148%. Which, I don’t know about you, seems just a little fishy, when you consider THERE CAN ONLY BE 100%.

Which is what happens to your mathematical logic when you’re relegated in people’s minds from “state with its own identity” to “giant suburb of New York”.

Despite this impressive exploitation of the percentage rules, Connecticut is a fairly Democratic state and one of the few states in the US which not only recognizes same sex marriage, but never repealed this law.  Way to go, CT, recognizing our gay brothers and sisters!

Last, and very definitely least, everyone’s favourite fuck-up, George W. Bush was born in Connecticut, although luckily for the locals he was ejected because he couldn’t SPELL “Connecticut” and he exiled himself to Texas, got a cowboy accent and a big hat and proceeded to suck the life out of the English language from thousands of miles away.  Rumours that his first words after leaving office, were, “Laura, let’s git on with barbecuin’ and executin’ and we gots all the oil, LOL!” are unconfirmed at this time.

And that’s it for Connecticut.  Except, did I mention it was really just a suburb of New York City?

Easter Spirit

Sunday, April 24th, 2011, Easter, chocolate, nom nom nom, brain filler

Happy Easter, peeps (see what I did there – topical relevance, although isn’t “relevance” kind of redundant in that phrase, I don’t know. Or care…)

I hope you all had a moment of contemplative silence today, to remember what Easter is all about. That’s right! Getting to the supermarket early to snap up those bargain, half price Easter eggs! I still haven’t eaten much chocolate in eons – well, I did have a piece of Tonka Bean chocolate the other day (effing delicious, incidentally, I recommend) – however, today, being Easter, means I have to BY LAW eat some chocolate or the holiday police show up and threaten to pinch and twist your personals till you scream (allegedly). So I’m endeavoring to go out later and buy as many Cadbury eggs as I can find, then eat them till I pass out in a sugar coma.

No one can say I don’t get in the spirit of Easter.

Talking of spirits, because “segue” is my middle name, last night I went out for Mexican food and margaritas and daiquiris. I contemplated writing this entry last night but wisely remembered the nonsense I write when I’m SOBER and figured that it was probably a heinous mistake to even consider more drunken blogging. See, I’m maturing. Like a good cheese.

 Anyway, the margaritas, served by the pitcher and made with fresh strawberries and enough tequila to pickle your innards, were superb, as were the daiquiris, also made from freshly mushed up strawberries and enough rum to ensure your brain was as pickled as your innards. And really, how could you have a bad night after that? You couldn’t. Well unless you got a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of your foot. And what’s more annoying than that, except a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of EACH foot (or Sarah Palin) which hello! I have. The blister I mean, not Sarah Palin. Damn boots. Ouch.

At least my knee’s doing better. Pretty soon I’ll be able to boot annoying people right in the ass again as always. I’m totally kidding, of course. It’s my right knee. I boot with my left. My booting abilities never actually quit.

Anyway, a thing about Connecticut is coming soon. Soonish. I know you’re on tenterhooks. Whatever they are.

Happy Chocolate Day!

Things That Are Wrong With Me Today

Tuesday, April 19th, 2011 – achey breaky knee, Tonka Bean chocolate is good, digging plaid

Hi!  Yes you!  Remember me?  I sometimes post nonsense several times a week then disappear without trace for a week then expect everyone to be all, “Hey, welcome back, we missed you SO much, OMG how did we live without you?"  Because you’re doing that aren’t you?  Humour me.

You’ll be enthralled and captivated to know that my knee is still being a giant asshole.   It was doing pretty well there for a while, then I got bored and walked around on it for two entire days straight and it was disgusted with me and decided to stage some sort of a military coup.  Only for knees. 

Even I don’t know what that means but it sounds impressive. 

Anyway, yes, it’s back to being painful and I’ve been swallowing prescription strength codeine and Ibuprofen and grinning a lot and falling asleep mid sentence.  Stupid knee.  

Oh, and I got in the bath tub tonight for a relaxing soak and couldn’t get out again.  I felt like I was 90.  But really, YOU try getting out of a little tub when you can’t put weight on one knee.  I did what any sane person in such an undignified situation would do and flailed about miserably, splashing water everywhere, sighing a lot and calling my knee “an inconvenient little fuck”.  Then when I did finally make it out and cleaned up the great flood of 2011, I limped around the apartment, sniffing a lot for emphasis. 
I smell really, really fantastic though! 

So how are YOU guys? 

You know what happened tonight?  A gigantic Daddy-Long-Legs (official species name: fucking flitty floaty interloperus thingus) got in the open window and proceeded to terrorize the life out of me.  If you know me, you know of my all encompassing Daddy-Long-Legs terror.

And this country is FILLED with daddy long legs. I can deal with spiders. Spiders and me have an understanding.  They keep the hell out of my bed or my dinner and I agree to let them live.  I will even rescue them from imminent death if they happen to be in my bathtub when I need to take a shower.  I’m not afraid of them.  We have a “live and let live” policy, spiders and I.

 Daddy-Long-Legs however?  No.  No such treaty has been entered upon and it never will.  Those things need to die.  There’s nothing quite as horror inducing as a floaty, skittish dot with giant spindly legs following you around and trying to float into your holes.  I’m having trouble even typing this to be honest.   It’s just too grim.  I’m going to vomit.  Tonight I will guard my holes with a violent passion.  No infiltration by floaty, flying things that can’t even decide if they’re a goddamn spider or a fly.  What do they even DO?  Apart from terrorize me, I mean.  Clearly.

Well, that got a bit ranty, for sure.  Sorry, but DLLs make me stabby.

I am Inadequate

Wednesday, April 13th - GAH

Well I managed to do something hideous to my knee while practicing the serene and tranquil art of yoga the other day. I don’t know about you, but I always thought the point of yoga was to balance one’s wotsits with their doodads and feel all at one with the universe and their fellow man and so on, not to sprain one’s knee so that you walk like you had an unfortunate accident in your pants, for the next three days. Seems I push the boundaries of yoga a little too far.

This is also why I haven’t done any Zumba in a while – it might just get too hip thrustingly sexy and I might put someone’s eye out. Anyway, my knee won’t bend all the way back right now and although I rarely have to bend my knee all the way back, now I know I can’t, I really, really want to!

Also, I can’t seem to finish this little painting I started last week and it’s mocking me from my tiny easel and making me squirm with the guilt.

I also may or may not have had a dream last night that James Woods was trying to kill me with a water gun. It’s all very confusing.

Green Mountains, Muffs and Squeezing Cows

Tuesday, April 12th, 2011 – Yawn.

Well, Annie won the “suggest a state” thing yesterday and her prize was as advertised – a big, fat nothing. Well done Annie! Annie is lovely, you guys, wave to Annie. She suggested Vermont and who am I to refuse? A big, old asshole, that’s who. So let’s commence. Let’s say hi to Vermont, a tiny state, sandwiched cosily between New York, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Quebec, desperately minding its own business amidst all that crazy.

You know when sensible, smart, really remarkably awesome people (i.e., me) think of Vermont, they think of a crystalline winter wonderland, filled with fir trees and mountains and sparkling snowflakes, while Bing Crosby rides through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh, with a comely honey in perfect lipstick and a muff to keep her hands warm (a muff to keep HIS hands warm would be a whole other sort of movie!). It’s all musical and beautiful and pristine and filled with eggnog and singing and fabulous skiing and evenings by a log fire in a hideous moose sweater. Sigh. The world in my head is so pretty.

Actual dialogue from Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” (1954)
Perhaps…

Vermont. Second smallest state population in the United States and a big bushel of that population is made up of retirees, who like to hide in their homes by candlelight, in case the neighbouring Quebecois try to come down and kidnap them to sell their organs for poutine money.

WTF? Even I’m appalled such nonsense comes out of my head.

Vermont’s capital is Montpelier, which, coincidentally, is the same name as a town in the South of France where I once got mega-super-rubber-wasted and fell off of a bridge (long story, another time), except France spells theirs with two “l”s to be all fancy.

“Oh la la, look at us, Monsieur, with our fancy DEUX L name! We are in charge of ze letters. MAYBE YOU WOULD LIKE TO TRY NOTRE SUPERB KEYBOARD FRANCAIS, MADEMOISELLE, ÉÉÉ ÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉ!”

Ahem. I’m still a little bitter about that fucking French keyboard thing, what can I say?

Know what Vermont has that is awesome? Maple syrup. It comes out of special candy maple syrup trees and ends up on your pancakes. And okay, it’s obviously not of the calibre of CANADIAN maple syrup, but really, it’s close enough. You’re forgiven, Vermont. You’re delicious, Vermont. I want to lick you, Vermont.
Know what else Vermont rocks at? Ben and Jerry’s. Anyone who doesn’t think that’s worthy of being a contender for best state ever, is a dialtone. For anyone who’s been residing under a stone, Ben and Jerry were Vermont hippies, who back in the medieval days of the 1970s, took a look around them and thought, “Dude, there sure are a lot of bitchin’ cows in Vermont, maybe instead of tipping them or blowing bong smoke up their butts, why don’t we squeeze the shit out of them and see what happens?” And that is how they discovered milk! Then they totally left it out in the snow one night till it froze, then they invented ice cream and named it after lots of weird shit, the end.

Or something like that.

As well as the French keyboard thing, I’m still pretty bitter that I can’t get "Mission To Marzipan” anywhere near me. Eff YOU, Ben and Jerry. And in advance, you just shut up, Cora! Hee.

What else can I tell you? Vermont, amazingly, is consistently ranked one of the safest states to drive, as it has one of the lowest rates of road fatalities in the country. While, a) Vermont is tiny, and b) a giant chunk of its population is over 75, therefore, they drive at 5mph with their blinkers on for three hours, so everyone else is well aware of them and steers clear, the statistic still makes no sense because 20 something percent of them are French or French Canadian and dude. Have you seen French people drive? Have you ever had to drive around the Arc de Triomphe? I rest my case.

“What about religion, Veg?” you scream, feverishly. Simmer down kids, I’m getting to it. Get this. According to Wiki-we-speak-the-truth, as of 2008, between 34% and 40% of Vermonters are not religious. FORTY. PERCENT. PEOPLE. Finally, I have found a possible sanctuary to rest my tired, weary head. Ha!

I think that about ties up Vermont. I think you learned all you really need to about the Green Mountain State. Next week, come learn a bunch of inane nonsense about CONNECTICUT and how it’s really just a big suburb of New York City.

Please Help Me. Please.

Monday, April 11th, 2011 – the insanity, it burns!  Quiche, work crap, paint frenzy

I’m all behind with the whole state thing again, so here’s a little contest for you.  First person to leave me a comment with their state of choice, wins.   Okay, when I say “wins” there isn’t a prize or anything fancy like that, I’m not Ed Goddamn McMahon, you just get to choose the state.   I’m mean like that.  So let’s hear it.    There’re about 40 left to choose from and I can’t make a decision to save my life today, so hit me with it.  I might also say something nice about you.  How’s that?  No?

I found it hilarious but then it was that dodgy drunk period I was going through…

Also?

Right?  It’s not just me?

And:

You: What did YOU do Saturday night, Veg?

Me: Well thanks for asking, it was hilarious, I sat home alone and found pictures of weird assed animals on the Internet, that look like celebrities, you?
You: I was busy having a life.
Me:  I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means. 

States.  Now.

I Hate You 5AM

Friday, April 8th, 2011, hedgehog in my skull, turn down the sun, where is my coffee?

Here I sit, once again, feeling like a looped song, looking like a feral cat and with some kind of unwashed Romany gypsy living in my head. Somehow, despite the warnings of the night before, I managed to let myself be persuaded into drinking a shit ton of wine, both white and red, and staggering a thirty minute walk home at midnight, no doubt looking like Bambi attempting to Riverdance on ice, while trying to look neither suspicious nor drunk, which is hard, because that’s sort of my natural look! There wasn’t a car or a person in sight the entire walk. It was like that scene at the start of “28 Days Later” where the city exists but there's no sign of life.

I’ll have you know I drink rarely these days but this week seems to have me possessed. Anyway, the wine put me into a deep relaxing sleep. For about two hours. Then, “Oh hai!” I was awake. It was 3AM. Dark. I was exhausted. And stuffy nosed. And poundy headed. And did I mention AWAKE?

 I shuffled off to drink some water (about a reservoir full I reckon) and take some sinus medication. And pee for about an hour. Then I lay back down. And heard about fourteen people trying to break into my apartment. Which turned out to be just regular creaking sounds and not fourteen people at all. Then finally I fell back asleep and woke up a second time and managed to freak myself out by catching sight of something moving quickly in the early morning light, out the corner of my eye in the mirror, which turned out to be MY OWN FOOT as I was stretching. Yup.

And now I’m up again. And I feel a bit mentally challenged. Then there’s the feral cat hair thing. And someone clearly replaced my tongue with a strawy welcome mat. Ick. So I looked in the mirror and it was all:

Me: Hi!
Reflection: Well hello!
Me: You look like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey had a baby
Reflection: So do you, asshole
Me: I AM you!
Reflection: Where are your pants?
Me: I DON’T NEED PANTS
Reflection: You should probably drink some water and go lie down now
Me: You should just fuck off
Reflection: YOU should just fuck off
Me: I AM YOU.

I got up and things are all over the place and I can’t find anything. Where is my cellphone charger? What’s my password? Why is there a half eaten cheese sandwich on the counter? Where ARE my pants? (answer: hallway floor) I’m too old for this alcohol business. I need to sip tea and wear floral prints and buy some goddamn loafers before I seriously damage my calm.

So yeah. I’m supposed to be doing something about some state or other today and instead you get this nonsense yet again. Blame wine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find some Ibuprofen for breakfast.

Who Knows Me Half As Well As Me?

Wednesday, April 6th, 2011 – booze is not your friend, delirium, haw haw

You know what’ s a terrible idea late at night? Blogging when you’re drunk and disorderly. Hi! My digits are a little on the numb side but I’m trying valiantly to repair any leering typos as I go, because it feels like I’m typing with a bunch of big, fat corn dogs and they don’t want to comply with my usual touch typing, lady-fingers sophistication and finesse and keep insisting on hammering keys that I didn’t even know I had. Twice already – TWICE – I have managed to accidentally activate the international keyboard so that every time I go to type various things of a punctuationy nature, I type a big, fat, French accented E, or something, instead. Ca me fait chier, Monsieur! Goddamn keyboards. I don’t even know HOW to activate the French keyboard, yet somehow there it is. “BONJOUR!” Oh well.

Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? Nique ta mere!

I can be vulgar in French, you watch me.

I’m sketching out the beginnings of a painting for an art show in June. A tiny painting but an intricate one. It’s already caused many words of dubious origin to spring forth from my mouth and only a few of them were rated PG. And I’m drinking Budweiser. I have no excuse for this, it was all I could find at short notice. It’s possible in a few minutes I’ll grow a penis, some khaki shorts, a ballcap and a hilarious t-shirt with cartoon boobs, as I try to sing Jimmy Buffet songs to a total stranger before throwing up in their hair.

Here’s a story for you that about sums me up. Last night I was sitting, writing something on my computer, the window to the side of me looking out over the streets below and in the distance, in the dark, I saw a man. In dark clothing. Standing really still and looking right at me. I mean it seemed like it was right at me, but he was maybe a quarter kilometre away so I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, he kept looking and I was getting a touch creeped out, being home alone and it being late and all. Half an hour later he was still there and I was really spooked. So I pretended like I was going to bed and turned out the light then crouched down and looked out the window at him through my crappy little binoculars and well…turns out it was a pole. That looked nothing like a dude. Didn’t I feel like an asshole. The end.

…I never said it was a good story.

Why So Serious?

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011 – later, better, mellower

You guys, seriously. Things are way better now. Less crank. And less back ache, thanks to some concentrated Ibuprofen and the aforementioned magical properties of coffee. I feel like I really might have just discovered the magic cocktail for total world peace and ecstatic well being. I am your new God, worship me!

Plus I’m sitting at home in my most comfy slippers and sweatpants, putting off getting dressed - the royal blue ones I got from Marks and Spencer, with the ultra soft interiors made from the downy hair of newborn kittens or something, that I got for lumbering crazily on the treadmill, but winded up enjoying way more while lounging around at night in weird positions while watching movies or writing blog entries and leaving my old beaten up sweatpants for actually sweating in. I’m cozy. All is well. There’s no need to tread on eggshells anymore, we can all be joyous and happy now. The lion is tamed.

Do you know I haven’t eaten any chocolate in two weeks? Because I haven’t. Stick that in your bong and smoke it. No chocolate, no cake, no cookies. I know, right, I don’t see a flying pig either but there you go. It’s possible the moon is blue this morning or like…Sarah Palin might have said something that made sense, but I doubt it.

 Now I’m not even craving chocolate anymore. I’ve been all about the clementines and the pineapple and the bananas and okay, I still ate some chips, I mean the world isn’t ending or anything. I took my temperature (oral not rectal, I’m not WEIRD) and I seem to be okay. Although I have to point out that maybe the lack of chocolate is responsible for the rise in crank, as witnessed yesterday? See, it’s all making sense… I’d make a graph to illustrate this but honestly? I can’t be bothered. It’s too early. Use your imagination.

I did some running on the treadmill on Sunday. It’s been a while and my running shoes rubbed a blister on my heel, meaning I had to finish my run in my socks. You ought to try running in socks. It’s an ordeal of monstrous proportions. Your calves pull and hurt and make you say bad words and when you wake up in the morning you find that you walk like you drank several G and Ts and went ahead and wedged a cactus up your ass. Coupled with the back muscle thing from sleeping strangely and, well… That’s a recipe for a person who looks not of this planet when you see them waddling down the street, grimacing and talking to themselves in a demented manner.

One more thing. I finally tried ‘Disaronno’ and now I feel sort of shitty that for the last two years I’ve been calling it “Douchearonno” because their commercials suck some salty balls and are full of the sort of people you’d like to bludgeon repeatedly with a mallet. I wasn’t even sure what it was and as the ads were so nasty I never bothered finding out. Turns out it’s pretty much what heaven would taste like if you could bottle it – i.e., pretty sweet and tasty. It’s sort of just a fancy name for Amaretto. And anything that tastes like liquid marzipan, gives you a buzz AND you can drink straight up with ice, without making a lemon face, has to be good, right? And it is.

And I think that’s an appropriate place to call this a day, don’t you?