Now is the winter of our yadda, yadda, yadda

I don't like winter, and here's why:

It's cold.

I don't like winter clothes.  Long sleeves annoy me.  Most sweaters make me itchy and turtlenecks make me feel like I'm choking, besides the fact that I don't have a neck. I have a wattle, and they don't make turtlewattles, although they should, because it's a delightful word. 

It's cold.

As I Piscean, I suffer from Fucked Up Feet Syndrome, which means there are only about 3 pairs of shoes in the universe that don't hurt my feet and none of those shoes are, in any way, attractive.  However, in the summer I can wear sandals, which allow my tootsies to wave freely in the open air and not be imprisoned in the cramped darkness of Closed Toes.  This is less painful and marginally more attractive.  In the winter I do not have this option, because....

It's cold.

That S.A.D. thing that everyone in the country has, except maybe Stevie Wonder.  Are blind people supposed to be that happy all the time?  I saw him in concert once, he was amazing.  Each Beat of My Heart is one of my favorite songs.   But I digress,  probably because...

It's cold.

No matter how many layers of uncomfortable, itchy turtlewattles I may be wearing, I never seem to get warm until it gets above seventy degrees outside.  The closest I get to being warm in winter is when I'm in my incredibly unattractive flannel jammies, tucked in my bed with tons of covers and the space heater six inches away.  This is one of the many explanations for why I sleep alone. (The other reasons are depressing and it's winter and we already have S.A.D., so I won't go into them.  You're welcome.)  Then, just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, I get a hot flash.  Meh.  So I tear off all my clothes, shut off the space heater, and sweat like a mofo for five minutes, after which I freeze and reverse the process.   This routine annoys my cats.  I ain't crazy about it myself.

Have I mentioned winter is cold?

Okay, this has been an abnormally cranky post, (even for me) but it's March Eve and it's Birmingham, AL and that equation should not have a solution set consisting of freezing temperatures with a forecast of snow on Saturday, but it does and my feet hurt, and my turtlewattle itches and I sleep alone and. . .

It's cold.

Pope-pourri

I know I have written about religion before, so I may have already previously stated some of the views located herein.  But I'm too lazy to go back and reread any of my old shit, so I figure if I can't remember what I wrote, then the two of you who read my blog won't remember either. 

I'm not knocking anyone's religion.  If your Particular Set of Beliefs gets you through the day, good for you.  And I won't bore you with my PSoB, because you don't care.  You're welcome. 

I'm in a slight quandary over the big bruha caused by the Pope's Resignation.  I know it hasn't happened for 700 years or something, but it's not the Black Plague; which I can see getting top billing if it comes back after 700 years. (Also, it would be a bad time to be a rat.)  This is a senile old man retiring from his job, who may or may not have been issued an arrest warrant in December for covering up the pedophilia scandal,  a fairly common occurrence. 

And, honestly, in this day and endtimes, how is the Papacy even relevant?  Why should we be concerned about an old guy who sits on a golden throne, wearing a goofy hat and red velvet shoes when we have *really* important things to be worried about like an overabundance of Harlem Shake YouTubes, the current lack of sex scandals in Congress and Saint Meryl Streep scratching her ass on camera at the Oscars.  These are the real problems, people!  Sure, the Catholic Church (aka Six Flags Over The Dark Ages) has major issues with rampant pedophilia, not condoning gay marriage, women's rights and birth control, but do you really think that the next dude that God picks (if, by "God", you mean a group of old, petty, greedy, power-hungry men) is going to do anything different about those issues? 

Only if NewPope comes out on the balcony wearing his pants below his ass, a t-shirt declaring "Shit Happens" and a backwards baseball cap will I start to believe that perhaps this archaic, irrelevant institution might be considering joining the 21st Century.  But if he makes a fucking Harlem Shake video, I'm done.

Older White Lady Problems

One of the joys of living alone is that you can do what you want, when you want.

One of the disadvantages of living alone is that there is no one to share the shit.  So, one learns to become creative. 

The main problem I have (other than all my appliances/electronic devices constantly dying) is the Removing of the Garbage from my apartment.  The dumpster behind my apartment is on a mound of concrete and therefore about 3 feet taller than I am, (yes, thus making it 4 feet tall, ha  ha).  So I have to throw bags of garbage over my head to get it dumpsterfied.  Below are listed some elements that make this difficult (other than the fact that I am one foot tall):

1.  I have two cats.  I am (surprisingly) fairly diligent in cleaning out the cat pan.  Used cat litter is the heaviest substance on earth known to man. 

2.  I am lazy.  I hate taking out the garbage and am extremely creative in thinking up excuses not to do it.  I am willing to sell this list for a small fee.  You will be amazed (and horrified).

3.  My refrigerator died on Sunday and, due to the laziness factor mentioned above, I hadn't cleaned it out..well, I've lived there three years, so you do the math. 

SO, I am now left with the solution set of having multiple bags of yucky refrigerator food, plus multiple bags of regular + cat litter garbage and my kitchen has developed a "distinked" odor.  BUT, since I am physically unable to lift these odiferous garbage bags over my head, I am forced to put on my Thomas Edison cap, (not the I'm An Asshole Thomas Edison Cap, the I'm A Great Inventor Thomas Edison Cap) and come up with a solution.

TA-DA!!!

1.  First, wear shoes that lessen the possibility I will fall during this process.  No guarantee, but still.

2.  Take my kitchen stepstool out to the dumpster.

3.  Carry all 9 bags of garbage out to dumpster, climb stool and dispose of garbage.

4.  Drink many beers to congratulate myself.

Now, I realize that in The Grand Scheme of Things this is a mite on the back of a flea,  but for someone whose creativity usually consists of making bad puns (see "distinked", above), this is a major breakthrough for me. 

Next up, figure out a way to illuminate a room other than with gas lamps or candles.



And now in local news....

I was sorry to see Forest Perk Coffee Shop leave and am disappointed it will be replaced by a nail salon.

As much as I am a girlie-girl in many areas (make-up, clothes, cain't say no), I've never been into having my nails done.  The first time I  had nail polish put on my nails, it felt like my nails were suffocating and I had a panic attack.  Then there is the fact that they don't usually stay looking nice for more than 2-3 hours, quckly turning into broken, stubby, claw-like things. 

So I got to thinking that if I could choose what business to go in there (Fantasy Debbieland), what would I pick?  These are my top three choices:

1.  A Cattery (I know, right????  Super-awesomeness.)

2.  An Ice Cream Store (This probably would actually not be a good idea, since I have a weakness for hot fudge sundaes.)

3.  An intimate, quiet, reasonably-priced bar, with comfortable seating; a small, but delicious menu; and a room in the back where you could get a massage from a hot guy/gal of your choice, complete with optional happy ending.  Wait, that kinda sounds like a whorehouse.....oh, well,  potayto, potahto.

I suppose, since this is a Fantasy, I could combine of all these three delights  into one amazing establishment, and call it, "Pussy Playtime Ice Cream Parlour and Tavern".  

Franchise, anyone?

A Sort-of, Kind-of, Parenting Post

Remember when you were a kid and something grown-ups told you didn't make sense?  They would always say, "You'll understand when you're older."

I find it very comforting that a lot of the shit that didn't make sense when I was a kid still doesn't.  Much of that is religious training.  The whole "only Catholics can get into heaven" is just as stupid today as I thought it was when I was six.  That would have meant my dad (who was an agnostic) wouldn't get there, and he was way too awesome to end up anywhere else.  I also never understood the rule that women had to wear hats in church and men were not allowed to wear hats in church.  Will God really get pissed off if an 8-year-old girl walks into church with no hat on?  Or an 88-year-old man wheels into church wearing one?  If so, God needs to chill.  They since did away with that dictum, along with a bunch of other senseless rules, and therein lies one of the problems I have with organized religion as a whole.  If the point of religion is to give people guidelines to live by, shouldn't those guidelines never change?  It's wrong to kill people--always has been, always will be, that's a good rule; I can see a religion having that rule.  Also the stuff about loving one another, that's a keeper, it actually sort of dovetails into the whole non-killing thing, when you think about it.  But my point is, that's the kind of stuff religion should be concerned with, not when you're supposed to wear a fucking hat.  Sorry, got a little carried away there. .

Anyroad, my mother also told me stuff that still doesn't make sense.  When I was in fifth grade, she told me the worse thing a boy could ever do to you is let his tongue touch your tongue.  (That was as close as I ever got to discussing sex with my mother.)  I'm sorry, Ma, but I disagree.  I think having a boy not appreciate you, not respect you and not support you (emotionally, not economically) is a helluva lot worse.  Besides, I really like that tongue-touching thing. She also told me if I had bad handwriting I'd never get married; (Perhaps, after 20 years, my penmanship went downhill and caused my divorce?) and that girls shouldn't whistle, it makes the angels cry.  She might have been right about that one, I can't verify it, but I do know if you whistle in a theatre you'll get the shit beat out of you, so maybe angels are big theatre lovers.  Cool.  

Although, whistling in a theatre being bad luck is a superstition, not like religious rules, which are. . . .oh, wait. . . 

The point of all this, (which I have taken way too long to get to, sorry), is that when you tell your kids "life lessons", try to remember that they're going to remember them their whole life, not just till they turn 13. (At which point, they will stop listening to anything you say to them.)  And kids don't like being lied to, except about Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.  Talk to them the way you like people to talk to you, only with with fewer swear words and references to 80's sitcoms.   At least until they turn 13.

Stressmastime is Here

Although I try very hard to live in the moment, I find it particularly hard at this time of the year.  Especially because this year,  thanks be to the Theatre Gods, I am insanely busy. 

I did not get all the presents for my kids I wanted to; I have not yet  begun to wrap what I do have; I did not get to decorate the apartment; the apartment itself is a disaster area, due to my Kitties' refusal to clean house.  (And maybe a bit from my never being home/intense laziness.) 

But, at the end of the day, none of that shit matters.  Because, here in Debbieland, there is something about Christmas Day that has a different feel from the rest of the year.  It's like time moves differently; sort of like when you're stoned, but everything isn't as funny and you don't have the munchies.  It's me and my kids, which makes it wonderful, no matter what day of the year it is, and we always have the best time.  There is something about that incredible bond you have with your kids that seems a bit stronger on Christmas.  And all the shit you didn't get done doesn't matter.

I'm really looking forward to that.  But, it doesn't stop me from stressing about it beforehand.  (Along with the added Theatre Stress of:  please let me remember my lines; please let more people come to the show; please let me learn my lines for the next show; please let me get that part I auditioned for, etc. etc.)  Not to mention work.  (Because I have learned the hard way to *never* mention work via social media. Meh.)

So, here's to what really matters during the holiday season:  Being with the people you love.  And hoping they won't mind running lines with you.

How I Learned There Is No Santa Claus

I guess I should have put a spoiler alert in front of that title, but you have to find out sometime.

The Christmas I was nine the present I wanted most was a Slinky.  I know, I know, but I've always been Low Maintenance.  Anyroad, I was extremely vocal about this.  I talked about it ad nauseum, I freaked out when the commercial came on ("Everyone wants a Slinky, You want to get a Slliinnkky!")  It was the 50's, brainwashing was in.  And of course it was the top of my list in my Letter to Santa.

On Christmas Eve, I was telling my mother how excited I was about Christmas, and, in particular, about finally getting a Slinky.  She stopped dead in her tracks and gave me a Joan Crawford "no more wire hangers-ever" look, and said, "What's a Slinky?"  I regaled her with the many wonders of the Slinky and then plaintively reminded her, "I told Santa I wanted it!!!"  She angrily threw on her coat and yelled to my father, "Charlie, I have to go to Thrift Drugs, I'll be right back!"  She came back twenty minutes later with a small, square box in a brown paper bag.

Now, in addition to being LM, I am also Extremely Naive, but I ain't the dullest crayon in the box, so I put 2 and 6 together and figured out that Mommy + Daddy = Santa Claus.  I wasn't so much disappointed in finding out He didn't exist as I was deflated that Mommy hadn't listened to me.  Again.

Moral of the Story:  Keep bitching till you get what you want.

Merry Christmas!