Always Drunk

Minding Those Ps and Qs

2013-05-21T15:06:00.000-05:00

Two quick swears for the A to Z Swear Challenge. I have no idea if I'm up to date or ahead or behind on this. I suppose I could count the number of letters remaining in the alphabet and the number of days remaining in the month, but math.

Saved you hundreds on insurance, but at what cost?

Anyway, the letter P is an easy one. Precocious Daughter and I love us some Gordon Ramsey. The man is as expert at cursing as he is at cooking. I mean, I guess. I've never actually tasted his cooking, and come to think of it, he rarely cooks on any of his 57 weekly TV shows. But shit, dude can curse.

Anyway, we watch "Hell's Kitchen" every week, because it's much more fun to watch other people cook badly than to do it ourselves. And our favorite part of the show is the elimination. When a contestant is kicked out of the competition, he or she turns over his or her little white jacket to Chef Ramsey. And then he says, "It's been a great pleasure to have you in the competition. Good luck to you."

Except this is Gordon Ramsey, so he totally doesn't say anything of the kind. Instead he looks directly into their sad, defeated faces and says:

Hahahahaha. It's funny because it's deeply hurtful. But he's right. Sometimes "piss off" is exactly the right thing to tell someone.

Many, many times, in fact.

So on to Q. I thought this one was going to be difficult. But I found the BEST Q-word.

Aside: I'm old enough to remember when every major radio market had a Q station on the FM dial. Also, when radios had dials. Q stations played AOR (album oriented rock) - meaning, on any given day you had a good chance of hearing a song from your favorite band that wasn't one of the two tracks some record-label pinhead had decided were the "singles." Which meant that on any given day, you might hear more than the same eight goddamn songs played over and over again until your brain leaked out your ears.

I grew up with two great Q stations: WQFM in Milwaukee, and Q102 (KTXQ) in Dallas. They're both long gone now. Moment of silence, followed by a six-minute drum solo.

But I digress.

This awesome Q curse is courtesy of Urban Dictionary. And it is, and I quote: quab.

This is quite an aesthetically pleasing word. Queerly, the definition is even better.

1) A term used to describe the situation where you walk into your room and find your uncle and an octopus under your sheets.
2) The term used when no other swear could even grasp the complexity of the situation or event.

Where the quab has this word been all my life? The octopus thing alone has come up so many times, as I'm sure it has for all of you, and I had no words to describe it. I may have to get this word quietly tattooed on the back of my left knee - it's just that wonderful. Quick, you have to try it.

P and Q and some other random stuff. That's a quabbing good post. Piss off.

A Girl Walks into a Bar - And, Damn, It Hurt

2013-05-18T19:23:00.000-05:00

Today's A to Z Swear Challenge word is only marginally a swear, but it's a very cool word nonetheless, and since hardly anyone knows what it means, you can use it any way you wish and who will know the difference? The word is...opisthosomal.

Way fun to say, too.

Opisthosomal means of or pertaining to the ass-end of something. And that is such a perfect segue into today's post. I'm feeling pretty opisthosomal today myself.

Would you like to hear about it?

Of course you would.

Because for all that I love to write about religion and politics and candy bars, I know that the posts my Drunkards really enjoy are the ones about me falling on my opisthosoma.

Segue achieved.

You people love to read about me getting kicked out of my own child's birthday party, or being drunk and lost in the woods, or ripping my pants open because of my industrial-strength thighs. And clearly I have a talent for doing these things. We are a match made in dysfunctional Heaven. I love you all.

OK, so last night I went out. Which was pretty awesome. I went to see a local band at a little neighborhood bar across town. I was wearing a cute outfit and a new pair of shoes that are so adorable that - literally - strangers were approaching me to compliment them. I was among friends. I had vodka. I got to hear some incredibly talented musicians play, and I got to hug them. Win.

And then I had a meltdown.

Because...sure, why not?

It's OK, honey. It's what everyone was expecting.

I mean, I just lost my shit. Quietly, I'll say that. I didn't make a scene. I'm good at crying silently, from years of practice. Still, it ended up cutting the evening short, and I believe it monumentally exasperated the friend I was with. I mean, like I-super-need-to-make-amends-but-I'm-not-sure-that's-possible-at-this-point exasperated.

It's a cumulative thing.

But that's my problem. And I'm going to take the Scarlett O'Hara approach to solving it.

Back to the meltdown.

Here's the thing. I am not a social butterfly. Socializing is hard for me. Really, really hard. I'm very shy, and I have this deep-seated self-loathing thing going on that creates a massive force-field of inferiority when I have to interact with people and convince them I'm OK to talk to. It's freaking exhausting. I can just barely manage it in a familiar setting with people I know well. Put in me a noisy, crowded place surrounded by mostly strangers, and I start to...well, we'll just say I start to freak out a little.

But that's not what brought on the meltdown.

Here's another thing. When I'm drinking and I'm doing something freaking exhausting, I get - anyone? anyone? - that's right, I get drunk and tired. And then I get cranky. I'm not a good person when I'm drunk, tired, and cranky. The scientific explanation is that the containment field around my insecurities breaks down, releasing toxic waves of sulking and bitterness. Also, the filters that help me keep my many neuroses to myself go on the fritz.

I work something like this.

But that's not what caused the meltdown, either. This is a terribly petty thing to admit, but I was really bummed out by a fantastic piece of news I got earlier in the day. My buddy Jen over at Jeneral Insanity (which you should totally read because she's awesome) posted on her Facebook page that the Bloggess had just become a follower of her blog.

And while I'm really, truly happy that Jen got that recognition from maybe the best-known chick blogger on the planet - and I completely understand how stoked anyone would feel to know Jenny Lawson had read and enjoyed her writing - it made me nearly sick with jealousy. Because I'm a petty, selfish, insecure person, and it made me feel as if my nerdiest friend had gotten an invitation to hang out with the cool kids and left me in the dust.

I'm not supposed to feel that way. I know that every blogger is talented and dedicated, and that we're all a stroke of luck away from becoming Internet-famous. And we all need to support and promote each other, because that's what artists do. I mean, Stephen Stills must have felt like shit when he failed his audition for the Monkees and then recommended his buddy Peter Tork try out, too, and then Peter aced it and became a huge star. It didn't mean Stephen Stills wasn't talented - last I heard, he ended up with an OK career in his own right. But that's why you stand with your friends and celebrate with them when the breaks go the right way and commiserate when they don't.

Some people just wear the shirt better.

But that deal bothered me more than I wanted to admit. And it didn't help that whenever I watch a band play, I feel a twinge of that same jealousy - because besides a writer, the only thing I ever really wanted to was be was a singer. I love music, but deep inside me is a tiny little bitch who constantly reminds me that the real reason I listen to music is because I can't make it myself.

But even that didn't bring on the meltdown.

What brought on the meltdown - aided and abetted by the perfect storm of all of the aforementioned psychic quirks, of course - was Those Girls.

You know exactly who I'm talking about. They're always in bars and clubs and at concerts and sporting events and other social venues. They're pretty, and they're dressed in their best look-at-me clothes, and they have a few drinks and laugh and flirt and start dancing. And you wonder what they do in their daily nine-to-five lives, because surely they can't have some boring office job all week and then show up here looking just this side of slutty and acting as if the world is their party. Can they?

And they stand where everyone can see them, and laugh too loudly and drink too much and move around like cats in heat. And everybody watches them, and all the guys smile indulgently if they say or do something foolish, because acting like a fool is OK when you're one of Those Girls.

If you're not one of them, you know that you can't get away with acting like that. Those Girls are cute and irresistible, no matter what they do. But if you're not one of Those Girls, you're invisible. And if you're not one of Those Girls and have the temerity to adopt their ways, you're laughable.

I could never get away with this, is what I'm saying.

I am neither outgoing enough nor attractive enough to be one of Those Girls. Which ordinarily doesn't bother me one bit.

But last night I was drunk and tired and feeling insecure and jealous and shy, and Those Girls - who they were and who I knew I wasn't - pushed me over the brink. I ended up in tears. And I ruined a perfectly lovely evening out for completely irrational reasons.

Which is what a meltdown is, after all.

Spock understands.

So yeah.

Other than that, I had a great time.

I believe Mrs. Lincoln said the same thing once.

The World Is Full of Nuts and Peters

2013-05-16T21:21:00.000-05:00

I'm a little tired of just posting my daily A to Z Swearing Challenge word. I admit it's been a good way to ease back into blogging since my marriage evaporated and sucked up my writing mojo with it. But now I want more. MORE, I tell you.

So here's today's swear with some topical commentary.

N is for NUMBNUTS.

And by numbnuts I specifically refer to Mr. Peter Ahern of Princeton, Texas, who has written an astoundingly numbnuttish Letter to the Editor of my local deadwood paper. Here's the link, and here's what Peter Ahole wrote. Pardon me; Ahern.

We have ongoing scandals involving Benghazi, the IRS, Kermit Gosnell and the Department of Justice improperly monitoring The Associated Press.

So when I opened my paper yesterday morning, what story was at the center top of page 1A? Angelina Jolie’s decision to have an elective surgery, that’s what.

While I’m sure adolescent males of all ages throughout the free world are now hopelessly traumatized by that news, there really are more important things that demand the attention of responsible citizens.

Really.

INDEED?

Thank you for your input, Mr. Ahole. Thank you for pulling out your deadened genitalia and waving them for all to see.

Numbnuts.

Full disclosure: I admit to having mixed emotions about Angelina's preventive double mastectomy. I admire the courage it took to undergo major surgery. I empathize with her desire to increase the odds that she will see her children and her children's children grow up. And I certainly appreciate not wanting to live in fear of suffering the ravages of breast cancer, especially knowing her risk level was much higher than normal

Still, I feel some misgivings about Ms. Jolie's being held up as an inspiration and a role model. Simply put, the vast majority of women in this country lack the resources to even be tested for the genetic mutation that may put them at risk for developing breast and ovarian cancer, let alone to go ahead with the very time-consuming and costly procedures she had done. As much as I marvel over the medical advances that enabled Angelina to proactively have her breasts removed, I fail to see how this demonstrates to most women that they have "options." A double mastectomy and breast reconstruction just isn't an option for women who don't have deep pockets, plenty of unencumbered time, and an extensive support system. If you're a woman without health insurance, Angelina Jolie may as well have had her brain removed and placed in a jar for safekeeping, for all the opportunity you're likely to have to follow in her footsteps.

That said, what Angelina Jolie has done - not simply undergoing the procedure but publicly chronicling it - is significant. It's important in that it's generating discussion that may lead to greater availability of such treatment to poor and middle-class women in the future. It's certainly newsworthy.

It is NOT, Mr. Penis Ahole - excuse me, Peter Ahern - simply an item about the latest celebrity surgery. And to reduce Angelina's story to such a tasteless and tone-deaf sound bite as "teenage boys must be sad because a chick cut off her boobies" is not only grossly insensitive but completely ignorant.

I suspect you come by your knowledge of adolescent male thought patterns honestly, Mr. Ahole. And I cannot imagine to whom you are referring in your letter as "responsible citizens."

You are not a responsible citizen. You are a numbnuts.

I sincerely hope you are aware that men can get cancer down there, and die of it. And I can promise you that, should that fate befall you, I will neither trivialize nor mock your plight.

Not even if "important" things are happening in the world that day.

Twofer

2013-05-15T23:24:00.003-05:00

I'm going to give you L and M in the A to Z Swearing Challenge tonight.

Ready?

L and M.

There's an interesting story behind today's words.

It'll all be in the book.

Say this one out loud a few times...it'll make you feel better, I promise.

Oh K!

2013-05-14T18:47:00.003-05:00

I had to go a bit far afield to get a K word for the A to Z Swearing Challenge. But rest assured that this phrase is quite offensive and vulgar...

...in Polish.

Seriously, look it up.

Ah, now look at what you gone and done. You made the Pope cry.

What's that? Yes, I know JPII, the Polish Pontiff, was two papacies ago. But as far as I'm concerned, Francis is a pope. John Paul II is THE POPE.

Sorry about the obscenity, Your Most Excellent Dead Popeness.

But it is a cracking good swear beginning with K.

Nine out of ten peasants agree.

You betcha dupa.

I and J

2013-05-11T20:32:00.000-05:00

Short and sweet, I've got two more letters for the A to Z Swearing Challenge for you guys.

I is for:

What I really wanted to say was a hearty AY CHINGADO. But that's rude (look it up).

J is for one of my favorites:

There, that catches me up. Tomorrow is Mother's Day, and I probably shouldn't swear on Mother's Day. Shit.

H is for HOLY SHIT WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYES?

2013-05-09T19:15:00.000-05:00

It's a bit of a special-purpose swear, I admit. But it does apply to me. So I guess I'm special.

You can use the abbreviated version if you like.

Here's the thing: I live in Texas, where there are plenty of things to be allergic to. The good news is, I'm only allergic to one thing.

Unfortunately, the thing I'm allergic to is Texas.

It's like an FBI's Most Wanted poster
of things that make me miserable.

Of course, my allergies only bother me in the spring and fall. And the beginning and end of summer. And bits of the winter if it's been mild. So really, only about ten months out of the year.

My allergy symptoms are typical: sneezing, sniffling, itchy eyes, the gentle caress of asthma slowly squeezing the air out of my lungs until I'm sucking on an emergency inhaler in the front seat of my car like a junkie huffing paint in a back alley.

Is it just me, or do you have to admire
the quiet dignity on the face of this man
taking a mug shot with his face full
of Krylon Silver Flake?

Anyway, I pop my Claritin and I'm more or less fine. But every once in a while - and I mean years will go by without this happening - I'll experience something else. Just out of the blue. Just for funsies.

Basically my eyes swell up like fleshy pink golf balls for three days.

Which simply is not as cute as it sounds.

There is no warning. There is nothing I can do to prevent it, and precious little I can do once it happens. I know it's coming - there's a very specific sort of burning and twitching around my eyes as it starts - and then it comes. In the space of ten minutes I go from looking like an average human to looking like Sloth from The Goonies.

You know what? I don't look that good.

Yeah, it's happening to me now. It came on last night. I didn't go to work today because 1) I couldn't open my eyes wide enough to drive and b) I was mostly unconscious from taking triple doses of antihistamine. Also, I couldn't wear makeup. No way I was going to out in public looking like that.

As my Drunkards know, I don't use my name or face on this blog. If you happen to be one of IRL Facebook friends, you saw the picture I posted this morning of my horrifying visage. I don't really want to go full frontal here, if you will. But I can show you my eyes.

My eyes are literally the only part of me that I find attractive.

The eyes were given by God, but the wrinkles
I earned, bitches.

I figure this is the reason the Lord decided to afflict me specifically on my peepers. As a lesson about vanity. And also because He has a sick sense of humor.

Exhibit A: And on the sixth day, God lost a bar bet.

Here's what my eyes looked like a few minutes after my latest allergic episode began:

Hide yo' children.

Here's what they looked in full flower, so to speak:

They're open as wide as I could open them.

And here's what they looked like about 20 hours after this all started:

Yes, I'm much better now.

Tomorrow I'll go back to work. I won't be 100% better, but I'll be able to drive and see. The lovely boys at my office will either gather around me and gawk, or...no, they'll definitely gather around me and gawk. That's OK. I find the whole experience to be a lot less mortifying than when it happened in my 20s or 30s. I'm much more mature and self-confident now. I also give a shit a lot less. With age comes wisdom and a lot of not giving a shit.

By Saturday I should be able to wear makeup again, and by Sunday it'll be as it never happened. And then I just wait to win the bloated-eyeball lottery again someday. Yayz.

So that's my A to Z Swearing Challenge entry for today. Does it also count for I? Because you know...EYE?

Maybe not.

P.S. Special thanks to Drummer Boy for his initial reaction when I sent him the first picture of my afflicted eyes last night. Too bad Rihanna didn't have someone like you in her life when what you thought happened to me actually happened to her. You can be a big Neanderthal sometimes, and I love you for it.

Great Googly-Moogly

2013-05-07T20:48:00.003-05:00

Nah, that's not today's swear, although I do love it.

Believe it or not, this is merely an average Googly-Moogly.

Today's G-word is...

Not only is it swearing, it's breaking a Commandment. So there's that.

When I was in high school, I loved R.E.M.'s song "Pretty Persuasion." One of the reasons was that it had the word "goddamn" in it. I loved the way it sounded. So powerfully angsty. Which was what it was all about when you were a music-loving outcast in the 80s.

Goddamn, Michael Stipe was once a human male!

See also: godammit, goldurnit, goshdarnit.

That's Right...F!

2013-05-06T22:09:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm not even going to try to be original on Day F of the A to Z Swearing Challenge.

Because...FUCK.

Fuck! Ah, fuck is a word with a glorious ring! A true universal euphonious thing! Engenders embracing and chasing of blues, the very best word for the whole world to use!

Ah, but you know I won't stop there. In honor of the f-word, I'll give you a whole bunch of f-words.

Hide yo' children.

Fuck This, Fuck That

Fuck false friends.

Fuck fickle family.

Fuck Facebook flirtations.

Fuck fleeting flings.

Fuck fairytales.

Fuck falling for fantasies.

Fuck formerly fine friendships failing.

Fuck finally feeling fulfilled.

Fuck freedom.

Fuck faith.

Fuck French fries.

No, wait.

French fries are fantastic.

Fuck faraway fixations

And familiar flights of fancy.

Fuck foreplay forestalled from fruition.

Fuck fifty forms of fracas

Foreshadowed, foreseen,

But fatally frozen forever.

Fuck the future.

Fuck fools.

Fuck faces.

Fuckfaces.

Funny.

Furthermore...

Fuck it,

I'm finished.

E is for Ewe

2013-05-05T15:24:00.001-05:00

Today's curse is simple, elegant, and on this particular day of life, could not be more useful.

It almost sounds lyrical, doesn't it? Maybe later I'll write some lyrics.

And it sort of means I'll have to work harder at tomorrow's. Big day for the A to Z Swearing Challenge tomorrow. Let's see if we can't make the Internet rattle on its foundation a bit.

P.S. A shout-out to Flaming Text, a cool website where you can design your own big graphic words like the above. It's free if all you're going to do is put them up on your little non-commercial dirtbag blog. Have fun.

A Day Late and a Swear Short

2013-05-04T19:40:00.003-05:00

Aw, jeez, it's only Day 4 of the A to Z Swearing Challenge, and I'm already a day behind. This is hard.

Or maybe it isn't.

Hehehehe.

Becursed

2013-05-02T19:58:00.000-05:00

Day 2 of the A to Z Swearing Challenge. I may not do this every day, and on the days I do, I may not devote a whole post to it.

But I do like to swear.

So here's to B.

SWIDT?

B is for...

Beffuckled.

A cross between baffled, befuddled, and fucked.

More or less my natural state.

Feel free to use it.

I'm Not, But If I Were...

2013-05-01T20:46:00.003-05:00

So the annual A to Z Blogging Challenge apparently became a bit of a clusterfuck when some independent-minded bloggers got chastised for using words like "clusterfuck." Because - hold on your hats - apparently hypocritical prudes exist on the Internet.

No shit?!?!

And I'm really too lazy to piece together the chain of posts, counter-posts, and counter-counter-posts that led up to the idea, but someone has now come up with an A to Z challenge for the month of May that revolves specifically around cursing.

I'm too drunk to center it, but there's the link.

OK, so I'm not a joiner. Because the one thing I hold true in this world (besides that my Precocious Daughter is the best person on the planet) is that ANY movement inevitably becomes exclusionary and cliquish. And the more said movement positions itself as being inclusionary and/or outsiderish, the more likely that is to be true.

Or maybe it's just that nobody likes me. In which case, the world can go fuck itself and I'll get off by watching.

Another dramatic cat .gif.
Because hell yes.

But in theory, at least, the A to Z Swearing Challenge is pretty cool. And since several blogs I love with unhealthy levels of devotion and respect are endorsing and/or participating in it - like Jeneral Insanity and Stacey at Maple Syrup Land - I'll give it a shout-out.

I can't promise I'll actually do it for the entire month of May myself. I'm busy, and I have a wicked short attention span, and OH YEAH MY MARRIAGE IS BREAKING UP HAVE I MENTIONED THAT? But I may. Or not. But here's my completely non-binding and unenforceable statement of support for the concept.

That's the best I can do, I swear to God.

And if today were going to be my first post on the subject - which I am NOT promising, because you people have enough reasons to get on my case already - it would be A for Antecrapulum. Which roughly translated from the Latin means "the shit just before it hits the fan." As far as you know.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahaha.

Anyway, good luck to my blogbuddies who are jumping into the challenge. I'm right there with you. Or not.

Whatthefuckever.

A Travelogue for People with Deep-Seated Issues

2013-04-30T19:08:00.001-05:00

I happen to think getting drunk in the woods is a pleasant thing to do.

This counts as "the woods," too, doesn't it?

If you have a cute little backpack so you can carry your car keys, your smartphone, and of course your flask of vodka, you’re ready to clamber the marked and unmarked trails of your local nature preserve. You just need to wear the right shoes – this is one time you must sacrifice your high heels for the sake of utility – and dress comfortably. Jeans are recommended to avoid being scratched by prickly pricklers and thorny thorns. Jeans that are already a bit roughed up from previous alcohol-fueled rambles are preferred.

Assless chaps, for a variety of reasons,
are not recommended.

There is no bad time of day to get drunk in the woods. Trust me on this. But when the sun is getting low in the sky, the woods are very pretty and the little bunnies come out to play. Probably it’s also when a lot of snakes start slithering through the brush and leaves that carpet nature, so it’s best not to think about that too much as you’re walking through them. You may want to look down so you can spot them, or you may want to avoid looking down specifically so you don’t spot them. Most snakes aren’t aggressive unless they catch you staring at them. Just saying.

Dafuq are you lookin' at, Leggy?

So you clamber and you hike and you make your way through the trees until you find a nice, cool, quiet place to drink. And by nice, cool, and quiet, I mean unoccupied. Strictly speaking, some woods, and especially some city-owned nature preserves, don’t allow adult beverages, so there’s no point in upsetting any children or sticklers for the law who may be about.

Honestly, some people are such prudes.

Relax. Listen to the rustling of the leaves, the babbling of the brook, the croaking of the frogs or anything else that may be croaking. And drink, of course. If you’re in the woods with a flask of vodka, there’s no point in staying sober.

Now, in nature you’re never alone. So remember that as long as you can see or hear some kind of living creature, you’re engaging in social drinking. Also, nature is a very safe place. This is a fact. Name one book, movie, or TV show in which someone went out into nature and had something bad happen. Keeping in mind that those Uruguayan rugby players in the Andes were on a plane, which technically isn’t nature. Also, that what happened to James Franco in 127 Hours was almost certainly his fault for not reading the script more carefully.

"Why yes, I am a Method Actor. Why do you ask?"

What I’m saying is that it’s OK to wander into the middle of the woods at dusk by yourself and drink vodka. Why else were cellphones invented but to enable us to engage in risky behavior knowing that 911 is just a phone call away?

There’s no need to invite anyone along. This is your private, peaceful time. Although if you wanted, you could message a good friend to meet you in the woods, or maybe meet you somewhere afterward. You know, for dinner or a movie or just to hang out. Because that would be fun to do after a nice relaxing clamber in the woods.

If you read the dictionary definition of "clamber," it says
"to climb in an awkward, scrambling fashion."
I prefer to illustrate the concept with this adorable photo
of a mouse scurrying over a rock.

Especially if you and that good friend haven’t seen each other in a while because your schedules are so out of sync. And, you know, life gets in the way and things come up and you both have priorities that sometimes preclude spending time with a good friend.

Which is another reason it’s perfectly fine to get drunk in the woods by yourself. Life is too short to let circumstances over which you have no control define your enjoyment. Carpe that diem, lest it be carped away from you.

Give it a moment, it'll come.

Also, even if you and a good friend have made definite plans to get together – plans that you were pretty sure had a good chance of falling through, and you were OK with that except that your friend swore up and down that they wouldn’t and got your hopes up that you’d finally be able to have an evening together because, you know, sometimes the stars do align – you should be prepared for crushing disappointment. Shame on you for your lofty expectations. That’s a sin, I think. Up there with gluttony or sloth.

But not Anderson Cooper holding a sloth,
which I'm posting because I can, and also because
OMG Anderson Cooper holding a sloth.

The good news is, everything is going to be OK. After all, you’re already in the woods, you’re already drinking, and you’re already alone. And those things are pretty enjoyable, as long as you don’t compare them with what you originally hoped to be doing that evening.

There is nothing that can possibly go wrong.

Well, you could start wandering around shitfaced drunk with night falling and get lost.

This picture works on so many levels.
E-mail me if you know what they are.

You probably won’t. I mean, this is a suburban nature preserve, not a national forest. Technically, if you can keep walking in more or less the same direction for 20 minutes or so, it’s almost impossible not to come out on the other side of the woods.

In order for that to happen, you would have to stray from any kind of marked trail. And it would have to be nearly dark. And if you can’t manage to stay oriented in one direction and keep moving that way…what are you, drunk?

Mark Trail. It's...it's a play on words.
How did I just now get that?

Now, the most important thing to remember if you get lost in the woods is to stay focused. Don’t be distracted by briars poking you in the arms. Or strange shuffling noises in the leaves off in the gloom. Most of all, don’t get distracted by thoughts of what an idiot you are for believing any of this was actually a good idea. Or how foolish you’re afraid you seem to your friend for getting upset at being blown off for what really is a perfectly valid reason and ending up in a stupid predicament that is doing nothing to bolster your already flagging self-confidence.

At this point be sure to remember that you haven’t eaten, either.

And beware of the man eating snake.
See what I did there?

The thing is, it’s not as if you’re having a bad time. You’re clambering, one of the most joyful activities known to mankind. You’re drinking in the woods, which is after all what you came here to do. You’re surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature. Sure, the sights have become a bit hard to see since the sun went down, and the sounds became a bit more menacing at approximately the same time. But there are no grizzly bears here.

Are you sure about that?

Spiders, snakes, and possibly rabid skunks. But no grizzly bears.

Awww.

And so, eventually you follow a creek and leave the woods and cross a field and get on a concrete path and discover that somehow you’ve ended up in front of the firehouse that’s a good 200 yards east of the nature preserve. And that’s a good thing, because…firefighters. You know, just in case you need strong, brave men to come to your aid.

I'm not a pyromaniac, but I'm working on it.

Which you don’t, because you easily traverse the distance from the firehouse to where you left your car. You would feel pretty stupid explaining to the strong, brave, possibly shirtless firefighters how you got there, anyway. And also, something about self-reliance and dignity. And you’re pretty sweaty.

Yeah.

All in all, a nearly perfect evening.

To sum up, I happen to think getting drunk in the woods is a pleasant thing to do.

Do it with someone you love.

The ABCs of D-I-V-O-R-C-E

2013-04-25T20:24:00.001-05:00

Because I like to rhyme stuff.

And cats with fur-hearts.

A is for anger,

A waste of my time

B is for bitch,

Which some people say I’m

C is for crying

Much more than I should be

D’s for divorced –

I thought I never would be

E is for ever

And ever, amen

F is for fucked…

Lately I haven’t been

G is for grief

For a thing that has died

H is for head,

Spending too long inside

I is for if

You say “boo,” I’ll begin

J is for jumping

Right out of my skin

K is for kindness,

For which I am grateful

L is for letting go

When things get hateful

M is for me,

Whom I’m getting to know

N is for nothing

I’m willing to show

O is for over

If you haven’t heard

P is for pfffft

A good all-purpose word

Q is for quitter

Which right now I feel like

R’s for reborn

Which I’d much rather be like

S is for someone

Who may not exist

T is for trying

To make up what I’ve missed

U is for used up

And hung out to dry

V’s for the veil

That was pulled from my eyes

W once was for we

But not now

X – what I’ll have to get used to

Somehow

Y is for yesterday,

Or simply for why

Z doesn’t work,

So I’ll just say goodbye.

I'm Just Saying the Guys on DIY Network Would Probably Agree with Me

2013-04-22T18:35:00.002-05:00

Look, it's been pretty well established that I'm a terrible person.

Making Jesus cry since 1968.

It must be the way my brain is wired. I don't TRY to be terrible. Mostly it happens as a completely reflexive reaction to...almost everything. In other words, I don't think about being a jerky bitchy jerky bitch. I just am.

Case in point.

I read this little parable on Facebook today. It's one of those "teachable moments" stories that float around the Internet or pop up in "Dear Abby" to inspire us and make us think and be a better person.

And I just hate those fucking stories.

See, like that. Sorry.
Have some damn flowers.

The problem with these little tear-jerking life lessons is that they assume I want to be a better person. Or am capable of doing so. Or give a crap about changing based on some hack piece of storytelling that doesn't even have a car chase or Robert Downey Jr. with his shirt off. This one is called "Nails in the Fence," and it goes something like this:

There once was a little boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence.

The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Finally the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. He told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper.

The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. He said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. It won’t matter how many times you say I’m sorry, the wound is still there.”

Moral: Keeping your temper is hard, but it's a lot easier than needlessly scarring people and also like totally super worth it.

Really?

Because I can go to Home Depot and rent a nail gun for pretty cheap, and not only will it shoot those SOBs into the fence with zero effort on my part, but there aren't going to be any freaking wounds from pulling them out because they're staying the hell in, where they belong.

Now, see here, Beav - wait, you make a good point.

Here's my takeaway form this tale: If you're so goddamn worried about leaving holes in a fence, then take a moment and make sure you're pounding them in exactly where they deserve to be.

Measure twice, maim once.

Also, I'm not sure why the father in the story has such a huge problem with nails and then tells his kid he can just stab a dude instead.

Sounds kind of hostile to me.

Something's Hatching

2013-04-16T18:46:00.001-05:00

You know what I've got for you today?

A motto:

Obladiblada.

And to prove it, here are pictures of sweet li'l baby animals hatching from eggs.

Like this ducky:

Who doesn't want a small bill?

And this lovely lizard:

Cutest, scaliest peekaboo ever.

Then there are these...um...stinkbugs:

Darling...I guess? If you're a stinkbug.

Also hatching from eggs are the caterpillars of the polyphemous moth:

They're sort of fuzzy. Fuzzy is cute, right?

On the other hand...Baby tortoise!

Boom! I'm here and I'm adorable.

And itty-bitty crocogator!

Focus on the toothy grin and try not to think too much
about the horrible orange goo.

Here's a shot of existentialism in action:

Looks like a tie to me.

This, believe it or not, is a cockatiel:

Which just goes to show that some folks are late bloomers.

You all know I love baby snakes. Here's a whole egg carton full of hatchlings:

Omelettes for everyone! What?

It's not every day you see one of these creatures in the shell:

Wait, that's not an egg. That's a kitty in a Pokeball.
Squeeee!

Life goes on under the sea, as well:

Octopus eggs! Filled with octopus!
Kind of makes up for the whole stinkbug thing.

And finally we have:

They can't put it on the Internet if it isn't true.

Lives may end, but life never does. It's a pretty cool deal.

Circle of life.

An Open Letter to the President: Taxation Without Intoxication Is Tyranny. Or Something.

2013-04-13T08:29:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. President:

First of all, congratulations on finally proposing a budget. I know some of your critics have faulted you for taking almost five years to do it. But I get it – I’ve got more than four decades of operating without a budget under my belt. There’s just too much to do to worry about where every single penny is going, am I right?

Like hanging a medal on what remains of Bob Dylan.

And maybe all those haters who bitch and moan about wanting Big Government off their backs should suck it up about how their precious tax dollars are being spent anyway. Go live free or die, why don’t you?

Or jail. Jail would be good. You got five days
to stop the Hypocrisy Clock.

Now, I admit I haven’t read the entire 246-page document outlining your proposed changes to the tax code. OK, I haven’t read any of it. Frankly, it sounds duller than Mitch McConnell’s sex life. But I have been alerted that one particular proposal has a direct bearing on me. Therefore, I felt it was my civic duty to Google it and read what someone else spent time and effort to research and summarize on the Internet.

That's the American way.

If you read this blog, Mr. President, you already know where I’m going with this. You do read my blog, don’t you? I’m pretty sure Joe Biden does. I’ve received anonymous comments that really sound as if they could only come from the Vice President of the United States when he’s drunk-browsing at 3 a.m. after yet another long day of not being asked his opinion on anything.

Joe Biden, smiling through his pain.

But I digress. Mr. President, it has come to my attention that one of the means by which you plan to raise $1.8 trillion in new revenues is by closing a loophole that until now has resulted in lower taxes on flavored vodka. Assuming that vodka producers would pass along the increased tax to me, their primary consumer, this means that I might soon be paying upwards of 2% more for my beverage of choice.

That should knock out most of the revenue generation right there.

I must say, I find this disappointing. Mr. President, what do you have against flavored vodka? Why must you punish those of us who choose to drink Stoli Vanil, or Absolut Citron, or Smirnoff Whipped Crème, or UV Blue Raspberry, or 360 Double Chocolate, or Van Gogh PB&J, or Three Olives Grape, or Skinnygirl Tangerine, or Pinnacle Cookie Dough?

I could go on.

Frankly, Mr. President – and I hate to say this – but it sounds as if you’ve caved in to conservative pressure on this issue. If there were ever a right-wing conspiracy to tax the lifestyle choices of the left, this is it. You know damn well that Republicans on Capitol Hill overwhelmingly take their vodka neat, straight, and unflavored. I’m sure Paul Ryan would rather kiss an unwed teenage mother than enjoy a cocktail made with Grey Goose Cherry Noir. And Ted Cruz is no more likely to sip SKYY Ginger than he is to keep his damn fool mouth shut about things he doesn’t know anything about for once.

This policy is designed to hurt people. Me. This policy is designed to hurt me. And people like me.

People like Joe Biden.

On the other hand, this may an excellent opportunity for Intoxicated-Americans to stand up for the country they love. In that case, thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for challenging me to dig a little deeper in order to support a balanced budget. Thank you for letting me cast a vote for deficit reduction every time I get my drink on. God Bless America for allowing incipient alcoholics to make a vital contribution to democracy and free enterprise simply by visiting their local liquor store on a ~~monthly~~ ~~weekly~~ ~~daily~~ no let’s make that weekly basis.

Who's counting?

I will do my patriotic duty. I will pay higher taxes on flavored vodka. If you really want see the economy get a boost, Mr. President, you should fund research into creating Snickers Peanut Butter Squared-flavored vodka. I’d pay whatever it took to get my hands on that shit. This country would be running a surplus in six months, no lie.

Thank you for your time and consideration, Mr. President. You da man, if I may say so. I shall toast your health with a variety of tasty distilled beverages. And your family’s health. And Congress’. Yes, even John Boehner, if it’s a double. Because this American stands up for America, for as long as I can stand at all.

Sincerely,

Chuck Baudelaire

P.S. Have Joe call me. Tell him it’s his turn to buy.

Birthday Thoughts (Not About Birthdays)

2013-04-09T15:09:00.002-05:00

As the Lovin’ Spoonful sang, “Now, a quarter of my life is almost past.” Which is just about right, as I totally plan to live to be 180 years old.

Me and Torty, here.

Precocious Daughter has baked me a cake for my birthday, because she’s awesome. We’ll cut into that bad boy tonight, with a few other members of my beautiful family in attendance. Who else wants a slice? Send me your address and I’ll FedEx it to you.

Disclaimer: Ms. Baudelaire will not actually
FedEx you a slice of cake. Get real.

Here are some birthday thoughts, which don’t actually have anything to do with my birthday. So they’re just thoughts, but they’re special because I thought of them today. Which is my birthday. Yeah.

**********

I’m so sad that Annette Funicello passed away.

When I was a kid, I LOVED the original “Mickey Mouse Club,” WHICH I SAW IN REPEATS BECAUSE I WASN’T ALIVE IN THE 1950s SHUT UP. Anyway, Annette was so beautiful, and I really sort of identified more with Darlene because she was definitely the Rhoda to Annette’s Mary. Annette had a cameo in the Monkees’ Head, so she is permanently OK in my book. Plus she endorsed Skippy peanut butter, which was my brand growing up. And she never, ever wore a two-piece bathing suit in her beach movies because Uncle Walt wouldn’t approve of her looking like teh sex.

Doreen never had that problem.

R.I.P., Annette.

**********

It’s very strange to not wear a wedding ring after you’ve worn one for 20+ years. I keep feeling a moment of panic when I notice it’s missing from my finger. Then I think: “…Oh…”

...okay.

The ring belonged to my grandmother, so I’ll pass it down to PDaughter someday. I hope she’ll cherish it the way I do. For the record, I didn’t want to take it off – I had moved it to my right hand. But I removed it upon request.

Oh...okay.

**********

I want to send a shout-out to an old friend of mine from my Milwaukee days. He was one of my favorite people growing up – he always reminded me of Dan Aykroyd. He’s going through some hard times, and he started making suicide threats on Facebook. Now he’s kind of dropped out of sight, and I’m worried. I’ve been rallying our mutual friends and checking the police blotters where he lives, because I know how it feels to feel as if there’s only one way out, and no one should feel that way, especially not someone as sweet and funny as my friend Clark. I’m concerned about him. So if you have a prayer in you, maybe send it his way. I’m a firm believer that there is a funnel in the universe that will scoop up your good thoughts and channel them to the right place.

That's science and shit.

**********

These thoughts are getting melancholy. Not my intention – after all, it’s my birthday, and I kick ass.

This is supposed to be a HAPPY occasion.

Oooh! I know! Here’s a picture of Anderson Cooper holding Grumpy Cat!

Anderson Cooper holding Grumpy Cat.
As advertised.

D’awwwww.

I think I’m going to treat myself to some cake-flavored vodka tonight. Or some vodka-flavored cake. Or both, one washed down with the other. Because as of today, I’m finally old enough to drink.

It’s my birthday, humor me.

I Just Love This Story So Much

2013-04-07T14:19:00.001-05:00

So...over in Sweden, masters of particleboard-and-metal-cams furniture awesomeness IKEA have had to pull 17,000 portions of lasagna from their stores.

Why?

Because they contained pork.

Why is that a problem?

BECAUSE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO CONTAIN MOOSE.

Whaaaaaaa?

Moose Lasagna. Hahahahahahaha. Moose the Hell Lasagna.

I couldn't find moose lasagna on teh Google,
but here is a picture of roast moose.
And here's the recipe.

According to the news story I linked to, "Moose meat is common in Sweden though it's not typically used in lasagna." Well, no wonder, since it's obviously so easy to adulterate with pork.

I mean, who eats pork?

This is one conflicted moose.

I'm looking really hard for things to make me laugh these days. This is just...score. So score.

Moose. It's what's for dinner.

Unless you buy pig-tainted lasagna from IKEA.

I'm Mr. Moose, and I endorse this message.
And Ping-Pong balls.

Oh, my. Thank you, gods of making the universe funny.

Alphabet of the Day: 26 Musical Notes

2013-04-03T20:40:00.001-05:00

It's Day 3 of the It's Like the 26-Day Blogging Challenge, Only Stupider challenge. And I'm watching "American Idol," so I thought I'd do a musical-themed alphabet. Don't forget to play along if the spirit moves you.

A: Albums. In this day of downloadable, disposable singles, Precocious Daughter seems to have inherited my love of listening to entire albums. My kid for the win.

B: Beatles. The alpha and omega of music.

C: Clapton. For God's sake, listen to his self-titled 1970 album right now. One of my desert-island discs, for sure.

D: Dylan. If only I could tell him how many times he saved my life over the years. Fucking genius.

E: ELO. I adore this band. "Do Ya" may be the happiest song ever.

F: Finger-picking. Screw power chords. The way to my heart is a folksy rendition of "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright."

G: Glam. Give me early-70s power pop any day of the week.

H: Hook. As in Dr. I looooooooooove Dr. Hook.

I: "Invincible." Not really my favorite Pat Benatar song, but I did want to be able to mention Pat Benatar. She rocks.

J: Jazz. Give me real, smoky-nightclub jazz, and I'm on fire.

K: The King. Of course.

L: Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs. Oh God, I love this album.

M: Monkees. Whom I love deeply, completely, and without irony.

N: Neil Diamond. Are you kidding me? His shit's the best.

O: "Our Day Will Come." Have you ever heard Amy Winehouse's version? Incredible version of an incredible song.

P: Paul McCartney. Shut. Up.

Q: Queen. Growing up, I heard their singles on radio all the time, but now I'm slowly hearing more of their album tracks. Wow. Just wow.

R: Rockabilly. Ever listened to Dorsey Burnett? Do it.

S: Soft Parade, The. My favorite Doors album.

T: Tina Turner. The best female voice in rock history, period. I would never even attempt to sing "River Deep, Mountain High," no matter how drunk I was.

U: Underground, Velvet, The. Changed my life in high school. Who knew music could be this?

V: Violent Femmes. Exact same comment as above.

W: Who, The. Pete Townshend is seriously my favorite singer. Seriously.

X: XTC. Skylarking. Great album.

Y: "You Send Me." Sam Cooke is seriously my favorite singer.

Z: Zombies, The. If you don't recognize Odessey and Oracle as the great lost album of the 60s, don't tatk to me about pop music.

Yeah, that list is pretty oldies-centric, isn't it? I really do listen to stuff like Imagine Dragons and Muse and Pink. But you always go back to what formed you, dontcha?

What's your musical alphabet, Drunkards?

Today It's Stew

2013-04-02T20:52:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I introduced my own twist on the April A-Z Blogging Challenge.

It goes like this.

Then today, my buddy Allie Cat over at And So I'm Having a Wonderful Time flattered the crap out of me by co-opting my idea of shoving the entire alphabet into a single post. And of course it was awesome, because that's how she rolls.

So now, because imitation is the laziest form of flattery, I'm going to co-opt my girl Allie right back. I'm going to take her alphabet and write my own entries. So I am.

And here's the thing. If you want to join us, that would be so cool. Like, you can take one of our alphabets and caption them your own sweet self. Or you can write your own alphabet on your blog or on my Facebook page, and I'll steal your entries with glee.

We can call it the This Is Like the A-Z Blogging Challenge, Only Stupider challenge.

OK, read Allie Cat's original list first. Then...go!

A to Z, as Presented by Allie and Bastardized by Me

A: Armadillos. Nature's little tanks. Not as prevalent in my part of Texas as you'd think. Make nice purses.

B: Bees. Bees make honey, which I love. But they sting, which I hate. Bees are bitches, which I admire.

C: C. Is for cookie. Of course.

D: Dogeared. What my dog is. It's about the only normal thing about him.

E: Eating. My nemesis. I'm not particularly crazy about food, but I love eating.

F: French. Dressing? Bleah. Kissing? Tasty.

G: Guilt. Much easier to deal with since I decided to stop being Catholic.

H: Hallucinations. I don't think I've ever had any, which is kind of a bummer. I think I'd enjoy them.

I: Ice. You can't have a margarita on the rocks without it.

J: Job. My job is awesome. I kind of miss being able to write "Shit My Job Says" posts, though.

K: Kale chips. I don't know what the hell this is. Next.

L: Lola. This is Allie Cat's dog, who recently passed. The Kinks wrote a song about her. That's how awesome she was.

M: Mary Worth. I used to say her name three times into the bathroom mirror with the lights off, and the bitch never came out and clawed my eyes out. I mean, Jesus.

N: New Orleans. I've never been. I want to go. I'll even pronounce it correctly.

O: Opossums. Adorable. Most often seen squashed to a single dimension on suburban Texas roads.

P: Possums. Allie listed them twice because she hates them. Me, I love 'em. They're adorably evil, which is the best kind of evil.

Q: Quirky. I'd have to be about six times more normal than I am to be quirky.

R: Ringo Starr. Love me some Ringo. The only Beatle I've ever seen perform live. Not that I've seen any of them perform dead.

S: Showtunes. What I lack in singing talent, I make up for in an astoundingly large repertoire.

T: Tea. Earl Grey. Hot. God, I'm a dork.

U: Underwear. Let me check. *checks* Yes.

V: Vinegar. My grandma used to make a salad dressing out of vinegar and bacon grease that was to die for. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

W: Words. My favorite things in the world. Also one of my favorite Monkees songs.

X: X-Rays. Pictures of bones. I find that hilarious.

Y: Yvor. Um...yeah, I got nothing. Would make a good name for a possum, maybe.

Z: Zumba. Uh-uh, no way. Three things I can't imagine doing in public are peeing, making love, and exercising. It's better that way. Trust me.

Voila! Your turn! Come on...you know you want to .

Alphabet Goulash

2013-04-01T21:29:00.001-05:00

Maybe you've heard about this whole A-Z blogging challenge for April. Basically, if you have a blog, you can commit to 26 posts, one for each letter of the alphabet. That leaves four days when I guess you can blog about numbers or Cyrillic characters or spend the day in bed masturbating to pictures of American Gladiators or whatever. Yeah, I haven't actually checked the rules.

Don't forget the sanity clause.
What, don't you believe in sanity clause?

So. I'm not doing that challenge. I've got some stuff going on my life right now that takes precedence over blogging daily. And it's hard to type with only one hand, since the other one is holding the fork that I'm currently sticking into my marriage.

It's done.

But never let it be said that Chuck Baudelaire won't pig-headedly bend the rules of a challenge to her own whim so that she can participate without actually doing it right. Because she will.

You want an alphabet? Here's an alphabet of what's on my mind right now. And you get it all in one shot...no waiting. You'll thank me around the middle of the month when everyone else is blogging about ostriches or Ovaltine or onomatopoeia and you're like, where's a hot photo of Nitro when you need one?

Oh, wait, here it is.

You're welcome.

A to Z Challenge My Way

A: alcoholic. I'm not one, but I can see how some people would be fooled.

B: bitch. Now one of those, I surely can be. But believe me, I've been called worse.

C: a four-letter word that is, for example, worse than being called a bitch and that I have been called, and by people who would know.

D: Dylan, Bob. I used to think Blood on the Tracks was a brilliant album about someone else's problems. Now I think it's brilliant from a first-person perspective.

E: evolution. It doesn't just happen over millennia. It's supposed to happen during your lifetime. When this life is over, I expect to either be a better person or grow tentacles.

F: failure. Embrace it, if only so its arms are pinned and it can't take a swing at you.

G: God. If the new $130 million First Baptist Church of Dallas Jesusarium is His idea of good stewardship and Christian values, then He's nuts.

Yes, this motherfucking thing is seriously a church.

H: Hell. If it exists, I'm probably being saved a nice warm seat.

I: insecurity. I haz it.

J: jam. I like blackberry, Pearl, and toe.

K: kiddo. Mine is the most precious person in my life, and surely the best thing I've ever had a hand in creating.

L: love. J. Geils says it stinks. Freddy Mercury says it kills. The Everly Brothers (and Nazareth) say it hurts, scars, wounds, mars. The Beatles say it's all you need, and as usual, the Beatles trump all.

M: monkeys. Oh my gosh, I love monkeys.

So. Many. Monkeys.

N: Nutella. Probably the Beatles never tried this, or their song might have been much different.

O: order. Emerges from chaos, they say. At some point, therefore, I should have order out the wazoo.

P: perfection. I don't even know how that got on this list. Shoo. Go away.

Q: quit. What I feel like doing sometimes, but like so many other things in life, I'm no good at it.

R: regret. To gret again. If it has some other meaning, I'm not aware of it.

S: Snickers Peanut Butter Squared.

Just in case you're new here.

T: trouble. With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool. I love "The Music Man."

U: up. As in, nowhere to go but.

V: vampires. Dracula or Count von Count. Sparkly little weenie-boys need not apply.

W: west. There's a feeling I get when I look there.

X: xanthippe. Look it up. Here, I did it for you.

Y: you. I thank, I love, I couldn't do it without.

Z: zoo. Haven't been to one in ages. Who wants to go? I hear they have monkeys there.

There you go. Now I have to find something else to write about for the rest of the month. You other bloggers have it so easy.

State of the Union

2013-03-30T16:43:00.000-05:00

The breakup of a marriage is brutally difficult, fiendishly complicated, and intensely personal.

Sort of like the first time you try to use a tampon,
come to think about it. But maybe this isn't time for jokes.
Or maybe it is.

The "intensely personal" part is the real show-stopper. Because you can't split up with your spouse privately. You don't get to keep it on the down-low and then announce one Monday morning that you got divorced over the weekend between loads of laundry. It has to be out there. The people who love you and care about you deserve to know what's going on, and God knows you need them. When your entire life is being sucked into a sinkhole, you can't keep that news tucked up inside you, or your head will explode.

Proof that there is never a bad time to make
a Scanners reference.

But the flipside of being intensely personal is that a breakup is also subject to conjecture, confusion, and rampant speculation by people on the outside looking in. Oh hell, it's subject to those things by the two people who are the inside looking out, as well. And if we're lost in the labyrinth of what got us to this sorry point in our relationship, how can anyone who wasn't along for the entire journey possibly know where things stand?

It's human nature to try to make sense out of the insensible. The problem is that shards of knowledge and fragments of truth make unreliable mirrors that cast pretty warped reflections of reality. No. That's not the problem. The problem is that people tend to react in one of two ways when faced with an incomplete picture: Either they admit they don't know what they're seeing, or they decide what the picture must be based on what they can see.

And really, the problem isn't the people who admit they don't know what they're seeing.

Clearly the girl must defend herself from the man
who is going to try to beat her to death
with flowers he probably stole from a nun.

My husband and I have both said and done things that have no place in a happy, functional marriage. We have admitted to them, apologized for them, and are trying to forgive one another for them. But there's no reconciliation on the horizon. Our life as a couple is over. And that makes me sad, angry, bewildered, scared, frustrated, worried, and very, very sorry. I still care for him, and I still want him in my life, and especially in our Precocious Daughter's life. But I believe we will both be better people apart than we had come to be together.

And that is as much as I will ever say publicly about what led to the demise of our 22-year marriage.

Rest in peace.

We've both confided in people about the specifics of what happened between us. I don't know exactly how many others he's told or what exactly he's told them. I've forfeited the right to be that intimately involved in his life.

As for me, besides discussing the generalities of our separation with a number of friends, I've shared with two people the full messy details of what went down. And I chose those two people very deliberately, knowing that they would support me and commiserate with me. Most importantly, I knew they wouldn't dump on my husband behind his back or encourage me to turn against him. I can't tell you how blessed I feel to have two such people in my life. I wish I could thank them by name.

You know who you are.

As I said, I have no control over who he takes into his confidence. And I get that he has little or no control over what his confidants do with the information he shares with them. But one of the saddest consequences of this whole sad thing is realizing that there are people I've considered friends and family for my entire adult life who apparently never got past thinking of me as simply "His Wife." When the news broke, I instantly reverted to being just an outsider to gossip about and judge from second- and third-hand knowledge.

The impulse to rally around someone you knew as a single before he became part of a couple is natural, and I completely understand it. I also would have understood if any of them had contacted me directly and said, "Jesus, what the f*** is going on?" I would have expected it. Instead I'm just shocked - and a lot of the shock comes from my own naivete, I'm sure - that I never in all our years together attained more than "plus-one" status in the hearts of people I genuinely loved.

Every single day I fight the little devil that sits on my shoulder and whispers, "Go on and tell them about him. Tell them all what he did. Tell them your side." I won't do that, for many reasons.

Exhibit A.

Sure, but more importantly, it's not fair. It's not right. And there's nothing to be gained by it. There's nothing to be gained by tearing down the walls around our private life, and there's nothing to be gained by giving people ammunition to make ill-informed judgments. I'm trying hard to resolve my anger (and there's a lot of anger to resolve), but I can't do it by taking it public. Once I've vented to the ether, it's out there and beyond my control. I admit I've slipped a few times on that score (and I'll admit it's been when the little devil has slipped me a few strong drinks), and I'm ashamed that I've been hateful and hurtful that way.

Likewise, I can't control what's been said and spread about me. But I can control how I react. And it's with sadness, not resentment or rancor, that I let go of the people who have cut me off. I regret to inform you that I don't have the time or energy to pry open the hearts that have closed against me.

*****

My life is sort of a nightmare right now. I want to thank everyone who has given me their support - even people who have never met me, never seen me, who know me only from my words. I'm grateful and humbled by your generosity of spirit. Things are going to get worse before they get better. I have a lot to account for before I can get on with my life. My first priority is my child - everything I do is for her. But anything that is left over, I'll try to share with my Drunkards. I love you guys.

Birthday Jackpot

2013-02-20T19:00:00.003-06:00

What the hell is the deal with February 20?

I mean, do you have any idea how many awesome people were born on this day?

Spoiler alert: not me.

Check out this short list of birthday boys and girls. And if you happen to celebrate your birthday today, I bow to you. You’re in amazing company.

Have a cake.

Today is the birthdate of Pierre Boulle (d. 1994), who wrote The Bridge over the River Kwai AND Planet of the Apes.

It’s also the 87^th birthday of Richard Matheson, one of my favoritest writers ever. What did Richard Matheson write? Oh, let’s see: I Am Legend, The Shrinking Man, the “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” Episode of “The Twilight Zone,” “Duel,” “Trilogy of Terror” – wait. Trilogy of Freaking Terror. Eeeeee!

Cue Zuni Fetish Doll.

Actor Sidney Poitier celebrates a birthday today. He shares it with Gale “Mr. Mooney” Gordon.

Love me some Mr. Mooney.

Oh, you like sports? How about hockey great Phil Esposito, race-car driver Bobby Unser, and NASCAR/Indy Car impresario Roger Penske? Their birthdays are today, too.

And Gloria Vanderbilt! It’s her birthday. You know, she’s Anderson Cooper’s mom.

I just put that in there so I could post this picture of AC
stepping out with Grover.

Also from the world of fashion, Cindy Crawford’s mole celebrates today.

Mole. Hehehe.

Over in music, Walter Becker of Steely Dan turns 63 today, and J. Geils (can’t remember the name of his band) turns 67.

And the sniveling coward Kurt Cobain would have been 46,
had he not decided fame and fortune and a baby daughter
weren’t worth living for.

Basketball dudes Stephon Marbury and Sir Charles Barkley have birthdays on this auspicious day.

It’s the 71^st birthday of turtle-faced Kentucky Senator Mitch McConnell.

Hee-yuck.

OMG – it’s Joel Hodgson’s birthday, too!

Full disclosure: I prefer Mike Nelson.
Excessive disclosure: I really prefer Crow T. Robot.

I mean, February 20^th is just chock-full of cool famous folks’ birthdays. I haven’t even mentioned singer Buffy Sainte-Marie, photographer Ansel Adams, renowned ex-wife Ivana Trump, directors Robert Altman and Mike Leigh, pixie Sandy Duncan, and that chick Chris Brown beat up.

Yeah, Rihanna. Her.

I’m feeling a little jealous that I don’t get to be in such illustrious company. What the hell do they put in the water in the middle of May? I don’t know, but I shall hereby call it Awesome Sauce.

Anyway, many happy returns to everyone celebrating a birthday today. There will be no cash prize.