Even Atheists Celebrate Samhain – It’s One of the Candy Holidays

 

 

 

I got off work this morning and it was like the entire universe knew what day it was – the day of All Hallow’s Eve…aka my favourite day of the year.  There was an orange haze in the sky as the rising sun was smacked down and put in its place by ominous-looking clouds; the delicious scent of wood-smoke hung in the air, which was warm, but with just enough of a crispy edge to remind you of the date.

Sadly, I have to work tonight.  (Though I’ll be working the graveyard shift…BAHAHahahaahahahahaaaa….*ahem*)

So no revelries for me, unless you count dealing with the garbage fires set by the local teenage losers (I can say that now that I’m not one of them).  But as I drove, I was listening to appropriate Hallowe’en music.  Well, okay, ‘Zombie’ by the Cranberries kind of counts, right?  I mean, we of Celtic blood are kind of dark and moody at the best of times and I wound up in one of those contemplative moods that just screams for a walk in the cemetery.

(What  – you don’t get those?)

Normally after work, I go for a run or a walk either in the park, on the beach or at home on the treadmill, but today I thought:  what better place than the graveyard that I just happen to be driving past at this moment?

The cemetery in my town isn’t all that grand.  It’s not like the ones in Halifax that I used to haunt (BAHAhahahahahahaha…) – there are no Titanic victims buried there, nor any huge steles towering over the entire area dedicated to the guy who invented beer or whatever.  But it’s quite nice, nonetheless.

There’s a duck pond (mental note:  take bird seed next time).  Lots of pretty trees, huge old trees, scattered about randomly so that the whole place feels like you just accidentally came across it in the forest.   (I would really think that would be cool.  Spooky mid-forest accidental graveyard stumbling.)  There was a thick blanket of autumn leaves over the frighteningly healthy (go figure) springy moss, making a ghostly rustle as I walked.  I even have to thank the enormous raven for making an appearance.  What’s a graveyard without a big, spooky bird that makes you think of Edgar Allen Poe?

All in all, it was a pleasing experience.

However.

(You knew it was coming.)

I have been inspired to add to my online Last Will and Testament, based on my observations.

Last Will and Testament of Drea M. – Amendment #1

There shall be no placement of plastic flowers or dollar-store tchotchkes upon the grave site.   Failure to adhere to this request shall result in a bony hand emerging from the soil to grasp unerringly the wrist of the offender.   What follows thereafter is a surprise.  *NOTE:  The fact that Drea M. is to be cremated in no way lessens the severity of this warning.

Full approval IS given for the following:

• One of those funky new-fangled grave markers with the laminated photo of the deceased.  Please choose one that makes me look all angelic and sweet and completely deceives any random mourners that may happen by;
• A decorative urn on top of the monument proper; preferably one with a removable lid, to allow its use as an ice bucket for gatherings – be they specifically toasting yours truly or just a bunch of particularly classy teenage losers (like my former self), drinking in the graveyard before the high school dance (hey, it’s not my fault the location is so convenient – blame the genius who chose to put the school a block away from the dead people);
• A cute little bench for my peeps to cop a squat while having said drinks.  Built-in cup holders might be nice, too.
• Engraving of the name of my significant other on the other side of the gravestone, with the spot for his date of death left blank to be filled in later.  Because I get a kick out of the idea of him moving on and getting remarried and then having to be buried next to me anyway because he’s too cheap not to.  But should the other plot be sublet to a stranger, please refer to the first clause (above).

Well, that’s all I can think of for now.  But rest assured (in peace) that there will be more to follow as I think of it.

Have a creepy night and a Merry Samhain!

 

(And oh, yeah – it’s pronounced Sow-inn, by the way…because I know you were wondering.)

Nightmares in White Satin

*gasp*

I woke up last night in a cold sweat, my heart racing from unseen terrors inside of my head.

The dream was cryptic – most likely symbolic.  Perhaps I am too close to it to analyse it properly.  All I know is, it left me weak and trembling, groping for the light to banish the dark shadows where danger seemed to lurk in every corner.

I offer it up to you now – perhaps you can make sense of it and help me understand what warning my own fragile psyche is attempting to send.

The Dream:  I am being prepared for some sort of ritual – a sacrifice, perhaps?  My face is painted, my hair arranged.  I am forced into a ridiculously huge white gown and draped with flowers (premature funerary rites?)

There is a great feast – wine and sweet cakes everywhere (a pagan celebration?  An offering to the gods?)

I am frog-marched by relatives through the mob to an altar.  Small children are frolicking before me, tossing flower petals at my feet, obviously relishing the bloodshed which is about to ensue – it’s like the Children of the Corn, for god’s sake.

I am struggling, demanding that they listen as I protest.  “BUT I’M NOT A VIRGIN!  I SWEAR!  ASK ANYONE!”  But they do not listen.

As the end comes, all goes black.  I wake up screaming.

Thoughts?  Anyone?

You Suck, Nicholas Sparks

TO:  Nicholas Sparks  c/o Warner Books

1271 Avenue of the Sellouts

New York, NY  10020

Dear Nicholas ~

I have been very busy working on my novel lately, so I haven’t been blogging much.  But I am 260 pages into reading your book, A Bend in the Road and it has spurred me to action.

My darling Mr. Sparks – you should know that I am a deeply loyal individual.  And I have been on board since I found that crummy, lonely copy of The Notebook in the bargain bin at the local second-hand bookshop way back in the mid-90s  -  the copy that looked like it had never been read, wallowing in that bin because no one had ever heard of you, the book, or Rachel and Ryan.  But I took that little book home and fell in love with it, long before the big shots at Time/Warner.  I recommended it to friends, way back when you were still working in pharmaceuticals and hoping to become a writer.  I even started buying your books new so that you would receive the royalties.

I read your tips for new writers that you posted on your website.  I kept your success story in my head as inspiration.   It bothered me a little when you started churning books out as fast as the Kings and the Koontz’, but I still kept you around for nostalgia’s sake.

I even forgave you for your occasional bible-thump and that terrible movie with Mandy Moore.

Yet I find myself having to say this:  I want to start seeing other people.

Why, you ask?  The answer is simple, my bazillionaire friend.

Product placements.

I am halfway through this novel and I have already been told what specific brand of all-purpose kitchen cleaner the protagonist uses, that he received an application form for a particular credit card in the mail, I’ve been given the history of a particular popular soft drink and the guy’s kid has been taken to a much-loathed fast food joint for a ‘Happy Meal.’   (And unlike you, I won’t be naming names, not even if they do offer to compensate me.)

Now, there are so many levels of ‘fucked’  to this that it is almost impossible to determine where to start.  Really, I shouldn’t have to – isn’t it obvious?  But I’m on a rant, so I will find a way….

First of all – SERIOUSLY??  Seriously?  You really needed that year’s supply of McTakingovertheworld gift certificates that badly?  Gosh – I’m so sorry that all those movie deals and bestsellers aren’t enough to feed your family.  That really sucks for you.  I’m enclosing a donation of 10 bucks because I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU.

Second, if you HAD to sell your soul, could you really not find something better to plug than those particular products and companies?  I mean, c’mon!  Foods that cause cancer and promote global warming?  Chemicals that pollute the water supply and cause birth defects in marine animals?  Financial companies that are essentially loan sharks for the uneducated and unsuspecting?  Gad.  I mean, how about…oh, I don’t know…  “Miles kissed her passionately after writing out his monthly cheque for the S.P.C.A…”? Or “He jumped in his enviro-conscious Toyota Prius and sped to the scene”? Jesus, Nicholas.

I mean, with crapola books like Twilight, it wasn’t all that unexpected that the only thing the girl ate before she got turned into a vampire was a single brand of toaster pastries.  In fact, the overload of sugar and lack of nutrition seemed rather suiting.  But I really expected more from you.

Well, it’s been a good run.  I’m really going to miss you – probably more than you miss your soul.

So long, sucka.  Enjoy those colas.

Your former fan,

Drea M.

P.S.  Seriously, the term ‘all-purpose kitchen cleaner’ really has no place in any novel, of any genre, any time ever in history.  Just FYI.

I Wanna Be Bionic

My inner artist and my inner scientist have been duking it out inside my head for my whole life, so imagine my delight the other day when I read about this dude who designed the Einstein robot.  [Check him out here:  http://www.hansonrobotics.com/]  I soooo want to work for this guy.  He has the perfect job for someone with artist/scientist conflict issues.

This Hanson dude built a robot that looks like Albert Einstein.  What makes it so awesomer-than-awesome is that he invented this stuff called ‘frubber’ – a synthetic material that resembles human skin - which he used to make the face.  Inside the head are dozens of little motors attached to dozens of little wires that are configured exactly like the muscles of the human face, meaning that when Albert speaks, he furrows his forehead, raises his eyebrows, blinks, everything.

They plan on being able to mass-produce these babies within a year or two for a cost of only about two grand.

I want one.

But I want mine to scoop cat litter and do housework.  And I want mine to look like Johnny Depp.  Or maybe Jude Law, like in the movie “Artificial Intelligence”…but without the penchant for screwing nannies.  (Of course, this might not be a problem if you are a nanny…Okay, scratch that.  There was just so much ew in that sentence, I even grossed myself out…)

You can already get prosthetics that react to signals from the neural pathways, right?  So if I ever lose a limb (or hell, a face), I want these guys to make my replacement.  I mean, it’s all wonderful and miraculous what those doctors have done for folks whose faces were eaten by dogs or whatnot, but let’s face it – if given the choice between a scar-riddled face that may eventually be rejected by your immune system…or a totally life-like frubber face that could be sculpted into the design of your choice (I’m going with Angelina), which would you choose?  I mean…c’mon!

Maybe eventually, we will all just keep replacing bits as they wear out, until we are like, 80% bionic.  How frikkin’ cool would that be??  I’m totally onboard with that.  Screw all that ethical bullshit.  I’d kick ass as a bionic woman.

Think about it – the possibilities are endless.  You could even have a robot that looks like you for days when you feel a little rough around the edges – you know, to schmooze at work functions and stuff (they are working on emotional cognitive artificial intelligence, so supposedly this could be a reality someday!)

Well, the likelihood of being recruited to work at Hanson Robotics is probably slim.  But I can sculpt, and I like learning new things.  Screw them.

I’m gonna build my own damn robot.

Mysteries of the Universe

Sooo, I’ve not been blogging much lately, but…

Good news:  I’m back.

Bad news?  My mind has been a bit fractured lately, so this is all you get.  *smirk*

Random Questions Raised in the Dark Recesses of My Mind

Why doesn’t the romantically candlelit cavern in the sewers where the Phantom of the Opera lives smell like poo?

Why in movies and television, do they always take the duct tape off the mouth before untying the hands or legs?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to undo the feet and hands, and let them take the friggin’ duct tape off their own mouth as they run?

Junebugs.  Just their existence in general – I mean, just why?

Since moonlight is just reflected sunlight, why don’t vampires at least get sunburns from being outside at night?

The popularity of Dr. Phil – again…why??

Why does time go by slowly when you are a kid and can’t wait to escape the bullying, the braces, the difficulty in obtaining booze…and then speed up when you are an adult and need all the extra time you can get to try and accomplish all the crap you set out to do when you were younger?

Why did I see a man handing his child a Red Bull at the grocery store at 11 pm the other day?

Who ARE you, mystery blog-stalker who keeps accessing this page from a WordPress link that misspells my name as ‘Andea’?  Who aaaare you…I hate such mysteries.  But you must like me, because you visit several times a day.

They keep making Kraft macaroni and cheese easier and easier to make – why don’t they just skip right to making it for us?  Do we really need that small sense of accomplishment so much?  (*apparently*)

Why don’t I have a robot?

More Fascinating Lies About Meme

‘Kay, I’ve been tagged by a very cool blogger friend, Lea (go check out her blog) and I’ve been taking my good old time with it, but here we go:

Sometimes you can learn more about a person by what they don’t tell you. Sometimes you can learn a lot from the things they just make up. If you are tagged with this Meme, lie to me.

Then tag 7 other folks (one for each deadly sin) and hope they can lie.

Pride

What is your biggest contribution to the world?

My extensive research on the lethal dose (LD-50) of tabloid magazine exposure.  I confirmed that in sensitive individuals, a minimum exposure of three magazine cover sightings in supermarkets is all that is required to invoke instant and complete brain death.  For those with repeated and frequent exposure involving incremental increases in exposure severity, such as members of the paparazzi, massive amounts are required to slow them down (example:  close and prolonged proximity to persons such as Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, etc.)  It is hypothesized that the public, armed with such knowledge, will be better equiped to cope should they be faced with such life-altering events as botched fertility treatments, unprecedented attention ensued after entering public singing competitions, or forgetting to wear panties when exiting a limousine.

Envy

What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?

Huge expense accounts.  They are allowed to write off such work-related necessities as in-house shoulder-rubs, singing candygram deliveries, additional staff assigned to M&M colour-sorting, and big-screen office televisions, among many others.  It gives me something to strive for.

Gluttony

What did you eat last night?

Barbequed dinosaur.  It was delicious.

Lust

What really lights your fire?

When a man boasts to me of his hunting prowess, it drives me wild.  Also, I really don’t find it a turn-on for my man to have a terribly literate mind – the dumber the better.  And it’s very exciting when a guy is proud of his extensive study of how-to manuals such as the Kama Sutra – very hot…because you know, women are so much like cars, it only makes sense to learn about what pleases them from an instruction booklet.

Anger

What is the last thing that pissed you off?

I don’t get angry.  People try to piss me off.  But I am a rock.  I am Switzerland.  I am a white dove flying over a peaceful sea.

Greed

Name something you hoard and keep from others.

Knowledge.  I refuse to tell anyone anything.  Knowledge is power and it is mine – ALL MINE!

Sloth

What’s the laziest thing you ever did?

Completely slack my way through my university degree.  I slept through lectures and labs, I cheated on exams, I never did any of the extra assignments for bonus points.  I thumbed my nose at the Dean’s List.  I could have cared less about my grades.

Okay, your turn.

I know you’re clever.

Lie to Meme!

(P.S.  If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged!  Link back to me or message me to let me know so I can check out your answers…)

Broken Heart Rescue Balm – A Home Remedy

Before Broken Heart Rescue Balm

Now, I myself am not capable of incurring a broken heart (because I’m, you know, a superhero and all), but it occurred to me that perhaps some of you might need a fix for this particularly annoying human ailment.

Because sometimes the universe does things like, say, dump a person in your lap that seems to be super-special and you think, “Gosh, the universe isn’t so bad after all!  I should send a gift basket with a nice thank-you card tucked inside!”  But sometimes this seemingly kind gesture is tempered by the fact that the universe – being the sick little pulling-wings-off-flies little fucker that it is – also chose to dump a big fat ocean in between you and that special person and things just don’t work out.  (In the movies, this wouldn’t slow things down, of course, but instead would inspire a cinematic climax involving a bouquet of flowers being waved out the sunroof of a limo, or at the very least, a boombox serenade.  But alas, that universe is actually a parallel one, one that is less of an asshole than your own.)

So should you find yourself in the blue zone (not me, because of course, my own heart – yes, I have one…a tiny one – is made of high-grade titanium wrapped in Kevlar with a thick coating of Teflon, thus I am impenetrable by such weak emotions as anything resembling this ‘heartbreak’ that I have heard so much about), I have a few suggestions for you.

First of all – it is important to make the most of your wallowing.  It is like sweating out toxins.

Ingredients to have on hand:

1.  A plentiful supply of tissues (or for the environmentally friendly, a pillow that you don’t mind getting snot and tears all over).  A cat will also do.

2.  Chocolate.  This likely won’t help a whole lot, but it won’t hurt, either.

3.  Ice cream.  Ditto.  (And what the fuck if you get fat, you’re never going near anyone ever again anyway.)

4.  A large stack of trash magazines with a high volume of articles about LiLo, Britney, Jon and Kate Plus Eight, etc.  This will serve to show you that somebody else’s life probably sucks more than your own.

5.  The phone – for when your best friend calls repeatedly to offer condolences.

6.  Sleepy drugs that you can’t OD on, like Nyquil or Benedryl.  Feeling drowsy will help you feel vulnerable and sorry for yourself.  This is a good thing – if you can count on no one else to pity you, at least you can pity yourself.  Plus, you are probably sleep-deprived from all the being-in-love crap.  But under no circumstances should you indulge in alcohol or other recreational drugs just yet.  You don’t want to numb the pain or risk a drunk-dial.  So spoon yourself around that box of Kleenex and give in.

7.  Soft, comfy clothes (even better if you have one of his old sweaters to wrap yourself in.  But improvise if you must.  Just make sure you don’t coordinate.  You need to look as bad as possible.)

8.  Hot showers – though you don’t want to waste any wallowing time on grooming, you will need to periodically rinse the salt out of your eyes or you will risk going totally insane from the burning.  Even better if you can manage to actually cry in the shower.  This is another one of those cinematic acts that will make you feel like a tragic heroine, which is a highly desired state and a key ingredient in Broken Heart Rescue Balm.

9.  A box in which to put everything that reminds you of him – pictures, letters, gifts, anything and everything.  It all goes in.  You might think this goes against the rule of wallowing, but it doesn’t.  You see, you have been living with his photo next to your bed/on your fridge/on your computer for so long that the absence of them now will be more tear-jerking than if you just left them where they always were.   You may replace these items with other things, just make sure the substitutes will not, under any circumstances, make you laugh.  For example, replace his photo with a photo of a sad-looking puppy.  (Not a puppy you actually know, or else your angst will be re-directed, forcing you to begin the process of wallowing over him all over again once you finish crying over the puppy.)

10.  Male friends who think you are fabulous.  Surround yourself with them.  Don’t under any circumstances let them kiss you, though – at this point, you will just be reminded of the person you wish you were kissing and this may lead to contaminating a perfectly good friend with the broken heart virus.  Perhaps later you can come to some sort of friends-with-benefits kind of arrangement, but right now it is too soon….far, far too soon.

11.  Caller ID.  You do NOT want to have to deal with mothers or telemarketers right now.  They do not deserve to feel the burn you are giving the universe right now.

Take all ingredients in any combination desired or required, as quickly as possible before scar tissue begins to develop.  (For those of you with hearts, you really want to keep it as young and healthy and flexible as possible.  It’s good for the circulation.)

The next day, shovel all those used tissues into the compost, put on your hottest shoes  – with the highest, sharpest heels possible, all the better to drop-kick that asshole of a universe – and go back to planning your summer vacation.  Go somewhere fabulous, like Paris.

After Broken Heart Rescue Balm*

*Results not typical

Twitter Twit

I’m tweeting!

Follow the retardulation here:
http://twitter.com/GreenSeaGirl

On the Importance of Always Remaining Just a Bit Out of Touch With Reality – Part III

When the girl finds herself somewhat restless with her life, she sometimes finds it helpful to distract herself with certain comforting thoughts:

That if her more paranoid friends are right and the government really is watching everything we do, then she should be receiving a call from CSIS any day to offer her a position as a secret agent based on the fact that they have been monitoring her near-genius skills at Sudoku.  She looks forward to having a good dental package.

That if she watches enough reruns of Prison Break, Alias and McGyver, she will be equipped to escape any possible tight situation she might encounter as a secret agent.

That she was totally justified in buying those cute boots, because secret agents always wear cute boots.

And that no one would ever suspect nerdy blogger girl of being a secret agent.  This is the perfect cover.

Guilty Pleasures

Guilty pleasures.

We all have ‘em.  But it alarmed me recently to realize how very, very many I have.  Boy, do I.  (Of course, I probably don’t feel quite as much guilt as I probably should…but whatever.)  And let’s face it – don’t we all feel so much better about our own kinks when we learn what other people are up to behind closed doors?

So I’m laying it on the line.  It is my hope that by clearing the air, shaking the skeletons out of the closet, I will find freedom and maybe, just maybe, some other poor soul out there will read my words and find comfort in knowing they are not alone.

So here we go:

This one is a bit embarrassing.  I sort of pride myself on not being a typical ‘girl’.  But if you’ve been following along, you’ll recall the post about my current smitten situation causing me to purchase a pink computer.  Well, it’s a pervasive kind of disease, this being-smitten thing.  And now I find that I can’t stop buying shoes.

[But seriously...aren't they preeeetttty???]

KinderEggs.  The chocolate tastes like crap, the toys are weird and always end up in the junk drawer or the recycling bin and they are probably responsible for at least 3% of the world’s pollution problem…but I can’t resist buying them!  I think they [you know - THEY] know this and that’s why they stick ‘em right next to the cash registers.  I don’t know – it’s that element of ’surprise!’ or something.  Followed by the mild, low-brain-power challenge of putting together the plastic house shaped like a pumpkin or whatever that just sucks me in every time.

Cat yawns.  I’m going to confess this, knowing full well that it may throw my animal-lover status into question, but since I’m committed to full disclosure, it must be told.  My cat Sassy has the most enthusiastic yawns you’ve ever seen in cat-dom.  When I first got her, over 13 years ago, for some reason or another, I thought it would be funny – while her eyes were closed during the yawn – to stick my finger in her mouth so that she would be surprised by it when she closed her mouth.  It was pretty funny.  C’mon – it was!  And so it became something of a habit.  I will actually skip across a room to make it to her in time if I see a yawn beginning, just to stick my finger in her mouth.  I honestly think she does it on purpose.  She likes it, I know she does.  But I think you can probably understand the ‘guilt’ part of this sick little pleasure.

The Carpenters.  Singing along with them in the car.  Really loudly.  I know all the lyrics.  Some of them make me all thoughtful and melancholy.  Of course, after the tape was discovered by a date, I did toy with the idea of sticking a Sex Pistols label over the original text, but instead I’m coming out about it.  It’s very liberating.

Cheating at The Sims 2.  Don’t get me wrong, EA did a great job – it’s a wicked game.  But it’s a little…well….PG 13 for my tastes.  I have every downloadable hack and mod there is.  My Sims can have casual makeout sessions in public places, closet woohoo with random strangers and they can get knocked up as teenagers.  They can get free clothes whenever they want them without ever leaving the house.  I have killed all the fugly game-generated townies and other non-playables and replaced them with hot, beautiful replacement default facial templates so that they can all have gorgeous babies.  I am a boolprop ADDICT (if you are, too, you will know what this means).   My fingers can hit CTRL + C to access the cheat console faster than you can say ’shooflee’.  And this one is such a multi-layer guilt.  There is the guilt, firstly, from wasting time playing computer games in general.  Then there is the guilt from hacking up a game that the developers put so much work into.  Then there is the less tangible but no less disturbing guilt from all the time I force my Sims to spend lying on the grass waiting for a satellite to fall on them or how much stargazing with the fancy telescope that I make my male Sims do, hoping for them to be abducted.  I also really like watching them have nervous breakdowns.  I would make such a horrible god.

Free tv on the Internet.  Yes, that’s right.  I’m admitting it – come and get me.  The way I see it, until some website comes up with a way to prevent free tv from getting out there or they clue in and just start selling advertising to cover costs the way old-fashioned television does (duh), or else offer me every single show I want to rival the variety I can get elsewhere for free…I’m just gonna keep doing it.  I like to think of myself as a partisan for the free tv movement.  It’s not that I can’t afford cable.  I used to have cable, actually, but had to disconnect it when I realized I knew the names of all the Carter siblings.  Some pleasures just come with too much guilt to be worth it.

Well, this is by no means a complete list.  I have a shitload of vices, peeps.  So stay tuned for more embarrassing crap and possibly incrimating evidence in the future.