Google Dreams of Screaming, Apparently. Creepy.

Oh Google...never change.


I don't think it's lucky at ALL to have no mouth and have to scream, Google.

I know, it's not a real post. And technically, that's two in a row. I'm sure I'll have something more entertaining after a long weekend of Renaissance Festival, but for now this made me chuckle.

I...There is NOTHING Appropriate To Say About This (NOT Miley Cyrus Related)

I don't understand it, but I'm highly entertained.



What the hell IS "Jess hair" and...just...WHY??

I do not...know, but apparently multiple readers found my blog this way.

In case anyone is wondering, there was no 1600's Mini-Doughnut Truck on the Renaissance Festival site this season (but I DID see an oxygen tank and a power wheelchair wrapped in burlap...because we all know making something "Renaissance-y" just requires burlap. And mud.)

Also, in case anyone is wondering...I saw 2 members of the Snakipeder Army while working this weekend. Two fearless chipmunks (who boldly ran under my chair AND over my foot) will soon be recruited and armored thusly, and sent into my basement to kill all Snakipeder threats for fall:

It's Not You. And I'm Not Breaking Up. This is not a funny post. Feel free to ignore it.

I am a cyclical depression hermit. (Do not confuse that with a  Cycling hermit, because truly I loathe bikes, unicycles, pretty much all pedaling-type exercise with the fire of a thousand suns).

Yesterday in a discussion with Husband about the depression I've been fighting off and on for a while now, he said something that hit home.

"There are people who WANT to be your friend, who want to get to know the real you, who WANT to connect. YOU shut them out and push them away."

He's likely quite right: when I'm in a down cycle I avoid all the people. I don't trust easily. I don't call. I don't write. Hell I barely leave the house, which the dogs love but likely isn't good for me on multiple levels.

I've written about this before, but I suppose I haven't explicitly said that in the past year some really shitty things have happened both to me and around me that sucked up so much of our time and energy that I've been more prone to depressions simply from lack of any sort of reserves. Therefore, I've withdrawn from everyone.

It's not you. It's me. I know, that phrase sucks...but I'm not breaking up.

I debate and debate about how explicit I should be or want to be in this blog (and elsewhere), because 1) it's goddamn fucking HARD to expose things and 2) who the fuck wants to read this depressing shit? 

But in the interest of friends and potential friends not feeling ignored or slighted, here it is: 99% of the time I feel utterly worthless and completely unloveable. There are both internal and external factors that contribute to my personal form of emotional wreck-ness and this post IS NOT, I REPEAT: IS NOT any sort of plea for sympathy, empathy, or help. It really isn't. I'm working on things. I'm trying to get my act together. Sometimes I have a burst of energy and say "fuck off" to those lying bastard inner demons, and I can be who I want to be. That's happened less often the past few years, and you should know I'm working like mad on changing it.

This post is to reassure those of you who might be in the category Husband voiced, because I DO want to hang. I DO want relationships. I just don't have the wherewithal or oomph to do the work required, because I've been trying hard to get my own shit back in order.  While Husband insists certain peeps we know really want to have a better/deeper friendship with me if I give them a chance, I've also had some recent (ie past few years) spectacularly damaging betrayals by "friends." Most recently, one who made every effort to get to know those hidden psychological bits of me, only to cause damage when I proved to be...hmm...insufficiently "fixed," and the friendship ended. Too much work, that's me.

I have to consciously fight some pretty dark core beliefs about friendship and relationships and myself that have NOTHING to do with your efforts or the quality of our relationship. I am working on learning to open up again. I apparently have the progress of a goddamned sloth in this area, and for that I really do apologize. It sucks for me, too. Truly and sincerely, it's NOT YOU. And when I finally come out of this and act like the normal, semi-confident, funny smartass I used to be, hopefully some of you will still be there. If not, I get it dude, and I cast no blame: acquaintance status is ok with me too.

Fit by 40: Navy Seal Style

So I just turned 36, and am now officially looking at 40. In all my 36 years I can't say I've ever been in any sort of decent physical shape. That's not me whining about my looks or fishing for compliments: that's me being honest. I've always carried at least 20 extra pounds and have tried every damn diet possible...for a day or two. More importantly, I'm a pretty lazy individual: I teach Belly Dance sometimes and sporadically walk, but I'm not in shape. Hell, I stopped kickboxing because I can't make it through a class yet (I'll be going back as soon as I can do 30 minutes of hard cardio, like running, without passing out...nearly there).

So, why not make myself a serious challenge with specific goals, instead of the ever-nebulous "I want to be healthier" attitude? I figure I have four years to hit my goal, which is:

To be able to pass the minimum physical fitness standards for entrance into the Navy Seals.

No, I don't want to be a Seal (also, I'm WAY too old...and, you know, not in the military). But I'd LOVE to be able to say I could pass the PT exam before I'm 40.

This is the last post I'll put on No Pithy Phrase about it, because NPP isn't a workout journal and I don't want it to turn into one. But to keep myself honest I will be trying to blog about it some (I find the stupid workout trackers on my phone/daily planners/etc don't work for shit to keep me going). Those posts will end up here: SassLoss. Feel free to read and comment at will.

Townhome Twits Episode V: The Baba Yaga

Two doors down from us there lived an old woman who strongly resembled the Baba Yaga (well, without the chicken feet or the iron teeth). Her wiry steel-grey hair was always neatly bound up in a bun on the top of her head. Her teeth were strong and yellow (no dentures there). The combination of long nails and somewhat arthritic hands gave her a fairly creepy clawed look, but truthfully she was a very kind woman with a fairy-tale-witch look about her.

Baba came to every annual homeowners' association meeting and sat in the front row so she could complain about the kids and dogs in the complex. In all fairness, she complained more about kids than dogs (and never once yelled at us when Thor was a puppy and ever-escaping the house unleashed).

When our buildings were originally constructed in '78 they were intended to be a quiet retirement community (in my six years on the board I was often reminded of that fact by Baba) with no children or pets allowed. That, of course, explains why our complex has a giant flat-topped hill in the center with absolutely no amenities whatsoever: rumor has it there's no pool, garden, or park up there because the hill was created as a construction garbage dump by the contractors building the place. Or, there's bodies in there. Who knows?

Baba Yaga was a stubborn and nice lady who wouldn't allow anyone else to shovel her sidewalk (it gave her exercise and the opportunity to see what's happening in the complex in the winter), do her shopping or any other assistance. She always struck me as a rather lonely soul: her kids had all moved out of state and she'd expected to retire in a nice quiet community that ended up somewhat crazy with all the noisemakers moving in and out.

She moved out three years ago after saying "I'm 90 and I'd rather just have my money and die at my son's house." She sold her house and moved to Philly, I think.

In the end, Baba Yaga got us all back for our noise and general shenanigans. I'll never know if it was intentional or not, but I suspect those iron teeth are grinning somewhere.

She sold her place for $35k. THIRTY FIVE GODDAMNED THOUSAND DOLLARS. Sigh. Those of us who stayed when the bottom fell out of the market in our underwater-mortgages cried a little when one of the NOT abandoned units sold for under $50k.

The new owners...well, they're an entirely different post.

PS: Clearly spellcheck doesn't know Russian fairy tales...it's insisting "Baba Yaga" is spelled incorrectly and wants to change it to "Abba Yoga". Ha!