I guess it’s time to face the truth:

My boyfriend is a six-toed cat and an assault charge shy of having to change his name to Ernest Hemingway.

I don’t think the world has ever seen such a forlorn looking Easter bunny before.

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It would make more sense if the year changed over in autumn, when the humidity of summer is first sliced by the approach of winter, adding to the air a certain crispness that mimics the flesh of firm apples or newly laundered bed linens and the trees all get new hairstyles. Children traditionally go back to school during this time of year, wearing new clothes and carrying brand new school supplies. Truly, this is a time of new beginnings and avowed determination to do things differently. Never-before-sharpened pencils seem like a far better party favor for a new year than paper tiaras and noisemakers, now that I really think about it.

Even Mother Nature agrees with me, or maybe it’s the other way around. Births, or rebirths as the case may be, should be celebrated in grand style. The homes of newly welcomed babies are often marked with balloons or banners extending from the nursery to the front lawn for all to see. For the arrival of a seven pounds, six ounce grandson we can justify renting a gigantic inflatable stork but in contrast we accessorize the renewal of time with leftover Christmas lights and disposable hats. We serve the leftover snacks from earlier holidays. We congregate, faces turned skyward through fusillade spectacles painting the nighttime in sparkle and fizz. We take in the impressive chemistry that sends ignited canisters spiraling up-up-and-away to become purple and gold and blue and red chrysanthemums. We aren’t picky, oohing and ahhing at Roman candles and honorary supernovas alike. We twirl hissing sparklers in our hands like the majorettes we once were or wanted to be and console screaming children who don’t like thunder. When it ends, as all things are wont to do, and our sense of cold is renewed, we head back to more hospitable conditions; leaving spent sparkler stems and shredded paper strewn about for someone else to clear away.

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It’s Easter weekend. I came home to see my parents and I’ve also seen Emily Jones; she still hates me, but my mom and dad got me an Easter basket so I guess that evens everything out. If I’d known having a mature, adult relationship with your parents yields imported chocolate I probably would’ve gone about my teenage years differently. Maybe.

After waiting for the release date and having to actually carve out time for reading-with-actual-retention, I’m almost done with Big Brain by Gary Lynch and Richard Granger. When I went to Border’s to pick up my copy last week, I didn’t see it flying off the shelves ala that Harry Potter book from last summer, but I’m still thoroughly enjoying it. I knew I would.

On an unrelated note, I am beginning to believe that a truly ideal society will involve some sort of written aptitude test for continued existence. Individuals who are unable to comprehend fundamental concepts will not be afforded the right to speak aloud or register accounts on MySpace, et al. When nuggets of information are planted in unsuitable mental conditions the unsurprising result is a lot of nonsense. The Constitution of the United States of America does not guarantee or make provisions for even half the things I’ve heard lately referenced as “constitutional rights.” Most people holding diplomas from a law school other than the know that, but they’re too busy working for a living to speak up on the matter.

The Boy thinks I ‘analyze’ him too much. I think he needs to quit criticizing me with the hope I’ll get sidetracked and we can fight about that instead of the actual issue at hand. I might’ve already finished bitching about it, but he refuses to stay on topic.

Happy Easter.

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I did what any normal person would do in a similar situation: I sent him to the store for milk and pretended to be in a dead sleep when he got back.

The Art I love doesn’t have edges or work in accord with prescribed boundaries. It’s not that. It’s all of it. (more…)

Or leprosy.

Whichever.

I didn’t intend to leave it up for so long, but one thing turned into another I never seemed to have the time or feel like dealing with it, so it just stayed up. The Boy finally offered me $20 to bring the Christmas season to an end and I suddenly felt inspired to do it and miraculously I was able to squeeze it into my schedule. Marvel that.

However, after accepting the twenty dollars I ended up spending six dollars at Ikea for two cardboard boxes to store the ornaments, etc. in so that dipped into my profits.

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The situation, tragic as it may be, doesn’t have a direct or significant impact on me/mine so I think I’ll refrain from carrying out the grief process via the World Wide Weblogosphere.

Something that I do want to know, though, and cannot seem to make sense of is a little bit of news I heard on the radio while driving to work the other morning. I’m pretty sure I heard it correctly…

Apparently, the masseuse who discovered his body elected to use her Phone-a-Friend option to first call one of the Olsen twins.

Why?

In an emergency situation, and typically any time one happens upon an unconscious and/or otherwise unresponsive person in a setting where it’s expected he/she should be, for lack of a better term…not dead, it qualifies as an emergency, several different agencies spring to mind as viable resources for assistance. However, the massage therapist elected to eschew the old clichéd standby of 911 and/or another local number to reach the police, or paramedics or the fire department, or the local news and instead called Michelle Tanner. WTF?

I just don’t understand this particular kernel of celebrity gossip and it’s going to consume my already truncated attention span until someone is so kind as to clarify for the home viewing audience.

I understand 40 is evidently the new 30. When that was being changed, did the Olsen Twins become the new Chuck Norris?

Enquiring minds want to know.