No no no. I do not mean the movie. And I do not care how many times you've seen it. I do not care that you think it's side-splittingly funny and that you just love love love Bill Murray, oh my god, everything he does is just the best, and have you seen Lost in Translation? No, by "Groundhog Day", I don't mean the movie. Yes, I have seen it. But this is not about that.
This is about the whole event. This groundhog thing. I can't stand it. Never have been able to stand it. Never will be able to stand it. Now, I know about that "Never say never" stuff, but still. Groundhog Day is something I can say without a shred of doubt that I will never like or think is cute.
The groundhog himself? Well, yes. He's cute. Actually, he's downright adorable. And you know what? He wants to be left alone. He doesn't want you depending on him to not see his shadow so you can pretend that means the weather is all of a sudden going to get warm and you can wear shorts in February. He doesn't want you booing him in person in that hilariously named town in Pennsylvania when he sees his shadow. Or when you see his shadow. Because, really, who knows what he sees? You'll never know. So if you depend on "Punxsutawney Phil" to tell you if we're in for six more weeks of winter, you'll be waiting a lot longer than six weeks. He, himself, will never tell.
And although he will never forecast the length of the season, I am willing to bet that he wants nothing to do with all of this hullaballoo surrounding his predication. All he wants to do is sleep. Or burrow. Or hibernate. Or whatever it is groundhogs do 364 mornings of the year. So if you want to know if you're in for six more weeks of winter, get a calendar. And please: wear pants until April. End of story.
P.S. It's only a matter of time before Phil, disgruntled and not wanting to be dragged from the comfort of his hole, bites some chapped-lipped Pennsylvania zealot on this oh so special day. And when that day comes, poor Phil will probably be "put down". So just put him down now and leave him down on and in the ground where he belongs.
Listen. It's not that I don't hate anymore. I do. Trust me I do. If you have spent time with me in real life and a recent planet-wide poll reveals that only one of you has, and even then only as an imaginary friend you have witnessed the merciless mélange of misanthropy (the spew stew, in street parlance) in bold 3-D. Believe me, quite a bit of the effect is lost when you only read about it, here on the two-dimensional page.
So, anyway, I know I haven't been sharing my hate with you lately. At least not on a grand scale. Sure, I've been giving you little tastes. Sips. But I haven't held out the spoon for you to lick. Or handed you the electric beaters so you can place your tongue between them a millisecond before I accidentally turn them on. And I apologize.
I promised (New Year's resolution, everyone!) a very good non-imaginary friend that this year I would hate more fully and freely than I ever had. And I've been making good on that promise. Believe me. I'm just containing the hatred behind the scenes, is all.
So don't worry about me. Don't think I don't hate you just because I haven't expressed myself otherwise. I assure you that's not the case.
Thanks for your concern, though. For that, I love you.
I'm all atwitter. Sittin' on pins 'n' needles. Can barely contain myself inside my own (smooth, silky, butter-soft) skin. I've been waiting since Christmas for another round of original, righteous rants about "commercialization" ... and now I won't have to wait much longer, 'cause Valentine's Day is just over two weeks away! This means it's time for everyone to start composing their passionate Anti-Valentine's Day rants about how if you love someone you don't need Hallmark to tell you when to tell that person because damn it all to hell, you love your honey bunny every day and make sure to let him know by hiding Post-Its in his shoes! You won't be led by corporate America! Besides, when you don't have time to make your own cards and are forced to buy a Hallmark, you choose the ones that are blank inside! No one speaks for you!
Of course, this is assuming that you even have a special guy or gal. Because if you don't, this is your time to assert your single status and claim you're fine, really you are, with being single, and just because no one finds you cute enough to cuddle up next to as you watch reality shows, that doesn't mean you're not a lovable person. You can send yourself flowers! YOU love you, and that's all that really counts anyway, isn't it? Isn't it?!!
P.S. Don't forget to include in your rants something about the extortion-like prices of red roses, and how you wouldn't give something as uninspired as red roses anyway, even if you were going to be a sellout this year and celebrate VD (LOL!), which you're not!
Every year Grandma Schenk sent Karen, her only granddaughter, the same gift for her birthday. And every year, Karen stuffed the itchy bright yellow cableknit pullover sweater and itchier bold plaid pants into the back of her bedroom closet, where they joined seven years of identical itchiness that never saw the light of day or dark of night after their initial unwelcome unwrapping. One year Grandma Schenk died a week before Karenís birthday, but still the familiar box arrived on Karenís parentsís doorstep on time. Inside were Grandma Schenkís well-worn steel knitting needles, still sticky and warm with her blood.
* * *
#1: 100 - "Food For Thought"
#2: 100 - "Mammu"
#3: 100 - "In A Pickle"
#4: 100 - "Meet Me"
#5: 100 - "Use Your Noodle"
#6: 100 - "Dental Gross"
#7: 100 - "Cold Cut Heart"
#8: 100 - "Sour Grapes"
Little ants and rubber tree plants have nothin' on the high hopes exhibited by this enterprising container of salt! I must say I'm impressed with this cannister's can-do attitude! Never mind what I said about salt in the past. Where's the paprika now? The turmeric? The Rice-A-Roni® Spanish Rice seasoning pack or the fenugreek? Sleeping, that's where! And not even on the job! And I don't see Mrs. Dash® dashing through the snow in her chenille robe and scuffy slippers, either!
Sorry for assaulting your reputation earlier, NaCl! You're the salt of the earth!
Note: No, I am not trying to be artsy with the black and white photo. It's just that I took this photo before dawn this morning, and the color result looked like yellow snow. At that hour, the snow had not yet had an opportunity to be yellowed as thoroughly as it appeared in the photo, and I did not want to put the snow in a bad light. (See, it's all about a little thing called respect.)
To the short woman waiting for your little smoothie at Bachue early this evening:
"Short" does not automatically translate into "cute". You are not Sally Field circa Gidget or The Girl With Something Extra. You are not even Sally Field circa Forrest Gump. Although your nails, painted a sophisticated dark shade that is in vogue 'round these parts, indicate you are an adult, your hyperactive reaction to a tiny smoothie leads me to believe your nanny neglected to slip the Ritalin into your Sunny D sip-it box this afternoon. I suggest you pipe down, calm down, and stop flailing around so wildly, not only for the sake of appearing like the adult you are, but because the motion is stirring up the spleen-churning odor of insecticide and Teaberry gum that has attached itself to your coat. (And please oh please stop looking back at me, waiting at the counter just behind you, as if I should think you and your little smoothie and histrionics are darling. I assure you neither is.)
Googoo and go go already. My yumyum is ready and my tumtum is growling! And it's close to your beddy-bye time!
I am resurfacing from the muck of dread sickness, struggling to lift myself from the impossibly luxuriant 4500 thread-count sheets and heirloom quilt (hand-stitched by angels!) that adorn my four-poster deathbed, and peeking out from behind the gossamer netting that keeps visitors from seeing clearly the ravages my illness has inflicted upon me, just to say this:
"Jewelry" is not pronounced "JOOL-uh-ree".
Now, if you'll pardon me, I must ease myself back into traction and dream pretty dreams of giggling, yellow-haired, translucent-skinned children bouncing on colorful Hippity-Hops down a lollipop-lined lane. I sure hope the Afterlife is as sweet!