Tires Are Totally Part of the Circle of Life

Forgive me, Mother Earth, for I have sinned.

I have killed one your cutest and most bushy-tailed creations.

You did what, now?

This morning, while driving Precocious Daughter to her music lesson, I ran over a squirrel.

It was an accident. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts! IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD!

Use of deadly force was approved!

To be fair, Mother Earth, you created squirrels to possess intelligence in inverse proportion to their adorableness. They are, in fact, very stupid. Sure, they instinctively know to gather nuts each year and hibernate during the coldest part of winter and even how to make little squirrel nests to raise their squirrel babies.

But couldn't you have given them some sort of basic survival instinct, as well?

Or, alternatively, some sort of natural protection?

The road I was driving on was smooth and wide and had excellent visibility. So I saw the little critter scampering across, heading for the median. He was 18 inches from safety - a mere moment at scampering speed. All he had to do was keep going.

But no. He stopped, directly in the path of my left front tire.

Aaaaah! Then what?

Now, I had time to slow down, and I had space to swerve out of the little guy's way. Had he either resumed crossing or stayed where he was, I could have avoided him. 

Mother Earth, why did you give squirrels the natural ability to choose precisely the worst option for their own survival?

Why, instead of running a couple of feet forward, did this little squirrel decide to turn around and go back the way he came? 

PDaughter and I watched, horrified, as this fluffy-tailed idiot made a beeline for the exact spot where my right front tire could take him out. Which is exactly what it did.

A moment of silence, please.

PDaughter screamed. I screamed. There was nothing I could do. We heard a small thud! And when I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw his little lifeless body, somewhat flattened, lying in the road.

And then I saw the car behind me run over him, too.

"You hit him! You hit him!" PDdaughter shouted.

"I know! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry!" I wailed. "You stupid squirrel, why did you do that?"

That's right. I blamed the squirrel for his own demise.

I'm not one to shame the victim. But it's not as if he dressed provocatively or let me pay for dinner or walked alone in a bad neighborhood. But he had two strong options for survival (three if you count not crossing the goddamn road in traffic in the first place), and he blew them off.

*sigh* Jerry never was the smartest squirrel in the tree.

That squirrel's death was quick and (I hope) painless. I, on the other hand, am traumatized and have to live with accidentally facilitating the creation of roadkill on what should have been a pleasant and uneventful drive. I think I deserve some sympathy here.

So forgive me, Mother Earth, for offing one of your furry children. In my defense, I think I've made a valuable contribution to natural selection. Perhaps my children's children's children will behold the wonder of the armored squirrel, impervious to smooshing. Perhaps I've helped hasten the rise of the all-powerful squirrel army that someday will enslave mankind force humans to work in filthy walnut mines in the service of squirrelkind.

All in a day's evolution.

...And So Forth

I haven't posted in a couple of days. Sorry about that. There's a lot going on right now.

And not just because Nickelodeon is bringing back H.R. Pufnstuf (which it totally is).

But also because Precocious Daughter's Homecoming is this weekend. And because my goddamn house is under contract for the FOURTH - see that number, mofos? - time in two months. And also, let's not forget, because my almost-ex calls me about four times a day to pour his heart out to me as if we're still somehow a couple.

Annnndddd...my parents offered to send me a little money to help me pay bills until the house finally sells, but of course the check has gotten lost in the bowels of the U.S. Postal Service.

Annnndddd...I still don't have a washer-dryer, so I get to hit up a laundromat this weekend, which is my favorite thing.

Annnndddd...I still don't have any furniture. No biggie. Sofas are overrated. Kitchen tables, too.

Anyway...just busy. Also, I submitted two articles to a new online magazine, and they might actually get published. Links if it happens.

I hope all of you are busy in a good way. Hugs. Come back later and I'll have a real post about squirrels or Donald Trump or some shit. Promise.

Tattoo Me?

I'm in the very early stages of thinking about considering mulling over the possibility of getting a tattoo.

I will probably look like this by the time
I make up my mind. Which is still
fabulous, apparently.

This must be my midlife crisis getting ready to happen. I can't afford a sports car, I don't want a younger man, and I'm not about to be Real Housewife of Anywhere on This Planet. So if I'm going to do something uncharacteristically impetuous in an effort to recapture my fading youth...uh, sure, tattoo.

I have no tattoos. Other than one simple hole in each ear that I got when I was 10, I have no piercings. They've never been me. Or I've never been them. We've never been each other. It has something to do with my conventional and pretty straitlaced upbringing. It also has something to do with not wanting needles poking holes in any part of my body unless I'm at a blood drive.

This aversion has its benefits. There is no chance I will ever become addicted to any drug that is administered via syringe.

Me to heroin: Eww, gross, get away, yuck. No offense.

Here's how Wikipedia describes the process of getting a tattoo:

Tattooing involves the placement of pigment into the skin's dermis, the layer of dermal tissue underlying the epidermis.... The most common method of tattooing in modern times is the electric tattoo machine, which inserts ink into the skin via a single needle or a group of needles that are soldered onto a bar, which is attached to an oscillating unit. The unit rapidly and repeatedly drives the needles in and out of the skin, usually 80 to 150 times a second.

And then I'm lowered into a vat of flesh-eating bacteria while being forced to listen to Britney Spears songs, is that it? That would maximize the horror of having ink-filled needles plunge into my tender skin 150 times a goddamn second, wouldn't it?

Then we jam one into the old
eye socket, just for grins

So the jury is not exactly in on the subject of me getting inked. But I can think about it. That doesn't hurt or leave permanent marks, right? OK. Gotta start somewhere.

My basic criteria for a tattoo are simple and non-negotiable. It will be small.

We'll call this "not small."

It will be inconspicuous.

This looks great with a collared shirt,
I'm sure.

It will be fact-checked.

Wait...it's Prince, right?
Little Richard?
Chris Tucker?

And it will be cute.

If I want to frighten people, I'll tell them
I switched to the Tea Party. Not this.

It might be a Pokémon.

Little Cubone, why are you sad?
If you were on my arm, we'd be so happy.

Or a squirrel. I like squirrels.

Climbing up my leg for all eternity...
that might be creepy.

I love monkeys, of course.

It would be even better if he were wearing clothes.

There are certain things I'm not willing to do for a tattoo.

This, for example, seems a bit extreme for a
moderately funny punchline.

No matter how clever it seems.

We're just not all lucky enough to have a prosthetic leg.

The trick is to pick something really attractive.

I wonder if getting this tattoo ten-tickled?

Without going overboard.

The truth is, you don't literally
gotta catch 'em all.

And so I ponder. Because pondering doesn't cost anything and doesn't leave permanent marks.

Oh, I also hear that reputable tattoo places won't ink you if you come in drunk. So I have to figure out some way of surviving the process while sober.

Ideas are welcome. Talking me the hell out of this craziness is also good.

Belated Squirrel Appreciation

Yesterday, January 21, was Squirrel Appreciation Day.

 

And I missed it.

I meant to write an entire post dedicated to squirrels and appreciation thereof. Because I do love the little bushy-tailed bastards.

 

But yesterday was also Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and – yay! – a paid holiday at my new company. And it was also Inauguration Day, which meant that Beloved Spouse and Precocious Daughter and I got to watch President Obama take the oath of office together. (We also watched his first inauguration together, but that was because we all had the flu that week. This way was better.) It was also the day we decided to see Lincoln. Wonderful movie, although it was a bit discomfiting to hear the Great Emancipator utter the words “Nothing makes the British shit faster than seeing George Washington.” Hilarious, but a bit discomfiting.

And on top of everything else, it was the day I utterly exhausted myself holding my fragile psyche together so that my family and I could enjoy these things even though my depression kept prodding me with a pointed stick until I wanted to cry out loud, which I would not do.

So that’s why I didn’t write a post about Squirrel Appreciation Day yesterday.

 

I feel bad about missing it. I’d like to make it up to my readers and the noble squirrel population by presenting this little poem. It's actually more of a squirrel-themed rap.

 

I like squirrels and their bushy-tailed butts

And I really dig the way that they bury their nuts
And I’m flattered when they chatter at me
Up in a tree
As if I were a threat to their security.
I love their beady little eyes and their pointy little claws
But why do they eat nuts all day?
I guess it’s just because.
They jump, they dash, they scurry around;
They’re pretty fierce competitors, pound for pound.
But I wish I wouldn’t squish ‘em
When they run in the street.
Why can’t you just scamper onwards
On your funny little feet?
My car is so much larger than you ever were
And I really hate to flatten all that soft pretty fur.
So all you squirrels and your girls
And your children and kin,
You all are great and I appreciate
Your dropping on in.
I’d like to have you as a friend, a companion, a pet
Because you’re clever and I’ve never
Met a bad squirrel yet.
I love the old squirrels, the young squirrels,
The little fuzzy babies,
And I’d give ‘em all a kiss
If they weren’t teeming with rabies.
 

Peace.

Squirrelly

I'm not a tattoo person. Tattoos seem painful and unnecessary to me. Like mammograms.

Before anyone starts complaining.

But if I ever were going to get a tattoo, I always thought it would be a squirrel.


D'awwww.

Squirrels are cute.


Oooooh, so sweet!

 Squirrels are inoffensive.


I just died.

 But of course, someone always finds a way to make the inoffensive offensive. I think I've been turned off the squirrel tattoo idea after seeing this.

Can I just say that if I were ever to become a tattoo artist, I would have three incontrovertible rules:

1. I don't do angry squirrels.

2. I reserve the right to refuse to make you look like a complete douchebag.

3. I will not tattoo your ass-crack.

Anyway, the thought of having a tattoo of a sweet, adorable squirrel somehow turn out looking like that is nearly as bad as the thought of having ink-filled needles piercing my skin to begin with. I guess I'll stick with boring, plain skin and leave tattoos to braver souls than I. No squirrel adornment for me.

Unless...

Want.

Turns Out There's Nothing Wrong with Combining Love and Money

A brief post tonight, my friends. I spent most of this evening writing. Just not blog-writing. For-actual-freaking-money-writing.

Making money doing something I enjoy so much I'd be doing it for free anyway? No wonder Stephen King is so damn happy.

Happy, or possibly psychotic. I can relate.

As I mentioned a while back, a company I used to work for offered me some freelance assignments while I was unemployed. Those are continuing, even now that I'm working again, because I committed to them. I keep my commitments. Also, there's money involved, and I love to keep money, too. OK, I love to make money. Keeping it seems to interest me less.

But most of all, I'm having a blast writing for my friend SuzyQ. I hope I'm doing a good job. Nobody over there has yelled at me yet. That could be because I work cheap. They could be ripping up my articles as soon as they read them and just paying me because it's easier than telling me I suck.

Geez, was Sylvia Plath this insecure? OK, bad example.

Anyway, it's hard to work full-time (I get to do some technical writing/editing there, too - yippee!) and do contract work and still blog. Especially since I've still got to Facebook, play Words with Friends, and remember I have a family on top of it all.

But it feels really, really, really good.

And when this assignment is done I'll be able to get back to long, rambling posts about squirrels and hipsters that don't make any money. Because...

...uh...

Oh yeah, love it so much I'd do it for free blah blah blah.

OK, so that's it for tonight. Until tomorrow, my Drunkards. Here's a piture of a hipster squirrel to tide you over.

Miscellaneous Matters

Just a few quick observations today. Who doesn't like quickies, right?

1. OK, so I'm drinking coffee today. After three days of existential angst, I walked into the office this morning and made myself a pot of coffee. No biggie. I made it, I drank it, it was yummy, the heavens did not open, nor did choirs of angels sing.

Not even a chorus of Stooges.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me sometimes. Maybe the fact that I fell asleep on the couch at nine o'clock last night cued my body in to its fundamental need for caffeine. Or maybe, you know, oh God, the menopause. Don't worry, I'm not going to run the chicken cartoon again.

I'll run the happy squirrel drinking coffee instead. D'awww!

2. I'm going to flip my Facebook page over to the new Timeline today. You should check it out and let me know what you think. And like me over there on FB, too, if you haven't kindly done so already. It costs you nothing and makes me inordinately happy. And each "like" brings America closer to true health-care reform.

OK, that last part is a blatant lie. Do it anyway. For the baby otters.

It doesn't do anything for the baby otters, either.
But this picture is way more entertaining than watching
the Supreme Court arguing about health care.
So there's that.

3. Speaking of health care reform, can we all stop using the term "Obamacare"? Like, right now and forever? This is about the constitutionality of mandatory insurance coverage and the freedom of individuals to make choices about their health care. It's not about "waaah, I don't like the democratically elected President of the United States and therefore I'm going to politicize every policy issue he tackles and hope stupid people outnumber smart ones." I've previously discussed in this space my own feelings about so-called universal health care, including my opinion of duly elected representatives who won't pull their hands out of the insurance companies' pants long enough to enact true reform.

They musta had a big lump of wet sand in there or somethin.'
(Don't get the reference? Read this.)

In any event, the term "Obamacare," besides being misleading and also shorthand for "Don't forget he's a closet Muslim," trivializes a far-from-trivial issue. If you can't discuss it on its merits, maybe you should read up on it. Hint: Don't consult any media that use the term "Obamacare." Mmmm-kay?

4. I forgot to mention that Monday was Steven Tyler's birthday. He's 64 (cue Beatles song, if you must) and still looking pretty fine for an old, many-times-rehabbed rocker. He spent his birthday at the beach and oh my God what's up with his feet?

Is there not surgery to correct those ghastly piggies? Is that what you get for jumping around onstage like a madman for forty years? Do you have to call attention to your extreme hammer toes with blue nail polish?

I love you, Steve. But...gross. Happy Birthday.

5. Does anyone remember my collection of tiny forks?

I used them to recreate works of art,
like Edvard Munch's The Scream.

I just wanted everyone to know that my collection now numbers 42 tiny forks from packages of Asian noodles. That's an awesome number, and I may have to create a Hitchhiker's Guide-themed fork sculpture out them. Later, when my boss isn't around. He's not the type to appreciate fork-based art. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a soul.

But here are the raw materials for a future post about my forks:

I call it "Man's Inhumanity to Utensils."

Yes, they do take up most of an entire drawer in my desk. How awesome is that?

OK, that's it for today's roundup of rant. To summarize: Coffee and Facebook Timeline - yes, Obamacare and Steven Tyler's toes - no, tiny forks - maybe. Thank you.

Oh, and did you know that Beck's beer is no longer brewed in Germany? Apparently that's upsetting to some people.

My Brain Is Be Empty

I had, like, twelve really good ideas of things to write about today.

...and then there was gonna be a train crash, and then they were gonna kiss,
and then the monster was gonna show up...

Then I got on a conference call.

Now I'm dead.

I'm going to guess there are some people reading this who have never sat on a conference call. My first reaction is: I want your life.

So does he.

If you've never had the pleasure of dialing in to a meeting being conducted via the telephone with people you can't see and whose voices you only vaguely recognize and who don't understand the purpose of the mute button on a phone, then let me attempt to simulate the experience for you.

First, sit down on something uncomfortable. Like an fire-ant hill or a gas stove burner. Then tie yourself down with bungee cords. The really chafey kind.

When this is your ass, you're doing it right.

Next, go online and surf to the comments section of any celebrity website to immerse yourself in an elevated tone of discourse.

Then beat yourself in the head with a ball peen hammer for two hours.

Pace yourself. Two hours is a long time.

Oh, and try reading a few websites in Polish. Unless of course you actually understand Polish, in which I refer you back to the comments section of TMZ.com

It's perfectly simple. Let me repeat it three dozen times and I'm sure you'll get it.

And don't forget to stuff a couple of squirrels down your pants, just to remind yourself that you're being productive.

This squirrel accomplished more than I did today.

Now that you're uncomfortable, confused, and wishing you were doing anything else on the face of the Earth...count your blessings that you're not actually on a conference call, which is 100 times worse.

I'm not exaggerating. I don't have that many working brain cells left.

Today's call was training for my company's new management software. Because nothing educates you on a complex online system better than watching someone on a remote computer screen fumble through a software program he understands barely better than you. While arguing with four people from the software development company who insist he's doing it wrong because they have no idea what your organization actually does. And hearing your coworkers ask all the same questions that were answered on the previous six conference calls that they didn't bother attending.

If Jesus had had to minister via conference call,
we'd all be freaking Romans today.

So after two hours of taking notes that directly contradict everything I learned during previous training sessions, I have no idea what I had originally planned to write about today. I think I had come up with a solution to the unrest in Syria. Too bad, it's gone now.

I dreamed of world peace. Something about prawns, maybe.

I can hardly wait for the next call. Maybe it won't turn my brain to quinoa on toast. But I'm going to start stockpiling pictures of squirrels, just in case.

Sorry, I got cut off. What did you say starting 45 minutes ago?

P.S. Does anyone out there have a clue how to use Microsoft Dynamics CRM? Can we schedule a call on it?