We baked a lot of cookies, apparently.

I baked cookies with my nephew! What did you think?

What the Hell? How are you supposed to make your foot bend to fit into these shoes? I know. Only super skinny people can bend their feet like that and not have their ankles SNAP when they try to stand. BTW, the heel in the shoe on the left looks like that butt plug I wrote about in the post, below. I wish I took a photo of that!

Maybe I'll go back?

My dear friend, Mary Ellen and I decided to have a girlie-day trip to attend the Sugar Loaf Crafts Festival. Wow! This had to be fantastic because it has an exciting name and it's more than a craft show, by God it's a FESTIVAL!

I should have known something was up when I noticed the admission was $8 and I could easily find a coupon for $1 off as an enticement to get our communal asses to Hartford to attend this magnificent fest!

We arrived at the Expo Center on a gray, blustery day. The parking lot was filled with other eager craft-loving folks, okay mostly women who were leaving their men to watch football. I knew it wasn't going to be The Philadelphia Museum of Art Craft Show, but I did have hope to see a few standout crafts.

Um.

WRONG!

I felt as though I was sucked into a vortex and was taken back in time. Twenty five years ago, or more, to a craft show that would have been state-of-the-art at that time. We had entered the Craft Show that Time Forgot-featuring the ever-nauseating grayish blueish thick thrown (up) pottery mugs and bowls with the dark blue accent "decorations." Of course there were the ever-popular what-the-fuck-is-this sculpture out of metal crap, "gliceè" (computer print out) prints and laminated wood cutting boards and coasters. The only redeeming thing in the whole show was the lady that sold those darn dip packs that you add sour cream and mayo to to make garlic dip that you could have made yourself if you mixed mayo, sour cream and garlic powder together.

I also saw very nice and coma-inducing Whoopie Pies. I do not know what they have to do with a craft show, but was glad to see them.

Aisle after aisle, Mary Ellen and I sighed. We even tried to predict what we'd see around each corner. We were always right. It was sad. WE just wanted to see ONE thing that was NEW, interesting, well crafted, but no. It was all the same stuff we've seen at pretty much every craft show we've ever gone to.

Since we needed to purge the craft show out of our minds, we went to the next best place, Luv Boutique (e.g., adult bookshop).

What I love about Mary Ellen is she isn't shy. She walked right into the store and started to examine the packaging and I DO MEAN PACKAGING, not "packages" as in dude's man-bits. M.E. designs packaging so why not do some research. That woman is constantly working, even when she's not working!

We checked out the party plates for bachelorette parties
and stood in silent awe of humungous dildos. We tried to figure out if you'd have to have had 10 kids first, to fit one of those big honkin' dildos we saw, but we really couldn't bring ourselves to ask the nice ladies at the counter.

Then we saw a butt plug. It was 12 inches tall and was shaped like a tower of balls, the tip being the smallest and the base, the largest with differing sizes in between. I've never been a butt-plug kinda gal and this certainly did not tempt me in any way. We left the shop empty handed, but I think M.E. was planning on trying to get packaging work from a LUBE company.

We had a nice lunch, followed by a tiny bit of retail therapy at a "home decor that fell off a truck and is on sale" sort of place. As we strolled down the aisles, I noticed a Christmas display. There was something familiar among the faux wreaths and plastic Santas...it was the butt plug-in faux chrome!!! No. It wasn't the butt plug...or what was it? No, it was a TREE TOPPER, but you could have fooled me cause damn, that was the butt plug in chrome!!!!!

I shudder to think if they have the same manufacturer. I will never look at a Christmas tree the same way again.

I hate working in an office. Yeah, I know, everyone does it and I'm a freak for not doing it for endless years upon years. I'll probably have to work at McDonald's instead of retiring, unless I marry a sugar daddy soon.

I don't care for the secret-double-speak of being "proactive" (what, are we all for being active? are there "anti-active" people, too?). I hate the blue-green florescent lights and "cubicles" that hinder any hope for having a moment's peace or a second of privacy. My God, I can't even FART where I work!

The workspace is so open, we all basically sit at a long shared desk, split down the middle by a two foot tall divider. Other than that, there are no walls or doors. Say something and the whole office can hear you. Rip a fart, forget it. The only hope is to walk over to the color printer, near the dust-blowing-sneeze-making-duct and hope the fan kicks on just as you release your gas. Other than that, you'd better suck it up or waddle to the bathroom and hope you're alone long enough to release whatever cloud you've got rumbling back "there."

The worst is the pretend-world of etiquette-the overzealous use of; "Thank You or Thanks!" No one means it. Everyone says it so many times it's morphed into something besides a term of gratitude. You know what I'm talking about. It has come to mean, "Fuck You," or "I don't really appreciate what you did, but I have to say Thank You so you'll think I'm doing the politically correct thing, or worse even than that-just "THANKS," you're not even worth the full lie of "Thank You." You just deserve the least I can say and still appear to be a civilized and "nice" person; "Thanks." Yeah, sure.

Why the fuck bother saying, "Thank You!" with the cheerfully phoney "Bang!"(exclamation) included. We all know you HATE your client, boss, co-workers, so why not be honest about it? Because the peon's from HR are monitoring what you're doing and saying? Sure! Because the economy sucks and you have to keep your job even though you HATE it?

I still think we need to just stop saying "Thank You" all together. It's like people who say; "Love you!" because saying; "I love you" really means something, but "Love you!" is so phoney, yet you get credit for saying it! I know you don't really mean it, so don't waste my time with bullshit.

Say "Thank you" if you REALLY are grateful and appreciative. If you're not, then just sign your email with your name and nothing else or tell the truth?!

"I've been working on this project for two weeks and made every change you've asked for and added ones that might please you. Since you have decided for your own ego-centric, brown-nosing reasons that you need to see another 6 revisions in less time than is reasonable to deliver them, and I have to work late again, for no extra pay, I must let you know that I find this entire project is stripping me of any grain of creativity I have left and makes me want to bring an AK-47 to work."

Then you can end your letter with the other "Fuck You" alternative;
"Have a Nice Day!"

I hope this helped clear up a few things.

Thanks!

Why do we still follow Daylight Savings Time? We're not agrarian based any more-at least not around here! What's the deal? I find it completely annoying to have to readjust my body clock, along with the clocks on the stove, microwave, car, GPS, VCR, alarm...oh and now we're supposed to also change the batteries in our smoke detectors, as well.

As if we don't all have enough to do!!!! Think of the time saving we'd REALLY have if we didn't have to fuck around with changing the time on our clocks. That would save me a good hour right there.

I vote NO. No for this stupid changing the clocks ahead and back, ahead and back. I'd be fine if we dismiss time all together and just wing it!

Hmpf!

I was watching TV. Thankfully, I have a TIVO so I can spin past those trite and untrue commercials. As I was zipping along, I could tell there was a promo for the local news running. In the few seconds it took to zoom past the ad, I could see nothing but the effervescent faces of those clean cut, smiley-happy, news "team" who are committed to bringing me late-breaking, action packed, hard hitting, but perkily delivered news-of-the-day.

These non-threatening, one-size-fits-all, folks you WOULD buy a used car from are always shown looking fearlessly into the camera, with that spotlight induced coma-smile. The ads always make the news seem thrilling and wonderful, even joyous! I'm so excited to watch the news, I must stop what I'm doing in my busy life at 6 and 11 pm, respectively and watch them sing out the events of the day.

What I don't get is that the news they deliver is usually fucking miserable. "Another suicide bomber in Iraq," "child molestation by a teacher," "when are you fat viewers EVER going to listen to us bitch at you about diet and exercise??!," or "hey, it's sunny and gorgeous somewhere else but man we are in for some life-threatening weather here!"

Then, when we're truly depressed, they throw out a 15 second story about a kitten who survived a 22 mile trip on the engine of a car and lived to tell about it. Or the world's biggest pumpkin?! Just enough so we don't suck the blow hole of a .45 caliber handgun.

I think they should stop delivering the news with Happy-Happy people. In fact, I think they should find manically depressed, or at least fucking miserable people to read the news. It would go something like this:

"Okay, here's the news. Well, you don't really want to hear it. It's so awful, I just don't know how I can go on reading this stuff. Maybe you should turn off the TV and just curl up in a ball on your bed and cry? That would probably do you more good than it would to watch the next story about a man who survived cancer, only to be struck down and killed when a drunk woman ran him over with her lawn mower."

Then the promos for the News could feature people sitting in chairs, looking at the floor, or out the window at a grey, cloudless day. You'd see them shrug their shoulders as the announcer said their name. They'd shift uneasily in their chair and maybe blow their nose.

Now, that's what I call a hard-hitting, fast paced news promo!

(Judith Feminella, My Mother. At Pumpkinseed Hill in Shelton, CT circa 2004)

My Mother loved Halloween. It wasn't because she liked to get dressed up in a costume or eat loads of tooth-rottng candy. No. She had one, specific goal each and every Halloween—scare the shit out of some little kid and make them CRY!

Yes. CRY!

This is my own MOTHER, we're talking about.

The one pictured above. Yes, her!

Every year my Mother would put on a striking, black witch hat, then wear one of her Halloween themed t-shirts. My favorite was the black t-shirt with the glow-in-the-dark, life-sized skeleton on the front. It wasn't a full skeleton, rather it was only the ribs and spine, as if you could see her own bones, instead of her torso, with her real head on top.

Mother would put out a table in the driveway, because she feared my Father would get pissy from all the kids ringing the doorbell. She'd put out candy for the kids and have cider and wine for the parents. It seemed such a generous act, but I wonder if it was only to lure the parents, who were most likely holding the smallest of their children. Perhaps they were the ones who were too young to start trick-or-treating and the ones who were the perfect target of my Mother's twisted passion.

Sure enough, after a few cups of wine were passed out and grateful "Thank you's" were offered, one young Mother or Father would foolishly approach, clutching their overly wrapped pod-baby, and trying to manage keeping an eye on their older child, who was no doubt running to the next house already.

As they came closer to reach for their cup of boxed wine, my Mother would let out a terrific cackle! The perfect witchy-cry! The adults would laugh, but the pod babies would not. Their eyes would grow wide with fear and before their parents could gulp down their Gallon of Gallo, the podlet would begin to shriek, followed soon after by wailing.

My Mother would act all concerned as the fledgling parents ran off to hush their screaming child. but when no one was looking, my Mother would silently chalk one up for that year, feeling the satisfaction of another dissatisfied customer.

I wonder how many babies in my old neighborhood grew up needing therapy?

Happy Halloween, Mother.

I cackle in your honor and I sure do miss you!