I know

I know that you are in trouble, even if you don't.

I know you are too young to remember consciously the effect that alcohol had on our family in the early years. For me it is the mere shadow of a memory. It floats on my periphery, elusive and yet menacing like a nightmare you cannot recall. Perhaps this gap in your memory is the reason why you have no knowledge, or care of how your behaviour is hurting yourself or those around you.

I know that you look up to those I have introduced you to, that you are trying, to emulate them. Your illness has glorified them, and their lives, it has hidden from you the dark truths of their lives, the sad look in their eyes. I will live with the guilt the rest of my life; even if I know on some level that you do not need an excuse for your behaviour.

I know that you are more the disease today than the person I knew only a short year ago, that I have known my whole life. I see you fading away, and I miss you Terribly.

I know that you may not realize any of this for years to come, if at all, that I could beg, plead and scream for you to stop only to realize that my words may as well not have existed at all, that the disease would rip them from my lips and throw them to the wind to be sure they never reached you.

Unfortunately this is the only understanding I can muster for you right now. And this understanding does little to quell the sadness, the guilt, the anger, and the overwhelming helplessness that has settled over me.

Good-bye, and good luck.

I love you.


jewish reggae

OMG! this is probably the coolest concept I have ever stumbled across. . .

But, before I continue with this post, I feel as though I may need some kind of disclaimer. . . I am not a racist. . . I know that the fact that I feel I have to say that may, in fact, only add to the evidence against me, but I feel the need to point out that though I am possibly the most offensive person I know, I have all the respect in the world for all cultures and faiths. Honest to blog, my musings about Jewish zombies and the kosher-ness of brains, and the use of random Yiddish words in my day to day life, as well as the following sentiments come from curiosity and fascination with Judaism, and not from any form of dis-respect.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I've been joking for years that I wish I was Jewish, a wish that many have found both fascinating and offensive, but never the less, I have found another thing to add to my list of reasons why I want to be Jewish, the list now looks something like this:

1) I want to be funny

2) I think yamikas are sexy

3) I want to say 'oi vey' and have people take me seriously.

4) bagels are delicious



I am the best big sister ever.

I took my brother's new bike for a spin. . . his brand spankin new 700$ bike for a spin.

I don't think he appreciated it very much.

When we got back he was quite literally standing in front of the open garage in a house coat, tapping his foot and demanding to know where we'd been.

Something tells me that I won't be allowed the key to said garage again any time soon.


pocketbuddha and knuckle toes' grand adventure of epic proportions

It started with an E-mail.

An Email sent in a 'wouldn't this be neat' manner, but with no real hope of making it happen.

but it's been decided, Knuckle toes and I are going here!

Now, of coarse, neither of us owns a car, or even knows how to drive one. And even if we did the tickets to this thing are 200 dollars, and clearly, gas on top of that is simply not going to happen, so we're going to hitch!

It's the weekend after Ness, so we will be dirty, we will be stinky, and we will probably be kind of grumpy. But there is no doubt in our minds that it will be glorious!

We've decided on a strict diet of home made trail bars, power spheres, and Vegan meal replacement bars, along with some fruit leather and beef jerky (for knuckle toes of coarse). We'll be real live outdoors women!

Donations to the cause would be much appreciated, in any form. I want to hear all kinds of adventure stories from people to get me pumped up. . . what I like to call and emotional donation. . . and, only because I know my parents are secretly reading. . . any help you can offer your lay-about daughter would be welcome.

Tom Petty here we come!!!


The subtle public crotch scratch

As with everything else in our world, scratching one's crotch is an activity that holds a crazy gender based double standard.

It's oh so acceptable, even if a little nauseating, for a man to reach down and scratch his sweaty itchy balls while doing most anything. standing in line at the bank, walking down the street, standing outside the pub with a smoke in one hand and their balls in another.

It baffles me for the most part, and often I find myself wondering if it's about more than the itch. Could it be that scratching testicles gives the scratcher some kind of crazy super powers? Is it somehow Hallucinogenic? Does it release endorphins? Or is it that someone has convinced men everywhere that it releases an irresistible pheromone?

The ins and outs, motives and modes of male ball scratching are not, however, what I am writing about today. What I was thinking about is how unfair it is that Women are not afforded the same freedom to itch.

It doesn't happen often, but on those hot sweaty days of summer, usually the days after a little grooming down south, the need to itch is unavoidable. My usual reaction is to excuse myself to the washroom where I can scratch without the disgusted looks of others.

I had thought I was the only one, but apparently this is a problem that many women have dealt with. and so, while walking through the mall, a friend of mine and I started making a list of ways to subtly scratch your crotch in public in the hopes that it would bring a little comfort to women, if not entirely address the double standard issue.

1) the pocket scratch - works best when wearing a long coat, or baggy pants, and involves scratching your itch through your jacket or pants under the guise of searching for pocket change, or warming your hands.

2) Look a rocket! - basically this approach takes the art of misdirection from the magicians and applies it to our current problem. This approach is probably more for those who don't care about the strangers around them, but don't want the person they're speaking with to see. . . basically all you need to do is call your company's attention to something in the other direction for however long it takes you to quietly deal with your problem. some examples include: "check out that guys funny hat.", "Hey isn't that so and so from popular reality show? oh well, it looks like him.", and "look that way for a second while I scratch my crotch."

3) the sit and wiggle - If you are sitting, either in a restaurant, at your desk, or even at the bus stop, or dare i say, on the bus, a little clever wiggling can be enough to quell the desire to scratch until a more appropriate time. to avoid making yourself look twitchy, you can incorporate the wiggling into other movements, like an extra shift or shimmy while moving your chair closer to the table, or a little more twist than really necessary when you turn to look behind you.

4) the crouch scratch - This is best for long uncomfortable shopping strips. By covering the scratch behind a low crouch or bend to 'get a closer look' at the items on lower shelves, it is easy to relieve yourself without drawing any attention to what you're doing.

5) the Fuck you scratch - Just do it! for all intent and purposes this really should not be on a list entitled 'subtle crotch scratching techniques' But this one's for all women out there who are fed up with the double-standards of their gender. . . no matter how questionable the hygiene of it, If they can do it, so can we, scratch a be free sisters.


Fidel's a chick!

Either Knuckle_toes has planted some breath mints to fuck with me, or the gecko's a girl.

The picture is pretty fuzzy, but if you look really closely you will see two little eggs nestled in the mood ships and dirt.

I saw on the discovery channel once that Geckos usually make their nests on walls like spiders. . . but I suppose it could be a difference in kind of gecko or some such thing.

either way I feel like a proud grandmother or something, even though the eggs are probably unfertilized and will never hatch. . . unless Che and Fidel were getting their freak on. . . there's a weird thought.

In other news the frog is missing and presumed dead, this combined with the sudden and mysterious death of Che last week leads me to assume that Fidel went on a pregnant hormonal rampage and killed everything in the tank because they ran out of pickles and peanut-butter flavored crickets.

I hope some kid out there doing a report on communism Googles 'Che and Fidel' and finds this.