Folks, let me just say that it is only 2:30 pm, I just reached my computer to write and I find myself already in a late day funk. I mean, it's only mid afternoon and here I am feeling like it's the end of the day. What is up with that? To top it off, I will not have a lot of writing time tomorrow, because my day is jam packed with at least eight solid hours of being gone due to doctors appointments. At least. I better get my writing cap on and lose the funk fast.
Because my funk is so overwhelming that I can barely stand myself, I think I will just point out a few fun things that I posted on my Twitter over the past few days, and then move right on along to one of those blogs I already have written up and keep saying I'm going to post but never do, because apparently I'm a liar who just keeps coming up with more things to write. Well, I lie no more. And for the record, yesterday's post was also one of those drafts in waiting, so ha!
As you all may or may not know, my kind of people live in Twitter world. And by my kind of people, I mean me. There's something about writing a 140 character note to yourself that really pisses me off and makes me all kinds of happy at the same time. So I don't really write tweets for anyone else, but me. They literally are like my own little notes to myself to remember really funny, bizarre, and listless things. I didn't even think I was going to use "that Twitter thing," as I so lovingly referred to it as at first, but it soon became my friend, one that I sometimes talk to. But as we established before, I will talk to anything. That being said, I have a story, but when do I ever not?
As you all should know, I have a thing for fifties clothing and what not, and Aunt Bev likes to be nice and awesome and give me all the fifties clothing that she was going to give away to Goodwill that was either hers or her moms back in the actual day it was made. Well, last night, as she and my mom were continuing to go through things, she found a box of really awesome fifties belts that are great for accessorizing a dress with, and my mom snatched them up and brought them home for me.
However, inside the box was something so horrible...so absolutely non divine that I don't even know if I can describe it. Had I not thrown it out already, I would take a picture and not have to do so, but I didn't, so I guess I'll explain.
They were suspenders. We're not talking any suspenders here, folks. Oh no. We're talking mauve suspenders with intertwining hunter green, dark blue and white diamonds. These diamonds were outlined in black, because there totally need to be more ick to go with the gick that they had already created. So what I'm saying is that there's no outfit in the world that these would go with unless you were dressed in all white or black. Then, if you did that and still wore the suspenders, I would have to ask you why you ruined an otherwise lovely outfit. They were just that bad, so my mom goes, "just throw them out." By the time she said this I was already holding them up to myself jokingly like I was going to put them on. She grabbed them off of me then to throw out, and that's when it came to me.
I looked at her and I said "No, I'm going to give them to the boy. He likes ugly, awkward things." This would be the part where my mom should go "he's not going to wear them!" Or "that's not even funny! Don't do that!" But she did not. Instead, she says "okay," and hands them back to me.
OKAY? OKAY! Let me just reiterate this. In what world is it ever okay to give someone suspenders that look like that? Ever? And in what world is it okay for someone to actually want to wear them? I mean, let's just start out with the fact that they're suspenders before we even think about the color, and then add the color later. But said boy, he would have totally worn them and we both knew it, so really, we did him a favor by throwing them out. I still retain that stance.
This goes right along with two tweets that I left a day prior, and the whole matchy / matchy tweet thing over the span of two days was not even on purpose. It was pure happenstance.
Wow. Sometimes I don't think people's fashion sense can get any worse...and then it does.
Or worse yet, people start matching one person's bad fashion and it becomes an epidemic.
This is in reference to the same boy who would have worn the suspenders. He's a bad dresser. He always has been and always will be, but what shocked me tenfold was that he hired friends to temporary fill a spot that needed filled in his career, and they dress exactly like him. I mean, they were all in flannel shirts and girls jeans with really gawdy we're-going-to-the-rodeo kind of belt buckles, and oh my god my eyes about fell out of my head. It's just...it's too much ugly. I can't even go there. (On a side note: I used to show horses so I know what those belt buckles look like and used to wear them, therefore I can pick on them without having been exempt from the same fashon faux pas, so we're cool.)
I also want to point out that I now have an arch nemesis, which much like Dr. Doofenschmirtz, I've waited my whole life to have. He's a fly. I've named him Norm, but he looks more like an Ed. He's been accosting me over the past few days and making it hard to write. I realize flies have been going in and out of this house like crazy on these summer days, so it's probably not even the same fly, but still. I have an arch nemesis. Muahaha! It just doesn't get any better than that.
And then there's this tweet which is pretty self explanatory, but not any less funny.
Dear Mr. Awful Smell, if I may call you that, that wafted into my living room, please move right on along. There's nothing to see here.
And just in case any of you at any time upon reading this blog thought I was witty, and / or funny, I wrote this tweet to prove you all wrong. I didn't mean to. It just kind of happened.
It's raining itself crazy here. Talk about a Northern Downpour. I know that was not at all funny or witty, but I live in the north, okay?
This now concludes your tour through my Twitter world. This tour may or may not have been educational, but I refuse to be responsible either way. Even still, I ask that you keep all hands and feet inside the car until it comes to a complete stop and you finish reading the rest of this blog.
And just in case you were worried, the rest of the blog, the pre-written part, I didn't forget about it. It starts now.
Oh wait, not yet, because I just want to tell you about how this blog focuses on last month's news stories from around our area, and one from the other side of the nation. Since I waited so long to post this, I can no longer find the links to the stories, so I am sorry. Okay, now the blog may begin.
There are random things that happen daily in a place such as the one where I live. All you have to do is go outside, or listen to the news and you find yourself rolling your eyes consistently by the stupidity of people, but amused all the same.
Over the past few days I’ve collected several pieces of information that I’ve heard off the news that I would really like to share. Two of these things have happened here, and one has happened across the nation and is quite endearing. Of course the one endearing thing would not have happened here. Rest assured, all the crazy is credited back to Western Pennsylvania. I’d expect no less.
First up to bat, we have a little story that I like to call “The Marijuana Hobbyist.”
A few days ago a local man and his wife were busted for growing ten different kinds of marijuana in their basement. The police had not gone into their house looking for said marijuana and were surprised to find it, giving the suspects a chance to turn themselves in.
They did turn themselves in, but not after the man held his young child in his arms and plead with the news cameras that, and I quote, “it started out as a hobby and just got out of control.”
YA THINK?
And I’m sorry, but a hobby is collecting stamps, not growing marijuana. Apparently his parents were not watching him as a child, because I thought the definition of the word hobby was pretty free and clear common knowledge.
Second to bat is Anthrocon, or, as you may know it better as, FurryCon. (They literally get their own "con." I can not get over this.) Let me all just give you a moment with that link to really take this all in.
Now, I’m sure many of you were aware of “Furries,” as they like to be called. For those of you that aren’t, let me just update you. Furries are essentially people dressed like animals with the feeling that animals can take on human traits. This is all well and good. A little creepy, but who am I to judge?
What really gets me, though, and what is often not mentioned unless you know someone who is into Furries, or you’ve just plain heard way more than you would like to know, is that Furries are, behind closed doors, often a sexual thing. This is what gets these people off.
What I find even more bizarre than that, is the fact that there’s an actual convention for it. I mean, these people who dress as animals pay to come together every single year just to enjoy dressing up as animals and role playing. I have nothing against those who do it, but I do not understand it. Most of these people are well educated and well revered people, and I’m being honest when I say that, if someone can explain this to me, I would genuinely like to understand the emotions and feelings behind becoming a Furry. I am not here to tease or judge, but I just want to “get it.”
My obsession and curiosity comes from the knowledge that Anthrocon takes place in my very own city every single year. This would not be so bad, except if you go into any of the restaurants when the convention is here, you will find people dressed as Furries. You can walk down the street and find people dressed as Furries. They do not take their animal suits off to go about their daily activities. The animal suits are not just worn at the convention, which is what really throws me off. For this reason, and again no offense is intended, I tend to avoid the city while Anthrocon is in progress.
They say we are afraid of what we don’t know. This is true, and this is also why I would like to know more about why people really dress up as Furries, and the fascination behind it, so that I will not be afraid to go into the city on these days, and I will no longer not understand it.
In a way, it’s really cute, actually. Grown people dressed as animals. It takes you back to your little kid days, except some of it is sexual, and they also do demonstrations. Let me be honest, when the newscaster said there would be demonstrations, I laughed for a good three minutes. Hard. I want to know what they demonstrate. Again, I’m not trying to be a judgmental jerk. I really want to know what kind of demonstrations they do, because the ideas that are floating through my head right now are nothing short of hilarious and slightly creepy.
One would also think that I could just attend Anthrocon and find out all of this if I really wanted to know, but I can not. There is a club, from what I understand, that you have to be part of in order to get into Anthrocon, and you also have to come dressed as a Furry. I can’t do it. Without understanding this, I can not do it, as I’m afraid I will see things that my eyes can never unsee and I really don’t have the mental capacity at the moment to do that to myself.
For all I know this is probably the cutest, most innocent thing ever, but let’s face it, grown ups dressed as animals is nothing short of a little different. Someone please explain this to me. I am genuinely intrigued and dying to know. Please?! (And yes, the double punctuation was needed.)
And last up to bat, but certainly not least, I am about to bring the cute right into this blog. So much cute, in fact, that it will last for days and days. Oddly enough, this also has to do with the second up to bat in the way that this is about animals, only it’s about real animals, not people dressed as animals.
At a bank in Seattle (at least I think that's where it is, as I can't find the story again), there is a duck who insists on flying up on the second story awning, and laying her eggs. Apparently this is the third time she has done it, so by now the employees of the bank are well read on the procedure for such incidents.
What incidents, you may ask? Well, what goes up, must come down. And babies can’t really fly for quite awhile, so therein poses the problem.
Once the little duckies are old enough to join the water, the mother duck releases herself from the awning and starts to head that way. The problem, of course the other little duckies are unable to do so with the poise and grace that she did considering she can fly and all, so they decide to take a nose dive for it. This is completely unsafe.
So by now the employees of the bank have gotten into the groove of exactly when she will lay her eggs, and when she will descend their awning, so much so that they have it written on all of their calendars. The day of the migration they are front and center, lining up below the awning to catch the little baby duckies as they fall and then nicely put them on the ground.
The nice and cute doesn’t stop there, though, oh no. They take the time to lead the momma duck and her now safe babies down to the water, and then bid her adieu as they swim off into the crisp morning air.
How is that for cute?
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