END OF THE WORLD | Nearing the apocalypse with chicken wine...

[Thanks to NASA/media.techeblog.com]

I've been railing on about the end of the world all year, perhaps, but just lately it's been feeling inevitable. Ha! Not really, but it's December 18th, and with a mere four days until Earth's supposed finale, I've been questioning everyone.

"So what IF it were really, positively, the end of the world on the 21st—what would you do, starting now?"

The responses have been both sad and funny, all of which have made me think a lot. Of course, peeps are asking in response, almost sarcastically: "What about you?" To which, I have yet to respond. In lieu of my blogging endeavors, I thought I'd make a post about it. And then ask you lovely people.

If I'm scaring you, or you've been fearing this on your own accord, let NASA assuage your worries.

The first thing I'd do if I got the news rightthissecond? Leave work and never come back. I'd snatch up the few necessary items of importance that I have hangin' about in my office: a photo of Jake, my cardboard robot chicken,  my favorite Papermate Flair Razor Point pen, the Instagram-ed/printed/laminated photo of my friend D and I in Cape Cod [that always makes me smile], and my favorite rock [long story.]

From here, I'd get gas and a coffee drink at Sheetz—and probably a meatball MTO [an indulgence that I never indulge in!]  (: Then, I'd hit up the liquor store and buy seven bottles of chicken wine, Rex Goliath Cabernet Sauvignon, and scavenge the Youngwood area for cocaine or crack or speed or meth. C'mon. Who wants to sleep right before the end of the world? Not this girl. Lots to do.

First thing is first: I've got some people to smooch. I think there is a running list of like 10 (really, there are more, but don't judge me!); honestly though, I'd settle for hitting up the top 5. With only a few days at my disposal, I'd try to accomplish this in one day. I'd waste one bottle of wine on this, driving double-fisted: water and wine. How would I approach the smooching situation? I'd probably just do it. If I felt the need for words, it might be something like: "C'mon, all I've ever wanted to do is kiss you. Let me."

Romantic, huh? What can I say?

It sort of reminds me of that moment in Grease 2: "Let's do it for our country." Haha... yep.

HAHA priceless face on this chick... [thank stagevu.com]

Once all smooching happened (or didn't), depending on my locale, I'd probably head home and say my farewells to Matt and the cat, pack up some clothing items, my computer, my writings and showering things. I'll be on the road for the rest of the "end." While still in the Greensburg area, I'd try to find my other friends, you know? But I mean, this all wagers on what everyone ELSE is doing, obvi. Kelly, Amy, Adam, all thems. [:

Next stop: I'd visit my mother. On my way to her house, though, I'd buy a delicious chocolate-y cheesecake and some serious fast food. Also, I'd swing by downtown New Ken and score some tree. There is reason for this. My mom used to be a hippie, so I think I'd want to smoke with her. More for her than my reasons. She might need some to calm her down, as it will be a pretty stressful time for everyone, I bet. We'd smoke, eat and pop open my second bottle of chicken wine. I'd spend a day with her and the cat, and then leave her with the remainder of tree and a bottle of chicken wine.

Three bottles down, four more to go.

Rex Goliath—the 47 lb. rooster! LOVE!

Ok, off I go. I think, next, I'd visit my aunt, my step mom, Wendy, Shawna, Bobi... the historical peeps in my life. I'd have to. Whether I see them often or not, they are some of the most important people to me. Does that make sense? I'd at least give them a squeeze, a smooch on the forehead and just tell them I love them and thank you. I think Wendy and I could drink a bottle of my chicken wine together and have a blast: reminiscence and be goofy. We'd laugh a lot, I bet. Sometimes I'm sure that she and I have a similar humor. Perhaps it rubbed off in adolescence?

Next, I'd head across the river to see my sister, brother and nephew. I'd ask him to color with me. I'd hope we could color for a good while and just hang together. All of us. I'd ask him a lot of questions, like: "What do you want to be when you grow up? And: "What do you think you'll look like when you're 20?" This is kind of sad, and I'd probably cry. He may or may not understand that. Only kiddos like him are a reason to be sad for the apocalypse. I might ask him the meaning to life, too. I'm thinking, if there is a solid answer to this, only a kid would know. Not a grown up. We're jaded and analytical and overwhelmed by the mundanity of day-to-day existence. I think kids are smarter than we are for this reason. Honest and typically untainted.

THEN! With three more bottles to go [counting down and mapping by wine, apparently] I'd route my way to McMurray/Canonsburg to visit with the surrogate family. I'd squeeze L [a.k.a. "the Peanut"] so hard she'd poop her pants. Ha. But we'd color, for sure. Maybe cut up some paint swatches and get crafty. I'd get her a Starbucks Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate and some gummies. If I've learned nothing else, it's that gummies, crafts and kiddos are the cure for just about any kind of sadness you can experience. True life. ["Real talk," as Ernie would say.]

While there, I'd hug M, wrestle with Big D, then enjoy my third-to-last bottle of chicken wine with... Miss D. We could chain smoke cigs, laugh about goofy things and hopefully get to peep the stars/sky/moon for a bit. And the Koi! Even after our hang sesh, she could go be with her family and I'd probably tent-up on the front patio and hang with the fishes for an eve, getting to see the big clear sky. That place is like a vacation sometimes. No worries. All beauty. Nothing is mine to do or fix or clean or stress over. You know? Except when I break shit... ugh.

I assume at this point, with only two bottles of chicken wine left, that there isn't much time either. I would try to find Ernie. I'd like to spend my last moments with her, if I could. I think she gets it, and I know, she is fearless. But she'll probably have her own agenda. If she is too caught up, I'd probably just go to the ocean. Alone. If not with Ernie, I'd want to be alone. And wait for the end kissing to the beautiful sky and ocean with my last two bottles, coked-out, reading a book or something—also writing and doodling. Yep.

I must add, I'd be praying that this apocalypse would have NOTHING TO DO WITH zombies. Ugh, especially the fast ones like on 28 Days Later. I mean, it's called the "Rage Virus." Enough!

UH... HELL NAW. [Thanks to 28dayslater.wikia.com]

So there it is. Personal and semi-compact: my end of days. But here are some of the more comical and/or important responses I've heard thus far:

"I'd let out all the dogs in the shelter down my street."

"I'd make some calls, apologize to a few people for some shitty things I did."

"I'd unlock all of my guns."

"I'd lie in bed with my husband, the dog between us. That's it!"

"I'd curl up in a ball and cry."

"Drugs. A lot."

HA! Some of these are stellar. But...
Now, it's your turn! How about you? Tell me things!
mt

Christmas Rant | Retail Woes, Ugly Blow-Ups & My Grinch-Sized Heart

I want to hurt people.

No…let me rephrase that. I’m not a violent person. Really. It’s probably hard to believe I could hurt anyone. Just look at me. I’m a four-eyed, sweater-clad twenty-something with a graduate degree in poetry. So let me put it this way: I want to hurl shopping carts at people—but not really hit them, just come close enough to send them running in the other direction, preferably out of the shopping mall all together and back to their cozy suburban dwellings.

It’s the time of year that gets me. I become loudly disgusted in humanity: prone to fits of Tourette’s-like cursing, erratic driving, and sometimes when no one is listening, I revise the words of popular Christmas tunes to sing about murder, prostitution and all-around mayhem. It’s cool. I would never do anything about it. It’s just a thought.

I know. I realize it’s a hell of a time to be ornery, especially for someone like me—noted to have an almost tragic “hippie optimism” and a deeply rooted humanitarian-style set of personal politics. But let me explain.

It isn’t the grinning array of elves and Santa knick-knacks, nor the multi-colored strands of lights outlining every house. In fact, I enjoy the décor. Well, all but those obnoxious ballooning blow-ups strangling the lawns of Greensburg. Talk about overdoing it. I thought lawn balls were lame. But now we’ve got puffy Snoopys and snowmen, carousels and over-fed Santas… Look, people, chances are if you’re a suburbanite like me, your green space is already limited to a patch of scraggly yellowing grass, maybe a shrub or two, but most certainly not enough room for a life-size team of googly-eyed reindeer. Just sayin’.

Thanks to the NYTimes.com for this pic.

I’m still trying to figure out the whys of this. What happened to me? What happened to my Christmas?

Retail is the most obvious scapegoat. I like to blame the years spent holed up in a 12 by 12 room, on-camera, counting money in a grocery store’s cash office. For years, it was nothing but me and seven endless hours of looped Christmas music (a day) counting someone else’s dirty money. I only ever emerged when called upon to handle extra-bitchy customers. More than likely, our system was declining their gift cards, or they wanted to return their holiday turkeys and hams before they had a chance to enjoy them. Hey, customers can be smart. They found them for two-cents-per-pound cheaper at Shop ‘N Save or Community Market. And I’m supposed to give a shit. Because now, I have to throw these things away. Yes, for public safety reasons, Giant Eagle automatically assumes all perishable returns—no matter how well they are sealed—were injected with cyanide or simply left to grow bacteria in your backseat for days.

“But wait,” a customer might point out, as I’m disposing of their 20-pound mistake. “Are you sure you have to pitch it? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it. I just found it cheaper somewhere else.”

And yeah, this sounds heroic like maybe they even care that people are starving right next door, but even after I tell them “no-can-do,” they’d pocket their refund like the Scrooges they are and prance out of the door proudly, mentally patting themselves on the back for their two-dollar savings.

Replacements for "My kid made the Honor Roll!" bumper stickers (geekologie.com)

So I’m bitter, maybe. But anyone who has ever worked retail knows that people only grow nastier during
this joyous season. Good will toward men—my ass. It’s probably the stress of shopping, organizing, sending out horrifically worded Christmas letters bragging about their children making honor roll. Thank god my mom never sent out those letters. The most she’d have to brag about would be my growing pile of melodramatic poetry scribbled on notebook paper or how this school year, I wore something other than boy’s JNCO jeans and skater shoes.


But the closer it comes to Christmas, I do lighten up. I swear. It’s just the initial onslaught of a premature-Christmas that gets me: the over-eager shoppers barreling through aisles without regard to the human race, the limited parking spaces, the garbled holiday tunes playing over every store radio.

This year, it was November 7th when I got my first taste of it. NOVEMBER SEVENTH, people. C’mon. I hadn’t even finished my Trick-or-Treater-candy overage and already I’m bumping elbows with crowds of puffy-coated holiday shoppers fighting over gaudy, discounted tree ornaments, and all to Dolly Parton’s rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

I was just trying to buy some damn acrylic paint at Michael’s.

Christmas threw up... (Thanks alleewillis.com)

But it’s got to be more than my seven-plus years working at a grocery store. I think it’s the hypocrisy of it all. We’re supposed to be celebrating a holiday that imposes good values: kindness, generosity, and an appreciation of what we have, the simple things. Yet, there’s nowhere I can turn without catching a stark glimpse of Christmas—the twiggy wreaths hung on doors shiny with metallic paint and stuck Styrofoam birds; the phony LED icicle lights hung from eaves, glowing an aura so fake I can describe it no other way but “death”; and let’s not forget the screaming children everywhere, pointing and crying for the latest video game or Lego’s set.

Maybe more than all this, I’m pissy with myself. Because at some point, we all realize the sham. It’s not hard to sit there and point out the materialism, the chaos, the wide-eyed consumers scurrying for more coupons and sales flyers, but I do it too. Sure, I make many of my gifts, put more thought into them than I should, really. I refuse to buy gift cards and spend too much time trying to find the perfect gift. My idea of a Christmas horror story would be getting a gift from someone I didn’t anticipate and leaving them empty handed. How sad is that?

I don’t know what happened to Christmas for me or anybody
 else. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Whether I want it to or not, it’ll come every year. And like the Grinch, I’ll stand at the edge of my mountaintop, or more aptly—my soapbox, swearing to myself, a little black heart beating inside my chest. I’ll watch the world frantically preparing for the season and think of hurling those shopping carts.


But truly, I’d like to believe that, like that same Dr. Seuss tale, if all the decorations and presents and roast beast were to disappear, the world would still be singing. But I’m not going to jail for grand larceny to find out.

*Christmas Rant from my reading at Awesome Books on December 8th, 2012.

This all said... Merry Christmas, everyone! [:
mt

Auto-Bio | Your Homework

One of the most difficult feats I have yet to really master as a writer is the bio. For most journals, both online and in-print, it's typical to be asked for a "brief bio." Shit, even if you aren't a writer, how many social media sites these days are speckled with an array of text boxes that require some condensed verbiage of yourself. Likes and dislikes. Authors. Movies. Books. Music. Television show. Ice cream flavor. C'mon. Technology has not only allowed us to connect with the world, but in a way, define ourselves for the world. In words. Scary!

And so when people scoff at writing, in particular, English Composition, I have to wonder what in the hell world they live in. The Internet, smartphones included, has made life more interesting, certainly, and to the surprise of many: language both more important and somehow... it's gotten worse, skill-wise?

I'm sure it began with the short snippets of text messages. U no txts r quick n make room 4 errors & short sloppy spellings 2. But when did we become so lax as to allow for this? I mean, I'm not sure I could even consider dating someone with a horrible vocabulary, much less a lazy language of text-speak and misspellings. LMAO! (;

I'm off topic.

What I wanted to speak to is the laborious task of summing up oneself. When was the last time you had to do this? Have you ever? What did you say?

For writing submissions, it's easier. Really, any specialized venue in this way, at least, gives you some focus. But, for example, what does one do with the small info box at the top of his or her Pinterest page? Twitter? Facebook? I usually go about it randomly. Whatever pops into my head—which usually ends up being completely inane, you know?

My homework for you, those who dare attempt: write a general bio for yourself. Three to four sentences. Pretend your audience needs to really KNOW you. Not only is this a study in using language in a concise way, but really picking yourself apart to extract what you think it most important about you.

I want to know you! Go!

mt