Twisted Sister

Nope, I'm not talking about that fabulous 80's rock band that brought us such classics as "We're Not Gonna' Take It" and "Burn In Hell", I'm talking about the current condition of my own back.
*cue the ominous music signifying horrible news*
I have somehow, in the midst of my everyday job (which sometimes consists of lifting some of the more elderly people in the MR group home that I work at), re-arranging the garage, walking a Siberian Husky for KC who works all the time so the dog has next to zero manners and tugs my freaking arm out of my socket, working on making a studio space so I can be consistent with my artwork again, and building the better mouse trap (okay, maybe not that but it sounded good), I have twisted multiple muscles in my lower back.
I found this excruciating piece of information out after ski daddling to the nearest UTC (Urgent Treatment Center) after losing an entire night of sleep Wednesday night from back pain and then doubling over in the shower after being assaulted with some pretty hardcore muscle spasms. I'm one of "those" people who treats going to the doctors office much like walking before a German firing squad and has to be near deaths door (or crippled much like I mentioned before) before I'll seek medical attention. Terrible habit, I know, but I'm working on it, so cut me some slack.
I digress.
The mechanics of a doctors office are sadly lacking. I was in the examination room for 3 1/2 hours. I only spent about 15 minutes actually in the presence of other people. I was left in a tiny, sterile room with 3 year old magazines discussing various terri-fucking-fying illnesses and some of those tongue presser thingies for company. You are NOT allowed (according to the blue bloody million signs posted) to talk on your cell phone. Call me crazy, but this doesn't seem like the best way to encourage people to come back. Ostracize, scare, release. Then they take your blood pressure (incorrectly) and marvel that it's high. Hmmm....imagine that? (I nearly bit my sarcastic tongue off, mind you)

I'm just dumbfounded that people who make such insane amounts of money like doctors aren't a tad bit more encouraging and friendly. My doctor wasn't MEAN, he just seemed....dead inside (much like Zombies, but instead of brains they crave insurance)








Maybe it's the hours, maybe it's the number of chronically ill people they provide service to, but it all seemed so bleak. My advice to the clinic? Paint the walls something other than institution white, leave PUZZLE books instead of medical magazines for patients to pre-occupy themselves with. What about a TV? I understand the importance of creating awareness, but for most people, introducing them to new illnesses while waiting to treat their current one, can't exactly be considered the path to enlightenment. ESPECIALLY, if they're sitting, alone, in a strange environment.

I'm sleepy. My thoughts are muddled. Damned pain killers.
*zombie time*

Not All Scary Things Go Bump In The Night

Another restless night passes me by rather lethargically, leaving me with buckoo amounts of spare time to contemplate the inner workings of myself. Because it is 2:37 a.m., this delving into my inner psyche isn't exactly peachy keen and jelly beans in nature. Tonight's topic?

Fear.

Growing up, my fears were based around whatever movies I had watched, ghost stories that my friends passed on, or getting separated from my family in Wal-Mart and being abducted by some sicko who wanted to harvest my childish body parts for some sicko skin mask or something. I was absolutely terrified by the first Gremlins movie (I swear, I lost at least 3 weeks of sleep my 1st grade year thinking that Spike was lurking somewhere in the shadows of my room). It's funny to think of that now when I watch that movie, that I was ever intimidated by such a crudely made puppet. (The same thing goes for Stephen Kings "Cats Eye") My fears were based on the things in life that I (and most of the general public) didn't understand. Because I was instilled with the thought of "anything is possible", it seemed natural to assume that scary creatures hid in my closet waiting for the very minute that one of my toes slid out from underneath the covers.





Now that I'm older, I fear the things that I know. Cancer, mental illness, abandonment, my dogs breaking their leash and running head first into a car, inability to reproduce, Rush Limbaugh, and nuclear warfare to name a few. These are things that I think about when I've had a bad day and want to punish myself with "what-if" scenario's. I can sleep with my feet out from under the covers now, but sleep is harder to come by as the sands of my hour glass settle at the bottom keeping company those years that had gone ...







I never thought I would miss the days when my biggest concern was some imagined ghoul with a foot fetish stalking me like an overzealous Britney Spears fan *cough, Crocker*, but I do. I know that most would say it is easier to deal with those things we know exist, that we can formulate solutions to, and prevail over those evils. I disagree. As much as I wish it would, being held by someone you love doesn't stop the threat of cancer slowly riddling your body. Turning on the light doesn't stop thousands of women from being told "I'm sorry, your simply not a good candidate for reproduction".

Not all scary things go bump in the night. The things in life that are truly scary are things that we feel we have no control over. Things that we KNOW exist, that we have little or no control over, those are the things that keeps a gal in her mid twenties blogging, instead of sleeping.
Since I'm being neurotic and can't sleep, I think it's only fair that I ask ya'll to spill your guts on what your greatest fear is. Unless...spilling your guts IS your greatest fear. So complex!

I'll Meet Your Anger Management And Raise You One Dropkick To The Face!

Gather round folkies, and I'll fill you in on a little something about myself that you might not know just from reading my random blogging.
Sometimes, I get angry (okay at least 3 times a week on average). When I say angry I'm not talking about muttering to myself and sulking off into a corner to hold imaginary "I would have said THAT" conversations". I'm talking about honk my horn, wave my fist, I would stomp your guts in if I could, angry.
This is something that has been cultivating since our move to a suburban area where I'm constantly assaulted with mind blowing feats of inconsideration and stupidity, including the harassment letter we received a few weeks ago for having a few sprigs of grass (A.K.A "weeds"" during a particularly busy work week from our lovely neighborhood Nazi's association. You can rest assured that I took no prisoners in my flower bed that day and I murdered those grass sprigs weeds without mercy (imagine a growling lunatic wielding a trowel and you would have a pretty accurate image of yours truly that day)



I know that anger is bad. I know that it hurts me a thousand times more than it hurts the people or things that my anger is targeted towards. I know a life lived with minimal anger is a better life, a more peaceful, centered, joyful life. Up until now, I've been pretty slow to "rile" as we call it here in the South. I have a family tree full of Irish hot heads who didn't know when enough was enough and a family cemetery full of people who died much too young from heart attacks (our low stupidity tolerance is obviously genetic) so I'm willing to work on finding my chi, my zen, my nirvana so that I don't croak by the age of 40.
I vent. I steam. I froth at the mouth when I am passed on the median of the road by someone who is obviously running late for their daily douching (I'm sure you could call ahead, bitchy soccer mom, and they'll watch the extra 2 minutes you gain by passing me illegally). Or if someone gives their cashier at the grocery a hard time for not reading their mind and using the coupons they still have stuffed into their grubby, obviously "malnourished" palms.
Today I'm going to try get in touch with the calmer me, the me before I was poisoned by suburbia's "fast this" "hurry that" "drink the Koooool Aid Critty" "We secretly worship Satan" mentality.
Yoda said it best and since I'm a nerd for even referring to Yoda at all, I'll go the distance and actually quote him just to display how desperately geeky I am..."Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."
You know, for a little green dude living in the a sewer swamp, he was pretty spot on.

Be a Guest In My Hizzouse

I was invited by the incredibly creative Mr. C (who I have the compelling urge to call Dr. every single time I think of his site) to give ya'll a peek into my little slice of Americana. Since I absolutely LOVE the idea of peeking into all of your homes, seeing as how I'm a nosy little thing, it's only fair that I give all of you lovely bloggers the same kind of eyesore courtesy.

First and foremost...this is where I'm typing from and usually how I simmer down after a long work day.


I try and keep my lil space neat, but my husband see's fit to deposit his change on MY desk instead of his own. I have tried to provide him a basket, a shelf and various other means for holding his crap but he is unwilling to cooperate. *shakes fist grudgingly*
Next you would probably notice that I love books. I have them everywhere. Here is a shelf that I think sums me up pretty nicely.



Please forgive the Twilight novel (although I will not renounce my love for the series, Edward 4 Life) but also notice my copy of Octavia Butler's "Fledgling". Her work is vivid, brutal and fantastic. If you are a vamp enthusiast, prepare for a good read.

I take a nap here.... so that I'm not unbearably grumpy before entertaining guests.












I would invite you to help me pick a dish for dinner from these cookbooks.



The hubs and I love cooking out and we were given the grilling out cookbook by a lady he once worked with who had a recipe published in the book.
Because I try and be at least a little healthy, sometimes, we use the Fat Free Italian cookbook on days when I feel like a beached beluga whale (so pretty often.)

I almost always have baked goods laying about so I'll offer you whatever goody I have whipped up at the time. Here is my favorite, peanut cookies.













Obviously, cat is on the menu for the night. Might I suggest the fat one that belongs to my friend KC? He could easily feed a family of three.










Once we've decided on what we're going to grub on during your visit I'll seat you here...







...and ask what movie you'd like to watch. We have over 350 DVD's to choose from, so take your time. If your lost in the sea of cinema, these are a few that I might suggest;





I'll also be sure to offer you either of these fine adult beverages. We like to support our local breweries and winery's so both of our selections are KY proud and locally manufactured. You can practically taste the bluegrass.

Kentucky Ale







Cabernet Sauvingon from Chrisman Mills Winery



I hope you've enjoyed snooping your way through my home and the plethora of crap I have in it. Keep in mind, if you visit moi and you have allergies, bring your inhaler. We have 4 dogs and a cat living with us (and even though I vacuum and dust daily, life can get pretty hairy)

Tooth Funeral

Let me start this blog off by saying I have never known (and hopefully never will know) the pain that is a root canal, but recently have helped take care of a friend who is currently living with my husband and I (due to this busted ass economy) who has entered phase 2 of the 3 step root canal process.
I didn't even really know what a root canal consisted of or why it happened until now. If KC wasn't going through the process I probably still wouldn't know that it was a result of a nerve dying in the tooth destined for the root canal and was not a result of poor dental hygiene. She was told her tooth death was most likely the result of blunt force trauma, and since she doesn't play defense for the Steelers, I've made plenty of jokes about taking it easy on the bj's with her man friend.
What I do know, without googling for results, is my friend is thoroughly traumatized.
KC,



who is obviously a pretty young lass, is convinced that she has been disfigured by having an artificial cap on the tooth that needed the root canal.
As her closest friend, I get to hear all of the dramatic monologues, sobbing and excessive staring at the tooth in the mirror. Before this procedure, I would have never considered her an exceptionally vain person. Sure. She looks at every mirror she walks past but I assumed it was to ensure she hadn't joined the ranks of the undead while she slept or some other reasonable excuse. *=-P Now, however, I know without a shadow of doubt that my friend is quite obsessed with appearances.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to look like Rosie ODonell's long lost twin, I don't go grocery shopping in my pajamas's (at least when I'm sober)and I understand the importance of presenting yourself in a certain way.
What I'm having trouble "getting" is crying over a fucking tooth. A tooth, that you've had corrected with a cap that looks perfectly natural. A tooth that was dead anyway and would have only continued to infect your face and make you uncomfortable.
Because I don't "get" her sadness and made the comment "So, should we have funeral for it? Do you need a shoebox to put the tooth dust in so we can bury it in the back yard?" I had to listen to a full 15 minutes of all out sobbing as we drove down to Richmond, KY to spend the day with Cassie, the friend who completes our trifecta, for her birthday.
You can imagine the level of awkward associate with this.
I pretended I was choking on a piece of gum just so I could disguise my laughter because I had already been told 3 times that it "was not a laughing matter".
I wish I had video taped it so you could understand how incredibly Seinfeld that particular moment of my life was.
As it was happening I thought, I have to blog this. It might not seem as funny to readers since you really had to be there, but I just had to write this down.
I have a friend who is depressed over a tooth.
I actually heard her whisper reverently into her bathroom mirror "It's not the same without you" while staring into her mouth.
Normally I'm a hypersensitive person who is touch with her touchy feely side, however I can't hop on board with the tooth sadness. It actually makes me feel like I've taken crazy pills to even attempt to console her.
We're giving her a place to live until things calm down in her life...and she cries over her tooth. I wonder if this will be one of those things I look back on and laugh about with her later or if she'll hold a grudge until we'll old and gray and drown me in my fiber enriched beverages?
Only time will tell.
Until then, have you told your teeth you loved them today?

Crit Appreciation Day

As I sit here luxuriating in the glorious splendor that is having a Monday off of work watching vintage horror (Fright Night) I can't help but feel thankful for the FANTASTIC birthday I just celebrated with people I love and always seem to have tons of fun with. Sure, I'm hungover, STILL (even though I haven't had a drink since the wee hours of Sunday morning) and look like someone who's been rode hard and put away wet, I spent WAY too much money shopping, traveling a bit and drinking copious amounts of alcohol with some pretty tasty food tossed in for good measure. However, I leave the weekend with a mind full of wonderful (and a few hazy) memories, mementos and photographs.

On my actual birthday, The Hubs and I decided to make a little trip up to Newport, KY to visit the aquarium. Even though they didn't have their own Aqua Man swimming about distributing his own form of watery justice, they did have a pretty nifty jelly fish display

and a GYNORMOUS alligator snapping turtle that could easily smash a persons face in one bite. I found this last fact fascinating. We spent some time ogling at the only jaws-esque shark in the place and concluded our excursion by meandering about the shops outside of the aquarium, which, much to the Hubster's everlasting joy, included a candy shop.




We opted to try out a new Mediterranean restaurant for dinner that night,Petra's, a cuisine we normally love, but were let down by appetizers still frozen in the middle and shasherma's with loads of fat on the meat *insert gag*. Needless to say, we were not members of the clean plate club that evening.
Later in the night a friend accompanied us to watch the newest installment of the Harry Potter movies at a local Movie Tavern. There is no greater invention than a movie theater and a tavern combined. We ordered a drink titled "The Big Blue Thing Margarita for 2" and slurped our way through what I considered to be one the best Harry Potter movies to date (yes, I've seen, and loved, them all). The only downside to the night was losing a penguin necklace that KC had given me only 5 hours earlier for my birthday. I had been lusting after that thing for months, only to recieve it as a gift and lose it to some theater cleaning person who probably gave it to some slutty 15 year old. GAAAHHHH. Still burns my biscuit.
Friday I spent the night watching True Blood with a friend and co-worker who I have recruited into not only watching the series but also reading the novels. We drank two bottles of wine that night and ended up talking about everything from annoying co-worker to Rush Limbaugh. I can honestly say she is the ONLY friend I have that actually likes the latter. I forgive her because of her keen sense in wine selection and her rapier wit.
Saturday was titled "Crit Appreciation Day" by my friend Paul, pictured here...



He's giving the thumbs down as the third gospel song was sang during karaoke at THE BAR!


This was the day I spent with my friends celebrating that I had survived another year relatively unscathed and only slightly more jaded that the previous year (of course I reached the height of cynicism at the early age of 8). We began the evening dining at my favorite pizza joint, Old Chicago Pizza. We waited an hour to be seated since there were 12 of us only to be separated into separate booths. Lame. We spent the evening shouting back and forth over shoulders and such and passing plates of pizza and appetizers. After we had enough of that, we opted to visit the Collins Eastland Bowling Lane for karaoke night. I had always wanted to sing karaoke but had either been too intoxicated or too sober to sing. Evidently, 9 Bud Lights=1 Critty drunk enough


to sing to a room of rowdy rednecks singing such inspirational numbers as "Go Tell It On The Mountain", "The Heart Don't Lie", various Conway Twitty songs and even Enrique Iglesias. I convinced KC to accompany me and we shook up the place, and made our karaoke debut with Billy Idol's "Rebel Yell" and followed it up a little later with MJ's "Billie Jean". We had some trouble out of an older, fatter douchebag Charlie Daniel's look alike slamming our "Billie Jean" performance which he titled "the stupidest thing he had ever seen until he saw our friend taping it and then decided that was the stupidest thing he had ever seen." I have a major qualm with people who take karaoke seriously. I promptly told him I thought he was a pathetic asshole who shouldn't confuse a bowling ally bar with the American Idol showroom and that perhaps he should wait for his ship to sail elsewhere. He did and we were left to sing off key and white people dance in peace and boy did we. Paul ended up singing the theme song to Cheers, Roy sang "Brickhouse" with KC as a back up dancer and there was a group rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'".


So.
I'm back ya'll. I'll be checking out everyone's bloggings since I've been on hiatus throughout the night tonight.

Wasssuuppp?

Over the weekend, the Hubs and I decided to watch Sacha Baron Cohen's (I wonder if he just threw in that Baron part for comedic value?)newest movie, Bruno, that we will all have to endure hearing endless quotage of for the rest of the year (think Borat's "verrrrryyy niccccee.") The Hubs will probably be leading the band wagon as he was still quoting Borat as were walking to our seats. I'm not sure if it was his way of expressing his excitement over seeing a new film that he could rip off in his daily comedic meanderings, or if he was reassuring himself that even if this film flopped he could still fall back on the various Borat catch phrases he'd memorized ("Do you want to make sexy time?") Keep in mind now, I really enjoyed Borat, but didn't feel as much of a need to incorporate it into my everyday vernacular (but enough to sport a "Glorious Khazikstan" t-shirt.)
I was expecting a theater packed with testosterone, but was pleasantly surprised to find that the ratio of men to women was pretty even (KAPOW! Take that sexism!)
Now I'm not going to give away too much of the movie because it makes me want to do the Mexican hat dance on the face of whoever spoils a movie for moi.
What I will say is, be prepared to see full blown penis action....and talking penis holes. That's all I'm saying.
What I do like is that Sacha seems to always find the most uptight groups of people...stage parents, terrorist groups in the middle east, publicists and celebrities, and then makes a movie out of their ignorance. We laugh because we know it's true. Something that seems so outrageous on the screen, like the recurring extreme racism and prejudice in Borat, is a reality for a lot of people (unfortunately) in the grand ole U.S. of A.. Laughter is a powerful thing and by making movie's like Borat and Bruno, Sacha is letting us know, in his own twisted, hilarious way, the things about the world that he finds lacking and exposing it in such a way that even though your laughing, your also thinking. That's exactly why I think he's a comedic genius.
Best line of the movie occurs after congressman Ron Paul pronounces Bruno a “queer,” the flamboyant fashionHEsta laments, “I couldn’t even shtup Rupaul (sic). How am I going to get famous?"

In other news.
This will probably be my only post this week seeing as how I'm going to take a few days off to celebrate my big 2-8 birthday with my friends and kinfolk.
I plan on indulging in lots of adult beverages and I really don't think ya'll want me posting when I'm all pumped full of Kentucky Ale (best beer around in my opinion!) and rum. My birthday falls on a Thursday this year (woot!) so we'll probably be hitting up a karaoke bar of some sort downtown to add that special kind of magic to the night that only singing off key amongst strangers can do. *=-)

So.
Wrapping up.
Go see Bruno but be prepared from some man sausage.
I've survived another year with minimal scarring.
I will be drinking my pants off after Wednesday of this week.
And last but not least. If I post something even more grammatically incorrect than normal about Sasquatch, ice skating or freakishly strong babies, you'll know I'm having a great birthday.

Ciao!

A Pickle By Any Other Name

I'm thinking about pickles.
Particularly about how they start as one thing...and are twisted and manipulated to be something entirely different to suit the whims of people who don't want a cucumber...they want a pickle. Pickles don't grow in the ground obviously or I would have an entire field, would don some overalls, and you could call me Farmer Crit Scallywag (as I'm sure my pirate split personality persona would surface from sheer frustration at my attempt to cultivated my pickle farm to protect me from meltdown. Scallywag Crit ain't gonna' take no shit from no pickles.
I digress.
Sure, they maintain the shape of a cucumber for the most part, with the addition of pursed out imperfections which I'm sure are a by product of sitting in a jar of vinegar and salt. Once you start the process, that pickle will never again be a true cucumber. The smell has changed. The taste has changed. The same could be said for people.
We begin in this world a cucumber, fresh and cool, warmed by the sun until we are harvested by the world and placed in our individual jars until we're suitable little pickles. The life we live seeps into our pores, changing us forever. The choices we make that we wish we could change are the blemishes that others judge us upon.
Very rarely is a cucumber asked if it wants to be a pickle.
Rarer still are the moments when we ask ourselves who we want to be instead of who the world wants us to be.
In recap.
If cucumbers could think about their conundrum it would blow donkey balls for them. Being a person isn't much better unless you use that noodle of yours to be the person you want to be. AND. Last but not least...Critty is one weird bitch for contemplating the imagined inner workings of the cucumber psyche.

Back When Cartoons Only Required the Clicking of a Pencil

When did cartoons go the way of the dinosaur?
What ever happened to...

The Snorks...


Jabber Jaws-


The X-Men(the cool 90's version that actually tried to follow the comics)-


Darkwing Duck-


Chip-N-Dale Rescue Rangers-


The Shirt Tails-



The Animaniacs-


The Wuzzles-


Kids these days now have things like Rescue Pets (which my niece LOOOOOOOOOOOOVES to watch with zombie-like attentiveness), Barney the Dinosaur (or has he too gone the way of...er...himself?), Backyardigans and other weirdo cartoons like Pokemon (which is like a freaking seizure of flashing lights, strange Japanese animals and some sort of gambling addiction?)
I mean, it's no wonder so many kids are being diagnosed with ADD/ADHD...I wouldn't be able to contain my rage either if I was being told to watch that especially shitty television programing.
I'm glad that shows like The Simpsons, Family Guy, and American Dad are still around and still employ the use of actual cartoonists instead of someone who is hella good with various online photo editing/creation. There's just something special about knowing at least some artists who still use a pencil rather than a mouse still have a job. I'm not trying to knock computer graphic designing, I've enjoyed such computer animated endeavors as Wally, Finding Nemo...etc. I just think it's a little sad that so few cartoons employ the use of cartoonist and opt for puppets or animals stuffed into odd looking wardrobes.
Ahh. I'm becoming one of those old, crotchety people that shake their fist and say "back in my day!"
Damnit. I was hoping I would hold off on that until I got my first gray hair.
I'm off to walk barefoot, up a hill, backwards, in the snow to get a ice cold Cokey Cola for a nickel at the nearest general store 5 miles away.
(Or watch Boomerang and reminisce about the glory days of animation.)

Damn You, Technology!

So you might have noticed that I've been trying to be all fancy schmancy and make my blog a little "prettier". You might have also noticed that you couldn't leave me comments and I had complaints that people couldn't "Follow Me" due to my attempt to join the ranks of the Uber Cool Bloggers.
Obviously, my lil non cyborg brain just can't grasp how to make it both pretty AND functional.
So.
Here's my plain jane layout.
Please leave a comment so I know that I've cleaned up my fuckery.
Ciao!

Because it's Monday, thats why!

Instead of writing, I will express myself creatively via Paint...





This is what my brain has been reduced to at 12:25 a.m..