Nope, no identity crisis here...

It's good to know who you are. It's even better to know what you are.

For some, there's room to doubt in one or both cases. But nature is certain in its ways, having enjoyed millions of years to play trial and error. My friend below was spotted at a nature center, busy in his endeavors to be who and what he is...

Another lesson from California...

Elephant seals know how to settle disagreements on everything from proper posture to the best remedy for sunburn. Perhaps if we humans just rammed into each other, mouths agape and flubber flying, we might end wars in the span of a rooster crow. Just a thought...

It's okay to bite their marshmallowy heads off...

I love Peeps. Anyone who knows me (which is unfortunate for some) will tell you that my Easter basket must contain the following items:



Peeps (yellow)...
Goldfish...
Peeps (blue)...
Coconut eggs...
Peeps (green)...
and also Peeps (pink)

I, like many who need more hobbies, like them stale. Yes, open the packaging and let'um bathe in that wondrously firming air, that's the way to enjoy a Peep. However, despite the fact that I have two containers of Peeps percolating in the fresh oxygen, a bag of goldfish (thanks mom!) and will feast upon my egg shortly, I shall not forget the purpose of the day. And no, it's not to see what the multi-colored, Peep sugar coating does to my tongue.

It is, quite frankly, this...

A Word on Staples...

We, as an obnoxiously unaffected society, don't give nearly enough consideration to the little things that make Planet Earth such a smashing place to eat dead pigs and stuff. Man, can you tell I'm craving bacon?

Simple pleasures, folks. That's all I need (aside from George Clooney, a Ferrari and a private island on which to enjoy the preceding items.) But I'll settle for courteous staples.

Here's the thing... Being a regular gal with aforementioned simple needs (Do Ferraris come automatic), I believe I should be able to stumble into my place of employ and join several pages of nonsense (such as Medicare claims) together with no more effort than I put into my hair. Which is none.

Is this lofty goal unreasonable? Apparently, Staples believes it is. Why is it that I'm utilizing the very latest model of Staples stapler (exact model to your left), filled to bursting with Staples staples and...

JAM?

Why do I get three at once and each contorted in a different direction (which is rather like a staple orgy and nothing you should be contemplating)? And they admit it! Note the 'L' in the above Staples logo and you'll see how 32.7% of my stapling attempts look. Lopsided, like a deformed alien with half a brain and marbles in his shoes. Is it so difficult to get a matched pair of office apparatus and have smoothness rule my day?


To recap, I'm using Staples staples in a Staples stapler and it all goes pear-shaped. Maybe Milton had it right? SWINGLINE ALL THE WAY!

The curse is contagious...

There goes another dream, withering under the glaring sun of celebrity statistics. I shall never win an Oscar. Partially because I have not now nor shall I ever act in a public forum, save for sheer and utter innocence when I get pulled over. But mostly because it's become apparent that winning the naked gold dude is bad for one's relationships.

Exhibits 1 through umpteen: Halle Berry, Reese Witherspoon, Gwenyth Paltrow, Helen Hunt, Kate Winslet, Hilary Swank, Angelina Jolie and now... Sandra Bullock.

Maybe their men get jealous of how adoringly they're gripping that undressed hunk of precious metal? Maybe it's because Oscar, rather than using his arms to cover his nakedness like any sensible person, uses them to do a little chest-pounding? He's saying, 'now that she's got me, you can take a hike.'

I don't watch the Oscars as a general rule because they usually celebrate movies I have both never seen and frequently don't care about... (war dramas and romantic comedies take the fun out of living, folks). But next year, should I break my fast and observe ladies wearing my year's salary on their wrists, I shall pity the best actress winner as I would a kicked puppy.

Obviously, it's better for my love life (which I don't have) that I'll never receive such a coveted and manly object (for which I have no space). I am resigned to the notion that the closest to Oscar I'll ever get is this one:

Oh well... At least he's got his own place.

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

This is my car...











And this is the money I will spend today on said shiny little blue guy...










The concept of car inspections is, to my feeble brain, akin to exploding subatomic particles. Or filling out tax forms. Or VCR manuals. And other equally difficult, mind-ripping experiments in human foibles. Who decided my happy, innocent vehicle needs gruff, unwashed hands wandering about his curves, seeking imperfections for which to charge me? Why does someone else have to put a stamp on my transport to declare it fit for duty?

Lil' Neon works just fine, thanks. When he's spitting up fumes and vomiting essential parts, I'll bring him in for service. Yes, I'm aware his check engine light is on. Has been for nearly a year and it hasn't stopped him from zooming down the freeway and shredding through yellow lights with the greatest of ease. Why must I pay an extra $92 for the privilege of knowing that the light is on for no particular reason?

It's a conspiracy. A ploy to take my hard-earned cash for which I slave at a desk for untold hours. See, here's me working terribly hard...


What more proof do you require that I shouldn't have to inspect my car? In protest of this intrusion, I waited two months beyond my expiration date to get my new set of stickers. Because when the state has a sticky hand in my pot, I like to make them work for it!
_________________________
Failed???

So I have to take Lil Neon back in a few days when they have the correct replacement parts for my fuel system leak. Plus two tires were deemed insufficient to handle road duties. Anything else, guys?

Zeus tested... Zeus approved!

Please note above Greek God and his mighty lightning bolt... The Olympics, which fills our screens at present, was begun to impress this guy. Does he look impressed? As we practice it now, poor Zeus must look down from whatever cloud has tickled his loins to behold this...



That can't be comfortable.




So, in honor of Zeus and (perhaps) in an effort to bring him something more entertaining, I believe the Olympics is due for an overhaul. Under Zaedah's administration, we'll do away with the boring, the lengthy and yes, the unsightly (take another gander at above shot).

First up... Dolphin racing. Grab your friendly marine mammal and put him up to the gate. Aaaaand they're off! Of course, this will all be done humanly because that's just the kind of people we are. The winner will be fed fresh fish. Oh, and the dolphins will get stuff too.



Next: We shall cater to the criminal element in us all by a handcuff picking tournament. Speed and creativity will be essential in this competition, as participants will be hand chosen from our incarcerated population. The winner receives the Erik Weisz medal and a 'get out of jail free' card.




For the kiddie demographic, I suggest a marble-shooting contest. Only the stakes shall be higher than the average schoolyard pastime. While not endorsing violence in an arena, there's nothing wrong with a little incentive. The bullies will be lined up outside the playing circle, ready to... deal with the losers. The winner gets to keep his teeth.

There are many other entries that the committee will be reviewing. Shoot-apple-off-head archery, swine riding, applying-makeup-in-a-speeding-cab, scorpion eating contest and my personal favorite... reciting Shakespeare while skydiving without a parachute. Viewer ratings will plunge straight off the chart and into the unbridled atmosphere.


Everyone will get into the spirit of these revamped Olympics.




The strangely beautiful...





And the downright scary.






So please, gentle readers, vote for the Zaedah Olympics. Choose your extremely non-exotic locale and let the games begin!

The Nature of Nature is... Rebellion!

Outside the windows of my office lives the above row of trees. Being an amateur photographer (neon-bright emphasis on amateur) I've attempted to secure an artsy shot of these trees in their mostly uniform appearance. 'Mostly' because they have a rebel in their ranks.

I'm rather partial to the daring tree who stands fourth from the left. She (because wild children deserve some sort of gender designation) sticks her leafy tongue out at the others who feel that green's still in even after autumn gets traction. But our girl's a fan of red and isn't interested in waiting until the fashion police say it's okay to begin the traditional turn. Nope, she's breaking out early.

Of course, with the ravages of snow and the inevitable balding, she's as naked as the others. But autumn will return months from now and she promises to trade her future emerald for splashy red before the rest can chastise her.

Good for you, Tree!

Wisdom of Zappa...

Two weeks after the blizzard of 2010 deposited a cushy 17 inches on my poor lawn, we still tromp over the mounds of white stuff. I'm one of those "bring it on" snow-enthusiasts but even I have had enough. I'd like to start a letter campaign to evict Father Winter.

The stuff won't freakin' melt!

Princess Vespa (Spaceballs) had an industrial sized hairdryer that garnered its own luggage. I should very much like to borrow it. For only the power of the mammoth beast of electric fury could turn these stubborn inches of sinister, compactness into sweet little puddles. The problem we're facing now is a bit of unsightly technicolor that has crept into the once-virgin fluffiness.

As previously noted, we have three gigantic dogs. In the natural order of things, big dogs leave big... messes. Lets face it folks... if they could flush, local busybodies wouldn't have to post reminders to pick up after your adorable bundle of killer fur. My yard is the glaring reason why clean-up is not only good for visual aesthetics but necessary for the sanctity of one's shoes.

Fortunately, no one wants to picnic in the snow, handy thing since my property looks like we've been using lemon snowcones as weapons. (And don't get me started on the tootsie rolls bullets). Look out my kitchen window and take in the ice formations, majestic cardinal and the splotches of spilled lemonade. Thanks puppies!

I'm reminded of the stirring lyrics of one Frank Zappa... "Watch out where the huskies go and don't you eat that yellow snow."

Yeah... about that.

Valentine's Day. Is there a more puke-worthy holiday? It's the sort of made-up, commercial fund-fest that only romantic sods and jewelry/flower/candy shops can get behind. Bitter? Not me! Well, maybe a little.

Because you may not know this about me (which explains why I don't receive nearly enough pity) but my last boyfriend was in the dark ages of 1999. Yup, a decade and a millennium ago. I've gotten a bouquet only once and that was by an ex-fiance who should have remembered that I'm allergic to flowers.

Today I received a Facebook note from a new friend (Thanks JF) who invited me to celebrate SPAD (Single Persons' Appreciation Day), an inclusive affair in no way limited to one 'special person.' Which is great when you don't even HAVE one.

I'm told the official color of SPAD is navy blue because it's not as unappealing on the masses as red. I actually changed my shirt to honor this bit of information. But regardless of the acronym or the color of my attire, I'm still alone for yet another Day of Lovers.

But not entirely...

Today I have officially adopted the foster cat formerly known as Reuben. As of today, he is called Zhander (poor creature, having to abide by my Z theme) and many hugs and treats were bestowed upon my furry Valentine. Hey, he's more loyal than most guys I've dated, so don't knock my choice of companion. He won't kill me with flowers, fatten me with candy or even care if my hair is brushed. I now have his fur all over my navy blue shirt and it feels a lot like love!

Why I oughta...

There are some days when one wishes for a mountaintop and a set of operatic lungs from which might issue forth a seismic bellow the likes of which ensures an avalanche that demolishes the populace below.

It seems to me that one would need a quality phrase to shout in order to secure the greatest amount of damage...


"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore..." No, that's been done to death.

"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'..." Nah, wouldn't even scare the Beach Boys.

"insert vulgar flip-off here..." Nope, no one would buy that from me.

So I've climbed the mountain and stand tall-ish at the ledge, viewing the world below that I shall obliterate with my Mariah Carey banshee yell, armed with my most cunning phrase...

WHY I OUGHTA!!!!!

Mall Santas Don't Try Anymore

When experienced as an adult, Christmas has a tendency to lose a little something in translation.

Remember the magic of waking in the morning with the taste of anticipation and suspense warring on your tongue? Perhaps you still believed that a hefty fella could fit down your chimney (provided you had one) or that a thick gloved man could jimmy open the back door without setting off security alarms (assuming you had those) or at the very least that a red-attired dude could squeeze through the bathroom window to the obliviousness of your neighbors (despite them being ex-Russian spies like ours).

How fast did you fly out of your covers, creating enough static in your Superman or My Little Pony feety pajamas to fuel the mid-Atlantic region, and zoom (and I do mean Zoom) to the living room where tree and presents and grinning parents await? Even the realization that Santa did not bring the goodies did not deter your enjoyment of, shall we say, GETTING STUFF.

Because that's the name of the commercialization game, right? STUFF.

But not in our household. Being on the lesser end of the economic pool as we were, the gifts did not reach the ceiling. Our tree was not real, rather a three-and-a-half foot contraption weighed down with fake snow. And there was, let's face it, not many ways that a giant red-clad jolly guy was sneaking into a single-wide trailer without waking the entire neighborhood (since they were, like, six inches away).

But here's the thing...

We always got what we wanted. The spirograph, hoppy hop and sit & spin were among my still-favorite surprises. The tree was always beautiful, with the red garland dad insisted on, hovering over the more perfect platform you've ever seen (and I'm talking lit buildings, tee pees and a jet black train). Dad would spend eternity and back on the pine fencing, gluing one piece at a time until the old fashioned trim wound around the full length of felt-covered plywood. They don't do THAT at the stores!

One year, my mom-mom bought my sister and I porcelain dolls. Even in the throes of Alzheimer's, she knew that I should have the brunette one while my sister got the blond one. Even today, when I look at that doll I get goosebumps.

As an adult, it becomes mandatory to hand the magic off to the next generation. Now we are the engineers, helping Santa down the chimney, through the door or past the window. We wrap until our fingers spit curses for the paper cuts. We get manhandled by the crowds when, like this year, shopping had to be put off for a 12-20 inch snow storm. And we're the ones who grin as our offerings are torn open while simultaneously praying that the present doesn't end up at the bottom of the toy box by next week. There's a bit of competition amongst family members now; who'll have the preferred gift?

I don't have children (other than the furry sort) so I play Christmas with the nieces and nephews. I suppose it's not the same, but it's what I've got and being the Cool Aunt doth so totally rock. Still, when I scoot from my bed tomorrow morning, I'll be missing the feety pajamas, the tree and the surprise. My house will look no different, the price of having tree-climbing cats, destructive dogs and no kiddies for whom to deck the joint out.

Oh look... the melancholy fairy!

I'm not complaining. Because I have memories of close knit Christmas mornings where five people who really only had each other in this world would Oh and Ah over the number of presents that somehow my financially struggling parents managed to buy. We were never disappointed. And we had each other, something we lack a bit right now. I think that's the womb from which my melancholy has sprung. But my parents still have that same snow-covered tree and while there's no platform this year, there's always the chance next time. My parents' tree-topping angel, the same one they had thirty nine Christmases ago, has never needed a bulb replacement. And I'm still greeted with warm hugs when I arrive for Christmas dinner, although such squishy embraces are a year round thing.

The point? Hang on, let me search under the white tree for it...

Oh yes! The point is that Christmas is no longer surprising, but that shouldn't mean the magic is lost. Santa still drives by on the back of a fire engine, waving to the shivering masses at the curbside and if you close your adult eyes, you just might feel a little something mingling in with the sirens and exhaust fumes. Today my roomie and I entered the Super Walmart (I know... tragic) and a departing woman offered us her cart. Roomie took that as a trick to avoid putting her cart away and that may be so, but I've got just enough holiday spirit to think perhaps she was just being kind.

Because kindness is a big chunk of what the season is supposed to mean (along with love and peace and all that rot). In the end, it's a choice... will you see the worst in human throngs mobbing every aisle in a world where Santa never really came down your chimney (or door or window) or will you accept that, in the midst of commercialized madness, there's still something to be gained by childlike faith and enough optimism to fill a stocking?

I choose to cultivate Holiday Happiness!

The Robot and the Fish

Anyone who knows me (which is anyone who does) will tell you that I hover on the Cliff of Silly. It's a ledge where I've pulled up a sleeping bag next to the roaring fire of ridiculousness and made myself at home. Marshmallows can be roasted on the flames of my insanity. But I digress...

I have been known (by those who know me) to assign personalities to inanimate objects. I just think the spatula should enjoy being a microphone and yes, my pencil rolls off the table of its own volition. It likes the ride.

Above we have Mr. Miagi, a red Japanese fighting fish who, by virtue of his breed's quirks (do fish have breeds?) had to live in his tank all alone. Oh, he amused himself by playing in the bubble stream and could eat like a starved child at a free ice cream buffet. And certainly he paid attention to the office staff (he was employed as a mascot) when we lifted his lid. He had no opinions on proprietary matters, but nonetheless, he was quite a hit with visitors. And then the office lights were shut off because five o'clock had come and it was time for the human types to race back to their own tanks.

I like to think that, on those lonely nights and lonelier weekends (three-day weekends must have sucked), he wasn't entirely alone. You see, I'd given him Robby.

Robby doesn't actually work as I'm told he once did. If you're older than me (for which I offer apologies and Depends) you may remember Robby Robot, who ate your dimes and never pooped them out. He was a mechanical bank and, sadly, mine has retired from active duty. So I put him in charge of Fish-Sitting, a job for which an immobile item has, in fact, little choice. I like to think that, on those lonely nights and lonelier weekends (four-day weekends must have blown), Robby would provide Miagi the audience he craved.

Unlikely friends from whom we may learn a lesson. The first is that granting sentience to playthings is a good way to score eye rolls from others. The second is that we should be so undiscerning in our quest for friends. Grudges, prejudices and wars all spring from a narrow view of differences; fish and robot could have fought over the value of plastic over flesh and vice versa. But Miagi just swam and Robby just watched.

Now that Mr. Miagi has gone on to that great tank in the sky (or under that tiny bush by the warehouse) I find Robby's permanently downcast eyes rather indicative of his emotional state. No one else sees this, naturally, but we should all have such good friends.