Satan's Wee Soldier: The Black Fly

In Maine there's a joke about the state bird. In reality it's the chickadee which is quite possibly the cutest little bird ever. But this time of year, folks like to say the mosquito is the state bird. I like to say it's another biting pest -- the black fly. If you're not familiar with the evilness that is the black fly, well you haven't witnessed Satan's handy work in the insect world.

The REAL Maine state bird. I want to put him in my pocket, he's so damn cute.

Like any pest, they're worse in some parts of the state (like up north where they literally drive the moose out of the woods and into oncoming traffic) and pretty much non-existent in others. I know I risk jinxing my black fly-free yard by saying this, but we don't have many issues with them 'round my property. And for that reason, I often forget they exist. And then I pay dearly. With my blood.

We headed off yesterday afternoon to visit some friends a couple towns away. Sans bug spray. Big mistake. As we sat on our friends' back porch enjoying what was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, I slowly became the main course in a black fly smorgesbord. And those fuckers where some hungry.

And yes, sometimes you get both up he-yah!

The black fly is about half the size of a whole peppercorn but packs a wicked wallop. They literally gnaw a chunk out of your skin. (You can thank me later for not posting pictures of that!) I looked down at one point to see my arm actually bleeding. What start out as harmless looking bites, slowly morph into quarter-sized welts that itch like a mother fucker. The sucky thing about these pests is that they're so fucking small that you never realize they've landed on you until they start feasting. And by that time, it's too fucking late. One time, years ago, I was bitten around my eyes and the next day I looked like I had gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. Wicked attractive.

Seriously, almost exactly like this poor kid. Ridiculous!

I'm not sure what purpose the black fly serves so if anyone knows, help a sistah out, will ya? My feeling is they were put on this earth to do evil only, which proves they're Satan's spawn. Just like the ticks. But don't get me started on those little blood sucking fuckers. I'm fairly certain if I found a lamp, rubbed it, and produced a genie granting me three wishes, two of those wishes would be used to eradicate ticks and black flies. And the other would be for meeeeellions of dollars! {insert evil laugh here}

Yep, we even named a beer after them.

Do you have motherfucking black flies where you live? No? Lucky... So what type of blood thirsty bugs to you battle in your neck of the woods? Honestly, people think I'm crazy because I love winter. Guess what? No bugs.

It's Tattoo Time!!

It's been a few years since I let someone poke me with needles and ink and I figured I was just about due for new tattoo. Plus, I turn thirty-five this year and can use that as an excuse, which somehow justifies getting a drawing permanently etched into my flesh.

Besides, getting a tattoo for your thirty-fifth birthday is totally a grown-up thing to do, right?

I debated telling ML I wanted to get a Twilight tattoo or a picture of Robert Pattinson's face but I was sort of afraid he would actually buy it and have a fucking stroke or something. So I told him the truth.

I want to get a flower and a honeybee. And not just any flower, either. You see, the New Jersey state flower is a meadow violet and the NJ state insect is a honeybee.

 Oooh, pretty...

ERMAGAHD WE'RE ALL GONNA FUCKING DIE!!!!

It's gonna be like a secret ninja New Jersey pride tattoo. Plus, I'm scared fucking shitless of bees, so why not? I completely lose my shit when there is a bee nearby and flail and whimper and run around screaming like a banshee so of course I should get a tattoo of one.

My logic doesn't even make sense to me but I'm just going to go with it.

Unfortunately, there is one small problem with my tattoo plan. I don't draw. My artwork looks like an aging poodle doodled it. Sure, I can grab a few pictures and take it down to the tattoo shop and all that jazz, but I like to see the completed image before I go down there. That way, I can carry it around and stare at it once a day to make sure I actually want it tattooed on my skin. Especially because I want a very specific (I think) style to this tattoo.

I want it to look like a woodcut drawing. Or something kind of like that.

 Style choice subject to change every fifteen minutes...

So, my fellow inked (or not inked!!) Twitards - how do you go about planning a tattoo (even if it's a hypothetical one)? What would you get tattooed and where?

Oh, and anyone a good woodcut artist?

If I Were Queen

The other day I was reading something or another about Queen Elizabeth - it is her 60th year on the throne & all and while I don't get exactly what it is that she does or why she does it, it's clear that it's a rarefied world she inhabits. One of the more curious tid-bits? Apparently, the Queen has an attendant whose job it is to break in her new shoes. It isn't the gobs of ginormous jewels she wears or the ridiculous wealth, the castles, the horse-drawn carriages or even the fanciful hats that make me feel a pang of jealousy - it's the fact that she has never had to hobble around in a pair of new shoes, blisters forming despite preemptive band-aid application, praying that they bloody stretch already, dammit! Because she has a person to do that for her. "Her shoes must be comfortable immediately" they say. Shouldn't we all have that???

I looked at countless close-ups of mangled feet after doing a Google-image search for "breaking in new shoes" to find this one that didn't make me want to hurl. You're welcome. Also, Twilight band-aids are perfect for this kind of thing! Hidden, but you'll know that the Cullen Crest is giving your boo-boo a kiss.

So what kinds of tasks would I like to delegate to underlings if I were Queen of a kingdom with more basis in physical reality (and fuller coffers) than Twitardia (where I am admittedly only "Co-Queen")?

The first 12,387 things to cross my mind were not surprisingly all cleaning related. I am not really much of an Anglophile and despite an occasional interest I have never read any of the books out there purporting to tell what kind of lozenges she carries around in her purse and what kind of bloomers she prefers (Pattinson Panties, perhaps?). Regardless, I am comfortable asserting that she has never personally done the dishes, scrubbed a toilet or tub, made her own bed, scooped cat litter (or picked up after her ahhhmeee of Corgis), mopped a floor, laundered or pressed her clothes, taken out the trash - GAH! - there is something to be said for this life, clearly... I picture it kind of like Downton Abbey on steroids. She probably doesn't even need to ring a bell; after sixty years, shit just gets done the way she wants it, when she wants it.

But having an official shoe-breaker-inner? Now that's taking it to a whole nother level, as Latchkey Wife is so fond of saying.

Apparently some ahead-of-their times ladies tried this in the good ol' U S of A back in the day. 

Maybe they took their business to the UK???

I should also point out that the queen also has someone - or multiple someones, probably - to carry the things that don't fit into her little purse comfortably, and to keep track of her wardrobe and make sure she doesn't repeat outfits at inopportune times. I NEED THIS, people. Sometimes I think I wear the same thing to the office on Friday that I wore on Monday but then I say "Fuck it - if I can't remember, nobody else should, either." Her wardrobe attendants even name her dresses - her favorite is apparently "Buttercup" which I am sure is lovely but of course it makes me think of saucy, mangy cats.

 Possibly "buttercup"? We'll never know...

Here are some positions I would like to fill whence I am The Queen:

A Pants-Pre-Wearer to stretch my skinny jeans and ever-tightening pants after they come out of the dryer, so they have that "just right" fit without me having to wear them for a few hours or do contortionist-like stretches to speed up the process.

A bedwarmer. This might be my Game of Thrones addiction talking, but even some of the high-born women had women to warm their beds at night. OK I guess Mr. Snarky already fits the bill here, now that I think about it.

Also Game of Thrones inspired? Cup bearer! Which I think is someone who hovers near you and refills your wine glass every time it gets dangerously low. Hard work in these parts...

A Master of Remote Controls to make everything go, pause when I need a bathroom break, and adjust the volume when the annoyingly loud commercials come on. They can also hand me the remote when I want it but am really comfy and don't feel like reaching for it (this generally only happens when the cup bearer has been working overtime).  

And of course, every queen needs an official Fetcher of Rob, who summons you-know-who whenever it suits their needs...

Hey, she may be Queen, but she's a woman, too.
(Thanks to the awesome @robsbuttonsbabe for the manip!)

So what's on your "Because I'm THE QUEEN!" list???

Bathing Suit Season Sucks

Last week Jenny Jerkface posted an Open Letter to Summer and briefly touched on one of the most agonizing parts of the season -- bathing suits. May I just take a moment to expand on her deep hatred for this particular article of beach attire? I love window shopping for bathing suits. Some of the stuff they have out these days is uber cute. Just not on me. And is it just me or do they purposely install the most florescent of florescent lights in the dressing rooms so all you want to do is wear a snowsuit all fucking summer?

I blame the beach. If I didn't live near the ocean, I would never have to put a bathing suit on this body. Ever.

I've never been one to enjoy wearing a bathing suit. I'm fair-skinned and covered with moles. And let's not forget that now that I'm in my 40's, I now have veiny legs and saddle bags -- thanks for that, Mom. I definitely have never been one to wear a bikini. Nope. Except for the one summer when I was skinny. And that only lasted like 47 seconds.

Years ago I fell in love with the Tankini -- the coverage of a one-piece with the convenience [read: bathroom ease] of a two-piece. I've had some damn cute tankinis in my day. I was in love with every suit in the Venus catalog. Now I feel like all their bottoms are too skimpy. Or at least too skimpy to cover my booty.

I would totally wear this if I didn't think I'd sport a permanent wedgie. Although it is camouflage. Maybe no one will see me. Psssst -- someone who writes for this blog bought it and looks totally adorbs in it!

Let us fast forward a few years. I've put on some extra weight. Kinda hard not to as you start to get older and less mobile. When I gain weight, I gain it primarily in my thighs and bum. I'll tell you what, fucking genetics suck fucking dirty ass. There was no stopping it from happening. I hated putting on a bathing suit and displaying my saddlebags and bubble butt for all to see. If I thought I wouldn't burst into flames from the heat, I'd wear shorts and a t-shirt to the beach. [Ugh... shorts. That's another whole sad sap story...]

Then I discovered the most excellent, super cute Skirtini (which sort of sounds like a fun drink). It's a bathing suit and beach cover up all rolled into one. It covers your saddlebags and also allows you to be somewhat neglectful with the bikini line shaving. (Not that I do that or anything.) I have found some amazingly adorable skirtinis in my time. I had a pink and white polka dot one for years but alas, it's just too faded to wear now.

Last year, I purchased what could possibly be my all time most favorite skirtini from Eddie Bauer. Black and white flowered with a ruched and ruffled bottom. Love, love, love! When we had an unseasonably hot day back in April, I pulled it out for a trip to the beach. I almost cried. My backside has expanded so much over the winter that the ruffled edge disappeared. Up. My. Ass. Not a good look.

 The bottoms look like this but flowered. And stuffed up my ass.

What is really pissing me off is that it's not like I sit around all winter eating cake on my fucking couch. I work out. Sort of. I have an elliptical and my goal is 4-5 days a week where I do 5 miles in 30 minutes. I think that's pretty good. And when it's not 80 degrees below zero, we walk the dogs too. Fuck getting old. Fuck it in the ass with a rusty hatchet.

I officially start my starvation diet tomorrow.

Robert Pattinson in THE Band Movie???

The precious has been a very, VERY busy lad these days. Or years. Bel Ami has come out to some rave (and not-so-rave) reviews, and Cosmopolis is apparently causing quite the stir. And lets not forget the smooching in Cannes.

 That is a man serious about his career. And holy baby Jesus is he hot.

But when I stumbled across this article during one of my many interweb-RPattz-searches, I have to admit -- I gave a little yelp.

(From the Article) Twilight star Robert Pattinson has signed on to appear in an upcoming film project about rock legends The Band.

The Band. Which one would RPattz play???

Ummm, FUCK YES. For those of you who don't know, The Band was a really talented and influential rock group in the sixties and they spent some of their time touring with Bob Dylan (among many other things). I can almost guarantee you've heard something by them but I strongly recommend you check them out anyway.


(RIP Levon Helms (the drummer) who passed away in April this year):


I'm excited for this because a) it's going to be a movie about The Band and b) I'd like to see Robert Pattinson play in it because it's awesome to see him broaden his acting horizons and (despite my initial reservations) I don't think he's a terrible musical artist.

There isn't much buzz about this movie (either that or I'm too dumb and/or lazy to find it) but based on this little blurb, Robert Pattinson sounds pretty stoked to be a part of it.

And, obviously, so am I.

P.S. - If anyone has any more information regarding this movie, let us know!

I Want a Stroller. For My Cat. Maybe.

I'm never going to have kids. Not because I can't, but because I don't want to. I keep wondering if at some point my biological clock is going to kick in and unleash its pent-up years of fury, but so far, nada. I felt more intense longing while watching a commercial for a Caribbean get-away the other night than I did the last time I held a baby. And "I need someone to take care of me when I get old" is a logistical crap-shoot as far as reasons to reproduce go, imho.

But I DO have a cat who is 17 and adored to such a high degree that she might have sprang from my loins all furry and stripey and awesome.

JJ would say this is her "If you die, I will eat your face" look, but I know love when I see it.

I am not rich, so I will never be known as "eccentric." I am the non-rich equivalent, the "crazy cat lady." Sure she's only one cat and Mr. Snarky is allergic so the chances of my ever filling our home with an inappropriate number of dandery fluffballs is slim, but I saw this the other day and I totally embraced my inner crazy cat lady. Hard. My inner crazy cat lady may have been doing the dance of the seven veils, in a totally non-sexual way.

 Even the model is too ashamed to show her face...

 But for the record this is on back-order, so at least I am in good company. 

It's like being Twitarded, only with cats instead of hot undead sparkly teenagers. 

The problem (aside from the expense) is I am massively uncomfortable with the idea of drawing attention to myself and I think I might actually draw attention to myself if I started pushing my little bundle of fur down the street in the cat-carrier equivalent of a fancy baby stroller. Maybe I need to be jogging with it - that way, people will have to catch me if they want to ask questions like "wait - when did you have a baby???" Oooor I can just push it in circles in my back yard, which would probably better for everyone (and our collective self esteem, cat included). 

On a scale of one to fucking nuts, how crazy does this make me?

Bel Ami: Pas Mon Préféré

*Spoiler Free*

This weekend has been a complete wash out 'round these parts. I think the weather dude was calling for four inches of rain in my town. If that was snow, it would be over three feet. Numerous roads have been deemed impassable due to flooding so I decided I was going to spend the day on my couch. Doing couchy things. Like watching movies.

I sort of felt like I lived here this weekend.

I got up nice and early and got myself all situated and comfy under my blankie and the power when out. What. The. Fuck? A rainy Sunday with no power sounds like some medieval style of torture. So I fell asleep. I woke up a couple hours later when the lights came on and the TV started whirring back to life. *wipes brow* That was close.

It's also the first Sunday in a long time that Mr. LKW has worked and left me with complete control of the remote. Helloooooo Movies On Demand, Bel Ami and *rawr* Robert Pattinson. I'll admit, when I saw what Time Warner Cable was charging for the movie, I nearly scrapped my plans. But the desire to see RPattz's ass crack won out.

Aaaaaaand there's $9.99 and 1 hour and 42 minutes I'll never get back. I almost wish the power had never come back on.

I'll keep my review short and spoiler free. I didn't like this movie. Frankly, if Rob wasn't in it, I would never have watched it. I thought the premise sounded boring... and unfortunately, Robert Pattinson couldn't help it. The movie was hard to follow and choppy.

I could've done with just this and no story line.

Riddle me this -- the author is French, the title is French, it was originally written in French... so why is the movie entirely in English? I mean fuck, Rob speaking French... ooh la la. I don't know why but this annoyed me; I hate subtitles but I think I would've preferred them.

I did love RPattz in period clothing. He wears it so well. And I also enjoyed him in a movie where he didn't speak in an unfamiliar accent. Although I didn't think he looked that good. I'm sure he was meant to look like he did some hard living, but I couldn't get past the constant sheen of sweat and the dark circles under his eyes. I like the Pretty to look, well, pretty.

Not so bad here... I like your hat, Rob. You can leave that on.

The ass-crack scene was a major disappointment. Couldn't they have just lingered a few minutes hours longer? It was the one thing I was looking forward to and it was over in a flash. Good thing I didn't blink or yawn, I would've missed it. Boo.

I really could ramble on and on about everything that bothered me in Bel Ami but I'll spare you the gory details. I did say this was a spoiler free post, right? I'm interested in your thoughts. Am I the only one that didn't like this film? Tell us what you thought. (Try and keep your comments spoiler free too, 'k?)