Holly House - Winter Hazards

I think the big icicle in the middle is stalking me. It's waiting for an unsuspecting person (me) to pass beneath it then it will lunge, breaking free of the gutter to skewer its prey (also me). I have named it Stabby.

Stabby Sickle and Friends.

Pictured below is a fossilized frozen femur of a brontosaurus. Actually, it's a portion of a giant icicle that crashed down onto my A/C unit in the middle of the night with a noise that sounded like my home was being invaded by a gang of Abominable Snowmen. 

Even The Postman Had The Day Off

The weather is fit for neither man nor beast.

That does not include us expendable drones, obviously. So here I sit at work watching the Snowpocalypse from my office window and wondering if I'm going to have to hitch the sled dogs together to get home.

This is the view. That's the courtyard and adjoining wing of the building.

My car is one of the drifts in the parking lot.

My knight-in-shining-armor drives a backhoe.

Brrrrr. I hope his armor is warm.

Creative Tuesday 2.1.11

Mr. Toast's prompt for this week was Valentine.

I went with more of the martyred saint angle than the Hallmark angle on this one.

Check out the other submissions at Hot Toast and Tea.

The Holly House Diaries - My Plea

Kitchen.

As defined by Holly's Dictionary, "a room in a house that typically sees little to no activity except around the electric kettle, where bagged lettuce often converts to a liquid state in the crisper drawer, and the only beverages to be found are usually 13% alcohol or categorised as 'loose-leaf' or 'espresso grind'."

You never appreciate something until it's gone. I have been without a kitchen for a while now, and I never thought I'd say this, but I'm sick of take-out.



The Kitchen, Step 1 - Obviously, no expense was spared.
I expect those tinfoil and painter's tape window shades to be the next big thing in kitchen design.



Very soon there will be countertops, then I will have a place to set the kettle.

Please, please, please Universe, I promise to be good. I swear I am ready to cook. I have even purchased a brand spanking new set of pots and pans in anticipation of going all Martha the second the kitchen is completed. I have googled The Naked Chef and now know that he is not indeed nekkid (sorta disappointing), but that his name is Jamie Oliver, he's British, knows his way around the kitchen, talks with a slight lisp, and might actually be my soulmate. I even bought... *GASP*... a cookbook. OK, yes, it is a book filled only with cookie recipes, but it is a step in the right direction. Please, I'm begging you O Great Universe, let the installation of the countertops, sink and faucet, and the hooking up of the appliances go smoothly and be done by some time in February. I don't know how much Nutella and toast a person can ingest before it begins to do permanent damage to their intestinal tract and brain function, but I think I'm there.

WIPEOUT

Thank you Wipeout.

Thank you for making me laugh so hard I cried and peed a little.

Now, normally I do not find people getting hurt entertaining, even if it is a result of their own stupidity and quite deserved. Unless I am extremely drunk (see: attending Jackass, The Movie, Pt I), then I am going to laugh so hard people will mistake the sound for an irate burro with a bad headcold due to all the braying and snorting.

I do not watch America's Funniest Videos or World's Dumbest Criminals. My first reaction is not laughter in those situations, but flinching and squinting my eyes with an exclamation of "Damn!"

However, I have developed a strange fascination for game shows that require contestants to navigate some sort of obstacle course - which, as we all know from elementary gym class, contains not only the potential for severe injury, but unplumbed depths of humiliation as well.

And usually rope burns.

The Japanese game shows MXC (Most Extreme Elimination Challenge - the voiceovers for the commentators and contestants are comedic genius), Unbeatable Banzuke, and Ninja Warrior have elevated the game show obstacle course to new heights of glory. American television has tried to emulate their success. Though the attempt hasn't failed, you can only go so far when you can't actually kill or hideously maim the competitors. I'm not familiar with the technicalities of Japanese law, but the waivers the contestant sign must be iron-clad against ANY injury lawsuit. Otherwise how would it be possible to have a show like "Hit in the Nuts"?

Trust me, nothing is lost in the translation of that one.

There Were Some Awesome Things About the 80s

Big score in the $5 DVD bin at the Wal-Mart this weekend.

Drum roll, please.

Are you ready?

OH YEAH!! WHO'S JEALOUS NOW, BITCHAAZ??!

This morning I am suffering  from an acute case of 21 Jumpstreet Marathon Overload. It's like a bad hangover. There's a skull-splitting headache and a taste like the cat took a poo in my mouth, but the additional side effects include a desperate desire to rat my hair, wear one mismatched, long earring, pull on the slashed, acid-washed jeans, and bust some high school punks.

If you catch me reminiscing about how I once infiltrated a gang of car thieves operating out of a high school shop class or cracked a Catholic School coke ring, please remind me that wasn't actually me, but the leading characters on...

 "JUMP! Twenty-one Jumpstreeeet! I said, JUMP! Down on Jump Streeeeet..."

Thought of You

Wow. The most beautiful piece of animation I've seen in years.

Thought of You from Ryan J Woodward on Vimeo.