December 4th, 2013 | No Comments »

I’ve been fixing to get back to this blog for a while now, but until I actually do, I have a video that I participated in for a university project. Hey, I’m still a movie star, this is more up to date, what with YouTube and all kinds of fancy things nowadays.

I will get back when my brain cells organize themselves into something.

Warmly,

witchypoo.

Posted in What's this?
March 27th, 2010 | 16 Comments »

One of my readers requested that I update my blog, and just in case I was out of ideas, she suggested that I explain what I had against cats.

Oh, the cat lovers will so hate on me now.

Have you cat lovers ever noticed that cats are not obedient? Am I the only one who has a problem with that? If I am feeding you and looking after you, couldn’t you at least deign to abide by some basic house rules? Apparently not, if you’re a cat.

One of my basic house rules? You do not jump up on my counters or table if you have litterbox feet. Do I need to elaborate on that? Do we need to discuss the vile smell of cat excrement? It’s so overwhelmingly unsanitary to have litterbox feet walking around on the surfaces where food is prepared. When you’re done grossing me out kitty, why not show me how much you love me by shredding my furniture with your claws? Because, clearly, you do not want me to have nice things. Or how about jumping up to my eye level, lifting your tail up straight, and presenting your lovely cat arsehole three inches from my nose? Does anyone really find this appealing? Because the whole cat arsehole thing? The fun totally eludes me.

When you come home from work, does your cat act all goofy happy to see you ? No? Do you, instead, get yelled at because they’re all “Where’s my food, bitch” ? Because cats will do that. They are used to having servants.

You might think your cat is being affectionate when it rubs itself against you. You might, but you would be deluded so very wrong. What your cat is doing is depositing saliva to mark you as its very own personal servant. Just so the other cats will know that it has dibs on the giver of food.

Look, I know that dogs roll in dead things and will eat turds, but they also will submit to a bath, if you understand dogs at all. They are always wicked happy to see you. They want to please you, and can be trained. And when a dog fucks up? It has the decency to at least look ashamed.

You just ask Bill Clinton about the pluses of having a dog. During all that Monica business, when he came home at the end of the day, the only member of the family who was happy to see him was the dog. Even if your wife and kid think you’re an arsehole, your dog is all “OMG! I missed you SO much! I’m so glad you’re home!”

And for that? I can endure the slurpy sound of a dog licking its own balls.

Cats? Not so much. Besides, I’m allergic.

Posted in What's this?
March 14th, 2010 | 17 Comments »

I was going through my old pictures because Loralee posted pictures of her various haircuts. Not one of them was particularly embarrassing. And that was just so wrong. I not only had embarrassing hair, but look at the clothes and shoes!

Nowadays, I have so many different looks and body changes that people seem to only recognize me when I speak. Think Marge Simpson’s older sisters. Yes. Like that.

But I do have strange looking pictures of when I was younger. I was a bit surprised to recall that I wore a few wigs back in the day. Who knew?

Age 16, almost 17. Daisies in hair for wedding of my father and mildly amusing OCD stepmother. She was 23. I’m pretty sure we had our hair done professionally for this event. But I wore this do in a less poufy way for quite a while.

This is mildly amusing OCD stepmother’s (MA OCD SM) signature hairstyle for others. Ringlets. It was my prom. Even the ringlets didn’t stop me from getting naked that night. I shudder with embarrassment at the dress. Check out the shoes.

Evidence of the ringlet-making. This would be Dizzee’s first wife the night before their wedding. Nobody looks happy here. Foreshadowing.

And this would be the result. See? MA OCD SM was all about the ringlets. And Dizzee’s bride was all about the boobies, cuz she was knocked up.

This would be me, with hair in rollers night before Dizzee’s wedding. Note how hard I was trying to appear sober and no fun. That’s because I was posing with my father. Totally wasted.

Self-styled hair. Note the prom shoes. Many years later. Hey, I have Sasquatch feet.

I thought I had uploaded the bedhead photo, but instead, I give you the having a poop photo. Any mother with a kid that young never gets to poop alone. Not all husbands document this, however. Especially when his wife is wearing a Superman t-shirt and leather clogs. Notice how he cleverly distracted me with a cute baby before ambushing me with the camera.

I had a fondness for wigs at one time. And apparently, for over plucking my eyebrows.

The wigs got beat up a little. It was fun to wear them drunk, like here.

One more wig and I’ll stop. This was the mighty afro, which Dances With Shrapnel (also in picture) loved. He said:”Oh, Mommy, I love your hair. It’s aaaallllll MESSY.” So cute. He was coming down with chicken pox there.

Then there’s the matching hair. His was real. Mine was a perm.

My 50th birthday. You’d think I would have Photoshopped out the red neck, but you would be so wrong. The hot flash queen. And? It’s close to the cut I had with the daisy hair at 16. Only less poufy.

My green streaks. I really like green streaks. This was taken last summer or the summer before that. I’m old and don’t remember stuff so well anymore.

Thanks, Loralee! That was kind of fun.

Posted in it's all about me
January 23rd, 2010 | 15 Comments »

Okay, I’ve never had funeral potatoes, but I might want to look up the recipe.

I swore I wouldn’t attend any more funerals after my Mom died because, frankly, it was ugly. But then, it was not Dad’s children that were being mean-spirited. It was Mom’s. I just now figured that out.

My mother and father had a marriage made in hell, and I believe his second marriage made him into the kind of man that gave his second set of children the father I never had.

I have to say that this particular funeral service was very healing for all concerned, and certainly provided healing for me.

I want to say a word about his second wife, mildly amusing OCD stepmother. She loved him without reservation, and wanted to be certain that his send-off was her last gift to him. She pulled it off like a champion. There was no drama, no sniping at others, and everyone just loved on everyone else.

She did her best to make everyone feel welcomed, and wanted to send him off with a nice family gathering. She put aside any differences she might have with others, and she did it because she loved him so much.

The funeral directors made a point of remarking what a nice family they dealt with. I’m pretty sure they have seen some train wrecks, but there were none in evidence that day.

Grammie showed up and provided some welcome comic relief. I can honestly say it was an awesome service. Look here for a creepily appropriate picture of Grammie.

I resolved I would say goodbye to my father in the same spirit which I met him. With the unrestrained love of an infant.

That is precisely what I did. I am so thankful.

I’m totally okay with this. And? That is my miracle.

And guess who was one of the first non-family members that showed up for the viewing? Horny McSlutty! Bonus. We thought he might be dead too.

Thank you all for your good energy and wishes. Know that I felt it, and greatly appreciated it.

You are in my heart.

January 18th, 2010 | 20 Comments »

When I was younger, much younger, I secretly called him The Giant. He was larger than life, and sometimes he was so large he eclipsed the sun. He cast a shadow through which I saw my life.

Standing in the shadow was fearful, and I avoided his gaze, his disapproval, his genius at finding chores for me to do upon taking notice of me. When I sought his attention, it was in order to shock him.

The way that he tried to relate to his children was to teach them. I resisted. I think I’m the only one of the many who has a tin ear, so I just wasn’t interested in learning guitar. Or really, in spending time with my father. He ruled by fear, and I seethed in resentment.

When he first got sick, I tried to make a connection, for my own sake. I wanted to try. I was rebuffed. And totally got blamed for upsetting him while he was in hospital. I never did get to talk to him then.

Each year, The Giant was diminished, no longer a threatening physical presence, yet the disapproval was pervasive. I just didn’t know what to say to him. We weren’t even close to being on the same wavelength, and I didn’t know how to bridge that gap. I would have liked to do it for me, at least.

Yesterday, after eight years of illness, he breathed his last.

Nobody really believed that The Giant would die.

The waves of sadness and emotion overwhelmed me, but mostly surprised me.

That’s where I am right now.

Processing. Owning my part in it.

This shit isn’t for sissies, is it?

Posted in The Dead Dad Club