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Killing January
January, every January, is a slog of a month, and this January is proving to be even sloggier than usual. And by slog, I mean that it’s cold, wet, dark, gray, dreary, snowy, icy, slushy, and mother fucking relentless.
Seriously, If I thought I could kill January and get away with it, I would do it in a heartbeat! Wait, what?
Defecated Bricks
Thursdays, am-I-right?
As I’ve previously mentioned—like, 315 times since March 2020—there are no “real” days for me right now. But Thursday stood out for me for a few reasons;
- The sun came out for about two, maybe two and a half minutes in the late afternoon. That’s two-ish minutes more than at any time in the previous five.
- I snagged a couple photos of my favorite bird (a Cedar Waxwing) in the backyard of the Cul-De-Sac-Shack while Lola was outside taking a dump.
- I rode the magic Zwift® machine for over an hour, virtually “climbed” over 1,300 feet and turned into an actual sweaty, out-of-shape, red-faced freak (see non-bird photo below). S000 not a KOM!!
Fuck yeah, THURSDAY!!!
25 Minutes of Heck
1,500 seconds worth of first world semi-problems
Monday was Monday, but it could have been Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday. Yes, I know, it’s been discussed ad nauseam; that’s just how COVID life be. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck, but sometimes things—like 46.9% of all Americans—suck.
Tuesday, on the other hand, well, Tuesday can go fuck itself. All it took was 25 minutes for me to want to go back to bed and or start cracking beers.
Minute 1
I stop by Wifey’s office in the former Chamber of Farts, where she lets me know that B is off school due to icy road conditions. Apparently, we had freezing rain overnight, and the roads are way too treacherous for the teachers to get to their virtual classrooms located in their actual classrooms at the school.
Minute 5
I mix up a shitty cup of coffee and then somehow get the dogs outside and off of the deck that is coated in a glaze of slippy ice.
Minute 7
A morning dump sneaks up on me like a sniper deep in the shit behind enemy lines; there were many casualties.
Minute 11
I go out to the garage to open up the giant tub of Ice Meltz® I bought recently. I removed the hard plastic tab as instructed, but I can’t get the lid off. To quote my father, “well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!”
My thumbs and I fight with it for a few minutes before busting out the right tools for the job; a tree pruner and a hammer. Next time I’ll get medieval on it with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch, Marsellus Wallace style.
Minute 15
I spread some “salt” on the Cul-De-Sac-Shack’s driveway before taking an extra cup inside to access the front sidewalk without having to walk on the icy driveway.
Minute 16
The dogs let me know they want morning treats with crying and growling. I supply the treats, and they both shun them for some reason. Fucking stupid dogs! I love them, but some days!!!
[shakes fist at the sky]
Minute 20
I grab my big red cup of Ice Meltz® and head out on the front porch—Lola excitedly follows me outside soon as she hears the front door open. Not wanting her out while I’m spreading probably not all that pet-friendly ice melt, I try to get her back inside. She is not cooperating.
I frustratedly sit my cup of Ice Meltz® down on the porch and reach down to try and get her in.
Minute 21
Somehow, in the span of fewer than sixty seconds, I seem to forget my purpose for being outside, step down onto the ice-covered cement porch step, and slide right off the porch and onto the sidewalk and snow-covered front yard.
Being a long-time expert at embarrassing myself, I quickly do a scan around the “sac’ to see if anyone was outside, and then laugh and raise my arms in victory as if I meant to do it, just in case any neighbors saw from their windows. They might be looking out their windows thinking that I am a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, but at least they’ll know I’m a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch and can still laugh at being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch.
Minute 22
Lola runs right into the house. It seems all I need to do to get her inside is throw my ass off the front porch and into the front yard.
Minute 23
I go inside and shake off the snow and assess any injuries. My shoulder and hip took the brunt of the fall, and I was helped a bit by the snow in the front yard, but I have no doubt that I’ll still bruise due to the blood thinners in my system. For now, I’m just happy I didn’t hit my head or fall entirely on the icy cement.
Minute 24
I finish the job I set out to do and go inside, fighting back the urge to weep at the slap-stick idiocy that has followed me around for 49.5 years.
Minute 25
I revisit Wifey in her office to relay the story, get some sympathy, and apologize for being the sort of man that can’t open plastic containers of salt correctly or provide proper treats for our dogs. I also apologize for being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, and even though I can, and do, laugh at myself, somedays I just want to go back to bed and start over later.
Later.
Tan, Maskless, and Fascist
Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
Dear Reader,
The following post contains a large dose of my opinion and some large quantities of venom. I am on a journey to free myself of that stuff, but this week I just don’t have it (Thanks Trump). Don’t read it if you don’t like that shit. There are no photos, ’cause I ain’t got none today.
— Management
Cliff’s Stupid Notes Version of This Post:
- I’m fighting off the return of “a mood.”
- People are the worst.
- Being tan in Michigan during January makes you look like a freak.
- I have a lot of diarrhea (that’s actually not in the post, but I figured I would share it, just because).
- I’m pretty much an asshole.
- Popeye liked his elbows sucked (I assume).
- Things will get better, probably. But maybe not.
- Let’s get loaded.
2021, Mariah, & Chumbawamba
Unrelated Soiled Chamois file photo.
I know we’re only 4 days in, but so far, 2021 feels like I just stepped in a big hairy pile of spilled dog bowl water while making my way through a dark kitchen for my first cup of morning coffee.
One day into 2021, I found out that one of my close relatives had just tested positive for COVID (they’re reportedly doing well), and apparently, my family (sans Wifey, B, and myself) thought that it was a good idea to gather together on Christmas Eve, even though it was strongly suggested by the medical community that they don’t (they reportedly tested negative).
APPLICABLE SIDE NOTE: I highly recommend listing to Episode 9, Fire at The Beverly Hills Supper Club, from the podcast Cautionary Tales by Tim Harford. It really shows the dangers of what digging in and eschewing words of warning can do.
Two days later, we found out some BFFs also contracted and became ill with the virus and are just about to exit quarantine. That was followed by me going for groceries a few hours later and seeing close to 10 people selfishly deciding that they didn’t need to wear a mask.
[insert heavy sigh and head-shaking here]
I shouldn’t hate on 2021; I mean, it hasn’t had the best start, but it has a lot of pressure on its shoulders.
I can see ’21 sitting in its dressing room on New Year’s Eve as some guy no one has ever heard of, and a bloated and crazy Mariah Carey count down the last minutes of 2020. It’s nervously rocking back and forth, dividing its attention between making sure it has all the months in order, gawking at Mariah Carey’s massive fake boobs on the nearby monitor, and muttering, “don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020… .”
Then, as the guy no one ever heard of, Mariah, and her two boobs count down the final seconds of 2020, ’21 stands up, waits for the cue, heads towards the stage, and promptly trips and lands face-first on the floor at the feet of the guy no one ever heard of and Mariah Carey. Well, at least it assumes it’s Mariah Carey; from its perspective on the floor, all it sees is massive under boob ensconced in a sparkly dress and a whole lot of craziness.
2021 will be just fine; it just had a wonky start. It will stand up, dust itself off, push the guy no one ever heard of out of the way, take in one last view of Mariah’s two friends, hand her a card for a good therapist, and start the year as best as it can.
2021 doesn’t want to be compared to 2020 and will confidently point out that the issues I talked of above were technically 2020 problems. I get that, so I am willing to give ’21 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.
I will not be making any resolutions, plans, or goals for 2021. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t mean that in an I give up, bitter fatalist sort of way, but rather in a Chumbawamba, get knocked down, get up again, sort of way. I am merely accepting that I can’t control what other people say or do, and much of what happens in life is out of my control; all I can control is how I react. And I got this.
The Longest Year
The end of 2019 and beginning of 2020 started so normal and promising: Wifey and I celebrated the New Year with some of our best friends (mid-Michigan power couple The Brookensesses, and Little Chris and his wife, the Mad Austrian), then it was watching B play soccer in the “bubble,” followed by his 16th birthday, passing his driving test, and a super quick trip to Pennsylvania to pick up the 2008 Subaru Forester that his Poppy generously gave to him in lieu of trading it in for a negative profit.
The Darkness
After a week containing some unusually sunny skies, darkness has descended upon Michigan. Literally, it’s fucking dark out, like all the time.
Finding Normal?
Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
Dear Reader,
The following mega-post written over a few days contains small doses of opinion and large quantities of a personal mental journey in search of some inner peace and self-love (not code for masturbation). There is talk of mental health and depression. I am CLEARLY not a doctor, just a putz with a blog and 49 years and counting of personal experiences dealing with some depression type shit. If the Google machine pointed you here because you were looking for immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
— Management
Part of my job as CEO and 1st Shift Supervisor in Charge of Day to Day Operations at Soiled Chamois, Inc.™, is to look through the pages of the blog every so often and make sure that everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Sometimes that means getting rid of something —like when the Archive shit the bed—and then bringing that something back for some reason even though that something’s bed is still filled with shit. Other times it’s just me looking and shaking my head at why and the fuck I ever would create such a monstrous time-sucking beast of ill-written over-sharing and unneeded goofiness. Then I proceed to start writing more of said, unneeded goofiness, like today.
Petroleum-Based Thanks
On Monday—I think—I went to Meijer (AKA the midwest’s nicer, cleaner version of Wal-Mart1, and swore I wouldn’t go back until after Thanksgiving, and all post-feast, capitalist, COVID super spreader shopping events are over. I then found myself returning the next two days in a row. What can I say, beers are made for drinking.