12.20.2016

Susan's not waiting for the new year, this resolution's going into immediate rotation:
  • No more fried foods while alcoholing

12.19.2016

Susan wishes she could personally scream at everyone who uses the word magical to describe snow. There is nothing magical about temperature & moisture. Now, if you pull a quarter of out your ass that's magical because it involves magic.

You see the difference.

Non-magical snow may be pretty but it creates nothing but problems for our short tempered heroine. Once Susan exits her driveway she can't get back up. Even a modest amount of unplowed snow in her neighborhood will cause her to abandon the car. Same with the daughter's car. That's two cars she's got to worry about for those keeping score.
Plus, don't people feel stupid using the word magical to describe anything other than a disappearing elephant? Susan thinks it's a very limp attempt at adjectivising. 

She just made that up. Adjective-ising. 

That's the sort of commitment to interesting language she's talking about. Give your audience a reason to stick with you a little while longer, especially if your audience is Susan because once you lose her she ain't coming back.
That's not a threat, it's a promise*.

*Honorable mention goes out to Susan's sixth grade teacher Mr. Persons (real name) who berated her class with this line through the entirety of 1971.

12.11.2016

Susan is well aware she lied in her last post when she said she'd see you tomorrow. Not only did she not see you tomorrow, she abandoned her voluntary commitment to write a BLAHg post every day then she took the month off.

During this time period Susan got different health insurance, celebrated Thanksgiving with all her cousins, watched a bunch of episodes of Cops, fell in love with a red vintage ice bucket, cleaned her house for a party, spent money on car repairs and plane tickets, observed a fella with a sack lunch walking along the side of the road accompanied by a swan, and decorated for Christmas by plugging in her Little Light Up Santa.
As if all that weren't enough, she commemorated her beloved Cousin Lisa's second birthday without her, followed the next day by the husband's second anniversary in Heaven, or wherever he actually is.

Susan caught herself referring to something that occurred around the time the husband died as having happened last year. That sh*t was two years ago, not one. Two years.

Yesterday Susan saw someone with her husband's hair; thick, blinding white, combed straight back covering a square head. She always thought the husband's head was shaped like a Rock-Em Sock-Em robot. This dude didn't look like the husband, only his hair did, and she watched him until he disappeared from her view. She lapped up that few seconds of a long gone familiarity like a dog lapping water from a pot hole.

A few days earlier the song that played over Susan's clock radio came on (click HERE for a reminder) and she immediately started crying. Her brain recognized that song in like two notes and the response was involuntary.

Psychic pain travels faster than physical pain as evidenced by the the immediacy of Susan's grief versus the time it takes for her to start punching holes in walls after she slices a finger fighting with a can of black beans.

Ed note: There were no quality controls for this research.

Anyway, that's what Susan's been up to.