Up-Cycle Your Life!

By Super Widow (Entry 3)

My world has been rocked asunder. This new vista in which I now exist has changed me irrevocably. Opened my heart. Given me purpose. I now know what I must do!

You see, I had been feeling abundantly sad of late. Drifting through life. My late husband’s thoughtless abandonment had left me questioning my value. Just yesterday morning I had been trying to find a hobby or some sort of a project to cheer me up.  Even then, I certainly knew what I would not do!? Label transforming complete junk in to a new kind of utter kak! Did you know that there are people turning Ikea shopping bags into swimwear!? AND let me just say for the record that I am sick and tired of the world of DIY trying to convince me that with a few cans of spray paint and an assortment of glues you can make just about anything look new again. I mean the torrent of advice from amateur and pro decorators alike is astonishing. Shameful! While you are all at it, why don’t you take that can of seascape blue and make over your god awfully behaved children! Decoupage that husband with the wandering eye! ‘Up cycle’ your whole damned life while you are at it! Take that glut of stuff and junk you bought that was meant to fill the emotional voids in your life and give them a makeover. Soooo easy armed with an arsenal of spray cans filled with the promise of a clean, shiny new life.

And no one has more of those cans of hope than my Crazy. Ass. Bitch. Neighbor! CBN has not one but 1000 Pinterest pages about it. She and her GOB (Gaggle o’ Bitches) have spray painted everything from a can of spray paint, to a toilet brush, to the flowers in her garden. “The pink of the hydrangea was too blue and needed a touch of orange.  “I needed to warm them up,”  she cooed. I told her that was ridiculous and invited her to come over to my place to make out the next time she needed to warm something up. The woman has no sense of humor. Everyone else at the PTA meeting thought it was hilarious! Well, at least the token dad was into it.

I digress… As one of his final acts of home improvement, my husband installed a widow’s walk atop of our house along with a with high-powered star-gazing telescope. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why. I will admit that it has proven quite handy not only to ensure that our house always looms at least half a story taller than the rest of the neighborhood but to provide an excellent vista of the comings and goings of the area. Not the least of which is a perfect view of CBN’s DIY up-cycled reclaimed window walled “crafting shed.” She built it, “in order to be able to achieve maximum ventilation for all of her up-cycled domestic spray art. Health before aesthetics!” (Honestly, she really can just fuck off.)

Well! Last night after our One On One hot meditating™, while Rama Pete prepared some of his most holy prayer smoke for us to imbibe in our most holy state of post mediation bliss, I went into the bathroom to remove some nail polish. The bottle was curiously empty but I did notice movement in CBN’s DIY up-cycled reclaimed window walled crafting shed. I didn’t think much of it and returned to Rama Pete who was wrapped in his loin cloth dripping in sweat doing pull ups from the bar of my wrought iron canopy bed. Odd, but okay, I’m never one to discourage physical exercise. He was having trouble counting past one so in support, I began counting for him while I imbibed. Shortly there after I found myself recreating the uneven bar routine from high school regionals on that same bed. Rama Pete had moved on to unknotting my hand-knotted Tibetan rug one knot at a time while singing the libretto of 8 Mile. So profound. It was about this time that I had the overwhelming impulse to hump my late husband’s telescope on the widows walk. I moved with the astounding personal physical governance of a panther up the ladder but before I could get one leg up and over the telescope, I again sensed movement in my CBN’s up-cycled shed. Terrified I’d been seen, and heard…I’m pretty sure I was howling…I dropped to my belly on the floor of the widow’s walk.

Well. Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.  Oh, CBN.

When I peeked up over the rail, there they were the Gaggle o’ Bitches, entrenched in a fog, nay, a full on cumulus nimbus of sprayed paint. The windows were tightly secured. I grabbed the telescope for a closer look. And wasn’t the Queen of the B’s sitting there a top the papier-mache life raft she had recently crafted, holding a bag over her nose and mouth and inhaling deeply. An industrial sized bucket of decoupage glue at her side. Clearly the paint fumes were not enough! And OH those GOBs! Some were laughing hysterically, some crying Tonya Harding style, a few were talking smack to their invisible barista, and the gaggliest B of them all, Tammy Swinny was humping the floor to an erratic beat only she could hear. God bless.

And I thought Of COURSE! Huffing! It explains so much! This DIY phenomena this international obsession with crafting and up-cycling. Environment my ass. Let it now be said that I am on to you, you glut of crafters clogging up once perfectly respectful design websites with your latex two coat dreams. You are huffing!

I grabbed my iPhone and ran stealthily through the back yard. I climbed the fence with the agility of a navy seal. I was specTACular. I managed to creep right up to the temple of inhalants undetected and began snapping away.  What I saw was going to shake the very foundation of suburban life in Seattle as we know it. This city known for its high rate of literacy, for its groundbreaking computronish type industries, for cutting edge hipsters and mustache themed jewelry was about to fall and fall hard. I snapped photo after photo until CBN realized they were all seeing the flashes of light from my camera. They ran out to confront me. (Ran is being rather generous. Stumble, trip, moonwalk, jazzercise…all aplicable.) They saw me. I saw them. They saw that I saw them. They saw that I saw that they saw me. CBN tackled me, emitting sounds like those of a raccoon engaged in intimate relations. We struggled. A woman high on decoupage glue is not to be trifled with, let me tell you! But I had the almighty universe on my side and my inner strength was of iron. Well, until that horndog Tammy began humping my right leg. I tried to swat her away and in that instant, CBN ripped my iPhone from my hands. She stood. The gaggle of B’s surrounded her. She began reviewing the photos.

“I’ve already sent them to the cloud!” I yelled.

She dropped the phone dispassionately to the dew covered grass and like zombie phantoms, they all scattered into the darkness toward their various homes.

Back in my bedroom, Rama Pete had rewoven my rug into a man-sized cocoon bed in which he slept deeply. I, with bated breath, reviewed the gold mine that awaited me on my phone.

In retrospect, I should have checked the direction of the lens on my iPhone. It was set to self-portrait.

Now you may say, and certainly CBN did say that I had no evidence but why else would anyone in their right mind be making such a face? The shock and awe on my visage is palpable. It is conclusive that I was witnessing a deeply distressing event. Still to no avail. In the light of day, CBN and her GOBs deny it all. The thing is, all I want to do is help them. Huffing is a serious, dangerous, life ending addiction and these women were in denial! Today, I am clear of mind. As I said at the beginning of this entry, I have a purpose. I am going to stage an intervention! It will be my pleasure to help my CBN. What would love do? It would not turn a blind eye! I have a responsibility to bring the bitches back into the light of the loving universe before they lose their path completely.

But first, I need evidence. And when there is a mystery to be solved, there is only one person to call. She is experienced, she is wise, and most importantly she is famous!

Stay tuned my friends, for next I will bring to you the Huffing Tons post.

Yours truly,

Super Widow

Winner of the ‘Gwith Ot Waf Aef’
(Greatest Widow In The History Of The World And For All Eternity Forever)

Super Widow’s Whale Of A Chirstmas

Dear owner of Whale of a Time Water and Theme Park,

Thank you so much for our recent stay at your Theme Park. As you well know, this was our first Christmas without my late husband. Also, being spared from watching the parade of holiday revelers as they attend my crazy bitch neighbor’s Christmas Eve Fete is a blessing. She sees me watching all of her parties with tears running down my face. She knows I’m all alone and I personally, I don’t feel that mistakenly serving my husbands medicinal brownies to her guests at last year’s x-mas festivities deserves social banishment for all eternity. I mean it was the best party EV-er. Oh, I’m laugh/crying inside just thinking of it. Her husband was totally humping the coffee table to Wu Tang Clan’s Stop the Breaks. And he did INSIST that I punch her in the face for flushing the remaining brownies down the toilet. Oh, oh, oh god, it was classic. CLASSIC! … unless of course you are a crazy bitch.

So, let it be said, that your decision to inspire hope and excellence in your other guests at Whale of a Time by having my daughter and I attend your Holiday celebrations, was a wonderful distraction for us and will undoubtedly create a ripple of good karma in the all mighty universe. The look of complete desperation on the faces of so many of your guests, no doubt at having to spend so much concentrated ‘quality family time’, melt away while in my presence warmed my heart for at least 30 seconds after departing. Well done, Whale of a Time!

That being said, I would be remiss not to give you some much needed feedback that will surely lead to the betterment of the business that you obviously began in order to make up for some painful, unfulfilled childhood dream. I mean, honestly, it is so glaringly apparent, I am a little embarrassed on your behalf. Behind every Whale Of A Time there is always a gaping chasm of juvenile misery. I can’t imagine any other fathomable logic for the vulgar overcompensation that comes with the creation of such a “resort”. I say this freely as I am certain your psychiatrist (don’t be coy we all know there is one…) has pointed it out to you on several occasions. If not, you should seriously think about making a change in analysts. If there is one thing I’ve learned from my husband’s untimely passing, it is that life is short. We must not waste it telling ourselves lies or candy coating our defects just to make us feel better. Best to own up to our shortcomings now so that we may live in the light and wisdom of the universe as the glorious beings of love that we truly are. I am a living testament to this philosophy…although I skipped the whole part about owning up to defects and shortcomings. I simply have none!

Let us begin with the front lobby. There is a variety of dust that I have, until stepping foot in your establishment, only encountered in one other place, the dilapidated manor of my Grand Mamma Du Lac in the heat of the New Orleans summer. The kind of dust that blends with extreme humidity, old people dead skin cells and a particular facial cream that keeps them guessing for all the wrong reasons. It is more of a dust paste, if you will that trust me, I know is near impossible to remove. I heard all about it from Grand Mamma’s partner, Gene, I believe was her name, or Hairy-ette or Pat, something or other. Gamma would never divulge what business it was that they were in together but my Lord, she was good to her despite her rather unfortunate taste in footwear. She looked on her with such a sparkle in her eye…so Pat, we’ll call her, she was some sort of chemical genius. She finally found, and I am imparting this wisdom to you free of charge, that a combination of lye, eucalyptus and formaldehyde worked wonders on this dust. I would have her mix you a sample but she blew up along with the shed out back that she used as her laboratory. I love that word! La-BOR-atory. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? La-Bore-atory.

Might I also request, for the love of God, without exception that men wear shirts while dining. Let’s be honest, there is enough flaccid flesh hanging about the Water Park and environs, to keep Buffalo Bill buying vats of lotion till the end of his days! “It puts the lotion on its back,” indeed!! Removing the image of great swaths of epidermis being coated in the privacy of each guest’s room with your complimentary Rosemary Body Butter makes my esophagus contract filling my mouth with bile. Your entire establishment was saturated with the smell of ripe body odor and baking focaccia bread. I should note that you do not serve focaccia bread and that the choice of herbed lotion is most unfortunate. The standard no shirt – no service rule should improve your situation at least somewhat.

The rooms were nice enough.

Let’s now assume that everyone can get their shirts on and sit down for a meal. I think it would behoove you to drop the ‘y’ at the end of all food items and perhaps serve some actual food. Case in point the ‘cheese-y’ pizza. The grilled ‘steak-y’ with ‘onion-y’ sauce. The ‘tomato-y’ pasta, the ‘broccoli-y’ broccoli. This will serve your soul but trust me the body oil infused soup cauldron called a Jacuzzi where many of your guests are under the delusion that human gas bubbles will go unnoticed, might actually become a relaxing, less toxic olfactory experience for the over stressed guest.

I liked the wave pool.

While we are discussing the water park, a witnessed a peculiar habit amongst the adults only, under the rather lovely poolside waterfall. Well it would have been lovely, had grown people, men in particular decided that standing under the waterfall with their arms stretched out to their sides and their heads poking forward, as the water cascaded over their shoulders was a substitute for a clearly much needed trip to the spa for a massage. One man in particular stood there for a good eight hours with an intense far away look in his eyes. His visage was not assisted by his thick uni-brow and close set eyes His forceful expression only modulated in intensity with the slow raising and lowering of his arms. I was about to contact security, when his wife stopped by. His expression transformed to a typical dad/father as he momentarily spoke with her about one thing or another. She left and he returned to the falls sporting the countenance of one who is attempting to part the seas while constipated. I think a simple sign asking people to not pause under the falls would be a quick fix that is greatly needed.

The sight of all the children gathering for nightly story time in the lobby wearing their soft flannels while clinging to their lovies is quite charming indeed! It is unfathomable that one should even have to set an age limit for this sort of behavior but set it you must! Grown men, with protruding bellies and sloping narrow shoulders should know better than to wear horizontally striped footy pjs at all, let alone in public. I don’t care how passive aggressively angry he might be with his wife and children for making him come on this god-awful vacation. He cannot be allowed to wander amongst the guests in such a state. This cannot be! It is a crime against humanity and stop it you must!!

So, in a word, thank you kindly proprietor. Thank you for being smart enough to have me grace Whale of a Time. It was the least I could do considering the up hill battle you have clearly faced in life. I am moved by your tenacity. What an inspiration you are! I can only imagine what sort of theme park your unending despair will dream up next and let me just say, I’ll be first in line to warm the hearts of your guests (in exchange for an all inclusive stay and a $10,000 restaurant/spa voucher.)

Are you single?


Super Widow

Winner of the Gwith oT Waf Aef