Final Resting Place (The Dead Bee Chronicles, Part II)

I had to. Honestly, I did. 

After a rather awkward and undignified collection of the body, during which one, possibly more, of Dead Bee's legs fell off, I laid him to rest in my azalea plant.

You were an inspiration to us all, Dead Bee. You will be missed.

The Dead Bee Chronicles

There's a dead bee on the stairs leading up to my apartment. A proper, fuzzy bee, mind you. None of this wasp crap. He's a very darkly coloured bee, against a fairly dark and patterned carpet, so the first time I saw him, I thought he was a clump of dirt. I'm not sure when exactly I realized he wasn't, but I remember being a little surprised. I mean, how did he get there? It's not inconceivable that a bee would fly into my building and die somewhere, but the stairs seems a weird place to do it. Also, has anyone else noticed him? In the early days, I shrugged my shoulders and figured he'd be vacuumed up soon enough.

I've been walking past this bee every day for at least two weeks now, very possibly longer. I take that particular staircase on my way back from working out, and every day as I make the approach, I wonder to myself if the dead bee is still there. I walk up, I look into that little left-hand corner on the seventh or eighth step, and there he lies, a husk of bee-ness forever lost.

I think I'm starting to feel some sense of affection for this dead bee.

Today I caught myself wondering if I should do something about him. His little bee-corpse is just sitting there, waiting to be ground into the carpet by some careless shoe, and that thought makes me a little sad. I have considered moving him on more than one occasion, but then what should I do with him? I think I'd feel guilty if I just threw him in the garbage, but what else does one do with a dead bee? Should I give him a proper burial? That just seems ridiculous. First off, it would require a special trip to the stairs, with a baggie or a piece of paper towel or something because I am NOT picking up a dead bee with my bare hands, followed by a concerted effort to pick up the dead bee and take it somewhere (likely one of the plants on my balcony) where I would dig a tiny hole, deposit the dead bee, and then bury him.

THEN WHAT?

Honestly, what kind of adult person in their right mind considers going to fetch a dead bee so that she can bury it, because she feels bad for its dead little bee-body lying on the stairs?

The only conclusion I can come to is that in the course of my exposure to the body, I've somehow become possessed by the spirit of the dead bee. Perhaps he was murdered and I need to suss out the perpetrator, or he needs me to deliver a message to his queen or something. I have no idea and he doesn't seem to be offering up answers. All I know is that there's a dead bee on the stairs, and he doesn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

The Twitter Conundrum

I have a Twitter account. This, in itself, is nothing amazing. There are, what, like a majillion Twitter accounts out there? No big deal.

I have thus far tweeted a grand total of one time, nearly a full year ago. I made the account purely to write that tweet, as I recall. It was during or slightly after that ridiculous "name the new flavour" contest that Doritos held last summer.

Here, for your enjoyment, is that tweet:

"Sexual connotations aside, "Intense Pickle" is the most hilarious name for a chip flavour I've ever heard."

That's it. That is the magic of brilliant mind, but it still isn't the amazing part.

Now, you may at this point be asking yourself what the hell's so great about my dumb Twitter account, and here's what it is:

I have two followers.

I don't know these people, and they presumably don't know me, but somehow they saw that tweet and decided that what I had to say was important enough to keep paying attention. One of them decided to follow me shortly after that miracle sentence was released to the world, but the really funny thing is that my second follower found me LAST WEEK. Nearly a year after typing it, the power of my tweet reached across the internet to grab this pour soul's attention. One can only imagine how many followers I will have next year!

So obviously, the key to world domination is to keep saying dumb stuff about food. After much thought and careful consideration, I've decided to tweet the following:

"Canned potatoes are handy, but sometimes taste weird."

I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Name Could Use Work?

So as I mentioned in my first post, my life is kind of wangly at the moment. As a result, I am often thinking of ways to make it less so. One of those ways is wacky business ideas that are maybe actually viable. Maybe.

This brings me to the first of my retail store ideas.

Well endowed ladies of the world, have you ever been to a store only to encounter breast-related frustration? Time and again you put on what you thought was a modest shirt only to find that you are showing a mile of cleavage? Button up shirts gaping at the chest? Decorative seams and princess cuts cutting you right across the nips? And perhaps the worst of all, the most sinister thing known to man-kind, The Granny Bra.

Sure, they sell up to double D at La Senza and Victoria's Secret, but you know the frustration of actually finding something above a C cup that fits properly! That doesn't turn your twin lovelies into one giant superboob? Like an extra giant roll of fat right there on your chest? And the luck that you find one that appears to fit, and two washes later it's stretched out, misshapen, and makes you look worse than if you weren't wearing a bra at all? Oh yes, ladies, you know my frustration. God forbid you hit *above* the magical average. For a society so obsessed with breasts, we certainly don't care much for ladies above a B.

So you pack yourself off to the fancy bra store, where they sell real, honest to God, supportive undergarments at exorbitant prices, but hey they're worth it because they work and last. You think that maybe, finally, things are right in the world. And you go back for your yearly splurge, and you realize, gradually, that everything is the same from year to year. You're lucky if they have more than 5 styles that fit you to choose from. And your poor heart weeps beneath those enormous bosoms of yours. Everything is lacy, frilly, and you wanted something young and fun. It's girly when you wanted badass, it's Lolita Meets Granny Panties, with straps a mile wide (but don't worry, they're covered in ribbon and bows so they're still stylish!) and cups up to your chin.

Don't even get me started on the sports bra. Oh boy, do not get me started on the misnomer that is the 'sports bra.'

Well, my dears, I have had enough. I wash my hands of you, cheap and trendy underwear stores, and of you too, scary Eastern-European woman who owns the lingerie store near my house!

Get ready to welcome to the world, Titty Jugs. Even though I'm not sure Alberta laws would permit me to name a store that.

Titty Jugs: Take back your Boobs!


Titty Jugs: For all your breasterly needs!

Why Titty Jugs, you ask? Because it's ridiculous good fun. Boobs should be fun again, and fun for the people that they're actually attached to. They should be an asset, and not a hindrance to dressing oneself, to finding nice clothes. Never ever have I met another woman with breasts D or over, who didn't have a bugger of a time with them. Imagine, if you will, going to a store and having a choice. Buying a bathing suit with honest-to-god underwire in it instead of that sharty little elastic 'bra' inside. Not being relegated to a single ugly drawer in a store full of beautiful, itty bitty things. Tank tops with no shelf, which only serves to pull your top down to Nipple Alert 5. A place where the curvy twosome are properly accounted for, designed for, and given the respect that they deserve!

Dream a dream with me, ladies.

Demand better, demand Titty Jugs.

The Wangliest Thing of All

So here's the thing, I'm kind of a mess right now. I've just spoken to my mother, who is a loving and kind individual who, like most mothers, also happens to have a terrible knack for sniffing out unhappiness and then digging at it, like a terrier down a rat hole, until it has been dragged shrieking and writhing out into the sunlight, exposed and naked and filthy. It can no longer hide itself within the dark corners of my mind, not that it's been doing a good job of that lately, anyway. If it had, my mother would never have caught wind because like most normal human adults, I like to pretend that I am not floundering. I like to put forth the image that I am a capable and productive member of society, that I enjoy my little existence here and that yes, I am doing OK.

Well I'm not. There it is.

Terrible way to begin a blog, I'm aware. It reeks of self absorption and self pity, Eau de Friend Who Always Has A Complaint. If I could bottle that...well, no one would buy it because it sucks. I'd hate for you to think I'm all about the drama; I assure you I'm not. Nor am I desperately seeking the attention and love of the internet. I am simply throwing it out there, because until you throw it out there, the only person who knows is yourself. The only person you're accountable to is yourself and let's face it, we are all poor judges of ourselves. At least I am. If you're sitting there thinking "oh, not me," then you're probably a liar.

...Not to call you a liar or anything, because that would be rude.

The point is, if I don't really want to do something, I'm not always standing in the other corner, telling myself to just friggin' do it. But now you are.

ANYWAY. I've been thinking about starting a blog for quite a while, thinking of ideas, realizing they're stupid, thinking of other ideas, telling myself they're not good enough for a "first post!" kind of affair, and then finally I just said to hell with it, here it is:

My life is wangly. That's all there is to it. You know it, I know it, there's no sense hiding it. I'll try not to whine about it too much, if you try to believe me after this utterly abysmal start.

I hope we can still be friends.