My inner-thoughts and ways in which I'm a creeper.

Yesterday at work we were talking about the serial killer house, which naturally segued into talking about the Tom Waits songs "Don't Go Into that Barn" and "Murder in the Red Barn".

We sat for a time talking about the lyrics. And then I had terrible flashbacks to high school English with  Mr. Woods. Every Friday we would listen to songs and then talk about what we thought the lyrics meant. I remember we analyzed Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit," Metallica's "Enter Sandman," and Matchbox 20's "3 AM." Some really profound music, for sure.

It doesn't take a sophomore English teacher to decipher Tom Waits lyrics. It takes drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

Sometimes when I'm listening to Tom Waits, I think he sounds like a 40-year smoker on LSD. He sings about some weird shit. I can totally see him as the kid in fifth grade that smelled like pee and sat in the back row, drawing pictures of death on graph paper. But then that smelly kid grows up to write songs about all the weird dreams he used to have.

One of my favorite Tom Waits songs is "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six". I like all his songs about crows, like "Shiny Things." Crows. I want to get a crow and keep it on a leash.

One day I was pulling into the Starbucks drive-up and there was a crow in the way. I knew he would move, being squished by a car would seriously hinder the crow's ability to eat puke, and crows love puke. IK was in his car seat in the back and saw the crow but didn't see it hop out of the way.

"You ran over that crow!" he shouted.
No I didn't. He moved, see. I pointed to where the crow was back eating piles of junk off the asphalt.
"Oh." IK was quiet for awhile. "What do you think is inside of crows?"
Candy, I told him.

A little 3 year-old Tom Waits in the making.


I've developed a mild fascination with crows and I think my spirit animal is the crow. I don't know this in some sort of official capacity. I mean, if you want a spirit animal, shouldn't you just pick it yourself?

Crow. I'm going with crow.

I was mildly curious about how one figures out which animal is their spirit animal and turned to the Native American mystic know as Google to figure that out.

Step 1. Google "How do I figure out what my spirit animal is?"
Step 2. Pick the first search result that doesn't appear to have been written by toddler.

According to wikihow.com, a website that I believe is maintained by Viagra ad copywriters, there are nine easy steps to finding your spirit animal.

Nine steps! That sounds like a lot of work. I like my process a lot better. Step 1. Pick whatever you want to be your spirit animal.

Actually, I do know how you pick your spirit animal. You get really high and sit in a darkened, incense and candle infused living room, meditating and periodically banging on a deer skin drum while a cynical and sarcastic teenager looks on in disbelief. I know this because I was a cynical and sarcastic teenager and I grew up in Montana where people do a lot of weird shit.

Tom Waits had this to say about crows, in a NY Times article from last fall.

Crows…they say if you can find a wounded crow and nurse it back to health it will never leave you. I’m always looking for limping crows. I’ve even considered wounding a crow then, like a doctor – they break your leg and then fix it, just to have your business. I saw a crow building a nest, I was watching him very carefully, I was kind of stalking him and he was aware of it. And you know what they do when they become aware of someone stalking them when they build a nest, which is a very vulnerable place to be? They build a decoy nest. It’s just for you. So that you think, well, that’s where he took the gum wrapper. That’s where he took the sticks. That’s where he took the tinfoil. But the nest is somewhere altogether different that you’ll never know about. That’s a form of intelligence that’s very curious.

And I also think someone would be real scared of you if they saw you walking down the street with a crow on a leash.

What was I saying about people from Montana doing weird shit?

Pick Me Up Before I Pee On Myself

This is my favorite time of year. Spring is synonymous with promise and renewal. I feel like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, ready to flutter. 

Does it count as a metamorphosis when you emerge from the dirty, fleece, cocoon of a Snuggie?¹

Whenever I come home, Mondo is very excited to see me. He emits a high pitched screeching noise that you can hear from outside. My theory is that he recognizes the sound of my car honking when I lock the auto-locks and almost immediately starts his dolphin-like squeal.

Today I tested this theory by locking the door manually from inside the car and walking very quietly on to the porch. I turned the key in the lock very gently and didn't say a word to Dinah when she greeted me at the door. It wasn't until Mondo could hear Dinah's excited "Welcome Home" tap dance that he started screeching.

I descended the stairs to the basement where Mondo and Seeley have their kennel. By the time I started down the stairs, both Mondo and Seeley were excitedly wagging and begging to get out of the crate.

Here's the thing, though. After releasing the kennel door,  if you don't pick Mondo up  right away, you run the chance of him peeing on himself in excitement.

As soon as the kennel door pops open, Mondo runs to the top of the stairs and then turns around and dances on his hind legs. By the time I get to the top of the stairs, he is so excited he literally sprinkles pee as he jumps up and down and the pee goes right on his feet.

He needs Depends. He has a bladder control issues usually reserved for the very old or very drunk. Or Kirstie Alley.

While I hope I make it through this spring without peeing on myself, I am equally as excited that spring finally hurried the fuck up and got here already.

Sorry for the swearing. I felt like the emphasis that word provides was warranted. Swearing is good for many things, saying adios to winter is one of those reasons. The general election is this fall. That too warrants a lot of swearing. Gird your loins in advance.

I felt like it took forever for the sun to set today, something I was concerned about only because it is hard to con a three year-old into going to bed when the sky is still light.

The later the days stretch, the giddier I get. I can't explain it but I'm sure this is because there is more time to read, craft, drink (coffee), gossip and watch Criminal Minds.

Let us hope the spring lasts slightly longer than the life cycle of a butterfly but not so long that it pushes summer back. We need summer so that we are excited for fall. Fall is the second best time of year. But more on that later.

Later as in five months from now.

In the mean time, take a shower and shave your legs. Hug a lamb and plant some beets.

It is spring, y'all!

Be excited, just don't pee your pants.


1. This is an exaggeration. I've not been a Snuggie pupa. My mother has denied me that God-given right be refusing to return my Snuggie via the United States Postal Service. I understand her hesitation. I'm sure on one hand she is doing it for my own good and on the other hand, Snuggies are very comfortable so she kept it for herself. On a third hand², who can trust the USPS these days?
2. My mom has three hands.³
3. I'm a liar.