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Wow…  For a (temporarily?  Maybe!) dead blog, we had quite a year.  We received this summary of our annual stats from WordPress, and I have to admit, I delayed clicking it for fear of depression, a strong sense of failure, self-recriminations, etc.

It turns out, we had a big year anyway, especially with fans in India (you guys!!!!) and folks searching for assless chaps (which thanks to our dearly departed BiscuitDoughJones, we know is a misnomer – chaps are, by definition, assless).  She’s not dead, you guys, she just got married and had other things to do.

At any rate, we are considering blogging again.  We’ve been in the trenches, team, and there’s a lot to report.  For those of you who were regular readers back when we were more responsible posters, we can’t thank you enough; blogging for no pay can feel like a seriously thankless exercise, until someone posts a comment.  Many of you have blogs of your own, and feel this pain.  Others of you stopped by just to offer hilarious, thoughtful, and provocative commentary; some of you just had discount Viagra to promote, or needed to let bitches know that they be sluts.

Thanks to all of our regulars:  SarahHeartburn, MishBish, AspiringExpatriate, and Shana are just a few that come to mind (there are others of you – if I ever get my shit together to do a thank you post, I think you know if you’d be on it).  I think I might be ready to start blogging again, and will check in with my compatriots.  It’s a worthy exercise, but so much (SO MUCH) more gratifying and interesting and fun for the absolutely stellar commenters we were so lucky to gain.

So, again:  With so many worthy and funny blogs and Tumblrs (TUMBLER, GOD I JUST CANNOT) out there, we are sincerely grateful for the time you spent visiting our humble commode.  So, thank you again, and if you have a story you think needs to be shared in this space, email us at buttercuppunch at gmail.

 

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 180,000 times in 2011. If it were an exhibit at the Louvre Museum, it would take about 8 days for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

 

Last night I was out at a shindig with my paramour, and there was a big huge orange moon hanging above the Capitol Building. It was beautiful. I started snapping away on my phone, and Felix Unger once more emerged.

“Go to the other side of the balcony, and take it from there. No, over here. Wait, no more to your left. No, wait, back to the right. Yes! Wait, no! Yes! No. You need to get more of the heft of the building into the bottom left of the shot. Yes! Noo. Yes … wait … no.”

Fellow guests began to look quizzically at him. I put my phone down and looked at him.

“You are out of your mind,” I said. He giggled, as he often does.

A few hours later, and we are drifting off to sleep, and suddenly he is picking at my upper arm like an orangutan searching for nits. Next thing I know, he’s attempting to squeeze some imaginary thing.

“Holy shit!” I cry. “Those are freckles!”

He turns the light on and looks sheepish.

“And so they are,” he says, tenderly kissing the red mark he’s left on my arm. “So terribly sorry.”

My reply: “You are not right in the head. There is something wrong with you.” He stifles a giggle.

This morning, I wake up, and he’s naked on his hands and knees on the floor beside me, fiddling with something.

“What now, you crazy British motherfucker?” I ask in sleepy bewilderment.

“Well, the power cord from the lamp interferes with the placement of my water glass on the bedside table. So I thought if I unplugged it, then repositioned it, it wouldn’t be quite so bothersome,” he replies, a look of stern concentration on his face.

I burst out laughing.

“How did you get this way?” I ask. “You are out of your mind with the OCD.”

And he is. Since we started dating, I no longer have to clean out my hairbrushes. Twice a week, the hair is removed, no matter how minimal an amount of hair there is. Twigs and sticks are picked up from my expansive backyard and put in tidy little piles in the garage next to my wood pile. My bra drawer is reorganized so they’re all lined up perfectly. My fruit bowl is rearranged so that the oranges are on the bottom and the bananas are on top. The shoes in my closet are tidied up and straightened even if I did the same thing two days earlier. He is particularly insistent that all things hanging in the closet are hanging in the same direction. Do you know what I mean by this? If so, you may have his disease.

He simply cannot stop himself from tidying, straightening, smoothing, picking, or rearranging.

We have a daily thing going on where I send him a photo of one of my cats as he lounges around. Patrick is my paramour’s favorite cat, and so it’s become almost an art project — I even sent him shots of Patrick while he was testifying in a recent high-profile thingamajig. For the first little while, he would reply this way: “Aww, what a big fat cutie. But I think you should have tried taking it from the right, so you got more of his face.”

I would reply: “Piss off and be grateful you have woman who obliges your desire for a daily cat photo.”

Lately, he’s been very proud of  The Daily Patrick.

“You’ve really mastered the fatty-cam,” he said the other day. “The lighting, the angle, the composition — these are truly works of art.”

I stared at him.

“I am out of my mind, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” I replied.

Today my boyfriend sent me possibly the sweetest e-mail I’d ever received. “If it makes you feel any better,” he wrote, “you’re absolutely nothing like her.”

He was talking about my mother.

Yes, my mother, also known as Hagatha, visited again. Some of you may remember those happy Christmas tales of a couple of years ago that filled my heart and home with such joy. If, by joy, one means angry misery. But time had passed, my sister was coming with her, I love my sister, and she had been telling me recently that Hagatha had mellowed out a bit and wasn’t quite as bad as she’s been our whole lives.

And so they arrived, my poor sister and her girlfriend after a rainy 12-hour drive. My poor sister will be referred to in this post as “my poor sister,” because my poor, poor sister. She’s left alone in Toronto to deal with Hagatha on her own, and then had to drive her down here and back. And she has a lovely girlfriend, Annie, who has always been a good buffer. My mother can be funny and charming, and Annie is entertained by her. And when Annie senses my mother is driving my poor sister crazy with her incessant braying and criticisms, she steps in to defuse things. “She’s an old woman,” has always been Annie’s peaceful refrain. “She means well.”

Fast forward four days, and the kind-hearted, mellow, mild-mannered Annie was muttering under her breath: “Fuck you, old lady” in the kitchen after my mother lobbed yet another passive-aggressive shot and/or snide nagging her way. (more…)

So Adam and I have been FB-messaging back and forth, and I don’t deny his love of LOLs and bizarre abbreviations and lack of punctuation and multiple misspellings were a bit of a turn-off, but I had to remind myself that sometimes people who don’t write for a living aren’t as persnickety about such things.

And then, tonight, I got this:

Hi hun just wanted to ask u is anybody doing anything about this big oil spill disaster in the Gulf Of Mexico. It apparently is going to hit Florida and who knows the cost to the enviornment and tourism. Can u research this a bit for me or if you have any power to get this out to the world or maybe some BIG WIGS in Washington. Please get back to me…

Ummmmm.

That hissing sound you just heard? That was my vague girly-boner for a guy who still looks as hot now as he did at 18 deflating RAPIDLY.

Oh. Dear.

I think I’ll stick with my Spy, who is so smart that he makes me feel like Adam some days.

This weekend I went to see Iron Man 2. I should have walked out ten minutes in, but as I am wont to do when it comes to a movie I just spent $15 on and waited on line outside to see…I stayed. Bad decision. Iron Man 2 a terrible movie overall. Tony Stark is a douche of massive proportions with a hateful personality. In Iron Man, Stark was a narcissistic jerk who learned a lesson: caring for people and doing good is better than being a war profiteer. That was the first movie. Inexplicably, in this second installment, he’s a bigger dick than he was before his big redemption in the original. Stark’s character is so insufferable that it’s really quite a feat he is the alleged “hero” of this story. And the sexism. Good god, the sexism. It comes with a dose of Fox News-style wingnuttery!

(more…)

For some reason, about 10 years ago, in the middle of the no-carbs craze, I stopped eating potatoes, along with most pasta, white bread, etc. I’d have mashed on Christmas and Thanksgiving, but would not order meals in restaurants that featured potatoes. Even if I was eating fast food, I’d order a cheeseburger and onion rings, never fries (how stupid is that, really? Battered onion rings! Smart!!) I rarely cook them, and so my kids don’t clamour for them, and even though I realize my anti-potato bias is pretty dumb, I have had a long prejudice against them.

And yet twice this past month, I have steamed what are known as “new potatoes” — those small, thin-skinned, waxy spuds that are simply the baby versions of mature potatoes. I saw them on display at Trader Joe’s and they looked so sweet and innocent, I couldn’t resist. After steaming them, I tossed them with a bit of butter, chives from my garden and salt and pepper. And OH MY GOD. I have fallen back in love with the lowly potato! When you don’t eat something for the better part of 10 years, it’s quite the revelation to rediscover such simple goodness. They are so delicately flavored and delicious! Last night, I even handed over my piece of salmon to my paramour and just hoovered the lovely little potatoes like I was a freckled redhead named Meaghan O’Riordan from the County Cork eating my first spud since the Potato Famine.  (more…)


I have had Dolly now for about six months. I can’t say that I immediately fell in love with her. She is sort of an anxious old girl — my man stayed with her alone for a weekend recently when I had to travel, and he told me she deeply depressed him. I believe the direct quote was: “I think I’d eventually blow my brains out if I had to spend a lot of time with Dolly.” I was immediately defensive, which is when I knew that, in fact, I loved Dolly. Yes, she is anxious and fretful. Sometimes she lies on her bed not sleeping, her brow furrowed in worry, staring off into space fretfully. I don’t deny it can sometimes be disconcerting. However, she’s a shelter dog, and I think she is probably heartbroken due to losing her family, and so she likes to keep an eye on us at all times to make sure we’re not going away. Either that or she is truly mental.

She also apparently has quite a memory. In recent weeks, I have been taking her off-leash in the park right next to my house so she can run around with other dogs. She is getting fat, so the running around was good for her. But one day, a nice old guy was hurling tennis balls for his border collie, and one of the balls hit Dolly hard right in the head. Her reaction was heartbreaking and hysterical at the same time. She literally burst into tears and ran home, crying the whole way, as I remained in the park laughing my head off but running after her to comfort her at the same time.

It happened a month ago and to this day, she will not set foot in that park. I try to pull her into it, but she stands her ground, refusing to budge. The man with the border collie didn’t throw that tennis ball at her head — in Dolly’s mind, the park threw that tennis ball at her head, and she will never forget it.

I wonder what other things she has not forgotten, and how much that has to do with her anxiety.

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