The Kindiverse Where everything's made up and the posts don't matter.

Like Garfield on a Monday except it’s Tuesday

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While everyone else in our complex was digging out their cars and being generally pissy, the Ginger and I made a snowman. Sort of. I hate the cold, but Gingey loves it so we spent two hours on our sad little patio, trying to build a snowman big enough to wrap his branch arms over the rails of our upstairs neighbor’s balcony. We gave up after building the bottom, and instead the Ginger came up with what you see above – a snow mountain climber claiming the mountain for all snowman kind, his trusty snow sheep at his side. For a failed plan, it turned out pretty well… Until it started to melt yesterday.

In other news, check out the Sugar Shack page for a little food porn.

More Billy Shakes, Plus Snowy Time Adventures

Did everyone survive Nemo? At least I got some reading and short story editing done. For anyone who was wondering, it turned out to be a bourbon and flan kind of winter storm. A box full of books arrived Saturday, so I started reading Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl three or four years too late, and I’ve got a few more YA must-reads that I’ll probably burn through in the next couple of weeks. I’m especially excited to read Every Day by David Levithan, author of the hilarious/poignant/deeply touching Boy Meets Boy and fellow New Jerseyan.

Check out Poorly Drawn Comics for the next page of Yon Monologues of Vengeance, if you’re into that sort of thing (Elizabethan drama and awful drawing).

 

Pulling a Polyphemus

Has everyone stocked up for the impending Winter Storm Nemo? I’m having trouble deciding whether this will be a Scotch or a Bourbon kind of winter storm. When did blizzards become winter storms? Or have winter storms always been a thing? Clearly, I did not major in meteorology.

As the Ginger tries to figure out whether a My Panera card is a valid point of ID (pretty sure it’s not), I’m thinking about the thought process behind the naming of WS Nemo.

In case you missed it, my best bud Heather Sedlak noticed the nerdtastic trend to the names of the 2012-2013 winter storms, which got me thinking. The sticky-handed snot-nosed five-year old in me immediately thinks Finding Nemo, which sadly I’ve found is the most popular response to the storm’s name. Then the world weary college kid in me thinks of Little Nemo, the titular character of the somewhat magical, somewhat depressing comic strip from the 1910s. The part of me that never heard of Captain Nemo until League of Extraordinary Gentlemen came out is there too, but that part of me also can’t name a single R&B artist other than Boyz II Men.

But the Latin geek in me, the part of me that used to dream in that dead language until I went to college and got knocked around too much in rugby practice, is the part fangirling the loudest. For those of you who didn’t do so poorly in Spanish and Italian as to be forced to redeem yourselves with Latin in high school, “nemo” is Latin for “nobody.” Also, it’s my second favorite word in Latin – the first is “cicatrix,” which is badass because it means “scar,” plus it’s fun to say. Cicatrix.

Another subject I almost failed – repeatedly – in high school was literature. I managed to get a B every year solely due to Heather’s notes. One year, we read the Odyssey.

I remember a few things about the Odyssey – mostly the endish bits like Odysseus’ super loyal super sad dog dying on a pile of poop, drunk suitors, a death shroud, some archery maybe? But my favorite part – the only part that really sticks out as the only scene I actually read and didn’t just skim – is when Odysseus is trapped in the Cyclops’ cave full of giant sheep. Odie ends up talking to the humungo Polyphemus, who turns out to be pretty derpy, and when ol’ Cloppy asks Odysseus’ name, the Big O tells him it’s Nobody. So when O jams a stick in Poly’s eye to blind him and the other Cyclopses run to see what all the damn screaming’s about, Poly says Nobody did it. With his street cred racking up in an unceasing torrent akin to an avalanche of mad props, Odysseus and his brosefs tie themselves to the bellies of the giant sheep and are carried out the next time Poly opens the cave.

This is epic. Literally, an epic poem. But this scene just shows what a clever dude Odysseus is. I think my fondness for this scene is what makes “nobody” – in any language – one of my favorite words. So when I heard this storm had been dubbed Nemo, I wondered if the meteorologist who named it was thinking like Odysseus.

Imagine running out into the eight feet of snow we’re supposed to get. You yearn to bust ass on the treacherously icy steps down to your car so you can stay home because you work in the medical field and don’t get snow days. But you don’t want to risk actually breaking something important like your neck, – the daring devil-may-care days of your youth are but a distant memory – so instead, you have to spend thirty minutes cleaning your car off, getting snow EVERYWHERE but mostly down your shirt and in your boots, and freezing your fingers off because you HAD to have fingerless gloves like Mitchell on Being Human. Before you can give one single shit about what the neighbors might think, the hateful words burst from your lips.

“Curse you, Nobody!”

Llamas Not Included

Let me just get this out there right now: I live in a tiny condominium.

There was a Geico commercial maybe ten years ago featuring a fake reality show called Tiny House. The premise was a newlywed couple living in – you guessed it – a tiny house and trying not to go insane. I can’t remember what this had to do with Geico, but it was a funny commercial. Until my life became Tiny House.

My husband will, from time to time, remind me that I’m the one who picked out the condo to begin with and made him move into it about a year before we got married. That’s when I parry with “We needed a place to live!” or “I thought we’d be outta here by now!” I’ve only been in the place for a year and a half, but I think I’ve been complaining for about eighteen months.

Last spring we started looking for a house to buy. Mind you, in northern New Jersey, nothing comes cheap. So when we found a spacious house in a nice neighborhood with a newly renovated kitchen and a bathroom designed for Odin himself, we jumped on it, despite the warnings that a short sale is anything but short. Fast forward nine months, three inspections, and a hurricane later, we still hadn’t closed on the house. When my husband, the most patient man in the world, gets fed up with something, it’s a big deal. I get fed up more often than Lindsay Lohan runs someone over. At any rate, we backed out of the deal last week.

Now our hunt for a home of our own begins anew. I’ve never really loved Jersey, even though I’ve been here all my twenty-six years, and my husband couldn’t care less where we go as long as it’s “not too hot” (he’s a ginger) and doesn’t resemble something out of Deliverance. We’ve narrowed our search down to northern Virginia – close enough to DC for a couple of jobs but far enough not to feel like we’re close to DC.

Now, I went into this knowing we could live like kings outside of the tristate area for the price of running a knish cart in Bergen County, but the search results on my real estate website of choice were still shocking. In particular, I found one beautiful ranchy-looking-but-not-actually-ranch-style house with the same amount of rooms as the one we’d tried for in Jersey. Sure, it needed a touch of updating here and there, but I’m the daughter of a carpenter’s son gone artist gone electrical contractor. I’ve picked up a few home improvement skills in my day. The second to best part of the house was the price – it was cheaper than anything we’d found in Jersey, even the houses that smelled like they’d been breeding show possums in the living room. That cheap.

The best part? It’s a llama farm.

You wouldn’t know it’s a llama farm from the short description on the site, nor from the first 26 pictures of the house and property. They save the shots of these magnificent camelids for the last two spots and make no other mention of them as if they’re some shameful secret the house owners are obligated to share with any potential buyers. Perhaps more importantly, nowhere does it say that the llamas don’t come with house. I say, hell, llamas sweeten the pot.

I shared my findings with the Ginger, who is way too practical and had to burst my llama spit bubble immediately by pointing out that I would have no idea how to take care of llamas if they actually come with the house. I reminded him that I’ve played four titles of the Harvest Moon series plus a Rune Factory, so I’m pretty well versed in livestock handling. Okay, so I only have alpacas in Harvest Moon, but really they’re pretty much the same thing as a llama if not more difficult to care for, and I haven’t killed any of them yet. Add to this that we already have a volunteer for a farmhand (llama hand? llama boy? head llama? Dalai Llama?) and we’re practically spinning llama yarn already.

But, as usual, practicality won out. Of course we need to find non-llama-rearing jobs before we can move. Of course we should rent a place for a year or two in case we’re unhappy with the move. Of course I should probably meet a llama before I decide to buy a whole herd of them.

House hunting sucks. But if you look outside your comfort zone, you might actually find the beginnings of a whole new life. A house deal thirty minutes away might lead to an opportunity four and half hours away. The prospect of living out the rest of your years surrounded by people who still remember those starchy, suffocating dresses (complete with matching scrunchies) your mom made you for picture days in grammar school might get derailed by the chance to start over where no one knows your name.

I’m suddenly looking at picking up and taking my life five hundred miles from the only place I’ve ever begrudgingly called home. I’m sure I’ll be a little more anxious as the plan solidifies and contracts are signed, but right now I feel kind of liberated, especially when I thought I’d feel discouraged by the first house deal falling apart.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, When life hands you llamas, start a llama farm?

Poorly Drawn Comics are Up!

Well, one poorly drawn comic is up. It’s the cover page of a quick series I drew in response to the John Cusack movie The Raven.

If you haven’t seen this movie, you should seriously question what you’re doing with your life. It is the best worst movie I’ve seen in a while mainly because it features Cusack as Edgar Allan Poe. At first, he’s the broke alcoholic Poe we all know and love, but soon he turns to a gig of sleuthing a la early Batman (back when it was The Batman of Detective Comics). If you want to see Edgar Allan Poe whipping his cape around and all but whispering “Nevermore!” when he disappears into the night on the trail of a new clue, you have to watch this movie. Be sure to go in with really low expectations – it will enhance the experience.

Anyway, after I saw this horrible/amazing film, a vigilante Shakespeare popped into my head. I don’t even like Shakespeare, but there it is. Enjoy.

Welcome to the Kindiverse

Hi, my name’s Kindig. Nice to meet you.

I’m glad you happened to stop by because I have some ridiculous things to share with complete strangers. If you’ve ever said to yourself, “I wish I could go to just one page to find awful comics, personal accounts of the life of an unknown writer, and some pictures of cake,” then I’m here to grant your rather unambitious desires. Reach for the stars, pal.

If you like what you’re hearing so far, stop in again for new posts, comics, and more as I’ll be updating regularly.

Much more to come soon!