Fire Mountain Gems: Coronavirus Edition

Heyo! Esther Pollock here. As you probably know, I'm the head honcho over here at Fire Mountain Gems. I'm pictured here with my fellow FMG designers, Scotty Blumpkin and Dan Pizzazz. Don't worry, this picture was taken a long time ago; we are all responsibly social-distancing as per the CDC and the great state of Minnesota. We just want you to know that Fire Mountain Gems is here for you during this uncertain time. And I know some of you are concerned that our entire catalog of products is manufactured in the People's Republic of China, but rest assured I am drowning that shit in sanitizer and prayer.

After several months of mandatory isolation, I can now say with confidence that I am a cross stitch master:

I've been keeping my mind sharp; I have read every issue of TV Guide from 1967 to 1992. I have seen every episode of New Girl, twice. The sound of my husband's voice makes me want to whip him to death with a slightly used cat o' nine tails I picked up at a swap meet. I have enough toilet paper to last until Spring 2046. If I have to eat one more bean, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

Luckily, with so much time on their hands, my team has been hard at work to bring you these quarantine chic designs. I'm very proud of what we've done here amidst this crisis, and I hope you can appreciate the craftsmanship as I do.

I can hardly believe it myself, Louise! Who doesn't like disembodied heads of conjoined twins, I ask you?* Connected by Louise Shadonix reminds us to stay connected but non-physically because you don't want to catch the coronavirus and get decapitated like these poor bastards. Decapi-tantalizing!

I would wear this to an African Wildlife Foundation charity gala, if such a thing still existed. I met Joe Exotic at the last one. Nice fella. A little liberal with the Drakkar Noir though.

*[I was later told this was supposed to be the disembodied heads of a mother and baby giraffe. Either way, disembodied heads, am I right?]

I mean, ok. Rainbow Rock Garden by Sarah Machtey doesn't have any rocks in it. I just want to be upfront about that.

This piece is perfect if you are an elementary school art teacher with nothing to lose. The online school year is winding down and you've got fake leaves in storage that are taunting you from the crawlspace. You could whip this up in 2 minutes in the comfort of your own home and still have time for a cam-show before you take a few online surveys to earn Amazon gift-cards. Can be worn all seasons, tits in or out.

Ilaria, you've done it again. Once Upon a Time, I nearly gagged on the elegance of this piece. Medieval meets magnifique! Versatile doesn't begin to describe this complicated mesh of fantasy themed elements like weird babies lustily cupping landscapes, double dragon castle times, and a fancy fairy dangling from the bottom by her teeth. Just throw this on with any old thing: some peachy scoop-neck flowy top; why not? Sure to be a conversation starter with yourself since you can't go anywhere or see anyone. I guess you could wear it on a video call. Wear it on a Zoom call! Or Skype! Do people still Skype or is that only for masturbating?

That's all for now, my little gems. Stay tuned for more jewelry you can wear at home with your cat while you bury your children under the shed. Stay safe! Wash your hands! No mouth stuff, only hand stuff! Then wash you hands again!

Best,

Esther Pollock
Head Designer
Fire Mountain Gems

Midnight Musings

Somewhere, there is a Universe where beards have magical powers and all the different beards have different powers. They wouldn't be like normal beards you could grow, but rather wear like you would wear a hat. One day you might wear the Beard of Storms and another the Wind Whiskers. Something to think about.

There is another Universe where Moms run the world and all of the superheroes and supervillians in this world are also Moms. We'll call it the Mommiverse.

In this week's issue, the Mother (pronounced like the insect, the moth, +er) goes up against Behemom and Mombie! No one ever pronounces the Mother's name correctly and it's a running joke for her entire professional life.

In the Mommiverse, there are lima beans with every meal; bed time is 7:30PM, even in the Summer when the Sun is still out; and all the moms communicate using a made-up language, possibly based on Italian, but maybe not. Meatballs always have yellow raisins in them and will be served with a sauce made from grape jelly and chili sauce; don't ask any questions!

It is 11:39PM and I want to call this entry "Midnight Musings" so I will write until midnight for authenticity's sake.

On an ocean world, deep below the surface, a massive system of gears and clockwork tick away unbeknownst to the island dwellers above. One night, an alien craft arrives and contaminates the seas, causing sudden and horrible mutations in the sealife. The island inhabitants are terrorized by aquatic abominations while the kind and telepathic whales of the emerald waters try to fight the aberration and protect the ancient machine that created their world. Will they purify the Great Sea and save the surface dwellers while protecting their secret?

I need a snack. Bad.

My baby made me tuna salad with jalapeno hummus and avocado instead of mayo and some other secret ingredients (celery). Put that on some toast. Mm mm, bitch. The New York Times called it "[a] tuna tour de force."

Fin-sational. Two flippers up. We were stuffed to the gills. Somebody stop me.

Goodnight now. Sleeps are upon me, you sweet bacons.

the Community is Suffering

A note left in the suggestion box at my job:

"I protest the discontinuation of frozen onion rings. I come here to buy a steak and onion rings. If no onion rings, no steak!"

This is maybe a week after a woman demanding organic rotisserie chickens with herbs said without the aforementioned chickens "the community is suffering". This is obviously a person that has never experienced suffering or doesn't know the meaning of the word.

These are the same people that characterize the absence of their favorite flavor of Halo Top as an "outrage". Human trafficking is an outrage. An out-of-stock Salted Caramel gelato is a minor inconvenience, at best.

Retail is more challenging than people think. It takes every fiber of my willpower to hold my tongue sometimes.

I wake up at 6AM and lay in bed wondering if this is really my life or if I woke up in someone else's body. There is a paper plate with corn chip fragments on it and a glob of congealed cheese dip. No, it's definitely my body.

I hit snooze until I can't hit it anymore. Perhaps a meteor will hit Earth today and I won't have to go in. I turn on the TV while I brush my teeth. A mattress ad comes on Hulu, and it says I spend approximately a third of my life in bed. I wonder how much of my life I spend at work, but the thought is too depressing so I start to run the shower.

First the cleanser, then the exfoliator, then the trance. I close my eyes as the hot water runs over my body. Other than bed, this is my favorite place to be. I scrub my body with a whipped soap that smells like an oatmeal cookie and for a moment I feel good. I realize that time dissolves when I'm in here with my fancy soaps and my scented oils and soon I have to leave the comforting warmth of the hard water. Toner, serum, moisturizer. I look better than when I woke up, but I still feel the same. I smile in the mirror, practicing for later when I'll have to do this over and over again even though I don't mean it once.

Things are sure to get better. I just need to be patient. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling.

Tomorrow is another day.

Papa Poopagain and other tales

I have been labeled "the odd man out" because I'm one of the few people in my life that doesn't like Taco Bell. It goes through me like shit through a goose. It has also, on a number of occasions, caused me to involuntarily vocalize during a bowel movement. I don't know about you, but I don't enjoy eating and then twenty minutes later running to the bathroom to bellow loudly whilst evacuating.

I am already frequently visited by Papa Poopagain. He is basically like the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny; a specialized imaginary character with a limited scope. Did you just poop five minutes ago and now suddenly you have to go again? Papa Poopagain. Did you literally just flush the toilet and pull your pants up only to realize there is still more to come? Papa Poopagain. I only recently revealed my belief in Papa Poopagain to my significant other to which he replied, "You are my favorite person."

There isn't any intact mythology surrounding Papa Poopagain. I haven't really thought about it much, to be honest. My gut tells me that he's an eternal being that has always been with us. There is no way to appease him. We are all slaves to his whim.

*

I'm watching Season 11 of RuPaul's Drag Race: a show I enjoy mostly because I hate it. All I will say at this point in the season is that no one has grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed "I'm your favorite!" in my face. No one is wowing me. I'm thoroughly underwhelmed if that counts for anything. The writing is worse than ever, underscored by the larger-than-life production value (a budget they clearly aren't spending on writers or Ru's dresses).

All tea, all shade.

*

The music at my job has been trapped in the 90's for weeks. Most people seem unbothered and "just block it out", but I am not able to do so. My mind hyperfocuses on the Hootie and the Blowfish song and it becomes torture. This is not helped by the fact that my employer (a nameless multi-billion dollar corporation) seems to have only purchased about fifteen songs that play over and over again at the same times every day. So Hell, basically.

There is never a good time for a Sugar Ray song. How about two in one day? How about we add a couple of Smashmouth songs to that and follow it up with some Hanson? It makes you wonder who is making these decisions and whether or not they deserve to continue living among us.

*

Also, as I find it difficult to motivate myself, if you have anything you'd like me to write about please post it in the comments below. I have a lot to say about most things, and I find most things disagreeable to some extent. Don't be shy.

Sweet and spicy, just like grandma...

I know a thing or two about grandmas. You might say I'm a grandma expert.

Hello, my name is David, and I'm a Male Grandma. I feel better already.

My special abilities are thoughtful gifts and soup. I am beloved of animals and babies. I know my way around a garage sale. I strongly believe that food solves most problems. I require hugs to maintain my magic. Grandma Magic.

What does any of this have to do with the McDonald's commercials other than repeated and deliberate use of the word "grandma"? I won't answer that or any of your other questions, Becky.

I've often been described as motherly. At first, I was insulted by this. My latent masculinity programming would automatically go on the offense. Motherly? Excuse you? The Masculinity Protocol doesn't allow for comparisons to any female characteristic, least of all that of a mother. As I grew and matured, I came to realize that being compared to a mother wasn't an insult. The people that were saying it were people close to me, so their intent was not to ridicule or emasculate me. I'm caring and empathetic like a mother. A compliment. Never been good at taking those. Where was I going with this?

I notice when people get haircuts. This startles some people, especially men. To the straight male mind, when I say "Hey! You got a haircut. Looks good." that translates to "Yo, lemme get that dick".

I dadsplain more than I mansplain. The difference is intent. Dadspaining comes from a place of love and concern. Perhaps you don't know the proper way to remove an engorged tick. Allow me to dadsplain that process to you, as well as the dangers of Lyme Disease. There is an easier way to complete the task you are doing, allow me to give you an unsolicited tutorial on my superior method because I love you. It's not as bad.

I'm working through a lot right now, mentally and emotionally. My Dad passed away on August 10th. I haven't talked much about it. I don't know that I'm going to. I don't know that anything makes any sense. And that's the one thing I know for sure.

Things get weird for me. I'm sure it gets weird for everyone, but I only know from my own perception how weird it gets. Life feels like a movie I'm watching. I feel like a spectator.

Some days, I don't feel anything. I wonder sometimes if my feelings are only the feelings of the people around me and that when I'm by myself I don't really feel anything.

I'm at the beginning of a two week break. I'm not sure what I want to get out of it other than doing some laundry and throwing away a lot of shit. The head-space I'm in right now is uncharted territory for me. Where do I go from here?

I'm trying to keep it sweet and spicy, like grandma. Maybe a little bit more spice than sugar. I want to be a more authentic me, but I'm not sure what that looks like. I don't recognize myself sometimes.

Control is really just the illusion of control. Keep the plates spinning. Figure it out. Don't stop moving.


Day 1. Rest.

Food for thought, mostly poison

Voodoo Cake

It is said that when a cake is cut, sugarcane fields can be heard crying in the warm Barbados breeze.

* * *

Define “Testicle”

More than a quiz, but a little less than a test.

* * *

After Canada conquered the US in the early 21st century, the Maple Doctrine was adopted. This document overwrote the American Constitution and many of the US's unwritten rules.

Perhaps the most memorable revision was Article 7, clause 32; the 5-second rule does not apply to shag carpeting.

* * *

"I can't believe that boat is named Wet Dream," I said to Nanny.

She turned to Poppa to clarify.

"It's the name of the boat in Margaret's yard," she said to him in a hushed tone.

"Did Margaret name it?" I asked.

"Probably. She's a drunk," she said matter-of-factly.

* * *

Georgina on Hitler:

"Anyone who uses their oven for anything other than storage is a complete wanker."

* * *

A Postcard from Aunt Mary:

Dear David,

         Since you are our family's Hemingway, I thought it most appropriate to send you this postcard from Key West where Hemingway lived and did a lot of his writing. I visited his home today and thought of you - the next Ernest Hemingway!

          I love you <3 <3 <3

          Aunt Mary

PS - Hemingway had four wives and sixty-two cats!

* * *

Getting Laid at the MET

I tried that once. It didn't really work out.

* * *

Mary Meets God

               Human life, and all life for that matter, concluded in a single rainy afternoon at the Porchlight Grill in Midland Park, New Jersey.  Mary was sitting at the bar on her break after waiting tables for six hours.  She was about to ravage a nice juicy hamburger, when from the corner of her eye she spotted something moving on the floor.  She hopped off her bar-stool and put her glasses on.

               Before her, on the tiled floor, was a large cockroach.  As not to cause a stir, she crushed the enormous bug under her black tennis shoe.

               And so, the very fabric of the Universe unraveled.

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday ♫

Typical visits with my father consist mostly of youtube videos, him singing small songs that he just made up, and bickering about one conspiracy or another.

"Did you hear that Michelle Obama is a man?" he will inevitably say. I will roll my eyes, he will show me the youtube video, and then I will at least have doubts about Michelle Obama's gender.

My friend from England was visiting me and he came over Dad's for dinner one night. Before the dinner, I warned him that my father would most likely talk to him about Queen Elizabeth drinking babies' blood in the basement of Buckingham Palace. That is precisely what happened.

The earth is flat. And hollow. The planet is ruled by an elite class of lizard people. Hilary Clinton is a clone. Pretty standard fare at Charlie's house.

This visit, we watched some fail videos with Dane and Bobbi Jo. After they left to go have dinner, he put on this video:

You should watch the whole thing, or at least until they start dancing. Somewhere during this nine minute exploration of Mexican pointy boots, it begins...

"What size you take?" he asks while peering into his phone.
"What are you doing?" I ask, fully knowing that he is online shopping for Mexican pointy boots.

Then the song begins:

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫
[key change]
♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

And so on.

Then he shows me this picture:

Fig. 1.1 Cobra head pointy boots

♫ Cobra head pointy boots for your birthday ♫

"Oh, there's a sale on now!" he says, exuberantly.

Fig. 1.2 Mexican Pointy Boots, chillin

"Come on, I'll buy a pair for Nelson, too." As if offering to buy a pair of Mexican pointy boots for my boyfriend will somehow convince me to accept a pair for myself.

♫ Fabuloso pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

As we watch them do a strange pointy boot shuffle dance, he gives me the hard sell.

"Look at them dance. Takes a lot of skill. I want to get you a pair of pointy boots because I think you'd really excel at this."

Fig 1.3 Ultimate Challenge: Mexican Pointy Boot Cycling

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots

Cobra head pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots

Fabuloso pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

My birthday is only a few months away, plenty of time to have some custom Mexican pointy boots ordered and shipped. You may be thinking, he won't actually order them. You'd be wrong.

Mostly Drivel

Do you ever wake up and wish life was more like a Zoobilee Zoo rerun? I do sometimes. Who wouldn't want Ben Vereen dressed as a leopard narrating their life?

I think about stuff like that all the time. My mind is a virtual wasteland of nostalgia and mottled memories.

* * *

I've been reading through some of my old composition notebooks to see if there is anything worth while. In the middle of a short Resident Evil fanfic, I wrote this: "Sometimes I catch myself pretending I'm a real teenager."

* * *

Did you know:
As a child, I had a one-legged lesbian neighbor that moved to Budapest? True story.

 * * *

Me: Mom?

Mom: [from the living room] What?!

Me: The microwave popcorn didn't work.

Mom: Good! We'll mail it to Orville Redenbacher so he can shove it up his ass!

* * *

Uptown Jackie Red + Midtown Jackie Green = Downtown Jackie Brown

* * *

Can you, in good taste, use a white lighter after Labor Day?

* * *

Put a little lift in your day. Try new caffeinated Kotex.

* * *

Me: Amy, can you pass the salt?

Amy: Uh, Pokémon, what's the magic word?

Me: [pause] Vagina?

Amy: [passes me the salt]

* * *

"There are no more oil-based concealers to conquer." - Alexander the Great

* * *

"In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."
-from "Divine Songs in Easy Language for the Use of Children", Issac Watts

Dear "Dog Mom"

I was driving my boyfriend to his car this morning because the parking ordinances in my town are criminal, but I digress. En route, I got stuck behind an SUV going 17mph. Said SUV had an oval sticker on the trunk door announcing to the world, in case anyone was interested, that she is a "Dog Mom".

My road-rage is epic, eclipsed only by my mother's which can be accurately described as legendary. She once, without any segue, explained to me what we were having for dinner, called some random motorist a tw*t, and then told me she loved me.

Interesting Fact: Pointless bumper stickers send me into a frenzy of snobbish rage.

If you feel the need to indicate details about yourself on the outside of your car, you are the wrong sort of person. You are in the same class of people that puts peanut butter in the refrigerator: unwashed savages. I don't care about your honors student, your lacrosse team, or that you break for squirrels. Your stick-figure family is offensive to my delicate sensibilities. VT, LBI, CA, MV, ACK, OBX - what am I supposed to glean from this other than you are certainly a white chick?

Also, Jesus Fish sounds delicious.

Where was I going with this?

[10 minute tea break]

Dear Dog Mom,

You probably don't remember me, but I was stuck behind you while you drove 8 mph below the lowest speed limit possible. This was bad enough, but you had a sticker on your trunk that said "Dog Mom". I can only assume that this information was meant for me due to it's location, though I'm not sure why your relationship to your dog is pertinent to my driving experience.

My car has a decal of Ursula the sea witch on my rear driver's side window. Based on this, please assume that the next time I get stuck behind you, I will steal your voice and then your man.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen

Inaugural Post, Maiden Voyage, Champagne Bottle Assault

I tend to ramble and generally don't conform to pesky things like sequence. This is done purposely, not to confuse you, dear reader, but rather to break Time down into its basic components...of which there are none.

I'm a scatter-brain. An addle-pate. If I were a Furry, I would be a raccoon.

I'm not sure what this blog is even about. Are you? Why did you come here? We may never know the answers to these questions.

A little bit about me: I'm a cisgender white gay man. I try not to mansplain, but I definitely dadsplain which I don't think is as bad because it means I love you. None of my pants fit right now, so I'm trying to eat more vegetables and less pizza. I'm in a relationship with a sweet man that both delights and enrages me in the same breath. I just had some chia pudding.

I'm also a children's book author, something I never thought I'd be saying. Sure, I wrote a lot when I was young. Mostly sad poems and homoerotic short stories about my classmates, but I probably wasn't alone in that. It wasn't until my 30's that I grabbed an opportunity to participate in a collective writing effort called "The Cardboard Kingdom" organized by gaymous (gay famous, for the laymen) artist and author, Chad Sell. After two years of collaboration, we are looking at a release date of June 5, 2018. Thanks, Knopf!

When most kids were doing normal suburban white people things, I was brewing potions and lip-syncing in the bathroom mirror in my mother's make-up. While my mother was at work, I was choreographing my baby brother, Dylan, to Joan Osborne songs. Pretty standard stuff.

I always wanted to be a writer, but alas, bills needed to be paid and so I was entrenched in retail Purgatory for the better part of  20 years. I learned a lot, mostly how to interface with the general public in an amiable manner.

Some notes on the general public:

1. The General Public is populated mostly by simulated beings whose soul purpose is to inhibit you in one way or another.

2. The General Public cannot be reasoned with and so surrender is usually best.

3. The General Public does not agree with anything you do or say.

4. Happiness and the General Public are mutually exclusive.

5. Avoid the General Public.

My exposure to the General Public is extensive, though in recent years I have receded into a slightly less social paradigm I'm calling "hermit chic". You should try it.

More to come. Mostly drivel.