Hi. I’m not dead or anything I am just taking a break until I am either less depressed or figure out how to maintain this blog whilst being depressed.

Thanks to anyone who ever read this blog or liked it in any way, however minor.

Adele x

It’s  interesting when you get a very superficial and incomplete vision of other cultures through looking up Youtube videos to fill up the time you spend dicking about feeling sorry for yourself and generally making a lifetime marathon of procrastination. Do people in Korea really tolerate all these never ending peace signs, forced frolicking, and uncomfortable linking of sexuality with pre-pubescent imagery?

But then it forces you to think of how our culture is represented, and you realize that television should never be an indicator of anything. For instance, if someone who had never stepped foot in America were to see Tyra Banks shouting at hundreds of hyperventilating women while shaking her barely withheld rack about you would be terrified.

I actually just picked that example because I thought I could make the best joke about Tyra and mentioning breasts will probably get me more hits (wait, ignore that, they say a magician should never reveal their methodology!) but it is a very interesting juxtaposition. One can only imagine if Tyra were to come face to face with the prancing, noodle-loving girls of the ad they would attempt to bow politely but then she would start yelling about how cute and loveable they are and then hug them one by one, smothering them with her overwhelming brand of  accepting sisterly love until they all passed out in a heap of pigtails and spindly limbs, whimpering for mercy (of course, this would all be in sync with possible harmonizing also).

Finally Came out of my shell and joined an acapella chorus!

I know sometimes, once  you hit your fifties you think it’s time to get a Laz-e-Boy, sit back, and get familiar with Sally Jesse. But listen ladies, just because the kids are out of the house and my husband left me for a 20-year-old nail technician-slash-dog groomer named Peggie does not mean I am going to just roll over! I should have known no grown man would just suddenly take an interest in the YMCA water-colour painting class unless some tart who loved to paint Yorkshire Terriers sniffing at flower pots lured him there. Just because things aren’t as high and perky as somebody’s  doesn’t mean I just stop feeling.

Albert, the one with the glasses on the right? Well, now there’s a man who knows how to make a girl feel like a woman. He took me to the Olive Garden last Friday and well, let’s just say he got a little something at the door, and it wasn’t just a wish goodnight! Gosh, it’s so scary to be rushing into something like this but, hey, screw it! I’m an adult and I can take control. This is my time.

So I also decided to go back to school. Online, through Vision2learn:

Adele found vision2learn through an advert and decided to find out more. She was immediately attracted to the idea of studying online at her own pace and in her own time. Adele said:

“The vision2learn online courses are so convenient. I was my own boss, and could still work while studying.”

Because, it’s never too late. Now, when my therapist started telling me this I usually started screaming at her that she didn’t have any idea what it was like to wake up every morning and find you were just a bit greyer, a bit more wrinkly, a bit closer to death. Did she ever stop to think what that was like, or was she too busy enjoying her lawyer husband and ‘naturally fast metabolism’  and that special feeling of waking up and not wanting to step right into the shower clutching a plugged in  hairdryer and saying your final prayers?

Finally, one day she grabbed me by the arms, pushed back my unwashed hair, dusted off all the snotty tissues  and yelled, “Adele, Adele, YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO LOVE YOURSELF.”

So here I am. Nothing left to hide behind. This is… Just ME.

One of the greatest fixtures of mine and my sister’s childhood was a lanky browned-haired girl whose mission in life seemed to be to never outgrow childhood and to make surreptitious fart jokes as long as she lived. Let’s call her Toots.  Calling her Jane would make more sense in almost every way possible, but this blog was not created to perpetuate sense, viewers.

So. Toots had large doe eyes that would belie her delight with finding the ways of the adult world and pointing them out in ways that would irritate parents to no end. For example, my mother, who has a characteristic flair for decorating and regularly uses words like ’shabby chic’ and ‘French country,’ had adorned several walls of our suburban home with decorative plates. Toots, who could often be found in our living room after school, decided one day to tape three slices of freshly-bought bread to each of the plates above our patio door. Now, Toots was not a child who encouraged confrontation, and would never point out this little alteration to my mother. She did this not so much as an act of defiance as a test to see how long the three of us could hold in our laughter once my mother came home.

Toots may have appeared quite innocent, but parents instinctualy knew by looking in her eyes she was up to trouble, and the worst kind. Because her trouble was in the background, unidentifiable; she would not swear in class but would whisper the meanings of dirty words once Mom had left the room.

As Toots grew into her early teens she remained shy and became the embodiment of teenage awkwardness. She harboured a devastating crush on a local neighbourhood lad but could do nothing about it yet sweat profusely in his presence. She would try to make her appearance as pleasing as possible in the off chance they would cross each other’s paths; trying to wear his favourite colours and painstakingly sleeping on her damp, wavy hair each night in order to make it pin straight. Yet all the while she was obsessing over this boy she was making regular appointments with us to put our mother’s treadmill at full speed and shoot off it into a pile of pillows. For even as Toots grew to womanhood, she held that mischeivious child within her.

Recently, my sister and I saw Toots at our local drunk-soccer-mom-and-fireman hangout in our hometown  during karaoke night. Emilie had just finished a suitably angsty rendition of 90s teen classic “Teen Spirit” by the famed band Nirvana. While we both were basking in the glow of her amazing karaoke skills, there was Toots. It was strange to see our old friend grown up, able to string together a sentence without mentioning weenies. She was still the same old Toots though, and the playground humour and funny voices where still there, just at more appropriate times. At one point she mentioned how she had never gotten along with a mutual acquaintance from high school.

“He doesn’t get me. I’m weird, you know? You guys know.”

Yes Toots, we certainly do.

Seeing as school started yesterday, I was going to write a cheery post about new beginnings with Oprah-isms and school advisor talk. But then I woke up knowing it was Tuesday yet looking at my Monday  schedule because it was the first day of school and so must, therefore, be the first day on the schedule. Or something. Long story short, I missed class and didn’t realize it was Tuesday fully and completely until six o’clock. Basically fresh starts are made up by AA and life is one long, continuous struggle and you might move somewhere or start something new but it’s the same old shit. I’m back at school and trying hard and it’s great and all that but the place hasn’t changed. It still smells and the goddamn escalators don’t work. What else is there to say? Let’s move on.

Yesterday morning (while the day was still sweet and untainted from my horrible error to come) I was playing this song whilst putting my hair into rollers looking forward to the day that would shortly turn into an utter, shameful embarrassment. Anyhoo! My sister came in, scoffing at my music selection (not for the first time, and knowing that turd as well as I do, not for the last) and demanded “what the fuck is this music?”

 The answer is robo-techno k-pop that gives a nod to the clubby 2009 Red One sound, topped off with a massive, danceable chorus. Korean pop music, as far as I can tell, sometimes sounds like it should be the theme song for a saccharine children’s show about fluffy bunnies and dreams, but sometimes sounds innovative and imaginative yet still utterly and totally pop in a way that makes you forget guitars were even invented. This song sounds more American and isn’t the best representation of  the genre, but it’s awesome. Also the choreography in this video is amazing, and the hip sway is one of the most simple yet effective slices of pop dance steppery ever.

It’s time to to spread lots of cake over its face and invite a bunch of people over who are supposed to be its friends but in fact mean nothing to it because it is only one and has no idea what’s going on. Oho ho ho, kids grow up so quickly these days soon it will be asking me what a douchebag is and bringing dates home and slowly losing its sprightliness and naiveté to the growing burden of responsibility. Hopefully in that order.

Since that fated day one year ago when I birthed Where’s the Punchline? into  cyberworld I haven’t been given  a column where I can toss out witty bon mots whilst getting paid, nor have an award winning sitcom nor have received monetary gains or any amount of fame. So the original reason I started the blog has not come into fruition whatsoever. I’m probably just going to pack this up now.

I suppose I have gotten better at writing, though. Certainly the act of writing, which was once always accompanied with a twinge of anxiety, now feels like a routine thing I do on a regular basis. And the other day someone told me a post I had written really affected them which was absurd yet completely touching and I luckily managed to stop myself from making an ill-timed joke to cover my awkwardness. That day a small layer of my calcified heart fell away and the warm interior pulsed a little harder.

So maybe I’ll keep doing this little project after all.

I really didn’t want to write a blog post. So I thought I’d just post a picture and call it a day. However, when you Google ‘funny picture’ you are presented with one of three options: pets wearing funny hats, women with massive breasts, or pets poking out of massive breasts. They may or may not be wearing hats. There was also several instances of a toddler humping what looked to be a blow-up sex doll.

I tried to put in ‘humorous picture’ next, thinking wording would make all the difference. There were still a lot of pets, but this time the pictures seemed to be aimed at grandmas or people living in upstate New York, i.e. a dog who looks like he’s praying sitting next to a child who is, in fact, actually praying. There were also things that looked like they belonged on greeting cards for baby boomers reaching their 20th wedding anniversary, such as an image of a fat balding man looking into the mirror and seeing a virile piece of beefcake. None of these options seemed worthy of a post.

Finally I decided that ‘hilarious’ must be the ticket. What did entering this into Google result in? For some reason hilarious equals hockey fights and x-rated jokes involving lots of underwear. Then I just typed in ‘Geraldo Rivera.’

See, this picture is legitimately funnier than anything that is actually attempting to be ‘funny.’

HAPPINESS.

When you are young, happiness is at your fingertips and the world seems to be constantly offering you new pleasures, whether it’s sneaking a second bowl of ice cream or a friendly dog or the endless fount of scatology humour that exists in every child’s mind. It is a tested fact that the fart is the one joke that will never grow old. However, as you age the world still holds these various gems, yet you must navigate around work and responsibilities and the pile of dishes in the sink to find them. And you can bet that letting one rip at your sister-in-law’s dinner party won’t go over well.

Around the time when I left high school and realized I was now forced to be more or less self-reliant, a tense undercurrent of anxiety which I must always negotiate around in order to relax set in. I was always a rather nervous child, but I used to worry about interesting things, nightmarish fantasies about comets colliding with the earth or ghosts watching me as I slept. Now there is the entirely concrete question of what to do with my life as well as a litany of boring yet urgent tasks relating to the ‘adult world’ that pull me away from my book or drink or conversation.

Adulthood for me brought the realization that the world isn’t particularly magical and is often not even interesting. There was a time when I was bothered by the fact that the world I saw as an adult didn’t match the promising fantasy I has dreamed up as a child. But now I see that these things we’ve invented to keep us busy aren’t really the point. I don’t think a job on it’s own can be fulfilling, I’m not religious, and money, as they say, can’t buy you happiness. So, it’s still all those small pleasures that make life worth living.

And you have access to a lot more sweet shit when you have ID and a credit card!

It is uncommonly hot today which seriously foils my aim to exist in an elegant state of repose at all times. Sweat is certainly not becoming on a young lady and the sensation of damp cloth clinging to my lower back makes me feel almost plebeian. If a passing gentleman were to spy the droplets of moisture in my decolletage how would he know it came not from exertion but heat? How would he know that the sprawling mansion which I inhabit has been filled with trinkets and silks to fulfil my every desire which are summoned to me for my pleasure at my behest? That if I were to even attempt to reach for an object myself, one of my many servants would quickly intercept, begging that I do not tire my limbs? Finally, he would not be aware that all this hints at the largeness of my dowry and the sweet promise of a tightly guarded maidenhead that only a lady of my stature can possess, and, blushing coyly, trembling with both fright and anticipation, give?

Anyhoo, at this time I would just like to point out that about twenty five per cent of the traffic at this blog is directed here by a post that has been tagged with ‘Montreal Metro.’ So picture an average, likable, everyman, who lives perhaps in Kansas, and is planning on visiting Montreal because it is pretty close and affordable yet has a European feel because they speak French there, don’t they? Sally would love to see the lively street theatre and little Tommy, well, he’s hardly been past the state border! Let’s Google Montreal metro to figure out this newfangled underground train system…

And then he comes upon this post. That would be worth some ‘lols’ wouldn’t it?

The Internet’s down for what feels like the millionth time. Whenever I call Bell customer service I interrupt their rattled off list of inquiries with a terse “Tried that already,” because I’ve been walked through the requisite steps so many times I conduct them myself before calling.

Of course, lack of Internet access means posts may be spread a bit thin. This also means I must stop my Buffy (piracy) marathon right before the season two finale. You know, when our heroine must run a sword through her one true love who has turned evil because when he gently, yet sensuously, took her maiden head it gave him such ecstasy that the ancient gypsy curse which had given him a soul was broken. God, what a great, ridiculous stew of teen angst and camp B-movie horror  Buffy is. What other show could you use the words ‘gypsy,’ ‘maiden head,’ and ‘run a sword through’ in the same sentence to describe a plot point?

Anyways. Losing the Internet is obviously terrifying  because of no longer having thousands of hours worth of pointless information at one’s  fingertips and not being constantly updated on the state of people’s lives from an ancient past who you barely like or remember. These idiotic yet incredibly pertinent pieces of  knowledge, like the latest Internet meme which features a middle aged balding man eating a broccoli whole and then extricating it out of his ass precisely one and a half minutes later, make up the fabric of our modern lives and allow us to identify with our fellow man. Without being able to view these videos and status updates, I am afraid I will slowly become more and more alienated from my peers as I respond to their Internet chatter with blank stares. Soon I will be eating my lunch of carrot sticks and soda crackers in the women’s washroom desperately trying to remember what the word ‘hyperlink’ means.

So Adieu, my friends.

Perhaps forever.