Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

Greetings from what used to be Funkytown.  There have been a few inquiries as to what the hell is going on and why is it taking so long. While I find it both heart-warming - and somewhat unnerving – that, in the end, there are some precious lovelies out there who find these ever insightful and dare I say it ingenious stories amusing and forthcoming, I, for the first time in almost two years, am afraid I have been otherwise engaged. This is just a quick word. I must be back soon, because they know I am typing and not working, and I just know if I leave them alone long enough, they are bound to band together, and that is one mutiny I’d rather never see happen. The reason I have been occupied elsewhere for such a long time is that for some insane reason I had what at the time seemed like the idea of the century: to, after more than five years of not touching my needles, knit presents to my family and loved ones this year. Why I would succumb to such madness is anybody’s

1. This time of year, I always think of my home girl Anna Karenina. There is something about the oncoming winter months, the gorgeous melancholy of the turning seasons, the endless cups of rose and strawberry scented tea, the Russian dolls on my mantelpiece, and of course the late fall wardrobe consisting of gold and deep hues of green and burgundy that make me long to be on the pages of her misfortune. A lot of people say that the first time they read Anna Karenina, they loved her story, and were all but flipping the pages forward, hurrying through Konstantin Levin’s babblings on the working class and ideas of happiness and the great Russian escape, the bliss of the countryside, as opposed to the superficial values and evil siren calls of the great cities, because who cared about these boring issues, right? The second time was all about Levin’s story, and the reader started to see how important he was for the whole unraveling of events, as Anna’s mirror, her counterpart, th

I recently posted on my Instagram page a series of pictures of making a huge batch of cabbage rolls, a traditional Finnish delicacy, and was happy to realize the rather time-consuming, handicraft dish has lost the bad rep it had when I was a kid hating the horrible cabbage smell and reluctantly picking at the one sad, solitary roll on my plate before tiring out my parents and being excused from the table. Now, people were thrilled to see me make them, and if Instagram was a delivery service, I wouldn’t have had any left by the time we were done making them. And I don’t blame ‘em: in the mouth of a grownup, they do taste delicious, like home, like our childhoods; like it took three to four hours to make them, including the trip to the store in the middle of the preparation process, because I was being lavish with the stuffing and ran out of it during the first oven sheet, and father was like “I’ll go, I’ll go right away!” and me and my mother were like “Great, we’ll just hang

I mean what respectable man doesn’t have a few skeletons in the closet? These – females, these – women , they are all just dumb sumbitches, aren’t they? I mean I will be here till the end of time, and am right to be here, just like there are righteous, good men in the Klan, and these righteous, God-fearing good white men are right to fight for their power! I mean our job is to oversee the goings-on of the land of our fathers, and make sure it doesn’t accidentally fall prey to a bunch of ninnies and cry-babies and lesbians. Emphasis on the job, Lizzie. I mean it isn’t proper, it just is not proper for some insufferable cunt to appear out of nowhere to start laying these accusations so thick a man can’t breathe. She reduced ole Biffy-boy here to tears. To tears ! And now, let’s examine the situation with a cool head, since I am the best and most level-headed man I know to examine the situation, and no Federal investigation should really be needed here, come on now! I

A friend of mine started a challenge on Instagram. It has to do with our everyday green acts, the little things we can all do and should do to ease the burden of this pretty plane of ours so that our legacy to the next generations won’t be a re-enactment of the Nebuchadnezzar ride outside the Matrix. An old workmate of mine, back from when I was working in another town, was, and still is, an eco-terrorist, as he himself liked to describe himself back then, and concern over ecological matters was a mutual thing for us. Nearing some election or another, when discussing parties and who to vote, I still remember what he said in the conversation as we were all hanging out behind the counter because of the five p.m. lull. “The thing is, if the planet goes, no one is going to be left standing to argue with anybody about anything.” For some reason, perhaps because we both tend to vote for the same party, the line has stuck with me, and there may have even been an occasion where I myself