The Ramble Begins

Welcome to my chaotic corner of the internet!

This isn’t some tidy blog wrapped up in a bow—it’s more like glitter in a wind tunnel. And I hate glitter. It’s my personal nightmare. There’s still glitter on my basement floor from those cursed Christmas bags years ago. It multiplies. It taunts me. It wins.

Some days I’m deep in painting, throwing color like it owes me money. Other days, I’m “fixing” things that never asked for my help—like our GE Opal countertop ice machine I confidently took apart because I was sure I could fix it. Thirty minutes later, my counter looked like a mechanical autopsy, and the machine was pronounced deceased. I did what any self-respecting DIY optimist would do: tossed it and bought a new one. I mean, who needs ice anyway? It’s not like I’m hosting a polar bear party.

And see—this is exactly what The Ramble is all about. The reason I even had to buy that countertop ice machine in the first place was because the one built into my refrigerator—the stupid kind that lives inside the door, where logic goes to die—also broke. I tried to thaw it out with my blow dryer one too many times, and, well… I melted the tray. So, I said “screw that,” waved goodbye to that part of the appliances dignity, and ordered the fancy ice machine that I later dissected like a mad scientist.

If you waltzed in here expecting order, bless your heart—you’re as lost as a cat in a dog park on a rainy day. Drenched, feet dragging, whiskers drooping, trudging home in search of sympathy. The same cat, by the way, that was specifically told not to go outside. But like every cat ever, it threw its tail up, stuck its nose in the air, and strutted off like, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” That cat probably thinks it’s the John McClane of the feline world—“Yippee-ki-yay, mother fluffers.”

If you thrive on a bit of beautiful madness, pull up a chair (or a pogo stick, or an emotional support duck—we don’t judge). Things get wilder than a squirrel on espresso and twice as unpredictable. And I should know—up in our family mountain place, the squirrels actually are like that. They chirp, dash, and taunt like red bull parkour experts. Get too close, and they don’t run—they square up like tiny, furry kangaroos ready to throw hands. They own the place. I just pay the mortgage.

Sometimes I’m ranting about my houseplant plotting against me—yeah, I see you, Mr. Plant; other times I’m creating something so questionable that even Picasso would mutter, “You okay?” And yes, I’m fueled by my amino-acid energy drink in my trusty adult sippy cup—because gravity and I have an ongoing feud, and I’m losing. I’m not winning any awards for “Most Graceful.”

The Ramble is where brilliance, cosmic nonsense, and mild mischief collide. If you made it this far without dropping your drink, you’re already one of us. Buckle up, buttercup—it’s about to get delightfully unhinged. This is the internet equivalent of jumping off a building and hoping for the best. Welcome to the party!

Ode to The Ramble

The paint dries crooked, the plans fall through,

The ice machine screams, “What did you do?”

The squirrels revolt, the plants all plot,

And somehow the chaos still hits the spot.

The glitter persists, the ducks disobey,

The muse shows up, then wanders away.

But in this mess, this beautiful din,

Disorder’s the art—and we always win.

– From the desk of Disorderly Studio, where creative accidents get tenure.