Derek, to Stephen: So basically, all the characters in this game have the AI of a crab. A crab that dropped out of special ed.
Overheard from the computer room several evenings ago:
Derek (in doorway to computer room): Steve, where's the case for Kingdom of Heaven? You watch it all the time. Stephen(playing a computer game): Huh? Derek: Where is the case for Kingdom of Heaven? Stephen: Huh? Derek: Where. Is. The. Case. For. Kingdom. Of. Heaven. How hard is that to understand? Stephen: Well, you should talk louder. Derek: I have strep throat, Steve! I can't talk louder. Stephen: Then stand closer.
Sometimes I think those two really need an agent.
In other news that doesn't involve wishing Jess' children were my own spawn, I would like to wish my seester the Squirl a very, extremely, intoxicatingly fabulous-as-Liberace birthday today! Please go over and give her some shit wish her a happy 21st birthday!
Oh, and Jess? You so owe me for not blogging what happened in the store last night, or with the couch stapling. It's all yours, baby!
Shock you all as this might, I must confess that I do not always have the most sophisticated taste in cuisine.
Don't get me wrong - there's nothing I like better than delicately gorging on sushi (even though someone won't allow me to wear my Towelie t-shirt to the sushi bar), or letting a wondrous filet mignon melt in my mouth like a priest on a choirboy. But that doesn't necessarily preclude my occasional (and by occasional, I mean frequent) shameful visits to such lowbrow establishments as McDonald's or Taco "might as well just smear it on your thighs now" Bell.
When I first noticed a local KFC/Long John Silver's, I proclaimed my delight. Jess laughed and said, "And I was just thinking, there's not enough Immodium in the world for that..."
I have eliminated a lot of deep-fried fast food from my diet, but there are times when one must indulge in the truly awful. Yesterday, my bank pissed me off in a major way. I mean muttering to myself, slamming my hand on the steering wheel, lookin' like a crazy person in traffic pissed off. There's this thing in my brain that makes me crave food that I know is terrible for me, and will make me feel sick later, whenever I am this pissed off. Maybe it's a passive/aggressive suicide attempt, I dunno.
Be that as it may, my first stop after the bank was Long John Silver's, where I surrendered to the greasy fish planks and breaded testicles hush puppies. My gut felt awful afterward, and my palate felt more violated than a broken stop sign. But a lot of my fuming anger had dissipated, drowned in the fat, and I was once more fit for semi-propah society.
Later on, as Jess and I were browsing the bargain section at Barnes and Noble - and let me just say, B&N beats the holy livin' shit outta Border's any day of the week - I mentioned that I'd had a little aggression therapy at Long John Silver's earlier.
Jess: I can live with the fact that you like that stuff, but I never want to watch you eat it. Me: So if I'm outta sight with my greasy food, I'm safe. Jess: Yeah, otherwise I would feel compelled to slap it out of your hands. Me: You'd slap the fish outta my hands? Jess: Yes, I would. Me: Can I quote you on that? Jess: Absolutely.
So if you happen to see me in Long Johns Silver's, or KFC, Pizza Hut, or anywhere else with grease drippin' off my chin? No paparazzi, please!
In other somewhat food-related news, I don't think there's been enough barfing around this blog lately. It's high time we fixed that, isn't it?
Sunday morning when I woke up, I stumbled into the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal, and as I was walking into the front room to eat, this adorable face greeted me:
I greeted the adorable face with an affable, "Hi, Hermione!"
Adorable face looked up at me, emitted a belch that would put legions of frat boys to shame, and then vomited an enormous helping of half-digested kibble at my feet. Put off my cereal, at least temporarily, I noticed upon closer inspection (with a paper towel in my hand) that this kibble came with a prize: one plastic bunny eye.
And no, you fuckers, I didn't get pictures of that, either.
As I've mentioned here before, my supposedly cat-free bedroom holds a nearly irresistable allure for the cats in this house. Since the little fuckers gang up on me and sneak in anyway, I've just resigned myself to the fact that I will occasionally have an inquisitive little feline visitor, and my best bet is to let him or her explore a bit, and then try to escort the intruder gently out the door at my first opportunity.
Shy little Nala was being pretty insistent at my door last night, and being the total suckaaah I am for her little orange face, I invited her in. She timidly walked the border of the room, sniffing here and there, ears alert, nose and whiskers active the entire time. Eventually, she came to the closet, and like any self-respecting cat, she had to see what was inside (well, I'mnot in there anymore).
I went about my business, assuming she wouldn't make any trouble while my back was turned, and harbored that assumption until I heard a little skritching sound. When I turned around, this is what I saw:
Poor Nala had gotten behind some tall boxes, and couldn't get a good enough grip to pull herself back up, and didn't have enough room to make the jump.
Now, seeing that, who wouldn't scramble to help the tiny, sweet li'l cat who just wasn't tall enough to do it herself?
You know who? The kind of bastard who would then grab her camera and take half a dozen shots before assisting, that's who.
While I did (eventually) rescue Nala, you shouldn't be surprised if you read someday that she's sucked the breath out of me in my sleep and now carries my soul, hers to torment for all eternity.
I guess that would mean it was curtains for me.
Ain't they cool? Jess made these for me, since there is some sort of plaid requirement of which I was unaware. I'm so grateful to her, because otherwise, I would have no clue as to the proper Muff Diver accessorization scheme. So much to keep track of! I sure as hell hope there are no membership fees.
She also put this groovy film on my windows, so I can shake it naked in my room all I want without causing the neighbors undue trauma.
Now nobody can see me in here being mean to the cats...
I've found out something about myself this weekend. And it's not good. Sometimes a journey of self discovery can be a positive thing, but you know what? That ain't the case this time.
I suck at house painting.
See, the better part of my room had been painted a lovely, deep, rich green color, but the corner section still needed paint where the desk had been. We didn't have enough of that green to do the two coats that would be required, but we did have most of a gallon of a lighter green. Jess decided that would be a good undercoat, then we could use the dark green over the top. So we slapped on the light green, waited for it to dry, then tested a little swatch of the dark green over top. Once that dried, you couldn't tell that spot from the rest of the wall that had been painted with two coats of the darker paint. Sweet! So I took the high road, she took the low road, and while neither one of us got to Scotland, the wall did get a second coat.
Somehow, though, I just didn't feel like my paint job was covering as well as hers. She finished before I did, and I continued on until I had the upper half of the wall covered. It was late at night, and I started to wonder if my eyes were just fucking with me, as they are wont to do when I attempt to distinguish between colors that are anywhere near each other on the spectrum, especially when I'm tired (and sober). It just seemed like a good idea to go to sleep and then everything would look better in the morning.
Only it didn't. In fact, the sunlight was an especially harsh critic. You could tell exactly where Jess' paint job stopped and mine started. It looked like I had been huffing household products while working. We sent Nick in to look and he came out, shaking his head, chuckling, and said, "It looks like some crazy camouflage shit in there!"
So Jess and I went out today to get another quart of the dark green for touch up. And she teased my bad-painting ass all over Lowe's, through the paint department, then over into kitchens and bathrooms, and all up and down the storage and organization aisle. When we picked up our paint, I asked her if she thought I could be trusted to touch up the wall.
The sentence hadn't even finished leaving my lips when she interjected, "I'll do it." No room for ifs, ands, or buts in that statement. It wasn't a question, it wasn't an offer, it was a flat statement of fact, a slightly nicer way of saying, "You are not allowed to brush anything on the walls in this house unless it is primer, because you are obviously even more mentally challenged than I had previously been led to believe."
She's not wrong.
Really, could it have looked any worse if I'd gotten drunk, put the brush between my ass cheeks, and painted it blindfolded? Jeez!
I also found out something else about myself earlier this week, and that's the fact that I am an incredible baby when I'm having my eyebrows tweezed. The way I sat there and yowled and bitched, you'd have thought Jess was ripping my eyeballs out while she was at it. My brows look a lot better for it, I'll admit, but Jesus parasailing Christ, I'd rather have the hair ripped out of my monkey any day!
A smooth monkey is a happy monkey. Is that a monkey smoothie?
And yet, though I am paintbrush challenged and a huge sissy about facial tweezing, I am still better off than the dumb fucker I saw in the grocery store earlier this week.
I'd gone in the store to buy some Vernors, because there is civilization in Illinois after all, and after I put it in the car, I rembered that I'd meant to buy a bottle of wine. When I came back in, I heard the most unsettling noise coming from the general area of the cash registers, like some wild animal had gotten its leg stuck in the dairy case. Of course, I had to look. Rounding the corner, I was rewarded with the vision of about half a dozen male store employees sitting on top of a particularly quarrelsome man, who turned out to be the source of the wild-animal bellowing. I don't know what he did to attract their attention in the first place, but he definitely wasn't reacting well to being detained. He struggled and tried to squirm and flop around, but the employees had him pinned down pretty well. The entire time this was going on, he alternated between his anally surprised elephant noises and screaming, loudly enough to be heard in the next section of the store that was separated by a lobby, "YOU'RE HURTING MEEEEE!!! I CAN'T BREEEEEEATHE!!!"
Um, no. I believe when one can't breathe, one cannot bleat and scream and make foolish noises that can be heard in the next store. And I have no doubt that it probably does hurt to be squashed under six men (no, smartass, I don't know from experience), but I was pretty sure it wasn't being done without reason. The dumb fuck continued his little demonstration the entire time I was in the liquor store, which was not a short wait, as there were about 20 customers checking out and only one register open, and when I left, there were four police cars waiting to escort Mr. Congeniality away.
I'll bet he cries when he gets his eyebrows tweezed to become someone's pretty bitch in the clink. And he probably can't paint a wall any better than I can.
Just because I'm allergic to them and they give me the equivalent of a respiratory infection if I nuzzle too long doesn't mean I am not completely smitten with cats. It's how I was raised, The Way of the Cat Worship, and a little breath-stopping allergy is no match for ingrained, deep-seated kitty love. You have to remember that my parents had cats already when I was born, and when my dad brought my mom and me home from the hospital the first time, he had to remind her, in all seriousness, to greet her other human children before she said hello to the cats. You see where I had no other choice but to be the way I am?
So imagine the ecstatic wheezing that has erupted in my bosom as I have flung myself into the midst of an even dozen felines. Every morning, I pop my barely adequate Clarinex (yes, going to see the doc soon and get some Singulair, I promise!) and then immerse myself in fluffy evil bliss when I give myself over to the cat horde.
My bedroom is supposed to be a cat-free zone, and it mostly is, but at least once a day, Wobbles breaches my security and scoots in with silvery stealth. When I turn around to fetch him, he wanders around the room with his best "I'm so innocent, not doing anything wrong, aren't I cute?" face and sniffs everything like it's new, like he didn't sneak in here and sniff the same things yesterday. Do I yell and squawk? Why, of course I do. I come in here and rage and roar and swoop down on poor frozen-ass Wobbles and scream "GET OUT OF MY ROOM, HELLSPAWN!" and then I throw him out and go kick the dogs to show him what could happen to him. Can't give those cat bastards an inch, you know. They know me as Hard-Ass Aunt Katy, The Mean One.
Ummmmmm....okay, I know that will cause riotous laughter amongst those who live with me, or even know me a little bit. Let's face it - I'm a soft touch. A sucker. A patsy. Those cats are planning to pin a murder on me, I know it, and my silly ass will go to jail thinking, "Well, I wouldn't want any of the little kitty kitties in trouble!" And then the cats will send me a pillow filled with their fur so I will never breathe right in prison, either.
When Wobbles sneaks in here, my reaction is more like "Oh, Wobbles, you silly nosy boy, you know you shouldn't be in here!" in a not tough voice. And then he jumps on my forbidden bed and rolls around, and buys himself an extra five minutes in here while I reel from the cuteness.
The animals have clearly discussed me and devised strategies to break me down based on my weaknesses, of which I have many where cats are concerned. Even tiny, shy little Nala perks up when I come around because she knows I will pet her ever so gently and then give her cheese. The whiskered bandits also know I'm the lady who brings 'em the giant tubs of catnip. Why aren't fucked-up humans half as cute as fucked-up cats? I do love my little stoner kitties.
I love them all, and make it a point to spend an unseemly amount of time each day making over any cat who appears in my line of sight. There is one cat, however, who has really snagged my heart, mind, and everlasting soul, and I have become her willing minion. Smidge, Smidge, evil cow cat of doom Smidge, all she need do is glance my way and I'm at her side immediately, bowing, scraping, and inquiring, "Yes, Mama Smidge, what bidding may I be blessed to do for you today, oh evil one?"
So far, she has not requested anything especially heinous from me, as her daughters Rowdy and Buttercup usually carry out collections, beatings, and hits for her. My servitude mostly consists of hours of petting as she swirls around me, and sneaking her bites of my food so the other cats don't see and demand the same. I adore this cat. When such a time comes that I am cured of my allergies, I fully intend to let Smidge sleep in my room and bite me in the face while I sleep.
I have been obsessed with Smidge for a long time now. My sickness finally culminated in one of the most vivid, strange dreams I've ever had.
In my dream, Jess was making informational pamphlets about each of her twelve cats. The one I picked up, of course, was the one about my cow kitty of doom. The cover had a picture of Smidge's face, with the title: Think you know something about me? I'm Smidge.
Inside, each page featured a fact about Smidge and a picture or a drawing of her. There was one page...god help me, I don't know what's wrong with my brain, but when I awoke, the image of that page was so vivid and immediate in my mind that I had to whip out the Photoshop and recreate it.
This, in all truth, is pretty much exactly what I saw in my dream:
Do you think I should put up a PayPal donation button to pay for the extensive therapy I obviously need? Or at least to pay for a few frames of cat bowling?
Because I am so old, I feel it is my duty to impart some of my hard-earned wisdom to You, the Internet as a Whole. You may thank me with tributes of crab and cream soda.
Never drink a six-pack of Miller Lite and then chug the better part of a fifth of Kessler's. If you ignore my advice and do it anyway, don't be surprised if you vomit with the velocity of a chunky cheetah.
If you are on the toilet, do not let anyone deliver exceptionally good news until you are done. Jumping for joy mid-defecation can result in hard-to-explain stains on the tile.
Don't forget to bring a towel.
I don't care what anyone thinks - Towelie is the best South Park character EVER. He even edges out Mr. Hanky, very slightly. And could it be anything other than kismet that the first night I wear my shirt, South Park airs a Towelie episode I've never seen? I'm still feeling a little disturbed over their depiction of Oprah's talking vagina, though. Too much is said about Oprah sticking all her fingers in it, and really, it's more than I can stand. Must...not...think...about...it...
If you're blue and you don't know where to go to, why don't you go where fashion sits? (Puttin' on the riiiiiitz!)
When you insist on continually irritating cats with your camera, don't be surprised when you wake up covered in revenge hairballs.
Here's some advice I wrote in junior high school, and it may be a little old fashioned, but I think it still resonates: Never try to have sex with a cassette tape. You will be disappointed.
Okay, that may just be the lamest list I've ever posted. I'm sorry, I used all my witty ideas at dinner tonight with Squirl and Ichabod.
Whatever you do, don't think about Oprah's vagina.
I just realized last night that I had never in my life decorated Easter eggs - at least, not that I can remember. I may have decorated houses and cars with eggs, but I don't believe I've ever actually decorated the eggs themselves.
Jess was shocked and appalled when I told her, and felt that should be rectified. So, after dinner last night, I had my first taste of egg adornment, as the boys and I stood over the kitchen counter and rendered the chicken by-products nigh unto unrecognizable. It was pretty fun, especially when I was told I could crayon anything I pleased onto the eggs before dye dipping them. I'm sure Jess will have pictures later.
For my part, I wanted to bring a little of my Catholic heritage to the Easter weekend, even if I don't practice anymore. I figured it was the least I could do after scrawling obscenities on the boys' Easter eggs.
What could be more Catholic than the Stations of the Cross? I thought it would be a most excellent idea if I could arrange to put on the Passion Play for the whole family.
It was the perfect plan. However, my star refused to cooperate, so the production was essentially a bust.
Wobbles was decidedly displeased with his starring role. And if you can't get the star to work, how can you expect the extras to be the least bit manageable? I had to scrap the whole thing.
Happy Easter to you all anyway, whether it's a religious day for you, an eggs-and-chocolate-bunnies day, or just another Sunday you can sleep late.
Oh, and in case you wondered: Wobbles wouldn't wear the bunny costume, either.
Right now, my room is a tangled maze of cardboard boxes crammed full of my stuff, boxes I brought in the car and boxes that have arrived via UPS and the postal service, boxes awaiting unpacking, categorizing, and storage of their contents. I have no comfortable place in my room from which to write these missives, so I have taken over Nick's desk in the computer room for when I actually want to sit up and type something. Sorry, Nick - I promise it's all yours again after I get a desk in my room.
The fact that my bedroom is in a total state of chaos does not seem to deter the cats, however. They are, in fact, completely fascinated by the fact that the door is closed and they are being denied entry. Somehow, that makes the thought of a feline strut through my scattered belongings even more delicious to them.
Did I mention I'm allergic to the cats? And that allergy meds and a cat-free bedroom allow me to continue breathing even as I enjoy their whiskery, cheeky companionship? Yeah, that makes it even more imperative to the cats that they be allowed access to my room, my stuff, my bed.
They want in so very, very much. Like, this much:
This is what I saw under my door Friday morning. Weebles very nearly flattened herself enough to slide under the door like a love note from a shy, greasy neighbor.
Almost every time I open that door, there are cats lurking, just waiting for a moment of weakness, a second of vigilance dropped. The little bastards often work in pairs, where one will distract me while another one shoots through the door into forbidden territory. And every time I see it, and go back in to evict the intruder, the sneaky cat will inevitably scoot right under the Play-Doh table, as if it's a cloak of invisibility. I do a bit of cat wrangling.
Wobbles is especially intrigued with my forbidden bedroom. Perhaps he likes the frozen ass treatment - I'll have to get back to you on this one. I'm thinking, though, that it might be advantageous of me to have Buttercup in my room, as she is fierce and does not shrink from battle where it is needed.
Buttercup puts the smackdown on Elle Driver.
I'm a little worried about my influence on the impressionable youngsters in the house, though. I worry that they will try to emulate me, and I am certainly no role model. As you can see here, my fears are not unfounded, as one youngster has taken to posing just like I do whenever the opportunity presents itself:
For shame, Hermione. For shame.
On a deleriously excellent note, however, I found a store in the neighborhood that sells Vernors! I'd brought some with me, as it's usually hard to find outside Michigan, but now I shall not have to hoarde, nor will I have to beg my sister to send me cases of the delightfully spicy ginger ale. Now, if I can just find somewhere around here where they sell Made Rite (same as Better Made) chips, I will be one extra happy little pervert.
Um, not that I'm not a happy little pervert now, but you know - a pervert is always happiest when acts of perversion can be bookended by one's favorite soda and chips.
Katy is moving now. You would not believe the number of tchotchkes that are going with her. And I don't even mean just the battery-operated kind. If you have emailed her in the last week or so and she has not responded, it's only because she's been running around like a chicken with its head stuck in a KFC takeout bag for days now, finalizing arrangements and shoving unbelievable amounts of stuff into boxes (no, not like that).
She will be tied up - and not in any fun leathery way - for the next couple of days, but she promises to come back on Wednesday when the move is complete. And then she will have many, many, many things to say to you all, when the proverbial spilling of the beans commences.
Sure, she doesn't really have the Wienermobile, which is a shame, as it looks like it could hold all kinds of tchotchkes and guitars. But, nonetheless, isn't the Wienermobile just fun to look at?
Please stare at the big wiener until Wednesday. You know you want to.
Some things never change. I still fall asleep on the couch, in those very jammies. The main difference is, I take up a lot more room on the couch and in the jammies now.
And who knew I could poop notebooks when I was a kid? I'm really sorry I lost that uncanny ability - damn, that sure would've come in handy during college.
Of course, sometimes the stuff on this blog comes right outta my ass, so maybe that hasn't really changed either; my ass has just gone high tech.
Now comes the totally unrelated but completely TMI portion of this post, in case anyone wants to run for cover now while the opportunity is presenting itself.
I couldn't get an appointment with the gal who usually does my waxing (yes, I'll be referring indirectly to my genitals here, just in case you forgot to run screaming yet), and she's the only one at that spa who does a brazilian, so I decided what the hell, and tried a new spa.
Originally, I was scheduled to go in at 6 this evening, but they called and asked if I would reschedule for 8:45 a.m. Oh, nice way to wake up! But I really wanted the appointment, so I agreed. It wasn't such a bad idea when I thought about it - as addled as I usually am first thing in the morning, by the time I knew what was happening, the deed would be done, and I would no longer have a shrubbery in my pants.
The waxer was really pleasant, considering she was about to look my monkey in the face at 8:45 a.m. - I give the girl points for courage. And, for the record, she neither gagged nor vomited during the procedure, so I've come to the conclusion that my other waxer is just a big sissy.
This girl was also a lot more thorough than I'm used to - she was determined that no strays would get by on her watch. At one point, she was doing something, but it definitely wasn't waxing. It felt like she was poking me with a little needle, and that wasn't usually part of the routine. Hmmmmmmm......finally, when I could resist no longer, I blurted out:
"You're not givin' me a tattoo down there, are you?"
She laughed - I really don't think she expected that, especially not first thing in the morning - and said no, she was tweezing that which would not volunteer to the wax. I expressed my relief.
"That's really good," I told her as she mercilessly tweezed, "because if I looked in the mirror and it said BITCH across my crotch, we'd have a problem."
Do you now begin to understand why I can't keep a gynecologist or a waxer for more than one or two visits? There's just nothin' like staring into the Lips of Doom with third-rate comedy patter in the background. I would have to imagine it's unnerving for even a seasoned professional to work under those circumstances.
So, there are your choices for the weekend: whining about my sore back, or discussion of my genitals and removal of foliage from same. Ain't you the lucky ones?
Since (almost) everyone was so nice about my sore back (yes, Mr. B - I'm givin' you the evil eye), I thought I'd reward you with the best portrait ever taken of me. Photoshoppery courtesy of Wife of Arjay, chapped ass courtesy of me and a thousand buffets.
ps - seriously, somebody please come pull the knife out!
Ever since I woke up this morning, I've had the sensation of a sharp object lodged under my left shoulderblade. I've had a really active day, which means I've had the constant reminder of it every time I move.
It's possible this was caused by the way I slept last night, but just in case it's something else, I'd like to cover all my bases. So, I beseech you: if you have a voodoo doll of me and you're gleefully prodding me with a big hat pin, or if you're somehow symbolically stabbing me in the back, please knock it off. This really fucking hurts! Thank you in advance for your cooperation.
What I'm about to tell you will come as a shock to absolutely no one. But it helps if I make this point now, and then throughout the following story.
I am a dork. This will be reiterated later, but just keep it in mind.
Last week, I had the house to myself for about five days. I usually do all my computer work upstairs, but with two laptops, a wireless network, and the house all to my lonesome, I could fathom no reason why I shouldn't turn the living room into a command center. And I did just that - two laptops, one on a folding chair, one on a wooden TV tray, me on the couch, the TV right in front of me, a stack of rented DVDs, and upwards of eight remote controls within reach. Let the pizza delivery commence.
Of course, I have a lot more to do right now than lie about the house, multitasking with a mouse in one hand and the DVD remote in the other. Perhaps I mentioned earlier here that I purchased a set of speakers for my computer, and while the house was all mine, I hooked them up to my Dell laptop. Yes, yes, there is a stereo system in the living room, with big honkin' speakers, and a CD jukebox with nearly 400 discs in it. But that's not the point, is it? I had new speakers. New speakers must be tested, even in the face of a superior sound system. I had to know if the new gear would rock the nuts off a bull the way I needed it to. So my music for the week was taken from the iTunes on my Dell.
Here's where I remind you again: I'm a dork. Thanks. Carry on.
There were other things I needed to be doing around this house, like getting my shit the hell out of here, so I'd let my iTunes library go, right through my ballsy new speakers, and wander the house, gathering, sorting, discarding, packing...wherever I went in the house, I could hear my music with no problem. The speakers seemed to have been an excellent purchase, and I was well pleased with myself as I schlepped stuff up and down the stairs.
The command center was a delightful thing for when I had finished my work for the day; I could lounge on the couch, dink around online, watch movies, eat crap food, and snooze, all without getting up. About three nights into all this, I'd watched a couple of movies and surfed as hard as I could without waves and a board, so I decided to go in the next room and stretch out on the bed for a while. See, in my perfect world, I'd wake up for a few hours, nap for a couple of hours, wake up for a few more hours, nap for a few more...you get the idea. And since I am not gainfully employed right now, and the house was mine all mine for a few days, I saw no reason not to live just like I wanted. So I dozed off in the bedroom for what I anticipated to be a nap.
Checkpoint: A dork is writing this. But you knew that.
It wasn't long after I fell asleep that I heard the three sharp, commanding raps on the front door. That woke me up with a nasty start, and I looked at the clock. Who the fuck would have legitimate need to pound on my door at 1 in the morning? Somebody who wants to dismember me for grins? A cop? The possibilities were racing through my sleep-addled head as I pulled on my sexy, sexy bathrobe. The part that was really confounding me the most, though, was Snickers' reaction to the whole thing. Or non-reaction, I guess, if I'm to be totally accurate here. He hadn't missed a beat of his rhythmic, snorty snoring. Some protection this mutt was providing his mom who'd been spoiling him with all manner of dog treats all week . I kind of nudged him and said, "Snickers!" in my most incredulous "what the fuck?" voice.
I'm a big sissy when shit happens in the middle of the night and I have no human companion in the house. I clutched my robe around me and wondered if I should be carrying a weapon of some kind as I made my way to the front door with dread in the pit of my stomach. Once I made myself go into the vestibule, I raised up on my tiptoes to peer out the sunburst window. The porch light had been left on, and there was no one in sight. Great. So somebody was playing ding dong ditch it with me at 1 in the morning? I was trying to decide whether to be worried or annoyed, when I heard another sound that cut through the still night and the thumping of my heart.
The sound went prrrrringgggggg! like a fairy rubbing its magical, hairless ass against a zither.
Now, in my own defense, when I use the computer, I quite often have the sound turned off, and am not used to all the noises that come out of the damn thing, especially when it has thumpin' speakers attached, speakers that a certain dork forgot to turn off before she went to bed. But I knew instantly what the fairy's ass on a zither sound was: it was the sound of a chat contact sending me an IM.
And the knocking was, um...the sound of my contact signing into chat.
You see, that's why Snickers didn't bark: he's not a dork.
I can hear the grumbling now. "No more goddamn pictures, you lazy slut! When's the last time you wrote us anything? Can you just toss us aside so easily, Miss Assless Packrat?"
While it's true that the last couple of posts have been all about keeping the content fresh while keeping the effort low, I have to say in my defense - how could I not share me in a tiny wedding dress, followed by me in a prom dress? What kind of sick, goat worshipping one-two punch is that, and how utterly wrong would it be for me to keep it all to myself?
But yes, I am a lazy blogger.
There has been more to do here in preparing to leave than I ever thought possible; it doesn't feel right for me to still be here, I'm pushing myself to get through all this with all due haste, and as a result, I am incredibly, crushingly, oppressively stressed out right now. I've sorted through so many photos that I feel like my life just flashed in front of my eyes, but not in an "I'm gonna die!' way - nothing so dramatic, more of a retrospective slideshow, watched from a fairly uncomfortable chair. There have been a few pictures along that way that have made me suddenly bark with laughter, and then throw them aside for immediate scanning. I figure, if they're funny enough to break up my monster tension, then they might well be worth sharing.
You can barely see the lobotomy scar anymore...
Dig on my eggbeater hair style. Combine that with the just-about-to-drool, retarded-deer-in-headlights quality of my facial expression, and you have a pretty accurate portrait of what I look like first thing in the morning.
Maybe I should make business cards. Will humiliate self publicly for cheap laughs and crab legs.
For all of you who cast aspersions on my purity, by way of my assless chaps fixation, I'd like to direct you to a heartwarming photo from that one day when I was seven years old and I symbolically married Jesus Christ...
Okay, that's a little creepy when I put it that way, isn't it? Let's just call it my First Communion day and leave it at that.
Squirl, the virgin Bucky, Mom, the virgin Rebel
OH, IT GETS WORSE!
Lookie what I found...
'80s PROM ATTIRE STRIKES BACK! 1984, Senior Prom (his - I graduated in '83). I like how they left the little duct-tape X marker visible. Or maybe one of us was supposed to be on it. And after closer examination of this picture, I've concluded that it wasn't me who turned my boyfriend gay. I think nature took care of that for me.
"If a picture paints a thousand words Then why can't I paint you (with a thick coating of jizz)?" The original version of that sappy-ass Bread Song
I don't have a lot to say tonight. So let me whip out the slide show.
If my hair could magically turn this color and never fade, that'd be awesome, thanks!
Holy knees, Batman! Circa 1996, Singing Mammogram gig at Churchill's in Flint, MI. Why did I think those jeans were cool at any time after 1989? But check out the extremely surfalicious, bad-ass Jag-Stang guitar I'm brandishing.
Seconds from sliding off the couch. Probably 1986. I'm sporting a hangover, which was not at all unusual for me in those days.
And finally, the best of today's batch: This is my niece, probably in 1989 or so (she will be 21 this Thursday). I would guess that the mud bath was not her idea.