tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495575267203438172024-03-05T09:41:44.457-06:00Really?! Seriously?! Are You Kidding Me?!Something that might be funny, if you happen to enjoy being tickled by an older broad with anger issues and a low tolerance for Stupidity.The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-69774333771213713682009-11-04T15:11:00.000-06:002009-11-04T15:12:08.830-06:00Today, My Toaster Spoke To Me<p><strong>Today My Toaster Talked To Me</strong></p><p>Today my toaster spoke to me,</p><p>Of all of the things that she could see --</p><p>A spoon-rest, the stove</p><p>The microwave,</p><p>the mixer, she says, who</p><p>Does not behave.</p><p>I listened, I learned, I stood there and trembled,</p><p>Frightened to find my mind disassembled.</p><p>What in the world? Oh,</p><p>How could this be --</p><p>Inanimate objects were talking to me!</p><p>Would I now write</p><p>like a monkey on crack?</p><p>Produce nothing but drivel,</p><p>Turn into a hack?</p><p>Then the spatula shouted, "Don't believe all that tripe!</p><p>When you are in doubt, write a stereotype!</p><p>Paint a broad, foolish stroke -- use clichés and</p><p>Weak tricks; and when people notice</p><p>You can call them all pricks."</p><p>The coffee pot chuckled and grinned fiendishly,</p><p>But I know his affliction -- bipolarity.</p><p>And I cannot remember a thing that he said,</p><p>Milquetoast ramblings rarely stay in my head.</p><p>The toaster then whined,</p><p>"Pay attention <em>RIGHT HERE!</em></p><p>You know that <em>my</em> talents kick <em>yours</em> in their rear.</p><p>I've pointed that out, more often than not,</p><p>But you are the one</p><p>undeservedly hot. "</p><p>I glanced at the toaster and</p><p>Swallowed my pity,</p><p>Reminded myself that</p><p>The toaster writes shitty.</p><p>The kitchen then slowed into something like stillness,</p><p>I knew, for a fact,</p><p>this was <em>some</em> mental illness.</p><p>I could have said something, I could have been cruel,</p><p>But <em>I</em> do not deign to respond to a fool.</p><p>There may be some hatred, and</p><p>A whole lot of tension,</p><p>At least I lay claim to</p><p>Reading comprehension.</p><p>And when you are leaving, I cannot say more</p><p>Than good luck to you, sweetheart --</p><p>Watch your ass with that door.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-85169749192772881042009-11-03T15:53:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:53:23.203-06:00Even MORE Pants Letters<div class="articleText"> <p>Dear Gigantic Electronics Retailer:</p><p>Good afternoon. How's every little thing since I left your Overland Park location? I'll bet things were humming along just fine after my visit this morning. Well, as fine as any gigantic retail cavern can hum while the employees are aspirating corporate puke, that is. What a fine time I had earlier with Jeff and your other helpful employee, my ex-boyfriend, whom I normally refer to as Satan's retarded little brother, but we'll call "Pickled," for our time together today. </p><p>You know, I debated myself this morning. Your OP location is close enough that I could, basically, put my car in gear and drift there (except for two traffic lights, you are directly across the street and down a slight "grade," which, in Kansas, qualifies as a "hill.") But Pickled works there, doing the sort of OCD-driven tasks that make him your MVP just about every month. Yes, he truly is able to excel in a position with your company that speaks to just about every fucked up and sociopathic neuron in his skull. You've hit pay-dirt there -- Pickled walks in and gives free reign to his bi-polarity and control issues. It's a marvelous trade off: He gets a decently-sized pile of money with which to buy pint bottles of Hobo Vodka, and you get the technical brilliance of Heinrich Himmler.</p><p>So, I debated whether or not to drive less than a quarter of a mile or bite the bullet and take a good twenty minutes out of my day to go to your Olathe location. In the end, my sloth, lethargy and cheapness won out, so in a way, I suppose I asked for it, made my own bed and burned a blister on my own ass. I accept that. But seriously, Alliterative Electronics Giant, I've got to know: what the <em>fuck</em> is with your hiring standards? You had me by the proverbial balls, I'll give you that. But I get the feeling you <em>enjoyed</em> it... a little <em>too</em> much. At least, Pickled did; of that, I am certain. And I guess I do sort of owe you a bit of an apology for my nasty language earlier; I still think it was my due, though. </p><p>Last night, as I was sitting here, minding my own business and looking at email porn, I suddenly smelled something that was, at the very least, "not cool." It smelled kind of ozone-y and crisp, if you get what I'm saying. When I first moved here to the Mighty Midwest, I lived in a different, brand-spanking new apartment complex, in a freshly constructed apartment. One night, while watching a <em>Friends</em> rerun with my daughter, I smelled a similar scent. It turned out that my furnace was on <em>fire;</em> the sort of fire that made me wonder if Steve McQueen was crouched behind the water heater. I grabbed for the fire extinguisher and blasted away. I can assure you that experience falls so firmly under the heading of "Totally Not Awesome," that remembering it brings a tear to my eye and I can recall the odor perfectly. </p><p>So you might understand why I almost had an apoplectic fit last night when I smelled it, again. Of course, I ran to my furnace (which is no longer in a room, but is, in this complex, imbedded in the <em>wall</em>, and, <em>ergo,</em> harder to get at. ) I can't decide if I was more horrified or delighted when I realized it was not my furnace and two things simultaneously happened: My son yelled, "What the fuck is going on with the internet?" from behind his closed door, and my daughter screamed like someone had yanked her hair out by the roots. </p><p>Thinking quickly, I decided my daughter was probably either the source of the smell or damned near to it, so I ran in her direction. When I reached her, standing in the center of my bedroom, she was pale and pointing at my LynkSys router, which was sparking and<em> hissing --</em> yes, "hissing." You know how, in the Road Runner cartoons, the fuse on the dynamite gets louder the shorter it gets? Same thing. So I ran for a fire extinguisher again...</p><p>Except the cat saw me coming, and she's convinced that any time I enter the kitchen area, it's time for her to eat, so she darted off of the couch and directly between my feet. </p><p>Which meant I went sailing head-long into the bookcase. Then the dog, assuming the cat had finally set in motion her evil, Bolshevik-like plan, came to my rescue, which is quite sweet and makes me proud, except his timing sucked and just as I was righting myself, <em>he</em> tripped me and I ended up sprawled across the kitchen table with no real memory of what the hell I was supposed to be doing. </p><p>Thankfully, my daughter's strangled cry of, "MOM!" refreshed my memory and I was able to grab the fire extinguisher. </p><p>After forcibly yanking the router from every connection that moored it in place (all the while making bargains with Jesus,) I blasted the damned thing. Trust me when I tell you our former LynkSys is cooked. It's a melted, puddly pool of what used to be wireless connectivity and goodness. The little green lights that I found so comforting when they blinked at me with a shyly spastic familiarity are history. </p><p>And we are <em>not</em> the sort of people who are able to live in the primitive conditions of our anscestors who used telephones and the US Mail to keep in contact with the outside world. This situation would need to be addressed ASAP, but it was post-closing time of any electronics retailer, so I knew "ASAP" meant "AM." After getting some affairs in order, I settled in, thinking I'd get to sleep early. But the smell of dead LynkSys was thick in my nostrils and I worried about whether or not inhaling it might cause cancer. I smoked a good five cigarettes while I tried to figure that out. Finally, I decided that I'd sleep in the living room, which isn't a bad proposition. As I like to say, "There's a lot of sleep stored in my couch." And, normally, there is, if war has not broken out between a now contrite (or at least "scared of starvation") cat and an overprotective Yorkshire Terrier who's grape-sized brain is running on 500 ml of hatred and aggression. It was the animal kingdom's equivalent to the Bosnian situation a few years back. </p><p>This explains why I was so cranky when I initially walked into your establishment this morning. I had a total of maybe two hours sleep, all of it broken, and I seriously do not think I managed to brush all of the cat hair out of my teeth. I don't know what sort of mood <em>you,</em> Gigantic Electronics Retailer, would be in if you awakened repeatedly, to either a cat on your head or a dog on your face, trying to remove that cat. I would be interested to know, if you felt like sharing. </p><p>Surly, too; I was quite surly. Since you initially sold me the LynkSys, I sort of blame you for all of this, tangentially. But I was willing to let bygones be bygones and just replace the damned thing. And then, I was confronted with Jeff.</p><p>Jeff was ruthlessly and relentlessly happy this morning, in a way that makes me think handfuls of amphetamines and a few swigs off of E. Bruno's Hobo Flask are involved in some way. Jeff kept telling me to "Cheer up!" and insisting that I'd be "good to go" in no time at all. I was willing to overlook the blathering of this obvious idiot until he said a phrase that struck fear and terror in my heart. I'll tell you what -- I couldn't have been any more afraid at that moment if he'd said, "Let's go in the back and you can watch me have unlawful carnal relations with your dead mother and a baby I stole from the mall!" </p><p>Jeff said, "Hey! Aren't you Pickled's girlfriend? Let me get him over here." </p><p>You might want to have Jeff's hearing and comprehension skills checked <em>immediately</em> because I could not make him understand that no, I most certainly <em>did not</em> want Pickled to come over and assist in my purchase. But Jeff, a weird surfer-boy transplant to Kansas, insisted it was <em>no problem</em>, even shouting me down at one point which is impressive, because I screamed "DO NOT DO THAT!" at the the decibel level my daughter taught me last night. But Jeff didn't care. </p><p>So in the five minutes that it took Pickled, the gimping fucktard, to ooze his way from appliances to Computer Accessories, Jeff and I had a staring contest. In a way, I feel kind of bad, because Jeff was all fresh-faced and pleased with himself, kind of like a puppy that pees on your rug because he doesn't know any better. I, on the other hand, was imagining opening Jeff's head with a ball peen hammer and then eating his brains and bits of crushed skull like yogurt & granola. </p><p>I told you I was cranky. </p><p>And yes -- I could have left right then, but I was <em>there</em>, you know? I was where I needed to be and the <em>things</em> I needed to buy were right there, too. The idea of picking up and leaving and maybe encountering a whole new Jeff made me almost weep and stayed my feet. The next Jeff might have <em>breasts</em> or something, and "Perky" + "Breasts" = "Pants in a Black-out Rage." The Devil I know is better than the one I don't, so I stood there, wishing an STD on Jeff and waiting to see someone I'd hoped was dead in a ditch. </p><p>Pickled showed up and told me I was looking well. Jeff looked confused. I snarled. Oh, we were one big group of Happy Dys-Fun-ction, there in Computer Accessories. Pickled wanted to know what happened to the old router. I repeated to him my assertion that he fucks his mother. Jeff looked afraid. Pickled put a forced smile on his face and told me how truly sorry he is. I once again, redundantly told him he fucks his mother, tossing in "You limp-dicked son of a whore," just to spice it up a bit. Jeff started to edge away, with a look on his face that clearly said, "I don't know if this is the prelude to a murder or a sex game, but I should probably go get some help." </p><p>Pickled gestured for Jeff to come back. Jeff looked confused and wary. Again, like a dog, he edged his way back toward us. When I reminded him I just wanted to buy a "fucking router," he looked confused, like we'd been playing fetch and I'd fake-thrown the stick. He grabbed a router and mindlessly started yammering about ports and gigs and something that sounded like "anus," to me and that's when I realized I <em>needed</em> Pickled there, at least for this part. Pickled set up the initial network while I made cream puffs. I remember that afternoon very well; the normally well-received yumminess of pastry + pudding was largely ignored because FaceBook could be accessed <em>any where in the apartment</em>. Oh, happy teenaged day!</p><p>Because I am an opportunistic, cold and calculating bitch, I allowed Pickled to select my router and I even graciously availed myself of his generous employee discount. I probably shouldn't have quite loudly tossed the comment, "Thanks a fucking lot, you abusive fucking fuck and I hope they find your remains in multiple dumpters, Asshole," over my shoulder at your mentally unstable management shithead, but we have a history. </p><p>So, I guess I am kind of sorry for airing my dirty laundry in public. But honestly, Gigantic Electronics Retailer, you should really check some people out before you hire them. </p><p>COntritely Yours,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Still surly But At Least Satisfied</p><p>CC: Time-Warner Cable</p><p>BCC: Gather-At-Large</p><p>______________________________</p><p>Dear Time-Warner Cable:</p><p>Attached, please find a letter that will fill in some backstory for you about how I came into yet more contact with your "delightful" and "friendly" customer service representatives, even though I vowed that I would never, ever, <em>ever</em> put myself in that position, again. </p><p>Today's Viet-Cong-like enforcer was named, "Abdeel," but we're going to continue along that Soviet-theme Fyodor started a few months back and call him "Rasputin." Humor me, okay? Read the other letter. It's been a bad day. </p><p>Hooking up a wireless router should be pretty damned easy, when you think about it. You'd probably just read the directions and proceed accordingly. Except that, as the attached letter confirms, I had no choice but to rip my former router forcibly from the wall when it recently became an electronic deathtrap. In doing so, I recognize that I am at fault in tearing a portion of the cable and some hardware inherent to same <em>from</em> the wall. I get that -- but put yourself in my shoes for a second. Something is smoking and threatening impending explosion and/or conflagration and what do you do? Gingerly unplug everything? Gently loosen the connections? I think not. Knowing you people, as I do, I suspect you'd get the employees together for a month-end weenie roast as a congratulatory reception for hitting their quota of customers that will never call and "bother" you on the 800 number again. I think it's a strange way to view the responsibilites of servicing customers, but this ain't my first rodeo. I'm pretty hip to your score. </p><p>When I called Rasputin and told him I needed to schedule a <em>prompt</em> service call, I think his chuckling was a tad bit unprofessional. I overlooked that, though. My mom used to tell me all the time that thing about catching more flies with "honey" and not "vinegar." I've never seen a real, true need for a large amount of flies at any one given time, but I get the message. So, I politely repeated my request. </p><p>Rasputin, well... I don't want to say Rasputin <em>guffawed</em>, but it was pretty damned close. And if you'll refer back to that attached letter, you'll see I didn't have a lot of sleep last night. What little patience I have tends to evaporate quickly in instances when I am sleep deprived -- and faced with a smarmy moron who has less of a command of the English language than your average housecat. I now officially take back my congratulations and previous warm wishes at your refusal to outsource. </p><p>You know, I don't mean to be insensitive here because I truly do not typify or class my fellow man, but Rasputin sounded so curiously like the character, Apu, from <em>The Simpsons</em>, that I almost said (twice,) "Okay, Hank Azaria! Quit fucking with me!" But I couldn't, because TWC isn't going to punk me on the phone. No, you save <em>that</em> sort of behavior for your billing which is based, I suspect, on planetary positions and drunk monkey-races. It is the only logical explanation to me as to why my "Pay This Amount" varies so wildly. </p><p>But, back to Rasputin. He informed me (I think,) that the soonest I could get an actual flesh and blood service technician into my home was on May... <strong>23</strong>. To which I quite incredulously responded, "Get the fuck out of here!" I couldn't have been more surprised if Rasputin had told me he was wearing poor Fyodor's skin like a cape. I immediately apologized for my potty-mouth, and I reiterate that apology here, but really -- the <strong><em>23rd of May</em></strong>?!</p><p>Rasputin, who I will give credit to for being extremely good-humored in the face of other peoples' problems, then <em>giggled</em>. As each of my calls into your customer service center has a theme of sorts, this one is best described as, "The Pants are Condescended To and Laughed At." That's a pretty interesting gimmick you've got going, and I'll bet training sessions are a blast, but from a customer standpoint, it kind of, um... SUCKS, and I can't rightly tell you if I prefer talking to someone who is so profoundly mentally retarded that I am stunned into silence, or someone who finds himself so vastly superior to those he is allegedly helping as to be clinically narcissitic. </p><p>Rasputin informed me that because I was a non-emergency service call, I wasn't a priority. I wanted to know what. exactly, is the definition of a "cable emergency." I know that you people have added some interesting features, like Caller ID on my TV screen, but you haven't managed to splice into anybody's respirator or anything, have you? For the first time, Rasputin failed to find the funny and he actually told me, in quite the stern, big-boy, lilting voice, that "Cable is a serious business." </p><p>Amazed as I was, I almost apologized. And since I was developing a headache that would merely laugh at and steal Advil's lunch money, I decided to cut my losses, agree to the ridiculously long wait for service and go eat one of my "root canal" pills that I only take on special occassions, like when I'm convinced I have a tumor or I just need to be unconscious and unaware of my life for a bit. They provide me with a six hour, near-coma like slice of peace that beer can only aspire to attain. </p><p>But I had to walk the dog first. I'm pretty sure that the sight of a woman, walking a dog and muttering to herself is pretty disturbing. That's my normal routine. The vision of a woman, walking a dog and actually audibly arguing with herself about former boyfriends and asshole cable company employees, however, probably looks damned crazy with a special dash of dangerous, which is how I got the attention of my favorite maintenance guy, Duane. Duane, in his slightly Lenny from <em>Of Mice and Men</em> way, immediately came to my apartment and fixed the cable connection. Then, in an orgasmic moment of "Where the fuck did <em>this</em> come from?!" Surprise, he proceeded to hook up my new router and get all three laptops online. He dusted his hands off with a deserved pride and spun around in my office chair, looking very much pleased with himself. </p><p>I am not ashamed to say that I was so happy and relieved, I almost promptly fell to my knees and gave hm a blowjob. I didn't, but I thought about it. Duane told me that he worked for you guys back in the day, but that his supervisor and the higher ups were real douchebags, so he quit. Now, he gets a break on his rent and this maintenance gig is a lot less of a hassle. He even gave me his cell phone number and told me to call him if I ever had cable problems again. I offered him the $35 bucks I would have paid your technician for a service call, but he waved it away. He said it just felt good, sticking it to TWC and helping me, all at once. </p><p>Duane even hung around as I called your wonderfully helpful 800 number back and spoke with "Kaleel." I cancelled my service call. Guess who's laughing <em>now</em>, motherfuckers?! That's right -- me and Duane. </p><p>Gleefully Yours,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Current Customer and Former Ass-Puppet.</p><p>_____________________</p><p> Dear Manager of the Apartment Complex Where I Reside:</p><p>I am dropping you this short note today to compliment you and your employee, Duane in Maintenance, on being such a wonderfully helpful and fabulous presence in our community. Enclosed please find a belt which I would like for Duane to have as a token of my appreciation and gratitude for helping me with a non-Complex related issue early today. </p><p>As I spent a good a five minutes with Duane crouched under my desk, I am <em>certain</em> this gift will benefit him (and my fellow residents,) immensely. </p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Happy Resident</p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-34699895455004771762009-11-03T15:52:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:52:45.280-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode II: Them!My friend, the inimitable Uncle Al, is an attractive little alcoholic gimp, who now lives but a driver and a pitching wedge away from me. While we are in two different subdivisions, we have discovered that there is a shortcut between houses that takes most of the guesswork out of becoming shitfaced reprobates (our only shared useful talent.) I have known Al since shortly after moving to Kansas, and he is a terrific friend, mostly because Al moved into his condo from a legitimate house, so he has plenty of lawn and garden implements that I tend to need to borrow, as I own none of my own. He also has a Sam's Club membership and a refirgerator full of free beer. Now, before you get the idea that I am using Al, let me tell you this:<br /><br />I am. While Al drives almost anywhere, does minor home repair, and has a particular talent for looking at an issue or problem and pronouncing, in his slow, rural Missouri drawl, "Yep. Yer fucked," it <em>does</em> fall on my shoulders to handle the housewifely things, like cleaning his toilets and making sure he has vegetation in a non-hoppy, non-liquid form. Let's call us "mutually parasitic." That's the best way to go with it (less guilt for me.) But Al and I are nothing more than friends, and most people find it almost biblically terrifying to know that we now live so close to each other and drink together, frequently. Those "people," of course, include the FOWs. <br /><br />Al and I struck a bargain on Friday night: If he would drive to Sunday Tavernacle Services, for all the beer I could drink (brave man,) I would feed him Sunday dinner. Al is in his mid fifties, but manages to hang with the 20-Something set, frequently, because he has daughters in that age group who like to party with dad, and really -- I don't blame them. I question Al's sanity, but... So when Al called me on Sunday at 11:30 AM, I wasn't exactly surprised to find out he hadn't gotten to sleep until 6:30 AM. <br />Then again, I wasn't paying all that much attention to him because I was scratching my legs hard enough to break skin and bleed, so it was a little difficult to pay attention to anything. <br /><br />One of my newest little pet peeves about Suburbia is the prevalence of <em>critters</em>. They're everywhere -- squirrels, skunks, opossums, cardinals, chiggers and wasps (remember the wasps?!) I'm not really <em>comfortable</em> with this much "Nature." In fact, I much prefer concrete and tall buildings, but... So far, I've killed the aforementioned wasps, as well as centipedes and daddy longlegs. I am assuming that one of the wasps (thuggish and cruel little bastards,) used his last, dying breath to contact the Spider Mafia and take a contract out on me. Because <em>something,</em> and I am certain that something is of the family <em>arachnae</em>, bit the living, bloody <em>SHIT</em> out of me while I slept Saturday night. I woke up looking like I'd been beaten with a switch on my lower extremities and scratching myself constantly, and without shame. <br /><br />The last thing I wanted to do was make dinner, but the one thing I <em>did</em> want to do was have some beer. So I was sort of stuck, you know? I'd also promised the FOWs I would make a Hershey's Cake with Mayonaise (sounds gross, but it's not,) so I slathered what appeared to be an equatorial disease with rubbing alcohol -- which did squat to relieve the itching -- and got to work. I made a pan of Inside-Outside Ravioli while the cake baked, knowing full well that I'd be in <em>no</em> condition to actually do anything more than slap something in the oven later. This would be a false premonition, but we'll get to that in a bit. <br /><br />So off Uncle Al and I set to The Tavernacle, merrily singing along with Linda Rondstadt and Jimmy Buffet all the way. And once there, people started thrusting money in my hands for the jukebox so that, perhaps, we older folk would not have to sit through a marathon session of "I Kissed a Girl," insterspersed with songs about Shawty getting low and -- I <em>had</em> to make this stop -- Poison. <br /><br />There came a certain point of drunk where my friend, Sammy and his friend, Doc, handed me fifty dollars and insisted we hear <em>nothing</em> but Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. Fearing for my own personal safety, I split the difference and only played $25 worth. My legs were itching something fierce beneath what had been dubbed my "clown pants" and the idea of having to divert any attention from making the itching agony stop to get involved in a parking lot beat down was not something I embraced. <br /><br />At some point while I was at the jokebox, Chris, our resident Green Thumbed Alcoholic came in and began distributing cucumbers from his garden. These were giant, fragrant and <em>amazing</em> cucumbers and FOW#2 was going to be a happy, happy girl, knowing that Uncle Chris had remembered her. Al and I, combined our bags, thinking that remembering a single parcel would be more likely to occur than two. I continued to drink until the itch went away.<br /><br />Then we came home and I made FOW#1 work the oven because, in my All-You-Can-Drink State, things like numbers and push buttons were beyond me. We ate dinner, the four of us, and had a fine time. We even tore into the cake, afterwards. But for the strong odor of alcohol, it was just like the happy, "all's well" end scene of some heartwarming family drama. I damned Norman Rockwell again for being dead and unable to capture us in oil paint so that future generations might be inspired by our quaint, homey meal. <br /><br />After we were all stuffed and sleepy, Al left... abandoning his cucumbers and his curiously fuchsia lighter. Al is not the sort to let free things get away from him, any more than he is the sort to let things he paid for go. On Monday morning, Uncle Al called and told me he'd be stopping by for his cukes and his lighter. I readily agreed, as long as there was nothing involving hops on the horizon.<br /><br />I did not hear from him all day Monday. Yesterday, I called him and asked, when he answered his business line, "Should I consider these cucumbers wards of the state, now?" He laughed and told me he'd stop by after a business meeting later in the day. I off-handedly mentioned it to the kids, you know, "Uncle Al will be stopping by for his cukes, later." I did this for two reasons:<br /><br /><ol><li>If, for some reason, I was not here or was unable to answer the door, I wanted them to be on call to hand out the cukes and the lighter; and</li><li>I did not want FOW#2 to eat <em>every</em> cucumber in the house, and thus rob Al of his free food.</li></ol>I took my lumps from them. I took the wolf whistles and the eyebrow wiggles and the chanted, "Mom & Al, sittin' in a tree..." bullshit and reminded them again that while that is <em>not</em> true, they also are <em>not</em> funny. <br /><br />At all. <br /><br />Then, I set about catching up on some work-work and some housework. And while <em>I</em> was on the first floor, <em>cleaning my children's bathroom</em>, they were upstairs, on <em>my</em> leather couch... having an Orville Reddenbacher Extra Butter Popcorn war...<br /><br />Which pissed me off. <br /><br />A lot.<br /><br />This was when I turned into Raving Mommy, complete with glowing eyes and the power of Satan. They, wisely, decided to take a ride to see the completed renovations at their high school and leave me alone to chew through some of my irrationality. <br /><br />In my anger, I was stomping around, and I'm not going to lie -- I was sort of digging my irateness; so much so, that I got into a little rhythmic 'Tard-Stomp. There are seven steps that lead from my third floor to my second, which is where my living room is. The <em>plan</em> had been to stomp down the stairs, throw myself into my Archie Bunker Chair, turn on some TV Land and have myself a nice little Pissed Off Party complete with visions of revenge upon my two ingrates. <br /><br />Except I miscounted the stairs, and while I have, in the past, forgotten a step, I have never <em>added</em> an extra step, and Friends -- let me tell you something: It is an extremely painful, extremely jarring sensation when that occurs. DO <em>NOT</em> TRY THIS AT HOME!<br /><br />Suddenly, the living room carpet was up in my face and there I was, lying in a confused and befuddled puddle, trying to figure out just what the fuck had happened to me. I realized that I'd torn my jeans and that both of my knees felt like they'd been ignited. I tested myself and staggered back up the stairs to my bathroom to assess the damage. <br />I removed my pants. This is a <em>very</em> important fact. Please note it accordingly. <br /><br />I had two enormous, weepy, angry and red rug burns on my knees. I also had a touch of rug burn on my face, which stretched from my chin to mid-cheek. And the bites were itching like a sonofabitch again. In pain and not thinking clearly, I grabbed for what I believed to be the rubbing alcohol. <br /><br />The first dribble of nail polish remover made me howl toward the heavens. It also dribbled down onto one of the spider bites, which immediately stopped itching. I stopped my lupine vocalizations and smiled. I then furiously covered all <strong>13</strong> bites in cheap-ass, dollar store polish remover and breathed a sigh of relief that after almost 48 hours of non-stop itching, I felt normal again. And I was about to tend to my rug burns, when the doorbell rang. <br /><br />Assuming the kids had forgotten their keys, I ran to the door in just my teeshirt. It was Al, who was pretty delighted to see me in this state, being a boy, and all. I punched him and then wandered upstairs to try to stop the insanity-inducing throbbing on my knees. Al followed, offering to help. <br /><br />In order to <em>not</em> make Al kneel in front of me, which seemed weird (although, in retrospect, this whole thing seems weird,) I grabbed all the first aid stuff needed and headed down to the living room, where it was determined that "hydrogen peroxide + leather couch" is as bad as "popcorn + leather couch."<br /><br />Back up to the bathroom, where I sat my flabby ass on the vanity and let Al swab my knees out. And probably because an open wound already roiling with nail polish remover is pretty painful on it's own, the introduction of peroxide adds a pain that is almost other worldly, so I began to moan, "No! Don't! That hurts stop!"<br /><br />And <em>that</em> is probably why I didn't hear the kids come in... and up the stairs... and around the corner in time to see their mother perched on the counter without pants and massive rug burns on her knees, and the guy that takes them to Royals games and slips them $20s when he thinks I'm not looking crouched between those extremely rug burned knees, in what can only be best described as an "extremely compromising -- yet innocent! -- position." <br /><br />So now you know why I got double cucumbers and a pretty fuchsia lighter. It also explains why I now have drive my own self to the grocery store...The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-14345100579429631992009-11-03T15:51:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:51:58.045-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode IV: Why I Remain SingleAfter many years of apartment living, the little things about being in a house are what delight me.<span> </span> I almost wept the first time I heard the "dong" of my doorbell (the "ding" is either on strike or dead; I can't be sure.)<span> </span> Since I am easily confused when it comes to 7<sup>th</sup> grade Science-based crap, parking in a garage means I never have to figure out how to defrost the windows on the car and risk the killing myself, my progeny and any hapless bastard that is unlucky enough to cross paths with me on a foggy morning again.<span> </span> But one of my greatest, um...<em>joys</em> of living here at Casa D'Pants is having both a front porch, and a deck.<span> </span> If you wanted to rob me of the meager allotment of stuff I've accumulated in my life, you'd have your choice of doors through which to do so.<span> </span><br /><br />My front porch has an elegant -- well, elegant by 1982 standards -- wrought iron railing.<span> </span> Said railing is purely there for aesthetics alone.<span> </span> While it is sort of anchored into the cement, it's not attached to the house in any way, and since it's at waist height, a person could, <em>theoretically</em>, get extremely drunk and brain themselves by falling over it.<span> </span> This is another reason why I try to always enter and exit through the garage; I know my limitations.<span> </span><br /><br />A few weeks ago, I noticed my wrought iron railing (hereinafter, WIR,) was looking a tad shabby.<span> </span> There were scratches and chinks in its black armor and it kind of bothered me.<span> </span> A lot.<span> </span> Something in my personality tends to zero in on the flaws, and once I noticed them... well, you can't "un-see" something.<span> </span> And I can't ignore anything.<span> </span> So when I received a coupon for a can of free (up to $10.99 retail) any-flavor paint, I saw it as a sign from God who, apparently, has nothing better to do than help me paint my fence and find parking spaces close to the entrance of the grocery store.<span> </span> I talked it over with Landlord Dick and he gave me the go-ahead to paint WIR, with the caveat that I could only paint it <em>flat</em> black (I guess I seem like the sort that wants "shiny" or "disco-ball sunlight" blinding me. I dunno...)<br /><br />I toddled off to my local hardware store and spent a good two minutes in conference with the monkey who was wearing the red smock that day.<span> </span> He seemed bored, and honestly -- he treated me like I was a touch retarded -- which I am; I've never painted <em>anything</em> in my life, except for a by-numbers unicorn when I was in first grade, and even that turned out looking like something a differently-abled child off their meds might have done.<span> </span> I am neither "artistic" nor "crafty," but WIR was firmly in my sights, and what I lack in "skill," I make up for in tenacity.<span> </span> But Hardware Monkey didn't want to answer all my stupid questions about brushes or paints.<span> </span> In fact, the extent of his advice boils down to these little gems:<br /><br /><ul style="margin-top: 0in;"><li>Rustoleum and "No-Rust House Brand Name Here" are the exact same things; and</li><li>"Flat" means "not shiny."<span> </span></li></ul>I was on my own when it came to brushes and accoutrements, but I am a big fan of both HGTV and TLC, so I figured I had this thing kicked in the ass.<span> </span><br /><br />I began painting on Friday, and I have to tell you -- I was Zen-like.<span> </span> I was in some peaceful, easy happy zone, where lambs frolicked and Zamphir played his magical Pan Flute, <em>just for me</em>.<span> </span> I painted the <em>hell</em> out of WIR, and there was no one on earth more surprised than I, when I discovered that it had taken me better than TWO hours to paint exactly <em>one quarter</em> of it.<span> </span> I determined that I'd gotten a little <em>too</em> Zen in my pursuit of not spilling a drop and I vowed to work faster on Saturday.<span> </span><br /><br />And, I did.<span> </span> Yesterday, I painted like a <em>machine</em>, I'll tell you.<span> </span> I was a whirling dervish of flat black.<span> </span> This was partly because, overnight, something had happened to where I no longer felt like the Happy Resident Beautifying Her Space, but more like the Disgruntled Hungover Woman Who Wanted A Long Hot Bath and A Lifetime Television For Women Movie, and partly because it was raining -- not enough to stop painting, but enough to make me uncomfortable and wonder, in my not-quite-100%-state, just why in the hell I ever thought this was "necessary" or a good idea.<span> </span><br /><br />But, I put my little nose to the (albeit) wet grindstone and I almost finished, too.<span> </span> Save the top of the lower railing, I'm done.<span> </span> And it looks fabulous, if I do say so myself.<span> </span> And after cleaning my equipment and putting everything away, nicely, in the garage, I came into the house-proper and started to brag to the FOWs.<span> </span><br /><br />Except both of them were looking at me, repulsed and horrified, which I found odd.<span> </span> Sure, I was a little wet and rumpled, but... FOW #2, official FOW Spokesperson, finally said, "Um, Mom? It looks like the entire left side of your face is covered with ticks."<span> </span><br /><br />There are very few things I fear more than "ticks."<span> </span> Chief among that list is being "not pretty," which I certainly would be if I were to have a <em>colony</em> of ticks embedded in my cheek.<span> </span> So, I ran for the mirror.<span> </span> And that's when I discovered that "hurrying" when painting means, "droplets flying through the air," and in my case, "sticking to your face."<span> </span><br /><br />See, I had plans last night.<span> </span> I had met a rather lovely man who'd asked to take me to dinner Saturday, and I fully intended to enjoy his company and some free food.<span> </span> But, while gazing at myself in the mirror yesterday afternoon, I realized I easily qualified as a TLC show of my own; the kind that people watch in revulsion and talk about animatedly with just a hint of "Holy SHIT!" in their voices.<span> </span><br /><br />I tried Ivory Soap.<span> </span> Let me tell you something about Rustoleum: Rustoleum <em>laughs</em> at Ivory Soap.<span> </span> If this were high school, Rustoleum would be giving Ivory Soap a swirly and stealing its lunch money.<span> </span> And with my level of foresight and brilliance, the next logical step was to sit on the bathroom floor and cry.<span> </span><br /><br />FOW #2, an empathetic and helpful child, asked me what I was cleaning the brushes with.<span> </span> I told her, "Naphtha," and then told her I was <em>not</em>, as a smoker, comfortable putting Naphtha on my face.<span> </span> The next "logical" step was -- and I am NOT proud of my anti-grasp of "logic" -- using my fingernails to scrape the stuff off ... which, really, only served to make me look like I'd gone a round or two with a bobcat.<span> </span> Fingernail polish remover came to my rescue yet again, and when my eyes finally stopped watering, I surveyed the damage.<span> </span> Yes, I had angry, red scratches (not bloody, thankfully,) on my left cheek, but I could cover those with make-up, I figured, and the restaurant we were going to was suitably romantic, sexy and dark.<span> </span> I figured I might skate...<br /><br />So, I washed my hands carefully before putting my contacts in.<span> </span> And when the right contact hit my cornea, the world stopped entirely.<span> </span> The sensation was what I assume a lightning bolt would feel like if it was hurled directly into your eye from a distance of three inches away.<span> </span> The right side of my face was copiously wet.<span> </span> Not since the Jalapeno <em>IN</em> My Nose Incident earlier this year have I suffered such agony.<span> </span> I clawed at my right cheek, my eye, anything to just <em>stop the pain.</em><span> </span> And when I finally got my contact out and examined it, I determined a few things: It was covered with the little bumps of Rustoleum that I'd scraped from my face and onto my hands, that Rustoleum is <em>not</em> something that will rinse off of a contact <em>ever</em>, and it's not something you want in your eye.<span> </span> I also now appeared to be rocking a major case of conjunctivitis.<span> </span><br /><br />And this is why I spent my Saturday night huddled in my Archie Bunker Chair, watching <em>Holmes on Homes</em> and weeping while he made painting look like child's play.<span> </span>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-23567166392363562552009-11-03T15:49:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:49:57.881-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode Garbage Day!<p>In the Land of The Pants, there have been many exciting and wondrous changes of late -- not the least of which is that I recently began a new, full-time, work-job that takes me out of my home and into a small room with computers and co-workers. Yes, friends -- I'm a big girl now, with a steady paycheck and the quagmire of an office dynamic to wade through, forty hours a week (I work four, ten-hour days -- by choice -- instead of the more standard and common five, eight to nine hour days.) It can be grueling, especially at Hour Four of a day that began at 7 AM (with a wake-up time of 4:55 AM,) but I like the schedule; I need only "endure" two days in perpetuity to get to a day off.</p><p>Because of this schedule, Monday has become my "Friday," which means Tuesday, is my "Saturday" -- but it's also Garbage Day, here at Casa D'Pants, where our motto is, "What sort of spectacular fuck up looms on the horizon, <em>now?!</em>" It's really hard to stitch that onto the Family Crest (which is comprised of a confused Lemur setting itself on fire, a can of Diet Dr. Pepper and a cheeseburger -- all the things we love and cherish,) but it's better we accept that really bizarre, embarrassing and/or painful things are coming <em>at</em> us, rather than pretending (more like, <em>lying</em> to ourselves,) that we're "normal."</p><p>Last night, for various reasons, I was in no mood to wrangle the trash into the <strong>wheeled</strong> (please remember that bolded detail in the coming paragraphs,) garbage can but decided, instead, that since the Trash Dudes never show up prior to 11:30 AM, to deal with it in the morning. If this were a visual, instead of written, medium, like, say -- a movie, you would see (tastefully shot, of course, and <em>sans</em> nudity,) a scene of me slipping into my Tabasco Hot Sauce emblazoned boxer shorts and a largish, orange tee shirt that <em>kind of</em> matches same and falling into bed, with a swell of ominous music as we faded to black.</p><p>Let me take a moment here to fully describe and explain my Tabasco boxer shorts. They <em>horrify</em> the FOWs and shame them to tears. I am under strict orders to NEVER wear them if either FOW has a friend over. When I tell you they are "orange," I am only scratching the surface of <em>orange</em>. FOW #2, the more outspoken of the lot, describes them as "retina searing," while FOW #1 merely shakes his head and puts on sunglasses. On the front of them, prominently, there is an artist's rendering of a bottle of Tabasco sauce. The color and the frontal graphics aside, what the FOWs find most objectionable about these (super) comfy boxer shorts that I usually ONLY sleep in, can be found to the rear; emblazoned, across the ass, in too-large-for-the-area, flaming type, are the words, "It's getting hot in here!"</p><p>So, yeah... of course I fell in love with them when I saw them at Wal-Mart.</p><p>Let's do a quick review of pertinent details: Garbage day, <strong>wheeled</strong> garbage can, questionable taste in clothing. Got all of that?</p><p>Good.</p><p>This morning dawned bright and early, just like it always does when you are me and believe that anything occurring prior to noon is uncivilized. The brightness of day slanting through the blinds above my bed made it impossible to sleep beyond 8:15 AM, so I -- in my oversized tee shirt and boxers -- decided to make a pot of coffee and see what was shaking in the real world. The dog glanced lazily up at me from his bed when I walked past him and I would be hard-pressed to tell you whether I was more grateful to his walnut-sized brain or his grape-sized bladder, because -- remember! I would have to get <em>dressed</em> in something different, in order to take him outside for his morning constitutional since The Rules clearly state that I cannot be seen in public in my Tabasco boxer shorts.</p><p>Like everyone else, I don't function at 100% when I am first awake. I need at LEAST two cups of coffee (which I make in a way that a dear friend of mine calls, "a jet fuel enema,") and two or three cigarettes before I'm fully cognizant and aware of things around me. And halfway through my first cup of coffee, and midway through my second cigarette, a little thought wandered through my brain that I needed to do something about the garbage. But I glanced at the clock and told myself that I had plenty of time -- which I did, all things being equal (which, friends, they are <em>not</em>.)</p><p>And then Uncle Al called, so we talked for a while on the phone... and I went to Facebook... and then Skeletor wandered out and nosed at my ankle and I told him to eat and then I would take him outside, and I stood up, intent upon changing. This would be a typical morning -- nothing odd or out-of-the-ordinary -- and this should <em>always</em> be my first clue that something is going to go horribly, freakishly and terrifyingly <em>awry</em>.</p><p>As I crossed the threshold into my bedroom ("The Den of Mayhem, Madness and Apathy,") I heard it -- the unmistakable rumblings of a large truck with sweaty men swinging off of it like single-minded trash monkeys. And my only thought was this:</p><p>"FUCK, THEY'RE EARLY!"</p><p>Like a tornado, once you <em>hear</em> the garbage man coming, it's too late. But since the jury is still out as to whether I am an "optimist" or an "idiot," I did a quick calculation and figured, "What's the big deal if I drag the trash out quickly, even if I am wearing boxer shorts of the same color as road construction signs?!" But here's where I <em>really</em> sealed my fate:</p><p>I thought, "It will be okay."</p><p>IF you are ever in the same, shared-oxygen space with me, and you hear me utter that phrase, or you even suspect I've <em>thought</em> it, nail one of my god-damned feet to the floor so I cannot proceed into whatever bound-to-end-in-hot-tears-of-angry-recrimination plan I've hatched. Please -- I beg of you!</p><p>I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the sack of trash from our main garbage can. I practically pulled the refrigerator door off of its hinges and somehow managed to punch one of the shelves in an effort to grab the bucket of long-gone-to-waste KFC out. I was immune to the pain, however, as I continued furiously stuffing both spoiled -- and perfectly good, I've since discovered -- food into the gaping mouth of the Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack, which was beginning to sag and bloat from my unthinking frenzy of, "I've got to get this to the curb -- NOW!"</p><p>That bag, along with <strong>wheels</strong>, a questionable taste in clothing and my epic procrastination, is also a major player in this drama, so remember it too, okay? That garbage bag -- and this is really not an exaggeration -- was weighing in close to my own body weight.</p><p>So, I had the hyper-full Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack in one hand, I grabbed the pizza boxes with the other one, and yelled, "FOW #1! Take the dog out, please!" and made a mad dash toward the stairs to the first floor. Momentum (or maybe inertia, I don't know from science,) meant I took the steps a little more quickly than a 40 year old, pack a day smoker <em>should</em>, but I've never been one to let facts and gravity get in my way. I made it down the next flight of stairs, barely stopping to react when I crashed into the wall outside of FOW#2's bedroom, and threw open the door to the garage. I, well... <em>hefted</em> the Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack into the <strong>wheeled</strong> garbage can, and pressed the button to engage the garage door proper almost simultaneously. The pizza boxes remained in my right hand, and I grabbed the rim of the <strong>wheeled</strong> trash can with my left and took off full-tilt boogie toward the slowly opening garage door, wondering if I was going to need to counter and duck or not... and just as I realized, no -- I would be able to clear the door and <em>not</em> decapitate myself into a bloody mess of questionable sleeping attire, it happened.</p><p>The lip of my garage played hell on a gum-fiddle with the <strong>wheels</strong> of my garbage can and time seemed to stretch out infinitely as I had the strongest, "OH SHIT!" Premonition of my life. But, remember! I'm not one to let irrefutable and immutable laws of nature stand in my way; oh, no -- not I!</p><p>I honestly figured I could counter the rocking and pitching movements of the can which was now nipping at my heels and "stepping" on the back of my flip-flops (add those to the Pertinent Details List too, please.) As to <em>why</em> I figured that, having lived inside this body for all these years and knowing my luck, is a mystery, but again -- I have a strangely sunny outlook sometimes. I glanced to see where the garbage truck was at on my street, and truly, I think that was <em>really</em> where it all went to hell.</p><p>Because at the exact moment that I was about to savor the triumph of having beaten the clock, the <strong>god damned wheeled garbage</strong> slammed into my "It's Getting Hot In Here" <em>ass</em> and the force of it caused me to let go of both the can and the pizza boxes and do this amazingly graceful (which is completely uncharacteristic of <em>me,</em>) jumping-flip thing, wherein my tee shirt was blocking <em>my</em> view... but the garbage men were treated to a boob flash <em>extraordinaire</em>.</p><p>And as I was miraculously landing on my actual, own two feet, and my tee shirt was settling back into a PG-position, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the trash can <em>airborne,</em> and all of the garbage bags exploding open as they hit the surface of the driveway.</p><p>Then the garbage truck slowed to a stop and the "swinging garbage dudes" descended from their perches and gave me a round of applause (the driver actually <em>whistled,</em> waved and gave me a thumbs up,) and helped me clean up the garbage, which was a very nice gesture. I, of course, thanked them profusely (because I'm hyper polite when I'm humiliated,) and I started to walk back, up my driveway, and into my house... which is when I saw FOW #1 and the dog on the sidewalk in front of the house, both of them glaring at me.</p><p>I will <em>never</em> hear the end of this.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-56185270257192914242009-11-03T15:48:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:49:18.985-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode Orange Robes and Crazy Cheaters<p>My weekday mornings are solidly routine. I am up at 6:20 AM, making certain that everyone is moving about in a productive fashion. Back in the day (read: prior to FOW #2 getting a boyfriend with both a driver's license <em>and</em> a car,) I was expected to ferry kids to and from school. Now, because of their advanced age, Mom driving them to school would be as cool as... uh, I could make a really great allusion to some trend well beyond its prime here, but I think I'm illustrating the point I'm trying to make in <em>not</em> making it. Mom just ain't cool any longer, Daddy-O -- and that's okay. I remember not wanting my mom to drive me to school, but I had different reasons than they do. I hope.</p><p>On days that either my friend Maria (yes, of the basketball bag story,) or I didn't drive ourselves to school, our respective mothers would drive us. Mother O' Maria, who did not hate her daughter, would drive Maria to school without incident. My own mother? Well...</p><p>Seriously, I've been reviewing this for almost 25 years in my head, trying to make sense of it all, and I'm pretty sure my mom planned this stuff out with pie charts and algorithms( and this is entirely possible because my mother was a Math <em>Goddess</em>.) I know she started perfecting her "look" from the time I was in sixth grade and finally hit humiliating pay-dirt by the time I was a junior in high school. "How bad could it have been?" you might ask.</p><p>I used to <em>beg</em> to ride the bus if I couldn't get a ride from Maria or drive myself.</p><p>Let me paint the picture for you, and anything beyond this first phrase is just going to be overkill. Trust me. Are you ready?</p><p>Pink curlers.</p><p>My mom set her hair every night and slept in those damned things, which goes a long way to explaining why she was so <em>angry</em> all the time. Of course she was pissed at the world -- she never had a decent night's sleep. Every night at 8 PM, my mom would wash her hair, and then put it up in those curlers, and not the spongy ones with the clip that folded over. No, she used the two-part ones, made of hard plastic, that were cotton-candy colored. The former, while not pleasant to sleep upon by any means, were a damned sight better than the pinching pain of the latter. I really do know of whence I speak on this because, up until I was 10, my mom insisted on setting <em>my</em> hair every other night, too. The sleep deprivation <em>I</em> endured goes a long way toward explaining why I have no clear memories of my life until the age of 12.</p><p>If the atrocity committed by the curlers weren't enough to seal my fate, my mom also had this <em>robe</em> (you'll understand the emphasis on that in a minute,) that she liked to don for those special occasions when embarrassing me to tears was the preferred end result. It was terrycloth and it was from 1965.</p><p>I graduated high school in 1987.</p><p>Not that the robe was shabby or anything; no, quite the opposite. My mom took good care of her things. Her less, um... <em>vibrant</em> robes were tattooed with hair color and henna stains, but this one was, apparently, her "Sunday Go To Meetin'" Robe, because it remained pristine and Miss Clairol-free. I don't know if I can provide an adequate description so that you get the gist of just how heinously ugly it was, but I'm going to try.</p><p>The primary color that you noticed, when you gazed up this robe was what I'd call, "Retina Searing Orange," if I worked at Crayola and got to name the crayons. My mom could have gone <em>hunting</em> in this robe. She could have landed airplanes. She could have directed traffic. She could have done all of those things in that robe... <em>at night</em>.</p><p>There was a black lattice pattern crisscrossing the vibrancy of the orange and -- this is where it gets really good -- thereupon were flowers arranged "artfully." Said flowers were depicted in various hues unseen in nature, such as, "Wow! That's Giving Me A Headache Blue," "Opened-Vein Red" and "Angry Florescent Purple Bruise." This thing would have looked <em>amazing</em> in a black-lit environment if you'd eaten a handful of psychedelic substances. Or, you would have feared for your life. I can't rightly say. I <em>can</em> tell you that being driven to school by someone wearing it probably explains how I can still successfully tuck and roll out of a car going up to 15 MPH, a skill you might not think is all that important, unless you've lived <em>my</em> life.</p><p>So, curlers... robe... anything else I'm forgetting? Oh, yes. She'd wear the blue slipper-booties my grandmother had crocheted for her in the winter of 1973. The slippers, on their own, probably would have been the show stopper, but since they had to compete with the robe, they seemed shockingly benign in comparison.</p><p>Honestly, that robe was <em>something</em>.</p><p>The effect of everything, all together, was awe-inspiring. For real. But not the same flavor of "awe-inspiring" as, say -- a beautiful sunset or the birth of a child. More like, "Oh, that poor woman must be blind or too poor to afford a mirror. But look at the courage she shows by plugging along, in spite of those limitations. That, there, is true courage."</p><p>And, like I said: it would honestly not surprise me to discover that my mother had planned that outfit out to maximize the humiliation quotient of it for me. She had her whole life scheduled and organized out in such a way as to have plenty of time to work on the minutiae of destroying any wispy bits of self-esteem that I might have picked up somewhere. It was, like, her <em>thing</em>.</p><p>And because of her thing, I've always made a conscious effort to make certain that my own children can't argue with my appearance in the drop off line, no matter what their ages. I may not be totally made up and smoking hot, but I do not look like something Walt Disney threw up. When my daughter, in 8<sup>th</sup> grade at the time, told me that my Cartman tee shirt had to go, I took that to heart. When her brother said my sweatpants were <em>passé</em>, I relegated them to housework-only duds, because I love my children and I don't want them to have to explain what's wrong with me. Not that they <em>could</em>, mind you; just that I figure there are enough strikes against <em>any</em> kid in this day and age of Self Esteem At Any Cost, and mine are at a decided DNA disadvantage, straight outta the gate. Why add to that?</p><p>But, as I mentioned, I'm pretty much off the hook on driving them most mornings, which I'm sure they are happy about, even though I've taken great pains to not be an embarrassment. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, though, their school district does a block schedule change and school starts later for just about every student in the school... except for FOW #1, who is enrolled in a program of study that requires him to be in the building at 7:45 AM, no matter what day of the week it is. I thought maybe I could wheedle the Boyfriend into going in early on Wednesdays and Thursdays by citing how there's also academic support time offered before classes start and I know how he worries about his grades. No dice. My veiled threats about how I probably wouldn't want anyone dating my daughter who was lazy enough to want an extra hour of sleep also fell flat.</p><p>Thus, mid-week, every week, I get up and power chug two cups of coffee in preparation for vehicular interactions with the residents of Crazy Town and make sure I don't look like a doink. Then I load FOW #1 into the car and let the games begin. It's a 3.4 mile drive from door-to-door or, as FOW #1 likes to call it, "10 Minutes on a Magic Carpet Ride of Road Rage." People who can't drive (i.e., everyone but <em>me</em>,) piss me off; we've been over this already.</p><p>Unlike my mother before me, the dulcet tones of adult contemporary music do not spill out of my car when I drop FOW #1 off in the morning. I primarily listen to the local alternative station and every Wednesday morning, KRBZ (The Buzz) does something called, "War of The Roses." FOW #1 and I are <em>totally</em> into this, because it's a voyeuristic wet dream.</p><p>The premise is pretty simple: Every Wednesday morning, a woman (and, really -- it's hardly ever a guy who initiates these things,) calls in and gives all the gory little details about the amateur PI work she's done in determining whether or not her boyfriend is cheating. The stories range from the hard-core, white trash to the merely insipid, but they're fascinating in a <em>Jerry Springer-Lite</em> sort of way. The KC Metro seemingly <em>abounds</em> with Baby Daddies and horny boys who just can't keep it in their pants.</p><p>Once the woman has made her case, the deejay then phones the Rat-In-Question, posing as a florist who has recently opened a store in the area and is giving away a free dozen roses to drum up interest and business. She explains how there's no charge, they don't have to give any credit card or personal information and that the recipient will never know they didn't pay a red cent for these roses. This is the first thing that astounds me every week, without fail: These douche bags fall for it, <em>every freakin' time.</em> I've been listening to this show for five years now, and you would THINK that this scheme would be better known. One of these guys who's been caught should have said to his buddies over a beer, "Hey, just so you know -- if anybody calls you and offers you free roses, make sure you send them to your girlfriend, otherwise... woo, boy! There's gonna be a shit storm."</p><p>But, no... week after week, one of the seemingly never-ending supply of dumb asses agrees to accept some free flowers. Invariably, it's the part where the deejay mentions that the recipient will have no inkling that the roses are free that makes them bite the hardest at the bait. I'm truly astonished at how many guys in Kansas City are more than willing to be greedy and dishonest in that fashion. At this point, it's time to fill out the card that will accompany the roses, and that's when the fun really gets cranking.</p><p>Some guys actually <em>do</em> send the flowers to their girlfriends, because -- let's face it -- women can be incredibly paranoid creatures, even when they're in the most stable of relationships. BUT, and that's a HUGE "but," there is something to be said for Women's Intuition, because nine times out of ten, our hapless fella picks the wrong recipient.</p><p>And then everybody's life falls apart on the air.</p><p>It's sickening and wrong, and I feel like a filthy, dirty, shallow piece of shit when I listen to it. Because of the timing of the ride to school, the way they play a song or two between the "accusation" portion and the reveal, FOW #1 has no idea how these things turn out, and for some reason -- he really seems to <em>care.</em> In the same fashion that I would not wear an optical illusion disguised as a "robe," because I love him and I want to make him happy, my maternal charge is listening to the conclusion of these freak shows and then giving him a synopsis when he gets home in the afternoon; unless it's really juicy, and then I'm supposed to text "Yea" or "Nay," as to whether or not the guy was a complete tool.</p><p>As a sentient being, I generally listen up to the point where we've got the definitive answer and then I wander around the dial in search of something that doesn't make me feel like I'm hiding in the bushes, peeping into someone's window. This morning, though -- my god! This one was a <em>doozy</em>, let me tell you! The woman's working two jobs because the baby daddy/boyfriend lost his, and their six year old child started telling her, "Laurie's nice," and "Laurie came to play today."</p><p>I mean, really! Can you <em>imagine</em>? The whole thing was just horrifyingly sad and crazy. Not only did the P.O.S. she's with Fail (with a capital "F," too,) he also had a complete meltdown on the radio, in which there was a <em>blitzkrieg</em> of F-bombs directed at the deejay who, according to Mr. Winner, "ruined his life."</p><p>Now, maybe it's just me, but I'm of an opinion that being <em>caught</em> doing something isn't really what "ruins" a life; the ruination lies in committing the actual wrong, and responsibility should rest solely upon the shoulders of the fucktard who has the mother of his children working two jobs, while he sits at home on his lazy ass all day, when he's not doing it with some trampy whore named, "Laurie." Well, <em>maybe</em> she's named "Laurie." It's entirely possible she's named, "Lori," because this dumb shit <em>wasn't even certain how to spell her name</em>. I can honestly say, I have never slept with anyone whose name I could not spell (first and last.) I hold that same standard when introducing people to my offspring, as well.</p><p>I'm pretty sure we call that, "having morals," something my mother instilled in me, sometimes on those same car rides to school when I was trying to figure out how to melt into the seat, lest someone more popular than me got a load of my mom's "taste." And maybe it isn't as important that she sort of looked like an explosion of fashion diarrhea as it is that she took those moments in the car to talk to me about what was going on in my life and in the world, an intrusion I clearly remember resenting after a certain age. But I'm grateful to my mom, hideous, orange-robed rageaholic that she was, for demanding I have at <em>least</em> the sense God gave a goose. I realized that this morning -- my gratitude. Mind you, that doesn't mean I'm going to start looking like I got dressed in the dark on Wednesday and Thursday mornings, but I am going to be a little more grateful that I was raised to know Crazy when I see it.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-51637178028344699102009-11-03T15:46:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:48:11.719-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode IIII winked out of here for approximately 25 minutes or so. You may not have even noticed. If you did, you might have just thought I had been busy with small, real-life, mundane things, like maybe answering the ringing telephone or, even doing laundry or dishes; you know, normal, household chores that everybody does.<br /><br />You would be wrong. <br /><br />Friends, I just spent the last 15 minutes locked in my own bathroom, with no way of freeing myself, and completely at the mercy of a three-year old and some smart ass teenagers. Why?<br /><br />Because I'm just fucking <em>lucky</em> that way. <br /><br />Oh, it started out innocently enough; a simple jaunt to void my bladder. It turned into <em>HELL</em> quite quickly, and simply because of one of the little Casa D'Pants quirks I've come to <em>insist</em> are "charming" and "quaint." I'm adding "dangerous to the cardio-pulminary system," as well. <br /><br />The lock mechanism, a small button, is, for whatever reason, on the <em>outside</em> of the master bathroom door. Hence, it is possible to lock someone <em>in</em> the bathroom, who is then at <em>your</em> other-side-of-the-door mercy. You can't lock the door yourself for privacy; only for sadistic glee. It's something I knew about, and may or may not have employed to... perhaps... freak an FOW or two out with. And I've always intended to mention it to my handyman extraordinaire, John. <br /><br />But I kept forgetting. <br /><br />When, like a dumbass, I foolishly believed I deserved to be able to pee <em>alone</em> and without someone else's child staring at me, I shut the door behind me. I immediately heard, "Auntie JOY! Where did you go?!" Followed by the happy, scampering footsteps of one 3 Year Old charge for the day. <br /><br />"I'm in the potty, Hon! Give me a second!" I trilled out. It bears mention here that I am a <em>notoriously</em> slow pee-er. I have peeing envy in restrooms <em>all</em> the time. Other women pee like rockets. I pee like a soap box derby racer on a level street. Even if I try to force myself to pee faster, it's nothing more than embarrassing. So I definitely knew that I was there for the duration. 3 Year Old, however, got kind of impatient and in her desire to actually <em>see</em> me, she accidentally depressed the button that locks the door. I heard it, pretty loudly; a sickening <em>Click!</em> that made me want to do a little more than urinate. <br /><br />"AUNTIE JOOOOOOY!!!" I heard from outside my now prison. I immediately knew she was wandering into my bedroom... with its white comforter and selection of nail polishes on the dresser. Actually, the comforter is only completely white on <em>one</em> side, courtesy of 3 Year Old and those same nail polishes. <br /><br />I panicked a little more. I finished all pertinent tasks and pressed my face against the door as possible. <br /><br />"Honey! Honey! HONEY! Come back!" I yelled.<br />"I coming," I heard. <br />"Honey, turn the knob for Auntie Joy."<br />[<em>various sounds of doorknob rattling, but <strong>not</strong> turning.]<br /><br /></em> "I can't, Auntie Joy. My hand don't work." <br />"Okay, Honey. Calm down [this was said more for me, than her, but...]. Go downstairs and bang on [Either Kids'] door. Tell them their mommy needs them. Okay?"<br />"Ooo-kay!" <br /><br />Then I listened to the silence of her <em>not</em> walking away.<br /><br />"Baby?" I called out.<br />"Yes?"<br />I dropped to my knees and peered through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. I saw her legs as she sat, leaning against the vanity outside of the door. I audibly groaned and said a bunch of not-quite-three-year-old friendly words. <br /><br />Loudly. <br /><br />"Pleas go get one of the kids, okay? It's really important." <br /><br />This time, I heard her tottle off... and then I heard her in the living room, singing along with <em>Nick Jr.</em> I started to sweat a little more. I damned myself for not bringing my cell phone in with me. Then I laughed aloud at myself because, really -- why <em>would</em> I have done such a thing? Then I realized that both FOWs have a habit of sleeping into the wee hours of the afternoon and I faced the very real possibility that I could be trapped in my bathroom for <em>hours</em>. I started to sniffle, imaging the destruction that a three year old can wreak in a mere 30 minutes of unsupervised play and then multiplying that exponentially. <br /><br />That's when I realized, I could either sit there and cry about <em>stuff</em> or I could get busy thinking of a way out. <br /><br />There is a window in my bathroom. It's only slightly larger than an industrial-sized box of Potato Buds (Don't ask. Please.) It's also TWO freakin' stories from the ground, and I think we've determined I am not graceful. So, climbing out was checked off of the list. <br /><br />Three minutes of fruitlessly rattling the door proved, well... <em>fruitless.</em> It did, however, return the 3 year old to her sentry position near the door. <br /><br />"Auntie Joy! Auntie Joy! Auntie Joy! Are you okay?"<br />"No, Sweetie. I'm actually <em>not</em>. Could you please go wake up [Children's names]?"<br />"Okay."<br /><br />This time, I actually heard her make it beyond the living room, happily singing the <em>Franklin</em> song the whole way down both sets of stairs. I heard what I think was her <em>trying</em> to knock on the doors. Apparently, her "hand don't work" for that, either. And I knew, with an accute certainty, that if she couldn't turn <em>this</em> knob, she couldn't turn those knobs, either. <br /><br />So I had myself a Brat-fest, the likes of which I haven't had since I was about six. I stomped my feet and I pounded my fists on the floor. I screamed in frustration (because, really -- time passes very slowly in a locked-from-the-wrong-side bathroom.) And while I was freaking out, <em>my dog</em> started freaking out. Yes -- the same dog who elicits a string of cuss words from me because he barks when the doorbell or the phone rings and I threaten to kill him because it pisses me off so much.<br /><br />In this instance, however, all I can say is, "Praise JESUS on high!" Skeletor thought someone was knocking on the door and that is <em>not</em> allowed to happen on his watch. Bless his little walnut-sized brain! I felt the faint stirring of hope in my heart. And sure enough, the dog's barking revived FOW #2 who woke up just long enough to walk over to her brother's room, throw open the door and growl, "The goddamned dog is going nuts. <em>DO SOMETHING!" </em><br /><br />I heard all of that, along with the sound of her door closing. But hope is a dangerous drug for me; I, in <em>Brokeback Mountain</em> Style, just can't quit it. I heard FOW #1's footsteps on the first set of stairs. <br /><br />I heard him ask 3 Year Old, "Where's Auntie Joy, hon?"<br />I heard 3 Year Old respond, "I don't know."<br /><br />I renewed my stomping frenzy. The dog barked louder. Then, at long last, there was a knock on the door.<br /><br />"Mom?"<br />"FOW #1! Thank God! 3 Year Old locked me in here! Turn the knob and get me the hell out of here!"<br />"Uh... hang on a second."<br /><br />WHAT?! "Hang on a second?!" What the fuck?! Did he not understand?<br /><br />"No, wait, FOW#1! You have to..." The words died in my throat as I listened to his retreat. <br /><br />Seconds later, I heard both brother and sister, Fruits of my Womb, giggling outside of the door. Then, the taunting began.<br /><br />"So, Mom. How much will you <em>pay</em> me to let you out?" I'd said this to FOW #2 a week before.<br />"Yeah -- it's pretty small in there, isn't it?" Damn me and my big mouth when talking to FOW #1. <br /><br />After a few more minutes of torture, in which the 3 Year Old parrotted whatever her two older conspirators said, "Mercy" and "Kindness" returned to Casa D' Pants and I was released. I breathed in the sweet, sweet air of Freedom and promised myself two things: I will never pee without my cell phone again, and John is going to fix that damned knob tonight, and I will hold his child hostage until he does. <br /><br />Even <em>if</em> she has a follow up doctor visit for her Scarlet Fever and vven if it means I'm late for Friday Masses at The Tavernacle... which I sorely need.The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-17791712208263775242009-11-03T15:45:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:46:21.449-06:00Suddenly Jesus Loves Me -- And I HATE It!<p>As I begin this, it is a little after 6 AM on a Monday morning. My favorite weatherman, Lying Shit, promised me yesterday that I'd enjoy sunny skies with highs today in the 40s. Sometime, in the middle of the night, he changed his mind (not unlike a couple of former boyfriends of mine,) and now I can't hope for better than highs in the 20s. He hurriedly tacked on the half-hearted possibility of <em>maybe</em> making it into the low 30s but, to continue with the allusion to people I've formerly misplaced trust with, he didn't seem sincere. He was definitely shifty about it, like he knew he was lying and he knew <em>I</em> knew he was lying and he didn't want me to carefully cut an entire closet of his suits into tiny little pieces while he was out of town. And I would totally do that, because I take cheating on me and weather promises <em>very seriously</em>.</p><p>Does any of that qualify as a, "bad day?" Probably not; but I am at a disadvantage here. I usually -- hell, <em>immediately</em> -- type up all my bad days as they happen, as though I am keeping my own, personal Journal of Dumb Assery (that I let Gather-at-Large read.) I haven't had what qualifies as a "bad" day in a week or so. I've had crappy little incidents, but nothing I can spectacularly exploit for the humor of it and I've milked all of my former fuck-ups for all they were worth. What to do?</p><p>The thing about finding the "Funny" in the Really Not Funny, is that you have to be careful how you pull it off, lest you end up looking like an insensitive asshole. Worse, still, some things that are "bad" are just inherently <em>Not</em> Funny (depending on the degree of them,) no matter how hard you try to find some amusement in them. Take, for instance, Fire.</p><p>Fire can be funny, but only in certain circumstances. If someone's house burns to the ground and they lose everything they own, well... that is definitely <em>not</em> funny. And trying to <em>make</em> it funny will only serve to get the State <em>extremely</em> interested in how you spend your free time. But, let's say, for instance, that my barbeque grill explodes because I, as a dumbass, decide to open up the gas vents, take a phone call and ten minutes <em>later</em>, press the igniter switches, thereby necessitating the penciling in of an Ethel Merman-esque right eyebrow... <em>that</em> I can work with. If my toaster were to suddenly burst into flames, and I had a mad-cap, <em>Keystone Kops</em> adventure extinguishing it, I could make you laugh about that -- unless the resulting blaze burned my entire kitchen down. Then we're back to the tenet, "Fire is not funny," no matter how much I humiliated myself. As in nature, there are certain laws of comedy you have to respect. Roasting marshmallows on the crackling, glowing corpse of a blind orphan? NOT FUNNY. Setting, say... those FreeCreditReport.Com guys on fire? As far as I'm concerned, that's gold and you should milk that for all it's worth.</p><p>But since minor "celebrities" haven't spontaneously combusted at my house this morning, I am still looking for something bad in my day to exploit. Currently, I got nothin', and that makes me sad. I am, generally speaking, one of the unluckiest people you will ever meet and whether it's falling down my own stairs or some jackass fertilizing my front yard, I can usually turn my unfortunate lot in life on its ear and make you laugh at me. I even went so far as to leave my house yesterday, hoping to that a piano would fall on me in the middle of the Hen House or somebody might say something desperately retarded to me. No dice. One of those "Sample Hucksters" that you find at the end of the aisle did foist a "fish taco" on me, and I foolishly believed things were looking up. Sadly, it was surprisingly tasty (although it was served on a Tostito Scoop -- which was weird -- and a strange aftertaste lingered on my breath that the cat found intriguing,) and I was once again robbed of my chance to turn a <em>Me</em>h Molehill into a Ha-Ha Mountain.</p><p>I was also hoping to hit pay dirt yesterday when I discovered the neighborhood children having what I will claim was a Scientology Meeting under my deck (even thugh it was nothing of the sort, but I'm reaching here, people. Work with me!) I yelled at them, in my best Spinster-In-Training Tone of Voice, "Hey, you kids! Get outta my yard!" and... <em>they did.</em> Immediately. The little bastards even <em>apologized</em>. There's no funny in that! Like "fire," polite and contrite children are a humor <em>suck.</em></p><p>When my doorbell "donged" (it's missing it's "ding.") ten minutes later and I realized there was a parent at my front door, I got excited again. Surely, there would be an Idiot Exchange between us. But no! Once again, a polite apology was offered, accepted and we parted, cordially. I don't see us hanging out at block parties or getting drunk together so, all in all, it was a whole lotta nothing... again.</p><p>I suppose I could invent something to tickle you. I could make something up, press the barriers of Ridiculous and make you laugh, but I don't think I'd be very good at that and I think you would suspect I was lying to you. It's lamentable, really; the one time I need the FOWs to pull a stunt, or some jackass to fuck with me -- I get bupkis. Even my trips to Wal-Mart have been surprisingly low-key, lately. How is that fair and what am I doing wrong, I wonder? Sadly, I do not know, so I can't fix it.</p><p>The best "bad" I've had today was waking up at 5:45 AM. <em>Birds</em> aren't even awake at 5:45 AM. You know why?! Because <em>birds</em> have the sense God gave a goose... or, uh, something like that. But there I was, in The Den of Mayhem and Apathy (A/K/A: My Bedroom,) staring forlornly at the ceiling, thinking about how quiet things have been and having to pee. Since my bladder is no George Carlin, there's nothing really to tell. In spite of my advanced years, I don't have any sorts of conditions that would lend themselves to humor; I neither "leak," nor do I "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now." Everything in that general vicinity is, as far as I know, functioning as it should be. Should my day go to pieces in a funny sort of way, I'll be sure to let you know, but for now, just know that everything is <em>fine.</em></p><p>Damn it.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-28311371370576067602009-11-03T15:43:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:45:26.395-06:00Casa D'Pants, That Which is Believed to be Episode VI<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I do not fall asleep easily but, instead, channel surf for an hour or two, in order attain a point of "Sufficiently Sleepy Enough" to doze off. This is mostly because I am poor and I'm in a state of near constant panic, the only creature I can find to share my bed is a sociopathic Maine Coon Cat, and my across the street neighbor is dating a bass player who likes to rock out, but ONLY after 10:30 PM. As an aside, he has done more to divide this neighborhood than small, Hindi children with Zippos and Entitlement Complexes. Make no mistake - no one in the neighborhood is actually excited by or desirous of these impromptu, Cat-With-A-Paw-Stuck-In-A-Waffle-Iron Concerts (dude <em>sings</em><span style="font-style: normal;">, too.) No, we're mostly divided on how best to express our displeasure. See, the</span> <em>girl</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">part of the equation is actually a</span> <em>good</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">neighbor. She shovels our snowy sidewalks for us, sometimes, and passes out banana bread... just because she made "extra."</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have never had even a tiny SCRAP of "extra" baked goods</span> <em>anything</em><span style="font-style: normal;">. I honestly believed she was either trying to poison me or slip me a Roofie the first time she showed up on my doorstep. But that shit smelled good, so I made my peace with Jesus and ate it, anyway. Since I'm not dead and I don't remember being violated - even in a dream-like fashion - I guess she's harmless.]</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There's been some debate at the mailbox. It's been unilaterally agreed upon that we don't, necessarily, want to burn her house down (we're saving that for the parents of the aforementioned children, who only speak English when they aren't being bitched out about their progeny,) but we wouldn't mind kidnapping her boyfriend. And THIS is where the division is most apparent; My camp and I think he should be jammed in a sack (because we're colloquial, like that,) and then dropped off somewhere in rural Missouri, wearing ladies' panties and some lipstick. The opposing camp thinks he should be out-right, straight-up, de-handed.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Which just seems kind of - I don't know -</span> <em>permanent</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">to me.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">That's not my point; that's neither here nor there. I'm merely trying to set a stage to tell you about last night. Last night, while my bedroom windows were thrumming, and I was waiting for</span> <em>Two and a Half Men</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">to come on (Charlie Sheen is one delicious hunk of man-meat, and the fact that he's kinky only</span> <em>adds</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">to his allure,) I decided to abandon the local news and switch over to The Food Network.</span> <em>Unwrapped</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">was on - you know; the one with Marc "Nickelodeon's</span> <em>Double Dare</em><span style="font-style: normal;">" Summers, where he uncovers manufacturing "secrets" (but not really,) to various foodstuffs? This is not my favorite show on The Food Network (that would be,</span> <em>Chopped</em><span style="font-style: normal;">,) but for the five minutes I had to kill, and since I could only hear about every three words spoken, I figured it would do.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I have NO idea what the actual theme of the episode was, but I'm going to guess "Sugar Coma," because he was wrapping up a segment on cookies with the faces of Oscar nominees captured forever (well, at least until you</span> <em>eat</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">them,) via paper made out of</span> <em>sugar</em><span style="font-style: normal;">. Did anybody else know about this stuff?! PAPER made out of SUGAR?! Amazing! I started thinking about all the practical uses I could find for paper made out of sugar but, again -- that's not the point.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The point is, right after Marc clued me in to edible paper that would probably be awesome dissolved in some Mountain Dew, he took me to a Nestles' Bon Bon factory somewhere in California and introduced me to a - dig THIS! - "Bon Bon</span> <em>Specialist</em><span style="font-style: normal;">."</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Seriously!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I don't know about the rest of you, but "Bon Bon Specialist" was NEVER an option on any of those standardized tests that</span> <em>I</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">took back when dinosaurs roamed the molten surface of the earth and I was in school. I always scored into, "Frustrated & Angry Sales Person" or "Janitorial Staff." I was also encouraged to look into spelunking as a hobby, as well, but that's probably because I was never shy about admitting to my love of small, dark places suitable for hiding.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But, think about it: a Bon Bon Specialist! That would have been right up my alley, because I can eat chocolate covered balls of ice cream whether Judge Judy is on or not. I can get almost Seussian thinking about it.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><em>I could eat them on a dare! I could eat them in a chair!*</em></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Sadly, Otis-Lennon and their damned</span> <em>profiling</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">denied me that all those years ago! Why, cruel Fate?!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">WHY?!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">It got me thinking,</span> <em>Well, what else could I have been that The Universe saw fit to fuck me out of?!</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">Are there other cool jobs out there that nobody bothered to tell me about? Could I have been a wildly successful Nap Tester in a couch factory?! Official Ugly American in France?! I'd actually DO those jobs, and I'd do them really well. I doubt I'd gold-brick or slack off and I know I wouldn't invent bouts of explosive, bloody diarrhea and/or "Female Issues" once a month to avoid staff meetings.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Instead of being an impoverished, angry unemployed chick in Kansas, IF there had been some full disclosure back in the mid-80s, I might well have been the preeminent expert on Jacuzzis or Peanut M&Ms. But, noooo! Because of some vast conspiracy, the highlight of my day is hoping to catch a</span> <em>King of Queens</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">rerun I</span> <em>haven't</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">seen fifteen times before, while some ass from Payola, Mother-Fucking</span> <em>Kansas</em> <span style="font-style: normal;">murders "Smoke on the Water" at a volume that makes my dog's eyes water.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Where is the justice in that, I ask you?! If these things had been properly disclosed to me, maybe I wouldn't be well on my way to adopting 17 more cats or adding, "Mean Old Lady" to my last name when I sign checks. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Life ain't fair. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">* -- Further testament to why I don't write poetry.<br /></p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-56297102092749830442009-11-03T15:42:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:42:53.106-06:00More Pants Letters<div class="articleText"> <p>Dear Taco Bell:</p><p>Good day. I just wanted to drop you a note and let you know about my most recent experience with your products and services. I have lots of observations to share and questions to ask, so let's jump right in, shall we?</p><p>I have just finished enjoying my two Baja Chalupas, sans the promised pepper jack sauce. The only reason I <em>even</em> get anything called, "Baja" on your menu is for the luscious spicy warmth that <em>is</em> that sauce. That was pretty much a huge disappointment. At least I'm no longer hungry. I won't be, for at least another 30 minutes or so, since your products are not so much "food" as they are "packing material." I do appreciate your help in leveling out my blood sugar, though. </p><p>Additionally, and I hate to nitpick, but what the <em>hell,</em> Taco Bell? How do you mistake something called a "Carmel Apple Empanada" for "Cheesy Tater Tots"? If I wanted a deep-fried diabetic coma, I would have ordered one. Man, that was disgusting! All gooey and weirdly textured. I admit to having a sensitive gag-reflex aggravated by the textures of certain foods, but those empanadas were Sweet JESUS <em>Unholy</em>. When you market tested them, did you have difficulty finding an adequate number of participants who had damaged their taste buds in unfortunate industrial accidents that involved licking a hot-press line? Did you merely round up the local hobos around your corporate headquarters? Was the focus group comprised mainly of members of The Hemlock Society? I'm really curious as to how those things ended up on your menu. Nasty -- those things are nas-tee! I may <em>never</em> get the taste of the plastic tasting apple swimming in chemically-enhanced "caramel" sauce out of my mouth. </p><p>And I really just wanted my Cheesy Fucking Tater Tots. Those are crispy, greasy, golden goodness and they work so well with the Chalupas. It's a marriage of Yum, and I get very sad when a wedding is called off; especially when I was so looking forward to it. </p><p>I realize it is probably difficult to get people who want to work at the Ken-Taco-Hut here in Kansas. I understand that it's not necessarily a glamorous or well paying job. However, every time I visit your establishment (whether dine-in, drive-thru or carry out,) it's a culinary crapshoot. I will say, it does keep me on my toes. <em>Will I get anything even vaguely similar to what I ordered? Is there anything here that can be improved by a drowning in Fire Sauce? How do "tater tots" fit into Mexican cuisine, anyway?</em></p><p>So, there you have it, Taco Bell. I'd threaten to never darken your door again, but you know me and my drinking habits. Often, you're the only place open by the time that I've finished punishing my liver for its mere existence. Well, there's IHOP, but that involves a lot more pomp and circumstance than I can often summon up at 2 AM. </p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Disgruntled and Defeated Consumer</p><p>________________________</p><p>Dear Target Corporation:</p><p>I am not one of those people who insists on tarting your stores up by pronouncing them in a pseudo-French way. That is an honor and a privilege I save for JC Penney, but no matter. I'm just trying to illustrate that I am not one of <em>those</em> wack-jobs. I wanted to let you know about my most recent shopping experience at one of your locations in Kansas. I think you'll find it most informative.</p><p>Let me begin by saying that I appreciate the convenience and proximity of your Super-Target to me. I also delight that I can buy tampons at the same place I have my passport picture taken, and then can pick up some ridiculously cheap Spaghetti-Os and a purse. Genius! You also do something I admire almost too much when you mark your merchandise down for clearance: you use these bright, flourescent red tags that draw my eye in quicker than I can say, "royalty check," and I end up buying things I had no idea I even needed. But I'm sure, someday, that I will have occassion to wear a pair of not-quite-beige boots with four-inch heels and a zebra pattern on the top cuff that are really a half-size too small to be comfortable. I will <em>invent</em> an occassion if necessary because, for $4.98, they were too good of a bargain to pass up.</p><p>Last week, when my daughter and I realized we were running low on both socks and Oreos, we decided to visit your fine store. Oh, we were having jolly fun trying on hats when we couldn't help but notice the new spring line of tramp earrings. We didn't have an issue so much with the size of said earrings; we were just a tad disconcerted by the shininess of them. And the presence of fruit. Was this a trend we should be aware of? We raced over to magazines and checked both <em>Seventeen</em> and <em>Cosmopolitian.</em> We could find no mention of enormous strawberries-as-fashion in either one. We would have checked <em>Vogue</em>, but as Stanley, the helpful employee we flagged down explained, "If it's not there, we don't have it." I think hiring Stanley was probably one of the smarter moves your company ever made; he's a credit to his little red smock. </p><p>So, in closing, I just thought I'd tell you, "Good Job, Target-with-a-hard-G." You truly have it all -- from frozen seafood products to <em>Halo:III</em>. I appreciate letting you have an obscene amount of my money. Keep up the good work.</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Satisfied Customer</p><p>________________________</p><p>Dear <em>Kansas City Star</em>:</p><p>You are a fine newspaper. I know this, because your constant emails and masthead remind me of this. I am a former subscriber, only because Ghalik, my former paperboy, developed an odd little idiosyncrasy of hiding my newspaper on my patio. I had a couple of issues with this, namely why he thought it was perfectly acceptable <em>to crawl over</em> the wall surrounding my patio in order to play this little game of his. I think we've been over this, and I see no reason to rehash the incident, but I would like to remind you that I am the same Joy M. Cranky-Pants that once left your Delivery Department an hysterical voicemail explaining why I found it creepy and probably <em>actionable</em> that one of your employees was inviting himself onto my porch every morning at 6:45 AM. I was truly grateful that we got all of that cleared up -- especially as it explained the sudden appearance of half-smoked cigars in my outdoor ashtray, and I no longer worried that I was being stalked by <em>Columbo</em>. </p><p>The reason for my letter to you today is just as touchy. According to the regulations governing telemarketing, because you and I have a "former relationship," you can call me and attempt to re-establish our "relationship." I understand that and while I'm not "okay" with it, I'm <em>okay</em> with it. However -- and that is, indeed, a loaded "however" -- I'd just like to say this:</p><p>I've begged.</p><p>I've pleaded.</p><p>I've threatened. </p><p>This is my last ditch effort to get you to <em>please</em> put me on your "Do Not Call" List.</p><p>I honestly don't get it. Do you think I'm kidding when I tell you I do not want to re-subscribe? Do you think I'm playing hard to get? Being coquette-ish? Or, do you think you'll just wear me down, sort of like how my date kept bringing up sex on Prom night, hoping I'd put out? Is the bitter and acrid taste of my rejection too much for you to bear, thus your refusal to take "no" for an answer?</p><p>Really, harrassment is <em>never</em> an answer or an effective means of getting your way. Calling me faithfully, daily, at 2:30 PM and 6:15 PM will get you no where. My mind is made up. We aren't good for each other, and this sort of whiny pestering only works for really adorable four year olds. Even then, it rarely works with me. I'm hard-ass that way. </p><p>Wouldn't it be better to just be civil to each other? Couldn't we just say, "Hey, we tried but it didn't work out" and let it go at that? You know, you do your thing, I'll do mine. No contact between us, a "cooling off period" of sorts. We'll be civil if we happen to run into each other. We might even wistfully think of what might have been. But, for now, could you please just leave me alone?</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Literate Yet Lying ABout It.</p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-38336888006692947402009-11-03T15:41:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:42:11.940-06:00Casa D'Pants, Episode ILike the Brave Little Tailor before me, I have done battle with many and emerged victorious. Unlike the Brave Little Tailor (a sincere pussy, in my book,) who only fought flies stuck in jelly, <em>I</em> had to stare down the barrel of a generic can of RAID and engage in some hand-to-hand combat with some of nature's most vile and nasty creatures: wasps. I am, of course, referring to the insects and <em>not</em> the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, a distinction I feel needs to be made, given the bright and shiny area of the country in which I live. <br /><br />A few weeks earlier, we received erroneous information that we had a wasps' nest growing 'neath our rather lovely deck, here at Casa D'Pants. Upon investigation, the only thing we found beneath the deck was a rather large and intricately crafted cardinal's nest (<em>sans</em> cardinal and thank you for that, Jesus, at the time we looked at it.) We were confused as to why there was no buzzing mud nest of stinging agony to be found, but chalked it up to... um, whatever. I think it might have been dinner time, and we were hungry. We forget and ignore lots of stuff when we're hungry. <br /><br />On Thursday night, FOW #1 had BFF of FOW #1 over for a marathon session of XBox 360 and whatever else it is that 17 year old boys do when they aren't slaying zombies or assassinating peasants and serfs. One of those "other activities" is something called, "I'll Kick Your Ass." The rules are pretty simple, and if it hadn't been for the dreadful outcome, I probably wouldn't have encouraged anyone to stop playing it. <br /><br />Basically, in the game of, "I'll Kick Your Ass," two 17 year old boys who, laid end to end, are better than twelve feet tall, get sticks. These "sticks" could be brooms. They could be a half-ass rotted Louisville Slugger BFF of FOW #1 found under the porch whilst searching for the imaginary wasp nest down there. Whatever -- just so it's wooden and stick-like, that's all that is required. <br /><br />Once the sticks are procured, there's a shout of, "I will KICK YOUR ASS!" and each boy circles the other. The end goal, as near as I can tell is to whale on your friend as much as possible. In doing this, two distinct things are accomplished: You learn how much pain your friend can withstand, and you learn how much pain your friend can dish out. <br /><br />Now, before you go "tsking" about, "What kind of mother lets her child engage in this kind of activity?" Let me cut you off at the pass. <br /><br />ME, <strong>ME!</strong> I am the crazy, overly permissive mother tha lets her kid and his friends beat the living snot out of each other in the back yard. They aren't on drugs, they wouldn't hurt each other for <em>real</em> for money and it's actually pretty funny to watch. So, suck it up and deal with it, because "I'll Kick Your Ass" is not the point of this article; the wasps are. <br /><br />BFF of FOW#1 came flying into the kitchen a scant five minutes into, "I'll Kick Your Ass" Thursday night, as close to tears as a hard-ass 17 year old boy with a rotting Louisville Slugger and a Rep can be without actually crying. While blindly swinging at FOW #1, he'd jarred the deck and suddenly he was in a cloud of darkeness and pain. After helping him clean himself up, I went out to investigate. <br /><br />My preliminary findings were not awesome, Friends. There was, indeed, a wasps' nest, and it was between two pieces of lattice and way up in the tippy-top of the corner of the frame holding said lattice... on the same side as the steps. Hey -- I'm The Pants! You were expecting this to be easy or simple somehow?<br /><br />I sized this situation up. Because of a run-in I experienced eight years ago with some yellow jackets, I know some stuff when it comes to our stinging friends. One, the little fuckers will hurt you without regret or remorse. Two, you don't want to aproach a hive or a nest until after the sun has pretty much set. There's no High Noon in fighting stinging insects, there's no Wyatt Earp/O.K Corral call out, and that disturbs me, too. As an almost middle-aged, and <em>definitely</em> myopic woman, my vision isn't so hot. Heavenly shades of night may fall at twilight time, but I kept imaging <em>me</em> falling... down the steps... as I was dived-bombed by wasp squadrons of agony. <br /><br />I needed a plan. And a giganto, industrial-sized can of Melt-a-Wasp & Hornet Killer, which is something you can easily pick up at your local Wal-Mart. Since I hate Wal-Mart more than life itself, this was the first snag I ran into. Now, you <em>can</em> buy a can of toxic and lethal to wasps chemicals at your local grocery store, but it's <em>mad</em> expensive. Or, maybe, I'm mad-cheap. Let's call this a "Six of One, A Half Dozen" Conundrum and embrace my brilliance, for as much as I <em>hate</em> The Wal-Mart, my sister inversely <em>loves</em> it there. I think I'm a foundling for many reasons, but this little factoid is some of my strongest supporting proof. <br /><br />My sister agreed that she would pop by the Wal-Mart on her way out of her office. I visibly relaxed, thinking the nightmare would be over before it could even begin in earnest, but -- again! I am The Pants. Nothing <em>ever</em> goes easily for me. <br /><br />Well, my sister "forgot" to go to Wal-Mart which is, again, further testament to my idea that I am adopted. If Wal-Mart was anywhere on my radar, you can be Goddamned sure it would be as likely to slip my mind as forgetting I was scheduled for an execution or a pap smear. But, I digress... she forgot, so I simply mended this teeny little hole in my plan thusly: No one, and I mean <em>no one</em>, was allowed anywhere near the sliding door to the deck. The dog was not allowed to lie near there and watch for other dogs to -- gasp! -- leave their homes and perhaps pee in their own yards. The cat was not permitted to sit and wait with bloodlust for the cardinal. The kids were not so much as to LOOK at the sliding door, lest they give off psychic vibrations that would anger and arouse the wasps into some sort of stinging frenzy. <br /><br />This plan worked really, really well Thursday night. Friday morning, however, it was once again proven that we all have the attention spans of Minute Rice and I took the dog out onto the deck, down the steps and into the yard for his morning <em>toilette</em>. My daughter stood, leaning on the railing of the deck, telling me about her plans for the evening. <br /><br />And then I made a horrible miscalculation of epic proportions. The frisbee that the boys had been playing with prior to the rousing match of "I'll Kick Your Ass," was resting forlornly on the lawn. So, I yelled, "Heads' UP!" and tossed it in the general direction of my daughter, except...<br /><br />My daughter is a lovely young woman. She is very nimble, very lithe and 13 years of ballet, jazz, tap and gymnastics have made her athletic, as well as graceful. <em>I</em> am the spaz. Know that as well as you know your own name. My daughter = grace. Me? Not so much.<br /><br />I am the spaz who threw a frisbee directly at a wasps' nest, and when they swarmed out, they went for the first warm body available; in this case, my daughter. <br /><br />FOW #2 shrieked, did some fancy-schmancy ballet leap that allowed her to cover the three feet of distance between her and the door in less time than I could realize what exactly was happening. I heard the door slam... and the unmistakeable click of being locked out of the house. And it <em>still</em> took me a second to put it all together:<br /><br />I was locked <em>out</em>.<br /><br />With <em>angry</em> wasps. <br /><br />And a tranq'ed yorkshire terrier with a bruised trachea who also has a horrific, terrifying history with yellow jackets so buzzing insects freak his shit to <em>pieces</em>.<br /><br />In my <em>bare</em> feet. <br /><br />And boxer shorts. <br /><br />The dog and I decided to play possum, and stand as still as possible. It seemed to work because, while one or two zoomed angrily past us, none of the wasps paid us any attention. We then wandered into the front yard, looking dazed and frightened and rang the doorbell. No one answered. We rang again.<br /><br /><br />Nothing. We could hear some sort of commotion on the other side of the door, but for all intents and purposes, we were as welcome on that doorstep as if we were handing out <em>Watchtowers</em>. Of course, it was around this time that most of the neighbors with real work-jobs decided to leave, so I spent a lot of time alternately waving half-heartedly and doing my best Mumbling Crazy Person impression, gesturing wildly and trying to convey that I don't dress like this to leave the house normally. Finally, after 97% of the neighbors had checked me out in my neon green, striped boxers and my "Grab a Heiney!" shirt (complete with realistic butt,) FOW #1 opened the door. <br /><br />FOW #2 sat on the couch, looking sad and miserable. She also appeared to have had a Grade A, extra large egg surgically implanted in her forehead... right underneath what looked to be a Third Eye. And while all of that is <em>interesting</em>, the most egaging part of the whole scene was how, despite being clearly in pain, she was able to <em>completely</em> ass-ream my sister on the telephone about getting Melt-A-Wasp over here and getting it over here <em>now</em>. <br /><br />Further proof my sister and I may not share blood: She dropped everything and delivered. <br /><br />Now, I could lie to you and tell you that I forgot to spray the nest last night. I could utterly bullshit you into believing that it was raining and I was unable to do battle. The truth is, though, I was too scared and terrified to actually pull the trigger, as it were. I kept imagining an angry swarm coming out and me, my panic, my tumbling ass over appetite down the stairs... breaking my neck, my legs, my spine. I saw me in the Wal-Mart, handing out stickers and drooling on myself. That is <em>not</em> the life I want for myself, so I chickened out. There; I admit it. <br /><br />And I caught a <em>ton</em> of grief from every living creature in this house -- both skin children and both fur children found a myriad of ways to express their displeasure at being banned from the door to the deck. So tonight was D-day, and FOW #1 even volunteered to go outside with me while I upped my kill count. <br /><br />I positioned myself on the second step, and aimed. I pushed the trigger. Nothing. <br /><br />I glanced at FOW #1, and he nodded encouragement at me. I took a deep breath and noticed the children who live next door were all standing, stock still in their yard, watching me. <br /><br />I aimed again and pressed down. A stream of killer chemical feebly squirted forth as though the can had an en enlarged prostate. Two wasp sentries (I assume,) came out to investigate. <br /><br />I, as promised, panicked. And my panic embarrassed and saved me, in equal measure. First, my panic gave me just enough of a shot of adrenaline that I was then able to firmly depress the trigger mechanism on the can. Along with what really was <em>not</em> superhuman strength, <em>was</em> a string of cusswords, "motherfuckers" being prominent among them. <br /><br />I saturated the nest. I shot escaping insects out of the air. I, in effect, super-soaked my deck with something that probably could take the paint off of a space shuttle, but I didn't care. I was a squirting, swearing <em>machine</em> and three-quarters of the way through the can, I stopped and declared my victory, standing amongst the crunchy corpses littering my deck. And that's when I heard this, the following exchange from next door:<br /><br />5 Year Old Boy: Mooo-ooom! The new neighbor lady's neat! She's killing stuff! It's like a movie out here!<br /><br />Mom [from inside the house, but obviously approaching the door]: Really? What kind of movie? [<em>Laughter</em>]<br /><br />5 Year Old Boy: You know, the kind that you and dad watch after we go to bed... she said, "Motherf --"<br /><br />He never got to finish. The next stage direction would look something like this:<br /><br />[Child disappears; Door slams.]<br /><br />So, three weeks into living here and I am already the sharp-dressed, foul-mouthed, neighborhood murderess. I was actually sort of <em>trying</em> to fit in, too. Maybe I can explain at next week's block party; I'm taking nachos. <br /><br />With jalapenos.The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-25498907456754903372009-11-03T15:40:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:40:52.782-06:00A Pants-Letter That Will Not Be Sent<div class="articleText"> <p>Dear Jolly Green Giant:</p><p>Hey, how are things down in the valley? Is Sprout doing okay? Good! Good to hear it... Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, would you like to explain just what the <em>fuck</em> kind of sick joke those "Green Bites" are? Seriously, you and me need to have a little "Come To Jesus" Talk, Jolly -- I can call you that, right? I don't care -- you <em>owe</em> me, big-time, green man, and I'm not just talking about the $3.97 you schystered me out of at the Price Chopper earlier. No -- this is a blood debt, as far as I'm concerned. </p><p>You know, when I saw the shiny bag nestled in with the rest of the frozen vegetables, I got a strange electric thrill. I just <em>knew</em> it was something different, something a little more exotic than "yellow corn with butter sauce," which, I hate to be overly negative, is <em>also</em> not some of your best work. </p><p>"Green Bites!" I thought to myself. "What are <em>these?!</em>"</p><p>The bag promises that they are broccoli & cheese in breading. As a person that relishes the thought of entire, delightful meals comprised of nothing more than what can be purchased at bowling alley snack bars, I can assure you that the marriage of that trinity can be extremely tasty -- if carefully executed. "Execution" does, indeed, come to mind, having now sampled your product -- but in this case, I just want a cigarette and a blindfold. Maybe a Mariachi band -- that's how deeply scarred I am at this point. </p><p>Seriously -- I <em>need</em> to know this: HOW do you fuck up broccoli?! I love broccoli -- it's tasty, green goodness. I believe that the inherent pureness of broccoli's good-for-me-flavor is enough to trump the bad of breading and deep frying it with some cheese-like substances. </p><p>I almost want to run a straight razor down my tongue in hopes of ridding my mouth of this FUNK that the Green Bites left there. These are HORRIBLE -- there isn't an adjective that adequately conveys my feelings of loss, disappointment and disgust. </p><p>I expected more from you, Green Giant. I really, really did. </p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Pissed off & Now ILL consumer</p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-70804995837033833422009-11-03T15:37:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:38:22.588-06:00I Hate People<div class="articleText"> <p>Last Monday, I gave you all an amazing glimpse into the bat-shit crazy way my mind works. But you'd be selling me short if you were to believe that my irrationality is limited to <em>just</em> fears, you know. I have a lot of irrational hatreds, too.</p><p>I hate people who can't drive, which is to say: <em>everybody except for me</em>. And I may have given the erroneous impression whilst Drunkenly Gathering the other night that I <em>only</em> hate people who drive Escalades. That is <em>not</em> the case. I am an equal opportunity hater. I despise people in rusted out Camrys as much as I loathe people in shiny, new, Eddie Bauer Edition, Ford F150s. Really wanna piss me off? Show me a PT Cruiser; I'll go apoplectic almost immediately. Smart Cars make me foam at the mouth.</p><p>But honestly, it's not the vehicles themselves; it's the people driving them. I've been saying this for years, and I really mean it: I hate people. I hate ALL people. People suck. Whether they're driving or hosting <em>The View</em>, I abhor them. The problem I run into most often is that people are <em>everywhere</em>. You can't swing a stolen femur without smacking one of them upside the head -- nor should you try NOT to hit people upside the head. If you're going to go to all of the trouble of stealing a human leg bone and swing it, you should aim to win, I think. But don't try hitting <em>me</em> upside the head with a femur, because I will <em>Kick. Your. Ass.</em></p><p>Really -- I'm not kidding. I'm a scrapper. You can't loathe other humans the way that I do without being able to back it up.</p><p>I can't really come up with a System of Quantification to determine if this segment of the population pisses me off more than that one, so just assume that I'm an equal opportunity Hater and I get enraged in equal measures by the following Top Four Categories of Society's Most Abhor-able:</p><p><strong>People afflicted with Obviousity Syndrome</strong></p><p>I really hate people who insist on telling me shit I already know and shit that anybody who is over the age of three and has at least half of a functioning brain also knows. These are the people who, in the middle of a full tilt boogie thunderstorm, will inform you, helpfully, that it's raining -- <em>outside</em>.</p><p>These folks, generally, are also afflicted with some odd syndrome which leads them to believe that they were the first people to experience everything and thus, they will -- as a gift to society -- share their super-secret knowledge with you, whether it's about child-rearing, enjoying a successful career or human nature. You know what? Save it. I've been alive for 40 years, and I wasn't living in a yurt on the tundra, Asshole. Your kid isn't doing anything <em>my</em> kids or anyone else's kids haven't done. I don't give two fucks about your job and I doubt you're going to have any special insight into why people suck as much as they do that I haven't come up with on my own. So, shut up and save me the aggravation of having to smile politely and the effort of having to appear as though I care about anything beyond setting you on fire.</p><p><strong>People Who Ask Me Dumb Questions</strong></p><p>There's this new thing that's been happening when I check out at the grocery store lately, wherein the cashier will ask me if I "found everything" I was looking for. If I hadn't, would I be checking out? And, for the sake of argument, let's say I didn't. Are we going to hold up a line while one of us runs to fetch it? Without the whole episode ending in angry tears and bail bondsmen? I frequently cruise the aisles of my local Price Chopper looking for $20 bills that people might have dropped and free samples. I rarely find either of those things, but I'm not about to get into that with Doug, the mainstreamed clerk who is as hard of hearing as he is tortoise-like (both in appearance and velocity.)</p><p>And don't ask me how I am -- ever. You don't really care, and you know it. Hell, I <em>am</em> me and I don't care how I am. I don't give a shit how you are, either.</p><p><strong>People Who Are Clueless To Bar Etiquette</strong></p><p>There is an honor among drunks, you know. You don't take someone's seat, you don't take someone's last cigarette and you DO NOT make an empty beer bottle "dance" in an effort to get a bartender's attention. It shocks and amazes me hw many people just don't get it -- that we alcoholics, like any other society, have a system of rules in place so that pandemonium doesn't break out. Being pulled into a bar fight also takes us away from our drinks, and none of us want that. That's not to say we <em>won't</em> jump in, mind you, but all other opportunities for fun have to be exhausted first.</p><p>You also shouldn't be walking "through" a pool game (Really -- how likely would you be to do that if it were a game of <em>darts</em>?! Wait. I think I already know the answer to that,) and you shouldn't be the jack ass who insists on rooting <em>against</em> the team that everyone else is rooting <em>for</em>. The jukebox is NOT your iPod, and trust me when I tell you that a bunch of drunks in Kansas are NOT going to react favorably to an hour and a half of Rap. Also, it would be really helpful if you adopt the whole "Good Child" Mentality when you come into my local gin joint: Speak only when spoken to; look with your eyes, not your hands; and keep your god damned fingers out of your nose -- nobody wants to see that.</p><p><strong>Everybody Who Isn't Either <em>Me,</em> My Direct Descendent Or A Friend Of Mine</strong></p><p>Which means the rest of you -- I hate you.</p><p><em>(Edited to Prove I Can Count)</em></p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-13447972351079287312009-11-03T15:36:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:37:09.975-06:00Elvis is My Michael Jackson Anti-Drug<p>I don't know if you're aware of this or not (since it's hardly gotten any press coverage at <em>all</em>,) but Michael Jackson recently died. I <em>know</em> -- right?! I was shocked when I learned of it, too. I hold some very strong opinions of The Gloved One, who was previously known as "Wacko Jacko" for <em>years</em> in the tabloid press. Not that I think that reputation was necessarily undeserved or anything, but I don't want to pursue that line of argument here. We'll never know if he <em>really</em> wanted to buy The Elephant Man's skeleton (which is one of the <em>few</em> things he's ever done that I can identify with because -- Honest Injun! -- I think bones are <em>cool</em>; ) or if he truly slept in a hyperbaric chamber. There's no sense speculating at this late date on that hooey, and in spite of my strong convictions otherwise, I am not even going to dwell on the idea that the man was, in my opinion, a pedophile. I'm only going to say that if <em>I</em> happened to be a tax paying resident of the city of Los Angeles, I would be showing up at every city council meeting asking what, if any, steps had been taken in legally demanding that NAMBLA kick in a little scratch toward the expense of burying him.</p><p>But that's just how I roll -- I have my opinions. I am choosing not to focus on that ugliness, here. No, I'll focus on something else, entirely... the true reason Dead Michael Jackson burns my ass better than a three-foot high fire, and how hearing his name <em>every five minutes for weeks on end like I was trapped in an episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents"</em> filled me with an awe-inspiring rage that I <em>had</em> to come to terms with; because, friends... it's been touch-and-go for me and my <em>not</em> committing the sort of horrific, violent act that lands you as the lead story on CNN, with the down-the-street neighbor whose dog shits on your lawn claiming there was "always something off" about you.</p><p>And not that I am denying there is anything "off" in me, either.</p><p>After the first 72 hours of All-Michael-All-The-Time Television, I realized something had to give, and I realized (given the public's fascination with lewd, lascivious or even just simply abhorrently aberrant behavior,) it was <em>highly</em> unlikely that the world was going to change simply because of me. As an aside, I have a faded, near-crumbling <em>Frank & Ernest</em> comic strip that I clipped from the newspaper back when I was in 7<sup>th</sup> grade, wherein Frank looks at Ernest and says, "I don't want to change the world. I want to stop the world from changing <em>me</em>." Know this: I have lost the original copies of both of my children's birth certificates. I have no clue where my passport is. But that little cartoon has traveled with me for better than 26 years. I <em>told</em> you I was "off," but I'm trying to convey something more to you in sharing that: I recognize that, no matter how annoyed I am by people, things and events around me -- I don't want to change the world. But I am <em>certainly</em> all over changing <em>myself</em> in order to make my stay here among you mortals a little less painful. I am neither yardstick nor arbiter, and I have no answers as to <em>why</em>, in the grand scheme of things, Michael Jackson garnered the attention in life (and death,) as he did (and does.) It seems to me that the world, at large, would be better served by joining a bowling team or perhaps learning to knit rather than expending so much energy on this, but who am I to judge? It's simply up to me to find a way to exist amongst the madness, since I am seemingly a lone voice in the wilderness of excess and "golden coffins."</p><p>Then again, that's just me, and I've had my own celebrity obsessions of late to deal with, of the flavor and sort that absolutely <em>befuddled</em> those who know me best. <em>John & Kate Plus Eight?</em> Couldn't get enough of that train wreck and I embarrassed myself once when I realized I could have no more have crowed at Kate Gosselin's fall from grace than if I'd stood on my own roof and shouted, "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" at the top of my lungs. I, like everybody else, enjoy a good public comeuppance and the gory, little details that are inherent to fame and celebrity.</p><p>Whatever.</p><p>But the scope of the public's fascination with Michael Jackson has always -- and I mean, <em>ALWAYS</em> -- left me scratching my head and wondering if maybe everyone else on the planet is high. Please remember, too, that around the same time I was clipping comics out of the daily paper, MJ was moon walking his way to immortality (except he didn't, because he's dead. Just wanted to bitchily point that out.) I was the "target demographic" for his schtick, for I am fully a member of The MTV Generation. I, like most of my peers, was front and center and watching, waiting, as the seconds ticked down to the premiere of the <em>Thriller</em> video. I think the argument can be easily made that it was a seminal moment in history, much like a previous generation's claim to watching The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Like knowing where you were when Kennedy was shot or when the World Trade Center was attacked, most of my peer group has a <em>Thriller</em> memory...</p><p>Except that mine ends in a vastly different way from theirs.</p><p>When the credits rolled, I distinctly remember turning to my friend, Amy (whose house I was visiting because her end of the cowtown we lived in had cable and mine -- the hoity-toitier section -- did not, due to the rich asshole who represented <em>my</em> end's interests insisting that, "Cable TV is a passing fancy. People won't <em>pay</em> for television!") Amy was awash in what I assume beatific splendor looks like; there was almost an Old Masters' <em>glow</em> to her skin. I looked to my other friend Amy next: same damned thing. Even Deanna, who also had cable at her house but wasn't the sort to allow herself to be left out, was swooning.</p><p>And there I sat, a solitary island unto myself on the burnt orange and lime green shag carpet of Amy's parents' rec room, trying to figure out what the big fucking deal was. So... there you have it: I didn't "get" Michael Jackson, and my long standing hatred of him is not borne of my own ignorance to his genius, it's just that I didn't -- and still do <em>not</em> -- get what all the damned fuss was about.</p><p>I don't believe that Michael Jackson was the greatest entertainer that ever lived. I will buy that he was extremely talented, but I don't see that his talents overshadow those of any one else. I tend to think that he was the "force" he was because, like a tornado or an unplanned pregnancy, conditions were <em>right.</em> You might be able to make the argument that I don't have enough respect for him because I don't grasp the scope of his talents. I won't disagree with you actively, but I will say, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"</p><p>Because I am absolutely burnt out and fried with the near-constant mention of the man... and his mother... and his kids... and that Debbie Rowe chick who is as painful to put up with as chewing tin foil... and what makes me sad is that Tito is no where to be found. In all of this, Tito is further relegated to the back-burner of Jacksons who, to my cynical eye, are going to milk this for every bit of bullshit publicity they possibly can, because they are attention whores who like to show their boobs at the Superbowl and then say, "Oops!" with an almost defiant glee.</p><p>But I digress... but I also afford you a rare glimpse into how my mind spins out of control when I start to get sucked into this shinola. In a way, I should be grateful to Michael Jackson (and to an equal extent, Madonna,) for taking up the burden of ruining radio in the '80s. Had they done anything worthwhile that I could have listened to at that time without being overtaken by an urge to flush my ears with Clorox, I might have never known of The Sex Pistols, Lou Reed, The Ramones or The Smiths. For that -- and only that -- I am thankful the world had a Michael Jackson.</p><p>Balancing that out, however, is the fact that to this day, as a 40 year old woman, I know every word to the song, "P.Y.T," but I can't remember what the Pythagorean Theorem is, much less how to apply it usefully to anything. I know that Billie Jean was not his lover, but I cannot remember the name of an ee cummings poem that I desperately loved and have sought out fruitlessly since 1986. I am also well aware that the song, "Human Nature" is some of the crappiest pablum the world has ever swallowed and asked for seconds of.</p><p>I <em>hate</em> that song.</p><p>So, the last two weeks and a day have been absolute, painful, stinking <em>Hell</em> on a cracker for me, what with people blaring the Michael Jackson in their Escalades at the gas station (Poor, forgotten C-Murder! I remember you, dude!) and the way that every newscast for awhile was signing off with, "I'll Be There" (which he <em>won't</em> be because he's <em>dead,</em> I point out twice as bitchily again.) And we are <em>not</em> discussing that song further, either. I have children to raise; I can't take the time out of my life a conviction for felonious arson would bring.</p><p>And through all of this pain and sadness brought on, once again, by the fact that the rest of the world is fucking <em>high</em> and I am the only one with any sense, I had to find a way to cope. I happened upon it in a fit of pique and happenstance at my local 7-11, when "Rockin' Robin" was blaring on the -- swear to god -- transistor radio behind the register, and my local 7-11 clerk was <em>singing along</em> like Bubbles the Chimp... <em>if</em> Bubbles the Chimp had mainlined a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew and snorted some Poprocks.</p><p>The cure for what ailed me, dear friends, is this: <em>Elvis Presley.</em> Or, more specifically, my brand-new, refillable, Elvis Presley lighter. That's right: I purchased some sanity for a buck-forty-nine, alongside a half gallon of milk and a cream cheese and jalapeno taquito.</p><p>Let me be perfectly candid with you: I freely admit that Elvis, as far as hypocrites go, was a capital H - <em>hypocrite</em>. But... and this is a big but... who BUT Elvis would we accept dying from drugs on a toilet, even though we KNOW he wanted a badge from the <em>Drug Enforcement Agency</em>? That's right -- nobody else could get away with that sort of stuff without being vilified and mocked. But we don't make Dead Elvis jokes -- no! We have Elvis sightings and stamps and a furor over whether he should be young or fat on them (for your edification, he's pleasantly plump on my lighter, because when it comes to Elvis -- it makes no difference to me.) We commemorate his birthday and people dress up like him and multiple Elvii show up in <em>movies because Elvis was <strong>so</strong> goddamned cool</em>.</p><p>AND he could sing... and dance... and act... and didn't some of you people swoon when <em>he</em> was on TV? I thought so. So, there you have it -- an explanation as to why you can almost always find me humming "Marie's The Name (Of His Latest Flame)" under my breath (it's also like garlic to a vampire when it comes to banishing both "Beat It" and "Bad.") It's why, when people start to go on and on (and on and on) about those "poor kids," I reach into my pocket and wrap my hand around the true King -- because Elvis Presley is my Michael Jackson Anti-Drug; because Elvis could kick Michael Jackson's <em>ass,</em> with all that Karate and shit he was into. Do I need to point out that Elvis died WITH his nose on his face? I think not.</p><p>So, if the non-stop coverage of the now-dead Dancing Machine ever gets you down, do what I do: Sing a few bars of, "If I Can Dream" and Elvis your TV set.</p><p>Works <em>every</em> time.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-88658524892650734742009-11-03T15:35:00.001-06:002009-11-03T15:35:44.882-06:0010,000 Points For Jesus<div class="articleText"> <p>That was the title of the article that I spent an hour and a half writing this morning. Gather ate it. I hate you, Gather. I hate my cluttered, fucked up page. I hate the way you keep pushing this "Friend Set" thing down my throat. And I hate that, like a dumbass, I fell for the concept of Friend Sets hook, line and motherfucking sinker. I accepted a whole bunch of people thinking I could just filter them out. But I can't and do you know why? Every time I visit my Friend Sets page, I get a SCRIPT ERROR warning. Oh, and let's pretend like I don't have six imaginary friend requests twisting in the wind, and that my sets <em>don't</em> scramble themselves. Let's pretend that everything around here hums like a well-oiled machine. Why don't we all take a few minutes and enjoy some mass-delusion? Yeah, baby. That feels <em>good.</em></p><p>But seriously -- eating my article was Phail; I'll be nursing <em>that</em> grudge for a very long time. </p><p>* * * </p><p>I have, in scientific measurements, what is known as a "shit ton" of hair and it is naturally curly. I keep it in pretty good shape, but for the regular trims (because those cost money and my damned kids are all spoiled with this "eating regularly" craziness.) Yesterday, I pulled a section of my shit ton of hair back and was rocking a really pretty cascade of curls completely by accident, which made me happy. In an instance of what can best be described as "Joy's WTF?! Luck," a guy sat down next to me at the Tavernacle and started talking to me. This shouldn't be freaky, but it was because he was wearing a <em>necktie</em> at 6:30 on a Sunday. I think we know what sort of people wear ties to bars on $5 pitcher Sundays -- that's right: Crazy People... people who Love Jesus... people who want to tell you how much they Love Jesus... people who want you to know that Jesus Loves you, even if you are sucking down draft beer like somebody's going to take it away from you. But then He really started laying down the Weird. </p><p>He said, "Wow! You have pretty hair. Can I touch it?"</p><p>Let's pretend for a second that isn't creepy. Let's pretend that it's perfectly <em>normal</em> to walk into a bar, sit down next to a woman, talk to her for five minutes and then ask if you can touch her hair. </p><p>IT'S NOT POSSIBLE BECAUSE THAT IS TOO FUCKING WEIRD FOR WORDS! I didn't even know the guy's name... and when I pointed that out, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Randy. Now, can I touch your hair?"</p><p>I wanted to say, "No you <em>cannot</em> touch my hair, you nutjob," because that seems like the most rational response in the face of such oddness, without having to resort to kicking someone in the junk. But before I could get the words out, my friend Chris took the option away from me by standing up and looking menacing. The Tie Guy moved three seats down and looked sad. I didn't much care because, seriously -- that's like a prelude to ending up in a dumpster. In pieces. </p><p>* * *</p><p>I saw a strange Burger King ad last night, with what appears to be the shifty Burger King from the future hanging out with people who are dressed like sperm. Okay, maybe I'm remembering it wrong, but I know it was all futuristic and it really disturbed me. You can't advertise cigarettes on television, but a puppet-y looking guy wearing some sort of festish gear can show up in a bedroom, passing out breakfast wraps and that sends an okay message to the young impressionable minds of America. Really?!</p><p>* * *</p><p>My stalemate with TV Land continues. They're no longer forcing <em>High School</em> <em>Reunion</em> down my throat 22 times a day because they had to make way for something called<em>, The Big 4-0</em>. This is a show about people turning 40 (<em>der</em>,) and to be honest -- it's retarded. The first episode was about some never-was former football player who was turning 40 and wanted to do something to mark it and make it special. I have no idea what he wanted to do because every time I attempted to pay attention, lights started to flash and I could no longer feel the bottom half of my face. I'm pretty sure he did whatever it was he set out to do because the final scene (which I saw, once I regained consciousness and my motor skills,) was him with some balloons and a cake. I doubt anybody celebrates much if you fail to meet your birthday goals. </p><p>Unless they pity you. </p><p>* * *</p><p>If you're going to go to all the trouble of writing your Gather Armageddon article under your way cool new alias of "Crusader on a mission" (with just that sort of dubious capitalization,) you probably shouldn't out yourself three-quarters of the way through by referring to yourself <em>by your name</em> -- unless you want James Bond to storm into your trailer and kick your ass out of fear that you have somehow superceded him in espionage tricks. </p><p>* * *</p><p>Draft beer out of taps that haven't been cleaned since the Clinton Era is something akin to drinking Satan's urine. "Cheap" doesn't do anything to improve the experience, either. I'm probably culturing some weird bacteria in my mouth right now that you normally don't see north of the Equator. My tongue feels <em>swollen</em> and, let me tell you -- that's not a pleasant sensation. </p><p>* * *</p><p>One of the points made in the Armageddon article had something to do with enemies of the United States on Gather. Does Osama Bin Laden have a Gather account? (HINT: If he doesn't, he <em>should</em>. Ditto Kim Jong-Il.) Can you redeem Gather Points for 72 virgins or some plutonium? I wouldn't know since I can't actually get into the redemption area, even using everybody's cool tricks of creating a diversion and then sneaking by the system. </p><p>Also, the rest of you can settle for being in a Gather Gutter Gang or whatever. I saw "Overlord" mentioned and that's what I want to be. I'll bet the uniform is nicer, with plenty of gold braid and epaulets. Admit it: Nothing says "class" like some nice epaulets.</p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-546128353933600512009-11-03T15:31:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:35:00.857-06:00What I Learned While Watching TV Last Night<p>We are all <em>going to die</em>. The Mayan Calendar ends, abruptly, on December 21, 2012. Apparently, the Hopi Indians also foresaw great calamities and the End Time happening around this same date. I figure that gives us all a little under four years to smoke 'em if we've got 'em, get ourselves right with the Lord and kiss humanity's collective asses goodbye.</p><p>While I was freaking out in my Archie Bunker Chair, imagining all the things I won't be doing, FOW #1 was busy, pointing and laughing at me. He wanted to know what, if anything, I could possibly do to guard against an apocalypse. The truth is -- I got nothing. See, this whole thing is bigger than the lot of us, and if the polarity of the earth changes (Edgar Cayce's prediction,) well... we are totally fucked. All manner of Nasty occurs then. I don't remember all the details, but I would recommend visiting Florida ASAP if you've got any desire to at all.</p><p>If the Blue Star comes (The Hopi,) we begin the Fifth Age and I have to be honest: I'm not really clear on what happens then. There was a hieroglyph of two groups of stickmen. One set was happy, and had some Stick-Corn, and the other set was walking up a set of "W"s. I think it might have something to do with divorcing ourselves from agriculture, and that is a big no-no according to the Hopi. I should have paid more attention, but my friend, M., was having boy-trouble so I was in the middle of a flurry of text messages. I suppose I might seriously rethink my priorities when it all goes to Hell (literally and figuratively,) but again -- the History Channel was not exactly offering me a primer on what to do in case of Rapture. I did get a giggle when the overall, ending message was one of hope and an insinuation that we have the proverbial snowball's chance. I think that only happened because The History Channel didn't want to be mentioned in multiple suicide notes.</p><p>By the way... my abject fear of the End is not a new thing. I clearly remember a day in junior high school when the world was supposed to end. It was a day filled with terror and panic. Of course, the sick, sadistic bastards in Administration thought this was the perfect day to throw a Fire Drill, too. Was it any wonder that I broke down in Home Ec, my tears soaking the cheap polyester of my day-glo, skateboard pillow that actually ended up looking more like a deformed, irradiated hot dog, due to my questionable-at-best embroidering skills? I had everything to live for, then. Or, at least, I thought I did; Journey and REO Speedwagon hadn't begun clogging the airwaves yet, and life still seemed to hold some hope and promise.</p><p>Of course, I lived through that day and the many days after that were predicted as being the "end." After confiding in my grandmother that I truly feared the death of the time, she told me that people had been insisting that mayhem and destruction were just around the corner since she was a girl. This gave me a small slice of comfort but, see -- my grandma probably didn't know about the Mayan Calendar. I keep trying to convince myself that they just didn't get around to finishing it or their Alien Phone rang and when they were done with the call, there were Conquistadors at the door and the calendar was abandoned.</p><p>Wait. It wasn't the Mayans with the Conquistadors, was it? Well, whatever -- maybe the Incas invited them to go bowling or something. Or the Hopi needed to borrow a cup a sugar. I don't know, but I do prefer to think that there's a really good (if unknown reason) why their timekeeping just stops and it has nothing to do with fire raining out of the sky and incinerating me.</p><p>I also tried to watch a true-crime show about Madelyn Murray O'Hare, but I dozed off ten minutes into it and when I woke up, I found out that there are ShamWOW imitators out there and that I should "beware" of them. I can't imagine that imitating a super-chamois is all that lucrative (especially since, if you call within thirty minutes of seeing the commercial, you can get eight ShamWOWs for the cost of one,) but -- hey! I never thought a fat guy pretending to be Elvis would go over well, either. I'm short-sighted that way.</p><p>And so, I started wondering... how serious is this threat of Imitator ShamWOWs? Are they stealing my identity? Shilling real estate pyramid schemes? Washing my car when I'm not looking? See, there's a problem: I can't think of another use for a chamois except for washing my car. The ShamWOW people claim you should keep on in the bathroom. This led to some... interesting conjecture on my part. Should I towel off with a ShamWOW for that lustrous, high gloss shine? Thumb my nose at the Cottonelle Folks? Please don't suggest that I wipe the tiles down after a shower. That would be like preventative cleaning or something, and would rob me of my way-cool, weekly Tilex high. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine a bathroom scenario involving a chamois, but I promise to be vigilant in making sure no imposters show up there. In case you are worried too, the genuine ShamWOWs are German. If your chamois isn't yelling, "Achtung!" or attempting to take over Europe, you've probably got an imitator.</p><p>If I didn't have enough to worry about with Armageddon and fake ShamWOWS, I watched The Rock Of Love Bus, too. I have to ask -- I can't help myself: Brett Michaels, really -- what the fuck?! What is your fascination with empty-headed skanks? And I have to wonder why young girls with fake breasts seem to favor clothing that is mammogram-tight. Where do these chicks come from? What do their moms think? I'd be horrified if FOW #2 had a head injury four years down the road and decided to be a drunken whore on television. Speaking of drinking, I really feel much better about mine, having watched this show. I was already smart enough to know ingesting anything with tequila and/or Red Bull is sort of the same as asking Satan if you could have a little nip of his urine, but it turns out that as long as I don't end up on VH1, I'm probably still able to call myself "functional."</p><p> </p><p>[Author's NOTE: In copying and pasting from Word, Gather saw fit to ignore my italics and bolding. I'm pretty pissed... what, pray tell, is the sense in having the "ease" that function within the editor if it's just going to fuck everything all up, anyway?!]</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-68656359521407253462009-11-03T15:30:00.000-06:002009-11-03T15:31:17.359-06:00Being A Girl<div class="articleText"> <p><em>If you are the purveyor of a penis and you are squeamish about girl things in any way, stop now. I don't know how graphic I'm going to get just yet, but knowing me... well, yeah.</em></p><p>__________</p><p>Monday morning, I woke up and realized the bed next to me was empty. After a moment of the dis-remembered panic of "Sweet Jesus! What has he gotten himself into, now?!" everything came flooding back and I was relieved and delighted and able to squirm around in my bed looking for perfect combinations of warm, sleep-snuggled spots and cool, untouched sheet. Just about the time my left foot was reveling in the chill and the rest of me was purring with the contentment of warmth, I realized I had to pee. </p><p><em>Bad.</em> </p><p>I was able to successfully put that off for approximately fifteen seconds longer, but there was a growing urgency to the situation, so I threw the covers back. momentarily mourned the evaporating of stored warmth and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I blindly grabbed for my glasses on the desk and stumbled into the bathroom. Since I tripped over neither child, dog, cat nor discarded article of clothing, I was thinking this was going to be a great day. </p><p>Except that when I sat on the toilet and let fly, I felt the unmistakable sensation that has plagued me, with some regularity, nearly once a month since I was fourteen years old: the <em>woosh</em> of tissue breaking free from my now-useless uterine walls, sliding down through my vagina and into the toilet bowl beneath me with a defeating and cruel certainty. </p><p>And I thought, <em>Shit.</em> </p><p>I have never enjoyed being a girl. It is ridiculously over-rated and full of pressures that, frankly, I just don't feel like rising to the challenge of meeting, let alone exceeding. I was totally hoodwinked by the romantic ideal of "becoming a woman" when I was younger. Now <em>that</em>, my friends, is a marketing campaign of unparalled <em>genius</em>. I was under the impression that once I hit "that" level of maturity, I would have cleavage, confidence and feminine wiles.</p><p>Didn't happen. </p><p>What I got, instead, were uncontrollable mood swings, pimples and and the sudden inability to ever wear white pants again. But I did, at least, expand my my wardrobe elsewhere: I got two sets of underwear (the "pretty ones" and the ones in the "I don't give a shit what happens to these" category.)</p><p>So on Monday morning, when I realized I was in for six days of complete and utter apathy shattered only by clumsy episodes, cotton-headedness and intense desires to set something -- anything -- on fire, I made one of those small gestures; one of the sort that will unravel the entire fabric of a day with a gentle tug. </p><p>I scratched my nose. And in doing so, I felt <em>it</em>: a small pimple. I leaned in, closer to the mirror to get a better look at this newest development and then realized I had <em>other business</em> to take care of, namely switching out of expensive panties and into the sort that may or may not end up looking as though they were used to tidy a murder scene -- you never can tell with me. That accomplished, I returned to face my whiteheaded adversary. </p><p>You know, God damn it, I am almost 40 years old and the presence of this <em>thing</em> on my face was almost too much to deal with. Actually, the fact that I am almost 40 years old makes me think that I am too old to <em>have</em> to deal with this sort of thing -- I should be able to trade plucking the disgustingly thick, single black hair that insists on sprouting from my chin once a month for zits. But, you know what? Life isn't fair, and I probably should have stopped my self-inspection there. But no! I am <em>nothing</em>, if not a glutton for punishment. </p><p>Speaking of the aforementioned chinny-chin-chin hair, I figured I might as well do some Re-con. It's been a couple of months since I yanked one, but I was able to give an all clear. I was surprised, but honestly -- I'd still rather deal with a monthly pluck than the bullshit of a break-out. And that should be good news, right? The idea that I am not turning into a man one whisker at time should be enough to put a smile on my face and send me staggering off to the kitchen for my much needed coffee and cigarette. </p><p>But, I figured, while I'm here and thinking about how old I am and about how all these crazy changes have overtaken my once youthful body, why not catalogue <em>all</em> of them?</p><p>And, see, here's the thing: One part of my brain was all for that, while another part was thinking that this was probably the worst idea I'd had recently, at least since the time I'd thought a Jagerbomb followed by a Burp and some shots of well whiskey were a fine way to spend a Saturday night. Yet still <em>another</em> part of my brain was just sort of begging me to go get some coffee. I knew the third part of my brain was trying to distract me and get my mind on something -- anything -- else, knowing my short attention span would effectively erase any intentions of returning to my inventory of What is Wrong With Me. The first part of my brain, the S&M side was all hopped up on hormonal waves, though, so it effectively kicked the crap out of the other two thirds and thus, the self-torture began. </p><p>In the span of about thirty-five seconds, I realized I need a haircut, I have visible and disgusting roots, as well as gray hairs that have multiplied like rabbits on Viagra. I have soft laugh lines around my eyes that I have never noticed before, and I seriously need to do something about my eyebrows before I earn myself the nickname, "Borgnine." </p><p>I was wicked high on hormones, and I wasn't going to let me get in my way of stopping the self-abuse. I went for the gold -- a full frontal assault on my own self-esteem. Without giving you too many details, let's just say that it almost seemed like I might have Tina Turner in a headlock, while sitting on Buckwheat's shoulders. I was also in the running for winning "Who Wants To Ruin a Razor" with my sexy Yeti-legs. Between a case of mild depression brought on by living with Satan's retarded younger brother and it just being winter, I had seriously let myself go. I fought my shame and called a day spa/salon combo a few blocks from my home, prepared to erase as much of the horror as possible. </p><p>Did you know there is no such thing as an emergency leg and bikini wax? I didn't. I thought the fact that I was completely irrational on the phone due to the extreme presence of extra femininity and a distinct lack of any kick-starting chemical substances bespoke of a person in severe need of the relaxing spa experience of having hair forcibly ripped from the most intimate and tender places on their person. Apparently in the dementia caused by the above two factors, I merely sounded like I was raving and I was hung up on. Repeatedly.</p><p>Well, whatever. Anything they can do for me, I can do half-assedly on my own. But first I needed coffee. Little known fact about making coffee when you are in the throes of absent-mindedness brought on by your period: without some Maxwell House in the handy-dandy brew basket, you can only make a pot of really tasty hot water. I tried again and got it right. But immediately after my first sip, I felt the toenails of a desperate Yorkie combing the lush locks of my calves and I almost cried when I realized I needed to put pants on. Putting pants on seemed like more of an effort than I could muster at that time, and I thought about just figuring out a way to trap him in the cat's litter box for fifteen minutes or so. I would like to tell you that I immediately dismissed this out of hand, but I have to admit that if I could have figured out a way to get it done that involved less effort than putting on pants, the title of this article would have been, "How I Litter Trained a Yorkie." </p><p>Monday was cold here on the prairie. It was gray and the sky spit rain on me and the damned dog decided that he was going to sniff every blade of grass, every tree trunk and every hubcap in the parking lot until he found the the one that met his descerning and exacting specifications and was deemed worthy of the four tablespoons of piss he'd stored up. </p><p>Five minutes into this process, a robin took a shit on me -- I suddenly had a quarter-sized dollop of warm, white bird-excrement dripping down my arm. </p><p>I did what any reasonable person would do: I threw up in the bushes.</p><p>The maintenance guy saw me. I think he thinks I drink <em>all the time</em> now. </p><p>I don't even know if the dog did his thing or not. I leaned down, picked him up and carried him back inside. I turned the shower on full blast, stepped in, rested my forehead against the tile wall and cried. It was a good cry, though. It expelled a lot of anger and frustration and it really did take the edge off of the hormonal high. Between the tears and the incredible amount of reconstruction work I had to do make myself appear like something less simian, I was kind of tired, so I got back under the covers thinking about a little nap. </p><p>Then the phone rang, and I ignored it. It stopped. </p><p>It rang again, and I ignored it. It stopped.</p><p>It rang again, and I ignored it. It stopped. </p><p>Hey? Are you guys picking up a pattern here? Yeah -- me too. I thought it was a pretty easy one to catch on to, myself. I wasn't going to answer the telephone no matter how often whomever insisted on calling back. I've admitted this before: it practically takes an Act of Congress to get me to answer a ringing telephone and this instance was no different than any other. Then my cell phone went off, and I glanced at it. My older sister was calling and I thought, <em>It figures. It just fucking figures. She's gotten herself into some easily avoided mess like she always does and now I'm supposed to fix it.</em> For your edification, "fixing it" usually involves throwing enough money at a problem until it disappears. This seems to be the bulk of my inheiritance from my parents. And this instance was no different than any other time: In spite of the fact she has a fully functioning gauge on her car, could I <em>please</em> go to QuikTrip and get her some gasoline and bring it to her?</p><p>Oh, and she'd pay me for it on Friday. </p><p>Getting a can of gasoline requires pants, too. You'd think, of all people, I wouldn't have such a problem or issue with pants, but that's just my Internet Persona. In real life, I'm big on oversized tee-shirts and slouchy shorts. I basically only wear pants if I'm leaving the house. So I searched the laundry pile for a pair of pants that were suitable for wearing to the convenience store when your dumbass older sister runs out of gas and strands her moronic self in her own driveway. The sort of pants required for that, by the way, are vastly different than the sort of pants you wear to walk a dog until a bird shits on you and you throw up. Dog/Robin/Puke pants are yoga pants with a two year old coffee stain on the right leg that refuses to give up the ghost no matter how often you wash them. And I wasn't going to put on CLEAN pants for a simple run to the QuikTrip. I finally found a pair of jeans that didn't have any beer stains and pulled them on. That's when I realized I was bloated. </p><p>I was Dora The Fucking Explorer in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Bloated. I was distended and extended and while I could get them halfway zipped, no way was the button going to function as a button. So I pulled a trick I haven't pulled since I first moved to Kansas and was lying to myself about gaining 20 pounds. I found a ponytail hickey (I hate to use such technical terminology without a footnote, but if you don't know what is, ask a girl. Just makes sure that you ask again if the girl you choose to ask immediately says, "Scrunchie." This is <em>not</em> a Scrunchie. This is a ponytail hickey. Any girl who isn't really a post-op tranny knows the difference.) </p><p>So, I found the ponytail hickey and looped it through the buttonhole of my jeans. I then stretched it over and around the button of my jeans enough so that my pants stayed in their correct place and I was not "ghetto dippin'." I put on a really big sweatshirt I appropriated from Mr. Right , 1999, grabbed my purse and ran to the car. </p><p>Except when I started the car, I realized that I'd left my cellphone on the bed when I'd hung up with my sister. So, I left the car running and unlocked, with my purse splayed open on the passenger's seat and ran back into the apartment, grabbed my phone and ran <em>back</em> through the apartment, hoping I still had both a car and a purse. But when I opened the door to leave my apartment, a funny thing happened. Time stood still while I (even more ungainly than usual,) went headlong through the breezeway outside of my door. I watched, fascinated, while my not-quite-six-month-old and <em>uninsured</em> Motorola Razr flew in slo-mo through the air, landing with a gunshot crack of doom on the cement approximately five feet from where I stood, confuddled and confused, and trying to figure out <em>why</em> I had hurled my phone. I glanced down and discovered that in the space of time that it took me to fetch my cell, some mainstreamed IDIOT had delivered my new YellowBook directly in front of my door -- and just in time for me to stumble over it in my haste, too. </p><p>My groan and muttered, <em>Fan-fucking-TASTIC</em> echoed in the empty breezeway as I crouched over my phone, knowing it was too late for anything other than maybe a priest. I grabbed the battery, the battery cover and went to grab for the body of the phone, except that I tried to stand up all at the same time and when I did, I forgot my pants-issue. The teeth of the zipper bit into the tender flesh of my bloated belly and I gave a yelp and jerked, phone sailing through the air and then skipping across the concrete of the front sidewalk five times before coming to rest not all that far from where I'd hurled earlier. </p><p>Honestly, if I could have just curled up in a ball in the breezeway, I would have. I really wanted crouch in the shadows like an abused and abandoned dog, snarling and growling and snapping at the maintenance guy who thinks I'm a drunk. But I had to get my sister her gas and now I had to go to the phone store, too. Again, I point out to you: Life isn't fair. </p><p>I got my sister's problem dispatched with relative ease, especially after I informed her <em>she</em> was returning the loaner gas can. This almost became an argument between us, but when she started to whine about how long it had taken me to get there and how she was late enough for work as it was, I merely raised my sweatshirt and gave her a glimpse of shining white menstrual pooch and she shut her mouth, fast. I started to pretend that my bloated belly had superpowers, after that. For the entire ride to the phone store, I had crazy fantasies of using it (only for good, mind you,) against anybody that got in my way yesterday. It probably made me more assertive, to a certain extent, while I was dealing with world's oldest T-Mobile Employee who was under the misguided impression that <em>he</em> was the crankiest thing in pants in the KC Metro. I argued him down on cost, but the old coot wouldn't budge on letting me have the rebate, too. I thought about using my Bloat Power, but there were young children -- girls, no less -- around. I didn't want to take away from the anticipated & mysterious joys of becoming part of the Woman Club. So I took my new Nokia phone and I drove home. </p><p>Once I was pantsless again and situated in my office (my bed,) I logged onto Gather and with one glance at my front page, it all came clear again. I am a mere mortal, forced to suffer the whims of the machine. But this isn't the best week to fuck with me too hard. You never know when I'll put on some pants and fuck back.<br /></p> </div>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-22997867871903748832009-11-03T15:26:00.002-06:002009-11-03T15:29:57.135-06:00First "Ferryman" Installment<p>Sometimes, I can do nothing more than close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing as the veil rends and lifts away. Rarely is that ever enough to stop my tears. In truth, they are your tears, and the tears of your loved ones as they leave you. I am neither angel, nor demon; not heaven sent nor hell-bound. I simply <em>am</em>, in a way your earthly mind cannot grasp and worse still, chases away as <em>Impossible</em>.</p><p>My own time in your world comes only to me in fragments -- the scent of a perfume, heady with orchids, dabbed seductively behind the woman's ear in my embrace, music swirling languid around us. It is the scratch of a father's beard, the smell of earth and worry, heavy upon him. And sometimes, it is the solid sureness of a three year old frightened and curled against me like a cat, wild curls tickling my chin. I often wonder if these are my memories or yours, and I honestly cannot remember. I fear if I knew of my own time, the heartbreak of memory would be too much to bear. But the flashes I get seep into me like cool water and warm light as I walk the Dead away from all they've known and into a dark where they've never been. It is my charge to keep them safe, to tamp down their choking panic and, most importantly, brush the wisps of your grief and loss from them. If I did not sweep clear the cobwebs of you, the separation would be incomplete, and they would move neither forward nor back. Worse, still -- you would be trapped, as well; manacled and immobile in a world where you do not belong.</p><p>The Dying see me in whatever form their security takes on; a prairie grandmother dead for decades, with floured hands and a tired smile; the dog that scampered in the creek with their childhood selves, catching crayfish and feeling free in the way only children do. A middle-aged man once whispered into my embrace as I pulled him from a wrecked Saab, "Are you The Silver Surfer?" and I felt him, long ago, alone and lonely, beneath a blanket in a bunk-bed, while a drunken mother raged a room away about a faithless man and fairness. Thus I became for him what he believed in, the aegis of safety he'd desired when the surge of his emotions was at its strongest. Miles away, and in the present time, his wife felt the change in the air, immutable and implacable, that nothing would ever be right again.</p><p>Yes, The Dying see me, but you -- the living -- <em>feel</em> me, and for the many years I have done this duty, that has been the worst of my regret: that my presence muddles time, makes it feel slow and sodden, impossible to navigate for the grieving. Your clocks seem to move slower as time stretches, bleak and barren, along a path of grief, of hurt. I wish there was something I could do to ease that, for of the few emotions I can feel, <em>Compassion</em> is chief among them. While my priority is the Dead, I must also be careful of the living.</p><p>You must know this: <em>No one dies without being mourned</em>. This is something you do not believe -- maybe <em>cannot</em> -- because, in earthly terms, there are such things as "evil" and "wrong." But on the other side, well... every murderer had a mother, just as every sainted mother has a son.</p>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-64915561789706044092009-11-01T19:54:00.004-06:002009-11-01T21:04:43.587-06:00SQOTD: 2 November '09, Rules and RandomnessWell, that was as much fun as I remember it. But things have changed in SQOTD-Land. It is with a heavy heart and crippling sadness that I must inform you that eBay has made it so that I can no longer right click copy the pictures of the prizes and post them in the body of the article (not that I even know that <span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger</span> would let me... or how I would go about doing that on the off-chance that the technology exists here. I'm not what you would call, <span style="font-style: italic;">Freakin' Amazing</span> when it comes to UIs and such. I sort of muddle along and, like a really autistic pig, happen upon a shiny truffle.)<br /><br />Where were we? Oh, yes. I was about to announce our winner and provide you with the link to the prize. Since we can't have a picture and I are one of them writers, for fun, sport, profit and brain exercise I will describe the prize to you before I link the eBay posting in. This way, you don't have to to visit the link unless you want to, and I take another baby-step in my 40 (so far) year plan of staving off Alzheimer's Disease.<br /><br />We all win, no?<br /><br />Okay, the first official winner of the New Stupid Question of the Day (<span style="font-style: italic;">Now 50% SQOTDier!</span>) is...<br /><br />[Drumroll here]<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aniko!</span> I think she's going by Aniko here. Whatever; Aniko wins... and this is a doozy of a prize, if I do say so myself.<br /><br />We have, for the lovely Aniko, according to the item listing a "Snoopy an Duck Popato." For our purposes here, let's absolutely assume they mean a "potato." I am currently flipping between the editor tab and the picture of the prize, and I have to tell you something... I fucking HATE myself for offering to describe this prize first. Fucking <span style="font-style: italic;">Hemingway</span> would be at a loss for words -- if I'm lyin', I'm dyin'.<br /><br />Okay, here goes... the "Snoopy" half of this dynamic spud duo looks <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> like Charlie Brown's beloved canine companion -- and it's kind of strange to describe him that way, 'cause you rarely see Snoopy anywhere near Mr. C. Brown. Isn't that weird? Did anybody else ever notice that? Is this some sort of, like, "dog ownership of convenience" -- maybe Snoopy is Canadian but needs to be in the country so he and Charlie Brown have struck a deal. Or Charlie Brown adopted Snoopy and after they spent some time together, they just discovered they didn't have much in common, but they're used to each other; you know, like every relationship I've had in the last ten years. They aren't <span style="font-style: italic;">great</span>, but they're better than sleeping alone?<br /><br />I don't even know. I'm now all wrapped up in the dysfunctional relationship Charlie Brown and Snoopy have and that ain't describing the damned potato. Whatever. Just trust me -- that potato looks nothing like Snoopy. It looks like two potatoes stacked on top of each other.<br /><br />Now, the other potato <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> look, remarkably like a duck-shaped potato, and that's kind of cool.<br /><br />And, once again, my plans are somewhat foiled, because I was gonna be all, like, stealthy and cool and award this to Aniko as a super-special prize; it would be like giving her both <span style="font-weight: bold;">Doyle and Duckie (DUCKIE!!)</span><br /><br />But the stupid not-Snoopy potato ruined it. Dammit. Here -- <a href="http://cgi.ebay.com/Snoppy-an-Duck-popato_W0QQitemZ160373904365QQcmdZViewItemQQptZLH_DefaultDomain_0?hash=item25570793ed">see for yourself</a>.<br /><br />Enjoy your potatoes, Aniko -- and everybody should, like me, get all wrapped up and entranced with the description the seller has left (<span style="font-style: italic;">"Here is a Snoopy and a duck popato."</span>)<br /><br />God, I hate people. Go to the trouble of photographing a not-Snoopy-looking-potato and a pretty decent Duck-looking potato, but don't fucking proofread yourself. Somebody's been dipping in the Dumbass Jar.<br /><br />Anyway, all yours, Aniko!<br /><br />_______________________<br /><br />It occurs to me that we might need a refresher course on Stupid Question of The Day Rules and Etiquette. First of all, using your brain is perfectly acceptable. Failing to answer the question is also completely kosher. Hell, like threadjacking, it's freakin' <span style="font-style: italic;">encouraged</span>.<br /><br />Being Stupid is not -- and bitching about how "not nice" an answer is or "how mean" someone is will get you nothing but ridiculed. If you're looking for "gentle" or "polite," you'll probably want one of those blogs with kittens on the page or something with "scrapbooking" in the title. That ain't my bag, dolls and daddy-os.<br /><br />Don't piss people off. The best you could hope for in that instance is being ignored. The worst, well... just don't do it. And if someone hurts your wittle feewings, don't come crying to me. I'm no Jean Dixon, but I can tell you right now that I won't care.<br /><br />DO NOT NECROMANCE A POST WITH AN ANSWER! I can't stress this enough. First of all, you'll look like the biggest Douchey McTool <span style="font-style: italic;">ever </span>(Hey -- look at me! I'm entering a contest that's <span style="font-style: italic;">over!!Eleventy-one!!!</span>) and secondly, if I have to wander back somewhere for something other than the continuation of a good conversation, I'ma be hella pissed. Review that: Continuing conversation = Great. Answering When It's Over = DUMBASSERY.<br /><br />No over-use of 'net speak. LOL, ROFL, and the like are fine in small doses, but if you're relying on them to be your entire comment, you're in the wrong place. Use your big boy/girl words -- and we're a grown-up group, so you can drop an F-bomb, <span style="font-style: italic;">if it makes sense to.</span> Cussing a blue streak for the sake of cussing a blue streak is kind of, um... <span style="font-style: italic;">Stupid</span> and you should save that shit for your two minute break between English and P.E. <br /><br />As always, winning answers are chosen using a super-secret, scientific method (i.e., in a completely, random, arbitrary fashion. It's my fucking questions and while I'll entertain your suggestions, ultimately -- if I'm tickled, you win.)<br /><br />Prizes generally are culled from eBay, but I'll accept suggestions from the audience if you PM the to me somehow (I think you can do that here; I don't know.) Prizes should be SUPER-WTF?!-flavored. If I can't find anything sufficiently odd, I've been known to hand out titles (which is why we have Official Ninjas, Bell Ringers, Moonshiners, a psychic and... uh, does anybody remember their title? If so, weigh in with them, please.) I'll also accept suggestions for SQOTDs. I don't repeat (or I try not to -- no promises, though. I've done a fair amount of these in the past, so...)<br /><br />Finally, brand new SQOTDS generally happen Monday through Friday, and less often if I don't feel like it. We'll see -- again, no promises. One of the most important things to remember is that the <span style="font-style: italic;">comment threads</span> are often more entertaining than the actual slop that I toss out (unless I get a jalapeno stuck in my nose, or something happens at the Casa D'Pants, but we can't always count on that.)<br /><br />I think those are all of them. If you old timers can remember any that I've forgot, leave 'em in a comment.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />And your latest SQOTD, which is an oldie but a goodie and more "suggestion" than "question:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lay a crazy non seqitur on me now. Whatever -- something completely random. Bonus points awarded randomly. </span><br /><br />____________<br /><br />GODDAMMIT! Just as I was about to post this, I popped back over to the popatos, and found out bidding had ended. Trust me -- that fucking potato looked NOTHING like Snoopy. To make up for it, I will offer this to Aniko:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbGYTq_5SuaGfsdWC675cRy4N0MpHwvYMfmzych_iAqE1KA3xEjV_wCw39q1nhW4OApeUBvNwjZor2o25GDqS9kArXfweWh9pd49pXSdMgapex2MagWh6SM2ya8Ehbax44MFkY4n4Mzo/s1600-h/awaitingphoto275.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbGYTq_5SuaGfsdWC675cRy4N0MpHwvYMfmzych_iAqE1KA3xEjV_wCw39q1nhW4OApeUBvNwjZor2o25GDqS9kArXfweWh9pd49pXSdMgapex2MagWh6SM2ya8Ehbax44MFkY4n4Mzo/s320/awaitingphoto275.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399333038055121442" border="0" /></a>It's the best I could do since eBay jacked me. *Sigh* <br /><br />Ahh, business as usual at the SQOTD!<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Drew/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Drew/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.png" alt="" /><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-3774755451845952372009-10-31T15:34:00.002-05:002009-10-31T15:44:11.603-05:00SQOTD: Halloween '09 Edition<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">By popular demand, I'm gonna trot this old pony into the ring and see if it still knows any tricks ... No promises, but I'll entertain the idea of resurrecting the daily Stupid Question of the Day and myself in the process. <br /><br />I don't know that I have an actual article to wrap around a Stupid Question today. For the first time in a long time, let's do some Hangover Math: Beer(Granola Bar + 4 Crackers) + Suddenly Shitfaced = Rookie Mistake. <br /><br />Let's just hit up a question. <br /><br />___________<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As a kid, what was the one kind of candy you <span style="font-style: italic;">hated</span> to see in your Trick-or-Treat haul? </span><br /><br />And, GO!<br /></span></span>The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-68942265218223845492008-04-21T12:25:00.001-05:002008-04-21T12:26:27.525-05:00Have Some CrazyI have, in scientific measurements, what is known as a "shit ton" of hair and it is naturally curly. I keep it in pretty good shape, but for the regular trims (because those cost money and my damned kids are all spoiled with this "eating regularly" craziness.) Yesterday, I pulled a section of my shit ton of hair back and was rocking a really pretty cascade of curls completely by accident, which made me happy. In an instance of what can best be described as "Joy's WTF?! Luck," a guy sat down next to me at the Tavernacle and started talking to me. This shouldn't be freaky, but it was because he was wearing a necktie at 6:30 on a Sunday. I think we know what sort of people wear ties to bars on $5 pitcher Sundays -- that's right: Crazy People... people who Love Jesus... people who want to tell you how much they Love Jesus... people who want you to know that Jesus Loves you, even if you are sucking down draft beer like somebody's going to take it away from you. But then He really started laying down the Weird.<br />He said, "Wow! You have pretty hair. Can I touch it?"<br />Let's pretend for a second that isn't creepy. Let's pretend that it's perfectly normal to walk into a bar, sit down next to a woman, talk to her for five minutes and then ask if you can touch her hair.<br />IT'S NOT POSSIBLE BECAUSE THAT IS TOO FUCKING WEIRD FOR WORDS! I didn't even know the guy's name... and when I pointed that out, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Randy. Now, can I touch your hair?"<br />I wanted to say, "No you cannot touch my hair, you nutjob," because that seems like the most rational response in the face of such oddness, without having to resort to kicking someone in the junk. But before I could get the words out, my friend Chris took the option away from me by standing up and looking menacing. The Tie Guy moved three seats down and looked sad. I didn't much care because, seriously -- that's like a prelude to ending up in a dumpster. In pieces.<br />* * *<br />I saw a strange Burger King ad last night, with what appears to be the shifty Burger King from the future hanging out with people who are dressed like sperm. Okay, maybe I'm remembering it wrong, but I know it was all futuristic and it really disturbed me. You can't advertise cigarettes on television, but a puppet-y looking guy wearing some sort of festish gear can show up in a bedroom, passing out breakfast wraps and that sends an okay message to the young impressionable minds of America. Really?!<br />* * *<br />My stalemate with TV Land continues. They're no longer forcing High School Reunion down my throat 22 times a day because they had to make way for something called, The Big 4-0. This is a show about people turning 40 (der,) and to be honest -- it's retarded. The first episode was about some never-was former football player who was turning 40 and wanted to do something to mark it and make it special. I have no idea what he wanted to do because every time I attempted to pay attention, lights started to flash and I could no longer feel the bottom half of my face. I'm pretty sure he did whatever it was he set out to do because the final scene (which I saw, once I regained consciousness and my motor skills,) was him with some balloons and a cake. I doubt anybody celebrates much if you fail to meet your birthday goals.<br />Unless they pity you.<br />* * *<br />If you're going to go to all the trouble of writing your Gather Armageddon article under your way cool new alias of "Crusader on a mission" (with just that sort of dubious capitalization,) you probably shouldn't out yourself three-quarters of the way through by referring to yourself by your name -- unless you want James Bond to storm into your trailer and kick your ass out of fear that you have somehow superceded him in espionage tricks.<br />* * *<br />Draft beer out of taps that haven't been cleaned since the Clinton Era is something akin to drinking Satan's urine. "Cheap" doesn't do anything to improve the experience, either. I'm probably culturing some weird bacteria in my mouth right now that you normally don't see north of the Equator. My tongue feels swollen and, let me tell you -- that's not a pleasant sensation.<br />* * *The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3349557526720343817.post-3762388423860000482008-04-20T15:20:00.003-05:002008-04-20T15:30:35.289-05:00Of Love and DancingOkay.<br /><br />I seriously almost cried just now, watching the Bay City Rollers sing "Saturday Night." Don't get me wrong - losing 185 pounds of stupid fat in the form of throwing Satan's Retarded Little Brother out of my home is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. I'm just mourning my youth, I think - or more like lamenting the loss of what I thought my life was going to be like. There's one of them "double edged swords" for you.<br /><br />I was a youngster in the days when Disco was cool and great fistfuls of John Travolta's chest hair were considered <em>damned </em>sexy. I was young and naive enough to believe Disco, like<em> C.H.I.P.S</em>, was permanent. If you traveled back in time and talked to my 9 year old self, you'd probably want to punch me in the face. I would encourage you to do that, too; <em>Somebody</em> needs to knock some sense into me before I start sporting that FeMullet in 6 years. But I digress. I was all over the disco stuff, as much as a prepubescent could be.<br /><br />In fourth grade, Vicki "The Bitch Who Would Ruin My Life ON PURPOSE in 7th Grade" Y. was quite the fan of the crazy sound that was rocking the airwaves, too. She even went so far as to write a really crappy three act play that was set in a discotheque and it revolved around three pretty young things hoping for their Last Chance for Romance. In a move that could be easily be misconstrued as oddly feminist, every character written required ovaries. I will explain to you now that getting the boys in <em>my</em> 4th grade class involved in a play (that also includes dancing,) involved basically the same Sisyphean effort as getting those same 4th grade boys to play Barbie Dolls. I unsuccessfully tried to accomplish both. I still have a scar on my left arm from what I like to call the "Chris G. Skipper Incident."<br /><br />So Vicki wrote her not-really-feminist manifesto and even got permission from our teacher, the oldest and most sadistic woman living at that time, to stage a production for the entire class. Because it was my 15 minutes to be Vicki's best friend that week, I was given the covetable role of "Darla," the character not quite a pretty as "Anastasia," the girl who will have every boy panting and excited and begging to dance with her. Vicki would be playing Anastasia, and I sincerely doubted she'd be able to fill her other myriad duties of director, producer, prop mistress and all-around Hitler-like dictator with itty-bitty-breasts a-budding. I didn't want to see her "<em>fail</em>," per se, but I did want an opportunity to get my hands on the script which included very little actual dialogue and no discernible plot whatsoever. Seriously, Act III read something along the lines of, And then they all show up and have some pretty colored drinks and dance. Anastasia has a fight with Robbie. They make up. The End. From about halfway throught the first page, the whole thing became less of a "script," and became something more of a "suggestion." The quiet writer inside of me at that time was deeply offended.<br /><br />It was my foolish insistence that people watching a play might want some plot or, at the very least, decent dialogue that didn't contradict itself and involved more than the phrase "Let's Dance," regurgitated like bad Lo Mein at five minute intervals that proved to be my downfall. Even our peers, who would have gladly swapped their Star Wars trading cards for what was shaping up to be a three hour long production of <em>Saturday Night Nothing</em> if it meant the Succubus of Room 114 couldn't torture us with more fractions, would be pelting up with our oversized copies of <em>Your World and You</em> twenty minutes into it. Vicki did not take my suggestions as being "constructive." She felt I was challenging her authority and "acting big."<br /><br />So she fired me.<br /><br />I then spent my recesses watching her and Karen R. scheme and whisper and practice disco dancing. And while I longed to be a part of her group again, I yearned for something more: to be grown up, to be desired, to be feminine and graceful, dancing all night with someone who found me irresistible. This is the mind of a young girl at its very worst and its very best. And tonight, when I heard the Bay City Rollers singing about dancing on a Saturday night, I didn't immediately feel sad because I am sitting in my bed, wearing boxer shorts I stole from my son when he outgrew them and an "I'm With Stupid" tee shirt that serves no real or clever purpose, except to insult the dog lying next to me. I didn't feel sad because I am 39 now, and at home on Date Night and watching something on VH1 about female rappers wearing tiaras (a truly, Joy-Specific WTF Moment if ever one existed,) and sharing slightly stale Pringles with the cat.<br /><br />I just felt kind of badly for the 9 year old me who really expected so much more than what she got when it came to dreaming about love and dancing. Oh, I don't feel too badly for her; she'll live in Paris and New York. She'll travel extensively. She'll meet people who will help her be successful, people who will love her and people she will love, but she'll never be the Queen of the Disco, and I know, in my heart, that's what she really wanted.<br /><br />Just so you know: Vicki's play closed before it ever opened, due to the fact that you can't scotch tape tin foil onto a soccer ball and expect it to look like anything other than some sort of sad joke. We went back to playing jacks at recess, which suited me fine, because I could get to tensies and around the world in my sleep. Disco, as we know, began to suck and it wouldn't be too far in the future before I heard the sound they were calling "punk," that spoke to me more and on a deeper level than the BeeGees ever did.<br /><br />But it might have been nice to have been Darla, the not "as pretty" one, with three or four spoken lines and a scripted grace.The Pantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09648044395372243430noreply@blogger.com0