Things I Said That Came Out Slightly Wrong, Part 2

"Aw... does someone have forbidden nuts in his nose?"

Slightly Bitter, Part 1

A relationship between attention whores ends like a Highlander movie. There can be only one.

Aunt Sophie

My great-aunt Sophie was using supplemental oxygen when I was still learning to read. She and her sisters were always saying they wanted no extreme measures taken should they ever fall into a coma. They defined "extreme measures" as machine-assisted living for longer than a few months.

Her baby sister Gertrude decided, however, that Sophie must not have meant it for really real when Sophie got really sick. Ventilators, feeding tubes, and pain were Sophie's daily companions for far, far longer than a few months.

Once, in the presence of most of the family, Aunt Sophie ripped out as many tubes as she could reach, and choked out in a ruined voice, "Let me die, goddamn you, let me die."

Aunt Gertrude continued to insist that Sophie really wanted to live. And tied Sophie's arms down to prove it.

Despite many, many family witnesses (both to old discussions and recent outbursts) to the contrary. Despite HER OWN ADAMANT TESTIMONY.

By the time Aunt Sophie died, all the entire family could remember were the years of suffering, the pain, and ultimately a long coma that accomplished nothing but bedsores and brain damage.

Poor Terri's SCREWED.

So I guess I've got the right to laugh, and laugh hard at http://durrrrr.blogspot.com/.

Disney IS the Devil!

Ebay: One Stop Occult Shopping!

Spam, Part 3

Subject line: Young Teens – Extreme Pics Will Get U Fired

Why would they send this to my work email address? And the next question is what kind of employee would open it?

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 7

Guy 2: Battle Fairies.

Guy 1: Battle Fairies?

Guy 2: Well, post-apocalyptic battle fairies.

Guy 3: Post-operative battle fairies.

Me: Post-operative post-apocalyptic battle fairies!

Guy 1: Battle Trannies! *angry rainbow flag head snap* You did NOT call me Frank!

Mrs. Schiavo

This article is required reading for anyone tempted to believe the hysterical, pseudo-scientific bullshit being spouted by assholes who wouldn't treat their DOGS the way Terri Schiavo has been treated.

It's so good to know that my mindless, empty carcass could wind up as a tug toy between my parents and my husband. My husband, the one with whom I share a bond SO SACRED that the Bushie Christians want to piss all over the Constitution just to be sure that only heterosexual people can enjoy it. I guess it's only sacred if he makes decisions the Bushie Christians approve of.

My Mate Rules

"Screw the moral high ground, honey. Shit, the fucking Tibetan monks had the moral high ground, and now they've got to deal with Richard Gere."

Spam, Part 2

Subject line: "You Just Won a Free Green Card!"

I would have said that we as a society would never play games with something as valuable and important as the right to live and work in the United States, but I was wrong.

Of course, we'd already destroyed what little remained of the "sanctity" of marriage, so I guess mocking people who are desperate for green cards was the obvious next step.

The Pet Peeves Of the Frustrated Author, Part 5

There is no such word as "alot."

I demand that you people stop using this fake word immediately. "A lot" is TWO WHOLE WORDS.

I mean it. Knock it off.

DON'T MAKE ME TURN THIS INTERNET AROUND.

Things I Said That Came Out Slightly Wrong, Part 1

"I don't want to talk about poop unless it is in the context of porn."

Spam, Part 1

Subject line "Now or Never - Order Viagra Today."

Obviously, the sender doesn't realize that I have received 746 competing offers for Viagra since Friday evening. So it's really now or tomorrow, or next Saturday, or maybe sometime in June.

Invisible

The furnace developed a horrible clatter the other morning. CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY, something spinning and smashing into the metal box of the furnace. And of course, the vents were sending the racket through the whole house with a hollow fury.

It was twenty nine degrees outside, and we had to go to work. Coming home to a cold house did not hold much appeal, and the repair shop said they couldn’t make it until “between one and three.” I knew cable installers and their vague promises of showing up in a time FRAME instead of at an actual TIME were the first signs of a plague. Everyone has the disease now.

But we had time to go to the office for the morning, and on our way out the door, my mate called his brother the HVAC guy. To our great joy, he was able to come by our house at lunch time, and take a look. The repair shop, with their ninety six dollar “visit fee,” their “diagnostic fee,” and their “parts and labor” fees, were now our plan B.

HVAC. Aitch vack. Heating, ventilation, air conditioning. The men of HVAC wear old cotton shirts with their names on the pockets, and non-shrinking brown trousers. They have greasy toolboxes and dented trucks. They tell terrible jokes, and swear, and have extra jobs on the weekends that they do while they’re waiting for the paint to dry on that addition they’re building. They walk through office buildings, banging on aluminum brackets and muttering about intake fans. And they are completely invisible. Do you remember the color of the eyes of the man who turned on the air conditioning for that one day in February when the temperature got up to sixty degrees? Do you remember that the man was there at all?

My mate’s brother took the cover off the furnace and saw that the motor shield was broken. This shield is a piece of vented plastic that goes over the furnace motor, to force cool air over the mechanism. Without this shield, the motor could overheat and die, which is a terrible thing on a twenty nine degree day. Our shield still partly clung to its screw, and whacked into the cover with every rotation.

A two dollar shield was procured and installed without anyone using so much as a screwdriver. While he spun the locking nut into place, my brother in law told us that repair shops don’t usually replace the shield, because it’s easier to sell the customer on a sixty dollar motor. Only, you don’t charge sixty, he said. You charge a hundred and eighty, plus labor. Labor on a standard residential furnace motor is ten minutes with a socket wrench. Maybe twenty if you’re really slow, and new to the whole HVAC thing.

By the numbers: The repair shop would have charged ninety six for the visit, fifty for the diagnostic, one eighty for the motor, and seventy five for the labor. That’s four hundred and one dollars, for a two dollar part requiring no tools to install it to fix a problem that could be diagnosed with bare eyes in five seconds.

Or, put another way, there was a fee of three hundred and ninety nine dollars to make you see the man in his old cotton shirt.

Schadenfreude

Shouting angers the filet o' fish!

Kids Today

I was on Amazon looking for a birthday gift for a young man of my acquaintance. He's going to be two years old soon, which means the chemistry set I dream of sending him is out of the question for the time being.

His mother said he loves planes and trains, helping her cook, and drawing. Being a woman who is glad to help enforce any gender role blurring, I started hunting for cooking related toys. A Play-Doh kitchen set appeared before my eyes, and to my mind, that was too perfect for words.

The included implements (besides "doh") consisted of a spatula, a waffle press, a toaster "extruder" (Play-Doh slang for "device that shoves the goop through a small opening and it comes out in a shape," in this case, "toast shaped"), spoons, forks, egg shaped molds... and a garlic press? A GARLIC PRESS? I was twenty-four before I knew what the hell a garlic press WAS. And now, it's such a commonplace kitchen implement that small children need a blue plastic one in the well-equipped Play-Doh kitchen?

I couldn't do it. I could not play any part in making this sweet child into a foodie. I mean, what's next, a sommelier Play-Doh kit that extrudes cork shapes to smell? I bought a set of car, train, and plane Play-Doh molds, which had its own unintended side effect - now my mate wants a set just like it.

Okay, so do I.

"Kids, Never Assume the Gun Is Unloaded"

The man's a little dumb, but the man's tough: http://www.compfused.com/directlink/680/

Reasons I Fear To Breed, Part 2

I was talking with a buddy over instant messenger last week, a brave and intrepid woman who recently packed her second grader, her infant twins, and her husband in a minivan and moved to the complete opposite coast. On purpose, too, not as a condition of parole or a "penance before her god" scenario.

Even though she recently regaled me with the story of how her twins will never, ever have chapped hands, arms, lips, tongues, throats, or even eyeballs, and oh yeah, she was out of petroleum jelly... DESPITE this extremely recent conversation, she was still teasing me about having kids someday.

It's not even the moisturizing aspect of child rearing that really scares me. No, it's what the child bearing part will do to ME. As I was telling my pal, women in my family (both sides) don't get a "baby bump," they don't "barely show," they don't look beautiful, and they absolutely do not glow. They look like rhinos with glandular issues. We're not talking about swelling ankles, we're talking about swelling the way blimps swell the day before the Super Bowl.

"And don't tell me about how great my hair will be during pregnancy," I told my friend. The first pregnancy is when the women in my family grow their first mustache. Sure, tell me how luxurious and silky my hair will be. I'll have the nicest mustache in the whole office.

They never recover, either. There's a horrifying photo of my mother, with her mother, and her grandmother, near a picture of her GREAT grandmother. It's like looking at a time lapse picture of Jabba the Hutt.

My friend was quiet for a moment.

"Your nails will rock," she typed.

That's our girl, always finding the ray of sunshine.

He's No Clay Aiken

What is WITH the AI judges comparing Anthony to Clay? They are NOTHING alike.

Clay: So, so did not get laid in high school.
Anthony: Was beating them off with sticks.

Clay: Uncool in high school because he loved his mama and Jesus in that order, and was a little nervous because he was as skinny as an alley cat.
Anthony: Not technically cool in high school because he bleached his hair even after his mama specifically told him not to do it, and he didn't care that he was as skinny as an alley cat.

Clay: Uncool in high school because he attempted sports before he realized he was ill-equipped to beat his brains out in football.
Anthony: Uncool in high school because he took French and read poetry instead of beating his brains out in football, and had the entire honor society panting after him as a direct result.

Clay: Totally the guy I went for back then.
Anthony: Totally the guy I did NOT go for back then.

For the record, in high school I was the sort of girl who shaved the back of her head because she was a rebel, but not the top layers so she could take down the ponytail and her mommy wouldn't know I'd shaved the back of my head. I mean, "her" head. Or something. Because I wouldn't want my mommy to think I'd ever done that. I liked Metallica and Madonna pretty much equally. And I was a giant honking sucker for skinny little white boys who sang in the chorus, played D&D, and talked nerdy to me.

Which, really, explains the Clay Aiken obsession.


(EDIT, 12 HOURS LATER: My instincts were right on, sadly - he's posing as a nerd to GET the Clay vote. The fact that there's a Clay vote to GET is very, very odd.)

Captain Obvious Explains the Internet, Part 3

If You Scratch a Satirical Website, Does It Not Bleed?

A blogger of my acquaintance is today referring readers to this delectable snippet: Menstruation is a SIN. Typical Geocities, eh? Let's all make fun of the silly Geocities user on our Blogger website!

Captain Obvious would like to point out that, as much as we all like to make fun of free webhosting services as the root of all internet-based ignorance and evil, sometimes there's more than meets the eye. If you look really hard, you can find "irony," "situational irony," and "satire." Sometimes a poorly animated GIF is attempting to be social commentary.

The evil menstruation page is a subsection of an "angel baby" website, an example of a genre devoted to memorializing SIDS, miscarried, or stillborn infants. People who put up these websites invariably assault the viewer with flashing cherubs, fuschia taglines reading "I'm the mommy to an angel," and MIDI sound files of "Rockabye Baby" on an infinite loop. Admittedly, the difference between a real angel baby site, and a satirical version, is almost impossible to see.

Unless the author is as subtle as a falling anvil being ridden by a cartoon roadrunner.

Today's obvious tip:

Check to see if the site is a joke before posting the link to your blog in an intellectually elitist snit. Hint: If they are selling CafePress thongs that serve as "emergency moral reminders," they are probably not serious.

As a side note - doesn't it seem strange that the Bible warns us to treat menstruating women as unclean? The real trouble starts three days before any visible sign of the process. "Thou shalt keep her in a separate tent for three days prior to the onset of blood, bringing her small offerings of honey and wine, and thou shalt not speak to her or be spoken to by her or thou shalt be sorry. Very, very sorry." That would have been useful, but noooooo, let's lock the barn after the horse smashes a few plates and makes you sleep on the couch for your unknown sins.

I Wouldn't Learn English Either If I Had To Talk To Crazy Rednecks

My neighborhood newsletter arrived with a large font headline: Should the Citizens Association Exist?

I've been reading this neighborhood newsletter since 1979. Back then it was two pages stapled together and printed in a kind of purplish ink. Occasionally there would be a little drawing of a boxwood shrub or a maple tree in the margin. I'm told the association's mimeograph machine is still sitting in a storage hutch.

If you paid the four dollars in association dues, you would get free of charge a neighborhood phone directory. This was a clump of stapled pages filled with closely typed names, street names, and phone numbers for every house in the neighborhood. Some names would be blacked out with a marker before the directories were delivered. I used to think this was some kind of mafia hit list thing, and that those people were targets for removal. Vans with tinted windows scared the shit out of me for years because of this little fantasy.

Now the newsletter is a slick affair and the directory has email addresses. Ah, progress. But the association itself is in a bit of trouble. Out of more than 1,600 houses, only about 400 pay dues. Out of an estimated 6,000 residents, thirty show up for meetings. The latest newsletter asked for ideas.

I'm a good little citizen, so I sent in my idea. My left side neighbors have lived there since 1983, and they speak mostly Spanish. My right side neighbors moved in during 1986, and they speak mostly Korean. They own their homes, take great pride in the upkeep of their property, and have been awesome, caring neighbors to live between. I even invited the Korean couple to my wedding, for heaven's sake. Also on this block are two other Hispanic families, and another set of Koreans. So my idea was simple - print the newsletter headlines in English, Korean, and Spanish. And while I wouldn't want to have the WHOLE thing translated into three languages, basics like "Creek Cleanup Day" and "Neighborhood Yard Sale Day" and "Large Item Disposal Day" should also see a little trilingual action.

See, all of the immigrant families speak some English - it has been decades since they stepped ashore in most cases, after all; pure osmosis has gotten them a working vocabulary. But they won't bother to puzzle out a whole newsletter if something doesn't grab their attention right away... like a headline in their native language. I don't want to translate the whole thing because I'm a little bit of a snob, and would like a national language to, you know, exist. But headlines and general annoucements seem like a fine (and free) way to get the citizens involved, especially given that over a third of the 'hood speaks English as a second language.

My idea is not going to fly, however. This is an old neighborhood. Many people who bought in originally in 1955 are still here. The houses were cheap, and convenient to major highways. Until recently, you could buy a quarter acre and a decent little house for a very reasonable price. (Not anymore, mind you, but that's a whole different rant.) A number of the folks who moved in during the seventies are what I'd call white trash if I wasn't so closely related to my very own trailer division. I'm talking old school white trash - crappy rustbuckets on blocks, beer cans in the driveway, and thousands of plastic toys rotting in the front yard.

Even though these people do not pay association dues, and would have more trouble puzzling out the newsletter than the Korean grandmother up the street what with their native tongue being so hard to spell and all, I know one thing for sure. They would have a fucking ANEURYSM if the newsletter came out with a teeny headline in Spanish.

I know this because I'm a voter. I stood side by side with my native born brethren at the polls this past November. On one side, I had a woman who thought that all our problems would be solved if we just closed down the Pentagon. And yes, she WAS carrying a handwoven purse made in Guatemala, how'd you know. On the other side was a short, plump lady in plastic flip flops carrying a cracked vinyl purse and wearing a stained t-shirt telling me how her cat was purr-fect. I was not at all surprised to find out that she had eight kids, and three stepkids, and four of the children were currently using a derelict camper as a bedroom in the backyard, but still, she was nice. She seemed normal compared to Crazy Peacenik Lady.

Until she told me that she knew for a fact that there was a shrine to John Kerry in North Vietnam. And that the Vietnamese worshipped him. Because he was a Commie war hero.

I tried using reason - my dad happens to be something of an expert on Southeast Asia, and in fact lives in Southeast Asia at this exact moment. There *is* a photo of John Kerry, very small, as part of one picture in a very small exhibit in a museum in Ho Chi Minh City (which, by the way, the locals call "Saigon"). The entire exhibit is labeled "Anti-War Sentiment in the USA." In case you're worried that this is some Commie plot, I should point out that there is a much larger exhibit on the same topic with pretty much the same spin at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC.

She refused to believe that John Kerry wasn't venerated as a god in Vietnam. She wouldn't even stop shaking her head at me long enough to listen. The Crazy Peacenik Lady was in tears.

On the other side of the Crazy Redneck Who Lived In A Shoe was an elderly Korean woman. She had been watching the entire conversation, and I'd have bet money she understood every word. There's too much of a difference between a look of blank incomprehension and the look of an engaged bystander, no matter what the cast of the features may be.

"No speek Ingrish," she said, when asked for her opinion.

"Tsk," clucked the redneck.

Yeah, sure, old woman. I'd have faked it too.

Don't Eavesdrop On My Lunch Pod, Part 6

Me: I wonder who would win a caged deathmatch between me and your wife?

Guy 2: Her.

Me: You underestimate me, man.

Guy 2: You underestimate her.

Me: I quit smoking, though, and she didn't. I've got more cardiovascular endurance.

Guy 2: I'm her FOURTH husband.

Me: Point.