Spazzymoto's Revenge

Arse

2008-02-18T06:49:00.004-05:00

We shan't bother with an excuse, right??

Right!!

Oh hell. I've felt like crap the past week or so.

Annie frequently wonders how I can be so gosh-darned positive and hopeful--about everything--in spite of all the crap I've been dealt along the years.

{Spazziness, moronic ex-assholes, psychotic family etc}

Fucked if I know. Stupidity in hope, I suppose.

The past week I have not been so gosh-darned chirpy, though.

First of all, the new-old drugs?? We can now shout merrily 'Fuck YOU, Keppra!!'--because they haven't done dick to help me. I'm spazzing like a motherfucker. Hurrah!!

Oh wait. Not good!!

Then again I've only just re-started the regimen. We don't start the Zombification Levels til next week. I'm predicting the eminent Dr. Pinky and the Brain will jack me up to, oh, 2,500 mg. Or maybe 3000!! I'm on 1500 now. Whee!! I won't know who I am or what planet I'm on, but maybe I'll stop spazzing.

{Oh ha ha HAAAAAAAA. As if I believe THAT}

Anyway thinking about all that has made me decidely UN-hopeful. And definitely not chirpy. My mood can also just be because of the medication switch.

{And let us not forget the magic of hormones. Yay!!}

Seriously though, what's the good of not spazzing if I'm drugged to the point of crack-addictery?? WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT??

Yes. Cranky. Did I mention that??

I will remain so until Wednesday, which is D-Day for ol' Lefty, my sole remaining (and currently cyst-ified) ovary. Sure, the pills probably shrank it into oblivion. Maybe. Possibly?? Who knows. I will not rest until I know for sure. I keep imagining the worst because, well, because I'm a fucking moron.

Just to round out the fun, my left wonky leg has had me in SUCH pain it isn't funny. I'd already procured a referral for an orthopedist--grudgingly, you understand. I seriously don't want to, but Fishface Wimpy demands it to be done. And I've been whinging about my Gimptarded Left Leg for how long?? Then this wacked out pain started. Everyone I know claims it's Sciatica. Which I call Bullshit. For I do not succumb to such sissy-mary-namby-pamby Structural Problems. Never!! I even had the good sense to Dr. Google said ailment to prove them wrong. Webmd Symptomchecker, prove them wrong!!

Oh I would gloat when I showed them the Webmd's ideas of what it could be. And then laugh heartily once at the office of said Orthopedist.

Course, the first thing it shot back at me was Fucking Sciatica.

I will remain in pain and denial until the orthopedist appointment. Because clearly webmd and their symptom checker thingie, is pure shite.

On another note, for reasons that will be explained on my new page, Spazzymoto will die with this post. If you want to follow me along leave a comment and I'll email the site name (I can grab your email off haloscan--no one else will see it). Or you'll just see when I comment on your page. And link!!

Now I've got to go put every single post here in drafts (why, oh, WHY is there not a simple way to do this??). That way when I move the archives to the new joint I can cull the pure crap I've written for the past *cough* years.

Which will leave me with, oh, a dozen old posts or so.

Happy Anni(blog)versary to me!!

Chicken n' Wibs

2008-02-07T05:07:00.000-05:00

I am hunting up my old records.

No, I am not referring to my oh-so-coveted Japanese Import Night-Version Mega Dance Monster Mix of 'Is There Something I Should Know?' EP (Do not mock, unbeliever. You risk the wrath of the Former Durannie, elsewise). That resides safely in beloved Fred, piece of Ancient IKEA.

I am speaking of Records Medicular in nature. Neurological to be specific.

{AKA--The Fucktarded Synapses Greatest Hits 1981}

Since my last visit with Pinky and the Brain--Spazzological Experts--I've been itching to see my old childhood files.

I don't know why.

Ok. I do. A bit.

I have a wibble.

In my right side (abdominus fakus latinicus to be exactacus).

A worrisome wibble.

It's been around for a while now---perhaps a year or two--yet shows up on the rarest of occasions. It never says hello. Or brings a bottle of booze. Or even a nice casserole.

It's a selfish bastard of a wibble, I tell you.

I've not really mentioned it to anyone but a few because, as of yet, it isn't really WORTH mentioning.

An unworthy, yet worrisome wibble, if you will.

I had a wibble just like it ages back. In my left side. It started out much the same way. It would pop up for the occasional hello, drop in unexpected for tea, and then bugger off again. I wouldn't hear from it for ages. No letters, no phone calls, not even a bloody postcard.

It, too, was a selfish bastard of a wibble.

The wibble itself is a curious feeling--suddenly my side goes 'Bloop!' and drops a bit. It's kind of like hitting a speed bump at JUST the right point--instead of you're stomach dropping though, its your muscles. My arm will flop about like a mackerel for a second, or just drop like the floppy ear of a basset hound. Yet I'm sure--no, I KNOW-- I can still use it. It just goes, well, wibbly when I do. And I feel like a fucking idiot sitting there trying to see if I'm imagining it or if it's real.

I tell myself I'm making it up. It's not real. I'm just doing it for show--even though half the time no one is there to see it. When they are, it isn't too noticeable (a newborn wibble is tiny, you see), and I don't call it to their attention. Much like the famed Limpy Gimp Walk (from the damned spazzing) I try to tell myself doesn't hurt even when it does.

I denied the Left Sided Wibble for ages--oh, sure, I mentioned it to Neuro of the Moment, but I still refused to believe it existed. He named it--proudly, like a father would a newborn--and said it was a Focal Seizure. Then passed around the cigars and took pictures of my Frontal Lobe. It didn't care for this and got worse over time. Maybe it was happy being a Wibble. I don't know.

I didn't--and still don't like this Focal Seizure Business (or whatever the hell they call it now, I've been given so many names for it--I may as well call it Wendell or something). It's turned into a twisty-contortiony-bend-my-ankle-toes-knee-and hip-the wrong way monster. I mean, was the Grand Mal not enough?? Christ. In a way they're worse than the big fits--at least then I get to lapse into a nice little coma of nothingness while my brain sorts itself out. Not that I like the Big Fits because hey!!--I hate doing laundry. And that whole pesky convulsion thing. Ahem.

I am still denying the Right Side Wibble. It's a baby wibble. A wiblet, even. I think, though, that it may be a growing wiblet. Waiting to turn into the twisty-contortiony cotton-candy clouded BOX OF RAINBOWS AND FUCKING SUNSHINE that its' left-sided sibling has become.

When I saw Dr. Pinky and the Brain last week, we discussed my recent EEG. Which was as fucked, if not moreso, than the one previous.

'I see the spikes and spires all over your frontal lobe' she said.

Surely that couldn't be correct, could it?? After all, I only spaz and seize on my left side. That's my Special Spazmodic Anomaly.

I am Babs Geller, Sleep-Spazzer and Ruiner of Sheets and Awake But Spazzing on Left Side ONLY Wunderkind!! Dammit.

'Shouldn't they only be on the right side of my brain?? Given that my fits are based solely on my left side??'

'Well, yes, but you have it on both sides of your frontal lobe. It's all over there, not just on the one side. I'm actually kind of surprised you haven't spazzed on your right side, too'

I mention the wiblet, not remembering if I had before.

I ask her if it's possible that the wiblet will grow over time, and worsen to the current madness of its like-minded cranium mate.

I catastrophize.

'What the hell do I do when it's really bad?? What if both sides start spazzing at once?? I'll be falling down in the middle of Pathmark!! Oog. I could sell tickets--people would pay to see that'

She laughs (I am her favorite comedian for a reason, you know), and says we will sort it long before that, and I shouldn't worry. Yes, though, in theory it IS possible.

'We will sort it though, Babs!! Don't worry!!'

I catastrophize some more.

'But really. I mean, I could end up needing a wheelchair or something if my right leg starts to spaz, too, and giving way from under me if the left leg is spazzing, too. Would they spaz at the same time?? Shit, I'd have to wear one of those bloody helmets. Mind you--I could decorate it with Mets stickers. Or pictures of Colin Firth!! I don't look good with helmet-hair though. God, this CANNOT happen'

We discuss options.

Zombification levels of my previous drug. I kiboshed it last year because of this. She explained effective levels though, showed me the numbers and mine for comparison. I reluctantly agreed. I will start at my old dosage. And we will work our way up to Babs Geller Soon to be Mistaken for a Crack Addict Levels. I am off the Topie.

Yet I still want to see my old records. It's almost like I NEED to see them. Regardless of the wibbles. Or the seizures. Or the scars on my tongue. Or the years of ruined bedsheets. Or the myriad of doctors who've said so. And my current Gimpy Left Leg Woes. All the unmitigated and incontrovertible proof that I'm a windie-licking, sheet-ruining, Wunderspaz Exrtaordinaire.

I want to see the old EEGs.

I want to deny that any of it is there. Or ever was.

I've been epileptic since I was ten years old or so. It's boring me now. It's old hat. And I'm sick of it.

For once, just bloody once, I want to be fucking normal instead.

Pebbles

2008-02-01T12:36:00.000-05:00

I take good care of my things. Always have. So it vexes me greatly when things conk out when they oughtn't. Especially at the time when most inconvenient.

Spring. 1999. I'd finally, FINALLY, decided to buy a new stereo to replace the one the Old Man have given me for my Sweet Sixteen birthday present. It was an ace stereo, it was. Massive Vinnie Boombatz speakers, double-tape deck, played records (natch), and a whole other bunch of doo-hickeys and whatsits that made the Old Man very much regret saying 'So do you want a party for your sixteenth birthday or this ace stereo??' (Hey. I didn't have many friends and I LOVED my music. What can I say??) The only thing I ever added to it was a 5 disc CD changer when the CD revolution came. Which always seemed to fuck up every five bloody minutes. But I managed to sort it most of the time.

Anyway. Eleven or so years later I decided to crawl out of the stone age, retire the old stereo, and bought a lovely Aiwa. Shiny buttons. CD changer. Double tape deck (because, you know, us old spinsters still have our tapes from the 80s--long live *** *****!!---yea like I'm going to ruin my rep and name that band. Bad enough you mock me for being a Durannie). KILLER speakers. The lot. And a lovely, LOVELY warrantee. 'We will fix this stereo if it fucks up, Babs!! For you have paid vast amounts of money for it!!*'

*Assuming it breaks within a years time. Or thereabouts.

Now you KNOW what happened next. Practically the day after the warrantee expired the fucking CD player broke and I was, as the great poet once said, shit out of luck. So it was either lay out the cash, buy a new stereo, or be happy with owning what was now tantamount to naught more than a very fucking expensive radio. I shelled out the clams, got it fixed, and here I am today, with a CD player that went belly up again LAST year. Or was it the year before that?? Regardless. Fucking piece of shit Aiwa.

Last month I got a letter from the Goverment Leech Insurance Emporium. They informed me that, as of February 1st, I had a new dentist. And I had NO choice in the matter!! Oh sure, I could pick someone off THEIR list--none of whom happens to be my current Deeth-Taker-Care-Of. I don't want a new dentist--especially not one on the heathenous south shore of the island. I can walk to my current one, and, god forbid she must kidnap the deeth for a day or five, I can walk home with hardly anyone seeing me in my horrible state (and then go into hiding til said deeth are sorted). And the girls there know why I am a Toothless Wunderspaz (albeit an Impeccably Faux-Toothed Wunderspaz), they don't judge, as they know the backstory. I am COMFORTABLE there.

There is no arguing with the new Dental Plan People, however--or the GLIE. If I wish to be covered, I will get my Impecabbly Faux Toothed Self to the south shore and that's final. Which means a new office. And new people. And a bunch of twits looking at me funny while I explain that I am NOT an Impeccably Faux-Toothed Wunderspaz at the mere age of thirty-something because I am a former meth-head or a relative of Shane MacGowan's, NO. It's because of years of the fits pills ruining my teeth and crap genetics, to boot. So stop looking at me that way, fucknuts!!

Gawd.

Well. I wasn't going to worry about it that much right now. After all, the deeth are in perfect shape. Right as rain, in fact. Because I take good care of them PRECISELY so they won't fuck up. Plus, like, um, ew?? If you don't they're like totally nasty. Like, fer shure!!

Today is February 1st. The cut-off date wherein I am no longer allowed to see Old Dentist (well I mean I can, but you know what I mean).

Can anyone guess who fell asleep with said Deeth in said yap, spazzed, and woke up with a fucking piece of shit Aiwa CD stereo in their mouth*?!?!

Yea. That's what I thought, too.

*Bottom front row. FRONT!! Fourth bloody Dooth over. For anyone who was taking bets on location.

Clinker

2008-01-28T04:01:00.000-05:00

I had this past Friday all plotted out.

Sleep in.

{I don't really have much of a say in this sleeping-in business--the re-arranged Take All Your Topie at Bedtime Plan has made me even more comatose than usual whilst sleeping. Hurrah!! I feel nothing if I spaz whilst slumbering!!--only after-effects when I wake}

Goof off for a bit.

{In other words, check email, surf, make voo-doo dolls or various quacks I hate at the moment. Maybe watch some TV. Gape out the kitchen window in a state of bewildered shock when noticing my neighbor finish taking what is known amongst the kindergarten set as a numero dos right in the middle of his yard*--you know, anything that would put off my eventual main goal of the day}

*True--I was shocked, mortified, and completely put off my lunch

The Grand Master Plan of the Day was to catch up on All Bloody Housework. I'd meant to stop procrastinating quite a few weeks back--not necessarily with housework (I'm not a fucking heathen for gods sake)--but with everything in general. There was even a bit on the Today show touting How to Stop Being a Fucktarded Procrastinating Nitwit. However, at the time of the show I was working on NO sleep, and I laid down to watch said show before I napped. They went to commercial before the segment, I passed out, and I took this as a Sign From God that my way is best. Besides, I always work best under pressure and with chaos around me.

Assuming I ever get round to whatever it was I was going to do.

Anyway!! Friday. Lovely. Woke round ten. Didn't bother checking messages because I DID NOT CARE WHO CALLED. I wasn't going to ring them back.

I fucking should have.

EFL had called, apparently, at 8:30 that morning. And let me illustrate just HOW comatose these drugs can make me. I have not one but TWO phones in my room. One normal phone and a cordless phone (I always end up bringing the cordless in here) that we'd gotten for Christmas (Huzzah for caller ID!!). I put them on a chair RIGHT NEXT TO MY BED. In case Ma calls from Down South (end of February she will be back. Such a long fucking story. No you don't want to ask. Hey. You remember MY one month foray what turned into six months). So EFL rang, TWICE, both phones rang for god knows how long, and I didn't bat a comatose eye. Never even heard it.

EFL, as we all know, is just a TOUCH obsessive-compulsive (read: Yes. I know--it's like saying Attila the Hun had a slight temper). It must be done NOW. No no no--this cannot wait!! The world will end if my floor does not get mopped before the end of The View!! This is one of the reasons the whole 'Working for EFL Thing' went to pot fairly quickly. Anyway, she'd wanted me to check the boiler. I don't mind doing this--after all, adding water to the boiler is easy enough and I like having heat, too. EFL's husband told her (before his demise years back), however, that if the boilers were to run out of water, the house would EXPLODE!!-and then she'd get amoebic dysentery, headlice, and really bad acne. Or something similarly catastrophic. Since it's winter time I check the boilers every two days or so--which is just about right. Well EFL got a bee in her bonnet at eight-fucking-thirty AM and she wasn't letting go of it. She COULD NOT WAIT a few hours for me to wait and check on it--no.

So she went to see to it herself.

Let us be clear here: I, Babs Geller, with 20/20 vision, have a hard time seeing in the damned sight glass/fill tube thingie (whatever it's called) and checking the water level. Any clue on the odds of EFL, who has had eye surgery and requires glasses the size of coke bottles and STILL can't read a bloody thing?? Nil. Thems the odds, chummy.

I check my messages around noon or so. Messages from EFL at 8:30. 'Babs!! It's VERY IMPORTANT!! Call me back' I think to myself 'Can't have been THAT important, she never rang back' I call her anyway. She asks me to come downstairs.

Which would have been a damned sight easier had the river Nile not been going through my hallway. I didn't know why--at first.

EFL: Babs, I went to check the boilers this morning, and my!! You must be strong!! I had to go back two times to turn the knobs to add the water.

Babs: Why two times??

EFL: Oh I had to keep hitting it with a wrench to loosen it. I made sure I didn't close it as tightly as you had.

{A wrench!! Banging on them with a fucking WRENCH!!}

Of course, 'didn't close it as tightly' translates as 'still allowed a minuscule amount of water to get in'

When coupled with 'she overfilled the boilers to begin with' you lose an entire afternoon. As it means I spent my entire afternoon racing between the hallway fucking radiator which was spurting out water like bloody Niagra; catching said water with an old pot, an old frying pan, a blue bin, and a shitload of newspapers. Whilst also running downstairs emptying some of the excess, and marvelling at the rain forest that the basement had become under each and every spot what held a radiator.

Mind, I was far more fascinated by the fact that some of the water managed to leak OUT of the hallway and onto the outside sidewalk, creating a lovely little ice patch.

At least I know why the hallway is so bloody cold now.

La La La

2008-01-25T03:52:00.000-05:00

I am never, ever, ever, going to let Annie accompany me to the doctors office again.

Ever!!

You may recall when, ages back, I mentioned that Annie can and will (much in the fashion of Sneezy, Paddy's soon to be betrothed) do anything to make me turn thirty shades of red.

At times, she even drags me into the muck that is Uncivilized Behavior, when normally I am quite Saintly and Polite.

She had agreed to pop round to the Quackery, as she was going to go to the shops too, and I was going as well (post-quackery), so hey--why didn't she take me with her. Jolly good, old chap!!

Annie: Do you know that store in the mall??

Babs: Yes.

Annie: They have *ahems* now.

Babs: You're fucking kidding me.

Annie: Nope!!

Babs: That's bloody bizarre!!

Annie: I know!! I was telling the girl there how years back they NEVER had anything like *that*. The rudest thing they had were furry handcuffs. And those were a gag gift!!

Babs: Wait. Let me get this right. Everyone whinged and moaned about the whole whether or not the nativity scene was there at Christmas time, but they are oddly ok with *ahems* being sold there?!

Annie: I know!!

Babs: People on this island are such twits sometimes.

{Can you SEE how the tone of my blog is being lowered already?? CAN YOU?? Lordy. And she wasn't saying *ahem* in the office!! And at least *my* whisper was a whisper}

Thankfully we veered right off that subject. I decided to take out my notebook to practice Ma's signature (read: am also an ace forge artist now since Ma is away and have to deposit checks of hers--have actually known how to sign her name since 2nd grade but needed to brush up). La la la. Not enough swoop in the T!!

Annie grabs the notebook from me, draws twelve dashes on a blank page, and a hangman's noose. Then writes the word 'Activity' at the top of the page. Alright!! This will kill time for sure. I pick the letter N. Bingo. I pick the letter M. Hurrah!! I go for an S--again I'm right. E--boo, I see a noggin drawn. How about an A?? Yep (two of them, apparently)---hang on, I see where this is going. T?? B?? I?? And of course you can all see what's going to follow.

Babs: Oh god. You've got SUCH issues.

Annie: *cackles sadistically*

Fine!! Fight fire with fire I say.

I take the notebook back. I draw six dashes, and the word 'things' across the top.

She picks the S straight off. Bingo. She asks for an A. No go, and I merrily pencil in a noggin. T?? Nope. I draw the body. D. Two Ds. First and fourth letters.

Annie: *looks at me shocked* And I'm the pig??

Babs: Pfft. Keep playing, Sherlock.

She picks an I, thinking she's got a dead lock. Right. I is the second letter.

Annie: Ha!! I knew it.

Babs: So you think.

L!! I tell her nope, and draw the first leg from the body. Now she's really confused. She's guessing away until she finally has it down to D_ODES.

Annie: Diodes?!

Babs: And you thought it was going to be something else. Ha!!

Annie: You and your friggin' SAT words!!

And the moral of the story, of course, is never play hangman with a prude who has had an EEG the day previous.

Trapper Dorothy MD--Fin

2008-01-19T08:58:00.000-05:00

He toddles up to the window and I run for the phone (read: trip over dog, bed, and seriously in need of replacement faux-leopard-fuzzy slippers which make me endearing).

I'm sort of not paying attention to Felix and staring at the phone. To dial or not to dial, that is the question!! You see, in THIS neighborhood, calling the cops can be a bad thing--even with the baddies on your doorstep.

Why, I might be labeled for life.

Fuck that, I'm ringing them. So I compose myself, dial, and make an ass of myself trying to explain the situation to the operator.

Very Patient 911 Lady: 911 What's your emergency??

~~Calm Cool Collected~~Very Fucking Panicked Babs: There are, um, these two guys on my porch. And they're, um, swearing some guy came into my house. And no one, um, has, and they WON'T LEAVE!! And they, um, uh......

{Gawd. How annoying must I have been?? I'd have told me to go answer the door!!}

Felix, all of a sudden starts waving his hands and saying, no!! Don't call the cops!!--for he KNOWS them!!

Now I am panicked--keep this in mind when slapping your forehead at my next action--so I tell the operator to hang on a moment, nevermind, it's been sorted, and hang up. BECAUSE I AM A FUCKING MORON.

Babs: What do you mean you *know* them??

Felix: Oh me and Dim used to live in a group home with the one fella when we were kids. I'm going to go get him ten dollars.

Babs: What?? WHAT?? ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?? I JUST HUNG UP ON 911 BECAUSE YOU KNOW HIM FROM TEN YEARS AGO, YOU DICK?? WHY ARE YOU GIVING HIM TEN DOLLARS??

Felix: BECAUSE, BABS, HE SAID IF I DIDN'T HE WAS GOING TO BRING BACK TROUBLE!! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!!

Babs: *picking phone back up* NO Felix, you are NOT giving them ten fucking dollars just because you recognized him from 'back in the fucking day'. It's like feeding a stray fucking dog--they'll come back here all the time trying to strongarm us for money!!

So I call 911 again, re-explain situation again, just as poorly, and I do a whiz bang job of 'describing' the fellows, even though I've been yelling down to them. What are they wearing?? Um. Clothes?? Height?? Age?? I only guessed at the teen. And approximated the other gents age owing to his having been in the group home with Felix and Dim when they were kids.

Do NOT ask me to be a star witness people!! Clearly being under stress (along with Stupamax etc), does wonders for my short term memory. Not.

Anyway, they are sending cops. So they say. I am hoping. There have been near full-scale riots in my neighborhood and they don't show. Ma rang one night two or three times for a forty-kid melee in the middle of the street and not one car buzzed by.

{I am not anti-cop or anything, not at all. I am just dubious when it comes to their showing up in my neck of the woods, at times}

I go back to the window. The thirteen year old asks me where Felix is with the money. I say there won't be any money because Felix didn't know there wasn't any--and whats more we don't OWE them any. He says, and I quote, 'Bitch, get your fat ass back in the window and send Felix back out' Ah. The youth of today.

Once the little fuck turns eighteen I'm going to beat the fucking shit out of him.

Now, because god loves me SO much, this happened to be the ONE day that EFL left the house with her sibling. EFL NEVER leaves the house. EVER!! And can you guess when EFL RETURNED with her sibling, fair reader??

Gold star for you!!

I am sitting there arguing with the morons and praying for cops to show. There is EFL getting out of siblings car. Oh holy fuck. EFL starts rattling off her mouth right away. I tell EFL to shush and that I've got it under control (I mean, clearly I don't, but I don't need EFL getting in the middle of this), and that they are leaving. I don't know if they've got guns or knives or what have you and I'm semi-safe up on my floor. EFL and sibling, however, are NOT safe walking up Dr Seuss Stairs. Sibling, deciphering that this is 'an incident' tries to talk EFL into staying down in the car. Which of course, EFL is having none of.

Older Mugging Moron: I'm not going til I get my shit.

EFL: Babs, are these friends of yours??

Babs: Well you're not getting anything. *turns to EFL* No they aren't, EFL, just go right in the house, please?? I'm taking care of this. It's ok.

EFL: You need to get off my property!! This isn't fair. I'm elderly. I shouldn't have to come home to this. You need to leave right now.

Sibling: EFL, just go up the steps and let Babs handle it.

{They, of course, ignore her entirely--but politely get off porch so she can go to the door when she eventually gets there}

Little Shit Mugger (looking at me again): YOU need to send Felix back out here.

{Fuck, why'd he have to say his name?? YOU know the older one only knows him from years ago. And *I* know that. But you know how EFL and sibling are going to see it. Gawd}

EFL: Babs, you and Felix KNOW these people??

Babs: No, EFL.

EFL: But they said his name.

Babs: I'll explain later, EFL, JUST GO IN THE HOUSE!!

Finally a car comes up the street and two people jump out. Wearing jeans and such. And run up our stairs. Plainclothes cops, hurrah!!

EFL, not realizing they're cops, starts yelling at them, too, advising them to 'get off her property'. And while she does this, the thirteen year old--having seen the cops--makes a break for it, and fucking succeeds. Felix says this is probably because he was a hopper and was holding the crack for the older gent.

{Possible, but then Felix watches tons of Law and Order so who knows. But then, the older fellow DID mention having sold a bag of whatever and being owed for it, which was why he was here to begin with. Which was laughable, to say the least. Besides, I pay for my crack up front, as any good upstanding citizen does}

This is SO not my night. I shout down to the one officer what the problem is, as I'm fucking petrified of moving at the moment. And he kindly asks me to come downstairs. He's got a gun and is a linebacker type so I reckon I'm safe. I find EFL in the hallway, saying 'That the one cop was a girl!! And so tiny!! How on earth will they manage?!'

For fucks sake. For someone who claims to be all women's libby, EFL thinks really ass backwards about what us broads can do with a gun, a badge, and a swift kick to the nuts. EFL's sibling corrals her, gets her back into her place, and mentions that her partner is built like a brick shithouse and also?? They are TRAINED for this sort of shit. So put a sock in it and let them do their jobs.

I explain to the fella what transpired. Random twits show up on my doorstep. Asking for said ten beans from man what never ran in here etc. Then they play do-si-do and chick cop comes in. And apparently Mugger Moron has a DIFFERENT story which he has given to the cops. He hasn't been on my porch harassing us for ten dollars, no. Someone named fucking Fred has run in here. And they have nicked his i-Phone. And he came here to get it back!! She asks if I mind her having a look round to confirm that the Entirely Fictional Drop Dead i-Phone Fred is not here, and I let her. The only thing I have to hide is Trash's poor housekeeping skills. (read: had to give her a warning and biohazard gear before looking at his room, but she only glanced anyway, because was obvious there was no god damned Fred).

The Cop Fella has searched the Mugger Moron and found nothing on him; no drugs, no weapons, not a bloody thing to nail him with (hence Felix's hopper theory). I had two options available to me, charges wise. One was to press criminal trespass charges, and the dopey fuck would probably be out lickety-split and even MORE annoyed we of La Casa (you know, the ones who never had anyone run in here, nor owed him ten dollars, nor had his fictitious fucking i-Phone). Thereby leaving us ripe for being harassed AGAIN. Or, simply let the cops warn him that if he came here just once more he'd sit in a vat of Trash's unwashed socks for five weeks straight. Or something similarly scary, in the hopes of putting him off ever coming here again.

I opted for the latter--a smart move, I think. I don't need these fuckers showing up again.

And Trash's socks would scare ANYONE.

Trapper Dorothy MD

2008-01-16T02:46:00.000-05:00

I am, thanks to my years of training in high school and as a Noo Yawka in general, keenly aware of how to survive in a bad neighborhood.

*Note: I am not saying all neighborhoods here are bad. Say that again and I will kneecap you, fucknuts.

First of all, you have to walk as if you BELONG. There can be none of that sissy-mary-namby-pamby 'Oh no is someone going to bother me?!' shaking in your boots kind of shite. People can smell fear from a mile away. And body odor!! So no fear--and always use deodorant!! You'll stick out a lot less. Besides, chances are no one gives a fuck about who you are and they aren't going to bother you.

Maybe. Ahem.

Next you've got to be aware of your surroundings. Who is near you?? Who was that behind you?? And has that creepy bastard with the hood been following you for three blocks now?? Golly gee whiz it's hard tell--yet one doesn't wish to turn around right away, be obvious, and allow your possible would-be-mugger know your onto them. You want the element of surprise when you break out into the worlds fastest 500k sprint. How to tell, then, if the bastard has been following you?? Easy peasy. You casually look up at the sky and feign interest in the plane passing/bird overhead/spaceship and sort of sweep backwards til you spot them so's you AREN'T so obvious. And there's always the quick reach down and scratch your leg with a quick glance backwards. Never fails. If you're in your OWN bad neighborhood, look for a neighbor to chat with til the possible nutjob passes. And always, ALWAYS look for a possible place to run. A shop, a church, someones home you vaguely know; even a strangers house with a door open will do in an emergency pinch (Manson did this once and saved himself from a major ass kicking--luckily the homeowners were NOT NRA members--or, you know, cannibals or something).

When, as is the case so often for me in this lovely, LURVELY neighborhood, I am followed by cars asking me if I am (and I am laughing loudly and often at the very notion) a hooker, I walk quickly with my head down and don't speak to the perverted fuckers AT all. Not a word. Not even to say 'No, you fucking moron, I am NOT a hooker'; because engaging them in ANY sort of conversation, I feel, will just give them license to harass me further. I walk quick-ish and find the nearest one-way street and usually they won't drive the wrong way for fear of the cops. And I then hope I can walk faster than they can make a U-turn. Or they will simply drive on and look for actual hookers. Or buy a bloody magazine like normal men.

Last but not least, when all else fails, act like a fucking MANIAC. And you will be safe. These rules have never failed me yet. Knowing your neighbors helps, as well.

Sadly, I do let my guard down at times. And that time is when I'm in my kitchen baking chicken. Which is when most people deal with attempted muggings, yes??

YES!!

What?? You mean I'm the *only* one who gets door-to-door strongarming service here!?!

Well lucky, me!!

Ah, bless.

So. As I was saying, there's me in the kitchen cooking chicken. And Felix is in the living room watching TV. Doorbell rings. Who on earth is that?? Certainly isn't Avon calling. Nor the Fuller Brush man (Hi everyone over the age of *cough*, that was for you!!). A renegade Witness of the Jehovah's type. Oog!! Mayhaps a Girl Scout selling cookies. THIN MINTS, HO!!

Lazy bastards that we are, we never walk down the stairs, and instead opt to pop our heads out the window to see who might be inquiring as to whether or not we're home. I do just that. I am told by the gent (mid-20s or so) standing there that he's JUST seen a fellow run in here, he's got his ten dollars, and that I'd better send my husband out with said money--along with the aforementioned gent.

The basic problem with all of this being, no fellow has run in here, there IS no ten dollars, nor do I have a bloody husband (and thanks SO much for the reminder, shithead!!). I inform him of this. And I am told that I am mistaken. And that he's seen this occur. And that he's seen the same thing happen at 9:30 this morning when he sold him a bag of something or the other. Also?? He's NOT leaving the porch til he gets his ten dollars. Which his thirteen year old apprentice confirms. Lovely!!

Can you just SEE where this is going?? Nowhere. And fast. Like an idiot, I try once again to explain that perhaps the good sir has the wrong domicile. After all, the only persons here are myself and Felix, currently; Trash having wandered out to the Isle of Long. The Door-to-Door Muggist shouts, 'Look!! I watched him run right in here!! 1313 Bluebird Lane!!'

'Aha!!' I shouted down, thinking I was OH SO FUCKING OUT OF THIS SHIT NOW, 'This is 1313 Mockingbird Lane!! Bluebird Lane is two blocks over!!'

'Wha?? That's what I meant!! Don't try to confuse the situation!! I know what I meant. Now you send him out. I know he's got my ten dollars and I SAW him run in here JUST NOW!!'

'Well I don't know what to tell you. No one has come in here. No one has ten dollars. You're going to have to go'

{I am being semi-polite because, frankly, I am not fucking sure if he has a gun tucked under his jacket or anything. And, you know, it's best not to taunt crack-heady types, no??}

He crosses his arms and positions himself in the Internationally Recognized Stance of I am SO not taking my ball and going home. And his little shit of an accomplice backs him up telling me to go get the money NOW.

I am panicking like a motherfucker (yet to the untrained eye--and those who do NOT know your fearless heroine, I am cool as the proverbial cucumber)--so I'm going to call the cops. I mean, they might try to break in one of the windows. Or bust down the door.

Meanwhile, Felix, seeing how panicked I (allegedly) am, has a hand at playing Ye Olde Diplomat, and takes over window duty while I fetch the phone.

{to be continued}

Eight Hundred Millies Agree

2008-01-12T16:18:00.000-05:00

A post??

An actual NEW post?? Miracle of miracles!!

I had decided (as usual) that I was not into the whole New Years Resolution Malarkey, as it clashes with my Entire Reason For Being.

That being: forgetting everything I say I'll do until approximately five million days after I say it.

{Plus, if I'm being really honest, I was always crap at them}

When I looked at the blog, though, I did make one teeny-tiny resolution--nay, a grouplet of resolutions, with regards to same:

1) Will stop being crap

2) Will stop posting mile-long posts what are crap

3) Will harken back to days of yore and post more frequently, no matter how crazy I'm being driven. As it's a sign of my own laziness otherwise. Or, worse yet, inability to string a decent sentence together.

I'm clearly off to a running start.

Or, rather not.

I am, for the moment, going to blame famed neuro Dr. Pinky and the Brain. Who has once again fucked around with my Pill Routine--not opting for Drug Uppage, but rather a Rearrangement of Pills. A rearrangement which has had me rather topsy-turvy.

And who also informed me that my last EEG was 'Really lousy' which has put me in a right mood for the past fucking week. I mean we've ALL known my brain has been buggered since god was a boy--but I didn't know my EEG's could get worse, did I now??

No. No I fucking didn't.

Which clearly qualifies me as the stupidest spaz on the planet.

Melee Kalikimaka: Fin

2008-01-04T06:19:00.000-05:00

Yes yes, this one is late. Hey!! I am doing some serious bloody spazzing here, people!!

It's an art, you know.

Also?? Dim and Felix were here together for New Years Eve. Gawd!!

If I were to become a raging alcoholic RIGHT now I don't think anyone could blame me.

Anyway. Party!! Coat racks!! Cakes!! Hams--both porcine and over-acting sibling and cousins!! And this will be a mile long because I'm finishing it today!! Deal with it!!

Naturally, as Trash, Twintrash, and Mickey are all in possession of iron-clad livers, there was plenty of beer on hand. Which was fine--after all it takes three-quarters of a keg to get any one of them 'mildly tipsy' I suspect. However!! Felix wanted to join in on the 'Drinking Fun' And we all recall what happened way back when at Mickey and Siobhan's wedding, right??

{Memory Refresher: Felix, on way home, drunk as a skunk on a mere seven glasses of white wine on full stomach over six hours time, declares that no!! It was NOT the wine that made him throw up all over Chamber Street train platform, but instead was bad fish at wedding. The same fish we ALL ate, yet none of us became ill. Including Trash who had partook of approximately thirteen or so Screwdrivers with beer chasers. And Felix also declares that he is not a lightweight when we all know that he fucking is. Ahem}

So Felix begins to plow into the beers. Which is fine--at first. Everyone is chilling out and watching The Commie's House DVD's because she apparently has a thing for Hugh Laurie. Why?? I don't know. I think he's funny as hell, but I've never thought 'Hubba hubba' when I've seen him. I always flash back to Blackadder and start talking in a silly voice. Because I'm weird like that. But not so weird that I fancy Hugh bloody Laurie.

And do you know how easy it is to entertain this lot?? Hint: all you need is Trash and a Wii. And for those of you who are not familiar--this is not some sort of seedy euphemism, but a game system. They didn't spend much time actually playing the game, no. Instead they spent a good hour putting Mickey and Siobhan's furniture in mortal danger of being soiled; whilst Trash created the most bizarre, hysterical, and dare I say it, non-PC Wii avatars known to mankind. Also?? They can bowl while mashing yams/fetching beers in the kitchen. And get strikes!! As you do.

I helped Mickey sort out dinner (though he denies my help as anything but 'cutting up a few yams')--and for anyone who recalls the Frozen Veggie Fiasco of Long Ago?? I caught him looking at the directions AGAIN!! He will be mocked throughout the ages, will Mickey. We all raise a fork to the still sadly missed Uncle Pervo (and The Commie has taken over his role nicely by being completely disgusting at the dinner table. Bless). We also lament the fact that Paddy and Sneezy are MIA, but will stop by later. And wish that Ma, Manson and the niece and neph could have been there too. Then we started cursing like sailors and flinging mashed potatoes and such at each other. Because that's what Christmas is all about!!

Ok. We only threatened to fling the potatoes. But still, Mariel and Pita, who had never been to a Boombatz/Familius Babs Christmas Eve were a bit shell shocked, at first. By nights end though, they would declare this sort of debacle the Best Christmas Party Evah!! Clearly they need medication.

Trash, quite a few beers in, decided a change in hairstyle was in order. So he ran into the loo and gave himself a fauxhawk with the help of some water.

Upon seeing this, Siobhan erupted with laughter and said 'Hey!! I've got hair gel in there!!' And so Trash kept his hair that way for the rest of the night. Which worked well for the family picture. Don't you think??

And Felix, oh our drunken Felix--who, remember, keeps swearing is NOT a lightweight?? I'd told him he was cut off, only to get a reply of 'Who do you think you are, my mother??' So I got Mickey's attention, and had him watch Felix as he put his shoes on to go outside for a cigarette. Mickey watched him fall into the wall and said 'Dude, you're SO cut off!! No more beer!!' Amazingly. Felix listened.

Or so I thought.

Every time one of us turned around Felix was trying to steal another beer out of the fridge. It was getting ridiculous. It was like trying to play some sort of bizarre version of pong with an anal-retentive beer thief. Mickey, Trash, and Twintrash toddled off around the corner to market when the supplies got low and it was then that Felix had his mini-nervous breakdown.

It had all hit him. Christmas, life, the whole Arizona failure, his former-future-fiance-turned-lesbian ditching him for a manly motorcycle muscle woman--the lot. I walked into the dining room to find him with his face scrunched up, crying, and hitting himself in the head (this is part of his touched in the head thing). It KILLED me. I (and I am loathe to admit this) started crying just from watching HIM cry. It was THAT painful--you had to feel for the kid. He kept saying he was utterly alone. He's always felt this way. Felix really has gotten the shaft all throughout his life (though sometimes through his own dingbattedness, mind you). So I recruited The Commie, and we brought him outside to talk to him and calm him down. And to stop him from beating his cranium like a fucking snare drum.

I popped his glasses in my pocket, The Commie gave him a cigarette, and we both told him he WASN'T alone. He had US. And how we wanted him here at Christmas Eve for a reason--because he's supposed to be with his family. Fuck those cows out west, we're your blood, after all. When we joke and make fun of each other its because that's how we do things and how we show we love each other (Yes, yes I know. How SO not me, but the kid was DYING!! God my reputation is ruined). But when someone else fucks with us?? With you?? Well, that's a horse of a different color, indeed. Then we told him how we'd kick the ever-loving shit of TWT and Peachy if we ever got within five hundred feet of them. In the midst of all this the boys came back. Trash, knowing Felix and his ways, sensed what was going on and had the lads go right in instead of dawdling on the porch for a cigarette so they wouldn't bust his chops later (Trash, of course, denies this benevolent act, but he is fibbing). Felix finally calmed down and realized (at least for the moment) that we were right.

Then Dim came down as Felix went back up--he wanted to know what was the matter with him. I didn't go into much detail but tell him he's a bit upset, but as dim as Dim may be, he isn't THAT dopey. He looks at me and says 'I think we should take him home in the car instead of Trash'

This, my friends, is fucking progress. Dim looking to help out Felix?? This is like achieving peace in the middle east!!

Of course this isn't a decision that is Dim's to make, but Mariel's. It's her car. I know Trash won't mind. And as drunk as Trash will soon be, I'm still not worried about how he'll fare on the Mass Transit System. You could drop a drunken Trash in the middle of Zimbabwe and he'd STILL beat you home.

We get back upstairs and start eating cake and playing games. Dim mentions the Felix Issue. Mariel says she doesn't want to seem like a scutch, but she's kind of worried about Felix and his Chamber Street Barf Fest, and she's had too many people do that to her car in the past. So it's a no go. Mariel is ultra-fanatical about keeping her car neat as it is, so the very thought of this would give her the willies--which I understand, so that's cool. And I tell them that, change of plans: it will be her, Dim and Trash in the car, because in the state that Felix is in at the mo?? There is NO fucking way I am letting him travel alone. All is right in the world. We play Battle of the Sexes for the next hour and a half and hurrah!! We chicks TOTALLY kick their asses. This is mostly because Trash is mega-polluted (so polluted, in fact, that when asked by Felix to sneak him a shot of Sambuca in his coffee he DID!!). Felix is polluted. Twintrash is mega-polluted. Mickey, a semi-sober voice of reason for the mens team chooses to ignore Felix's answers outright as he is drunk. And loses though Felix is the ONLY one who knew about Richard Gere playing Billy Flynn in Chicago.

{Also?? I do not know a Porsche from a freakin Ferrari. Nor do I care}

Paddy and Sneezy show up!!

FOR A PALTRY TEN MINUTES, THE SNOTS!!

Though, in that ten minutes, an exhausted Sneezy did not disappoint for the girls team; she managed to mock the boys several times and accused them each of having vaginas and/or boobs at least ten times a piece. Because she would NOT be Sneezy if she did not say the Vee word!!

We declare that Trash and Twintrash are to NEVER be allowed to join forces. For they are so alike it is scary. We declare that yes, Felix, my friends, is a fucking lightweight. And Mariel declares, in a stunning Christmas Eve Miracle turnaround, that she will have no one to talk to in the car if she is driving just Trash and Dim. So as long as I promise (as I had earlier) to sit next to Felix with plastic bag in hand, should Mount Felix erupt in transit, she will not only take myself and Felix; but she will forego her usual ban on overstuffing her car, and pop Trash in the back seat, as well.

We tootle along the highway. Trash then, somehow, put Felix in a headlock and then started punching him in the back in the name of Good Natured Fun. I intervened on Felix's behalf, and Felix said 'Pshaw!! We're just joking, Babs!!' So we started singing Mele Kalikimaka instead. Trash started screaming/singing it out his window. Me from my seat. And Felix joined the chorus from the depths of Trash's armpit--where he was still in a headlock.

I went home, and passed the hell out until two the next day.

And luckily, Trash was able to help Felix when he woke up and started hurling in the god damned shower.

He really is a friggin' lightweight.

But he's OUR lightweight.

Melee Kalikimaka: Part Ekolu

2008-01-01T05:11:00.000-05:00

Just because I had said 'No' to EFL once did not mean it was going to be a reoccurring theme. Especially when I had everyone and their brother pestering me no end and my head was about to explode. That twenty-four hour a day headache?? I wasn't kidding. And I've STILL got it. It's ridiculous. I may eventually give in to my disdain for extra pharmaceuticals and take a bloody Advil for it. I can't stand it.

Anyway. The night before the Impending Festivities I was up here baking cakes. Which I would have made ages earlier, but Dim had invited Mariel over and I was playing Happy Hostess and making dinner for everyone. And then writing down directions for both Beavis and Butthead (read: Felix and Trash) to get to Mickey and Siobhans. And, again, god knows what else.

A week or so ago. Interesting phone call:

Mickey: So, you guys are coming out here for Christmas Eve, yea??

Babs: Of course!!

Mickey: Uh. You guys DO know that we moved, right??

Babs: Uh. No??

Mickey: Damn. I shouldn't have said. It would have been fucking hysterical when you showed up at my old place and my old landlord answered the door and was all like 'Who the fuck are YOU?!?!'

Babs: And it would have been even FUNNIER once I found out where you REALLY lived, got there, and plunged one of your damned Henckels into your skull. Twit.

Mickey: Ha!! Jealous of my knives, Biotch!!

Babs: Ok. Weird question. Do you guys smoke in the house or is still no smoking?? I'm only asking because Mariel is like deathly allergic or something and she doesn't want to be weird and she never asks anyone to stop smoking in their house or anything, but also, well you know, just so she knows what she's in for.

Mickey: No. Of course not!! Well, you know Siobhan's pregnant, right??

Babs: Yea. You know I was WONDERING when you guys were going to mention that.

Mickey: *yelling to Siobhan* I told you she knew!!

Siobhan: *yelling back* It wasn't me that wanted to keep it a secret!!

Mickey: *yelling back* Well she only has six friends on that place and one of them has a picture of an ultrasound and their nickname said 'Soon to be Mommy' I told you there was NO WAY she was NOT going to see it!!

Babs: Yea. I was all like why the hell hasn't anyone mentioned this to any of us yet?? I was starting to think we'd been excommunicated from the family. I'd talked to the Commie AND Paddy and NEITHER of them mentioned it--and I was trying to drop hints galore, the bastards!!

Mickey: Yea they did a good job of keeping it quiet *snicker* Did you tell anyone else?? Because I want to make the big announcement to you guys on Christmas Eve.

Babs: Uh no. Not told anyone.

There's our Shocking Announcement!! Mickey and Siobhan are popping out a midget sometime in May and I'm not even married yet. They've absolutely NO consideration, these younger siblings/cousins/second cousins and their other halves. Phooey.

{read: have just received word that our second cousin in Jersey who is just twenty-two has had kid. TWENTY TWO AND MARRIED!! BAST!! First Manson. Then Veronica. Now Mickey. And Paddy and Sneezy will be married in a few months!! Hell at the rate I'm going?? Bloody Ozzy will be married with kids before I am. God. I'm just going to start knitting my shawl now}

And now back to the action...

{Replace humongous paragraph explaining why EFL thought I was taking her to the Mall on Christmas Eve Day with short parenthetical including words 'THANK FUCK THAT DID NOT HAPPEN BECAUSE I MIGHT HAVE COMMITTED A FELONY IN MACY'S COOKWARE SECTION'}

Now all I had to do was make sure the Numpty Twins were sorted, get to the bank to cash a check, and wait for Mariel to pick us up. But first I had to stalk the mailman for Dim. For Aunt Nutter had sent him a Christmas card with money in it (And every day he'd been here he rang her to make sure she'd sent it and where is it?? And are you sure?? Holy FUCK!!). And he was itching to buy his cigarettes. I had the foresight (though I no longer smoke) to find Trash's rolling machine and purchase boxes of tobacco and filters for the nit (there is no arguing with the habit for Dim--it's partly a psychological thing the Looney Bin People are working on with him, in the meantime, nicotine, ho!!--they don't fucking pay for it, the pricks).

{Replace further explanation of Dim vs Stalking mailman for Nicotine with shorter explanation. Dim says 'Hey!! Babs!! I see the mailman!!' So I ran down the stairs to fetch the mail and he wasn't there, but two blocks away--so I waited him out. It was only when I thanked the mailman and wished him a Merry Christmas that I realized--much to my mortification--that while I was Mostly Ready, I had sadly failed to pop in my Deeth yet. Ran back up, pop in Deeth, smile in mirror. Lastly, take Dim's stupid card and shove it so far up his posterior that he turns into a pez dispenser}

So. Trash was at work and leaving from there. It was myself Mariel and Dim in the car. And Felix, for reasons I still feel shitty about, was sent along on public transport. Mariel was worried (and I suppose I bought into the Dim-Felix Fight Hysteria too, a bit) that having them both in the same car would be a Bad Idea (from seeing Dim and Felix together previous--because they are both twits and always fighting/arguing). Mariel is also a proponent of not over stuffing her car. Therefore if there are seat belts for say, two adults in the back seat, only two are sitting there--even if you can squish in three. In theory this only presented a problem for our home bound journey as Trash was at work, but Felix had already agreed that this wasn't a problem for him--even though he found it all a little silly. And, in truth, I kind of thought it was silly, too. It wasn't my car, though, and it was up to Dim and Mariel. And Felix was fine with taking the LIRR. The rest of us were simply happy that he wouldn't be spending Christmas Eve alone, as he'd originally intended--no matter HOW he got to the Isle of Long. So we drove there with a perfectly good empty seat while Felix took the train.

An hour and a half later (bloody traffic) we were in the Isle of Long. Mickey had just picked up Trash from the train station and then turned right back around to pick up Felix, who managed to get the train right after Trash. And as we looked for their house I fielded crank calls from their cell phones while they tried to confuse the Almighty Hell Out of Me.

{I soon realized this was a favorite tactic of Mickey's when the Commie's friend Pita called to ask what his address was. And he gave a completely the completely wrong number. And I was like 'Whaaaaaaa??' The Commie said the address, then realized, then told Pita that her brother was a dickhead. Ahem}

The guestlist for the evenings festivities went as follows: Trash, Felix, Mariel and Dim. Mickey, Siobhan, her brother, TwinTrash, The Commie, and Commie's friend Pita.

And myself, of course. Babs Geller--Chef, Eldest and Wisest Cousin Extraordinaire and Apparent Demolition Expert. Ahem.

Some people bring cookies. Some people bring wine. I brought cake. And Mickey alleged that I ALSO brought an undying urge to destroy his and Siobhan's just-moved-into apartment. Just like I had *allegedly* killed the muffler in his car the year previous.

{Hey!! Guess what?? If you have a car with no shocks and no springs?? And then pile five people of the Boombatz and Familius Babs persuasion into your car?? You're just ASKING for trouble!! Especially when leaving a parking lot by going over the curb. And *just* because I may have the biggest tuckus in the car does *not* mean I am to blame, sir!! There was a LOT of ass in that car. Therefore I did not kill that muffler--it was a group kill!!}

So, demolition, yes??

Everyone was toddling in and out of the apartment every now and again. And not wanting to miss out on all the fun gossip, I toddled down along with them. Then, one disastrous time, everyone filed in; your fearless heroine in the rear with the gear. As each person clomped in, they kicked off their shoes and hung their coats on the tiny, minute, and VERY FUCKING FRAIL coat rack Mickey had recently attached to the wall (read: the day previous, I think).

Let me state here and now that every single guest, aside from myself, thought we were traversing the frozen tundra. Or, perhaps, about to go on an expedition to the North bloody Pole. Dim and the Commie's coats alone could have been used to survive in -1500 temperatures. My coat?? A nice simple wool coat. A LIGHTWEIGHT coat--in comparison to all the others.

I gingerly placed my light-as-a-feather coat on the hook and WHAM!! The whole rack ripped out of the wall. Coats spilled down towards my feet. And I, Babs Geller, was Branded for Life. Or at least the duration of the party.

Last year it was The Commie and her Flaming Tits. This year it will be Babs, Demolition Woman.

-Where's the extra beer?? Oh, over there, you know WHERE THE COAT RACK USED TO BE!!

-Say, wasn't there a coat rack there an hour ago??

-Could you pass the mashed potatoes?? They're over there on the same side of the table near WHERE THE COAT RACK WAS.

-First she breaks the muffler, now the coat rack. I don't think it'll be safe to let her hold the baby next year!!

The only way to get the smartass jackals off of MY back though, is to have someone fuck up even worse.

Which, thank god for our lot, is ALWAYS a possibility.

{to be continued}

Melee Kalikimaka: Part Elua

2007-12-29T04:57:00.000-05:00

Let us, first and foremost, clear up the Felix Puter Situation--as I have received threats of bodily harm if I do not inform people post-haste.

I'd said that I'd demand to see the receipt for the shipment of said puter the minute he'd walked in the door. I, of course, forgot this, because I was busy trying to get him to shut the hell up for five bloody minutes.*

*Note: He still has not shut up. So help me god.

I remembered the next day, and demanded to see said paperwork. He pulls out a folder with receipts that date as far back as 1874. He's got receipts from when he bought a ham sandwich in the sixth grade, for gods sake. So you can bet your sweet bippie that he's got the receipt for the Alleged Shipping of his puter tower.

Except. Out of ALL the Receipts in the History of the World That Felix Has Never Lost, he has *somehow* and, rather conveniently, managed to lose this one. Which, frankly, my dears, is like Colin Firth and George Clooney dueling to the death at dawn for my hand in marriage--it just won't happen. Felix has a receipt fetish and he does NOT lose paperwork.

I ring Aunt Nutter. She advises 'He's probably lying so you won't kick his ass, you know' Felix, meanwhile, is swearing he sent it, and saying there are a number of other ways for me to find out that he's shipped it. 'Ask Mommy to check her bank account!!' I point out the very salient fact that, if Felix paid cash to ship his tower, it will have nothing to do with Aunt Nutter's account. Only his ticket was purchased via same. Aunt Nutter says if she finds out he has fucked around and charged that damned shipping fee to her account that I can keep him down here because he isn't coming up there {Oh I don't THINK so, lady!! I mean, like, HELLO, already sorting out Dim!! Ahem. Signed, Stressed-Out Niece) Felix, meanwhile, is giggling, wringing his hands, and starting to do the tell-tale head-bob tic which is a sign of his touched-in-the-head issues. I hang up with Aunt Nutter.

Babs: Felix, I am going to call Big Doggie Bus Lines. Am I going to find out where this package is and if they have lost it?? Or am I going to look like an idiot??

Felix: *nervous giggle*

Babs: You never fucking sent it did you?? Tell me the truth, Felix. I swear I won't kill you. Much.

Felix: Well, technically...

Babs: Dammit!!

So our intrepid Felix did NOT ship the damned tower. But instead left it in the hands of a friend he thinks he can 'trust' to ship it to him once he sends them the money to do so. A friend he has known for, oh, a month and a half, tops (can one see Felix's problem here)?? Bottom line, Felix is still puterless. A 'friend' has the puter now (or so he says), but 'may' ship it to Felix once he sends them the money. Or this friend will have a puter and extra money for a new puter game once Felix sends for it and said friend keeps the money AND the puter. I am still happy, though, as his former-future-fiance TWT and Peachy, her little life partner, haven't got dick.

And now, Christmas Eve!!

Which was just fucking INSANE.

First off, I had Felix here (obviously), and he hadn't gone home as scheduled (Do NOT even ask). So I wasn't about to chuck the kid out because Dim would be staying here. Yet every five minutes (or so it seemed) I was getting phone calls as to whether or not Felix would be here. And is it wise for Dim's mental state for Felix and Dim to be in the same place for so long??

{And I had also allowed myself to get talked into taking Dim out a day early, because Guilt is my middle name. Thanks Sister Mary Altar Rail!!}

Look. It's not good for MY mental state for them to be in the same place, for fucks sake. But if I can suck it up, buttercup, so can you. Which is what I ulitmately decided. I quickly got tired of the 'Oh we have to do THIS because it might be bad' and 'Oh we've got to do THAT because so and so won't like it'

Guess what?? I'm running this show right now, fucknuts. And as far as Dim and Felix went, I made a few concessions (which I still feel kind of shitty about--but it was ultimately not up to me), but I laid down the law, for the most part. I sat them both down and said the following:

'There are two doghouses in the yard. I didn't have to let EITHER of you stay here. And I am tired of having a headache for 24 hours a day. If EITHER of you start arguing--or instigating the other--you are sleeping in the fucking yard. Got it??'

They got it, and all was harmonious here a la Casa.

Except for the fact that inside of two days I had to work for Birdie, EFL, pick up Dim, get the two numpties sorted, bake cakes, go grocery shopping and gods know what else.

{I could do a whole post on EFL alone. *knock knock* [at 11 pm] Babs!! You told me you'd come with me to Merlin's to deliver presents on Saturday!! No EFL. I said Sunday. No Babs. You said Saturday. I asked you for Saturday because my sibling will be here with the car!! I never ask for many favors, Babs [--did anyone spit there coffee out when reading that??] I have to work for my friend Saturday, EFL, I can't do it. I planned it that way since your sibling would be here. Well can't you call them and tell them you'll be an hour or so late?? How big a party are they having anyway?? You always clean for them. How much cleaner can their house get?? And aren't they sick?? They shouldn't have company if they're sick. [note: Birdie isn't sick, for fucks sake] I mean I'm going to pay you, obviously. NO EFL, I can't [And I didn't] }

I didn't think I was going to get to Mickey and Siobhan's without the aid of several No-Doz and a quart of whiskey previous.

{to be continued}

Melee Kalikimaka

2007-12-27T03:15:00.000-05:00

It was all going to be SO easy.

I had it plotted out perfectly.

I admit there were bound to be glitches, but not major friggin' catastrophes.

Or, rather, the POSSIBILITY of major friggin' catastrophes.

First I had (quite idiotically) allowed myself to be talked into allowing Dim to come home early for his Christmas shore leave from the USS Looney Bin. Not for one day, not two, and not even three, no--FOUR WHOLE DAYS!! Well. Three and a half days. But still. Dealing with Dim can be hard work at times and when I am frazzled and doing fifty million things at once it would be nice to say, 'Hey Dim, go play in traffic, please, as I am trying to do a million billion different things and my GOD how many cigarettes do you need to smoke?? And fine, go call your mother, your grandmother, your great-uncle and aunt etc' (Even though the only one who calls back is his mother. Do NOT get me started on how perturbed I get with Felix and Dim's father's side of their family. I have not the patience nor adequate amount of weaponry to pursue such an endeavor currently) This, however, is an impolite thing to say to touched-in-the-head cousins who are currently medicated. So I am kind and patient. And gnash my deeth when frustrated.

Then I had to factor in the fact that Felix would be coming here on Saturday--but!! he was leaving for Points Northerly (read: Aunt Nutter's house) the same day.

Except.

There is always an except. Or a because with bloody Felix.

{And the receipt?? Did he have it?? Did he not?? Wait and we shall find out!!}

So I had to deal with Felix and Dim being in the Same Apartment for Four Days. And also with a Very Annoyed Trash, who was most vexed that I'd not actually informed him that Dim would be staying here for said four days. Along with the added fun of the Accidental Felix.

Then Felix proclaimed if Dim started with him once he got here, he wouldn't shut his mouth.

Then Dim proclaimed, when I was picking him up, that if Felix started with him, he wouldn't shut his mouth.

And I was going to bring all of them to famed cousin Mickey Boombatz's, where he and Siobhan were hosting their Traditional Christmas Eve Feast.

Where there would be beer!!

And ham!!

And cake!!

And a Shocking Announcement!!

And sambuca!!

And, eventually, a nervous breakdown and hurling!!

{to be continued}

Retreat

2007-12-20T03:10:00.000-05:00

Gah!!

I should just let this post wait til tomorrow and I'd be officially ~~two weeks without posting. I think it'd be a first, too (although I've come awfully close lately)~~ apparently I'm so tired I can't count for shit, so disregard that entirely. If I don't get it done now, though I never will, because I KNOW tomorrow I'm going to be fucking KNACKERED. I've got to get EFL sorted in the morning, then go straight to Birdie's, then go shopping for EFL (and for myself if it's at all humanly fucking possible). And then hey!!--maybe I can even clean our own little casa!!

{Oh surely Trash will help you with that, right, Babs?? Oh, you mean the Trash that spends his weekends at the new GF's after spending the weeknights here messing the place up?? Oh yes I'm SURE. I'll get after him straight away. Ahem}

First of all, show of hands anyone who can guess which blogger, when asked 'Hey, I'm going away for a week and a bit, is there any way you can drop by my house and feed my cats??' instead of saying 'Oh jesus, you know normally I would, but I am so swamped already' said 'Of course--you go on, I've got it ALL under control. Pip pip cheerio and all that'

And while their domicile is fairly close, it's still a three bus trip. God dammit. One of which happens to be THE worst buses on the island, schedule wise. The plus side, though, was that for the hour a day I spent there hanging out with said felines, not one bastard could ring me. Nor was there the tell-tale rattling of fingernails on the glass of our hallway door. So it was kind of a blessing in disguise.

Kind of. Except for the three bus thing. In the rain. Especially when it was really fucking cold.

Moi?? Insane?? Surely you jest.

So we need an update of some sort and I PROMISE there are many, MANY things to update you on--and I swear I am going to do my damndest to post more often. But for the moment, we shall look westwards to Felix. Because it is the easiest thing for me to think of at 3 AM. And I've got to be up at, oh, 8 AM. So we shall deal with this. Ok?? Ok.

Brilliant!!

Now we all remember Felix and his problem with his fiance-that-was-but-wasn't because she had duped poor Felix into thinking that 'Yes!! I can marry you one day and STILL remain a lesbian and NOT be bi!!' And this all went out the window once they were two-thousand odd miles away from everyone Felix held near and dear. Peaches, TWT's new-found lesbian life-partner, had declared Felix persona non gratis from day one, and treated him as same. Although he was acknowledged *just* enough to collect money from each week from his new found job to pay for rent and the can of Chef Boyardee they gave him each day when he first got there.

You'll also recall that Peaches said that Felix was VERY much responsible for chipping in on the moving van that carted TWT's crap westward. And that the only things Felix had in said van were approximately two suitcases and a knapsack. This was going to cost him nine hundred smackeroos. Peaches had spoken---TWT, of course, agreed with the new found love of her life, and there was Felix, stuck with a bill the size of Newfoundland and the threat of a probable beatdown if he didn't ante up eventually.

Also?? He was told he had to be installed in his own apartment by the 19th of December. Which was yesterday. No matter how he cut it, there was no way in hell Felix was going to be able to save up enough for an apartment. Between food, commuting and money for Peaches (read: please do not kill me for staying here), along with the fact that he couldn't get his job to go to full time hours. And Aunt Nutter said, 'Well, he has no family there, and I think it is better for him to be closer to us etc' or something to that effect. And this may or may not be true for Felix, what with his touched in the head tendencies. I must say that I didn't trust this Peaches person one whit, considering that TWT had met her on the net to begin with (Oh, had I left that bit out?? My bad).

Thus Felix made a purchase with the Big Doggie Bus Line. And today he is headed eastward. BUT!! Before this happened, he rang me yesterday. Telling me he wasn't bringing his computer home.

'Why not??'

'Peaches said it's collateral towards the money I owe for the moving truck'

'OH NO THEY FUCKING DIDN'T!!'

'Wellllllllllllll I don't know. That's what they said'

'You listen and you listen to me good, Felix. You do NOT leave that state without your puter. You grow a pair of balls and you grow them NOW!! That bitch has taken advantage of you one too many times. That's YOUR puter'

'I know'

'Don't give me 'I know' you fucking take it, ok. If she says word fucking one I'll go out there and take it my fucking self. I'll kick her fucking ass. I'll kick BOTH their asses. If you need to call the cops?? CALL THE COPS!! It has YOUR info on it. NOT hers. YOUR aunt gave you it. You have a medium rollie-suitcase??'

'Yes'

'Good. The tower will fit right in it' Smash anything you had in the suitcase into your other bags. You get that fucking tower. Don't worry about the monitor or the mice or the wires or the other shite--you can re-order all that shit. But GET the tower. GROW A PAIR AND TAKE IT!! It's YOURS'

'Ok'

In truth I thought he'd roll over and leave it--let them bully him into their keeping it. But he's already lost ANOTHER puter that way (read: his wife and best friend who are AWFULLY close and, hello, what is it with Felix and lesbians?? Sheesh).

He rings me up from the bus station today. First thing I want to know, did he take it??

He hasn't got it.

Because he nicked it out of the attic where she'd hidden it on him and SHIPPED it home last night. And TWT was there when he did it (but Peaches was NOT).

'I'm not going to hear any stories about how it got lost in the mail, right??'

'Nope'

'You'll show me the receipt for this on Saturday when you get here??'

'Yup!!'

{Hurrah!! He's on the phone--have been waiting for his call all night as wanted to make sure Peaches did not show up at bus station and administer beatdown--and she did not!! He is in Gallup!!--next stop a famed Bugs Bunny reference [Felix had better not make a left turn, though]. Oh god he's talking to a weirdo stranger on the bus and they are sharing potato chips?? He's GOT to stop TALKING to people!! That's how they meet people like TWT!!}

Still--I want to see this receipt before I believe anything.

And so endeth the Saga of Felix Goes West.

A Ham is Born

2007-12-11T23:22:00.000-05:00

And so it was that our little Trash became a grownup.

When did this miraculous event occur??

Today, on the Anniversary of his Existence.

One might think, 'Oh, bless, has he turned eighteen??'

No.

That was ages ago.

Then one might say, 'Well, has he turned twenty-one, then?? That seems to be the new cut-off date'

Again, no dice.

I, of course, was made aware of the fact that he is now a grown-up, because he stated as much this morning:

Babs: Hey!! Happy Birthday, Dumb ass!!

Trash: *adjusts collar on fancy-pants shirt* Thanks very much.

Babs: Why are you getting all fancied up just for work??

Trash: Because after work I'm going out to dinner with the GF*. *haughtily* One has to get dressed up for these things, you know.

*Trash has landed a new GF. Gossip and such pending.

Babs: Uh-huh.

Trash: *pats pockets* Shit. Can you lend me a few bucks?? I forgot to stop by the bank machine on the way home last night.

Babs: That depends. Am I going to see the money anytime soon??

Trash: *indignant* Of course you will. I'm twenty-eight--I've got to take care of my responsibilities since I'm a grown-up now.

Babs: Oh, like, say, sweeping the stairs, the ONE favor I asked you to do last night??

Trash: Oh. Um. I was still twenty-seven, last night. That doesn't count.

Babs: Oh fuck off, Trash.

And Kanga and Little Roo

2007-12-10T03:17:00.000-05:00

Let us peruse a tiny piece of my post from last week.

EFL's sibling had hired me to clean etc, and since then, hired me to keep an eye on EFL and help same until Monday when said sibling can sort out caregiver issues, household help, and the like.

EFL decided, on Monday, that she would take the bull by the horns herself, gave me a jingle on the phone, and asked me to toddle down to her domicile. She had a proposition for me. Would I be agreeable to working for her as a cleaner/caregiver-y type (until something better came along, of course)?? Only two hours a day and bits of overtime when necessary (for cleaning purposes).

'Have a think about it, Babs--no rush, just let me know when you've decided'

Knowing EFL as I do, I didn't give an answer of 'Yes' straightaway because I knew for a start that 'two hours' would end up being more than 'two hours' and actually meant 'quite possibly at her beck and call' (granted paid beck and call, but still--I also do not like to take advantage, call me silly and old fashioned). So I thought about this as I dusted EFL's living room and she decided that my 'contemplation of job offer time' (read: five minutes whilst working on an end table) was an answer in the affirmative and asked me if this counted towards my two hours or was I going to start work the following day.

{EFL's sibling is totally agreeable to this for the moment, as the people at Merlin's set up NO caregivers and helped with NOTHING. Moreover said sibling trusts us and knows we won't fuck about while they figure out long-term solutions. This is also, I think--as does the sibling, a last ditch effort by EFL to prove that she can manage at home by herself, but even with help it is proving a major challenge}

I somehow think this is how people get shanghaied. Or become Witnesses of the Jehovah type. One day you're innocently dusting a Winnie-the-Pooh glass figurine; the next day you're on a strange ship. Or knocking on people's doors and handing out pamphlets about Why Birthday Parties Are Bad.

So now, in the biggest turnaround in the History of Landlord/Tenant Warfare one ever did see, I am now paid to toddle around after EFL. Making sure she's taken her medication. Helping her sort her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And other various problems that arise when dealing with an elderly woman who has no concept of time, and rings at 3 AM to ask why you're still asleep since it's so late in the day.

{Hence the lack of posts this week. Trying to nail down a bloody schedule where I am NOT exhausted. But I am now settling into a groove. I think. I pray. I fervently hope}

Mind you, as dotty as she is now--and as forgetful about her medications (up to and including taking the WRONG ones when no one was there to see)--she still is NOT forgetful when it comes to the famed National Harass Your Tenants Day.

Babs: *counts out the rent in front of her including massive money order* Now I'm putting this here on your dresser and we'll leave it here for your sibling to put in the bank, ok?? So just leave it be and it will be fine.

{I'd wanted to keep it upstairs to keep it safe but EFL was having NONE of it}

EFL: Ok.

Eight AM the next morning. Phone rings. Can you?? CAN YOU??

Of COURSE you can. I don't even have to TYPE it. You know she touched the bloody envelope.

EFL: Babs, I'm only finding a little bit of cash here and no money order.

Babs: *sigh* That's why I said we should leave it.

EFL: I know, but I was just checking it.

{!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!}

It had fallen out of the envelope and onto the dresser. Not into the thin air.

I'd like some whiskey for Christmas.

Lots of.

Whingefest 2007

2007-12-02T09:17:00.000-05:00

Insanity. Lunacy. MAYHEM!!

That, my dears, has been my last five or six days (month, truthfully--this week has just been more so). Therefore, by the time I get home I'm so bloody tired I can barely gather enough brainpower to operate the stove, let alone write.

{And what, WHAT, pray tell is this fascination is this with everyone and whether or not I have eaten, just because I forget to eat owing to lovely Topie-induced side-effects?? I mean, ok, fine, I had a packet of pork chops out last night for dinner and I got so busy I forgot to cook them entirely. And then I was too tired. This is a good thing, dammit!! Yet the minute I walk into Birdie's house she's got me eating sandwiches. The second I go visit EFL she's asking me if I've eaten. And when I go to Annie's house she's shoving frozen Kashi-meals under my snout. It's kind of funny because when I tell the Dr Fishface Wimpy that, no, I really don't eat that much because I forget to [owing to Topie], he sort of mumbles 'Uh-huh' as if I am telling The World's Biggest Fib. Mostly because I have thighs the size of Mount Rushmore. I really hate doctors. I know we all know this, but I felt it was worth repeating. Probably harkens back to the Days of Yore when an old quack accused me of eating naught but Ring-Dings 24/7. Ahem}

Anyway. I have been *pretend* working for the past few days. A LOT. I say *pretend* working because there are people--some of whom are my alleged nearest and dearest even--who do not consider, say, being over at Birdie's house for six or seven hours, as work. Because washing down each and every wall of her house, washing every window inside and out until I am covered in a heady parfum of Eau de Windex, or scrubbing out the bathroom top to bottom, doing the kitchen floor, vacuuming [complete with moving all furniture]--or any type of cleaning-type duties--as work.

Of course these people also think the moon landing was fake and that I can control my seizures if I *really* tried hard enough; and subsequently I really must not want to get better since I fail to stop spazzing. So, um, fuck them, I suppose. But then, hell, maybe they're right.

I have also been *pretend* working for Annie, babysitting for her little one. Which *definitely* isn't work, as anyone will tell you, because tending to a rambunctious three year old is nothing but a walk in the park (I do so hope one can see the sarcasm there). Especially when rushing over there right after working at Birdie's. Or EFL's. Where I have also been *pretend* working in preparation for said EFL's homecoming, which was the day before yesterday (EFL's sibling had hired me to clean etc, and since then, hired me to keep an eye on EFL and help same until Monday when said sibling can sort out caregiver issues, household help, and the like).

I realize that none of these are *proper* jobs or anything. However, it really gets on my fucking nerves when I get told I'm not doing shit and I'm sitting around like some sort of Epileptic Bon-Bon Queen and doing fuck all. I DO get paid for this shit and I AM busting my hump, so, like, what the fuck, dude?? I don't plan for it to be permanent. It's a for the moment thing [granted it's been a long moment, but if I could stop fucking spazzing it would be so much lovelier. Or, is this just an excuse and my spazzery imagined and I am just not trying hard enough to NOT be epileptic. Do you see how they do my head in?? FUCK].

{God knows my feet aren't killing me for no reason at all. Oh no, wait!! It's probably from having them up on the ottoman all the time whilst I have my many servants fetch me chocolates and such. The only problem with this theory being I have neither an ottoman nor servants. And I'm out of chocolates, too. God dammit}

Saying I've got to get a proper gig is a bit Captain Obvious--I bloody know that. Although everyone else seems to know exactly what I need to do, and what's better, is no one agrees. Actually not everyone agrees on my getting a proper gig, even. There is the 'Get Paid for Being a Spaz' Contingency, who also have a hand in this debate. This has nothing to do with what *I* say, you understand. I've not even solicited this advice. Or talked about it. And one would think I'm the most important person in this equation.

Apparently not.

{And you know I adore you, fair reader, but this is not a quest for job advice; just advise me how to beat people. I get enough *advice* and *what I ought to be doing* as it is. Which is why I never bloody talk about it here anymore. Except now, obviously. Because. I. Really. Need. To. Bloody. Whinge}

Anyway, I will get into all that LATER.

This is just my Legitimate Excuse for Not Posting. Along with all this I've got to do the shopping for here, sort out Noah's Bloody Ark, and attempt to keep up after a dog who sheds more hair than a herd of middle-aged accountants. How does a blue carpet turn white in the space of a day and a half?!? A day and a half I ask you!!

By the time I sit down here and can relax I've then got to field phone calls. Such as:

From Ma (Still Down South--home before Christmas. Most Definitely. But not until the 20th. There is of course more information imparted here, and, by golly, I really must start the Ultra Secret Mega Blog one day)

From Dim (Still in the Group Home, but has been very kind about understanding that I can't spring him from the joint as much as Ma does because I am not only taking care of all the things Ma did, but my own stuff, and *pretend working* too. Though I have sprung him from the USS Looney Bin a few times for days out and a weekend visit. And how Ma manages all this, along with her own stuff, I am fucking clueless. The woman really should be nominated for some kind of award)

From Aunt Nutter (Asking about Ma and when is she coming back etc)

From EFL (Pre-Homecoming, to whinge about her roommate, Merlin's Aged and Rehab Emporium, and to ask me to ring their sibling, as I was EFL's only way to contact said sibling, owing to their being out of state, and Merlin's phone lines not allowing out-of-state calls. Post-Homecoming--Oh god. You can imagine. But I am being patient. EFL is elderly and just out of a two month stay in Merlin's. I expected this the first day or two. And the nurses are coming on Monday!! Breathe, Babs. Breathe.)

From Felix (And expect a surprise on the Felix front, though I am not supposed to know yet. So if you are reading this Felix, pretend you didn't, and that no one told me [AND I MEAN THAT FELIX, SAY ONE WORD AND DIE!!]. I shall divulge no further information because it is more fun this way. Suspense!! Mystery!! What has the goofy bastard done now?! Only time will tell)

From Annie and Mariel (To keep me bloody sane)

From 50,000 other people asking me where Ma/Trash/Arthur C. Murray is.

I am failing miserably at all of this, by the way, if anyones counting.

And the other day, when I jokingly said I could use a vacation, I get asked 'Why?? It's not like you *do* anything'

Is it any wonder I've become a hermit.

Charlie Tango Tea Kettle Barbeque

2007-11-24T07:49:00.000-05:00

There I am on the phone with EFL again the other morning.

{Yes. I still get calls. Every. Fucking. Morning. 6:30. 7:00. 7:30. Want to know why I'm so god damned tired?? And I have to answer the phone in case it's my mother ringing from Down frickin' South. Mental Note: Buy phone with caller ID next week}

And I was spaz-stuttering because I am fucking spazzing again. Oh JOY.

EFL notices this as I speak to her and she says something about can't they do anything about that?? Whens you're next doctors appointment??*

*It took me ages to remember that. Bloody Topamax.

Babs: Well. I see them next week and I've got another EEG soon.

EFL: I can go with you if you like.

{Clearly EFL is on drugs at the mo. It's very sweet of her to offer this, yes. But we are talking about a woman who cancels her own appointments if Regis Philbin's tie is crooked on Tuesdays}

Babs: Ah thanks, but no worries, I can manage it. Besides you've got enough stuff to worry about. You've got to get ready to come home soon etc.

{Sob!! I am selfish. I know I am. I'm a fucking horrible human being. My days of doing dishes at 3 AM are soon to be kaput. As are my blissful days of sorting out the living room whilst blasting Duran Duran at a volume of 26 and dancing in an extraordinarily hip manner. As are my days of no one calling me from downstairs and saying 'Oh Babs can you help me with this' I am SO going to hell. Granted EFL is of no relation to me. EFL is only my landlord. But still one feels a twinge of guilt, si?? Oh si, si}

EFL: Will they be able to find anything??

Babs: Ah probably not. What I *really* need is to wait for the day they can do brain transplants. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!! *guffaws*

EFL: Well why don't they try that??

Babs: *stunned silence*

EFL: I mean the drugs aren't working. So why not a brain transplant??

Babs: Um. Er. Because, uhhh...

EFL: After all, they do it with livers and hearts and kidneys, they can do it with brains too, can't they??

Babs: Um, noooooooo.

EFL: I don't see why not.

Babs: Once you unplug the brain that's it. Bammo. Lights out. The fat lady has sung. The spaz has left the building.

EFL: Oh yea, because you might break the spinal column while doing it, right??

Babs: Erm. Yea. That's what it is.

I hate to sound somewhat age-ist, but EFL has gotten dippier than ever in the past three months or so. The EFL of a year ago, while ditzy, would never have suggested THIS. And now said EFL is homeward bound!!** Where a gas-powered stove and boiler and god knows what else awaits her attention.

Or lack thereof.

**In fairness, EFL's sibling does not think this scenario will last long [read: EFL will probably be moving soon], and has always given us fair warning, is quite cool, and is very appreciative of all the help we of La Casa have given EFL.

On the plus side, maybe I'll meet a fireman, hey?

The Odd Single

2007-11-20T07:00:00.000-05:00

Puter fuckuppery!! At the worst possible time!!

{Oh let us face facts, there is NEVER a good time for Puter Fuckuppery}

Four days sans puter!!

T'were awful I tell you, fair reader. And I was going to witter on about the ins and outs of ones puter conking out when you REALLY don't want it to; and the subsequent three-ring circus it required to sort same.

BUT!!

Felix just rang to say howdy do. And, so, the saga continues!!

Along with other dramas etc.

I had planned (albeit far too late, as my brainstorm did not happen until the weekend) to perhaps ring all our intrepid cousins in order to have them, along with myself and Trash, gather up a bunch of food-type Thanksgiving-y type goodies to send to Felix. You know, cookies, pies which the mailman would inevitably turn into mush, the odd yam and a can of cranberry sauce--that sort of thing. I realized, though, that such a task would have taken at least two weeks to pull off; and even then I'd have to find out if Felix was even ALLOWED to get packages at his temporary quarters with TWT and her oh-so-peachy GF.

Besides, no one, not even Peachy (as TWT's GF shall now be known--oh how we will laugh!!), would abandon poor little Felix on Thanksgiving. No one could be that cruel, right?? After all, Thanksgiving is about family!! And friends!! And giving thanks for touched-in-the-head-twits who unknowingly march 2,000 miles across the continental USA to hand their fiance over to said fiance's soon-to-be lesbian life partner!!

Turkey?? Pah. Amateurs.

Anyhoo. I asked this of Felix. Before he could answer this, however, he prattled on about how he had to divvy up his paycheck in order to pay for his upkeep. Which is fair enough, I should think. After all, they've been giving him a can or two of Chef Boyardee every day--and once a week he gets some actual cooked meat!! And there is the matter of the roof over his head.

What is he a fucking Schnauzer??

When I heard this I knew right away he wasn't going to be doing squat for Thanksgiving (although really, who would WANT to sit at a table with that gem??)--I inquired anyway.

"Oh Peachy keeps saying 'I hope the BOY don't think he's coming to MY parents house for Thanksgiving'"

'The boy??'

'Yea. That's what she calls me'

{And I do not think it is said with a fondness for our favorite OCD cousin; but is instead growled menacingly}

TWT does nothing to back up poor Felix, her former future fiance.

She instead is in happy agreeance with Peachy now; concurring that when Felix eventually gets his windfall (long story, and it's a windfall that is never EVER coming and it's more of a light breeze if anything), he has to pony up nine hundred big ones for his share of the Transportation Vehicle What Got Them There (read: Uhaul). A formality neither of them bothered to mention to Felix while he was still here on Yon Eastern Coaste and could have said 'Oh fuck THAT'.

For while TWT needed said truck to move all her crap (you know, the very vehicle she needed Felix to drive for her despite his up-in-the-air-license-legality); I am fairly sure he would have found a much cheaper way of carting his two suitcases, knapsack, puter and inflatable bloody bed.

Like NOT GOING AT BLOODY ALL!!

Or so I should think.

Felix Fievel: Fin

2007-11-11T04:16:00.000-05:00

Felix, bless his goofy and oh-so-gullible heart, had reservations (read: Oh Maitre d!! I'd like a table for one!! Be quick about it and there'll be a shiny new nickel for you!!) before he even put the keys in the ignition. He had said reservations when he rang here. He had them when he talked to his mother. And yet for all the Sage Wisdom your fearless heroine, my Ma, and Aunt Nutter dished out, he still toddled off.

Three days later:

*ring ring*

Hello??

Babs!! Guess where I am??

Jail!!

No!! Near Chicago.

Hey. I was close. Whys it taking so long??

Well I can't drive above the speed limit. I don't want to get pulled over.

You jackass. I told you not to go.

Etc etc ad nauseam blah.

Now I had my reservations about this fiasco for many reasons. Some of which I'd mentioned in a previous post here, which I won't bother looking up, but instead shall sum up again.

TWT is, as I'd already mentioned, a card-carrying lesbian. There is nothing wrong with this in and of itself. However!! When you factor in the little tidbit that TWT is dating Felix and says 'Why yes, diddums, I AM going to marry you, BUT!! I shall remain a lesbian nonetheless' Then things get a little, um, odd?? Because I've said it before and I'll say it again: Dating a fella makes you very much NOT a lesbian and pops you right into the Straight Girl Category. Or, at the very least, bi. And were we dealing with your normal type person who could decipher Grade A bullshit from reality it would be one thing; but we are talking about touched-in-the-head and oh-so-gullible Felix. He who is naive and easily bullshitted by those with tits the size of Mauna Loa. Ahem.

I think if she can't make her bloody mind up, she ought to sort that out before she goes promising Felix her undying devotion and a lifetime partner for Scrabble tourneys. Also?? I ~~think~~ am pretty fucking sure she's bullshitting him to the umpteenth power ANYWAY. But what do I know?? I'm just a moron.

'She has BOOBS, Babs!! I must obey her every command!!', crieth the poor sap Felix.

The other reasons?? Well!! Pack up your bags, kiddies!! Felix, I am sure, is only a breath away from appearing on any one of your garden variety trashy daytime talk shows. And I'm talking Springer and Maury. Not someone high falutin'--you know, like Oprah or Regis and Kelly. Or Tyra!!

Oh yes.

TWT was moving out there to be with someone. A girl someone. A girl someone who is not particularly fond of those who happen to be equipped with Portable Peeing Projectolators.

'Worry not, fair Felix!!' TWT did sayeth, 'For I am only seeing this person of the girl persuasion for reasons of Bible reading and feeding homeless Lithuanians*'

*For the uninitiated, this means, er, um, very much NOT bible reading or feeding homeless Lithuanians. *cough*

She then continued 'And, Felix, we are going to keep this on the QT. For the person of the girl persuasion does not exactly *know* that you and I are going out, or that one day we plan to be betrothed'

And our dopey little Felix, twit that he is, bought into this line of shit and said 'Um. Ok'

Of course, had Aunt Nutter been home the day they left, maybe Felix would have tried to talk his way into staying THERE instead. Aunt Nutter however, was out and about. So Felix hopped in his truck, duty bound and eventually landed, as I said, a good two thousand odd miles away. And he's been getting screwed over ever since. And not in the feeding homeless Lithuanians sense, either.

The second Felix got out there the person of the girl persuasion informed both he and TWT that they'd better be getting jobs--which is absolutely fair enough. So each and every day they trotted the five or so miles to the employment office. It paid off though, and voila!! Employment. TWT, however, informed Felix that she was tired of helping him out and supporting him after all this time. The timing was excellent I'm sure you'll agree--as he'd just gotten a job--and after she'd talked him into schlepping along to this god-forsaken hole of a state to begin with. After all, who else was going to drive the extra truck??

{Also it is QUITE FUCKING OBVIOUS that she is in NO WAY going to be seeing, dating, wooing, or betrothing one Felix Q. Doofus anytime soon. And who better to have in your corner if things don't work out with the person of the girl persuasion than Mister I M Gullible?? Felix, if you're reading this, DO NOT FALL FOR IT!! I have spoken. Also?? Remember to clear your history. Trust no one, man}

What WAS a stroke of luck, though, was that Felix and TWT struck employment gold in the same office building. TWT doing some sort of janitorial third shift and Felix starting in a different area in the same building an hour after TWT leaves.

The kind, compassionate, knowing a person is broke until their first paycheck soul might have helped Felix. Person of the girl persuasion is not this person, however. Nor is TWT, having already stated she was tired of helping Felix; thus wouldn't lend him two weeks worth of bus fare (read: luckily Aunt Nutter was able to eventually send him same). What the really cruel bit of it is, to me, is the fact that Felix awakens three hours early every morning to walk the five odd miles to work. And somewhere around an hour and a half before he gets there, he watches person of the girl persuasion drive right past him to pick up TWT. Honestly, would it be THAT hard to spend ten minutes in a car with him and give him a lift there since you're going that way ANYWAY?? (I mean god knows he's irritating. I've said it many times. And ten minutes with him CAN seem like a lifetime, but so long as he doesn't have any keys or receipts on him you should be fine. Sheesh) It's not like they're going to Finland and he needs a ride to Ottumwa. He's going to the SAME FUCKING OFFICE!! I'm not saying you have to pick him up at the end of the day--he can sort himself out from there--fine. But if you're ALREADY going there and he's got to be in the same place?? And you're in the same house??

{Also. I know Felix is no saint. And I am only getting his side of the story. And hey!! Maybe his anal-retentive cleaning is getting on their nerves already. Who knows?? I'm just saying. Near as I can tell however, thus far, he is getting the short end of the stick. He's not even allowed to SEE the stick. Mostly because he is a twit who DOES NOT LISTEN TO THE ELDEST AND WISEST OF WE COUSINS [hint: that's me]}

GAH!!

Person of the girl persuasion is reluctantly allowing him to partake of food in the domicile; as TWT was kind enough to draw the line and say he needed to eat at least.
Which was very kind of her given that she's talking about her former alleged future husband.

It's what her possible maybe future wife has to say about all this that worries me.

Felix Fievel

2007-11-07T11:48:00.000-05:00

'Go West, young man'--had Horace Greeley been in possession of mammaries with which Felix is so clearly mesmerized by, he would have left the moment Monsieur Greeley uttered these famed words.

Felix, however, lives in the here and now; not in Ye Olden Days. He is still easily swayed by anything wearing a Playtex Cross Your Heart bra, however--so long as they aren't related to him. If a boob-enabled person which is related to him attempts to give him advice with regards to a boob-enabled person who is NOT related to him (read: likely some twit who is taking advantage of his undying devotion to those of the female nature and his touched-in-the-head tendencies) his response is usually as follows: 'Oh you have NO fucking idea what you're talking about!! Shut the fuck up!! Mind your business!! You don't know the whole story!!'

{Actually. We do. Because we see the train wreck tootling right along. And we have seen it happen so many times it isn't funny}

And then anywhere from four months to two years later Felix will come back and say 'Golly gee whiz you were right, Aunt Ma/Babs/Ma/Anyone Else in the Family. That cow totally screwed me over'

Then we sigh heavily and wait for Sir Galatwit to invariably for fall for the next chick. She who will take advantage of his friendship and play on his puppydog-like devotion and secret crush on them; allowing him to think that maybe just ONE day he will have a shot with them. Meanwhile she is just leading him along and milking him for his anal-retentive maid services etc etc. And this isn't over protectiveness or anything. It's simply the bloody truth. Both Felix and Dim have always been easy marks, what with their touched-in-the-head issues and accompanying Social Security checks.

{Mind you, ever since Felix's check got yanked in a glitch, his soon-to-be-ex-wife and his best friend [who I still say he had a thing for] haven't said boo to him. And previous to that they only talked to him when his check came in. Oh. Did I say wife?? Yes!! Such a long, long story. And fraught with peril. I still don't know if I will tell the story on here. But it involves Felix getting taken advantage of in a major way. And when he rang the day before the impending nuptials quite a few years back he was told DO NOT DO THIS!! Because they are using you etc etc. And of course he giggled and said 'Fear not, cousin Babs, they take advantage of me not!!' And poor Felix got fucked over, having put the cart so far before the horse he needed to take two cabs, a harrier jet, and a nuclear powered p0g0-stick to get from one to the other. Because this is what happens when you are touched in the head and don't bloody know any better. Ahem}

Anyway!! Go West, young man. Felix decided that it would be a jolly good idea to pack up his old kit bag when TWT announced she would be traversing the continent and transplanting herself to new, sunnier climes.

Of course it didn't hurt that they needed someone to drive the truck, regardless of Felix's in-the-air license legality (read: would probably be arrested if pulled over for lack of one). And yet he allowed himself to be talked into this harebrained scheme. Frankly, every time the phone rang I was waiting for it to be Felix calling looking for bail money.

Now don't get me wrong--a move to a new place could be just the right thing for Felix--but!! With the wrong people?? He is doomed. Well, not so much doomed but bound to get fucked over until he can get his own place toot-sweet. And it started the minute he crossed the 2,500 miles away from everyone in the family who knows and loves him (yet is utterly annoyed by his key and receipt fondling ways) marker.

Of course, this wasn't the deal that was advertised in the TWT 'Go West young man' Travel Brochure. Unless Felix had inadvertently opted for the 'Jerry Springer-esque' Travel Package {Throwing chairs optional}.

{to be continued}

Mayberry

2007-11-02T03:05:00.000-04:00

'Hang on, my brains have fallen out of my head again'--this is my most frequently uttered phrase this week.

{Aside from 'You're fucking kidding me'--usually uttered during phone calls to Ma}

Now don't get me wrong. I had expected some glitches, what with the GLORIOUS fun that is Drug Uppage.

{And hurrah!! Once again the Highly Anticipated and Muchly Adored Side Effect of Loss of Appetite has occurred!! The other day I forgot to eat for like, seven weeks. Or something like fourteen hours. Ish. The pill, it does not make the stomach growl!! Thus one does not think to cook and instead one reads, does dishes, or knits tiny mittens for dyslexic hasmters and says 'What on earth was I supposed to do around noon?? And maybe eight PM??'}

I did NOT, however, expect Instant Stupidity.

I can handle Instant Stupidity, though--some here would say I've been working steadily towards it all my life. I got the boot from the Very Clever Catholic High School* for a reason after all, right??

*Note: Aside from lemon-yellow Converse with school uniform

What's really pissing me RIGHT the fuck off is the fact that in SPITE of that fact that Pinky and the god damned Brain (Alleged Neuro at-large) have upped my god damned drug** levels; I have been waking up each and every god damned morning spazzing like a motherfucker. With my Gloriously Gimptardic Left Leg doing its very own version of a Rockettes audition.

Into the wall.

Which is made of plaster.

**Drugs: You know, the shite that's supposed to STOP this fucking stuff from happening but very much isn't?? Signed, Jaded Eppo

If anyone is looking for me I'll be gluing bumper pads to my wall.

You know, as you do.

Clackwork Fuschia

2007-10-29T17:06:00.000-04:00

If the phone rings tomorrow* I am NOT going to answer it.

*Ed Note: Later on today, actually**

Ed Note: Earlier on today, as I'm posting this after the fact.

Ok. I will HAVE to answer it in case Ma rings. Because for reasons which are as insane as they probably are, I am not supposed to ring Down South unless my eyeballs are falling out of my head and I have thirty-seven rabid hyenas bearing down on me as I'm running away from a torch-bearing mob whilst barefoot and on hot coals.

I give you a call I made the other day as our Par Exampluh du Jour:

*ring ring*

Herself: Hello??

Babs: Hey. It's me.

Herself: Dammit, Babs!! Why are you calling here so late?! I thought it was the Health Facility!!

{Let it be known that, firstly, it was only 10:30 PM-ish. I'd tried an hour beforehand and no one was home. And this has been said when I've called at like 7. So. There we are. I understand being scared every time the phone rings thinking it's coming from the Health Facility where Herself's Parental Unit is, really I do. However I also sometimes need to communicate with my mother about Important Household Crap What Which She Has Made Arrangements With And I Have No Clue Who Is Supposed To Get What. What the hell am I supposed to do?? Bite me}

Babs: I. er. I was just calling to wish Ozzy a Happy Anniversary of Existence was all.

Herself: You can't call here like this because it could be the Health Facility.

{I mean, come on, I wanted to say Happy Birthday to the kid. What the hell was I supposed to do??}

So. This is fun, yes?? And when Ma DOES call me she has to keep the calls short in case Herself's Parental Unit calls. She must keep the calls short IN SPITE of the fact that they have call waiting.

I don't understand it any more than you do. Nor will I attempt to. Hey we ALL know the drill, right??

For the past four or five days I have been running myself absolutely fucking ragged. Not on my own behalf, of course, but for everyone else. I inherited all the stuff Ma wanted done, which is rightly so. However, she also threw me all the favors she was doing for EFL and a bevvy of other people. And I've been attempting to throw in my own stuff, as well. I am thisfuckingclose to going off my nut, people.

And, thanks to the now Infamous Retarduterus, for the past few days I've had a bit of twingey pain (Nothing too bad, all one needs is a bit of motrin and a vodka to sort it. Since I can't have vodka anymore [Bastard topie] I simply up the motrin). This isn't new. It's been this way for the past few months. One might say the pain has been happening at regularly timed intervals. The fact that they happen to coincide with my latent desire to throw dinnerware and cry at the drop of a hat (Ahem. Not that I cry. Ever. You bastards)?? Well, YOU work it out, Sherlock.

So, as a result of all this running about, along with Twingey Pains, my sleep is off-kilter. I declared at about 7 AM this morning (after having stayed up far far too late, and having slept all day yesterday owing to twingey pains and babysitting for Annie's little one overnight and a night of crap sleep on a crap couch) that I would take a nap. Soon-ish. First I was going to see if Ma rang.

{Oh!! Also!! Have been to the neuro this week and we are once again on Drug Uppage Alert!! Babs will be stupider than ever!! This alert has been brought to you by the letter 5, the number M and ~~Stupamax~~ ~~Dopamax~~ Topamax. Sunny Daysssss!!}

7:20 AM. *ring ring* Hurrah!! It must be Ma!! Who else would call at this ungodly hour?? Ma sometimes rings to say hi to Trash before he leaves for work.

No. It is EFL. She first confuses me by mixing up the name of Merlin's and has me thinking she is in the hospital. Which she finally establishes she isn't, and doesn't quite get how I got mixed up when she was the one who said the wrong name (she's been transferred between the two before so it's not an unforeseen scenario). So I chit-chat with her for a few minutes and said EFL tells me about all this stuff. Then how it's nice to finally talk to a friend as if she has been away in the Amazon Jungle for sixty-five years with nothing but a dead transistor radio, some Hershey's bars, and a monkey named Percival. Meanwhile, her sibling was there all day yesterday and had only left at seven in the evening. And don't get me wrong, I KNOW it's got to be boring and lonely there at times. BUT, a lot of the reasons EFL is bored and alone there is of EFL's own making. If she hadn't pushed her friends and family away left, right, and center she'd have people there visiting every day. She also refuses to have the aides take her down to the sun room, or the art room or anywhere else whenever myself, Ma, or her sibling (or her one other friend) can't come to visit. She doesn't want to hang out or socialize with the other residents. Why?? They're OLD. EFL, for the record, is in her high 70's. And EFL is saying the rest of these people are too old to associate with??

For once it just ain't a river in Egypt, people.

God give me strength.

So EFL gets round to the reason why she rang, she would like me to call her sibling. Said sibling lives over in Jersey, and the phones in Merlin's don't allow for out-of-state calls. So she'd like me to ring said sibling and tell them to ring her. We of La Casa are essentially EFL's only lifeline when she needs to contact to her sibble when they haven't called yet. Usually because said sibble is at work.

{Don't even SUGGEST a calling card. Please. Just don't. For gods sake it took three fucking weeks for her to sort the dial 9 to get a call out business. This, by the way, is not a 'dotty old people' thing This is a 'normal ditzy EFL' thing. She still shouts into our voicemail telling us to pick up the phone though we have told her numerous times it is NOT the same as an answering machine and we cannot hear it when she leaves a message. So we have 5 minute voicemails of EFL going 'Hello?? Hello!! Trash?! Can you wake up your sister please?? Hello!! Pick up the phone!! Can you hear me?? It's important!!' EFL's sibling has contemplated getting her a cell phone for emergencies, but the point is rather moot for several reasons. And I know it. It would result in her losing the phone thirty-two times a day and calling here to accuse various personnel at Merlin's of taking it. Or, assuming she found it, numerous calls here because the numbers are so small that she misdials, gets the wrong number, and will complain that the phone company is run by idiots. Topped off by complaints about the rude people who answered her many misdialed calls. Which already happens with her normal phone with buttons the size of British Columbia}

She rattles off her sibling's phone numbers, all of which I have already, but I don't bother mentioning this because I know how EFL works by now. It's 7:40 by now, and EFL mentions said sibling should be at work by 8:30. So I say 'Jolly good, old chum, I shall ring them then!!'

Tra la la!! So I made myself some tea, did some reading on the net etc, and bang!! 8 AM *ring ring* Oog!! Maybe it's Ma THIS time!!

No. It's EFL again. I explain that I am going to call at 8:30 since that's when she said the sibling will be getting to work. I do NOT tell EFL that I will NOT be calling the sibling's home phone, should they not pick up their cell or their work number when I call; because I don't know if their spouse is home and asleep. And wouldn't anyone be annoyed if some strange lady rang with a message from an in-law that irritated the life out of them while they were asleep?? You betcha, they would.

8:25 *ring ring*

Honestly. We know where this is going. It's fucking EFL. I tell her I'm bloody calling now. It doesn't help that I'm tired and cranky and fully of twingey pains. So I ring the cell and no answer. I leave a message and god dammit!! I don't have their work number as I'd originally thought--rather I can't find it. Don't care. Sibling will get the message and ring. I am going to bloody bed.

8-fucking-40. *ring ring* I am snug as a bug in a rug under fifty thousand blankets. She's bloody lucky I've had the foresight to keep the phone right next to my bed. Because if I had to crawl out to answer the fucking thing, I'd have reached through it and wrapped the cord round her bloody neck.

'Did you call??'

'Yes I did, but I got their machine'

'But did you call their cell AND their work AND their house'

{Say yes, Babs, say YES!!}

'Oh er, um, I called the um, cell and the one other and left messages'

{Look. I was tired. And on Drug Uppage}

'Oh you have to call all three'

'Right, right'

So. She hangs up and I sob heavily for a good five minutes while banging the receiver into my skull. I try their house phone on a whim and get a machine, leave a retarded message and again try the cell. All the while saying Hail Marys in the hopes the sibling will answer.

We have liftoff!!

'For the love of all that is holy could you PLEASE call your sister. I am begging you'*

*Note: I may not have said exactly this

'Did she mention what was wrong?? I was there just last night'

'No. She doesn't seem to be upset about anything. I think she just wants a chit-chat. Or something. I don't know. But she REALLY wants you to call'

'Ok. I'll give her a call. Thanks'

I am home free. I am going to go to sleep now. Fuck the world.

*ring ring*

What's with the Pavlovian reaction to the phone anyway?? I mean will the world end of you DON'T answer it?? I HAVE to answer it though, in case it's Ma.

*ring ring*

The question is, Do I feel lucky, punk??

'Hello??'

'Oh you're awake'

'Ma. I'm going to strangle her.'

'How many calls this morning??'

'I don't know. About fifty.'

'Slow morning'

I wonder if Ma can send smoke signals from Down South.

The Lion, The Viking, and The Penguin

2007-10-25T04:53:00.000-04:00

So.

I was going to have a big long whinge about EVERYTHING that's been going on here at the moment. BUT!! I am feeling all Drama Queeny at the moment. And I think I have very much earned the right.

Savvy??

{Fair warning lads and those with weak constitutions, you may want to look away; for we are once again going to board the HMS Too Much Information and speak of the bits and whatnots you'd rather not hear about}

I no longer wish to whinge about all the other shite because this past Friday I toddled along to Ye Olde Chick Quack. And I have been irked, annoyed, upset as hell, and occasionally sobbing at the drop of a hat ever since.

Of course I played a cruel, cruel hoax with my nearest and dearest previous to said appointment. Because I am a mean cow like that.

Babs (on phone with Ma): Oh guess what!! I have plans Friday night!!

Ma: Really?! A date!?!

Babs: Yep.

Ma: Who?? When??

Babs: Naw. I don't actually. I just have a doctors appointment.

Ma: God dammit, you actually had me fooled for a minute.

And don't even ask me what doctors have hours on Friday night because I just find that bizarre, but hey!! I can pretend I was out shopping and not sitting in a god damned waiting room for an hour and a half. And then spending another half hour freezing to death whilst waiting for Dr. Doom (whom I actually like very much, but in light of what I am going to mention, he shall be known by this moniker for the rest of this bit).

Now, you might recall that said doctor told me the LAST time I was there that my problem was NOT, in fact, the Retardovary, but the Retarduterus. Fine. Lurverly. Fucking marvy. And I have the Retarduterus because I've got one of these god damned things. Which is fine. I suppose. Fucking hereditary shite. And on this appointment I was to get the pills to try and sort it. And make sure said occupant hadn't grown to the size of Uzbekistan or something. Honestly. It's only been a few months since I've been there. It can't POSSIBLY have gotten any bigger, right??

WRONG!!

Bastard Retarduterus. The illegal occupant has flourished into something not the size of Uzbekistan, but easily the size of Rhode Island. But this is fine and maybe the pills will shrinkify it or at least cut the fucker off at the pass. And if this doesn't happen I will just rename the Retarduterus The Ocean State. Or something.

This, however?? This, my dears, was not my troublesome news. Not by a long shot.

And bear in mind that I am catastrophizing in a major-ish way; which I am allowed to do under Babs Spinster by-laws of 1991 (Reproduction Issues). Now harken back to a post long gone, and remember that I am an ovary-enabled person, yes, but in singular form. I've only the one, having lost the other ~~when I bet it on the Mets making it to the World Series in 1991~~ to a fucknormously huge 25-odd pound cyst when I was a mere eighteen years of age.

Dr. Doom was conducting a hideously invasive test in order to to see the state of things. A test which I can assure you was not in the LEAST bit comfy. Rather like having someone from the New York Philharmonic over-emphatically conducting Wagner where you would rather they wouldn't. It bloody hurts.

He informs me of the Retarduterus Situation and says I must go on the pills Post-Haste. Then says, 'Hello, what's this??' I look to the TV monitor on the side and immediately see what he's referring to: a ginormous bubble thingy.

Which, as it happens, is not a ginormous bubble thingy; but a fucking ginormous fucking cyst on the fucking Retardovary. You know, the Retardovary?? The only fucking Purveyor of Progeny I happen to own??

I sometimes wonder if someone isn't trying to give me a big bloody hint.

{Dear Babs,

Half your family is crazy and the other half are cancer-ified drunks and dead. Besides, do you REALLY think being an eppo and a mum is a good idea?? Do not procreate. Make gobs of money and go to Fiji instead. Or Boise!! There's a good girl.

Hugs and kisses,

God}

Dr. Doom says we will keep an eye on said fucking inhabitant and it shouldn't be a problem and yadda yadda yadda, but I'm not sure that I buy it. I keep flashing back to, you know, the first Blatant Ovarynapping.

So I'm Drama Queening just a tad, yes.

Then, to top it all off, Dr. Doom says brightly, 'Ah, how old are you now??'

'Thirty-fouuuu-five'

'Happy Birthday!!'

And he hands me something.

A gift certificate to Barnes and Nobles?? A CD?? Perhaps a limited edition Bugs Bunny speculum as a novelty gift for laughs??

No!! A script that says (in a roundabout way) 'Happy Birthday: This Entitles the Bearer to have their tits run through a mangle at their earliest convenience. Time for your first mammogram, you auld bitch!!'

I am really wishing this past week had never bloody happened.

Fleming

2007-10-22T12:09:00.000-04:00

I am here.

It's just been a busy, busy, busy week.

What with Ma being Down South and all that (Yes. You read that right. A call came. And I did not, rather, could not go. So Ma went). Leaving me not only in charge of our own little kingdom here, but de facto Susbstitute Cat Carer [among other things] while EFL is still temporarily in Merlin's Emporium for the Aged, as well.

Plus a funk. Which started with getting my hair done the Saturday before last. The hair itself is GORGEOUS. I couldn't be happier with it. In order to obtain said Perfect 'Do, however, I must endure half an hour of tongue clucking about the state of my life. And how I should be working in the post office. The Post Office. Apparently this is the answer to all my woes. I never said I had woes. I don't talk about woe. Indeed I don't HAVE any woes to speak of. I don't ask for this advice. Yet it is proffered every time I need to get my split ends tended to. If I want advice I will ask for it. Otherwise it just makes me feel like a fucking dickhead. And, 'Well, Babs, maybe you should just accept that you probably won't ever find someone and get married' Then, about two minutes later tacking on, 'Because they say THAT'S when it will happen!! You know, when you stop looking' Frankly I think they said it simply because the realize how horribly stupid the FIRST statement was. Or maybe I'm just being a bitchy old cow. Which is very, very possible.

We will delve into all this later on today, though.

Right now I've got to run to the bank for Ma. Visit EFL. Explain to her that her roommate isn't a superspy just because she is from another country. And I must explain this because her medication has made her delusional at times (it's not funny, actually, it's really kind of sad. I've been fielding calls from her nightly about this. She wakes up thinking the whole ward is in on it. Ma and EFL's sibling are pushing the doctors to find another drug for her because this ones got her wackier than a shithouse mouse). Go to the drug store for me. Run to the supermarket to go shopping. Among a bunch of other craptastic things I've forgotten.

And all on the whims of the fucking mass transit system of NYC.

Whee!!

And Always Let Your Flip-Flop Be Your Guide

2007-10-12T04:31:00.000-04:00

Now!!

It's time for the Insect Attack What Happened Down South, which shall lead us into the post what I was transcribing. And when I say 'transcribing' I mean 'Looked over, STILL found it very amusing/scary/completely fucking mortifying. Then typed up the first paragraph, got distracted when researching finer points about the Serengeti Plains and such and have yet to finish the rest. Therefore the whole Beetle Attack Situation was a very lucky break'

Andddddd breathe.

Right.

One of my first tasks down there was to assist in moving a Giant Outdoor Device Used for Cutting Outside Stuff (No!! I will not risk wayward googlers.). This would mean that we had to empty the back of the Big Vehicle in order to make room for same. And when I say 'we' I mean me and the niece and the neph. Of course it SHOULD be the niece and the neph by themselves, but if someone isn't sitting there and MAKING them do it, they will not. I am their worst nightmare. I make them do their chores. I cleverly trick them by starting to help them and then reverting into a Supervisory Role. This is assuming I can unglue them from whatever OTHER chores they were busy not doing/fighting over whose turn it was to do.

The point is, this needs to get done, like YESTERDAY, and to sort of get them started, I take the batch of camping-type chairs and place them on the porch on the side of their abode. After all, they're waterproof. If it rains?? Pah. They'll dry off, no worries. It wasn't going to rain anyway--I'm just saying. Besides. It would have to rain pretty hard attack the chairs on the tiny side-of-the-abode porch.

We (meaning Sylvia and I) have a slight difference of opinion as to A) where the shop is that will fix said Giant Doo-Hickey B) whether or not it's open and C) if we have time to go there now. It's decided we don't have time now. Fine.

I left the chairs where they were as no one needed them just then. And we sort of forgot about them, seeing as they were on that tiny porch on the side of the house. Out of sight, out of mind, you know?? Kind of like that horrible picture you took in 8th grade with braces and frizzy aqua-net hair. You KNOW it's in the house somewhere, but if you don't see it, it must not be there; therefore the whole sorry era NEVER HAPPENED.

Ok. Maybe it's not quite the same.

ANYWAY.

A week later we need the chairs. There is a ~~massive argument~~ Constructive Adult Conversation about who is to go fetch them. I shoot them all in the foot by volunteering Ozzy to assist me (and later on I will volunteer Wednesday for another chore like the dishes or something, though I am usually ignored by her outright, whereas Ozzy will listen to me). We don't have time for this horseshit, and if they spent half as much time DOING as they did fucking arguing, their lives would be all the more better. Anyway. I grab one chair, he grabs two others. The chair I grab opens a bit and HOLY FUCK!!

THREE BILLION CRICKETS JUMP OUT OF THE FOLDED SEAT!!

Big ones, small ones, even little baby ones. I have just happened upon a whole cricket army!!

And they all scatter, some jumping towards me!!

Wanting to show the kids how a sane, rational adult acts in times of crisis, I did the only thing I could: I jumped up and down, screaming like a lunatic and then made a bee-line for the street.

Which, naturally, everyone thought was HYSTERICAL.

Then I had to deal with Damage Control. Because if Sylvia found out that I'd left the chairs out, only to have them become Cricket Central?? Well. I'd be a dead woman. Especially since Ozzy had already put two of the chairs in the car. Were there satellite armies in the other chairs??

Also!! While I was busy ~~acting like a sane, rational adult in the face of Killer Crickets~~ having a Slight Insectorial Meltdown, Ozzy had taken the Cricketified Chair and brought it to the vee-hickle. Without double-checking it for stragglers.

Fuck!!

Manson, who'd come round as he was attending the event we were going to, donned some camouflage, armed Ozzy with a sneaker, and they both performed a Cricket Reconnaissance Mission.

Ozzy: *salutes his father* All clear, Sir!!

Manson: Roight!! Now fetch my tea, laddie!!

So. We all hop in the ve-hickle. I am driving along, and all is loverly. We ~~sing the Partridge Family Song, and rousing rendition of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall~~ listen to Ozzy and Manson imitate really bad German accents from a recent comedy they'd seen. Things calm down for a bit.

Out of the blue, Sylvia says, 'Babs. I want you stay calm and pull over'

I look in my mirror and all I can see is Wednesday, looking a bit weird, kind of bug-eyed, but no cops behind us or anything. Hmm.

I am confused, but start to pull over. Suddenly Wednesday lets out an EAR-SPLITTING SCREAM.

Now I am screaming, too, shouting 'What what what?? What's wrong?? What is it??!?!'

(See?? I am so very calm. Epitome of it, really)

Wednesday then goes apeshit, 'GAHHHHHHHHHHH!! THERE'S A CRICKET IN THE CAR!! THERE'S A CRICKET IN THE CAR!! THERE'S A CRICKET IN THE CAR!!'

Clearly she has inherited her deal old Aunt Babs Method of Handling Bug Situations.

I am trying to pull the car over. So I've vowed to Not Panic if this fucking thing lands on me. One must also understand, that in many lands outside of my beloved city here, instead of streets with normal storm drains, they have huge fucking ditches on either side. So!! Do not panic. Do not crash. And most importantly: Do not drive into bloody ditch.

Let me pause here, also to say, that the boys: Ozzy, his friend, and my god damned brother thought this all HYSTERICAL!!

I get the car to the side of the road. And Sylvia yanks my head down by the ponytail. Hey lady!! I'm not that kind of girl!! I've got my foot on the brake, I'm screaming while trying to put the damned gearshift in park, and Sylvia has me bent to the side by my ponytail for some inexplicable reason (which will soon be explicked). Wednesday is screaming, too. Sylvia is up against her door while pulling my ponytail along with her. 'OK the cars in park!! WHERE IS IT?!?!'

Manson is hyperventilating from laughing so hard in the back. He is a fucking bastard.

Sylvia lets go of my hair. I LEAP out of the car and jump up and down as if 50,000 fire ants have just crawled up my leg. The house I pulled up in front of, as luck would have it, was occupied by two very confused people who had two minutes previous been tending to their flowers. Now they are wondering why there is a truck full of lunatics in front of their house. One of which is outside of said truck jumping up and down like a 7-ton Mary-Lou Retton.

I am shaking my hair out, hitting my shirt, anything and everything to make sure there is NO cricket on me. I turn towards the car and lo!! There's the little fucker right there (and when I say little, I mean the size of a Brachiosaurus). Sitting on the drivers side door, having a gander at himself in the mirror. I administer a flick and he's gone (I will flick a bug away because flicking it away only involves hitting it with fingernail. Plus my life was in mortal danger. MORTAL DANGER, PEOPLE!!).

I get back in the car. Now they are ALL laughing at me. Even the traitorous Wednesday, who minutes previous, had been screaming and kicking like there was no tomorrow. She also takes great joy in shouting any type of bug (mostly cricket, though) every two seconds to scare me. Which both Manson and Sylvia tell her to knock it the hell off, because it isn't funny to do when someone is driving.

Sylvia explains that she had grabbed my hair because the cricket was on my seat and she didn't want to risk it jumping on me and panicking further while I was trying to put the car in park and whatnot. We applaud this move because I probably WOULD have panicked had the fucker landed in my hair (see Beetle Incident of Previous Post). Maybe. Who knows?? But I am a seasoned driver, Sylvia knows this, and she knew I was almost in park so it was safe to yank my hair out of my head in order to save me from being Viciously Attacked by Renegade Crickets.

Manson, still catching his breath and between giggles, laments 'Oh god, why, oh WHY didn't you have the video camera on?? We could have Youtubed the hell out of that!!'

And you'd think that would be the end of it, wouldn't you??

No, no no. My bastard brother wasn't finished. But, I, the oh-so-clever Babs, was on to his game.

We get to where we are meant to be. The boys walk ahead. I watch them set up the chairs. Manson starts to set up one chair, then closes it quickly and takes the other instead. He whispers to Ozzy and his friend.

I am not a fucking idiot.

I get over there. I look right at them. 'There's a fucking cricket in that chair, isn't there??'

All three of them: Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!! Not one.

They're lying, of course. So I open it up with the seat facing away and, sure as shit, out it hops towards his new home. I still jump thirty-feet, even though I knew the little bastard was in there. I then spend ten minutes beating that chair to hell making sure it is free of all Bloody Insects.

Manson, Ozzy, and Ozzy's friend go into hysterics. I hate them. They will perish.

I had thought that this would be the end of the whole damned mess. Just to be on the safe side, I clean out the back of the car and do another FULL CRICKET RECON. I find TONS of baby crickets (read: 4 or 5). No. Every time I step outdoors I see the little bastards. It's like they're after me.

Three nights later I was going to bed. Wait a mo, what's that thing right in the middle of the bloody bed??

A GOD DAMNED BABY CRICKET!!

I grab my shoe, wave it in the air and bring it down, 'Take that, Jiminy!!'

Ozzy, hearing me yell, starts humming 'When You Wish Upon a Star'

{Where he got is smartass tendencies, I have no idea. Ahem}

That's IT!! He is OUT of my will!!

Assuming, of course, I can write one before the damned crickets kill me.

Beetlemania

2007-10-10T04:39:00.000-04:00

I said I was busy transcribing a little ditty that I'd written whilst Down Yonder etc etc.

BUT!!

Before we even get to THAT. I forgot about something else that happened Down Yonder which was Insect Related, as it happens; and which would never had occurred were it not for the event what which I am transcribing. And before I can talk about THAT. I must tell you about the FIRST attack I recall by a Vicious Renegade Beetle. No--not the Vicious Renegade Beetle of the Day Before Yesterday, but Another Beetle, who clearly must have been a descendant of the one you shall hear tale of now. As I'm sure I've not mentioned this before (because I've gone through my archives using the words 'bug' 'beetle' and similar and found nothing).

So!! Night of the First Vicious Renegade Beetle here we come. Back in the Golden Days of La Casa de Babs Familius (read: about ten years ago) we used to throw wonderful parties in the yard. We didn't need a specific holiday to throw one--any time would do. We'd start making salads, get the grill going, chuck the kids in the pool and have a grand old time. Ozzy and Wednesday would swim until they finally wore themselves out into a coma-like sleep; then we grown-ups would sit out on the back patio playing cards or just bullshitting in general.

Of course, you can't see once night falls--you need light. That had been sorted YEARS previous, when someone clever had installed a light-type of thing on the back corner of the house. It landed right where the Old Man had set up the picnic table a good twenty years previous, and we had recently put up one of those crappy resin-plastic ones temporarily, as certain dumbass brothers didn't repaint/waterproof the wood on said picnic table and it had subsequently collapsed (and to be quite honest I do not think dumbass father had repainted/waterproofed said picnic table either, pre-croaking). Anyway. Light!! Perfect!!

Except.

Where there is light--there are bugs. Junebugs, lightning bugs, beetles, moths, you name them--we saw them. And the dopey bastards flew into that light. Constantly. And I was ever vigilant in my fight to get the seat that was NOT directly under that light. Problem was, as Head Chef and de facto Hostess I was the one that was always running here and there. Also?? Everyone else knew the perils of The Buggy Seat.

And this night it would be My Turn.

We're all sitting there--and I can't recall if we were playing cards or just bullshitting. I don't recall what was blaring on the radio even. Probably something heavy-metallish to annoy our neighbor who had become increasingly fucking bastardy over the years despite our steadfast politeness (fight fire with fire). I had been for a quick swim earlier and my hair was a bit damp still--if memory serves. Which, apparently, makes ones hair an Insect Mecca. All of a sudden I feel *thump* on my noggin. I pray to every god I can think of that it isn't what deep down in my heart I know it is--I am being viciously assaulted by a fucking beetle.

I look over at Sylvia, who says, 'Um, Babs??' I scream bloody murder. I am trying to get the thing out of my hair. Frankly I looked like someone on a bad acid trip who had just had a bag of m & m's poured out in front of them whilst also watching a kaleidoscope. Or, alternatively, a Labrador Retriever with a really bad ear infection. Sylvia gets me to calm down and is trying to get the damned thing to let go of my hair. But apparently is had a fucking DEATH GRIP.

Sylvia is vexed as the beetle is not budging. I am in tears. I will not live with a beetle in my hair. I would rather DIE first!!

Shirley, who is sitting across from me and next to her husband, feels the best way to help my situation is to repeatedly hit him and shout 'DO SOMETHING!! DO SOMETHING!! DO SOMETHING!!' for ten minutes straight. He looks quite bewildered, as there is really nothing he can do because Sylvia is already on Beetle Relocation Duty.

My brothers, of course, are very helpful, and offer moral support. They do this by stomping the ground, doubling over laughing and slapping their knees whilst doing so. They are complete and utter bastards.

Ma hears the commotion from the front of the house, comes towards the back, and tries to keep a straight face and offer advice as A) Sylvia tries to get the beetle out of my hair while I am screaming like banshee B) Shirley beats her husband to death C) my brothers practically hyperventilate from laughing so hard

Sylvia has an idea, 'Aha!! Let's drown him off!! They always die in the pool!!'

I had already changed back into my regular clothes so I couldn't just hop into the drink. Also--Sylvia didn't want to lose which part of my scalp and length of hair the beetle had made his own. So she drags me, cave-woman-esquely, to the pool by said length of hair. I also need something to stand on. I am very tall, yes, but given that I have to lean over the frame of the pool and it's not filled to the tippity-top, this must be procured. A cinder block is found. The moment my head hits the water the bastard MOVES!! Not away, but closer. Sylvia can't quite grab him. Or my hair for that matter. Because I am on a cinder block with my head halfway underwater. And Sylvia is far shorter than I.

Sylvia then says brightly 'Aha!!'

She runs to the grill and grabs my cooking tongs. And starts grabbing at my hair with them in a bid to force the beetle to Vacate Chez Babs immediately.

First shot, I lose a ginormous clump of hair, but am still sadly not vacated of fucking beetle.

I dunk my head even further, water up my nose, thrashing my head about trying to shake the little bastard off, and Sylvia tells me to stay still, she thinks she's got him.

Nope.

Beetle 2 Hair 0

We go for one last try.

Triumph!! Ginormous clump of hair with god damned beetle floating away on it!!

And this, my dears, is why all beetles must perish.

Because NO one messes with MY hair and gets away with it.

Twist and Shout

2007-10-08T03:11:00.000-04:00

I am currently working on transcribing a lovely little ditty that I penned whilst away during that horrorfest Down South in September; and I am sure you will ALL enjoy it as much as you did LAST years escapades. In the meanwhile, until I get it sorted properly. I wish to gain the attention of the Fashion Industry at Large. In particular, those in charge of making clothes for we of Heifer-like Nature.

Actually the above has all changed because about fifteen minutes ago there was An Incident. And whilst I suppose one COULD theoretically argue that it is technically a point of fashion; I cannot whinge to the Fashion Industry because I was viciously assaulted by a beetle. And when I say 'beetle' I do not mean Ringo or Paul (note spelling of beetle, please. And general creepiness as both look ghastly now [though I still love the Beatles], and fact that my favorite two Beatles, are in fact, un-Beatles now and probably look a damn sight ghastlier) Nor can I complain to the Fashion Industry that, somehow, said beetle managed to get into the confines of, well, things what I confine (read: bra).

There was me, in the sanctity of the loo, washing my hands. A minute or two previous, I had been, um, taking inventory of our soap and shampoos and various toiletries. Yes that's what I was doing. And counting towels!!

(Says the reader, 'Jesus, woman, can you not say, Hello, had to pee?? It's a basic bodily function for fucks sake' Says Babs, 'No. No I cannot. And I'm sure I don't do that. Humph')

Anyway. Whilst taking inventory I had felt something on the back of my neck, but thought it was a bit of hair escaping from my ponytail. Two seconds later I felt it again, and thought the same thing, so again brushed away hair on the back of my neck and ignored it. Thought nothing of it. Tra la la la!!

Oh stupid, stupid Babs.

So. There's me standing at the sink washing my hands when suddenly I feel the same thing, except this time, it's near-ish to the girls.

And let me remind you at this juncture, that with the exception of ladybugs, lightning bugs, and worms* (which are only tolerated out of doors), I am a RABID hater of insects. I fear them. Loathe them. Skeeve them. I will not sleep if I find an errant house caterpillar/mosquito/any fucking type of bug on the PLANET. I will stay awake until it is found and subsequently KILLED.

*Yes I know they aren't bloody insects. Go suck an exoskeleton, you bloody pedant.

I look down towards the offending area. And see something which moves. Which was clearly not supposed to be there. I scream blue bloody murder. As I go to brush it away, it bloody escapes into the Mansion de Playtex (read: bra). I scream murder yet again, Ma comes running to the door thinking, perhaps, that some weirdo has scaled two floor house and attacked daughter. Or that I am having a fit. I try to convey very calmly that there is a Vicious Renegade Beetle in the loo:

Ma: What's wrong, Babs?!?! Are you ok?!? Are you having a seizure or something?? What's going on in there?!?

Babs: GAH!! GAH!! GAH!! GAH!! THERE IS A BEETLE IN MY FUCKING BRA!!

Ma: *snicker*

I am trying to A) get beetle out of bra and B) not succeeding. This is probably because I only have two hands and I am, at the same time:

1) Attempting to get my shirt as far away from me as possible, so beetle cannot escape to there. My shirt is black and I will never see the thing if it crawls onto there; and I do not want the bastard touching me again. EVER!!

2) Trying to flip shirt up requires moving said Mammarial Contraption, which is being held dangerously and painfully in far away state cutting off circulation in back yet is also keeping beetle as far away from girls as possible. I am not moving my arm for love nor money, dammit. I am obviously not thinking clearly. But hey, it's not everyday one is attacked by a Vicious Renegade Beetle.

3) Trying to get the god damned beetle off stupid friggin' thing. And it's not budging!! No!! I hit it and it moves away!! BASTARD!!

I move on to Plan B. Which involves yet more screaming. And still holding said Mammarial Contraption far, far away from me. With the added bonus of another half hearted, yet clever, attempt at the shirt flip. I get one arm out of shirt. Thereby enabling me to still hold Beetle-fied Mammarial Contraption far away yet flip shirt. It only works part way, renders me blind when it gets caught on my head, and I end up with one foot in the mini-hamper, to boot. I am also attempting to unhook the damned thing one handed, which my female, and hell, my male readers too, will admit is bloody impossible. Especially when you've got the contraption cutting off your circulation BECAUSE THERE'S A GOD DAMNED HEATHEN BEETLE ATTACKING YOU!!

So. Half-blind because of shirt mishap. Foot in mini-hamper. Have ordered bowl of spinach in order to grow Popeye-like-arms so as to stretch bra as far away as humanly possible.

All of which, I am sure, must have been a sight. Thank god curtains were closed and we are on second floor. So was not seen by any planes passing by which happened to be loaded with bored tourists armed with superzoom binoculars.

'Oh Nigella, come see!! There's a fat girl wibbling with her top halfway on her head and her bra is all wonky. I...I think her foots in a hamper!! It's terribly amusing!!'

'Oh dear. Probably a beetle attack. Happened to me once. Very frightening. I don't think that color suits her at all, do you??'

'Quite'

FINALLY the fucking thing is gone. But where?? I did not see it go. Was too busy screaming and cursing and trying to unhook, regain sight, and undo foot from mini-hamper. I spend five minutes beating shirt against door and yet another five shaking it out to make sure there is not beetle clinging to same. The Mammarial Contraption is given a going over that would make the CSI: Las Vegas people look like two bit hacks with naught but a magnifying glass and some Ellery Queen books.

Now I cannot go into the loo without first performing a full five minute reconnaissance mission to make sure there is no visible beetle. And wherever I am in the house, if I have the slightest bloody HINT of something being near me, I think it's the very same bug. Even though I know it's not. So I jump thirty feet and start acting like a lunatic.

I will not sleep til I find the little bastard and smash him to teeny-tiny beetle-y smithereens.

The Sting

2007-10-04T04:23:00.000-04:00

Bah.

I am thirty-bleedin-five now (though on inquiry am fully prepared to admit to twenty-two). I seem to have escaped it fairly unscathed, for the most part.

I didn't spontaneously combust in a pile of Poli-Grip and liver spots on the 2nd. Nor did I automatically become insta-wrinkled. The Botox Fairy didn't visit me in the middle of the night demanding I do something about my face. And my posterior didn't automatically drop to the floor; nor did the girls, thank you all the saints in heaven and all that is holy (Is it proper to thank saints and such that ones posterior and fronteriors seem to be faring OK-ish against the ravages of time?? Cannot ask priest. Is too embarrassing. Will say Novenas instead, just in case).

This does not mean, however, that my entire day was spent trilling gaily and flitting from room to room, post-birthday. No, no, no.

I have been obsessing, oh yes.

First off, ever since that whole 'Oog, get healthy and quit smoking' shite, I have gained a gazillion bajillion pounds (read: 10?? 15?? Don't know. Though Birdie said I looked like I lost weight when I got back from Down South so I don't know where I stand now). And it is vexing me now more than ever.

I mean I am a heifer to begin with, so it didn't help matters.

So!!

Fucking mega-diet again.

*Note to self: Buy bloody scale this week come hell or high water. Must obsess properly.

It's quite funny these days. Annie, as I mentioned, was my former partner-in-crime in bar-hopping and the like and trying to find those elusive beings called Men Who Were Not Fucktards (Though, in retrospect, in a bar?? Really?? Kidding me?? Gawd). My problem always was that Annie, bless her, was a stick-thin tiny little waif creature and whenever we went out this spelled doom, doom, doom for yours truly. For anything I did or said inevitably ended up with fellas coming to chat me up only to ask me 'So, who is that girl and can you get me her number??'

Which, I'm sure you'll agree, was TREMENDOUSLY encouraging.

Annie (and everyone else) would say, when I lamented the state of things and the fact that I would never EVER catch a fellow in my 'as is' state, said this was pure hogwash and it was all in my head. 'Pah, Babs. It's just your tude' Which was so much bullshit, because I always gave off attitude of fun-loving smartass (ok fine SHY, too, dammit, but still, endearing and adorable smartass). And I never moped or looked forlornly into my drink or gave off 'Woe is me' kind of aura while sighing wistfully. Ever. My life isn't some crappy chick flick, for gods sake.

I'm not an idiot, either. I do know, however, that the men (Ok, some, not all, before you all get into a tizzy) on this island (and hell, in this bloody CITY and possibly country) are a bunch of vain fucktards; and they have always been looking for stick-thin bimbos with tits that could double as flotation devices should they fly to Bimini and manage to get the one flight that nosedives into the Caribbean. Being funny and having a brain is all well and good, but one must have the casaba melons and the size two jeans that go with it (Also see: ex-bf who tried to off himself because Babs was heifer; Encylopedia of Dipshits 1994). Which, hello, I will NEVER have. Even if I were skeletal I'd be a size freaking god knows what. I kept this information to myself however and always had cheery smiley face and was never one of your desperate 'Oh god this is horrid won't someone please ask me out??' sorts.

Anyway, the point is for YEARS Annie and Shirley and the lot said 'Och, Babs, it's all in your head. Guys here don't REALLY think like that' (In spite of many insults hurled at me at many bars etc) And I argued the opposite and stopped going out to such places. Because, really, what's the point of going if I'm going to be insulted every five seconds and not even get a date out of it?? Bah. I've got better things to do with my time. I can get insulted just by walking down the street and NOT have to pay a two drink minimum.

My liver AND my bank account are both thanking me as we speak, people.

Annie, post-little one, has put on a little weight, and is now single again as well. And was braving the Dating World. Same attitude she's always had. Same way she's always been. Only the outer package was a bit different. After all of five minutes, she came to a conclusion.

'You know what, Babs??'

'What's that??'

'All that stuff you were saying for YEARS about guys and being overweight and stuff??'

'Yea??'

'You really weren't kidding. You were so right'

'Fucking told you so'

Now.

Must remember to eat breakfast and lunch from here on in for a start. As apparently my whole 'Eating Just Dinner and Getting Rest of Energy From Coca-Cola' diet is just as bad as pigging out on all manner of foods twenty-four hours straight.

{Ugh. No more elixir of life. How can I live without Coca-Cola??}

I hate it when fifteen-odd people that we know and numerous shows on TV give my mother license to say 'See?? You've got to eat breakfast AND lunch, too. I told you so'

Bah.

Priscilla--Queen of Mince

2007-10-01T06:50:00.000-04:00

You just know it's going to be a bad day when some guy is hitting on your mother, and in the course of doing so says to YOU, among other things:

A) 'Oh, I thought you were HER mother'

(Then to Ma, in reference to me)

B) 'Boy!! She looks mean!!'

(Then, back to me)

C) 'You look like Meatloaf'

(The singer, not the godawful dinner concoction, which, frankly, would have been bad, but a bit less worrisome)

I look mean. And like Meatloaf??

I had just been accused of being the mother of a fifty-something woman (though granted most think Ma is in her forties, but still, this is no fucking consolation).

I had been compared to a hideously grotesque and humongous second-rate hack rockstar.

Am I supposed to be happy as a lark with these statements??

Tra la la!! I do not look like Elle MacPherson!! I look like man who sang stupid dashboard lights song!! La la la!! Am so happy!! Have given more credence to stupid drag queen accusations now more than ever!! La la la!! Am never wearing make-up again!! Tra la la!!

{And THIS guy was a Jimmy Buffet fan. Talk about fucking nerve. I!! ASK!! YOU!! Can we say terminally tacky?? There's a bunch that need shooting. I wish there WERE a Margaritaville. And then we could gather them up, get them sozzled, and send them into space. Forever!! Think of the good we'd be doing for the planet. Or we could finish them off with some Howitzers instead. Bah. It's all on par with Barry fucking Manilow}

I mean, ok, fine, he was only teasing me in order to flirt with Ma, but STILL. You do NOT do this to a woman who is one day away from being 35!!

If anyone is looking for me, I'll be sobbing in the corner, rocking gently whilst clutching a bottle of whiskey, and waving goodbye to the tattered remnants of my bloody youth.

And looking for my make-up remover.

Lady Babsivere and the Laundering Idiots

2007-09-26T04:08:00.000-04:00

And so it became, that while Lady Babsivere was fighting the bloodsucking vermin (read: fleas) in Yon Lands Southerly (read: Down South), Queen Ma and Sir Drinksalot (read: Trash) hatched a Nefarious Scheme.

Sir Drinksalot: I dare say, Queen Ma, while the Evil Landlord Dragon is busy recuperating in Merlin's Leech and Poultice Emporium for the Aged (read: rehab/nursing home facility from which said EFL shall be returning soon), we could, er, um, dare I say it?? Are we sure the Landlord Dragon hasn't placed wiretaps in this joint or summit??

Queen Ma: Oh get on with it and say it, boy!! I haven't got all day. I've got to go run Archimede's Bingo Night!!

Sir Drinksalot: Right right, good good. I think we should engage in....Renegade Pantaloon Laundering!!

Queen Ma thought on this for a good long while. After all, it had been quite unfair of the Evil Landlord Dragon to ban use of the Grand Clothes Soaping Device (read: washing machine). It wasn't as if it had snapped any pipes in all the time they HAD used it, as the Evil Landlord Dragon alleged they would, now had they??

Queen Ma: Sir Drinksalot, you're right!! And I AM tired of the many miles walk to the Great Public Laundering House (read: laundrymat). And the stairs??-oh the stairs!!

Sir Drinksalot: Exactly, milady. And what with that ingenious nine-iron drying method* the exceedingly clever and absolutely brilliant Lady Babsivere invented?? We'll not want for clean clothes at all--nor will we have to traipse the Swiss Alps of Staten to get them!!

Queen Ma: Go down to the store at once and purchase as many bottles of Tide as you can. And make sure it's unscented, you layabout, for I have allergies, and if I sneeze, it's a sound thrashing you'll get!!

Sir Drinksalot: Righto Mum!!

Queen Ma: Right. Then I'm off to Archimede's Bingo Night. It's my turn to pull the balls. I don't like the way Marion does them anyway, she's too slow and she never reads the numbers right!!

*Extraordinarily handy use for old golf clubs in summer time. Balance them off on two window frames, put wet laundry on hangers, hang hangers on golf clubs, dry accordingly.

Queen Ma, though, had her reservations about using the Grand Clothes Soaping Device behind the Evil Landlord Dragon's back, no matter HOW ridiculous their reasoning for banning its use to begin with had been. So she went to the Dragon's sibling, and inquired about same, as the Landlord Dragon has asked Queen Ma to wash some clothes for her as well, and to bring them to her at Merlin's Poultice and Leech Emporium for the Aged.

Evil Landlord Dragon's Sibling: Oh pray, Queen Ma, you've shown such kindness to my sibling, and done so much for them. Worry not about laundering your pantaloons at home. Wash away--as much as you like!!

This left Queen Ma without any reservations and they cleaned every stitch of clothing they had. Pantaloons, those funny looking hats what they had back in the medieval times that I don't feel like researching the name of, and the same for those funny shirts, too (Alas, it is three in the AM, and I am feeling shoddy in my research, thou shalt deal with it).

For three days and three nights they laundered away. Shirts hanging from nine-irons, pantaloons laid gently over six-irons, and all the socks they could manage floated in the breeze on a sand wedge.

*Queen Ma and Trash dance gaily around bonfire made of empty Tide bottles in yard*

Queen Ma: Oh this is so wonderful!! Not having to leave the house to do laundry?!

Sir Drinksalot: If only Lady Babsivere could see us now--she'd be so jealous!! *tinkly laugh*

*cue to house in Yon Lands Southerly*

Master Ozzy: Oh Aunt Babsivere, do come here quickly--the Great Talking Machine (read: phone) ringeth. Tis Queen Ma, and she wishes to speak with you.

Lady Babsivere: Thank you kind Ozzy, now be a good lad and fetch some leeches, I saw your father earlier today, and he wasn't looking well.

Master Ozzy: Yes Aunt Babsivere.

Lady Babsivere: Queen Ma?? Is that really you??

Queen Ma: *trilling* Why yes, it is me!! Is this talking device not amazing??

Lady Babsivere: I do admit it is rather neat, but I fear it's just a fad. Much like pet rocks, the hula-hoop, and that crazy 'World is Round' business.

Queen Ma: Now that IS ridiculous. How on earth could the earth be round?? Next thing you know they'll be saying we stay on the ground because of some 'magical invisible force' or something. Anyway I calleth to tell you something.

Lady Babsivere: What's that?? Have you won the Medieval Mega Ball?? One of my ex-BFs come down with the plague?? Please don't keep me in suspense!! I fear my heart cannot take it--I'm being driven to insanity as it is.

Queen Ma: We, that is myself and Sir Drinksalot, have been using the Grand Clothes Soaping Machine!!

Lady Babsivere: GET OUT!! *pushes the poor just-returning Master Ozzy as she says it, sending leeches flying everywhere*

Sir Drinksalot (in background): Ha ha haaaaaa!!

Lady Babsivere: Ha!! I careth not!! There's a Grand Clothes Drying Device that is NOT endorsed by Sir Arnold Palmer and a Grand Clothes Soaping Device here, too. A Metallic Swimming Hole (read: pool). And central AC!! Take that!!

Sir Drinksalot: Booooo hiss.

Queen Ma: Well have fun, I'm doing more Laundering, without climbing any stairs!!

And though I, Lady Babsivere, had bragged on being in a place with both a washer and dryer, a pool, and central AC, I was vexed mightily. For the pool was never used, and getting to the Grand Clothes Soaping Device, while good in theory, involved a hectic route, and always ended with my being attacked by more heathenistic bloodsuckers (read: more fucking fleas). Yea verily, I couldn't wait for my journey home, so that I too might be able to make merry and launder my own pantaloons in the comfort of my own home. O bliss!!

It was not to be.

Two days before my journey north, the Great Talking Machine rang again.

Master Ozzy: Aunt Babsivere, tis Queen Ma again!!

Lady Babsivere: Right so, be a good lad and fetch some leeches, your sisters allergies are acting up.

Queen Ma: Lady Babsivere??

Lady Babsivere: So. Have thou called to braggeth again on being able to launder thine pantaloons at home?? Cretinous bovine!!

Queen Ma: Er. No. Not as such. We're no longer doing laundering. Something er, is afoot.

Lady Babsivere: GET OUT!! *once again pushes the poor just-returning Master Ozzy as she says it, sending leeches flying everywhere*

Queen Ma: So. How about those Metropolitans from the Land of Newest Yorke?!

{Translation: How about those Mets?!}

Lady Babsivere: Queen Ma, did the pipe burst?! I'd die if it did. It's impossible!!

Queen Ma: No. No it did not.

Lady Babsivere: What happened then, pray tell??

Queen Ma: The fucking motor did burneth out.

And so when I traipsethed back Northerly, the first thing I had to do was GO TO THE BLOODY LAUNDRYMAT!!

So endeth another chapter in the saga of Lady Babsivere.

Muggy

2007-09-23T03:22:00.000-04:00

I would like to state, for the record, that when a person (read: your fearless heroine) is attempting to reach an outlet behind a HUMONGOUS dresser--an outlet where you cannot even see the damned holes--it is PERFECTLY REASONABLE, RATIONAL, AND NOT AT ALL INSANE to scream bloody murder when someone offers to assist you in finding the outlet. And it is *not* something that can be blamed on Hormones of the Female Type. Nor should you be surprised if I decide to *accidentally* fling a mug out of sheer frustration.

Look. It was bloody hot out. And it was muggy. Really. Doesn't EVERYONE do this?? We have dealt with this all before, people. I do not get bitchy AT all. You all seem to get this notion and I've NO idea where it comes from.

Tsk.

Anyway. I've been busy, busy, busy again these past few days. Although not the clinically insane busy whereupon I had no puter and no way to foist my insanity upon the net in that netherworld known as Down South, thank goodness. I was working for Birdie who had been lamenting the state of her kitchen floor ever since I'd left and booked me straightaway once I'd gotten home. Plus, I've been helping out Annie again with the cleaning out of her Parental Unit's Place (a bigger job than we'd anticipated which was also sidelined by other things, so by the time I got back I was still able to help her).

{Which means this will be fairly short and sweet because I'm bloody knackered}

Now Annie and Trash are always busting each others chops and have done so since they've met (well, once he was old enough to bust chops properly).

Tonight Annie and I were at the local pizza joint and I rang home, as I needed to find out TWOL's phone number, because I'm absolute crap remembering numbers. And Annie chimed in when she heard I was talking to Trash.

Babs: Hey Dumbass, is Ma there??

Annie: Hey loser!!

Trash: *tells me to say something to Annie what I can't remember now but was rather lame*

Annie: Oh, nice comeback, genius.

Babs: Do you know TWOL's phone number?? Well look in Ma's phone book then, moron.

Annie: *says something else smartassy that I also can't remember but doesn't matter as this is not crux of funny convo so ignore it*

Babs: He says fuck off.

Annie: Tell him he can kiss my ass.

Babs (to Trash): She says kiss her ass.

Annie: What'd he say??

Babs: He's humming.

Annie: *suddenly has look of revulsion on her face*

Babs (to Annie): What??

Annie: What did you say??

Babs (v. confused now): Huh?? He's humming.

Annie: Oh my god!! That's fucking gross!!

Babs: Er. Um. What??

Annie: Wait. WHAT did you say??

Babs: I said he's humming. Don't know what song, though. I think he's still looking for Ma's phone book. What the hell did you think I said?!

Annie: I thought you said....oh my god I can't believe I misheard that.

Babs (suddenly realizing what Annie thought she said and the thinking behind it): Oh ew ew ew!! WHY would you think that?!?! Oh my GOD!! That's SICK!!

Annie: First I thought he meant he was going to come here to the restaurant. And then I thought??

{And, mind you, we are now pissing ourselves laughing by this point, so everyone in the place is looking at us like we are mental cases. Which, ok, is probably a very fair assessment}

Babs: You're twisted!! I said humming you nit!! Why the HELL would my brother do something like that while I was on the phone?? Or um, EVER?!?! Sheesh, think woman!!

Annie: I need to get more sleep, I think.

Babs: Yes. Definitely.

Stringbeans

2007-09-19T03:51:00.000-04:00

Yes, yes I KNOW. But if you only KNEW the drama I've been dealing with the past few days. And I can't talk about bloody ANY of it.

Feh. Don't you hate that??

Yes. Me too.

And, before I go into anything else, how insane IS Trash anyway?!?!

I've mentioned previously about all the famous people he (and Manson, for that matter) has managed to meet or be around. There was our Trash tonight, sitting on the Manhattan side of the ferry, waiting for the boat home. He ambles outside for a cigarette with a friend of his, and who is out there, also partaking of a cigarette, but this fellow. And what does our Trash do?? Does he say 'Hello there, I rather enjoy your work in the movies??' or perhaps 'I find your twitchy detective-y schtick in Law and Order: Criminal Intent irritating as fuck' (We ALL do. God, can the man stand still in that show??). No!! He and his friend automatically go into the infamous 'jelly doughnut scene' from Full Metal Jacket.

Um. Yea. Trash has no regard for famous people. Nor is he starstruck by them. Or their money. And such. Nor was Mr. D'onofrio seemingly fazed by Trash's imitation of him or the famed Gunnery Sergeant (which, really, is quite dead on). Trash, of course, was quite pleased with himself.

I probably would have pissed myself laughing. While cringing with embarrassment and looking for a rock to crawl under. Ahem.

Anyway!! How else to get back on the road to bloggery!!

I am also, you will be thrilled to know, in the throes of yet another pre-not-quite-mid-but-certainly-a-thirty-something-age-crisis. Due to the fact that in two weeks time my Anniversary of Existence is looming. Large. And I am not handling it well. Thirty was difficult but manageable. And thirty-one through thirty-four, while no picnic, was ok. But thirty-FIVE??

That FIVE bothers me. That's halfway through my bloody thirties!! HALFWAY!! And thirty-five is half of--god I can't even SAY it. And the more I think about it the more I want to just crawl into my bed and never leave it again. Which is impractical really. For a start I am fanatical about having clean sheets. I am also not fond of bedsores. I can't make numerous cups of tea from the confines of same nor can I trot to the shop. Plus my bed isn't exactly bloody comfortable to begin with. So it's a shite idea. Oh well.

{And oh yes, I am well aware that every single problem in my fucking life and the reason I am in the state I am in at the moment is my own bloody fault. So there's no need to go 'Well Babs, had you done THIS, or if you did THAT' I KNOW, ok. And I already have people who do this on a near-constant basis. Thanks, though. I DO adore you all, though. Remember this. Also be aware that I am moody and my fucking ovary has exploded yet again on top of everything else. I need chocolate and it's 3:30 AM and I don't feel like fending off crackheads to fetch some. I may be ever-so-slightly bitchy. Do forgive}

This seems to be a general ramble anyway so I'm not even going to bother trying to keep with some sort of fucking theme. And my knee hurts again now (well, knees really). Remember when I fell down the stairs, oh, how long ago was it?? (Hang on a mo, will check blog. And how sad is this--I've got to check the blog to remember things--fucking bastard Topamax. Aha, around August 15Th!!)

*Also, anyone care to guess if that light bulb has been put in yet?? Anyone?? Anyone?? Frye?? Frye??

Well, I've been in a sort of denial about the fact that ever since that bloody catastrophic fucking fall my knees are fucked. Especially my right one. Now had it been just be Gloriously Gimptarded Left Leg I wouldn't have minded so much--I mean after all, that leg is half-fucked anyway from spazzery. I am sort of fine standing. I am sort of ok sitting. For a while. Til my knees start to ache. Getting up or sitting down is a fucking nightmare (especially standing up). I will not even mention the horror that is attempting to traverse the forty fucking stairs that it takes to get into or out of our humble little abode. An equilibrium-challenged hippopotamus laden with rappelling gear, the crown jewels, and half the gold in Fort Knox would appear more graceful than I do. With significantly less pain, I am sure.

I am slowly realizing that maybe, just maybe, I might have to see the fucking quack because the knee problem isn't going to, as I'd hoped, 'sort itself out on its own'

Then again I can avoid the quack entirely by setting up camp on the front sidewalk. Thus avoiding walking up the stairs entirely.

In which case I won't be able to fall down the fucking things ever again, either.

Thrombo

2007-09-14T21:04:00.000-04:00

Right. Owing to paranoia, massive Hurrah Have Returned Home Post has disappeared into Secret Drafts Folder.

May work on Mega Ultra Secret Blog for said events. All other things will carry on here as usual.

Hurrah!!

In Which I Will Blame My Drugs and Latent Catholic Guilt, Rather Than My Abject Stupidity

2007-08-30T10:14:00.000-04:00

I have been so Super Splendifertastically Busy this week it isn't funny. Which explains my sore lack of postings.

You see, the reason I've been seeing Annie so much this week, was because she's recently had a Very Sad Event in her life. And I'd told her 'Tsk. Don't be silly. There's no way you should be cleaning out your Parental Unit's place by yourself--no one should do that. If you don't ring me to help you I will brain you, woman' Silly thing that she is she tried the first day by herself. And of course it wasn't easy, so she finally caved and rang me the next day. So every day I've been toddling off to help Annie with the packing of her Parental Unit's memories. And helping her decide what should be saved, chucked, sent to charity. Most importantly, what should be carefully placed on the Shelf of Redemption!! (mostly kitsch items from the 60s and 70s--which, frankly, are cracking us up).

Then, of course, I have to attempt to bribe her into burning the pictures of me she has found circa high school, and the early 90s. Pictures wherein I may have indulged in just a LITTLE too much hair spray. Or the infamous hair-do gone wrong where my brothers accused me of being in a retro-80's metal band for two months. Ahem. Among other hideous shots where my only relief is that Shirley and Sylvia look as bad as I do.

{And let me tell you, wandering through a recently deceased persons belongings, someone that you knew but not that well, is very weird, but I think I will write about that on that train ride*. If I can stay awake}

*I'll bet that made you do a double-take. It did me to. Momentito fair readerito. We're getting there.

Of course, you must be thinking, 'But you're not helping her twenty four hours of the day, Babs, what gives?!?!'

Naturally, this week would be the week that EFL's Problems Medicular decided to rear up on their shiny black horse and shout 'Whoa, Nellie!!' And who do you think EFL rings??

Bingo.

And I am not going to sit up here and say 'No elderly person with every medical condition under the sun, stay down there and suffer!! I have important things to witter on about!! Crawl into your kitchen and do it yourself!!' I just can't do it. What about karma and all that?? I don't have a husband yet you know. What if I become some elderly cat lady?? I'm going to be ringing people, dammit (though I will be far less snotty and entitled. I hope. And I don't think I will bother with cats. They're so damned needy. Can one be a dog lady?? Must look this up in The Spinsters Guidebook. Or, better yet, find a bloody husband).

So every time I sat down, some sort of signal was released down in EFL's apartment, and my phone would ring. And I went down to help said EFL. When I wasn't out helping Annie.

Yesterday was the Doozy of ALL Doozies.

I was going to sleep in a Tiny Bit. I knew Annie wasn't coming to get me until noon or so--and I was, frankly, fucking exhausted. Ma comes into my room at, oh, 8:30 AM, wittering on about how she's got an appointment and that EFL needs me. And were it not for her appointment, she would be taking care of it (selfish treacherous cow).

So. I slug down a cup of tea and wander downstairs, still half asleep. EFL, apparently, has decided to go to the hospital for various Reasons Medicular. Ok. Fine. She has a friend there (which I wish to god I had known as I was not exactly dressed for company in my shorts and sleep shirt with combined ponytail/bun hybrid--I wing open the door looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus and Hi!! Why yes, I am the Sea Witch. Ugh), but said friend is there for moral support and can only stay for a bit. She initially wanted me to come down and do a bit of straightening up (EFL often employs me for such as I've mentioned previous) before her sibling got there to go with her to said Medical Facility. Said sibling calls and says 'Oi!! Stuck in a vat of tar/traffic jam/line at the bridge, order the ambulance now, and by the time I get there, it should be there as well' Right so.

The people at the doctors office had told EFL 'Call the emergency number and order an ambulance for non-emergency reasons' Which EFL did, and when a very snotty operator (And I heard the call EFL, for once, was not snotty at all--but then, the operator's snottiness may have been misinterpreted) told her she could not do this, nor would she have her choice of hospital. EFL said 'Well sod that' and called a private place.

Five minutes later there's a knock on the window. Because even if you cancel the call, they've got to come anyway. And her sibling isn't there yet. So she asks me to go with her because she is old and scared and petrified of ambulances and doesn't want to go alone. What would YOU do?? So I run back upstairs, managing, I might add, to catch the pocket of my shorts on the lower-hook-lock. So I make it two feet past the door and am pulled back as I hear the ripppp of the fabric of my god damned shorts. Which the ambulance guy totally sees (Can YOU say mortified?!). Lurvely!!

Now I've got to get dressed for a wake (another friend of mines mother had passed away--so I was going to go there sometime in the middle of helping Annie. And, hello, people!! No more dying, please. Three is my wake quota for the year. Ahem). And pack clothes to change into for cleaning. And hop into an ambulance with EFL. Whee!!

The rest of the day is as manic as fucking possible. Sat with EFL for two hours in the emergency room. Hop on the bus back to this side of the island. Help Annie for a bit. Febreze my clothes and pray I do not smell like dust, but instead smell like dust with a hint of cinnamon when I pop over to the wake (also pray I do not sneeze during prayer service which happened to occur whilst I was there. Sorry Monsignor). Go back to help Annie and rescue more 60s and 70s items and place them on the Shelf of Redemption.

I get home at the same time Ma does. I toddle into my room to relax for a bit when lo!! What's that noise I hear?? It is the phone, and it is ringing. It is ringing long distance.

And it is ringing from Down South.

I am, for the moment, going to plead complete and utter exhaustion when anyone asks me why the FUCK I agreed to go down there for the next week and a half.

{I mean we've all forgotten that last year ever happened, right?!?}

We are going to pretend this is a little vacation for me. I will get to see the niece!! And the nephew!!

{edit}

My, She Was Yar

2007-08-25T12:46:00.000-04:00

So. Yesterday my friend Annie comes to pick me up as I was going to help her with some stuff. I've not seen Annie in ages, which is why I've hardly ever mentioned her here on the blog. Or, actually, ever, in fact--for those who are sitting there going, 'Er, who the blazes is THAT?!?' I've known Annie since god was a boy (read: high school).

Anyway. Annie, until she became otherwise attached and the mother of a Small Person, was my partner-in-crime when it came to going out to bars and such.

My behavior back then, of course, was always stellar; save for one debacle at--I think it was--oh we won't name places. Wherein I ran to the loo in a Kamikaze-induced snit after a painfully embarrassing remark passed by some drunken bastard as to my heiferage. There was heaving. And sobbing. And perhaps a near-hurling episode.

This normally did not bother me as I've been called anything and everything at every damned bar [and everywhere else for that matter] on this island [well not every, the few we frequented], of course. I am, after all, a tough chick with a thick skin. Rhinoceros hide even!! My disdain for any drinking establishments, and hanging out in same--to this day--can probably be attributed, in part, to the above. I do not need drunken Guidos to remind me that I'm a fucking cow. I have a mirror, dammit.

{There was also the Night of Nine or Ten or Eleven Red Devils But I Lost Count. But!! I was still walking. And I was wearing heels, people!! And I didn't fall. Not once. So, really, that doesn't count. Ahem.}

Anyhoo. Annie was and always is on a never-ending crusade to make me turn thirty shades of red. You know Sneezy?? Paddy's Fiance who says a Certain Word for a Certain Part of the Male Anatomy Which Begins With the Third Letter of the Alphabet?? At the drop of a hat?? Annie does that too. We shall delve into this worrisome part later, however.

{God help me if they were to ever join forces}

She also knows about the Fireman Schtick.

We're driving along and she asks me if I want to stop by the store to get anything before we get to where we have to go. I think for a moment and decide, yep, a coke and a bagel would be good. Especially since it's about one in the afternoon and I've not had breakfast. Nor lunch. Okie dokie.

Pull into the parking lot. I go to get out of the car, she says 'No no, you stay there, I'll go and get it'

She toddles into the store and I busy myself waiting. I'm staring in the window of the one shop and in the reflection I see a firetruck pull up. I casually turn round, pretending to feign interest in something in the backseat, so as to see if any of the Suspendered Wonders might be hopping off said truck. I then turn round again.

Three fellows have popped off the truck. Including a particularly cute one, who, as luck would have it, has wandered in front of the door of the very window I was perusing previous.

{Hey!! I'm 34!! I'm single!! And men ogle all the time!! Fuck off!! I'm entitled to eye candy, too!!}

Of course I don't want to LOOK like I'm ogling AT all. So I pull my purse up, open it, and look for some Mysteriously Interesting and Oh-So-Intriguing-Item. An item which, in truth, does not exist. For while it LOOKS as if I am staring down at my purse I *may* have been looking at said Flame Destroyer out of the corner of my eye.

{And I realize this sounds like a long drawn out affair, but really, he was there all of one minute. Or two}

While I was busily looking for said Mysteriously Interesting and Oh-So-Intriguing-Item looking at the Fireman-Candy, Annie came back out.

Annie: *hands me the bag and laughs* Hmm. What are they doing here??

{She is clearly referring to firemen}

Babs: *ignoring firemen remark and takes bag* Ah, thanks for that.

Annie: Pfffffft.

Babs: What??

Annie: I bet you're checking out the really tall one with tattoo.

Babs: Please. I totally WASN'T.

Annie: Ha!! I know you and your type. Hey look. There's another one for you!!

Babs: Oh god no. Just because they're firemen don't necessarily make them ogleworthy. Blech. He's way too short. The other fella, well, he's got to be 6'3 at least.

Annie: I so knew it.

Babs: Oh fuck off.

Annie: *loud* Go on. You know you want to jump his bones.

Babs: Annie!!

Her window was bloody open.

I near had a heart attack--which, thankfully, would have been downright convenient, assuming 6'3 administered CPR.

Not that I was looking or anything.

No sir.

Move along. Move along. Nothing to see here.

*ahem*

A Canary-Yellow Gypsy Cart

2007-08-23T00:01:00.000-04:00

I know that a good very many of you are probably wondering whatever became of myself and the Infamous Ten Dollars Owed to Trash, Based on the Infamous Pinkie Swear, and the Infamous Air Conditioner, Which He only Installed Owing to Said Wager (Fucktard).

I realize that I stated that I wouldn't be paying him the money AT all (principle, dammit, principle), but he simply was NOT letting this go. Every time he walked in the door it was 'Hi!! So Babs, where's my $10??' I'd be cooking dinner and he'd toddle in and say 'Oog, mashed potatoes and pork chops tonight?? That's interesting?? Not as interesting as, oh, I don't know-SOMEONE WHO OWES ME TEN DOLLARS!!' and so on and so forth.

It was a routine that was getting very old, very quickly. And it would either see Trash paid; or his having the business end of said air conditioner shoved up his nose. That is, once summer was over and I found someone who would lift it for me in order to shove it up said sibling's proboscis.

Then I vowed to take as long to pay him as he had to install the bloody thing. Every time he whinged I would place a quarter on the table. Which he dutifully ignored. Thus I downsized to dimes which would have taken even longer. He ignored these too and left them lying on the table. Trash, apparently, utilizes the same billing practices as Con Ed--once you're late it's either all or nothing. The rat bastard. A new plan was in order.

The Thursday before the picnic said plan fell right into my lap--and there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

Oh, I admit I was a bit sneaky about it, but still--he had no choice when push came to shove.

That night he'd come home late, laden with grocery bags filled with Cookery Items for his Signature Dish. You see, the next day at his job they were having a bit of a 'Let's All Bring in Something Homemade for Lunch and Try Not to Give Each Other Botulism Party'.

As Thursday is also his payday, he tends to want to go out and hang out with the fellas. Trash asks me to trim the chicken cutlets as he can never get them as thin as I can. Plus he wanted to go out. Savvy?? Hurrah!!

Now. Trash SWEARS he is going to be home by 12:30 AM. And he will cut up everything else. And cook. And be up on time.

You and I know he is NOT going to be home at 12:30. He didn't even get in from the supermarket til 9:30 for gods sake.

So I agree to trim the chicken for his Chicken Marsala.

Then I get to thinking.

He cooks this dish ass-backwards way, it's great, but it takes him forever to make it. If I cut chicken up fully (into strips rather than just trim); and also cut-up onions and mushrooms--because that will take him half an hour at least; then show him how to cook it the quick way--he will owe me!!

Assuming he does not come home at 12:30. As he said he would.

12:30. No Trash.

1:30. No Trash.

2:30. No Trash.

{In the meantime I take the liberty of googling the going rate for professional chefs and the price for a large pan of Chicken Marsala}

3:30. No Trash.

4:00 Trash!! Armed with two Red Bulls, as he anticipates being up the rest of the night cooking.

Babs: So. What happened to 12:30??

Trash: No. What I said was I came home at 12:30 the LAST time.

Babs: Uh huh.

Trash: *opens fridge and sighs* Hey, what did you do to the chicken?!?

Babs: Aha!! I've taken the liberty of making things easier for you!! I'm going to show you how to make this in half the time.*

*Note how I do not mention Nefarious Plan yet.

Trash: Whaaaaa??

Babs: Would you fucking trust me?? Get out the two big frying pans.

Trash: Why two pans??

Babs: Because you've got a shitload of chicken, moron.

So we start making the aforementioned dish. Trash gets full of himself 'Ahem, who's in charge here??' I answer sarcastically 'Sorry, chef' But I let him pretend he's in charge anyway. Even though I'm telling him what to do and he's asking me whenever he goes to add something to the pan. And yelling at him that the flame is too high. Or too low etc etc.

Once it's quite obvious that we've cut his cooking time in half, the Marsala is ace, and he's going to be able to sleep for a few hours, I go in for the kill.

Babs: So. Let's see. I trimmed a zillion pounds of chicken. Cut up mushrooms and onions. Cooking lessons. You might also factor in the very real possibility that had I not prepped all this for you that you wouldn't have been able to sleep AT all. According to my estimations, that's worth ten dollars.

Trash: Pffffft. Seven. Maybe.

Babs: I googled average salaries at an hourly rate. Granted I only found one places contract--but still, I'm giving you a discount of $1.14. And that was for salad cutters and line-chefs. Grunt work. Shall I google the rates for head-chefs and sous-chefs??

He's not mentioned the ten dollars since.

Of Bucketheads and Budweisers: Fin

2007-08-19T02:55:00.000-04:00

You must also understand, my dears, that this might not necessarily be in lock-step chronological order. I mean, I'm not a bloody reporter now am I?? I'm trying to remember bits and pieces. And I wasn't about to sit and take notes while I was busy peeling shrimp and being insulted every 3.5 seconds.

Really, people. I have a life to lead, dammit.

Also?? I am finishing this here and now. It will be three miles long. I am sorry. But thou shall have to deal with this.

{Because was working for EFL this week. And Birdie. And we had Dim and his GF over. And god knows what else. Fucking insanity I tell you. Sheesh}

The shrimp was finally out and, as stated, I availed myself of the free-for-all fully. I get a plate for me, my 'friend' and my other 'friend'. This is a trick that was taught to me by someone at a wedding with an open bar. 'Never go up for one drink' she said, 'Always get two. One for you and one for your *friend*' I mean there are only four or five shrimp to a plate. I was eating for a Baleen whale. And a stray pod of Belugas.

We are still, however, waiting on the damned mussels. I go up and check to see if they are ready. Three times. They aren't. I'm not that fussed for I am happy with my shrimp, and my friends shrimp, as well. For I may have gotten some more. Ahem.

Trash II: Are the mussels ready yet??

Babs: I don't know. They were on the steam table last time but they weren't serving them yet.

Trash II: Well MAYBE you should go and check again WOMAN!!

Babs: Well maybe YOU should go do it yourself, because I don't give a fuck if they're ready yet.

Trash II: It's your duty to take care of your brother AND his friends, now go see if the mussels are ready!!

Babs: Ahhhhh go check yourself, fucknuts. I've already been up there three times.

*he toddles off to check mussel status*

Trash II: Ha!! I've got mussels now!!

Babs: Your point??

A bit later we'd all wandered back and forth from the table many times. Me for walks, Dim and Mariel to the pool, Ma to yap, Trash and Trash II for beer runs (Coop was no longer partaking as was Designated Driver so limited himself to 3 before-noon beers).

Hannibal spots myself, along with Trash and his merry little band. Trash, by this point I might add, is half sozzled, having consumed near half a keg (To be fair Trash II and Coop had told Trash to slow up, advice which Trash cheerfully ignored). He introduces the lads. And Trash II, in an attempt to seem like your every-man, extends his hand and says 'Nice to meet you, sir!!' Hannibal gives Trash a wink and says 'Oooh, who's this?? Life partner, hey??' Then Trash introduces Coop. And Hannibal asks what happened to his hair and if one of his parents happened to be a toaster or did he get lost on his way to tryouts for 'Last of the Mohicans'??

{I was SO close in my predictions}

Hannibal then asks Trash about his new job, his short hair, and life in general. And then mocks it all cruelly which Trash laughs away and jokes right back. This, this was to be the year Hannibal couldn't say SHIT to Trash. He'd finally cut his hair short (not because anyone had said he should, but because he'd wanted to), he's finally working a full-time 'grown-up' job--granted not a glamorous one--but it's got a pension, medical and overtime, and it's a union job, at that. The only one Hannibal can now mock, with any fairness, for being a World Class Fuck Up now, is me. And I lied about what I'm doing--I had discussed this with the Familius pre-picnic and I painted a picture that was cotton-candy, fluffy white clouds and Windex--yet he still fucking stomped me into the ground. This is because we aren't, so I surmise, as good as The Dead One was. Nor will we ever be. So. Trash stomped into the ground. Babs stomped into the ground--again fucking Chicago failure is mentioned. How many times can he remind me?? Manson not stomped because Ma mentioned that He Is Doing Well and has been promoted or some such at his job, or so she has been told.

When Hannibal leaves, Trash mutters, quite angrily, 'Fuck him' and them slams his fist on the table. I can't says I blame him. Because I didn't mention everything Hannibal 'joked about' with him. And in front of Trash's friends, to boot. He should just have sliced off Trash's nads and gotten it over with. It would have been far less painful to watch.

{Trash later on said this did not bother him in the least. I suspect he is fibbing}

This would be the only real bastard moment of the day. Which caused me to go into a slight funk. And sulk. And not pay attention to my drink. You see, there's lots of Flying Things at Picnic Grounds. Yea verily, even though we have been coming here since 1973, they have yet to sort out the Bee Problem. So we set out Designated Dummy Cups of Soda to attract the bees away from our Real Cups.

They don't always work. I picked up my soda while talking to Trash and the lads, took a sip and oh FUCK!! There was something moving twixt my lip and Faux Deeth!! Quick as I could I spit it back out into my cup and there I saw the Fiend Bee, swimming in Rejected Coca-Cola. And I shouted 'Ew ew ew ewwwww!!' for a good ten minutes. The lesson here is threefold: One is ALWAYS look in your drink before you have a sip. Secondly?? Having Faux Deeth is cool because your Faux Deeth will protect you from Bee Stings (unless bee turns round other way and stings you in lip in which case you are buggered). Third is this will make Trash and Trash II spit their beers out and make a mess of themselves laughing. Which they totally deserved for laughing at me, the poor beleaguered Babs.

Coop, seeing me with yet again more shrimp (Baleen, people, think baleen!!), says 'You weren't kidding about the shrimp!!'

Babs: Hey. I'm all about the shrimp. I have shrimp once a year and this is it. I am getting my moneys worth.

Trash: You're going to turn pink like them flamingos--ohhhh wait your legs ain't never been skinny enough!! Haaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

Babs: You rat bastard.

Trash II: Wow, you're like the meanest brother.

Babs: Nah. I'm just as mean to him.

The boys then debate the validity of Trash's 'flamingos are pink because of the shrimp they eat' Declaration

He states he's heard it numerous times on various nature programs.

'Jeez. You and your fucking nature shows, dude'

So, as a matter of course, Trash breaks out the Trivial Pursuit cards. And reads them with one eye shut. Ahem.

I answer every question on the card. Correctly. I know this because Trash refuses to reveal some of the more obscure answers--signifying that I am right. Mariel wants to know if I've memorized them. Which I haven't. I'm just good at trivia, dammit. Dim, bless him, wants to have a few questions, too. And as we all know, Dim--thanks to the Shite Educational System for Those Touched in the Head--can barely read. Let alone answer 'What two countries are separated by the Gulf of Bothnia??'

'Africa and South Africa'

'Africa is a continent, Dim'

'Ok. Hawaii and South Africa'

Um. Maybe we should have brought a deck of cards instead??

The time for the Egg Toss had passed and we have not heard anything remotely resembling 'Come to the field for the Egg Toss' To be fair, you can't ever understand anything the guy says over the PA system anyway. I think he moonlights as the subway announcer in Manhattan. So we hear something about 'field' and 'contest' and amble over. It wasn't the Egg Toss, but the Tug of War. Which Trash amiably joins anyway. The girls are called in as well, but myself and Ma decline, happy to watch the menfolk drag either other around like idiots. Trash is the anchor for the mechanics (true, he is not one, but again, legacy is a factor). And, to establish this fact, he has located a waylaid balloon hat--which looks like a pink, yellow, and blue conquistadors helmet--and perches it merrily atop his baseball cap.

Pity I didn't have a camera on me.

Finally, FINALLY, the Egg Toss DOES begin. From our little band the teams will be Ma and Trash along with Mariel and Dim. I never do the Egg Toss because, well, I just don't, ok?? Ma asks Coop and Trash II if they will be playing as well, but I suspect they don't want any wrong conclusions drawn if they are seen throwing a Chicken Embryo to each other. Especially if Hannibal sees.

Dim and Mariel are out after about the third throw. And, one must understand there are a good 100-odd couples participating in the Omelet in the Making. This is going to take ages. I keep my eye on Trash and Ma. Which is easy. Because every time Trash catches their egg he pops his cigarette in his mouth and throws his hands in the air and cheers; then the guy next to him congratulates him. I am not sure if he's congratulating him on catching the egg or if he's giving him kudos for remaining upright for this long. Toss up!! Their egg has dropped quite a few times, yet remains unscathed. It's like a Picnic Miracle (although at the end of the game, should they win, there will be the calls of 'fix' and 'cheat' and the mandatory 'Breaking of the Egg' will commence---a tradition held ever since the 'Hard Boiled Incident of 1978' wherein some Cheaty McCheaterpants substituted their oeufs). Ma, thanks to her years playing softball, and Trash, thanks to his ace pitching ability, have made it down to the Final Six. They are a good, er, very long ways apart (100 ft?? 200ft?? I'm so crap at estimating. Think 'a whole fields worth of Mother May I Giant Steps'). Trash winds up, lobs the egg--and it's in the air, it's got the distance!! It's right above Ma!! She goes to basket catch it, Willie Mays-style, but due to a cruel twist of fate, it crumbles in an eggy mess right there in her hands. Trash throws his hands in the air and looks dejected. Ma looks for some water. I run back to the tent to deliver the news; we aren't winning the brand new projection TV for the umpteenth year in a row because the Twitlet Twins are more fond of scrambled eggs than they are of HBO on a 54" screen. Bastards.

Babs: Well, Ma's gonna take the fall again this year. She broke the egg when she caught it.

Trash wanders up.

Coop: I hear you guys broke the egg.

Trash: Man, I don't know what happened, bro. I went to throw it and I winged it just a little to hard the wrong way. It was totally my fault. If I'd just...

*Ma comes back holding out her hand*

Ma: I caught it right on the ball of my thumb instead of my palm!! If I'd only...

Trash: Aha!! It WASN'T me!! It was YOUR fault AGAIN lady!! AHA I SAY!!

Babs: Ma, you nit, he was taking the fall for it!!

Trash: Nup!! Nup!! Her fault!!

Ma: Oh blow it out your ass, Trash.

Trash II: You have the funniest Ma, Trash.

And so went the Egg Toss.

The rest of the day was spend laughing at Trash and Trash II as they did their best to empty the kegs as best they could (along with the rest of the menfolk there). Along with many horrendous stories which I cannot detail here and now, but shall get Trash to repeat one day for posterity. Ma had decides to have a bit of a chat with the guys at the table near us and calls me over. They're standing by the end of said table. Trash wanders past us to the loo--which is now in my line of sight. I'm talking with Ma and said gents and she tells me how their father worked with the Old Man (Gee, shocker--I walk past strangers who are talking about the bastard--STRANGERS!! Twenty year olds who were five when he carked it--how does this happen?!? Gawd). I look up and see Trash wandering back towards us, then grimace, then race, in mincing-type steps, back to the loo.

Ah fuck. What's wrong with him??

A minute later he's back out. The hell??

I ask him if he's ok.

He answers, quite loudly, 'Ohhhhhhhh fuck that hurt!! I zipped my pubes into my zipper!!'

Information which I am sure you and I will fully agree that I neither needed nor wanted to know. A simple 'Oh, had to sort something' would have sufficed. Maybe 'I dropped my lighter and was heartbroken at the thought of losing it' No. He thought that I, his eldest and only sister--and anyone in earshot for that matter--needed to know that he had accidentally ensnared himself within the confines of his god damned zipper.

So. Despite the harrowing conversation I finish talking with Ma and the other gents. I then see Trash II walking by to the loo. I didn't notice when he came back out. I noticed him once he was standing in the middle of the pavement fiddling with his belt. For a good five minutes.

We all gather round the table again. Ma is packing up the trivia. Dim and Mariel eating their ice cream. Trash laughing and wittering on about his still sore nether regions. Trash II is doing and undoing his belt which he cannot seem to get to work.

Babs: What the hell is wrong with you two?!?! YOU can't zip up and YOU can't belt up?!? How the fuck you've managed to live THIS long is a bloody miracle!!

So. Key to perfect picnic next year:

Ma and Trash practice throwing eggs for a week in advance.

Babs should bring bee-proof sippy-cup.

Bring deck of cards and not trivia.

Do not speak to Hannibal. EVER!!

And, for the good of all mankind, Trash and Trash II should definitely, definitely, wear sweatpants.

Seven and the Ragged Stairwell

2007-08-15T15:17:00.000-04:00

Um.

Before we get to the Not At All Anticipated and Very Much Probably Dreaded part III and Mile Long Ending of Bucketheads and Budweisers: A Brief Intermission.

Last night I decided that, in spite of having thighs the size of Mount Rushmore, I was going to go to the store for a packet of Linden's Famed Chocolate Chip Cookies. I like their cookies, as I've mentioned before, and there are only three to a packet so there's no chance of overdose (unless of course, one buys two, which I am sure *I* have NEVER done). And never having them in the house forces me to pre-exercise before I can even think about eating them.

That's sound nutritional planning, that is.

Since I'm going up the street anyway, Ma puts in an order for a bag of potato chips and Trash for a packet of Linden's cookies as well, but the nasty-ass fudge ones. The boy clearly has NO taste--but then this isn't news to any of you, now is it?? Course not.

Now before I go further, I know that I have somehow given you all the impression that I am a klutz. I don't know WHY you would think that.

Honestly. Sometimes things simply visit themselves upon me and I am forced to, you know, drop things and/or fall down. A lot.

Take, for instance, the night before last. There was me, perched atop my folding chair and changing the light bulb in my ceiling. Suddenly, this fucknormous spider (read: was actually no bigger than a pinhead, but as I am arachnophobia-enabled they all seem to be the size of water buffalo) came out of nowhere, quickly dropped out of the fixture; and, thanks to the loose shirt I was wearing, straight onto one of the girls. So I did what any normal, rational thinking person might do. I screamed bloody murder, chucked the light bulb (which broke), and then--after brushing the spider off my chest--checked every 2.7 seconds to make sure I'd REALLY gotten it. As is wont to happen, I stepped off the chair and managed to get the ONE tiny piece of light bulb that had skittered towards glass-free side of the room embedded in my foot. I then spent an hour and a half of my life digging the god damned glass out.

Ouch.

Anyway. See?? Things just HAPPEN to me.

Now. Let me assure you that I learned to walk, or so I've been led to believe, by the time I was two-ish or so (was a lazy git as a child). And I had mastered the stairs by the time I was three. Maybe four. Tops.

{Although things I have said previous may go against precisely this. I was probably drunk. Or sniffing airplane glue. Or was suffering brain damage from Renegade Window Attacks. Ahem}

As I'm about to leave last night, I turn on the top hallway light and say, 'I'm turning this on, if you don't mind, so I can at least see SOMETHING down there'

She always turns this light out at night and so long as no one is coming up the stairs it isn't a worry. Not that it helps at the bottom of the steps anyway. Said light only illuminates the top bit. Once you're around the railing you're fucked.

Ma turns to Trash, who is hanging his work shirts, and says, 'And you!! When are you going to change that bulb in the bottom hallway??'

The bottom hallway light is very high up. He is the tallest here. It's his one main job, dammit. Every time I attempt to change it there is wobbling and I get dizzy and well, I'm not too very fond of being on the tippity-top of the step-ladder and stretching, ok??

I chime in 'Yea!! I can't see a fucking thing down there!!'

Trash, thinking this is all ridiculous, retorts 'What, Babs, you can't remember where the stairs stop and the floor begins??'

That fucking bastard jinxed me.

I started down the stairs, still yammering as I was going. And I as I got to what I thought was the last step I put my foot forward thinking 'Oog, the nice lovely floor will be here now'

Except it wasn't.

Had I been a cartoon--such as the famed Wile E. Coyote--one might have seen me turn to the side and noted the look of shock on my countenance as I realized for one brief second that I was NOT going to stand there in mid-air. No!! Gravity was about to kick in full time.

I fell face forward, landing on both knees, and ended up banging into a substantial portion of steel radiator.

Whee!!

Ma and Trash heard me fall.

Do they come running down the stairs??

No. No they don't.

Well, in Ma's defense, she at least sounded very worried. And made Trash come see.

Ma: Shit. What the hell was that?? Oh my god!! Is she ok?!?!

Trash: *peeks around railing* You ok??

Babs: *crying/laughing from shock and pain* I-I-I don't know.

Trash: *starts giggling* Good shot.

Babs: F-f-fuck you, Trash!!

{I am stuttering because falling down always makes me mini-spaz for a minute or five}

I did my best not to cry--but sweet jesus did it hurt. I was sort of crying from the pain, and laughing at myself sprawled across the hallway floor and the ridiculousness of the situation in general. I mean had I not JUST announced that I couldn't see shit down there?? God. Once recovered from the shock I flip myself over. And stare at the ceiling and up the stairs. Bastard fucking stairs. And then look quizzically at the light fixture that, as of this moment, still remains light-bulb-less (one would think that after I fell Trash would change it straightaway). I also shout obscenities up to my uncaring bastard mother and brother.

I move my knees. The Gloriously Gimptardtic Left Knee, in particular, did not seem to like this fall. But I could move it.

Trash comes back and peeks over the railing again.

Babs: It's nice how the pair of you came running down to make sure I wasn't dead or anything!! I'll remember this!!

Trash: Am I going to have to get a hoist crane to move you??

Babs: Fuck you, shithead. I hope you die.

Ma: Is she alright??

Trash: Ah she's ok. She's spazzing a little but she's FINE.

They're both laughing.

Babs: I hate you both. Know this.

Trash: Hey, you know whats best for this sort of thing?? Walking it off. Don't forget my cookies.

Babs: Ha hahahaha!! I think *you're* going to the store now.

Trash: It wasn't *me* who wanted cookies!!

Babs: Bastard.

He goes back to watching TV.

About two minutes later I finally decide it's time to test my legs out by attempting to stand. Hurrah!! I can walk!! I have lost a humongous chunk of skin on my right leg, but my ankles and knees are not buggered.

{Though today, the day after, I can assure you they are sore as a BITCH. I may be forced to resort to ice-packs soon}

I don't seem to have broken anything else in the fall.

Except for, possibly, what little dignity I have.

And maybe a land-speed record involving Beluga Whales and stairwells.

Of Bucketheads and Budweiser: Part Deux

2007-08-14T07:36:00.000-04:00

Trash and Co, of course, were not the only fellows testing out the kegs the moment they were tapped; about seven-hundred odd other fellows had the same idea (Ok. Maybe more. Maybe less. Again I have always been crap at estimating so we are dealing with approximations, people). With seven-hundred odd wives clucking their tongues and shaking their heads (Well, probably less. I mean, not ALL of them are married). I'd gotten to the table before Ma, Dim and Mariel, as Ma was making the rounds and, as usual, yapping; that woman could still talk if her jaws were wired shut and sealed with three layers of duct tape.

Thankfully I am the shy retiring type who doesn't say a damned thing and melts into the background. Instead I inflict it all on you, the poor beleaguered reader of this shitfest.

The moment I saw Trash and his merry little band I knew they were definitely in for a world of insults once the Old Man's best friend got there.

{God dammit. I am not typing that out again. I mean clearly they have not been best friends since The Great Planting, right?? For now we shall call said 'best friend' Hannibal. Ok?? Ok. Tra la la!! Let's move along now}

Babs: Have you warned them about Hannibal??

Trash II: Hey!! *holds out cell phone* Shouldn't you be at home waiting for important people who might be calling your brother?!?!

Babs: Why don't you go have a nice cup of shut the fuck up??

Trash II: Ohhh!! Pottymouth!!

Babs: Damn skippy.

Trash: What about Hannibal??

Babs: You KNOW he's going to have a field day with you lot.

Trash: Oh yea. *he explains Hannibals jokester/ballbuster geriatric routine*

I make my predictions. I declare that Hannibal will allege that Coop, owing to tattoos and piercings, is Trash's boyfriend, and that Trash II is a renegade Amish fellow in dire need of a barn to raise (owing to tattoos and beard).

Dim and Mariel get to the table, and Trash makes the introductions. Dim, wanting to look cool and be one of the boys, chain-smokes about ten cigarettes in a row to establish this. Ma comes up to the table ranting about our lack of a door prize, as someone has fucked up the order, and, thusly, if we want our yearly trinkets (which this year, turned out to be rather nice trinkets) we shall have to trudge to the offices once they arrive. Which might be next week. Or April 13, 2014. She rants further upon realizing that Trash and his merry little band managed to get there in time for the few that were there. Bribery--even the threat of the Infamous Bathtub Story as far as Trash goes--was ineffective.

Dim and Mariel had toddled off to god knows where, and Ma, of course, went in search of old Friends Familial, leaving me to guard our belongings. Trash et al hear the announcement for the horseshoe competition, and he declares, 'The champions are on their way!!'

He's very modest, is our Trash.

I settle down with my book. The lady running the BBQ table behind us (we had taken a strategic position here so as to be able to snag the shrimp the moment they came out) sees me with Trash's trinkets and quickly whispers, 'Are those yours??' I tell her yes and she says I might want to hide them as they seem to be disappearing from some tables. This doesn't shock me. This may be a family picnic, but when you gather 1400 odd people you are going to have a few fuckwits corn-beefing things left and right.

So I hatch a plan.

Yes!! I shall take Trash's (and Co's) Trinkets while they are off throwing Equine Footwear, have Mariel stash them in her trunk, and tell Trash they got nicked. Ohh!! I'm such a mean bitch. But dammit it will be HYSTERICAL to watch him pitch a nellie for an hour or so. We thrive on practical jokes, after all. Ma comes back to the table. I tell her of my Nefarious Plan. One might think that Ma, being a mother, would say 'Och Babs, you shouldn't do such things to your brother, that's terrible'

Ma says, brightly, 'Ohhh, that's a good idea!!'

The plan however, is shot right the fuck down when I can't find Mariel and Trash returns, victorious (in a rather smug nyah nyah nyah sort of way) in the first round of horseshoes. So I tell them to stash the damned things in their car so no fucker will nick them. Including She of the What Would Have Been A Brilliant Fucking Joke had Mariel Bloody Been There At the Right Time.

Instead we all pig out on hot dogs and sausages whilst waiting for the seafood free-for-all. And I get lots of dirt on Trash (For blackmail purposes--which really will not work because the boy has no shame whatsoever. They even know about the time he pissed in the fridge, because it was bloody funny, as well as thoroughly disgusting). I start out by mentioning a story he told me once. A rather juvenile, but bloody funny story which I cannot reveal here because if just one person recognizes it my cover is shot to hell. HELL, people!! Also?? I can now assure you that Trash's expedition to the Familial Frigidaire was rather tame in comparison to what Trash II had witnessed in college. Trash now seems like a mere babe in the woods--an innocent choirboy with a bed wetting problem--when compared to the denizens of a Certain Fancy Pants College. Parents be warned--do NOT let your children go away to college. And if you do, send them with Depends. Lots of. Blech.

I cannot, of course, document each and every single round of insults and war of words, because then this would be a seven-part epic. I'm trying to keep this down to three, possibly two. We shall see. But there was SO much going on.

The second round of horseshoes was called, and saw the lads leave whilst smugly humming 'We are the Champions' and Trash punching his arms in the air like he was hot shit. You see he's a Horseshoe Legacy. Or attempting to be. Manson's won the horseshoe tournament here. As did the Old Man. Many times. Trash, my friends, was due. He and Coop were playing and Trash II, apparently, offered them moral support and beer refills. They were back fifteen minutes later--Trash with a sourest of looks on his face.

Babs: Pride goes before a fall, hey??

Coop: Ayup.

They'd had their asses handed to them by a teenage twitlet and a geriatric retiree with a hip replacement. And Trash hadn't gotten one ringer, only Coop had. See what happens when you act smarmy and smug?? Trash hopes to make up for this loss later on in the day at the Egg Toss. Last time he and Ma had made it to the Final Four. He says they lost because she can't catch for shit. She says it's because he throws like a girl. We shall see.

Now my itinerary for the day was as follows: Read (had brought 'Going Postal'), write (had brought notebook in attempt to start neato story thingie idea had had in head), attack shrimp table in fashion of baleen whale. And eat lots of mussels, too.

I figured out quite quickly that the writing thing just was NOT going to happen because every time I popped my notebook out the bastards came back to the table.

Trash II: Whatcha doin??

Babs: Nothing.

Trash: She's pretending she graduated kindergarten.

Babs: Fuck off.

Trash II: Ohh!! Have you got a journal?? *adopts effeminate voice* Dearrrrr Di-uh-ry!! You'll never....

Babs: It's not a journal, it's a freaking story.

{I confess that, for a brief moment, I thought the bastard somehow knew about my blog. Because Trash knows about the blog. But given his disdain for the Devil Box, I am sure he wouldn't mention it--I don't even think he knows the name. It's not that I'd care if they read here so much that I do not want his friends reading about, oh say, the time I lost that one irretrievable thing; not because I am embarrassed by it, but because it would probably lead to a host of jokes and then I would be forced to violence. And I don't want to go to jail. Because I'm delicate. God dammit}

*all three of them* Can we see??

Babs: No. Ya bunch of fucktards.

Trash II: The language!!

As if anything I could say would be the most shocking thing uttered in a picnic grove of beer-addled construction-type workers. Pah!!

{to be continued}

Of Bucketheads and Budweiser

2007-08-12T15:27:00.000-04:00

Last year, when the famed Picnicus Unionicus rolled around, I was--as you may recall--quite vexed. I swore, and I quote:

I'm not going back next year unless I've gotten Ma a new house.

And I'm not going back unless I'm married (Or, at the very least, engaged).

Most of all, I won't go back unless I'm in possession of a fucking shot gun.

I went again this year, though I was not in possession of a new house, or a husband/BF, or, for that matter, a fucking shotgun. My reasons were many and varied. Mind you, I did have a chat with Ma previous to said event. I even had the audacity to question the wisdom of revisiting this Long Held Familial Tradition. I had done so because last year even she had said 'I don't think I'll be coming back here again. It's just not the same anymore, no one we know is there anymore' Etc. And when I reminded her of this fact she said 'Well I found out everyone who wasn't there last year is going to be there this year and I am fucking going!! You aren't going to ruin this for me, god fucking dammit!! I'll go alone if I have to!!'

So. A bit of guilt there, yes?? Naturally. I am, after all, a product of many years of good old fashioned, nun-ridden Catholic Tutelage. Of course I knew that Dim and his GF, Mariel, would be going too. It wouldn't be like she were going alone.

However. I was also made privy to other tag-a-longs for the Famed Picnicus Unionicus. In the form of Trash. Who had invited some of his friends. To a picnic ground. Which has kegs of free beer that flow from 11 AM til 6 PM. Was I about to miss the chance to see how Trash and his friends might behave in a foreign enviroment with the helpful addition of three-quarters of Anheuser-Busch's yearly output??

Not a bloody chance.

You see Trash very cleverly goes round to all his friends houses and never brings them here. Although some of them, such as Trash II and a few others who've not been pseudonymed, would come round to the old house back in Ye Olden Dayes.

This is mostly because their idea of 'hanging out' usually means 'drinking until one passes out'. We are, after all, talking about a bunch of twenty-something males--you know, he who pukes first is a candy-ass and all that. Or has rude/silly things are placed on said passed-out person, pictures taken, and said pictures are placed on the internet (I am currently in negotiations for pictures of Trash dressed as a passed-out Groucho Marx, a passed-out leprechaun, and, allegedly, a passed-out Dame Edna. He and his friends are a cruel yet bloody funny bunch). And this would probably not go over well with certain parties in this household. Nor would the eventual noise level be well received by EFL. They tend to watch wrestling and when they've consumed enough lager to obliterate the whole of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland they begin to soupflex each other until someone is wearing a full body cast. Or Lederhosen.

I wasn't even sure which of his friends were coming along at first, but it mattered not. This picnic, my fair readers, was going to be a right hoot--no matter who accused me of being a lesbian because I've yet to snag a husband and/or BF.

Oh yes.

The first debate, which began the day before, was who was going in which car. And the who, specifically, was me. Ma, sensing a chance to have the whole backseat of Mariel's car to herself, thoughfully suggested that I ride up with Trash, Trash II, and Coop. Trash thoughtfully said 'Fuck off' to that idea straightaway.

'There is NO way I am putting up with BOTH of them in the same car all the way up there'

He was probably quite justified in this stance. Trash II and I have a running joke, as it were, of yelling at each other over the phone. He rings for Trash and says, quite gruffly, 'Put him on the phone' without saying hello. And I will say 'NO, ya rude bastard!!' And he'll say 'Shouldn't you be in the kitchen cooking for the man of the house, WOMAN?! Put him on the phone NOW' Or some other comment meaning 'You should be in the kitchen/ ironing your brother's clothes/ or cleaning for any and all men on the planet as you are a mere woman' And then I tell him the many ways in which he can go and fuck himself or various farm animals etc. And this carries on until Trash picks up the phone. It's all in fun and amusing and it passes the time; but Trash wasn't about to spend 1.5 hours on the NJ Turnpike listening to either myself or the gibbering nitwit hurl kitchen-based sexist insults at each other. So I would be riding with Ma, Dim, and Mariel. Which was cool, in fact, as I'd just gotten a lovely copy of a Pogues CD that I listened to the whole way up. Hurrah!!

Saturday morning saw us all up early, save for Trash, who had to be kicked a few times, having only arrived home at 4 AM. Ma had declared we would be leaving at 8 AM. As she does every year. Which we never do.

Trash, mind you, was nearest to the mark, since Coop and Trash II arrived for him around 8:30 or so. And was Ma ever vexed that her youngest would beat her to the picnic.

My reminding her that I was already ready, and that she was not, did not add to her usual morning chirpiness. Ahem.

That was until Mariel came out of the loo wearing her outfit for the day, wearing a top that was the EXACT same color as the one I'd chosen to wear.

Babs: Gah!! Why are you wearing that?!?! Don't you know what will happen??

Mariel: Whaaaaaaaat??

Babs: If the Old Man's best friend sees you and not Dim straight away and sees us wearing the same color shirts he will declare us Bobbsey twin lesbians!!

Mariel: That's ridiculous.

Babs: Oh trust me. I know this man. He is an eternal joker/ballbuster. And I do not want to hear his shit.

So I made a quick wardrobe change, lest I once again lose out on a possible BF owing to ridiculous remarks made by a silly little man with a penchant for making me feel like a complete moron. Oh joy.

{And, though this time they did not pertain to me, my predictions about the Old Man's friends jokes were quite accurate. Damned if I'm not a brilliant mind reader}

An hour and a half later we were there, and Trash and Co. were already into the beer.

{to be continued}

Iago

2007-08-10T06:16:00.000-04:00

So.

I shall begin, I think, with the Installation of the Famed and Long Awaited Air Conditioner. Because god knows you all have heard me whinge long enough about it, Si??

Si.

There was me last Friday, once again baking like a two-ton creme-brulee. The only difference being the lack of a caramelized sugar on top and the fact that no way would my heiferized self ever fit in your average home-owners mid-sized oven. My oh-so-ancient fan was doing absolutely nothing to cool things down and I was literally dying. DYING, people!!

Trash had toddled home at his usual hour and I will have you know that I was kind, benevolent and, oh-so-merciful and didn't pester him straight away. For I remembered that when I was working and indeed now--whenever I get in the door from various forays into the world where that weird bright thing that shines light is (I believe it's called 'the sun')--that I cannot stand when people bother me the minute I get home. So I waited an hour or so.

It was still hot. It was still miserable. But I wanted my fucking air conditioner. So I approached Trash in a polite manner, whilst he was watching TV and playing his video game, and asked if he would install said AC. And I was given a reply of 'Are you fucking KIDDING me?? Now?? You want me to do this now?? NOW??'

There was much rolling of eyes, sucking of teeth, and it was quite clear he had no intention of doing anything at that point. He acted as if I were interrupting him whilst he was in the middle of curing cancer. Or solving the crisis in the Middle East. Or on a date with Heidi Klum.

So I told him to go fuck himself. You know, as you do.

Hey. What can I say??

I was annoyed.

He comes into my room about an hour later. And informs me he can't put it in right now because he's going out, but swears he will do it the next morning. SWEARS, people. I get out my shovel and call bullshit.

'You have to work for Birdie tomorrow. And you won't get home tonight til 5:30 AM. No way are you going to be up early enough to put in my AC and THEN get to Birdie's on time. Fuck you. You know you're never putting the fucking thing in. Admit it'

'No, no, no. I'm going to be home at 3:30 AM. And I'm putting in your AC before I go to Birdie's'

So he leaves. I am vexed because I know--and I suspect you know too, fair reader--that the boy is more full of shit than a Christmas turkey.

I was up all night because of rampant insomnia which had been with me all week (ok fine since 1981. Bloody know-it-alls). Three-thirty arrives. Does Trash trundle through the door??

No. No he does not. Never let it be said that I don't know that dipshitted brother of mine.

Five-thirty AM arrives. And Trash toddles in. Tipsy. Times ten.

'So. Home at 3:30, hey??'

'When I say 3:30 *ahem* I actually mean 2 hours later'

'Face it. You won't be up to put in the AC. You'll be lucky if you're up to get to Birdie's house. I'll be lucky if I get that AC by October'

'It gets hot then sometimes'

'Fuck off. You're never doing it and we both fucking know it'

'Look I'm putting it in tomorrow'

'Yea. I'll believe it when I see it'

'Oh yea?? I'll bet you ten dollars!!'

{And let me say I was never ever going with the 'pay him to do it plan' because, well, it was bloody principle, people}

I sense a quick and easy way to make ten beans. Because no WAY is he going to install the fucking thing. He will barely wake on time to go to Birdie's and work there. Then he'll call his friends from there and go out again. Thus leaving my air conditioner unused and alone on the floor of his bedroom.

'I accept that bet!!'

'Ok, but, er, not in the morning'

I felt magnanimous, and moreover, quite confident in the fact that whether the bet was set for morning or nighttime, I was going to win.

'OK. If it's not in my window by midnight EST, you better fork over ten beans, fuckknuckles'

{I specifically said EST because I didn't want him wandering in at say, 5:30 AM shouting, 'Well hey!! It's not midnight in Honolulu yet!!'}

'It's going to be there!!'

'Uh huh'

'I'll even pinkie-swear. Ten bucks if it isn't there'

*pinkie swear commences*

I do not have faith in his silly little pinkie swear. He has pinkie-sworn on tons of things before only to crap out. The hooking of pinkies?? Pah!! I am going to be victorious in spite of The Pinkie Swear!!

Next day, he barely wakes in time to go to Birdie's. She also rings myself and Ma to do some work for her as well.

The day carries on, and, as Trash wanders in and out of the house whilst working in the yard, we all make smartass remarks about whether or not he'll put the AC in--even Birdie. He finishes his job, makes a phone call, says goodbye to Birdie, 'Have to go, lots to do and less time to do it in'

Myself, Ma, and Birdie sit on the back deck and have a chat.

Ma: Think he'll put it in??

Babs: No way.

Birdie: I don't know, Babs. When it comes to money your brother might just do it.

Babs: No way. He only got like four hours of sleep. He was in the yard here weeding all day. AND he called his friends to go hang out. He'll be so knackered that he'll fall asleep watching the ball game there. I am, my dears, going to be collecting $10 at midnight tonight.

Birdie: I'm not so sure.

Ma: Me neither.

Babs: Mark my words. I'm winning this hands down.

Ma and I amble home. As we walk up the block, I gaze up towards my window to confirm the fact that as of 7 EST I am well on my way to winning.

Babs: Ma. Why does it look like there's a level in my window??

We get a bit closer.

Ma: *starts giggling and walking faster to get closer look at window* Oh you're not going to want to hear this.

Babs: *limps faster* What??

Ma: Your air conditioner is in.

I get to the stairs and start shouting as I walk up, 'DON'T THINK YOU'RE GETTING AWAY WITH THIS YOU RAT BASTARD!!'

{And yes I'm well aware that it's quite amusing that I'm now yelling at him for doing the very thing I've been pestering him to do since, oh, bloody May}

Trash pops his head out the window, smiles beatifically, and says 'I'll take my $10 in two fives please. Singles will do, though'

I get to the landing, and he continues giggling and being a smartass in general. I continue yelling and swearing that I will renege on said bet.

'I've been asking for this thing for 3 months now and all I had to do was BET you that you WOULDN'T??'

'Ha ha haaaaaaaaa. Ohh hoo hoo hoo hoooo haaa'

'Fine. I bet you $10 you won't clean your bloody room'

'Bah. My room isn't worth $10. That's a $40 bet at LEAST'

'Oh fuck you. I'm not betting you $40 to stop being a slob. Suit yourself'

Our phone rings around 11:30 that night. It was Birdie, who'd gone out after we left and just gotten back home. She's dying to know The Answer to the Great Air Conditioner Debacle.

Birdie: So who won the bet??'

Ma: *collapses laughing*

Birdie: *can be heard laughing over phone*

Babs: Bastards!!

He's been pestering me every day since then for the money.

But I reckon if it took him three months to install the bloody thing, I can take three months to bloody well pay him.

Also??

I totally had my fingers crossed when we pinkie-swore.

Seamonster

2007-08-08T02:27:00.000-04:00

Um. Ah. Er.

I don't suppose I can flounce back in here, after not having posted for a week, without so much as a pathetically vague excuse, can I??

Please??

You cruel, cruel bastards.

What can I say, fair reader - I was in the midst of a snit. And we all know how your fearless heroine is when snittified. The only solution is a darkened room, lots of vodka and/or whiskey and Pink Floyd. And Jeff Buckley. Except I can't drink anymore (fucking Topamax). And my CD player is bust (fucking piece of shit Aiwa).

I have just been so very, very vexed lately. Annoyed with being a windy-licking spaztard. Irked by the fact that aliens have set up camp in my nether regions. And irritated by the State of Things in General. So I was contemplating many things. And spent my time researching dead people. Whee!!

Bumping into Ye Olde Acquaintances One Once Knew From Schoole does not help these matters. Especially when one realizes they are all fucking married/divorced, midgetized etc. And when they say 'And what are YOU up to these days, Babs??' you're tempted to try to think up the most plausible lie you can muster.

'Oh me?? Nothing much. Just redecorating my mansion in London--you know, as you do. I was quite bored after staying on the yacht for a month and a half. Have you met my husband the 1583rd Duke of Puffenstuff??'

But hurrah!!

I've painted my nails, bought some new clothes, and all is right in the world again.

Sorta.

Now all we have to conquer is the fact that I seem to be the Poster Child for Procrastination (because, dude, I was like, totally, writing this post yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that). On a wholly new and extreme level, the likes of which has never been seen before.

Of course I say this when I've no bloody time to explain it at all, as I'm in the midst of two of the busiest days I've seen this year.

All of which shall be explained further, once I'm finally finished running around this god-forsaken island later on today.

And then the real revelations will once again begin.

Such as:

Now have Air Conditioner!!

Ma is biggest medical freakshow on planet!!

And, worst of all, Birdie's daughter seems to remember every single embarrassing thing I ever did at the age of five whilst she was babysitting me.

I may finally be forced to delve deep into my psyche, dig out the repressed memories, and reveal the hideousness that was Babs Geller, Girl Wonder Who Fancied Herself a Country Singing Phenom.

Oh the absolute shame.

Landvik

2007-08-01T08:17:00.000-04:00

We have a Serious Problem here at La Casa de Babs Familius.

Allow me to explain.

A few weeks back, Trash--whom you may recall only started his Brand New Grown-Up Job in the beginning of May--came home with some news.

'Ha!! My boss gave me a commendation thingie'

'Pardon??'

'You know. Saying I'm an exemplary worker'

'You've only been there since May though'

'Well what can I say. I *am* the best at what I do'

'Oh PLEASE. I suppose you'll be up for the Golden Garbage Can next. Haaaaaa!!'

'You're a dickhead'

'Anyway. Lemme see the paper or whatever it is. Going to let *mummy* hang it on the fridge??'

'They don't give you a paper, you MORON. My boss sent a letter to the Big Boss. Ha!! Hahahahaha!!' *blows on fist and brushes it on his chest*

'Gawd. Get over yourself, Chucklehead'

Now. Here, HERE, is the problem, as I see it.

Clearly there is another Trash Babs Familius working at Cititypejobinc, because this is CERTAINLY not behavior indicative of OUR Trash.

Do they switch bodies on the ferry or something?? Who, precisely, is this man working under my brother's name??

Because it's definitely not the beer-swilling, fart-happy dipshit who refuses to acknowledge the fact that socks can live quite happily ensconced inside a drawer and not strewn across his bedroom floor.

Exemplary??

Types she who is suffering through yet another heat wave without an Air Conditioner in her window. Why?? Because certain Exemplary Workers last weekend said 'Feh. It's cool right now, you don't need it'

And then went to play stickball for six hours.

I mean, really, I've only asked him to install it, what, five thousand times now, yea?? And I would install it myself--really I would. But I bloody can't. It would take him an hour tops--not even.

Some of you may also recall that whilst Felix was down here, said anal-retentive cousin re-did the living room in its entirety to make room for Trash's new mattress. A mattress which was awaiting its new home in Trash's room.

Trash's room which is in need of an Exemplary Cleanup. Because the words Trash and Clean do not go together unless you add the words 'Salary'

And what did our Trash do upon Felix's departure??

Why he did the only logical thing.

He started using the fucking living room as his bedroom entirely; until such time, or so I surmise, that his (or this Otherworldly Trash) Exemplary Powers are worthy of tackling the job.

So I, in turn, will also do the only logical thing.

I shall set up camp in Trash's Air Conditioned Place of Employ til the little bastard installs my AC.

Mind you, if I carry through with this plan, I've a feeling I'll be staying there a long, long time.

Lonely Planet

2007-07-29T07:14:00.000-04:00

I shall warn you fellows of the male persuasion (and those who are weak of stomach) to jump ship here and now. For we here at Spazzymoto's Revenge are once again merrily rowing from the Ship Euphemistically Speaking and leaping right on board the HMS Too Much Information. And dealing with the workings of the female form. And NOT the bits you ogle whilst remaining blissfully unaware that you've NO chance of bedding Heidi Klum.

And if we're all REALLY lucky we'll get to the 4PM buffet before all the shrimp is gone.

Hurrah!!

Still here?? Hey. As always, I warned you.

Now you lot may well recall back in April when I quit smoking. I had to do this on Direct Orders of Right Bastard MD. And I went to see HIM because my PREVIOUS doctor was a right fucking moron (read: still have nightmares about painters being in for oh, say, 99 days out of 100 or whatever the fuck it was).

I never specifically stated what the problem was exactly because, well, I didn't want to at the time. Moreover, I'd already gotten an earful of 'helpful' advice from my nearest and dearest friends of the female type (read: Ma, Shirley, Sylvia etc).

Which did nothing to cheer me up. Well, Ma was helpful, once I owned up to the problem after three days of silent sobbing and cursing her for passing on this stupid fucking hereditary blunder. I wasn't going to tell her, as her Reliance on the Brethren of Caduceus is not something I approve of, nor trust. Plus she's still obsessed with my fucking thyroid gland, which is also something I neither approve of nor trust.

Anyway.

What Right Bastard MD announced, after a most invasive and horrific test (I was not even bought dinner beforehand--I'm sorry but when you are popped up on a table in the manner of a '57 Chevy getting an oil change, you at least deserve a god damned drink), was that I have one of these fucking things. Smack dab in the middle of the Mini-Spaz Oven (read: uterus, obviously).

Fuckers.

So!! Now I am not only Wunderspaz with Gloriously Gimptardic Left Leg. I am also a Wunderspaz who, apparently, breaks out in hives at 15 degrees if she does not take some fucking Allegra in deepest darkest winter, wearer of Faux Deeth, Alleged (and still adamantly denied) Sleep Apnea complete with Electrolux of Death Sleep Apparati, and owner of one sole, lonely, ovary which is a Retardovary, at that. I now have an illegal resident inside Babyville. And I can't evict the bastard!!

{I can see the men swooning now. SWOONING, I tell you. Can you hear them knocking at my door?? I am as good as engaged. Ha. HA I say!!}

While I was in the office I was filled with rage at the first doctor who, along with the lab monkeys, had ALSO given me just as invasive a test (if not moreso) yet missed this entirely. And, for that matter, did not buy me a drink either. I should have left Right Bastard MD's office, got right on the bus, gone to the old quacks place, and socked him right in the fucking mouth. Instead I stayed and asked the obvious questions:

'WHY ME?!?!'

'Och. Tsk, Babs. Don't worry. It's not that big--an inch or so in fact. And there's only just the one'

Then the next obvious question:

'What about getting knocked up?? Reckon this is going to impede progress in the future??'

{And you in the back, sniggering because we all know Babs has not had a date since 1857, be quiet. For Babs will gut you. As she is cranky, and the bowl of chocolate ice cream she has just consumed, at 5 AM, mind you, has done nothing to alleviate this crankiness}

'Nah. I don't think it will since it's not too terribly big. You should be ok. For the moment'

So I, of course, choose not to believe him (read: Babs Selective Hearing Act of 1985).

Now seeing as we here at Spazzymoto's Revenge don't have a BF, nor anything remotely resembling a husband, it seems a moot point to be asking such a question. But hey!! I was a Girl Scout. Be prepared!!

I mean, what if Colin Firth came by tomorrow?? Let it never be said that I don't think ahead.

Anyway. The point. Well see there's LOTS of points here so DEAL please, people. I know you hate long posts, but hey!! I hate having the painters in for two weeks at a go and I've been quietly dealing with it, so now you must suffer, too.

The nicest way of getting rid of the bastard things is to rip out the offending EZ-Bake Uterus, but hey!! I haven't had kids yet. So myself and Right Bastard MD are very much in agreeance that this is not the route to go; especially since it's only the one illegal resident and tiny, at that. And plucking the one illegal resident out is sometimes all but a guarantee, much like the fabled gray hair, that three more will grow in its god damned place. The possible solution?? Pills!! More fucking pills!! I do not know what these pills are yet, for I was to see him on the first and lo!! Guess what happened. So I rescheduled for a later date.

Woe is me. I had been lulled into a goodly two or three months worth of normalcy after he'd taken me off the bastard doctors moron pills. Five to seven days!! At the same time each month!! I was giddy. I was in heaven!! I flitted merrily from room to room, secure in the fact that, somehow, the old pills had managed to knock my hormones back into place; and had served an eviction notice on that bastard squatter that had not even paid rent to live on the second floor of Mini-Spaz Towers. And I was happy!! Then two weeks ago I doubled over in pain and realized I was fucking delusional. And it's still going on. Two weeks later!!

Now this, while a Goodly Big Problem, it is not my most pressing matter.

You would think that, of anyone, I could talk to my closest friends (read: only 2 or 3, for I am not in the habit of talking about my uterus with every Mary, Jane and Jill. Except, of course, for you lot. Hey!! You're special!!) when feeling a bit fucking upset about all this. Now I have learned that, as the only single/non-divorcee amongst our merry little band, I am not to talk about some things because it will just end in a reminder that I'm a fucking spinster and know nothing etc. Mostly revolving around Children and the Taking Care Of. Because I can't possibly know a super-neat way to say, DO ANYTHING, because I haven't had a kid myself. I also don't talk often about the fact that I've not had one BF worth shaking a stick at (except for maybe a Louisville Slugger). Because it just results in a round of 'I told you so's' or 'What were you THINKING, Babs??'

I've had a range of super-duper advice lobbed at me from varying parties ranging from:

'Well, at your age, your odds of getting married aren't likely anyway, so why worry??'

to

'Hey!! Motherhood isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway. You could travel instead!!'

Which, I can assure you, is very helpful when you're completely fucking mental from hormones and the like and ready to bash peoples skulls in.

Or not.

Yes!! That's me, Babs Geller, Lonely Planet Tour Guide and Shrinker of Would Be Good Advice Givers Heads. Next week: Fiji!!

I was on the phone with one of my nearest and dearest the other day. And I was, yes, feeling a bit under the weather about all this fucking Alien-esque business going on in my insides. And hoping it didn't turn into some scene of mass carnage because I totally hated that damned movie. Who the hell names their kid Sigourney anyway?? Sheesh. After wittering on about my problem they had the key!! THEY HAD THE SOLUTION TO ALL MY WOES!!

'You know. You should do what Effie was talking about back when we were like 29'

{They were talking about it. I had said no straight away}

'I am NOT doing that'

'No really. You should do it now while there's still time'

'It's not a matter of wanting to do it NOW. I want to be married or, you know, living with a fella for keeps first. It's best for me to be with someone I reckon, what with being a spaz. I mean if I got accidentally knocked up beforehand obviously I'd still have my kid, and I'd be able to hack it easy-peasy. But the best scenario for me, I feel, is to be with someone'

'Yes but you don't want to lose your chance'

'I've always been sort of preparing for the fact that I might not ever get the chance--I can sort of deal with that'

'You want to be happy, right?? Think how happy it would make you!!'

'I never said that would or wouldn't make me happy. I'm just annoyed that, should I get the chance one day, I've got one more problem in the way. But I'm certainly not going to let some random fucktard who left his progeny floating in a Tupperware cup for $25 father my god damned children, you know?? I'm not that hard up'

'Damn. Hang on. You know what?? Let me call you back a little later. The kids are getting into something'

I am not sure what annoys me more.

The fact that a resident alien has set up camp in my nether regions.

The fact that I can't talk to my best friend (or any of the girls) about this, because they all have the same fucktarded reasoning.

Or the fact that she thinks my best and only shot at a relationship, apparently, involves my saying 'I do' to a Tupperware cup and a turkey baster.

Don't Denny It

2007-07-27T05:11:00.000-04:00

Oh stop yelling. I had a busy few days dammit. Tuesday and Wednesday saw your fearless heroine (along with Ma) traversing to Ye Olde Neighborhood to do some work for Birdie. And I've also been working for EFL. And dealing with the famed (and oh-so-loathed and patent-pending) Retarduterus, which I can assure you has been no picnic.

So. I've got tons of blogs to catch up on reading-wise, tons of writing to catch up on, and many other things to catch up on, catching-up-on wise. Like my laundry. And sorting my room. And sorting the kitchen.

And doctors to strangle, as always etc etc

{Yes!! This post will be shite!! Come back for a better one tomorrow!! Ish!!}

But first.

Again innocent people are victimized by Fiend Double-Hung Windows!!

There was me, standing next to Ma, as she was yammering to Birdie. We'd gone over that day to help Birdie with her windows and curtains as she's no longer able to take care of them as she'd like. No worries!! We'll take care of them, easy peasy.

'You know' Ma said to Birdie as she struggled with the latch on the window 'I hate these damned things sometimes. Ours keep popping out'

'Yea that happens to us too, sometimes. I got them because they're so much easier to clean, but I can't hold them because they're so heavy. When I used to have Trash over to clean the old windows he had to go outside on the ladder while I was inside on a step-stool'

'Yea they are great to clean, but if you don't make sure they're snapped in, forget it'

'Oh I know!!'

'Did I tell you the other week Babs got...' *bonk*

In my defense I didn't start laughing until it was quite clear that Ma was not bleeding and that there were no bumps nor bruises. Her window had rather foolishly attacked from a lower level and not from the corner as mine did a few weeks back. Plus she was wearing a hat. And the timing?? The timing!! How could I NOT laugh??

My giggling was justified, damn you all.

Anyway. Clearly the window company is out to get we of La Casa de Babs Familius. Even when we aren't at home. I shall have to warn Manson and Trash.

In other Completely Freaky and Just Plain Weird News, I've picked up my genealogy papers again. Now I've mentioned many times previous that this is a little hobby of mine, this hunting up the dead relatives of Ye Olde Babs Familius. I usually have at it for a while, then set it aside for a few months. I find that if I do this I'll usually spot something that I missed the last time, or look at something from a different angle and voila!! new and interesting information. Riveting, I know. Is it any wonder I don't get invited to more parties?? I also play Parcheesi like a champ. And I can make hors d'oeuvres!!

Anyway. The freaky part. There was me, looking over some old birth dates, dates which I'd actually confirmed via Official Documents of a Death and/or Birth type. I looked at my gr gr grandfathers birthdate. He was born the same year as the Old Man, except, obviously, a full hundred years earlier (because unless you live in Kentucky it's quite difficult to be born the same year as your great grandson). Then I had a peek at his wife's (my gr gr gramma, obviously) birthdate. Who happened to be born the same year as Ma; but, again, one hundred years earlier. Quelle coinkydink!! Not too weird though. I mean it's just the year, not the same DATE. Two people in two centuries?? Pah, no biggie. I don't know why I'd never noticed this before, it just hadn't struck my when I'd looked at it from a different point of view I suppose.

Then, because curiosity is the bane of all felines, I had a gander at their kids Date of Hatchery. They had three children, just like Ma and the Old Man (though, sadly, owing to the times theirs did not fare as well). Their first child was born the same year as me. A hundred years previous. Their last child was born the same year as Trash (and on Ma's birthday, for that matter).

I don't yet know the exact date of their middle child's birth. But I know it was near-ish to the year of Manson's Anniversary of Existence. I tell you now, if I go to the archives and find out he was born the same year as Manson, one hundred years previous, I shall faint on the spot. And wait for Rod Serling to appear. Because two people is a coincidence.

Five is just fucking bizarre.

Which, upon thinking, fits in with our whole Motif Familial.

And since this is such a crap post, and I have no proper ending, behold---

--Trash has been Simpsonized!!

The Unger Strikes Back

2007-07-23T05:31:00.000-04:00

I've mentioned MANY time previous about Felix and his anal-retentive like ways with neatness and the like, due to his slight 'touched in the head' qualities. I've also mentioned how we used to annoy him about same because he drove us to bloody drink with said ways. Felix, par exampluh, would clean his room to perfection. And in doing so, would chuck everything deemed 'not his' or 'no longer needed' into a pile somewhere else in the house. As long as it's not in 'his spot'. Thereby making his room gorgeous but making the rest of the place a further mess.

When he toddled down here with TWT on Monday it was under the impression that he would be staying here from Monday til about, um, a vague day, possibly at the end of the weekend. Which wasn't a problem.

Except. The living room didn't exactly meet with Felix's 'neatness needs'. Especially when he decided that, for some reason or another (of which we are still completely clueless) TWT had to stay here Friday and Saturday night, rather than at her family's house; the very place she'd been staying all week.

{And, before I go on, allow me to remind you that in this apartment we have exactly two closets. One of which does not even have a pole for hanging clothes, but instead is filled with shelves. So many of our belongings live in shelves and bins and the like}

The living room, you see, has been in a constant state of disruption since god was a boy. Trash had gotten his mitts on a queen sized bed a whiles back. The only problem was (and I may have mentioned this previously, but I'm not looking up the damned post) that while the mattress moved swiftly up the stairs; the box spring remained firmly wedged twist stairwell and wall and no amount of twisting and turning was getting it into this apartment. He then took the box spring, left it in the bottom hallway, and it took nearly five months of reminding him, turning sideways with groceries to get in the house, and tripping over the fucking thing, to get him to give it the chuck. The mattress stayed up here in the living room, flopped against the couch/bed hybrid, and became a second hanger for Trash, accumulating a variety of shirts, socks, and god knows what else. Which were occasionally removed by said Trash under threat of death, because we are not his god damned maids. Only to have said items accumulate again magically; as if little fairies came in the middle of the night leaving bits and pieces of Trash rubble in their wake. You know. As they do. We also sort of counteracted the nocturnal clothes fairy activity by forcing them to use baskets. And such.

The mattress itself was a nightmare in that it weighed fifty tons and was floppy as all hell. It was absolute shite. Trash was determined to keep it though. He was going to somehow sort a box spring that would fit up the stairs, and voila!! He'd have a queen sized bed in his room. Myself and Ma knew this wasn't happening, but neither of us could move the fucking mattress for love nor money. Then, the other day (shortly before Felix arrived, in fact), TWOL decided she needed to get rid of her practically brand new mattress, with older-ish platform beneath it. Trash rejoiced and rang for a friend to assist in the Moving of Furniture. So. Into the garbage went horrid floppy Sealy Posturepedic. And in its wake came the FAR more manageable brand new Sealy Posturepedic which did NOT weigh a metric bloody ton. Except. Trash hadn't sorted his room for a new bed yet. And by 'sorted' I mean 'had not taken gasoline and a match to it' as that's the ONLY way to sort it. The fact that Trash didn't keep the platform that came with the bed, as he was quite sure it wasn't coming up the stairs, didn't help either. So!! New mattress. But still in the god damned living room. This time, though, it was living merrily atop the couch/bed hybrid, as it didn't flop and there was no chance of falling over and rendering one of us unconscious. So a bit more room in the living room, but still a melee of baskets and such, which I had not as of yet gotten to because most of it was Trash's and thusly, his fucking job.

Friday night Felix and TWT saunter in around 3 AM. They'd had a long day (TWT had been down here for a very sad event) and both managed to conk out on the couch/bed hybrid in spite of its being built for a Batwa Pygmy. Fine and dandy.

I wake Saturday morningafternoonish, open my door, and there is a gaping void in the living room. It is fucking empty, save for the new mattress up against the far wall, and the couch/bed hybrid folded up in its natural rollie-bed state.

Neat as a pin. Vacuumed to utter perfection. Where the FUCK is everything??

Hurricane Felix had struck again.

Now. I understand the 'wanting to use the mattress instead of the couch/hybrid' theory. Far more comfy and neither he nor TWT would awake with a toe in the nose. This is FINE.

But!!

He not only moved everything OUT of the living room, perching baskets precariously in the hallway, putting things in bags and chucking what he deemed chuck-worthy; he even moved my shoes.

I have no room in my room. So my shoes live in a tiny corner of the living room, near the radiator, up against the wall. They're piled neatly atop each other and in NO way strewn about in some reckless manner. They take up the tiniest amount of space (ok as tiny as one can get when one has feet the size of a Sasquatch). And, until Felix's arrival, they were hidden nicely in the shadow of the blanket that covered the couch/bed hybrid. There was NO reason to move them at all.

Better yet, who told him he could move all this shit around ANYWAY?? Make room for the mattress, fine. Redecorate and chuck stuff without anyone knowing?? And turning everything else into a mess so 'your' spot is neat as a pin?? Not fine!!

Babs: Felix, who said you could do this??

Felix: Oh er, Trash said it was ok.

Later on:

Trash: He said Ma said it was ok.

Later later on:

Ma: I never said it was ok!!

Felix: No. Babs said it was ok.

!?!?!

And this is what he did for ONE MORE NIGHTS STAY.

Can you imagine what it was like living with him??

It's a wonder we never killed him growing up.

Learnt

2007-07-20T03:46:00.000-04:00

Learnt me that drinking a lot at a wedding and waking on a neighbors lawn the next morning is not necessarily a good thing.

Learnt me that going away to far off places to go to war will screw your dad's head up for life.

But also learnt me that keeping a pet duck in that far off place will keep him sane, and laughing; so much so that he'll keep a picture of that damned duck in his wallet til the day he dies.

Learnt me to cook and to improvise in places what didn't have proper kitchens.

Learnt me to act like an idiot when on vacation, because no one knows you anyway.

Learnt me to swim because, well, you'll bloody well drown, otherwise, won't you??

Learnt me that forty-nine can look like fifty-nine when you're sick enough, but, body rot or not, you can still smile.

Learnt me that theory goes out the window two months later.

And, above all else, learnt me that this is what twelve year old boys look like on the day of their dad's funerals.

Happy Fifteenth Anniversary gone away, Pop.

You know, you could have just bowled a three-hundred or something to get our attention, instead.

Silly, show-offy bastard.

Of Mussels and Bellyjeans

2007-07-17T04:16:00.000-04:00

Before I delve into ANYTHING else I simply MUST make mention of Trash and his somewhat culinary-challenged friends yet again. A week ago last Saturday (or thereabouts, I'm not bloody Rain Man, you know), I get a phone call:

Trash: Hey. Trash II has, like, ten pounds of mussels but says we aren't cooking them all and do you want two pounds worth??

I, Babs Geller, patriot and lover of seafood, am not about to turn down two pounds of free mussels.

Babs: Oh DEFINITELY!! Tell him I said thanks.

Trash: Ok.

*Trash comes home later that night with nothing vaguely resembling a bag of mussels*

Babs: Ah, you fellas ate the mussels after all??

Trash: Nah. Trash II is going to bring them by tomorrow when he brings by the tree clipper thing. He put them on ice for now.

Babs: Righto.

Now the statement 'He put them on ice for now' had not bothered me. Keeping live mussels in the fridge is done in such a manner, as I'm sure many of you know. You pop the little buggers in a bowl of ice, chuck them in the Frigidaire, and Bob's your uncle--your mussels will stay alive for a time. Of course, you've got to cook them quick-ish because they don't keep for long. And once they're dead you CANNOT cook them nor eat them because you WILL end up violently ill and possibly, erm, oh, I don't know, dead or something. Which isn't particularly nice really, especially if you've got appointments to get root canal done or a hot date with Colin Firth. I knew I had a decent window of time though, as they'd bought them that night, so I wasn't worried.

The following afternoon Trash II comes by, as scheduled. Our Trash toddles up the stairs with the aforementioned bag of mussels, hands them to me, and goes back outside to tend to surreptitious tree trimming (read: snipping one branch of tree that is dangerously close to our phone line without telling EFL who will undoubtedly deny tree trimming permission) with Trash II. Said bag o' mussels has chunks of ice practically GLUED to it; you know, just like the tongue of the one kid you dared to lick the flagpole when it was 6 degrees and snowing out. I pick up the bag, and the ice sways violently, but remains firmly attached to the bag of what was going to be my bloody brilliant dinner.

I am pretty damned sure I know why, but, hey, maybe I'm wrong. After all, it's happened many, many times before. I get the bag open, and the chunks of ice remain steadfastly attached. I manage to pluck out a mussel with its shell agape and tap it--it doesn't move. I pluck out yet another mussel, shell again wide open, and administer another tap to see if it snaps snut, signifying life in its tiny shell. Nada. Zip. Diddly. Dead. Demised. It has ceased to exist.

It is, fair readers, an un-mussel.

And, just to confirm the blatantly fucking obvious, I take one of the mussels what have their shells firmly shut to keep the cold out (or rather were trying to keep the cold out), take a knife to it and pry it open. Then stab the poor little bastard to see nothing but mussicles (read: mussel icicles).

Trash comes in a bit later.

Babs: Er. Trash??

Trash: Yea??

Babs: Why was the ice sticking to the bag like that??

{I know the answer, but who doesn't enjoy a rousing game of Spanish Inquisition, really}

Trash: Um. He kind of put them in the freezer so he wouldn't stink up his parent's fridge.

Babs: You realize that freezing them kills them and renders them uncookable, inedible, and fucking useless, right??

*shows him large print on bag that says DO NOT FREEZE*

Trash: I know that.

Babs: Does Trash II know that??

Trash: Erm. No??

Babs: Well tell him I said thanks and I really appreciate the thought, but let him know you can't freeze them. He's going to kill himself one day, I swear. Sheesh.

I think I'm going to start charging the lot of them for cooking lessons before they wind up in the hospital with botulism, salmonella and god knows what else. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm amazed they haven't killed themselves by virtue of their own cookery.

In other news, your favorite fellow and our very own walking, talking advert for OCD, Felix, is down here for the week.

As expected, he waltzed in around noon-ish and has not shut up since.

He is also now more rail-thin than he was when he left here, thanks to TWT's own issues with her weight. She is obsessed with being thin, so Felix let's her sort of bully her into dieting as well. And 'dieting' to TWT pretty much means 'not eating at bloody all' Except for the occasional lettuce leaf every other Tuesday and a jellybean once a month as a treat. Felix is so skinny that even Ma commented on it, whereas when he last left us we were joking about how 'pudgy' he was getting. He looks almost bloody emaciated--and he's down two sizes in his jeans.

He lives with her now, and hes kind of like her house maid, I think. Except he's not allowed to do anything. Especially not do anything like go to the bathroom any time between 10 PM and 8 AM when she is asleep. Because it wakes her. And annoys her. In fact he's not allowed to make any noise at ALL then.

{There is actually a LOT more than just this, I will find out later and post the funnier bits mayhaps. And might I add this is all being posted with Felix's permission}

And he's talking about marrying her!!

His reason for wanting to marry TWT?? Well, he's 27, and getting older.

So why not get married?? You know, as you do.

We are attempting to beat him about the head in the hopes of knocking some sense into him.

And did I mention that TWT is Dim's ex-GF?? You know Dim?? Felix's brother??

And did I also mention that, when Dim and TWT broke up all those years ago it was because she had decided she was switching teams (read: had discovered she was a lesbian)??

Or the fact that TWT is quite hip to this marriage business too, and while, yes, she is dating Felix, she says no, she is not bi, she is still a lesbian, though she is dating Felix, a known carrier of a portable peeing projectalator (read: come on, you don't know what that means?!)??

Now I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that deciding to marry a fella pretty much takes you from the 'girls only' category and pops you right onto either the 'either/or' bus or the 'I'm with him' bandwagon.

Call me crazy.

We may consult with our knowledgeable oracle when it comes to such matters, TWOL. She will know what the heck to make of all this.

And speaking of TWOL, she popped by today to drop off a few books she wanted to get rid of, so we sat outside waiting for her. Her first words for me??

'Boy you gained back some weight!!'

Right.

Will just get some lettuce leaves and jellybeans.

Garlic

2007-07-13T05:25:00.000-04:00

So. Remember how I mentioned my little Super Duper Proper Secret Writing Thing that I'm meant to have been working on all week??

Ha!!

It's kind of hard to do anything when your apartment is, roughly, the same temperature as the fucking sun and you are literally dying. Ok. Fine. Not literally. But god damned if it wasn't uncomfortable. Uncomfortable being the understatement of the year.

{Plus working for EFL and for Birdie and am very spazzy. I mean yes, I need to work, but I need to finish the Super Duper Whatsit, too. So I have ordered all to run interference for me tomorrow and Saturday. I no longer exist for those two days. God. Fucking. Dammit.}

It's just that, well, fuck, I can't get anything right, can I??

Anyway. The heat!! The inferno!! The hideousness of a NYC summer!!

Nearly 99 degrees or so!! And for those of my readers who are not Fahrenheit enabled?? Try 37 Celsius on for size. With killer humidity. I still defy anyone to top anything worse than summertime in this bloody city. And no, people in Death Valley cannot say anything; because moving to a place with 'Death' in the name should have given you a hint to begin with. So bloody there.

I have an air conditioner. It has lived merrily in Trash's room for the past three years. It has been in his possession since 2002, when I made the disastrous move to Ye Olde City of Winde. When I came back home I wasn't exactly forceful about reclaiming my air conditioner; even though I'd paid for it with the sweat of my brow and a gazillion weeks worth of homemade apple pies at Ye Olde Job at the Monkery. I'd been strong armed into buying said AC ages ago, if you'll recall, as we spazzies don't work well in the heat (a fact which I still dispute, despite much evidence to the contrary).

This year I decided I would have to use a Show of Force, and demand my AC back, what with the Super Duper new (possible) Side Effects of Topie.

{Those possible side effects being, some sort of switching off of ones internal thermostat or some such shit [makes it haywire], so one has to drink extra water and mind themselves in the heat. It's not a given, but I'm not taking any bloody chances. Savvy??}

Sunday night.

I make a slight strategical error.

Babs: Trash, are you going to put your AC in my room??

Trash: Aha!! So you admit it's my AC now?!?!

Babs: You know I meant *my* AC.

Trash: I do believe you said it was *mine*

{He has also claimed my stereo, my TV, and my cats. I have thus far reclaimed my stereo, the cats and my TV--sort of. The cats ignore me, and I told him the TV was his once again when the screen popped and it was only viewable in a light gray scale}

Babs: Fuck off. Will you put the AC in please??

Trash: I'll take care of it later.

Later, being a subjective term in Trash's world, can mean in twenty minutes, or August 17, 2025.

Monday night comes. Right in the midst of the RIDICULOUS AND FUCKING OPPRESSIVE HEAT WAVE.

Trash toddles in.

Babs: Dude. AC. Are you going to put it in??

Trash: Jesus. I just got home a little while ago.

Babs: No that's cool. I understand that. In a little while though, ok. I'm fucking dying.

Trash: Yea. Like an hour ok.

Babs: That's fine. Thanks, Trash.

I come out of my room an hour later.

Babs: Um. Ma?? Where's Trash??

Ma: Oh, he left.

Babs: Mother fucker!! That bastard said he'd put in the AC!!

Now let me say here and now that, normally, I'd try and put the thing in the window on my own. I can't lift the damned thing for a start, however. But I just KNOW that I'd send it sailing out the window and crashing down to the ground--and we're not on the first floor. So Trash is very much needed for this operation.

Tuesday the heat is even worse. And I just bloody well know he's not coming home at all because it's the night of the All-Star game (and, hello, National League, can you please NOT lose for once??). We have a tiny television, and Tommy and Dill Pickles have a big screen TV. Where is Trash going to go?? Not here matey boy. As predicted he goes directly from work to the Land of Antipasto and Large Televisions. Bastard. He is chugging beers and eating pasta in Air Conditioned Comfort; and I am sitting here with a box fan and ice cubes that are melting quicker than a pint of Hagen Daaz on a fucking BBQ grill.

Death is too good for him.

Wednesday afternoon we get a big storm which rather cools things down a bit. Which is dead nice. I still want to get the AC put in mind you, because summer is FAR from over. And I want to be prepared for the NEXT heatwave. I make a prediction.

Babs: How much do you want to bet that when he comes home, I will ask about the AC, and he'll tell me well it's cool out now.

Ma: Haaaaaaaaa!!

So. Tick tock tick tock. Trash comes home. I wait a bit.

Babs: So Ma!! I had a most interesting conversation the other day!!

Ma: Huh??

Babs: Yes!! I was talking to, who was it?? Oh yes!! Trash!! And he said he'd put in my AC in an hour or so, and then....he left!!

Trash: Oh ha ha ha.

Babs: You totally snuck out without putting the AC in.

Trash: Er. Um.

Babs: So. Gonna put the AC in??

Trash: Well you don't need it NOW. It's cool out.

Babs: What did I say?!?!

Ma: I got to admit you've got him pegged.

Trash: I'll put it in soon.

Babs: Soon?? Whens soon?? September??

Trash: It still gets hot in September.

I may be forced to violence.

Soon-ish.

The Wonderful World of Babsy

2007-07-07T07:06:00.000-04:00

My sleeping pattern, and the sleep itself, for that matter, has taken a turn for the decidedly bizarre.

[Ok. More bizarre than usual]

And I'm becoming exhausted far earlier that I ought no matter what time I've woken.

[For instance, have woken at 5 AM today, and can guarantee that by 5 this afternoon will be so fucking shot will need to fight the urge to lie down though will probably completely shot and in fear of fucking spazzery. This should NOT be so. I am a person who can, normally, stay up twenty-four hours straight]

That's one of the reasons this post is so bloody late.

I meant to write this, oh, say, four fucking days ago.

Each day had the same pattern:

Wake at bizarre hour, caffeinate, relax and read a bit, attempt to work on Super Duper Proper Secret Writing Thing (to be explained later), go out etc, work around house, cook dinner, blog a bit later.

[Yes. It's not much but, hey, don't be judging, man]

The sleep itself is weird. First off it's filled with warped dreams and nightmares (read: Hurrah!! Indications of spazzery!! Oh. Wait. That's not fun). Also, don't ask me how I know it, but it's a slumber so deep that I'm sort of amazed that I ever wake. Which I can assure you is a most disconcerting notion when you're sitting there adjusting your eyes to the darkness making sure you're awake, oh yes. It's not that sort of slow wake up where you sort of become vaguely aware that you were abed. 'Hello!! It's morning, might be best to hop out of bed!!' and loll around in bed for a bit. No. It's more like I've been down in some pit and suddenly someone just yanked me up and 'Bam!!' awake. And it feels like I can't wake myself out of it--I'm waiting for my body to do it. It's very weird. Maybe it's normal. Maybe it isn't. It's never happened to me before, though, and I don't fucking like it.

So I try to push myself ahead a few hours to get back on a course that is NOT on par with the 3PM Early-Bird Buffet crowd in Boca. I end up utterly exhausted and unable to write a single sentence beyond 'Hi I'm Babs, and I'm a fucking lunatic'

[For the record, I suspect that the Fiend Topamax and its uppage has something to do with this. What with its side effect of Somnolence, coupled with my Hatred of Sleep and Insomnia, you get a schedule more bizarre than even that of the NYC transit system. I'll be having a chat with my neuro, so I shall]

So. Now that we've established that I'm clearly a fucking psychopath, on with the show!!

Ma was standing at the bus stop yesterday. Clad in jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Which was loose-ish and not at all revealing. It probably went down to her ankles, for goodness sake. She was talking with two of our neighbors, who also happened to be waiting for the bus.

A silver truck happens by. And slows down. A lot. The driver gazes at Ma.

He drives down the block. Makes a u-turn. Once the traffic is clear he pulls right up to the bus stop. Ma indicates her non-interest in this fellow's intentions by turning around and taking a suddenly great interest in the architecture of the burnt down house behind them. The guy honks. Ma doesn't move. Freak in the Truck whistles for Ma. She notes the burn patterns on the eaves. Neighbor One waves Freak in the Truck away. He finally leaves.

Ma: What the hell??

Neighbor One: *chuckling*

Ma: How could anyone think....?? *lets out sigh of exasperation*

Neighbor One: That's this neighborhood for you.

Ma: I'm ancient for gods sake!! And overweight!! And grey!! And wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt!!

Neighbor Two: Well maybe he just thought you looked lost and wanted to see if you needed a ride out of the neighborhood.

Neighbor One: Now, Neighbor Two, you know damned well what that fella wanted.

Neighbor Two: Well I was just saying.

Ma: This is getting ridiculous. That's the second time this week I've been mistaken for a hooker!!

Pah. She thinks she has it bad?? I have it on authority that I bear a striking resemblance to one of the local crackheads. So not only do the local dealers mistake me for her and offer me pharmaceuticals; they offer to let buy crack for things *other* than money. Meanwhile, all I'm trying to do is get to the shop to buy a packet of Linden's Chocolate Chip Cookies.

I think it's just best that me and Ma just avoid that street entirely in the future.

Gear Fab

2007-07-01T07:43:00.000-04:00

Right!!

I was speaking of being in Major Klutz Mode in my previous post. Now sometimes, as was the case with the major island group that the boiling water left on my arm, klutziness can be put to outright stupidity.

However!!

Some of my scars, lumps, bumps and bruises are the result of plain old bad luck.

{Or, in the case of the near on twelve-inch vertical scar o'er your fearless heroines stomach, the famed Surgerius Ovarius}

Par Exampluh: On the back of my lower right thigh is a now half-inch long scar. It might be an inch long scar, but I'm crap at estimating and I'm not a bloody contortionist. So we're dealing with approximations here (although, having just felt the damned scar, it seems more like one inch). It used to be a lot bigger, but said scar was incurred when I was about seven years old. I grew up, scar shrank. It used to be massive. There was me, happily riding my Big Wheel down Uncle Cecil's drive way, which happened to be set upon a big old hill. I'd gone up and down said hill all morning with nary a problem at all. And seeing as I was seven or so, I didn't bother looking to the right and the left of me. Who would?! I was busy careening!! Things to the side?? Pah!! Wasn't a worry. That is, until I lost control of my Big Wheel, veered to the right, and the back of my leg got caught on the rusted metal reinforcement rod sticking out of the ground. I screamed bloody murder. The grown ups came rushing out. Ma demanded I be taken to the hospital. The Old Man, saying it wasn't all that bad, brought me inside and then poured the better half of a bottle of iodine on my leg. He said it would be fine. I didn't stop screaming, for, oh, two hours. Ma yelled at him for the hideous scar on my leg, for, oh, the better part of whenever she was mad at him for a month. She was, at the time, convinced that the adorable seven-year old Babs would be an eventual model or something and now she was scarred for life (clearly Ma was smoking some serious crack).

Anyway. See?? Bad luck.

So. The other night I was in the kitchen, frying up some lovely breaded pork chops.

{And I can see you all thinking 'Aha!! Did we not tell you to stop cooking, chefs cert or not?!?' Wait one moment}

A massive thunderstorm starts. I knew it was coming because the Beast was glued to my side. That dog is petrified of thunder, and if she isn't able to get near one of us she instead goes to her 'safe room' which happens to be the loo. Weird bloody animal.

{Fourth of July is going to be SUCH fun. We're loading her up on Bennies}

I jump when I hear another clap of thunder, just as I flip the chops.

Fuck!!

The rain is going to be coming into my window. It happened the other day and I had half a soaked bed (but hey!! It wasn't by virtue of seizurey!! Hurrah!!). I lower the heat on the chops, and make a mad dash for my room.

{Now you're all thinking, aha!! She's going to trip over The Beast}

I make it in there quick as a flash. Rain is coming down in buckets, the wind is going like mad, and the lightning (oh and have I ever mentioned that this house has been hit by lightning twice??) seems to be striking every two fucking seconds.

I pull the window down, and just as I do I hear a creak.

Then a crash.

I scream bloody murder.

I mean, wouldn't you??

Ma comes running in, 'Holy shit!! What happened are you ok?? Jesus!!'

'Shit. I.... I think I'm bleeding'

{I was}

So. What happened?? Did an errant tree (of which there are three right by my window) come careening into the house?? Did a normally climbing squirrel take flight in the wind and burst right through the glass of my window??

No. No not quite.

The creak was the fucking normally double-hung window (you know, those lovely windows that unhinge inwards for easy cleaning) decided to un-hung itself as I was closing it. Landing, as it were, right on the corner of my fucking skull, scraping downwards nicely. The crash would have been me knocking half the shit on my dresser over as I tried to stop the window from falling the rest of the way (after dislodging it from my cranium).

I am now the proud owner of a bump the size of Finland (well, it's been a few days now, we've downgraded to Rhode Island). And a scab that runs from my Absolutely Ace Dirty Blonde Hair to my eyebrow (Though there is a fashionable hooked motif to it. It will be all the rage in Milan next Spring). It looks like it will eventually turn into a two-inch scar.

Of course we're dealing in approximations.

Bad luck and all that.

Champagne and Chimpanzees

2007-06-28T10:12:00.000-04:00

You will, as always, have to forgive my lack of posting this week. It has been a stress filled week here at La Casa, all due to One Particular Person (and no!! Not EFL!! For once). I made a vow to myself ages ago, however, to do my best not to talk about it here, as then I'd just get paranoid and erase posts willy-nilly and make my Alleged Ulcer worse. You can rest assured, though, that were you privy to the tidbits that currently have me ripping each and every strand of my Absolutely Ace Dirty Blonde hair out of my head, you would be shocked. Shocked!!

Instead we shall move on to the fact that I am seemingly back into Major Klutz Mode. This is not to say that I was ever OUT of it; but there had been a lull. After all, as an epileptic there is always an expected amount of black and blues and bashed limbs.

Par Exampluh: Woke three days ago with black and blue on right arm and *ahem* also in the chest region (read: one of the girls). Confirming the fact that I'd bashed into my windowsill as I slept/thrashed.

I've been a klutz since birth, though. I've told you many times about the falls I've taken during, oh, I don't know, during my confirmation, graduation, senior trip (ha!!). I dislocated the Old Man's shoulder three times before I was three. I flipped my bike constantly because I could never seem to remember, hello, hit the back brakes first, Babs!! I skinned my knees more times than I could ever count. The last memorable occasion of that being whilst walking down the the front steps of Ye Olde House, somehow missing the last step, and landing directly on both knees. And we didn't have a nice ordinary smooth cement sidewalk, oh no. It was all jagged cemented together gravel.

I still wince with the memory of it.

This, coupled with the Murphy's Law Factor of my Existence caused many people to shake their heads when the Old Man put a knife in my hand for the purposes of Cooking Tutelage.

'She'll impale herself within a week' they mumbled.

Not true!!

I only cut myself, like, four times.

That week.

In the years since, cooking alone has left my arms a veritable hodge podge of cookery scars, but, pah, that goes with the territory. And, to be completely fair, some of it wasn't klutziness AT all, but sheer fucking idiocy.

Like the time I grabbed a pan to plate up something at work. Some of you are shaking your head and going, 'Well, that can be hot, but not too bad, so long as you're quick'

I shall then mention the fact that said pan had been cooking off in a gazillion degree oven. And things change slightly. I'd already been told by my boss once that night to grab pans using a towel or a mitt because, hello, it might be fucking HOT (to be fair he was just as bad forgetting. Humph). So there I am, pan in hand, and, I think it's fair to say that it really fucking hurt. I didn't want to give away that I'd burned myself though, nor did I want to drop the pan and end up shelling out twenty beans for a filet mignon (I will not even discuss the heathen customer who demanded it so well done that it required finishing in the oven, for this is a travesty I cannot stomach to this day). So I held on to that handle, though it was burning the life out of me, made not one complaint, and got it all the way to the counter (I may have thrown it on the counter quickly, mind you). Furthermore, I had to plate it up before I could even think of *casually* waltzing over to the sink and plummeting my hand into some ice cold water. Without my boss noticing. Because then he could say 'I told you so!!' and I was having NONE of that. No sir.

So what did the Oh So Clever and Now Third Degree Burned Babs do (Sure maybe it was First or Second but let me tell you, chummy, it felt like a Zillion degree burn, ok)?? I kept working, and occasionally toddling over to the sink to rinse off my knife (Look boss!! I'm neat!! It's cleanliness!!). In ice cold water. Finally, blessedly, mercifully, and thank the gods of aloe and burn prevention, most of the customers left, he toddled off to the shop, and left me in charge of the kitchen (no, I don't know what he was thinking either). I spent the next hour alternating between cleaning up and dunking my hand in a bucket of ice water. Heavy on the ice water. And when I got to my birthday party that night I couldn't cut my cake because my hand was still on ice.

You can still see where I grabbed that fucking pan. Along with all the dots and blurbles from oil explosions, fry spatters, hot pans where the mitts didn't quite work, errant sauteed veggies (read: flyers--which are also dangerous if you are being showoffy) etc. I won't even mention the times where I've accidentally mistaken my hands for say, carrots to be julienned.

And now I've got, what I think is Micronesia on my arm. Or Japan. Could be New Zealand. Possible even Australia. An island nation, surely. I'm not sure yet. Although yesterday it looked like the bat signal.

It all shows but one thing; if you're going to boil some chicken for the dog, let the ungrateful bastard do it themselves.

It's far too dangerous for the likes of any human to try. Clearly.

Especially when half of the boiling water lands on your bloody arm.

The Ghost of Uncle Stinkyfingers Rides Again

2007-06-24T04:04:00.000-04:00

There was a Mini Battle Royale at La Casa de Babs Familius last night.

I mean, granted, it's been a stress filled week; what with the water heater being broken for five days, then Certain Parties calling every two minutes about a weekend trip to Lands Southerly in the coming weeks and demanding to know ALL our details before even we know them (or better yet, attempting to TELL us what our details should be). But still, last night takes the bloody cake.

'My god Babs, you're just ridiculous. You're neurotic, high strung, you're scared of anything and everything'

'Are you fucking KIDDING me??'

'Look at yourself!!'

'You're starting with me over this?? THIS??'

What, you might ask, prompted Ma's Perfectly Sound and Not at All Unreasonable Diagnosis??

{I mean you lot know it's semi-true, but that's because you have the upper-hand and READ here, she doesn't}

There was me, getting ready to put a bit of butter on my noodles. I took the butter out of the fridge, you know, as you do, and noticed Toast Crumblies on one side. I don't like Toast Crumblies in my bloody butter. So I turned it round to the other side, which had, as of yet, not been sullied by the Fiend Toast Crumblies. It was untouched, in fact. So I nicked off the bit of butter I wanted, and Hey!! Bob's your uncle; buttered noodles.

So, clearly, this makes me a raving fucking lunatic, yes??

Right. I'll just find me strait jacket.

Electrocution--Good for Morale

2007-06-20T02:33:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the 19th, the day of the Infamous and Long Awaited Nerve Test Thingamabob for my Gloriously Gimptarded Leg. Otherwise known as an EMG. The point of this test was to see if my nerves were perhaps pinched, or if indeed the kicking was due to my epilepsy and not, say, some latent desire to become the Worlds Heftiest Rockette.

First of all, do you recall how they said it would be 'a bit uncomfortable'?? As in 'Oh, worry not, Babs. This will just pinch a LEEEETLE bit??' No?? Well I do. And that's what bloody counts here.

BALD FACED LIE!!

I had thought, what with my Epileptic Bravado and Tough Chick 'Tude, that I could muscle through this test with nary a whimper. After all, it couldn't be worse than the fit itself, right??

WRONG!!

Let us, for the sake of my newer readers, remind ourselves how the mini-spazzes work. For this exercise you will need:

2 cases of Budweiser
1 very drunk, very large, Hells Angel
Desire to get the shit beat out of oneself

Drink both cases of Budweiser. When you are THAT inebriated, start hurling insults at said Hells Angel. Have same start punching you in left abdomen--as a result, left leg will start kicking. You may also grunt and drool. Not very attractive, no, but hey!! this is a mini-fit--not Hollywood, people. The kicking will not stop until the punching in the abdomen stops. Great bloody fun to wake up to, yes?? Yes!! I mean, no!! Bah. I always get that mixed up. It also happens when I'm awake. And walking. And shopping in Pathmark. Or dining with Colin Firth. But hey--I don't pass out in a puddle of piss with these mini-fits so hey!! Yay me (we will revisit grand mal seizures at a later date).

{Alternatively: Tie fishing line around major muscles in leg and around abdomen. Have evil sadistic puppet master yank line upwards and inwards, in which ways leg is not meant to go, at will}

We've got the point, yes??

The very thing I'd forgotten though, is that while I'm so very used to the muscle twitching, twisty, contortion-y fun of a mini-spaz, I was going to be zapped with electricity. ELECTRICITY!!

I know three things about electricity: Don't touch the red wires, avoid puddles at all costs, and I am Not Allowed to Touch Electricity Ever.

EVER!!

{No. Really. VBFITW declared it. Many, many times}

I get to Pinky and the Brain's Cranium Emporium--on time, I'll have you know, and I start to worry when I see an older man come out, arm still twitching from the very test I'm about to have.

This does not bode well.

I meander into the room, a lovely bed waiting for me (Why not a rack?? It seems more fitting for this sort of thing. Must recommend the Iron Maiden next time I'm there).

'Hop in here, Babs'

Righto.

She glues a thingie (do you not love my grasp of the technical side of these things??) to my leg. Then grabs what can only be described as the top of an over sized nine-volt battery. Then pops some gel on said doo-hickey so as to what's that?? Ah yes, to conduct electricity better!!

*blip* *blip* *blip*

*OHHOLYHELLMOTHERFUCKERZAP* *ZAP* *ZAP* *ZAP*

Yes. It hurt. Quite a little bit. More than.

'You know' I muttered between anguished cries of pain, 'I'm pretty sure she only wants to test my left leg'

'Oh, well, we'll do both legs. I can only do the first part of the test. Dr. Pinky and the Brain has to do the needle insertion part. Don't worry. It's not so bad'

NEEDLE INSERTION!!

'That's easy for you to say, sister'

With each zap my entire body pops up. Great fun let me assure you.

Anyone need there batteries recharged?? I think I've still got a good gazillion volts running through me. Bastards. I may try the Uncle Fester trick later on, I need a new nightlight anyway.

{Also, in your humble heroines opinion, it would be the nerve on the inner ankle that hurts THE worst when they zap it. AVOID AT ALL COSTS}

Finally, after what seemed like HOURS (read: more like fifteen minutes), Dr Pinky and the Brain comes in for the Needle Insertion part of the program.

*cue to applause*

She tells me to push my leg outwards, then relax it. I feel the tiniest of pinches (I would say something else but I know how gutter minded you lot are) and she tells me to push my leg outwards again. I declare 'Was that it?? Pah!! This is WAY easier!!'

'Ah' Dr Pinky wisely warns me, 'Not ALL muscles are that easy'

Next muscle, bit worse, but nothing I, the oh-so-tough Babs Geller cannot handle.

It goes downhill from there.

Finally she gets to the muscle above my knee.

'OH MY GOD THAT FUCKING HURTS MAKE IT STOP OH GOD WHAT THE HELL DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?? OW!! OW!! OWWWWWW!!'

Lost my composure. Ever so slightly. I may have even threatened to tell my mother. Ahem.

End result??

Good news: Nerves?? Fantabulously fine and not one bit pinched.

Bad news: Gloriously Gimptarded Leg?? It's because of the epilepsy, and my fucked brain, as originally thought. So back to square one as far as that goes.

Great news: Am running puter with two alligator clips attached to earrings and will save $16.95 on electricity this month thanks to extra voltage.

Yay!!

Zippo

2007-06-16T05:19:00.000-04:00

Being a spinster for so very long wears thin sometimes, you know. You tend to get used to it most days, though, and only dread it occasionally when you find yourself debating whether or not you have pores the size of Finland and think to yourself, 'Oh, do I exfoliate enough and with the right product??' Then you read about wrinkles, moisturizers, and all manner of heinous atrocities which happen to the human form as it plods along to its eventual permanent residency six foot under. I'm going to need a face-lift stat if I don't get married soon. Or find the one bastard with the worst eyesight on the planet. Gah.

Do you see what happens when you go to the St. Ives site to check on ONE thing?? In the middle of a pre-pre-mini-middle-age crisis?? (I mean ok, I won't be 35 until October, but hey!! why not get a jump start on obsessing. Always best to think ahead. After all the early bird gets the Botox) Exactly. It's rather sad, I'm aware--you needn't point this out. I'll take up needlepoint at some stage. Fear not.

Anyway, after obsessing for a good three and a half hours as to whether or not I looked like John Lithgow in The World According to Garp, I went back to surfing. And whilst reading Steph's blog (and if you don't read her, you ought, funny as hell) something she mentioned made me realize 'Oi!! Babs!! You've never told them about The Bug!!' So here we go.

Spinster. Means I've never been married. Obviously. Oh sure, I've regaled you time and again with the tales of ex-assholes 1-4. But I don't believe I've ever mentioned those immortal words that every girl wants to hear (aside from 'Babs, Colin Firth is at the door') 'Will you marry me??'

Has your fearless heroine ever been proposed to??

Ask and ye shall receive!!

{Well, I mean, clearly you've not REALLY asked as I'm writing this before the fact, but I'm betting you'd want to hear about it, so hush up and read. Silly}

Back in our heyday, we of La Casa were a tight knit bunch. We all hung out at the same spots, which meant friends co-mingling with friends (it was how I met ex-asshole # 3 in fact). And Manson, clever egg that he was and still is, made friends with anyone and everyone. Regardless of age, race, creed, gender or planetary alliance. If you drank coffee, you were in (and this was long before the rise of the behemoth Starbucks-pah. Manson was drinking coffee when Starbucks was naught but a penny-ante bean-pusher Seattle).

This would include, as it turns out, The Bug. To be fair he was more along the lines of 'acquaintance' than 'friend' to Manson. Manson, after all, was a brand new dad and wasn't in the habit of dangling Ozzy in front of possibly violent sociopaths. To The Bug, however, there was no differential between 'acquaintance' and 'friend'; one 'Hi' and you were blood brothers. And besides, no one knew he was off his rocker until well, he went off his rocker.

Oh dear.

The Bug was a good ol' boy. He thought that denim was a uniform top to toe. The rat-tail ponytail was hip. He was, and I'm not trying to be mean, not that bright. He had four teeth (though given my own Deethal History I should not be one to Critique). He believed that, oh yes, the south would indeed rise again. He was just right of clinically insane and an alcoholic. Medicated, and not always compliant (with tendencies to severe violence when not), to boot. Oh joy.

Oh and did I mention that he thought I was just the purtiest thang on this here island??

Yep. Thought I left out something.

Whenever I saw The Bug coming I ran the other way. And everyone in my family thought it was HYSTERICAL. Of course they would!! They didn't have a 6'2, 300lb, alcoholic, four-toothed, completely mental red-neck with violent tendencies pining away for them. This was entertainment for them!!

Fucking BASTARDS.

I still recoil with horror when I recall the day that I didn't see The Bug ambling along into the Hangout. There was Manson, myself, Sylvia, and a bunch of the rest of us, sipping our coffees and coca-colas. And, so help me god, The Bug sits directly across from me, pulls out a harmonica, and composes a song. And, between mismatched harmonical notes, he rhymes my name lyrically every which way he can. Singing at the very tippity-top of his lungs for all to hear. The WHOLE store was staring at me. Manson and Sylvia, of course, find this completely hysterical, and I could see them fighting back the laughter. Manson was practically in tears. I died of shame, embarrassment, and utter humiliation. There was me, Babs Geller, attractive, yes, but only to a clinically insane red-neck with four teeth, the IQ of a bran muffin, and the worst spontaneous lyrics this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Even MORE problematic was the fact that The Bugs place of residence was right around the corner from Ye Olde House. A fact which The Bug soon caught on to in spite of every ones effort to NOT let him realize that the object of his affection (yours truly) was but a meander away as the crow flies. Leaving the house soon became a feat of of epic proportions. Trash became 'The Lookout' as he was largely unknown to The Bug, given that Trash was still younger-ish. Trash knew who The Bug was, but owing to The Bug's being 'not that bright' he never copped on to Trash. So, if no sign of The Bug was to be found, I could zip out front, hop into my car, and be on my way.

Now some of you might say 'Well why did you not just tell him you didn't like him??' To which I reply, 'Are you fucking CRAZY??' Oh, I had toyed with the idea of telling him to bugger off instead of dealing with him in stoic (and mortified) silence or being polite, yet off-putting. I was, however, privy to one of his 'rage' episodes, wherein he tore apart the Hangout, and then beat the shit out of his very own car with a tire iron. Now do you think I wanted to tell this lunatic 'Hey. Fuck off'?? You bet your sweet bippie I didn't. I was scared shitless of him.

{I would also like to note that the original amusement that my family found with this soon went away when they realized he was an honest-to-god barking lunatic}

No matter how much I tried to avoid him I'd always get caught off guard the one time I'd forgotten to be careful. And he'd ask me out. And tell me how purty I was. And how nice I was. I'd be polite, nice, and in no way condescending, and I always managed to put him off without his becoming a violent sociopath.

Then, one evening, Manson asked Trash and I to toddle along to the Hangout to pick something up for him. Or Ma asked me to go there to get Trash. I forget which. There was a bicycle I remember that, because I heard the back of the station wagon open up and the bicycle sliding in. So yes, must have been picking up Trash. Anyway. I'd seen The Bug there, so I'd told Trash to hurry up. I stared straight ahead, because we ALL know that cardinal rule of childhood, if you don't look at them, they can't see you.

Car door opens. I don't look to my side and simply start the car. The car goes down a LOT more than it ought have given Trash's puny weight.

Oh god.

I look to my side, and sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME is The Bug, grinning at me like an idiot. All I can think is 'Oh god, oh god, I'm going to die, I'm going to die' alternating with 'Oh god, please kill me, someone PLEASE kill me or get this idiot away from me'

The Bug had taken it upon himself to pop into the car for a bit of a chat.

'You know I really do love you, Babs. You're special. I want you to marry me. I get social security you know, we could live on that. I can make you happy. Will you marry me??'

I was petrified. Literally could not move. Trapped in a car with a lunatic. Say no, risk sending him into some sort of violent rage wherein he bashes my head into the steering wheel. Say yes, and well, the same thing, eventually. Suddenly, thankfully, and oh-so-mercifully, there are two taps on the car door, Trash opens it, and gives The Bug the International Sign for 'Get the fuck out'

The Bug still wants an answer though, so I say sorry, no can do. Or something. It was a definite no (I know girls. What was I thinking!?!?). He sighs heavily, as if I am the biggest idiot in the world and throwing my life away by declining his proposal, slaps his hands on his knees, and stares at the car floor for a full minute.

'Just think about it' he says as he gets out of the car.

{Erm. NO!!}

The only thing I thought about after that was whether or not it was REALLY necessary to sleep with two butchers knives in my room, or would one do the trick.

I decided one was ok once they locked him up again.

Spazzy McButterpants

2007-06-13T01:12:00.000-04:00

I am very, very proud of myself, fair reader. For I, Babs Geller, in spite of the Crunchy Knee situation alluded to in my post of May the 20th, have yet to cave in and call Dr Fish Face Wimpy. No!! I did declareth that I would get it looked at AFTER the Gloriously Gimptarded Leg Test (coming to a neuro's office near you). Oh, I have on occasion wavered and said to various parties, 'Do y'know what?? I'm really going to go get this looked at tomorrow, because I really, really can't take this anymore' But I muscled through it and I didn't. DIDN'T!! And though the pain is now BEYOND fucking unbearable, I have managed to summon my Inner Viking, suck it up, and I've not even popped so much as a single aspirin. Such is my aversion to Pills Not Necessary and Quacks.

Ha!!

Clearly this is a plan that is foolproof and highly thought out, oh yes. She says as she sits with an ice pack on her hideously swollen knee. Ahem.

I sometimes think my stubbornness will be the death of me.

The reason it is Still Bothering Me, (aside from the fact that I am being Very Clever and not getting it looked at until after the 19th) is that I still insist on going for walks. For when one has summoned their Inner Viking they must make their forebears proud!! Would the Vikings have let a bum knee stop them from pillaging, plundering or, hey, even discovering America (No. Don't you dare give me any shit about Columbus. He was a sham. He got lost. And no, he didn't get here first. St. Brendan?? Maybe. Columbus?? No way)??

Plus I'm a heiferish bastard and, Crunchy Knee or not, I've got to lose weight.

{Read: Suck it up, Buttercup}

Savvy??

Good!!

In order to Facilitate Thinness I am trying to make small changes which will add up to bigger changes and voila!! No more fat bastard. Or Fat Bastard the Lesser. Either way works. For instance, instead of avoiding Ginormous Hills by utilizing public transportation, I walk. And when I go to various Quackeries and Stores I'll get off a stop or two early and hoof it. It's got to help somewhat. Then I take hoofs around the neighborhood when all the crackheads are abed (read: daytime).

{Plus, obviously, eating naught but rabbit food. And the already spoken of Retardaerobics}

I am pleased to announce that everyone in my neighborhood is STILL behind me one hundred percent. As they were last year. And the year before.

And, before I go on, allow me to say that I am always, as I've stated many times previous, a POLITE person of heiferage. I cover my rotundicity as best as I can in the summertime. I do not pander to the Spandex Minions, nor do I wear tops that leave little to the imagination. My shorts generally almost hit the knee or pretty damn close, and I usually wear a tshirt or something. My summer clothes make Burkas look daring, for gods sake.

{I did wear a [over sized and loose] tank top once, but small children wept with fear, grown men turned to stone, and the national economy collapsed. Ever since then, when feeling daring, I've opted for the occasional sleeveless boatneck top, and warily, at that. Blame Frieda. It was she who convinced me I could try a tank, dammit}

Anyway. The other day I was on one of my occasional neighborhood hoofs; this time the end destination being the store as I had to pick up a few things for the house. I saw a gaggle of girls on my way back, all piling onto the sidewalk.

The sidewalk, I should tell you, is a good five feet wide or so.

I should ALSO tell you that, though large, I am NOT a good five feet wide or so.

I circle around them, walk to the curb, and, in spite of this, one of the girls bumps into me. And yes, I am about to chip away at my surly and oh-so-crabby exterior yet again (god DAMMIT) and admit to an Act of Politeness. I smiled with bright deeth and apologized to the girl, even though she'd clearly not been paying attention to where she was going.

I didn't expect a co-apology. I didn't even expect an 'Oh that's ok' I expected NOTHING.

But fair reader I got so much more.

I got the encouragement I get day after day. Because clearly everyone in this neighborhood is worried about my Weight Woes.

As I walked away I hear her say 'Damn you're a FAT BITCH!!'

And the rest of her friends start laughing.

Which sets off the guys sitting on the stoop next door. Who start saying shit to me, too.

It's so nice to know that they care. Bless.

They've been saying something every day since.

I reckon after a week or so I'm just going to clock the bitch.

Interview With a Spaz--It's Ovah!!

2007-06-08T03:57:00.000-04:00

And so finally we are to the last question.

'Thank friggin' god' says the fair reader

Says Babs, 'Ah, bite me, it's been a slow week and Diana asked anyways. So there'

5. It's another miracle!! and you've been instantly upgraded to a
spaz-free body! You have also been awarded your very own
restaurant (as you are a chef, and a damn good one). What sort
of restaurant is it? Decor? Food? Drinks? Specialities?
Clientele? (Would you still admit to knowing us and let us have
a table, say, at 5 pm on a Tuesday night, in the corner, near
the kitchen?)

I'm really digging these miracles, I must say. I mean, before we even TACKLE the restaurant, HELLO, Spaz-Free?? This is like going to Alamo Rent-a-Car, renting a Yugo, and being upgraded to a Rolls Royce--for no reason at all!! So naturally I'd have to go on some sort of world-wide spaz-free celebratory tour before I settled down and opened ANY sort of restaurant. You know, climb Everest and throw bottles of Keppra from its summit; bungee jump from Sydney Harbor Bridge whilst lobbing tegretol pellets at passing cars; stare into Vesuvius and watch as the rubber sheets melt in the molten lava--that sort of thing. The only hindrance to any of the above being my fear of heights, angry commuters, and being burnt to a complete non-epileptic crisp. That and the fact that I've the athletic ability--and the body of--an elderly arthritic walrus. I'll just have to drink a lot and throw a few parties instead. Harumph.

So. This restaurant, yea?? Many have asked this question in theory. The reality, of course, is that most Places of Dining sink within like, five minutes of opening. And I am not so silly as to think that just because my mother, brothers, and cousins would willingly kill for my mashed potatoes, leg of lamb, and various pies etc, that the General Population would be of the same mindset, oh no. So I've never even contemplated such a thing. Aside from the fact that cooking in a Proper Restaurant is fucking aggravating and a LOT different from cooking at home. Plus you aren't allowed to throw chairs at people when you are annoyed at them like you can whilst cooking in your own abode. Which, frankly, isn't right. But this is a Miracle. Yay!!

Decor?? Ha!! I've never been one of those Better Homes and Gardens Everything Must Be Just So and Match Perfectly Or I Will Die RIGHT NOW types. Thus nothing of mine ever matches (With the obvious exception of my clothes. I'm not a god damned heathen, people. Nor do I wish to end up on that show where the British totties make you drop trou, pinch your fat blurbles, and then tell you have tits like biscuit dough that's been sitting on the counter for two hours. Getting free clothes is all well and good, but not at the cost of the free world seeing ones formerly unseen stomach, ta muchly).

Nuts. Did I wander parenthetically?? Apologies.

Anyway, DECOR!! None of the tables will match. Nor will the chairs. Much. If I see one I like I'll buy it, and so on and so forth. Doesn't go with the ones I have already?? Pah!! Who cares?? We're about eating out and having fun!! Not making a bloody decorating statement. Though I will make a concession about the tablecloths in that they must be colors that do not clash hideously. I mean this is not a 70's throwback or something for gods sake. I've seen the pictures, people. I don't know what you were smoking back then.

As for the surroundings/pictures etc, it will be all the incredibly stupid, goofy things that I find funny, and that everyone else in the free world probably finds hideous. Coupled with a few artsy-fartsy things that I like. Which amuses me even more. Because nothing cracks me up harder than say, 'Dogs Playing Poker' next to some classy art thing because I know it will annoy smug artsy-fartsy bastards with no sense of humor. Unfunny bastards.

{So yea, clearly no one is going to come here to eat. Or even just to get out of the rain, so far}

And the food?? Well. My food won't match either, in a sense. It will be a bit of everything!! This is firstly because I am an indecisive bastard. Second, and more importantly, I come from the Old Man School of Cookery. Which means you make something for everyone (And roll meatballs for four hundred god damned people on a whim on a Sunday afternoon because he liked to cater parties as a hobby). You want filet Mignon?? Check. You want jerk chicken?? Check. Plain old boring meatloaf (which, by the way, I hate, but I'm not cooking for me)?? Check. I'd have everything from crepes to pasta e fagioli on the menu. And lasagna (and none of that ground beef in the middle shit, either. My lasagna is a pure artery-clogging and oh-so-heavenly cheesy mess). Banana or apple pancakes?? What the hell, why not. Swedish meatballs. Corned beef and cabbage would ALWAYS be on offer (along with soda bread) for when the neph shows up. And ALL manner of seafood. And this is just the stuff I can think of; I could go on, but then you'd probably shoot me and I'd never get this damned post done, and then where would we be??

{See?? I'd never REALLY be able to open my own place. I'd never be able to set a proper menu. Also note the entire above paragraph could probably have been tons funnier but I am High on Topie, It Is Four AM, and I Am Overtired and Cannot Sleep}

Drinks?? Easy. Keep 'em coming. Sorted. The chef prefers a Red Devil, thanks so much. She also prefers to be called a cook, actually, and has no idea why she wrote chef. I don't care what that damned cooking school said when I graduated. Tsk.

{Don't know how to make a Red Devil: It's easy peasy!! Take some Vodka, Peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, Sloe gin, Triple sec, a little OJ, and a splash o' Grenadine and voila!!}

Specialties?? In spite of my hatred for it, and though I'm not even a baker type, I suppose I shall have to go with the infamous cheesecake. Upon the Old Man's demise, his friends offered me upwards of $40 to replicate said cake. And everyone else insists it is brilliant and I've no idea why--I can't stand the bloody thing.

Clientele?? Oh that's a cinch--the ones who won't press charges if I accidentally give them food poisoning. Also, anyone as warped as me. Which means anyone who made it through this atrocity of a post. Ahem.

Interview With a Spaz--Is There Something We Should Know?

2007-06-04T04:08:00.000-04:00

As mentioned previously, visit our intrepid reporter, Diana, for the rules and such, because I've yet to type the damned things up.

4. Catastrophe! There's a fire in the Waldorf Astoria and the members of Duran Duran are trapped inside!!!! While the firemen dick around rescuing the (scoff) 'women' and 'children', you are passing by and notice their cries for help. Rushing into the building and up to the 35Th floor, you realize you can only rescue them one at a time. What is the order in which you carry their bodies from the inferno (and thus the order of life-long devotion of each of them)? They ARE all still rich, right? Still getting those nice royalty checks and doing the odd concert?

Ah, yes. Once a Durannie, always a Durannie, I suppose. And, while I'm not the rabid, Smash Hits-poster smuggling, every-single-buying Durannie that I once was in my teen-aged years, I will still declare them The Best Band in The Whole Universe (because they still are!). You will not sway me.

As for who will be saved from being burnt to a Birmingham crisplet first??
Easy peasy. I've always been John Taylor's girl--he just never sorted out it in time.

All those wasted teen aged years pining away and planning our dream wedding. And yet?? He dated supermodels rather than a chubby fifteen year old with braces and a never ending devotion to him. Bastard. But god did I love him. Oh yes, he'll be rescued first. He's still bloody gorgeous (Fuck off. He is. No. Shut up). And then we'll have a little chat about why he's married to someone my MOTHER'S age. Humph.

*I will not even DISCUSS his first wife. I mean really, are you kidding me?? I SO would have been a better choice. I'll never marry him now. Yes, I know he'll turn into a heaving, sobbing mess when he reads this. Too bad. He had his chance. Unless of course he really IS reading this, in which case, um, totally kidding. Love the new album even if I haven't bought it yet (or the last one, for that matter)!!

(I did my research whilst writing this tonight, oh yes. I had no idea what the Boys from Birmingham had gotten up to lately. I didn't even know that the much ballyhooed reunion is effectively an un-union as Andy left again. Last October. So the Fab Five are just four now)

Next is more problematic: it's a toss up--Simon has the cuteness and height factor over Nick; and Nick was always a little too artsy-fartsy for me at times. Then I'd read an article where Simon said something truly dorky and my fifteen year old self would decide that Nick came second in line for devotion. Then Nick would get all drawly and declare things 'ethereal' for no reason at all, and I'd put Simon back in second place. So I have attempted to devise a point system to decide who gets rescued first:

Simon:

6'2 +4
Married supermodel -3
Raced a yacht -4
Sank a yacht and didn't die in process + 6
Pretentious frou-frou names for children* -5
Not exactly an ace dancer -3
Makes one giggle when attempting to dance +5

Nick:
midget -5
Married supermodel -3
divorced supermodel +4
Unwarranted artsy-fartsyness -1
Pretentious frou-frou name for child -5

*this also applies to John, sad as I am to say it

Sod it, I'm not doing the math. Simon is taller and cuter. He's getting rescued next. Sorry, Nick. Plus, to be honest, I've always been a bit jealous of the fact that your bloody make-up looks better than mine (see Spazcilla-Queen of Apothecaries post for reference). I'll bring a fire extinguisher up with me after I bring Simon down, ok??

Now that John, Simon, and Nick are out of the way, let's sort out Roger and Andy.

Roger, of course, goes next. It's not that I never liked him. He was always so quiet, though. And I never really had a thing for drummers anyway. He seemed nice enough though--and he was definitely cute (but short).

And last but not least, the fucktard, I mean Andy. Hey, I liked him at first. Sure he wasn't a looker--and he was another midget, but he seemed to be a smartass which is a trait I can usually find endearing. He seemed to be getting too full of himself though and hey, maybe the rest of the band was fucking him over, who knows?? But leaving the band AGAIN just last year?? A little too suspicious to me, my friends. But no. He wasn't in it just for the money. No sir. That not why he's aflame though, not by a long shot. He is being saved dead last for writing craptastic songs for that travesty of a film 'American Anthem'. An unforgivable crime. I'm just grateful my Durannie-devotion was not so maniacal that I would attempt to go to the movies to see it (not that it was out long enough anyway). No, the sensible teen aged Babs waited for it to come out on cable, and promptly changed the channel five minutes in. Andy, you should be ashamed of yourself. Care for a S'more?? Some aloe??

Forget it. I'm not even rescuing him. The concierge can sort him. I'm off for drinks with the fellas.

Last question tomorrow, kids!!

Interview With a Spaz--Part Deux

2007-06-02T04:26:00.000-04:00

Interview With a Spaz Continued---Questions 2 & 3 out of 5

(Worry not, the end is almost nigh!!)

Visit our intrepid reporter, Diana, for the rules and such

2. You'd do much in pursuit of the elusive fireman, including working at a grocery (gah! all those price codes you had to learn) and showing up at the annual St Paddy's Day Parade regardless of cost to personal health. If no firemen, what profession ranks 'runner up'?

Ah yes, the Suspendered Flame Destroyers--the uniformed wonders that flustered a horde of we giggly cashiers (ok fine-just me and Franny). Now of course the whole fireman thing is, as I've said before, part of my Single Girl Schtick Comedy Act--to a degree. When I say to a degree this means I wouldn't walk away were some disillusioned fireman to, by some miracle of god, become enamored of me, heavens to Betsy, NO. I am not, however, going to the Fireman's Ball every year, either. They are nice to look at though and damn good fun to flirt with. Not that I ever did. Ahem.

So, their runners-up?? Gawd!! This is worse than the food bit I tell you. Oh fine. I will admit to being a walking cliche. In this fair city of mine I am surrounded by fellows of a construction-y type. I think it's a survival mechanism. Somehow I must subconsciously know I should find a fella that's strong enough to drag my fat ass home, unconscious, should I pass out in a Fit of Epileptic Wonder in the middle of the mall or something. And, also?? He could build me a Fit Proof House (IE: rounded corners and no blinky lights). And I want an island in my kitchen, god dammit.

Plus, you know, they wear Levis. Did I say that?? Oh no I didn't. No ma'am.

*Note: In your fearless heroine's opinion, ironworkers are the most fun to ogle but they are usually arrogant fucktards, too. Or so I am reliably informed. Look, but don't date.

Of course the above is the realistic version. If we are just going by the 'every girl digs a fella in a uniform' line of thinking, hell, it's got to be a Marine.

{It should be noted for the record that none of the ex-assholes were any of the above. No. I dated, in no specific order, a delivery man [he did not], a pencil pusher [who was pushed around by his mommy hence our no longer dating] and a freelance pothead who went through more jobs than pot connections. Ahem}

NOTE: For this next question I have delicately renamed one party in the fashion of a State-Run Communist News Agency or similar. Such runs the depth of my paranoia. I can only hope that Diana, our intrepid question-asker-er, understands. You readers who have been here since god was a boy will know who I am referring to. My new readers?? Just trust me kids.

3. It's an alternate universe and you've been given a magic wand by someone in a sparkly dress. This wand enables you to change 3 things (the things can be either for the better or the worse) about 2 of your worst nemeses: EFL and Person Who You Are Paranoid Of (your sadistic you know what) wave that wand and tell us what's new and improved (or just plain painful and weeping) in these two.

Ha!! I will do my best, dear ones, to keep this brief.

{Yes, I know it won't happen but I can PRETEND, so stop rolling your eyes, Missy}

I would change almost the exact same things about the pair of them, as they are eerily similar in some departments. In fairness I must say that PWIAPO has changed drastically (in a good way) from when I first met her all those years ago, and even from when I was Down Yonder recently. No!! Really!!

A) Cats, no matter how hard you try, are not people, and they do not *do* things on purpose to spite you. Nor are they human no matter how much you anthropomorphize the little buggers.

Par Exampluh:

EFL (upon seeing kitty litter around litter box which has no top): Would you look at this mess?? He does that on purpose!!

Babs: No. It's just that cats naturally want to cover up their *ahem* business once they're finished. If you got a top lid there wouldn't be a mess. He's not doing it intentionally.

EFL: No I'm telling you he does it just to spite me!! *grumble grumble*

(Incidentally, the other cat throws up hairballs on the couch or rug intentionally too, instead of having the good sense to march into the kitchen or the loo. They have a vendetta against EFL, oh yes)

Par Exampluh Too:

PWIAPO: Cat!! Stop teasing your sister!! No that's it. No treats for you.

(Seems fair enough. Ish)

*one hour later*

PWIAPO: Babs, we have to go to the store.

Babs: Why??

PWIAPO: We have NO cat treats in the house. They'll start acting up if they don't get their treats.

Babs: They have food, yes??

PWIAPO: Yes. But they have no treats!! They have to have their treats, they get upset if they don't.

Babs: *stares in disbelief*

Upset?? If they don't have. Treats??

Hey, I love my cats as much as the next person, people. HOWEVER, I'm not chucking my shoes on at 9PM to toddle off to the supermarket for a fucking bin of super-fantastic-oh-so-fun-my-cat-won't-get-upset-chicken-treats for the little hairballs, OK??

B) Both EFL and Herself, to some extent, insure that they do not get walked all over by people, by doing the exact same thing themselves. I would allow the pair of them to look backwards and notice the fucking footprints they've trampled into other people in their quest 'not to be taken advantage of' or 'be a doormat' Standing up for yourself is one thing. Leaving track marks on other people in this endeavor is quite another. Says she who has idiotically allowed a size 9 narrow to skip along her skull one too many times (in the case of PWIAPO). Ahem.

C) For PWIAPO: I cannot go into details with this one, but I will say this: my family is not perfect. I fully and cheerfully accept this. Hell my blog celebrates this fact!! What fun is normal?? I would have the Sparkly Dress Lady wave her wand and have PWIAPO realize, no acknowledge, the fact that THEIR family isn't the Beaver Cleaver Ideal, either. I am tired of being told how 'weird' my family is when I know full well there are bones rattling away in their closet, too.

For EFL: Just because the Magic Radio Elves say it's so doesn't make it the end all be all of truth.

I harken back to St Patrick's Day of this year. We are getting ready to toddle out the door after having seen, on channel 4, a telecast, where they have shown a live feed of a very cleaned up 5th Avenue (there'd been a snowstorm the night previous) and they'd said it was fine for the parade and there would be no glitches and said event would go on without a hitch. EFL shook her head ruefully 'Do you think you should go?? They just said on the radio that 5th Avenue was a mess and they don't think it will be ready' We inform her that we've actually SEEN said avenue on the TV. She insists, however, that since the fellow on the radio says it's a wreck, it must be so. Regardless the fact that we'd actually seen it. Live. This goes for ANYTHING. Especially politics. One fellow, six months back or so, said they'd reinstitute the draft. ONE FELLOW. Ever since then this is her favorite picking point with Ma (EFL is rabidly anti-war and none of us are political enough for her-as in we don't discuss it AT ALL). 'Well what if they draft Trash??' You can't say, 'Oh they won't do the draft thingie. Say, isn't that Tyrone Power in the garden??' No. She will dither about and carry on 'What if they draft him??' And Ma gives her the answer you would expect of a woman who was married to a veteran of Vietnam 'He'll do the same thing his father did' Which turns into 'So you'd be ok with your son dying??' No, you silly cow, of course she wouldn't. She just means that if Uncle Sam came knocking, which he fucking wouldn't, Trash would do as his Pop did. End of fucking list. Twit.

{As always this is not an invite to get all political and crap here because like, I'm stupid, dude. Besides I get enough arguing at home. I don't want it on my god damned blog. Go hug a tree and/or shoot a deer, whichever your predilection may be}

Another quick example (OK fine they're NEVER quick). We go to Manhattan all the time. EFL?? Never. She heard something on the radio the other day about the homeless. Or panhandlers. I forget which. But it was something along the lines of la la la they are enacting some sort of doo-hickey to get them to stop doing something or make them do something or I'm not sure WHAT exactly, OK. And hey, we here at La Casa have all the sympathy in the world for the homeless so we aren't some heartless bastards or anything. Back in the day we used to drive around after a big meal, find the homeless fellows that Manson happened to know (he knows EVERYONE) and bring them dinners. Ma happened to say that whatever it was she semi-agreed with it, or disagreed with it. EFL was shocked. Ma says she has been harassed and manhandled by some homeless/panhandlers in Manhattan before. And hey, who hasn't?? I know I have. EFL says 'NO this is NOT possible!! When do you people go to Manhattan?? Besides, they said NOTHING about THAT on the radio!!' Ma reminds EFL that said EFL never goes to Manhattan save by cab, directly to the door of where they're going. And EFL shakes her head as if to say 'La la la!! I'm not hearing this!! The Magic Radio Elves didn't say it so it's not trueeeeeeeee!!'

I'd love to chuck that fucking radio into the ocean.

{to be continued}

Interview with a Spaz

2007-05-29T02:41:00.000-04:00

Our very good friend Diana, over at Piffle, has done the interview meme-y thing, which is good!!

And do you know WHY??

Well, sometimes I can't think of squat.

Plus, and I don't want to give away too much, but she will ask me a Durannie question that will be a heartbreaker.

Also?? I've had a very Spazzy Weekend, hence the lack of posting. My Gloriously Gimptarded Leg is bugging the life out of me. And the Crunchy Knee is still aching like a mother. It's all got me leaning very much towards thinking of becoming Robo-Spaz, let me tell you.

The rules are this, she asks me five questions of varying... oh hell, read the link, I'm too braindead to explain it right now!!

And so. Babs Geller--The Interview!!*

*I've only answered one question so far because A) I'm a long-winded bastard as it is and B) my head still hurts

1. We know your favorite food (Oysters Rockefeller) and that you drink tea when composing your riotous trademark posts that let us peek through the window into the insanity that is your life. What food(s) make you want to bolt from the table in horror?

Ha!! This, believe it or not, is a tougher question than it looks. I'll pretty much try anything and I'm not TOO overly fussy. My brothers now recoil in horror at the fact that I've turned traitor from our heady days of youth and the very dinner we all three once reviled I now cook and enjoy; that being, liver and onions. I'm a more of a picky-about-the-details sort--you know, one of those annoying Faux White Trash Food Snobs.

Par Exampluh, I will eat anyones potato salad and declare it loverly, but!! If they have made that salad with the atrocity known as Kraft Miracle Whip and Salad Dressing, I will be secretly wishing there was a section in Emily Post's Guide to Modern Etiquette on how to surreptitiously spit the infected salad out and isn't it ok to inform your host that Hellmans is THE only mayonnaise and KRAFT IS THE WORK OF THE FUCKING DEVIL AND NOT MAYO?? You see?? It's a quandary. I hate the shit. It makes me want to hurl. It Hellmans or nothing for me, baby. See also: Mint jelly/sauce on lamb. Which should be abolished. The only thing that belongs on lamb is garlic, rosemary, and pepper. Why does everyone want to go and fuck it up?? Gah.

Ah!! I know what I hate. The whole 'Bugs as food' thing. Deep-fried grasshoppers?? Chocolate covered ants?? Please!! Now, I haven't actually TRIED them, but hey, I haven't tried being dropped head-first from the Empire State building either, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be too god damned fond of it. Bugs are for making us girls seem delicate while we beat up our boyfriends/hubbies and make them kill the damned things. Not eating. And, in fact, I did almost partake of a chocolate covered bug once. And when I say chocolate, I mean Nestles Quik chocolate milk, made from the powdered mix. And when I say 'almost' I mean I took a sip of my milk and, god--I can't even say it though it was nearly eleven years ago. Let us say this---upon the moment of realization there was a chocolate milk eruption. My advice is this: get the liquid syrup mix, or sift that powdered mix like a bitch if you're at the home of a Known Bug-Haver. I don't know what I was thinking.

Oh. I also hate stuffed grape leaves, nicoise olives, green olives**, and jelly doughnuts.

I'm weird, me.

**We should really just put I hate ALL olives save for your basic black olive, which I adore muchly.

{to be continued}

Waterless Lily

2007-05-24T05:23:00.000-04:00

Oh you must have eaten ALL your veggies and cleaned your rooms this week, fair readers.

Why do I say this??

Because this week you're getting a SECOND EFL post!!

Hurrah!! You lucky, lucky buggers.

I feel massively guilty sometimes when I whinge about EFL on here. Especially when EFL says things like 'Oh we're friends, Babs, you can say anything....' etc etc

*Please note I am not actually stupid enough to actually say anything at this request. I do my work and nod my head and hope the Crazy Bug doesn't come out to play. And I shouldn't say Crazy Bug. Because I know that the Craziness, in part, has to do with the Sugar Thing (read: when number goes off scale). On the other hand, it ALSO has to do with EFL being a fucking snobby, elitist twit who thinks the world revolves around same.

Anyway. The Glorious News of This Week.

As you all know, it was about two years ago now that EFL Completely and Fully Outlawed Clothes Laundering. So in our loo we have a perfectly good washing machine that has become nothing more than a decoration. A place for Trash to leave his reading materials (read: The local paper, losing scratchie tickets, and old copies of National Geographic ); and various shampoos, conditioners, and their compatriots congregate atop same while waiting for their turn in the Teeny-Tiny Shower Cubicle of Death That Was Made for Midgets. Oh. We keep the music roll there, too, ever since the spinny-holdie thing on the wall broke.

This situation made us all very sad, as ever since then it's seen us lugging TONS of laundry up and down forty odd steps and up and down the Swiss Alps of Staten whenever we need clean skivvies. Also, it put my Clever and Oh-So-Ingenious Summertime Nine Iron Drying Method to bed forever. Or at the very least until I reside in another domicile with a washer, no dryer, and a plethora of golf clubs. Humph.

One of the reasons we had to give up Clothes Laundering, of course, was Because It Was Dangerous To Pipes. Also, EFL's bathroom ceiling isn't insulated, so with every wash came a phone call wherein EFL screamed 'How many things do you have in that machine??' 'Do you know it's only made for lingerie??' and 'OH MY GOD DID YOU HEAR THAT?? I THINK THE PIPE JUST BROKE!!'

'Um, no, EFL, that was just the water switching off'

'NO MORE LAUNDRY!! This house is over a hundred years old and these pipes could snap at any minute'

No amount of talking to EFL could convince them that this was ridiculous and that the pipes would not snap simply because the water of the washing machine turned on and off. Amazingly, there is not this level of concern with her machine. A machine which I will have you know does the same fucking thing. It must, however, be attached to Mystical Pipes that we mere mortals are not privy to because we are the Filthy Unwashed--destined to a life of Purgatory. Paying for our Sins by lugging pounds and pounds of laundry up and down forty odd Dr. Seuss stairs; then trudging home, placing our ears to the floor and listening wistfully while The Sainted One revels in the centrifugal force of a Home Washing System. And then hangs them out on the line to dry so as to taunt we, the Peasantry and Great Unwashed. The Auld Bitch.

Now previous to EFL outlawing Clothes Laundering, there had been a raise in the rent. Why??

Babs lives here now!! And what with the extra showering and laundering, ESPECIALLY the laundering!! And, if you'll recall, back then, EFL was swearing up and down that Trash's at-the-time GF, Lydia, was not only doing her laundry here, but living here (she never lived here, only stayed over occasionally, because, HELLO, Trash is a grown-up!!**). As was Felix (Which, sadly, turned into a reality. Sigh. Oh you're reading this?? Hi Felix!! Kidding!! How's life upstate going?? I notice you aren't in the Sixth Borough)

**Allegedly

Fun Quotes from EFL Archives:

'Just how much laundry do you have, Babs??' --after managing to hear me do two loads of laundry; once when she left in the morning and once when she returned. Thus, assuming I'd been laundering all day. 'You people will have to go on a schedule. Your mother did clothes at 7PM last night!!'

'I mean I know I charge your mother an extra twenty for water, but that doesn't mean she should USE it'

And that extra twenty tacked on to the monthly rent was a response to the *gasp* $6 rise in EFL's water bill. Because a six dollar hike in a quarterly bill like TOTALLY justifies a *mumble mumble* percent hike, does it not??

{Ha. I have completely fooled you all and not given away how crap I am with math by ingenious mumble plan}

In essence, EFL started, and is still charging us, $240 extra a year for water, to cover the $24 extra in the water bill, which was caused by and large, so it was claimed, by the washing machine that we haven't been allowed to use for two fucking years now. And by having three people living here instead of just two AS THE LEASE STATED. Which is always a fun bone for EFL to pick when feeling moody. But usually?? The washing machine.

We had not heard word one about the water bill since. Which was odd given that, you'd think it would have gone up a *tiny* bit while the lads (read: Manson and Felix) had been here. This does not mean we don't get pestered about the water, heavens to Betsy, NO.

I haven't done the dishes in MONTHS. Oh--me and Ma pretend it's because she *magically* washes them better than I do. This isn't the case, though, really. It's because the pair of us got sick of getting phone calls every five minutes whenever I did the dishes asking *just* how many dishes do we have?? Because 'Should it really take you that long to wash dishes, Babs?? That's a lot of water' So to pre-empt it all, Ma does the dishes, and I sort out the cooking and all the other whatnot. This way I don't get a phone call every five minutes asking me how long it takes me to scrub out my fucking baking pans.

{This has not, however, stopped the 'Babs turns off the faucet too hard calls' It's like EFL sits in the kitchen waiting for me to fuck up--though to be fair we haven't had one of these for about two months now. Which all but guarantees one in the next twenty-four hours}

So yes. According to EFL, I wash my dishes too god damned slow. Anyone amazed I'm not in Bellevue yet?? You're not the only one, Cupcake.

Times they are a changin' friends. Because guess who is using too much water??

Is it:

A) The Great Unwashed Peasantry who only use said water for showers/bathroom-y things, dishes, cooking and the occasional floor mop?? And have not been allowed to use the washing machine for two fucking years??

OR

B) The one who uses a fucking garden hose to sweep the sidewalk. And all fifty gazillion stairs. And forgets to shut it off. And uses a washing machine that leaks. Constantly. And mops their floors, walls and ceilings ten times a day. And sterilizes stray animals feeding bowls so they don't get syphilis, sarcoptic mange or the fucking chicken pox??

I shan't bother to say, seeing as it's so obvious.