Can't Duplicate Brilliance

I had a fabulous post written and Blogger killed it. I don't have time to duplicate the wittiness at this time. Stay tuned. Maybe it will show up later. Maybe it will be lost forever.

ETA: Here's a little of what I was thinking, minus the lightning wit.

Well, that's it. Terry Shiavo is gone. Thanks to her, we now have scads of people rushing into the office, wanting us to draw up living wills. For some reason, these folks just don't trust their families. By the look of them, I wouldn't either. We have done 6 more today, bringing the fine total for the month up to 22. That's not counting all the health care powers of attorney we've prepared, and the wills, codicils to wills, HIPAA forms, etc. Good grief. Don't these idiots realize that all their namby-pamby fears about being the living dead for 50 years are screwing up my valuable internet and gaming time? What do they think we do in a lawyer's office? Work? C'mon now. At this point, I'm ready to put up a sign outside that says, We Don't Care About Your Feed Tube. Do you think it will get the point across, or just get me fired?

That's it for the day. I'll try to fill in the other blanks in my memory tomorrow.

You Got a Permit for Those?

So there we were, strolling into the restaurant the other day. Just me and my nephew, starving and looking for cheap biscuits & gravy where no waitress would give me a funny look for ordering an extra large Mt. Dew at 8:30 a.m. Actually, there are only two restaurants in our town that serve breakfast. That doesn't include our ghetto McDonald's, which I am boycotting because they don't serve bacon egg cheese biscuits. Yeah, sure, not enough room in your store to make biscuits (or pancakes!), but plenty of room for the gristle-filled McChickens and globule-loaded sausage. Fascists.

Anyhoo, as we were walking up to the front door, this 1960 Ford POS pulls in, blowing smoke and sputtering. Being avid car nuts, we both looked, so that we could describe it to others at a later date and ridicule. Behind the wheel of that monstrosity was the largest woman I have ever seen, and believe me, I've seen some biggies. We live in the heart of the country, where food is still fried and portions are the size of dinner plates. Richard Simmons comes here for inspiration. She had to be at least 475 lbs. and all of it was packaged in a size 6 muu muu. Sweet potato arms - just what I needed to see before breakfast.

This is what I hear from beside me. "Oh. My. God. Trina." I suddenly remembered that I had an impressionable teenager standing beside me, and I needed to set a good example.

(through gritted teeth ) "Sheldon David, don't stare. That's rude. Just smile and walk on by."
(while trying not to move his lips) "But, Trina, how does she fit in the car? Did they take the back seat out?"
(gritted teeth) "I don't know. Can we not discuss this now?"
(lips not moving) "But she's bigger than Aunt Melda!"
(gritted teeth) "I'm going to strangle you."
(lips not moving) "She could be Patrick Deuel's wife."
(veins bulging) "Sheldon David!"

The worst part about it was that every thought that popped into my head was shooting out his mouth. They were like bubblegum thoughts from the Devil. I threaten him with death if he looks her way again. We walk by the woman's car, just as she opens the door and starts to get out. Sheldon's looking straight ahead, as am I. Then it happens. In her attempt to squeeze out between that poor, abused seat and the innocent steering wheel, there was just not enough space. Her horn blasted, and I suddenly realized that her breasts had apparently become impatient and needed more room. Sheldon jumps about a foot off the ground and spins around to look at her, his eyes wide. I nearly die of embarassment as she sheepishly looks our way and says, "Oops." I barely got him into the restaurant before he collapsed in laughter. When he was finally able to breathe again, he says, "We'd better hurry up and order before she gets in here. I need the food more than she does." The subsequent slap to the back of his head shut his mouth, but it did little to help the newly acquired twitch in my eye.

Remind me again why I don't want children?


Here is a site that I am begging you not to look at. No, really, please don't click on it. Well, fine, if you won't listen to me, it's your own fault. Enjoy.

PC Language & Domestic Upheavals

Since I was informed that yesterday's idea of a midget rodeo kind of ruined the real story, here's a little tidbit to satisfy the masses. My sister works at an assisted living facility, and a couple of days ago, a prospective renter came to view the place. Apparently, she is, wait for it... a 60 year old retarded midget. Yeah, yeah, I know, the PC term would be age-afflicted mentally-handicapped, vertically challenged...oh crap. Just forget it. Anyhoo, I figure the only way to make her cooler would have been if at some point in her life she had been a stripper. Retarded midget strippers - next on the Man Show. But alas, she has never been paid to remove her clothes. Wait - did I just write that? Lord, I apologize...

She is a little over three feet tall, and has always lived with her mother several states away. But her mother recently passed away, so her brother is moving her here - where she has no family, no friends, and he doesn't live close. Nice, huh? I guess her mom always told her every move to make, so she's pretty lost right now. I would like to help her get integrated into her surroundings, and I think getting her involved in community activities is the best way to start. I hear the Chamber of Commerce is putting together a bull-riding, and they're looking for someone to fit in the rodeo barrel...

In other news, I was lying on the floor watching television last night, (yes, I own furniture, but I like the floor) and I suddenly noticed the smell of cat food. I had fed my cat about 1/2 hr earlier, but it was odd that I wasn't smelling it until now. I thought maybe I had left the lid off the container, and being closer to the ground, the scent was wafting my way. That theory was incorrect. I started to reach my arms behind my head to stretch, and I was given a nasty, nasty surprise. Instead of touching carpet, my fingers found an enormous pile of cat puke. Once I got over the initial freaking, gagging, and boiling of my hand, I went to clean up the hideousness. It was the freakiest thing I had ever seen. None of the food had been digested. It looked like someone had just dumped the bowl of cat food in a pile on the floor...and it was soggy, and smelly, and really really gross. Apparently, Meeko had eaten it and hurled immediately. What a waste of perfectly good food. I was tempted to put it right back in his bowl to see if he'd notice, but I was afraid he would and it would be redeposited back into my shoe. I spent so much time cleaning up the carpet that I nearly put a hole in it. Sure, it's brown shag carpet, but it wants to be pretty too.

And just to change the subject again and get you really confused, check out this video. I almost feel bad for laughing, and then I watch it again.

Midget Rodeo

Yesterday, some friends came up for the day, bringing their four children in tow, ages 8 - 20. Their youngest, Caleb, has been telling me for months that "one of these days" he was going to ride my colt. Caleb is not very tall, but he's muscular. You can't tell it to look at him, but he's got some heft to him. Not quite like the world's strongest boy, but tough nonetheless.

So Cabe gets out of the vehicle, and he's decked out in every imaginable piece of cowboy gear available. Hat, boots, little gloves, wranglers, western shirt, chaps, the works. He looked like a midget bronc rider, which also would have been pretty entertaining. On any other kid his age, I would have said they were playing dress-up. But this kid actually is a country kid, and cowboying seems to be second nature. He wasn't trying to show off - that's what he wears at home too. He's been on horses since before he could walk or talk, and he's landed in the dirt more times than I care to count. Now he comes prepared. Considering some of the horses they own, I'd be wearing a parachute.

As he strolled up to me, I winked at him and said, "Howdy, Cactus Pete," just trying to get a reaction out of him. He didn't smile or scowl at me. He just nodded his head, tried to wink back (which was more of a squint) and replied, "How do?" I attempted to repress a snicker, so of course it turned into more of a snort. He raised one eyebrow and asked, "You sick? You better not get me sick. I got horse breaking to do." I assured him that he would not be infected, and brought out the colt.

Normally, Kismet is a little skittish with getting her feet messed with. She's young, hasn't been worked with a whole lot, and has a lot of learning to do. I pick up her front feet, but I don't usually play around with her back feet. I saw what her hoof did to Switch's rump (perfect horseshoe shape wound), and I really don't think it would be an improvement to my forehead. It's not exactly a good luck sign between your eyes.

However, we had decided it was time she got used to having them worked with, since she will need her hooves trimmed in the future. So Cabe's dad put a lead rope on her and led her out of the corral. He motioned to Cabe, and Cabe walked right up to her, leaned down and picked up her back foot. And she let him! No shying, no fuss, no snorting and rolling her eyes, nothin'. He proceeded to pick up the rest of her feet without any problems. I commended him on a job well done. He shrugged and said, "It wasn't hard," giving off the slightest hint of overconfidence. His mom just laughed and promised he would learn humility once he rode her.

We got a bareback pad on Kismet and Caleb was ready to go. I told him I would be taking pictures whenever he got bucked off, and I was promptly informed that I would have lots of film left. She didn't act too thrilled to have this creature on her back, but his older brother was holding on to his back belt loops in case an emergency ejection seat was needed. Kismet started off fine, and Caleb grinned my way. "You can take my picture now if you want to." Just then, Kismet did this jump forward-hop to the side-rear number, flinging her head back, just as Cabe's body headed forward. I heard a loud thud right before his older brother yanked him off her back. Cabe's face had come into full contact with Kismet's head.

Expecting tears and bloodshed, I headed over to him, wondering why his mom was still sitting unconcerned in her chair. I asked him how he was, noticing that no blood was spewing. "My nose hurts really bad," he said. "Her head is really hard. Can I get back on now?" His brother just laughed, telling him that his head was just as hard as hers, and that Kismet probably had a concussion. There were no tears, no complaining, and no parental concern as he was loaded on her again. She had a couple more jumping fits, but he managed to stay on. He never mentioned his nose hurting again, but finally asked if that was all they were going to do for the day. I think that was the hint for us to give him a break. They offered to give me a run at her too. I used the excuse I was still too heavy for her. The truth is, I already broke my nose once, and I want it to stay just where it's at. Sure, there's the chance that she might break it back into place. But knowing my luck, I end up looking like a Cabbage Patch doll. Besides, I wasn't wearing chaps, and I had enough rodeo pictures.

Neener, Neener, Neener

Guess what? I have the day off. Just thought I'd drop in and tell you that. No update today. Other than to tell you that I slept til 11 this morning. Heh heh. Have a good day at work. I think I'll go build a snowman.

The Sky is Falling

Quote of the Day:

If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did." - Jack Handy

So, I'm sitting at my desk this morning, slaving away, (and if you believe that, I've got something to sell you) and there was a huge crash. I look up and a huge ceiling tile had fallen to the floor, bringing dirt, water, and an enormous chunk of insulation down with it. I started laughing, and did nothing to clean it up. Why? Because I had said numerous times that it was going to happen, and I was paralyzed by being right.

You see, we have a flat roof. It was supposedly sealed and fixed by a local roofer. Clearly, he's not so much with the skills. Every time God cries, we find another leak. It's soaked the ceiling tiles so many times, many of them are bulging and stained. I replaced a few of them a couple of years ago, but we've been waiting for a reprieve or a knowledgeable roofer before fixing these. I've said for months now that if we got hit hard again, those suckers were going to collapse and I was going to laugh. They did and I did.

Yesterday our snow started melting and the crap hit the fan. No, literally, it did. The leaks started nearly everywhere, and the tiles starting bulging. The problem? Besides the gross water, we have bats in our attic. Hence, enormous amounts of bat guano. Great in a garden, not so useful in a law office. It really should be shoveled out of there, but let's be realistic. I so don't get paid enough to scoop bat crap. Anyhoo, the tiles started getting loaded up. When it finally broke, bat crap water and insulation started pouring all over, including into the fan. I refrained from my witty reference when speaking to my obviously perturbed employers. Just as my boss was finishing cleaning up the tile, vacuuming and everything, another one crumbled behind him. It was like a comedy routine. I Love Lucy in $300 suits.

Now I'm used to this type of occurrence at my house, since my landlord still hasn't properly fixed my leak issue. It's like Special Olympics roofing in this town. But you would think attorneys would get a higher level of service or something. Better service, you know? But apparently, it means nothing to these yahoos. Who cares if they sue us for crappy service? They'll have to stand in line! It was pretty funny watching my boss run a vacuum though. I told his wife I should have gotten her a picture to frame at home. She said to get him to wear an apron, and she would pay me. So far, no glory.

I wonder how many will have to crash down before they give us the day off? It's still snowing, so it's just a matter of time. The carpet's getting a bit marshy, so hopefully our carpenters were better than our roofers. I'd hate for the floor to give out and for us to end up in the basement. It smells like dead mice down there and there's a toilet in the middle of the room. Knowing my luck, I'd land on it, breaking my neck and the toilet, and sewage would shoot everywhere. What a crappy way to die.

UPDATE: As my boss was walking down the hall, another one just fell. It missed him by about 2 feet, but he's 75 years old. I think he nearly blew a heart valve. I felt really guilty giggling hysterically.

It's Not a Tumor

I think something's wrong with me. Not a tumor or anything like that, but definitely something. Every morning when I go to work, I'm still half-asleep. That's understandable, since I usually only get up about 15 minutes before I have to leave for work. I run on auto-pilot until about 10:30, all the time thinking about how nice it would be to go back to bed. I feel sorry for the people who call our office in those first two hours, because I'm pretty much hating all of them and wishing they would get amoebic dysentary or something ("Diarrhea forever??!"). Then 10:30 arrives, and suddenly I'm starving. That probably has something to do with that 15 minute window of time being used for putting clothes on instead of eating.

"Katrina, why did you come to work naked?"
"Well, I only had 15 minutes to eat or dress, and y'know, I have priorities."
"You're fired."

By the time lunch rolls around, I'm ready to saw off an appendage, dip it in ketchup, and go to town. But once I've eaten twice my weight (in lunch, not body parts), the cycle begins again. Now I'm tired, and all I can think about until 5:00 is how long it will be until I can sleep again. And once I get home, I have no energy to do anything but sit on the couch, thinking about how hungry I am, but I'm too lazy to cook and too tired to care. I lay around, watching TV, all the while knowing that there are constructive things I need to be doing.

Surely, this can't be normal. I'm 25 - I should be running marathons, staying up til 4 a.m., drinking Red Bull and shooting pool. There should be bundles of stored up energy, and I should be able to exist for days on booze and No-Doz. Instead, I'm too lazy to make the 20 ft walk from my living room to the fridge to get a beer. I don't walk anywhere unless my car breaks down...or my horse keels over. I don't run unless someone is chasing me. And then they'd better have a gun or an axe, because otherwise I'll have to stop and take a breather. I eat constantly, so I should be like Patrick Deuel by now. I have to have Mt. Dew to get me through the afternoon in a somewhat coherent state. Once, I actually dozed off while typing dictation and was woke up by the phone. I think my eyes might have still been open too. Pretty pathetic.

Is this really what my life has become? Laziness and gluttony? My days filled with daydreams of food and a comfortable bed? My mother blames my poor diet and late nights, but I think there's something more sinister going on here. I used to have tons of energy, could stay up late, eat only Ramen, work all week, and still be ready to road trip on the weekends. Maybe someone is secretly sucking my life energy from me when I don't know it. I don't know for sure how they're doing it, when it's occurring, or why, but I know it's happening. There can be no other reason why I have full body shivers whenever I see an ab machine. It's like there's some little gnome sneaking around, stealing my ambition... and hiding my Beavis & Butthead t-shirt. Maybe that's what's being used to run these hybrid cars. Electricity, my eye. That's the life-force of today's young adults being exploited by greedy manufacturers.

UPDATE: Switch is still among the living, and he appears to be on the road to recovery. Still shaky on his feet and not eating much, but he's not pushing up daisies just yet, so that's promising. But I haven't gotten the vet bill either. I may end up having a heart attack when I see that. Maybe I should have gotten some casket furniture after all. I wonder if they make one big enough for a horse?

Mr. Ed's Expensive Cold

I feel dead today. My brain is shot right now, and at this point, I don't think there's any fixing it. I got off work last night with big plans of all I was going to accomplish. I would list my uncle's truck on eBay (anyone want a '59 Chevy Apache?), work on my brother-in-law's website, shovel my & the neighbor's walks, and watch a little Summerland (who cares about the story line? Shawn Christian is fine and that's all that matters). If I got ambitious, I might even cook.

Well, my plan crapped the bed about 5:30. I got a frantic call from my mother just as I was finishing shoveling, telling me that something was wrong with my horse, Switch. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't come away from the barn, and he kept pawing the ground and swaying. I drove out to her place, pretty sure that my Day-Planner was giving me the finger right about then. When I got out there, it was worse than she had described. He was swaying alright, but he was also favoring a back leg. When I went closer to check it out, I discovered he had a huge gash on his rump near his tail. He wouldn't eat for me either, and he kept pawing at the snow, which was of course, turning the corral to crappy, smelly mud. It was like being in a hog pen, and I was wearing clean clothes. Just as I started to examine the gash, trying to figure out how it happened, I got a clue. His back legs started to wobble and he collapsed, rolling on to his side. He laid there awhile, before finally getting back to his feet. It was shortlived though, and down he went again. I called my grandpa, and he said it sounded like he might have colic.

It was about 6:00, so I raced to the vet's. He was just pulling out to go home, but he agreed to come out with me instead. By the time the vet got there, Switch was shaking all over, wheezing, and acted like he couldn't get up at all. He wouldn't even open his eyes, so I was getting a tad bit nervous. I have a lot of money in this creature, since I just got him nursed back to health from the EPM, and I wasn't about to watch him go hooves up. I grabbed some blankets and started rubbing him down. Keep in mind it is snowing very hard all this time, so I am nearly as soaked as he is at this point. When the vet got there, he gave him an anti-spasmodic to help with the pain and the shaking. He then gave him a shot to sedate him. We couldn't get him into the barn because when he fell the last time, he was lying against the barn door. So I ran into the house and got my mom's sleeping bag to cover him. Though she gave me a horrified look, the vet confirmed that it would be the best thing to use and that shut her up. We then piled hay around him and on top of him, trying to keep him from freezing to the ground, since that would be bad. I just hoped that the other horses didn't mistake it for a new feed bunk and try to eat him. That would also be unfortunate.

He was out for about 2 hours. When he came to, he stood up right away. But he was still really wobbily and kept retching. His blankets had fallen off, so I spent forever and a day trying to get them back on him. I was covered in mud and horse hair. If I'd have walked into one of the hick bars at that moment, I probably could have gotten a date. I stayed out there with him until I had no feeling left in my toes or fingers, and my entire body had gone into that charley-horse inducing clench to keep from shivering myself into convulsions. I finally decided he was probably warmer than I was, and there was no heater or Chex Mix out there, so I headed home.

The vet says if his pain doesn't go away and he doesn't pick up today, it may be something more serious and he could require surgery. They don't do surgeries here, so he would have to be shipped out somewhere, to the tune of $5000 and up. Sorry, Trigger, but if that's the case, you're goin' to the happy pasture in the sky, so thousands of children can stick macaroni and glitter to their school projects with you. That's double what I paid for him in the first place, and it's more than what I still owe on my car. I love my horse, but when it comes to a choice of him living in the barn and me living in a cardboard box, well, Hobo Harry's turf is safe.

As suspected, I got nothing else done last night. To make things even better, my leather coat now smells like wet horse, so the stench has permeated my entire house. It smells like a stable, and not in a good way. And if there's a good way for your house to smell like a stable, I haven't found it.

Hell's Skating Rink

It's snowing here. You wanna know why? Because I got ambitious. Yesterday afternoon, I had a little free time on my hands. That's usually unheard of, so I figured that I would do something to justify my existence. Okay, so I didn't really have that much time, but I thought I could at least make an attempt. I went out in my back yard and raked up several piles of leaves. Before you start thinking that I should have done that last fall, let me just say that I did...about three times. I think all my neighbors waited until my yard was spotless, and then dumped their bags of leaves under my trees again. Bastards.

As I was raking, I noticed that several spots in my lawn were looking, well, non-existent. Apparently, those same neighbors also came over in the dead of night and pulled up my grass in some areas. Dirty bastards. That's in addition to the circles of grass killed off by all the dog crap deposited by other people's canines that they let out for the express purpose of crapping in my yard while they stand on their front porch and watch. Dirty rat bastards.

Anyhow, I decided that there was no better time than the present to reseed my lawn. I had the grass seed, the sun was shining, and Arrested Development wouldn't be on for an hour. I raked a couple of small areas, and then smoothed out the big portion that I'm trying to turn into lawn so my landlord can't park his crappy station wagon there anymore. I then went in the house, headed into the crawlspace to turn on the outside water, and went back outside. I rolled out the hose and put a sprinkler on it, smiling with great satisfaction at all I had achieved, and traipsed back into the house for an evening of gluttony and TV watching.

This morning, I awoke to the sound of cars sliding to a halt at the stop sign outside my house. I rolled over, peered out the window, and there it was. Snow. Piles and piles of snow. And the air was white with the filthy stuff. I began contemplating the task ahead of me of shoveling my way out to my car to start it and groaned. However, we did need the moisture, so it wasn't all bad. Then it hit me. That frickin' sprinkler. Son of a...sonofa! I had left that god-blessed piece of crap on all night. I grabbed some sandals, since it was the only shoes close to the door, and ran outside - into the snow. There it was, in all its glory - an ice skating rink in my back yard. In the middle, releasing a beautiful spray over all the land, was that frelling sprinkler. As my feet began turning into frozen clubs of meat, I hobbled over to the faucet, shut it off, nearly broke my wrist removing the hose, and then I flung that sucker in frustration. But wait! What happened to the water left in the hose? Yeah, all down the front of me, showing once again the benefits of throwing a temper tantrum. I was standing out in the middle of the yard, soaking wet with a cold, my hair looking like Drew Barrymore's bed scene in Charlie's Angels, my now completely numb sausages wedged in sandals, and there was no one to shoot me. I wonder if grass can grow through ice? On the upside, I've always wanted to be a figure skater. What could be more fun than breaking a shoelace, bursting into tears, asking to start over, and then plotting to tire iron your competition's kneecaps? See, there's always a silver lining. But if I'd have stepped in dog crap on the way back in the house, I'm afraid the news would be reporting a neighborhood shooting spree.

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On a completely unrelated topic, my boss sent me this email this morning. I think he's concerned I might not live long, and maybe I should be prepared. I think I'll have to learn a new bank shot on the pool table.

Calling All Speech Geeks

CONGRATULATIONS TO KATRINA M. LINSTER, STATE SPEECH MEDALIST!

Sending a shout out to my favoritest (yes, that's a word) speechie, who did an amazing job yesterday at State Speech and getting 6th place! Way to go, girlie! Of course, if I'd have been judging the round, things would have gone differently, but that's another story.

Even though I was & still am sick, I headed out with our 3 State Speech qualifiers Wednesday afternoon. We hit Kearney that evening, did a little shopping, did a little eating, and mocked a lot of mallrats. A good time was had by all. Except, of course, when a sign fell down in Claire's and hit one of our speechies in the face. This girl is so nice, she told the clerk she was fine, even though she had a big red scratch on her cheek and her face was swelling up. Then she proceeded to buy her items! Man, if it had hit me, they'd have been giving me my Happy Bunny notebook free and a complimentary toe ring or something. Kids today just don't know how to milk litigation-ripe situations. What are our schools teaching them?

We got to our motel, and we were informed that due to the no-drug policy we all signed, we were not to be entering the bar or club that were attached to the motel. I felt it was necessary at that point to remind them that I didn't work for the school and had therefore, never signed such a policy. I also wondered if that included strip clubs as well. As the head coach's heat seeking glare turned my way, I decided that it in fact did include any such establishments. Also, I was not as funny as I thought I was. Hmm. It turns out that the policy was created because a few years ago, some coach dropped his kids off at the hotel and then left to celebrate his birthday on the town. His kids ended up in the Elephant's Eye (the cool bar in the treehouse like structure in the middle of the hotel) and somehow got served. One girl was so drunk, she fell into the pool. The only kid who hadn't been drinking was the daughter of a lawyer and called him. He instructed her to call the cops, which she did. In the meantime, our coach had agreed to take the kids back to their own motel. The cops showed up just as she was leaving and hauled the drunk kids off to jail. The coach ended up getting fired, since he didn't even know his kids were in jail until the next morning. Now that's funny, I don't care who you are.

Yesterday's meet was very entertaining. Speech meets are kind of like state fairs. You're always going to see freaks, and you're gonna laugh at them. It just makes you feel a little better about yourself and your own family. There are so many kids that are ambiguously gay, crippled, talk with lisps, drag a leg, are missing fingers, or have a lazy/wonky eye, it's bound to be a good time. I saw one kid that looked like Wayne from Wayne's World...and then I realized it was a girl. I just wanted to walk up to her parents and say, "I am so sorry." One guy in a round was cute, looked fairly butch, and then he opened his mouth and a pink purse dropped out. I don't think he could even draw a straight line. On the up side, I'm sure he'd look good in a dress and a nice pair of pumps.

And some of the kids look normal...until they give their speech. One kid got up to speak and I realized I owned the same belt that he was wearing - white, glittered, with cut-out stars. It went fabulously with his flaming shoes, err, shoes with flames on them. His speech was on why wood should be man's best friend instead of the dog. It took me a second to realize he was talking about a 2x4. Let me tell ya, after hearing that speech, I can tell you why wood will always be this kid's best friend instead of a girlfriend. Another kid did his speech on dance. He was normal when he walked to the front of the room, and in 3.2 seconds, he became Rupaul. I was almost able to stomach it until he began the imitation of an interpretive dance, and simulated being born. Our pregnant speech coach was so horrified she had to leave the room during finals when he performed it again. The most entertaining speech all day was one on death. It was a scream. Plus, I've learned a laundry list of "Don'ts at a Funeral" that I'm going to have to try some time.

Don't walk up to the widow and say, "He looks so peaceful. It's just too bad he's burning in hell right now."

Don't walk up to the casket, throw cooked rice in on the body and run around screaming, "MAGGOTS! MAGGOTS!"

Heh heh.

All in all, it was a good day. This is the first state speech medalist we've ever had at our high school, so we're pretty proud. And is it a coincidence that a judge named Katrina came as moral support to watch a qualifier named Katrina and she just happened to medal? I think not. It's all about the mojo, baby.

ETA: And here's a sample of what you might see at State Speech.

Hawaii or Bust

Did I tell you about the cruise I didn't get to go on? I'm too lazy to go back through my posts and see, so here's the short version. I was invited to go with a bunch of friends on a 7 day Caribbean cruise. Aruba, St. Thomas, Puerto Rico, yada, yada. I was told it was supposed to be $1000, which made me laugh til I nearly peed myself. Right, maybe $1000 for the trip there, and then they dump you off in some island ghetto until you cough up another two grand. Everyone scoffed at my skepticism, and I decided to pay off my past impulse buys on my credit card before adding to the balance. They went on the cruise, and all of them discovered that their funds only covered their time on the boat (and maybe their flight) and they still had to pay for hotel rooms before and after, plus all the dough needed for time in each port, souvenirs, tipping, etc. All told, it cost them on average about $3000, and I laughed all the way to my credit card company.

Anyhoo, I am slightly less in debt now and convincing myself that I wouldn't want a golden brown tan that would lead to melanoma and chemo anyway. And who wants to be served drinks on the beach by scantily clad waiters who bring them out to you in the water? Not me, that's for sure. Scuba diving and snorkeling? I can do that at the local swimming pool. Climbing the rock wall on the deck of a ship? I'd probably get tangled in the ropes and die. I'm certain it happens all the time.

But guess what? I was informed this weekend that they are now planning an 11-day cruise to Hawaii for next year, and I am once again invited. They're barely back from the last one! Granted, this is a lot more notice than they gave me last time, when I was given two months to decide. Sure, I'll just pull $3000 outta my...well, let's just say I wasn't able to, no matter how hard I tried, and I couldn't sit down for a week. Trees aren't the only place money doesn't grow, trust me.

How in the world do they get 14 days off work at once? Are their bosses on crack? I have one of the most lenient bosses in the world, and I think even he would balk at that. Some of them are self-employed, but the rest have fairly regular jobs. Of course, there is no one to do my job while I'm gone, since I'm currently doing my job and the job of the boss's secretary who quit. They work at coffee shops and department stores, so maybe they can just throw another clone in their place while they're gone. And if 7 days required three grand, how much would I need for an 11-day cruise, plus travel days? I get the feeling that I would need to sell a kidney or something, and I kinda like my organs right where they are.

Plus, planning a vacation like that means a whole lot of changes. I saw the video from the last trip. I never want to see that much flab ever again, least of all on me. I would have to actually hit a gym or do more than look at the Tae-Bo tapes sitting on my VCR. Are they insane? I nearly have a heart attack walking upstairs in my house. Not only that, but I would have to be saving my money. No more Mt. Dew IV drips late at night. No impulse road trips or movies. No more snack purchases to tide me over when I have to drive 10 miles. I'd have to have self-control. That's like telling a 450 lb. woman, "Ok, you have to hold this cake until we get to the party but don't eat it." Yeah right. She'd be shoving that in before she got out of the driveway. (But I'd be there to console her afterwards, sitting there with my bag of Cheetos and 64 oz. Big Gulp.) With the money I would spend on the trip, I could probably actually pay off a credit card. But then, I wouldn't have that loving correspondence with the receivable department at Discover, and I've grown to care for them a great deal.

I have about 9 months to decide whether or not to go, so I'm gonna need you folks to weigh in. No, not on a scale, with your opinion. Do I shell out the cash so I can make fun of old people on nude beaches too? Or should I not give in to peer pressure and stay my out of shape, junk-food eating, caffeine addicted, pasty white self, cursing Nebraska's good life? If you don't let me know what I should do, or I'll have to resort to the psychic one of our clients used. Oh wait, I guess she died. (How did she not see that coming?) I guess it's up to you now.

Mongolian Robot Gas Attendants

Did you really think I was going to provide fantabulous Mongolian robot action? I guess I wasn't the only one hopped up on Nyquil. Suckers.

Saturday, some friends and I went to a Mongolian grill, where sadly, there were no robots. I had never been to one before, because I lead a sad, sheltered, sandbilly life. As we entered, a man greeted us and led us to our table. He was dressed like one of those guys on the gondolas in Italy. Not exactly how I expected the Mongols to dress, but whatever. He even had a nifty little beret, which I would have made fun of behind his back had I not been too drugged to care. He spoke little English, but his eyes lit up when my friends told him I was a "Mongolian virgin." Somewhere along the line, I'm afraid he interpreted that wrong. But at least I got great service for the rest of the meal. Now, not knowing what to expect, it was a little odd for me to go through a buffet of raw meat and seafood. The mix of smells did not exactly help my appetite, but I trudged on. Of course, not thinking of how much it would cook down, I didn't get nearly as much crap in the bowl as I was supposed to, so I was reminded numerous times how badly I got ripped off. I guess with that extra $1.50 I spent, the waiter can buy new knickers.

Later, we went to see Robots, none of which were Mongolian. It was a pretty cute flick, but I'm not sure if all the medicine I had taken made it better or worse. Of course, all the idiotic theaters in Kearney are in bed with Coke, so I couldn't get a Mt. Dew to save my life. What is a movie without Mt. Dew? And the kid serving popcorn looked like he had been attacked by whatever afflicted Osmosis Jones, so there was no way I was getting popcorn from him. That might not have been butter. He might be better off working in a job where there isn't quite so much grease floating in the air and settling in his pores. Clearasil, man, Clearasil. I may have to see it again when I'm healthy for a second opinion. There is no way to properly judge a movie-viewing experience without popcorn w/extra butter and a extra large, pee-inducing Mt. Dew.

As I readied myself to leave Sunday, I stopped to get gas. The gas station was neither Mongolian, a robot, nor a combination of the two. He was, however, dumber than a box of hair and may have hailed from Zimbabwe, judging by the accent. As you probably know, gas prices suck right now. It was $2.08/gallon there, so even filling my wee car half full cost me $15.50. When I walked in, I pointed to my car directly out the window and said, "I had fuel on Pump #1 for $15.50." Apparently, in Zimbabwe that means "I just put $40.00 worth of fuel in the enormous Suburban over on Pump #4." How foolish of me to have not known that. He rings it up on my credit card, and then I see the mistake. When I point it out to him, he starts talking 100 mi/hr in jibberish that no one will ever convince me was English, interspersed with a high-pitched giggle.

Just then, the man who actually owned the gas guzzling monstrosity came in to pay. The attendant asks me if I can't just take his money and give him change. Uhh...no! I gave him a withering look meant to imply that he was currently the dumbest person I had ever met, but once again, the international lines of communication got all scribbled together. He must have thought my disdain was a come-on, as he reached over and patted my hand and giggled again. It's a good thing I was too short to jump over that counter, or he might have been takin' a trip to Fist City (I've been there before, he wouldn't like it). The other dude just threw his money on the counter and got the heck outta Dodge. I tried explaining to the man how to credit it back to my card, and he tells me he doesn't think they do that there. Yeah, well, I suggest you change your policy in a hurry, because I'm ill and I know a lot of disgruntled postal workers. He spends the next 15 min on the phone with everyone and their dog, trying to figure out how to fix his mistake. When someone finally talked him through it, it was exactly how I told him in the first place. So, then he starts to ring up my gas...and almost does it again! He doesn't know how close he came to getting a pen shoved through his left eye when he giggled that time. By the time I got out of that place, I had nearly bitten off my tongue and had a charley horse in my jaw. If this is God's way of teaching me patience and compassion, well, it ain't workin'. Let's try something else, m'kay?

Funerals & Stayin' Alive

Disclaimer: For those of you who have ever spent more than thirty seconds reading anything I have written, you know that I am rarely politically correct and often lean toward dark humor. So please forgive this post, which is my pathetic attempt at healing while not losing my powers of observation.

I finally got back late last night after going to the funeral. I was sick all weekend, and still am, so that didn't improve the experience for me. It was held Saturday afternoon and they expected a lot of people. The hall it was held at could hold 350 people. They were maxed out. All chairs were filled, both extra rooms were full, and the entryway was standing room only. I saw people there that I didn't even know were still with us and others I wished weren't. (Is that wrong?) We showed up about 45 minutes early. When we walked in, there were flowers everywhere. Not like sad funeral wreaths or the usual death bouquets, but enormous arrangements of every color. They were more like what you would see at a wedding. Weird. Of course, they had all apparently been ordered from the same florist, so they were all EXACTLY alike. It was like government housing, a little Stepford-like.

As we went over to sign the book, I noticed a picture album lying open. It was pictures from Nicole's wedding, which was pretty depressing since the 17th would have been their 4th anniversary, and because I hadn't been able to make it to their wedding. But as I looked a little closer, I realized that the hall they were married in was the SAME hall I was standing in! How freaky is that? (Note to self: get married somewhere that can't be used for a funeral service...or don't die.) As I went around the corner, I discovered that there were more picture albums. They were strung all over every countertop in the place! There had to have been about 15 of them. I pretty sure there wasn't a second of her life that hadn't been documented. Her mom is crazy, so I have a feeling that she had something to do with that. Some of the pictures were ones that I don't think she would have wanted 350+ people to be viewing. (2nd note to self: hide all incriminating/embarrassing pictures before dying).

I think because of the unexpectedness of her death, no one was really sure how to handle anything. Her mother made it out at the last minute, her dad is still in a coma, and her hubby's parents are both gone. So it was pretty much just friends handling the arrangements, since her husband was barely holding himself together. Anyhow, when we walked in, there were no ushers. Since there were only about three family members, they had just walked up to the front and stood. Everyone else was just sort of milling about, chatting with other mourners or looking at pictures. There seemed to be no direction or organization. We ended up seating ourselves, on what we hoped was a family side without screaming children. We lucked out on that one. The kids there were freakishly well-behaved. I think some parents must have slipped them a little vodka or a $20, cuz that isn't exactly normal.

Once everyone was seated, I looked toward the front. There sat a bright pink urn. Umm...I guess I haven't been to a whole lot of funerals (under 100, which I think is good), but when do they put the urn up front? A casket I can understand, but an urn? Do you really want the mourners to be thinking about her being a crispy critter? It just seemed a little odd, but maybe I'm not well-versed in urn etiquette. What do I know? Besides, I'm an organ donor, so once I'm cremated, they can fit me in a Tupperware bowl and call it good. I don't give a flip what they do with it from that point, as long as Mr. Whiskers isn't crapping in me.

All in all, the service went well, but I never think they talk enough about the person. I realize that they are trying to bring a little hope to the people and remind people of what their priorities should be. I think that's good. But hello? This person just died - can they get a little attention? All I know is that at my funeral, there'd better be a whole lotta me time. I kicked the bucket to get there, for pete's sake. The least they could do is tell all the wonderful things about me for thirty minutes or so. Ok, so they might have to talk slow and make some things up, but I don't want no stinkin' five minute eulogy, people! Oh, and don't let my friends get up and say anything, unless it's been previously rehearsed. I don't want my family sitting there listening to, "Dude, this one time we were road trippin', and she totally aced a sign with a bottle. I mean, how many people can do that out a window while driving 90 down the highway? That was awesome!" Some aspects of my colorful history can be left at home, along with the ugly pictures.

When the service was over, everyone just got up on their own and wandered out. I'm sure I had a confused look on my face, since I had no idea what we were supposed to be doing, and I had taken a few swigs of Nyquil. We headed over to the reception hall. As we walked in, I nearly passed out, and not because the bathrooms were right next to the door. There was gold tinsel and purple flowers strung everywhere. In the middle of the ceiling... a disco ball. I'm sorry, but were we planning to dance at this funeral? Is this party-time? I don't know about you, but I'm not usually prepared to 'get down on it' after someone dies. Granted, I get that it is usually a dance hall, but c'mon, you can't take down the strobe lights before the reception? I kept waiting for her husband to show up and go Travolta on us while we ate. (He didn't.) However, despite the partylike atmosphere, everything seemed to go smoothly, though her family still hadn't shown up by the time I left an hour or so later. Were they taking pictures back at the hall?

I'll tell you about the rest of the weekend tomorrow, since I rambled too much already today. Prepare yourself for some Mongolian robot action. It'll be fantabulous, I promise.

It's Like Plastic

I'm sick today. I started feeling crummy last night, sore throat & losing my voice. Today, I can barely talk, my head is killing me, it hurts to swallow, and I'm coughing like a madman. In the words of a disgusting friend, "I'm hackin' up things you can't chew!" It's not pretty. I think I'll go home at lunch and forget the rest of the day. I'm probably infecting everyone else anyway. Plus, I can't afford to be sick tomorrow. Funeral arrangements for Nicole have been set for tomorrow in a town 4 hrs away. I have to be healed by then.

So, since I have nothing useful to say today (as opposed to any other day?), I'll leave you with what's going on in my head right now. Just add a marching band to that.

In Memory

Remember this
as you pass by
As you are now
so once was I
As I am now
you too shall be
So prepare yourself
to follow me

When I was younger, my grandfather found a piece of wood that looked like a little tombstone. He burned those words onto it and gave it to me. Since I used to be called Wednesday (as in Addams), I thought it was the coolest gift ever.

Those words hold a different meaning for me today. Last night, I got a call with some very bad news. A friend of mine had suffered a gran mal seizure late Tuesday evening. It all just happened so fast. She had been fine at church that evening, laughing and joking with everyone. When she went home, she had eaten a piece of chocolate and the caffeine may have triggered it. She seemed to be doing a little better, so her husband had her lay down on the bed. He went to check on their crying baby, and was gone about 10 minutes. When he got back, she was face down in her pillow and her heart had stopped. He called 911, and started CPR. They got her heart started again and life flighted her out to Kearney, but she was already brain dead. They didn't expect her to live through the night. After more tests yesterday, they removed her from life support at 9:30 and she passed away.

They had been having problems regulating her medication, I guess. Right now, her father is in a diabetic coma in Reno, so her mother couldn't even come be with her. Also, her husband's mother died when he was young, and his father recently passed away, so now he is all alone. This is more pain than one family should have to bear.

Nicole was only 27. She had been married about 4 years and had a 2 yo son. Her faith and her family came first. She was so proud of her little boy, and showed him off every chance she had. She was one of the nicest people I have ever met. She always had a smile on her face, no matter what was going on in her life. Nicole went out of her way to help others, never making fun of or looking down on others. I always felt a little guilty after being around her, because she was the type of person we all wanted to be. No matter what your mood was before, you would always be smiling after being around her.

Rest in peace, Nicole. We miss you terribly, but we will see you again.

A Quarter of a Century Past

Today I turn 25, as does my dental hygienist, a former teacher and a guy I graduated with. It was a good day to be born. When my mother was my age, she had married, had a child, divorced, married again, and had a second child. I've graduated from community college and I have a cat and two horses. Hmm... I guess that's it. Oh yeah, and I have a job and a car. Now that I write it down like that, it looks like I haven't accomplished much in the last quarter of a century. Yep, that's pretty accurate. So much for finding the cure to syphilis or whatever aspiration I must have had as a kid. I can't remember, so maybe I didn't have any goals. I like to keep people's expectations low. That way I'm always a success. I do feel older today though. Maybe that's because I haven't gotten much sleep in the last week or just cuz I haven't had my first Mt. Dew of the day. Or maybe it's because some wealth of wisdom was just bestowed upon me and I will now be able to act like a mature, responsible adult. I hope it's the first one. Either way, my car insurance had better be going down. I'm a much better driver now, I promise.

I said yesterday that I would tell you why I nearly didn't make it to my 24th birthday. Last year, I attended a high school speech meet in North Platte. The cafeteria is on the first floor and second floor has a balcony overlooking it. We were down in the cafeteria, waiting for the next round of judging to begin. I looked up to see a kid pacing along the second floor railing. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a long black trenchcoat, his hair going every which way. This kid looked like an extra on The Substitute. I said something jokingly about watching out for white Shaft, and headed to my next round on the second floor. When I got up there, I realized that he was also talking to himself. He kept looking all around and muttering to himself. He kept gesturing with his hands to no one in particular. It was extremely odd, mainly cuz he just kept watching the students in the cafeteria. I went on to my round, but when I got out, I mentioned to the coaches how weird this kid was acting. They kinda laughed it off, assuming I was joking. But something about the kid unnerved me.

The next week, this kid was caught in the parking lot of his school in Malcolm, NE, with a crapload of weaponry and big plans. You can read about the nut job here. I was glad he was busted before he went in the school, but I'm really glad he decided not to eliminate Nebraska of all the speech geeks. I wasn't wearing Kevlar that day. I'm also relieved I didn't judge him poorly in a round. I'd hate to die because he needed better eye contact and more cited sources. Personally, I think they should have pyschological screenings at tryouts anyway. I had a kid use a real cordless drill as a prop the other day. What if he'd been crazy? He might have tried to screw my brains out! Wait, that didn't come out right...

The Not So Perfect Murders

I'm back among the semi-coherent today. If I said anything yesterday that didn't make any sense, well, that's nothing new. You should be used to that by now. I actually got almost 7 hours of sleep last night, so hopefully the dumb attacks are over for the time being.

On to more important matters. I have developed an unhealthy obsession. It's not going to land me in jail or put me on Inside Edition (do they still have Inside Edition?), but it's probably not the best use of my time. I've begun reading about famous and infamous crimes here. Now I'm not doing this for tips on how to pull off the perfect murder or anything. Mainly since these people all got caught - not exactly the best role models. But for some reason, I have a fascination with crime and gory details. Probably the reason I work for an attorney. It's like driving by a car accident. You know there's probably a head in the gutter and the image will haunt your dreams forever, but you look anyway. Well, maybe you don't, but I do. Is that so wrong?

I started out innocently enough, looking for information to prove that a girl I went to school with was really a serial killer. As it turned out, she wasn't. Hey, I can't be right all the time. However, she did have the same name - the only difference was that the killer was a man. Minor details. (Incidentally, it turned out her mother named her after the guy because he was cute. Good thing my mom didn't have the hots for Bundy or Son of Sam, or I might be answering to a different moniker.) But then I read the story of the real serial killer, who was from Nebraska too (we're so proud!). And then there was a link to a woman who was killing off her husbands with various herbs and supposedly untraceable poisons. I thought, well, that sounds like fun, and I began reading. Suddenly, I was all entangled in these tales of greed, lust, deceit, and murder. I've been reading them when I should be working on our own clients entangled in greed, divorce, deceit, and petty theft. I'm like an addict now, just waiting for my next crime story hit. I just keep thinking, who's the next pyscho on the list? I wanna know more!

I know I should feel bad for the victims and their families, and I do occasionally have a twinge of guilt. But it's not like they were killed so I could read about it. My power isn't quite that far-reaching, I'm afraid. And I rarely read current events, since they seem to involve children a lot and that creeps me out. But the old serial murders, mob bosses, etc. are interesting to me. It's amazing how a normal-looking and acting individual can really be a sociopath. They give no signs of their freakiness, all the while pretending to be a good citizen. Or maybe they start out normal, and then stomeone steals their garden gnome and they just snap. It could be your next-door neighbor and you wouldn't even know it. Or my next-door neighbor. You know, that guy across the street does keep odd hours. And he is always lugging big boxes in and out of the house. Come to think of it, I haven't seen his wife in weeks. Their dog was going nuts in the middle of the night awhile back. And he lives next to the funeral home...

"Hello? Dispatcher? I'd like to report a possible serial killer..."

Never Gonna Get It

I need sleep. A lot of sleep. I had company over the weekend and it nearly killed me. This friend of mine came up Friday night and is still here. I get off work at 5:00, so she said she would be here by 5:30. Just a half hour to do the flight of the bumblebee in my house and fake clean it. I just wouldn't be able to open any closets for a few days. I rushed home, threw all major offenders of cleanliness out of sight, and collapsed on the couch. It was 5:25. No Dawn. She had called me at about 4:30, and said she was at Thedford, about an hour away. Considering that she usually drives faster than a speeding ticket, she should have been her by then. By 6:00, I was getting a little concerned, but giggling a little to myself that maybe she finally got nailed by a cop. About fifteen minutes later, I got a call from her. When she had called at 4:30, she was actually nowhere near where she said she was. She was actually about 2 hours away. About 25 mi down the road, she had then turned on the wrong road and went in the opposite direction from my house. She was on that highway for an hour before she realized her mistake and now she was in the boonies of Egypt. She finally found a connecting road and would be there shortly. She finally rolled into my house about 8:30, during which time I had made a batch of Chex Mix, grilled mesquite chicken, and watched two eps of Forever Knight on DVD. This wouldn't be so sad if it weren't for the fact that she used to live here! It took her 6 hours to make a 3 1/2 hr trip that she has made 100 times on the same road. Her excuse? "Well, all these roads look alike." Right, except for the signs next to them, telling what road it is. And the towns you drive through. And the major landmarks. But, other than that, they're identical. It must be all that blacktop and yellow dashes that threw her off track.

Once she got here, she was ready to make up for lost time. We headed to my sister & bro-in-law's to get the party started. She brought out gifts galore, cuz she just got back from her cruise and was appeasing me since I couldn't go. Then she pulled out the video from her trip to the islands, which we watched...for 3 hours. You know, it's a great thing to have memories from your trip to treasure for a lifetime. And it's lovely to share them with others so they can experience the magic. But three hours of blurry shots, Spanish-speaking tour guides, and shots of old people on a nude beach shares a little more than is probably necessary. An entire beach of flesh-colored raisins is a bit much for my poor sensibilities. At 2:30, my sister finally said she was going to bed, at which point we were told that was fine, we could watch the rest Saturday. There was more??! We headed home and didn't get to bed until about 5:15. My body had pretty much been on autopilot since around midnight, so the details are still a tad sketchy.

Saturday night was much the same. More home video, some cruise ship video, Benny Hill video, and finally Taxi. I fell asleep about 2 minutes into Benny Hill, which frankly I count as a blessing. I didn't stay asleep the whole time, but I faked it so I could eavesdrop on their conversations. It was like the old guy who doesn't tell his family he got a hearing aid, and then changes his will three times. Somebody is definitely not getting my Hot Wheels collection now! Dozing off again, I woke up in time to snag some food and watch Taxi, which wasn't too bad a movie. Of course, watching it after the 73 hours of home movies probably helped its cause. Last time I checked the clock, it was sometime after 3:30, and then I think I blacked out from sheer exhaustion. All I know is she was still talking.

I sat through church Sunday morning with a blank expression and minimal body function. A couple of times, I think my heart was too tired to beat, and I had to remind my body to breathe. The upside is that I've now learned to sleep with my eyes open, which I think will really come in handy at work. Once again, after seventeen coffees, Dawn was bouncing around, chatting like an ADHD kid on Kool-Aid. I was pretty monosyllabic, which just made me sound really agreeable to everything. It's a good thing nobody asked me for a loan or my pancreas. I might not have had the energy to refuse. We watched See Spot Run, and I laughed hysterically at a lot of it. Looking back, I don't think it was very funny. I normally hate David Arquette, so I'm pretty confident it was just the delirium. In fact, I'm sure of it, because later on while we were channel surfing, I actually giggled a little at something Bob Saget said. That's never happened before and I hope it never happens again. At 1:00, I finally conceded defeat and begged to be allowed to go to bed. Disappointed, the Sleep Nazi finally agreed and I was allowed to slip into slumber about 1:30. I was a little afraid to go to sleep for fear I might never wake up. Apparently, I did.

So, here I sit this morning with glazed over, raccoon eyes, willing my fingers to type out of sheer determination. It's all about you guys. One guy thought I hung up on him a minute ago, mainly because I forgot it was my turn to talk when he stopped. I think I might have been dreaming. To make it even worse, the day is cold and dreary, and the snow is coming down fast. My houseguest is still here, flaunting sleep in front of me by asking me to set the alarm for 11 after I got up. Little does she know, I set my stereo timer to play Neil Diamond at 10:30. She hates Neil Diamond, and threatened to have a music intervention if I ever played it again. Heh heh. If I'm still awake to answer the phone, I have a feeling I'll be getting a call.

Hunchbacked Pervert & Alzheimer's Love

Quote for the Day:

"If life were fair, Elvis would be alive and all the impersonators would be dead."
--Johnny Carson

I promised you Wednesday I would tell you about the creepy place I once lived in or moved my stuff into on Thursday. Well, I lied and told you about facial deformities and snot. Terribly sorry. So, I'll tell you about it today instead.

Once upon a time, in the land of corn and idiot cowboys, I went looking for a place to live. Not being Paris Hilton or that whore in my senior class , I couldn't just jump from hotel to hotel. So I began my quest for cheap rent minus roaches. In the paper, there was an ad for one side of a duplex, cheap rent, utilities paid. Cool. I could handle that. I went to speak to the landlord, who kind of reminded me of Burgess Meredith. I could just envision conversations with the sweet old guy:

Mr. Dunn, my cat swallowed a quarter. What should I do?

Oh, cats swallow quarters all the time.

Really?

Yeah. But if he craps out two dimes and a nickel, you better start worrying.

Somehow, it didn't go quite like that in real life. The guy growled at me that it was a small place, so I'd better not be making too much noise and disturbing the neighbor or I'd be out. He explained that there wasn't a garbage disposal, so he didn't want me shoving chicken bones down the drain "all willy-nilly." I promised I wouldn't be doing anything "all willy-nilly"(?!) and took a look around. It was tiny, to be sure, but I was one person and I hate to clean. Then I saw the couch. Whatever it had been used for, it had nothing to do with sitting. I asked him if it could be moved out of there, since I had my own couch. He said fine, but only if I was going to store it somewhere. My mom has a huge shed, so that was no problem. Then I took a gander in the bedroom. Aside from the huge stain on the mattress (which I would also be removing in lieu of my own), it wasn't too bad. I could put a sectional rug down to cover the cigarette burns and be good to go. Hey, it was $275/mo with utilities paid (and accidentally free cable)! Who was I to be picky?

We started cleaning up the place, hosing it down with Clorox and blasting all surfaces with Lysol and Raid. We even painted the bathroom, and let me tell ya, it was looking pretty snazzy. Next on our list was removing the couch. As we picked it up, it tipped a little and the cushions fell off. There, clinging in all its glory, was a condom. A used condom. Needless to say, I dropped my side of the couch, much to my sister's dismay, since she was still holding the other end. Hearing our gagging and dramatics, my mother rolled her eyes, picked it up with a paper towel, and deposited it in the trash can, which I subsequently burned. We hauled off the couch, got AIDS tests, and all was right with the world. The rest of the moving in was a success, but I stayed one last night with my aunt.

The next day, my new landlord hobbles into the office, announcing that my speakers are too big and need to be removed. How did he know that, you ask. Yeah, well, he'd gone through the apartment and inspected it without my knowledge. Not cool. I asked how he felt about privacy. He freaked, saying, "If you think you're gonna bar me from that place, you're crazy!," to which I thought, If you think I'm gonna come home to you eating Pringles on my condomless couch in your underwear, you're crazy. That night, my family & I, under cover of night and pouring rain, moved my stuff right back out. It took one whole day to move in and two hours to move out. Then my bro & bro-in-law returned his keys to him, explaining in no uncertain terms to the 5 foot tall man that I was no longer interested in inhabiting the wretched place. It was very James Bond-like. Though, when he smarted off to my 6 foot tall bro-in-law, it nearly became Roadhouse-like. That would have been all sorts of cool. My entire family needing bail money all at once. That's the stuff redneck movies are made of.

After I moved, I found out the girl that lived there before came home and found him going through her underwear drawer. "Once again, information that would have been more useful to me YESTERDAY!" Plus, he had lived with his mom for years, who was about 120 and had Alzheimer's. Word on the street was that she got put in the nursing home cuz someone found out he was "taking care" of her at home. Once they put her up there, her roommate kept complaining that he was coming up there at night and he would "screw her all night long." When she told us that, my mother nearly had a heart attack. I've never seen her face go fifteen shades of red like that before. It would have been pretty funny without the whole dirty-old-man-gettin'-busy-with-his-senile-mom part. No wonder the guy was on oxygen, with all that overexertion. The mother finally died a few months ago (not from that, I don't think). I guess he can give up his Viagra prescription now. But if you're interested, he has an apartment for rent.

Boogers & Hair Spray & Woo Hoo!

As I sit here typing, I am trying very hard not to look at the woman who just entered our office. About 30 years old, with 3 kids in tow, she would be fairly attractive...if it weren't for grossly misshapen nose. It looks like cauliflower, slightly off to the left side of her face. It is bright red, like a tomato from Cherynobl. Just lovely.

It's not like it's something I haven't seen before, because it's a fairly prevalent sign of alcohol abuse. It's just sick to see it on someone so young. Many of the Native Americans in our area get this because of drinking Lysol. Even though in a normal situation it is toxic, they puncture it and let it drain into a bucket partially filled with water. Then they drop in a loaf of bread, which for some reason soaks up the poison. Then they take out the bread and drink what's left in the bucket. Apparently, Aqua-Net is cheaper than beer. I'll take water, thanks. There are now signs in our local stores saying that they won't sell more than 2 cans of AquaNet per customer. Oh, for the good ol' days where everyone just sniffed glue. *sigh*

The kids with her would be cute, if it weren't for one thing - the snot running down their faces. I try not to look at them, because I have a very sensitive gag reflex. The worst part about it is that their mother doesn't even seem to care. What's that all about? "Oh, look, my kid has green mucus hovering over their top lip. How sweet!" Ok, I even made myself gag on that one. How expensive are Kleenex? Or even a shirt sleeve? I'm not going to be touching them - I don't care about their clothes! One of the girls keeps pressing her face against the window. It's times like this I'm really glad I don't have to clean them. Note to self: wear gloves when opening the door to go home.
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WE DID IT! Just got word back from our kids at Districts! Eight kids made it into finals, 3 are going to State! We haven't had 3 kids make it to State since... ever. I do believe I'll be asking for some time off. I'd like to say it was my stellar coaching abilities, but let's be realistic. It was actually just my cupcakes and my mojo I sent along with them. It was a rough day yesterday without my mojo, so I'm glad to have it back now.

Don't Open That Drawer

I was making these funky, addictive cupcakes last night for the speech team. (No, they didn't have pot in them, or Ex-Lax). They are headed to Districts this morning and since I'm working, I can't go with them. What better way for them to feel my presence than with unhealthy food? I was trying out my mom's new muffin pan, and let me tell ya, it worked splendidly. Here's the deal: it's made out of silicone. It's very flexible, so anything you put in it just pops right out. No sticking, no scraping them out of the pans, amazing! It's better than sliced bread! It's one small step for cupcakes, one giant leap for...well, you get the idea. It's good stuff, Maynard.

Anyhoo, as I stood there in awe of a blue rubber pan, it reminded me of a tale of terror I felt had to share. When I first moved out of my mom's house, I was 20. Since she was a single parent and had a huge place, I agreed to stay at home after I graduated to help out for awhile. Needless to say, living with my mother was like being pecked to death by a duck. She also agrees that we get along much better if we are not sharing living quarters, or a candy bar. So when my aunt got put in a nursing home temporarily, I had hit pay dirt. Not that I was happy that she broke a vertebre and was bed-ridden for 4 months. I had nothing to do with that. However, she did need someone to stay in her house and care for things while she was laid up. All I had to do was pay the utilities. It worked quite well, and I was determined never to move back home. But then, one day, my aunt healed up and it was time to move to greener pastures. Well, actually creepier pastures, but I'll tell you about that tomorrow.

I started packing up my things as my aunt began bringing her belongings back in. Since I'm notorious for leaving things everywhere I go, I was determined not forget anything this time. I was sure I had emptied out the dresser, but living with an OCD sister taught me that even if the coffee pot was off the first 17 times you checked it, it might be on that 18th time. So I reached in the top drawer and felt something rubbery. What on earth did I forget, I thought. I pulled the object out of the drawer. And there I was, staring down...at my aunt's fake breast. She had a masectomy during her bout with breast cancer a few years before, and I had known she wore a falsie. Kinda like you know there is mechanically separated chicken in potted meat. It's true, but you try not to think about it so you can sleep at night. But I hadn't ever seen it, and I didn't want to. But there it was in my hand, staring up at me, accusingly. It was surprisingly realistic-looking in a siliconish, not-attached-to-a-body sort of way. Suddenly, I realized it was like I was groping my aunt, and she didn't even know it! I dropped that sucker (no pun intended) like a hot cake, and it was like Flubber. It rolled/bounced under the bed and somehow got stuck in the grate on the heater vent. I was afraid to tug on it, for fear I might tear an important part off. But if I left it there, I was sure it would melt and run into the vent and be lost forever. I finally got it dislodged, threw it back in the drawer, and figured anything I left there she could just keep. As I came walking out of the bedroom, there sat my aunt, ignorant of the struggles her chest had been having. And she was wearing a muu muu. Let me tell ya, they leave nothing to the imagination. I tried to keep my eyes up, but after what I had just seen, I couldn't help but look. Sure enough, she was lop-sided. I was so freaked out I made some lame excuse and bolted out the door. For weeks later, it would pop back into my head and I would do a full body shiver. She's gone now, but every once in awhile, I wonder who ever ended up with that silicone devil.

And now you know why I decided to forego the cinnamon candy on the top of the cupcakes.

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UPDATE: I had to add this hilarious voicemail I just got emailed to me. Check it out!

Are You on Drugs?

I need new contacts. Mine feel okay for about the first 30 seconds I have them in, then the fun starts. First, they scratch a little. Rewetting drops soothe them for awhile. I feel normal, or as normal as ever, and then I see my mother. "What's wrong? Why have you been bawling? Are you suicidal? You're a druggie now, aren't you? Oh, I've failed as a parent!" Ignoring the theatrics, I check the mirror. Lo and behold, my eyes look like they've been replaced by Atomic Fireballs. Bloodshot and swelled. Unless you're Ted Kennedy, that's not really a normal look. It's 10:00 in the morning, and I look like I've been on a three day bender. Which I haven't. I think I'd remember. Someone said you can get different sizes of contacts that hold more moisture in and it will keep your capillaries from exploding or some such nonsense. I think mine are going to need to be the size of dinner plates and submerged like the Titanic.

A buddy of mine has worn his pair of three month contacts...for eight years. That's right, eight! I thought he was lying right at first, but apparently it's true. The doctor couldn't believe it when he went in for a check-up after five years. He thought he had been going to a different doctor and wasn't telling him. But every pair of contacts has a serial number on them that can be traced back to the doctor. Between your eyes and your boob implants, Big Brother will find you anywhere. The doc realized that they were the contacts he had prescribed. It turns out K's eyes don't create the protein that wears away contacts, so they looked like 3 mo contacts that had been worn for 4 mos. The doc gave him a new pair. When K went back a few days ago, the doc said surely, surely he wasn't still wearing the same ones. "But I gave you a new pair three years ago!" "I was saving them for a replacement." The doc ordered him to throw out the old pair. Now they look like they've been worn 6 months. On an ordinary person, it would have done irreparable harm to their eyes. On him, it just made his left cornea slightly misshapen, which will go back to normal with the new contacts. This has to be the epitome of cheapness. I'm all about saving money and getting the most out of what you buy, but holy crap! I think I have enough problems without my corneas looking like footballs, thank you. Knowing my luck, I'd end up Helen Keller because I wanted to save a few bucks.
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Now this is a whole lot of desperation.

"It's a scholarship program!"