Saturday, April 20, 2013

It's the The 50th anniversary of James Bond. Just stick a fork in my eye, because I'm done. The Brit even made me watch the documentary about it. He recently just obsessed for an hour about which model Ferrari James is driving in Goldeneye. And Goldeneye is the name of Ian Fleming's Jamaican home. Whee, I know this! I'll sure be a hit on Jeopardy! in the 007 category.

Aside. I tried out for Jeopardy! once. I made the tests but my credit sucked at the time so they wouldn't accept me as a contestant. (Yeah, I thought it made a lot of sense, as well.)

If I used to be able to tolerate James Bond movies, I now loathe them to the marrow of my bones.

Life advice of the day: Do you really think it's a good idea to tell the people you owe a whole lot of rent to that you used your disability payments for Fentanyl patches you buy from your neighbor who is terminally ill and broke, because while your neighbor is terminally ill you think Fentenyl is "fun" ? Paying your rent on time is really fun, give it a whirl sometime.

So in another life scenario, I'd be a forensic psychologist. I had the D.C. snipers mostly nailed, got the race wrong but I don't really think of race. I think of "human race". We're all assholes.

My take on Boston. Fisrt, a moment of silence for the victims, you running geeks just wanted to blow your knees out and try not to poop yourselves while running umpteen miles. God bless you.

One brother, 26. One brother, 19. Been here a while, tried yet never felt part of the whole American Dream thing. Dad was still in Chechnya, don't seem to be terribly religious Muslims.

None of that is a factor. This is all about the brotherly bond and admiration and copycat psychopathic behavior. Infamy. Total mentally destroyed. I think in this case, the elder led the the younger and the elder was quietly crazy. I had a sense that the younger brother idolized the older brother and Older Brother was seriously mentally ill.

Not religious, not political, nothing other than the hope for infamy in a sick and twisted mind.

I think people are trying to read way more into this than there really is.

Speaking of crazy. Weather. No such thing as global warming? In the past two days, it has been:

80 degrees
50 mph winds
Almost two inches of rain
Vast flooding, north of Indy, terrible flooding

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Thoughts At The Half

We saw a lot of colleges represented today at our weekly hunting/gathering expedition to the Land Of Evil, i.e., Wal-Mart. I had on Dexter's outgrown hoodie that has a small Sparty on it. Until you look closely, it appears that Sparty is flying the bird, but actually, he's pointing his index finger. I love that shirt. The frozen wing selection was quite depleted, I had to get store brand bleu cheese dressing (it was that or Kraft low fat and really what's the point then?) and too bad I don't own Anheuser Busch stock, because I'd be a rich girl. Add in the threat of the Great Blizzard Of 2013 and Wal-Mart was particularly annoying. Martin was thrilled to announce that he got the last multi-roll package of Angel Soft*.

I'm relieved to see that both Michigan State and Memphis are wearing normal uniforms, not ridiculous costumes. A couple of the coaches need to invest in some better suits. Seriously guys, I know you can't afford Tom Ford, but at least hit the Burlington Coat Factory or Men's Warehouse and skip JC Penney. Coach Izzo always looks nice, as if he puts some thought into it. Bob Crean has a nice sense of color and texture. Hey, what's the NCAA tournament without a little fashion commentary? The girls over at Fug could pick up a few straight guy readers if they'd just feature NCAA playoff uniforms.

The Memphis coach is like twelve. He's chewing gum and I have to wonder if its grape Bubbilicious and I keep expecting him to blow a huge bubble any time now.

Charles Barkely is adorable. I want to put him in my pocket and take him home. Except I bet he eats an incredible amount. He's just so huge and so adorable, like puppies and rainbows and unicorns adorable. I want to pinch his cheeks and I bet he gives wonderful hugs. He's wearing a vest, normally the kiss of death unless you're a four year old boy, but on him, it's adorable. Now I'm inspired to watch his episode of Saturday Night Live, where he was adorable. (Love you, Netflix. You give me old SNL and Frasier. That helps me overlook the endless Dr. Who, Top Gear and original Star Trek.)

The Adorable Charles sounds sick today. Allergies or a bad cold. Still such a gentleman/good sport, he is still there, commenting. (He just sang! Adorable.)

Who the hell ever heard of Florida Gulf Coast University? I sure haven't until today. They beat Georgetown. This is why I watch this tournament.

Mia's latest career path is a dog/cat vet and moving zoo animals. How thrilled do you think I would be if she went to State? I have two cousins and an aunt within 20 minutes of E.L. and I would certainly not hesitate to send her to visit on week-ends make them spy on her.

*Paper Products
The Brit has this obsession with paper products. I think he ran out of toilet paper once and now, every time he goes to a store, any store, even a gas station that has a grocery section, he buys the biggest package he can find. I have enough paper towels, toilet paper and Kleenex to soak up Lake Michigan. I will be wiping my butt in high style far into the Apocolypse.

Life Lesson Of March 23, 2013
If you have horribly bleached spaghetti texture hair with a huge pink (badly) dyed poof of pink at the front and no teeth (meth is a wonderful drug), no one is going to take you seriously. Ever. About anything. And calling me a stupid bitch whore? And asking why am I even there, why do I have that job? I have to keep my mouth shut but let me know when you have ever shifted your lumpy ass off the couch and did something so crazy as get a job. But you can't, since you're "disabled". It's obviously not physical, since you get around just fine, especially to smack your kids in public. If it's a mental issue, you can't possibly be on your meds and act the way you do, so maybe you should get a job and let someone who is truly disabled collect that exorbiant amount of money you get for sitting on your lumpy ass on the couch.

Oh wait. I've seen your mother. With whom you still live at the age of thirtysomething. Explains a lot. Starting with the importance of dental care.

Michigan State 70 Memphis 48.

Lucas Oil Friday. I should be there. I am off on Friday for the holiday. (Sound of wheels turning/grinding.)

My mother-in-law has stage 7 Alzheimer's disease. It's a terrible disease. Her mind is somewhere to the southeast of Jupitar. She lived with us for a year. When we finally placed her in a nursing home, the doctor was amazed we had dealt with it that long. I was her primary caregiver. I am obviously an inherently evil person, because the pillow crossed my mind more that once.

I had a plate of Chinese food thrown at me.
We put combination locks on the front and back door to prevent unauthorized escape.

I could only leave my house when a nursing aide was here and that was chancy at best. Public comments included, while dining at IHOP and observing two late middle age woman who were obviously Indiana Farm Girls, "I wonder if they're lesbians?" and in Meijer, while sitting on the meat case while I park the cart near you, while you systematically remove my items and stick them in the meat case while I continue the shopping, "At least we're the right color."

Let me note, I am in no way built or inclined to deal with getting my ass kicked. I am forever grateful to those sweet fellow Hoosiers who could only say, "Oh honey. Bless your heart." And didn't kick my ass or take it personally.

Clothing was hidden so it was not worn all at the same time. It really is possible to put on three pair of pants at once, you know. Of course, one pair will be worn on the arms. In August. In Indiana. Where the tempertures this summer reached the Ninth Circle Of Hell ranges. As you do.

Sample conversation, taking place at 1:30 a.m.:
THAT WOMAN: Brit! Who is that woman in our bed? (hitting and slapping said woman)
BRIT: What the hell, Mum? Go back to bed.
TW: Get that slut out of our bed! (hitting and slapping said slut.)
BRIT: (big sigh) Come on, Mum, back to bed. She's my wife, you're my mother.
TW: (Hysterical laughter) I'm your mother! Ha!

Fists were thrown.
Hair was pulled.
Hot mugs of tea were hurled. Amazingly, not by me.
Depends were hidden. (Suprise Lisa! A smelly little treat for you!)
Bennie the Dog was tormented and nearly fretted himself to death.

We are assured that she will be granted Medicaid, since the $10,000 weeks at the locked Alzheimer's unit are ludicrous, but it's a fight. Even though the Brit's Dad worked for General Motors and has excellent Blue Cross, Alzheimer's is covered 50%.

It's the $10,000 a week place or a place that won't take care of her but will house her, shove serious tranks down her throat and let her play in her own shit.

Please explain to me again why national health care is a bad idea.

Privacy And My Sense of Cringe or Dubya Is An Artist
Was anyone really surpried when the head FBI dude pretty much admitted at some geek conference that they track everything?

Every time our doorbell rings unexpectedly, I assume the Eff Bee Eye has finally come to get me. After all, they see my Internet browsing history and know which books I have checked out of the library and who I call and what I text and obviously, I am a disturbed individual. Crime, and death, and 9/11 Truth (still don't wholly buy it, but it makes me ponder), and cooking and all those lefty books about minimum wage and hate crimes and the memoirs, oh the memoirs alone would send me away.

I love a good conspiracy theroy as much as the next girl, but I do always feel like I've got Big Brother right next to me. When I first heard that someone had hacked Dubya's email, after the inital shock of realizing he actually could figure out email wore off, I shuddered at the invasion of his privacy.

Then,those three little words popped into my mind.

War. In. Iraq.

And then, four more.

Weapons. Of. Mass. Destruction.

Yeah, sorry, Dubya. Your email got hacked. At least no one died in combat as a result of that, right?

Boo effing hoo.

You paint some weird shit. I think you need glasses because you're perspective is whack.

Side note: Best comment on Gawker is "Barbara is going to run out of room on the refrigerator."

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Unsportsmanlike or Celebrating 75 Years of March Madness
I know it's wrong to gloat but I'm insanely happy that the Hoosiers lost their playoff bid to Wisconsin. Those silly IU fans aren't nearly so smug now, are they?

As a side note, uniforms, NCAA. What. the. hell? Michigan looks ridiculous in those screaming yellow getups and since when did gold become one of State's colors? What I fear is gold lame no less. Ohio State has this weird breastplate sort of vee shaped insert at the neck that looks incredibly uncomfortable and scratchy. Did an angry drag queen design these or what? Karl Lagerfield perhaps?

I must say, though, that the long shorts these days are tres sexy compared to those man panties of the 70s and 80s.

And although I'm not an IU fan, I do quite like Butler and Valparaiso. Little schools that could. We went to a show at Butler's planetarium, which is strictly circa 1974 in paneling, but a nice show of the sky and cheap yet unique date, if you're of that mind.

You know you're getting old when the coaches are more attractive to you than the players. (Hello there, Coack K!)

Life Lesson For March 16, 2013
When highly irritated that the first whiff of spring brings you not the sweet smell of newly growing grass from your yard, but the pungent odor of your neighbor's big dog's feces, it is not acceptable to take a shovel and fling said dog feces into the middle of the street. When called on this, it also not acceptable to take a bag of your neighbor's big dog's feces and bring them into the office. For what? DNA testing?

Stickshifts and Safety Belts
I have a 2007 Volkswagen Jetta Wolfsburg edition. Sooner or later, it's going to start breaking down and costing a small ransom to fix. I've had an ancient boogar green Rabbit, a 1984 Jetta and a 1984 BMW 318i. German cars are wonderful enginereeing creations but crazy expensive to fix. One of the greatest memories of my Dad is when he did a tune-up of my BMW and was literally left slack jawed when he found out the plugs and wires were well over $100 back in 1990. He had encouraged me to buy a used Chevy Cavilier, but I bought the BMW instead and damn, I loved that car. And when I went on vacation, my Dad, who had badmouthed my BMW from the start, after driving me to airport in the BMW, drove my car the entire time I was gone, much to the amusement of many. When I look at cars now, though, there is nothing new I want to drive. I love driving a manual transmission and flappy paddle shifting? Uh no. Unless I could drive one of those bad ass Mercedes Kompressors, which are far off my price range. As a result, I will nurse the Wolfsburg though its daily drives over the Ronald and keep stepping on my clutch.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

I need to start writing again. I need some sort of outlet for all the craziness I deal with at work. I do not, however, intend to be Dooced, so identifying details and work talk in general may be scarce.

Bare facts. I have embarked upon a journey in the housing industry. I work in the office of a rather large community here in Indianapolis and I am trying not to lose my faith in the future of humanity. The general stupidity of some humans never ceases to both amaze and depress me. Chickens are not an inside pet, okay?

I do love my job, mostly. It's stressful, but also hilarious, like what I imagine certain reality tv shows that I've never watched (and never intend to watch) might be like. Shows like Honey Child Boo Boo Head (whateverhernameis) or Swamp People or the bounty hunter dude with the orange "tan", extensions that not even Lindsay Lohan would slap on her drug-addled head and the wife who obviously owns only an overworked make-up mirror. Dog! I can't believe I couldn't remember that, since I remain a crazy dog lady. And yes, I do expect to see the Intervention crew go rolling by any day now, but not for me as the subject. This is Indiana, why smoke demon weed or just drink a forty when you can mix up some meth in an off brand Mt. Dew bottle in a Wal-Mart bathroom? Off brand Mt. Dew you've shoplifted, I might add. From Wal-Mart. Anyone who sees your mugshot will know your entire life story just by looking at that side neck tattoo you so proudly sport.

The tangent. My ruling planet.

I'm still the true crime and news junkie I have always have been. I've been half ass watching the Jodi Arias trial but it's moving so slowly and she's such a garden variety narcissist/sociopath, she's practically boring. For those of you who haven't heard of Jodi Arias, she is on trial in Arizona for the particularly gruesome murder of her boyfriend, who had relegated her to a booty call and girl just lost it. She stabbed him twenty-seven times, slit his throat and shot him. After having sex with him, photographing said sex, and photographing him in the shower after sex. As you do. She's claiming she was abused and was scared of him, claims it was self-defense after she dropped his camera and he became "enraged" and it pisses me off on behalf of all the women who truly have been abused. She's told at least three different stories, passed a magazine in the jail visiting room with a message inside to a friend, warning the friend about what the friend said to police, she showed up at his house, several hours away, with a gun. A gun she stole from her grandparents. Pulease. My Pomeranian would look at her and say, "Really girl?"

I had occasion to be in Michigan for a week recently. I was a little surprised to find out, it's not home anymore. I had a wonderful time having dinner with two old friends, spent time with my father-in-law, visited my favorite hometown steakhouse, ran into a friend I've know since kindergarten but then I came home. To Indy.

Naptown rocks.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Ugh, Chris Brown is on the Today show. Why am I even watching this horrible misogynistic man boy?

Mia's ninth birthday was last week-end and her two BFFs, Onievea and Tajana spent the night. They had great fun, and this year, no one cried even once. Last year, we had six girls and everyone cried at least once. They are all three such great little girls. I'm glad Mia has such good friends. She's struggled a bit in this neighborhood, mostly because she goes to a different school, since she's in the Horizons program. She doesn't ride the bus with them, so she hasn't had much of a chance to get to know them. She plays with the girls that live behind us a bit, but they are strange, nearly feral children.

I'm a true crime buff and I just have to ask, What's up with the cannibalism lately? Disturbing trend, and unlike other psychological aspects of crime, that's one I just have zero interest in. I can no longer read crimes about children, haven't been able to for a while, and cannibalism is vying for the top of the list now.

Last summer, we adopted a shiz tsu. She was in bad shape when we got her; worms, fleas, obviously shaved with someone's beard trimmer. I'm pretty sure the young couple we adopted her from used that money to immediately go buy a bag of meth. Molly has progressed very well, though, and she's a sweet dog. She was supposed to be either mine or Mia's, but she's definitely Martin's dog. Who could have guessed, Martin has a shiz tsu.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Hey Kids

Nearly two years since I have written anything on this. I'm still alive and kicking. So much has changed and yet so much has remained the same. We bought a house. We love it, but it needs cosmetic work. Lots of cosmetic work. TW a.k.a. DC a.k.a. my MIL lives with us. Every day is a new adventure. I got fired twice in a row. I apparently am no longer capable of holding a job. I love Downton Abbey even though the Brits in my everyday life (I'm outnumbered these days) are annoying on purpose to which they would say, "Brilliant!" and view it as an achievment. I love Mad Men. And yes, yes, yes I will be the green eggs in Jon Hamm's ham. We adopted a wonderful little shih-tzhu named Molly. Total dog count: Three. Me = Crazy Dog Lady Mia is wonderful, Dexter is doing what he needs to be doing. I just wrote an impassioned five paragraph op-ed (?) essay (?) regarding the tea party in Indiana and how kooky they are and I had to take it down. I will, however, editorialize to say this: Remember the Schoolhouse Rock short films? I'm just a bill/on capitol hill, etc. Remember those? The most simple components of democracy. Watch those again. Think about them. You can do this because it appeals to your "intellect." ohhh, sort of sorry.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Tales From My Crypt

Blame The Damn Merry Munchkin, Mitch

We finally purchased a second vehicle. Namely, my vehicle. I started off interested in a Cadillac, was horrified by the annual license plate fee (in the neighborhood of $500) and quickly lost all interest in a Cadillac. Besides, am I that much of an old lady? I get my first Cadillac at 44? Such a cliche.

Instead, I got a kick ass VW Wolfsburg Edition Jetta. It's fast, it's nimble, it's sporty but high end and I fly completely under the radar. Of course, the first thing I did was ask Martin to put on my Death Hag sticker.

My car is a 2007; my plates still cost nearly $400, more than a monthly car payment. Apparently, The Damn Merry Munchkin did something to lower property taxes but raised plate fees. I didn't read the whole scenario, my eyes were rolling so much I was afraid they would roll right out of my noggin. I admit, I'm not as well-versed in Indiana politics as I should be. Maybe this wasn't even The Damn Merry Munchkin's idea, but everything I've read about his policies, I think exactly the opposite and I just dislike the guy so he makes an easy target. Besides, from what I've seen, it's just like something he would do.

I thought I was getting shoes for my birthday, but instead I'm getting license plates. Ain't that grand? I'm so responsible. Twenty years ago, I would have been artistic with the white-out and milked that temporary tag til the tape curled and it fell off the back window and just bought the damn shoes.


We've been getting a lot of calls lately that show up on the caller I.D. as IN ST FOP which I can figure out is the Indiana State Fraternal Order of Police, looking for money. I'd already told them no a few months ago, I'm sketpical if this is the legitimate thing, but I guess they thought they'd try the pond again. Finally, I shoved the phone at Martin and told him to take care of it. I hear him telling the person on the other end that yes, his wife made a donation just last week, by golly!

When he hung up, I asked him, "Did you just lie to the state police?"

Martin said, "Yes, I did, I wanted to get him of the phone, I'm trying to watch Futurama and play Children of The Nile." (Geek.)

Mia: "You lied to the POLICE?!?", clearly agog with this news.

Me: "Your turn to explain."