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Wednesday, December 20, 2006

An Early Giftmas Present Just For You...



Don't say we never gave you nothin.'

Cuddles,
Zombie & El Bastardo


link | posted by Zombie at 7:14 PM | 8 comments


Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Don't We Love to Turn Our Little Blue World Upside Down?

Most of you probably already know this, but Skippy's father passed away on the 17th.

He wrote about this, which you can read here.

Skippy has been my best friend for many years. He has been with me through some of the roughest times in my life - times I did not think I could keep my head up, and, indeed, times I wasn't sure I wanted to keep my head up.

We all have those times, to be sure, and it is not unique or special - but not all of us have a Skippy hanging around, pushing us along when we need it, supporting us and hollering at us when necessary.

And I know I am lucky in that regard - to have a friend so good, to have a friend so there.

I did not know Skippy's dad, except in passing comments (he thought I have great hair, and, well, this is obviously indicative of his great learning and smarty smartpantsness), but I do know one thing: Skippy's father had a huge role in making Skippy the person he is today - the person that has always been there for me when I've needed someone these past years.

A father that had such a hand in the making of such a person was a great man, indeed, and I am grateful to him, in my own little way.

It is with this in mind that I think a fitting tribute to his passing would be to take a brief moment (or longer, if necessary) to appreciate the Skippys we have in our lives, as I am doing now, and as I have been doing since I heard the news Sunday afternoon.

And, more importantly, let them know we appreciate them, that they help make us who we are, and that, for that, we are grateful.

We need to let those that are important to us - those that care for us and we care for in return - know about it.

If we don't tell them, who will?

If you are not fortunate enough to have your own Skippy, please head over to the Original and Best Skippy's blog and offer him your condolences. I know he could use the kind words right now.

Thank you.

PS - Man, I sure can bring the sap when I want to, can't I?


link | posted by Zombie at 5:40 AM | 3 comments


Thursday, December 14, 2006

Things Zombie Hates Thursday

I said, boy, you are my Fifth Avenue.

*****

1.) Standing in Line to Mail Things.

Went to the UPS Store to mail off Festivus packages to EB and my family today. I stood in line for, I shit you not, an hour and a half.

I have long held the belief that over half of America is retarded and this just reinforced my ideas.

There were only two people in line ahead of me and I stood in line for an hour and a half. Apparently, the combined idiocy of the cashier chick and the customers caused a disturbance in the Force, which, in turn, caused the very fabric of society to rip apart and collapse all over the linoleum.

Or that's what it felt like, at least.

Yes, Old Lady in Line Ahead of Me, thanks for bringing a shopping bag full of plastic trinkets and other useless items for the cashier chick to pack up for you. This entails wrapping each piece of junk up individually in bubblewrap, then choosing a box that's entirely too large for said junk, and filling the extra space up - scoop by tiny, tiny scoop - with packing peanuts. So the junk can swim around unmolested, I guess.

I suppose I should take heart in the fact that the flimsy plastic motorcycle will arrive undamaged to its destination, borne aloft by an excess of styrofoam peanuts and air-filled plastic, but I just can't.

Jesus.

2.) The Time Limit on Doing Good Deeds.

I ordered my daughter a dollhouse online, from Toys R Us, for Giftmas. It came with a bonus set of furniture, and I used the Google checkout, which gave me ten dollars off of the total. All in all, a very good deal.

I had it shipped to a friend's house so Mimi would not see it.

The friend told me it had arrived a couple of weeks ago - two big boxes. I thought that was weird, but figured the bonus furniture was in the second box and promptly forgot about it.

Until last night, when I got curious, and called the friend to ask if he would open up the second box, just to see what was in there.

Lo and behold, it was a second dollhouse! Toys R Us screwed up and sent me two of them for the price of one.

I doublechecked my bank statement to make sure they hadn't charged me for both of them and then immediately decided what to do with the second house.

I figured I would donate it to Toys for Tots. How awesome, I thought, would it be for a little girl that might not otherwise get a present to wake up to such a rockin' dollhouse on Christmas morning? After all, the house had pretty much fallen out of the sky as it was, so I might as well rain it down on someone else that needed it.

Then I thought, "Crap, what if Toys R Us figures out it fucked up three months from now and charges me for it?"

So, this morning, I called the Toys R Us customer service line and explained my predicament. I would like to donate this house, I said, but I couldn't afford to pay for it, and if they would prefer me to send it back, they'd need to send me a shipping label.

The customer service girl checked my order to make sure I had really only ordered one and then gave me the green light to put it in a donation box.

Score!

I was really pleased with this, for obvious reasons. So I called my friend to give me a ride to mail things at UPS and bring along the house so we could find a box to drop it off in.

After waiting for ages in the UPS line, I was feeling a little haggard, but hey! I'm going to do a good deed here pretty quick, so that's fine. I can deal with haggard.

Then we moseyed over to the nearest Mart of Wal and I lugged the dollhouse inside. I spent five minutes explaining to the Senile Greeter at the door what I was trying to do. She had to debate seriously over whether or not she needed to put a sticker on the house, to make sure no one thought I was trying to steal it. I tapped my foot, and my arms hurt from holding the heavy box, but I tried to remain patient.

She finally decided I didn't need a sticker and let me loose. I went over to the customer service area and...the Toys for Tots donation box was gone!

I flagged down a manager. "Where is the Toys for Tots box? I want to put this house in it. Please."

"Uhm...it was right here a minute ago."

"Okay," I sighed. "Where is it now?"

"I don't know. Let me find out."

Ten minutes later, after much jabbering on walkie-talkies, it was decided that the Toys for Tots people had removed the box. Yesterday. Dammit.

I lugged the house back outside to the waiting car. "DAMNED CHARITIES ENDING THEIR DAMNED TOY DRIVES!" I hollered through the open car window. I hate it when I am trying to do a nice thing but I am foiled by charity people ending their charity drives before it is convenient for me. Everyone should do everything at my convenience, godfuckit all anyhow.

We tried several other stores, but all of the Toys for Tots boxes were gone, gone, gone.

I was disheartened. The extra house has gone back to my friend's house until I can figure out a proper place to give it away. I am thinking Salvation Army, maybe? The YMCA? A local church? Those places generally adopt families at Christmas, right? I will start calling around and trying to find a good home for it tomorrow.

Or maybe I will just wrap it up and leave it on the porch of the sad little girl across the street that plays with my kids sometimes. She might be a little too old for it, though. I don't know.

Anyone have any ideas?


3.) Having a Daughter That Gets Into EVERY-DAMNED-THING.

I picked up this little tub of shea butter scented with almond oil for my mother, who likes such things, for Giftmas. It smelled so delicious, I picked up another one, in case I had to give an emergency present to someone that dropped off a million dollars on my front porch and SHIT, I don't have anything for YOU.

Hey, it could happen.

Anyway, so I packed up my family's gifts last night and got them mailed off today, as mentioned before.

Unfortunately, earlier this evening, I discovered that my daughter had gotten her paws on the other tub of shea butter and scooped a bunch out before putting it back in its decorative little box.

I don't know when she did that. And being the dumbass that I am, I did not think to open my mom's little box before wrapping it, to see if everything was kosher.

So it is quite possible that Mimi also stuck her mitts in my mom's Christmas present without my knowledge, and I wrapped it up and shipped it off.

Sadly, I had to call my mother once I realized this and explain the situation. I did not want to wait and hope it was fine when it got there. If it wasn't fine, my mother might assume that I had grabbed some random, half-used bath item from my medicine cabinent, wrapped it up and called it a day.

So thanks for ruining Christmas completely, Meredith. Thanks a lot!

I also hold her responsible for the atrocities in Darfur. And possibly Cambodia, now that I think about it.

Busy little thing that she is.

*****

Bleh.


link | posted by Zombie at 10:08 PM | 1 comments


Saturday, December 09, 2006

Things Zombie Hates...Uhm...Saturday

See, I didn't do the Hate on Thursday because a friend was so kind as to loan me the 5th season of 24 on DVD, so I've been jumping around the living room and screaming at the TV while watching that.

It's important, you understand. I am a rabid 24 fanatic, but will only watch it on DVD now. It's a trend my old roommate started, as I hadn't seen the show before and he gave me Season 2 on DVD once and I watched it all and LO, I LOVED IT. So then I watched the 1st season, and got back on track watching seasons in order after that - but only on DVD, for I am slow.

I've now completed my viewing of Season 5 and I realize that it is in time to start watching Season 6 on the TeeVee, but I am not sure if I will do that.

This is because I hate commercials. And I don't like the idea of having to wait a week - or more, if they go on hiatus - between episodes. My head might explode. Head explodey!

I like having the option of watching 7 episodes in a row if I need to, because I must know what's happening. I must know immediately. I am an instant-gratification kind of girl like that.

It's a great dilemma. What should I do? Should I try to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous commercials and long-ass waits in between episodes? Or should I sit tight and wait for the DVD so I may once again do my customary watch-it-all-at-once thingie?

I don't know. What would Jack Bauer do?

Besides shoot someone or hijack a helicopter with the President in it or save the American people from several large canisters of nerve gas, I mean.

Because, while I'm pretty sure I could shoot someone, I don't think I'm speedy enough for all those other things.

Nor am I ruggedly handsome enough.

Damn and blast!

Anyway, here's some hate:

1.) Retards That Made My New Coat.

I had this coat I bought last year - the first coat I've owned in somewhere around 5 years. Which is funny, because I live in the Great White North, but didn't have a coat, which meant I was continually freezing my baguettes off. Ha ha! I laugh in the face of your hypothermia! Frostbite means nothing to me!

But then I got a job where I had to look vaguely presentable and I thought my years-old, ratty black hoodie (also named Bob. Because I name everything Bob. I still have him, as he is my best good friend. Love you, Bob!) might not really make the cut.

So I got a lovely black wool peacoat on the cheap. And while I kept forgetting to wear it, because I wasn't used to having a damned coat, it was nice to have. It made me feel all grown up, like, "Look, Ma, I am capable of keeping myself sort of warm when it's snowing out! I am responsible, and, more importantly, fashion-forward."

Then I lost all that weight. And when it started to get snowy again, I dragged out that nice coat and, oh, it did not fit at all.

So I bought another new coat. Online, for I enjoy shopping in my pajamas. It is a nice black wool trenchcoat dealie, with a subtle herringbone pattern. And on sale! Mommy loves a bargain!

Anyway, the coat arrived. I was all happy. I like getting presents in the mail. I realize it's not really a present since I bought it for myself and knew it was coming, but please don't ruin my moment. Thank you.

I pulled it out of the box and put it on. Yay, it fits! Yay, it's an unheard-of small size for someone that's me! YAY YAY YAY...wha?

I tried to put my hands in the pockets because I needed to skulk around the living room with my shoulders hunched and my hands in my pocketses, to make sure the coat was truly appropriate for me, but...the pockets were halfway sewn shut!

This was very upsetting. What maniac sews the pockets on a coat halfway shut? What is the meaning of such a thing?

I still don't know, but I had to expend a bunch of energy wandering aimlessly around the house until I remembered where I put some of my scissors. Then I had to snip away at the shoddily-sewn seams that were preventing me from skulking properly.

It's a rule that you can't skulk about correctly unless your hands are in your pockets. Just so you know.

My pockets are now unobstructed and I am very much enjoying my new coat, but every time I put it on now, I hate a little hate for whatever idiot did that.

2.) When Wednesday Runs Away From Home.

I lost a day this week. I think it got tired of all my rules and tied a checkered handkerchief to a stick, put some cookies and pie in it, and ran away from home.

Or I'm just nuts. One of the two.

At any rate, I lost Wednesday. While I was busy jumping around the living room and shouting at Jack Bauer to hurry up and save the world, I heard garbage trucks outside.

"Why are the garbage trucks outside?" I thought to myself. "Don't they know it's only Tuesday, and therefore patently not Garbage Day?"

I sat and ruminated on how dumb garbagemen are until the truck was gone up the street. Then it occurred to me to peek out the window and I saw that everyone had their garbage cans - now empty - out on the curb.

"HAHA!" I thought. "Everyone is dumb!"

And then I realized that it was me that was dumb because it was actually Garbage Day.

Fortunately, we do not generate that much garbage, so it's not a big deal that I missed Garbage Day, but still. I hate when I have no idea what day it is.

3.) Teenagers That Want to Shovel the Walk.

I hate snow. But even more than I hate snow, I hate shoveling snow. All that work only to have more snow arrive and render it completely pointless.

Teenagers showed up on my porch, wanting to shovel the snow away.

"I don't have any cash on me," I said. "Go home."

Teenagers make me nervous, because I'm pretty sure they're all murderous bandits, bent on mayhem and destruction. They only want to shovel my sidewalk and get 5 bucks off of me so they can purchase automatic weapons and cocaine from that hippie up the street. But I'm not going to fund their drug habits!

I need to fund my own.

*****

Look who I found!

El Bastardo and Birthdays

People ask me, "EB, why do you hate birthdays?"

Now, let me clear the air here. I do not hate them. I just do not see the point in them.

I mean, if people want to celebrate that they were vomited forth from their mothers' over-stretched vaginas...whoopdefuckingdoo.

"Hey, congrats! Happy B-day!!"

Congrats? For what? What the fuck did you do? Nothing.

Face facts. A birthday is really a celebration of one thing and one thing only: your parents fucked.

That is right! Joyous celebration!

So, when people ask me why I make no big deal about my birthday, I simply tell them this:

"During your celebration of one more solar year on this rock, remember what you are really celebrating: your dad took his engorged, throbbing penis and rammed it into your mother's moist, quivering vagina. Hey, what kind of cake is that?"

Sometimes, people forget the obvious when they are drowning in a world of bullshit tradition and mediocrity.

But, fortunately for all you lucky people, I am here to remind you of the cold, hard facts.

Like you celebrating your father's penis.

You're welcome.


*****

Now we'll all have nightmares from being reminded that our parents fucked! Thanks, EB! Dick.

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link | posted by Zombie at 5:26 PM | 6 comments


Tuesday, December 05, 2006

We Wish You a Merry Christm...Eh, Fuck Off.

It's December now.

How frightening is that?

I decided I would do that thing where I pretend like I'm a good parent and take my kids to see Santa.

My son is now of an age where he does not believe in Santa anymore and takes every opportunity to inform my daughter that Santa isn't real.

Of course, I think he's actually known that for a while now. I remember a time a few years ago, when his father asked him, "Asher! Do you know where the Christmas presents come from?" thinking the boy would answer, "Santa Claus!" and then we'd all have a Norman Rockwell Moment or something, only with less sepia.

But no. My son gave his father a scornful look and said, "From the closet. Duh."

There's Mommy's good little skeptic!

At any rate, Meredith still believes in Santa. I do not comment on such things either way. When my son harasses her about her ridiculous belief in cosmic present daddies in the sky, she comes running to me, begging for reassurance.

"Mom, Santa is real, isn't he?"

I say, "You'll have to figure that one out on your own, squirt."

And then she looks at me like I just ran over her puppy with a sleigh and I am delighted with my Awesome Parenting Skizillz.

So, Sunday, we embarked on a journey to visit Santa. We got lucky, because the line was not long.

The little curly-haired girl in line in front of us was very cute. Until it was her turn to see Santa and she took one look at him and tore screaming out of line and off down the store's aisle.

Not one to ever miss a chance at anything, Meredith went for the gold, bolting over to Santa and scrambling into his lap. She immediately began rattling off her list of Festivus Wishes, which appeared to include the entire inventory of Toys R Us and perhaps half that of Amazon.com.

Without letting Santa even ask her the age-old question, "And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?" Protocol had been breached! Santa and his elves were aghast.

Meredith was undaunted and continued chirping.

Santa started to get worried. He looked to me for help, like, "Can't you do something about this jibbering monkey thingie on my lap? GET IT OFF ME! OH, IT TALKS SO MUCH!"

I did not help the Jolly Old Elf, though, because I figured he probably had a flask of something alcoholic underneath that fancy scrolly chair, and therefore was more prepared to soothe himself after having to deal with my daughter than I ever am.

I should start carrying around a little barrel of bourbon under my chin, like a St. Bernard. That might work.

Anyhoo. My son hovered about 3 feet away from Santa's chair, eyeing Santa with distrust. When my daughter paused to take a breath before resuming her Litany of Greed, Santa asked the boy what he wanted for a present.

"Oh...a toy, I guess," said my son, shuffling his feet around.

"Is that all?"

"Or...a dirtbike!"

Sigh. No dirtbikes.

I shoved the boy over to Santa's chair so they could take a picture and we could get this sordid thing over with.

Consequently, we now have a Polaroid shot that cost me roughly 9 million dollars, with my daughter grinning like a maniac and my son standing there, looking like he always does, which is to say "vaguely unamused," while wearing his "Wisconsin: Home of the Mullet" t-shirt.

I was going to post this picture, but I realized I own nothing so pedestrian as a scanner, and therefore cannot.

Oh well.

Today, we kicked the Nondenominational Gift Giving Day season into high gear in Zombistan by putting up the Christmas Tree/Channukah Bush/Foliage With Lights On It.

My tree is a fake tree that I acquired from Big Lots for roughly 17 dollars. Why? Again, because I am a cheap bastard. Oh, and it's pre-lit. Why? Because I am also lazy.

I briefly considered just getting a stick and putting it in a bucket and calling it a day, but no, my kids deserve better. They deserve a Good Tree. And Quality Family Time.

And so we got a Good (depending on your definition of "good," I guess, because I only paid 17 dollars for it, and it shows, piebald thing that it is) Tree and spent Quality Family Time of the Arboreal Variety together.

Quality Family Time of the Arboreal Variety in my house goes like this:

"Okay, kids, time to decorate the tree!"

"YAAAAY."

"NO, not like that! Put that one there! No! How many times do I have to tell you that you can't put two silver ones right next to each other? It ruins the whole aesthetic! SAVAGES! Nevermind. I will do it myself."

Okay, maybe I was a little more lenient than that.

But not much. I do have standards to uphold, after all, and those standards do not include an improperly-decorated fake tree.

After we got the tree all put together and shiny-looking, we sat back to admire our handiwork.

Well, Asher and I did.

Meredith went around behind it and somehow managed to pull the whole thing down on top of herself.

Of course.

There was much rustling and the sound of smashing glass.

"JESUS CHRIST, MEREDITH!" my son shouted.

"AHHHHHHH!" screamed my daughter from underneath the tree, little arms and legs flailing wildly.

I quickly pulled it off of her, envisioning the need for stitches, because surely all those smashed ornaments had turned her into a mangle-face. Fortunately, she was unscathed.

I can't say the same thing for half of my silver and red glass ornaments, but what can you do? At least they were cheap.

We cobbled the tree back together, and it is markedly less shiny now, but still serviceable.

Serviceable. That's the important thing, right? RIGHT?

Sigh.


link | posted by Zombie at 7:10 PM | 5 comments


Monday, December 04, 2006

A Sad Day in Zombistan

Skippy alerted me to this story today.

I must say, I'm rather disappointed in law enforcement officials in the city of Minneapolis.

I've never been a fan of Minneapolis. I've only been there once - and that was through that abortion they call an airport - but that was enough to let me know that Minneapolis is not a city that any right-thinking person wants to visit, let alone live in.

This story is further proof that Minneapolis might not just be annoying - no, it might also be the Hades of America.

MINNEAPOLIS (AP) - Six friends spruced up in fake blood and tattered clothing were arrested in downtown Minneapolis on suspicion of toting "simulated weapons of mass destruction."


Simulated weapons of mass destruction! That sounds serious! Did they have suitcases with bombs in them? Were they pushing around a large nuclear warhead on a trolley cart?

Police said the group were allegedly carrying bags with wires sticking out, making it look like a bomb, while meandering and dancing to music as part of a "zombie dance party" Saturday night.


Oh no! Even worse! Wires! Wires in bags! Someone alert the President! This is Serious Business!

One group member said the "weapons" were actually backpacks modified to carry a homemade stereos and were jailed without reason. None of the six adults and one juvenile arrested have been charged.


Okay, so, seriously, what you have here is a bunch of geeks that decided to stop playing AD&D for a few hours and go outside of their moms' basements for a little of the ol' social interaction.

However, we here in Zombistan are disturbed by the fact that zombies are getting picked on like this. It's not their fault they're retarded, you know. It's the lack of oxygen to the brain that does it. They don't know they shouldn't wander around like idiots with wires hanging out of bags because this might make the Officers of the Law suspicious and nervous.

See, I bet it never occurred to any of you that having wires hanging out of bags, as part of some modified hi-fi system you got from the Salvation Army, would make the Officers of the Law get their panties in a bunch. So if it never occurred to you, why should it occur to the living dead? I ask you.

This is an important question for our time, as I forsee many more zombies going out to the dance clubs in The Future of America, and some may even be carrying a Jansport with a radio in it, and so we shouldn't be alarmed. We should just talk calmly to the zombie and explain that This is Not Done, and gently suggest they put the radio somewhere else.

If that doesn't work, well... remember: always aim for the head.

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Please.


link | posted by Zombie at 9:36 PM | 0 comments


Thursday, November 30, 2006

Things Zombie Hates Thursday: Special Bathroom Edition

Apparently, while I wasn't paying attention, I turned into Suzy flippin' Creamcheese.

You see, this evening, after having dinner out with the kiddos and some friends, we stopped at The Holiest of Holies, Big Lots. And I got excited. About buying a garbage can.

Yes, it's sad.

If you don't have a Big Lots in your area, woe unto you. Closeout stores rule the earth, people. They rock my world. Because I am a cheap bastard. There's something deeply satisfying about buying namebrand items at closeout prices. I learned this from the Big Lots commercials featuring that large, angry-looking black woman and that white dude that looks mildly retarded. Shopping is therapy.

So, anyway, I bought a new garbage can. For my bathroom, which is now New and Improved.

When I moved into this house, my bathroom was (insert rending of the garments Old Testament-style here) carpeted. Carpeted bathrooms are a plague on humanity. You can't keep a carpeted bathroom clean. It's just not possible. No matter how much you vacuum the carpet, no matter how many bathmats you put down, no matter how often you wrap the children in Saran Wrap before they even step foot out of the tub after a scrubbing, it's going to be messy up in there.

When I first saw this carpeted horror of a bathroom, I was immediately reminded of a time shortly after I moved in with my foster parents. You see, they too were cursed with a carpeted bathroom. I am not sure what possesses people to put carpeting down in a bathroom, but some people do it. And then they sell/rent that monstrosity out to other people who are in need of housing.

So my foster parents had a carpeted bathroom. Both of them were horrified by it, but, as they told me, the time they attempted to rip it out turned out to be a bad idea, because as soon as they lifted up one corner of the evil carpeting, they found...bare plywood underneath. So the carpet had to stay for a while, because they couldn't, at the time, afford to fix the flooring and put tile or linoleum in.

And they were resigned to their fate. They accepted it with quiet grace and dignity. I was in awe of their fortitude and courage under such pressure. They did not complain.

Well, not until one morning, about three weeks after I moved in there, when I was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV as I am wont to do, and I heard hideous shrieking coming from the bathroom.

"AHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK! AHHHHHHHH! I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS! MOTHERFUCKER!" came the anguished cries of my foster mother.

I trundled back to the bathroom to see what the problem was. She was standing in there, waving her arms around, screaming obscenities at my foster dad. "AHHHHHHHH!"

"What?" I asked. "What?"

She flung a hand out in the general direction of the wall. I looked over, trying to discern what evil had made itself known in the bathroom there. At first, I did not see it. And then...

There...in the corner the bathtub made where it met the wall...I saw...

...a mushroom.

A big one, too! At least 4 inches tall.

"I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS!" my foster mom continued shrieking. "A FUCKING MUSHROOM, ZOMBIE'S REAL NAME! DO YOU SEE IT?! THERE'S A FUCKING MUSHROOM."

"Yeah, I see it. Take a deep breath."

"NO. AHHHHHH!"

"Okay. Well, it wasn't there last night when I took a shower. It's awfully big. That's pretty neat."

"IT IS HUGE AND IT GREW OVERNIGHT AND IT IS IN MY BATHROOM AND I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS!"

My foster dad remained wisely silent throughout this debacle and eventually, a few days later, we were relieved of the evil carpet that grew mushrooms overnight and got some nice clean tile.

Whew.

And this brings us back to my bathroom. My bathroom with the carpet. I had visions of mushrooms springing forth from its artificial fibers like insidious little mushroomy springing things.

It caused nightmares. I worried. I cursed whatever maniac put carpet down in the bathroom. Would I, too, end up with mushrooms growing in my bathroom because some deranged interior decorator from Hades thought cream-colored carpet added a certain special something to the bathroom's aesthetic?

I did not know.

Of course, this did not stop me from renting the house, because, as I've mentioned before, the rent is freakin' cheap. And I love me some cheap like a fat kid love cake.

At any rate, the other day, I decided to brave whatever might lie beneath the carpet in my bathroom. After all, it was possible there was acceptable flooring underneath the carpet, just waiting for me to find it and let it free from its captivity.

And it turns out there was linoleum under there! Perfectly fine, acceptable bathroom flooring, covered up by ridiculous, porous, inappropriate wall-to-wall carpeting. And the carpet was hardly even nailed down!

The lack of proper nailing leads me to believe that the aforementioned maniac was really, deep-down, hesitant about the whole bathroom carpet idea and not entirely ready to commit to it in a concrete way.

I tell myself that, anyway, because it is things like these that let me sleep at night.

Anyhoo, I ripped that shit out with fiendish glee and dragged it to the basement. I then scrubbed the crap out of that linoleum, and while it appears to be older than Moses and therefore somewhat shabby, it's clean and easy to keep clean and not goddamned carpet.

And all was then well in my peaceable kingdom. Which is what led me to buy a nice new wastebasket for the bathroom, because it deserves something new and pretty to make it feel better about itself and bolster its newly found, antiseptic, potential-mushroom-growth-free self-esteem.

Now, if I could just figure out what to do about the bizarre, angelfish-shaped non-skid thingies they put into the bottom of my bathtub...

I appreciate that someone was looking out for my well-being by putting things in the tub to help prevent me from falling down and breaking my ass in half, but still. Angelfish.

Oh, and the swans someone pasted to the top of the shower stall. Swans, I say. Swans fashioned from the same non-skid stuff as the angelfish, only the swans serve absolutely no discernable purpose in life other than to make me glower every time I see them. After all, it's not like I'm going to be standing on the shower wall, and therefore need the swans to save my life or anything. No, apparently, someone thought this was decorative.

And you wonder why I hate everything. Silly heads.

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link | posted by Zombie at 9:05 PM | 11 comments