Monday, June 26, 2006
Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!
Oh. Hi. I'm back.
Turns out, the laptop what weighs a million pounds and I lugged all over Detroit Metro and Sea-Tac and hell and back and so forth? Yeah, couldn't get online with it. Seven people in my mother's neighborhood had the wireless, oh indeed they did, but they had it security-enabled, thusly not allowing me to fucking use it.
Needless to say, I am disappointed that they would not let me steal their Interwebs. What sort of person doesn't allow ME, of all people in the world, to steal their Interwebs? I am shocked and appalled, I tell you. Shocked. And. Appalled.
As you can imagine, this causes the hate. I am like, "All you people, protecting your Interwebs from me? HATE SO MUCH."
I briefly contemplated wandering around the neighborhood, cradling the VAIO (which I also HATE SO MUCH, because could Boss let me bring along the tiny (albeit unusable due to its tininess) VAIO? No, no, she let me bring along the 9 million pound VAIO which has created a permanent dent in my left shoulder from the carrying and possibly has crippled me for life. Granted, she did give me a lovely burgundy DKNY bag to put it in, but I was all like, "I CANNOT BE BOUGHT OFF WITH EXPENSIVE DESIGNER BAGS! Wait, yes I can. Thank you! Squeal!")
Uh, tangent - where was I? Yeah, wandering and cradling, 'round the neighborhood, knocking on doors when the wireless signal gained strength, "Excuse me. Do you have wireless Interwebs in your abode? You do? Cool. Can I ask you a favor? Yeah. Can you quit being a twat and disable the security thing so I can steal your bandwidth? Much obliged."
Okay, I contemplated that more than briefly. But I did not do it. Because I am a nice girl. And also, carting around aforementioned laptop weighing approximately as much as the Earth? Too lazy for that. Way too lazy, friends and neighbors. Waaaay too lazy.
So instead of spending my usual inordinate amount of time online, I lounged about on my parents' patio and read many books and prattled on the phone to El Bastardo and sometimes Skippy and Caligula (from CIM, 'member him?) and got a sunburn, and even more scary, a fucking tan.
Yes, that's right. I have a tan.
It didn't start out as a tan, though. It started out as the Worst Sunburn in the History of the World, made even more upsetting by the fact that I acquired it in goddamned Seattle. If that's not a classic example of Adding Insult to Injury, I don't know what is. I am still burned on my arms, but my face has attained a strange golden hue that is totally freaking me out, man. Totally. Ahhhh. AHHHH.
I will take a picture of this cosmic joke when it's not 3 in the morning and I haven't just spent nearly 5 hours on a plane with two bouncing children. I will also take a picture of the strange bruise the 9 million pound laptop gave me on my shoulder.
I am afraid this post isn't making any sense, but I am sure you all can deal. After I grab some sleep, I will return to blog about Stupid Things That Always Happen to Zombie at Airports. Also look for upcoming installments in which we discover that my grandmother is now senile and discuss how strange it is that my little sister and I have managed to seperately develop uncannily similar senses of humor (not to mention taste in shoes!) and also how my mother didn't badger me nearly as much as I had expected, though she did lay out a few EXCELLENT Comments, and, of course, Why Jack in the Box Ruined My Fucking Day.
I think there's some other stuff to talk about, too, but my brain just shut down completely and I am sure than if I keep typing any more, it will end up like, "Hahaha, sandwich! Mofo. Woot! Firetruck! What? Pina colada."
Yeah, just like that.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Tony Franciosa Used to Date My Ma
There are days, and then there are days, if you know what I mean. This my excuse for not blogging. I know that all (3) of my adoring fans have been just pining away.
Okay, no I don't. Fuck y'all.
Anyhow, the spawn and I leave tomorrow evening for a fun-filled week-ish with my parents and Incredible Shrinking Sister.
My mother called me three times this morning, within five minutes, while I was on the other line. Normally, I do not answer call-waiting beeps, because, hey, I probably don't want to talk to you, so I should just save us both the pain and not pick up, right? Praise Jebus for caller ID.
But I figured three times in five minutes must be something important, like someone's leg has come off or there has been a decapitation again (don't ask), so I finally clicked over.
"You all right, Ma? What's the problem?"
And I was right. It was important.
"What kind of alcohol do you want me to pick up from the package store?" They don't even have package stores in Seattle, as far as I know, but even the liquor area of the 7-11 is a package store to my mother.
"Ma. You suggesting I need to be liquored up?"
"I think we all do, sugar."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Bring on the vodka."
This is how we in my family deal with each other. We mix some drinks and pretend we don't all want to kill each other violently. Then, at the end of the visit, we hug and comment how nice it was and how we should do it again next year, and run, screaming, away from each other.
At any rate, I do look forward to this year's round of what I like to call The Comment.
My mother, who is all cuddly like Hannibal Lecter, is master of The Comment. She has elevated it to an artform the likes of which the world has never seen. She should be encased in Lucite and put on display for people to see and admire and then be thankful that she is indeed not their mother.
The Comment is a one-liner delivered in the sweetest, most concerned voice possible, that somehow manages to rip the top of your head off and then shit all over your life and make you question your very existence.
Yeah, she's that good, y'all. I can only hope that, on her deathbed, she will beckon to me and have me lean over to hear her whispery, papery, almost-dead voice, whereupon she will bestow unto me the secret of The Comment, so that I, too, may one day rip off my kids' heads with such well-placed and devastating one-liners.
Having witnessed interactions between my grammy and my ma, I know that my ma learned from my grammy. My grammy may be even better at it than my ma is, and that's saying something. I figure this gift was passed to my grammy from my angry German great-grammy, and so forth and so on up the line back to Moses or something, which means that one day, it will be my turn to learn from the masters.
Of course, my grammy, being certifiably Crazy at one point in time, is also prone to more direct forms of expressing general disdain, such as hurling full gallons of milk at my pappy's head or pulling the car over specifically to beat my uncle about the head and shoulders for no apparent reason other than that she thought it was appropriate at the time.
However, it must be noted that it is not so much the words of The Comment, but the tone in which she delivers it. I cannot quite convey this through text, of course, but you'll just have to trust me that my mother's one-liners have been known to make unsuspecting grown men weep like pissant babies.
Anyway, I am now mostly immune to The Comment at the advanced age of 24, and generally look forward to hearing whatever it is that will come out of my mother's mouth.
Some past choice bits:
Aged 16, Zombie saunters off the plane, looking fabulous as Zombie is wont to do, and Zombie's Ma smiles big, happy to see her eldest daughter. Hugs are exchanged. Zombie's Ma grabs Zombie by the shoulders and pushes her away a bit to admire her.
"I see you still dress like that," coos Zombie's Ma, who then abruptly releases Zombie's shoulders and turns around and starts walking away.
Aged 20, Zombie arrives in Seattle with her 2 year old and new baby in tow.
"Oh, so you feed him like that?" coos Zombie's Ma, observing Zombie giving her son some lunch.
"Oh, so you dress her like that?" coos Zombie's Ma, observing Zombie getting the baby dressed for the park.
"Oh, you use those kinds of diapers?"
"Oh, what a cute little coat on that baby. Too bad it's not nearly warm enough for her."
If any of y'all have kids and moms, then you know those sorts of Comments. I think our parents are genetically incapable of approving of the way we take care of our children, no matter how well we do it, since, obviously, they did a better job.
Okay, I'm probably not doing a very good job in my mother's eyes, since at last year's visit, we had such Comments as:
"I wanted to buy the children a Bible, but I didn't think you would allow it. Are you teaching them to pray to...whatever it is you pray to these days?"
"Oh, you mean Satan? Sure."
My ma still doesn't get the whole atheism thing. She is under the impression that you can't quit being Catholic and I must've just exchanged God for Zebibobo, the Pagan Pink Unicorn of Death, or Satan, or something equally ridiculous, since I have always been just such a rebel, and that, one day, I will give up my heathen ways and come back to The One, Holy, Roman and Apostolic Church and then a sunbeam will hit me in the head and a choir of angels will sing and I will shoot myself in the face.
Then there was "It's nice to hear how respectful you're teaching him to be" after my son was overheard bellowing, "JESUS CHRIST, MEREDITH!" at the top of his lungs when my daughter knocked over his blocks.
There are times I have done or said things that have shocked The Comment right out of my mother, though. These times are rare, but exceptional in their beauty.
Re: Terri Schiavo
Zombie: That poor cabbage. They should just let her go.
Zombie's Ma: THAT IS NOT A CABBAGE. THAT IS A HUMAN BEING. HAVE YOU NO DECENCY?
Zombie: I guess I forgot to pack it in the suitcase. Sorry.
Re: The death of the Pope
Zombie: 'bout damned time. He was getting pretty decrepit.
Zombie's Ma: OH MY GOODNESS, DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE POPE THAT WAY. THAT IS THE POPE.
Re: The War in Iraq
Zombie: I'm all for bombing unnecessary brown people, but I think we should've waited and bombed the people that actually had something to do with that Twin Towers thing first.
Zombie's Very Republican, George-Bush-Loving Ma: OH MY GOODNESS, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING. STOP LISTENING TO THAT LIBERAL COMMUNIST NPR GARBAGE AND JUST REALIZE THAT THE PRESIDENT KNOWS WHAT HE IS DOING.
Zombie: Well. I'd trust him more if he could at least pronounce "nuclear" correctly.
Zombie's Bill-O'Reilly's-Twin-What-Was-Stolen-at-Birth-in-a-Bizarre-Twist-of-Events Ma: *general gasping, overwhelming anger, some spluttering in an attempt to form a coherent thought in the face of such reckless stupidity being evidenced by her eldest daughter* DON'T YOU REMEMBER THE BAY OF PIGS?!?!?!
Zombie: That was a little before my time, but I know what you're talking about. What's that got to do with anything?
Zombie's Thoroughly-Ashamed-of-Her-Politically-and-Morally-Aberrant-Daughter Ma: It is absolutely impossible to talk about anything with you. You just do not understand.
And so on.
I'm sure something amazingly joy-filled will occur, and I have a laptop with which to blog about it, so aren't all (3) of you just so excited?
I know I am. Bring on the vodka.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Today, I got a hit from someone Googling something very strange:
"getting raped" rapist my neighbors kid always cries every day screaming
What is that? Is it some weird sex thing? Did someone get confused on the way to finding the rape porn and mix it up with his concern for the kids getting their asses beaten next door...? Perhaps he was like, "Hey, I need me some rape porn...can't enjoy it, though, since those KIDS ARE ALWAYS SCREAMING NEXT DOOR. Dammit...wonder if I can simultaneously look up some chick getting it by a man in a mask and how to report child abuse, as I am a great humanitarian like that."
And for some godforsaken reason, I am second on the list when you Google that. How did that happen?
I get some hits from pretty strange search terms, but if that don't beat all...
My favorite search term from last week was "hamburger machina," which came to us from some South American country. I like the idea of "hamburger ex machina." Hamburger from the machine...
Peoples is weird.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Taking Retards to the Zoo (And the Many Faces of Asher)
I SAW PENGUINS! YAY!
Today was my son's kindergarten field trip to the Toledo Zoo. I took the day off and went along, because I am still doing that pretending to be a good parent thing.
The day started off with me being crammed into a school bus with 50 screaming kids and their equally screaming parents. My son, surprisingly, was not one of the screaming kids.
I was so surprised by his utter well-behavedness (Is that a word? Whatever, it is now) that I leaned over in the seat and gave him a hug. "You are a good boy, Buster," I whispered into his sweet-smelling hair, having one of those Kodak moments where I envision that I am a capable mother and my children are lovely, cherubic kids that do no wrong and people want to take pictures of us and put us on greeting cards. "You're being so good. I love you."
"GOD, MOM! STOP IT!" he sneered.
Kodak moment over.
"Fine!" I said. "Screw you, then!"
So much for that.
Anyway, we finally arrived at the zoo, where I covered us in SPF 50, thinking that would surely keep the evil sun from frying me.
If you don't know this already, I am white. In fact, I put the white in "kill whitey." If I go out into the sun without wearing something akin to a beekeeper's suit, I immediately burst into flames and cry. So, SPF 50 it was.
We rode the little safari train that takes you around the "African Savannah" while some chick with a microphone (that's as white as me, no less) speaks Swahili and points out zebras and termite mounds. Asher was entranced with the sight of a giraffe urinating.
"Who knew something could pee so much, Mom?" he asked in hushed, reverent tones.
Then we rode the carousel.
As you can see, Asher is making his Very Happy face again.
Still with the happy...
Wait, what's this?
A new face! I shall call this one I Think I'm Gonna Puke.
But it didn't last, of course. We got off the carousel and he stopped being dizzy and went back to normal.
So, I think some of you might still think I am kidding about my son's distinct lack of facial expressions, but you would be wrong. I am not kidding. Enjoy the following.
Here is Asher, excited about looking at bears beating the crap out of each other... "WOW, MOM! CHECK IT OUT! THEY'RE FIGHTING AND IT RULES!":
Here is Asher, after visiting his favorite place, the Reptile House..."WOW, MOM, CHECK OUT THE SNAKES! SNAKES ARE AWESOME! LOOKIT THAT POISON FROG! POISON FROGS ARE AWESOME!":
Here is Asher hating the paparazzi (that would be moi):
And here is Asher enjoying his most favorite of treats, the raspberry smoothie:
And so you see, my son's face is not very pliant for some reason - unless he's throwing a tantrum, that is... then he turns into the Amazing Rubber-Headed Boy. I'm not sure what has caused this. He is just stoic. Perhaps it is a genetic problem. His father wasn't possessed of all that many variations in the facial expressions department, either. Ryan had Blank Stare, Grimace, Grimacer, and Grimace of Extreme and Utter Hatred for Everything in the World DIE DIE DIE!
I myself make faces all the time. My only genetic problem is the one where I try to open the car door at the exact same instant you are trying to unlock it...five times in a row. And then you hate me.
I SAW PENGUINS!
And they were very cute and I was very pleased, as I am a big fan of penguins and would like to have one for a pet.
El Bastardo has already said he would buy me a pet midget, so I figure adding a penguin wouldn't be that big of a deal. Right? A penguin AND a pet midget, together, living with me? Bringing me joy every time they fetch the paper and mix me a cocktail? Doing little penguin/midget dances for my viewing pleasure?
My life would be so complete. I daren't even dream of the happy that would bring.
Sorry, got a little misty there.
So, that was my day at the zoo with my incredibly happy-looking son.
Oh yeah, and despite my SPF 50 forcefield, I got a goddamned sunburn anyway. I guess the sun has decided he's just not that into me after all.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The New Face of Terror
People of This Earth: Please save this picture. We may need it one day when my children are known as International Criminals and I have gone missing. You can take it around and show it to people, "Have you seen this chick? Sure, she's weird and dumb and dangerously insane, as well as Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know, but we miss her! She made up the phrase 'ham donut' and that means she is Important to the Interwebs!"
You may be wondering what the hell I am talking about. Well, I've come to the conclusion that my kids are terrorists.
See? This is my son brushing up on his hand-to-hand combat skizillz that he learned in an Al-Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan a few years ago. Either that, or he's being a dork. One of the two.
Anyway, so I heard about the thing in Toronto from Skippy and I realized my kids might be in on the plot to blow up Toronto with ammonium nitrate.
Why would I think that my sweet, mild-mannered, adorable children are in reality fiendish terrorists and members of Al-Qaeda, you ask?
Well, it's quite simple.
They've been very well-behaved since last night.
And that means they're up to something.
Usually when I am concerned that they are up to something, I think it's that they are plotting to lull me into a false sense of security by behaving really well, only to all of a sudden turn into Raving Banshees from Hell and make me miserable.
That's how it usually goes.
But in light of the events in Toronto, I have decided they are behaving nicely because they don't want me to figure out they're in Al-Qaeda and planning to blow up some igloos or whatever it is they have in Canadia.
Well, they can't fool me. I'm on to them. I know What's What.
And now that I've told the Interwebs at large of their Nefarious Plot, I'm going to get disappeared. I just know it.
Tonight, while I sleep, they will steal into my bedroom - Asher wearing a funny headdress and Meredith in a burkha - and hit me over the head with the Batmobile Asher carts around with him all the time. After I am unconscious, they will realize that now is a good time to raid the fridge, and they will go eat all of my chips and salsa.
But after that...oh, after that, they will come back and Asher will put my limp form into some garbage bags while Meredith keeps a Kalashnikov trained on my forehead. Then they will drag me out to the waiting van, operated by vile Al-Qaeda members, take me to the desert and bury me up to my neck in sand, just like on Sleeper Cell.
Then they'll take turns throwing rocks at my head 'til I die!
And while they throw the rocks, they'll say things like, "This is for all the times you didn't let me have candy for dinner, Great White Satan!" and "Take that, you filthy American whore what won't let me stay up til 1 in the morning! WHEN I SAY I AM NOT TIRED, I MEAN IT!"
And I'll be all like, "But I got you a Happy Meal today!"
And they'll be all like, "YEAH, BUT IT DIDN'T MAKE US HAPPY AT ALL!"
And I will curse McDonald's with the last breath in my body, because if only their Happy Meals actually produced happy - instead of a vague sense of unease - I might not be getting killed by my tiny Al-Qaeda-loving children.
So, how was your Saturday?
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Zombie's HORRIFYING LACK OF BELIEF IN DEITIES Boogaloo
When I got to work today, one of the interns was sitting on one of the large rocks in front of the office door. No one had arrived to let us in, apparently, so I sat down with her to shoot the shit, as it were. Because I was feeling friendly. I don't know why. Usually, I am not friendly that early in the morning. Usually, I am very much like "Get away or I'll eat your face off. Fucker."
So she asks if I go to school. I get asked that a lot, living where I do, because everyone my age around here goes to school. Except me. Because I don't need no education.
I tell her, "No, I do not go to school."
"Oh, did you graduate?"
"Nope. I possess a lowly high school diploma only."
"Oh. Well...what do you do here?"
"Content management. Web design. Tech support."
"How do you do all that without having gone to school?"
"I am magic."
"Oh," she says, nodding.
We sit in silence for a minute, then she says: "Have you read The Da Vinci Code?"
"No. I tried to, but got two pages into it and wanted to set it on fire."
"Well, I thought it was very thought-provoking," she tells me.
"You know it's not real, right?"
"Well, I think that..."
Silence. I realize I am not being very nice and I should not scare Intern on her very first day.
"So...did you like the book, then?"
"Yes. But I'm spiritual, not religious."
Oh fuck sake. If that isn't one of the most annoying phrases in the English language, I don't know what is. "I'm spiritual, not religious" does not mean anything. You might as well say, "I'm calamari, not megalomaniacal" or "I'm sea lamprey, not justified." See? No sense. That is what that is like. Note to Everyone: Do Not Tell Zombie You Are "Spiritual, Not Religious" or She Will Want to Claw Out Your Eyes.
Actually, don't even tell me you're "spiritual," because that annoys me almost as much.
"Ah," I say. I force myself not to tell her that's a retarded thing to say. After all, she is painfully young and possessed of a shiny, eager face. She means well. I hope she doesn't tell me she's pagan, though. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut in front of pagans, even well-meaning, shiny ones. Especially well-meaning, shiny ones, actually. Oh well.
"I am Christian more than anything, though," she says. "Are you spiritual?"
"So you don't go to church or anything?"
"No. No, I don't."
"Because I'm atheist."
Small gasp. From her, not me. I am used to my atheism. It does not shock me anymore.
"So you don't believe in anything at all?! That's horrible!"
"That's not what 'atheist' means, sugar." Yes, I sometimes call people "sugar." It is a genetic problem. Also "honey." There is a tiny Scarlett O'Hara locked inside of me, begging for release. I think the hoop skirt is snagged on my spleen. Have to get that looked at. Anyway.
"What's it mean, then?"
Sigh. So I break out the old stand-by, "Okay, like, as a Christian, you believe in your god, but lack belief in Zeus, right? As an atheist, I just believe in one less god than you do. Like that."
"Oh. But what about evolution?"
"What about it?"
"Do you believe in that?"
"Oh. So who do you think created the universe?"
"No, saying I don't 'believe in' evolution does not mean I am a creationist. Evolution does not require belief. I accept it for the fact that it is."
"It's a fact. Evolution does not knock on your door, asking that you please believe in it as some of your fellow theists do. It just does what it does and that's that. It's not a matter of belief."
"Oh. I don't believe in evolution."
"Okay," I say.
"I don't really know anything about it, though. But I hear it's bad."
"Uh...okay. Why 'bad'?"
"Because, you know, I believe in God and all that, and even if I'm not into the whole organized religion thing, I think SOMETHING must have created us and so..." she trails off.
"Ah. Well, try to bear this in mind: evolution does not disallow for a creator god, okay? It does not tell us HOW we got here. Only what we did after we showed up."
"It's okay with me that you're an atheist," she announces finally. "I don't mind. Everyone should be entitled to their own beliefs."
"...or lack thereof, yes. Thanks. I'm okay with it, too. Or something."
She smiles. I try not to want to shove something sharp into my ear.
Then, thankfully, Boss shows up to let us in and I escape to my red, red office and let the red, redness soothe my homicidal mania and allow us all to live to see another day.
If I ever own my own company, when I make the applications for potential employees to fill out, it's going to say, "Are you spiritual, not religious? Check yes or no," and anyone that checks 'no' will be hired and given cookies and anyone that checks 'yes' will be immediately shot in the face and dumped into a ravine.
Because I will be an Equal Opportunity Employer like that.