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Thursday, November 02, 2006

Things Zombie Hates Thursday

I got the abattoir blues, right down to my shoes.


1.) Snow. I am not even prepared for winter. So the snow can stop now and I'll be really happy. Really. I will.

Okay, I won't be happy, per se, but I might be less overwhelmingly angst-ridden.


2.) When You Throw Away a Receipt.

I am not the most organized person on the planet. If you look in my purse, you'll see that I don't even have one of those new-fangled devices that they call a "wallet" and just let cash and Visa cards just sort of float around of their own free will, hoping they'll surface readily when I need them.

Whenever I buy something, I just stuff the receipt into the recesses of my bag and forget about it. This means that if I need to return something, then I can just dig around until I find the appropriate receipt, which usually can be found crumpled up at the bottom, busy communing with stray Lifesavers and an inkless pen. Easy enough.

Except I rarely return things because I am lazy and this great abundance of tree products just lounging around in my bag really does me no good. So once in a great while, I will up-end the bag and throw everything out, en masse, during one of those times where I'm having a fit in which I think I will finally get organized and stop flailing about the earth in a constant state of disarray, unbrushed hair blowing the breeze and mismatched socks all sexily on parade.

Of course, that would also be the time when I really want to return something. A day after I've up-ended my bag and thrown everything out, en masse. Except for the inkless pen. Because you never know when you might need a useless writing utensil.

And this is how today found me rootling through the outside trashcan, desperately hunting for a receipt that I had thrown away. I am sure the neighbors were all very amused, especially when I sounded my barbaric yawp upon finding said receipt - which, as luck would have it, was still legible, despite having been soaked in stale Diet Coke and Hot Pocket sauce.

I know my kids were probably really impressed. It's not everyone that has a mother that digs through trashcans while muttering curse words under her breath with no shoes on. I figure I'm now just one step away from shouting at stop signs while wearing a fuzzy hat.

It's good to be me.

3.) Things with Pilot Lights.

You may find this hard to believe - knowing as you do that I am an International Spy/Ninja/Ass-Kicker - but I am afraid of gas.

In fact, I am terrified of it, in the way people are terrified when they discover there's a bomb strapped to that cute little kid that keeps trying to hug them or when they figure out that their plane is about to fall out of the sky. So, pretty terrified.

Unfortunately for yours truly, I live in a house that's approximately 120 years old and is possessed of a furnace that might be even older than that. It runs on gas, but once I got the pilot light lit there, I didn't care anymore. The problem is that it's one of those forced-air furnaces, which means that the upstairs of my humble abode stays freezing, no matter how snuggly it gets down here.

To combat this problem, someone installed two space heaters upstairs. One is in my bedroom, and it is electric and toasty-making and I would hug it if I didn't think it would thank me by burning my face off.

The other one is out in the hall, strategically placed between the other two bedrooms, to allow for maximum warmth distribution.

It is also the bane of my existence.

This space heater dates back to the time of Moses and runs on gas. You might know the one I'm talking about - it looks like a little box and makes blue fire inside a cage? Yeah.

Now, don't get me wrong, thing pumps out BTUs like nobody's business, and for that, I am thankful - buuuuut...I have to light it. And lighting it scares the pants off of me every time.

You see, there's this button for an ignition thing, and you have to hold this dial down to "pilot light" while pushing the button, and it makes this really loud BANG sound when you do it. Then, if you're lucky, the pilot light will get lit and then you can slooooooowly and carefully move the dial over to "low" or "high" depending on your warmth needs.

Except, if you're me, it never works on the first try. The pilot light will get lit and then when you try to move the dial over to get actual heat, the pilot light will say, "HAHAHA, FUCKER!" and go out. And then you have to do it again. 500 times in a row.

And by this time, if you're me, you're imagining that the entire upstairs hallway is full of noxious fumes that are just waiting for the appropriate push of the button to burst into blue flame and blow your dumb ass to Kingdom Come.

Obviously, this hasn't happened yet, but I am still exceedingly wary.

I figure I have two options:

Option the First: Keep doing it myself.

Option the Second: Devise some sort of protective suit made entirely of Hefty bags - with a white industrial bucket for a helmet and a wooden spoon for strategic defense purposes - stick it on one of the kids, and direct their actions from behind a fireproof shield that I have fashioned out of a leftover nuclear reactor, some duct tape and a ball of twine.


I'm thinking Option the Second sounds best because I always wanted to be MacGuyver when I grew up. Also, if one kid gets blowed up, there's still another one in reserve. You might think that sounds "selfish" or "abusive" or "less-than-caring," but I just like to think of it as "family planning."

I'm glad you could all be with me while I solved this Great Dilemma. I'll let you know how it goes.


Zombie. Out.

link | posted by Zombie at 7:13 PM |


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