Kiersten's comment from yesterday made me think of the first superhero I ever met.
Picture this: Slayer and I have moved in together, because he said he was moving to Cleveland, and I invited myself along for the ride. We moved into this huge-ola high rise apartment with a view of Lake Erie and a drug dealer across the hall. (They did not tell us about the drug dealer in their promotional literature, either, which made me very disappointed.) My place of business was still in Toledo, so I telecommuted. We had a two bedroom apartment, one bedroom of which contained my office.
On nice days, I liked to keep my window open so I could hear the gulls while I was working. Not that I particularly like gulls, but it was an attempt to fool myself into thinking that I was living in some tropical paradise instead of near a lake that I won't swim in because of all of the medical waste. Unfortunately, this charade was ruined when they started redoing the parking-lot-slash-underground-garage. Imagine lots of pounding and beeping-in-reverse trucks and you've pretty much got it.
But this is where the superhero comes in. See, there was another high rise down the coast from ours, and you could just see it out the window if you nearly dislocated your vertebrae. Or, if you wanted to take it easy on yourself, you could go out on the balcony. Anyway, I was on a conference call one morning when I heard the yelling. It sounded vaguely like, "Shut up, you f-ing f-ers!!!"
That's when I saw him. He was out on his balcony at 8:30 in the morning with a can of Old Milwaukee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His mullet fluttered in the lake breeze; his wife-beater displayed his scrawny, sunburnt arms to maximum effect. He was the one man with the nerve to take a stand against the evils of early morning construction. He was MULLET MAN.
And sure enough, every morning they were out there, so was he, shouting various conjugations and combinations of the f-bomb, waving his beer in irate fury, running his hands through that party-in-the-front hairstyle of his. But this was no party, for Mullet Man felt strongly about the sanctity of his early morning booze-on, and he started flicking lit cigarettes down at the workers. One morning, he was simply gone. Vanished off into the hazy distance to help people in need: when early morning stillness is shattered by the monotonous beeping of a truck driving backwards.
It was probably for the best. My clients were always asking me who was shouting in the background, and it was hard for me not to giggle.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Gifts by Carrie
Yesterday, one of my neighbors took the Batson to a movie while the twins napped. Now, I'm really in trouble, because I ought to get her a little something to say thank you. That's how our neighborhood rolls, and I'm all for gifts, but... how do I put this? I'm great at gifting things that are ninja- or zombie-related. I'm fabulous when it comes to putting together a box o' snarfy random stuff. If said neighbor was possibly interested in a ninja duckie to float in her bathtub, I could happily point her in the right direction.
You see where I'm going with this. My neighbors give each other flowers; I have to resist the urge to decorate the bouquet with little plastic shuriken. They bake cakes for each other; I resist the urge to leave this on their doorsteps. They come over when I'm sitting outside the house to ask what I'm crocheting and aren't quite sure what to say when I tell them it's a nosferatu.
The last time this happened, I tried to make him dance so he'd seem more comical and less freaky. I can now tell you from experience that this isn't reassuring to the average neighbor.
Strangely enough, I have no problems getting or making normal baby gifts. Although the sparkly toilet onesie is tempting... Bestfriend and the Electric Lovitz ARE having a baby, you know.
Although I'm not really sure if that sparkly toilet onesie falls into the good sparkle or bad sparkle category. I'd put it more in the confusing sparkle group.
You see where I'm going with this. My neighbors give each other flowers; I have to resist the urge to decorate the bouquet with little plastic shuriken. They bake cakes for each other; I resist the urge to leave this on their doorsteps. They come over when I'm sitting outside the house to ask what I'm crocheting and aren't quite sure what to say when I tell them it's a nosferatu.
The last time this happened, I tried to make him dance so he'd seem more comical and less freaky. I can now tell you from experience that this isn't reassuring to the average neighbor.
Strangely enough, I have no problems getting or making normal baby gifts. Although the sparkly toilet onesie is tempting... Bestfriend and the Electric Lovitz ARE having a baby, you know.
Although I'm not really sure if that sparkly toilet onesie falls into the good sparkle or bad sparkle category. I'd put it more in the confusing sparkle group.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I Summon Frank!
Anyone else out there have a favorite Aztec god, or is it just me?
It probably doesn't surprise anyone to hear that I'm a longtime player of role playing games. Don't believe me? Look, I'm on Amazon! Um... yeah. I admit that on occasion I'll look myself up on Amazon every once in a while just so I can squee a little and say things like, "Look! I'm on Amazon!" in pseudo-casual tones.
This really is relevant to the Aztec thing. I swear.
Anyway, one of my favorite things to do on a Saturday night is get together and go pretend vampire hunting, or pretend to go vampire hunting, or pretend pretendishly to hunt pretendesque vampires. (Trying to make the point that I know this whole hunting of vampires thing isn't real. Is it coming through?) A large part of being a good gamer, other than the ability to act and the mental prowess to realize, as noted above, that none of it is real for god's sake, is problem solving. Your character has been backed into the corner of the baby pool, and the evil merpire is trying to suck out her blood. What do you do?
I always yelled the name of my favorite Aztec god. Frank.
You heard me right. His real name is Huitzilopochtli, which I think is tremendously fun to say. In general, I'm not a fan of the Aztecs because I have this thing about human sacrifice, but you've got to give them at least a little credit in the cool name department. Huitzilopochtli is a freaking cool name. So every time the merpires or werewolves or mutant guinea pigs would attack our characters, I would yell, "I summon Huitzilopochtli! Everybody dies!"
I'm quite sure that everyone loved me for it.
My boyfriend at the time couldn't pronounce Huitzilopochtli, and I teased him about that mercilessly. So he came up with the nickname Frank. And it stuck. I am fairly sure that this is a step in the wrong direction, unless one is filling out one of those automated test sheets with all the bubbles on them, in which case the name Huitzilopochtli is pure and unadulterated torture.
Our computer won't run any games. Or videos. Or anything remotely fun. So I'm thinking about renaming it Huitzilopochtli. The Frumious Bandersnatch apparently isn't evil enough.
In other news, I forgot to mention yesterday that Fabulous Agent Kate, otherwise known as FabAKa, has a snazzy new website! It even has a bio of yours truly, which is cool because now I have somewhere else to visit online when I want to squee.
It probably doesn't surprise anyone to hear that I'm a longtime player of role playing games. Don't believe me? Look, I'm on Amazon! Um... yeah. I admit that on occasion I'll look myself up on Amazon every once in a while just so I can squee a little and say things like, "Look! I'm on Amazon!" in pseudo-casual tones.
This really is relevant to the Aztec thing. I swear.
Anyway, one of my favorite things to do on a Saturday night is get together and go pretend vampire hunting, or pretend to go vampire hunting, or pretend pretendishly to hunt pretendesque vampires. (Trying to make the point that I know this whole hunting of vampires thing isn't real. Is it coming through?) A large part of being a good gamer, other than the ability to act and the mental prowess to realize, as noted above, that none of it is real for god's sake, is problem solving. Your character has been backed into the corner of the baby pool, and the evil merpire is trying to suck out her blood. What do you do?
I always yelled the name of my favorite Aztec god. Frank.
You heard me right. His real name is Huitzilopochtli, which I think is tremendously fun to say. In general, I'm not a fan of the Aztecs because I have this thing about human sacrifice, but you've got to give them at least a little credit in the cool name department. Huitzilopochtli is a freaking cool name. So every time the merpires or werewolves or mutant guinea pigs would attack our characters, I would yell, "I summon Huitzilopochtli! Everybody dies!"
I'm quite sure that everyone loved me for it.
My boyfriend at the time couldn't pronounce Huitzilopochtli, and I teased him about that mercilessly. So he came up with the nickname Frank. And it stuck. I am fairly sure that this is a step in the wrong direction, unless one is filling out one of those automated test sheets with all the bubbles on them, in which case the name Huitzilopochtli is pure and unadulterated torture.
Our computer won't run any games. Or videos. Or anything remotely fun. So I'm thinking about renaming it Huitzilopochtli. The Frumious Bandersnatch apparently isn't evil enough.
In other news, I forgot to mention yesterday that Fabulous Agent Kate, otherwise known as FabAKa, has a snazzy new website! It even has a bio of yours truly, which is cool because now I have somewhere else to visit online when I want to squee.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Things That Make Me Snarf - When Sparkles Go Bad
Okay. This week's Thing That Makes Me Snarf is not necessarily funny on its own, and actually, you might not want to watch the whole thing, because it's one of those funny-but-on-the-verge-of-painful kinds of things. You have to picture me sitting on the couch, repeatedly saying, "This week on American Idol: WHEN SPARKLES GO BAD!" in a booming movie trailer voice. Lady Gaga almost ruined sparkles for me, particularly when the evil sparkles infected the backup dancers and gave them epileptic seizures. It just goes to show you kids; not every sparkle is created equal.
Really, I just wanted to reach into the screen and zip her eyeball shut. This kind of thing gives sparkles a bad name.
But here are a few things that give sparkles a good name. There's the unseen ending to Twilight, all 29 seconds of which are worth watching:
And a shirt that I really want.
In fact, sparkles and shirts go together like peanut butter and meatballs.
You can even get makeup tips to look like a sparkly vampire.
All of these things are kewl sparklies. But I feel like it's a part of my patriotic duty to point out that just because it's sparkly doesn't mean it's nice. It may jump out of the baby pool and eat you. Please. Just say no to bad sparkles, people.
Really, I just wanted to reach into the screen and zip her eyeball shut. This kind of thing gives sparkles a bad name.
But here are a few things that give sparkles a good name. There's the unseen ending to Twilight, all 29 seconds of which are worth watching:
And a shirt that I really want.
In fact, sparkles and shirts go together like peanut butter and meatballs.
You can even get makeup tips to look like a sparkly vampire.
All of these things are kewl sparklies. But I feel like it's a part of my patriotic duty to point out that just because it's sparkly doesn't mean it's nice. It may jump out of the baby pool and eat you. Please. Just say no to bad sparkles, people.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Random Association Time
I admit it. I have no idea what to write about today, so I'm going to play my favorite game. That's right, kids, it's time for RANDOM ASSOCIATION! Pretend I said that in a big booming voice with lots of cheering in the background. Or if you're not good at pretending, say it in a big booming voice and then cheer to get the same effect.
Anyway, here goes.
Lately, Slayer and the Batson have been doing the Wii Fitness test a lot. The Batson was walking around yesterday repeatedly asking Slayer if he wanted to do his Fit Wiiness test. And Wiiness, in case you hadn't figured it out, is pronounced like Weenus. And I am pervy, so I find this hilarious. Anything that rhymes with the word for manparts is funny in my book.
Weenus naturally makes me think of the Very Secret Diaries, since Legolas is said to be the son of Weenus. (WARNING: that link is twenty different kinds of pervy!) And who can think about Legolas without thinking of his hair? That makes me think of a no-fail way that I used to win arguments when I was in college. I'd grab all my hair, make pigtails with my hands, grin idiotically, and run straight at the person who was trying to argue with me.
I won a lot of arguments in college. Because really, how do you argue with the pigtail rush? You don't.
Around that time, I was asked to rush a sorority. They never saw the pigtail thing; I bet that if they had they would have reconsidered the whole offer. Either that or change their name to Beta Eta Pigtail.
I don't think I would make a good sorority girl, but for some reason I kept dating frat boys while I was in college. Once (okay, okay... more like three times because I kept breaking up with him and then changing my mind), I dated the president of a fraternity. I thought I was hot stuff.
I was, of course. But that had less to do with my dating of the pres and more to do with the fact that I kept sitting out on the quad without any sunscreen and was so sunburnt that I actually radiated heat to any people sitting too close. I was so cripsy that I'm surprised that no one tried to break off my leg and eat it. Of course, I didn't hang around with the same kinds of people (i.e., ninjas) then as I do now.
I could keep going ad infinitum, but now that I've shown off my fancy Latin I'll stop.
Anyway, here goes.
Lately, Slayer and the Batson have been doing the Wii Fitness test a lot. The Batson was walking around yesterday repeatedly asking Slayer if he wanted to do his Fit Wiiness test. And Wiiness, in case you hadn't figured it out, is pronounced like Weenus. And I am pervy, so I find this hilarious. Anything that rhymes with the word for manparts is funny in my book.
Weenus naturally makes me think of the Very Secret Diaries, since Legolas is said to be the son of Weenus. (WARNING: that link is twenty different kinds of pervy!) And who can think about Legolas without thinking of his hair? That makes me think of a no-fail way that I used to win arguments when I was in college. I'd grab all my hair, make pigtails with my hands, grin idiotically, and run straight at the person who was trying to argue with me.
I won a lot of arguments in college. Because really, how do you argue with the pigtail rush? You don't.
Around that time, I was asked to rush a sorority. They never saw the pigtail thing; I bet that if they had they would have reconsidered the whole offer. Either that or change their name to Beta Eta Pigtail.
I don't think I would make a good sorority girl, but for some reason I kept dating frat boys while I was in college. Once (okay, okay... more like three times because I kept breaking up with him and then changing my mind), I dated the president of a fraternity. I thought I was hot stuff.
I was, of course. But that had less to do with my dating of the pres and more to do with the fact that I kept sitting out on the quad without any sunscreen and was so sunburnt that I actually radiated heat to any people sitting too close. I was so cripsy that I'm surprised that no one tried to break off my leg and eat it. Of course, I didn't hang around with the same kinds of people (i.e., ninjas) then as I do now.
I could keep going ad infinitum, but now that I've shown off my fancy Latin I'll stop.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Name Shame
I wrote a short story. You know, during my copious spare time between taking care of three kids, discovering the most perfect recipe ever for beef carnitas, and furthering the status of zombinja fans everywhere.
Zombinja equals zombie plus ninja, of course.
The funniest thing is that we all know my problem with titles. Any kind of names, really. But this one came very easily. Almost like the Batson's name. That came easily to us, but then when it came time to name Left and Right, I wanted names that Slayer thought sounded like Little House on the Prairie, and he wanted names that sounded like strippers.
I do not want to have that kind of mental association with my daughters.
At least we're not as bad as celebrities, though. I mean, REALLY. Jason Lee's son is named Pilot Inspektor. That's right, Inspektor with a K, because it's important to distinguish him from all those other Pilot Inspectors out there. His teachers might get confused about which Pilot Inspector is which, but at least now he can be the Pilot-Inspektor-with-a-K.
And then there's Jermaine Jackson's son, Jermajesty. He will never get a date. Why? Because I dare you to find me a decent woman who can lovingly murmur, "Kiss me, Jermajesty," without snarfing.
Seriously. Try it. I'll wait.
I've known a couple of people like this, too. There's one kid who goes to our local McDonalds to play, and his name is Raiden. That's right, as in Mortal Kombat. There was a girl in one of my writer's groups a long time ago who had a son named Raistlin, as in the Dragonlance series.
Why not just tattoo DORK on their foreheads and be done with it? I'm all for fun sci-fi stuff (see the zombinja reference above), but really. Even I know that's going too far, and I'm the kind of person who is already trying to figure out if I can bribe people into dressing up like merpires, werethings, and disposable humans. I need a new blog design.
Oh, and the title? For Want of a Machete.
Le sigh. My normal Wednesday post is below. I tried to set this one up for tomorrow morning, but apparently I don't know what day it is, so it's up early. Whenever you're reading this, pretend that it's Thursday.
Zombinja equals zombie plus ninja, of course.
The funniest thing is that we all know my problem with titles. Any kind of names, really. But this one came very easily. Almost like the Batson's name. That came easily to us, but then when it came time to name Left and Right, I wanted names that Slayer thought sounded like Little House on the Prairie, and he wanted names that sounded like strippers.
I do not want to have that kind of mental association with my daughters.
At least we're not as bad as celebrities, though. I mean, REALLY. Jason Lee's son is named Pilot Inspektor. That's right, Inspektor with a K, because it's important to distinguish him from all those other Pilot Inspectors out there. His teachers might get confused about which Pilot Inspector is which, but at least now he can be the Pilot-Inspektor-with-a-K.
And then there's Jermaine Jackson's son, Jermajesty. He will never get a date. Why? Because I dare you to find me a decent woman who can lovingly murmur, "Kiss me, Jermajesty," without snarfing.
Seriously. Try it. I'll wait.
I've known a couple of people like this, too. There's one kid who goes to our local McDonalds to play, and his name is Raiden. That's right, as in Mortal Kombat. There was a girl in one of my writer's groups a long time ago who had a son named Raistlin, as in the Dragonlance series.
Why not just tattoo DORK on their foreheads and be done with it? I'm all for fun sci-fi stuff (see the zombinja reference above), but really. Even I know that's going too far, and I'm the kind of person who is already trying to figure out if I can bribe people into dressing up like merpires, werethings, and disposable humans. I need a new blog design.
Oh, and the title? For Want of a Machete.
Le sigh. My normal Wednesday post is below. I tried to set this one up for tomorrow morning, but apparently I don't know what day it is, so it's up early. Whenever you're reading this, pretend that it's Thursday.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
My Favorite Things
I think people's obsessions say a lot about them. For example, I give you this:
My bulletin board during my junior high years, with my friend from down the street standing in front of it. Yes, that was Michael J. Fox, in all his teen magazine poster glory. I was obsessed with him, not her, in case you were wondering. I even used to kiss him good night. I thought I had a picture of that, but I must have destroyed it back when I thought I still had a chance of being cool.
Then, I was obsessed with New Kids on the Block. I had a brief Madonna obsession but didn't have the guts to wear a bustier in public, and now that I do have the guts I can't do it unless I want to frighten away small children. Figures, don't it?
Looking back on the past six-ish months of posts on The Wonder That Is My Blog, I realize that it's really just a big recording of all of my obsessions in chronological order. So without further ado, I bring you a rehash of my favorite things. Songstyle.
My bulletin board during my junior high years, with my friend from down the street standing in front of it. Yes, that was Michael J. Fox, in all his teen magazine poster glory. I was obsessed with him, not her, in case you were wondering. I even used to kiss him good night. I thought I had a picture of that, but I must have destroyed it back when I thought I still had a chance of being cool.
Then, I was obsessed with New Kids on the Block. I had a brief Madonna obsession but didn't have the guts to wear a bustier in public, and now that I do have the guts I can't do it unless I want to frighten away small children. Figures, don't it?
Looking back on the past six-ish months of posts on The Wonder That Is My Blog, I realize that it's really just a big recording of all of my obsessions in chronological order. So without further ado, I bring you a rehash of my favorite things. Songstyle.
Eyebrows on Batman and vampire guppies
Zom Cruise and Pampire biting on puppies
Sparkle-y merpires and their ochre fins
These are a few of my favorite things
Zombies all lurching and moaning in masses
Ninjas all flocking to save all our asses
Richard Simmons keeps dancing in pink water wings
These are a few of my favorite things
When the end comes
When the sword swings
When I'm staking Vlad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
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