The Flying Zucchini Brothers: The Safety Pins Strike Back

Oh RELAX. I can take my time with this, anyway. After all, Paddy and Sneezy are off on a cruise at this very moment. A cruise, might I add, that neither of them felt the need to invite myself, the Historian Familial. The selfishness!! I could have written about how Paddy (would possibly) play out the scene from Beetlejuice on the Lido deck with a shrimp cocktail. Or how Sneezy did the tango with Issac and Gofer. Or about how they had dinner with Captain Steubing and in the middle of the third course, Vicki went to pieces because the cute twenty-something loner from England turned out to be a Well Disguised Diamond Thief.  And, of course, gentlewoman that I am (read: Not From Kentucky and/or Tasmania), I would go and play shuffleboard with my fellow Poligripped  Brethren (read: Betty White, Phyllis Diller and the guy who played Bea Arthur’s husband on Maude. And Sid Ceasar!!) while they went off and did their husband-wifey stuff.

Honeymoon, schmoneymoon. I hope someone sneezes in their Ouzo.

Anyhoo!!

Back to me, getting ready at 1:26 in the afternoon, when we are scheduled to leave by 2 PM. SHARP!!

Yea. Like anyone believed that was going to happen??

Ma ambles (And, hello, ambling?? What about time schedules?!) in at around 1:45, and as luck would have it, the gas fellas have hooked us back up again. I attempt to put on the warpaint, look for my big-barreled curling iron, and pluck my eyebrows all at once.

I wander into the living room, warpaint haphazardly put on, one eye red from having poked myself with the tweezers, and a big-barreled curling iron in hand.

Oh, and did I mention already that it was nine million degrees out?? Well it WAS.I ran into the loo in order to sort out my hair (the giant mirror in there is near-ish to an outlet, unlike my room which has NO working outlets save for the power bar extension cord thingie, nor a mirror). I start to curl my hair and break into a sweat. Trash, you see, had just had his shower. Ma is busy ironing her blouse. Ironing?? NOW??

{Yes. Ma is DEFINITELY the reason we’re always late. There. I’ve said it. It would NOT be Babs, She Who is Curling Her Hair at 2:10. No ma’am.}

I’d had the perfect idea for my hair. A sort of 40s hairdo, pulled back from the front in two bits and held back with clips, big barrel curls in the back. Know what it’s like to try and curl very thick hair when you’re in a steaming hot bathroom and it’s ALSO nine million degrees out?? Impossible. I get through two chunks of hair and ultimately said fuck it.

Great. I look like a 40s drag queen who’s been socked in the eye. With very straight hair apart from two giant curls. Oh well.

Trash then inquires of us whether he should put his suit on NOW, or once we’re out there. WHAT SORT OF QUESTION IS THIS AND IS HE TRYING TO GIVE ME HEART FAILURE?!

Of course he decides that it’s too hot for his precious self, so he will find a place to change once he’s there. Maybe after he buys his shoes!!

Yes. BUYS. HIS. SHOES.

{You didn’t actually think he’d FIND his old ones, did you?? No. He didn’t even look and declared that ‘they hurt his feet anyway’ JACKASS}

We finally run out the door, myself decked out in my Wedding Finery. Ma also in Wedding Finery. And Trash in a t-shirt and basketball-type shorts. With sneakers!!

I ran/waddled for the front seat of the car. Trash had called shotgun whilst we were watching the movie, but you know what?? You can’t call shotgun before the car is even there. Besides. I am a girl. I need the front seat so I can see in the mirror so as to re-do make-up and hair. Screw him and his long legs. Make-up trumps comfort, people.

Trash and Ma are embroiled in an argument by the time we hit the Verazzano. I want to kill myself. But my hair looks decent now!! I will leave this earthly life an impeccably coiffed corpse, should the arguing cause a major traffic accident. Also, every ten minutes or so Trash regards himself in the rear-view mirror and declares himself a handsome bastard etc etc.

Still look like drag queen regardless of hair, though. I fear strappy sandals with 4 inch heels (I measured them, Commie!!) are doing nothing to help my cause. BUT I DO NOT CARE.  For I bought these sandals  back in Ye Olde City of Winde and had yet to wear them. I WAS WEARING THEM, DAMMIT!! They were my perfect Stand Still and Look Pretty Look Like a 40s drag queen who’s been socked in the eye. With very straight hair apart from two giant curls in Them shoes.

Traffic. Right as we get on the Belt Parkway. FUCK. This doesn’t help the arguing situation. Traffic starts to open up for a few miles. Then slows up again by the drawbridge. Then opens up again. Then slows up by Kennedy Airport. Each time the traffic slows the arguing reaches fever pitch. And when things are running smoothly we are all the best of pals. It’s like driving with a carful of wild chimpanzees afflicted with Bi-polar disorder and anger management issues.

GOD HATES ME.

And yet we get to their neighborhood on time–and head straight for the local Payless Shoes. I ran into the Duane Reade, having had a Wardrobe Malfunction. Said malfunction being, had not tried on new Mansion de Playtex WITH my new dress. And can see part of said Mansion peeking beyond dress. Trash comes out with his shoes. I come out armed with safety pins. They decide they’re hungry (none of us having eaten lunch because we were sooooooo busy. Ahem). So, of course we stop by McDonalds. IN OUR FINERY. Well, myself and Ma in Finery, anyway. They order food. I mortally wound myself several times, having poked 59,539 holes in The Girls in an attempt to get the safety pins through material which seems to be made of fucking kevlar or something. I am sure that, were I a Native American, my name would have been She Who Walks with Wounded Tits.

We finally, finally get to the church. We see Aunt Angela out front talking to someone. And it’s only 4:30. Huzzah!! Now we have to surreptitiously finish on-the-go lunch. And Trash has to get changed.

What better place for him to change than in the parking lot of the funeral home across from the church?! (Behind it, of course, and out of Aunt Angela’s–or anyone elses–view) while in the car. Trash is 6′2 and a bit. This is a compact car. But!! The seat pops down so you can reach in the trunk–a fact which Trash discovers at very last moment. He pulls the suit out of the trunk. Then angles one leg into the trunk. And manages to get dressed entirely, save for stepping out of the car to tuck in his shirt and adjust his belt.

‘God aren’t I just devilishly handsome??’ says he of the cheap-o shoes.

We walked over to the church, filled bellies, dressed properly, and–ON TIME!!

Yet in spite of this, Mickey, upon seeing us, still feels the need to express his shock at the fact that we’re there twenty minutes early.

Honestly. I’ve NO idea why he’d have ANY notions to the contrary.

I never had a doubt we’d get there on time. Ahem.

{Huzzah!!–have bullshitted my way through this so I can try to remember the actual wedding!!—to be continued. Yes. That is a threat}

My Baloney Has a First Name

Dear Annoying (but, apparently, quite patriotic) Neighborhood Fucktards,

You know, I can appreciate that you wish to celebrate the birth of this great nation of ours by, say, roasting weenies, buying electronics for half-off, and drinking three-quarters of the national output of AnheuserBusch. However your desire to blow three or more fingers off with a particularly exuberant (and illegal in all five of our merry boroughs) M-80 is somewhat less comprehensible–to me anyway, at least. I mean, why use sparklers* when one can show the world their undying love for king and country (ah yes, we stopped that business after that lovely tea party) mom, baseball, and apple pie with quarter stick of dynamite?? Yes!! Happy Birthday America, watch this Jumpin’ Jack wing itself off a car and right back into me because I’m so busy celebrating I cannot possibly recall the laws of physics!!

Bless.

*I mean, sure, sparklers are ALSO illegal here, but at least they’re fairly innocuous as fireworks go. And nowhere NEAR as showy or loud; but ones eardrums and most limbs are usually safe from harm if used correctly. Mostly. Just mind the sparks if you are wearing flip-flops at the time. This is the Voice of Experience speaking. Ahem.

I am also QUITE willing to forgive the fact that, apparently, not one of you own a calendar (and clearly STILL don’t) and started the Lose-a-Limb Fest on the 3rd, rather than waiting until the next day. You were excited!! You wanted to hear things go BOOM!!

Fine. That’s absolutely FINE.

In spite of all this, though, I am in a bit of a quandary. The Beast and Scourge of the Neighbor Round the Corner’s Lawn, you see, is petrified of firecrackers. And M-80s. Even your average regulation cap-gun type noises. And, heaven help us, a thunderstorm will render her apoplectic.

Now I am perfectly willing to sit at home with the Beast for the whole of the 4th of July when everyone else is out cooking hamburgers and drinking themselves into oblivion. Yes, I will deal with the discomfort of having a one-hundred pound dog trying to jump into my arms and/or squeeze herself into the four inches of free space between me, my chair and my desk. She has to go out to use the loo, however, and this, THIS, my fine fellows, is where I draw the line. She can hold it in for the entire evening of the 4th–it’s quite amazing. This is fine.

However, since YOU assclowns are unaware that the 4th, oddly enough, ends on the 4th, you keep continuing to light fucking firecrackers every five bloody minutes. I can only walk her in the morning when you lot are at work/playing your Nintendos/sleeping off your hang-overs. The minute I take her out in the afternoon, one of you nimrods inevitably light a firecracker and she refuses to leave the house. Or shoots right back for the door. And sometimes she CAN’T hold it in.

You can understand my problem here, yes??

What’s the deal, dearies?? What are you celebrating now?? Is Pathmark having a buy two get one free sale on Oscar Mayer wieners?? Toys ‘R Us giving away copies of War of Guitar Heroes Mario Brothers Grand Theft Call of Duty 17 and a half the Godfather Edition??

Ah!! Perhaps you intend on carrying on until Bastille Day in order to show solidarity with our baguette-wielding brethren in France??

Let me tell you something, my fine fellows. If this shit carries on for one more bloody day, you’re going to see the Beast taking care of business on your front porch every day for the next fucking CENTURY.

You will be billed for paper towels, Pine-sol, and any other cleaning materials necessitated for the duration of your idiocy.

And you will find yourself with the business end of a Roman Candle shoved up your arse–in what may possibly be the worlds first Gunpowder-induced enema.

Hugs ‘n kisses.

Love,

Babs

Clinker

I had this past Friday all plotted out.

Sleep in.

{I don’t really have much of a say in this sleeping-in business–the re-arranged Take All Your Topie at Bedtime Plan has made me even more comatose than usual whilst sleeping. Hurrah!! I feel nothing if I spaz whilst slumbering!!–only after-effects when I wake}

Goof off for a bit.

{In other words, check email, surf, make voo-doo dolls or various quacks I hate at the moment. Maybe watch some TV. Gape out the kitchen window in a state of bewildered shock when noticing my neighbor finish taking what is known amongst the kindergarten set as a numero dos right in the middle of his yard*–you know, anything that would put off my eventual main goal of the day}

*True–I was shocked, mortified, and completely put off my lunch

The Grand Master Plan of the Day was to catch up on All Bloody Housework. I’d meant to stop procrastinating quite a few weeks back–not necessarily with housework (I’m not a fucking heathen for gods sake)–but with everything in general. There was even a bit on the Today show touting How to Stop Being a Fucktarded Procrastinating Nitwit. However, at the time of the show I was working on NO sleep, and I laid down to watch said show before I napped. They went to commercial before the segment, I passed out, and I took this as a Sign From God that my way is best. Besides, I always work best under pressure and with chaos around me.

Assuming I ever get round to whatever it was I was going to do.

Anyway!! Friday. Lovely. Woke round ten. Didn’t bother checking messages because I DID NOT CARE WHO CALLED. I wasn’t going to ring them back.

I fucking should have.

EFL had called, apparently, at 8:30 that morning. And let me illustrate just HOW comatose these drugs can make me. I have not one but TWO phones in my room. One normal phone and a cordless phone (I always end up bringing the cordless in here) that we’d gotten for Christmas (Huzzah for caller ID!!). I put them on a chair RIGHT NEXT TO MY BED. In case Ma calls from Down South (end of February she will be back. Such a long fucking story. No you don’t want to ask. Hey. You remember MY one month foray what turned into six months). So EFL rang, TWICE, both phones rang for god knows how long, and I didn’t bat a comatose eye. Never even heard it.

EFL, as we all know, is just a TOUCH obsessive-compulsive (read: Yes. I know–it’s like saying Attila the Hun had a slight temper). It must be done NOW. No no no–this cannot wait!! The world will end if my floor does not get mopped before the end of The View!! This is one of the reasons the whole ‘Working for EFL Thing’ went to pot fairly quickly. Anyway, she’d wanted me to check the boiler. I don’t mind doing this–after all, adding water to the boiler is easy enough and I like having heat, too. EFL’s husband told her (before his demise years back), however, that if the boilers were to run out of water, the house would EXPLODE!!-and then she’d get amoebic dysentery, headlice, and really bad acne. Or something similarly catastrophic. Since it’s winter time I check the boilers every two days or so–which is just about right. Well EFL got a bee in her bonnet at eight-fucking-thirty AM and she wasn’t letting go of it. She COULD NOT WAIT a few hours for me to wait and check on it–no.

So she went to see to it herself.

Let us be clear here: I, Babs Geller, with 20/20 vision, have a hard time seeing in the damned sight glass/fill tube thingie (whatever it’s called) and checking the water level. Any clue on the odds of EFL, who has had eye surgery and requires glasses the size of coke bottles and STILL can’t read a bloody thing?? Nil. Thems the odds, chummy.

I check my messages around noon or so. Messages from EFL at 8:30. ‘Babs!! It’s VERY IMPORTANT!! Call me back’ I think to myself ‘Can’t have been THAT important, she never rang back’ I call her anyway. She asks me to come downstairs.

Which would have been a damned sight easier had the river Nile not been going through my hallway. I didn’t know why–at first.

EFL: Babs, I went to check the boilers this morning, and my!! You must be strong!! I had to go back two times to turn the knobs to add the water.

Babs: Why two times??

EFL: Oh I had to keep hitting it with a wrench to loosen it. I made sure I didn’t close it as tightly as you had.

{A wrench!! Banging on them with a fucking WRENCH!!}

Of course, ‘didn’t close it as tightly’ translates as ’still allowed a minuscule amount of water to get in’

When coupled with ’she overfilled the boilers to begin with’ you lose an entire afternoon. As it means I spent my entire afternoon racing between the hallway fucking radiator which was spurting out water like bloody Niagra; catching said water with an old pot, an old frying pan, a blue bin, and a shitload of newspapers. Whilst also running downstairs emptying some of the excess, and marvelling at the rain forest that the basement had become under each and every spot what held a radiator.

Mind, I was far more fascinated by the fact that some of the water managed to leak OUT of the hallway and onto the outside sidewalk, creating a lovely little ice patch.

At least I know why the hallway is so bloody cold now.

Trapper Dorothy MD–Fin

He toddles up to the window and I run for the phone (read: trip over dog, bed, and seriously in need of replacement faux-leopard-fuzzy slippers which make me endearing).

I’m sort of not paying attention to Felix and staring at the phone. To dial or not to dial, that is the question!! You see, in THIS neighborhood, calling the cops can be a bad thing–even with the baddies on your doorstep.

Why, I might be labeled for life.

Fuck that, I’m ringing them. So I compose myself, dial, and make an ass of myself trying to explain the situation to the operator.

Very Patient 911 Lady: 911 What’s your emergency??

Calm Cool CollectedVery Fucking Panicked Babs: There are, um, these two guys on my porch. And they’re, um, swearing some guy came into my house. And no one, um, has, and they WON’T LEAVE!! And they, um, uh……

{Gawd. How annoying must I have been?? I’d have told me to go answer the door!!}

Felix, all of a sudden starts waving his hands and saying, no!! Don’t call the cops!!–for he KNOWS them!!

Now I am panicked–keep this in mind when slapping your forehead at my next action–so I tell the operator to hang on a moment, nevermind, it’s been sorted, and hang up. BECAUSE I AM A FUCKING MORON.

Babs: What do you mean you *know* them??

Felix: Oh me and Dim used to live in a group home with the one fella when we were kids. I’m going to go get him ten dollars.

Babs: What?? WHAT?? ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?? I JUST HUNG UP ON 911 BECAUSE YOU KNOW HIM FROM TEN YEARS AGO, YOU DICK?? WHY ARE YOU GIVING HIM TEN DOLLARS??

Felix: BECAUSE, BABS, HE SAID IF I DIDN’T HE WAS GOING TO BRING BACK TROUBLE!! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!!

Babs: *picking phone back up* NO Felix, you are NOT giving them ten fucking dollars just because you recognized him from ‘back in the fucking day’. It’s like feeding a stray fucking dog–they’ll come back here all the time trying to strongarm us for money!!

So I call 911 again, re-explain situation again, just as poorly, and I do a whiz bang job of ‘describing’ the fellows, even though I’ve been yelling down to them. What are they wearing?? Um. Clothes?? Height?? Age?? I only guessed at the teen. And approximated the other gents age owing to his having been in the group home with Felix and Dim when they were kids.

Do NOT ask me to be a star witness people!! Clearly being under stress (along with Stupamax etc), does wonders for my short term memory. Not.

Anyway, they are sending cops. So they say. I am hoping. There have been near full-scale riots in my neighborhood and they don’t show. Ma rang one night two or three times for a forty-kid melee in the middle of the street and not one car buzzed by.

{I am not anti-cop or anything, not at all. I am just dubious when it comes to their showing up in my neck of the woods, at times}

I go back to the window. The thirteen year old asks me where Felix is with the money. I say there won’t be any money because Felix didn’t know there wasn’t any–and whats more we don’t OWE them any. He says, and I quote, ‘Bitch, get your fat ass back in the window and send Felix back out’ Ah. The youth of today.

Once the little fuck turns eighteen I’m going to beat the fucking shit out of him.

Now, because god loves me SO much, this happened to be the ONE day that EFL left the house with her sibling. EFL NEVER leaves the house. EVER!! And can you guess when EFL RETURNED with her sibling, fair reader??

Gold star for you!!

I am sitting there arguing with the morons and praying for cops to show. There is EFL getting out of siblings car. Oh holy fuck. EFL starts rattling off her mouth right away. I tell EFL to shush and that I’ve got it under control (I mean, clearly I don’t, but I don’t need EFL getting in the middle of this), and that they are leaving. I don’t know if they’ve got guns or knives or what have you and I’m semi-safe up on my floor. EFL and sibling, however, are NOT safe walking up Dr Seuss Stairs. Sibling, deciphering that this is ‘an incident’ tries to talk EFL into staying down in the car. Which of course, EFL is having none of.

Older Mugging Moron: I’m not going til I get my shit.

EFL: Babs, are these friends of yours??

Babs: Well you’re not getting anything. *turns to EFL* No they aren’t, EFL, just go right in the house, please?? I’m taking care of this. It’s ok.

EFL: You need to get off my property!! This isn’t fair. I’m elderly. I shouldn’t have to come home to this. You need to leave right now.

Sibling: EFL, just go up the steps and let Babs handle it.

{They, of course, ignore her entirely–but politely get off porch so she can go to the door when she eventually gets there}

Little Shit Mugger (looking at me again): YOU need to send Felix back out here.

{Fuck, why’d he have to say his name?? YOU know the older one only knows him from years ago. And *I* know that. But you know how EFL and sibling are going to see it. Gawd}

EFL: Babs, you and Felix KNOW these people??

Babs: No, EFL.

EFL: But they said his name.

Babs: I’ll explain later, EFL, JUST GO IN THE HOUSE!!

Finally a car comes up the street and two people jump out. Wearing jeans and such. And run up our stairs. Plainclothes cops, hurrah!!

EFL, not realizing they’re cops, starts yelling at them, too, advising them to ‘get off her property’. And while she does this, the thirteen year old–having seen the cops–makes a break for it, and fucking succeeds. Felix says this is probably because he was a hopper and was holding the crack for the older gent.

{Possible, but then Felix watches tons of Law and Order so who knows. But then, the older fellow DID mention having sold a bag of whatever and being owed for it, which was why he was here to begin with. Which was laughable, to say the least. Besides, I pay for my crack up front, as any good upstanding citizen does}

This is SO not my night. I shout down to the one officer what the problem is, as I’m fucking petrified of moving at the moment. And he kindly asks me to come downstairs. He’s got a gun and is a linebacker type so I reckon I’m safe. I find EFL in the hallway, saying ‘That the one cop was a girl!! And so tiny!! How on earth will they manage?!’

For fucks sake. For someone who claims to be all women’s libby, EFL thinks really ass backwards about what us broads can do with a gun, a badge, and a swift kick to the nuts. EFL’s sibling corrals her, gets her back into her place, and mentions that her partner is built like a brick shithouse and also?? They are TRAINED for this sort of shit. So put a sock in it and let them do their jobs.

I explain to the fella what transpired. Random twits show up on my doorstep. Asking for said ten beans from man what never ran in here etc. Then they play do-si-do and chick cop comes in. And apparently Mugger Moron has a DIFFERENT story which he has given to the cops. He hasn’t been on my porch harassing us for ten dollars, no. Someone named fucking Fred has run in here. And they have nicked his i-Phone. And he came here to get it back!! She asks if I mind her having a look round to confirm that the Entirely Fictional Drop Dead i-Phone Fred is not here, and I let her. The only thing I have to hide is Trash’s poor housekeeping skills. (read: had to give her a warning and biohazard gear before looking at his room, but she only glanced anyway, because was obvious there was no god damned Fred).

The Cop Fella has searched the Mugger Moron and found nothing on him; no drugs, no weapons, not a bloody thing to nail him with (hence Felix’s hopper theory). I had two options available to me, charges wise. One was to press criminal trespass charges, and the dopey fuck would probably be out lickety-split and even MORE annoyed we of La Casa (you know, the ones who never had anyone run in here, nor owed him ten dollars, nor had his fictitious fucking i-Phone). Thereby leaving us ripe for being harassed AGAIN. Or, simply let the cops warn him that if he came here just once more he’d sit in a vat of Trash’s unwashed socks for five weeks straight. Or something similarly scary, in the hopes of putting him off ever coming here again.

I opted for the latter–a smart move, I think. I don’t need these fuckers showing up again.

And Trash’s socks would scare ANYONE.

Trapper Dorothy MD

I am, thanks to my years of training in high school and as a Noo Yawka in general, keenly aware of how to survive in a bad neighborhood.

*Note: I am not saying all neighborhoods here are bad. Say that again and I will kneecap you, fucknuts.

First of all, you have to walk as if you BELONG. There can be none of that sissy-mary-namby-pamby ‘Oh no is someone going to bother me?!’ shaking in your boots kind of shite. People can smell fear from a mile away. And body odor!! So no fear–and always use deodorant!! You’ll stick out a lot less. Besides, chances are no one gives a fuck about who you are and they aren’t going to bother you.

Maybe. Ahem.

Next you’ve got to be aware of your surroundings. Who is near you?? Who was that behind you?? And has that creepy bastard with the hood been following you for three blocks now?? Golly gee whiz it’s hard tell–yet one doesn’t wish to turn around right away, be obvious, and allow your possible would-be-mugger know your onto them. You want the element of surprise when you break out into the worlds fastest 500k sprint. How to tell, then, if the bastard has been following you?? Easy peasy. You casually look up at the sky and feign interest in the plane passing/bird overhead/spaceship and sort of sweep backwards til you spot them so’s you AREN’T so obvious. And there’s always the quick reach down and scratch your leg with a quick glance backwards. Never fails. If you’re in your OWN bad neighborhood, look for a neighbor to chat with til the possible nutjob passes. And always, ALWAYS look for a possible place to run. A shop, a church, someones home you vaguely know; even a strangers house with a door open will do in an emergency pinch (Manson did this once and saved himself from a major ass kicking–luckily the homeowners were NOT NRA members–or, you know, cannibals or something).

When, as is the case so often for me in this lovely, LURVELY neighborhood, I am followed by cars asking me if I am (and I am laughing loudly and often at the very notion) a hooker, I walk quickly with my head down and don’t speak to the perverted fuckers AT all. Not a word. Not even to say ‘No, you fucking moron, I am NOT a hooker’; because engaging them in ANY sort of conversation, I feel, will just give them license to harass me further. I walk quick-ish and find the nearest one-way street and usually they won’t drive the wrong way for fear of the cops. And I then hope I can walk faster than they can make a U-turn. Or they will simply drive on and look for actual hookers. Or buy a bloody magazine like normal men.

Last but not least, when all else fails, act like a fucking MANIAC. And you will be safe. These rules have never failed me yet. Knowing your neighbors helps, as well.

Sadly, I do let my guard down at times. And that time is when I’m in my kitchen baking chicken. Which is when most people deal with attempted muggings, yes??

YES!!

What?? You mean I’m the *only* one who gets door-to-door strongarming service here!?!

Well lucky, me!!

Ah, bless.

So. As I was saying, there’s me in the kitchen cooking chicken. And Felix is in the living room watching TV. Doorbell rings. Who on earth is that?? Certainly isn’t Avon calling. Nor the Fuller Brush man (Hi everyone over the age of *cough*, that was for you!!). A renegade Witness of the Jehovah’s type. Oog!! Mayhaps a Girl Scout selling cookies. THIN MINTS, HO!!

Lazy bastards that we are, we never walk down the stairs, and instead opt to pop our heads out the window to see who might be inquiring as to whether or not we’re home. I do just that. I am told by the gent (mid-20s or so) standing there that he’s JUST seen a fellow run in here, he’s got his ten dollars, and that I’d better send my husband out with said money–along with the aforementioned gent.

The basic problem with all of this being, no fellow has run in here, there IS no ten dollars, nor do I have a bloody husband (and thanks SO much for the reminder, shithead!!). I inform him of this. And I am told that I am mistaken. And that he’s seen this occur. And that he’s seen the same thing happen at 9:30 this morning when he sold him a bag of something or the other. Also?? He’s NOT leaving the porch til he gets his ten dollars. Which his thirteen year old apprentice confirms. Lovely!!

Can you just SEE where this is going?? Nowhere. And fast. Like an idiot, I try once again to explain that perhaps the good sir has the wrong domicile. After all, the only persons here are myself and Felix, currently; Trash having wandered out to the Isle of Long. The Door-to-Door Muggist shouts, ‘Look!! I watched him run right in here!! 1313 Bluebird Lane!!’

‘Aha!!’ I shouted down, thinking I was OH SO FUCKING OUT OF THIS SHIT NOW, ‘This is 1313 Mockingbird Lane!! Bluebird Lane is two blocks over!!’

‘Wha?? That’s what I meant!! Don’t try to confuse the situation!! I know what I meant. Now you send him out. I know he’s got my ten dollars and I SAW him run in here JUST NOW!!’

‘Well I don’t know what to tell you. No one has come in here. No one has ten dollars. You’re going to have to go’

{I am being semi-polite because, frankly, I am not fucking sure if he has a gun tucked under his jacket or anything. And, you know, it’s best not to taunt crack-heady types, no??}

He crosses his arms and positions himself in the Internationally Recognized Stance of I am SO not taking my ball and going home. And his little shit of an accomplice backs him up telling me to go get the money NOW.

I am panicking like a motherfucker (yet to the untrained eye–and those who do NOT know your fearless heroine, I am cool as the proverbial cucumber)–so I’m going to call the cops. I mean, they might try to break in one of the windows. Or bust down the door.

Meanwhile, Felix, seeing how panicked I (allegedly) am, has a hand at playing Ye Olde Diplomat, and takes over window duty while I fetch the phone.

{to be continued}

Fleming

I am here.

It’s just been a busy, busy, busy week.

What with Ma being Down South and all that (Yes. You read that right. A call came. And I did not, rather, could not go. So Ma went). Leaving me not only in charge of our own little kingdom here, but de facto Susbstitute Cat Carer [among other things] while EFL is still temporarily in Merlin’s Emporium for the Aged, as well.

Plus a funk. Which started with getting my hair done the Saturday before last. The hair itself is GORGEOUS. I couldn’t be happier with it. In order to obtain said Perfect ‘Do, however, I must endure half an hour of tongue clucking about the state of my life. And how I should be working in the post office. The Post Office. Apparently this is the answer to all my woes. I never said I had woes. I don’t talk about woe. Indeed I don’t HAVE any woes to speak of. I don’t ask for this advice. Yet it is proffered every time I need to get my split ends tended to. If I want advice I will ask for it. Otherwise it just makes me feel like a fucking dickhead. And, ‘Well, Babs, maybe you should just accept that you probably won’t ever find someone and get married’ Then, about two minutes later tacking on, ‘Because they say THAT’S when it will happen!! You know, when you stop looking’ Frankly I think they said it simply because the realize how horribly stupid the FIRST statement was. Or maybe I’m just being a bitchy old cow. Which is very, very possible.

We will delve into all this later on today, though.

Right now I’ve got to run to the bank for Ma. Visit EFL. Explain to her that her roommate isn’t a superspy just because she is from another country. And I must explain this because her medication has made her delusional at times (it’s not funny, actually, it’s really kind of sad. I’ve been fielding calls from her nightly about this. She wakes up thinking the whole ward is in on it. Ma and EFL’s sibling are pushing the doctors to find another drug for her because this ones got her wackier than a shithouse mouse). Go to the drug store for me. Run to the supermarket to go shopping. Among a bunch of other craptastic things I’ve forgotten.

And all on the whims of the fucking mass transit system of NYC.

Whee!!

Muggy

I would like to state, for the record, that when a person (read: your fearless heroine) is attempting to reach an outlet behind a HUMONGOUS dresser–an outlet where you cannot even see the damned holes–it is PERFECTLY REASONABLE, RATIONAL, AND NOT AT ALL INSANE to scream bloody murder when someone offers to assist you in finding the outlet. And it is *not* something that can be blamed on Hormones of the Female Type. Nor should you be surprised if I decide to *accidentally* fling a mug out of sheer frustration.

Look. It was bloody hot out. And it was muggy. Really. Doesn’t EVERYONE do this?? We have dealt with this all before, people. I do not get bitchy AT all. You all seem to get this notion and I’ve NO idea where it comes from.

Tsk.

Anyway. I’ve been busy, busy, busy again these past few days. Although not the clinically insane busy whereupon I had no puter and no way to foist my insanity upon the net in that netherworld known as Down South, thank goodness. I was working for Birdie who had been lamenting the state of her kitchen floor ever since I’d left and booked me straightaway once I’d gotten home. Plus, I’ve been helping out Annie again with the cleaning out of her Parental Unit’s Place (a bigger job than we’d anticipated which was also sidelined by other things, so by the time I got back I was still able to help her).

{Which means this will be fairly short and sweet because I’m bloody knackered}

Now Annie and Trash are always busting each others chops and have done so since they’ve met (well, once he was old enough to bust chops properly).

Tonight Annie and I were at the local pizza joint and I rang home, as I needed to find out TWOL’s phone number, because I’m absolute crap remembering numbers. And Annie chimed in when she heard I was talking to Trash.

Babs: Hey Dumbass, is Ma there??

Annie: Hey loser!!

Trash: *tells me to say something to Annie what I can’t remember now but was rather lame*

Annie: Oh, nice comeback, genius.

Babs: Do you know TWOL’s phone number?? Well look in Ma’s phone book then, moron.

Annie: *says something else smartassy that I also can’t remember but doesn’t matter as this is not crux of funny convo so ignore it*

Babs: He says fuck off.

Annie: Tell him he can kiss my ass.

Babs (to Trash): She says kiss her ass.

Annie: What’d he say??

Babs: He’s humming.

Annie: *suddenly has look of revulsion on her face*

Babs (to Annie): What??

Annie: What did you say??

Babs (v. confused now): Huh?? He’s humming.

Annie: Oh my god!! That’s fucking gross!!

Babs: Er. Um. What??

Annie: Wait. WHAT did you say??

Babs: I said he’s humming. Don’t know what song, though. I think he’s still looking for Ma’s phone book. What the hell did you think I said?!

Annie: I thought you said….oh my god I can’t believe I misheard that.

Babs (suddenly realizing what Annie thought she said and the thinking behind it): Oh ew ew ew!! WHY would you think that?!?! Oh my GOD!! That’s SICK!!

Annie: First I thought he meant he was going to come here to the restaurant. And then I thought??

{And, mind you, we are now pissing ourselves laughing by this point, so everyone in the place is looking at us like we are mental cases. Which, ok, is probably a very fair assessment}

Babs: You’re twisted!! I said humming you nit!! Why the HELL would my brother do something like that while I was on the phone?? Or um, EVER?!?! Sheesh, think woman!!

Annie: I need to get more sleep, I think.

Babs: Yes. Definitely.

Stringbeans

Yes, yes I KNOW. But if you only KNEW the drama I’ve been dealing with the past few days. And I can’t talk about bloody ANY of it.

Feh. Don’t you hate that??

Yes. Me too.

And, before I go into anything else, how insane IS Trash anyway?!?!

I’ve mentioned previously about all the famous people he (and Manson, for that matter) has managed to meet or be around. There was our Trash tonight, sitting on the Manhattan side of the ferry, waiting for the boat home. He ambles outside for a cigarette with a friend of his, and who is out there, also partaking of a cigarette, but this fellow. And what does our Trash do?? Does he say ‘Hello there, I rather enjoy your work in the movies??’ or perhaps ‘I find your twitchy detective-y schtick in Law and Order: Criminal Intent irritating as fuck’ (We ALL do. God, can the man stand still in that show??). No!! He and his friend automatically go into the infamous ‘jelly doughnut scene’ from Full Metal Jacket.

Um. Yea. Trash has no regard for famous people. Nor is he starstruck by them. Or their money. And such. Nor was Mr. D’onofrio seemingly fazed by Trash’s imitation of him or the famed Gunnery Sergeant (which, really, is quite dead on). Trash, of course, was quite pleased with himself.

I probably would have pissed myself laughing. While cringing with embarrassment and looking for a rock to crawl under. Ahem.

Anyway!! How else to get back on the road to bloggery!!

I am also, you will be thrilled to know, in the throes of yet another pre-not-quite-mid-but-certainly-a-thirty-something-age-crisis. Due to the fact that in two weeks time my Anniversary of Existence is looming. Large. And I am not handling it well. Thirty was difficult but manageable. And thirty-one through thirty-four, while no picnic, was ok. But thirty-FIVE??

That FIVE bothers me. That’s halfway through my bloody thirties!! HALFWAY!! And thirty-five is half of–god I can’t even SAY it. And the more I think about it the more I want to just crawl into my bed and never leave it again. Which is impractical really. For a start I am fanatical about having clean sheets. I am also not fond of bedsores. I can’t make numerous cups of tea from the confines of same nor can I trot to the shop. Plus my bed isn’t exactly bloody comfortable to begin with. So it’s a shite idea. Oh well.

{And oh yes, I am well aware that every single problem in my fucking life and the reason I am in the state I am in at the moment is my own bloody fault. So there’s no need to go ‘Well Babs, had you done THIS, or if you did THAT’ I KNOW, ok. And I already have people who do this on a near-constant basis. Thanks, though. I DO adore you all, though. Remember this. Also be aware that I am moody and my fucking ovary has exploded yet again on top of everything else. I need chocolate and it’s 3:30 AM and I don’t feel like fending off crackheads to fetch some. I may be ever-so-slightly bitchy. Do forgive}

This seems to be a general ramble anyway so I’m not even going to bother trying to keep with some sort of fucking theme. And my knee hurts again now (well, knees really). Remember when I fell down the stairs, oh, how long ago was it?? (Hang on a mo, will check blog. And how sad is this–I’ve got to check the blog to remember things–fucking bastard Topamax. Aha, around August 15Th!!)

*Also, anyone care to guess if that light bulb has been put in yet?? Anyone?? Anyone?? Frye?? Frye??

Well, I’ve been in a sort of denial about the fact that ever since that bloody catastrophic fucking fall my knees are fucked. Especially my right one. Now had it been just be Gloriously Gimptarded Left Leg I wouldn’t have minded so much–I mean after all, that leg is half-fucked anyway from spazzery. I am sort of fine standing. I am sort of ok sitting. For a while. Til my knees start to ache. Getting up or sitting down is a fucking nightmare (especially standing up). I will not even mention the horror that is attempting to traverse the forty fucking stairs that it takes to get into or out of our humble little abode. An equilibrium-challenged hippopotamus laden with rappelling gear, the crown jewels, and half the gold in Fort Knox would appear more graceful than I do. With significantly less pain, I am sure.

I am slowly realizing that maybe, just maybe, I might have to see the fucking quack because the knee problem isn’t going to, as I’d hoped, ’sort itself out on its own’

Then again I can avoid the quack entirely by setting up camp on the front sidewalk. Thus avoiding walking up the stairs entirely.

In which case I won’t be able to fall down the fucking things ever again, either.

In Which I Will Blame My Drugs and Latent Catholic Guilt, Rather Than My Abject Stupidity

I have been so Super Splendifertastically Busy this week it isn’t funny. Which explains my sore lack of postings.

You see, the reason I’ve been seeing Annie so much this week, was because she’s recently had a Very Sad Event in her life. And I’d told her ‘Tsk. Don’t be silly. There’s no way you should be cleaning out your Parental Unit’s place by yourself–no one should do that. If you don’t ring me to help you I will brain you, woman’ Silly thing that she is she tried the first day by herself. And of course it wasn’t easy, so she finally caved and rang me the next day. So every day I’ve been toddling off to help Annie with the packing of her Parental Unit’s memories. And helping her decide what should be saved, chucked, sent to charity. Most importantly, what should be carefully placed on the Shelf of Redemption!! (mostly kitsch items from the 60s and 70s–which, frankly, are cracking us up).

Then, of course, I have to attempt to bribe her into burning the pictures of me she has found circa high school, and the early 90s. Pictures wherein I may have indulged in just a LITTLE too much hair spray. Or the infamous hair-do gone wrong where my brothers accused me of being in a retro-80’s metal band for two months. Ahem. Among other hideous shots where my only relief is that Shirley and Sylvia look as bad as I do.

{And let me tell you, wandering through a recently deceased persons belongings, someone that you knew but not that well, is very weird, but I think I will write about that on that train ride*. If I can stay awake}

*I’ll bet that made you do a double-take. It did me to. Momentito fair readerito. We’re getting there.

Of course, you must be thinking, ‘But you’re not helping her twenty four hours of the day, Babs, what gives?!?!’

Naturally, this week would be the week that EFL’s Problems Medicular decided to rear up on their shiny black horse and shout ‘Whoa, Nellie!!’ And who do you think EFL rings??

Bingo.

And I am not going to sit up here and say ‘No elderly person with every medical condition under the sun, stay down there and suffer!! I have important things to witter on about!! Crawl into your kitchen and do it yourself!!’ I just can’t do it. What about karma and all that?? I don’t have a husband yet you know. What if I become some elderly cat lady?? I’m going to be ringing people, dammit (though I will be far less snotty and entitled. I hope. And I don’t think I will bother with cats. They’re so damned needy. Can one be a dog lady?? Must look this up in The Spinsters Guidebook. Or, better yet, find a bloody husband).

So every time I sat down, some sort of signal was released down in EFL’s apartment, and my phone would ring. And I went down to help said EFL. When I wasn’t out helping Annie.

Yesterday was the Doozy of ALL Doozies.

I was going to sleep in a Tiny Bit. I knew Annie wasn’t coming to get me until noon or so–and I was, frankly, fucking exhausted. Ma comes into my room at, oh, 8:30 AM, wittering on about how she’s got an appointment and that EFL needs me. And were it not for her appointment, she would be taking care of it (selfish treacherous cow).

So. I slug down a cup of tea and wander downstairs, still half asleep. EFL, apparently, has decided to go to the hospital for various Reasons Medicular. Ok. Fine. She has a friend there (which I wish to god I had known as I was not exactly dressed for company in my shorts and sleep shirt with combined ponytail/bun hybrid–I wing open the door looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus and Hi!! Why yes, I am the Sea Witch. Ugh), but said friend is there for moral support and can only stay for a bit. She initially wanted me to come down and do a bit of straightening up (EFL often employs me for such as I’ve mentioned previous) before her sibling got there to go with her to said Medical Facility. Said sibling calls and says ‘Oi!! Stuck in a vat of tar/traffic jam/line at the bridge, order the ambulance now, and by the time I get there, it should be there as well’ Right so.

The people at the doctors office had told EFL ‘Call the emergency number and order an ambulance for non-emergency reasons’ Which EFL did, and when a very snotty operator (And I heard the call EFL, for once, was not snotty at all–but then, the operator’s snottiness may have been misinterpreted) told her she could not do this, nor would she have her choice of hospital. EFL said ‘Well sod that’ and called a private place.

Five minutes later there’s a knock on the window. Because even if you cancel the call, they’ve got to come anyway. And her sibling isn’t there yet. So she asks me to go with her because she is old and scared and petrified of ambulances and doesn’t want to go alone. What would YOU do?? So I run back upstairs, managing, I might add, to catch the pocket of my shorts on the lower-hook-lock. So I make it two feet past the door and am pulled back as I hear the ripppp of the fabric of my god damned shorts. Which the ambulance guy totally sees (Can YOU say mortified?!). Lurvely!!

Now I’ve got to get dressed for a wake (another friend of mines mother had passed away–so I was going to go there sometime in the middle of helping Annie. And, hello, people!! No more dying, please. Three is my wake quota for the year. Ahem). And pack clothes to change into for cleaning. And hop into an ambulance with EFL. Whee!!

The rest of the day is as manic as fucking possible. Sat with EFL for two hours in the emergency room. Hop on the bus back to this side of the island. Help Annie for a bit. Febreze my clothes and pray I do not smell like dust, but instead smell like dust with a hint of cinnamon when I pop over to the wake (also pray I do not sneeze during prayer service which happened to occur whilst I was there. Sorry Monsignor). Go back to help Annie and rescue more 60s and 70s items and place them on the Shelf of Redemption.

I get home at the same time Ma does. I toddle into my room to relax for a bit when lo!! What’s that noise I hear?? It is the phone, and it is ringing. It is ringing long distance.

And it is ringing from Down South.

I am, for the moment, going to plead complete and utter exhaustion when anyone asks me why the FUCK I agreed to go down there for the next week and a half.

{I mean we’ve all forgotten that last year ever happened, right?!?}

We are going to pretend this is a little vacation for me. I will get to see the niece!! And the nephew!!

{edit}

My, She Was Yar

So. Yesterday my friend Annie comes to pick me up as I was going to help her with some stuff. I’ve not seen Annie in ages, which is why I’ve hardly ever mentioned her here on the blog. Or, actually, ever, in fact–for those who are sitting there going, ‘Er, who the blazes is THAT?!?’ I’ve known Annie since god was a boy (read: high school).

Anyway. Annie, until she became otherwise attached and the mother of a Small Person, was my partner-in-crime when it came to going out to bars and such.

My behavior back then, of course, was always stellar; save for one debacle at–I think it was–oh we won’t name places. Wherein I ran to the loo in a Kamikaze-induced snit after a painfully embarrassing remark passed by some drunken bastard as to my heiferage. There was heaving. And sobbing. And perhaps a near-hurling episode.

This normally did not bother me as I’ve been called anything and everything at every damned bar [and everywhere else for that matter] on this island [well not every, the few we frequented], of course. I am, after all, a tough chick with a thick skin. Rhinoceros hide even!! My disdain for any drinking establishments, and hanging out in same–to this day–can probably be attributed, in part, to the above. I do not need drunken Guidos to remind me that I’m a fucking cow. I have a mirror, dammit.

{There was also the Night of Nine or Ten or Eleven Red Devils But I Lost Count. But!! I was still walking. And I was wearing heels, people!! And I didn’t fall. Not once. So, really, that doesn’t count. Ahem.}

Anyhoo. Annie was and always is on a never-ending crusade to make me turn thirty shades of red. You know Sneezy?? Paddy’s Fiance who says a Certain Word for a Certain Part of the Male Anatomy Which Begins With the Third Letter of the Alphabet?? At the drop of a hat?? Annie does that too. We shall delve into this worrisome part later, however.

{God help me if they were to ever join forces}

She also knows about the Fireman Schtick.

We’re driving along and she asks me if I want to stop by the store to get anything before we get to where we have to go. I think for a moment and decide, yep, a coke and a bagel would be good. Especially since it’s about one in the afternoon and I’ve not had breakfast. Nor lunch. Okie dokie.

Pull into the parking lot. I go to get out of the car, she says ‘No no, you stay there, I’ll go and get it’

She toddles into the store and I busy myself waiting. I’m staring in the window of the one shop and in the reflection I see a firetruck pull up. I casually turn round, pretending to feign interest in something in the backseat, so as to see if any of the Suspendered Wonders might be hopping off said truck. I then turn round again.

Three fellows have popped off the truck. Including a particularly cute one, who, as luck would have it, has wandered in front of the door of the very window I was perusing previous.

{Hey!! I’m 34!! I’m single!! And men ogle all the time!! Fuck off!! I’m entitled to eye candy, too!!}

Of course I don’t want to LOOK like I’m ogling AT all. So I pull my purse up, open it, and look for some Mysteriously Interesting and Oh-So-Intriguing-Item. An item which, in truth, does not exist. For while it LOOKS as if I am staring down at my purse I *may* have been looking at said Flame Destroyer out of the corner of my eye.

{And I realize this sounds like a long drawn out affair, but really, he was there all of one minute. Or two}

While I was busily looking for said Mysteriously Interesting and Oh-So-Intriguing-Item looking at the Fireman-Candy, Annie came back out.

Annie: *hands me the bag and laughs* Hmm. What are they doing here??

{She is clearly referring to firemen}

Babs: *ignoring firemen remark and takes bag* Ah, thanks for that.

Annie: Pfffffft.

Babs: What??

Annie: I bet you’re checking out the really tall one with tattoo.

Babs: Please. I totally WASN’T.

Annie: Ha!! I know you and your type. Hey look. There’s another one for you!!

Babs: Oh god no. Just because they’re firemen don’t necessarily make them ogleworthy. Blech. He’s way too short. The other fella, well, he’s got to be 6′3 at least.

Annie: I so knew it.

Babs: Oh fuck off.

Annie: *loud* Go on. You know you want to jump his bones.

Babs: Annie!!

Her window was bloody open.

I near had a heart attack–which, thankfully, would have been downright convenient, assuming 6′3 administered CPR.

Not that I was looking or anything.

No sir.

Move along. Move along. Nothing to see here.

*ahem*