Fear

Know what the scariest 26 words on the planet are??

‘I was talking to Uncle Stinkyfingers the other day. He’s having problems with one of his housemates and said we should all rent a place together’

Thankfully she said no straightaway.  Else I might have brained her.

 

And bought stock in Lysol.

Numbers Racket

Please pardon the interruption. We here at Spaztardicus Wrecks Productions are busy trying to:

A) Figure out how to shoehorn an extra five people into a three-bedroom (one of which is the size of a saltine box) apartment for a three day stay.

(Giving us a grand total of eight persons sharing ONE frickin’ bathroom. Oh this will be a JOY!!)
 
B) Explain this to the landlord who gets annoyed when ONE person tromps in to spend an EVENING, nevermind five people for three days.

C) Erase all history on the puter and hide all files, as certain parties may wish to utilize said machine.

D) Debating on the best way to split up four beds and a rollie-bed amongst six adults and two adult-sized teenagers.

(And let us not forget the two cats and the dog)

If I make it through the weekend alive and/or without serving jailtime it will be a god damned miracle.

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}

The Flying Zucchini Brothers: Return of the Jedi

And so the time drew near, and lo, Paddy and Sneezy’s Hitching Day arrived.

We had planned it all out meticulously.

To. The. Letter.

Almost. Kind of. I mean, we had it all together right??

Of COURSE we did.

We rented a CARfor chrissakes!!

Although, if I’m being honest, I thought the rent-a-car scenario would leave our (as-of-late) stellar record for arriving in the Isle of Long EARLY in tatters.

A vee-hickle, you see, renders we of La Casa victim of that heady parfum–Eau de Grand Delusion That We Have All The Time In The World To Get Ready. I’ve mentioned my own battles with the very same, if you’ll recall.

I even had a chat with Mickey about this. For years and YEARS we were always late to Uncle Pervo and Aunt Angela’s place. Mickey was of the opinion that most of the procrastinating shoe was firmly on Ma’s foot–which was most definitely part of the problem. However, I was privy to further information (having lived with my parents since, like, god was a boy ‘n stuff) which also pointed the finger at the Old Man (and hi Pop!! Happy Dead Day Anniversary for two days ago!!). So both were guilty and I now have a lifelong excuse for being late for anything and everything–child of the 80s that I am–I shall blame my parents!!

Anyway. Wedding. Paddy. Sneezy. Rent-a-car. Being prepared!!

We were prepared, oh yes. Like the good scouts that we are, a few weeks previous we had gone shopping with a Family Friend. A Family Friend who works at a lovely store. A lovely store with certain amenities for employees. So both Trash and myself, along with our Family Friend, toddled to the wilds of *undisclosed location* to purchase Wedding Finery!! Trash wielded his bank card with impunity and bought the lot. The lot being a rather nice suit that was marked down 60%. I found myself a dress. And all was set. Family Friend says to Trash, ‘Hang on a tic, have you shoes for your suit??’

‘But of course!!’ Trash said gleefully, ‘I just have to find them somewhere in the Room of Death. IT WILL BE EASY. Ahem’*

*Once again, this may, OR MAY NOT BE, that intentional foreshadowing business. Or whatever it’s called. BIG GIANT HINTis what I mean. Ok??

Paddy and Sneezy’s wedding day started early for us. No, not because we had to wake six days early because we were taking public transportation (see: rent-a-car). No. It started early because some BASTARD decided THATday was the best day to start work on some gas doo-hickeys rather near-ish to La Casa. With a jack-hammer. AT EIGHT FRICKIN’ AM!!

Why, god, WHY??

Fine. Not a problem. Sure, waking up extra early when one needn’t isn’t FUN. But it beats waking early to take a bus, a ferry, a train, yet ANOTHER train, and then a god-damned bus to Long Island. Me?? I wasn’t going to complain.

Ma had toddled off to the wilds of the Armpit of America (read: New Jersey) to pick up the rent-a-car. I woke to find Trash watching Lethal Weapon, and, since we had ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO GET READY, I sat down and watched said film, too (I mean, HELLO, it IS Mel Gibson, you know, and no, I don’t care what anyone says and yes, I admit that he is down ONE notch but only because, HELLO, Colin Firth?? Adorable!! Have you SEEN Pride and Prejudice?? Well–maybe they’re tied. Must google recent pics of Mel. Anyway, we understand each other now, yes?? YES!!).

Now where in the holy hell was I??

Ah yes!! Lethal Weapon, jackhammers, and having ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO GET READY. Ahem.

Ma returns around 11:30-ish. She then announces in a very grave voice, ‘They have to turn off the fucking gas for a while. BUT HE SWEARS IT WILL BE BACK ON IN AN HOUR OR SO!!’

What’s the problem, you say?? The problem arises when you have three people who need to get themselves sorted for a wedding. A wedding which, according to the itinerary, they’ve planned to leave for around 2 PM. Sharp. It is also 900 degrees out, so everyone is going to be needing a shower. A hot water heater that cannot work because SOME NUMPTY HAS SHUT DOWN THE GAS, is not good.

Ma leaves again to do some errand-running (and I can certainly see Mickey’s point of blaming Ma for tardiness when she chooses THIS moment to run and do some things) since she cannot have a shower right away. She declares, ‘Pah!! It takes me two minutes to shower and get ready. If worse comes to worse I’ll have to have a cold shower. I DO NOT CARE!! I WILL GET TO THIS WEDDING ON TIME!!’

I was making no such concession. I demanded hot water. Trash was, at the time, making no such concessions either, and was cursing the jackhammering bastards.

It was decided that I would take a shower first, using up the last reserves of hot water (notice that I do not mention that I didn’t bother to start getting myself ready til after 1, for this would shatter the illusion that i am ALWAYS on time. And always do things well ahead of time. Ahem). Trash would wait for the gas to be turned back on. 12:30. No gas. And the men seem to be sitting there not doing much of anything. 1:00. The men are gone. GONE!! Vamoosed!! Vanished!!

Veryfuckingdeadshouldthegasnotgetturnedbackon!!

1:30 the men are back, but are making no steps towards the house with cries of ‘Yes!! YES–you can HAVE your gas back!! Shower with impunity, time-weary bastards!!’

Ma, it should be noted, is not back as of yet.

THIS IS GOING TO FUCK WITH THE PROGRAM!!

{to be continued}

Pettycoat Junktion

Ok. No piss-poor excuses for my not posting lately. No claims of semi-working for Birdie, EFL, and Annie; nor whinging about having to run errands forMaternal Unit What is Still Down Souf; nor Dim running away from his brand-spanking-new group home.

Nope!! None of it.

I plead procrastinating fucktard.

But an ENDEARING procrastinating fucktard. Ahem.

Anyhoo. I don’t recall if I’d mentioned this or not in passing, but quite a few months back Trash morphed from a Caveman into a Modern Technology Minion we all knew lurked beneath. To wit: he purchased a cell phone.

With this phone he can take pictures, send and receive texts, listen to music. And what’s that other thing cell phones are for??

Hang on, let me think.

Ah yes!! He can even make phone calls on it!!

Amazin’ this newfangled technology, innit??

So eventually word of his number got all around town. Including towns Down Souf. There is only one person Down Souf with a cell phone. Now I’ve been trying to NOT mention a Certain Party here on the blog for reasons which we all know. Reasons which I am also fairly sure make the lot of you think I’m the biggest paranoiac on the planet. I can justify my insanity quite well, thanks very much. Hey!! You all saw that happened back in 2006. Tell me I’m wrong!!

That’s what I thought.

Now, do not, for one tiny moment, think that just because Ma is down there again helping out with certain matters that this whittles a Certain Party’s fun-loving and completely ridiculous thought processes down to ‘Mildly Clinical’ from, say, ‘Completely Fucking Bizarre and in Need of Medication’ As we all know, such a thing cannot occur. It would be like asking Richard Simmons to act manly and wear shorts that are not A) sparkly B) far too short and C) vaguely reminiscent of something an 70’s roller derby girl would wear.

With me so far??

Yay!!

So. Certain Party eventually got wind of Trash’s number. Which is all well and good and fine because hey!! Um, well, there’s no big whoop about Certain Partyand Trash texting.

Or: SO ONE WOULD THINK!!

First Certain Party told Ma to stop making light of the fact that Certain Partywas texting Trash for one reason or another. Then informed Ma that she has NO idea what her son is like; certain person knows FAR more than Ma. Or something. I know Ma was told to Stop Mentioning It.

(also: Felix. If you are reading this and mention ONE FUCKING WORD to said party you will be pissing through your nostrils for the next 6.7 years. Capish??)

This is kind of like how Certain Party knew, and subsequently told me, that my epilepsy–the cause of which is unknown to any neuroin the Greater NYC Area beyond the phrase ‘Well, the clinical picture is that your frontal lobe is fooked, Babs, you spaz and we don’t know why’–that I am the way I am because my father dropped me on my head as a baby.

They know this, seemingly, in spite of the fact that not only were they born a year after me, but lived a good 2000 miles away at the time, too. Roight!! I wish *I* had these kinds of ESP-esque/Reverse Prognosticatory Powers.

Anyway.

{God. GOD, Babs, the point already, the fucking POINT!!}

Certain Party was speaking to me today. And posed the following query:

‘Say, Babs. What are you going to do if Trash decides to get his own place?? Where would you go?? He IS 28 you know. And he’s not going to want to take care of/help out his sister forever. What about when he gets a GF and wants to get married??’

Now let me preface this by saying myself and Trash have already discussed this issue (or similar). Ages back. I had thought of this very thing in this questionable time of upheaval and disarray. To wit: What if Ma actually decided to move Down Souf?? (Ma says this is still definitely Not Happening, but you know, best to be prepared in advance for a sudden change in events). Were Ma to do this I would DEFINITELY not join her unless I had NO OTHER CHOICE. I wanted Trash to know that, IN NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM, should he feel any need to say, stay here because he feels obliged to help me etc. Or feel guilty were he to get his own place. I was adamant, ADAMANT, that he let me know. And I told him of the many things I could do as an alternative while/after I get the Govn’t Leech Spazzy Disability Decision (also, Trash was one of the most ardent supporters of the ‘Invoke the Leech Disabilty Plan’). His reply to me, after my assuring him repeatedly that he was not to feel bad/guilty/like a fucktard in any way shape or form was: ‘Don’t be a dick, Babs. If I move, you move with me. It’ll be fine and I’m not about to chuck you on the street’

{Another thing, and I think I ought to point this out, Trash does not ‘take care of me’ per se. Sure he and Ma chip in the major portions with regards to groceries, bills and such. But anything I need I either get myself with Birdie/EFL/Annie earnings or I simply go without til I’ve saved enough. And any of MY money gets thrown into the kitty for groceries etc, too. In return I cook dinner, try to make the apartment halfway liveable, do the shopping etc. I don’t just sit around fucking loafing. And I do not for one moment assume or believe that I’ll need Ma/Manson/ or Trash to help me out forever. This is temporary. In caseanyone was thinking otherwise. Ahem}

Call me crazy, but I, for whatever reasons, trust BOTH of my brothers (and Ma) implicitly. Sure they have their faults, foibles and bouts of fucktardery. As do I. When push comes to shove, though, I pretty much think they have my back. And I have theirs and do my best to help. I think.

I explained all of the above to Certain Party. Who retorted ‘Well. I think you should be very worried about this. You can’t trust everything’ I volleyed back with an answer of ‘Even if Trash WERE contemplating striking out on his own (which, for the record, is near on impossible at the mo, thus a moot point) he would CERTAINLY let me know well in advance’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I know a lot more about Trash than you think I do–I’ve been talking to him. And I wouldn’t be surprised if something was in the works already. I’m just letting you know’

(Something to that effect)

‘Well, I happen to think otherwise. Oog!! Knock at the door. I’m going to have to go now’

If Certain Party thinks I am stupid enough to believe this tripe in an attempt to (what I think is possibly) scare me into moving Down Souf and talking Ma into doing so they are SORELY mistaken.

For, when it comes right down to it, who do I trust more??

The person who has told me I’m fat in weird way/would be a bad, abusive mother so it’s better that I don’t have kids/my family is low-class white trash/that I’m an idiot for many and varied reasons/my father dropped me on my head as a baby and caused my every woe??

Or my brother who has NEVER accused me of any of the above and only steals my socks and conditioner??

I’m thinking trust the sock thief.

Just a hunch, mind.

A Van Buren by Any Other Name

As many of you are WELL aware, we of La Casa de Babs Familius, along with our cousins on the Isle of Long, La Famiglia Boombatz, will bust each others chops mercilessly over the slightest misstep. The merest bungling of a word, or attack on a *seemingly* innocent coat rack, will live on in legend for the ages around the family dinner table. Even events what we have no control over have proved a suitable means to torture one another.

A few weeks back, knowing that Siobhan was soon to burst (read: give birth to yet another lunatic to add to our family tree), I made a prediction.

Well–not quite a prediction. I merely suggested that it would be dead bloody funny were she to pop the midget out on the fifth of May.

Why, you ask??

I shall tell you.

T’were on the fifth of May that our very own Felix was brought into this world twenty-nine years ago. And so the mere suggestion that Mickey and Siobhan’s own maniac might be born on that very same day brought forth gales of laughter. Because the obvious verdict would be guilt and habitual weird love for receipts and keys by conspiratorial birthdate association!!

Also?? A birthday landing on Cinco de Mayo?? Clearly means free Coronas and chips ‘n salsa at every birthday party–which is, of course, wicked sweet.

Mind you, a month or two back whilst on the phone with Mickey this idea hadn’t entered my head. Mostly because Mickey was saying how it would be his father’s ultimate practical joke from the hereafter were said child to be born on the seventh (read: very sadly Uncle Pervo’s first anniversary of selfishly leaving us with no one to foist Depends and Geritol jokes on). And partly because it slipped my mind entirely that Felix’s birthday was on said day. Ahem.

So on Friday (or Saturday. Look, whenever it was, ok?? Christ. I’m not a human calendar, you know) when Mickey rang Ma to tell us that–were the midget still safely ensconced in oven over the weekend–they would be inducing Siobhan on Monday (the fifth, for those of you not paying attention), I started sort of wishing. Not a very big wish, mind. But a wish nonetheless.

Why?? Because I am an evil, evil woman. And this would be the ultimate trump card, busting chops-wise.

{Do forgive me Siobhan, but, really, after the muffler incident and the coat rack fiasco?? I needed ammo badly–I cannot be blamed!!}

Ma: They’ll be inducing Siobhan on the fifth if she doesn’t give birth over the weekend.

Babs:Ha!! Haaaaaaaa!! That’s Felix’s birthday!!

Ma: Oh shit!! I was so excited about the baby’s arrival I forgot it was the same day as Felix’s birthday!!

*Babs rings Felix*

Babs:Yo Felix!! Sooooooooo, um, guess what??

*informs him of impending baby anniversary of existence/same natal day factoid*

Felix: That’s cool!!

{Also, allow me to add, that in the past few weeks, Felix himself was saying it would be neat-o were said child born on said day}

La la la. Waiting for phone calls over the weekend–nuttin.

Then someone very kindly (read: pisses on my parade) reminds me that JUST because she is being encouraged via lovely drugs to give birth on the fifth, does not necessarily mean she will give birth before midnight.

Damn them!!

Damn them for reminding me of that key factor!!

So we worked for Birdie Monday, all the while calling the voice mail back home for any news.

Nuttin. Nuttin. And more nuttin.

FOOK!! It would seem that the midnight curse was going into effect.

Then again, we were only at Birdie’s til six o’clock or so, there’s still daylight left!! I leave and head for the supermarket, Ma heads home.

I come back home, Ma greets me chirpily.

‘Oh!! I talked to Mickey!! She had the baby–both her and the baby are good as gold!!’

‘What did they have??’

‘A little girl, they named her….’

‘Oh that’s brilliant!!’

We go through the details; weight height etc etc.

‘So did you mention to Mickey that today was ALSO Felix’s birthday??’

‘Yea. He didn’t realize that at all’

‘What’d he say about that??’

‘He said, and I quote, ‘Trash and Babs won’t ever let me hear the end of this will they??’ And I told him ‘No. No they won’t’

Because that, my friends, is what family is all about.

Congratulations Mickey and Siobhan!!

Happy Birfday Felix!!

And happy happiest of birfdays to our newest Lunatic Familial, Felixette!!

Bugblatter

And now, we here at Spaztardicus Wrecks present:

Fatal Rash of Death Watch 2008!!

{Of course, this was meant to be a day-by-day account, but guess what nimrod is off feeding cats in the middle of the East Bumblefuck section of this island?? [Not that I mind, I certainly don't. I'm just saying it puts a crimp in the time frame, dammit] Along with preparing for some woman named ‘Ma’ to return to this domicile Tuesday night. And the fact that I’ve been spazzing like a bastard ALL BLOODY WEEK. Ahem}

Day 1: Took 1st pill. Did not implode nor did I turn into Giant Mutant Freckle of Impending Doom.

Day 2:Take second pill. Gah!! Gah!! PANIC!! There is Weird Giant Lump Thingie in (yes IN, as in beneath mortal flesh, not on actual skin) leg!!–and is quite painful. What to do?? Dr. Google!!–which was fucking useless. Next batter up?? Ask Trash (I know, I know, what was I thinking??). His advice of ‘You should ring the doctor’ was cheerfully ignored while I debated whether Weird Giant Lump Thingwas possibly from banging said leg into windowsill during sleep, mid-spaz. Trash’s follow up?? ‘Well, gee, let’s think about this, dumbass. Call the doctor or die. Hmmmm’ Sarcastic little shit. I vow to ring the next day, assuming Weird Giant Lump Thingie is not gone.

Day 3: Third pill. Weird Giant Lump Thingie still hurts, but seems to be shrinking. Must have been some freak anomaly (What?? Me and the word freak in the same sentence?? Gee, how shocking). Resolve to keep an eye on it and concentrate on more important things; like avoiding allowing the felines of the home to use me as a scratching post. Why?? I am suddenly worried that Fatal Rash of Death could be brought on by Errant Cat Germs.

Day 4: Weird Giant Lump Thingie continues to melt away–much like the polar icecap–but with far less fanfare and no sign of politicians looking to cash in on Global Warming. Nor a migratory population of penguins, for that matter. Pick up Dim from USS Looneybin. Walk up The Second Biggest Fucking Mountain on our fair isle (read: minuscule 310 ft hill. With proper sidewalk) on Secret Mission. Debate on whether or not to strangle Dim after he decides he cannot wait the extra two minutes to destination to pee, so he instead runs into the woods (where every passing car can still see him because ‘into the woods’ means ‘three feet away from sidewalk behind a minuscule sapling) and takes a leak. Decide not to strangle Dim once he catches up with me, as he has just taken a leak, and–should he attempt to defend himself–he may make contact with his filthy unwashed hands. Bleurgh.

Day 5: Develop curious interest in dry patch of skin on right ankle. Ruminate for three hours or so on whether or not ‘dry skin’ is actually code word for ‘Oh my god!! I’m going to DIE!!’ rather than probable meaning of‘Hello, dipshit, a little lotion wouldn’t hurt now and again, would it?? Gawd. Has Cosmo and Glamour taught you nothing??’

Day 6:Develop slight rash behind left ear after lugging shitloads of garbage down stairs. Ponder whether or not is once again Probable Fatal Rash of Death, or, more likely, the fact that exertion and heavy lugging work caused your Dainty Fearless Heroine to perspire. Which, coupled with arm of sunglasses at exact same point behind ear, had actually caused said rash. Regardless, still wish was able to drink, what with the stress of it all.

Day 7: Notice pimple on left leg. Die of heart attack.

Chandler Binky

Why don’t I just rename this ‘Blog of Simple-Minded Idiot Who is Dead Good at Procrastinating and Types Up Pithy Paragraphs Once a Decade’, eh??

Gawd. I won’t even bother with the ‘to be continued’ shite from the last post, save for the mention of two incidents:

1)While I was on my deathbed–so ill that I couldn’t reach for the clicker to get Rachel bloody Ray off the TV–EFL rang. She’d wanted me to clean for her, but quite magnanimously said I sounded far too sick to work for her that day. Quite true. Not more than an hour or so later EFL rang again–not to inquire as to whether or not I was dead yet, no. Her inquiry was to whether or not, while she was away at Merlin’s Rehab and Old Person’s Home Emporium, anyone else besides myself or Ma had been downstairs to feed the cats etc. Because twenty-odd sweaters of hers had gone missing. Yes. You read that right. She rang to accuse me or ma (in a roundabout fashion) of nicking twenty-odd of the tackiest sweaters that were ever created. I informed her that only myself, Ma, and EFL’s sibling had been there during that time. And no one touched her fucking patchwork sweaters. I mean, really. Oh, you mean the ones with Indians, duckies, giant pockets shaped like cats etc?? Well of COURSE I nicked them!! I want to look like a ninety-year old Bingo Harridan!! Fucking idiot. Of course the sweaters aren’t missing. They’re in the black hole of a storage room down there, and had obviously fallen behind the door. Which she can’t see because she can’t open the door and wangle round that way.

So. Help. Me.

2) The following day Dim rings. I am still at Death’s Door.

‘Hi, sis, I’m coming over to visit!!’

‘Dim, I am at Death’s Door. I really don’t think visiting is wise’

Of course, he’s ringing from down the block. He’s clearly not grasped the concept from the LAST time he pulled an unannounced visit. That concept being ‘Ring here BEFORE you leave the Looney Bin to make sure someone is here. And to make sure they aren’t, oh, going to the store, or, say, I don’t know, maybe DYING’ I drop the keys out of the window, crawl back into bed, and tell him he can grab a chair and watch TV.

‘C’mon sis!! Sit up and talk to me’

‘Fuck off, Dim. Watch Jakers’

Thankfully he got sick of my hacking up shite and blowing my nose every 3.5 seconds and left shortly thereafter. Apparently I’m not Good Company when I’m at Death’s Door.

And on with my beating back the bane of my existence, Procrastination!!

Sort of. Every appointment I had so carefully laid out happened to coincide with my busily banging my cranium with a ball-peen hammer in an attempt to make the pain go away. And the bucketloads of goop that had somehow accumulated in my sinuses.

I rescheduled the neuro for last Wednesday, only to be told at the last minute that, wey-hey!! The team at Dim’s Looney Bin had decided to have a meeting about his upcoming move to a proper group home. At the SAME EXACT TIMEas my neuro appointment. I knew I needed to see the neuro, but at the same time, I’m sort of Dim’s guardian until Ma gets back next week. So I cancelled the neuro and got myself mentally prepped to throw a myriad of questions at Dim’s Drill Team of Persons Who Care for Him.

Of course, I promptly seized the day away, missed the meeting, and was called by a Very Disappointed Dim. Who was most understanding after three days or so of sulking.

Seizing?? Oh yes!! Apparently 2000mgs of Keppra a day has done fuck all for me, so far. I am now moody. And spazzy. And spazzing slightly on my right side, too. I’m in a bit of a funk about it too, to be quite fucking frank.

{Though I think the mood swings may be related to said Drug Uppage. A noted side-effect of fucking Keppra}

Mind you, I am currently trying to convince myself that the right-sided spazzery is for show. And that I’m only doing it for attention, even though no one is around to see it. I’m also trying desperately to convince myself that it’s merely the Power of Suggestion–the notion of my fits toddling to my right side, too–for Dr Pinky and the Brain mentioned it two appointments ago. So this must be why this is occurring. No basis in fact. It is Phantom Spazzing, brought on by a belief that I am a right-sided spazzy, too!!

In spite all EEG evidence that says ‘Yes Virginia, there IS spazzery all over your frontal lobe’, too.

In more Fun With Procrastinating, I am, at this very moment, supposed to be getting ready to leave for An Event on the Isle of Long. It doesn’t start until 12:30 this afternoon, but I have to leave here by 9 AM.

I have only JUST done my nails.

I have not sorted one bloody outfit to wear yet.

And I am hoping like fuck that I don’t spaz and fall between the car and the platform at the LIRR*

*Which of course, wouldn’t really happen, as I’m the size of a baleen.

I will also be praying I have enough time to stop by a shop and pick something up for a present. As I’ve been so bloody sick what with Spazzery and being at Death’s Door, that I haven’t been to the shops in nearly two weeks.

Let us all pray they sell infantwear and all manner of binkies at Penn Station.

God but I’m a tacky, spazzy and lazy bastard.

Happy Boy

I am normally not one to generalize–but my hand was most definitely forced in this instance.

To wit: Men, my dears, cannot shop for shite.

I realize this may be obvious to the rest of the world, but I wanted to cut the menfolk some slack. They can’t POSSIBLY all go out for lettuce and bananas and come back with plantains and cabbage, can they (happened to Shirley)?? Nor do they ALL get sent out to Pathmark for some chips and soda and come back with a brand spankin’ new Black and Decker tablesaw instead (happened to Ma). Why, I even knew of some fellas that used coupons.

Men!! With coupons!!

I was shocked, too.

I also realize that basing a generalization of the entire male species because of Dim is a bit unfair, given his well-known ‘touched in the head’ issues. I mean sure, I’ll do it anyway, but still, I’m just letting you know.

I’m not ALL bad. Really.

Dim LIKES to shop (yet another anomaly). When he gets his ‘touched in the head’ pension he shoots right off to K-mart and buys whatever his heart desires. He doesn’t necessarily need these things, in fact sometimes I think he buys just for the sake of buying.

He was never really taught to shop properly; although my Ma would say this was true of the Old Man, as well. Money or sales be damned!!–they will go out and buy the first one they see regardless. Thus limiting their trip to one shop.

I send Dim along to the shops occasionally. It’s good for him to sort how to pick out groceries and such (I may also be feeling extraordinarily lazy at the time, but the guise of ‘Teaching Dim to Shop’ is a handy excuse and makes me look like less of a lazy bastard. Ahem).

In a place like Pathmark, or any such supermarket, this really isn’t a problem.

Dealing with produce at the local bodega-type place, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish. Fish that Dim will NEVER be allowed to shop for and/or purchase.

Why??

About a month ago I sent Dim down the street to the local bodega-type place. All I needed was a bag of potatoes, a bottle of soda, and a few other odds and ends.

‘Easy peasy’, I thought. I mean, it’s potatoes and bits of junk food etc!! How hard is it to screw that up?!?!

If one is my cousin and named Dim, it’s QUITE easy.

He toddles back with the soda and junk (not screwed up). Then plonks a bag of potatoes on the table. Seems ok. I take said taters and bring them to the sink for a good scrub as I’d intended to bake them. I pluck one out. Nice tater. Scrub it and pop it onto some paper towels. I do the same for the second.

Then I notice a rather odd ‘odeur’, as one does. I looked around the kitchen. No sign of Trash, Dim, or our resident Beast and scourge of the neighbor round the corners lawn–so it’s not Posterior Trumpeteering. I open the cabinet where the garbage can is held–new bag in place and practically empty, so the Crimes Malodorus aren’t emanating from there either. I even went to see if either of them had taken off their shoes. No go. I put it off to my being a freak and get back to the potatoes; whilst reaching for the third one there is a VERY noticeable SQUISH. And for those of you NOT familiar, an uncooked tater should most definitely NOT liquefy in your hands. I put my nose closer to the bag and aha!!–I have found the smell. It’s the potatoes. I chuck the one potato, thinking, ‘Hello!! Must be just the one’ I pull out another. Squish. Another?? Squish. Yet another, fucking SQUISH!! Dim didn’t even look at the bag or give it a feel. Instead he has brought home a bag of potatoes that look like they’ve been sent over from Ireland in the late 1840’s.

The dipshit.

‘Did you not check the taters, Dim??’

‘Um. Yea I grabbed the bag and they looked ok!!’

A bald faced lie, of course, because one generous poke would have told him the lower two-thirds were as rotten as getting dry socket while having your fingernails plucked out one by one. While William Shatner is singing the best of Barry Manilow.

I explained the ins and outs of buying taters and produce. I also decide that I’ll march up to the store later. For though Dim didn’t notice the rotten taters; the bastards at the register should have smelled it from three miles away. They saw he was touched in the head and let him take off with spoiled spuds, so I think.

Armed with all this information, I decided to let Dim traverse to the shop again last week. THIS time, though, I would explain EXACTLY what he needed to get, check for, and be aware of. And possible substitutions!!

I’m thorough, me.

‘Ok, Dim. We JUST need margarine. Don’t buy butter there because I refuse to pay those thieves for shite butter’

{I am Hotel Bars bitch occasionally, yes. But only when at supermarket–not at thieving mini-shop store with their sub-par brands}

‘If they don’t have margarine at the one shop–go to the next store up. They sell individual sticks of margarine which will be enough for what we need at the mo. Ok?? Oog. Get a thing of soda for his lordship, too’

He cannot POSSIBLY screw this up–so I am ok with the fact that I’m not doing this myself.

I am teaching Dim something that will last him for the ages!!

Twenty minutes later he’s back. It should have taken ten, but hey, maybe he had a meander.

He says ‘They didn’t have ANY margarine!!’

‘At either shop??’

‘Nope. But I got this!! Is this close enough??’

He pulls a brick of Armour Lard out of the bag and pops it on the table.

‘Um. No. Not nearly’

That’ll teach me to get my fat ass to the store myself, next time.

Melee Kalikimaka: Fin

Yes yes, this one is late. Hey!! I am doing some serious bloody spazzing here, people!!

It’s an art, you know.

Also?? Dim and Felix were here together for New Years Eve. Gawd!!

If I were to become a raging alcoholic RIGHT now I don’t think anyone could blame me.

Anyway. Party!! Coat racks!! Cakes!! Hams–both porcine and over-acting sibling and cousins!! And this will be a mile long because I’m finishing it today!! Deal with it!!

Naturally, as Trash, Twintrash, and Mickey are all in possession of iron-clad livers, there was plenty of beer on hand. Which was fine–after all it takes three-quarters of a keg to get any one of them ‘mildly tipsy’ I suspect. However!! Felix wanted to join in on the ‘Drinking Fun’ And we all recall what happened way back when at Mickey and Siobhan’s wedding, right??

{Memory Refresher: Felix, on way home, drunk as a skunk on a mere seven glasses of white wine on full stomach over six hours time, declares that no!! It was NOT the wine that made him throw up all over Chamber Street train platform, but instead was bad fish at wedding. The same fish we ALL ate, yet none of us became ill. Including Trash who had partook of approximately thirteen or so Screwdrivers with beer chasers. And Felix also declares that he is not a lightweight when we all know that he fucking is. Ahem}

So Felix begins to plow into the beers. Which is fine–at first. Everyone is chilling out and watching The Commie’s House DVD’s because she apparently has a thing for Hugh Laurie. Why?? I don’t know. I think he’s funny as hell, but I’ve never thought ‘Hubba hubba’ when I’ve seen him. I always flash back to Blackadder and start talking in a silly voice. Because I’m weird like that. But not so weird that I fancy Hugh bloody Laurie.

And do you know how easy it is to entertain this lot?? Hint: all you need is Trash and a Wii. And for those of you who are not familiar–this is not some sort of seedy euphemism, but a game system. They didn’t spend much time actually playing the game, no. Instead they spent a good hour putting Mickey and Siobhan’s furniture in mortal danger of being soiled; whilst Trash created the most bizarre, hysterical, and dare I say it, non-PC Wii avatars known to mankind. Also?? They can bowl while mashing yams/fetching beers in the kitchen. And get strikes!! As you do.

I helped Mickey sort out dinner (though he denies my help as anything but ‘cutting up a few yams’)–and for anyone who recalls the Frozen Veggie Fiasco of Long Ago?? I caught him looking at the directions AGAIN!! He will be mocked throughout the ages, will Mickey. We all raise a fork to the still sadly missed Uncle Pervo (and The Commie has taken over his role nicely by being completely disgusting at the dinner table. Bless). We also lament the fact that Paddy and Sneezy are MIA, but will stop by later. And wish that Ma, Manson and the niece and neph could have been there too. Then we started cursing like sailors and flinging mashed potatoes and such at each other. Because that’s what Christmas is all about!!

Ok. We only threatened to fling the potatoes. But still, Mariel and Pita, who had never been to a Boombatz/Familius Babs Christmas Eve were a bit shell shocked, at first. By nights end though, they would declare this sort of debacle the Best Christmas Party Evah!! Clearly they need medication.

Trash, quite a few beers in, decided a change in hairstyle was in order. So he ran into the loo and gave himself a fauxhawk with the help of some water.

Upon seeing this, Siobhan erupted with laughter and said ‘Hey!! I’ve got hair gel in there!!’ And so Trash kept his hair that way for the rest of the night. Which worked well for the family picture. Don’t you think??

And Felix, oh our drunken Felix–who, remember, keeps swearing is NOT a lightweight?? I’d told him he was cut off, only to get a reply of ‘Who do you think you are, my mother??’ So I got Mickey’s attention, and had him watch Felix as he put his shoes on to go outside for a cigarette. Mickey watched him fall into the wall and said ‘Dude, you’re SO cut off!! No more beer!!’ Amazingly. Felix listened.

Or so I thought.

Every time one of us turned around Felix was trying to steal another beer out of the fridge. It was getting ridiculous. It was like trying to play some sort of bizarre version of pong with an anal-retentive beer thief. Mickey, Trash, and Twintrash toddled off around the corner to market when the supplies got low and it was then that Felix had his mini-nervous breakdown.

It had all hit him. Christmas, life, the whole Arizona failure, his former-future-fiance-turned-lesbian ditching him for a manly motorcycle muscle woman–the lot. I walked into the dining room to find him with his face scrunched up, crying, and hitting himself in the head (this is part of his touched in the head thing). It KILLED me. I (and I am loathe to admit this) started crying just from watching HIM cry. It was THAT painful–you had to feel for the kid. He kept saying he was utterly alone. He’s always felt this way. Felix really has gotten the shaft all throughout his life (though sometimes through his own dingbattedness, mind you). So I recruited The Commie, and we brought him outside to talk to him and calm him down. And to stop him from beating his cranium like a fucking snare drum.

I popped his glasses in my pocket, The Commie gave him a cigarette, and we both told him he WASN’T alone. He had US. And how we wanted him here at Christmas Eve for a reason–because he’s supposed to be with his family. Fuck those cows out west, we’re your blood, after all. When we joke and make fun of each other its because that’s how we do things and how we show we love each other (Yes, yes I know. How SO not me, but the kid was DYING!! God my reputation is ruined). But when someone else fucks with us?? With you?? Well, that’s a horse of a different color, indeed. Then we told him how we’d kick the ever-loving shit of TWT and Peachy if we ever got within five hundred feet of them. In the midst of all this the boys came back. Trash, knowing Felix and his ways, sensed what was going on and had the lads go right in instead of dawdling on the porch for a cigarette so they wouldn’t bust his chops later (Trash, of course, denies this benevolent act, but he is fibbing). Felix finally calmed down and realized (at least for the moment) that we were right.

Then Dim came down as Felix went back up–he wanted to know what was the matter with him. I didn’t go into much detail but tell him he’s a bit upset, but as dim as Dim may be, he isn’t THAT dopey. He looks at me and says ‘I think we should take him home in the car instead of Trash’

This, my friends, is fucking progress. Dim looking to help out Felix?? This is like achieving peace in the middle east!!

Of course this isn’t a decision that is Dim’s to make, but Mariel’s. It’s her car. I know Trash won’t mind. And as drunk as Trash will soon be, I’m still not worried about how he’ll fare on the Mass Transit System. You could drop a drunken Trash in the middle of Zimbabwe and he’d STILL beat you home.

We get back upstairs and start eating cake and playing games. Dim mentions the Felix Issue. Mariel says she doesn’t want to seem like a scutch, but she’s kind of worried about Felix and his Chamber Street Barf Fest, and she’s had too many people do that to her car in the past. So it’s a no go. Mariel is ultra-fanatical about keeping her car neat as it is, so the very thought of this would give her the willies–which I understand, so that’s cool. And I tell them that, change of plans: it will be her, Dim and Trash in the car, because in the state that Felix is in at the mo?? There is NO fucking way I am letting him travel alone. All is right in the world. We play Battle of the Sexes for the next hour and a half and hurrah!! We chicks TOTALLY kick their asses. This is mostly because Trash is mega-polluted (so polluted, in fact, that when asked by Felix to sneak him a shot of Sambuca in his coffee he DID!!). Felix is polluted. Twintrash is mega-polluted. Mickey, a semi-sober voice of reason for the mens team chooses to ignore Felix’s answers outright as he is drunk. And loses though Felix is the ONLY one who knew about Richard Gere playing Billy Flynn in Chicago.

{Also?? I do not know a Porsche from a freakin Ferrari. Nor do I care}

Paddy and Sneezy show up!!

FOR A PALTRY TEN MINUTES, THE SNOTS!!

Though, in that ten minutes, an exhausted Sneezy did not disappoint for the girls team; she managed to mock the boys several times and accused them each of having vaginas and/or boobs at least ten times a piece. Because she would NOT be Sneezy if she did not say the Vee word!!

We declare that Trash and Twintrash are to NEVER be allowed to join forces. For they are so alike it is scary. We declare that yes, Felix, my friends, is a fucking lightweight. And Mariel declares, in a stunning Christmas Eve Miracle turnaround, that she will have no one to talk to in the car if she is driving just Trash and Dim. So as long as I promise (as I had earlier) to sit next to Felix with plastic bag in hand, should Mount Felix erupt in transit, she will not only take myself and Felix; but she will forego her usual ban on overstuffing her car, and pop Trash in the back seat, as well.

We tootle along the highway. Trash then, somehow, put Felix in a headlock and then started punching him in the back in the name of Good Natured Fun. I intervened on Felix’s behalf, and Felix said ‘Pshaw!! We’re just joking, Babs!!’ So we started singing Mele Kalikimaka instead. Trash started screaming/singing it out his window. Me from my seat. And Felix joined the chorus from the depths of Trash’s armpit–where he was still in a headlock.

I went home, and passed the hell out until two the next day.

And luckily, Trash was able to help Felix when he woke up and started hurling in the god damned shower.

He really is a friggin’ lightweight.

But he’s OUR lightweight.