Bangles

Question. What happened to all the *supposed* karma I’d built up by giving up six months of my life helping out Down Souf??

Or the *supposed* karma from continuing to help EFL with cleaning and sorting her medication even though she drives me to bloody drink and then some??

Or the *supposed* karma from any of the nine million things I’ve been doing??

Now don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t expecting any sort karmic lottery payment from these oh-so-benevolent acts. I did them out of the goodness of my heart sheer fucking idiocy. However.

IT WOULD BE BLOODY NICE!!

Once in a while.

Is that so much to ask??

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if there is such a thing as past lives, I must have been a RIGHT fucking bastard then. Because you know what, me boyo?? Am I ever paying for it NOW.

When I go up to the corner shop I don’t bring my pocketbook. I don’t see the point of bringing it along. I don’t need any of the eighty-nine pounds worth of shite in said bag just so I can safely transport a twenty dollar bill three fucking blocks. Can you dig it??

Cool, daddy-o.

There is also the fact that I live in not-so-hot neighborhood. The less baggage the better. And, like I said, I’m just going up the bloody block. There’s no need to look like I’m heading off to Bimini for the weekend (though god I wish like hell that I were toddling off to there).

So there’s me the other day, getting ready to go up to the store with Dim. I’d made the decision that, since I was wearing my jeans with the pop-out pockets (read: very short pockets, one false move and any and all cash coins, etc fall right the fuck out)–I would tuck the fifty dollar bill I had into my glove. Safe as a bug in a rug there. I usually don’t go to those shops with that kind of money–but I had nothing smaller nor anything to change it. And I was going to spend a fair amount of it anyway. Off we went.

Go to the first shop. Get milk, chop meat, and a bunch of other crap I can’t remember. The dog food, however, was going to be purchased across the street. Dim and I make our way out of the first store–and I tell him to hang on a second. They’d given me a lot of bills as change and I didn’t want to fiddle about with it all in the other store. So, I tucked most of the change back in my glove and held the ten I was going to use for the dog food in my hand. Or was it in my coat pocket?? Either way, it was safe enough–after all, I was JUST going across the street, yea??

Yea!!

Or no.

As it turns out.

We were waltzing towards the door and I was about to tell Dim to wait outside with the bags from the first shop but!!–I’d seen someone eerily familiar standing in front of the next shop. I scuttled Dim into the shop, had him stand in the corner with the bags (lest someone think he was trying to lift things) and toddled off to the dog food section. I walk back to the counter, and as I plonk down the dog food I realize it: Where’s the fucking ten gone?! I rushed back towards where I’d gotten the Beasts din-din. Nothing. Nada. No dough. I look up and down the aisle–I was the only one in it so if I’d dropped it there?? It’d still BE there.

Zero. Zilch. No-o el dollaro.

I take off my glove and check the other money–did I pop it back in there?? No. Singles and fives–not one ten. I check all my pockets. Now I’m going mental. I know it’s just a tenner, but frankly I’m not fond of losing ANY money. God knows what might happen to it–someone from Ford might grab it to help shore up the production line. And since I don’t have a car?? Not cares!!

Well, eventually I had to accept the fact that it wasn’t in the shop. So I paid for the dog food toot-fucking-sweet with the glove money and ran outside. Both Dim and I scanned the ground–I had high hopes, it hadn’t been too windy. I walked all over, looking in the gutter, in the street, across the street. Not one bill was nestled among the empty chip bags, crushed soda bottles and occasional condom.

Fuck all.

When I got back to the sidewalk I noticed that Eerily Familiar Face again; and that Eerily Familiar Face had been watching myself and Dim scan the ground whilst smirking like a motherfucker. And his companion was giggling like a bitch.

The porch-mugger got his ten fucking dollars after all.

The lesson here, my friends, is verybloodyclear.

Karma is–and always will be– complete and utter shite.

Errol

EFL’s obsession with keeping certain things pristine (such as not allowing rock salt on the front steps to avoid Falling On Ones Ass when they’re frozen over because rock salt will RUIN them–yet being perfectly fine with the 100 odd plates hanging on her wall with 11 years worth of dust on them because if we move them to clean them THEY WILL SURELY BREAK) is getting just a leeeeeetle bit old now. And by ‘now’  I mean since last fucking February. And beyond.

A month or so back (don’t ask me to remember when exactly, you’re lucky I’m remembering any of this at ALL) there was a massive thunderstorm/wind/rain event (Rain event–I love it. Will the Flying Wallendas be performing at this event?! Good show!!).

ANYWAY.

Wind. Lots of!! As it happens, our happy (at least when medicated with valium and/or alcohol) little domicile is surrounded by trees. Tons of them. They actually leave me in great fear. My room is very tiny, you see, and the only place for the bed is right up against a corner with two windows. On windy nights I sit there and contemplate just HOW  easy it would be for a wayward oak to crash into my window and smash it. Then I imagine the subsequent giant shard of glass that would inevitably sever oh, I don’t know–let’s say my femoral artery, as I sleep thereby resulting in Death By Tree. I’ll lie there, look out the window and debate on whether or not I should go and sleep in the living room as I watch the branches bending. And by the time I’ve thought about it long enough I’ve usually fallen asleep. I wake up Not Dead nine out of ten times. Ish. Not that *I* ever catastrophize. No ma’am. Not me.

So. This storm. I had to run to the shops–but I also had to walk the mutt. Which was I going to do first?? If she’s being overly whingy I take her first. Otherwise I walk up the block first then sort her walk when I get back. Well!! She was definitely in Whingy Cow Mode. So I took her for a trot first. Which vexed me. The earlier I get up the block the better–it means one can avoid the Crackhead Symphony!!–but The Beast was having none of that. So I walked her neath the creaky and bendy trees whilst looking up every 3.5 seconds to make sure there wasn’t an errant elm headed my way. I, along with The Beast, made it through unscathed. Hurrah!! Popped her back in the house and head out again. Ten minutes to the shop and back. As I was waltzing up the stairs I heard a HUGE crack. And a crash. I ran up to the front of the apartment, threw the window open and lo!!–where there was once a sidewalk was now a sea of leaves and branches. Precariously perched on a wire. That could maybe possibly carry electricity. It hadn’t taken it down all the way–it was still attached to the house–but it was DEFINITELY near it’s breaking point.

I had to be the messenger when it came to ringing EFL. Which I just KNEW would be fun. EFL, of course, wanted to know the specifics–how was it possible?? She hadn’t heard anything crash.

Was I sure?? Because, you know, the sudden growth of shrubbery and complete lack of frickin’ sidewalk was SO not clue enough.

Which tree was it?? When I told her she threw back her head and said haughtily that it couldn’t POSSIBLY that tree because twenty years ago she nursed it back to life, therefore??–it was REALLY STURDY OK. Because giving a tree a few fertilizer sticks in 1988 means its set for life. LIFE I TELL YOU!!  

Then it was the debate of whose property was the tree on?? EFL was hoping for the neighbor so she wouldn’t have to lay out any cash. It ended up being hers and was she ever annoyed.

I informed her about the wire situation and who should she call etc. And you KNOW  who ended up calling, don’t you?? Because EFL was too tired to make the relevant phone calls.

All of this, however, was truly unimportant. Because there was ONE  thing EFL had to know right away. RIGHT AWAY.

‘Is it touching my aluminum siding?! Has it ruined it?! My god it’s brand new!! I got it three years ago!!’**

**Actually she got the siding at least five years ago. But then again EFL keeps telling people she was just in the hospital for three months. And that was a year ago. So. Well. You know. Time is not a factor in EFL’s world!! Not the right time, anyway.

 

If I were an abjectly cruel person, I would suggest that, when she carks it, her coffin be lined with the stuff. If I were cruel. Which I’m totally not.

Doesn’t mean one can’t get estimates in advance, though, right??

Distraction

Midnight :Decide to try and write blog post again.

Get caught up in Scrubs rerun until 12:30. Read paper online during commercials.

12:30 : Decide that YES, I will now definitely write said post.

First, go into kitchen and put dishes away. Wrap up meatloaf and chicken that Captain Shitforbrains left out (though, thankfully, with covers on them). Kill another ten flies in various areas of the kitchen. Flies whose origin are un-bloody-known, as I have a tidy kitchen and do not have garbage laying about. Where the fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck are they coming from?? Have torn apart kitchen many times, checked windowsills for cracks, checked for dead animals–ANYTHING  that would explain this sudden infestation. Have even sneakily made my way down back staircase to see if EFL is root of fly problem, as she was a few months ago with fruit-fly epidemic; wherein I found a tote bag on her back steps with rotting oranges and apples. Because keeping the fruit in the fridge, according to EFL, makes it go bad quicker!! Letting it sit in a bowl on her table–for three months time, mind you–is the only way to guarantee fresh produce. Letting it rot in a tote bag on the back steps further guarantees same. There is no rotting anything on her back stairs. Not so much as a stray cat or an ex-tenant. Further vexing me. It is a riddle for the ages. And the makers of Raid and that hideous looking fly-paper.

12:45 :Go back into room to write post. Get distracted when checking for pictures that Ma has said are online from nephew’s game tonight. See a man with an odd name in the paper and google it out of sheer boredom. Then, for some inexplicable reason, check obituaries. Where was I?? Oh yes–a post!! But first decide that best way to force myself to concentrate and post is to do nails as I type.

1:00 : Yes. Doing nails is a good idea, but!!–will first have a shower. Go into loo and decide that Current Shower System needs fixing yet again. We have one of those detachable shower heads and the top of the hose has broken. The only way to take a shower without turning the entire bathroom into the fucking rain forest is by tying a towel around the bit that’s broken. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to actually GO  to Home Depot or similar and buy a new one. Someone keeps forgetting to do this. We aren’t naming names, though. Especially as it might sound suspiciously like MY name.

1:05 :Oog!! If memory serves we still have the very, VERY old shower-head that was originally there. And memory serves because I saw the bloody thing some time last week. Search up and down for said shower-head. No bloody luck. Decide to tighten up Current System and commence with shower. Turn on water and watch some shoot up and out over the shower stall. Frantically rearrange towel so water stays in shower stall. Bash myself in the head for messing with system that was perfectly adequate to begin with.

1:30 :Oog!! Frasier is on!! Vow to prep nails as I watch Frasier re-run. Forget vow three seconds later and generally noodle about. Spaz badly and realize I’ve forgotten to put my sneaker back on. I hate wearing shoes in the house so, for the moment, only put on left sneaker so foot is saved from the beating it will take when I inevitably spaz (as have been badly spazzing for past four days) and bash it into the dresser while thrash about AND as I Type A Post and Do My Nails. Run-hobble into kitchen for cup of tea and laugh at sneaker scenario and decide its a Reverse Michael Jackson look for epileptics. Realize I’m a madwoman.

2:00 : I. Will. Paint. Nails. And. Post!!

2:01 :Trash asks where his gameboy playstation nintendo DS whatever-it-is thingimabob is located. Had secretly set it aside a week or two ago on Annie’s orders since he hardly plays the bloody thing anymore. She says it’s ancient and he’ll never notice that she’s borrowed it. Hadn’t really intended to let Annie borrow it. Was just hoping she’d forget about it altogether. Try to remember where I hid said game system. I know it’s in my dresser somewhere.

2:05 : Have found gameboynintendowhateveritisthingie in cubby-type drawer in top bit of dresser. In a surprising turn of events find old shower-head in there, as well. Now remember that the shower-head , for some reason, on top of Old TV. And when I was switching out the Old TV for The Semi-Newer TV from the other room had just chucked it in the drawer as it was convenient.

2:15 : Will. Post. NOW. Need more tea first, though. While waiting for kettle to boil notice that built-in China Closet windows look a little dingy. Get out Windex and clean windows inside and out. Then realize how god awful cabinets look. Wash all cabinet doors. Doing this reminds me of a similar scenario the other night, wherein I’d vowed to write something at 2 AM; I ended up in the Room of Death cleaning all seven windows and respective windowsills and then, obviously, all the woodwork. So I take the rag and bucket and attack kitchen woodwork. As you do. Also look for any allergy pills laying about as have broken out in hives AGAIN.

3 AM :Decide I have issues. Wonder if admitting that I’m watching Southpark re-runs would ruin my street-cred. Open notepad window and start post about fly situation, but then get sidetracked when looking up one turn of phrase I’d intended to use. Somehow end up spending twenty minutes reading about the Battle of the Bulge. Decide I can’t be funny bitching about flies. Contemplate bitching about the spazzing and how, earlier today I’d had the very real thought that if they don’t get this sorted by the time I’m 70 or so, one spaz will break my hip and at least three ribs in a heartbeat. Then realize that spazzing in general is an overdone topic here and if I’m sick of whinging about it, it surely goes to follow that people would be sick of reading about it.

3:30 :Can’t recall with absolute clarity if I’ve taken spaztard drugs for the evening. Count out pills to be sure. And, as always, I HAVE  taken them at some point previous. Am just too stupid to remember WHEN.

3:35 :Oog!! Notepad window is still there!! I was going to write. And do my nails!!

4:00 :Have spent last half hour or so looking up genealogy stuff. Learned nothing new and am now even more annoyed.

4:15 : Still have not done fucking nails. Nor written a bloody post. Give up entirely.

Bubba Blue

As of late I’ve been worried about A) my attention span. Because I’ve the attention span of a jackrabbit on crack. Seriously. Know how many posts I’ve started and then….oog!! Look at that thing over there!!

See?? Fucking horrid.

(Oh. I like totally want to post about Certain Party in all their Fucktarded Glory. BUT I AM TOO PARANOID. Else I’d have a post about the goings-on down there for EACH BLOODY DAY. Manson, are you reading this?? Should I be paranoid?? What are the odds here, man?! Answers on a postcard, please)

Where was I??

Ah yes, my other worry.

B) The general fear that I am getting stupider BY THE MINUTE.  And I’m not kidding. Things I SHOULD NOT FORGET  I’m totally forgetting (and ONE remark about old age and you will get throttled. Am still not over turning 36. Capish?? Ta very much). I was watching TV tonight and couldn’t remember Nathan Lane’s name for ten minutes. TEN MINUTES!!  I should KNOW  this, people!! He’s like one of my favorite actors. FUCK.

So. I went to Pinky and the Brain’s today to address these concerns, and in doing so, completely forgot to mention—wait. WAIT. Before I get to THAT.

When I’d originally made this appointment I said ‘Och. I will try to trick myself into thinking this appointment is an hour earlier’  Why did I do this?? Because I am NOTORIOUS for possessing the Grand Delusion That I Have All The Time In The World To Get Ready (As evidenced by previous posts). I had my doubts, though. I mean, really–I would totally remember I had an hours leeway to get there. I’d have to be a fucking moron  to fall for such a ridiculous plan.

And you know what?? Not so much. I ran like a highly-athletic banshee towards the bus stop. Then the train. I get there and lo!! I’m an hour EARLY. I’m sure that time stood still but for a moment, as the entire population of the planet gasped in awe and wonder at the fact that I, Babs Geller, had gotten someplace on time. Why?? Because I am too fucking stupid  to remember that I tricked myself into thinking my appointment was an hour earlier.

{And now I’ve got to re-remember everything I typed after this because FUCKING NOTEPAD CRASHED before I could hit fucking save. Since when does notepad crash?? In the nine years I have owned this ‘puter notepad has NEVER crashed. And now it’s happened for the second time in a week. And the OTHER crash made me lose a whole post entirely because I was on such a roll that I forgot to hit bloody save. I should just give up. Now. IT IS CLEARLY A SIGN FROM GOD}

Er. Thinking. Oh yes!! I was ORIGINALLY going to ask Pinky about the fact that I’ve been breaking out AND  hiving out at the drop of a bloody hat. Because, hello!! Remember I am still on the famed Rash of Death medication–though a very minuscule dose now. Because of Hive Paranoia the LAST time I was there. And, come to think of it, shouldn’t Pinky have asked about this?? Fuck!! Maybe my attention span issues are contagious!!

{I was also going to, of course, bring out that age old chestnut ‘Why are the fits not sorted yet?? Sort them out, woman!!}

So. There I was, and I completely forget about the Hive Issue. Because I was too worried that I’m becoming the Ultra-Tard.

Babs:So. Um. You know, for the past five, six, seven, hell maybe eight months??–see I can’t even remember how long this has been going on!! My attention span has been that of a jackrabbit on crack. And I really feel like I’m getting stupider by the nanosecond. I know they say the fits kill brain cells, but could I really be getting this way because of the fits?? I mean I’m forgetting trivia!! And I can’t write anymore–I used to be able to write at the drop of a hat!! Well, that’s the attention span thing, too. I feel like I’m turning into Forrest Gump here.

Pinky and the Brain: It’s not only possible, it’s a known fact. It could definitely be the problem. That’s why we’ve got to get this figured out!!

Babs: Would you like a chock-lit??

Poe

EFL, as we all know, is not exactly a spring chicken–in fact she’s teetering on the edge of seventy-nine. There is nothing wrong with being this age, naturally, unless you happen to be this age and aren’t too very happy about it.

What I am about to say is not to mock youth-impaired persons (read: senior citizens). It is to demonstrate the fact that EFL, as always, is delusional with a capital P for Prozac.

EFL is quite fussy about what she’s wearing when workmen/doctors/anyone who isn’t someone close to her visits.

This is all well and good and perfectly understandable.

The thing is, if said person shows up, say, twenty minutes early she will have a absolute CONNIPTION and demand they come back when she’s dressed properly.

Let me also state that EFL is not exactly a looker in the traditional sense. Or the untraditional sense. I don’t say this to be petty or mean or anything of the sort. I’m just saying that EFL won’t be running in the AARPs Sexy Senior Citizen Pageant anytime soon.

{EFL suffers from the same problem I do, currently. Said problem being that she is built like a [very frail] quarterback}

Now, were her worries re: clothing just about looking proper etc I wouldn’t be discussing this. No. Absolutely not.

This, however, isn’t her issue.

No, no, no, no, no.

Her worry is that her Usual Daytime Attire, when not receiving visitors, will give said men the wrong idea.

That idea being: that she is putting the moves on them.

Or better yet: were they to see her in her Usual Daytime Attire, they would put the moves on HER.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that being confident in ones appearance–at any age– is a good thing. And, yes, it’s nice to think that members of the opposite sex will simply walk in and SWOON the moment they lay eyes on you no matter WHAT you’re wearing. Oh to be sure, I have the occasional day where I’m walking about in my comfie clothes and wistfully daydreaming. I’ll answer the door for say, the plumber, only to find it’s Colin Firth. And the moment he sets eyes on me in the glory  that is my fleece pajama pants/battered grey t-shirt/fuzzy slippers and OH-SO-sexpottish ponytail/bun hybrid he will shout ‘Damn it all, marry me, Babs!! You gorgeous thing, you!!’  Then I’ll run upstairs, trip [though gracefully], regain my composure, call Shirley, Annie, and Frieda and order 42 back-issues of Brides Magazine–STAT!!  While a cheesy 80s music montage plays in the background. Heavy on the Duran Duran. Oog!! And that one Erasure song (Look. You can just fuck off RIGHT now, ok??).

Bah. Got sidetracked, didn’t I??

{Also. Note to self: break faucet in kitchen as last plumber that got sent here was DEAD. BLOODY. ADORABLE.}

I find it a bit hard to believe, though, that a twenty-eight year old electrician is going to waltz through EFL’s door, see her in her Usual Daytime Attire, declare her a brazen hussy, and run out the door again. Especially since her Usual Daytime Attire is less ‘Fancy Nightdress That One Might Have Seen on Dynasty’ and more ‘Ankle-length Terry-cloth Robe That Ernest Borgnine Might Wear’

This is all so very annoying because EFL will cancel appointments with people coming to the house left, right, and center because she ‘doesn’t feel up to getting dressed properly’ After she’s asked me to specifically free myself up for a day so I can help sort whatever problem it is and show said person about. Then expects me to cancel everything on ANOTHER day to make up said appointment. Which I refuse to do. Unless I’m already free that day.

Anyway, all of that?? That’s not the best part. Not by a long-shot.

EFL has one friend that comes to the house. Helps her out with various therapies etc and will come check on her during heat waves. And cold waves. And whenever EFL has a problem that neither myself or her sibling can handle she will ring this person and she–I suspect–laments her state so they will eventually feel bad enough to help her. Said friend also calls her up for a bit of a chat on occasion, knowing that virtually no one else will (Owing to EFL’s ways and habit of pushing all her friends and relatives to the point of no longer talking to her).

This person is of the male gender. And forty-odd years younger than EFL. And married.

EFL is always worried about this. You see, she talks to said party’s wife on the phone, too.

‘And she’s a bit weird with me when we talk’

Of course, the reason she is weird is NOT  because she rings up this woman’s husband and talks for three hours about her corns while he politely listens, as he’s a genuinely nice person and feels bad for her.

Nor is it the fact that she ’sort of’  moans and laments so he will toddle along and help her.

No. Not quite.

EFL is quite certain the wife thinks this man is having an affair with her.

EFL also thinks that he might think she’s putting the moves on him. And that she’s giving him the wrong idea.

‘Which is ridiculous. I mean I’m flattered that she thinks this–but heavens!! He’s a married man!! I hope he realizes I’m just looking to be friends!!’

Because, you know, had she said otherwise he’d totally hit that.

Stevie Puns

Let us speak of Certain Party and The Reason Why They Moved Down Souf with Ozzy and Wednesday.

To wit: Down Souf was FAR safer than NYC.

 

‘NYC is a cesspool!!’ Certain Party yelled. ‘It’s dangerous for my children!! They will never have a chance here!! I will bring them to the Land o’Hillbillies and safe haven!!’

And, as we all know, Manson–wanting to be near his offspring–toddled down there eventually, too.

In the five years they’ve been down there, they’ve been picked on, punched, slapped and suspended for (finally) fighting back. Now I am not at all implying that they are 100% innocent in all cases, I’m not THAT dumb. But I happily condone, say, Wednesday knocking the shit out of boys who continually grab her etc etc when the school will do nothing about this. Especially so when they oh-so-subtly imply that Wednesday is ‘asking for it’ because she has the body of an eighteen year old at the age of thirteen. And by how she acts. And by the way she dresses. Which is odd. Considering they wear uniforms. Even if they didn’t, Wednesday has NO say in the matter. She doesn’t pick her outfits–Certain Party does.

{This pisses me off, frankly, because I kind of think that around the age of thirteen you can sort of start picking out your own clothes. The whole point of teenagehood is to develop your own personality and tastes. And you get the right to look as retarded as you want to while your parents roll their eyeballs and put the Parents Curse on you (read: your future children will be FAR worse than you at this moment). So long as your offspring isn’t attempting to leave the house in a micro-mini with a conical bra and hot-pink stilettos I’m fairly sure it’s safe to let them handle their own wardrobe. Or at least have a SAY in it. Certain Party, however, has to OK any outfit either Wednesday or Ozzy [Who, if you'll recall, is 15-ish] wear before they can do anything. Ma stopped buying clothes for them ages back because Certain Party will not let them wear anything Ma sends. Like the FDNY t-shirts that Ozzy loves–only allowed to be worn in the house, if that [A fact which was confirmed when Ma asked Ozzy and he said this was the case]. Manson continually brings the wrath of Certain Party down upon himself by buying Wednesday awful items of clothing–like jeans. And t-shirts!! With very ungirly pirates and such on them. The horror!!}

God. Got sidetracked there. What are the odds of THAT, hey?! But you know what fun it is to bitch about Certain Party in the rare moments that I risk such endeavors (and yes, this means this post will disappear lickety-split once you’ve read it).

Ozzy, in his few years down there, knows at least two kids from school that have been murdered. Not accidentally killed on a skiing outing. Nor did they shuffle off this mortal coil by way of, say, a rampant case of rhinotillexomania. No. They!! Were!! Shot!!

But it is safer there. Ok??

Of course, this might have happened here in the Yorke of Newe–but when they WERE here they were relatively abuse free from their peers (not entirely, but nothing ended in a fight and neither had ever gotten a suspension).

Anyhoo. Let us focus on How Safe It Be Down There and my brother, the beleaguered Manson.

There was Manson a few weeks back, making his usual coffee run at the store round the corner. It was nighttime, but this hadn’t put Manson off. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, gets between Manson and his java fix. A car pulled up near him and motioned for him to come over and asked the way to San Jose*. So. Jolly good fellow that Manson is, he toddled over.

*Not really. But saying where exactly ruins the whole Not Saying Where They Are Schtick.

Driver: Hullo, sir, do you know the way to San Jose??

Manson: Oh certainly. Go down the block, make a right, and drive til you see the third light. Make a left there and head due west for about 2500 miles.

Driver: Ah. Thanks very much.

Manson: Not a problem. Take it easy, Chief.

He then hears the following:

*pop* *pop* *pop* *pop*

Followed by gales of laughter as the car pulls away.

Manson didn’t think to get their license plate. Nor can he particularly recall what sort of car it was. This is because he was sitting there thinking ‘Crikey!! I’ve just been shot!!’

Which he had been.

Thankfully it was just a bee-be gun. And out of the four shots they only hit him twice. And one went clean through his right hand, not damaging it in the least.

Less so, though, is the fact that he’s still got one of the pellets stuck in his other arm. While his doctor/surgeon debates whether it will do more damage to his arm to remove it or just let it be, happily lodged twixt his radius and his ulna.

{One would think the bastards would have been considerate enough to land BOTH shots in his right arm, seeing as he’s left handed. And honestly, how tacky. Anyone who has read their Emily Post knows that the PROPER way to thank someone for giving them directions is to throw a pair or nunchuks at them. There’s no such things as manners anymore. I weep, yes WEEP, for the future}

Certain Party, upon ringing me, said ‘I kept telling him not to go out at night!!’

I, of course, queried, ‘But WHY?? It’s SO. SAFE. THERE.’

I don’t think my sarcasm was appreciated.

Tarts

So. It’s official.

 

 

 

I am doomed.

 

 

I’m now an Old Maid.

Phooey.

Single White Landlord

I love my call waiting.

And I love my caller ID.

LOVE with a capital L.

Not only do I get to screen for long-winded callers that I might not have time to chat to at that very moment. I can also click over to the other line and speak to one of the 50,000 people who insist on calling me to see if I’m ok. Because they seem to think that since I’m alone during the day I will spaz myself into a butchers knife while cooking. Or choke on a decorative toothpick. Or inadvertently lose my mind and listen to the Best of Paul Anka and drive myself into a coma that only the life-giving breath of Colin Firth would save me from. Or something.

Then theres the fun and games you can have when you know the person calling. For instance–whenever Aunt Nutter or Felix calls I put on fake voices and pretend I’m someone else. Aunt Nutter has hung up on a supposed British general three times in a row, after apologizing profusely, of course.

{I actually call up there using fake voices too. And if Aunt Nutter has not checked HER caller ID she can be fooled this way as well. Up to four times in a row. Hello?? *foreign sounding voice* Hello-is Svally there?? etc etc–No, no svally. I speak to Svally?? *click* *redial*}

And, then my dear fellows, you have the beauty of the Click Over to the Other Line that saves your sanity. This–as you can well imagine–is highly prized when dealing with EFL. Because EFL can Go. On. For. Ages.

Well!! I’d opted to change the phone plan we were on in favor–they have various different packages–and what I had not realized, was that the one I’d sorted actually did NOT come with call waiting. Or caller ID!! Or voicemail!! Which I didn’t know at first, because, hello, this is the 21st century!! This shit should be, like totally basic package shite and beyond!!

Oh woe was me Friday morning. My phone rang–and the phone flashed it’s little message ‘No Data’

The fuck??

Ah. Probably a glitch. I answer–and since I didn’t know who was calling–answered in my best Faux Accent. Because a good foreign accent always sort of throws off survey people, politicians, and bill collectors who always seem to call when my British sister Abigail is home taking messages for me. Ahem.

So. Whoop-di-do and la di da. The phone rings again later. Again the ‘No Data’ taunts me. Should I answer?? I HAVE to answer–it might be Ma!!

But it could also very easily be EFL. Or some local fuckwit politician who is looking to annoy me into not voting for them.

Luckily it was only Annie calling up for a bit of a gossip session.

I chit-chat with Annie for a half an hour or so, then go to sort something when the phone rings yet AGAIN. It’s Birdie!! Who informs me that she’s been trying to ring for ages but has been foiled by a busy signal. Which should not be, since, you know, we’ve got call-waiting and all that. So, of course, I rang the phone company toot-sweet, sorted the problem but oh noes!! They can’t re-do the deal until Monday. BASTARDS!!

I was going to be playing Russian Phone Roulette for the whole of the weekend.

Now before I go further I should let you know, though its been mentioned time and time again in this blog that EFL always calls. Constantly. About the stupidest shit on the planet. At least six times a day. And yes, I get that she is lonely and that only four other people in the whole of the frickin’ Milky Way ring her, BUT–I have shit to do!! Or I am already talking to people. Or hell, I’M JUST TIRED OF TALKING TO YOU ABOUT YOUR GOD DAMNED CORNS!!

So, a busy signal!! Let us define these two words, yes??

Main Entry: 1 busy
Pronunciation: \’bi-ze\
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): busi·er; busi·est
Etymology: Middle English bisy, from Old English bisig; akin to Middle Dutch & Middle Low German besich busy
Date: before 12th century
1 a: engaged in action : occupied b: being in use

Main Entry: 1 sig·nal
Pronunciation: \’sig-n?l\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Medieval Latin signale, from Late Latin, neuter of signalis of a sign, from Latin signum
Date: 14th century
1: sign , indication
2 a: an act, event, or watchword that has been agreed on as the occasion of concerted action b: something that incites to action
3: something (as a sound, gesture, or object) that conveys notice or warning

So, a busy signal would be?? A sign that someone is busy!! YES!!

Not in the world of EFL, though. No, no, no, no, no.

To EFL a busy signal is a mere inconvenience. That can be thwarted!! It signifies NOTHING. It means that, hello, I have other ways of contacting Babs–who is clearly busy–but not according to my rulebook!!

And how does she do so??

BY BANGING ON MY FUCKING DOOR. THIRTY FIVE TIMES IN A ROW. BECAUSE I HAPPEN TO BE IN THE KITCHEN WHERE I CAN’T FUCKING HEAR THE FUCKING RAT-TAT-TATTING OF HER FUCKING NAILS ON THE GLASS PANELS.

So, the dog is going batshit, yea?? I tell Ma to hang on. And I go to investigate. Because I am sure it is EFL, and though she probably hasn’t got the strength to come up my stairs, she might just. And we all know one of the primary Tenants Commandments:

‘Do not let thine anal landlord in, pray. Especially if thine tenant hasn’t hoovered yet this day and doesn’t want thine Landlord to complain about thy three crumbs and assorted dog hairs on the carpet’

So I scream ‘Hang on hang on!!’ And run down the stairs.

‘Babs!! Your phone was busy!!’

‘I know. Glitch with the phone company’

‘Oh. Well I couldn’t get through’

‘Ah yea, was on the phone, you see. So what’s wrong??’

{I am assuming there is a matter of grave importance}

‘Oh nothing. Your mail is here’

Now repeat this scenario–with varying themes (garbage queries, noise investigation, have you seen my cat?? Did Trash come in at 3 AM last night I heard someone coming in. Can you do some work for me?? Look!! There’s rings on the jewelry channel!! Aren’t they mesmerizing?? God, Babs, did you watch the View/ see something politicky?? [A resounding NO, by the way, will not sway EFL. No she will rattle on about said political matter for half an hour. While I slowly count the minutes of my life away every time I say  'Ok then--got to get going' and she ropes me back in again with another 'Oh and what about THIS Babs] )–5,942 times until Monday.

I know why her family doesn’t call her.

And I will get even with the bastards one day!!

Got Booze??

I rang Ye Auld Leech Pension Emporium towards the end of August, just to see how the paperwork for my Official Government Retardification Classification (read: you can’t say you’re disabled until you have paperwork proving same) was getting along.

I got a shock–at first.

Babs: Say!! How’s my case coming along??

Leech Worker: Case?? What case?!

Babs: Um….WHAT?????????

Leech Worker:Ho hum. I only had everything to do with your application. I rang your mother, brother, and neighbors to have them define your spazification type and so I could determine if you’re a Big Phat Epileptical Phony. Therefore I have no CLUE what you’re talking about; nor do I know who you are. Ring your local office and ask them if they know who you are. Pip pip cheerio and fuck off!!

Want to talk about a heart attack?? It made St Pats day 2005 look like a CAKEWALK, people.

So I rang the local joint toot-sweet, and–thank heaven, hell, and all the saints you can think of–it was a mere case of my Leech Worker having been done with the files and expediting them along the Leech Chain. They have a Process, you see. They actually MADE the decision back in July–but it has to go through a vetting process of sorts to make sure the RIGHT decision was made. What was this decision??

I don’t fucking know.

Oh, sure, few subtle hints were dropped by the fellow I spoke with, which had me leaning towards the ‘they said yes’ column, at first. He would not say definitively one way or another, however, as he wasn’t allowed. For if the Leech Panel reversed, say, a decision in the affirmative, I’d be all like WTF dood?!?!!1 And they don’t like this. Apparently.

He DID tell me, however, that they’ve a new policy of sorts, that policy being: ‘Like get this sorted and get the final decision out by sixty days after the first decision. Kthxbai.’

Furthermore he told me I should be seeing this decision by September 7th-ish. So I waited and waited. I was DYING for the 7th to get here!! For then I would KNOW!! I couldn’t write, read, talk, do ANYTHING. I was busy watching the mailbox.

Of course a watched mailbox doesn’t boil and I KNOW this, but it didn’t stop me from my nearly OCD-like affair with checking the mail.

And nothing bloody came.

I rang again around the 10th. They STILL hadn’t made a decision. And, as of 12:30 PM EST today (well yesterday, I’m writing this at like 3 AM, dood), they STILL had not made their final fucking decision. Although I did get one MORE bit of information–that being that they requested more information from one of my doctors sometime in August. Is this a good sign?? A bad one??

I’ve no fucking idea, it’s driving me mad, and my brain has been and will be in total frickin’ meltdown mode until I know (hence lack of posting, emails, etc–I owe emails from bloody July for gods sake). At this point I don’t even care if I AM turned down–being in limbo about it SUCKS for the very simple fact that I can’t do anything until I know for sure. That is assuming I could find someone who would hire me yet NOTfire me for say, ringing out spazzy four days in a row, were I to be denied the Leech Pension. And applying for such a position would leave the Leech Pension Emporium people saying ‘WTF dood?? U said you wuz sick!!’

{Of course all my advisors say ‘Nay!! If you are denied re-apply!! get a lawyer!!’ But srsly doodz, how long can I carry on like THIS??}

Also, I want to ’sort of’post about Ma and her continuing adventures Down Souf, but I fear cries of ‘Gawd, Babs, you people are like SUCH tards for dealing with Certain Party AT ALL’. And fear that I will subsequently make my mother look like a complete idiot to most of the free world, as only very, very, few understand why she continues to stay down there (obviously for the sake of her grandkids) and tolerate the shit she tolerates (though, unlike me, she tells Certain Parties to fuck off, and quite often!!).

I will say this, though: Anyone recall Certain Partiesconcerns with *my* family’s eating habits??

{Because, as Certain Party says, I don’t buy food so you people can EAT it!!}

Ma has happily dropped 30 lbs. Because she was drinking too much milk. Then Certain Party wanted to know why the milk was going bad in the fridge. And why isn’t anyone drinking it??

You know, if I could sell this diet plan to Redbook or Ladies Home Journal I’d make a fucking fortune.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

My god–I did it. I finally wrote a whole friggin’ post!!

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.