I like a joke as much as the next person. I don't take things very seriously and I hope you don't either. Hope you didn't come here to whine 'cause I don't wanna hear it!
What the fuck kind of joke is the cosmos sending me? What did I do to deserve being shit upon so heinously?
I had to get up early because the heating guy was coming to clean the heater to get it ready for winter. I asked Hubs to do one simple thing … wake me up around 7 so that I could have a cup of coffee and get into the shower. That isn’t alot to ask is it? Today, I woke up on my own….at 7:55!!! The guy was coming at 8!!! I hurriedly got dressed, threw some laundry into the washer, and went to the kitchen to get myself a cup of coffee. (It is the only thing known to man to remove the gummy eye boogers in the morning) I picked up the pot and ……
What fresh hell is this??? NO COFFEE!!! Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.
So I made a new pot. And I added an extra scoop of coffee just to be sure it would do the trick. It did! As the eye gunk slowly dissolved, tears of joy filled my eyes. The extra strong, extra thick, extra black sludge was AWESOME!
The heating guy showed up and began to do his thing. I could hear the vacuum running and I heard him taking off things and sliding in new filters. then I smelled that stinky smell that comes when you turn on a heater after six months of non-use. *Gag* He came up the stairs shaking his head. Uh-oh. That can’t be good. Why oh why must my first thought be correct? It wasn’t good.
“Your heater is clean. The filter has been replaced. But….”
There it is. The but. Not the BUTT, the BUT. I repeat- Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.
“Your heater is old. Not only that, but a healthy heater puts out a carbon monoxide reading of zero to three. Yours is almost five. At eight you will die. At six, by law, I have to shut it down and report it. For the age that it is, you would be better off replacing it and having it guaranteed for 99 years. That isn’t my advice because I am the heating guy, it’s my advice because I know your Hubs. I’m not trying to sell a heater, I’d like to safeguard your lives.”
I looked into his beautiful blue eyes to see if there was a hint of deceit, a sign of trying to get one over on me. They were fringed with long black lashes and I wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
I blinked and broke the spell. No lies. Just advice. We need a new heater before it gets cold. Did I mention that we live in the Northeastern United States? It tends to get pretty cold around here! Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.
He left and I sat digesting this information. The phone rang and it was the school. Babygirl has a sore throat. It has been a bit scratchy but I guess crossing my fingers and hoping for the best didn’t do the trick this time. She has swollen glands now, but no fever. Because her throat hurts, she isn’t drinking and therefore she is now slightly dehydrated and her blood pressure is a little low. They were sending here home. Hubs had to leave work to pick her up. Great. And now I have to make her a doctor appointment …Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.
The phone rang again. What the hell can it be this time??
Jen got called into work so I will have her two little ones again today after all. From 12 until 5. It’s almost 12 now.
I posted this last year, but since I love this post, I am posting again.And Hubs? I still like you as a friend, lust you like a teenager, and love you like crazy.
August 9, 1980It was a hot day in August. Just like most of those days, it was sweltering and extremely humid. But oh, the sun was shining.
I woke up at 6am because it was something I had done for the preceding 4 years. Once I got into the habit, my internal clock didn’t want to be reset. I showered. I ate a bowl of cereal and threw a few things into a bag. I’d be needing them later, because I wasn’t coming back once I left. I putzed around some more, walked our Great Dane, and then got down to business.
After planning for little over a month, I was getting married at noon.
I did my own hair. I put on my own make-up. Mom knocked on my bedroom to ask if I needed any help getting ready. My answer was No. If I had been a more girly-girl, I might have known that it was something moms did with their daughters on the day of their wedding. If I could go back to that day, I’d have said Yes.
The photographer (the brother of my future BIL) showed up and began taking pictures of my family, including my Mom-Mom and Great Mom-Mom. I got annoyed as the humidity began to muss my hair. (What’s hairspray?) Finally we headed for the church.
The first thing I saw when I got out of Dad’s car was an ex-boyfriend. He wanted to see if I’d go through with it. “I can drive you away if you want…” , he said. I declined the offer. The next person I saw was a guy I had known since third grade. He was also a friend of Hubs. “Who’da thunk I’d be watching you marry one of my best friends?”, he said. Two years later, I’d be saying “Who’da thunk you would be my BIL?” He is still my BIL.
Finally the moment came. The organ started and I watched my sister, who was also my maid-of-honor, walk down the aisle. At that second, Dad whispered to me that the car was gassed and outside of the church doors. “You don’t have to do this.” I wasn’t great at taking advice and I didn’t do it then either.
Then the clock struck twelve. The bells of the church began to ring the familiar “Angelus” of prayer. It rang every day at noon and that Saturday was no different. I didn’t care. It was a sign. I felt that they were chiming for me. I walked down the aisle with my father to attend my meeting with destiny.
Hubs isn’t from a Catholic family. We decided to get married in my Church but with an abbreviated ceremony. (Blessings, readings and vows.) My brothers were the altar servers. As they made faces behind the priest’s back, I tried my hardest not to laugh. A girl I had known since the age of six sang “Morning Has Broken”. We vowed to ’love and honor’ each other. (I made sure there was no ‘obey’!) The entire service lasted twenty minutes.
Hub’s godfather catered our reception. It was held in a local firehall. Our mothers decorated with streamers and bells and paper table cloths. Only our family and very few of our friends were there. The kid I played stickball with was there and my best friend from high school was there. Another friend, who said “she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to be invited to her friend’s wedding” crashed the party. Aunt Helen took off her slip and waved it above her head as she danced. The best man passed out while dancing with one of our cousins. One of the waiters got drunk on the free booze and threw up all over the rest room. It was one hell of a party. It is still remembered fondly by everyone who was in attendance that day.
We left early with the intention of changing our clothes and going back to our families houses. Instead, we sat down on the couch in our little apartment and promptly fell asleep. We let everyone make their own assumptions as to what we were doing. Eventually, we made our stops and said goodbyes. We spent the night in a hotel near the airport and left for the Chesapeake Bay the next morning.
Every detail of that day is etched in my mind like it was yesterday. Hubs can recall the guest list, what people talked about and what music was played. Friends often recall the fact that once the music started, the dance floor was never empty.
Our wedding cost our parents almost $2000. Seriously. My gown and my sister’s gown were $20 each. They were simple prom gowns-the same style-mine white, hers blue. Someone had ordered them, had them tailored and never picked them up. I wore a wreath of baby’s breath in my hair and that was only because my godmother insisted. (You can’t get married in the house of the Lord without your head covered!) I carried daisies. I wore Great Mom-Mom’s pearl earrings. Mom-Mom made the cake.
I remember that I never got nervous. I remember that I never had a doubt.
I remember it all because it was the best day of my life.
Twice today I heard about the death of an ‘icon’. Farrah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. Were there other celebrities of the 70′s that were bigger? Maybe. But the word ‘icon’ fits both of them.
Is there anyone who hasn’t seen the poster of Farrah in that red bathing suit? I remember thinking that she was so beautiful. To my adolescent eyes, she was perfect. Her hair flipped back perfectly. Her teeth were so white and straight. She looked at ease with her body when I was so self-conscious of my own. When she moved on from “Charlie’s Angels” to movies, I was older. I remember how horribly battered and bruised her face was in “The Burning Bed” . I thought it was so brave of her to show herself thus when she was one of the world’s most beautiful women. Little did I know that at the end of her life she would take that bravery to a whole new level.
Dying of anal cancer, she appeared on television. Her once gorgeous face now showing the ravages of her illness. She spoke of her body’s betrayal in a brutally candid documentary. Would I want to show myself even to family in the same condition? I don’t think I would. Yet, there she was.
Hours later, the rumors appeared that Michael Jackson had died. I watched the news, more out of curiosity than from shock. Later the confirmation appeared declaring that the “King of Pop” had indeed died. I loved his music. I watched the cartoons, the variety shows, the videos. I also remember the revulsion I felt as he altered his appearance. I stopped watching because it was just too sad to see him deny having work done. But the music…..oh, the music!
Accusations of “inappropriate relationships” with children dogged him. To me, there was too much evidence against him. I believe that he was guilty. I know there are many who think otherwise, but I will never be swayed.
Now that he is dead, the news will talk about all of his contributions to music. He was a maverick. He was a trendsetter. All of this is true. That he may have been a pedophile will become but a footnote in his biography.
When you hear the words “bad movie”, what comes to mind?
As children, a ‘bad movie’ was one that your parents considered to be inappropriate; one containing sex, violence, vulgar language or simply unacceptable behavior. As adolescents, the phrase usually meant a porn movie. And then, as adults, it took on yet another meaning. It then meant a movie that was below your intelligence, contained bad acting, had a horrid story line, or maybe cheesy special effects.
As adults, ‘bad movie’ became subjective. Can it be an Oscar winning film that puts you to sleep? (The English Patient) Can it be a film that everyone in the world seems to love that you abhor? (The Notebook) Could it be one with horrible actors or story? (Pink Flamingos)
I ask this question because this morning, a movie on cable caught my eye. It was one that I had seen before and remember laughing hysterically at the entire premise. This morning I watched “Sgt. Kabukiman, N.Y.P.D.” Oh, yes…seriously. I turned it on and watched as it unfolded. It contained every requirement for a bad movie: bad special effects, bad story line, awful acting, cringe inducing dialogue, and it was released by Troma films (The people that gave us the classic “Toxic Avenger”. I watched and once again, I laughed my ass off. (and this time I was not high!)
I began to wonder….Did the actors realize that they sucked? Did the directors and producers think that they were geniuses or did they know full well that this movie would be ‘direct to video’? Was everyone on drugs? (A distinct possibility during the 80′s-even though “Kabukiman” was released in 1991)
The entire time I watched, I knew it was bad. I expected the ludicrous plot. I anticipated the low-brow humor and barely functional cast. What does this say about me? Do you intentionally watch movies like this? If you do, why? Do you laugh even though the jokes are inane? Do you still turn your head when the brains are obviously blobs of jello?
I’ve got some issues that will be resolved on Thursday afternoon. They’re nothing to be worried about. I simply have two programs running on my computer that are cancelling each other out. Neither will allow me any type of internet access.
I am going crazy without access. I am at this moment on Babygirl’s computer sitting on a tuffet that is incredibly uncomfortable!
So…..until I have recovered, I’ll be biting my nails, plucking my chin hairs, and counting the hairs on my arms.
I stole this from Poppy. I figured it’s not about me so it’s a little different….
I present to you….My Hubs….
1. He’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Futurama…no wait!….Dirty Jobs…No!…Big Bang Theory!….No!…..James Bond….shit!….Die Hard….. UGH!! 2. You’re out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Ranch. Always Ranch.
3. What’s one food he doesn’t like?
Fish.
4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does he order?
Absolute vodka and orange juice, steak (the biggest and bloodiest cut), baked potato and salad bar.
5. Where did he go to high school?
Down the street from his house.
6. What size shoe does he wear?
8 1/2 (That thing about a man with small feet? So not true!)
7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?
Throwing knives.
8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?!
Ham and cheese with yellow mustard with pickle and chips on the side.
9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
Steak
10. What is his favorite cereal?
Frosted Mini Wheats.
11. What would he never wear?
Anything remotely preppy.
12. What is his favorite sports team?
My man is perfect. He doesn’t watch sports.
13. Who did he vote for?
He won’t tell me.
14. Who is his best friend?
ME!!! (Or Tom A.)
15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do?
Do too much and then bitch about how I hurt myself.
16. What is his heritage?
European mutt….Scotch, Irish and French
17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
Chocolate with chocolate chips and 3 inches of chocolate frosting.
18. Did he play sports in high school?
Not really.
19. What could he spend hours doing?
Sleeping. Flipping channels. Playing solitaire on the computer.
20. What is one unique talent he has?
Heh, heh….I can’t tell you that! The second thing is that he is very good at his job (electrician) and he truly loves his job.
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(Or Tom A.)