Doofernuts

The Quest For the Holy Vehicle Registration

2010-02-10T05:59:00.000-06:00

And lo, the gods did cease from pissing on me as is their custom, and instead chose to smile on me, and deliver unto me from the hands of Grizzly Adams in coveralls a Voyager of Plymouth, battle-scarred from an encounter with the road traveler's bane, the dreaded Deer of Kamikaze, but hardy and still eager for action nonetheless, and for a fair price.

And there was much rejoicing, and I arose the next morning and directly went forth in my Voyager of Plymouth (pausing only to deliver a sounding kick to its predecessor, my longtime nemesis the evil Grand Prix of Dodge) in search of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land.

And I went down into the town, and thence to the Shop of Auto Parts, that I may purchase Bulbs of Light for the Lights of Head and the Lights of Brakes. And thence to the House of Court, that I may fill out forms and pay my taxes and thus receive the first of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land. And thence to my Place of Work, where the Machine of Fax had previously received for me the second of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land. And thence to the Station of Inspection, where High Priests in greasy ball caps would perform a series of tests to determine my worthiness to receive the third and most important of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land.

And the gods did chuckle and rub their hands together in anticipatory glee.

Lo, the High Priest came to me and said, "I cain't get the back hatch open to replace that brake light, is it locked or somethin'?" And my husband said unto him, "Damned if I know, let me take a look at it." And they went to the Garage, a dark and noisome place, and did wrestle with the Voyager of Plymouth, and spake imprecations unto it, and were defeated in the end. And we went from there sore grieved, for we were not deemed worthy to receive the third and most important of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land.

And my husband spoke unto me, saying, "Let's head up to the dealership, maybe they know some tricks to get this thing open." And so we journeyed to the Dealer of Plymouth, and were met by a cheerful man who took our Voyager of Plymouth into the back room and treated it most ominously with tools and imprecations until the back hatch relented and opened, revealing the glory within. And the cheerful man gave me a warning and said, "The lock actuator's screwed up but she'll open all right if you don't try to lock it!" And there was much rejoicing.

And on the journey back to the Station of Inspection a dire buzzing and clanking was heard, which filled my heart with fear. But my husband was unafraid, and said to me, "Someone's dropped a bunch of pennies down onto the front stereo speaker!" And I was disappointed, because I could not crank the Aerosmith, but as we came to the Station of Inspection my spirit was revived. I entered into the place and said unto the High Priest, "Hey, we got it fixed!" and he replied unto me, "All right!" and declared me worthy to receive the third and most important of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land. And directly I received this Text into my hand the Heavens opened up and choirs of Valkyries sang unto me, "Go Marli! It's your birthday! Go Marli! It's your birthday!"

And we went up past the town and into the Bureau of Licensing, wherein I presented my complete collection of the Sacred Texts that would render me Legal in the eyes of the Lawmakers in this land. And the Priestess smiled upon me, and gave unto me a Tag of Temp, to be displayed on the Voyager of Plymouth to signify that I am Worthy.

And then I took me home, and sent forth messages through the Phone of Cell and the Book of Face, preaching of the Glory of the Car that Runs. And then I rested.

I hate cleaning.

2006-05-04T13:35:00.000-05:00

My house is currently a mess. Now last Thursday I went and had my wisdom teeth out and I spent a few days lying around on painkillers (and a fun few days they were, too) but I don't think I can use that as an excuse anymore, because the stitches came out yesterday and I've since been spotted eating a cheeseburger and fries. No, I'm going to have to clean. I'd rather go through dental surgery again.

It never stays clean, is the problem. I could clean this house so spotless it would make Martha Stewart cry and slap her momma and within 8 hours the furniture will be buried under piles of newspapers, school papers, catalogs, and random teenagers who wander in off the street and drop crumbs everywhere. The floor will be awash in Fisher Price Little People involved in a series of complex tactical manuevers designed to take out the Weebles entrenched under the couch. Penicillin resistant molds and fungi will elect democratic leaders in the fridge, and someone sometime will have wiped the kitchen counters with a jelly-encrusted dishcloth, and there will be a small child stuck to the countertop, whimpering.

I haven't the nerve to tackle all that.

I don't know where it all comes from! No matter how carefully I guard the doors, how thoroughly I go through the mail and discard every piece that's not a matter of life and death, how many dishwasher loads I run, eventually I have to sleep. And when I'm asleep, it happens. I awaken to a blast site. What's scary is it happens even when I'm the only one home, which means my suspicions are correct and my son has Pygmies living in his room that come out when the house is quiet, although how they can breathe in there is anybody's guess. Burglars could ransack the joint and I'd never know. It would probably be an improvement.

There's another reason I don't like to clean. When I clean, I often come across items that are important. I think to myself, "Self, go put this up so you know where it is." So I do. And then I never see it again. Apparently, "up where I know where it is" has a wormhole in the bottom of it, and all my important items are floating around in outer space with all my mismatched socks. At least when my house is messy, things are out, where I can see them.

Oh, well. I suppose tomorrow I'm just going to have to suck it up and do it. Hooray. Nothing like giving the family a clean canvas upon which to strew trash and detritus. I'm drawing the line at baking cookies, though. Ain't gonna do it. I'll buy some, but I'm not baking.

I am obsessed with my hair.

2006-01-20T04:37:00.000-06:00

It's my new hobby, really. One of the cheaper hobbies I've started. When I got into cross-stitch I spent a bunch of money on Aida cloth, floss, kits. I have a cross stitch kit I've been working on for approximately 11 years. Eventually I'll finish it. I took up knitting and made a baby blanket and a buttload of scarfs. One of the scarfs is 8 feet long. I couldn't remember how to bind off the edge. Belly dancing, which I still do for fun sometimes, got expensive for a while. But I still have everything I need for it, so it shouldn't cost me any more money.

Now it's my hair. At RenFaire last year I bought a hairfork because it was hot and I wanted to get my hair off my neck. That first hairfork was like a budding druggie's first hit of crack; I wanted more. I began spending hours online, looking up hairsticks and hairforks. I found message boards and chatrooms dedicated to people who take their hair waaaay too seriously. And then...I became one of them.

A whole new world opened up to me; a world of oils, and seamless combs, and hairtoys, and alternative shampoos. I started small, with a couple of carved bone hairsticks with bunnies on top. I like bunnies. I wanted to try oiling, as my hair was dry. I tried flaxseed oil first, because it was on sale at Walmart and my main goddess is Holda and she gave us flax. I didn't like the smell. I tried coconut oil, also from Walmart, and recommended by several of the longhairs at the sites I'd been visiting. It made my ends crunchy. Yuck. I still have a big tub of it; I guess I can cook with it. I tried jojoba oil. Yay! Nice soft hair, and I add lavender oil to it, so I smell yummy.

I've developed a fear of salons, based on horror stories I hear about women who go in for trims and come out looking like G.I. Jane. I don't want to look like G.I. Jane. I learned to trim my hair myself. I discovered the techique of "search and destroy"; going through your hair looking for split ends and snipping them off one by one. I spent three hours doing this one day. I told this to my best friend and she was concerned. I've managed to cut it down to once a week, an hour at a time. I don't find many split ends anymore; I think I've killed them all.

I learned about apple cider vinegar rinses and began doing them religiously. I heard molasses and honey were good to hair so I began experimenting with them. I learned how to do braids and buns. I slept with a concoction of honey and conditioner in my hair because I was told that would lighten it. I bought jojoba oil and lavender essential oil and pure aloe vera gel and rosewater and herbal shampoo bars. I came home from every trip to Walmart with a new hairtoy. I bought a boar bristle brush and a goofy looking satin sleep cap that makes me look like an insane reject from Little House on the Prairie. I began winding my hair up in strange looking coils before bed so it would be curly when I got up. My husband just sighed and rolled his eyes.

What's the point of all this, you may ask? Lemme tell you, Sunshine: My hair is shiny! And it grew an inch in the last month. Did I forget to mention I bought a tape measure for my hair? Anyway, from forehead to ends it's now 32 inches. My goal is to grow it out enough so that I can braid it into a long flexible club to whack the people who ask me when I'm going to cut my hair.

It's a good hobby to have. Especially if you're cheap.

A medical triumph

2005-11-09T13:29:00.000-06:00

I'm healthy as a horse, I am. It took two doctor's visits and a round of blood tests and an abdominal ultrasound (during which I learned I have pretty kidneys, pretty ovaries, and a long slender uterus; I'm a little concerned about that ultrasound tech) and a good old Well Woman exam to detemine this, but there's not a bloody thing wrong with me.

Of course, I haven't gotten the results of my pap smear back yet. It's quite possible my cervix has been colonized by hostile alien spore bent on world domination, but if so they're not visible to the naked eye.

What kicked off this latest round of Pony Up The Co-Pay was a trip to the ER after I woke up one afternoon and discovered my back was actively engaged in killing me. Oh, it was being just vicious; I couldn't move. Only liberal quantities of Valium, Flexoril, and Percoset could bring it back under my control. I don't remember much of the next three days, incidentally. My friends tell me I spent some time on the phone, and then they snicker. I really don't want to know.

So anyway, by the time I got back to the doctor (two weeks later) my back didn't hurt anymore. Undaunted, he poked around until he found something that did hurt. My abdomen. He ordered blood tests, pee tests, ultrasounds. Nothing found. I told him I was making a list of everyone I knew and prioritizing them in the order I was going to smack them with a board when I finally snapped, so he gave me some no-kill pills and made me schedule a Well Woman check up.

Today I went in for the Well Woman exam. One of the first things they discovered, during the breast exam, is that I am extremely ticklish. Then I got to climb up into the stirrups and pretend to make a wish while the nurse practitioner went prospecting with a shoe-stretcher and a 3 foot long Q-tip. Then she started poking around on my abdomen and found the same sore spot the doctor had found.

"You know what I think this is?" she said. "A loop of your intestine goes right up by there, and if it's full and you push on it it could cause pain like that."

Yep. After weeks of doctor visits and tests and having blood drawn and peeing in cups, the official diagnosis is that I am full of shit.

My husband tells me that all the time, and he doesn't charge me for it.

Still doesn't explain the back pain, though.

Spiders. Ewww.

2005-08-12T03:20:00.000-05:00

They have too many legs, for starters. Any creature in possession of more than four legs needs to be smacked with a rolled up newspaper. Unless it's one of those really big nasty wolf spiders that's capable of ripping the newspaper out of your hand and smacking you back. Those things need to be smacked with an anvil.

They're fascinating wee beasties, to be sure. Once when I was small I saw one of those little fuzzy jumping spiders creeping up the side of the chicken house, stalking a fly. I hovered over them as the spider inched forward, now scuttling a whole inch, now freezing as its quarry turned towards it. Finally the spider was poised, quivering, just behind the fly, and then it sprang! and Mr. Fly was spider poo.

I read somewhere that at any given time, one is within three feet of a spider. This is information I could have lived without. The way they move creeps me out. They skitter. They're the only living creatures that have the ability to skitter, except for kittens, and kittens have the advantage over spiders in that they're cute and fuzzy and they don't have poisonous fangs that cause oozing necrotic wounds.

I fully understand that they occupy an important place in the ecosystem, and without them the insects would take over the world and turn over management to Disney, and they won't hurt you unless you hurt them (actually, I cry "Bullshit!" at that statement, having been chased down a Hobby Lobby aisle by a wolf spider with a bad attitude and Murder on its mind) and yadda yadda yadda. Fine. Let them go about their business more than three feet from me. Icky little things.

The only movie that ever made me scream out loud was Arachnophobia. And I'm the girl who once watched Faces of Death while eating a big plate of spaghetti. Those eyes...those dead eyes on that horrible malevolent spider...stuff of nightmares, that is. Yeah, I know it was a puppet. I don't like those things, either, but that's another story.

One time I was lying in bed and I noticed a spider crawling across my ceiling; one of those nasty fuzzy black ones. I watched it narrowly as it inched its creepy way directly over my head - and then let go! I approached the speed of light as I exited my bed, and spent 30 minutes tearing my covers apart trying to locate the foul thing. I couldn't find it. I spent the night on the couch. I am convinced that the horrid thing did it on purpose; it was probably hanging out in its web, getting pretty bored, not much action since we hung up the no-pest strips, so it decided to wander out and find someone to traumatize. Mission accomplished, hideous fiend.

I really have no point, other than that I don't like spiders. Some people do, I know, and I regard these people with deep suspicion. But hey, as long as they keep their eight-legged freaks away from me, we can all get along.

Martians have landed! Oh, wait...

2005-08-03T20:19:00.000-05:00

I was listening to "The War of the Worlds" earlier tonight. Notice I said listening. I'm not talking about that Tom Cruise crapfest that's currently playing in theaters and will be out on DVD in approximately three hours, nor am I referring to the 1953 version starring a bunch of people no one's ever heard of and featuring Martians so stiff and awkward they make the Muppets look like the Bolshoi Ballet in comparison. No, I'm talking about the Mercury Theatre's radio adaptation of H.G. Wells's "War of the Worlds", starring Orson Welles, first broadcast on October 30th, 1938. The broadcast that caused mass panic across the countryside, because the people who had tuned in late didn't realize they were listening to a play. Well, not really mass panic. But a fair amount of panic.

I, like just about everyone else who has ever heard the story, laughed at the dooferosity of people who would mistake a radio play for the real deal. (I just made dooferosity up. It's a good word.) "Jeez, Grandpa," I said. "Were people really that gullible back then?" All he could say was, "It was a simpler time." There was no way he could tell me that would make me understand, no way to explain to this child of the 80s about a time when people spoke the truth because their word was all they had, and the Voice from the Radio was Authority, and people believed in their Government; no more than I can explain to my child of the 90s what it was like before the Berlin Wall fell down, and our enemies were Russians instead of Islamic Fundamentalists. You had to be there.

But I've been gifted with a little more than my fair share of imagination, so I brought home the CD ($5.99 at Wally-world, and it came with a free pop-up picture), popped it into my disk drive, and let'er rip. It started out a little cheesy at first, with the announcer, well, announcing, and the music playing in the background; it had been digitally remastered but you could still hear some popping and hissing. As the announcer made the first interruption of the dance music to tell the audience that several explosions had been witnessed on the surface of Mars, I began to picture myself as a housewife of the thirties, listening to this broadcast for the very first time.

It's about 8 o'clock at night, probably the first chance I've had to sit down all day. I've been cleaning and cooking and doing laundry all day (no microwave or clothes dryer for me; I've got to cook the food the long way around and run the wet clothes through a mangler and hang them on the line to dry), the kids have been underfoot. The husband got home from the factory about 6; we had supper, then I washed the dishes, got the kids cleaned up and put into bed, finished straightening up the house, brought in the clothes from the line, and now I'm going to sit here and listen to some nice relaxing music while I do some sewing. But what's this? Explosions on Mars? A strange metal cylinder landing in a field? This must be important or they wouldn't interrupt the program...my sewing is forgotten as I and my husband concentrate on the glowing dial of the radio, listening hard, hearing a tale of flames and fog and death...

There would be one radio in the house. In 2005 I have a radio in almost every room, along with cable television that gives me 24 hour news and an internet connection that does likewise. If there's something I want to know, I can go searching for it, and find it fairly quickly. People in 1938 did not have that luxury. They relied on that one radio to give them their news, and they did not learn anything that the broadcasters did not want them to hear. We can be skeptics these days, because we can compare sources easily; people back then had to trust what they heard coming from that radio. What they heard on the night of October 30th, 1938, was that Martians had landed in Grover's Mill, NJ.

People who had turned in from the very beginning of the broadcast knew, of course, that they were listening to a dramatization. People who came in a few minutes later only heard what sounded like genuine news interruptions of a music program. And they did sound genuine; even I got the shivers, almost 70 years after the fact. Halfway through the program there was a station identification break, and then the tale morphs into a monologue by Orson Welles; by then it's clear that this is a play. That first half of the program, though, is...just wow. I could sympathize with all the people who thought it was real, and understand why they did; those were some talented actors who, with the power of only their voices, convinced a million people that they were doomed. Proof once again that there's nothing so frightening to people as what their imaginations can conjure up. Modern horror movie makers would do well to make note of that.

Orson Welles was later heard to remark that he presented this program in this way because he was concerned at how much faith people put in anything that came over the radio, and he wanted to demonstrate how dangerous that could be. Of course, he also said that the whole thing was just supposed to be a play and he had no idea people would take it so seriously. Whichever is true, the bottom line is that he pulled off a stunt that had people outside shooting at the Grover's Mill water tower, thinking it was a Martian machine. That's an accomplishment anyone should be proud of.

Grandpa was right; those were simpler times. My mistake lay in confusing "simple" with "stupid". I no longer think the people of the 30s were doofernuts for being taken in by this marvelously presented program. I envy them their faith in the Powers that Be.

Because I don't have nearly enough debt in my life...

2005-07-25T11:00:00.000-05:00

I'm beginning to consider attempting to buy a house. I say attempt because I really don't see any way I'll succeed; my credit is so horrendous the Book of the Month Club put a restraining order on me to stop me from contacting them. I'm currently making payments on an imaginary house, aka a student loan, but I thought it would be fun to make payments on a house I could actually live in. It won't be anywhere near as nice as my imaginary one, which is big and purple and self-cleaning and smells like cotton candy, but we gotta take what we can get, right?

Currently we rent from a psychotic redneck who lets vagrants sleep in the space downstairs and comes up on our deck to jump up and down and scream and threaten to evict us when a couple of rocks get moved in the yard. I swear I'm not making that up. So a new domicile is very much desired.

I've never tried to buy a house before. Heck, I've never even had a car loan; every piece of crap car I've ever owned was a cash purchase. So I'm not sure what's involved. I think we go talk to someone named Connie at a place called The Mortgage Company Most Holy, and we make the proper sacrifices and display the proper humility, and then Connie (who is but a Neophyte) will go and bow unto the High Priestess Joan on our behalf, and if Joan deems we are Worthy she will grant us a set amount of Lucre (0% down, hopefully, with a fixed interest rate and cash back at closing) with which to purchase a Place of Residence. If we are deemed Not Worthy I'm not sure what happens. We don't get a house, obviously, and I think there's a flaying in there somewhere, too.

I would like a nice little farmhouse out in the country. I don't want an actual farm, because farms usually have livestock and I've seen livestock before, they stink. The only animals I want on the place are a dog, a cat, and some chickens. For eggs, you know. Protein and whatnot. My husband wants geese and guinea fowl, because they make much better watchdogs than, well, than dogs. Plus there's all the potential hilarity when we see a burglar in panicked flight across the yard with a honking gander in hot pursuit. That's comedy gold, that is. I want a little vegetable garden, and I may try to grow some flowers, but my usual technique with flowers results in "death" rather than "beauty" so I may grow a rock garden instead.

Right now I'd say I have about a 90/10 chance against getting any kind of home loan. Still, I know people who've declared bankruptcy multiple times and they manage to get financing for cars, houses, you name it. I pay my rent on time every month; I'd much rather apply that money to MY house, instead of psycho redneck landlord's house. Worth a try, I suppose. Wish me luck.

When NOT to call 911.

2005-07-15T02:34:00.000-05:00

This is something most people are taught in kindergarten, yet no one seems to be able to remember it. So, as a public service, I offer an elementary guide on when and when not to dial 911.

If someone is bleeding copiously, on fire, unconscious, or dead - CALL.
If someone just crashed into your house - CALL.
If someone has just driven past your house and shouted a rude word at you - DON'T CALL.
If your electricity has gone out - DON'T CALL. It's amazing how hard this is for some people to understand. What exactly do they think the police, EMTs, or firefighters are going to be able to do about their power being out? "Oh my god, we can't watch American Idol!!! Call 911, STAT!"

Moving on.

If you hear someone screaming, go ahead and CALL. But please try to tell us where the screaming is coming from!
If it's late at night and you're getting slaphappy from lack of sleep and you start to wonder if 911 really works - DON'T CALL. Trust me. It works. What, do you think Rescue911 was a sitcom?
If you're trying to program 911 into your speed dial, and then CALL to see if it's working - you're an idiot.
If it's 4 in the morning and you're drunk and you just watched Old Yeller and you're crying because the movie reminded you of a puppy you used to have until it was mauled to death in front of your very eyes by a rabid badger on a hunting trip when you were 7, and your wife just left you because you got fired from your job changing tires down at the truck stop and you can't afford to buy her acrylic nails and NASCAR commemoritive plates anymore and you just can't see any point in anything - CALL. We like to hear from people who have suckier lives than we do.

Yeah, I'm going to hell for that last remark.

If you just saw a guy sneaking into your neighbor's back yard and prying open a window - CALL NOW. There's no need to have a discussion with your wife, kids, in-laws, the mail carrier, and random passers-by as to whether they think that looks suspicious, and maybe somebody might need to check on that, and what do you think, Earline, d'ya think he might be up to somethin'? If you've waited an hour after seeing the guy leave with the neighbor's big screen TV, stereo, computer, and oldest daughter - CALL the NON-EMERGENCY NUMBER. Sheesh.

This next section is just for the kiddies.
If Mommy yelled at you for sneaking a cookie right before supper - DON'T CALL.
If Mommy smacked you over the head for sneaking a cookie - CALL.
If Daddy is lying on the floor and he won't wake up and he's making funny noises - CALL.
If Daddy is lying on Mommy and they're both awake and they're both making funny noises - DON'T CALL. Shut the door and go watch Spongebob.
If Brother is calling you names - DON'T CALL. Just kick him.
If Sister kicks you - DON'T CALL.

Of course, if you find yourself in a situation totally unlike anything I've outlined above, go ahead and CALL. We don't mind.

We'll just make fun of you after you hang up.

This message has not been brought to you by the NAEMD.

People who don't like Harry Potter are godless barbarians who kick puppies.

2005-07-13T04:45:00.000-05:00

Only three more days, hooray! I'm very excited. Whenever I mention how very excited I am, invariably there's some killjoy within earshot who snorts, "You read that stuff?"

Yes, Zippy, I do. I'm a sucker for a good book, and the Harry Potter books, overall, have been marvelous. Suck it up, buttercup; I don't rag on you for watching American Idol. Okay, I do, but not where you can hear me.

I want to know What Happens Next. I want to be there when Harry finally kicks Draco's smarmy little bony ass. I haven't jittered under this much anticipation since...well, since just before the last book came out. It's a different kind of excitement than Lord of the Rings excitement; I eagerly looked forward to each movie, of course, but I already knew how it was going to end, since I'd read the book like all good civilized people should. Who knows how Rowling is going to end the Harry Potter books?

I will be trotting down to the store promptly at midnight Friday, and I am fully prepared to gnaw a clerk's arm off if they don't get those books out on the floor on time. I will have it read by Saturday afternoon. (I read somewhere that the average American only reads 1 book a year. I'm fulfilling my quota along with about a hundred other people's.) Once I've finished it, I will more than likely go back and read it again, slower. A good book is like good sex. Rush through it once to get to the big finish, then go back and savour it slowly. Only there's no wet spot.

Where have all the good movies gone?

2005-07-11T02:13:00.000-05:00

I watched I, Robot for the first time last night. Yes, I know I'm behind the times. I had to wait for it to come on cable, because I will not spend money to watch a movie unless it involves Hobbits, Student Wizards, Narnians, or Johnny Depp in some smokin' hot black eyeliner. I've been burned too many times at the theater to ever believe that Hollywood is capable of doing much of anything besides vomiting forth a never-ending parade of computer-effects laden dreck. Reign of Fire? Dragged to it by my husband. It blew chunks. Spiderman? Rented it. Hated it. Titanic? Never seen it, never will. I already know how it ends. Now if James Cameron had inserted a CGI giant squid that emerged from the inky depths and dragged a screeching Celine Deon down to a watery oblivion (along with Pretty-Boy Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Cameron himself and the scriptwriter and the executive who greenlighted that whole crapfest and any other perpetrators it could grab with its six remaining arms) I might be able to watch it.

I was talking about I, Robot, wasn't I? The book was wonderful. The movie sucked muchly. I wonder why in the name of guacamole anyone would ever think that book would translate into a movie. The book covers the history of robotic development over several years, and in so doing explores the nature of thought and humanity. The movie covers Will Smith whuppin' ass over a couple of days. And stuff blows up. And there's a plot twist. The end.

How come it seems like every movie that comes out is nothing more than a bundle of cliches wrapped up in over-used CGI? (Yes, I know this contradicts what I said earlier about a CGI squid improving Titanic. Shut up.) Even when Hollywood manages to get its hands on a good imaginative idea, they corrupt the living hell out of it until it sucks. A Prayer For Owen Meany was an incredible book and had the potential to be an incredible movie. By the time they got done making Simon Birch out of it, they had horrificated it so much that John Irving, the book's author, refused to let them use any of the character's names from his book. I just made "horrificated" up. It's a good word.

I can't even trust myself to speak about the glut of end of the world movies that have been released on an unsuspecting world. Deep Impact? I was rooting for the comet.

Bring back the old movies! Bring back Bogie telling Bergman that they'll always have Paris. Bring back Gloria Swanson reminding herself that no one leaves a star - that's what makes one a star. Bring back Godzilla stomping Tokyo. Bring back talented actors and imaginative scripts and glorious sets that exist in reality and not just on a computer screen. I want to see a movie that makes me take a deep breath and smile at the end of it, instead of rolling my eyes and thanking Og I didn't pay money to see it. I want a movie that makes me imagine how the characters might continue on with their lives after the credits roll, not one that makes me imagine the actors lined up in front of a firing squad.

Come back, Cecil B. DeMille. Your country needs you.

Wanna see my brain?

2005-07-09T16:21:00.000-05:00

Not literally. I'm not going to saw off the top of my skull and lift it out and take pictures and post them. That would be gross. And impossible, because if I lift my brain out of my head all fine motor skills would cease and I would no longer be able to use a camera or type.

No, what I was talking about was, wanna see an example of how my brain works? I'm used to it, but I seem to sometimes disturb the people that know me. I'll be sitting at work or in a room with my friends and I'll be interacting quite normally whilst and at the same time amusing myself mentally by spinning off improbable scenarios from something someone said. Then I'll start giggling. This disturbs people.

Want an example? You asked for it. I was at work, and one of my co-workers said something to the effect that we had absolutely no way of knowing who might get off the elevator any time the doors opened. So I started thinking, "What if?"
What if the doors opened and a naked man came out?
What if he had a goat with him?
What if he was wearing a cowboy hat?
What if he got off the elevator and started having hot monkey sex with the goat while waving his cowboy hat in the air and shouting, "YEEHAW!"?
How on earth would we dispatch that to our officers?

I laughed for a good 20 minutes, with tears rolling down my face, while my co-workers stared at me and whispered to each other behind their hands.

Lest you think I'm a whackadoo through and through, I don't do this often. And come on; haven't we all done something like this sometime?

**crickets**

Hmph.

I'll blame it on chronic lack of sleep, then. Of which I'm going to get another dose tonight, having been called in 4 hours early. Excuse me; I need to go find my happy place.

ommmmmmmmmm...ommmmmmmmmm...ommmmmmmmm...

Oh, to hell with the happy place. Its effects are canceled out by the soul-sucking anti-happy place that employs me. I saw my boss's boss the other day. I was very proud of myself; I didn't kick the son of a bitch in the shins on my way by.

See how my brain works? I went from self-inflicted partial decapitation to hot cowboy-on-goat action to sleep deprivation to transcendental meditation to fantasies about kicking the boss in the space of about 20 minutes.

No wonder I'm so tired all the time.

Come to me, my children of the night

2005-07-07T20:48:00.000-05:00

I am one of the world's night shift workers. While most of middle America is tucked snugly away in bed, dreaming of sugarplums and faerie cakes and Vegas whores, I'm slaving away answering phones at the local emergency dispatch center. Which is a pretty cool job, and working nights has its benefits (no suits looking over my shoulder, for starters), but the kind of people who are up at 4:00 AM (besides me) are just plain weird.

Let's start with the people who need to know the status of their gun permit application RIGHT NOW. First of all, that's not my department, so I don't know the status of your gun permit. Second of all, what kind of dark and sinister activity are you planning that requires you to be in possession of a legally registered handgun at 4 in the morning? I know where you live, pal.

We also have the Acute Hearers. These are the ones that call in the middle of the night to report that they heard a noise.
"What did it sound like?" I'll ask.
"I dunno, it was just a noise," they'll reply.
"Could you tell where it was coming from?"
"I dunno, outside somewhere."
"Was it someone knocking, or a car, or a voice, or what?"
"I dunno, it was a noise; it woke me up."
"Alright, Zippy, can you identify this noise??" bangbangbang
"Umm....is it your head hitting the desk over and over?"
"Right."

Okay, that last bit never happens.

We have three subsets of drunks.
1) Gregarious drunks. "Hey, darlin', sweetie, d'ya know if that one ocifer, whassisface, ya know the one 'm talkin' about, sugar, can he come see me?"
2) Angry drunks. "I'm out here at th' bar and this sumbitch looked at me and if'n you don't get someone down here right &^%*$%^ now I'm gonna &*%^$#@ kill him!"
3) Stupid drunks. These may or may not also be Gregarious or Angry. "Um, yeah, I'm inna parkin' lot and my engine's runnin' and everything but I can't get the car to move."

We do occasionally hear from Stoners, but not often, because usually by the time we've answered the phone they've forgotten why they called so they hang up.

Sometimes we hear from the People Who Need To Do Something About Their Insomnia And Get Some Sleep Instead Of Sitting Up All Night Thinking Of Weirdness. Granted, I sit up all night Thinking of Weirdness, but I get paid to do it. These people will call at the oddest times to ask hypothetical questions, i.e. if a Peeping Tom falls off his ladder and breaks his leg, can he sue me for having unstable ground under my window? What if I have a clearly visible No Trespassing sign posted? If the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, can I shoot the dirty hippie that's climbing my maple tree out back? (The answers, by the way, are yes, yes, and no.)

My fellow vampires - the C-store workers, the paper deliverers, the fast-food folks - have periodic bouts of extreme paranoia, during which everything and everyone they see qualifies as Suspicious and rates a call to 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's this really bright light in the sky, next to the moon, you might want to see if someone can check it out."
Sure thing, Sparky, I'll have my officers fire the Space Shuttle right up. "That's Jupiter, sir."
"Oh."

And then you have the Crazy People. Folklore tells us that Crazy People are affected by the moon; a full moon means people get Crazier. This implies that Crazy People come out at night. I don't know if I entirely believe this; I tend to think they're out in the daytime, too, but they get lost in the crowds, and it's only after everyone else goes to sleep and they get some breathing room that they relax and let it all hang out. Thus, I end up getting a phone call at 2 AM from Jehovah Jiwhad, Bright Morning Star, Keeper and Redeemer of the Wine Press, who wanted to let us know he was back from Hell. Then he hung up before I could ask him to send me some wine. I really wanted to try some, too. I bet it was some gooooood stuff.

I'm not claiming to be normal. I've worked a graveyard shift for four years now. Recently I've noticed that if I spend any time in the sun, I break out in an itchy rash. No way is that normal. One sunny snowy morning I walked out of the building and upon being accosted by bright white sunbeams bouncing off of bright white snow and burrowing sharp shards of sunshiney pain into my eyeballs, I threw my arms up and cowered back like Nosferatu being confronted by a crucifix-wielding Pope. That yellow face burnsss, yes it does, precious. BUT. I'm not armed (yet), I'm not drunk (right now), I don't scramble to dial 911 whenever a mouse farts in the attic (and if I did, I'd at least be able to tell the dispatcher that the noise came from the attic), I know the difference between planets and hostile aliens bent on world destruction (planets don't stick probes up my ass), and I'm not crazy. Much.

The Children of the Night are a unique bunch, out roaming around while the rest of you are asleep (unconscious, unalert) in your beds.

Pleasant dreams.

My very first post in my very first blog...

2005-07-07T19:41:00.000-05:00

I'm so excited I'm almost wetting myself.

Not really. I haven't wet myself in ages. Years. It's true.

Shall I talk about myself a little bit? Is that how these things work? Well, let's see. I once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. Not really. Excuse me while I go have a stern word with myself.

Ahem. I'm female, caucasian, early 30s, brown hair, blue eyes, 5'4", 165lbs, and in case you didn't already figure it out I work in law enforcement. Dispatch, to be precise. 911, people screaming, all that good stuff. I dispatch ambulances and fire trucks, too, but they're not usually interested in suspect descriptions. I'm also the proud owner of 2 zebra finches, a husband, 2 children, 2 betta fishies, and a Pontiac. In no particular order.

Hobbies? Oh, yes. Bellydance, cross-stitch, books (currently I'm studying Germanic and Norse lore, but I'm also a HUGE Terry Pratchett fan, and I will certainly be one of those schmucks camped out at the bookstore [Wal-Mart, actually, but they sell books so they still count] when 12:01 AM July 16 rolls around), cooking, knitting. I like learning new things. I don't always stick with them once I've got'em learned, but that's my problem, so there.

Well, I suppose that's enough for my first day. Don't want to over do it, you know; that could cause cramp. Bear with me and I shall wax clever and witty and pithy and wise from the sun's rising to the sun's setting. Or at least I'll learn to put pretty colors and stuff on this thing.