More Random Stuff OR More Griping About...da-da-dah THE DISHWASHER OF DOOM

I wasn't going to add a caption but hey, I really liked the
way this drawing came out.  After all, this weird shizz
happens in my house every day of the week.

So my dishwasher is still broken.  Well, semi-broken.  It washes and washes and washes and washes and after about two hours, it's still going, so you have to go turn it off and have it drain manually.  But Pain in the Ass Man aka Butt Crack Man aka HIM, the man to whom I'm married and of whom I blog about excessively, says, "I can fix it."

Let me see if I can recall the exact wording of the conversation, which bears repeating for posterity. (And doesn't the word, posterity, relate to one's posterior?  I may have to look it up because I'm missing a punchline.)  Upon purchasing a drain pump, which he replaced by himself, (Yea!) the dishwasher pretty much continued to do the same thing it did before.  I said, "I'll call a repairman."  HIM said, "There's one more moderately priced part I want to try first."  Whereupon I got sarcastic.  (I hadn't reached the depths of sarcastic supremacy as of that point.)  My words (I can't recollect the exact words but this is the gist): "So after so many moderately priced parts we might have a dishwasher that works or we could have bought a Lamborghini with the money you spent on moderately priced parts...right?"  To Cressy: "Sorry about college, honey, we spent your college money on a really nice dishwasher.  Look at the shine on those plates."

HIM nods fervently.  HIM was woefully unaware of my increasing levels of hormone induced pisseditoffedness.  (I made up a word and dang, it's a good one.)  (Pisseditoffedness - a noun, a state of being that a woman gets herself into after her husband has just informed her that he will spend more money on fixing the dishwasher than on the last three Christmas presents to her combined.  Also may include the mood of the aforementioned woman during the five days in the month where she should be locked in a closet.  Used in a sentence: "I had to move to Zimbabwe temporarily because my wife was in pisseditoffedness."  I'd like to see the kids in that mega-spelling bee spell that one.  I recently told a mommy friend that if men had periods and cramps, a cure would have been invented decades ago.  Also there would be a mandatory five days off a month, but I'm digressing wretchedly.)

What was I blathering, bitching, blogging about?  Oh yes.  So HIM got on YouTube and starts watching videos of fixing dishwashers.  (I think I challenged HIM's manhood on a fundamental level.  Don't tell HIM I'm terribly amused now.)

HIM runs the dishwasher through a test cycle.  Can you believe the book they gave us with the dishwasher does not tell us how to troubleshoot the thing?  What is says is to call their repairman because normal mortals couldn't possibly fix the intricacies that is THE BOSCH DISHWASHER.  (Wait, I believe I might be contradicting myself here.  On one hand, HIM says, "I can fix it."  On the other hand the Bosch people say, "You're too stupid to understand how to fix it," which irritates me on many levels.  But hey, so many things irritate me on so many levels.  Oh, carp, digressing again.  I should have a specialized degree in digressing.  I seem to be rather good at it.)

When the dishwasher is done with its test cycle it started flashing E1, which turns out to mean that a heating element is dysfunctional.  Hmm.  The dishwasher won't drain, fills up with suds, and goes on forever.  Yeah, of course it's a heating element!  Jeez, what was I thinking?

Tomorrow, I shall call...the repairman.

My Dishwasher is Broken And I've Got to Blog OR Oh, Carp, Is It Almost Thursday Again?

Sometimes writing a blog is like banging my head against a wall.  I don't really want to do it, but that pesky wall is in the way and needs to broken down.  So, randomness may occur in this blog because there's been a lot of stuff on my mind.

Most importantly, my #$%^!! dishwasher is broken.  I don't know how many years it's been since I've had to handwash a dish but I'm going against the political correctness of today's realm and am using paper plates and plastic utensils.  (But they are being recycled, so I'm kinda doing the right thing.)  (And you remember those old Palmolive commercials where your hands come out soft after doing dishes because your husband won't help, well they're complete poopoo.  My hands are so NOT soft and pliable afterwards.)

In any case, Pain in the Ass Man has made a guest reappearance by declaring, "I can fix that."  He pulled out the dishwasher, disconnected all the lines, did some other stuff, AND ordered a drain pump.  We shall see how this budding blog-wannabe-event shall turn out.  Could be explosive stuff.  I might get to see his butt crack while he's got the dishwasher upside down.  (My life is chock full of little thrills like this.  Seeing the crack certainly makes life entertaining.)  (TMI?)

The scintillating conversation we had about the dishwasher.  HIM: "I can fix that."  Me: "It's not supposed to be full of suds like that when it finishes.  And I'm pretty sure that all the water is supposed to be drained."  HIM: "They trusted me to fix Missile launchers during the first Gulf War."  Me: "If the dishwasher launched tactical weapons at incoming enemy aircraft, you'd be the first one I'd call."  HIM: "I can fix it."

And let me tell you about a mistake I made.  I went to the dollar store the other day with my child.  I saw this woman, which has nothing to do with the mistake, but I couldn't help myself.  It was fifty degrees outside and I couldn't figure out why anyone would be wearing a full-length fur coat, much less into Dollar Tree.  So did she get the coat because she shops so much at Dollar Tree or is she just a cheapskate?  You figure it out.  (Incidentally, taking a picture of a complete stranger at Dollar Tree is loads of fun.  They look at you and not in a good way.  Then the clerks look at you and that's saying a lot from the clerks at Dollar Tree.)

Back to my mistake.  Dollar Tree had a wall full of play type stuff and I looked down and said, "Hey, Cressy, they've got duck whistles."  This was the mistake.  It wasn't that Dollar Tree had a duck whistle or that I saw the duck whistle, it was that I pointed it out to my daughter.  Who had to have one.  And I listened to the duck in the back seat of the Explorer all the way home and then run around the house chasing the cat, who doesn't like ducks, apparently, and all through the evening.  (I had a maniacal plan for the duck whistle to disappear during the night, but my child slept with the bleeping thing.)  Fortunately for me there was school today and I had to tell her that the school probably didn't want ducks in the hallway or the classrooms.  (Oh, the look she gave me at that.)

In conclusion I'm still doing dishes by hand listening to a duck whistle.

Uh-Oh! Fat Woman Politics! OR This Could Be Ugly!

It's President's Day and we should be thinking of Presidents, am I right?  Or at least, thinking of good ones.

Personally, watching the candidates line up for the Presidential run is like watching a train wreck.  A train wreck that's just confessed its having its sister's husband's baby and it's about to hit an iceberg AND also it's from the planet Omega 9 in the Quark Sector.  (It's hard to look away!)  It dawns on me there should be a special questionnaire for such people because common sense obviously flew away from them and went buh-bye.

So if no one else is going to write it, then I should.  The fact that these candidates need to be reminded that certain aspects of their lives are not conducive to being the President of the USA seems counterproductive.  It should be common-sense, but obviously that boat sailed off into the sunset with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe.

Anyhoo, my rendition for the political candidate who really doesn't want to fool him/herself:

1.  Have you ever had sexual intercourse/sex as defined by Webster's Dictionary or Urban Dictionary with an individual under the age of 18 years while you were over the age of 21 AND that individual was not legally married to you?  If the answer is yes, go back to being a state senator.  If the answer is that the individual was legally married to you and was under the age of sixteen, same problem.  Also if the answer is that the individual was legally married to you and also your first cousin, you should just go on Jerry Springer.  Note: if you ascribe to the William Clinton method of definition of sexual intercourse/sex then you might want to go look at your dictionary and also look for your moral thermometer, too.

2.  Have you ever had sexual intercourse with someone of any age you were not legally married to and you were legally married to someone else at the same time?  Doesn't matter if it was the opposite sex or not.  If the answer is yes, you need to reconsider your political aspirations.

3.  Have you ever smoked/inhaled/ingested/injected an illegal substance while listening to the Moody Blues or possibly Jim Nabors' Christmas songs?  If you say you didn't inhale, you should probably hire a new writer for your political answers.  If the answer is yes, you might want to rethink about running for President, unless you only did it in college and college was at least twenty years previous.

4.  Have you ever been photographed with a sexy blond in your lap while sitting next to a boat called The Monkey Business?  Doesn't matter if the sexy blond was male or female.  If the answer is yes, you better hope they haven't posted it to Facebook, dumbass.  And also WTFWYT?

5.  Were you once known by another name, specifically a name of the opposite sex?  If the answer involves a name that starts with the name of a state, a river, a former president or has 'The' in front of it, you should just hang up your spurs, cowboy, because it ain't happening.  (This falls under the making up names for yourself category brand of trouble-o-rama.  Incidentally, your porn name is the name of your first pet and the name of the first street you lived on, not a number.  Mine?  Popi Date.  Hahahahaha.)

6.  Has one of your employees ever accused you of groping them?  For those of you aspiring noms who are hedging about the definition of groping, groping means that you placed your hands on parts of their anatomy that they protested about.  If the answer is no, but you later settled legally with them for an unknown amount that involved six months of pay, then the answer is really yes.  If the answer is really yes, but you don't want to admit it because that would sound bad, then give it up and just admit you made a mistake.  If the answer is really yes, but it was on a nonsexual aspect of the anatomy and it was really a bad joke, and furthermore, it was on a movie set twenty years ago, then confess it now because you might still have a chance, but only if they change the Constitution and the economy doesn't do a massive number on the state where you were a governator.

7.  Have you ever made $250,000 or more on an investment of $1000 in a dubious land deal?  If the answer is yes, but I didn't know that guy, then I hope you reported it to the IRS.  (Did you know the IRS is still looking for D.B. Cooper?  He didn't report the income on his return when he hijacked the plane and got a ransom.  The IRS never forgets.)  If you didn't report the income then you should pray now.

8.  Have you ever had a nanny/maid/employee who had less than a fully legal standing in the United States?  Also have you ever had an employee who didn't sign a confidentiality agreement?  If the answer is yes to either or both, then you can't run for the big P.  It's the law now.  No complete mo-mo's in the White House.  (I know.  I know.  Just because you call the President a mo-mo doesn't mean he is one, except Ford because NO ONE elected him for anything, except the state of Michigan and they weren't thinking of the Presidency, I'm quite sure.)

9.  Have you ever had an illegitimate child by anyone, but especially while you were married to a member of a prominent New England family?  If the answer is yes, WTFWYT?

10.  Have you ever spied on a political party that was not yours, and furthermore, used government assets to do it?  Then did you lie about it publicly and pretty much step all over your wee-wee?  If the answer is yes, well, you can't run.  It's just common sense and all the dog catcher's positions are full anyway.

11.  Have you ever used a cigar in a manner it was not intended?  Because if the answer is yes, ewww.  And for further emphasis, ewww-mc-ewwiness and ewwwwy squared.  Really.  (Where is that damn blue dress now anyway?)

12.  Have you ever publicly misspelled the word, 'potato'?  Because if the answer is yes, you're a complete idjit and I'm pretty sure that potatoe is another word for noodlebrain .

Since I've just come to the realization the list could go on and on.

My conclusion: I want a fat person to be President.  Bring back Chris Christie.  For anyone who wants to write in Fat Woman, well, I admire your taste but I'd probably offend everything in the Senate and the House within five minutes and nothing would get done.  Alas.

Why?  I haven't snarked on my sister's cat, Mellow, for awhile.  And it
seemed funny.  Hey, she meets all the requirements.  She's thirty-five
in cat years, and born in the United States.  And hey, HIM sez
she couldn't be any worse than the noodlebrains running now.

Pain in the Ass Man Versus the Gray Fuzzy Evilness!

It started out mildly enough.  Pain in the Ass Man, also known as HIM, the man to whom I'm married for a long time, stumbled out of bed.  The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5:15 a.m. and everyone knew about it.  I stayed in bed.  Cressy stayed in bed.  We knew it was ungodly.  Un-gawd-ly!

However, evilness was lurking about in the form of the Gray Fuzzy Megabeast.

The Gray Fuzzy Megabeast lurked lurkily about under the bed, waiting for his opportunity to take down...Pain in the Ass Man.  (Obviously, super villains are usually lurking lurkily about in their dens of inequity but under the bed was readily available.)

So as Pain in the Ass Man stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen, The Gray Fuzzy Megabeast realized that 1) he was going to get fed, and 2) Pain in the Ass Man had inadvertently revealed his Achilles heel or his kryptonite.  Pain in the Ass Man was powerless until he had received his allotted caffeine sustenance.

It was looking grim for Pain in the Ass Man.

Pain in the Ass Man silently debated.  Turn on the coffee machine OR feed the cat.  Hmm.  It was an epic decision and one that would cost him.

The Gray Fuzzy Megabeast said:

Pain in the Ass Man folded like a cheap suit.  He went toward the pantry to get a fresh can of cat food.  (Because HIM couldn't look in the refrigerator to see if there was one that was open already.  So if HIM had common sense this wouldn't have happened to him.)

The Gray Fuzzy Megabeast saw his opportunity.  Apparently, he'd been listening to the cats outside whisper things about insurance policies and such.

It was the Gray Fuzzy Megabeast VERSUS Pain in the Ass Man!

The Gray Fuzzy Megabeast employed the duck and weave technique as Pain in the Ass Man was reaching for the fresh can of cat food.  (Which I already reminded EVERYONE wouldn't have happened if HIM had checked in the fridge first, but who am I to rub things in?)

And HIM was falling!

Falling!  Falling!  Falling!

In the bedroom I heard a very loud thump, groan, and mutter.

When I got to the kitchen, it was like this:

And that's the story of how the cat tried to murder HIM.  HIM came away with bruises and scrapes, a nice shiner and let's not forget the lovely bloody hemorrhage in his eye which makes him appear as though he had a very bad laser surgery.

The moral of the story: Check the refrigerator first for opened cans.

Why? Why? Why? OR In The Immortal Words of Nancy Kerrigan, Why Me? Why Me? Why Me?

Ah, the eternal question.  Did you know that in counseling school they tell you never to ask a patient why?  Why not ask a patient why?  Because the 'why' word puts them on the defensive and the patients won't tell you all of their little dirty secrets.  So if someone says to you, "Tell me about your experience," or "What is it that bothers you?" or "How does that make you feel?" you can tell right away they've taken some advanced psychology and/or counseling glasses and you can feel free to mess with their heads.  (Tell them about the voices in your head or how you dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt after midnight replete with vintage, black garters and belt.  Loads of fun.  And the forty-eight hours that you get to spend in the special ward at the hospital is a blast.  They serve lots of pudding with plastic spoons.)

So onto my whys.  These are questions I cannot help but to ask, because they're buggering about in my head, driving me insane.  (Horrid mental image.  Try to think of puppies sitting in a large basket, looking at you with big brown eyes.  And all the puppies have pink ribbons tied in fancy bows around their necks.  Also there's ice cream.  Better?)

Okay, I couldn't find puppies with pink ribbons.

Back to the subject at hand.  Whys.  Before I digress again, here they go, in no particular order.

1.  Why can't HIM, the man to whom I'm married and the object of frequent blogging, or Cressy, our 7 year old daughter, look in the refrigerator first to see if there are already opened cans of Fancy Feast to feed her cat, Megaroy?  (Seriously, there are like ten cans in the fridge and I do not think cat food smells good.  The cat seems to like it, but the cat is basically stupid.)  (Incidentally, Megaroy's name briefly became Misty on a particular foggy day last month until Cressy forgot she changed it.  I don't think the cat appreciated the 70s ambiance of the moniker.  Sorry to any fans named Misty, but it wasn't my idea.)  (And since having complained about the fact of the multitude of cans in the fridge, HIM has explained his theorem to me thusly: "One should open a fresh can in the morning so the other half can be used in the evening."  I replied with, "What if one started in the evening initially?"  HIM: "I would discard that can as useless."  Me: "Don't you notice that there's, oh, a million freakin' open cans in the fridge already?"  HIM: "When I've already opened the can and am putting it into the fridge, yes, I do.  One other can."  Me, smoldering and not in a good way, "F-f-f-f-fuck you."

2.  Why does the cat bounce at me sideways when I surprise him in the hallway, with his little back arched up and an "I'm goin' to eff you up," expression on his little furry face.  He's a little demonic hell imp about to jump me.  (No one has really lived until they've witnessed a fat woman fleeing from a three pound cat, which lends itself to the next why.)

3.  Why does the cat ambush my leg when I walk by the dining room table?  (He lies in wait in the darkness, under the table, waits for me to pass, and btw, there's no other way to get from the hallway to the kitchen, and banzai! bounces up, wraps his little gray, fuzzy body around my leg, scares the crap out of me, and then zips off.)  (I'm afraid to go into the dining room.)

4.  Why do things accumulate on the kitchen counter despite the fact that I never put anything down there?  It's the other side of the black hole of junque.  All the junque (sounds better than junk) (wouldn't you rather buy Junque rather than junk?) gets sucked into the black hole, spirals in, and ends up on my kitchen counter, where it lingers in perpetuity or until I put it back where it belongs.  (It's a physiological marvel of time/space continuum.) (Does anyone else think that the word 'continuum' looks weird with two 'u's?)  (Well, you do now, anyway.)

5.  And speaking of kitchen counters, why can't the stupid cat learn to stay off the kitchen counter?  I have consistently employed the water bottle method.  The cat gets on the counter, he gets squirted with the water bottle until he is properly motivated enough to get off the kitchen counter, and he gets off the counter.  The cat then goes to sulk and groom his wet fur, right?  NO!  The dumb, little bunny sits on the bar stool and puts his paw back on the freakin' counter, daring me, yes, DARING me to do it again.

Who knew taking a photograph of the cat was an invitation to
get on the counter?  And that is a box of grass for cats which
I was forced to buy by my daughter.  I was gleefully blackmailed.

Of course, I have to squirt him.  The kitchen counter is my counter.  It belongs to me.  It is where I prepare food and cook.  (I am not a fat woman because I eat out consistently, after all.)  I do not want little gray paw prints and God knows what else, up there every time I've got my back turned.  (Which is the lesson Megaturd Megaroy has learned.  Don't go on the counter when Fat Woman is about.  Otherwise, okee-dokee.)

6.  Why are there six, count 'em, no exaggerating, SIX half full to three-quarter full bottle of Elmer's Glue in the cabinet to the upper left of the sink.  Is this where bottles of Elmer's Glue goes to die?  (HIM just interjected that the cabinet is where the Elmer's Glue goes to dry.  All should groan in appreciate of his punniness.)  And also, who the bleep is Elmer?

Okay, that's all the whys I can think of for the moment, but I'm sure there will be more.  And probably soon.  Oh, wait, I just thought of one.  Why am I so sarcastic?  I love blogging.

Ode to Crappy Germs OR My Family Has Spread the Love OR I'm Sick and I Can't Write Nuthing

Cressy said, "My ear hurts."  It was Saturday evening and not much was to be done.  So Sunday was about the same and Monday I took her to the doctor who said, "Ear infection."  (You know, doctors are all about brevity except when it comes to my weight.)  (I might have blogged about this subject a few times before.)  (Maybe.)

Just after the doctor's appointment, my ears started to hurt.  (At first I thought it was sympathetic pains.)  For the rest of the day, Cressy and I laid about like useless zombies, watching a whole lot of Disney XD, eating brain-flavored popcorn.  (Not really.  Did you know popcorn DOES NOT come in brain-flavored?  Someone is missing a whole zombie market there.)  Also we watched some Cartoon Network.  We took a break from that to also watch Bolt.  (I liked Mittens in there.  She's a cat who blackmailed pigeons into bringing her food.  I think that's pretty bodacious.)

Tuesday, Cressy was better.  I was worse.  (I'm pretty sure someone was beating me with numchucks while I was asleep.)  (Why do they call them numchucks?  Do they numb your body after you've been beaten with them?)  HIM said, "If you get even worse you must go to the doctor, too."  I shrieked, "NOOOOOO!!!!!  Not the doctor, I hate the doctor.  Him and his little dentist friends, too.  I want a curandera or a witch doctor.  I want to sacrifice a goat.  Or a bucket of chicken from KFC.  ANYTHING but a regular medical doctor."

But the germs had taken hold.  I have a mental image of germs being like little mobsters that I must expunge into an artistic venue.

But then I had to wonder if I was being biased.  Who says germs have to be from New Jersey?  Or wherever mobsters hang out?  (Sorry, I did watch the entire Sopranos series and I think the ending sucked.)

So there are definitely different kinds of germs, right?  Who's to say these aren't southern germs infecting me?

And there goes my imagination.  I'm thinking like you know, Valspeak germs.  (For those of you who don't know this, go watch Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure or Clueless.)  (Like, gross me out to the max.)

Of course, that sets my mind to thinking about stereotypes and I'm so not done.

I was going for wicked-bad biker germ but I couldn't figure out how to put it in leathers and a little Nazi-looking helmet.  But hey only a true bad ass can get away with wearing a yellow Harley shirt.

Next up, your common everyday comedian germ.  He's appearing every night this week in my body.  Whether I like it or not.

Well, alrighty then.  I think that's it for me this week.  I'd headed for the kitchen and getting the ibuprofen out.

Paranormal Activity OR Why Demons/Ghosts/Supernatural Thingymabobs Never Possess Fat Women

Recently HIM went on a business trip.  As he does.  Then after Cressy went to bed, I made the mistake of watching...da...dah...dah...a SCARY MOVIE.  By myself.  I should have called my sister.  And well, it wasn't really a mistake because most scary movies really don't bother me.  I can watch Halloween and Nightmare on Elm Street and stuff like that and yawn thoroughly before going to bed.  Yeah, if I dream, it will probably be about Bubba and Precious having a hoedown or something like that.

But instead I watched Paranormal Activity. This is a movie I have not seen before and for those of you who haven't seen it, I may spoil it.  Oh, no may be about it, I will spoil it.  I'm going to pour a big flaming pile of spoilers all over it.  I'm going to make this blog drown in spoilers.  You get the picture.

Spoilers HO!

Hereafter, there be spoilers, not ho's.

So stop reading here if you have an urgent need to rush out and rent Paranormal Activity.  (The first one since it's got two sequels at the moment and probably two more in the can, a line of books, a video game, and dolls that will levitate and leave spooky three-toed prints on your floor.)  And hold the Android, I'm going to use bold, italic red lettering every time I use the title, Paranormal Activity.  See.  Paranormal Activity.  Paranormal Activity.  Paranormal Activity.  (Now it just seems weird.  Have you ever repeated a word so many times it doesn't sound like a real word anymore?  Well, if you haven't before, you probably will after this.)

One more.  PARA-frickin'-NORMAL ACTIVITY!!!!!  It's not normal.  It's para.  And it's activity.  What kind of activity?  Well, it's activity that you get to watch in someone's house.  The viewer gets to be like a voyeur.  Kinky.  Except it's not kinky.

For those of you who have seen it, well, you know what I'm talking about.  We have two people hanging out in their house.  The guy, Micah, buys a camera, because he and his girlfriend, Katie, have been hearing things go bump in the middle of the night.  And they can't explain the noises.  Katie lays down a bomb.  "Dude," she says to Micah (or in my version), "I've had this thing following me around for years, since I was a kid.  And wham, here it is again.  Just chillax and it'll go away."  Micah's all like, "Woman, you might have mentioned the ghost/demon/paranormal attachment a few dates before I asked you to move in."  Of course, being haunted by possible demonic/ghostly entities was always first on my list to share with potential boyfriend material.

Okay, so they got past all of that.  Now they live together and some spooky shizz has been happening.  Sounds and shizz.  Noises and shizz.  And get this.  More shizz, because I suddenly like using the word shizz.  See, shizz.  One night, Micah is conveniently filming.  (Oh, blessed serendipity.)  Katie finds her car keys...in the middle of the floor.  Like OMG, if I came in and found my car keys in the middle of the floor, I would be so freaked out, I would leave the house and move into a nunnery.

Oh yeah, I'm not Catholic and I wouldn't do that.  What would I do?  I'd say, "Someone stop giving the cat catnip because he's been on the counters again."  I'd pick the keys up and put them on the key rack on the wall.  I would not automatically assume a paranormal entity has been effing with my lifestyle.  (Maybe the thing just wanted to keep me from driving drunk or something.  It could be a well-meaning paranormal thingymabob.  Who are we to judge?)  I mean, so what if the keys were in the middle of the floor?  It's not like they were levitating in the middle of the room with a neon sign pointing to them.  And oh, my, I'm forced to do an illustration.

So, here's the gist of it.  Katie's theory of progressive demonic activity is because Micah got a camera the paranormal dude is pissed the eff off.  So Micah, obviously not impressed that he's pissed IT off, sets the camera up in the bedroom, with a view of them in the bed and the hallway, which is always ominously dark, and the door is always open.  (Here's what I would say to Micah and Katie, "Dudes, if something is tromping up my stairs in the middle of the night and banging pots and pans, I would suggest shutting the bedroom door and locking it, and also earplugs.")

PARANORMAL ACTIVITY!  PARANORMAL ACTIVITY!  PARANORMAL ACTIVITY!  I bet you thought I forgot about making it bold, italicized and in red, huh?  I didn't.

But noooooo.  Micah and Katie want to have more paranormal excitement.  (Also the psychic warned them that if they left right then, the movie would be WAY too short.  No, he didn't say that.  What he really said was the invisible doowhacky would follow them.  Because it wants...Katie!)  Wow.  So soonest whilst they're sleeping, and may I say for a young couple they're not getting a lot of action, the viewer is clued in by hearing the giveaway whump-whump-whumps.  Well, Micah and Katie don't hear it because they're still asleep.  And then the door slams by itself.  On film.  Micah and Katie wake up and are like, "OMG, what was that?"  Then they go back to sleep because door-slamming paranormal entities are obviously just a little cranky-pants and don't need to be worried about.  But the next day, Micah's all like, "Look, what was on the video."  I'd be like, "Can you say YouTube, Dude?"

And the paranormal fun isn't over.  Micah spreads powder on the floor to catch the invisible freak in the act.  Surprise!  They do!  There are funky footprints in the powder leading down the hallway to their attic access door, which is ajar.  (That reminds me of a joke I used in a book, which I'm going to repeat because I'm easily amused.  When is a door not a door?  When it's ajar.  Get it?)  Of course, Micah goes up there because we can't miss a moment of supreme paranormal suspense.  We might have a cheap thrill.  This might be a pucker factor of one to ten.  (Ten being the end where you have to have your tidy whity's surgically removed.)

So to sum.  Some strange shizz is happening in the San Diego area because something invisible and possible demonic followed Katie around.  It's ticked because Micah is having a Kodachrome moment and maybe it doesn't like getting its hooves in the baby powder.  And finally, it left a photograph of Katie in the attic.  (A photograph that can't really exist because Katie's house was burned down by the whatsit as a child and all the photographs went with it.  She remembers this specific photograph, you know.  I can't remember what happened when I was eight except the story about hiding the Brussels Sprouts, but Katie does.  Apparently she didn't hide Brussels Sprouts because she had a demonic presence instead.  Maybe the demonic presence ate the Brussels Sprouts and that's why it's demonic.)  (I'm not saying it's all right to be demonic and possess folks, but if you ate Brussels Sprouts maybe you would have a very good reason.) The psychic they brought to the house sez, "It wants Katie and you should talk to my demonologist friend.  Gotta go because I've got the skeevies bad."

As we're bouncing toward the inevitable conclusion, chills run down the spine.  (I'll tell you what the inevitable conclusion is because it's inevitable.  So here it is, our inevitable conclusion is that SOMETHING BAD IS GONNA HAPPEN SOON because the movie's only got ten minutes left and rainbows are NOT shooting out of Micah and Katie's asses.)

So in the next bedroom clip, something tromps up the stairs again, grabs Katie's ankle and drags her down the hallway while she's screaming.  Micah, who's sleeping in the spot farthest from the door, (I'll tell you who would be sleeping next to the demonic portal and it wouldn't be me in my household.  I'm throwing HIM to them devil doggies.) has a delayed reaction.  I guess he was having a happy dream and finally goes after her.  But it's too late because the invisible dothingy has bitten her!  And left marks that Micah must film because that's the kind of guy he is.  (Did I mention he follows her into the bathroom with the camera, too?)

Again, can anyone say, "YouTube, Mutha!"  I would charge, too.  Advertising.  Maybe start selling t-shirts, and special baby powder.

Well, I won't give away the ending completely, except that SOMETHING BAD DID INDEED HAPPEN.  Well, duh.  It was that kind of movie.

Anyway, I can be all sarcastic about it now because it's funny...now.

PARANORMAL SHIZZING ACTIVITY!  I had to throw that in one more time because it's funny.  Or at least it is to me.

Later that night, as I was trying to go to sleep, it wasn't funny.  And dammit, I didn't have any baby powder.  But it dawned on me why I didn't need to be afraid.

Randomtivity OR Let's Make Up Stuff OR I'm Pulling It Out of My Ear (Or Some Other Place)!

Today is Monday (or it was Monday when I started to write it and God only knows what day it is when you're reading it) and the school is having a teacher's workday.  I suspect it's an euphemism for a day of rest from all the holy terrors.  Not that I blame them, of course.  I can vividly picture the teachers now, hanging out at the school having a kegger, showing all the security tapes of the kids doing stuff they shouldn't have done, eating popcorn, and making up funny stories about the worst kid they ever taught.  (Not mine, of course.)

Of course, I don't know what the teachers are really doing,
but it's fun imagining, isn't it?
You do know that's my job, right?

So I called a fellow Mommy and said, "Send your children over.  They'll play and stuff.  I promise I won't take them to a rave and get tattoos."  (Or something like that.  I might have implied something about rainbows and unicorns, but I can't remember.)

I need a Screaming Blue Viking.
Do I really think the teachers are chugging while on
their work day?  No, of course not, but
IT'S FUN IMAGINING STUFF!
Fun!  Fun!  Fun!
Also when drinking a Screaming Blue Viking,
one is obligated to scream, "Valhalla!" before tossing
it back.  (Okay, I'll wait for those of you who are
Googling how to make a Screaming Blue Viking.)

The two visiting girls, Emma and Addie, really had an ulterior motive.  The wanted to see...da da dah...Megaroy.

Megaroy, my daughter's cat, whom I can't seem to NOT blog about, is very popular right now.  (Someone stop me before I blog about the stupid cat again!)  He's loads of material for me and I didn't even want a cat again.  (I wanted a Pygmy Walrus with pink stripes in his mustache.  Or some more beta fish.  Whatever was easier and let us come and go at will.  Hahaha.  I lost that battle.  And guess who the cat spends the most time with.)  (He likes to sit on the laptop's keyboard and make up nonsensical sentences.  Also he's learned to change settings on my computer without having an IT degree.  Why me?)

I know this is out of focus but the cat doesn't know how
to stop moving, especially if you're pointing
a droid at him.  I think he wants to eat it.

Anyhoo.  Girls descended upon the hapless house and things happened.  It wasn't pretty.  I warned the cat.  "Megaroy," I said, sagely.  "I would hide if I were you.  Somewhere deep, dark, and black, and don't come out until you hear the front door slam and a minivan drive away."  The cat just looked at me.

It's been pointed out that I misspelled Willis.
Too bad.  Go drink a Screaming Blue Viking.
You'll forget about the misspelling.

The adoration began.  The cat attempted to flee but, hahaha, he was too late.  It's a fairly small house and three girls, aged 6, 7, and 8, knew how to hunt down a three pound kitten, who really hadn't figured out how to hide except under the bed, which the three girls cottoned to instantly.  (I told him so!)

They took turns carrying him around.  (There was some heated discussion on who got to carry him next.  I kept expecting the cat to make a noise like someone stepped on his tail and then to hear a little girl crying because she discovered what the claws on a cat are really for.)  Surprisingly, the cat took the attention fairly well.  (Megaroy's got a whole "You Shall Worship Me" thing going on.)  He didn't know exactly how to handle it, but he went with it.  (Also surprisingly, the three girls didn't attempt to dress him in doll's clothing, probably because none of them thought of it and I wasn't going to suggest it.  Megaroy knows where I sleep.  Hell, he sleeps where I sleep.)

I retreated into the office to work on other things, whilst keeping an ear open for the protest of an aggrieved feline.  Megaroy is also a fairly quiet cat.  (Hey, we had Siamese cats before and if there is anything those brainless, brown and cream ninny idjits know how to do, it's how to effect a meow in the loudest, most strident fashion possible.)  (I'll never get another Siamese cat again.)  (Seriously, never, ever again.)

I tried to work, but I kept hearing things like this: "You're Mr. Adorable, aren't you?" (that one was repeated until I thought my head would explode) and "You're a little wubbins mubbins hubbins." (Huh?) and "His fur is so soft." and "Hey, where's he going?"  My imagination kept throwing me scenes where I had to do stitches on a little girl's arm, leg, or torso.  (Hey, I could do it.  I know which end of a needle is which.  The pointy end goes in the flesh.  The end with the hole in it...what was I talking about?)

Then I heard three sets of feet tromping down the hall in swift pursuit of a four legged animal scratching off the wood floor.  (We'll see about that scratch resistant sales pitch, won't we?)  It sounded like a herd of maddened elephants ready to launch themselves into a massive hootinanny.  It reminded me of the teachers who were, at that particular moment, likely laughing themselves into a serious need of Depends or Poise, if you read my blog about Whoopi Goldberg.  See here, if you haven't.  (And what's wrong with you that you didn't read my long-winded diatribe on how Whoopi shouldn't be doing pee-catching pad commercials?  Huh?)

How many teachers/educators will call me personally after
I post this blog?  Hmm.

Eventually the girls lost interest in Megaroy, probably because he wasn't diving through a flaming hoop and dancing on a rolling ball and he hauled ass for his kitty castle, where he could observe the birds and squirrels in relative obscurity.  Now he grows a brain cell.  Well, a half of one anyway.

In a Non-Cat Related Blog OR Look, I Did the New Cover of the Latest in Bubba's World

Coming out in summer - Brownie is visiting the Snoddy's and liking Sam Spade, a little too much.  Then the dame comes into his life and nothing is the same...