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This is my blog, and it is dangerous. Do you think I want to die like this?





Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Guilt!

I always feel guilty when a Tuesday passes and I don't have something to post here. I've been busy, but I've belabored that point. Once I have more free time, I do plan to get back on the blog ball.

So there's not much going on in my life that anyone really wants to hear about, since it's all stuff about trying to build a website and store, and make sure my associate/boss-type-person isn't using "as" for "has" all over the website, because he's English and can't help that shit at all.

The rest of my life involves conversations with my sons and ex-husband. So that's what you're getting, and you can like it or lump it (as my junior high science teacher loved to say).

As I mentioned in the comments on the groovy-ass blog Simian Idiot, my six-year-old son hates being asked questions that do not relate to precisely the subject he wants to discuss at that moment and probably for at least the next hour. His reactions range from physically waving the question away, to exasperated body twisting and sighs to facial expressions that resemble some sort of fugue.

His personality is a constant source of amusement for his father and me.

me: Did you eat dinner already?
6-yr-old: *stares into space, squirms* I don't know.
me: You don't know if you just ate a meal within the last hour?
6-yr-old: ...no. Why do Delta cargo planes never carry passengers?

Next time he wants to talk about Delta, I'll have more questions than answers.

Just this past weekend, I asked him if he was doing any math in school.

6-yr-old: Can not predict now.

His father explained this answer was due to their Magic 8 Ball. He apparently asks the thing the same question every day: "Am I going to die this week?"

6-yr-old: And it always sometimes says, "yes"!

~~~~~

Their dad just took them to Seaworld, where they sat in the splash zone for Shamu. Apparently, they avoided getting wet, which caused the younger brother (aged 5) to complain bitterly. Sounds about right for a child who was born a grumpy old man. It's 80 degrees where he lives, and he insists on wearing long sleeves. He just asked me a few days ago if I'd heard of and liked Simon and Garfunkle. When he gets home from school, he puts on a dress shirt, pants, vest and tie.

This sounds like I'm merely trying to stress a point, but these are un-embellished facts.

Little brother also likes to argue. His dad told him he should be a lawyer when he grows up, because of his love for arguing, and he for reals responded, "I do not love to argue!" But this is the same child who made a robot out of a box and named it "Robox", so we're probably not going to sell him to gypsies yet. Not even despite that he says that when he grows up he's going to open the Hitler Airport. Don't get too concerned, he also wants to open The Little Rascal's Airport.

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Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Coffee

When I wake up in the morning, I just want some fucking coffee. I don't want to be presented with a riddle, or a project, or a game of chance. I want a hot, strong cup and 15 minutes to attempt to encourage my thinky brain to catch up with my instinctive brain, which only wants to run at the first living thing and kill it when my alarm goes off.

The Hamilton Beach Flexbrew has distinctively different ideas about how my mornings should begin.

Yeah, this is the fucker.

Oooh, I brew pots and single cups! No you don't.

We used to have a Mr. Coffee single-cup brewer and it was trusty. The Hamilton Beach Flexbrew was a Christmas gift from my step-dad to my mom, meant to clear some premium counter-space, presumably so he could fill it up with a pop-up toaster to be friends with our toaster oven. Their kitchen is a menagerie of contrapshits and accoutre-junks.

Some background: step-dad prefers to brew a pot of half-caf and for all intents and purposes, insert a straw. Mom likes a cup at a time, sometimes regular, sometimes half-caf - which always results in us having an over-abundant supply of pointless sucka MC coffee pods rattling around - but lest I divide my ire today, let's stick to talking about what I've dubbed "The Asshole of Coffeemakers".

We'll start with my lesser gripes:

  • It has no fill-line for the individual cups of coffee. It has a window on the side which ostensibly is meant to show you how much water you're pouring in, but trust me, it's as useless as ovaries on a boyfriend. You gotta pre-measure that agua. Might as well rustle up a batch of french toast at 6am.

  • The drip-tray doesn't remove. I'd be angrier about this if I weren't the one tasked with removing stale, tepid coffee from the unit via siphon. But whoever thought that one up in the boardroom definitely moonlights as a total jerk.

  • If you don't press that coffee pod directly down in one dextrous, practiced movement, you're getting a crunchy coffee-ground surprise, because Hamilton Beach is a fussy mistress.

  • Finally, the doozlehopper you stick the pod into has many moving, yet seemingly non-removing parts which makes cleaning some sort of Russian Roulette hand acrobatics where you wait for the day when you slice a soap-slippery finger jiggling about, if you don't have the foresight and planning to get it into a dishwasher load. But again - not my circus, not my monkeys.

Now, the real reason I'm here: getting a single, consistent cup of coffee in a timely fashion is a distant memory if you purchase this small electronic appliance.

With most of the single-cup brewers I've dealt with, you press start and walk away (or slump in a quivering, desperate heap) to wait until the machine stops groaning to know you've got some coffee. The Hamilton Beach Flexbrew expects you to walk away and go fuck yourself.

It thinks it's really clever, too - with its adorable little beep to let you know coffee consumption is nigh. It lies to you. All too often, that cup isn't even one-quarter brewed when that beep occurs. Sure, sometimes your cup is perfect, and when that rare magic happens, you tell everyone you know that you've been gifted with the only thing you ever wanted: a hot, delicious singly-brewed cup of coffee in less than 20 minutes.

I've done experiments - albeit caffeine-fueled, fist-banging German ones. It doesn't care what brand of coffee pod you use, it doesn't care how much water you've incrementally measured out - it doesn't care how desperately you beg. It is simply filled with gremlins.

So if what you desire is to be soundly dominated by a machine first thing in the Christly morning - or any hour of day, for that matter - bring a box of k-cup - any brand, as long as it's caffeinated - to my home and run away screaming with this thing. I'm going to tell my parents that fairies did it. I'll even throw in a slightly-used pop-up toaster. We're going to need the counter space when I drag up the old coffee makers from the basement.

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Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Another Boring Update

A couple of weeks back, I had to drive into unfamiliar territory to visit a friend in the hospital. My mother insists I take her GPS on occasions such as this, and since I reckoned a gosh darn hospital shouldn't be too difficult for a modern invention specifically designed to direct me to the location of my choosing, I took it.

You see, I didn't learn from the last time I tried to use it to get me to the freaking Philadelphia International Airport, when it insisted that what appeared to be the off-site parking lot for super duper long-term parking was where I needed to be, rather than, I dunno, someplace crazy, like arrivals.

I also didn't learn from the time it took my family into a residential neighborhood and insisted some dude's house was Denny's.

It's haunted, that GPS. This is the only logical explanation for its behavior. It's the only reason I can fathom for why it told me that a major hospital was located in a business park well about three or so miles down the road from the destination at which I was yearning to arrive. It didn't take too long before I yanked that impish gremlin away from its power source and decided to pull over and make a phone call to my friend.

I was in the right lane, and impulsively decided to pull over into a parking lot, using my turn signal. I could only assume that my quick deceleration had caused some irritation because I heard the blaring of a car horn and saw another car right up my car-butt. I chanted to myself, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." before I saw the vehicle as it passed by me, and a woman nearly leaning out her open passenger window screaming, "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" All I could do is lift a palm skyward and shrug at her.

What did she want from me? Some sort of screeched agreement, 1-1/2 seconds of fervent contrition, or maybe for me to throw my first-born from the car as some sort of offering to pay for my sins?

Ten years ago, someone bellowing at me on the road would have rattled the hell out of me. But now, I am merely curious as to what could possibly be going on inside the head of a person who feels that honking their horn aggressively is not enough of a punishment for someone executing the minor infraction of slowing down suddenly, yet not causing an accident. Sure, my bad. This shit happens on the road. But really, lady - calm down. No need to roll down your window and lose your mind on me. It wasn't personal.

~~~~~

Other than eliciting wrath from my fellow commuters, most of my day has involved trudging away at the same thing I've been working on for several weeks - setting up the online store for the AirLARP/Zombie Apocalypse/MilSim site. There had been some noise about how I was meant to also write a blog for the site, and I've recently learned that a big portion of what I'll be doing is ... you know, it's almost hard to type this, because it's a combination of two things I never thought I would remotely be involved in.

I'm going to be writing a fashion blog for post-apocalyptic/fantasy/military costumes. I mean, what? Anyone who knows me well, and/or in person can tell you that I never use the word zombie unless I'm referring to my mental state after some intractable sleep-deprivation, and there's not a person on this planet who would connect me with fashion, ever.  For any reason.

Even the guy who put me in charge of this sees me during virtually all Skype meetings in the same red hoodie I've been wearing since my grandmother gave it to me for Christmas. If he's able to see the shirt under it, he invariably suggests I change it, because he's seen it too many days in a row. Another popular suggestion: wash your hair.

So, if I'm less productive with writing something like the Sims story or a movie review, it's because I'm busy trying to figure out how to cram my scuzz ball into a fashionable hole. That's disgusting.

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Tuesday, February 10, 2015

The Boring Update

I don't think I've ever posted an update about my life in general when nothing was happening that would make people question the thought patterns leading up to my choices.

So I figured, why not be boring, bordering on sensible for once?

I'm still living in NJ with my mom and step dad. I'm their personal assistant/kitchen bitch. It's a pretty important job, because without me, there'd be no one to pick up the frozen, fully-cooked hickory smoked Market Day bacon that comes in while my mom is at work. Who would call the dog a fuckstick if I weren't here? Just who, I ask you, is going to deliver a poop sample to the vet? And most importantly, who would go to their bedroom and slam their door in protest of their parent's love for bickering? I'm the glue that keeps this house from ripping off its foundation.

When I first moved back home, I did a fair amount of drinking - a holdover from living in Texas with my mother-in-law and then my whole Idaho debacle. That behavior flew for about 15 minutes before my mom gently threatened the hammer drop on me, so I somehow managed to knock some sense into myself and stop.

Next up, I had to work on my post-Idaho kummerspeck. Mom and step dad feed me well, and in the land of glorious hoagies, pizza and cheese steaks, along with the holidays, I managed to pile up a meaty chunk on myself. It was fun for awhile, but even this lazy girl can only take so much greasy fingered girth-admiring. I'm definitely on the road toward not dodging every camera at risk of capturing my image.

For a long time, I kept busy at a slow pace. I had a lot of nothing to do, and was great at it. Now I'm intensely and actually busy working on setting up an online store that sells gear for Airsoft military simulations and zombie apocalypse games. I'm aware this makes no sense with my history of blogging about The Sims, movie reviews, letters I like to write to strangers and food which displeases me.

This is how it happened: my sister had taken a role in a murder mystery, which was a the beta test for an Airsoft friend of hers (named Monty) who planned to start running them regularly. I'd asked to go see the show, and that turned into being asked to do the favor of taking a very small role of my own, last minute, since it hadn't been filled yet. With my new-found determination to stop saying no to everything that sounds remotely like too much uncontrolled social contact or unfamiliar activity in front of strangers, I decided to just say yes.


Sister and me, attempting to look 1940s-ish, while I display my expert level selfie-taking.
Phones are as hard as my sister's humorless glare.
I got to play a very fun part where I pretended to be absolutely nobody all night, who then pulls out a gun in a twist ending. Not long after, Monty asked me to come back for a future show, as a paid actor. After another interval of time which I can not recall (but still not very long), he asked me to put my organizational skills and talent for doing very boring, tedious things to work by helping him set up his store for him.

I'm becoming familiar - in a way I'd never planned - with the vast array of accoutrements people use to run around in the woods, trying to kill each other - not for real, although dressed as though they mean it.

Once I get the store sorted, I'll be concentrating on the next murder mystery, as well as writing a blog for the store's website. I gotta be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing, or why anyone would give me the responsibility of doing it.

So, that's my update. I've done a pretty good job not making an ass out of myself for awhile, and although it's often less fun than playing a jester in my own throne room, it's still kinda neat. Apologies for not updating as often as I usually would - when I get a project, I tend to fly at it violently, to the detriment of anything else.
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Wednesday, January 28, 2015

I Play Sims 2 (part10)

Giuliana gets the award for being the best-looking female elder so far.
Unfortunately, she's willing to touch a person with a haircut that shouldn't exist.
Gigi, you're an adult! Go get some action, promptly.
Mm, yes. Right next to the bug collection, as it's meant to be.
And you're handling pregnancy so gracefully!
This is an interesting new ritual I have yet to find a name for.
Mina, I am not quite digging your elder do-rag.

Groovy, another tree fire.
Even better, a lecture from the fire department for calling them when there was no actual fire.
Must be time for more game goofin'.
Damned thing refused to quit raging, so I moved it to the front of the property and made it a feature.
Gigi really likes it. It sets them apart from the rest of the houses on the block.
It's a boy! His name is Hank.
This is what's become of our sweet princess Holly.
Naturally, Murray rushed right on over.
Hank's a toddler! Oh, I can't wait to potty train yet another one of these things.
And looky there, Holly popped right between the hoopty and the blazing tree.
As it tends to do, life goes on ... Gigi shreds her face off in her pajamas in full view of the neighbors ...
... Geneva digs her holes in the yard ...
... Mina can't bear the racket ...
... and a stray dog engages in goofballery in the spot where the tree finally
extinguished itself for no apparent reason, after several days ablaze.
Don't worry, after I moved it back, it caught fire again. I didn't even bother to call the fire department. What can you do?
So then Holly had a little girl named Hillary.
And Hank became a child wearing a shirt similar to one I own, so I need fashion help.
Hillary suddenly grew into, uh ... this. We'll wait, it could get better.
Well, maybe Hillary is smart.
Everything is just going kooky now.
For one thing, our maid came home from work with Holly.
And Giuliana find her loathsome as balls.
Alright ... uh, maid ... see you in the morning!
Then we have these two stray dogs on the front porch - both named Bailey.
They battled. There can only be one. Congratulations, Bailey! Better luck next time, Bailey!
I became so thoroughly fed up with my game's knavery, I decided to build a pond under the eternally burning tree.
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Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Contracted

I think I just got tricked into watching a zombie movie, guys. Netflix can convince me to watch a lot of strange things, and I really do like strange, but this was akin to discovering a bag of garbage that's been sitting hidden in your shed for a year. What's this? Old Christmas ornaments? Clothes for donation? No. Just a sack full of moist, gnarly detritus and something wiggling a little.

Samantha (Najarra Townsend) is a strangely beautiful girl who is embarrassingly obsessed with her ex-girlfriend Nikki (Katie Stegeman) - an ostensibly English girl - who behaves toward Sam as though she's continually just turned up at her door, trying to offer her an issue of The Watchtower. Nikki's attitude toward her ranges from a bored obligation to converse to thinly-veiled bored hostility.

The story begins with Sam attending a house party of her friend Alice (Alice Macdonald) with absolutely no desire to socialize or drink, and practically walking around announcing to anyone who will listen that she's a lesbian, duh. Naturally, she gets intensely hammered and has sexual intercourse in a car with a man named BJ (Simon Barrett) whom I can only describe as extremely blurry.

Take that, nice guy Riley (Matt Mercer), how dare you try to act like a normal, decent dude with no intentions of slipping a roofie to the object of your affection.

As you can deduce from the poster, Sam begins to get very ill, over the course of three short days. This is where the film goes from dopey to inexplicable. It's not just the fact that her outward severity of symptoms change drastically back and forth between scenes (one moment her left eye is salmon colored, the next completely opaque white, then back again) it's also how mildly everyone is reacting to a person who looks like she's in the early stages of late-stage leprosy. More than half the time, they don't even seem to notice the funk emanating from her like sickness stink lines in a cartoon.

She's also acting very suspiciously. Just walking around being the most conspicuously suspicious character in the vicinity. Plus, I can't imagine a doctor would be presented with a previously healthy, young woman who is suddenly bleeding like a stuck pig, has a severe rash starting in her genitals which branches upward, and an extremely low heart-rate and not send her to the emergency room. I don't even think this "doctor" Googled her symptoms. My quick search indicates that best-case scenario, noticeable bradycardia can mean she's really damned dehydrated. Instead of telling her to drink some Gatorade, he merely suggests that she lotion up her vagina, because ew, there's a lot of dry, dead skin on it.

During her second visit, when the iris of her right eye has turned completely red and the left has gone pink, he's all, "Well, it looks bad, but what can we do? Just gotta wait for the test results. Definitely looks like an infection, but I have to find out exactly which one before I can give you some antibiotics. I'll have my nurse call you after the labs are back. Oh, and you're probably really contagious, so try to just ... stay away from other people while you wait."

She's a waitress, and he doesn't even advise her not to go into work with her crazy, sometimes bleeding eyeballs and touch people's salad greens with her bare, blood-caked fingernails. Her own boss (E-Kan Soong) sees this shit and is like, "Oh man, that looks pretty terrible. I'll call someone to cover your shift, you just wait here in the completely un-staffed, gleaming kitchen near all the stuff we don't want contaminated by anything that oozes."

Even after Sam hears from Alice that the police are looking for a mysterious guy from the party, she still doesn't care that her teeth, hair and nails are falling off her body - what's most important is keeping Nikki from hearing that she's had sex with a dude.

Sam's own mother (Caroline Williams) appears to be more concerned with the weak subplot of her daughter being a recovering heroin addict. Aren't you looking right at her, mom?! She's vomiting blood all over your clean bathroom!

The grossness persists and escalates. She tries to kiss three people (two of whom let her) with a sore at the corner of her mouth, grey, rotting teeth, and what has to be some galloping morning death breath. I might be a little fussy, but I don't want to touch mouths with someone who has spinach stuck in their teeth, even if they do have a cute, interesting nose.

There's no reason to watch this film. It's ridiculous, yet even with the "here's my motivation, see?" acting and unrealistic, "man, you look like shit, are you feeling well?" reactions to physical decay, it's still not over-the-top enough to truly be a work of unintentional art. Your time might be better spent writing haikus about your lover's burrito farts, or digging that gunk from under your fingernails.

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Tuesday, January 13, 2015

I Play Sims 2 (part9)

You can't confuse death, Harris. Just like you can't pop a goulash.
Looks like someone tried to pop something all over Mina's new grown-up shirt.
Giuliana had her baby! I named her Gigi. She has spectacular eyebrows.
That crib sheet looks like someone has been pooping Rorschach tests.
Gigi grew into a toddler, as one does.
It's at this point, my game decided it was time for shenanigans. This bores Gretchen, who's seen it all.
Mina goes into labor near the green thing.
Gigi has become a world-weary child. I'd feel the same if I got stuck to my grandmother's torso for no reason.
Giuliana has taken up a career as an aerobics instructor circa 1986.
Mina's daughter Holly became a toddler before I started paying attention to her.
Also happening while I was in a Sims-trance - Gretchen spinning Gigi until she blows fluffy blue chunks.
Giuliana ... well. I find this hard to explain. But I guess there wasn't much money in wearing leg warmers.
Gretchen's gone. I hope she's kicking Harris' butt, wherever it is that Sims go.
Holly's a major princess, I guess.
With a minor in same-sex jitterbug.
Gigi's looking cuter.
Giuliana, don't forget your castanets.
Mina's a high-ranking ... military thing, uh - person.
Both girls participate in dare-devilry.
Although, Holly could find better ways to display bravery than offering her arm as a snack to a stray dog.
Holly's a teenager, and it's freaking her out.
I like this. It's been awhile since my Sims clumped with their guests somewhere other than the bathroom.
But I think this farshtunken visitor needs a few minutes with a hose. Go home, weirdo.
So, apparently astronauts carpool to the shuttle.
So comfortable, you can check your sites in it.
Holly's dating a lumberjack whose talent is hovering a ball with his mind.
Gigi got herself a ginger who likes his belly poked. Or at least tolerates it.
Aaand let's wrap this chapter up with a little abuse. A high note.

I Play Sims 2 (part10)
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