The Supervisor

This happened the other day:

Other than the talking part, but I know what his meows mean....

Then last night, I'm watching TV and I look over into my bathroom, and I see this.  I have no idea what it means, but I am pretty sure it is an intimidation tactic.

Portal

Do you ever have those dreams where you're in school and you're supposed to be going to a certain class but you realize you haven't gone to that class in like... 8 weeks, and so now it feels like it would just be embarrassing to show up and be all, "Hey, algebra class, I'm back...oh... we have a test? Shit. Also, why am I only wearing a towel?"

Yeah, well that is why I haven't posted anything for like a month.  I took the 22nd off because it was husband's birthday, and then it spiraled into, "Well, shit, I can't go back... I don't have an excuse for not posting now." Only, I do have an excuse...

That is not entirely true, I guess. I have a whole list of things I could write about that I haven't... like the fact that there is a portal to another dimension that has followed me around since I was a child.

In 1984, my parents bought me and my sister a Barbie Silver 'Vette. It was entirely bitchin'.

source

Unfortunately, when we went to put it together, there was a piece missing, the roll bar that held the back window on... not that that really bothered Barbie much. She was well aware that rolling her Corvette without the roll bar was going to do her no harm because her head is made of soft plastic, and it had seat belts. It was just kind of a bummer because the box was sealed, and a piece was missing. I still had loads of fun playing with it for the next 8 years.

Several months later, however (or maybe weeks, I don't know, time is exponentially more wibbly wobbly when you're an 8 year old), I was rummaging in a closet in my grandmother's den, and there was the friggen roll bar, just hanging out with some sensible shoes and a few scarfs.

In the past 29 years, I have had all sorts of things disappear and then reappear at a later time, but I was reminded of the 'Vette incident when we recently had our kitchen and pantry floors redone. My husband stashed as much as he could in cabinets and then moved everything else out of both of the rooms. When everything came back, the lids to all of our pots were gone. We looked through every cabinet, every box, in the basement, EVERYWHERE.

A month or so later, I was sitting next to the kitchen sink, waiting for water to boil, and I thought, 'Eh, I know we've looked under the sink a bajillion times, but why the hell not?' and I peeked in the cabinet and the motherfuckers were sitting right there out in the open.

Seriously, we had pulled everything out of there. They weren't there, and then, all of a sudden, they were.

I have thus surmised that it has to be an inter-dimensional portal that is responsible for the phasing of my belongings in and out of my environment. It is really the only thing that makes sense.

Microwaves Might Be Time Vortexes.

Seriously, why are microwave minutes so much longer than regular minutes?

Below is an artist's rendering of waiting a minute for something to heat in a standard microwave.

And since I know you can't see that, here it is, woefully chopped up:

How Outlines are Trying to Ruin My Life.

I am extremely mad at outlines, because I am fairly certain they are the only reason why my spell checker doesn't mark lower case "I"s as incorrect.

I will now outline all the reasons that outlines should go fuck themselves.

"Why Outlines Should Go Fuck Themselves"

I. They make me look stupid when I accidentally type "i" instead of "I" when typing quickly.
     A.  I am not dumb
               i. I have a college degree.
              ii. I graduated 8th in my high school class with a grade point average of 3.919.
             iii. I use big words and stuff.

     B. I should get kudos for typing quickly, instead of looking foolish.
               i. I learned to touch type by chatting for hours on end, which makes me cool.
              ii. I use more than one finger per hand to type, and am the only person in my household to do so.
             iii. I can type in the dark and while watching reality TV shows.

II.New outlines don't even use roman numeral support lists anymore.
     A. Apparently, kids today can't handle roman numerals.
               i. They're not being forced to conform to the stupid standards that we were, which is kinda unfair.
              ii. If I had to do that shit, they should have to also.

     B. Spell Checkers are totally out of date.
              i. In addition to not marking lower case "I"s as incorrect since Arabic numbers are now the
                standard, they don't know the word Wasabi.
                   1.Or internet. . .
                        a. But they do know the word shillelagh.

III. Conclusion.
     A. Outlines and Spell Checkers are acting in collusion to screw up my ability to look like the smarty pants I am.
            i. They should go fuck themselves, as a result.

Anti-Anti-E

I was asked the other day if I have a Tumblr, and I must say, I really enjoy all of the things that Tumblr has to offer--  like GIFs of Evan Peters naked or licking peanut butter off of a blow up doll. Or for blogs like my friend's "Fuck Yeah, Goatse" page (again, if you don't know what Goatse is, don't just go wantonly googling that shit, you need to be prepared for it*),

 or Tard the Grumpy Cat's blog  (holy shit, I cannot get enough of that cat!), 

or Chandler Bing Dances on Things,   

(source, there ^)

but I don't have a Tumblr account, and I won't because I won't support companies that discriminate against the letter E.



I feel the same way about Flickr, but Yahoo went ahead and set up an account with them without my permission since once upon a time, I had a Yahoo email account and I verge on being an internet hoarder, so I never unregister for sites that sign me up (seriously, still get Netlog notifications... never signed up for it, but I am there, apparently).

I want to know what exactly they have against Es.

Yes, I know the E isn't needed. We don't REALLY pronounce it. But you don't pronounce both of the Es in my name but you don't see me spelling my name Jod.

So I guess what I'm saying, is that unless someone else signs me up for Tumblr, I won't have an account there where I will be forced to waste hours of my life looking at and reblarging pictures of cats and porny gifs.



*Also on the topic of Goatse, after watching this commercial (below) over and over again, I think that Goatse would be an excellent security password picture for a Windows 8 machine.

also, as a reminder, Hanukkah starts in 4 days, and as always, there will be 8 crazy days of me posting horrible/amusing things for you guys! So be there, or one of them will be Goatse.

How to Annoy the World in 5 Simple Steps

Last night, while watching the Olympics Closing Ceremony, I came up with the best idea ever, which I have drawn up to share with you all.
This is all the more reason that I need to become rich and famous... or just rich, really.

Are You Experienced?

One of the crappiest things people can do, in my opinion, is insisting, when someone reports their personal experience, that said person with experience is clearly stupid/crazy/lying/in denial and is unaware of what is going on in their own life.

This applies to all sorts of experiences,
Like fat people who are told:

or writers of blargs who are told:
JUST STOP BEING DEPRESSED! YOU WON'T HURT IF YOU JUST GET OVER YOUR LIFE CRUSHING DEPRESSION!
Yeah. Not depressed.
DEPRESSION MANIFESTS IN COUNTLESS WAYS!
Does it ever manifest in being happy and content with your life, and being really motivated, because then maybe, yes, I am terribly depressed, but otherwise, NO, I AM NOT AND I AM GOING TO SHOVE A WAREHOUSE FULL OF TWINKIES UP YOUR BUTT IF YOU DON'T STOP TELLING ME I AM!

If someone is trying to tell you that your account of your own experience is wrong, or tries to assign feelings to you without really listening to you or even asking you how you feel, chances are, they are either trying to manipulate you, or they are an asshole.

After having been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia last week, I was sent to see a therapist yesterday to treat my "depression caused" Fibromyalgia. I willingly submitted to testing and answered questions on a little digital box to measure my sanity:

Er, does that count having to wake up to pee 10 times a night?
No. You have a reason for that, it means if you don't have a valid reason.
Okay, then no.

What? I don't abuse drugs at all! What the hell kind of question is this!? I don't think you can abuse a substance less than not doing them at all, unless I started doing nice things for drugs, like making them fancy dream houses with a working elevator or something?

False?

What's going on here? I mean they haven't in a while.

 Well, I guess true, now...


And after about 10 minutes, I had read and answered all of the questions to the best of my ability, since it asked many loaded questions along the line of "Have you stopped beating your wife? Y/N" What!? Wait! I don't even have a wife. Crap. This test should have been written by someone with a background in ambiguities.

And then the very lovely man who was assigned to talk to me plugged the test box into the the computer and a piece of paper issued from his printer with my results and after reviewing them, he said "As I am sure you are well aware, there is not a damned thing wrong with you psychologically." Which is what I have been saying to my doctors all along.

Introducing SST!

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Skynet 1.0: Abuse of the RedBox

After watching my mother try to rape the Redbox Kiosk with the movies she was returning for me, because I have my nephew's cold and didn't want to get out of the car in subfreezing temperatures, I am fairly certain that this sort of thing  is the beginning of the Skynet Incident.
They didn't show it in the Terminator movies, but clearly, the repeated abuses of these machines are going to lead to a revolt where machines start attacking and murdering humans.

At the very least, RedBox should set up hidden cameras to record and broadcast, for our amusement, the various ways in which people are unable to figure out the operations of their machines.

The Tribute

You're flipping through the channel guide:

All Adam Sandler movies?! OH NO!!!


You immediately google:

Adam Sandler Dead?!

Super Sneaky Lard-O-Matic

As much as I don't like offending other people, I find that just being me tends to do it sometimes. As I alluded to in "When Food Attacks," I don't diet. Beyond my base objections to it, I have a billion allergies and food intolerances and a disease that made me starve for 6 years as a result, so I'm not interested in denying myself food by choice. In general, I tell people this once and they leave me alone, but sometimes, strangers like to be helpful, noticing that I am what people consider 'OMG SO FAT!' and assume that I am obviously dieting and need their helpful advice, which I don't. I've learned from this that it really freaks people out when you respond to secret special diet information with, "Oh, thanks, no, I don't diet." It's this scandalous moment when I could have just as easily said, "Oh, no thank you, do you have grandchildren? I would like to roast them and eat them while baying at the moon, naked."

I know that it is easier sometimes to just nod and wander away, but some people just won't leave it alone.

The diet conspiracy lady approached me several years ago in the frozen food aisle of a Publix Supermarket. I had to work the next day and didn't feel like making myself lunch and so I was looking at the huge selection of frozen entrees that were on sale. I stood there, slack jawed, looking at all the different varieties wondering if any of them were actually palatable. Crazy diet lady sidles up to me. 'Oh lord, she is gonna start talking to me,' I realize after I've made accidental eye contact with her.
"A lot of choices, huh?"
Fuck... fine, my fault for looking at her, "Sure are. Do you know if any of these actually taste good?"
"I mean, some of them are okay, I've been trying to drop those last 20 pounds so I know this one is pretty good, very low fat, but you don't want those, you want these," and she motions over to a freezer full of a popular diet company's dinners which happen to be 3 times more expensive than the ones I was looking at. I look over, smile and nod politely and try to steer my way back to the sale dinners. "These," she points to more low calorie meals, "you should NEVER get these."
"Oh," I say.
"Oh, yes, I heard, " she says, leaning in, "That they SNEAK calories into their food."
"Oh, I'm not worried about calories..."
"What!?" she sounds nervous.
"I, uh, I don't diet. I was just looking for something that was cheap and fairly tasty."
"Oh," she says. "Oh..." and she grabs her cart and scampers away, looking back at me like I just admitted I like licking kitten feet.

Which, with their forays into litter boxes, I totally am not into.

As much as it may be your urge, I am not interested (still) in debating the topic of dieting. At all. Still a humor blarg.  And "OMG SO FAT" is not an insult in my eyes so no need to try to reassure me.  I am quite content in my body, no matter what the size. That is all.

Use our MRI or DIE!

I went today for an MRI on my brain to prove, once and for all, that I do not have either tumors, or a woodsman in my brain causing my headaches.

When I met my technician I didn't catch his name, but let's call him Chip, he looked like a Chip. I told him, as we walked to the MRI room, "I'm gonna try not to freak out, but I cannot promise anything." Chip assured me that he would do his best to hurry and was super nice about explaining to me what would happen, though I knew because I can't go into a situation without researching it thoroughly, especially when it might tell me I have a woodsman in my head. Plus, I watch a lot of House. I was then told I could listen to music while they did the procedure. I, of course, chose the 80s music channel and Chip offered to turn the music way up so it would drown out the sound of the machine. Thanks for the thought Chip; it totally didn't work.

And then, and I had considered this, it played a song by Van Halen that my stupid idiot jerk boyfriend from high school used to cry through because "It was SO meaningful and deep." No, idiot, "When It's Love" is not deep, you're just a tool. Plus, seriously, Sammy Hagar sucks, I mean compared to David Lee Roth... He was alright on his own, but Van Halen totally fell apart when they replaced David Lee Roth. I wish they had played Panama, or Ice Cream Man, or anything that didn't remind me that I dated a stupid jerk for way too long, but it was amusing, being stuck in a tube with sub-par Van Halen and my memories.
Then they played "Centerfold" by the J. Geils Band which I loved, clearly, because if you don't love that song, you suck*, or haven't heard it. And then "Tenderness" by... who the heck sings that song... General Public? Who knew... probably people who really like General Public.

Part way through "When It's Love," Chip called into me to make sure I was okay and then told me there were only 6 minutes left. He didn't, however, tell me that those were the six loudest, most terrifying minutes of the procedure. Towards the end, the machine started shaking and beeping like there was a nuclear melt down happening. It crossed my mind that the Yellowstone Caldera had finally blown and that Chip had fled for his life and I was going to die wedged in a tiny tube.

But, I have already gotten the results back and my brain is, apparently, completely normal. I think that their definition of "normal" may be a bit skewed but my headaches are just headaches and I can finally say for sure:



IT'S NOT A TUMOR!


*sorry for telling you you suck if you hate this song. I've just been through something traumatic, you'll have to forgive me.

Gingivitis was the true reason for extinction!

More dinosaur facts from my Nephypoo (who turns 5 this Sunday! Whee!):

"Dinosaurs can't brush their teeth because their arms are too short!"

The Grand Canyon Incident

I've become convinced, over the years, that my parents were enrolled in some sort of incentive program with the US Government or possibly a secret military experiment* in which they were paid to do crappy things and then send in detailed information on how I reacted to said government agency. Perhaps some sort of psychological warfare deal.

 My parents are generally good people, did lots of volunteer work, were supportive of our extracurricular activities, helped us with our  homework, threw some of the best birthday parties ever, but every once in a while, they did things that were so crappily out of character, I just cannot explain it any other way than to say someone was encouraging them to fuck with me.

One of these times is now referred to as "The Grand Canyon Incident."  I've never been to the Grand Canyon. I spent a year living in Arizona with my grandparents when I was in first grade; we lived in the suburbs of Phoenix while my mom and dad were stationed in Okinawa, Japan.  I am fairly certain that I wasn't aware of its existence then, because if I had been, I probably would have pestered people to take me, immediately.

However, by the time I had finished 10th grade, I had totally seen the episode of the Brady Bunch where they visited, one time when I was home sick from school, and I had also seen National Lampoon's Vacation, and at some point I had gotten my hands on 1950s postcards of the Grand Canyon and goddammit, I wanted to go. So, when it was announced that we would be visiting my grandparents in Arizona and I was told that we would be driving a rental car across the state to sightsee, I immediately put in my bid to go visit that amazing giant hole... (I don't want to say Grand Canyon over and over again but all of the descriptive stand-ins I can think of sound like dirty dirty euphemisms) and my request was met with whole-hearted consent. "No problem! Sounds great! We'll go!"

Now, I must divulge that, in my family, nagging is the main cause of plans being canceled, and I know this, and I have a problem with getting excited and talking about something ad nauseum and so, after having been met with "You had to go and say something and ruin it for everyone!" many times prior in my life,  I was VERY careful to keep my big mouth shut after I was told that my vacation request would be fulfilled.  I, of course, wanted to sing songs of joy at the top of my lungs at getting to go, as we drove through the desert, which would have sounded a lot like:

( Come on, sing along! "OMG THE GRAND CANYON! HOW I LOVE YOUR RUSTY HUES! YOU ARE THE BEST HOLE THAT I'VE NEVER SEEN, BUT I WILL SEE YOU SOOOOOOOOOOOON!")

 But again, I knew I could only chance about 1.75 mentions before I pissed off my parents enough that they would snap and cancel the plan, so I sat in the back of the rented white Ford Taurus and swelled with very quiet excitement inside, while listening to Skid Row tapes on my off-brand Walkman, as signs began to appear announcing the distance to my vacation Valhalla.

And finally, I knew it was safe! I was in the clear, and so I pointed to the right and said "DAD! IT'S THE NEXT TURN OFF! THE GRAND CANYON! 2.2 MILES! OMG YAY!" and my dad looked over at my mom as I bounced in the back seat and squealed silently, and then, studying the look between them, I said "Aren't we gonna go?" and I was met with, "Eh... I don't really feel like going," and then we drove past the turn off, and then I died inside.

And it didn't occur to me at the time, but surely it was an experiment.  They probably got the crappy rental car comped from the government, and it was most likely wired with cameras so they could study the reactions of the 15 year old female subject experiencing the effects of complete and total devastation and confusion, because the government are the kind of assholes that would do something like that. Right?

And I've yet to see the friggen thing. I want to.  I need to. I will... or else.


(* since I did grow up on a military base and spent a lot of time in Naval Hospitals early on- they say it was because of Agent Orange, but I know better...)