Life experience mash-up

She wants the what?!!?

2014-08-09T20:30:00.001-07:00

I love my mom. She's kind, generous, and adorably nutty.
She is also the world's worst gift-giver.

But before you crucify me as an ungrateful brat, let me be clear; her gifts aren't terrible within themselves, it's not like she doesn't care... they're hilariously bad because she's so damn thoughtful. Which I have the upmost appreciation for.

Basically, my mother is a pro at coming breathtaking close to giving an amazing present, only to blow it in the fourth quarter. Successfully snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

For example, on my birthday last year she got me a bright purple T-shirt with John Wayne's face emblazoned on it. It's tragic, because I completely understand her thought process. She knows I love John Wayne and purple is one of my favorite colors. In mom-theory, it should be awesome! But this is so bad, even a hipster would have trouble wearing it ironically.

Seriously. This is beyond kitsch.

However, she outdid herself a few days ago...

While vacationing in a small town on the coast of Lake Michigan, with my future in-laws no less, she had the very thoughtful idea of getting my sister a gift.

My sister goes to a college in Detroit, their colors are white and green, and my mom knows that my sister has an affinity for Detroit, however, I don't think she quite thought this one through.

Keep in mind, she made this purchase in the company of my future mother-in-law, and left it in a bag for my sister to find with a note that said "Hope it fits!"

Hope. It. Fits.

Yes. This is for real.

Love you, Mom! You adorable nut!

A tumblr of the girl who punched my mother. In. The. Face

2013-12-11T09:17:00.002-08:00

You are an embarrassment

3 things no one tells you about private investigating

2013-11-11T11:52:00.000-08:00

I didn't start out with ambitions of becoming a private investigator.

Until recently, I had never given the profession much thought. Except to dismiss it as a quaint second job whose existence had gone the way of zoot suits and switchboard operators.

There's a reason you won't find too many color photos of these guys.

Everything I knew about private investigating had been derived from old movies and 80's TV shows...

Yet despite my ignorance, I knew that a red Ferrari does not a good surveillance vehicle make.

... and it always struck me as kind of a shady occupation. But in one of life's odd little twists I happened to fall into a position at an investigation agency. So now when I'm not dealing with felons, I'm a hired creeper.

Yup, I'm the lurker in the background of all your photos.

In the time that I've been working, I've come to the conclusion that for the average person, private investigating has been either heavily romanticized or viewed with extreme suspicion.
In reality, it's neither. And definitely not all hazy bars and blowsy dames with legs for hours. Bad news written all over her like October of '29...

Nope.

Because mostly, it's just...

1. A waiting game of epic proportions.

I have spent upwards of eight hours just sitting in my car. I realize that may not sound so bad. Most of us spend that much time sitting at an office desk every day. Unfortunately, it's an office without a bathroom, so don't even think about drinking coffee to help you stay awake. Or really anything for that matter. Peeing is not an option for you. Unless you get really good at inserting your own catheter...

"Kind of eerie isn't it? Like looking into your future.."

Or are a dude, in which case you'd just pee into that old Mt. Dew bottle anyway.
Because you're gross.
I bet you have some pee bottles hanging out on a shelf somewhere, don't you?

The bathroom was literally ten feet away, but no, this, this is much better.

Anyway...

You will get cranky and desperate while waiting, but god forbid you zone out or get distracted by your phone and miss something.

Please let something happen. Just something.
Anything.

Yet you can't focus too much on one area either, especially if it's dark out, or else your eyes will start playing some truly horrific tricks on you.

Like zombies and other unpleasant things...
Go ahead, stare for awhile and tell me you don't think the apocalypse is nigh.

Fortunately, in this day and age, there's a lot of portable technology to help stave off boredom. So, as long as you only glance at your phone/tablet/computer for a few seconds at a time, you'll be good to go.
In the meantime, get cozy. You're going to be here for a while.

And are about to discover a whole new level of boredom.

Here's some "Helpful Tips" for things to bring:
-Pack a cooler with water (no diuretics) and snacks to keep your energy up.
-Bug repellent, for when it's hot and you need your window open. The ones that clip on can be attached to your sun visor and work surprisingly well.
-Your camera! "Duh" right? I actually forgot mine once. Thankfully I was able to correct my error with no harm done, but you better believe I've been paranoid about it ever since.
-Invest in a socket converter and some extra batteries and thank me later.
-A flashlight. It's seriously handy.
-Change of clothes, or at least an extra shirt. There's no telling when you may need to "reinvent" your look.

There's about a million other things that you can also bring, but this is a blog post not a book, dammit. Essentials only.

It could always be worse though, like...

2. Hanging out in bars. Definitely not all it's cracked up to be.

You know what's not fun? Following people around during their "night on the town".

See this? This is the worst.

I know, I know. It sounds hard to believe, especially since you get to move around, things are actually happening, and most importantly, there's usually a bathroom nearby.

I promise to never take you for granted.

But in reality, it's pretty damn difficult. You need to blend in, keep constant tabs on your person without staring a hole through their head, and be ready to follow them at a moments notice without looking like you're following them.

And you're probably going to have to enlist a buddy.

The buddy system is necessary for a few reasons; if you're female and working alone, you may be mistaken for a hooker, an easy hook-up, or a weirdo. If you're a guy working alone, you may be mistaken for an easy hook-up, a stalker, or a weirdo.

Some things are just awkward for everyone.

Traveling in pairs lets you blend in and achieve some degree of normalcy. But it's still not all giggles and good times, because, guess what? It's a bar, and you're going to need to get a drink in your hand.

Damn this delicious amber liquid.

Seriously, you do not want to be the only odd duck drinking water, but you've got to keep alert too. Even if you just stick with beer, you'll get tired faster and be less focused.

So what's a professional stalker to do?
Try this: have the bartender give you a short glass of cola or water with a lime in it. You won't get tipsy, and it'll still appear as though you're imbibing like a good little bar fly.

This is my eighth H2O-tini.
My kidneys may explode...

Also, carry cash and TIP YOUR WAITSTAFF! Nobody needs the bartender giving you the side eye and/or calling you out while you're trying to film some nefarious activity. Good tips get most staff on your side, and paying with cash is preferable to anyone seeing your name on a credit card. Or worse, losing the person you're following because they've already left while you're still trying to close out a credit tab.

But no matter how smooth you may be, just remember...

3. You're going to screw up.

It's inevitable. There are far too many variables in play and people are the most un-frickin-predictable creatures on the planet.

Like those who only use turn signals some of the time.
(Yeah, following these guys is a breeze..)

In between that, equipment malfunctions (these bastard cameras just will not focus fast enough in low light), and good old-fashioned fuck-ups, this shit is not as easy as it may look.

During a particularly stupid moment, I was so confident that my video camera was in my bag I didn't even bother checking just to make sure. Got to the location, started rummaging around... No camera.

Then, while just about breaking the sound barrier trying to get home to retrieve said camera, I got a flat tire...

Ffffffuuuuuu...

Fortunately I keep a jack, tire iron, and full sized spare in my trunk...
Got back on the road in under five minutes.

Personal best, bitches.

But the nuttiest thing about that entire experience was that none of it mattered. (Thankfully) nothing happened that entire night that was worth filming.

I've had other screw-ups too, I've been burned, my timing has been off, my ghillie suit got caught on some bushes and I would up dragging half the forest into my car with me...

Shockingly, this thing is also not great for blending into all backgrounds.

But hey, shit happens. Learn from it and move on.

Oh, and check your blind spot.

Don't F with my comfort... food.

2013-08-21T20:28:00.000-07:00

Like most people, I love food.

Well, not love love. I'm not trying to have a pudding orgy.

No thank you.
Too messy.

But I think that when you rely on something for your very existence, something that excites all of your senses, you become more than just friends.

You may even go on wacky adventures and have something akin to a religious experience with food.

And speaking of sustenance, is there really any food better than comfort food?

You just drooled a little didn't you?
It's okay, go ahead and take a moment to clean your keyboard.

Okay, it's not the healthiest thing to do, but we can't all be Richard Simmons. So, when the weather is crappy or I'm having a less than stellar day, I like to fill up my face hole with delicious comfort food.

Mmm... tender.

But it pains me to discover, while ordering off ye olde menu, (What? Surely you don't expect me to cook during these strained times?), that some of the local hash slingers and manufacturers of all things unhealthy and butter-laden are tampering with perfection.

Can we all just agree that these comfort foods have reached the apex of culinary greatness? No more work need be done! Just recreate these blessed dishes and stand back while we stuff our faces full of starch and dead animal flesh.

Specifically, things like...

Meatloaf

One of the few foods to inspire a singing career, it's such a humble meal, but oh so satisfying in the simplicity of it's construction. You mold ground beef into the shape of a loaf and bake it like bread. It's a loaf of meat. Meatloaf. Impossible to screw up. Just top with ketchup and brown sugar for immediate satisfaction.

"Yeah, baby. Cover me with sugar and I'll be your paradise by the dashboard light.
Oh god... I'm so lonely."

There may be a few small differences, yet the basics remain the same. But dammit, if the local chefs aren't determined to put their own stamp on this homey dish.... with disastrous results.

It's a loaf of dead cow.
Do we really need more protein?

I recently want out to lunch with a co-worker. Meatloaf was on the menu. We ordered some, expecting a slice of moist meaty goodness, but what came out of the kitchen was instead a hunk of ground chuck covered with some weird spicy brown sauce. Nary a dollop of ketchup in sight.

Of course I ate all of it.... because I'm a pig and Jim Gaffigan is my spirit animal, but it was a less than satisfying experience that I felt could have been remedied had the cook simply NOT FUCKED WITH PERFECTION!

But meatloaf isn't the only victim...

Chicken Salad

Mmm.... eat me plain or between some buns.

Granted, chicken salad is one of those "let's throw a bunch of leftovers in with some mayo" type of meals, but I think there are a few items that can safely be banned from this poultry and mayo slathered love fest.

Allow me to relay this horror story: I once was given a chicken salad sandwich that was studded with jalapenos and streaked with mustard.

It was just.... no.

Why?! Why would you ruin something so innocent and pure?!
You monster!

We are no longer on speaking terms...

Mac 'n' Cheese

OH GOD YESSS!!
Cover me with cheese and bacon drippings and let me die happy!
Stomach full. Arteries fuller.

Besides maybe toast, this was probably the first "meal" we learned how to "cook". Courtesy of those sodium-coma-inducing Easy Macs.
The cheesy goodness of mac 'n' cheese is especially forgiving of intrepid chefs in the making.
Want to kick things up a notch by adding bacon? Sure.

Oink oink, bitches.

Care to give your body hope that you'll actually consume something healthy by throwing in some vegetables? No problem!

It almost looks like you tried.

You know what, nevermind. I just realized mac 'n' cheese is perfect. You can't hurt it.
It takes on all comers and wraps them in a warm cheesy embrace.

Shhh.... shhh you're safe now.
Surrender yourself to the cheese.

Yet as happy as all these foods make me, chips... with dip... are my crack.
And are also the one food most likely to be suffering from an identity crisis.

Chips.

Bet you can't have just one... dozen.

Food that tries to taste like other food bothers me. Because it never tastes like the food it's supposed to emulate. If I wanted chicken and waffles, dammit, I would have gotten chicken and waffles! Not this sad excuse of waffly chicken in chip form.

I believe the word you're looking for is "abomination".

But the chip companies seem to have taken it upon themselves to keeping pushing the envelope, and then tearing it open and lighting it on fire, as they continue to come up with weird ass flavors of chip from atop their thrones of cocaine and weed.

I mean, a cheeseburger chip? Really?

McDonalds is open 24/7.
We don't need you.

Goddammit Doritos, you've already climbed into bed with Taco Bell
and birthed the unholy deliciousness that is Doritos Locos Tacos.
You've gone mad with power!

Sure there's something to be said for taking risks and doing something different. I mean, the first person to try out cow's milk was probably thought to be a whack job at first, but now we have ice cream, so I guess that worked out...

Spectacularly well I might add.

But how many testing stages did this stuff have to go through before it was given the green light?
Who are these people? What were they on?

Words fail me.

I guess what I'm saying is, just please don't mess with our comfort food. And also... who's your dealer?

Stalker for Hire

2013-07-19T18:37:00.001-07:00

Savannah, Georgia.

Twelve o’clock in the afternoon.

The sun beat down on the roof of my car, windows only slightly cracked to catch the rare breeze.
I sat low in the driver’s seat, throat parched to the point that my tongue felt welded to the roof of my mouth. Shirt drenched in sweat.

But not nearly this sexy.

I had hired on with an investigation agency back in April for the sole purpose of making some extra money. Troy had given me the idea after he saw me responding to a craigslist ad requesting a cleaning lady.

Investigating definitely beats filling out invoices for more lemon pledge

One online class and several bureaucratic hoops jumped through later, and I was a certified, qualified, licensed and insured private investigator.

Suitable for all your stalking needs.

Which is how I came to be waiting, camera in hand, in the crowded parking lot of an anonymous apartment complex. Slowly dying of dehydration and boredom, all in the hopes of getting about fifteen seconds of video of a woman leaving the apartment of her current boyfriend-on-the-side.

Because it is NEVER this easy.

Since working for what shall be hereafter known as “The Agency”…

Well excuse me for trying to romanticize a job
for which the primary qualification is being able to hold your bladder.

…I’ve served subpoenas, casually tailed cars, and typed reports. But mostly, I stalk people.

Minus the psycho factor..

There are four military bases within an hour’s drive of Savannah. With so many spouses deployed, adultery cases are my norm.

I try not to concern myself with the moral quandary of who’s cheatin’ who, who’s being true, and who don’t even care anymore.

Thank you Alan Jackson for your succinct prose.

I’m just in the creepin’ business. And business is (maybe not surprisingly) good.

Consequently, I’m using the relationship woes of others to fund my own upcoming nuptials.

And that, Alanis Moirssette, is pretty damn ironic.

Lets not argue about the definition.

Engagements, Valentines Day, and Ten Tons of Dirt

2013-02-15T19:29:00.001-08:00

So, about a month ago, a nifty little thing happened...

I got engaged.

SQUEE!!!

We were sitting on the ol' futon, watching "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia", and drinking Irish coffees when he decided to get serious.

^ Which is pretty hard to do in the middle of this nonsense ^

Basically, it was the most romantic thing ever.

......... ........ ........ ........ ......... ........ ........ ........ ......... ........ ........ ........

Oh really? Well, what the fuck do you know!? Were you there?!

I thought not...

......... ........ ........ ........ ......... ........ ........ ........ ......... ........ ........ ........

Anyway, I could wax poetic about how I almost spilled whiskey laden coffee all over myself, but, let's be real, no one really cares about that...

But, hell, you know, you get a ring on your finger and suddenly your favorites tab is chock full of dresses, cakes, and other fun things. And then you leave the realm of pinterest and discover how much those things actually cost and then you feel sick and consider just eloping...

Peace out my homies.
This is happening.

But that's no fun either, because having people that you love and care about around is pretty much the best.

And yet, here we are, also renovating this house in the midst of engagement shenanigans.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, while I fantasize about stupidly awesome cakes, the reality is I'm haggling with a guy named Lem over the price of dirt so we can grade around our house.

Fun Fact: Adding a slope of dirt around the foundation directs water away from the house.
Preventing the water from pooling which can lead to mold and other gross things.

We needed about ten tons of the stuff, (not an exaggeration), and I hadn't quite gotten around to scheduling a delivery. However, Troy was able to make the call and had a full dump truck load of dirt delivered.

On Valentines Day.

And they say romance is dead.

Roses and chocolate won't keep. But dirt?

Dirt is forever.

Super exciting weekends

2013-01-11T17:07:00.001-08:00

Pomegranates. The psycho fruit.

2012-12-21T15:23:00.001-08:00

Here for such a short time, that delectably frustrating fruit.
I'll obsess over the holiday arrival of my favorite super food for months. But once they arrive, carefully packaged in crates and bins at the local produce mart, the sweetness becomes cloying and I can't help but reevaluate our relationship.

Sure pomegranates look great, all shiny and red, sporting that weird crown shaped sepal thing, but are they really worth the effort?

Whatever.
You know I look good.

For one thing, you CANNOT multitask while eating a pomegranate. They demand all your attention. Should you try, the jealous juicy mess that is pomegranate will destroy your entire surrounding area. Keyboard? Ruined. Book? Defiled. Controller? Ravaged.

Son of a...

While you and Pomegranate are together, she will not allow any outside distractions.

Say good-bye to your social life, hobbies, and work productivity.

You can't even speak to another human being without Pomegranate getting in the way. Seeds spitting in all different directions, juice running like blood...

Speaking of which...

You will always look like one of two things while consuming Pomegranate.

A serial killer cannibal, or a zombie in the middle of a meal.

Not undead, just on her second pomegranate.

A seed explosion is practically guaranteed while tearing apart the fruit.

One of them will probably hit you in the eye.

Vitamins and nutrients delivered straight to your face!

They're abusive and controlling, but you know they don't really mean to hurt you. Inside they're really very sweet. As long as you keep things contained in the comfort and privacy of your own home...

Otherwise, things quickly spiral out of control.

You love to eat them in private, but refuse to be seen with them in public. Mostly because they make everything about them, and will create the messiest of scenes.

It's a tricky relationship, and once you feel like you've figured out how to handle Pomegranate in all it's beautiful ridiculousness...

They're gone.

I'm out.

Season's Greetings, Pomegranates.

You beautiful psychos.

The 40% parking problem.

2012-12-09T10:34:00.000-08:00

Comparatively speaking, I haven't been a functioning adult for very long. Yet, it seems to be long enough that I've begun noticing a pattern of certain... issues.

Such as...

And with it... The Holidays.

Overstimulating, overspending, overload.

But wait! Here's some happy news! If you have an Average Joe job, (like most of us), as of today, there is only one grossly inadequate paycheck left until Christmas.

Fffuuuuucccc...

Which means that at some point soon, you'll be desperately searching for a parking spot just outside that overwrought beacon of consumables, tinsel, and Auntie Anne's...

The descent begins.. into The Mall.

...because as nice as Amazon is, it's difficult to buy clothes online with any confidence. And then there's that stupid last minute gift for the person you foolishly started dating right before Thanksgiving.

There's a reason why you don't break the rules of dating season.

Even though you thought you had both agreed to keep things casual and not get each other anything, they're hinting that they still picked you up "just a little something" which will probably be lame. But, you'll need to reciprocate anyway, unless you want to be alone for New Year's Eve and Valentines Day... again.

So to the mall you go..

And after cruising the parking lot perimeter for the eleventh damn time, it appears a space has finally become available.

See it? There's an open spot just behind that white SUV!

Just as you begin to think that maybe this won't be so bad, while the first hint of that holly jolly feeling begins to warm your cold Grinch heart, you pull around and almost crash into someone's 1983 Ford Fiesta.

Unobtrusive to a fault.

Or a Vespa, Mitsubishi Mirage, Mazda 323 GTX... you get the idea.

The point is, any time you think there's an open parking space, there is also a 40% chance that a compact car is lurking between two SUV's. Waiting to crush your hopes and send you slinking back to the warm glow of eBay and Amazon.com

There is no cure, there is no prevention, there is only the grudging acceptance that the outside world is an irksome, silly place. And we should all stay inside, in our elastic-less sweatpants, getting drunk on rum, and making impulse purchases of light saber replicas.

Just under $300!

You know.... at least 'til Easter.

Don't drink and blog, especially while feeling sentimental.

2012-11-23T14:28:00.001-08:00

You know when you're younger, and you first discover alcohol, you've got no real standards because you have no experience. So you'll swill anything you can get your hands on. Boone's Farm, Mad Dog 20/20, that cheap Costco beer that just says "Beer".

"Beer".
When only the most generic will do.

But then we get a little older and suddenly the sky's the limit. Even though we're only, like, twenty-three, we start having aspirations of becoming true aficionados.
Maybe we go through a craft brew stage, or an import phase, perhaps we wax philosophical about Yuengling, America's oldest brewery, or the superiority of Argentinian wine.

Not surprisingly, the latter tends to coincide with our "insufferable asshole" stage of existence.

But, for most of us, keeping up such pretense becomes too costly and time-consuming.
Sure, our dalliance with that exotic French label was fun and exciting, but at the end of the day it's just too damn much work. So we drift back toward the safe and familiar. Those comforting brews and vintages that forgo the hype, allowing you to feel comfortable in your own skin. You don't have to pretend to like them for appearances sake...

... not even ironically...

...you like them well enough just as they are.

So honey, I guess what I'm trying to say is; you're fun, easy-going, handy, ready at a moment's notice, practical, economical, and you clean up well.

Babe, you're my boxed wine.

And if that's not the most romantic thing you've ever heard, then yuck fou.

Men, keep this analogy in your cranium for the day when you're being yelled at for being drunk at your in-laws.

Ladies, boxed wine, amiright?! No ridiculous corkscrew accessories, and the party's not over after four glasses.

Thanksgiving

2012-11-17T15:43:00.000-08:00

It's almost Thanksgiving.

That glorious celebration where we eat until we want to puke, and then swill enough of some awful holiday cocktail until we actually do puke.

Tonight's gut-rot is brought to you by the letter "E".
For "Egg". In your drink. 400 calories worth.
Enjoy.

And as we slowly slip into a food coma, we give thanks.
Generally it's for all the usual stuff: family, friends, our health, and our work.

But lets not forget all the smaller blessings that have been granted us, which might not always receive proper recognition on this day of thanksgiving.

For me it's things like...

- Being an hour late for work... only to get there and realize it's Columbus Day.

State paid holiday celebrating a conquering tyrant. Yay!

- Randomly finding one of my favorite childhood movies available for free on YouTube.

Of course it was quickly pulled, 'cause Disney don't play those games.
But it's glorious while it lasts

- Thoughtful strangers

Stuck at a stop sign on a blind corner of a busy intersection. Locked eyes with the driver across the street who was also stopped, but had a clear view. Got a nod and a "you're good to go" hand gesture. Safe crossing.

Sometimes, people are awesome.

- Ninja Poos

At work when there's only two people in the bathroom. Got to go #2, and suddenly the bowels go all stealth. Not a ripple, not a whiff. Perfection.

Everybody poos. Even ninjas.

- Not living alone.

Personally, I cannot live unsupervised.
In college I didn't wash my sheets for nine months and at one point was so poor and lazy I did nothing but watch VH1's "I love the 80's" and "Flavor of Love".
Subsisting solely on peanut butter directly from the jar, I licked it off a spork like a crunchy lollypop. For two solid days.

Thank God I live with a person now.

She's smiling through her mental illness.

- Third flush is the charm

Ha! Sometimes patience is a virtue.

Won't be needing you this time!

- Heat guns

Like a hairdryer on steroids, these babies work beautifully at helping scrap paint off hundred year old door trim.
And are oddly therapeutic...

As an added bonus, there's also a real possibility of burning down the house.
Which just makes me feel like a hardcore hairdryer wielding badass...

- Parking phenomenon

Safely finding a spot for your vehicle is a challenge we all face.

More challenging for some than others.

Trying to find a parking space, or any space to park is often an exercise in futility. So when a spot becomes available that's actually near my destination and there's still time left on the meter, it kind of forces a person to believe in a higher power.

And lo!
The Jetta Sedan completed their quest early and was able to make room for another traveler.
For so it is written.

So for all these reasons, plus many more, I give thanks. Especially for small miracles.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Love via Netflix

2012-11-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

Commitment: You've been together awhile. Time to take the plunge and share a Netflix account.

I love you so much! Let's combine our love for entertainment!
Just be prepared to be berated for twenty minutes when I find out you fell asleep during "Pulp Fiction".

Compatibility: It's important to begin with a solid foundation. Like a natural consistency in checking the mail and a mutual regard for dark comedies.

Did anyone else just see Patrick Bateman while watching "Batman"?

Attention: It's easy in the beginning, but gets harder to pay proper attention to your partner further on, especially when they keep insisting on starting a conversation five minutes after the PS3 Netflix updates have been completed and you're trying to watch "Wilfred".

It's a man in a dog suit, and it's good.
I know! I was just as surprised as you are.

Respect: New episodes of a show you hate, but your partner loves, have been added to instant streaming, and you tell your partner about them anyway.

He's not a psychic, just really observant? Seriously?
The only reason I tolerate it is for the pineapples...

Trust: Having faith that your partner will remember to mail out the old DVD's so that "The NeverEnding Story" will arrive in time for your 1980's movie marathon on Saturday.

Because luck dragons are the shit.

Compromise: Not flooding the DVD Queue with boring "classic" movies, or shitty Steven Seagal "action thrillers".

Tee-hee! It's like Seagal is a pervert.

Bonding: Find that connection to share. Like when you both discover your love for "Archer".

Fuck yes.

Honesty: Not sneakily shifting your movies to the top of the queue to avoid watching "On Deadly Ground".

Ugh. There is just far too much fringe...

Patience: Remaining calm while your partner tries to make claims that Steven Seagal is like a modern John Wayne (he isn't).

Kindness: Sitting through all 127 minutes of "McLintock!" or all 96 minutes of "Submerged" without complaining.

Spontaneity: Agreeing to watch "Toys" on a whim. Discover too late that it's the worst movie ever.

Dammit Robin Williams!
I trusted you!

Communication: Letting your partner know when you're rearranging the lineup of movies in your queue. Checking with your partner before removing anything from instant queue.

What the hell did you do with "30 Rock"?!

Humor: A little less "Requiem for a Dream", a little more "Princess Bride".

Because everyone can use more young Cary Elwes in their life.

Fidelity: Not giving out the damn Netflix password!

Who the hell is watching "Killer Klowns from Outer Space"?

And finally...

Acceptance: Being okay with having half your queue eaten up by Greta Garbo silent films, while the other half drowns in "Zombie Strippers" and Jean-Claude Van Damme doing the splits.

The man's entire career is built on freakish flexability.

Because at this point, who else are you going to find that's so willing to share the journey of conforming ass cheeks to couch cushions?

Yay! 'Merica!

Please don't ruin Halloween.

2012-10-27T08:46:00.001-07:00

Halloween is almost upon us.

Like a horde of bats upon a mosquito infested swamp.

A glorious time! A time to celebrate the grotesque, the macabre, and the sluttyness of the female costume, while small children make cocaine-esque lines with pixie stix and slip into a diabetic coma.

Yes... let the sugar flow through you...

As a child, Halloween was a magical time. Dressing up in a fantastical costume, parading from house to house to knock on strange doors and receive candy! The idea is just so absurd, so mind-blowingly awesome! Why would anyone change such a perfect concept?

But the changes have been coming, slowly at first, yet they seem to have gained momentum. And now, with a fresh crop of overly concerned and protective parents beginning to usher their offspring through their formative years, many of the things that made Halloween so great are in danger of being wiped completely out.

So now I'm asking, begging even...

Parents, when you make that special fall trip to the pumpkin patch, (or Wal-Mart's $5 bin), to bring home that delightful orange gourd, don't paint it up like a garish whore.

Admit it, this ^ is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of jack o' lanterns, not that^.
(And is it just me, or does that painted pumpkin look like a nutsack?)

No, you carve that shit into a jagged face while your children roll up their sleeves to scoop out it's stringy guts. The youngest can pick out the seeds to bake for later. This will get them used to the idea of gutting a carcass when the apocalypse comes and we must all begin hunting possum and feral cats to survive.

That's right, reach right down in there and rip out it's stringy heart.

Also, teach your children respect by respecting the calendar. Too many localities have taken up the practice of moving Halloween trick or treating to whatever day suits them. Halloween is on a weekday this year? Too damn bad. No you cannot move it to the Saturday before!
LIFE DOES NOT ACCOMMODATE! You deal with it as it comes!

I first encountered this disturbing practice while living in rural northwest Georgia.
Halloween fell on a Wednesday that year, so the town elders, already drunk with power from banning alcohol and over-regulating dance halls, decided that trick or treating should be conducted on the last Saturday of the month.

Your satanic calendar means nothing to me!

I wasn't home that weekend, (because I'm still in my twenties and obligated to get my Halloween party on), but on October 31st our house lights were on and a large bowl of candy sat ready by the door in anticipation of the hordes of children who would surely be stopping by.
Know how many trick or treaters I had?

One.

One small girl vaguely resembling a vampire knocked on my door around 8:00pm.

I dumped the entire bowl into her bag.

While we're at it here, can we also please agree that the abomination of Trunk or Treating must be destroyed? Or at the very least, be only an additional accompaniment to real trick or treating but not the whole thing?

Also, you're promoting the idea that good things come out of the car trunks of strangers.
Does no one see how disturbing and weird that is?

Part of the fun of Halloween was exploring your neighborhood after dark, transformed as it was by ghostly decorations and jack o' lanterns. Innocently waving hello to other groups of kids while plotting to ambush them later with silly string...

Heh heh...

It was different, fun, and exciting!

Now kids are just trudging along in a parking lot at 2:00pm, mindlessly holding out their pillow cases as various moms deposit fun sized tootsie rolls into their bags.

What has become of us?

Such an activity is only about one step up from going to the grocery store and buying a bag of Kit Kats, which is something that clinically depressed people do.

Yay.

The value of trick or treating in a neighborhood cannot be discounted. It's like a mock-up of the hunting and gathering skills we'll eventually need to survive the crushing rule of our ape overlords. And as kids get older, they begin to understand the benefits of strategy. Working together as a group to pool their resources and knowledge about which houses give out the full sized Snickers and which give out religious pamphlets.

But seriously parents, please, please, please help bring back Halloween as our parents remembered it. Quit wringing your hands and fretting about the "danger". Let your kids have this one night. Get out there with them and ring some door bells, carve some pumpkins, and make some memories.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

For Hollywood tells me so! (5 ridiculous police myths)

2012-09-27T17:33:00.002-07:00

I have no idea how to make a movie. But I once typed "filmmaking" into Wikipedia.

And holy shit.

Even if it's just three of your closest nerdy hipster friends and an iPhone with filter apps, there is a lot that goes on.
I can't imagine the stress that comes with trying to wrangle the cast, crew, location, and accounting departments for a major studio's big budget flick.

And God help you if it's a period piece.

So, with all the intricacies that go into making a movie, it's easy to see how factual mistakes can occur. And they do. Repeatedly.
To the point where certain things, although incorrect, have become accepted as fact simply because we've seen them happen all the time in movies and on T.V.

Like how this ^ is actually way more common than this ^
And that wheezing noise probably isn't just the oxygen mask...

How law enforcement is portrayed is particularly rife with discrepancies. But besides the stereotypes of idealistic rookie, incompetent prick, thug with a badge, and Danny Glover's being "too old for this shit", here are four things that the entertainment industry loves to screw up.

5. Tasers knock people unconscious.

As seen in: Boondock Saints, Repo Men, Thor

You've seen it before. Someone gets tasered and is immediately out cold for however long it's convenient for the plot of the movie.

Even the immortal God of Thunder is not immune.
Verily.

And while I agree that "magic-knock-out-gun" would be way cooler, in actuality, a taser is just a nifty little device that disrupts the body's nervous system for a five second period, by sending out a low amperage current via two metal probes that stick into the skin.

The two probes make a complete takin-down-a-fool circuit when in contact with the skin.
Just like you learned in science class.

Basically it causes a loss of muscle control, which results in the person or animal falling to the ground. Something that I happen to have first hand experience with...

With very few exceptions, the only way a person will lose consciousness after a taser is deployed on them is because they've whacked their head on something while falling.

And if that still sounds scary, just remember, it beats getting a bullet through the chest.

Speaking of bullets...

4. Couldn't you have just shot 'em in the leg?

As seen in: Blazing Saddles, Shoot 'Em Up, several westerns whose names escape me.

It's a tragic thing to happen. A man wielding a knife in a threatening manner approaches officers.
The man is shot and killed. It turns out he suffered from a mental disorder. A public relations nightmare ensues. His family is stunned.
"He wasn't a violent person. I don't understand. Couldn't they have just shot him in the leg?" Says the concerned neighbor, vaguely remembering a Clint Eastwood movie where he shot a gun out of an outlaw's hand.
It's horrible and unfortunate, but no. No they could not. There's a reason why there's no "leg targets" available.

Just these.

Look down at your leg. It's probably comparable to the width of a Subway 6in, give or take.

Delicious gams.

Now consider your chest. Much wider, eh?
When a person is running, the chest area isn't moving around nearly as much as the legs.
If someone is foolish enough to actively try and shoot an aggressor in the leg there's a very real chance that they'll miss completely, or even worse, strike a bystander.

For that reason, (and a few more), there's not a single law enforcement agency that teaches their officers to shoot for the leg or arm. As well they shouldn't.

Because if you need to stop someone without killing them, that's what tasers are for.

3. Ankle monitors are the last word in offender tracking technology.

Fashionable accessories for your favorite felon!

As seen in: Disturbia, Burn Notice

A felon is on the run, but he can't manage to cut off his tether. The camera pans to several officers touching their ear pieces in concentration. They quickly mobilize and capture the offender within minutes!

You won't be scaring children anymore.

Nope. Not so much.

Here's how it really works.

There are several companies that manufacture and maintain ankle monitors, and although they may have some different fancy features, there are only two main varieties: GPS and radio.

GPS sounds way sexier, and is very effective at pinpointing a person's location at any given time.
But effectiveness = expensive. So GPS is generally only used on sex offenders, although not on as many as you might think...

Sorry, but your children's safety is just really pricy.

The radio variety is far more commonly employed, but can only determine whether a person is inside or outside of their residence. They're kind of like an annoying little sibling who tells on you when you break your curfew.

I know you didn't come home until 1am.
I'm telling Mom!

That being said, let's clear up some of the more common mistaken beliefs associated with ankle monitors...

First off, the police are not immediately notified and sent to investigate if a monitor is cut, or removed, or is outside/inside a particular area.

Someone broke their curfew? Get back to me when there's a real crime.

If an ankle monitor strap is tampered with or cut, a notification is sent to the offender's supervision officer, (usually a parole or probation officer)... two to four hours later.
Think of how far away a person can get in two to four hours.

And then imagine that instead of running, they took a car

GPS systems are faster, but there's still a time lapse. And if the bracelet is gone there's no way of figuring out their location.
But couldn't we just round up a posse, monitor all the bus stations, departing flights, and road block all the streets going out of town?

Posse round up time!
I've waited so long for this.

Unless the person has recently committed as especially heinous crime.... no. Too costly, too disruptive, and too poor a use of manpower.

There's also no effective way to "beat" an ankle monitoring system. The monitor works on the concept of maintaining a complete electrical circuit that's embedded into the rubber of the strap. If the connection is disrupted, either by cutting or taking it apart, then the circuit is broken and a notification is sent out.
No problem! You might say. I'm a circus freak with tiny heels, so I'll just wiggle out. Nope. Sorry. The device also needs to stay in contact with the skin so it can register a heartbeat. Which is why people with prosthetic legs get a monitor attached to their wrist.

Trendy!

But while you can't "beat" the system, sometimes the monitor itself is defective. (Since many agencies tend to go with the cheapest monitoring service instead of the best) And setting one up properly can be quite the process, requiring both the officer, monitoring agency, and offender to work together during initial activation. Pretty obvious how that could be an issue...

Some varieties can be awful temperamental too. Strong magnets, proximity to microwaves, and being submerged in water can mess up the system.

Very imperfect device.

2. Forensic science can solve a case in less than an hour!

As seen in: Bones, CSI everything

A good friend of mine works for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation as a forensic biologist. And although she is just as smokin' as all the other forensic hotties you see on T.V, that's where the similarities end.

Of course.

Granted these are T.V shows, so to avoid confusing their audience, they're only going to focus on one case. But meanwhile, the folks who do this stuff for real are multitasking between several hundred cases.
And no, it will not be concluded in 45 minutes.

You expect us to be accurate and fast?!
How absurd!

So if you need evidence processed, hope you're cool with waiting a few months.
And that's... that's all I've got.
I dunno, I don't work in forensics. But apparently when you're dealing with a few million dollars worth of equipment and minute bits of evidence, things take awhile.

1. Read me my Miranda Rights, bitch.

As seen in: Seriously? You really need examples for this? Fine...
Lethal Weapon, RoboCop, Bad Boys, 21 Jump Street, Running Scared, every arrest scene ever...

Anyway, say you're a sovereign citizen douchebag who just got tasered...

Skip to the two minute mark if you're pressed for time.
May not have been entirely right, but certainly deserved.

Anyway, now you're arrested and on the way to jail.

But wait! Something seems... off.

Memories of the arrest scenes from every cop movie ever come flooding back...

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you..."

A-ha! You've got it! Those dumb cops didn't read you your rights. By the laws of Hollywood, you must be set free!

Haha! Suckers!

Except not.

Unless you're being interrogated, (also known as that scene in the movie where the nice officer gives you coffee and a cigarette while the mean officer threatens to jack you up against the wall if you don't answer some questions), officers DO NOT have to read you the Miranda warning. That's it, plain and simple. And I cannot tell you how tired I am of arguing about it.

Concerts are civilized now?

2012-09-15T09:31:00.001-07:00

I like Train.

Granted, they're not particularly edgy.
Their songs are the ones your mom hums along with while in line at the grocery store.
But they have happy nonsense lyrics and the occasional use of a ukelele.

Their sound is the equivalent of musical comfort food for me.

So last week, after a few months of planning, a week of enduring annoying queries from co-workers, ("Will they be playing 'I've Been Working on the Railroad?'"), and one adorable misunderstanding from my dad, ("If the train thing doesn't work out you could always fly Delta"), my sister and I made the trip to Atlanta to see Train in concert.

Mere hours before the show.
We are pumped.

In keeping with tradition, we were late, or at least horribly misjudged how bad traffic would be.

Line is... so long...

So we ditched the car in the middle of suburbia and proceeded to run the last mile to our destination.

Profuse sweating began immediately.

I should have suspected something was amiss as we passed lines of people carrying massive coolers and bags of "Gourmet to Go". But, this was an outdoor concert. Perhaps they were bringing a boozy picnic?

We arrived, shiny and out of breath. Andy Grammar was about half way through his set as we found our seats and prepared to scream our heads off.

Maybe it was because this was the first time in my life I was able to afford decent tickets, but something seemed off.

It was the tables we noticed first.

There are tables in the stands.
WTF?

Well, Train does tend to appeal to an older crowd, we reasoned. And the fact that they have their own wine company would also explain the many bottles of chardonnay littering the tables.

But it didn't stop there. Apparently these swillers of wine were intent on getting both fancy and schmancy.

Confusion, shock, and dismay set in, as the people surrounding us began digging into their coolers and Whole Foods grocery bags to pull out cheese, grapes, and bruschetta. And wine. So, so much wine.

Of course there were also festive table cloths and fancy plates with colored napkins, that just happened to match the dress of the table's hostess. And naturally the look was completed with the addition of centerpieces and votive candles.

It's also possible we just stumbled into a shooting of Real Housewives of Atlanta.

The second opening act, Matt Kearney, also appeared confused by all the cheese and wine and said as much. A sea of flickering votive candles was the crowd's polite response...

Not the best pic, but you get the idea.
Fun Fact: When over a thousand people are opening bottles of wine and fancy funky cheeses,
the resulting odor is akin to the stank of a fart.

Meanwhile, Sarah and I sat, sans elaborate setup, in the middle of the well-dressed and well-to-do, feeling decidedly out of place.

Warp Tour this was not.

But finally, the sun went down, the stage was set up, and the speakers blasted the sound of a locamotive bearing down on us to signal the beginning of the Main Event.

Eek!

My favorite thing, and the main reason I go to concerts, is to sing as loudly and obnoxiously as possible. I love the idea of hundreds of people coming together to sing along with music that makes them happy.

So of course we were immediately on our feet. Singing, hopping around, and screaming our heads off. Because that's what you do at a concert, dammit.

Although the table in front of us appeared confused that they were even at a concert...

Seriously, when did outdoor spectacles become so civilized?

For a moment I felt kind of sorry for the folks around us and their apparent inability to take in the awesomeness that was directly in front of them.

But then two seconds later Train started playing "Hey, Soul Sister" and I lost my fricking mind.

A couple in the crowd got engaged, the back of the house went nuts, someone knocked over a wine glass, and then another couple got married on stage by track pants wearing ordained drummer Scott Underwood.

Verdict: Love, love, loved the show!

And if you ever go to the Chastain Park Amphitheater, bring all the snacks and booze you can carry. Because management, in their infinite wisdom, has decided that bringing in outside food ain't no thang.

Also: free poster!

A river of wine.
No way!

Props to my sister and her stealth camera phone skills!

The 1950s housewife in me just swooned

2012-09-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

So, this thing --->>

Is the scrumdiddlyumptious bomb diggity Tits McGee of hardwood and tile cleaning.

Fo' cereal.

Cause I was all like...

What has the ability to pick up debris and wash floors without just spreading the dirt around?

And then Hoover Floormate was all...

I don't put dirty water back on the floor.

I had my doubts, but...

Hells yeah bitches

And now, I'd like to apologize for setting the women's rights movement back 50 years.

I think I'll find a man to make me a sandwich now.
Just to even things out.

Here's the thing...

2012-08-11T15:46:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because 2012 is an election year, actually that's probably exactly why.
But here we are in August and I'm getting pretty burned out with all the political rhetoric that's being thrown hither and yon.

Thank you Willow Smith for dumbing it down for us.

Especially with one thing in particular that shouldn't even be a debate...

Ready?

(Deep breath)

Weeeee!
Ehmigawd, so many colors!

So, because I have selfish and egotistical tendencies, and also a fear of being left out, which tends to trump the previously mentioned political exhaustion...

I'd like to add my own humble little turd to this shit storm.

Is that the sound of a collective eye roll? Fair enough.
Here's a link to a gallery of adorable animals to compensate you for your time.

..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... .....

And now I'd like to awkwardly step out on a particularly shaky limb...

I firmly feel that citizens should have the right to bear arms. Cows, pigs, and chickens are delicious. Women should have control over their own bodies. Marijuana might as well be legal and healthcare needs an overhaul.

Also, homosexuality should be devoid of stigma and marriage between two consenting adults should be legal no matter what the gender.

..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... .....

What's the difference between the first and second paragraph? Well, gun rights vs. gun control, carnivore vs. vegetarian, pro-choice vs. pro-life, legalization vs. criminalization, and better healthcare vs. Obama is a socialist devil are all arguments that can and do have valid points on both sides.

No matter which side of those debates you fall on, I'm sure you can come up with a carefully crafted argument that justifies and legitimizes your position.

Maybe "carefully crafted" was being too generous.

But what is the argument against gay marriage? Gay sex is icky and God says it's a no-no?
Because, honestly, that's probably the best claim a person can make against it.

In the past, when I've heard the "homosexuality is an abomination" argument, my eyes glazed over and I simply wrote that person off as being an idiot. Which may not be entirely fair.

Living in the south especially, (not meaning to stereotype, but let's just be real here), the belief that gay marriage simply should not be, is dominate.

Looking pretty anti-equality down there.

And the most commonly touted reason to oppose rainbow wedding cake is because God has declared it to be a sin. Okay, that's your belief system. I'll bite.

But just so no one thinks I'm a total heathen, I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the Bible. In fact there's one sitting on my bookshelf right now. In-between a copy of the Koran and a book about Irish fairytales. Seriously.

See? I'm not godless!

Leviticus is particularly unfriendly toward the idea of gay marriage, and is generally the most often quoted.

Lev. 18:22, "You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination."
Lev. 20:13, "If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death. Their bloodguiltness is upon them"

Seems pretty cut and dry, huh? Well, lets see what else Leviticus has going on.

Leviticus is seriously Old Testament. Serving as a the third of five books of the Torah, the interpretation of which is still whipping Orthodox Jews into a tizzy.
The time period in which it was written is still up for debate, but is generally considered to have been formed during the time of Moses. Also known as that time period when the population of Israelites was quite low, (despite what Exodus may state), and they needed to do the whole "be fruitful and multiply" thing to guarantee the survival of their people, and consequently, their religion.

There's, like, less than fifty people here!

So, at the time, it made sense to forbid same-sex relations. They needed to increase their numbers!

1 Cor. 6:9-10, "Or do you not know that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived; neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor homosexuals, nor thieves, nor the covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers, shall inherit the kingdom of God."

So you're saying anyone who has gotten frisky in the backseat, all the Hindus, cheaters, men who wear pastel shirts, same-sex couples, takers of office pens and post-its, businessmen and stock holders, partiers, people who curse at the furniture on which they stub their toe, and anyone who has hustled at pool, will all be denied entrance to the kingdom of heaven?

Yikes.

Rom. 1:26-28, "For this reason God gave them over to degrading passions; for their women exchanged the natural function for that which is unnatural, and in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function of the woman and burned in their desire toward one another, men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own persons the due penalty of their error. And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do those things which are not proper."

So depraved.

It appears as though the act of homosexuality, and by proxy, the idea of gay marriage is being condemned in both the old and new testament. Dang.

But, 1 Corinthians and the Epistle of the Romans was written exclusively by Paul the Apostle, a man, and being a man, subject to certain prejudices. In particular, he wasn't going to let any uppity woman tell him what to do.

1st Timothy 2:9 "In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array;
10 But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.
11 Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection.
12 But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.
13 For Adam was first formed, then Eve.
14 And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression.
15 Notwithstanding she shall be saved in childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety."

You know what you call a woman with two black eyes?
Told twice.

Okay, hear that ladies? Those engagement rings, flashy shoes, and glitter eyeshadow have got to go. Have aspirations toward becoming a teacher, law enforcement officer, minister, or lawyer? Too bad so sad. Paul says no.

She's also a theology professor...
and is going straight to hell.

In fact, all the passages in the New Testament condemning homosexuality are attributed to Paul.
So, a sexist man, whose collection of letters was compiled thousands of years ago, is going to be the one thing to keep same sex marriage from becoming a reality today.

The idea that that is even possible is astounding to me.

And I'm not even going to get into the whole "Sodom and Gomorrah" thing, (A decent summation of which you can find here.), because this post has already gotten way too long.
If you read it, it seems pretty obvious that an angry group of men is intent on raping a couple of angels. Rapists are terrible people regardless of sexual orientation, so the angels blinded them and then God destroyed the wicked city. The end.

You just know Lot had to be shitting bricks.

As thick of a book as the Bible is, those are the only arguments against homosexuality. Which can be boiled down to a desire to increase the population and one man's prejudice against "dem queers".

Even the Ten Commandments and Proverbs 6:16, (commuted by the Catholic Church into the Seven Deadly Sins), which are generally considered to have come directly from God, and serve as the basis for both Judaism and Christianity, mention nothing about homosexuality.

Nope, not here.

Not here either.

But lets not make this an anti-religion thing. I have a great deal of respect for religion, and many of their churches.
It's not like there are any atheist groups operating homeless shelters or drug rehabilitation clinics the way the Salvation Army does.
A good church will rally around a family in need, and several studies have shown a positive correlation between personal happiness and religion.

It's just that, maybe taking a completely literal interpretation of the Bible isn't the way to go.

Sure, we all have our crosses to bear. But loving someone who happens to be of the same gender shouldn't be one of them.

To deny a person the ability to publicly declare their love and devotion for another, to tell them that they are lesser, and unfit to enjoy the same rights of their heterosexual peers is the real abomination.

And if nothing else, consider this:

Gay marriage = More cake

Something we can all support!

Athleticism vs. Science

2012-08-07T12:13:00.001-07:00

Both are pretty damn impressive.

"Could there be a God that would let this happen?!"

2012-07-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

I love Steve Martin's "The Jerk".

If you've never seen it, then Netflix that shit immediately.

I'll wait.


Comic gold. Amiright?

Three days too long a wait? Fair enough. Anyway, in the movie, one of the scenes featured Steve Martin's character, Navin Johnson, watching an undercover film about illegal Mexican cat juggling.

Horrific stuff. Okay, that movie was made in 1979. Thirty-three years later, this happens:

Man Faces Charges After Kitten Abuse Caught on Camera

Fortunately the kitties are fine, and I think we can all agree that this guy is a douche.
Now, no one here is pro-kitten juggling, but holy shit, is that not incredible?!

*mew mew*

Ugh. God. I'm sorry. I'm an asshole.

Disgusting experiment

2012-07-23T21:04:00.000-07:00

If you're eating, have a soft spot for animals, or get queasy easily, DON'T read this post!
Fo' serious.

Hey, Troy.

Yeah?

There's a vulture in our front yard.

Really? Are you sure?

Sup?

Um, pretty sure...
You know, I've never seen one just hanging out like this before. What do you think it's doing?

Well, there's a dead raccoon in the front yard so...

What?!

Yeah, I noticed it yesterday when I was in the side yard cutting down a tree. (Yup. He's a total lumberjack.) The smell was intense!

Oh my god, I think I see it. Is it that flat looking thing near the walkway?

Troy leans over in chair to peer out window.
Huh. Looks like it moved a little since yesterday. Animals are probably doing a number on it.

That's disgusting.
I turn back to window to survey the scene.
Um, babe, there's like chunks of fur and entrails scattered around out there. This is too frickin gross. What should we do? Do you think we could call the city to come pick it up?

Well, we live in the county, so I doubt it.

What are we supposed to do then? Bag it?

Eh, there's like a million flies out there. Just leave it.

Leave it?

Yeah.

I can't just leave it. Are you crazy?!

It'll decompose in a few days.

So we're just going to have a festering raccoon shaped flesh sack decomposing in our front yard for the next week?!

Well, the sun should dry it out.

Ugh. Whatever. I'm going out there... and I'm wearing your shoes!

Fine.

.....    .....     .....     .....     .....

And go out there I did, wearing poor Troy's work boots out of spite, because...
1. I'm not getting carcass on my shoes.
and
2. I'm a terrible girlfriend.

I like to fancy myself capable of dealing with some pretty gross stuff.
I mean, I've cleaned up vomit at bars, blood and feces in prison, and have seen a number of other pretty disturbing things just working where I do.
But to be honest, it wasn't so much the raccoon carcass putrefying in the hot Georgia sun that caused me to make a hasty retreat as it was the flies.

Image a host of buzzing, crawling, fat black flies. They've stuffed themselves to the point of bursting, yet are still cramming raccoon goo into their greedy little maws. There were so many that they gave the illusion that the body was moving, as their black mass scrabbled all over exposed raccoon guts...

.....    .....     .....      .....

Door slams.

Back so soon?

I left it. Thing was beyond repulsive. The flies would probably have tried to eat me anyway.

Thought so.

Shut up.

.....     .....     .....     .....     .....     .....

So now we are conducting an experiment to see just how much more dead a dead thing can get.

But, because I don't want to perma-gross anyone out. Here's a picture of an adorable raccoon for your viewing pleasure.

Sup? I'm cute and fuzzy!

Disgusting Update!

Now, because I have no filter and refuse to be the only one to have viewed such horror, here's a picture of the thing that's in our yard:

Yeah it's gross.
Quit whining, at least it's low resolution and you're not smelling it.

Week and a half later:

Never thought I'd be so excited to say: "Yay! Flies are gone."

And so with the help of my friends Baking Sunlight, Rigamortis, Shovel, and Piggly Wiggly Dumpster, The Great Decomposing of 2012 has finally come to an end.

Successful disposal!

Conclusion: Provided the creature is exposed to direct sunlight and temperatures in excess of 90 degrees, it takes 10 days for an animal weighting approximately 20lbs to reach a skeletal state of decomposition.


Yeah, I'm terrible.

Bathroom Break

2012-07-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

Meet Elsie Lou the Puggle.

Favorite activities include: Eating, being comfortable, playing, puggle snuggling, and eating.

She's a little over three years old now.

This is her as a puppy:

If you aren't overwhelmed by a desire to cuddle, you may not have been granted a soul.

Thank God she was an adorable pup because potty training was a nightmare.
Almost every day some fresh new hell would be visited upon the floor... or the couch, shoes, cushions, whatever.

Our apartment was fully equipped with hazmat suits and a scrubbing station.

It took a full year before we could leave her at home with any real confidence. But today, she's fully grown and fully trained to know that outside is the place to do her business.

Unfortunately, just because she knows to go outside doesn't mean she knows how to be efficient. Which is generally why I'm late for everything...

It begins with sitting by the door and whining.

- "Mmhhmmmeeeee!"
(I gotta pee, dammit!)

(OMG! Finally!)

(I know I made it seem like I have to go right this second, and I do, I swear! But I need to find the perfect spot first...)


(Maybe over there would be better?)

(Might as well roll around since I'm out here...)

(Okay, okay. Time to get serious.)

(Wait! What's that over there?)

(Omigawd! Is that grass?!
I FRICKIN LOVE GRASS!)

(Must...roll...on...grass...)


(Ah! It's so good!) roll roll wiggle

(Huh, you look kinda mad...)

(Pffft! Fine, I'll go.... *sigh* always gotta ruin my fun)

(Whatever. Leave me alone. I'm just gonna lay here and pout.)

And fifteen minutes later I've got a huffy puggle and am seriously late for work...

Maybe this will help you fall asleep.

2012-07-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

Parole Officer.

6:30AM: The alarm on my phone starts playing. Tone is "April Sunshine." I turn it off, making a bargain with myself to allow "just ten more minutes", which often turns into fifteen. Sometimes thirty.

7:00AM: Grudgingly leave the comfort of my bed. Toes stretch and curl on the wood floor. Throw on old bathrobe, bright pink, and shuffle into the kitchen to let the dog out.
Invariably, Elsie will run and jump on me. Tail wagging maniacally. Licking at my hands as I stoop to pet her. After about five seconds of morning greeting, she trots off to make a flying leap onto my bed. I know I shouldn't allow her up there, but it keeps her out of my hair while I do my makeup.

7:10AM: Turn on radio to "Lex and Terry". Start coffee pot. Pee.

7:12AM: Stare at self in mirror while washing hands. Contemplate fine lines on forehead and zits on chin. Is hair thinning? Sigh. Wash face, apply Proactive, then Kroger's knockoff Aveeno moisturizer.
Brush out hair.
Instant frizz.
Run brush through water to dampen hair.
Separate, twist, and pin up hair.
Hairspray.

7:15AM: Retrieve magic bag from second drawer. (Makeup bag) Apply foundation. Powder. Notice that face looks a little pale. Rouge it up. Lip balm. Mascara.

7:25AM: Walk to bedroom to change. Glance at clock on the way. Cuss.
Make promise to self to get up on time tomorrow.
Put on the 511 pants and black polo that make up work uniform. Thread belt through pant loops and crime fighting accessories. Stuff more things into pockets.
Call dog to go outside. Elsie sleepily crawls out from under comforter. Appears reproachful that I am disturbing her.

7:30AM: It's raining. Grab umbrella and take Elsie out. Silently begging her to hurry up and pee. And then not so silently. Finally she pees.

7:40AM: Back inside. Feed dog. Close door to keep her in back room. Pour coffee into giant 34ozmug. Add creamer. Briefly consider the time implications of making toast. Accept that I'm going to be late anyway. Make toast. One slice. Peanut butter.

7:43AM: Purse on shoulder, keys in hand, toast balanced on mug in other hand. Umbrella under arm. Lock house door. Put keys in pocket. Flick umbrella open. Attempt to avoid puddles on way to car. Fail. Put mug with toast on roof of car. Open car door. Almost forget about mug/toast. Get settled in car. Ignition.

7:45AM: Turn on radio. Still playing "Lex and Terry". Hear an off-color joke. Smile. Pull out of driveway. Drive across town to work.

7:47AM: Consume toast. Commute scenery goes from middle class to rich to ghetto to commercial.

8:05AM: Arrive at work. Congratulate self for only being five minutes late. Say "Morning" to everyone I see. Except that one guy I don't like. Take a swig of coffee as I walk past his office to avoid acknowledging.

8:06AM: Check e-mail.
Two of my people have been arrested, both for felonies. Read police report. Print.

8:10AM: Begin teaching what they call a "Moral Recognizance Therapy" class. Silently laugh at the fact that a young white chick is trying to teach older, street hardened men how to live a productive, crime free life.

9:00AM: Class ends. Time for field supervision. Grab state car keys, coffee mug, clipboard, and GPS.
Glance out window. Still raining. Take umbrella.

9:05AM: Ignition. Gas light dings.
Instantly irritated.
Drive to gas station. Fill up tank.

9:15AM: Drive, drive, drive. See five, maybe six people at their residences/places of employment/street corners. Try to see more, but are not home/at work/phone is turned off.

11:50AM: Start contemplating lunch.

12:01PM: Receive phone call from local shelter advising that one of my parolees has just tested positive for cocaine, and can I come deal with it? Assure them that I will be on my way shortly. Look at clock, realize lunch won't be happening today, call to request warrant.

12:45PM: Warrant finally drops. Ride over to shelter with co-worker. Arrest parolee. He talks the entire way to the jail. Mostly bullshit.

1:15PM: Back at office. Enter arrest information into computer. Remember that I have two more people at the jail. Sigh.

2:00PM: Back to the jail. Interview both parolees. One is charged with trying to cash a bogus $4,000 check. 1st Degree Forgery. Claims ignorance. Second parolee is charged with Distribution of Cocaine. "Allegedly" sold six rocks to criminal informant. Also claims ignorance.
Mental note: both these guys are going back to prison.

3:30PM: Leave the jail. Receive phone call from a parolee I had missed earlier. He's home. Drive over to house to confirm residence.

3:55PM: Back at office. Record the day's interactions into computer.

4:30PM: Work day is over. Collect coffee mug, purse, and umbrella. Rain has finally stopped. Humid. Sunglasses immediately fog up once outside. Car. Ignition.

4:32PM: Drive home in reverse. Commercial, ghetto, rich, middle class. School buses are still dropping kids off. Children are everywhere.

5:00PM: Home. Note that Troy's car is also home. Trudge up back steps. Door is locked. Wonder for the millionth time why he must lock the door when he knows I'll be home shortly. Fish for keys. Unlock. Dog jumps all over me. Yell, "Hey, honey."
Hang up purse, umbrella. Set coffee mug in kitchen. Begin to pull off boots.
Troy comes out from being on the computer in the living room. Picks up Elsie. Gives me a kiss.
"Hey babe."

5:10PM: Ask Troy about his day. Invariably it's "fine". Change out of sticky work clothes and into cotton dress. Ask if dog needs a walk. She always needs a walk.

5:15PM: Grab doggie bags. "Sit!" Elsie sits, but still wiggles. Attach leash. Dog immediately bites leash and begins a game of tug o' war. Walk out back door, back down steps.

5:30PM: Walk dog around neighborhood. Comment on tide. Today it's high and the marsh looks awesome.
It's embarrassing, but while we walk we both talk as though we're Elsie. In baby voices. And then answer her silly doggie questions as though she's actually said something. Dumb? Yes. But we always laugh.
Talk about how our days went. Troy's a mechanic and will generally expound on mechanical issues he's had at work. I try to follow, but generally wind up staring off into space.

6:00PM: Back home. Proceed to mess around on computer/read.

6:30PM: Go to fridge. Contemplate dinner options. Chicken is still frozen so it looks like it'll be fish. There's also half a Hot 'n' Ready pizza on the second shelf and a case of Miller Light has miraculously appeared. Apparently Troy fixed something for someone and they paid him in beer.

6:35PM: Warn Troy about the ghetto meal I'm about to serve up. Baked fish and cold pizza. He laughs and grabs a beer.

6:45PM: Oven set to 425F. Fish gets dredged in a parmesan cheese/italian breadcrumbs mixture and placed on tinfoil covered pan. I silently congratulate myself for remembering to grease it this time. For a touch of class I throw some canned mushrooms on top of fish and put in oven for ten minutes.

6:55PM: Feed dog. Grab beer and head out to couch to read gardening books. Troy is looking up truck parts on CraigsList. Look out window from my spot on couch at the patches of dirt and crabgrass that make up our front yard, then back to pictures in gardening book, then back to front yard. Make a mental note to really tackle the yard... next year. After this unbearable heat subsides.

7:00PM: Elsie trots into the living room. Springs up onto couch and tries to lay on my stomach, book and beer be damned. Beer almost spills. Oven beeps. Book is set aside. Dog is pushed off couch.

7:01PM: Pull fish out of oven and cold pizza out of fridge.
Announce to Troy, "Dinner, such as it is, is served."

7:05PM: We pile plates with hot cod and cold pepperoni, grab two new beers and navigate our way to the couch. Netflix has recently delivered "21 Jump Street". It provides a nice escape. We laugh. Elsie vies for a piece of fish.

8:30PM: Movie is over. Troy takes the dog out, I take a shower. Computer it up for a few hours. Troy logs some time playing video games, then showers.

10:00PM: Drag myself to bed. Tired but can't sleep. Fire up kindle and begin playing word games. Brain finally tires of working, admits defeat and shuts down for the day.

10:30PM: Sleep.

Rinse. Repeat.

Make this happen, Oliver Stone!

2012-06-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

If there's ever a biopic done on Fidel Castro, I sincerely hope Liam Neeson steps into the title role.

Who else could possibly be more qualified?

While we're at it. Why don't we get a golf match-up between Nick Faldo and Harrison Ford?

You know, just for kicks.

And then maybe Jason Bateman can make a guest appearance at one of Train's concerts to sing with Patrick Monahan.

Yeah, this definitely needs to happen.

I'm such a sucker.

2012-06-23T18:48:00.001-07:00

Sometimes it's nice to let it all out...

Chive at it's best

More Chive

Waterlogged.

Alone in the Dark.

2012-05-30T17:47:00.000-07:00

So there I was, on my hands and knees, in the dark, drenched in sweat...

You know it's pretty lazy writing when a person relies so heavily on double entendres to try and hold interest...
And for my next post: "How to tell when someone is just phoning it in..." Also: "Ellipses... how much is too much?"

Anyway, remember when Troy inadvertently created a geyser in the front yard? Well, not to be outdone, I too caused a plumbing catastrophe. Except this time it was under the house.

The official story is that I was weeding around the foundation and accidentally bumped against an old corroded water faucet jutting out from the side of the house.

A butterfly could probably land on this thing and it would shatter.
Seriously rusty relic.

Because in no way would I be so foolishly callous as to knock against an old seized up faucet knob with a sledgehammer just to satisfy my childlike "wonder-what-would-happen/maybe-it-still-works" curiosity.

Dogbyte

Well, Four Year Old Me, even though it was definitely a legitimate accident, the answers to your questions are: "a burst pipe" and "yes, but not in the way that you hoped".

The immediate sound of water gushing underneath the crawl space filled me with ~~instant regret~~ concern.

Also panic.

What have I done?!

Without going into too much boring detail, the water was turned off, and we went under the house to assess the damage.

Sure is dark under there...

Of course this involved me crawling through three of my biggest fears: the dark, confined spaces, and the certainty that I'm going to run across a dead body.

I mean, good lord, it's a crawl space. Not only are you in a vulnerable position, (on your knees in the dark), but nothing good has ever come out of crawl spaces.

Lost artifacts? Buried treasure? Hell no. Try creepy reminders of your own mortality.

Now available in both skeletal and beef jerky varieties.

People find the bodies of rats and dead hookers in crawl spaces all the damn time.
And in case you didn't feel like clicking, let me just assure you that every single one of those links goes to something horrible.

So just to recap, it's dark, so there's no telling what you're shuffling through, and there's also that minor detail that you're directly underneath 20 tons of house should a freak earthquake decide to strike.

Or a tornado.
You know, whatever.

Yeah, I'm not a fan of crawl spaces.

But, I did feel bad about causing the pipe to break. So, as penance, I volunteered to stay underneath the house and begin the slow process of digging out the pipe.

Best. Saturday. Ever.

The mercury hovered around a balmy ninety degrees as I sweated out the human equivalent of the Three Gorges Dam.

"Sexy and I know it."

To stay calm, I pretended it was a prison break. Which was a relatively easy thing to imagine, as I scraped through the dirt and cinder block with nothing but my hands and a cheap trowel. A mini flashlight in my teeth lit the way.

You're an inspiration, Andy Dufresne.

The pipe, by the way, was completely corroded. It was a miracle that it hadn't started leaking before now. Apparently concrete constantly secretes moisture, which is no good when in direct contact with galvanized pipe, and causes it to deteriorate fairly quickly.
So yeah, tuck that information nugget up under your hat.

Anyway, once we had dug out underneath the wall, we were finally able to find a joiner and capped the damn thing off.

Again, thank god Troy knows what he's doing.

It was also quite possibly the filthiest I have ever been in my life. Found a dead spider, cobwebs, and enough small twigs in my hair to build a sizable birds nest.

Here's to exciting holiday weekends!