"It's my mother blog. It's my sister blog. It's my mother and my sister blog."

 

Okay, so I paraphrased a quote from Chinatown. Sue Me. I used it as an example of just how screwed up and fickle I am. After reaching the bottom of a very empty blogspot barrel and realizing I had nothing left to scrape, I did what I thought was necessary. I closed down and came back to my mother blog, hoping for some kind of renewal...a kind of blog barrel refilling, so to speak.

 

Unfortunately, mother/home/blog no longer offered sweet repose on her ample bosom. The old gal had undergone plastic surgery, an extreme makeover, a rethinking of old values and decided sitting around waiting for an errant son was not her cup of Earl Grey. Stupid bitch was out partying.

 

Not to mention, most of the kids I went to blog school with were no longer here. What I hoped would be a stay filled with the aroma of fresh baked bread and pies while visiting with good friends on the stoop, turned out to be disappointing. A post-it note on the fridge telling me to "throw a lean cuisine in the microwave if I got hungry" didn't quite have the warmth I was hoping for.

 

So, I did what most ungrateful brats do in today's world. I left my blog a mess, hopped a boxcar, and hoped ma blog would clean up the place and put a candle in the window...for the time when I would grace the ol' gal with another visit when I was down and out...or in need of money.

 

I returned to the newer place I had shuttered a few months earlier, reopened and decided Thomas Wolfe was correct. Bye, Bye Blog American Pie.

 

Anyway, one of the reasons I had returned to Ma Blog in the first place was to reunite with my first blog love/kindred spirit, Red Kitten. She was the first person I met in blogland and I always felt a certain camaraderie that was warm and fuzzy from the get-go. She left the Spaces ship last year, and though I missed her and checked for her return often, I never did more than that. (I never claimed to be a good son or a good friend.) I always have good intentions, but...well, enough of my deficiencies.

 

Point is, RK was gone and ol' ma blog was out doing her Thouroughly Modern Millie thing. What reason did I have to stay? Spaces still moved like compacted shit through a diseased colon and...

 

Well, bust my buttons, Dorothy, Red Kitten has returned from the land of OZ. Of course, I'm somewhere else on the Yellow Brick Road, hawking home-made poppyseed bread and pastries, but it sure is nice to see her safe and sound in her own backyard. Now, if she would just ditch the blue gingham and pigtails.

 

If, for some reason, someone stumbles upon this roadside stand, do yourself a favor (after buying a poppyseed brownie and an apple smoothie from yours truly) and head on over to Abnormally Normal People. Find out what truth in bloggertising is all about.

 

Me? I'll be the one sticking straw down my tin jockstrap in an effort to ease the pain of, you know, wearing a tin jockstrap (tin doesn't breathe, damnit).

I've lost a week of work due to the back injury. That wouldn't be so bad if I could continue the remodeling on the MILK's home at a leisurely pace. Unfortunately, I'm being rushed. The person I am going to rent the place to is in the middle of a breakup with his girlfriend and "needs" to move in muy pronto. At this point, I'm not sure what to do. I hate being rushed more than anything in the world, and I wanted to make sure the home was done to perfection before renting or selling, but it's possible I could let the guy move in and work around him. Oh, the problems of a slumlord. Heh.

 

The back is on the mend. I'm still a bit sore and moving very carefully to ensure no problems, but I spent yesterday afternoon on my knees with the scraper and today I'm feeling it. Waaaah. I'm feeling pretty lucky, though. I'm not in traction, crippled, paralyzed or in a wheelchair. The walker served its purpose for a few days, but I felt like a damned invalid. I used a cane yesterday when out doing errands. It was very House of me...especially since the good doctor and I share the same temperament. Or, so I've been told.

 

I tried to get number two son to feel sorry for me, with the hope he'd offer to help out with some of the work around the house, but it fell on deaf ears. Guilt doesn't work on that one. I tried, believe me, but he merely said, "Do you really want to go there?" I told him I didn't understand. "If it was your mother asking for help of any kind, you'd be there in a second." "Yes," he said, "but she didn't leave me when I was two-and-a-half years old." Ouch.

 

Which isn't true. He was three-and-a-half.

 

 

3/30/2009

 

Things that piss me off...

 

• My back. I still can't move without pain. Using a walker to get around makes me feel like a retard. And old retard. And, yes, I said it. RETARD. I don't care if it's politically incorrect. We've become too PC, and that pisses me off as well. If I want to call a spade a spade instead of a, uh, er... shovel, I will.

 

• My walker. Who in Hades designed this piece of shit? If I thought I could do it without further pain, I'd throw the damned thing across the yard...provided I could unwedge it from the bathroom door frame.

 

• Bathroom doors. Is there any sane reason why bathroom doors are narrower than bedroom doors? Let's say, for example, that a person is using a walker or wheelchair and needs to attend to ablutiony/bathroomy things, but because of some retard architect, the walker or wheelchair has to reside outside the room. Is this not insane? Now a poor bastard has to either engage someone to facilitate the whole proceedings, or crawl across the floor like a drunk, with the hope he can pull himself up to the position of relief before he enters Code Brown. I swear some pervert who likes to have his cock taken out of his pants by others designed bathroom doors and walkers. (Yes, a person could move to a handicapped accessible abode, or retrofit an old place to alleviate the problem, but that costs money. Spending money unnecessarily pisses me off.)

 

• The President. It's comforting that he knows the word "systemic," however, hearing it used 150 (okay, 5 or 6) times in his "Smoothing Ruffled Feathers, It's All Bush's Fault" fireside chat, Tuesday, made me want to hand the man a book of synonyms. Also, it is encouraging when the president states he prefers to "know all the facts" before he comments on matters in the news—such as the AIG bonus scandal—I would have liked him to do the same before he put his Johnny Hancock on, oh, I don't know....the stimulus bill.

 

• Mexicans (or anybody, really, But I've got someone specific in mind) who chain dogs to fences. On short leashes. In the full sun with no shady place to hide.

 

• Mexicans who think the irrigation canal is a city dump. Look you stupid fuckers, that water eventually ends up on crops. I don't really need a third eye in the middle of my back and a flipper on my shoulder simply because you're too lazy to dispose of your chemicals and other garbage (including your dead pitbulls and newborn babies) properly.

 

• Janet Napolitano. Fuck you, bitch. When you were governor here, you pissed an moaned and said the Federal government needed to step in and help with the illegal immigration pandemic because Arizona just didn't have the money and manpower for such a huge endeavor. Now that you are part of the Federal government, you've done an about face.

 

• Smaller Consumer Products: The downsizing of every goddamned item I buy. For example: My yogurt. From 8 ounces to 6 and sometimes 4? How stupid do you think I am? Like I won't notice that I'm consuming less and paying the same? My biggest complaint is against Purina and their ilk. Not too long ago, a bag of dry cat food held 25 pounds. Then it went down to 20. Next, 18 pounds. Now it's 16 pounds? And the price for this 16 pounds is the same if not more than when I purchased 25 pounds? Look, assholes, if you have to raise prices, do it. I don't like it, but I understand. I'd much rather pay a bit more and know I'm getting enough food to last 2 weeks. Of course, as it is now, I have to buy 2 bags of the 16 pound to make it last the same two weeks, which I suppose was your strategy in the first place, but I don't like it.

 

• Walmart workers. They are worse than the rude, obnoxious trash that shops there. (Yeah, I shop there, so I guess that makes me trash as well.)

 

• Mexican music (especially that headache-inducing mariachi crap) and East Indian music. Unfortunately, I have to listen to both 24/7 because I reside in what I euphemistically call an 'ethnic' neighborhood. (Wearing earplugs that same 24/7 is not something I relish, but until I win the lottery or have the courage to go ballistic in a Michael Douglas Falling Down kind of way, I have no choice if I am to remain somewhat sane.)

 

• Door to door advertising assholes. Until the advertising giants that hire retarded pissants to deliver their flyers force those pissants to put their flyers on my door and not rubberbanded to the fence at the end of the driveway, I will refuse to buy any and all of their products. That goes for the asslick lawntards who try to save money by putting their shitty little xerox copied business cards in a tiny nickel-sized plastic bag with a rock for weight,  and then sling the offensive, cheap trick in my front yard. Are you kidding? If you want me to hire you, you best get ready to chew the damned grass down.

 

• Levi Strauss Company. I wish they would go back to using the dyed indigo 100 percent cotton of old to make their 501s. This new material they are using sucks ass. The damned pants get tighter with every passing day. It a conspiracy, I tell you. Shrinking pants made with magic material have to be replaced twice as often as the old, original Levi's. Great money-making concept, but tough on my pocketbook...and my waistline.

 

3/26/2009

3/25/2009

 

 

Sweet Jesus in Jersey, I've gone and done it now. I've pissed off a dead woman and I'm paying the price.  Will I ever learn? I knew the MILK (Mother-in-law I'd Like to Kill) was not going to be happy when she found out I was remodeling the house she took more than half a century to put her stamp on, but I had no idea she'd make me pay. I mean, she's not amongst the living, for Christ's sake. How could she even know what I'm up to?

 

Apparently, she's sitting in purgatory (or her bathroom), watching the "Extreme Makeover" of her home—decidedly unhappy. Her entire wall of mirrors is gone, despite the glue used to insure their permanence. "I'm sorry, Vera, but they were ugly. Ugly, I tell you. They needed to come down if I was ever going to be able to rent or turn a profit on the old place, but I could have done without the shard to the forehead, you know? I wondered at the time if you were behind the impaling, but chose to believe you weren't that petty."

 

My current job is the carpet. Put down in the seventies, it was a product of its time, that's for sure. Gold, bright orange and some unnamed shade of brown shag had replaced the carpet squares installed in a previous decorating scheme. It seems that after many years of paste waxing and polishing the beautiful stained concrete floors, she decided enough was enough, and thanks to Standard Brands and her own do-it-yourself initiative, the concrete disappeared and the fugly squares appeared.

 

I'm not sure how long the squares lasted before being replaced with the hideous carpet, but they left their impression...leading, no doubt, to the installation of the shag now facing removal. When I pulled out the carpet—expecting to find the long-hidden floor in pristine condition—what I found instead was an entire space covered with a filmy residue of leftover glue from the back of each and every tile...all 300 square feet of them. A long-handled tile scraper failed to remove the crap, and nothing I poured or wiped on the film made a dent, so it was down on my knees with a handheld scraper and a lot of fortitude and elbow grease. A bottle of Gum-Out helped, but a bitch of a headache was the result of its application and I stopped for the day. I'm sure the MILK was pleased as pie.

 

The next day brought me to my knees again, and this time I had better luck. The process was slow, but in two or three weeks I expected to have the floor back in shape. I was wrong, because when I stood up to move to a different part of the room, a sharp, popping, searing pain in my lower back brought me down...flat on my back and unable to move. I tried for two hours to get off that damned concrete and most of it was spent wondering if I was being punished for the renovations. Or maybe she was trying to let me know how much she suffered when she ended up in the same situation the year she died. (She spent close to twenty hours supine, after a fall...and never really recovered, dying less than six months later.)

 

The third hour of my back/floor torture finally saw me make it to my feet (with the help of a futon frame and a baseball bat) and into a bed. Thankfully, no one was there to witness that bit of comedy. And, once again, I was hunted down by SheWhoMustBeObeyed. Finding me paralyzed from the penis down (okay, fine, I wasn't paralyzed) garnered little sympathy, but with her help I managed to make it to the car—with the aid of the MILK's walker...damn—and then home.

 

I've never before endured pain this excruciating. "I hope you're happy, Vera!"

 

I'll get the last laugh, though, because I'm not weak, in my eighties or suffering from the complications of COPD. I do believe, however, that the old woman has an agenda. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind: She wants that house left exactly the way it was when she died.

 

"Listen to me, old woman, that house is mine now, and I'll remove every last bit of your essence (and lack of taste) if it kills me." According to SheWhoMustBeObeyed, it will kill me, since she thinks I'm a lightweight compared to her ethereal mother. But as soon as I can move—without the help of the walker and serious medication—the clash of the titans is back on. "You hear that, Vera? Bring it!"

 

Start heading toward the light ol' gal, because it won't be long until I'm uttering, "This house is clean!"

 

 

 

3/24/2009 

When I was but a wee lad me family took me (and me siblings) to see Darby O'Gill and the Little People at the movie theatre. For years after I couldn't have told you much about the experience except that it scared me shitless. Well, the Banshees did, anyway. Me and the gals (me lassie sisters, don't you know?) played Darby O'Gill in the back yard—don't ask for the particulars, because I don't remember much about the game other than it was loud, and there was lots of running, chasing and screaming involved. I do remember we fought over who got to be the Banshee, because one didn't want to be the poor soul carried away by the howling screamer (I recall a similar problem years later in the bars).

 

When I was a grown man I revisited the movie. This time, however,  the only thing I cared about was Sean Connery. Fuck the banshees, he could carry my soul anywhere he wanted.

 

Anyway, since today is St. Patrick's Day, I'm asking everyone if they have a little Irish in them? If not, would they like to? I'm available.

 

3/17/2009

 

The baby has been buried and the tears shed. He is no longer a part of my life. The smell of death lingers, though. It permeates the air, my clothes, my hair, my skin. I've taken a shower, washed my hair, laundered my clothes, his blankets and bed. And yet the stink is pervasive. It is inside me, refusing to leave; hiding until the next time I have to let go of a loved one.

Why does this pernicious odor have to be the last thing I will remember about him? Why couldn't he have left life exhaling that wonderful kitten smell that turns me on and warms my heart?

 

Death is a ruthless bitch.

 

 3/11/2009

I faced the morning tired and cold after spending the night on the bathroom floor next to yet another dying fur baby. It's been coming for a long time, but it still isn't easy.
I don't imagine I'll ever get used to the experience, but a cherished member of the family deserves my complete attention when passing over the Rainbow Bridge. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint, the baby made it through another 24 hours.

 

• Last week I spent time removing an entire wall of mirror tiles from the living room of the MILK's home. I managed to get through the project with only two cuts. One was above the eye. I did, indeed, have on safety glasses (thanks to constant bitching by SheWhoMustBeObeyed), and am thankful for their protection, but the piercing of the forehead was deep enough to make me bleed like a stuck Babe. The MILK used some kind of space age glue to stick the tiles to the wall, so the removal damaged the plaster extensively and will require filling, skim-coat and texture. Luckily, I have experience in that area and will be able to save major money.

• I have inherited (for the time being) two of my son's cats. They are being cloistered in my bedroom, and are sweet things but for one small item. One of them throws up nasty, wet hair balls on the bed...daily. Which means I spend too much time changing and laundering sheets. So far, they haven't pissed on anything, so their lives are safe for the moment. I'm not happy about having to remove my new comforter and replace it with an old chenille spread with flowers, though. I like flowers, just not on my bed.

• Spring is here. Not officially, of course, but the trees and flowers in my yard don't know that. If the color could only remain year-round, I'd be one happy man.

 

3/10/2009

Like the Titanic, the economy has gone tits up. The stock market is heading for Hell and it's time for the little people to tighten belts. Downsizing is now a good and bad word. Good for Corporate America. Bad for the people who depend on Corporate America. Spending with wild abandon is considered evil, and if things continue on the downward path, soup kitchens will be the new Starbuck's, Walmart the new Neiman-Marcus, and hand me downs will be worth their weight in gold.

 

I have no savings, shop at Goodwill, Walmart and dollar stores, tend to a modern-day Victory garden and no longer patronize the bars and restaurants, so I should be fine. I own the mother-in-law's house free and clear, and should the need arise, will walk away from my current mortgage and spend my golden years crammed into the crackerbox. The only real problem I foresee would be the sharing of a single bathroom. 

 

Mantra: Downsizing is a good thing. (My 28 cats may disagree, but the way I look at it, they'll adjust or find themselves the essential ingredient in a meatloaf.)

 

During the early part of the recession, I sold Passing Open Windows. The new owners defaulted on the loan, and the bank sold it back to me for a mere pittance—a blow job and a finger-bang. I slapped a new coat of paint on the dump and will hang out here, off and on, until the economy rebounds. If you're a nice, down-to-earth person (who loves cats and wouldn't eat one), stop by and say hello. If you're a nasty, arrogant, condescending piece of dribbling shit (who hates cats), keep on walking.

 

I'm afraid I haven't downsized my attitude...or mouth).

 

 

 

3/3/2009

Apparently, "f"rugal is the fashionable new f-word. I'm so fashion-forward and ahead of the season: I've been using (and living) that f-word for years.

 

I'm declaring Goodwill the new place of worship, the coupon party the new religion, and if you need me I'll be listening to the new plastic Burning Bush I purchased at the dollar store (batteries not included). It's made of recycled material, takes a tiny orange compact-fluorescent bulb,  and the voice of God is none other than Liam Neeson: "Go forth and multiply your savings by shopping stores that triple the amount of your beloved coupons."

 

The Wednesday newspaper's supplemental sales flyer is the new Bible.

 

Amen.

 

 

2/28/2009

 

Callie, one of my fur children, is eleven years old. Recently, she has had trouble with the use of her back legs, and also has some kind of problem that makes her scratch constantly. CONSTANTLY. She is now covered from head to paw with bloody scabs.

She visited a new vet last week. It was a bargain compared to the regular vet, however, the office call took about 30 seconds. No bloodwork. No skin scrapings of any kind. No testing, nada. It was determined she suffered from arthritis, and some kind of allergy, and the doc administered a shot and then gave us the bum's rush.

We left wondering what the hell just happened. Is this the new way to handle pets? Is the man so smart he doesn't need to do a thorough examination in order to diagnose? Or is he yet another moron I've stumbled upon in my quest for the perfect veterinarian. It's too early to tell, I suppose.

Today, Callie had a follow-up. I was told to bring her in every two weeks for a cortisone shot (to ease the pain of the arthritis), and for the allergy problem I was given some fancy-schmancy-expensive shampoo for purchase, and told to "shave her down" before lathering her up. Hahahahahaha.

It's been nice knowing y'all. Last time I tried to shave and shampoo the ol' gal, I lost a nut.

 

2/24/2009

 

I've decided to write a few things about the Oscar ceremony, because, really, is there ever too much drivel on the subject?...

In my opinion, Hugh Jackman was a perfect choice for hosting. Gorgeous, suave, talented in the singing and dancing department, and his sly sense of humour didn't hurt. I have heard a few dissenters concerning his Oscar duty, but what is considered perfect hosting ability? It seems to me there have been far worse in the past.

And who says all hosts have to be rip-roaringly funny?...in that manic, Billy Crystal, Steve Martin way. Is there some rule book out there that defines perfect hosting? I thought he was fine—and edible—and people need to lighten up. It's the Oscars—an arrogant, ego-inflated and overpaid industry slapping each other on the backs while the *sniff* poor losers go home with $60,000 worth of goodies. Truthfully, a Myna bird could do the hosting, so a talented song and dance man should suffice quite well, thank you.

• Loved Hugh's opening number. Hated the one with Bouncy. Hated the stupid bits where actors and actresses stood around in a half-circle like oracles, hailing the accomplishments of the nominated as if it was their 30th birthday and time to "Carousel" to the heavens and be renewed.

• Hated the fact that Jerry Lewis was being feted. He isn't funny. He has never been funny. And in his dotage he has turned into a pig of a man. Yes, he has helped raise millions of dollars for "his" kids, but it isn't Hollywood who should glorify this fact. It's way past Jerry's time for carousel.

• The thousands of Swarovski crystals were nice, though. A bit of ostentatious, overpriced pretense during the recession, but nice to look at...kind of like the Hollywood stars and the ceremony itself.

 

2/24/2009

So, an unrestrained über breeder had a litter of 8. Apparently, the 6 whelps from previous breeding sessions weren't enough to fill her kennel home. In this time of recession and cutting back, maybe she should put an ad in the paper offering the little nippers free to a good home. (Warning: Unscrupulous members of society peruse newspapers looking for free kittens, puppies and newborns to be used in the training of Pitbulls. Screen potential adopters carefully.)

 

Surely, by now everyone has heard about the 93-year-old man who froze to death in Michigan because his electricity had been turned off. I want to know why and how something like this happens in America. We can offer all kinds of social services for illegal immigrants and fat, lazy bitches who refuse to work, but nothing for an old man? Actually, according to what I read, there are laws in place in Michigan to keep this tragedy from happening, but it seems the omnipotent electric company dropped the ball for this World War II veteran.

 

A payment plan should have been offered. It wasn't. An electricity limiter had been installed because he was behind in his utility bill, but no one showed him how to use it. Why? He also had plenty of money, but it's possible he was suffering from dementia and let things slide because of that. Why was no one checking on the man? Apparently, he had no family, but he did have neighbors. Where were they? Surely some one could have made sure he was okay...some agency could have offered assistance.

 

We should all be ashamed that this incident occurred in this day and age. An old man dies alone, frozen, and we should all feel guilty.

 

And the illegals are able to live in warm homes and apartments courtesy of the American taxpayers. Something is wrong here.

 

The thought of getting old is a frightening thing. Maybe the old farts (myself included) should head on down to Mexico and plant a few flags. The place ought to be pretty empty by now.

 

 

1/29/2009