Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: FanBase Follies

Living Dangerously

The other day, I was absentmindedly screwing the top back on a jar candle, with one hand, and I knocked the candle off the table onto my toe. And not just any toe, but the one with the nail that’s been weird since I tripped over the paving stone and dislocated my finger. (Alien Finger sends its regards.) Was there any reason I couldn’t have used both hands?

The very next morning, I was turning over in bed and wrestling the covers around myself, and my hand slipped and I ended up gouging the side of my nose with my thumbnail. Only I can get injured turning over in bed.



“I waited for 38 minutes and the cops haven’t shown up yet! Thanks for NOTHING!” So now they have a new means of being sarcastic to us. Thanks for NOTHING indeed.


March 19 marked the first anniversary of my being bitten on the leg by a dog. I still have jaw marks on my leg. Speaking of which, we had a guy with a felony warrant attempt to evade arrest, and he got bitten by a police dog. The warrant was for animal cruelty.


One of the kindly people who drives me home said that she should drive me to the North Side and abandon me there, to give me something to write about. I cannot discourage this strongly enough. (Although maybe I should make it unnecessary, by writing more often.) I don’t think even Nick would do such a thing. Speaking of him, he starchily informed me that he is just “a fictional character,” so perhaps I should stop mentioning him in these pages, to maintain my credibility. He is indeed a fictional character. The guy the guests at my birthday party thought they met was actually an actor I hired for the occasion. He had to leave early for his clown gig at a kid’s party.



A Typical Post

“It has been two months since you last posted.”  Yeah, about that…I’ve received a couple of requests. In fact, Nick is biting his lip until it bleeds.

Remember that I was in Blog School? Well, why would that give me Fear of Posting, especially on a blog I ALREADY HAVE? Because I am what I said I am, to quote the eminent Eminem. Speaking of which…


“Hey, is the print on this shirt navy blue?! I thought it was black! So I wore black pants! I better go check it in the sunlight to make sure. Oh, good, I was right the first time. That could have bothered me all day.” It wouldn’t have ruined my day, exactly, but I would have had to wear the same shirt with the correct pants at my earliest opportunity.

Anywayz, let’s pretend the last 2 months never happened, OK? OK, my first assignment was to write a post, of a sort which could be considered typical of what one might find here. “Like a mission statement, letting us know your blog’s focus.” Well, I got no mission, and I got no focus. All I got is a bunch of Andy Rooney-esque rants.  And to those who say Andy Rooney rants make one seem old, I say, Bite me. {“But you told me never to bite you again!” Nick whimpers. “After what happened last time…” Long-time readers, if any, will notice that his I.Q. has gone down steadily over the course of the blog,  like what they did with Homer Simpson.} Actually, I can remember a mission statement of sorts from a previous post–that I want to be the S.J. Perelman of my generation, and my generation doesn’t even know it needs an S.J. Perelman. But now that I think of it, Fran Lebowitz filled that position. So I got nothin’.

See, there’s something you can typically find on this blog! A flurry of punctuation and sentences you can’t diagram.


Title stolen from, I mean courtesy of, Jim Carroll.

I think someone is sticking pins in voodoo dolls of us. First I got bitten by a dog in March. (I still have jaw marks on my leg.) Then Rom and I got a disgusting oozing rash on our arms, which (eventually) disappeared as mysteriously as it came. Then on May 20 I dislocated my finger, which is still in therapy, trying to recover from its trauma. Then on August 2 Rom, not to be outdone by some old finger, fell off a ladder and broke his heel. So now it’s like the blind leading the naked (phrase stolen from the Violent Femmes) around our house. Actually, the blind leading the naked would work out pretty well, if you think about it.

And what Typical Post would be complete without…


“That’s not a terroristic threat, that’s a statement. Wait, how did we get from this to raping a child?”

“If you close the car door and keep the air conditioning on, I’m sure your cake will be fine until the police arrive.”

My Ideal Reader

Sure, it sounds cheesy, but it’s today’s Blog School assignment. “Picture the person you’re writing for, and address a blog post specifically to them. Include some type of embedded content you’re not familiar with.” Well, that would be all embedded content, wouldn’t it? And now I feel Awkward & Self-Conscious addressing a hypothetical person I made up myself. THANKS, WordPress! Anyway (ignoring Nick, who is holding back tears and saying, “I thought was who you were writing for!”), the accompanying video, should it display correctly, shows the sort of person I’m writing for. The sort, in other words, who could find humor in….


Most of my time in therapy is spent with the therapist stretching my fingers, which sounds gentle and soothing, but actually means making small talk while she hurts my hand. I can provide a surprising amount of talk under these circumstances. Today, however, she came up with a new twist, so to speak–curling my hand up as much as possible (which is only about halfway at this point), and then wrapping it tightly into that position with some type of insufficiently-stretchy mummy tape. “The longest I’ll leave it like this is five minutes,” she said. Rather than the usual stream of distracting conversation, the only thing I really wanted to hear at this point was how many minutes I had left.


“Does it feel OK?”

“Well, it’s starting to throb.”

“It’ll do that, I have it kind of tight. Let’s see, we started at 1:06, it’s been a minute. You doing OK?”

“I’m starting to think about Chinese foot-binding at this point.”

“OK, almost 2 minutes!”


Not only am I paying for this, but I signed on to do it for another month.

And my reward is–I got to shower WITHOUT MY HAND IN A PLASTIC BAG tonight! I haven’t had such good morale since I got to remove the nail polish which had been chipped in The Incident. There is a great deal of dead skin grossly flaking off the affected hand. Hopefully this will resolve itself before I return to work.

Where THEY NEED ME, because, in my absence, Tragically-Hip Nikki decided she would rather work for the SEWER DEPARTMENT, and KatClaire departed to go work for St Louis County. I worked at the Recorder of Deeds office there (the beginning of my lifetime in government service!) from 1978-1980. I left in a dispute over the dress code, which was a recurring theme in those days. You can neither dress me up nor take me anywhere.

Well, Alien Finger has had enough of a workout typing. Time to go stretch my fingers. Yes, I do that at home, too. It’s a high-maintenance finger.


What You’ve All Been Waiting For


“What we’ve been waiting for is a damn post,” they interrupt testily. “Didn’t you say something about trying to write every day…again…”  Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. “Then why didn’t you write about it?”  It never stops, nevernevernever stops…

Ahem. My birthday was Saturday, and featured a surprise VISIT FROM NICK, with his mate and pair of spawn in tow, all in red shirts. I don’t think that man knows how to dress unless some type of uniform is involved. (No, Nick, I will not take fashion advice from someone whose shoes fall apart.) I also got a SURPRISE HUG from the same individual, which mildly alarmed me, and a birthday card congratulating me on turning 85, which just goes to show that a beast can’t count. Seriously, I’ve always wished there were specific cards for all ages–“To A Special 37-Year-Old…” Did you know that Rom once thought he would die at 37? See, he’s not always right. I once dreamed I died at 83, on March 16 of whatever year that would be. (Now who can’t count?) I ought to sign up for one of those services that send you an email from yourself on a specified future date. On March 16 Whatever Year, I’d read “Have you died yet?” and promptly die of fright. I would die as I’d lived, namely, ironically.

Thornton’s gave me 10 cents off a gallon of gas for my birthday, showing a lamentable lack of knowledge of my buying habits. Lands’ End gave me a 20% off code, which I will not use to buy green gingham shorts, unless I happen to be drunk at the time.


Stephen Colbert informs us there is currently a national surplus of cheese. Rom & I are doing our best to address this, thanks to a recent shipment of Wisconsin cheese from my sister. You all need to help out and eat an extra 3 pounds of cheese a year, or the extra cheese will…get moldy, I guess. Moldier.



In spite of my charming/disarming tell-all tone in this venue, it is my habit to keep my personal plans to myself, in case…well, in case someone uses the information against me, I suppose. It’s like when I’d go with colleagues to the FOP Club in the 90’s. I’d drink too much, turn sullen, then call a cab, slip out and wait for it on the corner, without telling anyone I was leaving. You know, being mysterious and stuff. Or the way I never want to tell my co-workers which shift I’m picking until the last minute, even though I always pick the same one anyway. SO, recently I caught myself thinking, “I wish I could tell my FanBase what I’ve been doing lately,” and realized, What’s stopping me? It’s my own blog, after all.

“…which nobody will be reading if you don’t get to the point,” they point out. 


What I’m getting at is, when I turn 62 at this time next year, I’m planning on retiring. (I already feel panicky, like I should qualify that–I mean, it’s always possible that the numbers won’t add up like I think they will, since I’ve already proven I can’t do math.)

I went to one of the retirement workshops sponsored by our pension fund. I ran into someone I used to work with, which was kind of embarrassing, in that “Well, what are you doing at this whorehouse?” sort of way. I also picked up a magazine called “The New Retirement,” put out by AARP, who ought to know, I suppose. It included an article about financial planning, which mentioned that a professional financial planner can help you come up with a plan for your pension and Social Security. You mean, other than letting them send me a check every month? Because that was my plan.

So this will be the last year of the Crisis In Progress department. I will now be a lame-duck dispatcher. I’ll be doing a bunch of stuff at work for the Last Time, probably getting sentimental about stuff like being yelled at on the phone. “No one will ever say they’re paying my salary again!” Perhaps I will become dangerous and yell at them on the phone. I hope to have a drunken retirement party–if you play your cards right, you may get the “House of the Rising Sun” karaoke I’ve been threatening for years. And if I take up skydiving in retirement, you’ll be the first to know.


S.G. Is 3 Years Old, For What It’s Worth


It has been a month since my last confession, I mean post. I was attempting to have a period of, shall we say, discernment, because I discerned that I seemed to be repeating myself, and feared I was running out of stuff to write about. But how can this be, as long as there is…


Drug store clerk reporting a theft:

“The guy’s been in here before, and he always takes liquor bottles into the bathroom, and empties them into a container he brings with him. He’s thin, has a mullet and missing teeth, and always brings his wife who’s in a wheelchair, but I’m not sure she really needs it.” Could he be more perfectly-suited to his crime? All he needs is a tattoo that says “100% Honky” (there are actually several people in this town who have that tattoo, although they disagree on the spelling of “honky”) and a car with flames painted on the sides. We can only hope he has a meth lab waiting for him when he gets home.

Anyway, I am trying to find ways to make this blog a little less, well, impaired, but, y’know….Interestingly (or not–YOU BE THE JUDGE), no one’s dared to nag me for not posting this time around. Maybe you’ve abandoned hope, or perhaps you feared it would lead to whining.


Everyone says, “Life isn’t fair,” but WHY ISN’T IT? We all agree that it ought to be, so what gives?


There is software you can get (well, you can–I have a special old-folks computer {to go with my special old-folks phone} which keeps things uncomplicated so it’s not overwhelming, and I therefore can’t add software) which will delete your work if you don’t keep writing regularly. That’s supposed to be motivational. I guess it would be, in the same way that someone smacking you if you didn’t write would be–I’m not sure if I’d actually write more, or just curl up in a spiny ball of despair.


“Subject has Asperger’s syndrome, cannot make eye contact, and may become violent when touched.” Since when is it a law that one has to make eye contact? Also, I think that not being touched by police sounds like a pretty good deal. Hey, I’m un-arrestable! It’s like another alert I had to give–“Subject is barred from jail property.” Score!!



Let There Be Dark!

…first step on getting to work–turn off all the lights day shift left on. They hurt me.

Welcome back to the world’s most obscure blog. I received a couple questions from Rom’s Sister Mary, answers follow:

–No, I don’t know who read how much of what. I just knew “someone” read 17 posts. And Nick informed me that people who signed up to receive this thing via email are not included in those stats, so I could have as many as 17 readers!

–Leading right into, in her words, “Who or what is Nick?” “Who or what,” indeed. Nick is a former dispatcher, now a police officer, who became my friend (that is what we are, Nick, right?) as the result of a memorable training session with me (memorable to him–I don’t remember training him at all. Doubtless I was just wishing he’d go away and stop bothering me.) . As far as the “what” goes, I make up stories in which he is a subhuman beast. (Nick, stop growling, or we’ll have to revisit the whole shock-collar issue.) Many believed that he was entirely fictional until they (Sister Elizabeth among them) got to see him at my birthday party. However, he then became frightened and scuttled into the darkness outside, so the witnesses are now questioning what they saw.



“A guy just held me up at gunpoint and took my gun, and now I’m following him.”

Let’s get this straight:

He had a gun.

He took your gun.

Now he has 2 guns.

And you have none.

Should you be following him? DO THE MATH.


“911? You know that sex shop called The Playground? How long has that been here?”

“Sir, that’s not an emergency.”

“Then who can I call?”

Any suggestions?



Turning Over a New Leaf & Stuff

Actually, it’s the same old leaf. I wanted to decorate the blog, add some color, and put in some of those things along the sides that you see on real blogs, even ones by people with Asperger’s, but I can’t figure out how to do so, so there you go. And really, what purpose would it serve? I don’t think this thing makes much sense to people who don’t know me personally (and it’s only gotten more idiosyncratic over the years {all two of them}), so there’s not much point in trying to expand readership. And links to other blogs I read? Those are either about perfume or religion. That and Time magazine’s site, which I don’t think needs any help from me. OK, enough making excuses for myself. I would have liked to add some color and illustrations, though.

It occurs to me–I don’t really need to worry about being kidnapped and tortured to make me write, because NICK would be eager to help and rescue me! Just look at him, he’s smiling. Nothing to be concerned about here!

Speaking of which, I saw the recent episode of “Sherlock” (and so agonizingly few and far between they are), and reflected again on Nick’s and my Sherlock/Moriarty relationship. But which would be which? (“You know the answer,” he says. “You’re the one who’s formed a whole mythology to reduce me to a beast.”)

…Overseen (it’s like “overheard,” except with your eyes) on the back of the bus seat today–“F*ck you, bitch.” They actually underlined “you,” in case I thought they were referring to somebody else.

…Overheard on the McDonald’s music channel (best music IN TOWN–Jonathan Richman! Patti Smith! Elvis Costello! The list goes on!)–

–“I hear the secrets that you keep

When you’re talking in your sleep

You tell me that you want me, you tell me that you need me, you tell me that you love me….”

–Should you be sleeping with someone who keeps those things a secret?



I’m Writing This Under Duress

No, I’m not on a ridealong with Nick (the ultimate form of duress). I was given a sharp rebuke for not posting by someone who, as a Stephen King fan, is the likeliest to kidnap me and force me to write something. So, to avoid the whole pain thing, here is…

well, something. Something uncoordinated, due to the amount of alcohol consumed. Are you tired of hearing about how drunk I am yet? I thought so.

Redd’s Wicked Mango Ale is the perfect alcoholic beverage. I will accept no argument on this point.

Even I cannot necessarily avoid clicking on Facebook news items, ESPECIALLY when they feature…


“ARTIST KNOWN FOR COMBINING BRIGHT COLORS WITH SOLID SHAPES DIES AT THE AGE OF 92.” You know, I could combine bright colors with solid shapes. I did that when I was 4. Why am I not famous?

There was one other news item I meant to feature; can anyone tell me what it is so I don’t have to go back and check? No? What good are you?

Makeup advertising display at Walgreens–“Wild Is a State of Plan.” A. No, it isn’t (except maybe for Nick, and the only cosmetic he needs is tactical Chap Stick), B. English no language speak?



sorry (removing caps lock). Doesn’t it seem like I’m always apologizing for not posting? WELL, DOESN’T IT??

You can just blame Redd’s Hard Mango Ale for everything, which I am on my 2nd can of at the moment. I was going to ease into it gradually, but what the hell.

I have never had one of their “HARD” (sorry, hit caps lock again) ales before. I don’t really know what 8% alcohol content means, since I don’t know the alcohol content of their previous efforts, but what the hell.

This stuff is great. I mean REALLY great (caps lock intended that time). It tastes just like the mango perfume I wore in the early 90’s smelled. (Said perfume courtesy of the lovely Noelle, one of my favorite former co-workers, so called by me because she was born on Christmas Day.) “Wicked Mango” would be a great name for a perfume–actually the body oil Noelle gave me was called “Mango Peligroso,” which means about the same thing. I know this because I got A’s in Spanish in my 2nd attempt at college. I KNOW THE PREVIOUS SENTENCES SHOULD HAVE BEEN PARENTHESIZED DIFFERENTLY, BUT I DON’T CARE.


My lips are getting numb.

I was going to explain about the demise of the post-a-day project, but that all seems so conceptual at the moment. So what the hell.


More Raspberry polish. I can only hope that it looks as good tomorrow as it seems to today. It will be on display in all its dubious glory on Christmas Eve.

Good thing I’m safe at home, because otherwise I might become naughty 2 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, and wouldn’t that suck? Well, St. Nick knows if I’ve been naughty or nice, right? This knowledge on his part is disconcerting.

I just said “suck.” How unimaginative of me.

It is 2 days before Christmas, right?

What are people on Facebook saying now?? I must find out. (Still sober enough to hit “Save Draft” before exiting) (But is this draft worth saving, really?)

Oh, they’re not talking about me. How dare they?



OK, I just ruined my manicure, and I don’t even want to say why, so let’s just not talk about it. This is depressing. I may do it over again tomorrow. If I feel like it. Hopefully before I drink anything with the words “Redd’s” on it.

Nick, I sense that you are frowning disapprovingly, so STOP IT RIGHT NOW, OK? I would fight you if you were actually here.

Rom will be back in here in a moment! Hurray!



Day 27: I’m Not There

I dreamed I had my retirement party on the back lot of a bar, on a warm sunny day. Lesa drove me there, and RaBecca gave me a redneck t-shirt, with the sleeves cut off, and the hem slashed into ribbons as far as the law allows. Nick had to work 2nd shift that day. He said he would stop by if he could, but questioned the wisdom of showing up at a bar in uniform. And I wore Mitsouko perfume. I could smell it, just like I could see the sun and hear the music of the bar band. See, I can do party planning in my sleep! Unlike Nick, who can’t do party planning in my sleep–if he couldn’t be bothered to take the day off, maybe he shouldn’t have been invited.


A screaming female wanted to make an official report (which, like many people, she thought she could do merely by calling 911 and screaming “Oh my God!” intermittently) because the officer who pulled her over had gotten fingerprints all over her car window. She forgot to add that she had closed her window on his fingers.

I won Employee of the Day by saying, “Ma’am, your breast size is irrelevant” on the phone. I also attracted comment for my Raspberry nail polish, a rather startling shade of pink.

S.G.’S 27TH POST, 5/7/13: It’s Good to Have Fans

–Someone reported a board lying in the middle of the highway, and she thought it might have a nail in it!

–Nick said I was “spreading a web of terror,” and someone said they loved me because I used the word “dystopian” in the post.

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