Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Catholicism

Stopgap Measure

Yeah, I said I’d do restaurant reviews, but I had to get up early today, by which I mean 10:30, and I don’t feel like doing anything that organized.  So instead there’s this.

I got up early to attend the Assumption Mass at noon, and the deacon came over to me and said they had no one to do the Scripture readings, and asked me to assist. So I got to tell the congregation about a dragon with seven heads and ten horns (trust me, it’s allegorical), which always makes me wonder how the horns are allocated among the heads. It’s like the old hymn “Crown Him With Many Crowns”–after all, He only has one head. Unlike the dragon.

All theology aside, I forgot to mention that at Nick’s party the other day, I mentioned that I was still halfheartedly considering getting another tattoo, and he said eagerly, “Why not? It would have ‘Nick’ in it somewhere, right?” I’m surprised he didn’t insist it should be spelled out “Nicholas.” I’d love to get a temporary tattoo like that, show it to him (without telling him it’s temporary), and watch him blush and stammer.

Another thing I should do is get a Sour Neon Crawlers t-shirt made, and when someone asks me what it means, say, “It’s a band! Haven’t you ever heard of them?” and see how far I could go with it. Come to think of it, that sounds like a movie premise. If I have so many ideas, why aren’t I rich?

Well, I’ve been trying to get to bed earlier, by which I mean 3:30 instead of 4, but I’ve already screwed that up by trying to think of ways to annoy A Certain Person on Facebook. And I still have to pay the water bill. Speaking of, well, stuff, Time magazine had an article, “Solar Eclipse May Unite Divided America.” Because whatever our differences, we all like staring at the sun.

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Crisis Averted

You must excuse any typos because I’m pretty drunk right now. Nick, you may avert your gaze.

THE LEGENDARY RETIREMENT PARTY

Disclaimer: Drunk enough to make many typos, sober enough to correct them.

Who would have thought I’d ever be popular enough to reserve a whole room at Hacienda? (Notice: Let’s see how well I do at Chuck E. Cheese on Sunday.) The most decadent thing I did was get chip crumbs in my hair–hardly a match for Easter Vigil at St Boniface, where I got hot wax on my hand and holy water in my eye–and I got tipsy enough to think sending Nick a picture of me with a drink in my hand was a good idea (though it wasn’t that bad an idea {disclaimer–I meant to do italics for “bad” rather than boldface, but I’m drunk, so suck it}, since I wasn’t driving).

There was no question of any sort of singing, since we were SO LOUD anyway. {Non-disclaimer: I have resumed this post several hours later and am now sober, which makes it much easier.} I was very pleased to see several former colleagues who had gone on to greener pastures (I guess the sewer department might produce greener pastures, for one). It is worthy of note that, in spite of this being a Mexican restaurant, A Certain Person had a burger covered with loathsome vegetables and a huge pile of fries. I had two of their wonderful strawberry daiquiris, the  most painless way to get alcohol into your body there is, but, combined with the large quantity of food I consumed, they just made me sleepy. I went home and dozed off mid-rosary on the couch, which sounds like some kind of retirement cliche.

Nick’s owner assured me he was sorry for his absence and would make it up to me somehow, both of which he loftily denied.

Now it’s time to shower, and I need to remove nail polish first, so I must go.

Your Car Is Not a Boat

One would think that was obvious, but the hordes who insist on driving into high water, “Turn Around Don’t Drown” be damned, prove otherwise.

Also, don’t call 911 just to say the streets are flooded. What do you expect us to do about it? “You need to get barricades out here and block the street.” No I don’t, for 3 reasons:

1. The city doesn’t have enough barricades to block every street that floods OR enough officers to stand there and direct traffic,

2. By the time we could get barricades to all those places, the water would have gone down anyway,

3. Even if the above 2 things were not true, people would drive around the barricades anyway.

Yes, I work for the Department of Boundless Cynicism. But my eyes are not red, no matter what Nick says.

MORE SHOPPING FOLLIES

Remember my ranting about Walmart? The other night, we needed to call an ambulance for one of their loss-prevention people because he was chasing a shoplifter and ran into a door. With his head. HE RAN INTO THE DOOR. WITH HIS HEAD. And then wanted to file assault charges.

Spellcheck is telling me that Walmart is not a word. Would that it were so. And don’t bother saying, “But I bet you like their low prices!” because I never go there. It is sensory overload incarnate.

STREET NAME CENTRAL

A couple of suspects were known to the caller only as “Rara” and “Shy.” Since he burst into a motel room, displayed a gun, and hit someone in the head, I don’t think he was really shy. Also, “displayed” a gun always makes me think they’re gesturing toward it and smiling like Vanna White would do.

Speaking of street names, HEY FOXY! I feel bad about not posting on your birthday.

USEFUL PROVERBS

From my colleague 911SK: “A turd rolled in litter looks better than just a plain turd.”

And from me: “If it smells like dog poop wherever you go, you might check your shoes.”

FASHION REPORT

I’m wearing my impersonating-an-officer outfit–navy blue quick-dry cargo pants and navy blue shirt. Just give me a gun and a  taser and I’m set! “NO!” Nick blurts out hastily. “Do NOT give her those things!”

MY BIRTHDAY HAS A CHANGE OF VENUE

Remember last year, when I had a party at the Howell Park shelter house, which was re-painted for the occasion? And I reassured you that I’d never have a birthday party again? Well, I lied–the Catholic Diocese of Evansville will be having a Mighty Mass (yes, I made up my own title, lest you blame them for it–the actual title of the event is “Rejoice!,” as all must do at the commemoration of my birth) at the Ford Center, on the eve of Pentecost, which is–you guessed it–May 14 this year!! I hope the thousands attending remember to bring me presents.

AND SPEAKING OF CELEBRATION…

Facebook says May 7 is World Naked Gardening Day. This is to “celebrate nudism in nature.” Well, since all the animals are naked, I’d think we’d have enough celebration, but apparently not.

AND JUST WHEN I WAS ABOUT TO HIT “PUBLISH”…

Amazon urges me to buy a shower gel dispenser shaped like a giant nose, and the product comes out of…yeah, you guessed it. No thanks. What’s next, a giant pair of buttocks?

 

 

 

Day 14: Fire Hazard

CRISIS IN PROGRESS RESUMES!

I received a call that there was smoke coming from the building behind the funeral home on 1st Ave. It turned out to be the crematorium in action.

I was at a loss for titles…

“All we are is dust in the wind”?

“Smoke in the water, fire in the sky”?

“I was caught in a burning ring of fire”?

“Come on baby, light my fire”?

The opinion was once expressed that “Don’t Fear the Reaper” should be my theme song, which I found a bit odd–I fear the Reaper a great deal.

S.G.’S 14TH POST, 3/29/13–“Holy Week: Maundy Thursday”

–I explain the concept of Christian charity, and deplore the current state of toilet paper advertising.

Some poor soul has taken on the task of actually digging up and reading these old posts along with me. Congratulations.

Day 5: Quantity, Not Quality

Be advised that I did not promise a minimum length of post. Attempts to refer to a mythical “spirit of the law” will be disregarded just as I disregard the “spirit of Vatican II.”

Sunday was that wonderful first day when it’s 25 degrees and you walk out, look around, and think, “Oh, look! Everything died!” Except the little pink bouquet from our wedding rosebush (given to us as a wedding gift–the variety was actually introduced that year, in ’87–so cool!) which Rom collects and brings in every year.

I neglected to say that the old post I dealt with yesterday was the first to mention a certain Nick, who should need no introduction, but is insisting on getting one anyway. Of course, he had not been transformed into a beast at that point. It will be interesting to see when the metamorphosis occurs.

S.G. POST #5, 2/28/13: Crisis in Progress/FanBase Follies/Mildly Amusing Adventures TRIFECTA

–I exulted in my fan mail, including someone who wanted to know why I wasn’t a columnist for a major national newspaper. That question remains unanswered.

–I noted scratchy/glittery nail polish at Walgreen’s which was called “Almost Famous.” I think my own situation could be better characterized as “Almost Obscure.”

–I told a story about The Entity Now Known As A Certain Person getting humped by a police dog while she was on the air.

OK, I am now on vacation, and you know what that means–DRUNK POSTING! Not just yet, though.

WORDS! WORDS! WORDS! Nick, can I go to bed now?

 

Lord of Misrule

I have called you all together to address the topic of a certain photograph recently circulated on the Internet. Said photo purportedly shows your World Leader, dressed in un-matching clothing and wearing what are commonly known as Mardi Gras beads. Questions have naturally arisen.

BUT FIRST…

Mardi Gras means “Fat Tuesday,” because it comes before Ash Wednesday. Since the exact date each year depends on the date of Easter, it is understandable that one might not remember when it is. But we can all agree that IT COMES ON A TUESDAY, and therefore NO MARDI GRAS PARADE ON FRIDAY, UNDERSTAND?

Alright.

I just learned a few days ago that Mardi Gras has its own official colors–who knew? Purple, green, and gold. I realized–I can do this! As follows: purple turtleneck, gold polo shirt, olive green pants. And yes, the fact that nothing matched (well, my underwear matched the turtleneck, and my socks were chosen not by color, but because that pair wouldn’t scrunch down into my snow boots and never be heard from again, but I digress) didn’t bother me as much as it would have bothered me to go out on Mardi Gras not wearing the Mardi Gras colors, once I knew there was such a thing. Once you know the truth, you’re obligated to follow it.

“But, but–” they say, squirming with impatience, “what were you doing eating lunch with Nick in the first place?”

Well, because he asked me. And the reason he asked me, it turns out, was because his owner was out watching 50 Shades of Gray, and he was in need of some wholesome entertainment. (Although, as it turned out, he was secretly fantasizing about how I acquired my two {2} strands of Mardi Gras beads.) (More on that later.) (More about the beads, not his fantasies.)

We were chaperoned by his two cubs, Thing One and Thing Two. Thing One is, I believe, destined to become like his father–Nick said, “I love you, son,” and was answered with “Yeah, right.” Four years old and he’s already sardonic. This was followed by a steady barrage from the back seat–“Dad, can you see me?” “No, I’m driving.” “Can you see me now?” “No.” “How about now?” “No, but I can feel you kicking the back of the seat.” Nick’s patience was saintly. I found it amusing, but I don’t have to live with it, since I have no children that I know of. Thing Two didn’t remember that he’d actually seen me a couple times before, and stared at me with solemn suspicion.

We landed at the Canton Inn, where Nick had threatened to take me on our ridealong, which now will never be, due to scheduling conflicts (the conflict being that I refuse to work on the same shift with him). I partook of the legendary buffet, which has the wonderful plus of LABELS FOR ALL THE FOOD, so I don’t have to risk a golden-brown batter coating actually containing something I don’t like. I had: egg drop soup, crab rangoon, fried rice, green beans that looked like asparagus, and which I actually thought were asparagus until my dining companion corrected me, and something called salty chicken, which was. Chicken and salty, that is. It was all very good, and the fried rice was excellent. Speaking of being corrected by my dining companion, I HAD TO BE TOLD that you’re supposed to take a fresh plate when you go up for seconds, instead of bringing back the plate you already have. Well, it’s not like I was going to stick my saliva-coated fork and spoon back into the public trough, so WHO CARES, and more importantly, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?

“But, but–” they say, imprudently interrupting me, “what about those Mardi Gras beads?”

OK, then. There is actually a separate story for each strand.

STRAND 1 (green round beads): This was a reward for eating lunch at Hacienda on 1st Avenue, which I did because my dental appointment happened to be on Mardi Gras one year, and Hacienda is across the street from the dentist’s office.

STRAND 2 (green disk-shaped beads): A reward for standing at the bus stop at Franklin & St Joe after the Mardi Gras parade had passed by. (And you know the old saying, “I Love a Parade!”? I hate a parade.) The beads were lying on the ground next to the bus stop sign.

So you see, there was a story to go with these beads. Just not a very interesting story. (“I came up with a better story,” Nick says, but I pretend not to hear him.)

And then he took me to DQ to get ICE CREAM, because I’d said I was giving up dessert for Lent the next day. Because that’s just the kind of guy he is.

I got home, and thought smugly, Ha! He should have taken a picture, to prove that I actually agreed to be seen with him in public, but he didn’t think of it! Went to check my email, and thought, Why are there all these Facebook comment notifications? Because HE TOOK THE PICTURE WHILE I THOUGHT HE WAS CHECKING HIS TEXT MESSAGES. So, speaking of 50 Shades, I think his owner should spank him when she gets home.

A SAYING FROM THE OLD COUNTRY

All together now: What old country? Any old country!

Nick was quite taken, in an icked-out sort of way, by a playful threat grownups used on children back in Rom’s childhood–“I’ll turn you upside down and spit in your butt!” Feel free to use it on your own children, if any. It will at least make them stop and stare at you for a moment.

Fun With Religion

Although I was baptized Catholic, I was raised Episcopalian. The story of my baptism itself affords some amusement. My mother finally agreed to her family’s urging, and told me later it was because the prospective godfather offered to give me a snowsuit as a baptismal present. Since it was September in Wisconsin, the need was obvious, so you could say that my mother sold my soul for a snowsuit. I may have told this story before, but my point in telling it NOW is to explain that I did not have a Catholic upbringing (“Then why didn’t you just say that and spare us the repetition?” they interject fretfully), so I gleaned most of the below from Rom.

A CHILD’S VERSION OF WORDS AND PHRASES

St Boniface = St Boney-Face

Sacred Heart = Scared Heart

Corpus Christi = Carcass Crispy

“O Mother of the Word Incarnate” = O Mother of the Purple Hornet (I guess that’s the Green Hornet’s cousin)

“Angel of God, my guardian dear…ever this night be at my side” = “ever this night bite my side”

THINGS I’VE BEEN TEMPTED TO DO IN CHURCH

–poke the neck of the person in front of me with the pointy end of a palm on Palm Sunday

–tuck in someone’s shirt label

–glare at someone who wasn’t taking their screaming baby into the crying room WHICH IS PROVIDED FOR THAT PURPOSE

You can see that I haven’t progressed much beyond childhood myself. I seem to be stuck in the adolescent stage. complete with liturgically-inappropriate tattoo.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

Sam has the dubious distinction of having the new Poise bladder-control liner named after her. The latest ad says, “I never go anywhere without Sam in my pants!” Poor, poor Sam.

In other product news…I’ve begun to suspect that expiration dates are a scheme to get us to buy another item before the first one is used up. Exhibit A–dental floss. What do they expect to happen if I don’t use it up by March?

WORLD LEADER-RECOMMENDED CUISINE

You know what’s good? An egg-on-biscuit sandwich followed by an ice cream sandwich. You know what else is good? Drinking a packet of French dressing (well, just what’s left over when I’m done with the salad). But not all at the same meal. That would be gross.

Speaking of stuff I recommend, I don’t recommend bringing one’s entire collection of H.P. Lovecraft stories along to alleviate anxiety on long car trips.

DOING SOME MORE GOOD WORKS

I didn’t sit at my usual restroom-adjacent seat at McDonald’s the other day, and I’m sorry I didn’t, because I ended up having to yell across the room, ‘THAT DOOR STICKS; YOU JUST HAVE TO PUSH REALLY HARD!” They better fix that door. I can’t be there all the time.

Sacred, Profane, Etc.

LET’S GET SOCIAL, STARRING, FREE BEER!

I attended a church-sponsored social event today, which featured…FREE BEER! (Which I just almost tipped over onto my desk.) I had a can of Busch Light, which was all that was deployed at first. The can said, “an easy-drinking light beer!” Well, now that I’m accustomed to apple ale (“Dear God, have I turned her into a drunk?” Nick asks, but God does not answer him.), beer of any sort is no longer easy drinking. But I persevered bravely, and by the time I was ready for my 2nd can, they’d brought out Coors Light, which was somewhat easier-drinking. And what do I do when I’m too scatterbrained to read, but too uncoordinated to do housework (“as if you need an excuse to not do housework,” Rom is thinking)? You’re looking at it.

Turns out, after taking a naked can of beer to my table, that The Thing To Do on these occasions is to pour your beer into a cup, so that everyone can pretend that what you have isn’t beer. But I am immune to social cues, and by the time everyone was onto their 2nd can, they had ceased to care and become even as I am.

Lo and behold, I ran into our first (and only–what’s up with that?) civilian director, who also trained me and Made Me What I Am Today, J.A.S., now retired. We were then joined by M.K.L., my confirmation sponsor, who helped train me spiritually, one might say. Now, the question foremost in your minds should be…

…HOW MANY (FREE!) BEERS WILL IT TAKE BEFORE I’M NOT FIT COMPANY FOR CHURCH PEOPLE?

Both of the above individuals were able to offer surprising insights on this important question.

–J.S., who has seen me both drunk and sober, opined that I am actually more socially-acceptable after a couple drinks…taking the edge off, as it were.

–And M.K. stated that beer would actually help me fit into the context of West Side Catholicism. I happen to come from Milwaukee, a hotbed of beer-drinking German and Irish Catholicism, so the West Side seems very homelike.

So, the general consensus was that I need more beer. I took my unfinished 2nd can with me on the ride home, cleverly keeping it below the window line and out of view of any prowling officers. (I fought the law and I won!!)

AND SPEAKING OF THE LAW…OR THE EMBODIMENT OF IT WITH WHICH I AM MOST FAMILIAR…

(…cue the groans from everyone other than Nick)

The other day, after driving back and forth in front of my house honking the horn, I mean siren, until I came out, Nick stopped by for a visit. After the ritual exchange of insults (solemnly witnessed by his owner, who was riding along with him…I guess she can manage him), he said, over the police loudspeaker, “You’re making me uncomfortable. Step away from the car.” Now what could such a formidably-armed beast have to fear from little ol’ me? He then said, “You’re boring me. Go back inside.” And then he delivered himself of the opinion that his visit was surely the highlight of my day. Actually, the highlight of my day had already occurred at approximately 0215 that morning, but I was irked by his statement anyway.

BUT FIRST…FINISHED MY BEER, TIME FOR COLD PIZZA! And every time I look in the mirror, I notice that my hair is in disarray. This raises the question, Can hair get drunk?

I WANT THESE HICCUPS TO STOP. Maybe cold pizza will help.

Speaking of food, the bunch of bananas in the kitchen have a sticker saying, “Ready for the Big Game!” Ah, the traditional Big Game banana. (“What you do with that banana is none of my business,” Nick says primly, but really, who asked him?) (And could this be the reason he steals any bananas he sees I have at work?)

ANYWAY…

In the face of such flagrant provocation, I’m tempted to not write about him (“I want to see you begging, say ‘Forget it’ just for spite,” to quote Joan Jett), but since I couldn’t deal with the resulting tears, the alternative is to write something that will make him sorry he ever mentioned it. (Actually, I fear that would only be possible with the aid of a ride-along, but don’t tell him.)

And so, without further ado (because there’s been too much ado already)…

SOME SHAKESPEAREAN PLAY-WITHIN-A-PLAY-TYPE STUFF

Once upon a time, in a back yard not far from here (outside my office window, to be exact)…

“Could I tase you? Just a little bit?” Nick asks. “More would be…inhumane.”

“Absolutely not,” I tell him, trying to concentrate on my book. His owner had brought him by for what she called a “play date,” and what I call “beast-sitting” (although I’d never sit on him, for fear he’d interpret it as a ride-along, take off and go flying through the air). She wanted to enjoy a spa day without him attacking anyone who tried to touch her.

“You don’t want me to have any fun.”

“True,” I say, still not looking at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get up on his back legs and look into my office window, but the icons on my wall frighten him and he drops down with a hiss. “Tell me a story, then,” he says, lying down so I can see the silky tuft of down on top of his head, which he hopes I’ll find endearing.

I put my book down, with a sigh which hope he’ll find guilt-inducing, but you know how that goes. “You know, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

He tilts his head, considering. “I don’t accept your primitive cosmology.”

“OK, I’ll tell you a story, then.” He sits up eagerly. “Once upon a time, there was a beast who bothered a dispatcher until she beat him. The End.”

He lays his ears back. “I don’t like that story.”

“Too bad. Great literature always stirs up strong feelings.”

“But it’s not convincing. You’re not authorized to beat me under these circumstances.” He sits up very straight and recites the Rules of Obedience, which, like all of his kind, he was required to memorize as part of his training. “The dispatcher is entitled to beat a disobedient beast only during working hours. The owner, of course, may beat said beast at any time.”

“Well, she told me I could when she dropped you off.”

“Really?”

“It was implied.”

He eyes my foot and begins to bare his teeth.

“And you”–I say quickly–“are not entitled to use force against me at any time–”

“–except during ride-alongs.” Damn, I was hoping his memorization skills weren’t that good.

We glare at each other until he begins lashing his tail, then I pick up my book again. And he knocks it out of my hand.

“Damn it, you–” I leap to my feet and start casting around for something to whack him with. He panics, screeches, and leaps up into the tree.

Now I understand why you don’t often see such beasts in trees. His panic intensifies. “How the hell do I get down?” He thrashes about, his tail snapping off several small branches.

“Um, fly?”

“I can’t! There’s not enough clearance!”

“OK, then try folding your wings–Calm down!” I say, a little too sharply, as he begins to keen. “Fold your wings. Slowly.”

The habit of obedience kicks in, and he starts to do as I say, but we hit a snag–literally. “I can’t–owww!” He is very loud, and I wonder what the hell my neighbors are thinking.

“Calm down. Hold still, let me see.”

He becomes quiet, but is still panting. Now I can see that one of the hooks on his wings has caught on a projecting bit of bark.

Now what do I do? I don’t think I’ve ever climbed a tree in my life. And even if I could, being up there with all those claws and teeth and such…Finally I get a Bright Idea.

I grab the long-handled pruning tool Rom uses to trim the tree branches. Unfortunately, Nick only notices that I’m holding something with blades at the end of it, and starts yelling again. “You’re going to clip my wings!”

“I am not. And you had them clipped when I trained you, didn’t you?”

“Not without anesthetic!”

“Look, I’m using the other end.” I hold it up for his inspection. “Now stay very still…”

Very carefully (and not without a bit of whimpering from the victim), I work the hook off the bit of bark and free his wing. He sighs and lays his head down on the branch, eyes closed.

“But I’m still up here,” he says.

“True.” Now what? Maybe he’ll eventually pass out and fall off the branch. But if Rom comes home before Nick’s owner comes to pick him up, seeing another male might cause fights to break out. So, I take advantage of his still-closed eyes to tiptoe closer, stretch up to get hold of the end of the tail dangling between the leaves, and, neat as you please, pull him out of the tree before he can dig in his claws. With a startled squawk, he tumbles to the ground, taking some leaves and an abandoned birds’ nest with him, and landing with a crash.

“Are you OK?”

He gets up and shakes himself off. “Yeah, I think so. My wing’s a little sore, that’s all.”

“Sorry I hurt your pride–”

“I have no pride,” he replies loftily. “Pride is a weakness that my enemies could use against me.”

“You’re confusing pride with dignity.  Dignity is what you don’t have. Stop licking yourself.”

“Don’t you want me to be clean?

…And then his owner walks into the yard and looks around. “I don’t remember seeing all these branches on the ground.” She turns to Nick. “Have you been very good, like I told you?”

Nick and I look at each other. “Of course he has,” I say.

 

…And sure, this should have been two separate posts. But I have two words for you–FREE BEER.

 

 

 

 

Do Try This At Home

PRODUCT TESTING AT MY PLACE

I received an incredibly dense chocolate cake for my birthday from my sister. (It’s almost finished now, which shows how fast two people can work in three days, considering I received it Wednesday.) With the aid of this cake, we were able to finally answer the question, Is chocolate better than sex? The answer is, Not Quite. It may be better than anything else you could have after sex, though.

And, lest you think product testing is a one-time thing in this household–with a precision that Consumer Reports would approve of, I tried a Gillette Venus razor on one leg and a Schick Quattro on the other, to compare and contrast their properties.

THE LATEST EXAMPLE OF RADAR LOVE

Also for my birthday (yes, you must know all about it–you should realize that by now), Rom put together a cactus garden for me. This is rather eerie, because I’d recently been thinking about my childhood efforts in this direction, but I don’t remember ever telling Rom about it, nor does he remember me doing so. Between cacti, roses and cats–everything’s better with thorns! To illustrate, the Amazing Esmerelda celebrated the anniversary of her adoption the other day by being quite the Bucket of Points with her catnip ball. Glamour had too much catnip and started kicking herself in the head, but these things happen.

OH, AND THEN THERE’S THIS

Why was there a police car in my driveway? It must be St. Nick and even-more-Saintly Sam delivering my birthday present! They gave me a strawberry chapstick and a sympathy card. (The latter was to offer condolences for all the fun I was missing by refusing Nick’s offer of a birthday ride-along.) Chapsticks were 3 for $3 at Walgreen’s, so I’m sure they picked up a couple for themselves as well, since the police department doesn’t issue those. Although they should, because the discomfort of chapped lips would surely be a distraction in the performance of an officer’s duties.

CORRECTING COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT NICK

He does not breathe fire, nor is he foul-smelling. He would probably prefer to have both those attributes, but we must learn to live with our limitations.

I MAY BE OLD, BUT AT LEAST I’VE SEEN BLUE OYSTER CULT MORE TIMES THAN I CAN COUNT

The radio was boasting about “The best music from the 80’s and 90’s on Retro Rewind Weekend!” I came of age in the 70’s, and I pronounce the music of the 80’s and 90’s limp and flaccid by comparison, at least as featured there. “I just diiieed in your arms tonight, it must have been something you said” (I may have a sharp tongue, but I’ve never actually killed anyone)(well, unless they crawled home to die and I didn’t find out about it, I suppose) was followed by “What is the meaning of love? Don’t hurt me anymore.” I detect a pattern here.

SPECIES OF PARASITIC WASP DISCOVERED THAT STINGS ITS INSECT HOST IN THE BRAIN!

–I admire its aim.

Time for a manicure (rose-gold foil effect, I believe) and reading about Catholic liturgy and theology during the Dark Ages, plus I better get started on tonight’s apple ale project, or I’ll never finish my 12-pack by the end of my vacation.

 

 

 

 

Ridiculous to Sublime

DOING THE DEVIL’S WORK

“The Lord said to Satan, ‘Where have you been?’ Satan answered the Lord and said, ‘Roaming the earth and patrolling it.'”

–Job 1:7

Mildly amusing adventures, one might say.

At McDonald’s, on St Patrick’s Day, besides the Shamrock Shake (presumably made from pureed shamrocks, and therefore to be avoided), they had some employees wearing little leprechaun hats. A customer was commiserating with one of those employees, and she said, “Oh, I got 3 paid breaks for wearing this hat!” I would wear anything if I could just get a real dinner break and not have to work while I eat.

Speaking of roaming the earth and patrolling it (don’t they pay Nick to do that? Did you know that Old Nick used to be a term for the devil?), Rom’s broken leg is finally fixed, and he doesn’t need to wear that weird boot thing anymore. But he won’t throw it away. In case he breaks his leg again? He is a big weirdo.

All the stink bugs that hid in our house for the winter are now crawling out of the woodwork (literally). Actually, we call them shield bugs. I read that it’s an alternate name for them, and I’m sure they’d prefer to be called that. One of them drowned in the cats’ water bowl, to their annoyance. Maybe I’ll borrow some of Nick’s frogs to deal with this problem.

UPDATE FROM YOUR RESTROOM CRITIC

–$ General on Barker: Now have a sign on their door saying “NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS.” (As does Dispatch–apparently day shift had a plague of people thinking it was their right as taxpayers to use our facilities, although the security cameras and double-locked doors should have alerted them to exactly how public we are.) The restrooms at DolGenCorp, as it likes to call itself, were always mythical anyway–the cashier always claimed the key was in the exclusive possession of the manager, who was always working somewhere in the bowels (pun unintended, as my puns usually are) of the store.

–Phillips 66: Now has a sign saying “No Paper In Toilet, Thanks.” Does that include toilet paper as well as feminine items? It may do no good to ask, since the clerk had to ask me which pieces of chicken were white meat. I answered “breast and wing,” and he asked me to point out which one was the breast. That explains the time he gave me 2 thighs.

–Thornton’s: Still the gold standard for public restrooms. Well, except for the piped-in slick dance pop, although there was a song the other day that sounded like Eminem doing reggae, which you have to admit is quite a concept.

By the way, next time someone at a business tells me “We don’t have a restroom,” I’m going to ask “Then where do the employees go?” I mean it.

 

–Walgreen’s: Have re-adopted the customer-unfriendly practice of a lock on the restroom door, which you have to ask a pharmacist to unlock for you, since the restroom is next to the pharmacy. I’m sure they’re thrilled. They told me, “We’ve been having some problems these past few weeks,” not knowing that I’m actually in a position to verify that. (It was true.) I tried to see what the combination on the lock is, but they’ve been trained to stand between you and the door. I’m rebellious like that.

MY TINY ACTS OF REBELLION

–When paying my bills, if they say “Please put your 19-digit account number on your check,” I won’t do it. And who really needs a 19-digit account number anyway? They don’t have 19 digits’ worth of customers.

–Bill-paying brings out rebellion in me, apparently. I mark down the check to Vectren in my checkbook as “SIGECO,” although I don’t have the nerve to put that on the check itself, in case they refuse to cash it.

–Putting “Pay Your Bills Online Instead!” all over the envelope is the surest way to get me to not do that. I want them to give a person a job putting my information in their computer, instead of having me do it for them. I won’t bag my own groceries, either. Not that I shop for groceries, and Rom insists on bagging his own. Hmm.

Well, when I sat down I thought I had a lot to write, then I couldn’t remember any of it, then I thought of a bunch of other stuff to write instead. This is called bipolar blogging.

EVENING AT THE PALACE OF ANSWERS

“Do you go to the temple tonight?

Do you not go to the palace of answers with me, Marie?”

–Patti Smith, “Ain’t It Strange” (some less-reverent lines deleted)

 

Regardless, after I was done roaming and patrolling, I headed to Sacred Heart (or Scared Heart, as Rom called it in his youth–Corpus Christi was Carcass Crispy) for confession, so I could bore Bishop Thompson with my chickenshit sins. Without detailing what transpired there, let me just say that there are few things cooler than a Catholic church at dusk.

 

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