Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Christmas decorations

Day 19: I’ll Seize You When You’re Sleeping

The plan to fill my yard with inflatables being discussed in certain quarters cannot succeed. I keep late hours, and besides, you’d still need someplace to plug them into.

S.G.’S 19TH POST, 4/20/13: Repressing the Irrepressible

I whine about being a denizen of Free Contentland, and worry that I’ve peaked early.


Day 17: They Are the Schneesmen

I got a catalog from The Wisconsin Cheeseman. I am the Cheeseman, they are the Cheesemen….But my favorite catalog name is “Schnee’s from Bozeman, Montana,” which sounds like a Monty Python skit.

Most of the Christmas lights I’ve seen so far have been the boring all-white kind. Come on, West Side–quit trying to look like Newburgh!


I won’t get into the dream, except that it involved going to the movies with Stephen Colbert. But I was trying to figure out which jewelry to wear, so I dumped it out on the floor (not my usual method of deciding, by the way), and was sitting in the midst of it, sorting it out. Rom was watching me, and I said, “I look like a dragon on its hoard, don’t I?” He answered, “Quite a bit.” I told him about the dream just now, and he said, “I think you’d like to have a hoard.”


Officer on radio: “Call the Walmart Neighborhood market and let them know we found two of their stolen mobility scooters, and we’ll be, um, riding them back there.” I hope someone got a picture of that.

S.G.’S 17TH POST, 4/17/13: Forgive Me, FanBase

–I apologize for not posting for a week and a half, and note that the wrapper for my Subway peanut butter cookie says, “May contain peanuts.”

Tomorrow’s post will observe St. Nicholas Day, so if you’re not Nick, feel free to ignore it.

Day 16: Unrelieved Complaining

S.G.’S 16TH POST, 3/31/13–Holy Week: Easter Vigil

–I complain about traffic.

–I complain about littering.

–Hardee’s current slogan about eating like you mean it was newly introduced.


Why must there be an inflatable Santa down the street from my house? Those things are ugly when inflated, and even uglier when flaccid.

Day 8: I Did Not Spend Thanksgiving In My Bathrobe

…I dressed up (cocktail ring encrusted with opals and a paisley shirt from the mid-70’s, made of magical polyester that’s equally uncomfortable in any weather) to go to the $ General, because we needed toilet paper.

Speaking of the calendar, there is a World Leader Edict in effect: Non-Catholics cannot put up Christmas decorations until the day after Thanksgiving. Catholics have to wait until Advent begins on Sunday. This evens out at the other end of the season, when Catholics have until Epiphany on January 6 to take stuff down–everyone else, out by New Year’s. Thank you.

I had THE BEST THANKSGIVING DINNER EVER CREATED. After creating it, Rom did the dishes while I ate, and he picked at the food while still standing up. You know, you don’t hafta live like a refugee. (DISCLAIMER: THE PREVIOUS IS A SMART REMARK COURTESY OF TOM PETTY, NOT A POLITICAL STATEMENT OF ANY KIND.)

To tide me over this afternoon (since we eat dinner around the time I come home from work), I had beast stew, courtesy of Nick. Their meat is actually quite tasty, once the scales are removed. NICK, IT WAS JUST A SMART REMARK, STOP WAILING!

He tries to wedge himself under my couch, but only the head will fit, and only by folding his ears flat. “Get out of there,” I say, in my best beast-controller voice. I’m sure he’ll eat any cat toys he finds under there. Esmerelda is sure he’ll eat any cats he finds, too, and stays safely in the bedroom.

“No,” he says, in a muffled sort of way. “I don’t want you to see me cry.”

“I don’t think you can cry.”
I get up and try to pull him out by the tail. Of course, that only makes him dig his claws into the carpet and growl. I’m tempted to swat him on the rump, but don’t want to hurt my hand. The only alternative is to spoil him further (seems like that’s always how it ends up), so I unwrap the bread Rom made and toss him a chunk. Naturally, he hears it, retracts himself from the couch and snaps it up in one fluid motion.

“That bread goes great with beast stew, you know,” I observe. He glares at me, then crouches for a spring…


{I’m using the editorial “we,” since I act as my own editor. And it shows.}

I would like to thank the people who expressed their appreciation for S.G.’s new daily format. I couldn’t do it without you. Well, technically I could (I think–does WordPress throw out bloggers who don’t have any readers?), but it would be pathetic and sad.


S.G’S 8TH POST, 3/21/13: Crisis in Progress: Location, Location, Location!

–I lecture you on telling us where you are when you call 911. That is still necessary, in case you thought there’s been a technological advance since then that spares you the trouble.

–A caller says that someone needs to be “cemented.” He meant “committed.” I think. Maybe he was a Mafia guy who wanted us to do his dirty work for him. DIRTY DEEDS, DONE DIRT CHEAP. I said “dirt cheap,” not “free.”

–Lisa is called A Certain Person for the first time, because she impersonated me on Facebook.


Day Two: You Kids Get Out Of My Yard!

But first, let’s dispense with:

S.G. POST #2, 2/24/13: How I Got Beaten Up At Work

A few observations on this story of a former job (the story is 100% true, down to the names by which my co-workers chose to be known on the job):

  1. By now, a mere 2 years after I told the story, you might have forgotten what land-line phones once looked like, to understand why getting hit with one left me with a knot on my head you can still feel 40 years later, if you were to run your fingers through my hair. (Nick backs away, shoving his trembling hands in his pockets.)
  2. And, lest we always blame the criminal, I have to add that I kinda, sorta, could see why someone might feel like hitting me in the head with a blunt object in the course of a day’s work.


Him: “There’s a guy stuck in my yard! You better get someone out here or I’m gonna shoot him!”

Me: “Why would you shoot him?”

Him: “Because he came up in my yard in his car and he won’t get out!”

Me: “But you said he was stuck in your yard! He can’t get out!”

Him: “Are you gonna get someone out here or not?!”

Why do I even try reasoning with people? By the way, yelling “Hurry!” does not decrease response time.


I am truly sorry I wrote that, and yet I can’t bring myself to delete it, BECAUSE…

Apparently the toilet-talking snowman was such a big seller for Walgreen’s last year that now they have a toilet-talking reindeer–because snowmen are so, well, last year. You know the drill–you put it on the back of your toilet, and it says stuff to your guests like:

“Oh, deer!” {get it? get it?} “Another visitor! You can see the moon from here! And believe me, I have!”

“How are you doing? Well, apart from the obvious!”

There were several more, but I haven’t the heart (or the hart! Get it?) to repeat them, because not only were they gross, they weren’t even funny.


“We reserve the right to anonymously monitor employees’ internet activity.” What the hell kind of a job is that?

I Get Meta and Stuff


Did you know that self-denigrating blog posts have become a cliché? You did? {Wow, did you know that WordPress automatically inserts the accent mark when you type “cliché”? Cool!} However, I claim a Satirical Exemption from cliché status.


I hesitate to say “I couldn’t make this stuff up,” because I’m defensive about whatever creativity I possess, so let’s just say I didn’t make this up.

Caller: “I have a friend who won’t give me my car keys.”

Your Humble Narrator: “What’s the address?”

C: {Proceeds to give me an incorrect address, which she excuses by saying “I’m not from around here.” That beats the woman who once told me she couldn’t say if she was driving east or west because “I’m from Kentucky.” However, we finally figure it out.}

YHN: “So your friend won’t give you the keys–”

C: “Yes, and he locked himself in my car, and then he pulled out the shotgun, and y’know…”

YHN: {seizing upon the casually-spoken detail}: “He pulled out a shotgun? What was that about?”

C: “Oh, just saying he wasn’t going to get ripped off, y’know.”

YHN: {acquiring a clue}: “So is this a drug deal, or…” {pausing delicately to allow her to insert a more-respectable euphemism}

C: “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m a private dancer. I do private dances, and he–”

YHN: “So he’s not a friend, he’s a…” {John? Trick?}

C: “Client.”

So I’m guessing he heard the words “does private dances” and thought “performs oral sex in her car.” Or maybe he just thought of the Tina Turner song.


“No, don’t tell me your dream, I need to know why you need the police.”

By the way, I am wearing a light green sweater and jeans. Yes, it’s the same sweater I wore for the last post, and yes, I washed it before wearing it again. You people are too inquisitive.


Most of the Christmas lights I have seen so far have been white. White lights are not forbidden. They are, however, boring. Please exercise less good taste when decorating.

Brought To You From the Devil’s Playground

…They say an idle mind is either the devil’s playground, or the devil’s workshop. Well, which is it?

I am wearing a green nightshirt, by the way.


16 hours, which then becomes 20 by virtue of a late run? Really? Those guys need to get themselves a union.

Now that I’ve set them straight (world leadership is hard work!), I hasten to add that my sole responsibility today was to make sure a blob of hot fudge didn’t stick to my lipstick. This is not something which can safely be assumed.


The action of my neighbors, of putting up their Christmas lights and dragging out their (shudder) inflatables, but not yet lighting/inflating them, is to be commended. Although I was tempted to drag the inflatables away by dead of night and hide them.

%d bloggers like this: