Migrating From Blogger to WordPress While Battling an ICD Attack Was Not My Best Idea

Um, I guess you’ve probably noticed by now that the place looks a little different.

That’s because, in one of the worst cases of impulsiveness I have ever executed, I decided to migrate Katoninetales.com from Blogger to WordPress. I did this because I was having an Impulse Control Disorder panic attack and needed a distraction to ensure that I didn’t do something to hurt myself, and in a spectacular bout of irony ended up causing myself more pain than any of my vices could have done. This is because I don’t know shit about how computers and the interbutz actually work. As far as I know I click a button on my laptop and The Computer Fairy casts a magic spell to turn the computer screen into a window to Interwebz Land. Migrations are never easy but when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing it’s like being dropped into a foreign country with a map written in Braille. And the Braille is in a different language. And you can’t understand what the natives are saying but you’re pretty sure that they’re making fun of your Fanny pack.

In other words, there are a lot of ways to fuck up a migration I did every single one of them.

First,

I Changed Servers Before Migrating My Site

To be fair to myself I will tell you that I did not expect my former host server to cancel my service as quickly as it did. I had emailed my host for my site’s EPP code (this is apparently the secret spell to unlock your domain registration) and they took it upon themselves to boot me off of their server at the exact moment that they emailed me back with the code. I found this out because my site went down late Friday. SURPRISE! I emailed my new server and asked them when my site would be back up. They of course emailed me back with basically “What site?” It was then that I learned that websites are not magic windows but actual files that need to be copied onto the new server while the old server still supports them “to ensure uninterrupted website service”.

Picard Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Thought That Free Migration Meant From One Writing Platform To Another ie Blogger to WordPress

Anyone with any shred of computer knowledge is perfectly within their right to be laughing their ass off at me right now. I honestly cannot believe that I was so stupid except that I was so focused moving writing platforms that I had blinders on regarding the bigger picture of the server move. No it turns out that “migration” refers to those precious website files and moving them to the new server. This is important because as soon as you leave a host, they take all of your files and feed them to the troll that lives under the bridge and they are gone forever. And I had not moved my files.
Double Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Assumed That The Live Chat Help Was More Than a Guy Typing With One Hand While Whacking Off With the Other

I immediately panicked and went to my new host site and clicked on the live help. I explained that I was a moron and realized that I changed servers before migrating my site and to please tell me that I didn’t lose my site forever. He asked my site name and then came back to tell me to submit a support ticket and disconnected me. I let the rudeness roll and sent an email to support apologizing for being a moron and asking how I could fix this. I was pleasantly surprised to get an answer after a few minutes but when I opened the email I saw that it was just to tell me to contact my old company. Fine, that makes sense.

I went to my old server site and tried to log in but it told me that my password didn’t work and that I could blow it. I politely asked to have my password emailed to me and received an email telling me that I could stick my password where the sun don’t shine would have to contact my new server company. What? I had no idea why my new company would have my old company password.

I replied to my new company’s email relaying this and they said that was because they were my server now. Well no fucking shit. I again got on Live Chat where the same guy asked for my ticket number and then told me to email customer support. I asked him if he couldn’t look at my ticket himself since he asked for the number and he replied, “No I can not.” and then disconnected me again.
Triple Facepalm Star Trek Fail
I immediately signed back on and as soon as he answered I replied that “can not is spelled cannot unless the not is part of another construction” and then I disconnected him. And let me just say here that I understand that computer people must want to pull their hair out when it comes to deal with computer-illiterate morons like me all day but this asshole didn’t even give me a chance before he hung up on me.

As a last ditch effort I emailed Google support since they overwrite Blogger and was told that I had to email the server company (my old company). So basically we were all playing Play The Kat.

Finally I did what I always do and fixed the problem my fucking self. It meant staying up for 24 hours straight on the computer to teach myself Internet protocol suite and then moving my site files–which I actually had backed up because I’m a fucking rockstar though they were not in the correct format to upload directly to a server.

So all of that bullshit said, my new site is up. Just please excuse my site’s temporary appearance because not only do I have to work my other job, but my brain’s server is fried.

My Two Favorite Animals & My Big-Mistake Son (An Interactive Post!)

As is typical in most doctor’s offices, the staff at my second job is made of all females with the exception of one male whom I adore. Oliver is fourteen years younger than I am so I tell them I’m technically old enough to be his mother.

“You can’t leave, Oliver! You’re like a son to me!” I told him when he announced that he would be leaving our office since he was transferring to college near Trenton.
He laughed.
“It’s not funny! You’re my son, Oliver! You know why? Because we’re family!” I insisted bear-hugging him until his face started to turn purple.

This might sound like I’m the antagonist in our parental relationship but this is not the case. I’m as innocent as a baby shark lamb. Take our exchange from a few weeks ago. I was at work minding my own business when Oliver came up and demanded that I name my favorite animal and then give three reasons why they are my favorite.

Rage face

My typical expression during these conversations with my brat “son”.

“Why?” I asked him looking up from the chart that I was prepping and crooked an eyebrow at him.
“It’s a game.”
I gave him a half-lidded stare.
“You don’t have anything better to do? Aren’t there charts that need to be filed?” I lectured like the Big-Mistake Mother that I am.
“They’re all done. Just answer the question. It’s fun!”
“Fine,” I sighed. “I like horses, but if it came down to it I guess dogs in general are my favorite animals.”
“And what are three reasons that like them?”
“Because they are loving and loyal and fun to play with.” I turned my attention back to my stack of charts.
“Alright, and what’s your second favorite?”
I threw my hands in the air and shook my head. “I have to give you another?”
“Yeah, just one more,” he insisted.
“Okay, then I’ll go back to horses. And I like them because they are beautiful and graceful and strong.” I added before he could ask for my three reasons.

[Pauses story here]

Here comes the interactive portion of the post! I’ll pause and let you think of your two favorite animals and the three reasons that you like each of them! FUN FUN FUN!

[Continues story]

“Ha!” Oliver snickered.
“What?” I demanded.
“Well I just learned in Psychology that the first animal that you name possess the qualities that you look for in a mate. And the second animal is how you see yourself.”
“No it doesn’t! You made this up!” I swatted him with the chart in my hand.
“No really! We did the exercise today!” he insisted. Then he took a step back and smirked. “So you think you’re beautiful, graceful and strong. You are really conceited, Kat!”
He took off down the hall before I could smack him again.
“This game sucks and you are a brat!” I snarled at his retreating ass.

Yes, I’m definitely going to miss my “son”.

Game of Exterminators: A Song of Puns and Ants

Last week I discovered that a colony of ants had decided to squat in my bedroom window. These ants are not the cute l’il teeny ones that are guilty of not much more than ruining your picnic either; these are giant motherfucking evil looking creatures that freak me the fuck out. Seriously. I am not a squeamish person but there is just something about these ants that send me into berzerker frenzy.

rage i hate ants

The last time that these fuckers had ventured into my room was in May and I thought that I had killed the colony since I had sprayed so much ant spray into the woodwork around the window that I nearly killed myself but then as I was working in my room last week I started to hear some sort of odd crackling near my window.

(Actually I think one of the things that sets me stupid about these ants is that I can hear them under the wood.)

I looked over in dread and sure enough there was an ant shaking his ass at me–who was soon joined by more ants who grabbed their crotches and flipped me the bird. I freaked out again and went on a spray frenzy but I had unfortunately used the majority of the spray in my last rage, and while I killed the ants that were doing the Harlem Shake on my sill, I didn’t feel safe from seeing an encore performance later.

I originally wanted to burn the house down but my mother convinced that an exterminator would work just as well. Since I have deadlines and am still covering at my “part time” job she took over finding an exterminator and setting up an appointment.

I came home on Saturday and was told that the exterminator had come and sprayed while I was at my other job.

“They’re Carpenter Ants,” my mother told me.

I nodded. “I could tell by the way they were singing Superstar at all hours.”**

“And it was a pain in the ass to find an exterminator. You would think that they would be under ‘E’ for ‘exterminator’ but they’re not.” (My mother still uses a phone book.)
“They’re under ‘P’ for ‘pest control’,” she clarified.

“I see. And what was the name of the company?”

“Able Pest Control.”

“Oh. I was hoping that they were named Lannister,” I replied.

“What? Why?” my mother asked.

“Because a Lannister always sprays for pests!” I howled with laughter at my own wittiness.

My brother happened to overhear this conversation and told me that I should beat myself for such a terrible pun.
a lannister always, game of thrones, tyrion

And that was the highlight of my weekend.
(I’m not even being facetious, that amused me for several hours.)

That Awkward Moment When You Want To Maim Someone and Buy a Hat Instead

Remember that time you were invited to a Derby themed bridal shower and you went to print out the gift card from their online registry and found that your hamburger-humper of a brother had used all of the ink in your printer and you didn’t have any choice but to break your vow about never going in a store that ended in “Mart” unless it was to burn it down to buy ink and then have your patience severely tested by a total fucking asshole?

Oh wait, no that was me.

My mother and I had a bridal shower to attend yesterday morning and in true Kat fashion I waited until the last minute to get our gift. In my defense I’m busy as a motherfuck and it also should have been very simple since the couple had only registered for gifts for their honeymoon so it was only supposed to be placing an order online and printing the gift receipt to put in a card.

(Don’t try to fathom this kind of registry–it belongs in a world where bridal showers have themes and the hors d’heurves are lobster tails and I feel like friggin’ E.T. whenever I visit.)

But of course nothing is ever that easy and so I discovered at 8am on a Sunday morning when no stores are open that I was out of ink. The shower was at 11am so I had to go to the one place that was open: K-Mart. My only hope was that most of the morons of the world would still be asleep.

HA!

After nearly being hit in the parking lot by a jackass driving across the parking space to beat me to a parking spot, I made it into the store. I grabbed my ink and was making my way to the check-out when I passed the accessories section. We had been informed on the shower invitation to wear “our fanciest Derby hats” and even though I was originally going to be a brat and wear my Wonder Woman baseball hat, I decided to play nice and grabbed a hat for my mother and me.

There was only one register opened and already three people waiting when I reached the check-out but luckily the first two people moved quickly. And then came the third person. I knew he was going to be an asshole when he dumped a pocketful of change on the counter as the cashier scanned his item.

“6.40 please,” she told him.fucking angry

The fuckface gestured at the pile of change. “Count it out,” he grunted.

The poor girl sorted the pile and informed him that he needed another two dollars so he pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and another pile of change that she was forced to count.

“You still need fifteen cents,” she said meekly. She sounded so sorry that I wanted to slam the guy’s head on the counter for making the girl feel so uncomfortable besides wasting my time.

The guy rummaged around in his shorts for a few moments and then shrugged. “I gotta run back to my crib and get some more,” he finally told her.

My first thought was that there are approximately twenty-two and a half feet of intestine in a human being so if I yanked his out through his nostril I would have more than enough to strangle him with it, but then I thought of the girl at the register and how she would have to void his sale and then have to go through this again when the asshole came back.

“Here!” I finally snapped digging in my bag and producing a quarter.

The girl gave me a grateful look while the motherfucking douchebag asswipe who I had just helped walked away with his bag and didn’t even look at me much less say thank you.

“You’re a really nice person,” the girl told me smiling as she rang up my two hats.

“No I’m not,” I snarled. “I’m a bitch and I’m going to run him over when I see him in the parking lot.”

The girl laughed.

And I sighed.

It’s impossible to be terrifying when you’re buying two frilly Derby hats.

***

Three quick things:
I sound like a broken record but I’m still crazy busy, in fact I’m covering at my “part time” job and working doubles. The good news though is that kickassness is happening, but I’m waiting because it warrants a post of its own. Stay tuned for awesomeness that will probably include putting a Wonder Woman crown on my dog.

wonder woman, eskimo dog, wonder eskimo

 

And Then I Ripped Out a Kitchen Faucet With My Bare Hands

Aside it being super-duper crunch time with my manuscript, another reason that posts have been sparse is because I have been so busy with super-duper crunch time that I haven’t been engaging in the world outside of my computer enough to experience the usual what-the-fuckery that inspires a good deal of my posts. Well if Mohammad won’t come to the mountain then the mountain will apparently come to Mohammad because there I was minding my own business in my own home on Saturday night when bullshit struck.

After putting in a nine hour day at my part-time job as an optometry tech, I sat down at my desk in the dining room to get some writing done. (There’s nothing like nine hours of dealing with whacko patients to inspire me to get work harder at my writing.) My mother was at her computer in the same room flipping out at Farmville.

“Did you start writing yet?” my mother asked.

“Not yet, I was still catching up on responding to tweets from Wednesday about my hair cut,” I responded.

“Oh good. Can you hit my Farmville request before you start?”

I opened another window on my computer and responded to another tweet as I waited for the game to load.

“I should have assured people that I wasn’t chopping off my hair when I mentioned getting it cut,” I told my mother. My brother had turned on the faucet in the kitchen and raised my voice a bit to be heard over the water running at full blast. “I got several messages telling me to keep it long.”

“What?” my mother asked over the sound of the water from the other room.

“My hair,” I said louder. “I should have made it clear that I never cut my above my shoulders because I like to keep it long enough that it covers my boobs if I ever forget to wear a shirt.”

“What the hell?” my mother asked.

“I know, that’s absurd,” I snickered. “With my amount of boobage I could never grow enough hair to cover them.”

“No not that,” my mother answered looking toward the kitchen. “What’s your brother doing in the sink?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like he’s rising it out.”

“Mike, what are you doing with the sink?” Mumma yelled.

“Nothing,” he shouted from the den.

My mother and I looked at each other and then bolted for the kitchen. We ran in to discover a small waterfall pouring out of cabinet under the sink and a massive pool spreading in front of it. I ripped open the cabinet door and stepped back just in time to avoid being burned by the scalding hot water that was spraying all over under the sink. I glanced inside and saw that the hot water supply line had burst. The water was now pouring out of the open cabinet only that it was too hot for me to turn off the water supply under the sink.

“Turn off the main water supply!” I shrieked.

Mumma ran into the laundry room but by the time she got the valve closed the burst water line had turned the kitchen into something out of a Kevin Costner movie. And much like a Kevin Costner movie I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I had never seen the disaster in front of me.

“I don’t feel like dealing with this,” I groaned.

“Mike you fix it!”

“I can’t. I’m drunk,” my ever-helpful brother replied. I happened to glance at the kitchen table and saw the remains of a Long Island Iced Tea sitting there.

“No you’re not,” I sneered.

“Well I’m buzzed,” he insisted.

I’ll fix it,” my mother interrupted.

angry jaguar

“I WILL EAT YOUR FACE, SINK!”

“You are not getting under a sink with scalding hot copper pipes!” I bellowed. And that was how it was decided that I was going to be spending Saturday night fixing a kitchen sink.

My mother emptied the cabinet and then I wedged myself into the cramped and soaking cabinet to survey the damaged. It was fairly easily to disconnect the supply hose from the water pipe but I could not reach the other end of the hose attached to the faucet.

A slight footnote here: the kitchen faucet had been most shittily installed only a couple of years ago and had been leaking. I had fixed it somewhat (with a broken hand at the time ’cause I am a rockstar like that) but it was never exactly perfect. My mother had bought a new faucet in preparation of a friend promising to instal it however that douche canoe kept blowing her off until she gave up.

“That’s it! We are getting rid of this piece of trash right now and I’m putting in that new faucet!” I yelled.

“Just leave it for now, Kat. We can do it in the morning,” Mumma said calmly.

“Like hell! Give me that wrench!” I again wedged myself into the damp wood of the cabinet and began banging, unscrewing bolts and cursing loudly.

“Are you sure that you’re going to be able to get it out?” my mother asked.

I wriggled out from the cabinet–which, between the garbage disposal and my aforementioned ridiculous chest, took the skill of a Circus Soleil performer–grabbed the faucet and ripped the fucker out of the counter top. “Yes,” I replied dropping the faucet into the garbage bag on the floor.

I’d like to say that all went smoothly from there, but though I am a fast learner, I know next to nothing about plumbing so that when I ran out to Lowe’s to get the needed supply line THAT DIDN’T COME WITH THE NEW FACET I bought the wrong one.

“What the fuck does FIP, MIP, OD stand for?” I snarled at Google.

Once I had figured out with a degree of confidence I realized that Lowe’s had closed. Again my mother urged me to leave the sink until the morning but there was a Home Depot not too far away and they were still open so I took off again.

“I’m 99% sure that I have the right line,” I announced when I got home thirty minutes later holding two braided silvery pipes. “And they better be,” I said shoving myself once again under the sink, “because the next time I crawl out of this cabinet I’m not going back in. So I might be sleeping in here.”

Fortunately it didn’t come to that and while it was a pleasure describing the tools I needed Mumma to hand me which I had not brought under the sink with me, I managed to install the new faucet before midnight.

new sink

The new faucet. (Also my GoT glasses kick ass.)

So that was my weekend.

(Try not to be jealous of my glamorous rockstar lifestyle.)

The Tale of The Flaming Buns

Okay, I admit it: I have a tendency to torture myself. Whether it’s setting my own broken hand, starving myself in a seven day detox or getting all of the hair ripped off of my nethers in a Jewish Community Center, I have a special proclivity for putting myself through some ridiculous shit. I would like to point out, however, that in every most cases I have a legit reason for torturing myself. For example I was forced by a lack of medical attention to set my own hand and the detox was bolster my health and the Brazilian wax was necessary because it was the start of swimsuit season.

See? Good reasons for insanity in all most cases. And such it is too with The Flaming Buns that I had a good reason for torturing myself.

If you’ve watched my videos on youtube then you can probably tell that I’m constantly sniffling between perpetual allergies and/or a cold. One of the things that really sucks about this–aside from the obvious abundance of snot–is that because of my cardiac issues I’m not supposed to take regular allergy or cold medicine so I usually just suffer through it. However the other day I was scrolling through Pinterest–where all good ideas come from–and I found a homeopathic cold remedy in the form of a Ginger detox bath which promised to help you sweat out your afflictions. The next thing I knew I was grabbing my keys to make a trip to the supermarket.

“Where are you going? It’s dark out!” my mother exclaimed as I headed toward the front door. (My mother is from the school of thought that females should not go out after twilight or they will surely be accosted by ghoulies, beasties and long-legged nasties.)
“To get some ground ginger,” I replied.
“Why do you need ground ginger at 9:30 at night?”
“Because I’m going to bathe in it.”
And as she is so used to doing, my mother just accepted that I had said something inane.

After aquiring the ground ginger without being kidnapped–though I told my mother that I fought off a hooligan who tried to shiv me and an old man who offered me candy–I dug the baking soda out of the cupboard and went upstairs to brew a Gingered Kat Stew.

I ran the tub full of hot water, added the ginger which turned the water a disgusting shade of brown, shook approximately a third of a cup of baking soda into the mix, eased myself into the mess, grabbed a book and let myself cook. It only took about ten minutes before I started to sweat but you’re supposed to soak for at least forty minutes to get the full effect of the ginger so I continued to soak and read my book.

Pikachu Spanking gifI’m not sure exactly when it happened but at some point I looked up from my book and realized that my ass was hot–and not “hot” as in “cute”, “hot” as in “I feel like I’m sitting in a vat of salsa”. While I had been occasionally swishing the water around in the tub, a healthy amount of the ginger had settled to the bottom and I found that I was sitting in a layer of pure ginger. I swished the water around some more but it was too late; my buns were officially on fire. It wasn’t exactly painful though so I went back to reading and sweated out the remainder of the time, however by the time I got out of the tub, my ass was numb. It was one of the most fucking bizarre sensations I have ever experienced… and of course I made worse by smacking myself and then laughing like a bloody lunatic because I didn’t feel anything when I did it and my mind instantly made a dozen filthy jokes. But aside from amusing the hell out of me, I will say that this ginger soak did actually clear up my stuffy, sniffly nose, and not only that, but I went to sleep soon after I got out of the bath and didn’t wake up once during the night, which is very rare for me.

polar plunge logoAnd in a hilarious turn of irony my next tale of maschicsm is already in the works except that instead of burning ass, I’m going to be freezing it off. Tomorrow, 1/19/13, I’m going to be jumping into the semi-freezing Atlantic Ocean with my Gal-Friday of insanity, Jewels, and my brother Mike (known on here as “Gator”). Again there is logical reason for this madness and we are not arbitrarily jumping for my hypothermic fun of it but because we joined the Polar Bear Plunge to benefit the Special Olympics. Jewels and I have already our minimum donation goals thanks to some brilliant peeps who I’ll be linking to their blogs/twitters as my featured Super Peeps next month, but my brother hasn’t reached his goal yet, so I’m extending my thanks of pimping to anyone who contributes to his goal, too. For a minimum donation of 5 bucks toward Gator’s/Mike’s goal, I’ll shout you out in the post I do about the Plunge and also have the link to your blog on my sidebar in all of its glory for thirty days (or more usually).

But before you think that I’ve gone soft and am helping my brother because I’m a nice person or something, let me clarify that by donating to my brother you are actually still helping me because if Gator/Mike doesn’t reach his goal, he can’t plunge and I will feel much better about plunging into icy water if I can look over and laugh at my brother’s freezing ass.

Finally I wanted to add that by donating, not only will you be helping me, but you will also get bragging rights that you personally helped me in my latest tale of what-the-fuckery.

How can you resist that, right?

(And this is Number 25 on the List of Shameless Shit: Ask for help.)

Hanukkah Is the BEST Holiday For Terrible Music Puns

I just happened to see one of my Jewish friends yesterday, which was brilliant since Hanukkah started later that evening.

Kat: Happy Chaka-Khan-ukkah!

Amigo: What?

Kat: Chaka Khan. The singer.

Amigo: Okaaay… thanks.

Kat: I’d also like you to know that you spin me right round. Baby. Right ’round. Like a dreidel, baby. Right ’round, ’round ’round.

Amigo: …

Kat: What? Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Amigo: …

Kat: Did you know that if you were a rapper your name could be Dr. Dreidel?

Amgio: …

Kat: Nothing? Fuck me, you’re boring.

Amigo: I’m just surprised that you didn’t say something like “Keep the Han in Hanukkah” since you’re such a comic geek.

Kat: Han?

Amigo: Like Han Solo? I’ve seen that meme a few times.

Kat: Han Solo in Hanukkah?! Now that’s funny! Or better yet, “Keep the “Chew” in Han-Chew-Kkah!”

Amigo: That’s awful.

Kat: And Star Wars is a movie, not a comic. Mostly.

Amigo: …

Anyway, these wretched puns are my ridiculous way of wishing my Jewish peeps a very Happy Hanukkah!
(Or Chanukah.)

happy hanukkah marvel comics

Call me a comic geek, eh? Then take THIS!

A Tale of a Klutz and a Halloween Scare

I’m not going to lie–one of my personal* favorite** compliments is when I’m told I’m a badass. It’s actually a little hilarious because with how many stupid things I’ve done and continue to do I don’t see how I can be a legitimate badass. Sure I’ve attacked a home intruder with pen and threw a cheating guy’s keys down the sewer drain, but I’ve also fallen on the floor of my gym from laughing too hard and locked myself in a public toilet. The only possible way that I could truly rock the badass moniker is that I’ve learned to roll with my foibles and see them as comedies to be shared rather than embarrassments to be hidden. To illustrate this point, and in honor of (New Jersey’s) Halloween today, I’m going to share a tale of past Halloween scare.

*This is my favorite compliment as a person, but I’ll admit that my absolute, overall favorite compliments are about my writing.

**I’ve finally switched my spellcheck from UK to USA so the extra “U”s will be gone.

This tale took place during a time when I behaved incredibly un-badass. Not surprisingly this was during my early teens when pretty much everyone feels like shit about themselves. A group of friends and I went on a Halloween “Walk of Horror” at a camp where you took a guided walk through the woods and masked monsters would jump out to scare you.

running scared, haunted house attrationThe walk ended in the section of the camp where there were a dozen or so log cabins. There was a bonfire blazing and we were rewarded with hot cigar and warm donuts for making it through the woods. We had been chatting and enjoying a treats for about five minutes when the sound of a chainsaw ripped through the air, and a guy dressed as Leatherface ran out from one of the cabins. Everyone screamed louder than I have ever heard (to this day) people scream and scattered in all directions. This was back before I had any kind of martial arts or weapons training so my instinct was still “flight” rather than “kick your fucking ass” and I ran along with everyone else. The last thing I remembered was the feeling of plastic against my face and thinking ‘OH MY GOD I CAN’T MOVE!’ and then I found myself on the ground with people staring at me. Apparently I had been so terrified that I had bolted and ran smack into one of the cabins (which had been covered with black plastic…I’ve still no idea why) and knocked myself out.

I was embarrassed at the time but luckily I outgrew being self-conscious of my klutziness and find it hilarious now. It’s a good thing, too, since I’ve knocked myself out at least twice since that story.

Who else has a Halloween story to share? It doesn’t have to be embarrassing–although that will earn you extra Kat points for ballz.

Gas, Grass and Gollum

So my mother and I went to buy a lawn mower yesterday and we met Gollum from “Lord of the Rings”.

Alright, I’ll back up a bit.

I came home from work on Saturday night to find the mangled remains of my mother’s lawn mower upside down and in the middle of the front yard.  Apparently the lawn mower and my brother had a disagreement and it came to blows.  The only winners in this battle though were my neighbours who got to witness the spectacular display of Irish tempertantrics.  The final result was that the lawn mower was retired, my brother was exhausted from flinging it around in an effort to make it work (no comment), and my mother and I had to pick up a new lawn mower on Sunday.

gollum, lowesWe walked into Loews and were making our way to the mowers when I heard a scratchy voice ask my mother if she needed any help.  I turned around to chide my mother for talking to strangers and nearly fell over a display of Tiki torches since the person who was offering her assistance looked almost exactly like Gollum.  Actually the gentleman was a very sweet grandfather of ten so I guess he would more accurately be “Smeagol”.  Either way it made the shopping trip more bearable since we all know how I loathe shopping.

Unless it’s at Victoria Secret, in which case, I’m the one who turns in Gollum.

“Do you want a mower that is self-propelled?” Smeagol asked us as we walked over to the display of mowers.

“That would make it easier to push, wouldn’t it?” I asked back.

“Oh definitely,” he laughed.

“Then we don’t want that.  My brother is the one who does the mowing and there’s no reason to make things easier for that butthead,” I told him, “In fact do you have any of those old fashioned push ones?”

“We don’t need it to be self-propelled,” my mother cut in, “But is gas or electric better?”

“The electric works well if you have a small yard, but otherwise a gas one would be best.”

“I think we can all agree that what would be best is whichever one make my brother work the hardest,” I said, “Now where are those old push mowers?”

To my delight, they do still make the old-fashioned, non-gas push mowers and Smeagol escorted us to where we could find one.

“There ya go,” Smeagol grinned, “And the push ones leave no carbon footprint!”

“No carbon footprint!” I repeated to my mother, “You see what a brilliant idea this is?”

“It cuts sixteen inches across at a time so it might take him a while,” Smeagol added.

“I will seriously pay for the lawn mower if you buy this one,” I told my mother.

My mother, from whom I get my short attention span, had already been distracted the display of shiny weed whackers behind us though.

“We should probably get a new weed whacker, too,” she said, “The old one has been sitting outside and rusting since Dad died.”

“Now weed whackers are another ballgame,” Smeagol began.

I sighed.
“The thing that you have to remember though,” I waved my hands to get Mumma’s attention from the wall of garden toys, “is that I want goats, and–”

My mother began to rudely laugh, however I continued.

“–they should be able to handle a bit of edging.”

“With goats you would only need to buy a little hand shovel.  And you would get milk!” Smeagol added.

“I knew I liked this guy!” I exclaimed, “So we’re agreed on the goats?”

In the end, my mother bought a gas lawn mower, though not a self-propelled one at least, and decided to wait on the weed whacker.  And I still didn’t get my goats yet.  The day would have been a complete disappointment for me except that thanks to the trip I have since decided to refer to the woman who does my Brazilian waxing as a “weed whacker”.

***

A quick end note here, I have some potentially fucking awesome news about my long-awaited book.  I am a big believer in not counting my goats before they are hatched though, so I’m not showing my hand just yet.  The only thing is that you may notice is that I’ve started to update the format this blog and make it at least look more like an actual writer’s website.  Believe me, content will stay the same because I am what I am–and that is to say that I’m a fucking lunatic and like telling you about it.  In addition to being a lunatic though, I am very serious when it comes to my writing, so I’ve added a new About Me section that sounds a little more professional than my original one.

(However, I’m still keeping the old one because, like I said, I am what I am and that that About Me probably illustrates who I am more than any actual paragraphs ever could.)

The Sky Was Storming But the Watermelon was Everclear

Number 24 on The List of Shameless Shit is “Share a struggle you have yet to “just get over.””  This could be a real downer of a prompt, but homegirl don’t play that.  Instead I’m going to tell you about the beach adventure that I had with my brother this past weekend.

I’m guessing that it’s because I now do so much work from home that I want to be completely out of the house and away from my computer when I don’t have to be around to go in to my pay-the-bills job.  Oddly enough the place that I keep wanting to visit is the beach.  While many of my favourite childhood memories involve staying at my grandmother’s shore house and going on the beach with my cousins, I haven’t been a beach fan in over a decade.  I’ve long ago given up on self-analysis though, so even if this change seemed weird, I just rolled with it.

The forecast for this past weekend had been threatening massive storms, but the worst rain that we seen so far was on Saturday when a little shower had blown through early and left the rest of the day sunny.  Sunday started out the same way–with a shower in the morning–but by 11am it was sunny again.  The beach was calling to me, and after a round of pleas and threats, I was finally able to convince my brother to take a shore trip with me.

We didn’t get on the beach until about 2:30, but the late arrival and semi-cloudy sky worked to our benefit because there were hardly any people to step over as we picked a spot to camp out.  The only issue with the late arrive though was that the tide was coming in and this would possibly mess with my beach plans: to make The Red Keep, one of the castles from A Game of Thrones.

Geeks take their geekiness even to the beach, you see.

My brother, however, had an equally geeky idea about how to give me more time to build my castle, namely by building another GoT landmark: The Wall.

the wall, sand castle, game of thrones

I like how he even labeled it “Wall”.

Much like it’s namesake, The Wall did protect the realm of my castle as the tide started to come in.  And if you are reeling from nerd-overload already, this will send you right over the edge because every time a large wave barreled toward the shore we would scream, “WINTER IS COMING!”  Or if it was a particularly foamy wave we would howl about The Wall protecting us from the White Walkers.

(Shut up.)

Unfortunately the tide didn’t play fair and there was a cross-current that came from the side of The Wall and began to erode The Red Keep before I was even a third of the way finished.

sand castle

“The White Walkers” have surrounded The Red Keep and have begun to destroy it.

After the second wave of “White Walkers” the walls were crumbling and the largest towers had fallen.  I was undeterred though.  I knocked down a few towers myself and declared that the castle was now Harrenhall.

(Pound for pound this is pretty much the geekiest I’ve been in some time.)

sand castle

The ruined castle of Harrenhall.

My brother and I had done all that we could do to save the castle, so we moved on to playing Washers.  We had no sooner set up the washer boxes when the sky opened up with a downpour that would have sent Noah to building another Ark.  I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit so I wrapped myself in a towel while my brother held a sheet over his head until he gave it up for a bad job and let himself get soaked.  For a good twenty minutes we were pummeled with rain, and when it finished everything was saturated–except me (haha-thank you towel).  The funniest part though was that The Wall and Harrenhall made it (kinda) through the storm.

beach after rain

My brother inspecting the remains.

We resumed our game of Washers and then looked over to see that a rainbow had appeared over the ocean.  I have better pics on my camera, but here’s what my brother managed to capture with his phone.

rainbow at the beach

There must be GOLD in the Music Pier!

And then a leprechaun appeared and while he didn’t give us gold, he gave us the next best thing: grain alcohol.

Seriously.

Okay, it wasn’t really a leprechaun, it was one of the guys from the group who had been beaching next to us, but he was rather round and jolly and he really did give us a watermelon filled with Everclear.  My brother and I didn’t have knives, but did that stop us from eating the watermelon?  Nope.  We tore the watermelon apart with our fucking bare hands and ate it.  By the time we were finished, the already drenched beach blanket was further soaked in Watermelon-Everclear juice.  It was a lot of fun to haul the sticky, soaking lot of blankets, towels and bag back to the car, but all in all it was a pretty kickass day.

So what does this all have to do with No. 24 my List of Shameless Shit?  Well, that sea water surrounding my sand castle?  That was the first bit of the Atlantic Ocean that I’ve let touch my skin since I was eighteen.  Without wasting too much space with details, next week will be the anniversary of the day that I was at the shore and came down with a fever that would eventually burn so hot that it would cause brain damage and destroy my memory.  The doctors had told my mother that I must have caught something from the ocean and as a result I’ve had a panic attack whenever I’ve been on the beach and the water came near me.  This my No. 24 because I’m not over my fear of catching a fever from the ocean.

But I’m getting there.

(And because I’m emo, I took the rainbow as present from God for a job well started.)