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!
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.
Kat: What? Don’t hate the player, hate the game.
Kat: Did you know that if you were a rapper your name could be Dr. Dre-idel?
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.
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.
Anyway, these wretched puns are my ridiculous way of wishing my Jewish peeps a very Happy Hanukkah!
Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.
What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?
Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.
Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door anyway. This is very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.
I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from their fifteen pound frames.
“Can I help you?” I asked him.
I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”
“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman spiel.
“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck to me and yet it was.
“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.
And then the evil part of my brain woke up.
“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.
“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”
“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.
“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.
“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”
He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”
“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”
He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”
“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.
His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”
“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”
“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.
The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”
His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.
The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.
I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.
I’d like to add a side note that door to door salespeople on my street are ridiculous and relentless. They do not take no for an answer and will visit your door every single day until they wear you down. Considering this and the fact that I was unable to fall back to sleep after the interruption, I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.
*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.
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 my brother and the lawn mower 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.
We 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. The person who was helping her – and I don’t mean this as a slam because the gentleman was a very sweet grandfather of ten – but he was small and thin and, to me, looked almost exactly like Smeagol. It made the shopping trip more bearable since we all know how I loathe shopping.
“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 makes 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.
“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, and decided to wait on the weed whacker. And I 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 I 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.)
I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.
It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.
It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.
(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them. There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)
Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love. I’ll catch up soon though. I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.
Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.
I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day. And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week. I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping. Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.
This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.
Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.
(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)
((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back. I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))
Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.
After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping. Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.
I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature. To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table. The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.
We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open. BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg. This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this. And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing. Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.
Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.
I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze. And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie. Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.
Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.
Thus concluded Major Moving Day.
Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.