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 Shining at Victoria’s Secret

victoria's secret, VS credit card, VS VIP

You don’t get a black VS credit card without having a problem.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve a *ahem* problem with Victoria’s Secret, to the point where I can’t even part with their bags.  Luckily, I don’t like shopping and despise having to deal with large, roaming packs of humans, so I’m very unlikely to go into a mall where they are located.  Unfortunately there are times that I cannot avoid the wretched mall.  Like when I have to get false eyelash glue.

As soon as I walked into the mall, I felt a strange, almost other-wordly force pulling me into the Victoria’s Secret, and though it was in the opposite direction of my original destination, I found myself walking through their doors, dragging my confused mother behind me.  A saleswoman immediately appeared and handed me a shopping bag

“Hello, Kat,” she smiled.

The fact that she knew my name should have been the tipoff right there that I was in very big fucking trouble, but I was too mesmerized by all of the lacy, pretty things surrounding me.

“Yes.  Yes, I’ve been away, but now I’m back,” I mumbled.

“It’s good to see you, Kat.  What will it be today?”

“Hair of the bra that bit me.”

“Dream Angels,” her eyes glowed as she gestured to a display in the center of the store.

“That’ll do ‘er,” I said shoving a woman with a baby carriage aside and vaulting over the makeup counter.

One way that I’ve been able to control my Victoria Secret spending is because I only really fancy the one style of bra, and they were running out of colours that I didn’t own.  As I perused the drawer with my size, I saw one bra that was black under white lace that I loved, but given that I already had a white one under black lace at home, I was able to put it down.  I was about to make it out of Vicky’s without getting another bra!

And then the saleswoman appeared in front of me.

“The bra in the corner is a Dream Angel, too,” she told me.

I glanced over to the corner and amidst some PJs was an ice blue bra under silvery white lace.

This was a problem.  I did not have an ice blue bra.  I have antique blue, but that’s a completely different similar blue, and besides mine is antique blue under antique blue lace, not under silvery white lace!

I could only pray that they wouldn’t have it in my weird size.

The saleswoman reached into the rack and pulled out the correct size, and then handed me the piece of Kat-Kryptonite.

“How did you know what size I wear?” I asked her.

“I should know, Kat, I’ve always been here.  Just as you have always been the caretaker…of these bras,” she replied.

I looked to my mother for help, but the saleswoman was obviously working her evil mind meddling on her because she just nodded her head with a glazed look in her hazel eyes.

“I think we have the bottoms, too.  Do you want to see them?” the saleswoman continued.

“No!”

‘Yes!’ I screamed in my head.

“Oh,” the saleswoman said sadly, “We only have one pair, and it’s too big for you.”

The bottoms were not too big for me, in fact they were my size, but using her telepathic power, the saleswoman knew that I feel that my ass is too big and that this last bit of flattery would be the thing to send me over to the edge.

gollum

Once again VS turned me into Gollum.

“Give them to me!” I demanded, “Give me the Precious!”

“We also have the matching gar-” she started.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and began humming “The Star Spangled Banner”, but then I heard the woman’s voice finish in my head, ‘-ter, you know.

“Red rum!” my mother suddenly yelled.

“You are so right, Mumma!  We need to get out of here right now!  I mean, like, right after I pay for the Precious!” I turned to the saleswoman, “So how’s my credit in this joint, anyway?”

“Your credit is fine, Kat,” the woman smiled.

“That’s swell.  I always liked you,” I told the woman as she took me to a register and checked me out.

“Come and see us again soon, Kat,” she told me as my mother and I began our escape, “Come and see us and stay forever…and ever…and ever.”

“I am never going in that store again,” I declared once Mumma and I were safely in the car.  But I know that I will.

The semi-annual sale is only a few months away.

**Today’s zombie survival tip is to not go to the mall ala Romero’s Dawn of The Dead.  As you can see the place is already corrupt.

Snow Leaves Me Late and Drunk

I had started to write a follow up to this post about SOPA, but then I left for Boston and writing about the spectacularly fucked up trip to get there is much more appropriate.

gollum, hello precious

“Hello, Preciousssss…”

I usually drive up to Boston, but for this trip I was taking the bus because I find that sitting next to a guy who resembles Gollum and trying to look down my shirt for the entire seven hour trip makes for a most charming experience.  It also saves a lot of money when you’re a starving writer.

(Do you like how I put “starving” in there? Like how it’s not already implied as soon as you say “writer” that you’re starving?)

The main issue with taking the bus though is that they leave at a predetermined time rather than at whatever time I arrive to board, and with the insanity that follows me around like a stray cat, I usually end up running late.

If I was a mature person I would admit that the first screw up of the trip was my own fault since I didn’t plug in my cell phone, thus the battery was dying which resulted in its alarm going off very softly to conserve energy, thereby leading to me not waking up as early as I needed.  Instead I’m going to say that my phone’s battery blows and that it shouldn’t need to be charged as often as it demands.  Piece of shit.

LATE!

Waking up late was then compounded when I discovered that it had started snowing during the night.  I had my dog’s leash firmly in my hand when I opened the front door to leave for my mother’s house, but an Eskimo dog’s instinct to blast into snow is more powerful than the lock to keep the lead from letting out too far and she ended up nearly pulling my shoulder out of its socket as she blasted off into a snow drift.

“Kir-AAAAHHHHH!” I screamed as she yanked me into the snow and sent my backpack and suitcase flying from my arms.

COLD!

I was parched by the time I reached mumma’s so the first thing I did when I got to her house was to yank open the refrigerator, grab the orange juice and start chugging straight from the carton because I’m a lady like that.  I had swallowed at least two huge gulps before I realized that my brother had added fucking vodka to the carton of orange juice.  I spat out what was left in my mouth but there was no getting around that I had just chugged a giant Screwdriver for breakfast.

DRUNK!

I could have possibly still made the bus at this point, but then my mother and I reached the highway and it was still snowing and this is southern New Jersey.  South Jersey + Snow (of any accumulation) = You’re not going anywhere motherfucker.

FUCKED!

There was another bus leaving three hours later and rather than have my mother drive me across the bridge again, I convinced her to leave my pathetic ass at the station where there was at least the world’s worst coffee and incredibly slow Wifi.  All was calm until I took a trip to the restroom.

When I had gone into the bathroom stall, the lock didn’t turn very easily.  If I hadn’t been buzzed on vodka, I probably would have gone to another stall, but instead I cursed at the lock and turned it until it caught in the door.  The lock got its revenge though.  When I went to leave, it refused to release the door.

HAHA!

It was about 7am at this point, I was cold, drunk and nauseated so I did what I do best which was to be impulsive and destructive.  I pulled one of my slutty boots from my suitcase, yanked it on and then kicked the shit out of the bathroom door until I broke the lock.

Violence always makes me feel better so it didn’t even phase me when I finally boarded the bus a couple of hours later and the driver announced, “So this snow…um…yeah, I hope you guys weren’t planning on getting to Boston on time ’cause…nah, that’s not gonna happen…”

Yay snow in south Jersey/Philly.

obama snowball, cat

Even Obama laughs at my pain. (I laughed my ass off at this for some reason.)

EDIT: Ya’all need to read Nicki’s comment below to hear how she experienced hearing this story firsthand.  And kazoos are awesome.