Oldster

Matthew says I can smell a toot before it happens. Except he doesn't say "toot". In fact, when I call it a "toot", he giggles. Of course, he calls it something completely different. I think you gets the drift.

When the kids are late for school, I say, "You're tardy." They think THAT'S hilarious, too. What is wrong with these kids of mine? I call things what I've always called things, and they treat me like I'm some kind of silly, senile oldster, longing for the good old days when pantaloons were sexy and townies wore spats.

I call CDs "albums" and when I say I need a new pair of thongs, they look at me like I just said I'm installing a stripper's pole in the dining room. That they think I need a PAIR of thongs probably makes their imaginations run pure, buck wild. Mental scars for days, I guess.

I say "Stay off my lawn, you hooligans!" Matthew says, "You hooligans stay off my mom!"

Is this what's called a failure to communicate?

Is it wrong?

Is it wrong to have a visceral reaction to Home Depot...just because I associate it with Tony Stewart, who I find to be repulsive and...and...just plain oogey?

There's literally in intersection in our town where if you turn left, you go to Lowe's, if you turn right, you go to Home Depot. I never even consider turning right.

Last time I hit town, I got to thinking, why is that? After all, they're practically the same store, just different logos. I doubted I'd save a penny on 16 penny nails at one and not the other. So why, when I tried to turn my car right, I gagged and started shouting, "ick ick ick" and wanted to drive my family truckster through the front of Home Depot?

Tony Stewart. Jowly, hairy, greasy, thick-rubbery lipped, whiny-crybaby ICK. He even makes me wanna hate the color orange.

Now before somebody points out to me that he no longer drives the Home Depot car...just let me have my bias. Please. 'Cuz red is my favorite color and my dad wears Old Spice, so I just can't hate his new car. But I can still hate HIM.

GooGoo for GaGa

I just KNEW I was gonna love Lady Gaga as soon as I realized she says "glue-gunning" in one of her songs.

I can't get enough. Though I don't relate in ANY way, shape, or form to her luxury goods, leather underwear, glittery sunglasses & chrome makeup schtick, I just love car dancing to her songs. But only when I'm alone. If I do it when the kids are in the car, I get withering looks from them and Becca says, "Mom. No."

I bought her CD and I can't stop listening to it. 'Cuz you all know I'm a total slave to high fashion & being dirty rich beautiful.

Sometimes I put the CD player on shuffle and get to listen to "Let Her In" by John Travolta, followed by "Pokerface" by Gaga, then "Sailing" by Christofer Cross. Don't be envious; if you'd like, I can make you a playlist. Just ask.

Listology, page 55

Ways You've Change Since Your Teens

Got fat
Grew mustache
Cut hair
Realized childhood dreams aren't really for real life.

The Fellowship of the Twinge

The Fellowship has made a pact. They formed in My Lower Back: Shrieking, Stabbing, Throbbing, Aching. Four there were. Four there still are. Four are KICKING MY ASS. Somebody needs to find me some longbottom leaf and soon.

Oh my gosh. I think I just let everyone in the world know that I've not only seen, but memorized the LOTR. Now I'm never gonna get laid.

Dang it.

My husband is SO getting some of these boots.

Ignore the fact that it's OJ Simpson, who first screwed justice & then totally became Karma's bitch. Ignore the polyester blue "jeans". Ignore the smarmy fist-under-chin, 3rd grade portrait pose. Ignore all of this...and focus on the fact that if you wear these boots, you grow a third leg.

My husband is SO getting some of these boots.

Listology, page 12

Guilty Pleasures

Dove chocolate
PerezHilton.com
Family Guy
Archy McNally books

Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD.

Google it and you'll find exactly 262,000 pages dedicated to the vast levels of suck that are Billy Mays. Billy Mays is the universe's answer to all that is good. Springtime, flowers, newborn babies, the clear night sky. Billy Mays was sent here by some unnamed evil to balance out all the beauty & wonder in the world with sheer, complete, total & utter, face-melting SUCK.

So imagine my gagging surprise when I saw an advertisement for his new reality show, Pitchmen. I felt the planet shift on its axis and worlds upon worlds in other dimensions die a horrible, screaming death. A black hole opened up at the center of my soul & in fell all my hopes and faith for the redemption of mankind.

Forget December 12, 2012. Forget a great battle on the plains at the Mount of Megido. This. Is. The. End.

Listology, page 47

Places I've Lived

(deep breath)
Myrtle Creek, OR
Woodburn, OR
Hubbard, OR
Baker, OR
Myrtle Creek, OR
Seneca, OR
Prairie City, OR
Eagle Point, OR
Trail, OR
Los Angeles, CA
Myrtle Creek, OR
Trail, OR
Rio Linda, CA
Canyonville, OR
Trail, OR
Medford, OR
Shady Cove, OR
Myrtle Creek, OR
Sutherlin, OR

Damn you, Carl's bangs.

Flipping through channels last night, I came across a movie that was seven layers of awesome.

The mood was supposed to be creepy & gothic but it came off as bargain basement, filmed with the benefit of a single 25 watt lightbulb that had to be unscrewed & moved to the next scene between takes. There were echoes when the characters walked & loud white noise made it hard to hear the dialogue...which was tragic, because I'm sure the dialogue was every bit as awesome as the "brick" wall that swayed when the heroine leaned against it.

Bestill my heart, it was absolutely riveting.

Determined to learn more about this cinematic masterpiece, I hit info and this is what it said, "A couple enter the asylum of a mad vampire doctor and his one-eyed assistant with bangs, Carl."

Yes. You read that right. His one eyed assistant with bangs, Carl. Were they SCARY bangs? Or were they particularly ugly? Did they have a bad attitude, these bangs? I absolutely had to know more.

I watched several eternal minutes of the movie before I was rewarded with a glimpse of this be-banged devil. Carl was most certainly deformed, which an unsightly hump and one bulging eye, and a club foot that surely kept him from doing the foxtrot. And I'm almost certain that his burlap-sack smock was not from Abercrombie & Fitch.

He didn't speak and spent his time simply lurking, bumping his hump into swaying walls and dragging his foot, though it must have been a difficult task because he seemed to have trouble remembering which foot he was supposed to drag. His right foot/left foot/red foot/club-foot varied from scene to scene. Very scary stuff, that.

Of course, despite his spectacular acting chops, I would never have given him much notice...had it not been for the bangs. They really were bad enough to deserve 3 words in a 20 word plot synopsis. Horrible. Prince Valiant meets Donald Trump, if you can imagine. They lay limply, but somehow heavily, on his forehead. No wind, nor rain, nor club-footed lurching could disturb them, so firmly were they set above his single long eyebrow. Mesmerizing.

This movie was called "Blood of the Vampire", filmed in 1958, starred people I'd never heard of, with a budget of approximately $27.67 & shot in glorious 50s Technicolor. However, lack of budget, talent & skill could simply never take away the scene-stealing presence that were Carl's bangs.

After watching it, I couldn't sleep. Damn you, Carl's bangs.

Bangs, man. Absolutely haunting.