On the other, of course they only clean to destroy art... or maybe it's to hide the embarrassing fact that they never do clean otherwise. Fifty-fifty?
"So... what do I write on the ticket? That he's not voluntarily cleaning thoroughly enough? Uhm, how about restricting the flow of traffic? No, wait, that's us."
Check out the followup:
I appreciate that you decided to pull over to the side of the road in order to take a phone call. However, perhaps you could have chosen not to pull over on the highway off-ramp? Yeah, that super curvy one, the one with nearly blind curve. Perhaps the road the off-ramp connects to would have been a more logical choice? Or, say, that half-empty, free, carpool parking lot? The one right in front of your dumb face? You know, so as to not cause an accident. Of course, your poor decision making skills make me feel really safe that you share the road with me. Moron.
Please don't think less of me.
I...
sigh
Okay, like a band-aid. (No, not braille-y. Rip-quick-for-less-pain.)
I am and/or was a fan of the Twilight series of books.
Deep inhale. Deep exhale. A weight has been lifted.
So the am/was of it all is due to the fact that I finished reading the main series within days of release of the last book and have not really looked back. When I was reading them, I really liked them. I read every spare minute of the day. The children scavenged the remains of the pantry. Sam talked divorce. And then I was done, and I haven't picked any of the series back up since I finished the fourth book.
And then my sister Lindsey and I made a mad dash for the first movie when it was released, and... eh.
In fairness, I'm pretty much guaranteed to not enjoy a movie made from a book that I loved. And I really did not enjoy it. Whatever, I've never seen the second movie, and have no plan to see the other two-still-to-come. And, please, don't try to convince me that the book series sucks or that the movies are the best things ever shown in a movie theater. I really don't care.
This all comes about because I was listening to NPR this morning (criminy, let's see if I can fit one more link in this post), and this particular "news item" (really?) was about those nutters who are camping outside the red carpet for the premiere of the latest movie- no, not to see it, because they are in no way getting in. They are camping in order to get a look at/picture of the stars of said movie.
Need I repeat that?
Here's another kicker. They've already been given their wristbands that guarantee their "entrance" (though not necessarily position, I suppose), so they are free to leave. They're not budging.
I know.
This post has gotten long. If you're still reading, thanks. Let's get to it.
So this, I dunno, reporter? broadcaster? Wtf-ever he was, he profiled two groups of campers. The first group was so-and-so and her eight friends, "and I use the term 'friends' loosely." Oh yeah? Did they meet on-site? That's why "friends" may not really apply? No, they met online. Hey, f**ker! Therefore they could not be friends? Just "friends"? Rather judgey of him. I admit, I don't talk to many people online. Pretty much just Cassie (bam!) most of the time, but what the hell? In an age where so many people meet or chat or comment or blog or share or create/join a community online, I think a statement like that is a quick way to get a lot of hate-email.
Let's move on to group two. They called themselves, I think, Twi-Moms? Something where they combined "Twilight" and "Mom". Ladies? Stop doing this shit. It is creepy and disgusting. If you want to lust after these boys, fine... maybe? Honestly, it's still a little eww. Reading the books, it's easy to find a piece of yourself in the main character, easy to remember being that teenage girl. But watching the movie, putting these boy faces onto the love interests (oh, lord, spoiler there, I suppose- but if you haven't read them yet, odds are you probably aren't going to) just ups the nasty factor. (Maybe this is why I didn't like the movie? No, it still just sucked.) So, A! Lusting after boys- boys with boy faces, you can't imagine you are their age. You can NOT. And then B. You go and add "mom" into it? You go and make it sound incestuous? No, do not argue. That is what you crazy bitches did. You took "yucky" and turned it into "criminal".
As Cassie just said to me, "As much as the term 'cougar' annoys me, at least it doesn't denote 'motherhood'." And what's more, because I share the label "mother" with you, you are dragging me with you into your world of skin-crawly-molesty-foul. Please. Just. Stop.
Woohoo, bitches!
P.S. Not a single person had an answer on the braille band-aids? Mother hell. For shame.
Apparently pharmaceutical packaging in the EU is required to have braille on it, as of this year.
This is the most boring first sentence of a post I have ever written. Blah.
Anyway! What this means, in some ass-backward way, is that the latest Band-Aid brand bandages that have made their way into my abode have braille. It's possible that off brand ones would, too- truly, I am not a brand snob- but I can't find any in my possession that do. (This doesn't mean that they're not currently sold with braille. Possibly the ones I have just pre-date this six-month old new mandate (that doesn't actually apply to my little spot of the world, yet here we are with braille boxes)... What? They're bandaids adhesive bandages, they don't expire. Or maybe they do, but I can't make myself care about that.)
So I present to you a couple of examples of said bandages:
That's right, Spongebob bandaids. I know you're jealous.
Now here is the possible conundrum. I am not blind. I don't currently know anyone who is. This raises two issues. A! I am not... fluent? literate? in braille. And B! I don't have anyone to ask.
And this is where I sound like an asshole. It seems like, really, it shouldn't be so hard to figure out, like, gee, I think I can decipher the code, play matchy-matchy with a braille cheat sheet. But this makes me sound like that filthy american who can "yo ahblo el esspanyolo". Because maybe I don't get the subtle nuances of braille. Maybe the little bit of extra space is exceptionally significant. Perhaps there's a symbol not listed on any sheet I've found, or maybe the language differs in other countries.
Or maybe Johnson and his son are the assholes.
Because, as far as I can tell, that says "nand-aid". Go ahead, google "braille" and get your own cheat sheet. Even Wikipedia isn't solving this one.
And this is where I make you, my dear readers, feel like assholes. Because someone needs to comment and educate me. Or someone needs to comment and redeem me. And the bit where you feel like an asshole? I'm assuming most of you are as "fluent" in braille as I. But someone has a blind friend. And that someone's reaction is going to be, "Hey! This girl thinks she knows braille better than Johnson and Johnson! Get over here and look at this and prove this bitch wrong!" Yeah, see? You're an asshole. At best you'll, "Uhm, dot-dot? And then one that looks like a colon?"
So, instead of dragging your blind friend over to the computer to look at my Spongebob bandaids, just go ahead and treat them to, oh, I don't know, a shopping spree at the grocery store? And just, all casual, hand them a box of bandaids.
Let me know how it goes.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room- yes, a full length mirror. If you don't have one, you are doing yourself a disservice. You can often tell someone who doesn't have a full length mirror in their house because, daa-yum, you should not be wearing those pants.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked- yes, naked. I would make excuses about having just gotten out of the bath, which is true, but this is my bedroom, y'all. I walk around naked. Get past it.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed- okay, yes, making the bed naked is a little odd, I admit, but it was naked, too- sheets came off and never went back on this morning. And I wanted to go to bed. And Sam's not home. And I am not sleeping on a naked bed, that's just skeevy. And I'm a little drunk. But it's all fine because the sheets are now on the bed.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed, when I noticed that the sunburn on my lower back was smaller than usual. I know, odd sentiment. But the fact is, as I work outside, inevitably my shirt- usually a tank-top, hence the matching burned shoulders and upper back- works its was upward, revealing the hitherto un-publicly-known lower back (oh, hell, and love handles and belly). This is due to the fact that the stretchmarks that decorate said belly and love handles stretch all the way around my waist. What in the living hell was stretching during pregnancy that my back had to get involved? Please answer me that.
Several moments of drunken contemplation led to me the conclusion that this- the smaller burn area- is not because today's shirt was longer than usual. No, indeed. This was because said shirt was not nearly as tight, leading it to not have to work so damn far up over the aforementioned love handles.
Excellent.
This, however, was not the greatest of revelations in those few confused moments. The far more profound one was that this patch of sun burn sat directly on top of the crack of my rear. There is a T printed on my ass. The problem with this? Exactly how much of my crack was I showing off today? For it to be burnt right to the very upper edge, my pants must have been slipping down past that point repeatedly. So during all this yard work, I'm actually playing plumber. And did I mention the T my tush is donning?
I only have myself to blame. I'm down eight pounds to where I was last year (yeah, woohoo, except it was twelve pounds), which leads to the offending moon-show, and I refuse to buy new pants until I drop more. This hasn't happened in eight months, yet here I wait. It seems so stupid to spend money on clothes you hope to shrink out of. As I am the Official Bitch of Murphy's Law, something like my buying pants would lead to me losing weight in a manner to thus lead to me not being able to wear those clothes.
I'd just lose it in the form of a dog attack to my thigh or something.
...being one of your defining characteristics. It could be! All are welcome! Just odds against.), can we all just agree to stop using the term "teabaggers" for the current conservative movement? (NSFW. Holy hell, NSFW.) (Mom, please don't click that link. I said don't click that link!)
Please? Can we please choose a new term?
