This Chick's Perspective…

I met with a client this morning who, concerned about how his wife will handle the finances after his death, was compiling a list of fiscal responsibilities for her.  It made me wonder:  considering that I’m fairly financially savvy, what items would Hec put on a list for me…

1. Look both ways before you cross the street
2. Reboot
3. Turn the safety off
4. Check behind you before reversing
5. When you’re about to pass out, sit down and put your head between your knees
6. You’re left hand is the one that forms an “L”
7. When attacked and no weapon is available, ram the palm of your hand into the perpetrator’s nose, thus dispersing shards of bone into his brain…

You know what sucks about spending Friday night hanging out at a Toyota dealership?  No bar.  And why not?  They have comfortable couches, a big screen TV, wireless internet – now if someone would just serve me a fucking gin and tonic, perhaps I would be content to spend yet another ceaseless “20-25 minutes” hanging out waiting for a vehicle I had dropped off at 7:30 in the morning for an hour-long repair of some recall which lands up taking 11 hours and all of my patience, including my reserves.

Seriously, I think I burnt 2000 calories twitching my left leg Friday night, and the only “Service” I was offered was some coffee flavored water so old that it had formed a skin on top.  Perhaps, given the soothing effects of a G&T, Hec would not now be referred to as the “Husband of That Bitch,” by the “Service” team at our Local Toyota Dealership.

I don’t generally go into tirades about sexism, and considering my audience, I recognize that it would be imprudent for me to do so at this time. However, as I am about to have one, I shall preface it with the assertion that I’m not a feminist; I don’t think men and women are equal in all things and, despite the fact that some men grow enviable breasts, I have no desire to have a penis.  But when I arrive at the “Service” desk to pick up my vehicle after the umpteenth “20-25 minutes” of the day, and one of the “Service” guys tells me he’ll check and see how much longer it will be and then never reappears, and 45 minutes later I approach three “Service” guys sitting around talking about trucks and Budweisers to ask them about my vehicle, and they look at my mousy face with the geeky glasses and then look at my breasts and apparently decide that I am a woman, but not a hot woman, and as such need not be treated with any type of respect,  and thus they tell me “20-25 more minutes,” and I ask them if this is a “Real 20-25 minutes,” and one of them looks at me, looks at my breasts again, and shrugs and says “maybe,” I get a little cranky…

Ok.  I’m done now.

Addendum:  If you have a 10 foot driveway and it habitually takes you 5 days to bring in your recycle bins and garbage cans, you’re lame.

And no, I have not abandoned my Sea Monkey project.  The Babies are doing swimmingly, literally, and tonight they’ll get their first feeding… Photos to follow…

If I ever do gather together enough imagination, talent, and patience to write something longer than a two paragraph drivel-packed commentary about something as thought provoking as Sea Monkeys, and some critic reads my Magnum Opus and uses the word “touching” in his review, gather your friends and family together, fill your pockets and fists with stones, corner me in a dark alley, and lob away. 

I don’t consider myself an unemotional person.  In fact, as much as I like to feign being a left-brainer, I’ll admit that logic tends to cower under the covers on those frequent occasions when the Scary Right Brain pops out from under the subconscious bed.

However, as Professor Elia constantly and passionately raved, “There is Sentiment and there is Sentimentality,” “touching” belonging to the latter category.  Here’s my stream of consciousness reaction to the word “Touching:” puppies being rescued from wells, trite epiphanies, bogus happily ever afters, anything by Nicolas Sparks. 

And now I shall channel my inner Valley Girl and announce, “Gag me with a spoon.”

You know what else bothers me?  That 1-877- Kars for Kids jingle.  It makes me want to hurt something.

Having created life, I was too deeply emerged in reverence of it to blog.  However, coming home from work yesterday afternoon and gazing upon those dirty little specks drifting aimlessly about in 8 ounces of near-fetid water, I realized how selfish it would be to not share the joyous events that will lead to New Life.  After all, it does take a village to care for a Sea Monkey, and there may well be a time when I shall call upon you, Faithful Readers, for spiritual, intellectual, and emotional guidance for our Young Ones.  (Currently, I am accepting cash gifts on their behalf.)

Ripping open that packet of dehydrated Sea Monkey eggs and dumping them into a flimsy plastic vessel filled with stagnant tap water was an epic occasion for Hec & I; having been restricted from creating human life by the gods of Sanity and Continued-Existence-of-the-Human Race.  (I’m not sure where those particular gods are hanging out when the crack whores and other assorted losers bring life into this word.  I assume they’re busy helping the God of Socialism build more welfare offices with our tax dollars.)

For the next few days, there is naught for me to do but shop for my Sea Monkey offspring (available items included the “Port-a-Pet Pocket Aquarium Playpen”) and complete the application for my Sea Monkey Scientist Diploma.

In case you think I’ve gone soft in the face of Creation, let me unequivocally state that I have not abandoned my Sea Monkey Class Action Suit.  Despite having already invalidated the claims of “Sea” Monkey and “Insta-Pet,” I shall defer my final assertion that the creatures are not, in fact, Monkeys until I obtain physical evidence.

(Unfortunately, current technical difficulty precludes me posting Exhibit C in this blog.  I’ll try again when my patience returns.)

Exhibit A

Instant: an infinitesimal or very short space of time

Exhibit A, Fact 1:  The first step in the Sea Monkey Birthing process involves adding the contents of the Sea Monkey Water Purifier packet to 78 degree water and allowing said water to sit for 24 hours.  This is quite obviously a flagrant misuse of the word “instant.”

[Hec just informed me that the water was not, in fact, 78 degrees.  I had to intercept him en route to the microwave…]

Exhibit A, Fact 2:  Despite the blatant implication that our nascent not-so-instant pets would be subject to an oceanic existence, the source of their lives’ waters came not from the sea, but from the tap. 

Exhibit B:  The following photos shall serve as documentation for this Suit that Step 1 had been performed per instruction.   (Note:  Pictures are to Scale – Humongous Hec Hand included.)

Read the rest of this entry »

Huddled together in a state of subdued dehydration within their vacuum-sealed shelter, they await the life that shall be giveth unto them by my godlike hand.   Am I up to this task?  Am I strong enough?  Have my virtual pet care skills prepared me for this… this mammoth responsibility?  When what is required of me seems too much to give, will I stand?  Or will I falter and betray the precious lives I am about to create?

Ah, fuck it.  Pour the water.

And thus it begins… Reparation.  For in the ensuing days, I shall chronicle the physical, intellectual, and emotional growth of my Sea Monkeys.  My intent?  To prove, at last, and with finality, that these creatures are not, in fact, Monkeys; and nor do they live in the Sea.  They do not wear crowns.  They do not have arms and delicate waving fingers.  They probably don’t even smile.  I can’t remember…  I’ve repressed so much…

Flashback to The 70’s…

My childhood expectations so high.  My innocence so soon to be lost.  For when that blue box arrived, I expected miracles; I expected interaction with creatures beyond imagination; with sea castles on sea mountains and androgynous nuclear families.  And I was forsaken.

Let us join together now, all of us who traded our idealism and nescience for the fantasy of Sea Monkeys.  All of us who exist now as cynics, jaded by the memory of the day our worlds were ripped apart… by the reality of Sea Monkeys.  It’s time now at last for recompense.  It’s time for revenge…

Have you been feeling hopeless, languid, and insignificant lately?  Have your interests and pleasures in daily activities markedly diminished?  Have you been experiencing persistent sad, anxious or “empty” feelings?

If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, it may be time to ask your doctor about Numbitall®, the first FDA approved LIFE-inhibitor.  Numbital decreases the neurotransmitters in your brain that are responsible for thought and emotion, while allowing you the freedom to remain conscious.  Unlike other antidepressants, you are encouraged to consume alcohol while taking Numbitall.

“Numbitall, when you no longer want to give a shit about not giving a shit.” (From the makers of Repressitall®.)

___________________

For the throng of you begging for more Bell, I apologize.  I’m still gathering data for my SeaMonkey class action suit, and will keep you apprised as it develops.

In the interim, try reading the ingredients of your breakfast cereal.

When compiling my list of Pros and Cons of Being a Call Girl, I think I’d put ‘primping’ at the top of the Cons column. 

I hate primping.  And I hate being primped.  I am currently donning a hairstyle that screams Aging Hippie (but clean), primarily because I missed two appointments with the one woman I’ve trusted to cut my hair for 10 years and am too ashamed to call her for an appointment.

To clarify:  I am not hair-centric, I just think the end bits have to be hacked away occasionally.  Unfortunately, hairstylists rank high on my expansive Irrational Fears list.  The reasons for this are obvious:

1. I hate small talk.
2. I hate sitting with a mirror in front of my face.
3. I hate having my hair styled:
   1. I hate goop in my hair.
   2. I hate hair dryers.
   3. I hate having stuff sprayed at my head.
   4. I hate having to do that bit at the end where I’m meant to look at myself in the mirror, turn my head this way and that, and say, “Oooh, I love it!”

Really, I think I’d rather go to the gynecologist.  At least I’m not expected to give positive feedback like, “That was the best pap smear I’ve ever had” after being prodded at.

My current hairstylist, of whom I’m out of favor, has accepted that I will inquire about her daughter, answer two obligatory questions about movies I’ve seen lately, and then go into Sedated Zombie mode until the end, at which time I will thank her, give her a check, and go home to take a shower.  And while I can’t say she believes me when I come up with excuses like, “I’m going home to tile my ceilings, so there’s no need to style my hair,” she does have the courtesy to not look at me like I’m an idiot when I wander from her salon into the sub-zero degree night with soaking wet hair.   

The Pros of being a Call Girl, however, are abundant enough for me to get past the primping bit, if only I were 10 years younger… oh, and not married.  That being said, Hec would make an excellent pimp.  He could probably talk anyone into having sex with me and then shoot the dude if he decided to beat me up or something.  Not that I would be beat up, because I’d be a High Class Call Girl like Billie Piper and only have hot clients who don’t have peeing fetishes or anything weird like that.  And I wouldn’t have a Pimp, I’d have a Madam, or ideally, be freelance.  But I think at the beginning I’d have to have a Madam so I could establish my clientele. 

Oh, and I won’t do a ménage a trois if it’s me and two guys.  That’s gross.

How much do I love this man?  After finally admitting that I have a problem, and one which I intend to exacerbate, I went to Hec, head bowed in humiliation, to tell him I was about to order SIMs.  And guess what?  He ordered it on Friday…

I’m not worthy… Really.

In keeping with that old adage, “There’s nothing like a bad Irish zombie movie in the morning,” Hec and I began our day with Dead Meat.  Light up a pack for this one, George Romero.  The zombie plague begins with farm animals, as all things tend to do in Ireland.   Frankly, I think the zombie-consumed residents of County McClooney got off easy.  Consider those poor Irish bastards who had to live with the haunting memories of seeing their once carnally-adored sheep go rabid…

[Chapter 5, Paragraphs 2 – 4 of the critically acclaimed book, “It’s Okay to Use the N Word When You’re Black,” allows me to disparage Irishmen without being tagged as a racist.  Having been delivered unto this earth by a McManus, I have been endowed with the right to make fun of those dirty micks as much as I want.  (In keeping with this theme, I may also ridicule Swedes, drunks, lunatics, cat fanciers and tax preparers without anticipating legal repercussions.)]

Must be off to prepare hors d’oeuvres for the Stupid Bowl Party…

Oh – one more thing.  You know how “you learn something new every day?”  Well, today I learned what a spinner is.  I would say that men are pigs, but I think that’s already been established.