Category Archives: country

I refuse to count these chickens. Utterly refuse. You can’t make me.

In the past here, we’ve talked about stupid saying and platitudes and such that make me want to stab things with knives. But when I was at work last night (when you work the late shift and things get slow you have a LOT of time for ponderings) I thought, huh, there are totally some of those old sayings that I not only believe, I totally follow as if they’re laws of the land. So I think that means that somewhere deep inside me there’s some sort of old-world housewife or something who throws salt over her shoulder and forks the sign of the evil eye at traveling salesmen.

SUPERSTITIOUS!!!

My mother and grandmother (and I would assume their people before them, but I didn’t know many of them) were very into old country sayings. I’ve mentioned it before, but my favorite saying of my grandmother’s, ever, was “Love will go wherever it’s sent! Even up a pig’s ass.” (This was in reference to a family member who had fallen in love with a jerk.) My grandmother is salty and cusses a lot and hates a lot of people and revels in gossip. She’s not the kind of grandmother you see on sitcoms who comforts you and makes you baked goods (although, yes, she does make baked goods, and they are FANTASTIC. My grandmother’s cooking is a., some of the best, and b., guaranteed to put fifty pounds on you in about 4 days. Her baked beans are known all around the county. People she doesn’t even KNOW ask her to make her famous baked beans. And if you ask her for the recipe, she doesn’t HAVE one. She’s all, “I don’t know, I just throw things in the pan, you know.”) She’s more the type who tells you lurid stories of the time your third cousin’s dick rotted off from the clap because he was having sex with all the whores (if you say, “there were all the whores? In the country? Really?” she changed the subject, so I don’t know that you can believe ALL of her stories), or long, rambling stories where she assumes you know who she’s talking about so she doesn’t use anyone’s names, just “the old guy” or something, and you’re all, “Um…I don’t…who is that?” and finally half an hour later you find out it’s your cousin’s husband’s grandfather who you’ve never met. I assume the pig’s ass saying is kind of a backdoor (heh) way to talk about bestiality. It made me laugh so hard I choked, and she just looked at me benignly, like, “what, that’s just a thing we say around here.” She is also the exact age (to the day!) of Hugh Hefner. I like that both my one-of-a-kind grandmother and smoking-jacketed Hefner were born on the same day, and one started a nudie empire, and one talks about pig-fuckery.

Twinsies with my gramma! I don’t know that she’s the most proud of this fact.

Anyway, as much as I think there are a lot of very, very stupid sayings (I just found, in doing research for this post – WHAT? I totally do research – a whole website of the WEIRDEST SAYINGS EVER, which I will share with you someday) there are some that I totally believe in. Whether this is because I am from cow-country and it’s in my genes (no, not my JEANS, never-you-mind what’s in my jeans, Ding Dong Joe) or this is because I am superstitious or practical or what it is, who knows. WHO EVER KNOWS. Let’s see what country-fresh sayings I totally think are valid, out of the billions of weird ones that are out there that I just (honestly) don’t understand at all.

Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Meaning: don’t count on something before it happens.

Don’t. Don’t you even.

Dad and I talked about this one just the other day. We are in complete agreement about our refusal to chicken-count. He was all, “oh, no. No, of course you don’t do that. Only idiots do that.”

Let me explain. Let’s say you get potential good news. Um…let me make up some potential good news. Someone tells you that in a month, you might get an awesome opportunity to do something you’ve always wanted to do. I’m making this up, please don’t read into this and think I have some sort of opportunity I don’t. Let’s see. Let’s say you’ve always wanted to skydive (ugh, why) and a friend tells you that a month from now, a friend of theirs with a plane and skydiving training will be in the area, maybe, so if they come, would you want to come along and skydive? So you tell EVERYONE YOU KNOW. And you get SO EXCITED. And you start a countdown on Facebook all “22 days til I’m flying like a BIRDIE!” And then a week before the supposed date, your friend sends you a message, “Oh, that fell through, sorry.” You feel like an asshole and you’re so let down and your friends keep asking about the opportunity and you have to tell them all it fell though. If you had just kept QUIET about it, you wouldn’t have to keep EXPLAINING it.

Dad taught me that if you get good news, until you have that good news LOCKED DOWN, you don’t tell ANYONE about that good news. (I break that rule a little – I have a handful of people that I can’t help but tell the good news to, whether it comes to fruition or not. NO, I’m not going to tell you who those people are. THEY ARE MY PEOPLE. Enough said.) My dad is the most secretive person in the world. He doesn’t tell anyone ANYTHING. I’m (well, obviously) not that bad, but anything big-newsy (the theater-review thing, my book, etc.) I don’t want to chicken-count until it’s official-official. What if it got yanked away? I’d feel like a huge jerk, then everyone would be asking about it and I’d have to explain it fell through. Better to not number those chickens until you KNOW they’re your chickens. (The things we learn from our parents are funny, aren’t they? I’ve learned a lot of weird ways-and-means from Dad. I’m an excellent secret-keeper. That’s Dad’s doing. I also refuse to give compliments to people who are fishing for them, I’m extremely weird about money, and I have a strange affinity for John Wayne westerns. Thank you, Dad!)

This kind of chicken always makes me laugh when I see it at the fair. It has Don King hair.

Also, for me, it’s a superstitious thing. I’m weird about a few things. This is one of them. I think if I mention a potential good thing, the world will teach me a lesson by not giving it to me. I know. I KNOW. I’m like a old Italian widow or something.

SIDE NOTE: In researching this, I found that this is a very old saying from the 1800s. Impressive, no? It’s from a poem about a milkmaid and her pail and she was VERY chicken-county and it brought her to ALL THE RUIN. Don’t be the chicken-counter. It’s bad news.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Meaning: better to deal with what you know than what you don’t, because what you don’t could be worse.

I’m not sure how Crowley on “Supernatural” is a good way to illustrate this statement since he’s more a demon than a devil…but I do admire him a lot, so we’ll go with it.

Now, I’m torn on this. Of course I think sometimes you need to take risks. Nothing is gained without risk. But here is a story. A while ago, I was working for a company that I enjoyed a great deal. (This was a long time ago. I want to say…um…7 years or so ago? A long time before I was Lucy’s Football.) And we got a new CEO. And he was – well, he was a goof. He wasn’t EVIL. He was just kind of a toolbag. He concentrated on the wrong things. Like, one day he was all, “Amy! I need plants for my office. Go to Lowe’s!” and he sent me to Lowe’s and I had to call him on my cell a billion times and describe the plants to him so he could have just the right plants for his office because we didn’t have cameraphones then. Well, I suppose SOMEONE had a cameraphone then, just not me. So he wasn’t EVIL, just SILLY. But a lot of the people at work really couldn’t stand him. And yes, he was a bit pesky, like a mosquito, but he wasn’t EVIL. You could distract him with shiny things, and he was never mean. And sometimes he even laughed. And my coworkers were all, “UGH! We need to get rid of this guy.” And I was like “No. It’s like that old saying; better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. If he leaves, who knows who we’ll get in his place?” AND! True to form, pesky CEO got fired (I don’t remember why…I think he just wasn’t very popular) and a new CEO came in. He was a DICK, you guys. All business; very mean; very yelly. And a couple months later, he brokered a deal to sell the company and we all lost our jobs and the company closed.

Eeeee-vil.

So the devil we knew (pesky CEO, who was not a devil at all, just kind of a mindless dork, I didn’t mind him at all) was MUCH better than the devil we didn’t (who I am CONVINCED had horns hidden under his perfectly-hairsprayed CEO hair-helmet.)

This saying, however, can keep you stuck in a job (I mean…we don’t know anyone who was in THAT situation for the past 6.5 years, do we? let’s think) for much longer than she should be because she is scared that there is nothing better out there for her and that her evil soul-sucking job (the devil she knows) is better than the unknown (unemployment = the devil she doesn’t.) I’m still in limbo about this situation, so I’ll let you all know what the outcome of that is. I’ll judge the devils once I know which one of them is less devilly.

What goes around, comes around Meaning: karma’s a bitch, dude.

Ouroboros! One of my favorite things ever!

This doesn’t always work. But a lot of times, it does. I try to keep it in mind as much as I can when going about my daily life. I can’t always – sometimes you are just in a REALLY REALLY BAD MOOD and you can’t help but be a little more of a bitch than you mean to be. (I don’t always react well under pressure. I’m a lot less “let the PRESSURE turn you into DIAMONDS” than I am “THIS PRESSURE IS MAKING ME LASH OUT LIKE A SEA-HARPY.”) But for the most part, if you put out good, you get good back. No, seriously. Try it sometime.

I’m not innocent enough to think “good things happen to good people ALWAYS AND FOREVER” but my weird nebulous non-religious religious feelings have a strong do-unto-others vibe, and I can just tell you, from my day-to-day observations, that the more good vibes you put out, the more good vibes you get back. The more positive you are, the more positivity you get in return. You are also more prepared to deal with the negative if you have a head full of positive. This is not always easy, but it’s the truth. True things are not always easy, jellybeans.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch Meaning: nothing in this life is free, babe.

Oh, this lunch is free. If you like a little death as a side-dish.

I don’t think this refers to free samples at the Costco, like of cheese or whatever. (Although in order to get those, sometimes you have to listen to someone trying to sell you more cheese, and I hate that. JUST GIMME MA CHEESE.) I think this is more, everything comes with a price. If you think someone’s helping you for free – well, they might be, no money might be attached, but other things might be. You need to be aware. ALSO, and this is tangentially attached – here is something I think needs to be addressed. NO ONE IS OWED ANYTHING IN THIS LIFE. You are owed what you earn. If you live in a country, you are technically owed what the laws of the land provide you – life, liberty, blah blah blah – but don’t expect it. You work your ass off and you get what you work for. If you’re in a tough spot, and your country has social programs to help you out – you paid into that when you were working, technically. I’m not saying you shouldn’t get food stamps or welfare. Don’t be silly. I’m just saying, people who think they’re OWED things – people who are greedy when there are free shows or when they’re given something for free and they complain the free thing isn’t BIG enough – make me INSANE. NOTHING IS FREE. You are owed NOTHING. You work, you make money, you buy yourself what you can afford. End of story. (This is why I very seldom go to free events. I don’t like the attitude of people at free events. They are very entitled and very rude and nothing is good enough. IT IS FREE WHY ARE YOU COMPLAINING.)

You can’t judge a book by its cover Meaning: What you see isn’t always what you get.

I judge this book. I like this. (Also, “It was a pleasure to burn,” just THINKING the phrase, gives me a thrill. EVERY DAMN TIME.)

This is true for books, and people, and cats, and movies, and television shows, and cars, and lots of things. I don’t underestimate things that don’t look like much to begin with. The stillest waters run the deepest. I’ve learned this over and over and over. What’s inside is often not what’s outside. And those of us who realize that are really the lucky ones, because we get the best stuff and aren’t dependent on the shiny.

I’m going to go over here now and NOT count these chickens that MAY OR MAY NOT BE HAPPENING. I spend my life in a constant state of non-chicken-counting, most sincerely. Happy day, all. Shush, you chickens, I don’t even know how many of you there are.

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You’d have to be pretty stellar before I let you cling to my arms. I need those for punching things.

I had to cover the reception desk today. I do that a number of times a week. It’s because I’m super-skilled at phone-answering. I almost never say what I’m thinking. In case you’re wondering, that’s the trick of being a good receptionist.

GOOD RECEPTIONIST:

You: Good afternoon, Company That Is Sucking my Lifeblood!
Caller: I AM DISGRUNTLED. GRUMP GRUMP GRUMP. IT IS OBVIOUSLY YOUR FAULT EVEN THOUGH YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM.
You: And who usually assists you in these matters, sir?
Caller: Bob McGee. (Not anyone I work with’s real name. Do you think I WANT to live in my car?)
You: Let me see if Bob is available. Just a moment, please.

BAD RECEPTIONIST:

You: Hello.
Caller: Is this Company That is Sucking Your Lifeblood?
You: Yes. *SIGH* How can I HELP you.
Caller: I AM DISGRUNTLED. GRUMP GRUMP GRUMP. IT IS…
You: I’m sorry, SIR, but I’m just the RECEPTIONIST, and I can’t even HELP you with that, WHAT THE HELL. Did you think you were just going to reach whoever you were calling the first call you MADE? What is this, 1902? Give me a break. Go hop a horse and buggy down to the soda fountain.
Caller: I…uh…
You: WHO ARE YOU CALLING FOR.
Caller: Bob…McGee?
You: Are you quite sure? You sound hesitant.
Caller: Yes?
You: That upward inflection in your voice isn’t doing you any favors. Bob’s busy. Here’s his voicemail. Don’t call here again.

So, yeah, I don’t do those things. I WANT to, don’t get me WRONG, but I have been told I have a VERY PLEASANT PHONE VOICE. It’s like the only thing I get complimented on in my yearly evaluations, so don’t you even take that away from me, IT IS MY CLAIM TO FAME.

Anyway, the receptionist likes the country channel a lot so the radio is always playing it when I go up there and I don’t know how to turn it off. I tried once and she got really mad because I accidentally tuned it to the God channel. It wasn’t even on purpose. Did she think I WANTED to listen to the God channel for an hour? Who would want THAT shit? Well, a lot of people, if there’s a channel, I suppose, but I’m not one of them.

Then this song came on and I seriously spit-took my water because it had what was, I was sure, the BEST LYRIC EVER WRITTEN.

It was some song giving either advice or support to women at different ages and at one point it was all, “This is to all the girls about forty-two!” (Let’s not even talk about how I hate when people refer to themselves as “girls” when they’re over the age of, say, twenty. You are a woman, dammit, own that.) “Tossing PANTIES into the fountain of YOUTH!”

TOSSING PANTIES INTO THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

That is BRILLIANT. That is totally what forty-two year old “girls” would toss into the fountain of youth. Skanky panties. Because who WOULDN’T do that? AWESOME.

So I laughed and laughed and imagined my favorite fountain of all time, the Trevi Fountain in Rome, and all the women turning their backs and just HUCKING panties into it and then I laughed some more when I thought of the poor maintenance workers every morning, all, “Mamma mia! So many biancheria intima! So messy!” And just shaking their little old Italian heads.

Imagine this all filled with panties. WHAT. It's FUNNY.

So tonight I came home all “let’s talk about PANTIES on here today, whoo those crazy country songs” and looked it up and, as I’m sure most of you know, THAT ISN’T EVEN THE EFFING LYRIC.

PENNIES. It’s PENNIES. It’s “tossing PENNIES into the fountain of youth.”

Of COURSE it’s pennies. Who tosses PANTIES into a fountain?

Whoever the hell Martina McBride is, chick needs to learn to ENUNCIATE. Pennies should NOT sound like pennies, even if you DO have a Southern accent. It is EMBARRASSING.

But it’s totally funny. And now whenever you hear that song you’re not going to be able to hear anything but panties. TRY IT. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE.

I found this on Google Images. Apparently, there was some sort of protest that necessitated the throwing of panties. Look how HAPPY they all look. They are totally throwing those panties into the Fountain of Youth. WITH JOY.

Then I was thinking, you know what? Country songs give a lot of advice. Like, a lot more than pop music. There’s that song about the pennies or panties or whatever, which, either way, that is COLOSSALLY bad advice. You found the damn FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH and you are throwing GARBAGE in it? BOTTLE and SELL that shit. DAMN.

Then you’ve got my man Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler.” (This was before he got scary-face so it’s ok I like this song.) So in this song, in case you’re one of the three people in the world who isn’t aware of it, a man meets a gambler on a train and the gambler says, hey, share your whiskey, I’ll talk your ear off with shitty advice. That damn gambler. He was FILLED TO THE BRIM with advice. But at least he asked the guy he was riding the train with if he COULD give the advice first. The dumbass said yes, that was his first mistake. You never tell an old wino you’ll take his advice. You’re in for a long night of BORING DRUNK STORIES.

You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away and know when to run
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealing’s done

THAT IS  A LOT OF ADVICE GAMBLER. But it’s good advice! However, it’s all pretty self-explanatory. What piss-poor gambler doesn’t already know this stuff?

Oh, wait. Is he talking about GAMBLING? Or LIFE? DUN DUN DUNNNNN. I know, right? Is he a DRUNK? Or a PHILOSOPHER? Well, let’s see! Is he done talking?

Oh, don’t worry. No. The gambler’s not done talking. Drunks on trains never are.

Every gambler knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowing what to keep
‘Cause every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep

Ugh, GAMBLER, you are SO DEPRESSING. You’re just reiterating the same shit you already SAID, then you’re all, “Whatever, the sweet, sweet embrace of death AWAITS US ALL.”

I’m still not sure if it’s about cards or life. If it’s metaphor or a simile or even a euphemism, it’s not a very good one.

THEN THE GAMBLER EFFING DIES.

I know, right? This song is filled with advice and also sadness and dead alcoholics with gambling addictions.

I totally love this song.

Then we have the song that little Amy’s mom used to sing to her when she was little. I don’t think because she was trying to indoctrinate little Amy. But because she liked the song. And listen! I like the SOUND of the song. But MAN the lyrics are worrisome. I of course am talking about Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.”

What advice does Tammy give us in this song?

Sometimes its hard to be a woman

YES IT IS TAMMY

Giving all your love to just one man

Wait, what? I gots me some wild OATS, though. What about my wild OATS?

You’ll have bad times
And he’ll have good times

These can’t be the lyrics, can they? I’ll have bad times, and he’ll have good ones? When do I get to see the sailboat?

Doing things that you don’t understand

Math? Auto repair? Watching television with his hands in his pants? Picking his nose and then looking at it as if it’s going to be a surprise, what he found in there? Giggling about farts?

But if you love him you’ll forgive him

Um…I guess…depends on what he’s done, though? Right?

Even though he’s hard to understand

Oh, shit, I totally married someone with a speech impediment, this is the worst.

And if you love him
Oh be proud of him

I love a lot of people I’m not PROUD of, per se. Can the two not be mutually exclusive?

‘Cause, after all, he’s just a man

Wah-WAH! He’s JUST A MAN. That sounds like a horrible punchline of something my grandmother would tell me.

Stand by your man
Give him two arms to cling to

Why is he “clinging” to my arms? I need those for things. Is he having trouble standing upright? Oh, my good gravy, did I marry someone mushmouthed AND with a problem staying upright for long periods of time?

And something warm to come to
When nights are cold and lonely

I kind of take offense at being referred to as “something.” I’M SOMEBODY DAMMIT. And why am I the one who needs to be a little stove? Why can’t HE be the warm one? This is the worst marriage ever.

Stand by your man
And tell the world you love him

Ugh, the whole WORLD? That seems like a lot of work. I mean, I have to be a little STOVE, I have to stand still for all the ARM-GRIPPING, I have to decipher what he’s SAYING…I don’t get a lot of free time here, do I?

Keep giving all the love you can

How much love is that, exactly? All that I CAN. I can’t give much. I have a lot of plates spinning at the moment.

Stand by your man
Stand by your man

I GET IT I GET IT JEEZ

And show the world you love him

Wait, SHOW the world I love him? Now I have to SHOW the world? What, get a face tattoo? Make a sex tape? Knit a “I love Harold” sweater and wear it every-damn-where? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

Keep giving all the love you can

I don’t ever get to STOP? I guess the gambler was right and I can only hope for the sweet, sweet release of sleep-death.

Stand by your man!

I DON’T WANT TO THIS IS TOO HARD

I am totally the most depressed after that and probably want to stay single forever now. Let’s turn to The Eagles, and one of those songs I can NOT resist and I have to sing along to no matter what. And I was totally mad when they used it in Seinfeld that time because I hate Seinfeld with the fire of a thousand suns (DON’T EVEN START WITH ME IT WAS NOT FUNNY) and they tried to RUIN MY GOOD SONG.

Yes, yes, it’s “Desperado.” Shut up, like you don’t love this. EVERYONE LOVES THIS.

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?
You been out riding fences for so long now

See? That’s nice. That’s good advice! That poor desperado. He should come in from the bad weather and have a sandwich.

Oh, you’re a hard one

Hee! Euphemism.

But I know that you got your reasons

If you continue with the euphemism, that’s still funny. If you take it in the spirit it was intended, it’s totally sad.

These things that are pleasing you
Can hurt you somehow

You can still euphemism that. Or not. Up to you.

Don’t you draw the queen of diamonds, boy
She’ll beat you if she’s able

This is NOT ABOUT CARDS. You know that drunk gambler would be all “KNOW WHEN TO HOLD EM!” but it’s totally about WOMENFOLKS.

You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

Aw! ’cause, love!

Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones that you can’t get.

HOLY SHIT. You and me BOTH, Desperado. YOU AND ME BOTH. (I totally sing this line the loudest because I love it the most.)

Desperado, oh, you ain’t getting no younger

Way to be rude, singer. You don’t just say that to people. He probably has a knife right in his boot. Desperadoes are totally willing to shiv you if you insult them by calling them oldtimey.

Your pain and your hunger, they’re driving you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that’s just some people talking
Your prison is walking through this world all alone

This part is depressing as hell. We’ve got this old as hell cowboy all hungry and in pain and in chains and lonely and in prison. This is NOT A HAPPY SONG. (That’s why I love it so.)

Don’t your feet get cold in the wintertime?
The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine
It’s hard to tell the night time from the day
You’re losing all your highs and lows
Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?

Now he’s COLD and all weather is the SAME and there is not a lot of advice right now. SOMEONE GIVE THE DESPERADO SOME ADVICE OR HE’LL TOTALLY SHIV YOU.

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?

YES. Time for advice-givin’!

Come down from your fences, open the gate

The GATE is his EMOTIONS. This is a totally deep song.

It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you

I…I’m not sure. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel? Goonies never say die? I don’t know what the hell.

You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late

I’ll totally love up on a desperado. I’m down with ruggedy-ness. Also, they usually have horses, then I know my fella would like animals so he’d be down with my plan for my rescue home for all the animals in the woods, see? I’m always thinking.

So what did we learn today? To…hold ’em and fold ’em, dependent on ’em? To die in our sleep? To not marry people with speech impediments who can’t stand on their own two feet for extended periods of time? That The Eagles loved a good euphemism?

Nope. What we LEARNED is that the mental image of throwing PANTIES into a FOUNTAIN is HYSTERICAL.

Oh, come on, try to deny it. You totally can’t. It’s just that funny.

THANK YOU COUNTRY MUSIC.


Interspecies friends (we ain’t kidding, mac!)

Happy Monday! Whoo, weekend, you are like a candle in the wiiiiind with your quickness.

It is random Dad story day. I was going to tell them over the weekend but someone who likes them the most named Jim does not read my blog until Monday so I saved them. YOU’RE WELCOME JIM.

My dad told me a story recently and he was all “THIS ONE’S FOR YOUR BLOG.” I think because animals were involved and he knows I’m a sucker for animal stories. Like, if this were caveman times, that would be how the cavemen would court me. With good animal stories told around the fire. I am a SUCKER for them. But then Dad told me ANOTHER story and it was MORE bloggy. The original one was kind of meh. The second one was kind of weird. I like weird even more than I like animally. Best? Weird AND animally.

But out of deference to him I will tell them BOTH even though he didn’t tell me I could tell you the second one. Although he didn’t specifically say I COULDN’T, either. So I’m going to go with “it’s ok to tell both.” I mean, G.I. Joe used to tell me that knowing was half the battle but I’m pretty sure that not-knowing is a good part of the battle, too, because then you can claim ignorance.

FIRST DAD STORY

He went to visit his best friend (listen, he and his BFF have been BFFs since they were wee kiddos and they are in their 60s, how adorable is that? The most, is how) and his best friend has a camp and there’s this thing that I don’t 100% understand up there where the BFF stores corn. And he put 100 pounds of corn in it, and the next day the corn was GONE. And he was all, “Amy’s dad, where could the corn be, that is a lot of corn.” So my dad, who’s totally Black Ops when it comes to surveillance, I think because he’s sure that the government is watching him but I can’t guarantee that, set up his night-vision camera and they all tee-heed their way away and then the next day pulled the SD card to see what’s up with the corn thieves and guess what it was?

No, totally not a penguin, ALSO my guess, ALWAYS my first guess, or a fisher, because I was hoping it would be a fisher again, those things rule.

How cute is this? This raccoon is totally singing a tune, no joke.

IT WAS A TRICKY RACCOON!

The raccoon was climbing up a little ladder thingy and spinning this wheel thingy and corn was falling out. Then THREE OTHER RACCOONS were below, gobbling up the corn. OH. And here’s the best part, ready? Guess who ELSE was eating the purloined corn?

Nom nom nom.

A PORCUPINE! ZOMG!

So the raccoon family was FRIENDS with the porcupine! They were all eating the purloined corn TOGETHER! I know, right? That is too cute for WORDS! It is like an Animal Planet SITCOM! I asked my dad if the porcupine and the raccoons were friends and he said, “Well, the porcupine wasn’t quilling the raccoons so I guess they got along alright.” Hee! Quilling.

Apparently my dad’s BFF wasn’t amused by the corn thievery so my dad and his BFF set up some sort of raccoon cockblockery where the raccoon couldn’t get into the corn again. I find this sad. Interspecies friends are ADORABLE. What will they talk about now? It’s not like they have television programs to discuss, or bowling. I guess they could discuss the kids, or maybe the weather, but how far will that go? That friendship will get stale fast. This might be the end of their friendship, seriously. I am totally bummed about this end of a friendship.

SECOND DAD STORY

The second story is just kind of bizarre. So my dad has a friend who is handicapped and can’t walk. (I promise I’m not making fun of this guy, I barely know him, I’m not enough of an asshole to mock the handicapped, and he was injured in Vietnam which I find admirable. Well, OBVIOUSLY not that he was injured. That he served.) So he found a thing online where you could get – no, wait, I’m totally not even kidding – A HELPER MULE.

These mules don't look especially helpful, but I'm assured the one he bought will be.

I was not aware that this is a thing but my dad swears that this is a thing and I have to assume it is. Who would make up “helper mule?” I am not having luck finding anything on the interwebs about this other than a random mention on Wikipedia that such a situation exists.

Anyway, so this guy BOUGHT A HELPER MULE and he’s totally getting it shipped to him.

So my dad and I had the following conversation:

Me: So, wait, what’s he going to DO with the helper mule?
Dad: Ride it.
Me: Wait, what? Ride it? Ride it where?
Dad: I don’t know. Around.
Me: He has a Rascal scooter. Why does he need a mule?
Dad: It’s a HELPER mule.
Me: But the Rascal scooter’s helping him, too. Is that a Helper Rascal scooter?
Dad: That mule is trained to help people.
Me: HELP THEM DO WHAT.
Dad: I don’t know. Apparently, it kneels down so you can get on it. Then ride it.
Me: HE HAS A RASCAL SCOOTER. WHY DOES HE NEED A MULE. YOU DON’T LIVE IN THE OUTBACK. Or the Grand Canyon. He lives in TOWN. This is suspect.
Dad: I’m not 100% sure why. He hasn’t answered me when I ask him that. Why do you keep calling it a Rascal scooter? It’s like you’re calling it by its first and last name. Like Abraham Lincoln. Or Bob Dylan. I think you can just call it a Rascal. Like Cher.
Me: I don’t know. Just calling it a Rascal seems ambiguous. “He has a Rascal!” You might think I mean he has a scamp who lives with him, I don’t know. ANYWAY. That Rascal scooter is perfectly adequate for his needs. I feel like maybe he just wanted a pet mule. Which I can’t really fault him for. Who doesn’t want an awesome pet, now and again? But maybe you should have encouraged him to get a helper MONKEY. Those things can open cabinets and bring you foodstuffs. Helper mules most definitely cannot open cabinets or bring you Hohos or Sunkist sodas.
Dad: He can open his own cabinets. It’s his legs that don’t work. His arms work fine. Also, he has a wife, she can bring him TV snacks, I suppose.
Me: Damn, then I guess he doesn’t need a monkey. Probably for the best; in some movie I watched like five minutes of one time before it freaked me out too much and I changed the channel, a helper monkey got possessed by the devil.
Dad: That’s probably an unlikely scenario.
Me: I don’t know. Monkeys are evil, remember the time we went to Parc Safari in Canada and they tore all the detailing off the guy’s car in front of us?
Dad: Heh. Yeah. That was funny.
Me: It totally was. But also frightening, because it could have been your face they were tearing up so efficiently, you know?
Dad: Probably not, unless you got out of the car.
Me: True. I was NOT getting out of the car. Not with all of those dastardly monkeys with their quick hands around. I was wearing a sparkly shirt that day. They obviously were drawn to sparkly things. I would have been TOAST. So, wait, who’s going to take care of the mule?
Dad: I don’t know.
Me: His wife? I can’t imagine his wife taking care of that mule. She’s totally classy. And he can’t. The Rascal scooter would get mule poo and mud in the wheels and then it wouldn’t run.
Dad: True.
Me: I feel this mule plan is not well-thought-out. Unless maybe he’s moving to the Grand Canyon and needs it to scale the paths and pack in water and granola bars or something.
Dad: I don’t think he’s doing that.
Me: I kind of want to pet that mule.
Dad: I knew you would want that. We’ll go see the mule when you come home this summer.
Me: Will it let me ride it?
Dad: You’re not handicapped.
Me: No. But it’s a HELPER mule. I can’t imagine it wouldn’t want to be helpful. And that would be helpful. I only got to ride a horse once, for like three minutes. I would feel extraordinarily helped if I got to ride a mule for longer than three minutes.
Dad: I can see your point. We’ll talk to the mule about helping you out this summer. You can be like his community service project.
Me: EXCELLENT.

So this really is exciting animal day. We have: raccoons, porcupines, AND mules. I know. I think it’s only a matter of time before the National Wildlife Service wants me to come and work for them, right? I would be the BEST at that, no joke. Oh, wait, that would involve a lot of walking. I hate walking. SNAP. I could totally ride a helper mule. This is a very good plan.

I like that I have my life all planned out now. I feel really good about this. I’m going to name my mule Sal. I think you have to, right? There’s a song about a mule named Sal and everything. Then I can sing the Erie Canal song TO my mule, which he or she would love, as Sal is totally a unisex name, and we would be INTERSPECIES FRIENDS.

Seriously, this is just the best. I’m going to start packing now! Huzzah!

(P.S. Happy birthday, N.! With apologies for changing this a bit to our mutual love, Stephen Sondheim, what would I do without you? How would I ever get through? Who would I complain to for hours? Who’d bring me the flowers when I have the flu? Have a wonderful day, and more than that, have a wonderful year!)


In the Realm of the Fisher King (or Queen, let’s not be sexist about awesome fishers, sheesh)

Whoo! Saturday again? So soon? This is impressive, right?

It’s random crap day. I have lots of things that are not long enough for a whole blog post. I know, I could totally write a short blog post. HA HA HA. Who are we kidding, really? Why would I do something like that? That would be utter lunacy. SHEER MADNESS I TELL YOU. Next I suppose you’ll be telling me it’s time to stop using caps lock! What is the world COMING TO?

The Fisher King (or possibly queen, it’s not like anyone got close enough to look)

So my dad has a wood lot. Because he lives in the boonies, and they need wood so they can have a fire so they can heat the house. And he has a little garden up there. But something is EATING his garden. So he puts out a trap all year-round and sometimes catches things like skunks and one time he swears he caught a forty-pound raccoon but I think I didn’t get my penchant for exaggeration from the neighbors, you know? Also sometimes woodchucks.

So the other night I talked to him and he was all, “I HAVE A STORY” and that’s exciting, you know? I do so love stories.

Dad: So I was going up to the wood lot and I had to check the trap because maybe there was another forty pound raccoon in it. Only I couldn’t find the chicken I left in the truck yesterday that I wanted to put in the trap as bait.

Me: Wait, you left chicken in the truck? And it disappeared? That’s strange. Where did it go?

Dad: That’s not what the story’s about. I think your brother ate the chicken.

Me: He ate old truck-chicken? That seems like it would give him worms or something.

Dad: Again, not the point of the story.

Me: Also, are you sure that forty-pound thing was a raccoon? Maybe it was a wolverine.

Dad: Those things are FEROCIOUS. No, it wasn’t a wolverine. This isn’t a comic book.

Me: No, not HUGH JACKMAN. A REAL wolverine.

Dad: It was a raccoon. You’re really not going to let me tell this story.

Me: FINE.

Dad: So I called your brother and told him I was going up to the wood lot and he wanted to go, too.

Me: Did you ask him if he ate that wormy chicken?

Dad: THIS STORY IS NOT ABOUT THE CHICKEN OR THE RACCOON.

Me: Every story really has a story within the story; it’s just about getting the person to tell it to you.

Dad: You are infuriating.

Me: Yes.

Dad: So we went up to the wood lot and there was something in the trap, but it didn’t look like a raccoon or a skunk.

Me: Or a wolverine?

Dad: Or a wolverine. Guess what it was?

Me: A penguin.

Dad: Yes. It was a penguin, because we live at the Arctic Circle. NO. It was NOT A PENGUIN. It was a FISHER.

ZOMG LOOK AT THAT LITTLE FAAAACCCEEE!

Me: *squealing too high for anything but dogs to hear* A FISHER? They are AWESOME. Oh wait. Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t kill the fisher. This story doesn’t end with you killing the fisher, does it?

Dad: Please let me tell the story.

Me: If that’s how it ends, we need to change the subject now or I’m totally going to get upset and start singing that Sarah McLachlan dead animal song.

Dad: SO THEN, your brother got close to it, and it was actually pretty calm, until he put his face next to the cage. Then it hissed and showed its teeth. But then when we moved away, it sounded like it was purring.

Me: THEY PURR? WHY DIDN’T YOU ADOPT IT AND IT WOULD BE THE BEST PET.

See how it would be the best pet? I mean, before it ate your face off?

Dad: I told your brother, “Your sister is going to say, ‘Why don’t you adopt this fisher, it would be the best pet.’”

Me: Well? Why didn’t you? I want a fisher.

Dad: Your brother said, “Yes, it would be a great pet, until it ate your face off.”

Me: Yeah, you always run the risk of face-eating with pet fishers. That’s a fact.

Dad: So then I decided, this is one pretty animal. I have to let this go. Even though once it was in the trap, it ate all the chicken in there. I could have re-used that chicken, since I couldn’t find my other chicken.

Me: I AM SO GLAD THIS STORY DIDN’T END THE WAY I THOUGHT IT MIGHT. Wait, are you mad it ate the chicken? Of course it ate the chicken! It was like stress-eating. The poor fisher was all, “I am trapped! Might as well eat this delicious cage-chicken. IT MIGHT BE MY LAST MEAL ON EARTH. Nom nom.”

Dad: I like that you think you know how the fisher thinks. Anyway, the cage is really hard to open. And, as mentioned, there’s the face-eating to worry about. So I cut a stick and with some maneuvering, we got the cage open and that fisher ran and ran and ran. I think it’s still running. Like Forrest Gump.

Me: You realize that because you saved that fisher’s life, it owes you a favor now.

Dad: What? Only you would think of something like that.

Me: IT IS A PROVEN FACT. It’s like an Aesop’s Fable. Like the lion and the mouse, and the mouse pulled the thorn from the lion’s paw.

Dad: I don’t want to talk about that story. It sounds stupid. Lions and mice are not friends.

Me: Fine, we never finished discussing the disappearing chicken.

Dad: FINE. What kind of favor does that fisher owe me?

Me: So someday, you’ll be out walking in the woods, and you’ll fall and break your leg where no one will hear you calling for help. And the fisher will appear!

Dad: And let me kill it and eat it so I don’t starve to death?

Me: THAT IS NOT HOW FABLES WORK. Fables are for CHILDREN. Children would be HORRIFIED at that kind of fable.

Dad: Well, how else would a fisher save me?

Me: It would go run for help.

Dad: Oh. And how would it get help?

Me: It would flag down a passing car with its long tail and lead them to you.

Dad: That is one talented fisher.

Me: I know. You’re probably feeling pretty stupid you didn’t adopt it as the most awesome pet ever right now. Because, PURRING.

Dad: No. Because, FACE-EATING.

As you can see by this story, I am not adopted, and come by my rambling storytelling technique genetically. THROUGH SCIENCE.

Either a crazy or a dope-fiend. Either way, totally both racist and homophobic. Yet oddly cheerful.

So I went to get my car fixed this week, THANK YOU ASSHAT CAR VANDAL, and while waiting at the garage and playing with my phone and reading and such, a man came in. He was probably my age. Somewhat attractive, in a bro sort of way.

Bro: IS THERE WI-FI IN HERE?

Bro talked LOUDLY. Like, if Bro was writing, it would be all-caps, all the time. And RAPIDLY. And looking at Bro, I realized, he was really twitchy. And his eyes were WILD. So I decided that probably Bro was on some sort of speedy drug. Or possibly a lot of Red Bull.

Bro discovered that there WAS, INDEED, wi-fi in the garage (“YES! WI-FI! THIS IS AWESOME!!!!”), and he then sat down RIGHT NEXT TO ME, even though there were about seven other chairs that were NOT right next to me.

Bro: DO YOU WANT A BOAT?

Me: Um. No?

Bro: HA HA HA. EVERYONE WANTS A BOAT.

Me: I don’t. I can’t swim.

Bro: HA HA HA. OF COURSE YOU CAN. EVERYONE CAN SWIM. LOOK AT MY BOAT.

He then pulled up Ebay Motors and I was regaled with a story about how this BOAT was TOTALLY AWESOME and he was going to PURCHASE IT from OHIO and he was pretty sure he could get it for only $16,000, which was a VERY GOOD PRICE FOR A BOAT.

Now, listen. As a rule, I totally don’t talk to people who are so hell-bent on talking to me in public places because STRANGER DANGER and also I hate people. But this guy was SO EFFING ENTERTAINING. At first. At FIRST he was entertaining. Until he started being a looney. Also, you all know I love all-caps, and this guy TALKED IN ALL-CAPS. I’m pretty sure he was about one toot away from a heart attack, and he was entertaining himself so, so thoroughly with the loud-talking. So I totally talked to him, even though he punctuated every sentence he said with a slap on my leg or arm, for emphasis. I mean, not HARD. But totally a slap. Not a sexy slap. Just a “HA HA HA” slap. He was a hot mess. It was kind of like watching a slow-motion car wreck. You know you SHOULDN’T want to watch. But you do anyway. OH! Also he had a lot of very white teeth. Like, TOO white. And too even. They looked like PROP teeth.

Then he started getting both racist AND homophobic. But in a weirdly jolly way. I’m not sure what to make of that.

Bro: DO YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT’S GIVING ME A HEART ATTACK?

Me: Um. I guess?

(Bro closes Ebay Motors, sadly, and then opens a photo of some teenagers in cheerleading uniforms. I did not like the very pervy direction this conversation was heading.)

Bro: THIS IS MY DAUGHTER! (points to one of the girls.)

Me: (inner “whew”) Oh! She’s lovely!

Bro: I KNOW. I HOPE SHE GETS FAT OR TURNS INTO A LESBIAN.

Although, he didn’t say lesbian. He said an offensive TERM for lesbians. This was off-putting and I was kind of knocked for a loop and didn’t know how to respond. It was not so much “crackhead bro behavior” as “ignorant redneck behavior.”

Me: I don’t…I don’t think her sexual preference or weight will make you worry about her less, honestly.

Bro: HA HA HA. YOU TALK FUNNY. LET’S LOOK AT MY BOAT MORE.

Then we looked at his boat a little more.

Bro: THE REASON I CAN GET THIS SO CHEAP IS BECAUSE IT HAS SOME DAMAGE BECAUSE BOATS LIKE THIS? YOU CAN GO 70 OVER WAVES WITH THEM. AND THAT CAUSES DAMAGE. WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO GO 70 OVER A WAVE IN THIS BOAT?

Me: No. Because I can’t swim. So then I would fall out. And die.

Bro: HA HA HA! FALL OUT AND DIE SHE SAYS! YOU JUST NEED TO CONQUER YOUR FEAR! EVEN AFRICAN-AMERICANS CAN SWIM IF THEY CONQUER THEIR FEAR!

Although he didn’t SAY African-Americans? He said the word that if you say it, it makes an entire ROOM go quiet because it is SO ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED?

My coked-out friend was really getting to be a worry. And yes, before anyone gets all up-in-arms, probably I should have been all “teaching moment” and all “sir, that terminology really isn’t appropriate” but listen. THIS GUY WAS WIRED ON SOMETHING. And he was a STRANGER. If it makes you feel any better about the state of the world, after he started being a total weirdo who hated all the people for their sexual partners and skin colors, I kind of buried my nose in my book and just made a random “uh-huh” and “oh” here and there to his ongoing rant because it was very, very awkward.

Even the garage guy came in at one point, saw Bro there, and made a beeline back to the relative safety of grease guns and loud banging.

Bro then told me a story about how, at his last job, although they LOVED him, he’d done over $1.5 MILLION in damages, and so they’d had to let him go. But they didn’t WANT to let him go. It was just an insurance thing. YOU KNOW? *leg slap* YOU KNOW HOW THAT IS? *leg slap*

Finally, the car was repaired and I was SAFE and I could ESCAPE. Poor Bro. He looked sad. Who would he talk to now? Luckily, Project Runway was on the television. I can only imagine the things he was saying about my favorite mentor, Tim Gunn. I’m glad I left when I did.

So! Heads-up, people on Sacandaga Lake! Bro’s getting a BOAT! And does A LOT OF HIGH-PRICED DAMAGE! And seems to be CHEERILY RACIST AND HOMOPHOBIC! I’d probably stay out of the water, if I were you. Maybe stay safely on land. Have a nice party somewhere with walls, or something, I don’t know. Just a tip.

My favorite lovebirds, aw! Squish!

Happy first anniversary to R and A, two of my favorite lovebirds! I can’t wait to see you in 4 or 5 months and we will have all the adventures and I will goggle in awe over your LATEST COLLABORATION, who will totally be born by then, BABY GIRL AWESOMESAUCE! May every year after this one, up to a million billion more, plus one for luck, be filled with love and romance and laughter and fun! *smooch*

DEATH-COUPAGE

So remember last week I told you about how I laughed to tears about how I imagined that one of my actors was sitting at home making up a death-book for celebrities? In case you were wondering how awesome my actors are (I don’t think anyone’s sitting around wondering these things, but you never know, someone MIGHT be), the very next day, the same actor that I’d been imagining that about came in with his hands behind his back. “I have something for you, to thank you for all your hard work this week,” he said. And he pulled out A DEATH COLLAGE. He and his awesome wife, who told him about my giggle fit, complete with tears, about imagining him collaging celebrity deaths, made up a fake scrapbook page for Whitney Houston’s death. It’s totally not as morbid as it sounds. OK, yeah, it is. But ALSO AWESOME. It’s on pink paper and has the article from the paper and “our angel” and “we will always love you” and I laughed so hard I almost died. I would totally have tried to get a photo of it but it’s too big to take a photo of and also I think people might start getting the wrong idea that I like hated Whitney Houston or something, which I totally didn’t. WHITNEY HOUSTON IS NOT THE POINT. The point is, my giggle fit made death-coupaging a REALITY. This is why I love theater people: they get my insane and morbid sense of humor, and they do it one better. Because they are AMAZING. And their brains don’t work like regular people. Much like mine doesn’t. And this makes me so, so happy.

Happy Saturday, all! I hope your weekend is filled with Cheetos and also alcoholic beverages. I mean, everyone wants those things, right? If you live locally, COME SEE MY SHOW. If you do not, I WISH YOU DID. No, no. NOT YOU DING-DONG JOE. You can stay right where you are. Doing…whatever it is you’re doing there. Ew.


Seeing that would have put me in a good moooo-d.

I totally have some stories. So really this is kind of random crap Monday but these are all stories that I have to tell you because they’re totally the most funny and/or interesting and/or annoying.

You know, someday? I’m going to get one of those tablet-thingys where I can draw really awful illustrations to accompany my posts, because really what my posts need are additional added horrible illustrations. You know what I can’t do? Walk like I’m not 95 years old on ice? Well, that either. Draw. I totally can’t draw.

How not to treat your patrons (unless you’re WANTING to lose customers, then go ahead, I guess)

So this weekend, I went to see a play. It was a good play, at a good theater; I left pleased with the performance. I did NOT leave pleased with the customer service.

Here’s the scoop.

I showed up. The usher (the ushers are volunteers, and, as such, some are more skilled than others; I try to cut them some slack. We all draw from the same pool of volunteers. I see some of my theater’s volunteers over there, from time to time. You take what you can get, volunteer-wise. You’re not paying a volunteer. Some work like it’s a job; some are there because, in exchange for volunteering, you get a free ticket, so they go through the motions accordingly in order to get their free ticket; some act like they’re there on a prison work-release program, and I don’t 100% understand why they come at all, no one’s forcing them) was having trouble seating people, because she didn’t understand left from right. That’s rude-sounding, and not meant to be – the theater’s somewhat in the round, so I can see that it might be a little confusing, which side is right and which is left. Also, there’s the whole stage left/stage right vs. audience left/audience right thing. I get it. So I seated myself, because I’ve been there before and I knew where my seat was.

About fifteen minutes later, she came up to me, very fluttery, with a couple of patrons. “Um…” she said, looking like she was about to combust.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I think you’re in these people’s seat,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Do you have a ticket?” she asked. Now, I really wanted to say, no, no I don’t, I’m a street person and I’m gate-crashing, but I produced it. She looked at mine. She looked at theirs. She looked like she was going to cry, because we all had the same seat number on our tickets.

At that point, she called over Officious Jones.

I AM THE MOST OFFICIOUS YO.

Officious Jones was an usher I’d been watching while seated, waiting for the show to start. Apparently, he thought that he ran the theater, even though he was an unpaid volunteer. He was cock-of-the-walking around, chest puffed out, yelling at the other ushers, attempting to herd the patrons into orderly lines when they were already in orderly lines, and generally being a pain in the ass. Also, an elderly woman walked in with snow on her shoes – it snowed here on Saturday – and he TOOK HER TO TASK for tracking snow into the theater. She apologized, and he told her “well, you’ll know not to do it again.” Yep. I was loving Officious Jones.

Officious Jones came over.

“Do you have a NAME?” he asked me. (Our names aren’t on the tickets.)

“Yes,” I replied.

He stood there. His face was getting red.

“Oh, did you want me to give it to you?” I asked. (People like Officious Jones make me obstinate. Well, let’s be frank, most people do, but people like him ESPECIALLY do.)

He grunted out a yes.

As Officious Jones stomped off, I gave my seat to the very nice couple who were waiting (they said they always had these seats, and were season subscribers, and there was an empty seat next to mine, and as I was just one person and they were very, very old and I’m really quite nice and actually very understanding, I KNOW SHOCKER, I let them sit) and stood waiting for the verdict.

Officious Jones stomped back in.

“The PROBLEM is,” he huffed, “you purchased your ticket for YESTERDAY’S show.”

(The tickets, because they recently switched over to a new e-ticketing system, don’t have a date printed on them.)

“Really. That seems unlikely, considering I worked yesterday. Why would I have purchased a ticket for a show that was occurring during a work shift, when I’ve worked the same shift for almost seven years now?” I asked him. Officious Jones didn’t enjoy this answer.

“THE COMPUTER SAYS YOU DID,” he hissed. “But since you’re here, I’ve been authorized to give you THIS SEAT” (and he pointed out a seat that was actually better than my original seat.) He waited until I sat, I guess to make sure I didn’t cause a ruckus or try to steal other people’s seats or strip naked or track in snow or something, GLARED at me, then stomped out.

OK, here’s the scoop.

I’m a paying customer. It is not my fault that your e-ticket system doesn’t have a date on the e-ticket; it is not my fault that your computer system says I purchased a ticket for a show that I KNOW I did not purchase a ticket for (and I didn’t keep the original email, so I can’t confirm or deny that I bought the ticket for yesterday’s show, but I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have – I’ve never made a mistake like that before, and I’ve been buying online tickets for years, I do it with a calendar at my side and write the dates on the calendar as I purchase because I see a number of shows a month and I want to keep it straight what I’m going to see when.) As a paying customer, I should be afforded a certain level of courtesy. That level of courtesy means that you do NOT treat me like I’m attempting to rip you off or that I haven’t bathed in a month or that I’m putting you out by being there. Our local theaters are in trouble. You need all the paying customers you can get. The tickets for this theater aren’t cheap. If you continue to treat your customers like garbage, you’re going to lose them, and we’re going to lose another theater venue in town.

At my theater, the patron is always right. Even when they’re an annoying, lying asshat. We bend over backward to make sure they’re accommodated. Once, we had a woman who refused to get out of a seat that wasn’t her ticketed seat. She made a huge stink over the whole thing. Could we have also raised a stink and probably physically ejected her or called the cops or something? Yep. But we didn’t. And you know what? She’s still a patron. We’re careful to make sure she sits in her ticketed seat every show, but we still get her money every time. We NEED that money. Theaters are going under every day.

Are patrons often asshats? Yep. In that case, we paste on a smile, we make them feel like we made the mistake, even when we didn’t, and when they’ve been seated with grace and style, we bitch about them until the air is blue WHERE THEY CAN’T HEAR OR SEE US. Because they are PAYING DAMN CUSTOMERS.

So, Officious Jones, you are very, very bad at customer service. Also, I didn’t whip out my credentials when I was there, because I am not an asshole. Oh, how I wanted to say, “Can I talk to your supervisor?” and tell them I’m the Artistic Director of my theater. Or that I know the person who runs your box office. BUT I DIDN’T. I totally behaved myself. Well, other than being a little stubborn, but I don’t think you can blame me, you were being a jackhole.

Also, to the ladies seated behind me who commented “There sure is a lot of talking in this play!” Yes, yes there is. It’s a play. About family relationships. Probably not many explosions. If you want explosions, I’d go to the movies, I’m sure something there would satisfy you. Also, YES, one of the actresses stars in the local Raymour & Flanigan furniture commercials. But you don’t need to point it out EVERY TIME SHE COMES ON STAGE. “There she is! AGAIN! The FURNITURE lady!” Shhh.

Murder most rodenticidinal IN MY FAMILY

My great-granduncle probably didn't die in the house.

So I was telling my mom about the Rough on Rats post from yesterday and she said, “Oh, like your grandmother’s uncle?”

WHAT?

So I said that – “WHAT?” and got this story:

My grandmother’s uncle – so my grandmother’s mother’s brother, my great-granduncle, I guess? was married to a woman. The woman, as it was BACK IN THE DAY, made all his food and drink, of course. He was known to not want to eat or drink anything anyone else made, when he was visiting others. It was his thing. “My wife makes MY coffee! The way I like it!” he’d boast, while turning down offers of coffee when visiting people.

Well, he died. And the wife remarried. And that husband grew very ill, similarly. And the doctors thought, hmm. And looked into it. And ran some tests. And found ALL THE ARSENIC in her new husband’s system. So they exhumed my great-great-uncle and found HE’D BEEN ROUGH ON RATTED.

Well, I don’t know if she actually USED Rough on Rats but my mom says it was totally a rat poison of some sort. Probably Rough on Rats. Let’s do the math. My grandmother is in her late 80’s. This happened when she was a child. Rough on Rats was around when she was a child. THEREFORE I’VE DECIDED IT WAS ROUGH ON RATS.

My mom says my grandmother still has the clippings from the paper and that my grandmother, who LOVES to tell stories, would be HAPPY to tell them to me the next time I see her and show me the clippings. THIS IS TOTALLY EXCITING.

When I told my dad he said, “Glad that’s not MY side of the family” but I said, “that woman wasn’t ON that side of the family, DAD, she was MARRIED to someone on Mom’s side of the family, I’m not genetically related to her or anything, damn” and he said “same thing” but it’s not, really, Dad.

Although I totally want to be related to the Black Widow of Upstate New York. HOW EXCITING. I can’t wait to see the clippings and hear my grandmother’s story. More on this as it develops! Rough on Rats in my FAMILY you guys!

Well! That was…unexpected! AND ALSO AWESOME! 

My uncle recently purchased a truck. He needed to get it inspected. He lives in the boonies, as do most of my people. The garage he brought it to was teeny, and cold because who heats a whole garage? And the inspection was taking a while, so with the cold and the waiting he eventually realized he had to pee like a mofo.

So he asked the guy, “Can I use your bathroom?” and the guy was all, “Sure” and waved him back to it. On the way back, my uncle saw a lot of what looked like cat litter on the floor of the garage. “Odd,” thought my uncle.

The bathroom door was broken and would not shut, but listen, if it’s cold and you have to go to the bathroom, no one cares much. That time I had to pee because effing AAA wouldn’t come and rescue me from the side of the highway and I still have not forgiven them, the bathroom door at the gas station when I finally got to pee was broken and I was totally Honey Badger did NOT give a shit, you know?

So he was in the bathroom, and all of a sudden, the door opened while he was in there, and! Well, THAT’S off-putting! And guess what came into the bathroom?

Awww! Squish!

A BABY CALF YO!

The garage guy was bottle-feeding a baby calf that the momma cow had rejected (I assume the garage guy was also a farmer, we’re pretty multi-tasky, up there in the North Country) and the litter on the floor was apparently because the calf was pooping all over or something, I don’t know, that seems odd, but whatever, BABY CAAAALLLLFFFFF!

My mom, who told me this story, didn’t seem to think that my response of “I would have screamed, because who would have expected that there? Then totally cuddled its little nose and asked the guy if I could bottle-feed it!” was appropriate, but I would have. Aw, little wee calf! I love cows!

Listen, although I love living in civilization, I have to say, awesome things like a calf walking in on you while you are peeing in a rural garage do not often happen here where I live. We don’t get a lot of livestock situations here. That’s kind of sad.

Happy Monday to all and to all a happy week! May you all avoid dictatorial ushers, murderous wives, and get to pet all the adorable baby calves you desire!


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