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It was Amityville Horror, without the pig.

July 26, 2011

We were away this past weekend. Technically we were up at our friend Rich’s house camping, but the weather was so ungodly hot that we refused to sleep outside. So I don’t think you can call it camping if we slept in the air conditioning. But that’s not the point. The point is what happened in our house while we were gone.

Flies. I got a text from Viv (who had crashed at our house Saturday, since she & Rob are in the middle of a bathroom redo) telling me that she killed a shitload of flies. I assumed she was exaggerating.

A little backstory. We always seem to have about a dozen or so flies in our house. I’m not sure why, we just do. It’s a constant annoyance. As fucking gross as it is, I’ve sort of (and this sentence is horrifying to write) become immune to them. So when Viv texted that she killed flies, I just shrugged it off.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, when we walked in the house it was like that scene in Amityville Horror where the window is filled with flies. The frenchwood doors in our back hall had probably a dozen flies flitting around. Okay – kind of weird. But then we started to look at the other windows. They ALL had flies bashing their dumbs fly heads against the glass.. Vivian was NOT exaggerating. She even left the mini vacuum cleaner out to show all the flies she sucked up. There were dozens trapped, flying in and around the dog hair & rug lint. It was one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen. Punk & I spent the next two hours, two fucking hours, killing, vacuuming & in general, just getting rid of flies. It had to have been over 100. Fucking disgusting. The only thing we can surmise is they came in via the garage, because we had a garbage can that, as it turns out, had some shit in there, and we wound up with maggots. In the explosive heat we’ve had over the last few days, we think the fly population exploded like 9 months after woodstock.

That was several days ago, and I’m happy to report that we have the fly population mostly under control. But it was a close call for a while there. I swear, if I had seen one set of glowing red pig eyes, I’d have called for a priest.

Apropos of nothing…

July 21, 2011

Random thoughts:

I have a lot of shit on my laptop. It’s a 2009 15″ MacBook Pro, and I love it to death. But really, I need to clean it up. I have dozens of weird random images on my desktop – many for blog posts. Here’s one of the stranger ones:

I just installed Lion, and so far, I think I like it.

I’m creative, caring, know how to make a mean cosmo, and am occasionally clever. Those are the plusses. I’m a procrastinator, I hate conflict, I’m mildly ADD, and am absent minded . Those are the minuses. I love reality TV, reading on the john, I’m a happy drunk, and can’t burp. Plusses or minuses – you decide.

I’m blogging in my underwear, sipping a delicious glass of Kono Sauvignon Blanc. I’m also watching Big Brother – Rachel should be shot at dawn. Just a little slice of life insight.

Speaking of which – Punk & I have a side business called Slice of Life. It’s an online t-shirt company with designs by and for foodies. Check us out!

My nephew just married his long-time girlfriend/fiancee last weekend. Unfortunately, Punk & I had to miss it, due to work. But we are psyched to officially welcome Lady to the family!! Hi Danielle Councilor! I saw Jodie’s pictures – you were (are!) beautiful!

I’m also an avid computer gamer – I love World of Warcraft, even if I’ve barely had the chance to play it in the last few months. Yes, I’m a geek.

One of the the things I’ve learned I need to work on doing in my blog posts (thanks for the great examples, Jen!) is really to tell a story. Beginning, middle, end. And of course, to be entertaining.

Random thoughts, out….

He’s a chinchilla farmer…

July 15, 2011

I know I blogged about my fear of being judged in my last post. Here’s the catch: Snap judgements are fun, and occasionally hysterical.

The scene: A pool filled with 100’s of bears. For those of you who don’t understand that last sentence, I’ll give you a readers digest. A bear is, generally, a gay man who is somewhat heavyset & usually hairy. Intrigued? My job is done – but if you want (or need, you perves!) more info, check this link for the dry, boring explanation. The more daring of you can follow this link, but I won’t be held responsible. You click it, you buy it!

Okay – so anyway, we’re at the pool with 100’s of bears (One more side note. Lots of bears in a pool is commonly referred to as “Bear Soup”.) Punk, Frank & I are sitting in the chairs, daintily sipping our Planter’s Punch, complete with 151 rum floaters. We watch as one scantily clad (okay – another side note. Many bears wear speedo bathing suits, with wildly varying results.) bear gets out & poses & preens while talking to a friend. This guy was so furry it was overwhelming. He was also wearing ancient, a decrepit cowboy hat, had ratty semi bleached long hair, leathery face, etc. It set Punk, Frank & I to analyzing him. The conversation went something like this:

Frank: You know he’s named something unisex, like sky or storm.

Punk: He’s probably named after a car.

Frank: I don’t think he’s a mercedes. He’s more of a buick.

Me: And you know he’s sad because it’s his last day here before he goes back to working at the ranch. I’m sure he works at a chinchilla farm.

Frank: Yes, that’s it. His name is a vowel & he’s a chinchilla farmer.

Punk: Mystery solved.

At which point we decided the best thing to do would be to order another round of drinks. I was fairly sure Oue the chinchilla farmer would approve.

Get your limp on…

July 10, 2011

The other day, as our friend Steve & I were approaching my car, we had a conversation that went like this:

 

Steve: Uhm, Gates? Are you forgetting something?

Me (frantically checking pockets): Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet & Watch. Nope, I’m good.

Steve: Isn’t it time for you to get your limp on?

Me: Oh shit – thanks! (commence ridiculously overblown limping)

 

I have a confession to make. I have a “Princess Parking” permit. Princess parking is what we call handicapped parking. Before anyone goes and feels all bad for me, imagining me in a wheel chair with some terrible, life altering injury, don’t. My princess parking permit is…(cue ominous music)… stolen.

Technically it was found. Punk & I were leaving a restaurant one night about 6 months ago. As we were heading to our car, Punk happened to look down & there it was. A lifetime handicapped parking tag. Now really, what were we supposed to do with it? We could have left it there, I suppose, but when something like this happens, it’s like manna from heaven. The gods OBVIOUSLY wanted us to have it. Hell, the parking lot was almost completely deserted. It wasn’t like there was some cottonhead in an ’87 buick riviera storming back through the lot to claim it – it was clearly abandoned. So we did the only responsible thing we could think of. Granted, our thinking was muddled by wine & beer, but still, we decided to adopt it.

I still have enough guilt (yes, guilt & I are old friends – I can arrange to feel guilty about most anything.) to worry, and wonder. Who had it before us? Are they in deep shit for losing it? Will the fates punish us for being selfish?

I don’t use it often. I’m not THAT much of a prick. But when we do? I still feel a little guilty. I’m also wondering “Are people watching 2 perfectly healthy people pull into a handicapped space? Are we being… JUDGED?”

So on those rare occasions, I limp. I know it’s totally lame, and I’m not that good an actor to pull it off. Also my limp randomly moves from leg to leg, depending on the day. It alleviates my sense of being judged somewhat, and I do take a perverse delight in acting it out – I take about a dozen steps, then massage my leg a little, and then the limp starts to magically fade as we approach the store. Punk has given up trying to stop from from this little routine – He just rolls his eyes and says “Hurry up, gimpy”.

So yes, I have a stolen parking pass. And I feel bad about it. I don’t, however, feel so bad that I don’t use it. If you’re going to judge me for using it, at least watch my routine first. Then you can pity my acting skills at the same time. In fact, maybe my bad acting IS my handicap. There dilemma solved.

 

You made me fucking swear!

July 9, 2011

Apparently I drove a woman to say fuck, twice…. Details to follow!

20110709-021846.jpgOkay, first, some background. Punk owns a restaurant, and one of the things that we do every year is run a booth at local food festivals. We sell fried dough & clam fritters. Its exhausting work, but the money is (weather permitting) good, and, for me at least, it’s kind of a fun change of pace.

This weekend the festival was Sailfest – 40-50 thousand people, rides, booths, food, bands, etc. And at our booth, as I already said – fried dough & clam fritters. I’m usually at the front of the booth – taking the money – yelling back the order, etc. I’m the nice one, so I’m the best choice, lol. One of the things we get – a lot – are questions. What are clam fritters? (a dropped batter made with chopped clams, salt, pepper, dill, etc). The more sarcastic question is often “Are there clams in your clam fritters? We jokingly answer, usually, “We usually just dip one by a string in the batter as we make it. If it falls off, it’s your lucky day!”. We want to say, “Yes, you retard, there are. Are you hinting that you think we’re ripping you off?”

So, the story. An older biker couple came up tot he booth & ordered fritters. Didn’t ask any questions, but they were just a little… weird. But they seemed okay – as they left, I actually told one of the guys in the booth “sometimes the weird ones turn out to be the best customers.” Yeah…..  about 30 minutes later, they come back, and she looks me in the eye and this is what I get from the woman. “You fucked me with the clam fritters. There weren’t any clams in them, you took the clams and ran them right past! I can’t believe you did that – they were terrible. I hate swearing but they were so bad you made me fucking swear! I couldn’t resist. my only response to her was “Well, in that case I’m really sorry, because I think I just made you swear twice!”

I posted what?

July 6, 2011

So THAT’S the danger of posting not just buzzed, not just drunk, but seriously fucked up. I have almost no idea what those two posts were meant to say. Well, that’s not completely true.

Bitches laying sown is obviously a reference to the fact that everyone who was sleeping over last Friday/Saturday AM was finally going to bed.

I stopped all my heRy medications just for this weekend was a (poorly) typed quote from Randy – “I stopped all my heart medications just for this weekend.”

The background. We had our big summer party this weekend. I mean big – probably 100-125 people over the course of the day. Luckily, we’ve got some great friends who come down the night before to help with the final set up – cooking, cleaning, getting shit set up, etc. This also becomes, as Joe put it – the unofficial party before the party. It’s a chance for Punk & I to party without having to really worry about socializing. Everyone there that night knows the house, and each other well enough that we can just have fun – no small talk needed. It’s a well earned pre-party party. Did I mention a lot of them stay over? By a lot I mean we had (including Punk & I) 16 people staying over – it was like an air mattress factory exploded. But damn we had fun.

But there’s a moral to the story – when posting drunk, try & at least add a sentence or two, so I don’t forget what the fuck I’m posting about.

Oh, and the party? It was…. epic. A huge crowd, great food, lots of cocktails & shots, great fireworks and a lot of laughter.

Then there was the end, when we had a rapidly escalating series of dramas – attempted theft of 2 laptops (and the fucker succeeded in getting an iPod), someone peeing in a tent and, I kid you not, explosive diarrhea in the garage. Really people?

Bitches laying sown

July 2, 2011

It’d 1240..