Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Movie Flux - Horror Flicks I Can Stand

It occurred to me not too long ago that I am a horror fan, but not of horror movies.  Mostly because they never genuinely frighten me.  I just come out of most of them angry, or laughing so hard I fall off the furniture, and generally that's not the point.  But, I love a great horror novel.  Stephen King aside, you can put just about anything in my hands about ghosts, demons, vampires (so long as they kill people and don't sparkle), or anything that we fear lurking in our closets, under our beds, and in the shadows just waiting for us to close our eyes in the shower, and I'll enjoy it. 

But yet, even I, picky elitist that I am, can find some movies that I managed to enjoy in the horror genre.  Thus this week's Movie Flux post is about horror movies that I actually enjoy.

1.  Black Swan
I wish I looked this good going insane.
Darren Aronofsky is one crazy son of a bitch.  I don't think anyone who has seen Requiem For a Dream will argue that point.  And he made one hell of a psychological horror film in Black Swan.  One part body horror, two parts pathological terror, it sucks you into the mind of a young woman going slowly insane from the pressures of her life, be it her job, her mother, or the slow deterioration of her dreams.  By the end of the movie you have no idea what was real, what was in her mind, and what was just one more crazy hallucination in the hunt for perfection that nobody should attain.  In the end it leaves you feeling shaky and more than a little afraid that something your mind may have slipped as well. 

2.  Dog Soldiers
Infinitely better than 99% of the other werewolf movies out there.  Stop it Hollywood.
Recently, this movie has become one of my favorite Halloween watches.  Maybe because there is a lot of land in Luxembourg, where the movie was filmed, that looks a lot like my own back yard.  Originally shown in the US as a SyFy Original film, this is actually an entry from Britain.  Produced in 2002, Dog Soldiers is the story of a group of British soldiers dropped into Scotland for a training exercise and discover they are fighting something far more deadly.  Basically, werewolves.  Holed up in a house in the middle of nowhere, they have to try and get away from some of the best creature effects I've seen in a long time, and there is real tension in this story.  I also love how at the end, there's a newspaper shown, with a small headline titled "Werewolves Ate My Platoon."  Future classic.

3.  Rare Exports: A Christmas Story
I can't sleep because Santa is gonna eat me.
This movie.  Oh this movie.  This is billed as a fantasy film, but the eerie atmosphere gets it a horror listing from me.  A Finnish contribution, Rare Exports is a re-imagining of the origins of Santa Claus.  Changing the lovable Coke-a-Cola mascot into a demon from Hell that steals naughty children with the help of his emaciated, fiendish elves.  He then either boils the children alive to eat them, or flogs them to death.  The story begins though in a small village in Lapland Finland, near Korvatunturi Mountain.  American miners dig something out of the mountain, and children and supplies begin disappearing from the town.  The only person who is aware of what is going on is the son of a butcher, whom nobody believes at first.  The twist near the end is great, believable, and had me sitting there, alternately grinning and staring at the screen.

4.  The Silence of the Lambs

Insert your quote about beans and wine here.
The only people on this planet who probably haven't seen Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs are living on Mars, and the Mars Rover should get their blu-rays to them soon.  That being said, this movie is so damn sinister, teeth grindingly suspenseful, that it's no surprise that it won the Academy Award in all five top categories.  The well-written, well acted story of fledgling FBI agent Clarice Starling going to cannibalistic genius Hannibal Lecter for help chasing a smart, brutal serial killer known as Buffalo Bill is the stuff that every movie lover dreams of.  At least those of us that like to think about what is going on in front of our eyes.  All that being said, this movie is why I refuse to leave my doors unlocked for any amount of time.

5.  Audition
So very, very wrong.
Damn you Japan.  You churn out movie after movie of tiny teenage girl ghosts with bulging eyes, and all it does is make me afraid of Nicki Minaj.  And then I innocently sit down to view Audition, and know I will never cross a small Japanese girl again.  Audition is the story of a lonely widower who holds a fake audition to find himself a new wife, and connects with a girl who he believes has great emotional depth.  When the widower disappears, his son begins searching him out, following the references on the girl's resume and discovering her horrible secret, which is that the sweet looking girl has no problem heartlessly torturing the people she believes have done her wrong by cutting off their feet and fingers, amongst other body parts.  This film is a combination of body horror and psychological disturbance that makes you wary of every single delicately boned girl you come across.  It's one of the few J-horror movies I love, but I will be fine if I never see it again in my entire life.

There were a few more movies on my list, such as the Evil Dead series, and the Tales From the Crypt movies, such as Demon Knight, but none of those movies actually scare me.  This list is just made up of the ones that achieve that nearly impossible goal of actually leaving me with the unease that one would expect from something disturbing.  But bravo that I could find even five.

Movie Flux - Because I want to bitch about movies, too.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Anything You Can Do I May Not Do Better, But I'll Sure As Hell Try

I have never been shy about admitting that I have a problem.  This problem, like terminal stupidity or some other neuron-melting illness, is incurable.  I speak, of course, of my assumption that I can do anything that I see performed on television.

Now before anyone gets all up in arms and is all, "But Mina, your adversity to sunlight rivals that of those ancient scrolls that turn to dust in the presence of UV rays," I would like to clarify that I mean cooking/artsy-craftsy/relationship stuff.  Not bungee jumping or leaping from building to building in sneakers and a sports bra.  I'm not that stupid.

But I have been infected with a mania that causes me to perpetually believe I can do anything I see on Food Network.  Deep fry an entire sandwich?  No problem.  Make my own butter, seasoned with sea salt and natural clover honey?  Bitch, I did that three months ago.  Make facinator hats for my entire choir group?  Well, I've never made them before but I sure as hell volunteered to do it!

Oh please.  I made five of these last week after watching DIY Channel.
What causes this?  I think it's my secret shame at being a well-educated, healthy (physically), mostly capable young woman, and yet I am a hausfrau because I am not yet able to work in this country.  I am making up for my lack of working with skills that have no pertinent use in the real world.  At least not any more. 

I suppose the butter-making thing could be useful if I found an Amish colony that would allow me to bring my Cuisinart with me.

Anyway, the mania has been with me for a long time, ever since I was a child.  If I saw Sailor Moon fight monsters, I figured I could do that too.  If the My Little Ponies made a house out of cupcakes and dreams, I was busy checking out city planning maps to see where I could put my own.  Barbie was a doctor, an engineer, and a rock star?  Big deal!  I was going to be a lawyer, an accountant, an opera singer AND a have many tawdry affairs in Europe with men named Marcello and Alejandro.

I made one of these out of hope and cotton candy a few months ago.
None of this would actually be a problem if I wasn't also freakishly accident prone.  Give me a glue gun, and not only will I burn myself, but I'll also glue my fingers to something.  Spray painting gloves?  I'll also spray paint my arms.  Make the cat a little hat out of pipe cleaners and toilet paper tubes?  Well she doesn't have any claws, but I'm sure she'll hide for hours.

Accurate portrayal of my actual crafting prowness.
I need to be stopped.  Before I decide I need to start making my own Cherokee Indian Hair Tampons.  All haters, go watch South Park, it's a reference.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

I Love Food That Will Kill Me

I have not been shy about admitting I try strange food.  I find it my new mission in life here in Canada, ever since I was brave and stupid enough to try poutine.  So when I discover something I really love, I must share it.  And my friends, I have.  I have found the holy grail of crappy, bad for you, disgusting food that is so good I'm addicted.  Allow me, gentle readers, to introduce you to the McGangbang.
This is a thing of beauty.  And death.  And not mine, I eat mine before I can take a photo.
For those of you not in the know, there is a small subset of people who have taken it upon themselves to take pre-existing McDonalds food, combine the items, and create something new and frightening and possibly world-changing with them.  One is the Mc10:35, which is when you go to McDonalds at just the right time to get a McMuffin and a hamburger and eat them together as a single sandwich, as 10:35 is when they begin switching from sausages to hamburger patties.

But we are concerned with the McGangbang.  This is a complete Junior Chicken Sandwich inside an entire McDouble.  You make one of these jewels of humanity by ordering both and seperating the McDouble patties between the top and bottom bun and putting the chicken sandwich inside.  What you have, truthfully, is bliss.

Think of it this way.  Having your first McGangbang is like being left on a deserted island for three years with nothing but coconuts and spindly crabs to eat, and a cooler full of filet mignon and Godiva chocolates wash up on shore.  It's that good.  That world changing.

I've compiled a short list with which to state my case, and make everyone go out and get one of these marvels of industry.  Granted, most of these are just my opinion, but hell, it's my blog.

1.  The McGangbang is cheap.
All you need do to have this beautiful meal is order a McDouble and a Junior Chicken Sandwich from the value menu.  To get something this bad for you, you'd have to go spend five bucks or more at KFC for a Doubledown.  But even with Canadian pricing, the McGangbang is only 2.78.  When we can spend over thirty dollars for fast food with Mike involved, this is not something to be ignored.
The McGangbang costs exactly this much in the funny Canadian Monopoly-style money.  I refuse your two dollar coin!
2.  It should be disgusting, and it's delicious.
There is nothing about a chicken sandwich inside a double cheeseburger all from McDonalds that says it should taste good.  At all.  It says logically that it should be vomit-inducing.  Instead, this is one of the best fast food items I've ever tasted.  I honestly could get this once a week and be okay with it. 
3.  The McGangbang has a soporific effect.
No lie.  If you've got insomnia, get a McGangbang.  After eating one, you're going to feel like you just ran the New York Marathon while using barbituates, and will promptly get in a three hour nap on the couch while the cat uses you as a pillow.  And you will love it.
4.  You now belong to the McGangbang club.
Very few people are in on the idea that you can make new sandwiches out of the original McDonalds menu.  But you know.  You're in on it.  You are part of the a quiet little club that does unspeakable things that actually harms nobody.  Good job.
5.  The joy of ordering.
There is something about ordering the componants for a McGangbang that makes a little thrill of happiness go through you.  Because at some point you'll go up to the second window on the drivethru, and part of you is always hoping that you've found another kindred spirit in the McDonalds worker.  That you'll get a wink or a nod, some sign that whoever is handing you the brown paper bag of death knows what is going on with you.  And that alone is enough to make you less regretful when you're done.
I was going to add Oreos, but who am I kidding, Oreos are perfectly healthy for you.
So yeah, it's probably a bad idea to eat these more than semi-occasionally.  But it doesn't change that I am a woman obsessed.  Husband is going to try one with me on Friday.  Yes, I am spreading this infection.  Muah ha ha ha ha.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

The Problem With Husbands

When it comes to the topic of husbands, I know that I have little room to talk.  I have found a wonderful man who treats me the way he would treat...well, let's not put a label on it shall we?  And I'm aware that my problem with Husband is very first world.  It's like having a fridge full of food and nothing to eat.  Or a closet full of clothing and nothing to wear.  He doesn't beat me, neglect me, or limit me in any way.  I don't wear a scarf when I go out in public unless it's fabulous and matches my attire.  And I don't have to have his permission to go out.  More often than not, he encourages it in a way that makes me feel a little like the cat when we lock her out of the bedroom.  Like I should be mewling at the door.
Let me innnnn!!  I know there's something good in there!
And somehow, that can kind of be the problem.  Husband can't just be satisfied with telling me that I'm the most beautiful, talented, lovely, gifted, and pale woman he knows.  No, Husband always has to encourage.  Suggest.  Continue talking when I desire him to shut the hell up.  It's more than a little irritating.

Take for example this previous weekend.  I was baking a cake and playing video games, and apparently I looked so happy that Husband could not just appreciate that I wasn't on his case for once.  Oh no.  He had to plop down next to me and have a conversation about it.

Me:  This was a great day.  I got to do two things I like all day long, bake cakes and play video games.
Husband:  That's great honey.  I wish I could make it last.  But then once a month you'd have to bake cake and play video games.
Me:  We're fat enough.
Husband: *no longer responding, just drifting in the ideal dream world where he gets cake once a month*
This is how I imagine regular cake time going eventually.
Usually, these conversations end with him figuring out some way for me to make him extra baked goods during the month, instead of on special occasions.  So here's another problem.  Aside from suggesting things, he has to encourage extra-curricular baking.  Not that I mind baking, it gives me great joy.  But what do I do once I start baking at all times? 

Special occasions are no longer special because I can make blue velvet cake any time.  Each holiday I would have to come up with something bigger and better, and before you know it, I'm making croquembouche on a random Thursday and the next time Thanksgiving rolls around (I have to celebrate that shit twice up here) my head explodes in messy morsels of grey matter and pastry dough.
This can change depending on which cereal we buy for the week.  Stepping on Cheerios HURTS.

As I said, husbands are a first world problem.  Especially for me.  And now I need to go to the grocery store.  Tiramisu doesn't magically make its self on a Wednesday.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Self Defense With A Ford Taurus

I am a murderer.

Now, I know what you're all thinking.  Half of you are thinking: "Mina?  Impossible.  She sobbed for three days over having to catch a mouse in a trap."  The other half of you are thinking: "Huh.  I wonder how many times she managed to stab Husband before her arm got tired."

Well, nobody wants to see a picture of me.  Have the kitteh instead.
But I can reassure you all that I did not kill Husband and stuff his body in a closet to fester until I really have to do something about the corpse.  I would like to think I'd be level-headed enough to go through with my plan to kill him at the grocery store on a late night ice cream run so that I could stuff his body in the freezer and leave it should I ever feel the urge to release him from the mortal coil. 

No, I am more guilty of vehicular homicide involving a sylvilagus nuttalli, more commonly known as the mountain cottontail.  And yes, I have been sobbing non-stop over this one.

Getting Mike to work on time involves him routing me out of bed at an ungodly hour, especially because I am a night owl, putting on yoga pants because they require no buttoning, zipping or tying, and being just awake enough to follow the rules of the road to take him the like 1.6 miles to work.  All of which I do because I love him and I don't want him to have to walk.  At least not until it gets warmer and he can just get a bike and ride to work. 

But I don't expect to be involved in the death of an adorable little pest when I take him to work.  I was driving home so I could take care of myself after an unfortunate incident earlier in the day where I strained muscles in the area between my lower back and legs, specifically where the legs meet the back, and something darted out right in front of the car. 

I had no time to swerve, and after a sickening thump, I saw something fluffy with a cotton tail roll into a ditch and not move in my rear view mirror.  And I knew then that I would forever be on the run from the rabbit community.

See?  Nowhere on this list does "defenseless bunny" appear.
What do bunnies do to humans who kill their people?  Do they come marching on the house some night, to abduct the perpetrator and tie him or her to the railroad tracks until a train comes screaming down the line so the murderer knows exactly how it feels?  Is it some kind of rabbity justice that will involve me dying in pink kitty cat pajamas?

I cannot deal with the idea of being a fugitive in the bunny world.  Wondering if every night is going to be the last, if a swarm of cottontailed fluffy things are going to invade my home and put down the cat and Husband all in order to enact some kind of animal revenge that rivals that of Edmond Dantes.  I would be seriously disappointed now if it were anything but the rabbits finding hidden treasure, making up an noble title, getting close to me, and then it all ending in a duel.

Look at them plot, those fluffy bastards.
The point here is that I feel guilty.  Even if Husband tried to tell me to think of it as self defense with a Ford Taurus.  Because I can't imagine what the bunny was going to do to me if I needed an entire full sized sedan to save my life.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Eat, Drink, and Be Arrested

I wish I could say my life was a picnic.  A bright Victorian picnic where people play croquet on the lawn and wear hats that match their dresses, with blooming flowers and butterflies floating on the breeze.  I wish I could say my life was white irises on the mantle and roses blooming in the garden.  But since I can't, I'm gonna tell y'all about Husband's birthday.

I'm not particularly big on my birthday, since so many have been disappointing.  I'd rather just ignore that it's coming, and do something else.  But Husband's birthday should be a big deal, and it totally is.  Especially this year, when not a whole lot has been going well for us recently.  So I decided to throw him a party.  And I wanted it to be an awesome party.  I wanted it to be the kind of party that had talk of strippers and nights in Rodanthe and had the cops called to it.

...For the record, that last one nearly happened.  Yeah, it's that kind of story.

So being an army man and having army buddies and not particularly caring for croquet or white irises, Husband wanted to have his birthday party at a local watering hole, a wings place that had fifteen thousand kinds of wing sauce and one salad, complete with wings in it, on the menu.  But I agreed, as long as I could still bring him a birthday cake.

Look at this piece of shit cake.  This garbage destroyed my faith in humanity.  And my faith in cake.
The first fiasco was the cake.  I mean, look at this thing.  It looks like they let a legally blind marmot put that lettering on.  And the cherries used to decorate it were not dried before being put on top, so they immediately bled all over the white frosting on the cake.  I am still fighting with the company about this cake, because I'll be damned if I will accept sub-par cake at any time, let alone Husband's birthday.

As for the rest of the night, it went particularly well.  That is, until he began opening presents.  It went smoothly at first, but then we got to the final gift.  I should explain that it is not unusual at all for the two of us to buy each other toys we would have enjoyed at the age of eight as gifts nearly as frequently as we do the tube socks and jewelry thing.  Thus it was not at all odd for me to buy him the biggest Nerf gun on the market.

If he looked at me with this much joy, I'd assume it was because he'd figured out a way to kill me for the insurance money.
Of course, that is what started all the problems.  Because he could not wait until we got home to open it.  He had to open that Nerf gun right there in the bar, and put it together.  I would have scolded him more, but frankly, there was more joy on his face when putting that toy together than I ever saw on our wedding day, so I just let it slide.  Instead, I watched as he loaded it, and then began to unload it.

In the bar.

At people's heads.

This was supposed to be a picture of him firing on his buddies.  But I was laughing so hard that I dropped the camera.
This continued in our little corner until our waiter came up to me, having been patient with our rowdy asses for this long, and told me that should the firing of projectiles continue, we would be kicked out on our rude behinds, and the police would be called if we did not comply.  I took matters into my own hands, and took the gun away, putting it under my chair, but I then spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from going for it again until I just put it in the trunk of the car.

Not that it was not hilarious that he was pelting his friends in the face with Nerf darts, but you know, sometimes, I really want a party to be closer to white irises than a police escort home.  Just saying.

Friday, March 9, 2012

MovieFlux - Movies I Love That Everyone Else Hates

I am admittedly a snob when it comes to books and literature.  How can I not be, when I was nourished on things like Oscar Wilde and Charlotte Bronte?  But I have also been accused of being a movie snob as well, so I'm introducing MovieFlux posts, occasional posts about movies, whether I enjoyed them or not.  This time, we delve into the world of movies that I love that everyone else friggin' hates.

1.  Sucker Punch

We are so feminist!  Just look at our feminist midriffs!
Okay, I get it.  There IS a lot to hate about this movie.  From the confusing plot to the not-so-feminist "feminism" represented with short skirts, high heels and pigtails, I can tell why people don't like this film.  I on the other hand love the hell out of it.  I could watch this movie over and over again.  I'd like to say that it's because I love anime, and this has a very anime feel to it, or because I believe that Zack Snyder's red-headed stepchild has some kind of deeper meaning.  But mostly, I admit, it's because it's just cool looking. 

2.  Moral Kombat
Street Fighter was worse.  Admit it.
There are people out there, mostly big fucking nerds like me, who will argue that there are no good video game movies out there.  And others that will argue that you can't film a good video game movie, especially not with established canon that people know and recognize.  I have no problem with those arguments.  But I still love the Mortal Kombat movie.  It was a good old fashioned turn your brain off kind of film, with b-list actors and Christopher Lambert as the lightning god, Raiden.  What is not to like?  People are kicking each other in the face and just getting up.  I also have a little nostalgia for this one, since Mortal Kombat the game was the first game I had for my old gray brick Gameboy.  Yes I'm old.  Shut the hell up.

3.  Cats Don't Dance

The only thing missing is a talking hippo that embroid-... never mind.
When this animated film premiered, it did so to a dull roar, opening the same weekend as the rerelease of Return of the Jedi and Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie, both huge contenders.  Needless to say, this movie was quickly forgotten.  Hell, I forgot it until I was an adult and caught it on television once upon a time.  But by then I was hooked.  Aside from the main male protagonist being so two-dimensional that you need a stack of books and wooden plank to stand him up, the movie was brilliant.  It had an excellent message about racism hidden behind the mask of animals not being able to work in Hollywood, a memorable villain, beautiful animation, and excellent songs.  This was also the last film Cary Grant ever worked on before his death.  I will love this movie forever, no matter who forgets it.

4.  Final Fantasy VII:  Advent Children
I know it's shit, but look how pretty it is!
This movie has everything wrong with it.  It was Japanese dubbed into English so the mouth work is off.  The casting director chose big names so you see famous people instead of the characters when they speak.  You have to be really REALLY fucking familiar with the game to know what the hell is going on.  Oh, yeah, and it makes no fucking sense.  At all.  And yet, I still love this film.  Maybe because I feel like if I wish hard enough and love hard enough, they'll remake Final Fantasy VII for the PS3.  Maybe I just like it for all the pretty.  I don't know, I just know that I have watched it a ton of times in the privacy of my own home.

5.  Center Stage
Pretty people with problems.  I feel so bad for them.
Talk about fluff.  Girl who is not the perfect idea of a dancer gets into prestigious dancing academy.  Falls in love with guy who is not good for her.  Falls in love with guy who is so obviously "The One" even while she's with the jerk.  Shows the world how magically talented she is.  The End.  And I goddamn love it.  I hate chick flicks, and this one was especially panned because they used soap opera actors and actual dancers for the lead rolls.  I've only seen two of the actors go on to do anything else, one of which is Zoe Saldana.  Yet, I will sit my ass down and watch this any time it's on television.

So there you go.  A short list of movies I absolutely love, and other people just absolutely hate.  Everyone has their own list like this though, so wave your "I love this bad movie and you can't shame me out of it!" flag high.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Can't Have Manslaughter Without Laughter

Gather around, and allow me to tell you a story.  A story that would have ended in me probably going to jail.

Anyone who has read this blog, who knows me, who has spent like fifteen minutes with me, knows that I am extremely paranoid.  I'm talking some "She could really use some Lithium" paranoia.  My paranoia is the reason that Husband purchased a baseball bat for me.  Those times when he has to go out of town, when I'm alone in the house and nobody would probably check on me for a few days, I put the bat by the bed, in case of all the horrible things that could come get me.

I'm not just talking about serial killers or Jehovah's Witnesses.  I'm of course protected against the evil things of the night.  The vampires, the werewolves, the Rebecca Blacks.  Should they come after me, I was prepared with my bat, all of course taking for granted that nothing would kill me, drink my blood, sing crappy tone-deaf pop music before I could wake up.

This is just on a typical day.  Other days, we'd add in trolls or George Bush Jr.

I never thought that I would ever actually have to use the bat.  Frankly, for over a year it sat near the bed, only moved when I had to clean, and then replaced after a few practice swings that narrowly miss a curious cat who is too dumb to get out of the way.  But a morning not too long ago, I was actually called upon to use the bat.

Having taken Husband to work, I curled back up into bed to get a few more hours of sleep.  The normal ritual would have been that if Husband was coming home early, he would never remember his house key, and would ring the doorbell until I answered the door.  So when I was woken up from a deep sleep by someone walking around downstairs, it NEVER occurred to me that it was him.

For a moment I had to decide whether to call the cops, go investigate, or piss myself, knowing that someone was in my house after I had locked the doors.  So I finally crawled out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat as quietly as I could.  At this point it was all speculation as to who would be there, and what if it were some confused elderly person who knows how to pick locks?  I couldn't just call the cops.

Could have been one of these too.  Still preferable to half the shit I was thinking about.

So I began heading down the steps, and then the real terror began.  I heard the intruder heading for our brand new television.  All at once, any sympathy I had for this person vanished.  I was going to break some bones, dislocate some joints.  Because I fucking love that television.

In my pretty pink butterfly pajamas, I crept down the stairs, bat over my shoulder.  I was deciding whether I wanted to let out a war cry or not when I heard the bastard leave the living room and go into the kitchen.  Had he heard me?  Was he going to try to slaughter me with my Pampered Chef knives?  Then I heard the fridge open.

Of all the cocky bastards....he was going to make a sandwich before coming to kill me and taking my TV. 

I got to the bottom of the steps and lifted the bat over my head as I walked into the living room, listening to the serial killer thief sandwich maker putting cheese on his bread.  By this time, I was pretty sure this person did not need to kill me, because I was pretty damn close to a heart attack before even getting near the kitchen.

So I'm almost to the kitchen, and I was readying my battle cry when two steps and out pops Husband, sandwich in hand.  I was so shocked I dropped the bat on the floor and just sat down and sobbed.  When he asked why, through bites of sandwich, I explained how he had scared the living hell out of me and if I had been any braver, I would have swung first and asked questions later.

This sleeping kitten is an accurate portrayal of how threatening I was.

I tried to explain how he had not called out when he came in, which was explained away by how he did not want to wake me; how he had gotten in with the doors locked and how he had remembered his key; not to mention how he went to the television first and of course, how he had been picking up something off the entertainment system mantle.  All of it just him changing his routine.  And I'd have bashed his skull in.

At least Husband was kind enough to not laugh at me until after I stopped crying.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

I Friggin' Love How Dumb I Am

All of us are guilty of doing something foolish.  Something not good for us or perhaps something not good for others.  My most recent sin in this arena comes from the fact that I have a tendency to purchase food that I hear is excellent and I then discover is disgusting in every possible way.  And then despite having taken a bite and/or drink and finding it the most repugnant thing since the Republican party, I KEEP EATING IT.

The horror that dare not speak its name is the McDonalds Shamrock Shake.  I have had one of these every year since they came out, and you would think I would learn my lesson.  This thing is not a food product.  It is like someone added water to toothpaste and poured it in a cup and threw it in the freezer for a couple of hours.  It has the texture of melted cake frosting, and looks like a leprechaun took a shit in a McDonalds and they scooped it up for the dessert menu.

It looks like Slimer jerked off into a cup...

Yet, knowing all of this, I pulled into the drive through the second I heard that they were back until St. Patrick's Day, a day known for poor decisions, and ordered a medium.  I paid my money and felt a shiver of anticipation that one can only feel when about to poison themselves willingly as I pulled forward and received that demonic paper cup and wrapped straw.

I couldn't even wait to get out of the parking lot before ripping the straw open and plunging it home.  That first drink was like the tears of an angel that had been dipped in creme de menth booze and set aflame with the fires of sex and happy bunnies.  Yeah, it was that good.  Unfortunately, there was a second drink.

The second drink of any Shamrock Shake has a steep drop off, from heavenly bunny fire to something between listening to Kanye West talk about how he's the voice of a generation and taking sandpaper impregnated with rock salt to a wound still full of broken glass.  It is at this point that I should have stopped drinking.

I'm not particularly proud to admit that I did not.

This accurately measures how friggin' dumb I am.

Instead, I just kept drinking it until I got home, and then sent it on the counter as I came inside, half finished, mocking me there as I put away my purse and coat.  I stared at it for a few minutes, then turned and went to do something else.  This is where the biggest mistake comes in. 

There is a large amount of shame in this next part.  When I returned to the kitchen a few hours later...I took another drink.  This time, it was not cold, nor trying to resemble ice cream, nor freshly turned.  It was like drinking something that had been sitting in the draft from Satan's asshole, and I gagged right into the sink. 

I spent the rest of the night swearing that I was going to die, that I was going to puke up my own intestines, and that perhaps, just perhaps, I had opened a doorway to Hell through which creatures of insanity-causing horror were going to emerge, having sacrificed myself on some unknown alter built into our married quarters kitchen.  Point is, I poured the rest of it down the sink.

Yep, Bosch painted this after drinking a Shamrock Shake.

So did I learn a lesson?  Probably not.  I admit, I will probably continue to get things like Shamrock Shakes and aloe vera juice and organic grain cereal that looks like something that I might have scooped out of the cat's litter box.  Why?  Because I'm stupid, that's why.


Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Appreciating the Appreciative

Know what I don't get?  People who seem like they hate EVERYTHING.  I'm not talking hipsters who say it because they think it's cool to dislike anything mainstream, but people who genuinely go out of their way not to enjoy anything.  Why do that?

I suspect a few people will be staring at this post going, "Mina, seriously?  The hypocritical apple doesn't fall far from the hypocritical tree, missy." Or something like that.  And I am the first to admit that yes, I am a snob.  I am an elitist.  I openly disdain much of the mainstream in arts and entertainment and fashion because I hold myself to a higher standard than fart jokes and dick humor.  But that is my personal choice. 

What I'm talking about are the people that don't enjoy anything for the sake of trying to hold onto some ideals that don't make sense anyway.  Like a "feminist" who cannot enjoy a piece of art work because she feels that it is against her feminist ideals, and so instead of just appreciating the well crafted art which is neither exploitative nor particularly sexual, the feminist has to tear it apart as if it were nothing but a page out of a Hooter's catalogue because the subject is attractive and not wearing a tent.


What the hell does that prove, other than ideals were kept in a situation when it was unnecessary?  I guess my main problem with it is that we currently live in a society that is okay with this kind of behavior.  In today's world, we are more apt to respect the people that hate everything than those who are able to appreciate things no matter what they are, so long as they are not genuinely bad.  But the people who like everything are called stupid, uncultured, or just plain ignorant.

All I'm saying folks, is give appreciation a chance.  So something isn't your thing.  It happens.  I hate zombies, Nicki Minaj, and Jersey Shore.  But these are all popular things.  I also gave them a chance before I decided that they just were not my thing.  Hell, I swallowed my tongue while trying to read Twilight, and I don't particularly walk around spouting my hatred of it.  But live and let live is a real thing and I believe in our hate-it-to-be-cool society, that is something that is forgotten all too often.

I hate this.  Mostly because it reminds me of something out of Japanese horror.

I personally am going to attempt to practice as I preach.  I am going to give up the hate, and I'm going to go see something I don't think I'll like.  No, it doesn't matter that I'm going to just stare at Chaning Tatum for two hours.  I'm still going to give it a shot.  Because it's easy to hate.  It's a hell of a lot harder to appreciate the good in things.

...Wow this blog post is kinda...preachy.  I swear, back to funny life stories next time.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

The Plague

Well I went all last week without a post, and that's mostly because I was stricken down in the prime of my life by The Plague (capitalized, as all my illnesses are).  I went to bed Friday with sugarplums and shirtless firemen dancing in my head (or whatever married women are supposed to dream about) and Saturday I woke up something else.  I was no longer a woman, I was a tissue beast with a voice like an autotuner stuffed with ether soaked cotton balls.  Husband couldn't have been more pleased.

I spent the next week switching between moaning in bed, and moaning on the couch while neglecting hygene, Husband, and cat alike and swearing that I was going to die.  Because I was pretty certain that I had THE PLAGUE AND I WAS GOING TO DIE. 

100% of the time is spent telling Husband how I'm going to DIE.

Now, don't get me wrong.  Healthy and well again, I am quite aware that I am slightly...unhinged when I am sick.  Husband, if he knew I was blogging about it, would probably say that I am unlivable and unsufferable when I am sick.  And I totally, totally am.  I go from a productive woman with books to read and games to play and blogs to write to a lump of misery that can only moan in a grating, glass grinding monotone about how horrible I feel. 

I really do feel bad about how I act when I'm sick, but it comes from having a husband who takes such good care of me when I'm on the brink of death.  Especially when he does things like he did this time, mostly because I suspect he blamed himself for bringing The Plague home with him from work.  He went and got me kleenex (with Kung Fu Panda on the box even) and orange juice.  He made me chicken noodle soup and brought it to me while I was oozing yellow stuff and touched me when the cat, smart creature that it is, wouldn't come within arm's distance of me.  I'm pretty sure she knew something I didn't.

This forest is representative of how many Kleenex I use when sick.  The EPA is why I had to move to Canada.

For some reason I imagine that she thinks that I was undergoing some kind of horrific, The Fly style transformation.  That one night my pink kitty pajamas would split open like a second skin and some freakish creature would emerge to eat her and Husband before leaving on two pairs of wings to mate with men and eat their heads indiscriminately until I was stopped by a sexy scientist and her cop boyfriend who would then celebrate by having sexy movie sex.

Yeah, I'd have been okay with this if it meant my nose wasn't runny any more.

Either way, I think I would have just been happy to not have been sick.  Dead, transformed into a bug monster, I was ready to accept any kind of Kafka-esque future as long as I wasn't dripping things from my nose any more.  I'm pretty certain that Husband would have probably been okay with it too after days of fever-induced dreams and Nyquil naps that lasted ten hours in a row.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Adventures in Self-Torture

So there I was, sweating, breathless, surrounded by men.  We're all breathing hard, the physical exertion enough to keep us glistening and tired.  I only wish going to the gym was as much fun as it sounds in my dirty, dirty mind.

I am a newbie to this whole gym thing.  I have the rhythm down, I know enough to not stare at the guys who have biceps bigger than my head, and to wipe down the machines when I'm done.  I also know enough to take my own water, and that turning up my music is not a sin when the constant clatter and whir of machinery threatens to send me into a paranoid insanity where I'm absolutely certain that they're all living death machines that survive off human pain and suffering.

This is what most people imagine before ACTUALLY going to the gym.  Complete with bustle.

But since the music takes care of that, I'm far more paranoid that someone is watching me at the gym.  Not because I am particularly good looking, but because I feel like I don't belong.  The gym is full of skinny women in spandex that wouldn't even make a tube top for me and men who can bench press my considerable weight without flinching.  Husband tries to reassure me that this is not the case, and conversations generally go in the direction of:

Me:  I hate that everyone looks at me.  I'm sure they're all thinking "How dare that fat girl try to come in here and take responsibility for her physical health!"

Husband:  I doubt they're thinking that at all.

Me:  But they have to be!  I don't belong!

Husband:  Dear, if they're staring, it's because you have pink hair, tattoos, and a five carat wedding ring on your hand.

...Touche, husband.  Touche.

This is fairly acurate.  I swear.

The truth of the matter is that people there are probably more concerned with their own physical fitness and their own training than they are in one pink-haired fat girl.  Nobody probably notices me, and if they do, chances are they only see camaraderie, or someone taking responsibility for their own life.  And if they're thinking something snide and mean, well, what does that particularly have to do with me?  Why the hell do I care about what one meat head thinks?

So I go to the gym and come home wheezing like a beached manatee, making the "Please, dear merciful God, if you exist, push me back out to see" whimpering noise.  It frightens the cat.  Husband has learned to just walk past my melodramatic display of agony and sea creature noises.  He'll have none of my nonsense.  Especially since he knows that in twenty minutes and a shower later, I'll be back to normal.

Today does stick out in my mind though.  Mostly because there was this woman at the gym who literally looked like she was skin and bones.  The kind of person who would benefit from an additional twenty pounds of weight or so.  But there she was, two treadmills away from me.  That wasn't the weird part though.  The weird part was that she had the treadmill at such a level that it was nearly 90 degrees into the air, and she was clinging to the display panel for dear life as she climbed it.

I began looking around, wondering if she maybe needed help, but nobody else seemed concerned.  So I broke my own gym etiquette rules, and I kept an eye on this woman with my peripheral vision.  Mostly because I was absolutely certain that she was going to miss one of her steps and go shooting off that thing like a cat on waxed counter top. 

This was not something I wanted to miss.

This is EXACTLY what I thought would happen.  If I were lucky.

My imagination ran with the news story that would obviously occur to cover a woman flying off a treadmill at speeds that propelled her through the row of elliptical machines and into the wall (oh the humanity), where I would be the only witness, and I could tell them all how concerned I was for her, so I kept an eye on her from the very beginning.  It's entirely possible that I got a little lost in these thoughts, because next thing I knew, she was gone.

I searched all around, and realized that she indeed had not flown off the treadmill, but had obviously finished her work out.  So I finished my own, slightly disappointed, and went down to the locker room to get my things to leave.  I should have never allowed myself to believe that I was going to be left disappointed.  Because there she was in the women's locker room, right as you walk in.  Butt naked.

I love it when things come full circle.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Canada Deprives Me of Debauchery

When I moved to Canada, I was aware that there were going to be some...changes.  I would have to learn to appreciate lumberjacks and moose.  I would have to start caring about hockey.  I would have to become...friendly.  I would live in a land of perpetual snow and ice, where I would chip out a single blade of withered grass from the permafrost when I wanted to do yardwork.  Basically, I thought moving to Canada would be close to my personal idea of Hell.  All that was missing was a job in retail.

For some reason, it wasn't like this at all.

What I didn't expect was that I was going to miss some things that I took for granted in the States.  Not the clashes over religion and birth control and that kind of bullshit.  I get all that medicine stuff for free up here.  It's actually kind of petty and stupid what I miss.  Okay, actually it's Husband who told me that it was stupid and petty what I miss, but what does he know?!  He's still got his supply of Tim Tam and he can't tell me he doesn't!

I love to cook, and this whole metric measuring system just screws with me.  I miss things being in ounces and cups and all that stuff.  I miss not having to convert every single recipe that I find online so that I know what to buy in the grocery store.  I find myself getting frustrated and just buying Hamburger Helper, because I know by sight what one pound of hamburger looks like.  None of this grams bullshit for me.  Hell no.

See?  It even uses an evil font!

What I really miss are the gut-destroying, diet-smashing, artery clogging messes that are available only in America, because let's face it, unless something is trying to get affordable birth control or fair treatment in a prison, we don't give a fuck how bad it is for us.  For those of you disagree, I put before you the Double Down from KFC, Hardees, Four Loko and Easy Cheez.  Because none of these things are available in Canada.  They're ILLEGAL HERE.

All of the good stuff that I hoped one day to be able to triumph over by holding my nose high and saying "I'm better than this, because I don't eat it anymore." is all gone.  I suppose I can still go to McDonalds and order five Big Macs if I really want to do something that bad for me, but it's not the same.  It's not the same as conquoring your personal addiction to Double Stuf Chocolate Creme Oreos because they're not available here!

I hate you Canada.  I hate your desire to make me skinny, and your warning labels on cigarettes that take up the whole package and would be really annoying if I smoked.  I hate your lack of Cherry Pepsi and your inability to provide me with hookers riddled with disease.  ...Okay, maybe not that last one.

But I still hate you for not having liquor inside grocery stores, forcing me to make a second stop and knowing that I'm not going to friggin' do that.  I'm too lazy to even kick the cat off me when she's biting my feet, what the hell makes you think I'm going to drive in my warm, gassed-up vehicle with it's comfortable bucket seats the additional twenty yards to the liquor store right next to the grocery store?!

I make a valid point here.

So shape up Canada, or I'm going to start going to some other country for my hedonistic needs.