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.