Supermarket Sweep

I'd like to tell you a story.  A story about how I just about went to jail yesterday.

Husband and I went to an unnamed retailer (because getting sued seems like a bad way to finish this post) that rhymes with ball-mart, to pick up some household items and other odds and ends.  We walked up to a normal line, one or two people ahead of us, and put down one of those little separator bars so we could separate our orders from that of other people.

I was busily putting items onto the conveyor belt, and the woman in line in front of us, who had been so busy sucking the tongue out of her boyfriend's face to move so I could even get the separator bar, begins picking up our stuff and looking at it.

Let me repeat that.

This skinny blonde bitch begins SHOPPING OUR ITEMS.  ON THE CONVEYOR BELT.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Apparently, this is a new shopping aisle.  Let's call it the "Whatever other people have already picked up to buy because who gives a shit" aisle.

Anyone who knows how supremely fussy I can be can imagine what happened next.  Of course, I snapped like a professional wrestler's femur. 

I got Husband's attention, loudly so she could hear (frankly, so everyone in line could hear), and he tried telling me it was no big deal.  He then immediately realized his mistake when he saw the fires of war burning in my eyes.  Something had to be done, or one of us was going to the hospital and the other one was going to go to jail, and he knew the other guy wasn't going to need bail money.

It was about this time that this waifish little thing who I could have broken over my knee like a twig realized that Mike was physically restraining me.  Was there any sheepish apology?  Nope.  She just flounced off, leaving her poor, uncomfortable boyfriend to pay for her items.

Who the hell does that?  Who shops someone else's items when they're already on the conveyor belt without a word?  Who has the audacity, the utter gall to think they are above the simplest etiquette, or hell, the lack of intelligence?  Because that's 99% common sense.  Even four year olds know not to touch other people's items.

Note that nowhere does it say that strangers should be touching your shit.  Ever.



I was fuming as Husband ushered me out of the store.  Is this a thing now?  Can I feel free to shop other people's stuff?

What really kills me is all of this could have been avoided if she had simply come to me and said, "Hey, I've never seen that (product in question) before.  Can I look at it?"

And guess what?  I'd have said yes.  I'd have even told her how I liked it.  But then I wouldn't have a blog post.

Tutoring, And Why I Don't Blog

Well, let's answer that second part.  I don't blog because....

...I'm lazy.

There, we've got it out in the open.

Anyway, I've been tutoring since February, and frankly, some of the funniest shit ever has come out of these kids mouths.  But today, today I think I won it.

9 year old boy:  I don't play with toys any more.  (he had this really self satisfied air about him when he said this, and because I still play with my toys and I'm 30ish, I found I needed to do something about this)

Me:  Don't you have a Playstation?

9 year old boy:  Yeah.  But that's not a toy.

Me:  Can't you buy those at Toys R Us?

9 year old boy:  Ye- *stops right there, giving me a death glare*

I know that I felt erudite and urbane.  I also know that he gave me a look like he felt like I was being a bitch. 

So we all win!

Okay, there might have been a faux surprised, wide eyed, hand in front of open mouth mocking look in there when I showed him how I am much smarter than him, so the being a bitch opinion might not have been too far off.

I had to explain to him that he's NINE.  Not having toys at the age of nine doesn't make you grown up.  It makes you deprived.  I would lose my shit if someone too my My Little Ponies away, or my stuffed Cactaur, or the stuffed Captain America I quietly promise the rest of my life to when Husband is not within earshot.

So yeah, I'm teaching kids to hate their private tutors one child at a time.  I think there's a PSA in there somewhere.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.