We can rebuild it, we have the technology

3 10 2009

So . . . this is probably the most unexpected, awesome thing.  Dr. Frankenstein has arrived to fix my household appliances.

My friends Heather and Casey came to town to visit (yay!).  Upon arriving, I informed Casey how upset I was that my very expensive, overly loved primo bar blender I got for Christmas 2 years ago has been dead, died, kaput.  For a while now.  Casey, being the guy that he is, asks if he can tinker with it.  Sure, I say.  Go nuts.

He informs me, after a brief inspection, that my blender has blown some fuse inside.  He holds it up victoriously and I say disbelievingly, “That was the problem??”

So after dinner, Casey takes a trip out to Walmart to see if they have a fuse.  He also picks up new vacuum cleaner belts that he happens to find there because I had been bitching how I couldn’t find any yesterday at Target.  He officially rocks.

Upon his return  the following happens.
Casey: Okay.  They didn’t have the fuse but . . . they had a $5 surge protector.  And some soldering material.  And a lighter that might do the job.  So, uh, I can try this and if I totally blow it up I swear I’ll buy you a new one. But it’s not currently working anyway, right?
Me: What are you asking me exactly?
C: Well, if this works, and it’s gonna work, you can use your blender.  It might glow a really neat light when you use it. Are you okay with that?
Me: What??

After 10 minutes, of asking if it’s going to blow me up or catch my kitchen on fire if I try to use it once they leave, accusing him of being a fly-by-night weirdo who makes explosive devices in the kitchens of friends, I agree to let him do it.  Heather assures me that after 2 years of living with him, she’s not been killed.

And he does the following (I had to quote him because I couldn’t possibly summarize this):  “I sharded a surge protector, cut out the fuse, soldered it in where the blender fuse used to be, heat-shrinked it, and turned it on.  And if the fuse blows out again, just open it up and flip the switch.”

Lo and behold, I have a blender again.  I admit to being a little terrified of using it, but I’m gonna have the fire extinguisher handy.  And it doesn’t glow, but I’m kind of okay with that.  That might have made me even more nervous.

If he didn’t have such a good job already, I would tell him he has a prolific, if scary and weird, new career.





Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus: a real-time review

14 09 2009

mega shark

I’ve been wanting to see this movie for a while, and it popped up on my Instant Netflix today!  And I was so recently charmed by another real-time review of Lost Boys, that I figured I would do one for this movie.  It has such a brilliant, cheeztastic premise; how could I resist?

We begin with an aerial shot over some snow-topped mountains. This is how you know you’ll be watching a movie about nature.  The music is creepy, and kind of sounds like something from a Harry Potter intro or a Tim Burton movie.  I’m not really understanding that choice, but okay.

00:32  Electric Youth is in the house!  I refuse to refer to Ms. Gibson as “Deborah.”  I don’t care how much she whines, I ain’t doing it.

01:10  The view keeps switching between deep ocean and mountain scenes.  All of nature will be addressed here.  I’m just waiting for a shot of a lion on the veldt and narration by Sigourney Weaver now.

01:21  Nothing has even happened yet, and I’m already cracking up because the visual effects are by Tiny Juggernaut.

02:18  A helicopter and a caption that says something about sonar testing. I’m pretty sure the pilot is wearing pink lipgloss.  It’s pretty shiny and very fetching for a man in a helmet. Read the rest of this entry »





It’s just so stupid

14 09 2009

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.





My reality can be skewed

23 08 2009

Since we returned to Austin from our Louisiana trip, the lack of humidity here has just been killing us. Really, we had a few blissful days of sticky air and no cedar pollen back home, but as soon as we crossed the state line into Texas, the dryness just started to kill us.

So I’ve been fighting an impending sinus infection for the last few days. Last night I was feeling all feverish and blah-y and just, UGH. I was up until 4 in the morning and decided to lie down in the guest bed since C’s alarms were set for 4:30 (seriously).

Now, this is what I remember from this morning as C came in to tell me goodbye before she left for work.

C: Hi babe, did you sleep okay?
Me: No.
C: Are you feeling all right?
Me: No, I went to bed all crappy feeling and I thought I had a fever. I still feel kind of hot, actually. All my joints are achy, isn’t that weird? I don’t think I have the flu, though. Which is good. Who gets the flu in August?
C: (turns around and exits the room while I’m still talking)
Me: Bitch! I’m talking to you!!

So C gets home from work and this is what she says really happened:

C: Hi babe, did you sleep okay?
Me: Ungh.
C: Are you feeling all right?
Me: I’M SO HOT!!! (followed by a rolling over and burying my face in a pillow, signaling the end of the conversation).

Okay, that’s not at all how I remember it. I recall being very lucid and eloquent about the exact nature of my discomfort and even offering various theories on why I could be feeling so badly. But . . . that does seem optimistic, doesn’t it? I’m going with C on this one.





The truth

31 07 2009

Long after I had suspected that the Tooth Fairy might be a load of crap, I made a different discovery.

Let me back up. Like most little girls, I was fascinated with the things on top of my mother’s dresser. Little glass boxes filled with random, mismatched jewelry; a basket full of makeup; fluffy brushes; a little plastic McDonald’s coffee stirrer she used for mixing two shades of liquid foundation (this was the 80s when everyone was inexplicably pink-tinged and never looked right); pictures. I don’t think my mom wore perfume, but if I catch a whiff of the right moisturizer or Shaklee makeup I’m sent right back to my childhood.

But one day, I found another glass box. It was tucked away, a little further back on the dresser that was so much taller than me. And in it, were a bunch of baby teeth. Some of which had remnants of dried blood.

Now, I understand that some mothers keep that kind of stuff. But I had no clue at the time! What theory was I supposed to come up with upon finding her freaky tooth collection, what might a child in South Louisiana think of all this?

VOODOO.

Yes, I was convinced my sweet, church choir-singing mother was going to try to put a hex on me. No lie. I put the box back very carefully and kept my eye on her. I got suspicious when we had chicken, wanting to see if she kept the bones. When she put me to bed, I pretended to go to sleep and then snuck out to spy on her as she sat in the living room. I spent a lot of time crouched in the foyer, peering around the corner. I never caught her, but I did get to see some late night TV.

I’m sure I must have eventually asked my mother, like a week or two later. I remember her laughing really hard at me (though, to be fair, that happened a lot). And I’m certain she assured me that she had no creepy use for my teeth other than a warped sense of sentimentality.

But still . . .





Aiding desperation

26 07 2009

Even though I’ve lived in Texas for just over 2 years now, I have yet to change my cell phone number.  Not that this is the point, I’m just saying.

This afternoon, I received a text message:

“this ace? *l&k, denise*”

I don’t actually know what that means, but I ignored it.

10 minutes later, my phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Female caller: Hellooo.
Me: Um, hello?
FC: Hi, who is this?
Me: (I really hate when people call ME and then instead of identifying themselves, ask who I am). Who are you looking for?
FC: Well, this is the deal. I accidentally gave this guy your number instead of mine.
Me: Uh huh.
FC: Has anyone called you?
Me: No. Bye!
FC: WAIT!!
Me: What.
FC: If a guy calls you asking for Brooke, could you give him this number and ask him to call me?
Me: Are you kidding me?
FC: Just give him this number. You’re sure a guy hasn’t called you?
Me: (laughing before I hang up)

Oh please, now I’m a dating/answering service? No way. No way in hell, lady.

UPDATE: It’s 12:33 a.m. C just got home and I was relating this tale to her. Suddenly, my phone rings! C says, “I bet it’s the guy!”
I answer, lo and behold a guy asks if Brooke is there. “Wrong number!! CLICK.”

C says if he calls again I should answer “Brookview Convent, may I help you? Oh, I’m sorry, she’s taking her vows right now, not only of chastity but also silence. You should have called earlier today. Go with God!”

FUTHER UPDATE, Monday: The same girl starts calling my phone today. Like 10 times, seriously. I don’t answer. Finally, she texts me.

“Hi i talked to you yesterday about a number callin u…has anyone called you yet???”

I respond, because I am sick and tired of this shit: “You have got to be kidding me. I’m not your answering service. Stop contacting me.”

Which prompts this from her: “Umm there really is no need to get rude…i was just asking u a simple question & yesterday you could hv told me u didnt want to…obviously u having some damn problems today…but no problem dude. — ima be aiight.”

Can you even believe this? Is this actually my life? YOU IMPERTINENT LITTLE TWIT SHIT. Really now, I am shocked at the behavior of some people.  Soon after that, she started calling me again so I wisely blocked the number. People are WEIRD, man. But I’m absolutely thrilled to know she’ll be “aiight.” Tiny little idiot.





Late night offers

24 07 2009

It’s no secret that I stay up VERY late at night. Sometimes I don’t go to bed until after the sun comes up. I try to reverse this and sleep along with the normal people. Sometimes it works for a while. But, left to my own devices, I snap right back to being a night owl.

That’s not the point. The point is that last night (this morning) I went to bed at 4 am, which is early for me! I had been lying there for a bit, about to fall asleep, when I had a sneezing fit. Of course, C wakes up a little bit.

Me: (sneezing uncontrollably)
C: (groggily) Blarg. Y’ok?
Me: Yeah, I’b fide.
C: Really?
Me: Yup, just sneezing.
C: Ok. Do you want a towel?
Me: Um, no. I’m going to get a tissue, though. I don’t think I need a whole towel.
C: (suspiciously). O-kay.

At that point she quite literally falls back into her pillows and begins snoring.

So I asked her about it this morning (she’s making me us breakfast right now!).

C: Oh yeah! I remember that.
Me: Why would I need a towel though?
C: Because when you sneeze, you get really snotty and gross.
Me: Wow, thanks.
C: Just looking out for you.

I don’t know whether to be flattered at her attention to detail (though she’s exaggerating) and concern or be kind of insulted.