C.L. Bevill's Blog, page 23

Pain in the Ass Man Rides Again!

I know.  Short title.  Where's the sarcastic OR?  Where's the pithy add-ons?  What's wrong with Fat Woman?

I will tell you.

Reference the recent blog, "S**T People Ought to Know OR Oops, She's Sharing Again and Not in a Good Way."

With the systematic invasion of the 'rent in law, came the titillating return of Pain in the Ass Man.  For those of you who are new to this blog, I will explain that Pain in the Ass Man is HIM.  HIM is the man to whom I've been married for 28 years.  HIM is also the unfortunate target of many a humorous blog.  HIM's alter ego is Pain the Ass Man.  Pain in the Ass Man is a local superhero with many powers.  Not the least of these super powers is the ability to piss me off in three words or less.  (Sometimes it doesn't even take actual words.)  (As an example here is a recent answer to a question from me: "I don't know."  Voila.  My brain short circuited in three words or less.  It helps to have the stupid expression shown with the words slurred together as HIM could not possibly be bothered to answer legibly or intelligibly.)

Ta-dah!  Pain in the Ass Man RIDES AGAIN!

Fat Woman usually responds to the "look" thusly.


Back story all told, Pain in the Ass was mysteriously renewed when there was a sudden onslaught of the in law.  The in law may also be viewed as Pain in the Ass Man's infrequent sidekick, Grouchy Old Man Boy.  Grouchy Old Man Boy also has super powers such as the ability to ignore anything out of Fat Woman's mouth or the equally mysterious power of If-I-Don't-Look-At-You-Then-I-Don't-Have-To-Respond-To-You.  (My personal favorite is the I-Refuse-To-Stay-In-The Same-Room-As-You ability that enables Grouchy Old Man Boy to dematerialize from any area which Fat Woman is present and transmogrify into any area in which Fat Woman is absent.)

(Some of you may be wondering how I managed to get this blog past my husbandly censor.  Well, let's just say HIM may not have been consulted in the writing of this blog.)

During the recent super hero reunion of the crabby ones, HIM strangely relocated all of his bathroom gear into my bathroom.  This is otherwise known as Fat Woman's fortress of solitude.  (Not that calling it that stops our daughter from banging on the door at inopportune times.)


I don't know why HIM had to move his stuff to my bathroom.  Possibly it's the OCD-ity-ness in HIM that cannot allow him to share his bathroom with a visitor.  But HIM had to invade my personal space with his manly he-items strewn all over my counter.  (I remember when we were looking at houses to buy and I thought having a bathroom with each bedroom was excessive.  Hahaha.  Not anymore.  There are three of us in this house and believe me, I think we should each have our own personal teetee room and a fourth one for visitors.  I don't care if I have to clean four bathrooms.  It would be worth it.  Totally.)

Still with me?  I'll summarize in case I wandered too far.  The in law came.  Pain in the Ass Man returned.  Pain in the Ass Man violated my inner sanctum.  (Okay, I know what you're thinking and you've got a very dirty mind.)  Fat Woman became cranky.  Combine that with a special feminine time of the month and you've got the recipe for total nuclear Armageddon.  HIM should have presented me with a one-way ticket to the tropical island of my choice and a box of chocolates.

Instead he started up with the stupid roll of toilet paper.  (Bet you didn't think you could get divorced over toilet paper.)  (Somewhere, someone got divorced over a roll of toilet paper.  I'm going to google it and see.)


I believe I've already mentioned HIM's preference for having the paper go over the top of the roll whilst hanging on the holder.  Well, once HIM invaded my bathroom, HIM simply took the roll off the holder in a blatant attempt to avoid the over or under theorem.  Why?  It's a small bathroom and HIM says, "I can't reach the holder when it's right there 2 inches away from my elbow."  (Craftily, HIM avoided the over or under bomb by utilizing the whole removal of the TP method.)

Okay, nothing to explode about, right?  But then HIM takes the toilet paper when HIM's done and puts it on the back of the toilet's tank lid instead of back on the holder.  The next person in the bathroom may or may not see the toilet paper out of reach and sets about her bathroomly business before realizing there is NO LONGER a roll of toilet paper on the holder.  The toilet paper is NO LONGER within reach of anyone except a card carrying member of Cirque du Soleil.  (The contortionist who literally CAN kiss their own tushies.)


HIM's response to my dilemma of not being able to bend backwards at a 90 degree angle: "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down."

That was the point of self immolation.  "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down."  That statement.  That very statement of doom.  Now I'm the first to admit that statement was way more than three words, but it had the same impact.  You see, according to HIM, it was my own fault I couldn't reach the TP because I hadn't...looked...first.

"I had the TP on the holder," I said.

"I can't reach it there," HIM whined.

"I know a place where you can reach it," I replied, thinking of a very specific locale upon HIM's anatomy.

Realizing that HIM was damned, HIM fled, screaming over his shoulder, "I'll NEVER touch your TP again!"  (Not really, but it really flows well in my imagination.)

Moral of the story: Don't mess with a woman's toilet paper.

Iz Takez Another Tripz to Target OR How Your Brain Melts in the Toy Section OR How I Haven't Yet Squeezed All the Milk Out of This Particular Carton

Yes, there was another trip to Target.  Accompanied by my only child I quickly found myself in a wretched predicament.  There was no escape.  I could see the haunted expressions on the faces of the other parents similarly trapped.  They looked at me as if I could help them escape but it was too late for all of us.

We were in...the TOY ZONE.  (Cue Rod Serling here.)

One would think that I'd pretty much siphoned the cow dry on the toy humor but I've got pictures and lots of commentary to prove that, in fact, I have not.

Oh, where to start?  I'm obliged to comment.  I can't not comment.  I'm pretty sure not commenting is a crime in twenty states.  Also it gives me itchy feelings down under and I'm not talking about Australia.

Evidence piece number 1:


We were in the Lego aisle.  Lego's loomed at me from all sides.  There were Toy Story Lego's, Star Wars Lego's, Atlantis Lego's, Lego's that I didn't give a poop about, and then there was the Alien Invasion Lego's.  I cannot help but wonder what wondrous brain came up with this one?  Was this sterling example of toy inventiveness perhaps also the owner of an aluminum foil hat?  Wait, there's more because even Target noted something about this set that I did not.


Yes, right there next to the 29.99 it says Lego ABDUCTION set.  It's on the little label attached to the metal shelf.  You see, even Target knew something was amiss and labeled it accordingly.  (And by God, it says UFO Abduction on the front of the box.  See the first photo.)  See those pictures on the box.  It shows a little Lego figure being abducted by the alien ship.  Just like that.  So much for aluminum foil hats, suckers.  (HIM commented that this set needs duct tape and clothes line for authenticity but what I really want to see is the little tool the Lego's people came up with for the aliens to use for probing.)

But wait, there's more toy-ity madness.


This peach was on sale!  For only $5.98 you can purchase Sweet Talkin' Ken for your little princess.  This fun guy will teach your daughter that not only does she need a boyfriend (It says it on his little t-shirt) but she should hold out for one who is a SUPER BOYFRIEND and he talks back to you in his own dulcet-toned voice.  So you can say, "I luv you," and Sweet Talkin' Ken will murmur that sweetness back to you in his voice.  (Other lines I suspect Sweet Talkin' Ken of saying: "You don't really need all those clothes, baby," and "If you loved me you would.")  And look, right behind his head, it says he's the "Ultimate Boyfriend."  Take note, boys, you've got a hard act to follow with Sweet Talkin' Ken plowing the street.

But I'm far from done.


This baby is from the truly creepy line of babies who talk to you.  I want to point out on the package on the lower left it says, "I really eat my doll food," and ickily, "I really 'pee' and 'poop'!"  OMFG, the doll comes with packages of "food" that the proud owner feeds to it's Chuckiness (that's a demonically possessed doll missile aimed at the toy industry) and there's a photo on the back showing the baby-puke-green colored crap that comes out of its odd, teensy, butter bean, plastic butt.  Isn't this just the funnest doll ever?  (I remember having a doll that one fed water to and she peed out the same water about a minute later, but how do you clean the insides of this craptacular piece of child merchandising?)




I had to take a picture of this one because it's from The Empire Strikes Back.  (Kudos to George Lucas for still raking in merchandising monies thirty-odd years later.)  Han rescues Luke in the freezing cold and has to slice open his tauntaun in order to keep Luke warm until Han can put up the shelter.  (Can you believe I didn't have to google any of that?)  Well, this version doesn't have any tauntaun slicing options.  I mean, really.  Pooping babies emitting green crap = okay.  Light-sabered, gushing intestines of made-up creatures = not okay.  Really?


I'm not sure how we ended in this aisle but I couldn't help notice this WWE wrestling guy.  (Not for that reason, you pervs.)  It's the doll's expression.  I mean, he looks like he's about to do what the Baby Alive above was doing with the icktacular green food except in a more solid state.  I don't watch wrestling but did the doll makers check with this guy (this man with very large muscles and a nasty disposition?) before settling on the expression on this doll's face?  Seriously, he looks like he wishes he had the stuff the Baby Alive doll was getting so the steroids would stop constipating him.  Just saying I'm glad I don't make dolls for the WWE.


As this picture clearly illustrates, we wandered though ALL of the toy aisles.  I didn't go willingly.  So when Cressy was about three years old she would watch Thomas the Train as it drove about the island and did strange train things and made bizarre train faces.  Therefore, I cannot fathom how a talking, creepy-ass train gets on a pirate ship.  Well, I suppose it's weird that the train talks to begin with, but let's just take it to the next level.  Thomas the Pirate Train pillages the Spanish Main.  The toy maker's response: "Hey, it works for three-year-olds AND we can sell more toys."  I can't help but notice that Thomas the Train needs a big, freaking life vest 'cause when the pirate ship is sunk by Her Majesty's Navy, he's going to the bottom like a freaky-faced, train shaped rock.


I took a picture of this because this weapon of minimal destruction is the one I want to use on the squirrels who raid my apple trees in the spring.  I want to open my bedroom window a crack and fire with this automatic foam dart gun.  It's got automatic pump action and 12, count 'em, 12 foam darts to shoot.   "SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND, YOU RAT-EFFING SQUIRREL BASTARDS!" I might yell in a particularly antagonistic moment.  (Hey, I wanted to make apple pie and I got one stinking apple last summer because of those flea ridden, acorn hiding nut heads.)  (Note to HIM: Christmas present for me.  Buy extra ammo.)


And here's the extra ammo.  That's what I'm talking about.  I'll foam dart their little bushy tails all the way to the fence.  (That needs to go in a Bubba book.)


This Ken doll had a little lipstick stain on the photo on the box.  I thought it was not in good taste.  And is it me, or does Ken look a little happy to be in the box?  Shouldn't he be, like, Barbie's very cheerful friend, Ken?  Or maybe *Ken*?  Look at him.  He's wearing a pink tie and ready to do a Latin dance step or possibly a Marlo Thomas imitation.  Hey, I don't care if he's really *Ken* but let Mattel be honest about it.  *Ken* should just come out of the plastic closet already.  Mattel, you're not fooling anyone with the little lipstick stain on *Ken*'s cheek.  After all, anyone can put lipstick on.


HOLY SHADES OF YAKUZA, BATMAN!  Naked Barbie boobies!  (Kids, look away from the anatomically incorrect boobie lumps.)  Finally, here's a Barbie I didn't see at Target.  I read about it and HAD to include it in this blog.  Apparently, this special edition Barbie is somewhat provocative because of her extensive body art.  She's called the Tokidoki Barbie and initially sold for $50.  Fortunately for me she's all sold out and is going for about $400 on eBay.  Here she is with her clothes on.  Pink hair and all and funky little dog/thing.  (Is it a cactus costume?  I do not know.)


Enuf said about toys.  After all, it's the season and if you've got children, well, you're just hosed.  Like me.

Okay, one last thing.  There was a comment from the Peanut Gallery about how I should have covered the fake little, non-sillicone having, plastic tatas up.  So here that is.  I don't think it's better, but WTF?  However, it is funnier.

Veteran's Day OR Look, I Was in the Army Once Or See How I Resemble a Deer Caught in the Headlights of a Rapidly Approaching Car!

Thanks to our veterans.

S**T People Ought to Know OR Oops, She's Sharing Again and Not in a Good Way

Events happening in my life.  1) I'm trying to polish up Bubba and the Missing Woman, 2) I'm experiencing a visit from an in-law, and 3) the magicalness of a visit from the physiological fairy of femaleness has descended upon my entire body.  (If you cannot figure out #3, talk to your mother, sister, girlfriend, wife about it.  She'll explain it.)


Warning: Men may be appalled by this blog.  But if you happen to be a man reading this far and if you want valuable, need-to-know information and a strong constitution, then read on.  However, be prepared to have too much information imparted from a female perspective.

My daughter, Cressy, was watching a show about super novas on the science channel and it turned out the knowledge from the show was extensively valuable and insightful in understanding the feminine mystique.

Okay, stick with me.  I'm about to meander down a shaky train of thought.  (Seriously, this is the metro that goes through the twisty turns and under the river without rhyme or reason.  Often it will stop for no reason and then something bad happens.)

Isn't this a funky train?  Pay special attention to the red eyes of the
train engineer.  It's a clue...
HIM, the man to whom I'm married, went with me to Walmart yesterday and slug-a-bugged me for a yellow VW Beetle.  I immediately retaliated by kicking him in the ankle.

HIM said, "Why'd you do that?"  (The kick wasn't that hard so he wasn't really harmed or alarmed.  Initially.)

I replied, "I warned you my period started."  (Most women are saying, "Oh, of course.  I understand completely now.  May I suggest the completely justified use of a bazooka on HIM?")

"So?" HIM said.

"Do you remember the show Cressy watched about how a star shrinks and shrinks, compressing all that mass into an insignificant portion of its former self and then blows right the eff up?"


"Yes," he said warily, sensing a trap.  He'd watched it, too.  (Cressy had really gotten into that particular show.  Little does she know how it will impact her later in life, specifically around the ages of 12-50.)

"Imagine my uterus doing exactly the same thing.  Universe = uterus.  Uterus = universe.  Same exact thing."  (I imagine I just lost about five men here who clicked the red x when they read the word, uterus.)


The horror in HIM's eyes was nearly palpable.

There.  A perfect metaphor for that inexplicable time when women go through 3-5 days of discomfort, hormonal surges, and other yuckiness that doesn't need to be explained.

I warned HIM and he slug-a-bugged me anyway.  He had to pay the piper.

Universe = uterus.  Remember, men.  This is a basic truth.

The Return of the Dentist FROM HELL OR There She Goes Again OR Now That She's Done With Bubba She Will Write Blog Silliness Again!

Fat Woman in the magical forest.  Notice the sparkling
trees, hence the magicality.  (Yes, I made up a word.)Once upon a time there was another visit to the...da-da-dah...dentist.  Fat Woman was frolicking along in a magical forest minding her own business when suddenly I was captured by an evil dentist and his henchwoman hygienist.  They dragged me off to their black fortress lair, also known as the dentist's office and they called it an 'appointment.'  There, I was chained to a chair and forced to have my teeth cleaned and also have x-rays.  It was wretched torture of the most malignant type.  (I may be exaggerating here.)

I imagine the evil dentist as a giant tooth.  Look how
white he is.  (This is kind of like having a mascot
that is what you're selling.  I.e., a chicken selling
chicken products.  But it's my blog and my illustrations
and my brain.)The dentist said, "You have two cavities.  They must be filled.  You will come in next week for the ritualized maiming and torturing of your mouth for this cataclysmic event."  (No, he didn't really say that, but it was implied.  You know, people often say things to me that are implied.  It's implied that it's implied.  If you understand that, you're a very special person.)

So two weeks later I was frolicking in the magical forest again, minding my own business when suddenly the demonic dental imps snatched me again, forcing me to return for the dreaded 'follow-up.'

I should have put sparkles on the giant monster tooth's teeth.
Just saying.There I was in the chair.  I got Junior this time.  (He, who is a dentist and DOES NOT, thankfully, have fingers the size of elephant's legs, unlike his father.)  I mentioned something about his father, Senior, and here was the comment I got in response, "Dad's the best dentist I know."  (Sure hope they didn't read the other blog I wrote about dentists because I beg to differ.  No, I don't beg but I damn sure differ.)  Then he said, "My technique is different from his."  (I didn't know how to take that but since I was already in the chair and my mouth was open, I went with it.)  (You're trapped there, you know.  Once you're in the dental chair, and your mouth is open, and those tools are an inch away from your flesh and blood, what are you really going to do?  Leap up and say, "You know, I've changed my mind about the whole dental is good thing.  Let's just stay friends."?  I don't think so.)


Oh, yes, Junior's technique was different.  He whipped out the big needle without numbing my mouth first and plunged it into my quivering flesh.  (I mean the inside of my mouth.)  I think I swallowed my tongue for a few minutes and I'm sure I heard it scraping against bone.


Junior dug around for a few hours with the needle.  (It might have been thirty seconds.)  He pulled back, got another needle, which looked bigger than the first one and hummed while he waited for the first batch to start numbing me up.  Not sure what he was humming but it had a rhythm and you could dance to it.  (I was concentrating on the pain in my jaw.)

Back to the needle in my mouth.  The second time was all pressure and my ass was levitating into the air.  (The next time I get a cavity, I'm just going to take a muscle relaxer before I go.  It'll probably be easier on everyone involved.  If you come home from the dentist and your entire body hurts from tensing up, then pharmaceutical assistance wouldn't be amiss.)

Junior disappeared for a bit and everything on the left side of my face slowly went numb.  This time my ear didn't go numb, but I don't think I could feel my nose.  By the time Junior came back I was drooling down the side of my face.  (I wouldn't have known except that the stream of saliva made it to the flesh that could still feel.)

Junior didn't use the clamp to hold my mouth open which was a positive for him.  But on the negative side he kept telling me to open my mouth up more.  (Like the last time, we could have played a drinking game for the three thousand times he did say it.)  Do I really need to repeat that this fat woman's mouth only opens so damned far and not one skin-ripping, jaw-popping, screaming inch further?  (Well, I don't think I do but I did it anyway.)

Then came the drill.  Oh that magical drill of supreme happiness that whirls into my heart.  Not.


It was the drill of death.  Apparently my narrow arch (I'll remind everyone that the dentist tells me I have the narrowest arch he's ever seen, which equates to a small mouth and not a lot of room to work in) prevented Junior from using the BIG drill.  (I'd like to point out that the one he did use looked BIG enough for me.)  (There's a joke here about size matters but I won't go there.)

And for some reason Junior didn't have a handy assistant with which to suck out my accumulating spit.  So occasionally he had to stop and vaccu-suck my mouth.  I would have signaled but I was busy trying not to drown.


Cue the burning dog hair smell.  This is always such a fun part of the visit.  I could see (I could!) smoke coming out of my mouth and it wasn't the good kind of smoke like when you just took a hit off a doobie.  (Not that I've done that for twenty-five years.  I swear.)  Seeing smoke come out of your mouth is rather alarming when you haven't done anything that would normally accompany such an event.  Plus it goes right past your nose and you can't help smelling it and it does not smell good.


I was too busy trying not to swallow that I got this foul taste in my mouth from burning tooth debris that I very nearly yakked in the dental chair.  Now while it's true I don't like the dentist, (It's true.) I've never actually had to keep myself before from barfing on an office visit.

I had to stop Junior so I could make my gag reflex stand down.

Fortunately he was at the filling part and put the drill away.  I'm not sure if he was impressed that I didn't puke on him.  (It probably would have made an impression if I had.)

Anyway, it's a full week later and my jaw where I got the first shot still hurts.  Also I haven't paid the bill yet, so isn't life full of funness and joy everlasting?

Back to the magical forest to play with unicorns, or maybe man-eating dragons, or something less dramatic than dentists.

I HAVE FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT OF BUBBA AND THE MISSING WOMAN OR I HAVE FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT OF BUBBA AND THE MISSING WOMAN! OR YEE HAW!

Well, the title pretty much says everything.

Except remember, I need to proof it.  HIM needs to proof it.  Several friends need to proof it.  My professional proofreader needs to proof it!  But it's all GRAVY!  Life is good.  If you hear sirens around my house it's because I am out dancing in the street yelling bizarre things in celebration!
Okay, it's a short blog.  But I'm SO HAPPY!  Rainbows are, in fact, shooting out of my butt!

Happy Halloween OR I May Snark About Halloween OR My Favorite Holiday-Long May it Reign?

So it dawned on me that I didn't do a special Halloween edition.  Here ya go, something to scare you:
Yes, I know she's deceased.  Despite the fact that
one has to admire the woman for putting up
with the whole Jim Bakker/Jessica Hahn thing
and carrying on like a good little evangelistic trooper,
that make-up will live in infamy.
INFAMY!
Also it is scary.Okay, I've had my little joke.  Wait, one more:

Look Cameron Diaz without makeup.  Girls
can't win, can they?All right.  Back to Halloween. 

I'm doing a celebrity theme here.  Since I was just
talking about Justin Bieber dolls, I thought it
was way cool that there's a Justin Bieber zombie.
See the worm coming out of his eye?
Genius.Anyhoo.  Halloween.  Any holiday that requires folks to pass out free candy to people who ring the bell is good.  (Things I hate: You, the person who leaves their porch light on during Halloween evening and deliberately does not answer the bell.  Turn your frickin' light off you anti-Halloween scrooge.  Kids think you're serious.  And buy more candy next year, loser.)

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Halloween.

I never owned a cat that would have allowed me
to do this to them.  I would have bloody stumps
and I would have spent Halloween in the
emergency rooms with all of the drunks dressed
as ghosts.Back to Halloween.  Here is what I'd like to do to a pumpkin because it's kew-ell.  Also it's scary.  And how in hell did they do the tongue?

How long did it take to carve the little pumpkin?
And what is the tongue because it looks like
an orange sock or something.And how could I discuss Halloween without a nod to John Carpenter?

[image error] Pretty sure this isn't Jamie Leigh Curtis,
but I liked the photo.I remember seeing Halloween way back then and we were all looking over our shoulders for Michael Myers.  (Oh, just Google it for those of you born after 1975.)

[image error]
Oh, NO!  I'm on a weird tangent.  Could be ugly.  Wait, I'll take care of it, right now.

[image error] She had to put tape on top.  Duct tape and a lot of it, too.
I'm having a problem imagining the woman who says, "I'll
just make my boobies Garfield's eyeballs."  I mean,
seriously.  Either she's got a fabulous sense of
humor or her boyfriend giggled for three days straight.Someone likes cats.  I can tell.  What kind of costume party was that?  Bet you forgot about Michael Myers.  He's baaaaaccccckkkkk.  (Wait, that's Jack Nicholson.  My bad.)

Okay, this was lame.If I mention Michael Myers then I've got to wander over to Elm Street, am I right?

[image error]
Oh, Freddy, you're so droll.  Can I milk this one anymore?  Let me think about it.

Why am I picking on the Steelers?  I do not know.  If this really
ticks you off, just imagine I wrote in there, Cowboys or Buccaneers or
something equally abhorrent to you.Anyway, Happy Halloween.  May you get Snickers and Kit-Kats instead of gumballs and pencils in your little buckets.

Talking Smack About Barbie Dolls OR Wasting Time at Target Or How About Some Halloween Weirdness

I'm just going to admit it for those Barbie-o-philes out there who can't stand the criticism.  I'm going to say some bad things about Barbie.  Probably Mattel, too.  Oh, the hell with it.  I hate freakin' Barbie.  She's a skinny, big-bosomed silly invention of a demented housewife from the fifties and watching my daughter play with them is akin to fingernails scratching down a very large chalkboard.
You can't say that this isn't freaky looking.
Seriously.  She's got poodle hair on top.
There's no one out there who can say they're not
freaked out by poodle hair on top.
And sheesh, look at her flat top head.  Her parents
must have rested her on her head while she
was growing up.But I let Cressy go to town.  Why?  I think she already knows that her waist will never be 12 inches around, except maybe when she was six months old.  She also knows that Ken and Barbie get divorced after ten years because Barbie caught him in bed with Bruce the massage therapist.  (Bet you didn't know they made that doll.)  And she knows that Barbie can't possibly be all the things those boxes say she is.  (Cressy: "Look Mommy, she's an artist, a veterinarian, a baby caregiver, and a chef.  Isn't she cool?"  Me, subdued undertone: "I'm an artist, a writer, and I've got two college degrees.  Plus I can juggle."  Hey, I'm all over this competition.)

Allow me to reveal what brought this Barbie-hate-a-thon about.  Yesterday I went shopping again.  Dragged to Target (see Walmart can relax for a change) I got what I needed and then Cressy announced her intention to peruse the toy aisles.  We headed for her favorite aisle, which is presently the Barbie Doll aisle.  While she was oohing and ahhing over Barbie in all her various incarnations, I was stuck holding the hand basket, which was getting heavier by the minute.

With nothing better to do, I looked at Barbies, too.  So here's what I saw:
This is Barbie the Baby Caregiver.Then there was this one:
And this is Barbie the Baby Sitter.I'd like to point out that except for the names, Baby Caregiver and Baby Sitter, the two items are almost identical.  The other significant difference is the skin color.  If I were really pissy, I would say that only Caucasians get to be caregivers while darker toned skinned Barbies get to be lowly Baby Sitters.  I suppose it's really a matter of whether one believes that caregiver is a more socially conscious name than baby sitter.  Personally I think it sends a shitty message.  Fortunately for me, Cressy wasn't really interested in this one.  (Or else I would have barfed there in the aisle at Target and the clerks tend to get ticked off when that happens.)

But wait, there were more exciting dolls to look upon.  Cressy now knows who Justin Bieber is and she was looking at his doll, too.
And hey, one of these actually sings.  So you can
be tortured on multiple levels.  (I'd have been
impressed if they had used real fake hair instead
of a plastic hard hat hair.)Then there was this one that Cressy said was interesting.  The pirate guy's got a little fuzzy head (It is!  It looks like Velcro) and looks like he'd be right at home being a hair dresser, but maybe I'm being a bigot.
See, I'm not just ragging on Mattel.
And what kind of message is it that they put
the pirate right next to the horse riding girl?Maybe they're trying to do a Johnny Depp kind of thing here but I got to say they're not pulling it off.  This is really supposed to be a boy.  I think this company took the cheap way out and just put a boy head on the girl body.  On second thought, I think they just changed the hair on a girl doll's head, too.

So at this time I walked by this and it scared the crap out of me:
They should call this My Little Creepy Pony.You don't think it's creepy.  I didn't push any of its damned buttons.  I just set off some kind of motion detector and it said something really loudly, causing me to nearly lose control of my bodily functions.  This is what it said.  Really, it did say this:
[image error] And it had a creepy, little, Hannibal Lecter voice, too.As I walked through the Barbie Doll (and closely affiliated knock-off) aisle, it's little beady eyes followed me.
Well, it might not have really said it, but it was implied.Well, it is close to Halloween, you know.
Chucky worked better than Jason because Chucky was a doll, too.
Do you remember that they actually sold Chucky dolls?  And people
say I'm demented.  I didn't buy a Chucky doll.  But I would have
bought the Bride of Chucky doll.Anyway, so my advice is not to buy any haunted dolls right before Halloween and stay out of the Barbie aisle.  Just saying.

Happy Halloween!

On Shopping at Walmart OR OH, Hell YES, I WILL RANT! OR Not Again With the Ranting

Today's shopping extravaganza/trip-o-horror started with parking at Walmart.  Allow me to state that if you cannot find a parking place within site of the building, then you should probably just turn around and go home because shopping is going to automatically suck.  I will repeat this.  If you CANNOT park within a hundred yards of Walmart LEAVE IMMEDIATELY because you are DOOMED! DOOMED!  DOOMED!
I did not leave immediately, thereby invoking an ancient curse laid upon me by grumpy gypsies.

I went inside and shopped.  Half of the time I was behind a woman in a motorized wheelchair/cart and her son hauling another cart while they sprawled over every section of the canned/nonperishable aisles that I wanted to go.  If I wanted Pop Tarts, they spread over the aisle like two forms of giant gelatinous goo-people and their conversation went thusly:

The son, who was obviously related to people who played extras in the movie, Deliverance.  (I'm not making this up.  He had a wife beater shirt on, a ratty beard that went down to his moobies, and a tattoo on his arm that said, "The South lives forever.")  (Moobies, for those of you who don't know are man boobies and yes this man's were bigger than mine.)  "Ma, you want strawberry or cinnamon roll Pop Tarts?"
Her: "Cinnamon roll gives me the fartsies."
Him: "How about hot fudge sundae?"
Her: "Oh, I don't know.  Let me look at that box.  Wait, I have to find my reading glasses.  Where are my dagnamed reading glasses?  I had them in my pocket.  Are they in my purse?  Where's my purse?"
Him: "Your glasses are on your head, Ma."
Her: "Oh."
[image error] See.  Giant forms of walking/riding in her case Jell-O people.
After some time of experiencing the thrill that is Walmart shopping, I told Cressy that I was prepared to rip off some one's arm and beat them to death with it.  Cressy was mildly alarmed.  "Mommy," she said, "you wouldn't really rip some one's arm off, would you?"  "Not yours, darling," I said.  "But you'll have to bail Mommy out of the jail with your allowance."  (I don't think this went over well with her.)  (Cressy's allowance = purchasing of the toy-ity goodness from Walmart's abundant toy section.  Cressy's allowance ≠ saving Mommy's bacon from tall, muscular women named George at lockup.)

And that was pretty much the whole shopping experience.  The store was crowded.  I was impatient.  People kept getting in my way.  Cressy decided that speaking to Mommy while Mommy was in a volatile mood was optional.  (Good call on her part.)  (Of course, it didn't stop her from getting ANOTHER flipping Barbie doll with her allowance.)  ("Oh, to hell with bailing Mommy out.  I have a NEW Barbie!")

Then came waiting in the line to the cash registers.

HIM, the man to whom I've been married for 28 years, could tell you that this is very likely at the top of my list of things that are guaranteed to tick me off.  Standing in a line that doesn't seem to move, especially at a place like Walmart that has a trillion employees who could easily OPEN A FEW MORE lines, is terribly irritating to me.  This would irritate an inanimate rock.

I have often told HIM that I have a special magic power.  (It has nothing to do with waiting in lines, unfortunately.)  My special magic power is being invisible to police while speeding down the road in my car.  I haven't gotten a moving violation for longer than I've been married.  In fact, I've blown by cops doing somewhat over the speed limit and they have mystically declined to chase me down and cite me.  I do not know why.  (I am not related to any law enforcement official in a highly placed position.  In fact, I don't have any of those law enforcement booster stickers in the back window.  Not one.)  (What does this have to do with waiting in check-out lines at Walmart?  I'm getting to the point.)

However, in exchange for the ability to avoid moving violations I, instead, am blasted with the curse of bad lines.  Yes, apparently I'm horribly, viciously, awfully cursed.  This means whatever line I step into automatically slows to an imperceptible crawl because of various reasons that just seem to 'happen.'  (Hey, MAC, I used those little doohickeys again!  But I swear I won't in a manuscript.  Haha.  I didn't even think about it.)  (Mac is one of my writing buddies who pesters me on a weekly basis about those ' things.  ' is what they are and see I don't even know what to call them.  Single quotation marks?  Whateveh.)  (Sometimes it's painfully obvious that I'm not an English major.  'I' am 'not' good 'writor.')

Basically what happens is I get into a line and the line stops moving.  For example, the party in front of me wants to cash a third party check from Bolivia that's been signed over to his brother-in-law.  The person in front of me has a book of coupons and they're using ALL three thousand of them at the same time.  The customer at the clerk suddenly forgets that she had to go get something on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORE and this is after everything else has been rang up.  A meteor falls on the cash register.  Stuff like that.

There can be twenty lines open and I will somehow pick the one that is the absolute worst one to be in.  And if I change lines, the first line clears up and the line I'm in slows down.

Yes, that's my curse.

Today didn't seem to be an exception.

I have contemplated at length which person was stupider-the clerk or the customer in front of me.  (You see, while I was waiting at length I had a long, long, long time to ponder upon the subject.)  The clerk would have lost a foot race to a Giant African Land Snail.  The customer in front of me had a towering pile of items in her grocery cart as if taking two carts would have been a sin.  She also wanted to ring up three things separately.  I don't mean that it was two sales in whole.  She wanted to ring up most of her groceries, then a garbage can separately, then some clothes separately, and then she wanted to argue about a special coupon she forgot to use in the first round of ringing up.  Then she wanted to argue with the clerk that she wanted to get change in a specific amount of bills.  The clerk did not have the bills the woman wanted and was not happy about going to fetch them for her.
The clerk was NOT singing a song, but maybe she should have been.
Or maybe I should have been.  Probably me.
Oh yes, this is really a photograph of a Giant
African Land Snail.  Reminds me of my first boss.Whilst all the melodrama ensued I watched the next line over move rapidly along.  Soon people who came into the store after I had gotten into the line were checking out before I did.

I began to bang my head against the cart.  (People stare when you do this.  They also take pictures with their phones.)  I would have moved to another lane but I had already unloaded 90% of the cart into this one.  (And besides I know how my curse works, so it's pointless.)  THEN a Walmart employee opened the lane next to me and I said, "Oh, now you open a lane."

Finally, the clerk in my line began to check out my items.  Excruciatingly, agonizingly slowly as if she was stuck to bubble gum combined with molasses.

I believe the clerk was beginning to realize that I was getting annoyed and she...began...to...slow...down...more.  And...more.
I know, I misspelled measly.  Critics.Then she tried to murder a loaf of bread by smashing it to death with a quart of juice.  I protested.  "You just smashed the bread."

Can you believe she said, "I did not."?  (She did.  I swear to all the gods of Walmart, those three words crossed her little petulant mouth.)
It's my concerted and often repeated opinion that individuals who are
not people persons NEED a cubicle in which they can
be chained.I stared at her.  She stared at me.  I said, "When you put the juice on top of the bread it smooshed it."  (Possibly I thought that explaining why the juice, which weighs 5 lbs and is like a rock, would diminish the fluffiness of the bread, which was whole wheat and like a pillow in consistency, would allow the clerk some illumination into why I might be protesting.  But I was wrong.)

"It does not," she insisted.

The lady behind me apparently had witnessed the entire sordid event backed me up.  (I should have bought her a cup of coffee from Starbucks.)  "It does so smoosh the bread!"

The clerk steadfastly ignored both of us, put her head down, and continued to ring me up.

Then I lost my temper.  After some time Cressy said, "Mommy, you said a potty word."
I believe that Cressy has heard every potty word ever invented
and then some coming from my mouth.  For those of you who have read
The Life and Death of Bayou Billy (plugging my own book)
you'll know what I'm talking about.To be precise I said a whole lot more than one.  I said to Cressy, "Don't say those words.  They're bad."

Cressy said, "I guess you shouldn't have said them, Mommy."

"I'm not buying the bread," I told the clerk.

"You should relax, Mommy," Cressy informed me.  She was already holding her Walmart booty protectively to her body and was happy.

Anyway, I didn't buy the bread.  And now the manager and I are on a first name basis.  Isn't shopping fun?

Randomness Abounding! Help, I May Ramble! Or, OH NO! More On Writing!

Recently I read a review, of the reviews I'm not supposed to read anymore, about Bubba and the Dead Woman.  The person did not like Bubba because he felt that it did not live up to the standards of The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  The reason I'm bringing this up because typically it's the other way around.  I get, "Dear C.L., Bubba rocks.  Bayou Billy is obscene.  If you were a really good writer, rainbows would shoot out of your butt."  (Okay, people don't really write this to me but they do complain about the foul language in Bayou Billy.)  Anyway, I was surprised because someone had read Bayou Billy first and was genuinely disappointed that I didn't replicate it in Bubba.  This is funny.  (Trust me.  It is funny.)  (Even HIM thought it was funny, but only after HIM said, "You're not supposed to read the reviews anymore, you know."  Then I whined, "But I like reading the good ones."  Then HIM said, "But you don't know if they're good until after you read them and then you're pissed."  "Help, I'm addicted to reviews," I whined some more.)

Did I mention the review from the woman who downloaded Bubba and loved it so much that she tried Billy?  Then she wrote a review that said I was horrendous.  (Her word.)  Then she said that she deleted all my other stuff unread.  Unread.  Jeez, that'll teach me.  Since she only downloaded the free ones, I'm not necessarily offended.  (I thought the guy who said I was writing worthless drivel said it much better.  Horrendous means I'm a monster.  Worthless drivel means it's well, worthless drivel.  Succinct.)
[image error] Nothing says excitement like a photograph of a tombstone.
Yee haw.
I took this photograph in Manassas' Civil War cemetery.  Pretty
good photo.  I wanted to put a Model-T behind it, but the cemetery
has rules about driving vehicles on their graves.  WTH?
(And if you haven't read Bayou Billy you won't get why
I want to put a Model-T behind a tombstone.)So a special message to the man who liked The Life and Death of Bayou Billy.  Hey, Richard S. Philbrick!  Try Missile Rats.  You might like it because it's got the same sense of humor as Bayou Billy.  And it's only 99 cents.  Anybody out there know RICHARD S. PHILBRICK?  Go tell him I'm the reason his ears are burning.  I'm not making the name up.  He didn't like Bubba but he liked Bayou Billy and he made the mistake of putting his name on the review.
Recently someone wrote to ask why my covers are so boring.
Well, blah.  I did this one myself.  I drew the guy on
the missile and the little 'To Russia with XOXO.'
I thought it wasn't bad.  Obviously it's not Frank
Frazetta or the Hildebrandt brothers, but hey.
Maybe if I drew boobies on the missile it would
get more sales.(For some reason I feel like yelling, "PHILBRICK!" like Marty Feldman did with Frau Blucher in Young Frankenstein.  You gotta be a Mel Brooks fan to get it.)  (I'm not saying Richard S. is like Frau Blucher but the name is definitely on my list of ones I want to put in a Bubba book.)  (Richard, I'm just messing with you.  Thank you for liking Bayou Billy.  Most people think it's too naughty and I enjoy hearing from those who liked it.)
[image error] "Blucher!"  Neigh-Neigh-Neigh!
I love Young Frankenstein.Anyway, my cold is hanging on like a leech and HIM is prepping for a trip to Germany where he will supposedly work during Oktoberfest.  (Like that wasn't intentionally planned.)  I went and got euros for him and they look like Monopoly money.  (Seriously, they couldn't make money that looked like it was serious.  Seriously.)

Really, it looks like Monopoly money.
(I went to look at our Monopoly game but
we have the Star Wars one and the money
doesn't look like the traditional Monopoly money
so I was much bummed.)
Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.
Collect 200 euros and then throw them
away because their economy is going
into the potty faster than ours.
I love freedom of speech.Really, do those look real?  Cressy wanted to play with them and I was almost like, "Yeah, but don't draw on them."  Then I realized they were still real money and I couldn't let her play with them.

Funny side note.  The bank was counting these out to me and the teller had a problem because she couldn't understand why I'd paid $304 for €210.  She counted the euros out twice and said, "But it's supposed to be $304."  Then I said, "Well, it is, in euros."  "But it's supposed to come to $304," she said.  I'm not sure what was throwing her but I was in a benevolent mood and not terribly impatient so I said, "€210 euros equals $304."  (Silently, I added, 'dumbass.')  (Incidentally € is the money sign for euros.  Like $ is for dollars.)

The teller had to go get another teller to tell her (no pun intended there) that $304 was what I paid for in exchange for €210.  The second teller had to speak very slowly and use small words because the first teller was starting to make monkey sounds.

And the first teller STILL didn't get it.  I ended up taking a $1 out of my purse and saying, "If I give you this one dollar bill, you'll give me €.75 in euro money.  So I gave you $304 out of my money and this €210 is what you give me."

She said, "But you didn't pay me $304."

My patience pretty much flew out of the window like cockroaches seeing the exterminator drive up to the house.  "When I ordered the currency online through the bank, the $304 was subtracted from my account," I said gritting my teeth.  The paperwork that the first teller had just looked at, said exactly that and was still sitting on the counter in front of her not a foot away from her face.  The second teller already knew this but let me have the rein because she somehow sensed that I had gone past the point of Do-I-Have-To-Still-Be-Polite?

Clarity ensued.  HIM better bring me back something pretty from Germany.  That's all I got to say.