Potty Mouth

I told Linda last week I had to fix my toilet. She offered to help. I think she was still a little jazzed from the double-shots of Depth Recharger, and was looking for a project to whirlwind her energetic way through. I politely declined, looking to challenge myself in 2008, The Year of Becoming Independent.

And besides, I wasn't exactly sure what I would find during this home-improvement project, about myself or the condition of my humble abode.

It took me an additional week to screw up the courage to begin. I knew it would involve sticking my hand in a cold, dark tank where things have been allowed to grow with little interference other than a gentle flushing sound on occasion. I was, however, a little more than excited about the project as I'd read a blog sometime ago about a man who was working on his toilet and a gnome popped out and tried to steal the diamond from his drill bit. I was anxious to see what Sable would do with a gnome running around the house looking for jewels that were packed off some time ago in one of my egyptian cotton pillow-cases.

As it turns out, it wasn't a gnome that popped out of my toilet drain. It was a being so hideous, so slimy, so foul-smelling it made gollum look look like dapper dan.

And it didn't pop out of the toilet drain. It had wrapped itself so tightly around the flapper that I had to use hot dog tongs to get the flapper out of the tank (no, Linda, the tweezers were not long enough). And then, because it wouldn't let go no matter how hard I shook, I had to take it with me to Home Depot.

The language it used! People were staring at me as I walked the aisles. And I finally get to plumbing and there's like an entire crowd of people out that day buying parts for their toilets so I have to stand there in the middle of the crowd not daring to look at the plastic bag in my hand for fear they will identify it as my plastic bag from whence these horrible sounds are coming. I hold the bag closer to my lips so I can tell the little fucker to shut up and let go of the flapper, I have to at least be able to see if I'm getting the right one. And the creepy little thing spits at me. SPITS at me!

I was pissed. So I grabbed the bag and I squeeze hard, nearly throttling the little creep through the plastic, and I hiss, "Let GO of the GODDAMN FLAPPER!" And the Home Depot woman looks at me and says, "Do you need help finding anything?" And I reply, "Oh, no thank you. I'm just picking up a flapper." And she replies, "Well, there are a couple different kinds. Is that the old one in the bag?" And suddenly everyone in the aisle is watching, they likely want to be reassured that it is, indeed, the old flapper in the bag and not a gun or knife cuz I'm clutching it in a somewhat mad fashion and they are, of course, concerned for their safety mainly because I have turned sixteen shades of green and fourteen of red and am still squeezing the shit out of the bag. And they should be concerned because, truly, if this foul-mouthed, foul-smelling little creature were to escape from the bag there would be a few less children in Home Depot that day.

So I grab one of each size flapper and shout, "Thanks, I have what I need!" as I flee the store, using the self-check counter to hasten my escape.

And I get home and the first flapper is the right size and the toilet is fixed and the nasty little gremlin is at the verrrrry bottom of the outside trashcan where I'm pretty sure he is eating the old flapper as I found similar orange pieces of something in the toilet bowl when I flush-tested it shortly thereafter.

Feeling I deserved a pat on the back, I gave myself one in the form of a dirty martini, heavy on the dirt, which I sipped from one of the beautiful martini glasses Gerry gave me for Christmas at Candlelight Supper where we nearly lost our dear Linda during a controversial game of Clue. I sat in the living room, sipping and watching HUGE flakes of snow drift lazily past my windows, feeling drowsy and warm and full of a newfound sense of confidence. Pleased with the day, I headed off to bed and fell into a sound and peace-filled sleep...

...only to be awakened in the wee hours of the morn by falling trees. I went to bed with falling snow; I woke up with falling trees. Yes, plural.

Hey, Linda! Whatcha doing next weekend? Any chance you carry a chainsaw in the backseat of your car? I've got Depth Recharger...

The Ants Go Marching...

I am learning about binary code. You know, 1001 is 9. And one of those is binary, and the other is Base 10, but I can't remember which is which.

Ok, maybe the rest of the world has known about binary for awhile, but so fucking what? It's math and...well, I have an aversion to the logic behind one plus one equaling two. Seems like a good place to hide a lie to me.

I like WORDS. I hate NUMBERS. If I was Milo, I would go through the Phantom Tollbooth as Mr. Juster indicates I should, and then, when I got to Digitopolis, I would hang a sharp left and drive my nifty little car into the margins of the page and head for the hills of Dictionopolis.

I mean, for chissake, in Digitopolis, you might go to dinner expecting portions to multiply in front of you and, instead, you get served division soup. By dessert, you need the extra calories because your weight has just divided itself in half for the gazillionth time, and you are sliced as thin as (gasp!)...Vicky, don't say it!, LINDA WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!!...The Bodies (GASP!!!!)

How is that a good thing?

Needless to say, if I was Milo, the Princesses of Rhyme and Reason would never have gotten saved...

The Phantom Tollbooth is one of my favorite published works of children's fiction. It isn't my favorite book, though. That would be a book few have read (6 total), The Caterpillar Had A Bad Day, by Amy Peterson. This book is what one would refer to as a "quick read."

The Caterpillar Had A Bad Day, by Amy Peterson

(Page One) The caterpillar had a bad day. (Page Two) He got stepped on. (Page Three) The End.

With illustrations. Did I not say quick read? LOL!!

It is spring. You know how I know? Yes, the heralds have arrived. Primroses, daffy-down-dillies, crocuses. Cherry blossoms, apple blossoms, and robin redbreast everywhere! But that isn't how I know it is spring.

I know it is spring because the ants have arrived. Ah, there are the TRUE heralds of spring, at least in the state of Wash=rustington. The ants have sent out The Scouts.

If you are new to Washington, you may not be familiar with this seasonal phenomenom. In the spring, as the grounds thaw and the rain falls in a steady drizzle 24x7, the Mother Ant tells her boys, "I'm hungry, dammit! Holding up these frikkin' big wings is tiring! Go fetch me some vittals!" And those dutiful daredevils traipse up through the rotting firewood, find the eensiest, teensiest crack in the foundations of both .5 million dollar homes and 1.5 million dollar homes (ants are not capitalistic snobs, after all) and pester the living shit out of insect-o-phobics. Like me.

Day one of spring, there is one ant. He crawls along the edge of the bathtub thinking I won't notice his jet-blank antsy ass scurrying along on the edge of my cream-colored bathtub. I do. And suddenly, Scout One is having a day every bit as bad as The Caterpillar's.

And right there, I've made my mistake in this strategic War Upon Ants. But I don't realize the error for quite some time, three years, to be exact. Three fucking springs with the fucking little creepy-crawlie motherfuckers.

(Do YOU know my mistake?)

To synopse, Day One, One Scout.

To continue. Day Two, Two Scouts. On the edge of the bathroom counter. I sigh. I squish.

Day Three - Four scouts have appeared. They seem to think they can outsmart me by splitting into two parties and circling around behind me. But, I am good. I have been spotting insects since I was knee-high (dare I say it?) to a grasshopper. I stretch my left arm, I stretch my right arm, I try to make it look like just an innocent morning stretch, and I squish both regiments in a fraction of a millasecond without firing a single shot.

Day Four - Sonofagoddamnbitch! Eight goddamn, motherfucking sonsofbitches ants. EIGHT!! God, I hate ants. I HATE them. I want to SQUISHx8.

And then I realize - the damn ants are freakin' BINARY! DO YOU SEE THAT???? There was one ant, then two, then four, then eight!!!! And one plus two plus four plus eight is, of course, fifteen!!! Which, of course, is written in binary as 1111!!! without the exclamation points, of course :-)

(See why Milo should have avoided Digitopolis?)

I am so amazed that, in spite of my hatred for this eusocial insect, I spare their lives. I determine that, in order to prove my theory, I need another day's worth of evidence. Yes. Tomorrow, I think to myself, there will be sixteen of them.

And there, I do something I've never done before. I let the eight go.

And, just like that, they are gone. On Day Five, I get up, walk into the bathroom, flip on the light, and look all around me, around my feet, above my head, under the bathroom rug, I check the vent, I check the shower curtain, I check every single corner, all along the caulking, I check everyfreakinwhere an ant would go.

And they are not there! They are not fucking there...

Day Trips in the Pacific Northwest

Taken by Amy with the awesome camera her doting mother bought her :-)

Delightful Indulgence

It occurs to me that I am a woman of extravagant needs. I like my lattes at 140 degrees, I like my apples cut, I like my steak between rare and medium-rare, and I do not consider any cut of beef from top sirlion down to be "steak."

What can I say? I am picky. Picky Vicky :-)

I am equally so with people. While I love everybody (except three people), I only treasure a few. These are the ones that make me cry with a gift, a word, a look. These are the ones that make me laugh until I pee my pants. These are the ones that I have peed my pants in front of and they still like me.

These are also the ones I miss when they are away, the ones I miss when they are hiding, and the ones where distance doesn't prevent me from reaching them with my heart.

I spent the weekend with one such treasure and she made me cry with a gift and nearly pee my pants with laughter all in the space of a few precious hours. We went to a spa; even the thought of the irish lassie and me at an exclusive resort of any kind makes me laugh. Danger, Will Robinson!

We started with a truly extravagant breakfast - specifically the Country Breakfast for Two. Apparently, country folk are poooor-kers, cuz they brought us enough food to feed a small army of country bumpkins. It was served course style, starting with a selection of fresh-baked breads, followed by pancakes, oatmeal and eggs. In between and added to all of that were lattes, juices, our choice of four kinds of water, fresh fruit, yoghurt, devonshire cream, spiced apples, raisins and almonds, and steamed vanilla milk. "Eggs" turned out to be a lumberjack's portion of eggs cooked however we desired, thick-sliced bacon strips, apple sausage links and hashbrowns. Neither of us are lumberjacks. She took the remainders home in a few boxes.

Then we explored the extravagant lodge. Guestrooms are off limits - you must have a card key to even get on the floors...unless you are irish. With a skill that makes me wonder what she did before she became a business administrator, Irish Eyes quickly gained entry to the guest rooms and set a sure-footed pace for the maids cart sitting in the hall. She approached this cart no less than three times and each time was foiled by the maid or other hotel personnel popping their annoying little heads into the hall at the most inopportune times. At one point, she did a truly amazing imitation of Charlie's Angels and, if I hadn't just gone to the bathroom, I seriously would have peed my pants laughing. We left with no trial sized shampoos or creme rinses, the one sad moment of the day.

Empty-handed but with full bellies and an hour or so to kill until our spa treatments, we set out to hike down to the falls. We were told it was a short 20 min hike down, 35 mins back (ever wonder about the time difference when the distance is exactly the same? Downhill vs. a serious uphill which we failed to notice on the downhill trip, oops!).

Ignoring all CAUTION signs (she is, after all, irish, and apparently in Ireland CAUTION means something like "come hither"), we climbed down the steep incline at the end of the designated and FENCED path, using roots from trees to lower ourselves to the rocky shoreline below, and then bounced and bounded over massive and not-so-massive boulders to get as close as we possibly could to the beautiful falls.

There were interesting niches to explore and I played grunting cavewoman when I was certain Irish Eyes couldn't get her camera up fast enough. And then we set out on the return trip to take advantage of our complementary spa treatments which we truly needed by the time we made it back up to the lodge almost exactly 35 mins later :-)

And what a treatment! It was as extravagant as the breakfast and served in courses as well. First there were showers and slippers and robes and colored scarves so we could be easily identified. There were hot tubs with fountains and a view of the falls. There was a steam room and a dry sauna. And tea at every turn.

And then Heaven came down to earth in the form of heated sheets, hands, oils and stones. (Side note - I would have gone to sleep, but miss irish put forth this theory that the masseurs wait until you fall asleep then just stand around with their hands in their pockets, so I determined to pretend to fall asleep but really stay awake to see if this was true and it wasn't so I wasted a rare opportunity to fall asleep while my body was being caressed, darn it.)

It was...amazing. Afterwards, we rejoined to soak a bit longer in the hot tubs where we noticed signs indicating NO TALKING ALLOWED. Oops! Our bad, we didn't see that the first time. But really, what pish-tosh! Does anyone really think the two of us in particular are gonna sit in the same room and not talk? It's just not possible.

We managed to keep it low and slow, though, mainly because we had just been reduced to gelatinous blobs of non-energy by an excess of food, exercise and other people's hands. Eventually, we decided that we were evaporating and should probably head home; we made our way to the lockers passing a small but delightfully furnished meditation room. Both being of a craftsy nature, we stopped to investigate this lovely room where we found teas and energy elixirs available for our convenience.

Just as with the CAUTION sign, "for our convenience" translates for some into "for your later consumption," and I felt something thrust into my hand and, without moving her lips, I heard her speak. It was the damned scariest thing ever to see her looking for all the world like a mute, but hearing "Put these in your pocket." I always, always obey the irish, and so I did. Then we mixed ourselves a drink.

Our choices of health elixirs included Depth Recharger, Mind Over Muddle, Virtual Buddha, and Power Plant amongst a few others. With no instructions to guide us, I did what I normally do and waited to see what she did. She confidently picked up a ceramic tea cup, shot two full squirts of Depth Recharger (for quick energy, it said) into her cup, topped it with a little hot water and gulped it down. I had just picked up my ceramic cup and was heading for the Mind Over Muddle Elixir when she popped up to her full height, and her eyes popped open wider than I woudl have thought humanly possible. "Wow!" she said, "That certainly worked quick!"

When I finally STOPPED laughing and was fairly certain I had the urge to pee my pants back under control, I looked at the Mind Over Muddle Elixir and determined that perhaps I would start with just one squirt, not two. In the meantime, she went on to have a second cup and, because I'd nearly fallen off my feet laughing at her initial reaction, I had a cup of Virtual Buddha, said to restore creativity and balance.

Then it was off to the locker room to change back into street clothes, off to the car and home again, home again, jiggidy jig, where she promptly removed a sledgehammer, mallet and cordless drill from the boot of her car to affix the lovely mailbox she made me to its crooked post at the end of my drive. Then goodbyes and thanks for the lovely time, and thanks for the beautiful mailbox, and I went in the house to take a nap that lasted a little under 10 hours, and she went home to likely scrub her kitchen floors, till her garden and install new shingles on her roof until the rest of the Depth Recharger wore off and she crashed for the night.

By the way, has anyone seen her since Sunday?

Not Exactly PC...

But definitely entertaining!



Oh Lord...

So, I'm not yet decided on who I'm gonna vote for or whether or not I'm even gonna vote. Yeah, I know, that's not very responsible. However, I am still convinced of the pendulum theory, the one that says no matter who's in office, we seldom swing too far to the left or right. Pretty much it's the same old shit, different day, regardless of whether there's a donkey or an elephant in office.

However, I am willing to be edumacated on the topic. Please, though, if you are going to opine politically, could you be as entertaining as The Honorable James David Manning, PhD? You don't have to call anyone a nappy-head, but you will need to use the word "tits" at least once. Or something better...

To Janet and Pixie