little_tristan: (Otters Significant Otters)
He's not okay, but he's a little better than yesterday. The insurance debacle got bigger and stupider and in the end we were forced to cave. Remember back when we decided to buy the plan that we couldn't afford so we could go to our own hospital? There was a misunderstanding. When Kaiser said we could choose hospitals, what they meant was we could choose to go to theirs and be fully covered, or go to ours and pay fully half the total cost out of pocket. (With a deductible of either seven or eighteen thousand; I never did get that figured out.)

Last night's post was written in a state of denial, after we made the bold decision to stick to our guns and do what was right for Mark. Today there was a lot more information dumped on us. With actual numbers. In writing. Bad, bad numbers. And by the time the ambulance arrived, it was so late Russ and I couldn't go, what with him having to be home in bed an hour ago.

The most hateful, hurtful part of all of this is that the doctors here all say the same thing: he really isn't ready to be moved. There's still a chance of decompensating on the 205. But Kaiser says no. They hear pneumonia and breathing without a vent and stamp him good to go. But since we had to make the ultimate decision about whether to go bankrupt or not, and therefor whether to put him on the road, he also had to sign a goddamn fucking waiver absolving them of responsibility in that very event. Or any other, really.

I'm having a very Ted Quinlan Catbread Underwater moment here. Every time I think I've met my limit of hateful, hurtful, downright goddamn hard things--my life just kicks in again. Mark's alone and scared with his lungs 1/3 full of fluid, and yes, he'll almost certainly get well, but I promised I wouldn't let them take him away, and now I have to find away to get out of these clothes (which I've been wearing since yesterday morning) and go to bed alone and I can't stop crying because if something does happen I'm two hours away.

It barely matters at this point that I won't get a shower this week. But it still kinda does.

I wish I had one of those best friends who comes running when things go to pieces and hugs me until the world makes sense.

I'll see Heather tomorrow. She'll probably hug me. That'll be good.

I'm sorry I didn't reply to any comments yesterday. They made me so happy, in a hugged sort of way. I might not reply to any comments here, either. Tomorrow's going to be a mess. But any offered hugs will be gladly accepted and deeply felt.

Last night I didn't sleep, but a few times I was sort of half awake and suddenly felt Mark lying beside me. He used to do that when we were dating, when he was too tired to drive home. He'd go to sleep in the living room but I'd wake up in the middle of the night to find him on the bed, fully dressed, just watching me sleep. It seemed like it should have been creepy but it never was.

All day I've been feeling him, a warm, skinny arm across my back, a little shiver of tobacco and geeky t-shirts.

He called as I was writing that sentence. I knew I felt something.
little_tristan: (Kitten WTF)
First the IRS apologizes for an oversight.

Then I sit down to straighten out the finances and make sure everything's in the software only to find a huge discrepancy in the credit card statement and my record. Basically mine says we owe a good $800 more than the bank does. I've been over it until my eyes are all numbers and can't find the problem.

Then a t-shirt arrived in the mail. The shirt I ordered for Mark over a week ago, and which arrived the other day. And they didn't even double bill, so we have an extra shirt and no help on the credit card deal.

I called Mark to see if his world was equally improbable today, and it is. It's barely noon and they're almost home.

It's scary, I tell you. The cats will be sprouting wings any minute.
little_tristan: (Default)
Remember that post last week where I mentioned being surprised by a big gross bug in my Kleenex box? More specifically in the Kleenex I was using? I threw it in the little trash can by my desk and lost track of it. A few days later, the same bug or one like it appeared on my bookcase where I couldn't reach it and there it stayed. Now it's gone. Sounds good, right?

No. I saw the bug on the news today. In a report about the spreading *shudder* stink bug invasion *shudder* that's taking over the state. *shudder* Apparently they're coming inside *shudder* now that it's getting cold. We can probably block the crack under the front door, but it might be too late. You know, if it was female. *shudder*

According to the Dept. of Agriculture, we shouldn't crush them (duh), but they can be safely scooped up and flushed. Or we could bring some chickens in to eat them. Wow. Catch them or buy chickens. Usually Kenny Whiskers handles our bug problems but he's probably not going to be any help with these. At least not more than once.
little_tristan: (Kitten Glowing Kitten is Glowing)
Looking at my last update, I notice that things didn't go exactly as planned. It was chilly Tuesday so I paid the shop rent and blew off going to Lowe's. I did that Wednesday instead. It was a good trip out on the bus and a sucky one back, as the driver did a touch and go rolling stop and didn't pick me up. I was all pissed and walked home, with a stop at Harvest Fresh (which we call the hippy grocery store) where they actually have a build your own salad bar, to go, priced by the pound. I bought about 12 oz of my favorite veggies and took it home to eat.

Sadly, I also lost my sunglasses either in the store or on the street right outside it. For those who haven't met me yet, I can't actually see outside without some kind of shades. We're not sure exactly what the deal is, probably an MD related muscle weakness, but since sunglasses make it manageable, I don't worry about it. It was a hard walk home, though.

The good news is that Mark put the new lockset in the side door that night. He also installed the heavy-duty hasp inside the basement door and put my favorite big lock on it. And, just for my peace of mind, a smaller, lighter hasp on the kitchen side of the upstairs basement door. I close it and hang the open lock on it when we go to bed, just because I feel better. It's really there in case I actually hear someone in the basement, so I can lock them in and have a few minutes to get out of the house. Or if Steve actually comes back for his stuff, I'll lock it while he's in the house, if for no other reason than to openly display my distrust. I actually want him to come back and see that all the doors are locked against him now. That's how hurt I am. (We're also using a hasp to secure the back-shop door from the inside, but I fasten it with a carabiner. We don't have a key to the lock that's lying around out there and the a-n might decide to use it.)

But enough of that. Heather came over yesterday and we went out on foot to do a bunch of errands. The first being a stop at Ross for new sunglasses. I wore a visor and only looked at the ground two feet ahead, but it was still grueling. Still, I can only buy them at Ross. I don't think it's snobbery, I've owned dozens of pairs of shades of every type and price range, and the mid-level designer ones are just the best. I can always find a style that suits my face and the lenses are top quality. The dollar store ones Heather likes just reduce everything to shadow, and the blue-blockers reflect too much. But Ross always has something that looks good and lets me see clearly in any light, for around $10. I think I'm wearing Steve Madden now. In a few years, when they've been lost, or dropped and run over (the usual CoD), I get to go back and pick out another pair. I love an excuse to shop.

Another good excuse is winter! Heather's been collecting school clothes for her kids on all our trips, so after we looked at all the cool stuff we couldn't justify actually buying, I was able to justify a really amazing knit scarf in a kind of round scallop pattern that I've never seen before. It feels like angora, although it was probably way too inexpensive to actually be, so I had to have it. Even though it's green. But it's a really dark, neutral, moss in the forest shadows green, so I think it'll fit in nicely with the black/white/grey thing I have going on. And when CL needed socks, I discovered knee high Hello Kittys in grey/black and red/black. On clearance! So much warm, soft kittyness for my legs this year! Heather got shoes for the kids and it was over to Safeway for some lunch from the deli.

Then we crossed over to Walmart so she could get pull-ups for the baby (has anyone else noticed how they've racially diversified the diaper section? Let's hope it hits the big kid clothes soon) and some keys for the new doorknob. Russ and I each had one, but we needed more for Mark, Heather, and the a-n. Who, thank dog, forgot his momentary obsession with having keys for all the padlocks we're installing. His excuse? There might be a fire. I asked him why he'd want to get into the basement in case of fire--if the fire was down there, keeping the door closed would be a good idea, containment-wise, and he'd just fall down the unbelievable lethal stairs anyway--and he lost his shit, as always. Luckily the forgetting stuff worked for me this time. Almost makes up for the incredibly demented story he made up the other night about Steve stealing cash from him.*

Okay, then we went to Goodwill and I found FOUR heavy skirts for winter. One all black, one black and grey checked, one grey with black roses, and one that's just grey. I think all of them except the one with roses will look good with the Kitty socks, too. Heather found some more clothes for the kids, including an unlicensed knockoff HK dress for CL, which is just as adorable as it can be. It's kind of an old-fashioned party dress style with a long puffed skirt and a sash that ties in back. Thinking about it now, I suspect it was handmade by one of the local Hispanic woman for a little girl's party. You can tell it's not real Sanrio because HK has a cute little smiley mouth. I'd post pix but Heather has strict rules about her kids' pictures online. It's not allowed. Ever. Okay, I guess she has one strict rule. (Except for that one on my FB where her son is a week old and I'm wearing him a body sling and you can't even see his face. My friend took that pic and it's a work of art.)

We stopped at the park on the way back so the kids could run around some and then came home to confirm the news Mark gave me over the phone at Goodwill: that some punk-ass, uninsured, fucktard had hit Heather's van, my mommy's van, while it was safely and legally parked in front of our house. He'd assured me that it wasn't bad, that the other car had taken a lot more damage, and she definitely shouldn't worry. But of course we did.

Mark was right, though. There's a little scuff on the door below the trim where it says Venture, and sadly she's determined that it goes down to the primer, but she knows a guy who can fix it. We have good insurance on it since she hasn't changed the title, but she's scared they'll total it out because it's 8 years old and she'll have to buy the kind of crap car they'll assume hers is because they didn't know my mom.

Apparently what happened is someone backed into the driver's door in some kind of hatchback or mini-van/SUV thing and the side mirror punched out their big, overly-tinted rear window. It was easily the blackest glass I've ever seen outside an art studio and Heather swept up at least ten pounds of it. She said it's either medical grade or was bought out of state because Oregon doesn't allow that much tint.

Personally I think we're lucky the person who lost all that glass didn't get out and smash one of Heather's windows just out of spite. It must've been tempting.

The neighbors across the street said they didn't see it happen and they had no idea who it was. They heard the crash but the other car was gone when they got outside. This is, of course, a complete lie. They're always outside or in the front room looking out the windows. They see everything. And the only way the angles could have worked is if the other car was, you know, backing out of their driveway. (Interestingly, the woman I talked to kept calling the driver "she", which is grammatically unusual when referring to an unsub. Most people say either "he" or "they".) They're pot dealers and alcoholics, good friends of Steve's although yesterday was the first time I'd ever spoken to them, and they have random drunks and stoners staggering in and out of there in their black-windowed bass thumpers all hours of the day and night. There were three visitors' cars in the drive when I was talking to them. Now we're waiting to see, purely out of curiosity, which of the regulars stays away for a couple days, or comes back in a different car.

The last thing we did was sort my clothes again. Heather takes away everything I don't want and gives it to her friends, or a thrift store, or makes it into something else. This time I added two purple t-shirts that I don't wear because of the company logos so she can make them into necklaces for me. I love her t-shirt necklaces, I just don't have one yet. No one knows how she does it, but she can make anything out of anything else. I'm using a shopping bag that she sewed from a plastic bag of Purina Chicken Chow. She gets all my dog and cat chow bags, of course, and I get a shopping bag for every 5 bags I give her. Anyway, sorting out the bin of old stuff gave us a place to put the new winter stuff. When it's time to wear it, the strapless shirts and short skirts of summer will go into the bin and the heavy skirts and fuzzy sweaters of winter will come out. Maybe this winter won't be so bad if I feel pretty.


*Okay, yes, Steve's a thief. Yes, he stole some money from my purse a few weeks after he moved in and I chose to let it go that once. But I know the old man's story is bullshit because we all remember the bait money he left on his desk until it actually got dusty, like dried up cheese in an old mouse trap. The boys eventually took it to relieve everyone of the humiliation of continually trying to entrap a member of the household in such an obvious way. The best part? The old fart coincidentally put the $10 piece of cheese out a week or so after Steve actually did steal from me, which I never told anyone about, but he surely believed I would. I smile a little when I imagine how that must have felt.
little_tristan: (Kitten WTF)
This is not one of those times. Today I stumbled upon a business card that's been lying around since about 2007. Written on the back, in my own handwriting, with my special purple pen (I buy them by the box and no one else uses them), are six lines of words/phrases: "The Dutch", "Lady Business", "Stride", "Crazy Goat", "Fatty", and "The Stranger". And for the first time in memory, I have no idea what these things mean, or when or why I wrote them. Usually these kinds of notes bring back almost total recall, at least of the important part, but this time I got nothing.

So if it rings a bell for anyone--list of short stories, lineup in a horse race, five rejected titles for Billy Joel records and the one he settled on--throw me a clue, 'kay? It's gonna bug me all weekend.
little_tristan: (No Icon)
I haven't posted about this here because it's been an hourly development kind of thing some days. I did have a lot to say on FB and Twitter, for those who know me there. But now that most of facts are in, I feel like rambling.

It started with this nice young man, Cody Myers, who disappeared from Lafayette, a tiny bedroom community four or five miles from here, (also the place where Herr and Bruder were living when I met them). He passed through here on his way to Newport, home of the famous aquarium and Undersea Gardens, and a place where my family and I have spent many a fine summer day. I keep picturing his route in my mind, driving through my old hometown, past the places where I lived and played and rode my bike. But somewhere along that road, he met his killers, a young couple running from the scene of their last crime.

The day after Cody disappeared, his car was spotted in Salem, driven by strangers. The strangers were identified, then Cody was found down by Corvallis, shot in the head, and finally the killers themselves were arrested in California. But the bodies are still adding up. I had so hoped that, since they were still driving Cody Myers' car, they hadn't had to kill anyone else. But maybe they don't need to justify every murder. Or maybe, after the guy was dead, his car wouldn't start.

Ever since this started, though, I've been waiting to hear from the killers. There can be no adequate defense for what they've done. Nothing excuses or justifies these crimes to society, to the average person. But the killers always have a reason. It always seems right to them, and that fascinates me. So I've been eager to hear what they would say.

Now it's turned out to be this. Avenging an alleged crime against someone else from ten or fifteen or twenty years ago, and "his name made them think he was Jewish". Even when I know going in that there isn't an acceptable reason, I still feel disappointed. It's impossible, I guess, to lower one's expectations so much that some little weasel can't come along and squirm under.
little_tristan: (Possum)
I just went out with the dogs for the first time today, after sending them out on their own a couple times, and the first thing they ran to was previously unnoticed half-grown opossum on the lawn. Hoping that it was playing possum, I went to check it out.
Gross stuff behind the cut )
little_tristan: (Riptide Mimi)
I just called Bruder at work to ask what was the extremely rusty, sad car part in the backyard. To wit: Did the muffler fall off the F-150 this morning, or are the neighbors escalating hostilities by throwing increasingly offensive types of trash over the hedge?

As you can imagine, there's really no good answer. But, yeah, the muffler fell off the truck. From the looks of all that rotted metal, I'd guess we're looking at a whole new exhaust system. Hopefully they can go back to driving the VW without too much inconvenience while we sort that out. (Today they had to take too big a load of tools and equipment to work. This is, after all, why we kept it.)

At least it dropped off before they got out the gate. I'd be so embarrassed if the neighbors saw.
little_tristan: (Supernatural Sam iz Confuzzled)
I just started reading As Nature Made Him, the almost unbearable story of David Reimer, born a boy, designed to be a boy, but surgically reassigned as an infant and raised as a girl after a tragic circumcision accident. I'll go into more in the review (and there will be a review), but first I have one little question.

After the botched circumcision, the parents see Dr. Money on tv talking about the successful surgical reassignment of a man to a really stunning woman and realize that here is hope for their son. But there's an inherent conflict that the doctor doesn't address and the parents apparently don't notice, but that is so glaring to me I would totally call bullshit if I saw it in a fic. The woman on the show with him talks about how she always knew she was a girl, had known as far back as she could remember. She was told that she was a boy, instructed on how to act and walk and talk like a boy, but she couldn't do it. Finally at the age of 50, Dr. Money helped her to fully become the woman she always knew she was.

So the Reimers take baby Bruce (his name at birth) to this same doctor to be made over into a girl because, as he tells them, infants' gender identity isn't set at birth and can be easily manipulated. Basically any child of either gender can be transformed to the other gender with great success.

And no one asks why, if this is the case, the transwoman he used as the prime example of his abilities wasn't successfully raised as a boy. After all, she was born with male genitals and her parents certainly tried.

Is there something I'm missing here? Because this isn't washing.
little_tristan: (Riptide Geek On)
I spent all day yesterday getting my new computer set up and everything transfered, which was surprisingly easy. I used a program called PC Mover, which, in spite of coming with an ethernet cable that couldn't be plugged into either machine, worked really well. (We bought a USB cable.) And when I get an adapter for one of the monitors, I'll be able to run two. I'm very excited about that.:)

But Napster doesn't work. Any Napster users who might know more about it, please ring in. It appears to work, but the tracks it plays are pretty random. Nothing in my Windows Media Player works--they all give me the message that says they're Napster tracks and a newer version is available so I should delete it from my hard disk and download it again. What's really funny is that it says that IN Napster, too. I search for a track, click play, and it tells me there's a newer version so I should delete it and re-download. When it's not downloaded, and I'm trying to play it IN Napster. It also says that when I try to play purchased tracks, which should always work. So I sent them an email (it says I can contact them by phone, but the link with which to do so is missing), but I don't have high hopes. They've never replied to one of my help request emails before.

This is why I never can get completely away from actual CDs. They just don't give you this kind of crap.

Everything else went surprisingly well, though. It was possibly the least traumatic computer move of my life--possibly because we did it before my old machine died. PC Mover put my desktop together about like it was, with the correct wallpaper but too many shortcuts, so I'm deleting those. And for a while this morning I couldn't click hyperlinks in emails, but there was an easy fix for that at Microsoft.com. Semagic seems to have not transfered all of my files, but those might reappear later, like they did when I updated it last time. Or I can get them off the old computer.

So it's really just the huge Napster headache weighing on me. I mean, I have thousands of downloaded tracks and the idea of redownloading them all makes me want to cry. (Literally. I'm not strong.) And that's even assuming I can. Right now, they won't play no matter what I do. But I'm back online!
little_tristan: (BBT Sheldon WTF)
Mom got a letter from an identity theft protection outfits that she was using. They were automatically billing her credit card and wrote to say they were having trouble processing her payment. Their motto is "Relentlessly Protecting Your Identity". That struck me as odd.
So I wrote this letter... )
little_tristan: (BBT Sheldon WTF)
But she called last night to say she still hadn't found office space. She has an office, it's just on the second floor of an extremely old historic building, much most of the professionals downtown. I'm about to give up on the whole thing, at least with her. I wanted to go to her specifically because one of my cousins does and seems to like her. But from the few phones calls we've had, I'm starting to wonder if she might be an idiot. I'm not too good with idiots.

It's little things, really. Like when we first discussed office space, she asked if I'd be taking the city bus and I said no. It has to be walking distance from my house (defined as Walgreens downtown and McDonald's uptown), and she said okay. Then she called back with a place about half a mile past Walgreens. I said that was too far for a regular thing, and she said she assumed I'd be taking the bus. She seemed rather put out with me for not telling her I wouldn't. (So far as I know, I'm still not allowed.)

After that I didn't hear from her for a while. Turns out she was sick. In every subsequent phone call, she talks a lot about how sick she was. She's also told me all about why she specialized in grief counseling and all the terrible things that have happened to her this year. I don't get to say much, but maybe that's because I'm not as skilled at interrupting. Whatever it is, I'm not sure I want to pay $100 a week to listen to her problems. (Any need I might have to pay huge amounts of money to other people while doing the work myself is amply filled by estate management, thank you very much.)

But the probable deal-breaker here is that she knows a few things about me, or should, because I've mentioned them several times, and isn't taking them into account. One is that we get up very early. I keep having to tell her this when she asks if I'm "up and dressed" in time for ten and eleven o'clock appointments. I've also explained that I have to be quietly at home by 3:30 because the boys don't know about this and I don't want them asking where I was if they beat me home. When they find out, I don't want to have lied about anything. I've also said that I don't even want phone calls about it after that time because someone might be in the room. So when I say she called last night, I mean last night. It was after eight and Herr and I had been asleep for well over an hour. I couldn't answer, I had to send it to voicemail to stop the ringing, and then lay there with the phone in my hand to stop the voicemail alert, too. (We use an alarm on the phone to wake us up in the morning, so turning the ringer off isn't an option. My cell is the home line, and about 4 other devices all in one. It's everything to us and it's never off.) Herr didn't ask who it was, yet, but he was pretty pissed. And I kind of am, too. Even if I hadn't explained two or three times about the whole in bed by 6:30 thing, since when did professionals call people at home after eight pm? Or am I just a complete dinosaur?
little_tristan: (Puppy Willow)
For a while now, Willow's been working toward going outside to do her puppy thing. This means she pees in the kitchen and craps in the library, right outside the arch-nemesis' bedroom door. Of all the square footage in the library, that's her spot. Right in front of his door. It amuses me a little. Especially on days when he steps in it. (I know it's mean, but come on. I don't have much.)

Today he was extra mad, though. So he came up with a brilliant plan: Since the weather's getting better, we can just leave the back door open all day. After all, she's doing it in the library because she thinks she's outside. (Where we keep the rest of the books? I don't know.)

Because I never tire of shouting the same things over and over to a senile egotist who's never actually listened to a female in his life about anything anyway, I reminded him about the holes in the fence, the vast number of things in the patio workshop that a busy puppy could use to commit suicide (am I the only one who remembers Doodle?), and the fact that she can still squeeze under the gate to freedom. But it all fell on (literally) deaf ears. Every once in a while he wanders back in to share more reasons why she'd be fine outside. None of it makes sense. In between the words to and share, he came in and made me open a case of tp for him. When I was done ripping cardboard, he pointed to Willow and said, "I think she's getting bigger". She's more than doubled in size over the last month, but he still says these things (daily!) as if they were profound statements on world events. A totally new take on global warming, perhaps.

I acknowledged that she has, indeed, gotten bigger. To which he responded, "She'll make it." WTF does that even mean? She'll make it where? Under the gate and into the street? Or is he suggesting that her having gone from 9 pounds to 22 means she's now big and strong enough to survive his completely insane plans to minimize his inconvenience? Or perhaps he's determined, based on the fact that I closely observe her outside nine times a day and he ignores her completely unless she's barking, that she's too big to escape the yard. I'll never know. I put up a baby gate to keep her from going down there at all. And if cleaning up after a puppy on an unfinished wood floor is nearly impossible, while the library floor is tile (TILE!), that's not his problem.

And the other day, I figured out why. Whenever someone comments on one of our dogs, Bruder always puts on his Dr. Know-It-All voice and proclaims, "I've had dogs all my life". I don't know what information this is really meant to convey (I've had dogs all my life, so that's why I let my sister-in-law raise and train them for me now?), but being a child of a very traditional family (which always had dogs--I just don't feel the need to announce it to everyone I meet on a daily basis), I inferred incorrectly that this meant his father had dogs. But I forgot the real history. The a-n's wife took the kids and left him when Bruder was about 4 years old. After that, the boys spent vacations with their dad some years, for some holidays, but they lived with their mom. She had dogs. The old man did not. He lived with a dog for a while when the boys were with him as adults, but the dog was also grown.

He's never had a puppy in his life.

That makes me sad for him. Yet glad for all of puppy-kind.
little_tristan: (Emergency! Johnny facepalm)
This really happened

When we had our own company, we provided health insurance for our employees, but we couldn't afford dental. Since there were only 2 employees and one dependent child, we took them to our dentist and paid for it ourselves. Sadly, we couldn't cover cleanings and such, but we did for them what we did for ourselves. It saved a fortune in the long run over sick days, sick-child care, and, you know, death.

So, if a bunch of uneducated hicks running a dirt factory could figure that out, why the hell can't the government? (You know, congress gets preventative care, too. And we pay for it.)
little_tristan: (Riptide Murray Thinky)
I'm editing my book for the last time (I hope), and I just got to the part that I've been kind of fearing. The big case that leads to the ultimate climax involves a woman found murdered in her own home. Her co-workers call the police when she doesn't show up on Monday morning and they find her dead in her bedroom. But I knew it was coming, so it didn't bother me that much.

What bothers me is the name of the medical examiner. I made it up five or six years ago when I wrote the first draft. It was just a cobbled together word made from random syllables from the first and last names of the actor whose face I always see in the role. And yet...

Reading it today, I realized it's the name of the city where my mother was born. A city I'd never heard of a year ago.

Coincidences are fun, nicht wahr?
little_tristan: (Possum)
There are thousands in the basement... Or at least one or two. The amount of hissing that accompanied the echoing thumps has me wondering if it's mating season. That's just what I need. More freaking possums. The dogs are going bugshit up here, but when I send them downstairs, they can't seem to find anything. The giant rats must be up on the retaining wall still. More convenient for crashing into the ductwork.

And the worst part? I actually have Mom's favorite possum popping pistol and I can't use it. Stupid stairs. And city ordinances. But, at this point, mostly stairs.
little_tristan: (Star Trek Scotty)
It was supposed to be a family outing, but Herr took an Advil earlier and had to throw up all day instead. He's better now, but the list of things that mess with his stomach grows ever longer. Still, Bruder and I had a great time. It was a silly, juvenile movie that relied heavily on pot smoking, inappropriate cursing and gay jokes, and I could NOT stop laughing. There's something about knowing that Simon and Nick wrote the movie to tell those jokes about themselves that makes it okay. They really should be a couple. If only it weren't for that pesky being straight thing. Anyway, Seth Rogan was great as the voice of Paul the alien, a real break from all the cutesy, squeaky, adorable cartoon alien voices we've all become accustomed to. I've seen reviewers complain there were too many references to other aliens in pop culture, but the explanation for that made perfect sense. And it's the first road trip movie I've ever seen where the complete destruction of the vehicle wasn't an ongoing joke, (eg: National Lampoon's Vacation). So, yeah, it was a lot of fun.

And I had a great dream last night where [livejournal.com profile] catyah and I were friends of Nick Frost and Simon Pegg and we were hanging out with them one evening. There was another man whom we all knew, but I don't know now who he was. We were just sitting around, talking and drinking and passing a bowl (sorry, Kitty, my subconscious corrupted you), and laughing like fools. It was too much fun. But eventually I had to go home, and not being able to drive, I called my mom for a ride. But before she'd agree to come pick me up, she wanted to talk about how she'd decided to watch a video and accidentally put in a movie called Smokey and the Ass Bandits, which she apparently found among my things. So I'm sitting there, half-drunk in a room full snickering friends, going, "I don't even remember buying that. And what were you doing--why were you in my--" Everyone was asking what was wrong so I covered the phone and said, "I'm in trouble, Simon. Me mum found me porn," and we all just fell apart again. I felt terrible laughing at her when she was so upset, but it was just too absurd. I finally got back on the phone and asked her why she didn't know that movies with funny parody titles involving the word ass were just in general going to be things she shouldn't watch. Then I covered the phone again and said, "I have got to my license back."

Embarrassing or not, it was a nice change from the rest of the night, which was mostly fighting zombies and, at one point, hiding in a port-a-john with six other people after escaping a haunted house.

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March 2013

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