Guess Who's Feeling Right at Home?

Seems like Little Missy has gotten over her "new girl" issues. ;-)

Gak!

I know I just did a WTF post, but it seems like lately the world is just full of WTFs.

The other day, I read an article about the world's record holder for the longest fingernails. Before she was in a car crash this past February (which apparently broke some of her nails), each nail was almost 3 feet long. The 68-year-old great-grandmother had been growing them for thirty years.

The first thought that went through my mind when I saw her picture was "GAH! MY EYES! MY EYES!"

The second was, "How in the heck did she drive a car like that? It's a wonder she didn't have LOTS of accidents!"

Well, the article didn't actually say if she was driving or not, so I guess maybe we could infer that she was a passenger in the vehicle.

And of course---being me---the next question I had was, "How in the world did she wipe her own ass?"

Even with one of those long wipey-stick things you can get from a medical supply store, her nails would still get in the way, and unless she had 5-foot-long arms, I can't see how she could maneuver it.

So did she have someone wipe her butt for her like Henry VIII or did she just sit in her own fug all the time?

Was the wiper a relative? A paid companion? How much would a professional butt-wiper make these days, considering that medical insurance or medicare prolly wouldn't cover a home health-aide worker for someone who is willfully disabled?

How did she bathe? Dress? Or even sleep, for Pete's sakes? Did she hang off the rafters like a bat at night? Is she married? Could you imagine crawling into bed with those at the end of the day?

Since the article said she had been growing her nails for 30 years, and they were almost 3-feet long each, I did an off-the-cuff calculation of nail growth of around 12 inches every 10 years. So at age 48, her nails would have been a foot long (Can you smell a Mythbusters experiment coming on?).

On Sunday, I decided to try it out. Just for a little while to see what it would be like. We had company coming Monday for a cookout, and I needed to get cracking with the cleaning.

But first I needed to gather some information.

Honey, I asked. If I broke both my arms, would you be willing to wipe my butt for me for 6 weeks or so?

"I don't see how I'd have much of a choice".

That's my man. He's put up with me, my kids, miscellaneous spot-welding in the middle of the night, my nose-hose and other downright annoying habits for the last 17 years.

What if I was uh---disabled on purpose? Would you wipe my butt for twenty or thirty years?

He gave me the hairy eyeball. "Only if you were getting a million dollars annually and I got special seats at the Superbowl every year."

Well yeah, I get it. True love only goes so far. I wouldn't wipe HIS butt for 30 years either.

So I duct-taped wooden skewers to my fingers. I felt like Attila Scissorhands. It lasted about 3 hours.

Could I wash dishes? Not really. I had to "palm" the glasses, turn them over, and try to grip them from the bottom to put them in the washer. Then I had to kind of grab the scrub brush in the joint between my thumb and first finger to scrub plates, and damn, that hurt!

Could I wipe the counters? Took at LEAST twice the time it would normally take. Had to wipe sideways to try to get the edges, and I could only go as far as 10-inches from the wall and between the microwave, etc.

Could I make the bed? Forget it. Then again, I rarely make the bed, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Could I vacuum? Ok, I was able to get that under control. But if my "nails" were any longer, I don't think it would happen.
Could I do Laundry? No. Could I empty the garbage cans? No. Could I pick up dog poop? No (and amazingly enough, the dookie wasn't from Little Missy, but from our OTHER little yorkie, who is misbehaving in protest for bringing the interloper into HER home).

Could I skewer a poopy little dog and roast her over an open flame?

Absolutely.

Could I poke the men in my household to do the stuff I couldn't do? Yep.

Now came the bathroom test. I was able to slide my pants down with my palms. But when it came time to wipe? Gah!

Tried to wipe down the front way. The "nails" ran into the side of the bowl. Tried the back way. Same problem.

I ended up standing up, kicking off one pant leg and putting my foot on the stool.

Yeah, that worked. I also stabbed myself in the thigh.

Then I couldn't figure out how to put my pants back on again. I shuffled over to the bathroom door, cracked it and called, "Honey? Sweetie? Could you come here and help me for a minute?"

Hubby poked his head in the door. Took in me with my "nails", my pants down around an ankle---and zeroed in on the box of Tampons that happened to be sitting on the counter (just got them from the store and hadn't put them away yet).

"No." he said. "Oh HELL no!" And slammed the door.

So I tore those suckers off and called it a day. How in the heck could a person function with 1-foot fingernails, not to mention 3-FOOT fingernails?

Fingernail Woman says that the car crash (and subsequent nail breakage) "robbed her of her identity".

I'd say it more or less "robbed" her of being waited on hand and foot like she's been for the last 20 or so years. I can't believe the level of self-indulgence it would take to have this kind of hobby or how a family could enable it by decades of servitude.

Guess it's time to pull yourself up by those bootstraps, Lady.

All on your own, this time.

Oops, I Did it Again...

Became a mommy, that is. ;-)

Have to introduce the newest member of our household...Little Missy.

A business acquaintance of Hubby's knew we had a couple of Yorkies and asked if we knew of someone who would be willing to take on an elderly dog. The dog's current owners didn't think they could handle her any more and were thinking of putting her to sleep if they couldn't find her a new home.

"Is she sick?" asked Hubby.

No.

"Vicious?"

No.

"Why in the hell would they put her to sleep then?"

Turns out, Little Missy had some peculiar habits ingrained by her original owner, and just wasn't fitting into the household, even after 8 months. The current owners had tried real hard, but they were miserable, the dog was miserable and they knew it would be hard to place her.

For the first 12 years of her life, Little Missy was the sole companion of an elderly woman. Not only did the woman HAND feed her, but apparently never allowed her to go outside. For anything. Ever. She allowed her to void whenever and wherever, and just cleaned up after her.

Maybe the dog's name was really Little Messy.

After the woman died, her niece, who is a neighbor of the current owner, took Little Missy in until they could find her a new owner. The dog, never having been trained to eat from a bowl (or it could have been grief), wasted away to 2 1/2 pounds.

The children of the current owner had lost their dog when it got hit by a car. They heard that the niece was looking for a home for Little Missy and offered theirs. How much trouble could a little Yorkie be?

LOL.

They were able to train her to eat from a bowl, and fattened her up. They were able to partially potty train her, but the poor dog is half-blind and kept getting lost in their backyard. She'd get scared and hide when they called her, so they'd have to do a lot of hunting.

They couldn't crate her at night, because she howled all night long. They couldn't leave her out of the crate, because she pooped and peed all over the house in the middle of the night. They finally came to a compromise...when she was in the house, they put her in diapers.

And let her sleep on their bed.

Above all, they had small children running around, and it scared the dog. Plus they both worked full-time, so they'd crate her for most of the day. They just didn't feel that they could handle her another winter, and being crated up most of the time was no life for her.

So we got a new baby.

Boy, is she a sweetie. After a lot of butt-sniffing, our dogs welcomed her to the pack. Maybe a little too enthusiastically at first---she was a little standoffish the first day.

We were worried a bit about the night thing, because we crate our dogs at night. But we put her carrier over in dogtown, and there hasn't been a peep out of her at all. I think she was just lonely.

As for the pooping and peeing thing...she isn't incontinent, and she doesn't soil her crate. She's had a couple of small accidents, but we let the little yorkies out every hour, and she has easily found the "potty place" outside and goes. We all just have to get used to the schedule, and she needs to let us know when she has to go, as do the other dogs.

The only real issue is that she is not a lap-sharer. While the other Yorkies are more than willing to share the "prime" snuggle spot with her (which happens to be Daddy's crotch), she isn't willing to share with them. If she gets there first, then she wants it all to herself.

The other dogs sense this, so it has become a battle over the crotch. Bet Hubby is just loving it---all these females fighting over the manly parts. ;-)

The other quirky habit is that she has a stuffed pink elephant that she drags around and humps quite frequently. Kitty (Big Kid's girlfriend) forgot a small stuffed animal she carries around in her purse (it's a mini-Tigger), and Little Missy got a hold of it last night. Tigger was completely and thoroughly assaulted.

If she wasn't already attached to her name, I think we'd call her Nova. Oddly, her hind legs are a little longer than her front, and her butt is jacked up like a '72 Chevy Nova.

All in all, I think she's going to fit right in!

Sometimes You Just Gotta Say...

So a guy gets drunk, goes home, gets nekkid and passes out in bed.

Except it isn't his bed.

He's in the wrong house. He actually lives a block or so over.

The bed's occupant, a 6-year-old boy, goes into his parents' room and wakes them up.

"Mommy, Daddy! There's a man in my bed!"

When police arrive, the homeowners are screaming at them from their second-story bedroom window.

As they enter the house, the police find items of clothing on the floor, smelling of booze and urine as they make their way to the second floor. And yes, they also found drunken guy passed out in the kid's bed. So they arrested him.

Now comes the WTF part.

Nekkid guy's defense?

First one is out of the "These aren't my pants!" playbook (where a suspect on Cops gets patted down and the cops find dope in his pocket. He screams, "These aren't my pants! I've never seen these pants before in my life!").

He denies that he went to the wrong house.

You mean like that whole family snuck into HIS house and set up shop while he was at the bar to play a prank on him?

His other defense is that the cops only arrested him because they were racially profiling him.

Arrested while Irish? snarf.

Dude, you messed up. Take it like a man. Sheesh!

Collectors are Weird, Part 1

Ok, we're done, we're finally done with all the records!!

Well, the 10-inch 78's at least. Everything is paid for and shipped, and I'm free! I'm free!

There's still a couple of hundred 12-inch 78s, vinyl 45s and vinyl 33s to go through. That's for another month, because I'm damn tired and going to take some time off.

We ended up selling about 450 10-inch 78s in around 7 weeks. Most were on eBay, quite a few were private sales to collectors from around the world.

Now mind you, for those who haven't been following this---my step-dad collected records for most of his life. He left a collection that numbered around 700 records when he passed away several years ago. My mom hung on to them for awhile and waffled about how to dispose of them. Pops had several large collections---along with the records, there were stamps and antique photography equipment. And other miscellaneous crap---er stuff.

Through a member of her church, she was steered towards a "reputable" dealer (apparently a relative of the member) who looked the collection over and told her they were worth a dime a piece and offered her 70 bucks for the whole shebang. I protested, and ended up with the entire collection (30+ boxes) in my living room.

Well, although it was a lot of work, I'm freaking glad I did.

The grand total on about 450 records that were "supposedly" worth a dime a piece, ie: 45 bucks?

Drumroll please...

Over eleven thousand dollars.

Isn't that amazing?

It's like those stories you read where somebody finds an undiscovered Picasso in their attic. My mom is quickly spreading the word throughout her senior citizen community not to automatically trust a "trusted relative" of someone to give an accurate assessment of their belongings. Especially when they offer to buy them at that price.

I thought originally maybe we could get a couple of thousand. I knew nothing about records, but did some internet research and recognized some of the artists. Like Charlie Parker and Martha Copeland. Thought they might be worth well more than a dime.

And of course, there was a ton of artists I'd never heard of, but were apparently quite collectible. Tub thumping, jug blowing, doctor syncopating, jazz flowing, skillet-licking, plaza orchestrating stuff. Who knew Pops was so hip in his younger years?

So back to the "Collectors Are Weird" part.

About the third week in, I listed a bunch of country records on eBay early one evening.

Hubby was at a late meeting, was due home about 6pm, the boys were otherwise occupied until late (domino's pizza and the late show), I figured we could have an intimate dinner for two with some serious nooky included. I had a seafood dinner ready to stick under the broiler, had showered and smoothed and foofed (and consumed a couple of glasses of wine in the meantime).

Hey, you gotta steal those moments when you can!

The Love of My Life wasn't home yet after all the preparations, so I went downstairs to the office to check on the auctions.

I had a message in my ebay "inbox".

A very lovely man named George wrote to me and said, "I've been following your auctions and I just wanted to let you know that this particular record you just listed for a 6.99 starting price is very collectable. I'm not trying to buy it from you, because I happen to have an outstanding copy of it, but I think that soon you will have several people writing to you and asking you to end the auction for their offer. If it's in the condition you have described, this record is worth between 100-300 dollars."

There was more, and he was very friendly, so I wrote him a thankful note back (not thinking that anything was going to really come from it). When I exited out, I noticed that my inbox has increased by 3 emails.

One offered 70 dollars if I ended the auction and sold to them. The next offered 100 dollars. The final one said, "if you end the auction, I'll make you a very good offer".

Now I was intrigued. Hmmm. I wrote back and coyly asked, "How good is a very good offer?" He responded with "Call me. Now." And left his number.

If this sounds all cloak and daggery, I have to explain something about eBay. If you're not familiar with the rules it goes like this: When you list an item for sale, you can pretty much do what you want with it (pull it off and sell it on the side, change the terms of the auction etc) UNTIL you get a first bid. Then you are contractually obligated to follow through to the end. Unless of course, the item breaks or something and you can't sell it. Otherwise, you have to follow through.

Obviously eBay frowns on people using their site to hook up and sell off of it, because they don't get their fees. So if someone makes you an offer, and you don't already have bids on the item, you can manually go in, add a "Buy it Now for xxxxx (the agreed price)" to the auction, the collector then can swoop in and purchase it through eBay and everybody is happy.

But time is of the essence and you have to do it fast before someone realizes what a treasure you have there and makes the first bid. ;-)

So I call the guy, and he offers 80 bucks for the record. I said, no thanks, I've already got an offer for 100.00.

Interested Buyer: "You say in your listing that there's only one small wear spot on the record. Could you describe it to me?"

Me: Wha? Describe it?

Interested Buyer: "Is it gray? Is it dull and black? Is it black and shiny?"

Me: Hang on a sec. I have to go look. After cleaning and grading a couple of hundred records they all tend to be one big blur after awhile.

So I took phone and wine glass and toddle up to the first floor to find the record.

Pulled the record, had the phone between my shoulder and ear and held the record up to the light. I couldn't find the wear mark. So I took off my glasses and looked close.

The guy kept telling me to hurry, and I was a LITTLE tipsy. I kept up a running commentary.

Oh! I found it! Well, it's not gray, it's not dull and black or even shiny and black.

Interested Buyer: (impatiently) "What does it look like?"

It looks like a sparkly fingerprint.

Interested buyer: "A what?"

A sparkly fingerprint. And there's another. How weird.

Interested Buyer (who is at this point quite bewildered): "What in the world are you talking about?"

Suddenly it dawned on me. Those were MY sparkly fingerprints. Oh my God, it must be my lotion!

I started babbling. It's my lotion. My hubby is due home and my kids are gone, and I was hoping to get lucky tonight so I put on sparkly lotion. It must be on my hands. Nevermind---I found the wear spot. It's smaller than the head of an eraser and it's shiny and black.

So he made me a generous offer, I ran downstairs and amended my auction to his offer, he purchased and I sent him an email promising to ship immediately and thanked him. Then hubby came home, I crowed about the incident, and I thought that was the end of it.

The very next day, Interested Buyer called ME. Several times while I was out. I guess he took my number off his caller ID from the night before. That kind of annoyed me, because I certainly didn't extend to him an invitation to call me after our transaction.

I called him back. "Do you have a pen and paper?" was the first thing he said after I identified myself. And proceeded to abruptly rattle off a bunch of record numbers and label names.

"Do you have Okeh?"

No.

"Champion?"

No.

"Gennet?"

No.

"You sound awfully sure."

I AM sure. I might not know of the top of my head the artists' names, but I'm sure on the labels.

"Vocalion?"

Yes, I had a couple, but I sold them.

"What were they?"

I told him.

He made a little whimpering sound. Yes folks, he actually whimpered.

At this point I was a getting a bit impatient. I'm just about to walk out the door to go to the post office to mail your records, I informed him.

"Ok Bye." He hung up. Just like that.

He called me the next day. And the next. Did I have a chance to go through the rest of the records? Did I mail his parcel priority mail? Oh, he has more numbers to put on his wish list.

WTF is up with this guy? I asked my husband.

"Maybe he's hoping for more sparkly lotion talk," he snickered.

I finally went through all the records and found a few that were potentially on his wish list. I called him and asked him if he was interested. They weren't artists he collected.

He thanked me politely and that was the end of that. He got his record and left me wonderful feedback on eBay.

I wrote to George, the eBayer who had originally wrote to me about the value of the record. I thanked him for his "head's up" and described the whole encounter.

He wrote back and said, "Is his name xxxxxxx?"

Why yes. Yes it was!

Turns out, the collecting world is pretty small. Many of the serious collectors know each other, because they go after the same stuff. And my buyer was a rather eccentric man known for once dropping 5 figures for an obscure record.

Before he signed off on that email, George added a final line.

"Collectors are weird".

'nuff said. LOL

Karma Will Get You Every Time!

Ok this is a roundabout adventure we had in the last couple of months and boy, did it teach ME a lesson. It's a little long and convoluted, so bear with me!

Before I disappeared at the beginning of summer, I wrote about two things regarding The Happening Dude, my nephew who is now living with us. You can scroll back to read it if you like.

One was about how we had him completely evaluated psychologically and physically. He has monthly psychiatrist appointments, although it's basically a med check for the one remaining medication he has to take. The doctor doesn't provide therapy, just monitors how he feels physically on the med. But the appointment is way down in the city, over an hour drive each way, and doesn't last more than 5 minutes.

"How are you feeling?" Doc asks.

"I'm ok", says THD.

We've been trying to set up "phone appointments", but apparently Medicaid (he has Medicaid because he is a foster/adopt child) frowns on that.

The second time I wrote about him was regarding an ethical situation---the difference between stealing and "borrowing". We talked about Karma and the variations on that.

"You reap what you sow", we've warned him. "What comes around goes around".

Before we did our "Extreme Makeover" (which I blogged about) of kitchen and bath a couple of years ago, we bought new appliances and had our kitchen counters raised 3 inches because we are a tall tribe.

When I first met Hubby, he owned a successful restaurant/bar. Once in a while he had to fill in as souse chef, prep worker, whatever, if people didn't show up, quit, were fired, etc. Eventually he learned enough from the head chef, so that he filled in as co-chef when they got slammed.

In our home, when we did the appliance makeover, he was the "expert", and went to some scratch and dent/discontinued item discount floor show and brought home HIS fantasy fridge, stove and dishwasher.

None of them are particularly practical for day-to-day use with a busy family. Like they're going to stay looking great forever. There's a reason they've been discontinued---doh!

The dishwasher works great. Except when it's Hubby's turn to wash the dishes. He thinks that for the amount of money we spent that it should automatically clean the baked-in crap on lasagne dishes, the rock-hard congealed melted cheese between fork tines and on spatulas.

He just loads whatever is in the sink and gets mad when after they don't come out clean, I put them back in the sink with instructions to "use a little elbow grease" since it's all been baked back in like concrete during the hot dry cycle.

Really. I'm a busy woman, and I'm nobody's housebitch. One day a week Hubby does the dishes, and dammit, he better get them right! I've trained the other guys to apply the scrubber on tough stuff when it's their turn, but between you and me, I believe Hubby prolly thinks the dishwasher should fold his clothes and give him a blow-job as well. ;-)

The flat top stove is well----a flat top stove. You can't keep it pristine unless you do all the cooking and automatic mess cleaning yourself. And I don't and I won't. It gets used by other people in the household. Sometimes things boil over and/or get burned.

The worse thing is the fridge. I understand why it's been discontinued, because it's a logistical nightmare.

The picture above is representative to the style we have. It's not the same brand, however. For the last couple of years, this fabulous stainless steel fridge has been a humongous thorn in my butt.

First off, any time ANYONE touches it---it gets fingerprints on it. You can't polish it up with a spritz of Windex, because that will ruin the finish. You have to use water, Dawn and an extra dry polishing towel, or a special Stainless Steel cleaner.

The top half is the fridge, the bottom is the freezer.

The fruit and veggie crisper drawers are on the bottom of the fridge section. Which is placed on the very top of the automatic ice maker in the freezer section, so all the fresh fruit and veggies freeze. No matter how we tried to adjust the temperature controls located in the top half of the fridge, any salads or fruits would freeze and then limp around when we tried to defrost them.

So ultimately, the drawers have been used to store things that could get frosty without care.

Like Bacon. And beer. Which practically never moves because Hubby drinks like 3 beers a month.

I resent it. Hell yes, I do. The rest of the fridge is cluttered up with bags of fruit, heads of lettuce, etc.

The freezer has a pull-out drawer on the top. The ice-maker is attached at the top on the left hand side. It has one of those wirey lever things that is supposed to move up with the accumulation of ice and stop when it is moved up to the top.

Except that every time you pull the drawer out, unless you consciously reach way in and make sure the lever is in the top position first, the very act snaps that little lever off and it flies to wherever in the freezer section.

And until you open the freezer again and notice it, it continues to make ice. Overflowing ice. Ice everywhere. Filling every nook and cranny.

My guys aren't terribly conscientious and forget constantly. So frequently when I open the freezer drawer, gallons of ice comes pouring out.

So back to my story. Yes, yes, I digress!

Early in the summer, the refrigerator seemed to stop being cold. We called the repairman, who came and said that the defroster in the main part of the motor in the freezer section had stopped working, and the vents got covered in ice, so that the cold air couldn't flow to the fridge part. He defrosted it, so the cold would flow until he ordered the part and came and fixed it in a week. No biggie. Just a 200 dollar repair bill. Heh. One of many.

I've been all caught up in getting rid of my step-dad's record collection. I had a buttload of records to clean, grade, scan, list and specially pack to ship when we got a call on a Tuesday reminding us of The Happening Dude's appointment down in the city for a med check on Thursday.

Now mind you, it wasn't urgent. He had 5 freaking refills. I was really tired and not looking forward to packing and shipping about a hundred records in the next few days. I rarely miss or reschedule appointments for any of our guys, but the thought of wasting 2 hours to drive down to the city for basically a BS appointment just got the better of me.

Ok, yes I was justifying my bad behavior. I admit it.

So I said, "something's come up, can we reschedule?"

The receptionist said, "well what's come up?"

Gah! That threw me for a loop. Didn't think she'd actually ask.

Mindful of Karma, I didn't say---well, my mom's sick, or I'm sick, or my kid's sick, or my car's broken down, etc....didn't want to wish harm on any of us.

So I blurted out, "My fridge is on the fritz and the repairman can't come until Thursday morning."

And we rescheduled. The Happening Dude was there during the conversation, and he said, "Why did you lie?"

I was on my justifying streak and replied, "Well.....I figured that since I didn't ever have to use the excuse to cancel anything when the fridge broke down a few weeks ago, maybe Karma would be on my side."

Ha.

Friday morning, it was apparent that there was no cold to the fridge OR the freezer. The lights worked, but nobody was home.

I called the repairman's office. "He was just out here a couple of weeks ago,", I wailed. "Now NOTHING is working!!"

He didn't service our area until the following Wednesday. Luckily, we could put all of our freezables out into the freezer in the garage. Everything else went into coolers with a lot of ice.

And The Happening Dude gave me crap all weekend..."see! it's Karma!"

I bribed him to keep his mouth shut, and Hubby and I spent the next few days trying to jigger our budget to figure out if we could just buy a new fridge, because this one has been more trouble than it is worth. Who knows how much the new repair bill would be? Would it be worth it?

So the repairman comes up on Wednesday, looks it all over and says, "well, everything's turned off."

What? No it's not. I showed him the control dial in the fridge. It was set on high. Nothing. No game.

"Oh those aren't the controls," he said. "Look here".

He pulled out the bottom freezer part, and got down on his hands and knees. I got down there too.

"See?" he said. "These are the controls." And pointed deep into the freezer.

No sh*t. There was an actual control dial down there that regulated the temperature of the entire unit. You have to get down on your hands and knees to even see it. Apparently not only did pulling the top freezer drawer in and out snap off the ice maker lever, but whatever we had stored in there bumped against that control over time and finally turned the whole thing off!

What about the control dial in the top of the fridge that seemed to be the "obvious" control? That's to regulate the amount of "cold" that passes through the top half of the freezer to the veggie and fruit boxes. We had it set at a medium-high level all this time and THAT'S what made them freeze.

After I paid the repairman (60 bucks for the visit), I pulled out the manual that came with the fridge. We apparently got a general one for the "type" of model we purchased. Nowhere does it say that the temperature control is way back in the bottom of the freezer. grrr.

So Karma got me, for good or for bad. On one hand, now we know how to make this monstrosity work. It just took 4 years of repair bills and spoiled produce to figure it all out. On the other hand, it saved us from spending another thousand plus for a better unit.

Gah!

Oh Dear...

Howdy! I'm back!

And I missed you guys. I'll come and visit you all and catch up over the weekend.

I've been saving up all kinds of snarkies to share while I was gone.

One that has just been KILLING me involves AOL.

Now you know I have a hate/hate relationship with AOL, but I've had it for over 10 years, and I have all kinds of things saved on it.

And I fear change.

Plus TLPWSFB (The League of People with Sh*t for Brains) provides so much snark fodder.

The latest has to do with the comments sections on their "news" reader. Forget reading the article---just skip straight to the comments. Almost every single one is a freakfest of extraordinary proportions.

It doesn't matter what the article is about----say, Beyonce's bodacious booty, how to filet and grill your own road kill, ways to get 10 more miles a gallon in your car, or even the latest medical miracle----it ALWAYS devolves into comments like these:

The self-righteous blaming the world's ills on the godless hordes
10 ads for Colon Cleanse
How the U.S. is going to hell in a handbasket because we have a (insert various racial slurs) man in the White House.

I can't figure it out.

Is it the same 10 commenters---bigoted christers with incredibly clean buttholes who spend their days commenting on EVERY SINGLE FREAKING ARTICLE---or are all the futjobs just attracted to AOHell?

The funniest, maybe saddest, but certainly the snarkiest part of it is the content of the comments.

For example (and YES! this is real!):

"The solidity of family is all but about gone. Pretty soon humans will be procrastinating like apes each jumping from one sex partner to thenext having children whenever and whomever . It's really sad. My own son is having a baby with a gal who has two other boys with two different fathers. Hollywood seems to be everyone jumping in bed with homever they co-star with, married or not, so when kids have roll models like this, is it any surprise?"

"Roll" models? Like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, perhaps?

And how exactly does one "procrastinate" like an ape?

Heh.

My Mom Ain't in Prison Either

Continuing my country song (see previous post)

Da Da Da Dum
I need me some coffee
Da Da Da Dum
To give me some zip
Da Da Da Dum
I've hauled many records
Da Da Da Dum
screaming back and hips

Da Da Da Dum
Post office guy hides
Da Da Da Dum
When I come through the door
Da Da Da Dum
My Mom ain't in prison
Da Da Da Dum
But she passed out on the floor

Da Da Da Dum
Thought she might buy new glasses
Da Da Da Dum
If sales were enough
Da Da Da Dum
Those things are expensive
Da Da Da Dum
And times are financially tough

Da Da Da Dum
Sold a couple hundred more records
Da Da Da Dum
To folks across the land
Da Da Da Dum
We're all sh*tting twinkies
Da Da Da Dum
Got 7K in my hand!

Can you freaking believe it? These things have been going like hotcakes to buyers from Japan, Australia, the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium and even Brazil. Not just collectors have been purchasing them, but music libraries and historical archival companies from across the planet.

I am STOPPING totally for the summer in about 10 days, so I can enjoy the rest of vacation. Got lots of funny stories to tell about some of these characters I've met when I get back.

Miss you!

ATM

My Dog Ain't Dead

I KNOW I've been a bad, bad blogger. I wrote a couple of weeks ago about how my mom finally decided to let go of all the 78rpm records my step-dad collected and how a dealer offered her a dime a piece for the 700 piece lot for a total of 70.00 (he told her the collection wasn't worth any more). I protested, and she handed them over to me, so I've been ass-deep in shellac and vinyl for the last 3 weeks.

And taking a crash course in record values.

The dealer was at least partially correct. About 80% of this stuff is worth very little. On the other hand, I think he was trying to take my mom for a ride.

I could write a country song about this. Especially since Pops apparently had a somewhat valuable and rare Country/Blues/Jazz collection.

So here's my country song (with lots of bass):

Da da da dum
My dog ain't dead
Da da da dum
My truck works fine
Da da da dum
I've been finding out
da da da dum
These discs are worth more than a dime

(banjo riff here)

Da da da dum
Been selling these records
Da da da dum
There are seven hundred or more
Da da da dum
There have been one hundred and fifty
Da da da dum
Shipped out my door

(little violin riff here)

Da da da dum
The dealer said they were worthless
Da da da dum
But as of today
Da da da dum
I totaled it up
Da da da dum
And my mom made 3K

I am WEARY, to quote some of these titles.

I love you all, and I'm sorry I've been a bad blogger. Got another 550 records to sell. ;-)

Gah!

Yeah, that's enough to give me nightmares....

Nobody Likes an A-Hole

Really, Just Kill Me Now

Ohhhh, Ratzelfratzel, Farfignewgen, and just plain $#@%$$!!

When is summer vacation REALLY going to start? Arrrgghhh!

Big Kid's lease was up, and since there was a substantial increase in rent, he and Kitty decided that he was going to move in to her house. The one that she shares with her 86-year-old mother-in-law (Kitty is a widow).

Shares is a relative term, because Kitty essentially moved in with Big Kid at the apartment. She was there more often than she was at her own house.

The situation seems to be a good one, because MIL is becoming increasingly infirm, and it would be good to have someone there in case she fell or something (which has happened), it's close to Kitty's work, and the management won't call me up about complaints regarding Big Kid's music, because MIL is almost deaf as a post. He can rock on to his heart's content.

I haven't written a lot about him or them in this 8 months, because I still have mixed feelings about the whole relationship, and I didn't want to invade their privacy that much, because Big Kid knows I blog.

Frankly, I just don't give a rat's ass now. Seriously.

A month ago, Big Kid and I went to the leasing office to fill out the "intent to vacate" form, since I am the co-leasee with him. Big Kid and Kitty have had 30 days to pack up their crap and move it. We'd get a truck and move the big stuff.

Hubby and I weren't unreasonable. We knew that Kitty's house is full of furniture, and there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that they needed, ie; Big Kid's kitchen table and chairs, futon bed/couch (which dissassembles), assorted end tables etc could come back here and be stored in the basement.
What we DIDN'T know is that some other renter BSed them into taking HIS big-ass nasty greasy spoogy couch and easy chair so that HE didn't have to move it. They thought, "hey free furniture!", and not "oh shucks, if we leave this crap here, or can't move it, the complex will charge us 100.00 per item for disposal!" gah

Last Thursday, 5 days before the walkthrough, THD, Little Guy and I showed up as planned to start cleaning. Everything was supposed to be boxed---what needed to go to Kitty's in one part of the apartment, what needed to be stored at our place (like dishes and stuff) in another.

Practically nothing had been done. Of course, they'd taken the stuff that was immediately "important" to them---the TV, game system, stereo system, a few clothes....the place was knee-deep in crap. Literally.

So for 3 hours, we helped them pack...just shoveled sh*t into boxes and garbage bags. Of course, Kitty's car was so full of other crap that she couldn't actually MOVE anything back to her house.

Nothing like planning ahead, eh?

Left them with boxes, bags, etc to pack the rest of the stuff up in. Said we'd be back Sunday Morning (in 3 whole days) with the truck and trailer to move the big stuff and anything they wanted to store at our house.

Of course they didn't show up, and had done NOTHING to pack the rest of their crap up, so Hubby and the boys loaded everything they could. Including the fug couch and chair.

Their excuse?

Kitty: I had to work! (24 hours a day for 3 days, apparently).

Big Kid: I'm feeling too overwhelmed to lift a finger! And you got me into this apartment, it wasn't my idea, so it's your job to get me out of it! (ah yes, the old "clean up my mess, because nothing is my fault" argument again)

I am NOT sh*tting you.

They've had 30 days to do this. It wasn't a surprise. They aren't the victims they think they are. Really, the whine fest between the two of them could have used at least 3 pounds of cheese and crackers. And an orchestra of tiny violins.

The last two days, the boys and I have been cleaning and disinfecting the freaking apartment. Scrubbing walls, especially the petrified puke chunks splashed a foot and a half high around the toilet. Different basic colors, obviously from different times.

Big Kid, Kitty and friends had dyed their hair a few times over the months, but didn't bother to clean up after themselves. There was permanent hair dye stains in the carpet, in the heating vents, on the walls, and all over the brand-new linoleum floor that was installed in the walk-in closet just off the bathroom. Which now has to be paid for.

We've loaded the car up to move stuff up to our house in the mountains to be gone through later, multiple times.

THD has been suitably traumatized (since Little Guy assisted in moving Big Guy out of our house, he was inured). While cleaning out a cabinet, he found a half-gallon jug of milk with a loose lid and about 4 inches of curdled crap. And he found and packed Kitty's vibrator collection. Oh joy.

Pigs. The two of them live like pigs. It's as simple as that.

Had the walk-through today. Had planned to shampoo the carpets, but after we got the initial crap cleaned up off of them, we knew it was a lost cause.

The geniuses had tried to lift off some of the stains with bleach. Yes bleach. On a tan carpet.

But not that it mattered. There were over 50 carpet burns throughout the apartment from where they put their cigarettes out. Along with the hair dye stains. And several gunky spots that may have been milk-shakes. Or puke. It seems they puked a lot. The place certainly smelled like it.

So the damage is estimated around 800 dollars for the carpet and linoleum replacement. The complex didn't ding us on the cleaning because Little Guy, THD and I scrubbed the living crap out of every surface in and out. But of course, I'm going to have to pay it, because my name is on the lease and I don't want to mess up my credit.

Did Big Kid and Kitty call today to find out how it went? How much work we did? What the ultimate damages were?

No, they called to find out what time they could come tomorrow to pick up our monthly support check to pay for Big Kid's basic living expenses.

Anyone wanna take bets on how far my foot is going to implant itself up a couple of asses?

But hey, there is nothing in my name any longer associated with the kid. If he tries to rent again, there will be a positive reference for him. I will never, evah, sign my name to anything else.

He and Kitty can live like pigs in their own hollar, and deal with it on their own.

I'm really really tired and being a bad fellow blogger.

I simply can't keep up.

Be back to check up on you guys in a week or so. I'm sorry.

ATM

Nuns With Guns

I know I've been a woefully bad blogger as of late, and I hope to catch up with you all this weekend.

Let's just say that in the last week I found the birth family of one of our personal friends after he was able to walk into the courthouse where his adoption was finalized and walk out with a copy of his records, due to this new law change in Colorado I mentioned a couple of posts ago.

For those of you who weren't adopted, I can only say...this is huge. A truly life-altering event. There's some happy and sad in it----his birth parents have passed, but I found his siblings. He's digesting all the info and deciding whether to contact them or not.

I've also helped my Mom with some de-crapifying of her basement. When my step-dad passed a few years ago, he left behind several enormous collections. One of them was a collection of about 700 78rpm records that he collected as a young man.

Mom had a dealer give the collection an eyeball, and he offered her 10 cents a piece. With the economy being what it is, and with the requests (ahem, no comment, not me, I'd rather sell blowjobs for a 100 bucks a pop, and yes I'm that good, not that you were asking) some of her children and grandchildren are currently making on her in regards to funditude, I demanded that she let me go over them.

Heh. I've only waded through half the collection and have found about 40 records that have recently gone for amounts between $30 and $220 each on eBay. Feh. So yes, I've been knee-deep in dusty crap that hasn't seen the light of day in about 25 years too.

Which brings me to the current observation.

The other day, I took Big Kid to see his neuropsychiatrist. Since the office recently moved, I left extra time to find it, but it turned out to be a piece of cake. So we had to wait an additional 30 minutes or so because we were early.

The Doc's practice (there's about 6 docs and therapists there) specializes in patients who have somewhat severe neuropsychiatric issues, such as schizophrenia, MPD, rapid-cycling bi-polar, recovery from head injuries, etc. There have been a few times where while we were waiting, we've heard people screaming or having absolute fits behind closed doors.

While we were waiting, Big Kid and I watched the program "Galapagos" from cable on an absolutely incredible hi-def TV system. After a few minutes, Big Kid leaned over.

"Mom, take a look at the magazines in the rack on the wall. Isn't that weird?"

I hadn't noticed them at all, because normally, I bring a book if I have to wait.

There wasn't your uh "normal" waiting room fare there. You know, like People, Good Housekeeping, Time, etc.

There was Guns and Ammo, Weekend Sport Shooting (something like that), and some other magazine like Hunting for Fun amongst the National Geographic and Forbes.

Are we the only people who find that incredibly freaking nucking futso? I mean seriously?

It's like nuns with guns.

The Days Have Been Flying By...

Sometimes it just seems like there aren't enough hours in a day, doesn't it?

This week we've been running back and forth down to the city to have THD totally evaluated mentally and physically. It just happened that we set the appointments up when he got here at the end of March, and this is the soonest any specialist could see him as a new patient.

Unfreakingbelievably, we STILL don't have his new state-issued Medicaid card, although he has been assigned a number. Our local pharmacy and family doc took the number with no problems, but I had to do a lot of sweet-talking to the others to accept it. grr.

Like a used car, we're having the kid completely overhauled. It's been years since he's seen a dentist. Next up is an eye exam.

When he got here, THD's medical records were sketchy. Apparently, with all the moving around he's done, whoever was in charge of his care at whatever time didn't get records forwarded from all the previous carers. So he had a lot of diagnoses without any original evaluations. In fact, he doesn't remember even HAVING any primary evaluations. Except for an MRI in 2004 which isn't included anywhere.

So he came to us with a boatload of diagnoses hung around his neck without any data to back it up. Complete with prescriptions. It's been absolutely puzzling to us, simply because the kid REALLY DOESN'T SEEM TO HAVE ANY PROBLEMS (other than being a teenager)! We needed to do more than kick his tires, and in the last 7 days or so, we've had a complete diagnostic.

These are the results so far: ADHD? No. Whatever mild attention deficits he might have had could be explained as a result of anxiety and depression due to his life circumstances. He completed this final quarter at school with straight A's while holding down an after school job, and enjoying a budding social life without the benefit of ADHD meds.

Tourette's Syndrome? No. This diagnoses was actually grandfathered in when THD's older sister looked up "eye twitching" on the internet. She found Tourette's Syndrome, and the family started telling everyone he had it. He doesn't. He has eye twitching due to a brain injury he had as an infant in his biological home. It's called nystagmus.

Anxiety disorder? No. Duh. He was in multiple foster homes and even a shelter over an 18-month period. If you were worried that somebody was going to steal the only pair of shoes you had while you were sleeping, you might be anxious too.

OCD? Hah. The kid pees on the toilet seat sometimes and has to be reminded to wash his hands. Monk he is not. On a more serious note, he doesn't have any obsessive or compulsive thoughts or habits. This diagnoses just got attached like a bad smell that you can't find the origin of (so you blame the dog for poofting).

ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder)? Another dog fart. This is one of those issues that is self-controlled. You choose to argue or you don't. We happen to be a family that enjoys a lively debate as long as it doesn't include dish throwing or spurting stumps caused by machetes. Tomato, Tamahto.

RAD? While this is a very real and serious condition, THD's treating doctors feel like sometimes it is automatically attached to children who have been in the system whether they have it or not. If THD has it, it's manifesting itself in a mild way. He exhibits a strong capability to bond, but is impatient with silly girls who want a commitment. Doesn't sound like much of a problem to me. He's a teenage boy, for pete's sakes. LOL

Lowgrade depression? Maybe. He's on a low dose of an anti-depressant and that may be keeping things smooth for him. So he's going to stay on it for the time being. Everything else is gone.

How is he doing? Really great. Along with good grades, a job and friends, he is volunteering at the local animal shelter in his spare time. He's a guy who likes to keep busy. The honeymoon period is definitely over--hehehe--he's had to be on phone restriction a couple of times (oh a fate worse than death!), but all in all, it's a cakewalk compared to 99% of the rest of life.

The other day we were in the car and he said, "How come our dogs are soooo stupid?"

My eyes filled with tears. He said "our"! He really feels like he's a member of the family!

He noticed instantly and said, "Are you crying? Did I say something wrong?"

I didn't want to get all gushy and embarass him.

"You're not allowed to call my dog stupid! It's not HER fault her brain is the size of a walnut!"

LOL

Pooped...

Sorry I fell off the grid there. LOL

There has been a quiet change in Colorado case law regarding open records for adoptees and I volunteered to contact as many as I could find to make them aware of it.

The past few days have been exhausting but exhilarating as I've sent over a hundred emails and called more than 25 to speak personally.

Just too dang tired to blog.

Catch up in a few.

ATM