the cheese stands alone

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Where's the cheese, Grommit?!

In A Pickle

David at Sketches of Strain said he was
underwhelmed by the amount of email he was(n't) getting. He begged for a little inbox love, even if it was something as banal as a grocery list.

You know I love it when they beg.
So I sent him my imaginary grocery list.

Now, on that list was the tasty item "pickled eggs". David replied that pickled eggs grossed him out, which is fine, to each his own and more for me. But that just put it into my head that I HAD to have some pickled eggs. For dinner. Along with the bleu cheese, crackers, veggie medley sour pickles and beer that I'd already planned on.

Quick explanation of why I eat like a capuchin monkey on crack: About once a week, the GM1 has duty, which means he is out for the night and dinner plans are extremely flexible. I usually scrabble together a plate of all the tasty morsels I don't eat when he's around because he makes that face. You know that face.
You made it when I said bleu cheese and pickled eggs.

Those of you with any grasp of basic body chemistry know what's coming next. It's not pretty. You might want to close your eyes before you continue reading.
Okay, yeah, I know, that's a little difficult. Give me points for warning you anyway.

I am spontaneous combustion waiting to happen. I am one big puffy beachball of toxic gas. I am a danger to myself and others. And I'm reasonably sure I am going to have to burn everything in the apartment. Febreze just ain't gonna cut it.

I know, I know, it's my own damn fault.... but oh my stars, it was GOOD eatin'.

Gotta go, I think the EPA is at the door.

Philosophy

Spare The Rod

The GM1 says he'd give Britney a spanking any day.
He's pretty sure Lucy Lui needs one too.

By Any Other Name

I got a phone call from my mom a few minutes ago. She needed movie advice.

Let me say, before we go any further, my mom is one of the few remaining Truly Innocents. She believes to this day that all her girls were virgins when we married. She has never uttered the "C" word, and I doubt she knows it exists. She blushes and peeks through her fingers on the passion-in-the-surf part of "From Here To Eternity". She thinks Britney Spears needs a good spanking. I love my mom.

When she called me today, she sounded confused. That's pretty par for the course when Mom goes to Blockbuster. Since her hearing went south, she's got two tiny little hearing aids that don't like Dolby or THX, so she doesn't go out to the theaters. She waits for films to come out on DVD and then catches up that way.

My mom is a busy lady. She's a professional seamstress, she hobbies with hummingbird watching and cat spoiling, and she is a pro at swap meet scavenging. So she gets a little behind in her movie choices.
That's why she rented "Boogie Nights."

"Hon?" she began. "I was watching this movie? "Boogie Nights", have you heard of it?"
"Good lord, Mom!" I said. "What did you rent THAT for?"
"Hon, all I want to know is, when is the dancing part?"
"What? What dancing part? How much have you watched? There isn't any dancing part!"
"Oh. I thought it was the next part of 'Saturday Night Fever'. I just love John Travolta. "
"Nope, it's got nothing to do with John Travolta, Mom."
"Hmmm. Okay. Oh, hon?"
"Yes, Mom?"
"You know that part at the end? Was that.... was it.... was that THING real?"
"No, Mom, sorry."
"Hmmm. I guess it was just one of them stunt weenies, huh?"

Stunt weenie. Oh yeah, I love my mom.

A Little Catch Up

I got all pissed off over at DaGoddess' place.

Margi's day bites the big one.

Speaking of big ones, Anna says Michael Jackson is opening Neverland for one day only to the public... at $5000 per person.
For $5000 a person, I'd open my home up 364 a year, ace.
I'm kinda low-rent, though, it would be BYOC.
Bring your own Culkin

Lynn proves what we all knew.... she's a dang sweetie.
Not to blow my own horn, but I pop up consistently in searches for "whale feces."
I have no clue.

Paul clues us in on ecoterrorists arsoning an SUV dealership here in Southern California.
I hate extremists of all type, and these moonbats are a group of the worst. Setting things on fire to defend ecological causes? Doesn't a car fire produce a huge amount of pollution? So a lot of car fires = a honking lot of pollution.
That being said, I like to say "Hummer".
Hummer. Hummer. Hummer.

Jeff takes on the whole flash mob thing. I guess he got stuck with the bill.
Trust me, it will be clearer after you read it.

Greg assisted with my job search by directing me to this helpful editorial on how to write a resume. I've already found #4 extremely useful.

Finally, Anton casts a nostalgic liver eye back at his college years.

Pull My Finger

One of the first things that happened to me upon my re-arrival to Southern California was an attack of the deja-new. Not unlike deja-vu, deja-new strikes randomly, firing off memories left and right when you rediscover a place after being away for three years. It's not like I really forgot, it's more like while my back was turned everyone moved things around just a tad, like bad Helen-Keller-ish practical joke.

I decided the best way to reacquaint myself with the old hometown would be to take a lot of day trips on public transportation to familiar landmarks. I decided this because our belongings were still in transit, as was our car, and our daily entertainment was centered around a very fuzzy reception of "Regis and Kelly" on a minature TV.
Nothing should ever center around Regis or Kelly, no matter how mercifully out of focus it is. They are inhumanly perky. They frighten me.

One thing I'd forgotten about during my time away was the quantity and quality of.... let's be nice and call them "colorful street residents". Or we could just cut to the chase and call them "bums". In Hawaii, there are relatively few street people. I guess it's a math thing, proportionally. Less population = less population wearing a bedsheet and a tutu pissing on the mailbox at the red light.
Suddenly they were everywhere. At the bus stops, on the bus, on the trolley, in the fountains. Ranting, raving, glowering, scowling, babbling, begging.
And I forgot the first rule of dealing with transients- no eye contact. Ever.

So as I sat on the bus, looking forward to going home after a long day trudging around the zoo, I smiled at the man who muttered an apology for bumping against me as he walked up the aisle of the bus. He smiled back with all the teeth he could muster (3). And then he sat down next to me.

This man had issues. He had fashion issues, as evidenced by his layered wardrobe, giving him that trendy Michelin Man look. He had personal space issues, meaning he had no problem scooting over against me until we were almost sharing a thighbone. He had hygene issues too, at least from where I was sitting downwind.

"Lookit here" he sputtered at me, and held out a shaky, crooked, filthy finger. "Dis my holy finner".
"Uh... what?" I stupidly replied. (Rule two- don't respond)
"My finner. See? Jesus lives in my finner. I gots a Jesus Finner. G'wan, touch it."
"No, no thank you, that's okay."
"It'll give you a blessin', girl. It got power. It's my Jesus Finner."
"No, it's fine, not really necessary."
"TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER! TOUCH IT! TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER!!"
On the other side of me, the GM1 was helpless with laughter. Chivalry is dead.

The JesusFinger man got off the bus at the next stop, pausing on his way out the door to wave it over us in a general blessing move.
I waited three days before I ventured out on my next mass transit attempt.
And that went fine.... until the Crazed Vietnamese Violinist got on the trolley.

That's another story for another time, though.

Despite it all, or maybe a little because of it, I'm glad to be back.
I'm really glad, though, that my car finally got here.

Look Behind You

For any earlier manifestations of The Cheese Stands Alone, please go back here and here.