Vacation Time.

It's that time, dearies. Tam and I are hitting the road for a two-week stay at my folks place. The house will be occupied by various male offspring employed by us to feed the cats and keep bad shit from happening in our absence.

Internet access is pretty much hit and miss, although I may attempt to spend a little extra this next month and get my phone attached to the interwebs so I can stick my netbook on the bluetooth and ohmyhead all this technology is going to make my brain pop. Suffice it to say, I'll do my best to stop in and tell you all about the joys of visiting elderly parents.

Did I mention that Spawn and Middle Minion will be joining us? Oh, that should be fun. Spawn is, at the very least, as stubborn and obnoxious as my mother and the two of them tend to butt heads on a regular basis. Guess who gets to referee... yeah. Tam will be there to pick up the pieces and hand out glasses of wine.

It'll be fun, right?

Long Time, No See…

or,

Welcome Back, Og!

There was an incident in a coffee shop today. Evidently my psyche has decided to take a swing into the manic (why thank you, Mother Moon), and my ability to cope with certain types of people has gone from “barely there” to “DIE YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS!”

The type of person of which I write is the bi-pedal “Stupidous Ignoramus,” an all-too-prevalent sub-human. This type of creature does NOT bring out the best in me; rather it brings out the beast in me. Specifically, the beast known as Og.

To the uninitiated, Og is my alter ego, a tutu-wearing, wand-wielding, tiara-sporting, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, semi-domesticated troglodyte. Og does not suffer fools lightly.

Or pretty much at all, actually.

But Og has been noticeably absent for a while. In fact, Og kind of took off when the former Lord Of The Manor moved out. No, the two are not one and the same, quite the opposite, actually. The former LOTM is a kind and patient fellow who can, and will, allow the vulgarities of others just roll off his back. Perhaps it is because of that very attitude that Og came into being, after all, SOMEONE had to say something to the ignoramuses or they’d just go on thinking they were right.

Then Tam moved in. Tam is a woman who not only agrees with Og’s (and my) philosophy of intolerance toward idiots, but embraces lunacy in general with wild abandon, and Og is nothing if not a lunatic. Same goes for Tam. She also does not suffer fools lightly.

So, it was a pleasant surprise to feel those familiar surgings of my inner troglodyte while attempting to place an order for coffee at my local coffee shop. Actually, it started even before I placed my order, but it had been so long since we’d been together, I didn’t recognize the signs.

My first hint that it would not be a fun time at the coffee shop was when we approached the counter with a bag of semi-precious gems known as coffee beans. We’ve been keeping to budget and buying the cheap, mass-produced crap coffee for so long, we decided a treat was in order. Besides, if we’re going to pay a premium price for coffee, we’d rather it be for good coffee, you know?

Tam handed over the treasure and asked to have it ground. The Tit-head behind the counter asked, “How?”
I swallowed the words, “In the machine, you stupid tit, unless you plan on grinding them between your thighs, but we’re not paying extra for that.”
Tam gave her a questioning look and asked, “What?”
Tit-head tried to look superior when she said, “Cone or basket?”
Tam was about to say something when an employee with brains came over and asked, “What kind of grind for your coffee maker?”
“Oh,” I said, looking at Tit-head, “percolator.”
Tit-head blinked? “Cone, or basket?”
Og snorted in my ear.
Brains said, “I have it,” and with a smile he took the bag and went off to do our bidding. Tit-head asked, “Will that be all?”
Tam looked at me, “Did you want to order a coffee?”

Spawn, my daughter, is a former barista. She has taught me many things about coffee. Important things like, “Never order a mocha latte, because there is no such thing. It’s either a mocha, or it’s a latte. A mocha is a latte with chocolate in it.” I learned my lessons well and employ them as often as I can afford it. She also told me about a drink called a breve. A breve is a shot of espresso with steamed half-and-half. Decadent and lovely. I wanted one. So I ordered a “tall breve” to which I got the full Monty of Tit-head’s stupidity.
“What kind?”
“What do you mean ‘what kind?’ Just a breve.”
She ROLLED HER EYES AT ME and said, “Mocha breve or latte breve.”
My teeth clenched because Og was going to say something rude. “Just…a…breve… please.”
Tam, also a former barista back when baristas had to brew coffee over a fire in a cave, knew what I was talking about and was going to help set the record straight, but Tit-head interrupted her by once again spewing her misinformation at me. This left Tam even less impressed than she already had been.

And THAT’S when Og stepped in. The coffee shop was filled with people, people I did not want to upset, but people whom Og didn’t give a rat’s ass about. Tam sensed trouble was upon us and, instead of defusing the situation, decided to step back and let the shit land wherever it wanted. Fortunately for everyone else in the room, I managed to keep control long enough to say, “Forget it. Just forget it. I’m going outside.”

And I did, but I did not reach the car before Og took control.

Og have potty mouth. Og say bad words. Og not have good volume control. Og loud. Og tell whole world about stupid barista. Og not mince words. Og talk with hands. Tam know to stand far from Og when Og talk with hands. Og can leave marks.

Og drive home. Tam not say much. Og not leave much room in car for chat time. Og fill car with swearing. Og rant. Og make mean sounds about Tit-head parents. Og shout at random bad drivers. Out of car, Og stomp around, slam doors, foam at mouth, shout some more. Og beat chest and howl. Tam kiss Og. Tam say Og go edit. Silly Tam. Og no edit. Og text Spawn. Tell Spawn about Tit-head. Then Og write blog post.

Now Og want go get coffee. Og can show Tit-head how make breve. Then Og can show Tit-head bottom of toilet bowl.

Lucidity and Fuck Ass Crazy

Ok, it’s summer vacation, one of the major perks I enjoy as a public school employee. The pay may be crap, and the job is beyond stressful, but the summers? Oh, the summers rock! ROCK! \o/ (that’s web emoticon for, um, rock and roll. It’s supposed to look like someone with their arms in the air…)

Anyway, despite it being summer, it hasn’t been stress free, so one sleepless night I took what Tam and I refer to as “Stinky Ogre Feet” pills. They’re a mix of melatonin and valerian. Valerian smells REALLY bad. It’s so bad, I gag when I take it, but it helps me sleep really well. In fact, I sleep really, REALLY well, and the only problem with that is such a deep sleep makes my brain get all stupid so it shuts off the safety feature, and the lucid dreams begin.

I believe it was while in a melatonin/valerian sleep that I dreamed of Star Trek TNG’s very own Jean Luc Picard as a flamboyantly gay Locutus of Borg wearing a quilted pink Nehru jacket with matching pants and booties (one of which he stomped in frustration).

Very lucid. Very bizarre.

Enter my most recent bout of lucid dreaming.

In my dream, someone decided to put on a concert in the street in front of my house. I don’t recall hearing the music, so I figured the venue was somewhere else, but the instruments (primarily the drums) found their way to my neighborhood. One of the roadies was busy showing off for some groupies by playing an irritating rhythm over and over: ba-dum-bum, ba-dum-bum, ba-dum-bum, really fast and really loud. It sounded like a diesel engine.

I found it to be extremely irritating and wished like hell it would stop, but it didn’t. I got up, went outside and began yelling at the idiot to pack it up and get the hell out of there, then I came back inside, mad as hell, and told Tam all about it. Things get a bit tangled at that point and the dream shifted when the lead singer strolled through the thick of things. I don’t recall much of my dreams after that.

Later that morning, I mentioned my dream to Tam and she gave me a funny look.
“Um,” she said, “there were emergency vehicles across the street really early this morning.”
“No, it was a concert in my dream.”
“No, there really were emergency vehicles across the street. One of them was a huge tow truck with its engine idling for ages and you got up, stomped around, went outside, came back in and slammed the door.”
“I went outside?”
“Yes, then you ranted about something, said you had to go pee and stomped down the hall again.”
“Oh, god. Please tell me I was dressed when I went outside.”
“Yes, actually you remembered to put on your house dress before leaving the bedroom to yell at the two police officers, the tow truck driver, and anyone else who happened to be out there at five this morning.”

Not even two days later, the emergency vehicles again paid our neck of the woods a visit. We were more than a little alarmed to look out the window to see a fire truck (a BIG one) on the side street. Being the nosy old gal that I am, I headed out to see what the hell was going on. No one seemed to know, but I was nearly run over by a police officer charging his way (on foot) through my yard.

“Is everything ok?” I asked.
“Evidently your neighbor’s house is on fire, so we’re here to check it out,” he said as he stepped around my son napping on the front lawn (uh, the back yard is fully shaded in the late afternoon making it too chilly to nap in the grass). I watched the ladder truck back up and relocate to the correct residence. Tam and I scooted over to the driveway and watched the excitement. Pretty soon the neighbor’s son’s girlfriend wandered over and, BOY WAS SHE PISSED! She’d been searing chicken for dinner when the backyard was overrun by police and fire personnel.

It seems the bat-shit crazy “neighbor” that lives behind us (and adjacent to my other neighbor’s backyard) called the fire department saying the place was on fire. I don’t know about you, but to me, burning houses rarely smell like barbequed chicken. Also, if my house was on fire, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing around talking and laughing and waving cooking utensils or grilling my dinner, all of which were being done in clear view of the crazy neighbor (the same neighbor who sent the city after me for an untidy yard last summer).

Wanna come live in my neighborhood? We be whacko here!