Jon's Jeep died. No jumping would cure it. Jon assumed, since it was starting harder and harder that it was the alternator. So we called Ed, our lovely dime store mechanic (don't get me wrong, I love this guy) who came over and installed a new alternator. It still wouldn't start. Ed switched batteries with his van. Battery is fine. He takes the starter off the Jeep. He then bangs on the starter and hooks it up to jumper cables and a live battery. Starter decides to work. He then puts the starter back on the Jeep and it roars to life. Apparently, the leaky seals have leaked oil onto the starter and the oil has leaked into the starter. He said he's coming back next Sunday to tinker with the starter and tear it apart to clean it out. This man, as far as I am concerned, is a genius, and somewhat of a magician. He seemed perturbed that he didn't think of this first and sorry that we bough an alternator. Eh, whatever, one less thing to have to replace later. New alternator means I shouldn't have to buy one anytime in the near future. Ed genuinely loves to tinker that makes him incredibly valuable so we always give him more money than he asks for; and he never asks for much.
My neighbor, Betty's, car got stolen. It was a crappy Dodge Stratus with umpteen thousand miles on it. And it was an ugly gold color, the front end didn't quite line up, and other things. She'd saved up $200 to buy it. No idea why anyone would want it. No one heard or saw anything. So weird. She talked to us about it for a while today. She's still looking for it--even in bits and pieces on Craigslist. Her boyfriend's dad gave her a car to use. She can't afford to buy one. She's in college and sounds like she works to pay for her own bills (I like her more every time I talk to her). And, it was stolen basically from in front of our house. This is frightening. Not that I have much to steal, but if someone steals our cars we'll be shit out of luck just like she is. Her and her dad Dwight are the most personable people who live next door. The mom is really crabby and the son won't even wave.
After three years I have learned I have tilt-in windows. Which means I can clean the outsides of my windows from the inside of my house. Wow. I feel stupid. I had no idea why I could take screens out and not figure out how to put them back in. Also, my windows are cleaner than they were when we moved in. This is one repair they did right. There are lots of repairs/upgrades (including the kitchen cabinets that previous owners installed) that were obviously rigged up. My mom has always wanted these windows which is probably why I had no idea what those weird little switches were for. Today, since I was waiting for the Jeep to be repaired I decided to investigate. I am glad I did. The only windows I have yet to clean are the small ones in the window room and the bunny room windows.
Ramble. Ramble.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Top Ten Stressors
So, once again, Jon says I am acting crazy. Go figure. He even listed some of my top ten stressors to improve my mood, or piss me off further, who knows?
So here it is, my top ten list:
1. I hate where I live.
Oh, the house is just fine, I don't care that the plumbing is shady, that my dryer quit working and that I've decided that since we are poor that I'll say the hell with the dryer and go for indoor and outdoor clotheslines. But I hate where I live. I hate that my neighbors are 10-20 feet from my house. I hate that its a suburb of Detroit. I hate that no one on the block even knows my name because I sure as hell don't know their names or even know anything less than obvious about them because NO ONE FUCKING CARES here.
2. I hate that I am trapped. I don't have the money to move again. I can't even ever seem to save up more than a few hundred dollars, and, once I do, something breaks that needs serious and immediate repair. Our house will never sell because people are afraid to live in Redford because it "is rough" and because we've never been able to fix anything that's been wrong with it since we've moved in except for the porch, which really was the least of its problems. Also, its value has dropped at least 10,000 dollars since we signed the mortgage.
3. It's too loud and bright here. The sirens on the freeway never stop, the sound of traffic is endless, the neighbors' barking dogs, the phones ringing in the neighbors' houses, the sound of horrible screaming children, the constant annoyance of Jehovah's Witnesses...it never stops. Ever. It's enough to make me want to take an assault rifle to the highest point in town and just start popping people just so there will be less of them. The sky is never actually dark. I wake up at 5 am because its too fucking bright in our bedroom and can't go back to sleep. The sky is orange and there are no stars.
4. I can't take walks. I want to take walks, real ones, up hills, down hills, across streams, in the mud, in the sun, in the rain. I don't want to see a person I don't know, a car I don't recognize, or walk by houses whose occupants I've never met. So, of course, I don't take walks. Which makes me sad and makes stress.
5. Jon wants me to feel guilty. He does. He lays it on pretty thick when he says I'll just sit still and drink a pint of vodka. Maybe I will. So what? I don't drink daily, or even every week. So when I want to drink I might just down a whole pint myself. My body actually processes alcohol pretty efficiently. I've been hungover a total of four times in my life. And only once severely. I've downed more pints of vodka than that. My whole family can hold their alcohol. And, since I have no car since he took mine, and his won't start, why did he bring this up anyway? I don't HAVE any vodka.
6. I don't go anywhere. There is simply, nowhere to go. I don't want to go shopping, I can't afford anything, and I don't think buying a bunch of shit is going to make my life any better. The parks all suck because they aren't parks in any stretch of the imagination. They are picnic tables, softball fields and filled with boring self-important people who run because they might gain an ounce, or oh, no, they have screaming horrible children and I can't relax there. If I feel like it I might visit a friend but I don't make a habit of popping over to someone's house just because I'm bored, plus this would get expensive in gas money. All the ones I want to see live more than ten minutes from me.
7. My job sucks. Not that most people's don't. I hate the Nazi's and lately have been letting my duties slide because I don't give a fuck. Why should I care to enrich some CEO's pocket's? I don't make shit, I'm just a grunt whose sweat these people suck off of to make millions. Fuck them. Why do none of the boys get stuck on register duty, but I've been there five years and know more than any of them and I am still pulling 8 hour register shifts? Gee, because its a sexist corporation.
8. Facebook. It started as a way for me to keep track of my family but now, I want to barf every time I read some sickening sweet status about how so and so's baby is special because its a god damn baby. No, its not special. It's a baby. Sometimes I think there should be an option to block anyone mentioning "baby" and "precious" in the same sentence. I used to miss my brother. Now, I think I can do without seeing him because I don't want to be in the same room with his wife and their new spawn. I don't get all warm and fuzzy about being an aunt. Unless they can potty train it before it can walk by saying "Out, pee?" and the kid responds by crawling toward the front door, I am not even impressed. It's a kid. An expendable cog in the wheel of humankind.
9. My parents. I love them but I know they think I've made all the wrong choices, including moving here, and marrying Jon. I have known they were right about me moving here for a long, long time. But I guess its my own life to ruin as I see fit. My dad isn't really fond of Jon, at least not that I can see. He's not outwardly hostile, he just doesn't really like him. The hell of it is, I even understand why and am not angry that they feel that way...and maybe I should be a little angry.
10. Jon. How come he gets to go berserk and crazy and I try to bring him out of it, but when I do, its the end of the world and he leaves me to my own devices? Who wouldn't be stressed?
So here it is, my top ten list:
1. I hate where I live.
Oh, the house is just fine, I don't care that the plumbing is shady, that my dryer quit working and that I've decided that since we are poor that I'll say the hell with the dryer and go for indoor and outdoor clotheslines. But I hate where I live. I hate that my neighbors are 10-20 feet from my house. I hate that its a suburb of Detroit. I hate that no one on the block even knows my name because I sure as hell don't know their names or even know anything less than obvious about them because NO ONE FUCKING CARES here.
2. I hate that I am trapped. I don't have the money to move again. I can't even ever seem to save up more than a few hundred dollars, and, once I do, something breaks that needs serious and immediate repair. Our house will never sell because people are afraid to live in Redford because it "is rough" and because we've never been able to fix anything that's been wrong with it since we've moved in except for the porch, which really was the least of its problems. Also, its value has dropped at least 10,000 dollars since we signed the mortgage.
3. It's too loud and bright here. The sirens on the freeway never stop, the sound of traffic is endless, the neighbors' barking dogs, the phones ringing in the neighbors' houses, the sound of horrible screaming children, the constant annoyance of Jehovah's Witnesses...it never stops. Ever. It's enough to make me want to take an assault rifle to the highest point in town and just start popping people just so there will be less of them. The sky is never actually dark. I wake up at 5 am because its too fucking bright in our bedroom and can't go back to sleep. The sky is orange and there are no stars.
4. I can't take walks. I want to take walks, real ones, up hills, down hills, across streams, in the mud, in the sun, in the rain. I don't want to see a person I don't know, a car I don't recognize, or walk by houses whose occupants I've never met. So, of course, I don't take walks. Which makes me sad and makes stress.
5. Jon wants me to feel guilty. He does. He lays it on pretty thick when he says I'll just sit still and drink a pint of vodka. Maybe I will. So what? I don't drink daily, or even every week. So when I want to drink I might just down a whole pint myself. My body actually processes alcohol pretty efficiently. I've been hungover a total of four times in my life. And only once severely. I've downed more pints of vodka than that. My whole family can hold their alcohol. And, since I have no car since he took mine, and his won't start, why did he bring this up anyway? I don't HAVE any vodka.
6. I don't go anywhere. There is simply, nowhere to go. I don't want to go shopping, I can't afford anything, and I don't think buying a bunch of shit is going to make my life any better. The parks all suck because they aren't parks in any stretch of the imagination. They are picnic tables, softball fields and filled with boring self-important people who run because they might gain an ounce, or oh, no, they have screaming horrible children and I can't relax there. If I feel like it I might visit a friend but I don't make a habit of popping over to someone's house just because I'm bored, plus this would get expensive in gas money. All the ones I want to see live more than ten minutes from me.
7. My job sucks. Not that most people's don't. I hate the Nazi's and lately have been letting my duties slide because I don't give a fuck. Why should I care to enrich some CEO's pocket's? I don't make shit, I'm just a grunt whose sweat these people suck off of to make millions. Fuck them. Why do none of the boys get stuck on register duty, but I've been there five years and know more than any of them and I am still pulling 8 hour register shifts? Gee, because its a sexist corporation.
8. Facebook. It started as a way for me to keep track of my family but now, I want to barf every time I read some sickening sweet status about how so and so's baby is special because its a god damn baby. No, its not special. It's a baby. Sometimes I think there should be an option to block anyone mentioning "baby" and "precious" in the same sentence. I used to miss my brother. Now, I think I can do without seeing him because I don't want to be in the same room with his wife and their new spawn. I don't get all warm and fuzzy about being an aunt. Unless they can potty train it before it can walk by saying "Out, pee?" and the kid responds by crawling toward the front door, I am not even impressed. It's a kid. An expendable cog in the wheel of humankind.
9. My parents. I love them but I know they think I've made all the wrong choices, including moving here, and marrying Jon. I have known they were right about me moving here for a long, long time. But I guess its my own life to ruin as I see fit. My dad isn't really fond of Jon, at least not that I can see. He's not outwardly hostile, he just doesn't really like him. The hell of it is, I even understand why and am not angry that they feel that way...and maybe I should be a little angry.
10. Jon. How come he gets to go berserk and crazy and I try to bring him out of it, but when I do, its the end of the world and he leaves me to my own devices? Who wouldn't be stressed?
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Living in a Haunted House
Haunted houses; they have a reputation. Haunted houses are often remote, in some part of a dark forest where there is a perpetual storm and possible secret burials. The houses are occupied by the Munsters, or the Addams Family, or the vampires and witches from Anne Rice's novels and normal people fear to tread the dark, musty halls.
Add a couple "sheet-ghosts" for good measure.
I have always lived in haunted houses. My parent's house was in the woods. It was a Uni-Built that no one else but our family had ever lived in. My parents still live there. It's a very warm, happy place. I learned to be friends with the animals, play outdoors, and a healthy work ethic there. (I later learned how spoiled I really was as a child because I knew where 80 percent of my food was grown and the people who grew the food.)
This is a pretty close facsimile.
Strange things happened there. I heard voices. I saw boxes move on their own. I heard footsteps, doors slam, and I investigated. I heard whistling. No one was ever there. It happened at night, in broad daylight, when I was alone, or when I was surrounded by people. It simply didn't matter. I was only particularly afraid once or twice. The whistling was the worst. I had to ask it to stop aloud...it did, but it didn't want to obey, not really. My parents never really believed me, even though, sometimes, they heard the same noises I did and were puzzled. Like the sound of a door slamming, that, upon further investigation was locked with a padlock; they couldn't explain it and since they couldn't explain it, didn't seem worried about it. But, most of the time, I was the only one to witness the various weird.
My brother has never said whether anything happened to him there, and I never remember to ask.
I moved into my grandma's 1970 Detroiter. It was a tiny mobile home that was the first home my grandparents owned. They'd spent their whole lives renting and finally were able to scrimp and save to buy this tiny little piece of land with this tiny little trailer on it. It was yellow, white and black and bordered a forest/pasture, Mill Creek, which flooded, sometimes over the road, and a swamp. Vicious mosquitoes were our neighbors.
Yep, that's a Detroiter.
Oddly enough, about this time I also moved in with a Detroiter. My future husband, Jon, was from a suburb of Detroit. Also, because of the first initial of my grandparents', and my last name was on the front door was exactly the Old English script D of the Detroit Tigers...it seemed so strange at the time. My grandma wanted me to live there when she was no longer able to live on her own. She died soon after I moved in. I'd see things like her rocking chair rocking when no one was around; and ornaments on my small Christmas tree move for no reason....Jon saw things too. And, also, heard things. He had the idea that the ghosts didn't like him. I used to tell him its just Grandma, say hello...but if it had been Grandpa, I suppose Grandpa wouldn't have known who this guy was in "his house" and maybe it would have been creepy. Grandma had gotten to meet Jon a couple times and liked him, as far as I know.
I currently live in a 1949 house near Detroit that pretty much looks like all the other houses that were mass produced after the soldiers came home from WWII.
The whole town looks like this, for miles.
The neighbors are close enough that you can hear their phones ring when I am in my own yard, or sometimes, my own house. We have the largest trees in the area, and we still have those pesky mosquitoes since South East Michigan is basically an enormous swamp.
We have heard, individually and together, the sounds of happy parties going on inside our house. Muffled voices, muffled bits and pieces of music, happy sounds.
Lately, though, I have heard the same noise twice, and its quite disconcerting. Knocking. The dogs, know its not a person. How, I don't know, they just KNOW. Neither time did they bark or become the least bit excited. The first time, I was alone, in bed, reading. Jon was at a friend's house. I jumped up to investigate thinking one of Jon's friends must be outside knocking on the front door or that Jon himself was home and didn't want to bother with his key. Nope. Nothing. I called Jon, kind of spooked. He didn't think much of it. I am often unsettled by living around so many people when I was always used to living in a place where I knew all my neighbors even if they were miles from my house.
Tonight, Jon and I were both home, sitting on the sofa watching Netflix when the knocking happened. The dogs, not even Emma, the dog of constant vigilance who also isn't used to living around so many other people, turned a hair; I think she may have yawned. Jon was quite perturbed and did the thing I did the first time I heard the knocking; looked out all the doors and windows. Nothing. We have never heard other people knock on our neighbor's front doors. Also, this always seems to happen quite late at night...so the odds of that are fairly low. Emma, of Constant Vigilance, always notes all happenings at neighboring houses with a ringing bark anyway.
Emma, of Constant Vigilance
Just when I forget I've always lived in a haunted house, something always reminds me....that energy has to go somewhere, I suppose. Dead, but not willing to be forgotten.
I have always lived in haunted houses. My parent's house was in the woods. It was a Uni-Built that no one else but our family had ever lived in. My parents still live there. It's a very warm, happy place. I learned to be friends with the animals, play outdoors, and a healthy work ethic there. (I later learned how spoiled I really was as a child because I knew where 80 percent of my food was grown and the people who grew the food.)
Strange things happened there. I heard voices. I saw boxes move on their own. I heard footsteps, doors slam, and I investigated. I heard whistling. No one was ever there. It happened at night, in broad daylight, when I was alone, or when I was surrounded by people. It simply didn't matter. I was only particularly afraid once or twice. The whistling was the worst. I had to ask it to stop aloud...it did, but it didn't want to obey, not really. My parents never really believed me, even though, sometimes, they heard the same noises I did and were puzzled. Like the sound of a door slamming, that, upon further investigation was locked with a padlock; they couldn't explain it and since they couldn't explain it, didn't seem worried about it. But, most of the time, I was the only one to witness the various weird.
My brother has never said whether anything happened to him there, and I never remember to ask.
I moved into my grandma's 1970 Detroiter. It was a tiny mobile home that was the first home my grandparents owned. They'd spent their whole lives renting and finally were able to scrimp and save to buy this tiny little piece of land with this tiny little trailer on it. It was yellow, white and black and bordered a forest/pasture, Mill Creek, which flooded, sometimes over the road, and a swamp. Vicious mosquitoes were our neighbors.
Oddly enough, about this time I also moved in with a Detroiter. My future husband, Jon, was from a suburb of Detroit. Also, because of the first initial of my grandparents', and my last name was on the front door was exactly the Old English script D of the Detroit Tigers...it seemed so strange at the time. My grandma wanted me to live there when she was no longer able to live on her own. She died soon after I moved in. I'd see things like her rocking chair rocking when no one was around; and ornaments on my small Christmas tree move for no reason....Jon saw things too. And, also, heard things. He had the idea that the ghosts didn't like him. I used to tell him its just Grandma, say hello...but if it had been Grandpa, I suppose Grandpa wouldn't have known who this guy was in "his house" and maybe it would have been creepy. Grandma had gotten to meet Jon a couple times and liked him, as far as I know.
I currently live in a 1949 house near Detroit that pretty much looks like all the other houses that were mass produced after the soldiers came home from WWII.
The neighbors are close enough that you can hear their phones ring when I am in my own yard, or sometimes, my own house. We have the largest trees in the area, and we still have those pesky mosquitoes since South East Michigan is basically an enormous swamp.
We have heard, individually and together, the sounds of happy parties going on inside our house. Muffled voices, muffled bits and pieces of music, happy sounds.
Lately, though, I have heard the same noise twice, and its quite disconcerting. Knocking. The dogs, know its not a person. How, I don't know, they just KNOW. Neither time did they bark or become the least bit excited. The first time, I was alone, in bed, reading. Jon was at a friend's house. I jumped up to investigate thinking one of Jon's friends must be outside knocking on the front door or that Jon himself was home and didn't want to bother with his key. Nope. Nothing. I called Jon, kind of spooked. He didn't think much of it. I am often unsettled by living around so many people when I was always used to living in a place where I knew all my neighbors even if they were miles from my house.
Tonight, Jon and I were both home, sitting on the sofa watching Netflix when the knocking happened. The dogs, not even Emma, the dog of constant vigilance who also isn't used to living around so many other people, turned a hair; I think she may have yawned. Jon was quite perturbed and did the thing I did the first time I heard the knocking; looked out all the doors and windows. Nothing. We have never heard other people knock on our neighbor's front doors. Also, this always seems to happen quite late at night...so the odds of that are fairly low. Emma, of Constant Vigilance, always notes all happenings at neighboring houses with a ringing bark anyway.
Just when I forget I've always lived in a haunted house, something always reminds me....that energy has to go somewhere, I suppose. Dead, but not willing to be forgotten.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Antibiotics
Newsflash: I went to see a doctor.
Yeah, me. Wow. I hate doctors. But I guess I hate losing a battle against a sinus infection worse. Plus, I dragged Jon along for moral support because I always feel like I am going to be somehow attacked at the doctor's office. I go on alert; do things like notice all the exits and entrances; just in case I need to make a hasty escape.
I had an immediate dislike of the staff; which seemed to consist of several underemployed nurses just gossiping about their personal lives while the people in the waiting room...well, waited. They just weren't very nice or even, person-oriented.
Then, the questionnaire: really you need to know the date of my last pap smear? I have no clue. What the hell does it matter? I'm here for antibiotics. Oh, and you need the date of my last period? Ummm? I don't even know. I feel like my period is my enemy and that when I least expect it, it attacks stealthily to make my life suck.
Oh, and then the cheerful Do Not Resuscitate form....am I going to die, do you think, in a general practioner's office while getting antibiotics? But yes, if I am a permanent part of the vegetation I do not want any care given. Let me die. Jon understands this. He's the same way.
Then, the form about where to send the prescription. I told the nurse I didn't know because I hadn't been to a doctor in at least 8 years and she just stared at me like I'd just told her I'd taken a hit of acid and that I was going to squash her head like I'd squash a spider. Very professional.
Jon went with me for moral support; which was good, because I would otherwise have bolted at this point. People who have become conditioned to be so close minded that they can't even deal with others who defy convention frighten me. And, yes, society does condition people...brain washing them into believing something has to be a certain way or its not accepted by others. Ridiculous.
I learned the following:
1. I am fat...wow, what a bombshell. Yep, I know. I'm trying to fix this but my metabolism doesn't make it simple.
2. My blood pressure is a bit high. Yep, but, then days of decongestants wouldn't help. And the being fat.
3. And, hey, I do have a sinus infection. Wow. Really? I believe I told you people that when you asked me why I was here...which isn't a very welcoming question, actually.
And there's more to the adventure.
I went to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription and the very nice, very helpful pharmacist explained that she was going to have to call the doctor's office because the medicine he prescribed had been recalled. No fault of his, really. Things happen. So she called and got a nurse who was quite unpleasant. When the pharmacist asked if she could speak with the doc, she was told "he's with patients." When she asked about how long he'd be busy with patients, the reply was "it'll take as long as it takes." Wow. Being snotty to a pharmacist. Someone needs to be fired. Perhaps being unemployed for months and not being able to pay any bills or feed yourself would teach you to be nice to people.
So I went back home empty handed. Three hours later, when the nurse deigned to give the doc his messages, I get a call saying my prescription is ready!
Too bad doctor's offices don't have to be operated like a real business and have customer satisfaction numbers on the bottoms of the receipts. But doctors are part of a system that want us to be good sheep and not question authority.
I suppose they are amazed when they find out a patient is not a "good sheep."
After three weeks of feeling miserable on and off, the antibiotics are making the uck go away.
Yeah, me. Wow. I hate doctors. But I guess I hate losing a battle against a sinus infection worse. Plus, I dragged Jon along for moral support because I always feel like I am going to be somehow attacked at the doctor's office. I go on alert; do things like notice all the exits and entrances; just in case I need to make a hasty escape.
I had an immediate dislike of the staff; which seemed to consist of several underemployed nurses just gossiping about their personal lives while the people in the waiting room...well, waited. They just weren't very nice or even, person-oriented.
Then, the questionnaire: really you need to know the date of my last pap smear? I have no clue. What the hell does it matter? I'm here for antibiotics. Oh, and you need the date of my last period? Ummm? I don't even know. I feel like my period is my enemy and that when I least expect it, it attacks stealthily to make my life suck.
Oh, and then the cheerful Do Not Resuscitate form....am I going to die, do you think, in a general practioner's office while getting antibiotics? But yes, if I am a permanent part of the vegetation I do not want any care given. Let me die. Jon understands this. He's the same way.
Then, the form about where to send the prescription. I told the nurse I didn't know because I hadn't been to a doctor in at least 8 years and she just stared at me like I'd just told her I'd taken a hit of acid and that I was going to squash her head like I'd squash a spider. Very professional.
Jon went with me for moral support; which was good, because I would otherwise have bolted at this point. People who have become conditioned to be so close minded that they can't even deal with others who defy convention frighten me. And, yes, society does condition people...brain washing them into believing something has to be a certain way or its not accepted by others. Ridiculous.
I learned the following:
1. I am fat...wow, what a bombshell. Yep, I know. I'm trying to fix this but my metabolism doesn't make it simple.
2. My blood pressure is a bit high. Yep, but, then days of decongestants wouldn't help. And the being fat.
3. And, hey, I do have a sinus infection. Wow. Really? I believe I told you people that when you asked me why I was here...which isn't a very welcoming question, actually.
And there's more to the adventure.
I went to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription and the very nice, very helpful pharmacist explained that she was going to have to call the doctor's office because the medicine he prescribed had been recalled. No fault of his, really. Things happen. So she called and got a nurse who was quite unpleasant. When the pharmacist asked if she could speak with the doc, she was told "he's with patients." When she asked about how long he'd be busy with patients, the reply was "it'll take as long as it takes." Wow. Being snotty to a pharmacist. Someone needs to be fired. Perhaps being unemployed for months and not being able to pay any bills or feed yourself would teach you to be nice to people.
So I went back home empty handed. Three hours later, when the nurse deigned to give the doc his messages, I get a call saying my prescription is ready!
Too bad doctor's offices don't have to be operated like a real business and have customer satisfaction numbers on the bottoms of the receipts. But doctors are part of a system that want us to be good sheep and not question authority.
I suppose they are amazed when they find out a patient is not a "good sheep."
After three weeks of feeling miserable on and off, the antibiotics are making the uck go away.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Zombie Snacks
Still being sick, which I find very annoying; I have had loads of time to do vast quantities of internet searching. And, since Ruth was at U of M having a baby after being preggo forever...and various relatives have been posting annoying and multiple photos of drooling, snotty or otherwise, ucky babies, I decided to type "baby zombie snacks" into the all-knowing entity we call Google.
Apparently I am not the first person to view babies as something to toss at a zombie to make a clean escape....
There are various bibs, onesies and other apparel that proudly proclaim that your child is a zombie snack, just in case, I suppose, zombies can actually still read. Might come in handy, labeling food for the zombies. There would be less lurching about and then moaning in disappointment. I know if I were a zombie, I'd hate to have run/lurched thirty feet or more to discover that tasty morsel I'd seen from afar was actually a lamp post and not a toddler; so much the easier if it was labeled "Zombie Snack."
Mmmmmmm.....tastes like chicken
Also, it has never been addressed just how much meat a zombie must eat to survive. We all just assume they are ravenous bottomless pits, but at some point, even a zombie must be physically unable to gulp down more brains. So how do we know that babies aren't just merely snacks and not an entire meal? I mean the average baby weighs 7-8 pounds...that's one hell of a lot of protein and some tasty marrow bone to chew.
And, since we're labeling food for zombies, how about a nutritional analysis?
How many calories per brain?
Day Care could become the zombie version of McDonald's. Lurch to the window, pick a likely looking meal, gulp it down and then back to lurching, scratching and moaning in front of the television without even firing up an oven. Now, that's convenience!
Apparently I am not the first person to view babies as something to toss at a zombie to make a clean escape....
There are various bibs, onesies and other apparel that proudly proclaim that your child is a zombie snack, just in case, I suppose, zombies can actually still read. Might come in handy, labeling food for the zombies. There would be less lurching about and then moaning in disappointment. I know if I were a zombie, I'd hate to have run/lurched thirty feet or more to discover that tasty morsel I'd seen from afar was actually a lamp post and not a toddler; so much the easier if it was labeled "Zombie Snack."
Also, it has never been addressed just how much meat a zombie must eat to survive. We all just assume they are ravenous bottomless pits, but at some point, even a zombie must be physically unable to gulp down more brains. So how do we know that babies aren't just merely snacks and not an entire meal? I mean the average baby weighs 7-8 pounds...that's one hell of a lot of protein and some tasty marrow bone to chew.
And, since we're labeling food for zombies, how about a nutritional analysis?
Day Care could become the zombie version of McDonald's. Lurch to the window, pick a likely looking meal, gulp it down and then back to lurching, scratching and moaning in front of the television without even firing up an oven. Now, that's convenience!
Friday, April 13, 2012
BLEH
Nothing like a good fever to keep a person down. This is the third cold/fever I have had in three weeks. I just get over one, and get to feeling human again and another one pops up. The funny part is I almost think its the same illness. Same symptoms, same crappy feeling...and maybe it just never completely goes away?
I really want just to hibernate. But the virus has other ideas.
To defeat the body aches, muscle stiffness, and the feeling that I am living in some sub zero alternate universe, I piled on three blankets. To which the virus replied "Bahahahaha....you'll have to come out of your cocoon to pee about a thousand times tonight." I must have woken up every two hours to pee.
To try and feel better, I am taking mega amounts of vitamin C, but the virus says "That'll cost you...it will sting your sore, swollen throat and make you feel like vomiting because your stomach is full of sinus drainage."
To try and get the fever down, I took an Aleve, a fever reducer so that maybe I can handle a day at work. But, the virus has replied with a headache. I am still going to try to go to work. I may be home early, we'll see. I'm trying to repopulate my sick days, which isn't easy, considering.
One of my cousins assures me that this is exactly how she ended up in the hospital with bronchitis that the doctors thought was turning into pneumonia. Great. Just what I need. I really hope I can beat this thing. I don't even have a doctor.
I really want just to hibernate. But the virus has other ideas.
To defeat the body aches, muscle stiffness, and the feeling that I am living in some sub zero alternate universe, I piled on three blankets. To which the virus replied "Bahahahaha....you'll have to come out of your cocoon to pee about a thousand times tonight." I must have woken up every two hours to pee.
To try and feel better, I am taking mega amounts of vitamin C, but the virus says "That'll cost you...it will sting your sore, swollen throat and make you feel like vomiting because your stomach is full of sinus drainage."
To try and get the fever down, I took an Aleve, a fever reducer so that maybe I can handle a day at work. But, the virus has replied with a headache. I am still going to try to go to work. I may be home early, we'll see. I'm trying to repopulate my sick days, which isn't easy, considering.
One of my cousins assures me that this is exactly how she ended up in the hospital with bronchitis that the doctors thought was turning into pneumonia. Great. Just what I need. I really hope I can beat this thing. I don't even have a doctor.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Chickens and merchandising
Place: New Hudson, MI
Setting: Tractor Supply Company
Time of day: 12:30 pm to 8:00 pm
The store currently has an infestation of poultry various types of chickens and one type of ducks. People walk in the front door and crinkle up their noses and I often hear "What's that weird smell?" escape their lip flaps. Then, the "Awww....soooooo...cuuuuutteeeee" starts and they never, for some reason, equate that gross, funky smell with the poultry.
People are constantly taken aback when I tell them I think the poultry are "ucky." I enjoy doing this, and find myself doing it on purpose more and more often the longer the infestation lasts. I rather like the startled expressions the statement evokes and am waiting for the day when one of the customers asks me why. They never do. It's weird. And when that person does ask, I shall ask them to clean out the chicken bedding and water the little buggers. There are so many birds right now because the hatchery apparently amped up the order for Easter that the little buggers reek and are overcrowded and the bedding needs constant care.
I also enjoy watching Jason talk about the chickens. I have heard him, on more than one occasion, say the following: "Oh, they are bloodthirsty little devils. Yeah, I know they've conned you into thinking they are cute little fuzzballs and then, they'll all gang up and eat one of their brethren. Yep, they are cannibals. Sometimes, all we find are feathers and bones because they've got the blood lust. You see, chickens lack emotion because their brains are tiny. So it doesn't bother them to just chow down on one of their own." I always cackle because the people so clearly don't believe him and its true. Jason mostly just thinks chickens taste good and is as immune to the cute as I am.
And then, there are the dumb questions asked with such enthusiasm that sometimes I wonder if that person realizes how idiotic they sound. I am having more and more trouble holding my tongue. And the people who ask these questions never have a sense of humor about the chickens. So there are two answers. The real answer and what I am dying to say.
1. "What do you do with the chickens once the hatchery stops sending them?"
Real answer: we sell them until they are gone just like any other item in our inventory.
The answer in my brain: Pop them in the deep fryer, bones and all. It's quite tasty once you get past all the bone crunching and the chewy bit of feet. Mmmmmm McNuggets.
2. "So, what do people do with the chickens once they buy them?"
Real answer: raise them, either for meat or eggs.
My answer: why, teach them to play the piano, of course. We have one guy who has his own chicken orchestra and he travels the country charging admission. He's quite a hit, actually. He calls himself Colonel Sanders.
3. "Do chickens make good pets?"
Real answer: No.
My answer: Sure, you just turn them loose in your house, teach them not to poo in your bed or lay eggs in the sofa and they're excellent pets. Hours of enjoyment trying to get them to come to their names when called and hovering over the toilet once you've caught salmonella from them.
4. "Will they fly away?"
Real answer: No. They flutter sideways kind of and sort of fly, but not really. Chickens are not aerodynamic at all.
My answer: Sure. They migrate with the seasons like the lovely hummingbird. That's why everyone should have a chicken feeder in their backyard for the swarms of migrating chickens you see every spring.
5. "What do ducks do?"
Real answer: you eat them and they lay eggs. Also, they like to swim.
My answer: Oh, you raise them, then teach them to drive. Then, once they've been properly educated they get a job and move out of the house to raise their own families.
Come on, people. Wise up. The chick and duck sales are only a sneaky marketing technique to get your butts into the store so that you can spend money. No joke. The company makes more money on the accessories to feed the tiny little poultry and fence them in than on most other things they sell. And customers are all quite eager to part with money.
Example:
Chuck sees a small bag of chicken feed for $5. He thinks: hmmm... the birds are tiny, they won't eat much, buy the small bag. The bag with twice as much food is on sale right now for $6 which is a better deal but he doesn't see it because he don't think the birds will eat that much. And, Chuck believes that by buying the small bag that he will save a dollar.
Chickens eat A LOT. In fact, its all they do. Eat and poo. The bag that weighs 50 pounds is $15 which sounds like a lot until Chuck realizes he just paid $5 for 5 pounds of food and it won't even last a week. See what I mean? The company makes it really easy to part customers from their money.
Tractor Supply Company set record sales nationwide last year. It is one of the only growing retailers in the nation. Why? Because they have sneaky tactics. People think "hey, its a little hillbilly store, cool, they know my name in here, they recognize me, they are fairly knowledgeable about their products. They know about animals. They have good dog food and lots of pet supplies. THEY AREN'T WAL MART!!!!!!!"
Oh, yes, it is exactly like Wal Mart. TSC has over 1,0000 stores AND GROWING. It is a southern company controlled from Nashville, TN. Wal Mart is based somewhere in the south, like Alabama. Most of the products, like Wal Mart, and, everywhere else, for that matter, are made somewhere like China or Taiwan or Indonesia with a few exceptions. Associates are hired in at minimum wage. There is no commission. There is no job security. And, since three people can usually comfortably run the store, the number of people employed at one location isn't that many. Usually around 15 people. And, most of them will be part-time employees who may work two days a week for five hours a day.
Bolts are sold by the pound and not by the piece, which is brilliant since lots of hardware business can be garnered from Lowe's and Home Depot WITHOUT THOSE COMPANIES EVEN REALIZING they are being undersold! Men love bolts by the pound...its a sneaky way to gain a new customer. What the company won't earn off of selling bolts, it will earn by selling that same person an over priced tee shirt, over priced soda, over priced candy, ect. And the person will be ELATED that so much money was saved on bolts that they won't realize all the other things they bought were too expensive. All corporations do this.
Lots to think about the next time you are in a store that is selling adorable baby animals.
Setting: Tractor Supply Company
Time of day: 12:30 pm to 8:00 pm
The store currently has an infestation of poultry various types of chickens and one type of ducks. People walk in the front door and crinkle up their noses and I often hear "What's that weird smell?" escape their lip flaps. Then, the "Awww....soooooo...cuuuuutteeeee" starts and they never, for some reason, equate that gross, funky smell with the poultry.
People are constantly taken aback when I tell them I think the poultry are "ucky." I enjoy doing this, and find myself doing it on purpose more and more often the longer the infestation lasts. I rather like the startled expressions the statement evokes and am waiting for the day when one of the customers asks me why. They never do. It's weird. And when that person does ask, I shall ask them to clean out the chicken bedding and water the little buggers. There are so many birds right now because the hatchery apparently amped up the order for Easter that the little buggers reek and are overcrowded and the bedding needs constant care.
I also enjoy watching Jason talk about the chickens. I have heard him, on more than one occasion, say the following: "Oh, they are bloodthirsty little devils. Yeah, I know they've conned you into thinking they are cute little fuzzballs and then, they'll all gang up and eat one of their brethren. Yep, they are cannibals. Sometimes, all we find are feathers and bones because they've got the blood lust. You see, chickens lack emotion because their brains are tiny. So it doesn't bother them to just chow down on one of their own." I always cackle because the people so clearly don't believe him and its true. Jason mostly just thinks chickens taste good and is as immune to the cute as I am.
And then, there are the dumb questions asked with such enthusiasm that sometimes I wonder if that person realizes how idiotic they sound. I am having more and more trouble holding my tongue. And the people who ask these questions never have a sense of humor about the chickens. So there are two answers. The real answer and what I am dying to say.
1. "What do you do with the chickens once the hatchery stops sending them?"
Real answer: we sell them until they are gone just like any other item in our inventory.
The answer in my brain: Pop them in the deep fryer, bones and all. It's quite tasty once you get past all the bone crunching and the chewy bit of feet. Mmmmmm McNuggets.
2. "So, what do people do with the chickens once they buy them?"
Real answer: raise them, either for meat or eggs.
My answer: why, teach them to play the piano, of course. We have one guy who has his own chicken orchestra and he travels the country charging admission. He's quite a hit, actually. He calls himself Colonel Sanders.
3. "Do chickens make good pets?"
Real answer: No.
My answer: Sure, you just turn them loose in your house, teach them not to poo in your bed or lay eggs in the sofa and they're excellent pets. Hours of enjoyment trying to get them to come to their names when called and hovering over the toilet once you've caught salmonella from them.
4. "Will they fly away?"
Real answer: No. They flutter sideways kind of and sort of fly, but not really. Chickens are not aerodynamic at all.
My answer: Sure. They migrate with the seasons like the lovely hummingbird. That's why everyone should have a chicken feeder in their backyard for the swarms of migrating chickens you see every spring.
5. "What do ducks do?"
Real answer: you eat them and they lay eggs. Also, they like to swim.
My answer: Oh, you raise them, then teach them to drive. Then, once they've been properly educated they get a job and move out of the house to raise their own families.
Come on, people. Wise up. The chick and duck sales are only a sneaky marketing technique to get your butts into the store so that you can spend money. No joke. The company makes more money on the accessories to feed the tiny little poultry and fence them in than on most other things they sell. And customers are all quite eager to part with money.
Example:
Chuck sees a small bag of chicken feed for $5. He thinks: hmmm... the birds are tiny, they won't eat much, buy the small bag. The bag with twice as much food is on sale right now for $6 which is a better deal but he doesn't see it because he don't think the birds will eat that much. And, Chuck believes that by buying the small bag that he will save a dollar.
Chickens eat A LOT. In fact, its all they do. Eat and poo. The bag that weighs 50 pounds is $15 which sounds like a lot until Chuck realizes he just paid $5 for 5 pounds of food and it won't even last a week. See what I mean? The company makes it really easy to part customers from their money.
Tractor Supply Company set record sales nationwide last year. It is one of the only growing retailers in the nation. Why? Because they have sneaky tactics. People think "hey, its a little hillbilly store, cool, they know my name in here, they recognize me, they are fairly knowledgeable about their products. They know about animals. They have good dog food and lots of pet supplies. THEY AREN'T WAL MART!!!!!!!"
Oh, yes, it is exactly like Wal Mart. TSC has over 1,0000 stores AND GROWING. It is a southern company controlled from Nashville, TN. Wal Mart is based somewhere in the south, like Alabama. Most of the products, like Wal Mart, and, everywhere else, for that matter, are made somewhere like China or Taiwan or Indonesia with a few exceptions. Associates are hired in at minimum wage. There is no commission. There is no job security. And, since three people can usually comfortably run the store, the number of people employed at one location isn't that many. Usually around 15 people. And, most of them will be part-time employees who may work two days a week for five hours a day.
Bolts are sold by the pound and not by the piece, which is brilliant since lots of hardware business can be garnered from Lowe's and Home Depot WITHOUT THOSE COMPANIES EVEN REALIZING they are being undersold! Men love bolts by the pound...its a sneaky way to gain a new customer. What the company won't earn off of selling bolts, it will earn by selling that same person an over priced tee shirt, over priced soda, over priced candy, ect. And the person will be ELATED that so much money was saved on bolts that they won't realize all the other things they bought were too expensive. All corporations do this.
Lots to think about the next time you are in a store that is selling adorable baby animals.
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