Home, Creepy Home

I suppose it is a sign of returning stability that Dirtman and I have begun casually searching for a house to buy.

Okay, maybe "searching" is too strong a term. Considering the rare alignment of circumstances, moods, cash flow, planetary alignment and moon phase that have to be in place for us to be able to become homeowners again, we stand about as good a chance of finding someone willing to float us a mortgage to buy a house as we do standing on the front lawn waiting for one to fall on us.

Let's say we're waiting for a house to call to us. One that the owner is willing to do the financing; a very trusting and understanding owner -- to take pity on us. Ironically, with rents as high as they are right now, it's infinitely cheaper per month to pay a mortgage and who couldn't use a little loosening of the ol' cash flow?

Oh, we're well aware that we are in the "fixer-upper" category in terms of what we are willing to go into debt over.

People don't do "fixer-uppers" anymore, though. They just tear down and build new. So "cheap houses" are sold for the land value and, around here, a property with a septic site goes for about the same amount as a "fixer-upper."

And then there are the "fixer-uppers" that are just beyond our abilities -- such was the case today. It was one of those creepy houses that the previous inhabitants, while dead, haven't quite abandoned yet.

This one would have had Dark Garden running out the door screaming.

Don't believe me, DG? Well, in the bathroom (the one with exposed pipes, no ceiling and hole-pocked linoleum) situated over the commode, was a sticky note that said "Don't forget to replace Mrs. Schneider's teeth in the morning."

Bye, DG...

Yeah, this place was special, all right. There were still canned goods in the pantry, covered with cobwebs and nailed to the wall in one of the outbuildings were instructions on what to do in case of a nuclear attack. And then there's that smell we who frequent abandoned houses all know -- that lovely blend of kerosene and mouse droppings.

Actually, it would be a dream come true for a person really interested in serious restoration. Because underneath the layers of linoleum and lime green plastic bathroom walls and tacky, cheap paneling was a 19th century log cabin. Gutted and restored, it could be a beautiful old house.

But I'm no Bob Villa.

So I had to be content with exploring the remnants of outbuildings that dotted the property while Dirtman pretended to still be interested in where the drainfield was located and how much trouble it would be to hook up to public water.

"It's morning, John! Bring me my teeth!"

Why?

Why does this make me laugh until I cry?

http://humour.200ok.com.au/soap.htm

I think the operative phrase is '15-year-old eighth grader'

Fla. student suspended from bus for passing gas

15 hours ago

LAKELAND, Fla. (AP) — An eighth-grader was suspended from riding the school bus for three days after being accused of passing gas. The bus driver wrote on a misbehavior form that a 15-year-old teen passing gas on the bus Monday to make the other children laugh, creating a stench so bad that it was difficult to breathe. The bus driver handed the teen the suspension form the next day.

Polk County school officials said there's no rule against flatulence, but there are rules against causing a disturbance on the bus.

The teen said he wasn't the one passing gas.

Whether he did it or not, he might have gotten off easy. A 13-year-old student at a Stuart school was arrested in November after authorities said he broke wind in class.

Information from: The Ledger, http://www.theledger.com

Copyright © 2009 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.



Ya know...we try to keep things high-brow around here...

At the bird feeder and the wisdom of Eight

This is absolutely the best time of year to have a bird feeder.

The goldfinches and house finches are starting to color up. The mourning doves have paired off, if they hadn't been already. The grackles strut around on the ground, puffing up their feathers to show off their virility.

And the starlings -- ah, the starlings. They have no inhibitions. It a starling orgy out there when a flock flies through.


Poor ol' Danny Kaye, though. Every time he attempts to get something to eat, he is chased away by the mockingbird. He finally grabbed a couple of bites today, shielded from his tormentor's view by two dove couples. I can only hope the mockingbird is in it's nest when Danny's mate comes out to eat at night.

I have made up an entire drama in my head about what's going on at the birdfeeder. We'll keep it there lest my sanity come into question*. Again.

*I confessed to Heir 2 the other day that ever since I was a little girl I gave numbers personalities and relationships to each other. While he agreed that One really needed to get over itself, we disagreed about the personality of Eight. He thought Eight was evil, but I assured him that Eight is the wisest number of all. This is probably the point at which I lost him. I think it was when I said, "Eight is the Ben Franklin of all the numbers."

Linguini 54, where are you?

If you are wondering where I’ve gone, know that the answer is not very dramatic.

It seems we have internet problems. Whether this is a server problem or something on our end, we can’t be sure. Having dealt with this provider for over a decade, we know that a phone call asking if they are having problems will always – always – yield a negative.

The first time this happened we threw all kinds of money into the problem, since we were told the problem was at our end. Almost $500 later, it turned out to be the server problem which they only admitted to us (and their other thousands of customers) after they’d solved it.

Lesson learned.

The next time we had problems we again stupidly called the server, thinking that if we pointed out to them their previous infraction, they would come clean.

I know – fool me once, etc., etc. This time, though, we waited it out, though it took weeks and – lo and behold – suddenly our internet was working snappily again and yet another “apology” on the server’s web page.

Now we’re once again being kicked on and off the internet. We’ll be buzzing along for about three minutes at which point it claims our internet connection is not working, followed by a claim that our internet is working, we just have an invalid address, after which it will partially reload the page and then quit and then, finally, after about five to ten minutes of this, give us the page we want.

Yes, we’ve check all the connections. We have defragged and removed the spyware. We’ve called in the Heirs.

At any rate, posting has become a nightmare of staring at error screen after error screen. I’m supposed to be researching something and it’s taking what would be a 2-hour task and making it into a week-long ordeal.

I coulda swore I left a mountain range back there

Remember that Stephen King short story The Langoliers? The one where an airplane full of people is stuck in the past and reality is disintegrating around them? Remember the movie and that shot of the disintegrating past chasing them down the runway? I still have nightmares about that.

Well, ya know how when you look out my back doh-wah door you see this?


This morning when I let the dogs out, this is all I saw.

Run, Zsa Zsa! Run!

Should I start driving?

Never too old to maul a pumpkin

All I needed, I told Heir 2, was a jack 'o' lantern to put next to the door where I want the trick or treaters to go tomorrow. He was too old for this sort of thing, I admitted to him, but if he didn't do it, I was going to have to do it and I still hadn't cooked dinner or vacuumed or given his brother a haircut yet.

I was happy when he agreed pleasantly enough and I made a point of baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies by way of gratitude.

According to our neighbor/landlord, we do get a few trick-or-treaters and this is a first for us. We were always in an area too rural. When the Heirs were little, we had to drive to an official "neighborhood" to trick-or-treat, causing resentment among a few of the residents -- okay, one crabby old lady -- who felt she should only have to supply candy to the kids in her neighborhood. Were she flooded with kids I would have agreed, but the subdivision was so small, even with the added rural kids, she probably didn't even finish a bag of candy. She complained about the neighborhood kids too: they didn't ask politely enough or were too loud or their costume didn't show enough initiative. Pretty soon all the parents learned to avoid her house. All she had to do was keep her outside lights out and no one would have bothered her to begin with.

Anyway, apparently we will be visited upon this year and, since we technically have two front doors, I'm setting up Gnigel with a tiny pumpkin in his lap and the jack 'o' lantern next to the one most accessible.

But...

He was having way too much fun... um...

carving...

...I'm pretty sure there's a scene like this in the movie "Hannibal."

Just call Heir 2 Mr. Sluggo.

Rumor has it, also according to our neighbor/landlord, that one of the guys who has a farm around our little village dresses up as the Headless Horseman and rides his horse through Mt. Olive. I hope to get a photo now that I've figured out how to work the aperture on my camera. I'm not very good at it yet, though, so he'll probably be a mile down the road before I get the setting right. I don't want to spoil the effect for everyone by having the poor guy pose for me.

See? I thought Halloween was going to be just another day now that the Heirs are grown and now it's becoming A Thing. I just may go out tomorrow and buy some good apple cider at Rinkers and our traditional Halloween treat (at least when I was a kid): Hostess donuts* -- the box with four powdered, four plain and four cinnamon donuts. It's just not Halloween without the Hostess donuts.

*I don't know if Hostess is available around here. Dirtman insists they sold that portion of the business to Little Debbie. It's immaterial. They must be variety donuts.

The Cathetered Gnome

First there was this.

Then there is Dirtman's version -- or, rather, our water delivery guy's version.

These have been Linguini on the Ceiling Special Depressive Reports. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging, already in progress...

to make a list of all the items I mentioned.

Anyway, this is the point I'm trying to make: Listen for once! Is that so much to ask. And if so I would like to leave you with this thought and this image:

How many more squirrels must die?

Her first step toward a life of shallowness and conspicuous consumption

Holy Mother of God!



NO! NO! NO!

My question is...

...And perhaps those of you who actually took and passed a physics class can answer this for me..

How do we know for sure where we are right now?

(Dirtman reminded me Heir 2 actually got an "A" in Physics and is, in fact, contemplating majoring in Physics in college; but I fear my question will be met with the standard eye roll that tells me Heir 2 expects to be wiping drool from my chin any day now. I would prefer an answer from someone less anxious to sign me into Happy Acres Rest Home.)

The Denny's at the end of the Universe

...and we were there.

We were there with Dark Garden who, hopefully, will lend his rendition of this little excursion. This was a Denny's only Dark Garden could explain to effect.

No. No photographic evidence is available. All electronic equipment was drained of power the moment we walked into the dark, shadowy vestibule and heard a creaky voice rise from the skeletal being lurking behind the ancient podium and say, "How many in your party?"

I just want to say, I'm sorry, John Boy: We will never, ever, get Dark Garden back into a Denny's of any sort. I know, it's always been a struggle anyway and perhaps when we drove up the the dank, fetid cinder block building, we should have known to turn around and go elsewhere to clog our arteries. But I chose to see it as "Vintage Denny's" and put a positive spin on things.

But Dark Garden -- he knew. He knew like dogs know an earthquake is coming or New Orleans voodoo queens can smell evil. He was like Damien in The Omen just before they get to that church for a wedding. Remember that part where seconds later he's clawing at the car upholstery to prevent being taken inside?

Oh -- and John Boy? You would have loved where we went next: We went to a WVU soccer game where, after two halves of regular play and two periods of overtime; after everyone had melted into a puddle at the bottom of the bleachers thus providing the only liquid in the entire stadium because THE CONCESSION STAND RAN OUT OF WATER AT HALF TIME; all for a final score of 0-0! I can't tell you what a riveting game a score of 0-0 yields!

There we were, just sittin' on the bench...

A few years ago Heir 1 got a speeding ticket during the first year he was driving. In this county that meant he was required to appear in juvenile and domestic court.

Not to give any excuses, but while everyone I talked to related horror stories about their kids doing 95 mph on the interstate or 65 mph down a gravel road, we were there for him doing 40 in a 35 zone. I’ve done 40 in a 35. Daily.

At any rate, there we sat in our Sunday best, just like the instructions told us, in a waiting room full of the lowest life forms the county could scrape out of the sewer – and their offspring. At the time I turned to Heir 1 and said, “If you ever make me sit here again, I will kill you in your sleep.”

Three years later, Heir 2 gets into a minor fender bender and there we were, back on the bench (resisting…the…urge…to…break…into…Alice’s…Restaurant…).

Now I have to admit up front that our length of time spent in the waiting room is completely my fault. We were actually called in right away and Heir 2 went before the judge neatly dressed and with an aura of humility. The officer was not there and the judge proceeded to dismiss the case. We were on our way out when the prosecutor pointed out that the officer had been told to report at 2 p.m. and it was now only 1:40 p.m. Upon hearing that, I paused outside the door in case the judge wanted to call us back; even though the deputy had told us to go on; even though the judge looked like he was going to let it go.

So the deputy calls us back and the judge sends us back to the waiting room until the officer shows up and the docket opens up. On our way back to the waiting room one of the defending attorneys whispered to me, “Next time, keep walking.”

So back we went, only now the room was full. Ya know how three years ago it looked like the court attendees were scraped out of a sewer? Well, take those scrapings, heat ‘em up a bit and let them stew in a dank, dark, nicotine encrusted hotel room for three years and that will give you a rough idea of what was inhabiting the waiting room.

So there we are, sitting on the bench, me in a dress (the dress – I own one) and Heir 2 in dress pants and shirt and a tie, just like we were told, sitting next to women in cutoffs so short their butt cheeks were spilling out, boys with pants down around their crotch, and men who hadn’t bothered to shave or bathe for several days.

“We just may be too naive to get out of this unscathed,” I mumbled to Heir 2.

But he was in shock. He couldn’t speak.

No, not because we had to wait a long time to know his fate; but because sitting across from us was a woman a large as me, but with considerably less and tighter clothing and a tattoo on her ankle. But all that wasn’t particularly remarkable.

It was the mole that horrified us – the biggest, hairiest mole we’d ever seen. Try as we might, you could not not look. It was a mole with its own zip code.

Then there was the teenager dressed like a hooker – a really used up hooker – making eyes at Heir 2 and an old lady with one of those flat-looking tanning bed tans and talon nails who turned out to be the teenager’s mother, all looking like they had a family business of sorts they were petitioning the court to allow them to maintain, what with gas prices being so high and all.

But we sat on, looking like two deer caught in the headlights, trying to discuss happy topics like eventually being able to leave. And I think the bailiff took pity on us and finally called us in. The officer told the judge Heir 2 had a good attitude and was a responsible driver all-in-all (he was one of Heir 2’s Little League coaches back in the day), so the case was dismissed and we hightailed it back to the car before we caught something.

“Mom…that lady,” Heir 2 stuttered on the way home. “I couldn’t…stop…looking…at…the…mole.”

“Yeah, there were some pretty rough characters there,” I admitted.

“But the mole…”

“Yeah, it was pretty memorable,” I agreed.

“And her tattoo said, ‘I (heart) AXOR,” he said.

“Who is AXOR?” I pondered. “Maybe her boyfriend?”

“Uh-uh,” Heir 2 said. “It’s the name of the mole!”

And then there were none

Before I got married I was unique.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are 1 or fewer people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

But not any more.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are 515 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

400 Babies!

Thanks to Heir 2 and his POWER LEGS!

Covert footwear

See this shoe?
I want this shoe. I want this shoe even though it goes with absolutely nothing I own. I want this shoe, it goes with nothing I own and I never freakin' go anywhere requiring this type of warbrobe.

I don't know why I want this shoe. I'm not one to obsess over clothes. Oh, if I didn't have clothes I'd be obsessive about covering myself up. But, other than that, I buy the kind of clothes that "go with everything," requiring as little thought as possible in the morning. And, of course, I have the obligatory outfit for an unexpected funeral and this shoe won't match it.

Perhaps, though I want the shoe, I fear the shoe. Yes, that's right. Because possession of the shoe means the outfit will have to be bought, otherwise owning the shoe makes no sense. Then there are the accessories, not to mention finding somewhere to go to wear it all.

Then -- I can't go alone, so there is Dirtman to clothe. Dirtman does have the clothing to wear to places we don't go. He used to have dress shoes also but, since he wear them everyday without socks -- even while doing soil studies -- they look and smell like the hide of a dead horse.

So this shoe is nothing but trouble. I need to get this shoe out of my head, but I think there is a cookie on my computer that tells every site I visit on the internet to remind me that this shoe exists. It follows me everywhere. I'm researching the European Union and combating the atrocities in Africa and a happy little ad shows up on the site showing me this shoe -- not a pop-up window, but an actual ad. Like it knows.

I suppose They (and you know They are out there) want me to interpret this as a sign from God that I should buy these shoes, but instead it just creeps me out. What else do They know?

Can you count?

This is thanks to Dark Garden: