Less Than Zero

The good news, Robert Downey Jr's character won't drop dead at the end of this post, and neither will Susannah Hoffs (which, depending on your point of view, may be not good news at all). There is (also, depending on one's point of view), no bad news.

Moving on!

We are here, we are family, we are depositing as many teeny tiny errant Lego pieces in every imaginable crack, crevice, and crawlspace possible. We are concerned that that sounded funnier in our head than it appears in print. We are forging on, and have convinced ourselves that this is not so, and everyone has had an immediate laughter-induced coronary/embolism/major organ explosion upon reading it. We are NOT IN DENIAL. We are staying away from the caps key from now on, and we have also decided that we are not the Queen of England, so we can just shut the fuck up with this whole 'We' shit.

So, it's hot, Jaws is chewing up Florida teenagers like so much Bubblegum, Tom Cruise has replaced Anna Nicole Smith as the cockroach on the linoleum that is my life, and I'm now on cable high speed internet. (The first person who can come up with a logical connection to these three events clearly has nothing better to do, and therefore will not be awarded anything.) It's not what I was expecting, but then I was imagining that the sheer force of it would force my skin right off my bones, cause at least one of my internal organs to rupture, and the internet itself would jump out of my computer and dance around in a mad mad mad computerized version of the Macarena before smashing through the wall behind me with a drinking fountain and running off to live in the forest, feeding on smaller and slower computers. However, I did get to watch the trailer for Herbie, Fully Loaded, about 15 seconds before I even realized I wanted to, which was cool enough, I suppose.

We will have more to say later, we promise.

The Good Title is Still in a Box.

I'm back ... sorta.

I'm computerless ... sorta.

I'm glad to be back ... totally.

Film at 11:00.

Hitting The Wall

It's crunch time. In just a little over a week, we're packing up what's rest of our stuff and getting the hell back into Dodge. The house is a mess, little bits of schmutz everywhere, boxes in between the schmutz that is everywhere, and yes, it IS possible to eat too many peanut butter M&M's.

I can't clean, I can't pack anything else because I won't have room to put anymore boxes till the furniture is sold/donated/offered as a sacrifice to the great god Kerosene and his brother Arson Investigator.

However, I did release some pent-up frustration and anger when I offed the upstairs neighbor. I had to, there was nothing else to do. I was standing outside, all dolled up in a fabulous ensemble of house slippers, unwashed sweats, and a tee-shirt telling some guy named Frankie to just chill the hell out. There I was, with my youngest child surgically attached to my hip, watching my oldest run for the bus stop, when Mr. McSceevy from upstairs insisted on leering at me. Not mindlessly looking in my direction while imagining how good that mullet will look once the hairplugs kick in, no. Openly staring at me, while dropping his cigarette ashes all over my patio. He can afford rent and hairplugs, but can't be bothered to spring for an ashtray. Anyway, as I said, I had no choice. I had to incinerate him with my laser eyes. I was just going to go for his heart, to give the Medical Examiner a good something to think about, but once they were fired up, I was unable to control them, and he was reduced to a small greasy pile of ashes within seconds. And, wouldn't you know it, they immediately blew down onto my porch.

I just can't win.