It really isn’t so difficult to understand: I needed warm boots, so I ordered a pair from a catalog.
First I was told that the boots I ordered wouldn’t be shipped until February 1 (I ordered them online a few days after Christmas), but I figured fine, whatever.
So I got the freakin’ boots and I loved them. They fit, they were warm, they were mid-calf, great tread on the bottom….perfect!
Until I noticed a draft on my left foot. The zipper was broken! I thought “Find a shoe repair person,” looked up such in the yellow pages, only to see that there was one in Wheeling, WV. I called the catalog and promptly ordered a new pair, with the stipulation that I return the defective boots and my credit card would be refunded.
Fine.
So the new boots got here yesterday and I packed up the other pair. I figured I’d send those out, seeing as how we’re going to get more snow, so I zipped on the new boots (exactly like the defective pair, mind you) and then the fucking zipper on the new boots broke.
“You’re fucking kidding me!’ I screamed.
I stomped in to my kitchen, grabbed the phone, and called the catalog company. I told some chick that the second pair of boots was defective, and no I wasn’t going to wait for another postage paid label to return those boots, I was going to pay to send both pairs back and “I’m never ordering crap from your company again!”
Slam!
Oh, I was hot.
See, I have boots, but they aren’t really winter boots. I told Husband I’d just wear the Trusty Dusties and put on a couple more pairs of socks. It’s a hell of a lot less fuss and bother than dealing with THE SPORTSMAN’S GUIDE.
Yesterday I finally made it out of the house (amid much snow, La Tahoe performed like a champ) and trekked to Kroger to load up on provisions.
I heard this song whilst cruising the aisles, and sang along as loud as I could:
Yesterday Husband attempted to plow the driveway.
When I say he attempted to plow, I mean he had little success. Remember, our driveway is a quarter of a mile long, and there’s a steep hill…and our tractor can’t get back up the hill!
Husband estimates about 14 inches of snow in the driveway, so the blade was pretty much moot, so he tried using the bucket to move snow, and it would have worked if the the tractor could have gained any kind of traction. The snow is that heavy crap, and then it got cold, which made it a bitch to try to move.
I walked down and back (great cardio) and asked Husband if he thought I should get La Tahoe out and going to try to tamp some of the snow down. I probably could do it, as Husband was able to clear a path out of the garage, but he worries that the snow would get packed and then all slippery once we get more snow in the next few days. At any rate, with the way the driveway is now Husband’s car would seriously bottom out, so he didn’t go to work this weekend.
Oh yeah, did I mention that the entire county is under a Level 3 Emergency? Yes, all roads are closed except to emergency personnel, and if anyone is caught out on the roads they could face arrest.
Well hell! Law and order every time, that’s me. You don’t need to twist my arm to get me to stay home!
I wonder, though, if there will be school tomorrow. Sure, the main roads are clear (we live on a state route, it was bare yesterday afternoon), but there are those back roads that are a pain in good weather. We’ll see…
Husband attempted to leave for work at o’dark thirty this morning, only to discover, as he put it, “A foot of snow drifted in front of the garage.”
So we went back to bed.
Waking up in the cold light of day showed us that the wind blew like a mutha’; there’s snow everywhere! All over everything on the porch, blown up into the screens on our sliding glass doors…it’s a frikkin’ winter wonderland.
Worst of all, it’s that heavy, wet snow that’s a real bitch to deal with.
Not to worry, though, as we’re all snug and safe in the house. The younglings had a 1 1/2 hour early dismissal yesterday from school, so by the time the snow really started flying everyone was home. (Including me, who spent yet another day at the middle school, but that’s a rant for another time.)
Husband will probably fire up the tractor in a bit to plow us out, at which point Son will be clamoring to head up to le Mart de Wal to spend the gift cards he won in the last bee.
I’ve been singing this all day:
Maurice Benard muses that maybe his character on GH, Sonny, should become a senator upon leaving the mob.
(I read somewhere that Benard is considered “the Pacino of daytime.” Ummm…)
Well, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch, would it?
Think about it: mob boss, killer, father of several children by different mothers…
He’s perfect!
Sonny also has legions of slobbering fans – Robin, Carly, Luke – so the similarities to The Messiah are uncanny!
Oh, let’s not forget that Sonny shot a cop! Perfect!
Someone on the linked website mentioned Sonny’s dimples and charm. Yep, good looks and a smooth demeanor seem to mean more in DC than actual principles and good moral standing.
So yesterday I had some free time (meaning I didn’t have to be at the miserable middle school), so I decided to sit down and watch The Breakfast Club.
You say “Vic, with all the movies you own, you pick that one to watch? WTF?”
Because I’d heard “Don’t You Forget About Me” on the radio on my way to the middle school one day and thought “I should watch that movie again, just for shits and giggles.”
So I did.
And I was disgusted.
One, because the damn thing came out in 1985. Damn! That long ago?
Second, because I remember vividly similar conversations and feeling alienated or what ever.
No comment on the pot smoking, though.
And I was suddenly embarrassed that I’d ever acted that way. Angry even! How stupid were we? I got a little chapped when Ally Sheedy’s character says:
“When you grow up, your heart dies.”
Oh give me a fucking break. No, when you grow up you realize there’s a shit load of responsibility and you don’t have time to sit around smoking pot and whining.
But I digress.
This does, however, tie in to observations The President and I made during our two days (yes, two) spent at the school getting our fundraising paperwork together. We both said:
“Youth is wasted on the young.”
Really. I sit and listen to the kids go on about this and that and just have to roll my eyes. At one point a young girl was complaining about another group of kids and I quoted from Prince:
“The beautiful ones always smash the picture. Always, everytime.”
“That was the theme song of my teen years. You guys do know who Prince is, don’t you?” I asked.
“Um….”
Youth! Neo-maxi zoom dweebies!
Happy Birthday to Clark Gable, born on this day in 1901 in Cadiz, OH!
So, you know that I have a Facebook account. When I get bored, sometimes I look people up on Facebook. One day, after hearing “Valotte” on the way home from Kroger, I looked up Julian Lennon, found him, and became “a fan.”
Yes, I had this album – still do; it’s somewhere in my mom’s basement – and I love, love, LOVED it.
Not a fan of his dad. Sorry, don’t shoot me, but I’m not. Not a big fan of the Beatles, either, but that’s for another time.
Anyhoo, yesterday I checked out Facebook and there’s a little blurb from Julian, something about a better future or somesuch. What struck me was that someone came back with this comment:
“It’s getting better all the time.”
I looked at that and thought, damn. Do you think Julian Lennon has never had his dad’s lyrics quoted back to him? And does Julian Lennon roll his eyes? Does it get old?
I mean, Julian Lennon knows who his father was, what his dad contributed to music…but is it like, I don’t know, a pain in the ass after all this time? Wouldn’t he want to be known as JULIAN LENNON, not just John Lennon’s kid?
For the record, I know if I said anything to Julian Lennon I would ask him how the hell he sat on a pebble playing guitar. Because I’m like that.
*Heh, did you notice how I quoted the most overrated song by the greatest band evah?
Forgive me for my lack of posting over the past few days, but I picked up an evil stomach bug of some kind that had rendered me pretty much useless.
I can honestly say that I’ve reached my limit with tea and toast, but I don’t dare try anything more than that.
Bleh….
Look who was named the Number One Soap Newcomer over at Daytime Confidential!
Forgive me for gushing like a fangirl, but this guy is hotness on toast!
I mean, did you see Friday’s episode? I knew what was going to happen – I mean, all those promos, even on Food Network! – but I have to say that for as much as GH has been slobbering in its love of all things MOB, the episode was really good.
I admit to tearing up a bit when Olivia flung open the doors and saw Dante, bleeding from that gunshot wound.
Shut up, I’m a mom…
Anyway, so yeah. Dominic Zamprogna is damn hot. May I suggest to the writers that they pen some shirtless scenes for Mr. Z?
So, have you heard of that Miche bag thing? You know, that purse that you can endlessly change the shells for?
Last night at the elementary school I saw two moms carrying Miche bags. One of the women was one of the PTO officers over there, and I said:
“Oooo, is that one of those Miche bags?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it? I mean, is it big enough and everything?”
“Oh yes, I like it a lot! I’m going to have a purse party soon, too!”
Purse party? I told her she’d better send me an invite.
You know I love purses. And I’ve got to admit that these Miche bags (which, in my early morning stupor just now I Googled “Miche gags”) aren’t tacky looking. You know, like just maybe these aren’t the Slap Chops (“You’re gonna love my nuts!”) of the handbag world.
I don’t know. Somehow….somehow they just don’t look big enough to contain the fabulousness that is GroovyVic.
Ha….ha ha!
Well, that and I hate looking like everyone else.
It’s purse monogamy, I’m telling you.
I don’t ever want to do anything like that again.
True to my word, I went over to the elementary school and helped out with the carnival. I was told I would be working a game. Fine by me, said I.
Ol’ Dopey here decided to go and work the Duck Pond game because it seemed straightforward and easy, which it was, but those kids…
Now, I realize that this is a very easy game with a prize guaranteed every time. The little kids love it because, let’s face it, not a lot of skill is required to pick up a duck and get a cheap piece of plastic crap for their trouble.
But there were certain kids that just kept coming back over and over and over and over…and there were only ten prizes they could win. After a while the kids actually got picky about the prizes.
One such kid was all “I don’t want a plastic frog! I don’t want another ring!”
At which point the child in me wanted to yell “I waaaaaant something to drink! Screw this game!”
But I didn’t. I waited until there was a bit of a lull, found someone to cover for me, and ran over to buy a pop.
After a while, though, the whole thing was just ridiculous. I can now relax, though, now that all is over, and take some comfort in knowing I took the high road and fulfilled my commitment.
Yesterday afternoon Son was on the phone with his buddy when Son suddenly rushes up to me with a panicked look on his face and says “Someone is on the phone for you!”
(My thoughts in italics.)
Dammit, why did we teach him to answer call waiting?
So I take the phone and for what ever reason hit the flash button. I put the receiver to my ear and just sit. I was in no mood to talk to anyone.
“Hello?” I heard.
Who the fuck is this?
“Yes?” said I.
“Oh, good, I thought you’d hung up on me!”
I wish I had.
“I’m calling to see if you’d be interested in working at the carnival at the elementary school Tuesday night.”
What carnival? Oh yeah, Daughter brought home a note about it; I remember reading it while I was running out the door to that wrestling tournament. I used the back of it to keep track of how many bags of popcorn I sold. I think I still have it…somewhere.
“Um, okay. What time?” I queried, because at this point I’d figured out who I was talking to.
“Oh, if you could be there at 4:30 that would be great! The carnival is from 5 to 8. You could work a game and that way you could keep an eye on your kids.”
Fuck that, my kids are staying home. More like keep an eye on your damn hooligan kids!
“Uh, okay, I guess I can. I’ll see you then.”
Fuck, shit, and damn.
I know what this is. The PTO over at the elementary school never has enough volunteers and I figure I’m what you would call the bottom of the barrel, because they’ve never called me to come in and help. And I know exactly what the evening will be like, too: I’ll have to work some asinine game like “throw the softball through the toilet seat” for three fucking hours and no one will be able to let me take a piss. And the turd children will be bratty and I’ll have to force myself not to smack every last one of them.
It’s happened before, trust me.
You say “But Vic! Daughter is at the elementary school! Shouldn’t you want to help out?”
No. Remember what high school cliques were like? The PTO over there is kind of like that. But I figure that, in the spirit of trying to maintain some good relations between the PTOs at the elementary and middle schools, I’d just better take it up the arse paste on a smile and help out.
And so, if anyone from that PTO happens to read this, yeah I’m kind of pissed. You all get so wrapped up in your bullshit and it drives everyone crazy. That’s why you never have enough volunteers.
That’s why I like being an officer at the other building. We’re mellow, and we don’t have all that crap going on. We don’t have volunteers because: 1) everyone is burned out from the elementary school histrionics; 2) everyone hates Mr. Principal Man.
Note to self: add to the list of calls Son is not to answer.
Some of the excitement from Thursday evening has worn off in the wake of just being damn tired. Both kids were up w-a-y past their bedtimes, so yesterday morning they were both dragging themselves up and out to school.
Yes, I would have let them skip, but there was some kind of end of the nine weeks party at the middle school that Son didn’t want to miss, and Daughter is still in that “I LOVE SCHOOL” mood.
Anyway, Husband sat down with Son last night and said that if Son wants to make a good showing at the county bee Son’ll have to do a lot more studying that he did for the district bee. Which is to say that Son really didn’t study as much as he should have. I told Son the words would get harder and then proceeded to pull up that past winning words from the National Bee. I couldn’t even pronounce some of those words!
Son, I think, just sees the dollar signs. He won $45 in WalMart cards the other night, he’d win savings bond at county, and the top prize for national is $30,000.
Oh well. We can’t force Son to want this. I personally would think it would be cool to go to Nationals, but I had my chance decades ago and blew it. This isn’t about what I want.
As Son is going on the county bee, he’ll get to miss a day of school to have lunch out, courtesy of the PTO. Yes, I get to take my own kid to lunch. After a conversation with The President I called down to the district office and invited Dr. Spike to come as well. I think the superintendent should be proud of kids in his district that do well, don’t you?
But should I have extended that invitation to the assistant superintendent as well? I met him at the district bee. Firm handshake, non-spiked hair. Hmm…
Now….
…where are all those dictionaries?
