My Cat, the Tuna Tam-o-Shanter

O Hai! I can has blog post?

Let me introduce to to you our very own Kvetch is the New Blog lolcat.

That's Twinkie. When he is snoozing. On a chair. DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS. PLOTTING MY DOOM.

What does he do at night? Oh, the usual. You know, become a 15-pound, tuna-scented tam-o-shanter. Yes. This involves first stomping around in circles on Queen Dweeb's cheek. Then purring loudly whilst doing the high step. On HER HEAD. Then chattering away with said TOOONA BREATH. Preferrably about one centimeter from her olfactory glands.

Have you had the pleasure of HOT TOOONA BREATH at 2 AM? Let me tell you. Is a pleasure.

After the chirping, circling and high stepping is complete, the settling in occurs. A nice, hot 15 pound dead weight, reeking of the fetid sea, wrapped comfortably around one's skull.

This too can be yours each night.

Oh, and don't dare suggest that he get locked out of the room. He RIPS THE CARPET completely up, crying piteously the entire time. When that is a FAIL, he shakes the door with his mighty LARD.

Needless to say, sleep is at a premium here.

Can someone find me a chipmunk to toss to him please?

On Stinky Beds, and Getting What You Wish For

This post was initially written Sunday evening.  I didn't finish it then, for reasons which will be explained later.  I thought about deleting it, but I kind of like it.  So you get it anyway:

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I have a couple of hours until the Redskins game, and I'm bored.  I'm watching another football game, but it's 8-7 in the third quarter.  You know how most people can't stand baseball because nothing happens?  Well, this is one of those games.  And I don't really care about either team.  So I thought, maybe I'll blog!  I haven't blogged in a while!  Blog is a funny word!

But, something's wrong.  I can't come up with anything significant enough to kvetch about.  I went through all my old standards- people suck, drivers suck, your mom sucks- but nothing doing.  So I was about to give up, and just watch football (men everywhere are saying YES!  Watching football is GREAT!- and normally, I'd agree with them), but then I thought of something!  Here's my big kvetch!:

My bed stinks!

Really, what's worse than a stinky bed?  You want to be all cozy and warm, and instead your olfactory system revolts.  The cozy has been superseded by narsty.  You get used to it and finally fall asleep, but then a weird dream shakes you awake.  Suddenly, on top of the Sarah-Palin-as-Treasury-Secretary nightmare you were just having, your nose crinkles with the return of the narsty.  Not fun.

So why is our bed stinky, you ask?  Did someone have an "accident"?  Did I yak during the aformentioned Palin-mare?  Did someone "move my cheese" into the bedroom, and forget about it?  (As an aside, isn't that the most asinine name for a book?  "Who Moved My Cheese?  Really?  And why did my mom think that I'd like it as a Christmas gift?)  

No, yesterday we bought a "memory-foam" mattress topper, in hopes of relieving my not-serious-but-highly-annoying back pain.  Though excited by the newfound squishiness of the bed, we were not expecting the septum-eroding odor of plastic that came with it.  Fortunately, it was warm enough to leave the windows open, to let it air out.  It was a smelly night, but I did sleep pretty well.  So the stink remains on our old crappy mattress, like a mountain guru- wise and mighty atop the highest peak, but with a notable stench.    

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So that's about where I finished my post.  I was about to edit, when my cell phone rang.  My good friend who lives nearby was in my driveway- with a flat tire.  He had been returning to his home from our mutual favorite pizza place when he hit a curb.  Fortunately, we were close, so he and his wife came over.  YAY!  Boredom averted!  We were sorry that they had a flat tire, but they have free roadside assistance, so why don't they just hang out and watch the Redskins game with us?  Great!  Uhhh.... wait.  Oh, shit.  He's a Dallas fan.  

We're good people, though.  We accept our differences, and appreciate them, and watched the game respectfully.  We even gave him a beer- with a Redskins coozie.  Take that!

I'll say it.

Victory!

For the first time in a long time, I am (even cautiously) optimistic about our nation's future. Now we all have to support our new president elect, and make sure that he (and ourselves as a nation) deliver on the promise that we have. It'll be a hard road for the near future, but can we get there?

Yes we can.

Now everyone chill out, be nice to your McCain-supporting neighbors, mend some fences, and have some fun. Because starting soon, we've all got work to do.

SIGN CONTEST: Need Ideas!

So someone stole the Obama sign from our yard.  We want to put up something snarky in return.  So far all we've come up with is:

"OBAMA!  He wouldn't steal YOUR sign."

But we're looking for something better.  You guys are funny.  Help!

Davids Bridal: The Inner Circle of Hell

Let's start this post out with a shout out to Undercover Nerd, who was married yesterday.

On that note, let's continue with the REAL point of this post, the bitter discontent with all things wedding-related, especially David's Bridal. As Undercover Nerd will be the first to point out, the entire wedding industry is run on a campaign of terror. Your dress? WILL NOT FIT. It also WILL NOT ARRIVE ON TIME. All orders must be placed roughly six months ahead of the wedding. Which is where our story begins.

Our lovely U.N. had selected yours truly to be one of her bridesmaids. Yes, so she could have someone to stand at the alter and COMPLAIN BITTERLY about everything. You know, because it makes the ceremony that much better. Anyhow, along with yours truly, there were three other bridesmaids, including the maid of honor. All of whom possess an inordinate amount of cleavage. One of which chose to sew a MODESTY PANEL into her dress, because, unlike the rest of us, she is TASTEFUL.

So off we troop to the bridal barn, to find a dress. With straps, that does not make us look like a sausage in the casing. For U.N., you see, did not want to be surrounded by a troop of Jimmy Dean breakfast links at her nuptuals, no. She wanted attractive, non-whiny maids to attend her. Perhaps she knew we would refuse to be her minions of bridal doom for the next few months otherwise. Easy enough, no?

Well, perhaps it would have been save for our attendant, who opted to not bring us any dresses, so U.N. and yours truly had to troop all over the store searching for dresses, which were loudly (by yours truly) being declared "FUGLY". At which point, a code word was needed. Lest we offend the blissful bethrothed in the store, who were looking shocked at my lack of love of the lace! and the frills! and the FUGLY! Good god! Did I mention the hideous, burning ugliness of some of those dresses? MY RETINA ARE BURNED?

The code word? BUCKET. Like that will fool them. Yes, the BUCKET dresses were left behind forlornly on the racks, and armloads of dresses were dragged back into the room. The attendant finally decided to help by bringing us STRAPLESS DRESSES. For a bunch of girls that could give Hooters a run for the money if they so chose.

In a flurry of chiffon and satin, lace and taffeta, dresses were yanked on & off, photos were taken, laughing ensued. Dresses were pronounced "too Golden Girls" or "Dag that makes you look like a Jimmy Dean" until the final contenders were selected for round TWO. Yes. Round two. Now with more 'maids!

Yours truly is hazy on the details, but is actually thinking there was one more stop in there, whereby she had to try on dresses again. Because there was. And this was the first stop on the incredible shrinking bridesmaid scale, which horrified the bridal barn.

You thought one of us was bad? Try all of us at once. And at this point, as yours truly had started to shed the lard from the horomone, I was already the wrong size. The lame attendant refused to admit, that holla! I might not be that size 10 or an 8 anymore, and I had to go find the 6 myself. Awesome. Then the dresses were all rejected summarily as BUCKET. The maid of honor needed a DIFFERENT DRESS. The bride had to find all of them herself for, lo, we were huffy at EVEN BEING IN A BRIDAL SHOP. Except for the one of us that's classy. With the modesty panel. She was good about everything. The rest of us? Not so much. With the snarking and the mocking and the getting the dagger-eyes from the brides who CAN'T BELIEVE that we're not all blissed out about a bridal barn in a STRIP MALL ON ROCKVILLE PIKE! THE NERVE.

Finally, the dresses are selected, BUCKET-FREE. We troop out, only one of us actually ordering the dress, with threats of death from the shop, because GOOD GOD, the WEDDING, it's ONLY THREE MONTHS AWAY. The dress that's ordered arrives three days later.

After many weeks go by, the bride to be reminds yours truly that the dress likely should be ordered, that the bridal barn had been harassing her daily because, the HELL? A BRIDESMAID HAS NOT ORDERED A DRESS AND THE WEDDING IS A MONTH AWAY.

So, back to David's Bridal, for lo, none of Queen Dweeb's clothes are fitting. Time for ANOTHER TREK UP THE PIKE! WOOT. Now with more burrito, because a burrito will make that dress fit MUCH BETTER. Back into the store, where the staff looks surprised to see me, and asks why I'm there (yeah, apparently little miss sunshine is their favorite customer in all the land, bick shock!). To try on the dress, Einstein.

Of course, my attendant? Nowhere to be found. Also nowhere to be found? A size 2. So the size 4 is nabbed, and put on. And it is MASSIVE. So then yours truly get to be the asshat that comes out and loudly demands: "DO YOU HAVE THIS IN A SIZE TWO? THIS FOUR IS FAR TOO LARGE. LOOK AT IT. HUGE."

It worked. They looked, dress was falling off of me, I was whisked back to alterations as guess what? NO SIZE TWOS to try on. And here's the best answer ever: order the four because the dress you order is ONE to ONE and ONE HALF INCHES SMALLER THAN THE ONE YOU TRY ON. Huh? Really? Because I try things on so that they fit. What is the purpose of having dresses that are bigger than what you order, pray tell? Seriously.

So yes, David's Bridal=the inner circle of hell.

Oh, and when my order was placed, this is what the chart looked like: everyone else's name and size, neatly arranged. Queen Dweeb. 10?8?6?4? ???????????

Literally.

Apparently, weight loss makes David's Bridal's head explode.

Oh, and yours truly was told when placing the order three weeks ahead of the wedding that the dress would arrive on the 12th, the day after the wedding. It arrived 5 days after the order was placed, of course. Fear mongers, they are.

In which I complain, and make cheap homonymic jokes

A few days ago, my wife told me one of the most annoying things that we, as homeowners could hear. "Optimisticalcynical*," she said "There's a puddle on the floor, and a bulging in the ceiling above it." And it was not raining, which means that there's an internal water leak, which means it is time for a plumber.

*Note, not my real name

I am, to put it plainly, not Bob Vila. I'm not dumb, I am just not able to do much around the house without instructions. I am capable of basic home repair, but I am not screwing with the pipes. However, using our collective intelligence, my wife and I ascertained that the leak was probably coming from the vicinity of our upstairs shower/tub. So, we resigned ourselves to the use of the downstairs shower, with the bracing semi-nude runs from the cold, cold ground floor that such showers entail. So, we didn't make it worse.

We have a home warranty, which is basically gambling that more stuff will go wrong with the house each year than we would be willing to pay out of pocket. The upside of this is that I get relatively cool through potentially expensive projects like this. I know that I will just pay the deductible, which is usually a good deal, and has already been used to procure a brand-new garbage disposal. The deductible is a not-insignificant $75, but what can you do. It's good when they solve the problem.

So I call. The insurance refers me to one of their plumbers. Also fine. Smooth sailing. The very nice gentleman informs me that he would come out that day, from 12 until 5. I did happen to be at work, and needed to stay there until 8, but you know. So, I made an appointment with him in the next day (yesterday), in the narrowest window he would allow. This still happened to be 12-3, insuring that I would likely miss a full day of work waiting for this guy. But, at least a professional will come and fully sort out my problem, making the necessary repairs, right? Right? Anyone there?

So, I wait. I do some dishes, I do whatever work I can from home. I sit and watch Idiocracy, knowing that I cannot go anywhere or do anything except stay inside until this guy shows up. At 2:00, the plumber rings my doorbell. He comes in, looks at the ceiling, at the pipes (there's an access panel) and at the tub. Thus far, I have waited from the time I got up at 7:00 until this very moment. This visit is now the focus of my incredibly wasted day. This is the moment I have been waiting seven hours for. He tells me that the seal between my shower and the tub underneath it is a little loose, and that caused my leak. A very small leak. Yay. The moisture will dry out if I leave the access panel open for a few days, and that the leak can be fixed with caulk. Yay! A simple fix. "So, can you caulk it right now?"

The guy informs me that THEY...DON'T...DO...CAULK. I'm sorry...I was under the fucking impression that they were plumbers. And that caulk, or, as it is sometimes known, plumber's caulk, was a basic tool of plumbing. Used by plumbers. While they are plumbing things. Which is what plumbers do. So, he writes me up a bill, tells me to leave the panel open, and tells me to caulk the places where he showed me the water was coming in. He asks for the check for the deductible, He says "Thanks! this was my easiest call of the day!" and then he shakes my hand and leaves at approximately 2:10 pm. He was a nice guy, a pleasant guy, and unquestionably a competent one. However, is it wrong to hope that his next job involves some sort of sewage flood? Breaking it down...

This was a 10 minute visit. this means that I paid him $7.50 per minute to squint at my pipes, point out the problem, and then tell me I have to fix it myself. This also means that my waiting time, from the time I woke up, was approximately 42 times longer than the time that he was actually there. And, he did not actually do a basic plumbing repair that he could have done in 30 minutes. Was he out of caulk? I would have bought him caulk. And donuts. And perhaps a hooker. Why? Because I now know that caulk sucks.

I know this, because I then took it upon myself to caulk the offending tub. I had to go out to where people were selling caulk, then I had to pick the caulk I wanted. Knowing my propensity for messing up, I got a big tube, so I would have caulk left over if I needed it later.

Then, I went to caulk the tub. Caulk applies pretty easily, sort of like cake icing, except more viscous and gross. Also, you can't waterproof a bathroom with icing. I've tried. Delicious, yummy failure. So, I got down on my knees in the tub, and started working the caulk. I put the caulk into every crevice I could find. The caulk goes on white, but dries clear. This is a problem, as we will see later. So, needless to say, I squeezed the caulk in, and it went all over my hands. I managed to clean the tiles, so that the caulk only went where I wanted it to go. Sometimes, caulk can be hard to control. Since caulk gives off fumes, I did the tub in stages. Or, the caulk would have made me light headed. It's hard to deal with a lot of caulk at once. So finally, after a couple of hours (involving smoothing, correcting mistakes, and re-caulking) , I finished off all of the caulking. I am no Bob Vila, but I think I did okay working with caulk.

Then, I went to wash my hands. Oddly enough, there are some problems in trying to get a clear, waterproof substance off of your hands with soap and water. It was as if I had dipped my hands in a less delicious version of library paste. I went out to dinner with the Wife and one of her friends later that night, and the clear caulk was still peeling off parts of my fingertips. I looked as if I had had some horrible disease, or a really bad sunburn. Of course, I do now have soft skin on my fingers. Is it true that caulk and its byproducts are good for yor skin?

The thing that really pisses me off is not the fact that I basically gave a guy $75 to tell me where a leak was, and then leave without providing any actual plumbing services. It's not that this makes me feel like I was cheated out of a caulking job that they guy just didn't want to do, meaning that I am some sort of a caulk sucker. It's not that I had to burn an entire day off waiting for this guy to tell me where the leak is. It's not that I had to make the repairs myself, when I basically have this insurance to make sure that a professional does those sorts of jobs.

It's that I still can't use my upstairs shower yet. Why? The caulk I used needs a day to solidify and cure before it is waterproof. That's right, I have to wait 24 hours until my caulk is hard enough to use.


"Thank you. I'll be here all week. Try the veal!"

I am as smart as a bucket. . .

Do you ever forget things? Like possibly where you put your keys? Or how to figure out a percentage without using a calculator? But perhaps you can remember where the Regal Begal was and that the older brother in Goonies was named Brand? And possibly lyrics to entire Debbie Gibson songs? Yes? Or is it just me that can't remember anything useful or practical or helpful (but oh, how entertaining)? I started thinking that possibly I should embark on some higher education so my brain doesn't atrophy completely and I end up voting for McCain just because his VP is a woman and I think that all women are interchangeable.

Anway, yesterday morning, in a response to an e-mail regarding higher education in general, I mentioned that I got a Phi Beta Kappa Key in college. And someone else didn't know what it was, so in order not to sound like a total dumbass, I looked up some information about it. And 'lo! I am special and possibly smart and even good at school and it's an honor, people. Did you know that? An honor! So I started thinking "Wow, I'm all sorts of awesome. I will start reading the Economist and do other smart things!" And generally was feeling kind of good about myself. Maybe I should use my brain for more than useless television knowledge

Then I went to Montgomery College to inquire about some more educating that I need for my nonsmart job and possibly to change careers to a more smart job. And still on the high of my aforementioned thinking that I am all awesome, the counselor looked up my records at MC. She casually mentioned that I don't have to take some computer classes because I already took them. Which I have absolutely no recollection of. None. At. All. So apparently I have taken two entire classes and completely erased them from my memory. Gone. Completely.

I ponder how I can possibly have senile dementia already and what I could have learned in these computer classes and when did I take these classes anyway? Then the counselor finds some more records of classes that I apparently enrolled in and never attended. In 1999. And did I withdraw from them when I didn't go? Not so much. So I have a 0.00 at Montgomery College. That's my GPA. A 0.00. I am so not smart.

I try to show her that after that I went on to college and did some smart things and possibly wasn't a deadbeat. I passed classes and even got A's - some with pluses! And did I mention that maybe I got a Phi Beta Kappa? And look here! I took Calculus for Engineers! For fun! My nerdery knows no bounds! But she was still shaking her head sadly and looking at me like the deadbeat that apparently I am.

So she gives me my options. I can take enough classes to average out to a 2.5 GPA (which would be a lot of classes), or I could file an appeal. This morning I look at the appeal form and they need an explanation and supporting documentation for my failure to withdraw. Supporting documentation? I really couldn't tell you what that would be. Possibly will direct them to the Regal Begal. Or something. Crap. Anyone have any ideas for the 30,000 classes I will have to take to get my GPA up? Possibly History of Television? Or could I teach one on how not to think you are all smart because someone will come along and smack you in the face with your dumbassery?