Expatriate Games

Gather round, children, and I shall tell you a tale. It begins in a magical kingdom called Citrus Heights. You see, the nobles would have you think the kingdom looked of this:

Aw, how quaint and lovely!

But the townspeople – they know she looks of this!

What vile treachery is this!

Verily.

So, is there a chance that Burlington might have looked different were it not stationed in the abominable crosshairs of Greenback and San Juan? Perchance, yet truly methinks not. (I’ve seen the commercials. They can’t even get a spokesperson who isn’t animated to tie his or her name and reputation to the horrors therewithin.)

Though we knew that cover of darkness would make the musk and vapor more vile and ripe with demonic aura, twas truly nearing dusk when we did arrive. And on our walk towards the ruins, two wenches did approach and cast their horrific curses upon us. “Do you wear perfume  or cologne?” they did chant. Eyes forward, as a warrior passing Medusa,we hearkened on. “Don’t you wanna smell good?” one snarled. “We got that new Juicy,” the other beast spat. Quickly, we crossed the threshold, and yet our relief was short-lived. Once inside, a ghastly wilderness of gnarled and horrid patterns, of materials as threadbare as a spider’s web did hurl its curling fingertips at us as a witch would snatch her infant prey.

Up, up, up the mystic staircase we did ascend. Until we were delivered to a landing overflowing in filth, in ragged swatches of excrement. These, the fools called “coats”. And my senses. Escaped me. There, I threw one zippered garbage bag and that way, I cast another. Lost in a maddening maze of knock-offs and third-world quality, I cried out for mercy. Across the expanse, I thought mine eye did see my beloved, an unearthly garment upon his back!

Okay, TIRED. (Sorry for the abort but I’ve been through a traumatic ordeal.)  Long story short, I became “irrationally” upset and “paranoid”, simply because I could taste a sweet, pungency on the air and deduced that it was probably some sort of biochemical agent lacing the air being pumped into the store and that perhaps this was one of those Resident Evil locations where people are killed with an airborne poison. O_O

So, I called my son to me and promptly descended to the ground level, rushing back out to the car to regain sanity. (Before we were truly gone, we were approached by two more perfume girls-who-probably-were-”you-know-whats”-on-the-side. I’d check Craigslist for their likeness, but this would bear too much fruit.)

The End.

Right, so that needs no explanation. But, you know what does? An ABC Family Movie called “Legally Blondes” in which the train wreck that began as a campy, tolerable movie with that Moon character from old-school McDonalds commercials culminates in a movie with TWO bottle blonds holding tiny chihuahuas going straight to TV (after a stint on BROADWAY with such timeless songs as “Blood In The Water” and … Legally Blonde ON STAGE, as if that’s not enough). Explain that. If you’re still here and have understood the previous sentence. In the immortal words of Matheson: “Getcho hands off me!”

Just tears.

There may be more later. Right now, I need to soak my brain.

We are on Day Three (of Three), here at Morrow Birthday Bonanza Week. Of course, the only one we care about is Ezzie’s birthday. And though there was mourning (from me) and calmness (from Ezra, which helped my depression over his becoming a young man instead of my babyfacedbabyheadedlovalump, not at all!) – there was also a rather alarming amount of time spent at the mall. Which – when one takes into account the photo sitting and dairy queen and carousel – I guess makes a semblance of sense. And now. A snapshot of snapshots that made yesterday bearable.

The Wake Held For Ezra's Babyhood

Though it was divinity watching the godsiblings defy logic and be better behaved for a sitting when the other was present (and most of that goes for my little girl who apparently has made a mockery of modeling on past attempts to capture her beauty), I do hate time and its passage. “Get yo’ hands off me!”

HOMG. So let’s skip the pleasantries and just get into it, shall we? Seeing as sweat is truly glistenin’ all ovah mah bahdy. O_O

Today, Joshua decided to come over to Daddy’s house and clean The Garage. I say The Garage because. It is an entity all its own. Throughout my life, it has been clean three times if we can count the state we’re leaving in tonight. Once Ana had to clean it out to store her things while she went to Sicily and once Dad cleaned it. Now, I haven’t lived her for over nine years so maybe perchance there were more instances. But I’d bet my writing hand there aren’t. That’s. How certain I am. So aside from the fact that Josh’s powers of persuasion must have hit Pusher-style levels (um, did anyone else see that movie “Push” with Dakota Fanning?) – as in he said, “I’m going to clean Daddy’s garage” and somehow…Ana and I ended up sweating to moldies right there with him all day – how about. The man. Across the street – on the street perpendicular and on the left … cuz you care – who mowed his lawn. All. DAY. KWAT?! He actually came back outside a moment ago and started again. O_O We officially have a situation, frere.

So, I never told you about that time I ventured to the Apple store, did I? Sit. Do. So one day I foolishly walked into the Apple store to let them know that the iPod Touch I got for my birthday last year has on several occasions abandoned its function and decided rather to entertain me with colorful lines against a stark white background. I’ve rebooted it to default settings a few times (and also went five months with it on my dresser because, come on, I don’t really need it) and am now tired of that. So in I went! Forward! To progress! Except not. First of all: WHO IS TOO GOOD FOR REGISTERS?! @#$%! Come. On. So I’m idling around like a tool – which is what they want you to look like, btw – until some overzealous person who – woohoo. – has a job comes over to me and directs me to the receptionist. I go, but wonder, “Why don’t I just go to the register and return it?” Right. So once there, he nods and goes, “Right, well, actually, you can’t do that. You actually have to see a Genius and they’ll make sure it’s under warranty and replace it or fix it.” Oh. Okay. Unnecessary. Where’s the Genius. *snort* “Well, actually, you need to make an appointment to see them.” Right. So I’ll just return it. Where’s the register. “Actually a Genius has to handle the return. So I can get you in tomorrow at 1?” *Eyes half-mast* We book the meeting with the GENIUS BECAUSE MAC NEEDS TO CALL THEIR CUSTOMER SERVICE SLAVES GENIUSES BECAUSE THEY GOT A TOUCH OF TRAINING HIP HIP HAZZAH. EXTRA. Anyway, so on the day of my meeting with the GENIUS. I get there a tad after. Nine minutes is how long they hold the appointment. Now, I have no problem with the fact that I was late and they went on to the next person. The part where I started yanking arrows from my quiver came when the girl tried to reschedule me for another day.

Did you TRULY think I was going to spend a THIRD day’s gas money to drive back to the store to RETURN A BROKEN ITEM? Coonery.

So, after raising my eyebrow and speaking really clearly or whatever, I got her to understand that wasn’t an option. After about thirty minutes of someone telling me they were right on it, the guy just opens another one, hands it to me and has me sign something. Wow. Glad I made an appointment and junk. GENIUS. I coulda done that, were it not for laws against shoplifting. But no, thank you for that.

Oh, did I mention he didn’t replace the film thingies I’d gotten to preserve the touch pad/screen? Yeah, he didn’t.

What Andy did to the donkeys, I had to do to the duck-lipped, flesh rail of VD. I can’t even say her name lest the vultures return. And I won’t even disgust you with the latest search engine terms that have been apparently bringing people here. Like, are you not embarrassed that – though I may not know who got here by searching for “p*ssing, sh*tting, sc*t, p**p” – you do?! Seriously. How do you live with yourselves?

Dude, remembering to blog is not coming easy right now, mes amis. The Santa Cruz exodus is finished, the Sacramento interim is quickly slipping away. July is upon us?! My son is supposed to turn five? Methinks not, calendar. I’ll have none of this. – See, like for one thing? The aforestated was written whilst it was still June. And here we are, three hours into the first day of the Official Month of Morrow.

I did this in the meantime!

You may have noticed that I’ve done no brushing up on the French thus far. No worries. I saw this in a movie once. All works out. Magically – or fictionally? – upon arriving in Montreal, everything learned between 1996 and 1999 comes rushing back. So. Really. Worry not.

You may also be alarmed to f ind that I do not have The Sims 3 game yet. And that my sister (WHO DIDN’T EVEN APPRECIATE SIMS 2 AND SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS!) does. And that I’ve been playing that SimSocial thing, which routinely deletes your most recent achievements to ensure you do not think it fun enough to forgo expeditiously getting the game. LAME. Aside from which, someone has already made Nathan Explosion and how pissed off am I even though it hadn’t ever occurred to me to make a Nathan sim. What. Ever.

Other than that, I’m lulu-ing “the first book” for my greatest fan (determined by her obsessive need to buy all of the books for which I send her a direct access link, regardless of whether I tell her it takes me posting them in book form to figure out that there are seberal typos that need fixing and the font needs to be larger… so I basically have to replace every single thing she’s bought) and lord almighty did I love this whimsical world but cringe at the drama that is melo. For trizzle. Man. And yet I still love the story. The funny thing is I’m pretty sure it’s more melo than the YA book I finished senior year of high school. (So by “first” up there, I clearly meant the one I’m posting soon is the first thing I at one time thought might actually be sold at some point. Which, if you’ve missed it, no. No, it shan’t. For verily…I cringe.)

On second thought. It's too hot for all that.

It’s 3:15am and I’m totally writing what I’m sure is an obnoxious post here, what with the semi-nonsensicalness spattered throughout. Let us end with this.

This, my friends, is called a leap of super faith.