You are quite possibly the stupidest person I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter in my en-fucking-tire life. I’m not telling you again…CLEANER SHRIMP ARE MARINE INVERTEBRATES AND YOU CANNOT KEEP THEM IN FRESHWATER TANKS. Dumbfuck.

Oh my GAWD, are you fucking brain dead? How much weed did you smoke over the past month? WHY is it that no matter how many times I explain to you how an anti-parasitic works and how the life cycle of the parasite itself affects the method of treatment YOU JUST DON’T GET IT?! I’ve given you long explanations, short explanations, complex explanations, simple explanations, links to articles, links to product pages, and…not a fucking thing is sinking through that concrete skull of yours. NO, you cannot kill Piscinoodinium with bath treatments BECAUSE THE PARASITE IS INVULNERABLE WHEN IT’S ON THE FISH AND YOU CAN’T KILL IT UNTIL IT FALLS OFF ON ITS OWN. NO, you can’t stop antibiotics and switch to anti-parasitic UNTIL THE INFECTION IS GONE. Has the term “antibiotic resistance” never crossed before your eyeballs? Did my words not find a spot somewhere in your teeny brain where they could hang out for a while? We’ve been there, done this I don’t know how many times before and YOU DON’T REMEMBER ONE FUCKING THING. I’m tired of explaining it and I’m not going to do that anymore. Let’s keep it simple for you, mental midget–I’ll tell you what to do and you do it. Don’t ask questions, don’t expect any more explanations because I’m done wasting my time. I say it, you do it and maybe we’ll be able to get the poor fish through this alive. Arrrggghhh!

There’s twenty minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. Around 1000h (yesterday), P called JD to and left a message that he wanted to arrange a golf game. JD called right back, and said he was ready any time. P was all dressed and set to go, but I was still in my jammies. P told JD, “I’m all ready, but Lisa’s still…”, JD filled in the blank with, “…in her PJs…” and P followed with, “…but she’s fast–she can be ready in about fifteen minutes.” 😆 Never one to disappoint my fans (heh), I zipped around and got dressed, packed up my camera, grabbed the golf bag and headed out the door. We had to stop for gas and air in the tires, but we still made it to the course before 1030h (which I believe may be some sort of record for “woman getting ready to go somewhere”).

Yesterday was not a good day for either P’s game or JD’s. They restarted their game three (yes, three) times–got to the third or fourth hole and said, “Um, we suck–let’s start over”, and I think we were on the fourteenth hole when P suggested another restart. At first, I thought he was just joking, but when he asked JD whether he had time and JD said he did, I knew he was serious after all. Well, yay–the course is approximately 2.5 miles to walk, and we were on the home stretch. We cut through the woods and started again. I was tired, hungry and had a headache, but I do enjoy seeing them have fun when their games are going well (they’re so cute–like little boys), and this game had not been going well.

The second round went a lot better at first, then P sort of “lost” his arm (not literally!) and his score started to suffer. JD did well (came out one over par), and they both seemed to be having fun. I did think it was getting pretty late, but didn’t bother asking P what time it was until the 17th hole. By then, I wasn’t just hungry and tired, I was ravenous and exhausted, my head hurt even more and my back was aching. My hair was fucked up because it was quickly stuck into a ponytail before we left, then I had to keep putting up my hood so I didn’t get an earache from the wind. Anyway, P said it was two o’clock, and I said, “Um, aren’t we supposed to BE somewhere at two?” He said it would be fine; we’d just sort of sneak in the back.

We usually hang out for a few minutes at the picnic shelter after a game so I can tally the boys’ scores, but we had to get going because of the stupid wedding-farce, and JD had to get going because his wife is less than enthusiastic about his going to play on the weekends in the first place (and we’d played the equivalent of two full rounds). P and I proceeded in no particular rush to the….caboose (jeezus). There were maybe half a dozen people other than SP and DB there, and it turned out that they’d been waiting for us to arrive. Way to sneak in the back, beloved husband and brother of the “blushing bride”! Christ. The caboose was (as one might expect) cramped, dark, dirty, and smelt of oil. The bride and groom were dressed for a trip to the 7-11, and the minister introduced himself as a bishop from…the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Yup, their clergyman was a Mormon even though neither of them is. Well, whatever–he was probably the only one they could get to put on a suit to go stand in a cold, dark, smelly caboose and marry two middle-aged idiots. He nattered on for 20 minutes or so, then pronounced them married and had us all go inside the museum. I took two pictures of them standing in the doorway of the caboose, just so I can send one to people who wouldn’t otherwise believe anyone could come up with such a stupid way to get married. Inside the museum, I chatted for a few minutes with B and his daughter (sweet girl and obviously ADORES her dad, who adores her right back) and introduced myself to M (B’s girlfriend) while P stuck his head into the office where the happy couple (*eyes madly rolling*) were doing the necessary paperwork, told SP that we were heading home, and that was it.

Twenty minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. They owe me.

On a bright note, they did come by afterwards to get some of her junk, and said they’ll be back for the rest on Monday. Fantastic–I’m all ready to move our stuff around and make space in the rest of the house. Space that we should’ve had almost six years ago. 🙂

What a fucking joke. SP and DB are getting married today, and P said he’d like for me to go. They’re just wearing jeans, and the ceremony is at two this afternoon…(wait for it)…in a train caboose at the historical society here in town. Loser Dog Boy has a thing for trains, I guess. Jesus H. Christ–it’s 45 degrees outside, and the caboose is unheated, there for people to see what trains used to look like, not for wedding ceremonies. I’ll go because P asked me to, but it’s a fucking joke. He said it’ll take only ten minutes or so, and to just wear what I’m going to wear to the golf course. To my mind, if it’s not a big enough deal to bother getting dressed decently or holding the fucking thing somewhere that it’s NOT 45 goddamn degrees, then why bother with it at all? Just go to the courthouse on Monday, grab two witnesses there or a couple of homeless guys off the street (whatever), get it over with and get out of my fucking life, and my state. Christ!

Dog boy got into town yesterday evening, so the stinkpig left. It said it will be back probably some time today to get its stuff, but they’ll be here for a week (like I care). P is gone to work, and although the stinkpig spent nearly all of its time in its smelly cave, it still seems strange to know I’m here all alone in the house. Feels almost like the days I’d skip school after Dad was gone to work–like the whole wonderful day was spread out in front of me, all mine to do as I wished with it. Stinkpig still has a key to the front door (which I WILL be getting back once its got its junk out of here), so it could still get in, but it’s twenty past seven and they were probably up half the night, doing things I don’t even want to think about (jeezus, the thought of them nekkid and sweaty–shudder, shudder), so it’s unlikely.

They’re coming next Wednesday to put in the thingie for cable telephone. As much as I don’t like enormous corporations, it’ll be substantially less expensive for us to have our telephone service through the cable company ($118/mo. for digital cable, broadband and telephone with free long distance) than it is to have the services we’ve got now ($130 for digital cable and movie channels we don’t watch, $24 for local phone service, usually around $30-40 for long distance calls that I make), plus I can call anywhere in the contiguous 48 and Canada and talk as long as I want for free. I don’t know anyone in Puerto Rico, but I could call there if I want, too. It’s more expensive to the UK than 10-10-987 (7c/min rather than 39c connect, 3 c/min), but I only rarely make calls to the UK, so that’s really a non-issue. If the number that I have for L. is still valid (dunno), I’m going to call him out of the blue, just for the hell of it. The last time I talked to him was….oh, I think it was 1998, and unless he asked D., he doesn’t even know where I am, so it should come as quite a surprise. I’ll call C., too, though that won’t be much of a surprise except for the fact that I can tell him to ramble on as he likes (and he likes) without having to worry about what it costs. Hell, I may even call people I don’t really like, just because I can. 😆 I do want to call L., though; JD doesn’t look like him at all, but he has certain mannerisms that make me miss an old and dear friend. P. will probably have a conniption fit the first time or two, but he’ll get used to it. I’ve known L. since we were not quite thirteen years old and that’s ample time for anything that could have happened. I don’t think of him that way, though; he’s just interesting and fun to talk to because he’s fiercely intelligent and quirky. Besides, it’s driving me batshit that I can’t for the life of me remember that cute little nickname they use for his sister. I like the way he says it. Anyway, I hope the number is valid, though I guess that if it’s not, I could always call his parents and get a current one. They still live in the same house where I felt uncomfortable because they were quite wealthy, but so nice to me. 🙂

Edit: I just went to the 10-10-987 homepage and their rates went up to 53c connect and 4c/min. I didn’t notice, and P apparently didn’t, either. Hm. Cable phone is even a better deal now, I guess.

Well, unless I don’t survive until tomorrow evening, then I made it. Dog Boy is supposed to be arriving tomorrow evening and they’re going to get a motel (thank Christ) for a week, then they’re leaving for TX. Gawd, I can’t fucking wait–I’ve already (mostly) decided where things will go in that room, and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I will actually live all alone with my husband. I’ll be able to get up in the night and go to the bathroom naked if I want (and I will, just because I CAN), I’ll be able to play music as loud as I want as long as the windows are closed (I’m Canadian–it’s just not in me to be rude even to those I consider people only by technical definition), I won’t have to keep a can of Febreze Air Effects on my desk just in case it opens its door, I won’t have to pick up bits of pipe tobacco every time I walk into the kitchen or bathroom, and no one will fuck up the bathmat or the carpets with footprints until P comes home and plays the George Game. I’ll be able to nap in the afternoon without having to close the door, no one will overload my washer or use my dryer on the wrong setting because she’s too stupid to understand the timed cycle. No more 2L bottles of Diet Coke taking up space in my fridge, and no more pizzas delivered at midnight unless we order them. No more worrying about whether our address is going to appear in the police blotter section of the paper because some moron decided that yes, it is a good idea for a brain dead alcoholic idiot on antipsychotic medications to have a few drinks (or a dozen). It’ll be like heaven on earth. Is it tomorrow yet? 🙂

Mundane-day, Tewest-day, Hump-day, Thirst-day, and Fry-day is also the day Dog Boy is supposed to arrive. Well, unless plans have changed, that is. I’d understood that he and the stinkpig were going to get married on the fifth, but I’m pretty sure the courthouse is closed on Sunday, and the Christian churches are generally busy that day, so unless DB is Jewish (he’s too New Age flaky), they’re either getting married on the fourth, or he’s taking her back to TX unmarried. I don’t give a flying fuck whether they get married or he just stuffs her and her smelly junk in the car and leaves ten minutes after he arrives, just as long as she’s gone. Gone, gone GONE. I do wonder, though, whether he is aware that if they are married and he is working, the state of Texas isn’t exactly going to fall all over itself to pay for her crazy counselling and brain-soup medications. Illinois pays now because she hasn’t insurance and hasn’t anyone else they can force to do it. Actually, now that I think of it, I dimly recall the stinkpig having said that his job was temporary, lasting until October. Perhaps that’s why they waited even after she got sacked from Future Criminals of America and had no (absolutely no) reason to hang around here. If that is so, it should be interesting; unless he entirely sponged off that Ronald-whomever guy whose name comes up on the caller ID, then he can’t have saved that much money in only four months. No matter how good a friend ol’ Ron may be, he’s not going to want DB and Stinky Peterson living with him for long, so they’ll have to get a place of their own. If DB hasn’t found another job (dunno), then they’re fucked because hell will freeze over before she’ll get off her lazy arse and try to get another job. She wouldn’t have got the one she did if I hadn’t pushed her (I wrote her fucking resume, stamped and addressed the envelope for it, coached her for the interview and DROVE her to the damned thing); she was whining about killing herself because the bills for credit cards that Bill didn’t know she had were starting to come in and I said, “Well, if you won’t come clean and tell him about them, then it seems to me that the simplest thing would be to get a job and pay them”. She didn’t want to work, doesn’t like to work and hadn’t worked in 25 years, but she applied because she had to save her own arse. If DB is willing to support her, you can bet your sweet patootie that she’s going to sit on her slab-arse all day and let him do it. He’ll even get to come home from work to cook supper and clean up after the six mangy stray cats she’ll drag home. She did that once and got away with it. She’ll do it again if she can. Good luck, Dog Boy–in five days, her lazy, worthless arse is all yours and if you don’t want it, then give it to someone else because I’m not letting it back in here!

I like you, I think you’re a good-hearted person, and a nice one, too. That does not, however, mean I think the board will die a miserable death if you don’t make it there one evening, and it definitely does not mean you need to tell us every time you have some kind of appointment, or a cold, or the flu, or whatever. If you have an inoperable brain tumor, by all means, say so. If you’re going on a six month vacation to visit the Dalai Lama and won’t have internet access, tell us. If you’ve broken your neck and both legs in a car accident, it’s okay to tell us. Otherwise, STFU because we don’t need to know every time you make a move. Why do so many people think their health is of interest to everyone else? “How are you?” is just a saying, and the correct answer is, “I’m fine thanks–and you?”

I decided I should keep a record of mine. My boycott list consists of products that I won’t buy (even if I might otherwise) because the commercials are fucking annoying and/or are aired so many times during the few good shows I do watch that they piss me off.

We’ll start off with the Sony Bravia. “Television for men and women”, “Ending for men”, “Ending for women”? WTF? Props for the shirtless hotties in the “ending for women” (heh), but last time I checked, I was still a woman, and not only am I not obssessed with shoes, I hate shoes. Stupid gender-based generalisations piss me off. Not all women love their shoes more than their lives, and not all men are ugly, dimbulb football fans. Here’s an idea, Sony–advertise a product that’s better than competitors and you won’t have to say it’s for both genders because we’ll already know!

Intel Core Duo. This is a ripoff. Not an exact ripoff, but I half-watched it (on mute–all commercials are muted) at least three times before I realised it actually WASN’T an Apple advert. I know there are Intel Macs now, but jeezus, couldn’t Intel come up with something that doesn’t look like they’re selling an iPod? Kudos to Apple, BTW, for the colours in the new Nano advert; I’ve never actually listened to the commercial, so I might hate the music, but it’s certainly pretty!

GTA Vice City Stories. I’m not a gamer by any means, but I made a special note of this particular title so I could make sure that P NEVER bought it. This annoyance must’ve aired ten fucking times in the hour that I was minding my own business, trying to watch TDS and TCR, and were it possible to reach through the screen and grab the baseball bat from that head-bobbing Hispanic gangbanger, and smack him with it, I would cheerfully have done so. This one now gets not only the mute treatment, but also the “bring up the menu so I don’t even have to see it”. P isn’t a GTA fan, but even if he were, that game would not cross the threshold into this house.

Of course, no boycott list would be complete without car insurance companies. The eSurance cartoons (Christ, don’t get me started), that idiot spokesman and the scrolling list for Progressive and the new and improved CGI Geico gecko. I actually used to like the Geico commercials back in the days when the gecko was still cute and almost cartoonish, driving his little red sports car into the “Employee of the Month” parking spot. Now, he sounds like Steve Irwin (WHY? America != Australia), and is equally as annoying (I’m not happy that Irwin is dead, BTW, but I can’t say I’m unhappy that he won’t be terrorising unsuspecting animals anymore, and no, I don’t care how much money he gave to conservation). Anyway, the CGI itself is very well done, but enough with the fucking gecko, already. I also hate their “real person/celebrity” spots. I don’t need a screaming Little Richard or the voice of Don LaFontaine to figure out what someone else is saying, and I don’t find it amusing in the least. The original caveman spot was funny-ish….once. Fuck Geico. They’ve got me for brand recognition, but I’d pay double for insurance rather than use them. I kinda like the State Farm and Allstate commercials; I still mute them, but they don’t piss me off.

P.S. Funny quote I saw somewhere: “Abstinence makes the church grow fondlers.” 😆

Don’t fall asleep on a full stomach of Chinese food or you may have a dream involving:

– some piece of machinery you and Jamie Hyneman (from Mythbusters) are trying to repair, as another piece of machinery catches fire not once, not twice, but three times. On the third time, we all left because Jamie said it was dry and too dangerous to be near even a small fire, and I had grease on my fingers after unscrewing a plate to straighten (some mechanism).

– a TKD arts class I was supposed to attend, only I’d forgot my dobok, and I was supposed to have stretched beforehand, but I had not. Not that it mattered because I ended up not in a dojang, but in a classroom.

– a classroom full of women, and although I’m not sure what they were learning, I know that I was supposed to have worn a dress because they were whispering about my having worn pants…on Thanksgiving. That was enough on its own, but there were nuns from two orders there, and one of them wore a pinafore that had a front panel made of that LED fabric, and it kept changing words and pictures. One of the pictures had also the name of her order…Sisters of the Bloody Curiousity.

Nope, never going to sleep after Chinese again! 😆