Tags: mom

All this will be yours by Sepiamagpie

(no subject)

I got it from viedma

1. Reply to this post, and I will pick five of your icons.
2. Make a post (including the meme info) and talk about the icons I chose.
3. Other people can then comment to you and make their own posts.
4. This will create a never-ending cycle of icon squee. Whoo!

Dragnet's Frank Smith, from a comic by cybertardis.
http://www.cybertardis.com/scribbles/dragnet-man2man.jpg :D

Really awful icon I made of Questor (Robert Foxworth) and Jerry Robinson (Mike Farrell) from the old Gene Roddenberry pilot, The Questor Tapes, from back in the "My Fandom..." icon days. As near as I can tell, that actually is poor old Robert Foxworth in the gimp suit. He gets a face and stuff in the next act. By "and stuff," I mean...well, Mr Roddenberry, true to form, felt it necessary to inform us in no uncertain terms that Questor is All Boy. Thanks, Unka Gene! Thanks so much!

The box art for Clancy the Great, a toy chimp I received when I was 3 or so. He still lives in my garage. He's about two and a half feet tall, if you count the roller skates. He skated, took off his hat, and put it back on again if you put a penny in it. He was insanely complicated, requiring several dozen D-cell batteries in his foot to make him operate. Since I was 3, and Mom was Mom, it always took an hour of prep for a minute or so of actual monkey function. But he was still awesome.

Ted is my imaginary kitten, a relic of the MESPT (visit MESPT.com if you're unfamiliar). He's actually an All Night Media stamp combined with a TED stamp I hand-carved. He's hardly evil at all.

snacky made that for me! It's from 1990s SNL skit, in which Tom Hanks plays the president of The Guy Who Played Mr Belvedere Fan Club:

Mr. Chairman: The Nays have it. [The Guy Who Played Mr Belvedere] lives. But the vote shouldn't have been that close. Which brings me to an area I think we need to discuss. Now, I got a letter from Mr. Belvedere's publicist. It seems somebody has been killing his housepets again. Now, I'm not gonna ask which one of you is doing it, but I do think we need to do our exercises.

Comic: What exercise?

Phil: The exercise that helps keep the line between reality and fantasy a little less blurry. You'll see.

Mr. Chairman: Okay, who wants to start?

Cheryl: Okay. I should want to shake hands with Mr. Belvedere, I shouldn't want to grab a lock of his hair.

Mr. Chairman: That's good, Cheryl. And, even though it would be really neat to have a lock of his hair, we know that's not right. Someone else?

Mike: Yeah. Okay. I should want to send him a fan letter telling him how good he was in the episode where he teaches everyone how to cook, but I shouldn't want to type the letter on a death certificate.

This is pretty much the closest SNL got to comedy in the 90s.

(no subject)

Nothing really worth writing about. It's that time of the year when sane people stay inside and read, because there's fuck all on TV, and being outside can knock you loopy in short order. (Seriously -- I went out Wednesday night for groceries. It was 7:00 p.m., and the official bank clock temperature was 99 degrees.) My fascinating tales of doing laundry and nipping out for gallons of milk must, sadly, remain unrecorded.

Tomorrow is, of course, the last Pottersday ever. This means more hermitage, since the fuckers have gotten much to heavy to carry around. I hauled Goblet of Fire with me in a Toy Story lunch kit, attempting to read it while Mom looked for clothes at the mall, and ended up with a hurt shoulder.

I kind of miss her forcing me to drive her to B&N to get copies for Grant and Jordan "In case they run out," even though my own had just come in the mail (and she'd refused to pre-order hers from Amazon like a sensible person), and of course B&N wasn't going to run out. You can't buy that kind of dopey irony.

And of course she made me carry the books, because she was teeny.
You've RUINED CHRISTMAS by cybertardis

meme of Christmasage (stolen from kyuuketsohfageddaboutdit)

1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate?

Hot chocolate. Also coffee.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?

Wrapping. Not necessarily with paper.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?

I'm not entirely sure how to hang lights on the house. Also, I have this problem with fire. White on the tree, but not this year.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

We had plastic mistletoe at the old house.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?

That fudge Kathy used to make/buy (I'm a little fuzzy), and her excellent sugar cookies from that bakery in Omaha.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?

Finding my unwrapped present stash in my big sister's closet, and sneaking in there every couple days to wallow in it. Then pretending I didn't know what any of it was on Christmas morning. Talking P.J., I still miss you.

Also, when I opened that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang movie storybook and screamed.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

I don't remember. Probably gradually. Also, his handwriting was eerily like my sister's.

This doesn't mean, however, that he does not deserve thanks and cookies.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

When I was little we were all allowed one present, to stop our heads exploding in the night. 1960s heavily materialistic kids Christmases? Fucking awesome.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree?

This year I made a Victorian mourning tree, from a black Halloween tree, a handmade beaded garland, and a couple of bags of black Christmas balls. It's been joined by a white desktop tree from Borders, with more black balls, white handmade beaded garland, some Halloween ornaments, and various black and white toys. Also, the dreidels. It's not Christmas without the dreidels.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it?

Both. It's awesome, apart from the shoveling. But shoveling is awesome if you have a small child or dog around.

12. Can you ice skate?

I haven't the faintest idea.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?

See #7. Talking P.J., storybook. Also watching my parents try to assemble Barbie's Dream House was pretty damn funny. Eventually they just let me do it.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you?

Having people over. And really good TV marathons.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert?

See #6.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

We keep changing them. I liked when Mom got me a Star Trek ornament every year. Or when I was little and we all sang on the way to the tree.

17. What tops your tree?

Nothing at the moment. I tried a doll head, but it was too freaky big. Still working on it.

18. Which do you prefer giving or receiving?


19. What is your favorite Christmas Song?

Christmas music, on the whole, makes me want to kill myself. I like to put on some Fred Astaire or something.

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum?


because I have nothing else to watch

After enduring heykidzcomix' incessant nagging*, I found the Brisco County DVD set last night. Watched the pilot with commentary. I am a better human being now.

Mom had a giant girlcrush on Dixie Cousins, and it's hard to blame her. She also always felt it necessary to point out that Brisco's dad was buried on a hill "for the drainage," then cackle like a fiend. Strange woman.

So far, the best thing is learning that the Rocket Car was a functioning vehicle that could shoot 30-foot jets of flame. Carlton Cuse volunteered to ride it back to the roundhouse after shooting, which must surely have been the best thing ever.

*She said, "Hey, did you get it?" The NERVE!

(no subject)

I assembled a new TV cabinet (God, does anybody else remember when a TV was a piece of furniture in and of itself?). It's nice, made of a sturdier particle board, and with a much better class of petroleum-based wood veneer, than the old one.

I took the old one out to the curbside on Monday night, with a little sign that said, I WORK GREAT! GIVE ME A HOME. :)

This turned out to be a mistake. As the hours passed and no one made off with it, I felt worse and worse. The poor thing had served us for 15+ years, with never a complaint. It wasn't to blame for being too big, or fugly. It was not at fault for having no place anywhere in the rest of the house. And it was getting chilly out. My God, what kind of monster was I?

Tuesday was a holiday, and I moped around in the living room, drinking coffee and glancing out the front window. What if no one took it? What if someone took it just to blow it up with fireworks? Clearly I had no soul.

Then, at the crack of 1:00, I heard voices outside:
"You want that?"
"Okay. Put it in the back."
"It was nice she put that sign on there."

A mom and small boy lifted it into their SUV's cargo hatch and drove off.

The first thing I thought was, How did she know I was a she? Then I remembered that the sign was written in violet ink. Also, the little smiley face.

The second thing I thought was, Yay! And I felt better, and got dressed, and went out for the day. It was a lovely day.

And that's why I'm having problems getting rid of Mom's china.

(no subject)

Mom left behind a giant jar of St Joseph Children's Asprin in the medicine cabinet. It's good until, like, 2015, so I'm trying to use it. But it's very strange to choke down 6-8 tiny pills every time I get a headache. I know that one day, I'm gonna swallow wrong and one's going to go straight into my brain.

(no subject)

Spent Easter doing my taxes, then finally went to see V for SIX BUCKS FOR A MATINEE TICKET OH MY FUCKING GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME Vendetta. Dopier version of the comic, but still big fun. Sad because what with the bastard politicians, Stephen Fry, massive explosions, and vicious bloodletting, Mom would've liked it a lot. Especially the molesting Bishop.

Then the kitchen faucet broke. Like, literally broke, with the metal (at the crotch, if a faucet can be said to have one) starting to crack open. Fourth visit from Greens Furnace and Plumbing in a month (toilet, faucet, thermostat, other end of faucet). Happily, since I always pay them immediately, they drop whatever they're doing and come. Always pay your plumber, gang.

Well, this one they may have to wait a couple weeks for, but even so.
You've RUINED CHRISTMAS by cybertardis

it's everywhere! oh, god, it's in my raccoon wounds!

Dear Mom:

I know one isn't supposed to speak ill of the dopey, tiny dead, but what the FUCK were you thinking with the open tin of fruit cocktail in the back of the cupboard? Did you mistake the cupboard for the icebox last fall, or was this some sort of April Fool's pre-planning foiled by the Grim Reaper?

'Cause, listen up lady, it is BLUE, it is FURRY, and it is STICKY AS FUCK back in there. It's really horrible. I swear to God, I am going to open up the tin with your ashes in it, and spread 'em around to absorb the ick, like sawdust on barf at a theme park. And then you and your evolving fruit cocktail are going straight into the Lancaster County landfill.

I could deal with the horrible knee-high socks you left everywhere, but this is a whole new level of gross. You're not funny, dead lady. Shut up. STOP LAUGHING DAMMIT!



(no subject)

[Warnings for deathiness, gore, and a minor spoiler for Signs.]

God knows it's hard to know what to say when people die. For example, it's a running joke in our office that whoever gets to sign a sympathy card first invariably writes, "Our thoughts and prayers are with you," and the poor bastards who are left to follow up have to come up with something else.

But I had a weird one yesterday. I went to the bank to clear up some stuff with one of Mom's accounts. The Lady With A Desk actually remembered her, which was nice, and did the usual condolences, and then said, "Was it a blessing, at least?" People keep asking me that. It's a well-meaning phrase, I guess, sort of like when you put your dog to sleep and at least it's not in pain anymore.

On the other hand, with a human being, it's also coded to mean, "Was it after years of ineffective chemo, with the barfing and the balding and the giant tumours?" or "Was she just dripping with agonizing sores that no painkiller could numb?" or "Did she finally kick it after a decade of being totally goon-a-rama geezer scooters until you thought you'd go nuts with the responsibility?" or "Was she, like, totally cut in half but still alive and pinned to a tree like Mel Gibson's wife in Signs?" I mean, what do you say to that?

"Uh, I suppose so," I said brilliantly. "Y'know. Considering it was death and all."

"That's good," she said.

This wasn't the first time. I swear, next person who asks that is getting, "It was fucking amazing. Her head spontaneously blew apart like Louis del Grande in Scanners. The whole neighborhood heard it. Our homeowner and medical insurance guys are in court right now, fighting over who has to pay to replace the drapes*."

Okay, I won't.

*This image courtesy of the time Mom dropped a jar of Prego sauce in the living room that went off like a grenade and made the place look like a Tobe Hooper film.
You've RUINED CHRISTMAS by cybertardis

(no subject)

So my sister Kim came to stay for a couple of weeks, while...you know. It worked out okay. She's good at cleaning, I'm good at sorting and chucking, and my big brother is good at dealing with idiots and paperwork. We're like the Galaxy Trio, only better animated.

However, Kim and I live on different planets. This is only to be expected, since there's 11 years between us. She likes Anderson Cooper and shows about people with extra heads who have multiple births of 750-pound men. I punish her with Aqua Teen Hunger Force and The Colbert Report (it takes her two days to figure out that the latter is not in fact a real news show).

Anyway, we have conversations.

(In the bookstore)
Kim: Camey Kay's Girls? What's Camey Kays?
Me: Uh...Kamikaze Girls.
Kim: Oh.

(In the hospice, she spots me yanking out an eyebrow hair.)
Kim: Stop that! What are you doing?
Me: Oh. Sorry. I've been kind of...worrying at my eyebrows, the last couple weeks. It'll stop when this is over with.
Kim: Oh Jesus. Well, stop it. (pause) At least you don't do that thing where you pull your hair out.
Me: Well, not anymore.
Kim: Oh, my God! When did you...
Me: Oh, y'know. Junior high, high school.
Kim: Oh, my God!
Me: Only a little!
Kim: Jesus.
Me: It was 25 years ago. Chill.
Kim: Jesus. What made you stop?
Me: Now that I think about it, Dad2 finally died.
Kim: (pause) Oh Jesus! (busts up laughing)

(My niece and nephew have a band called Eux Autres*, so we're talking about their music 'n stuff. A pattern emerges. A pattern of DEATH! Sorry. Little melodrama there.)
Kim: [Her daughter] really likes [some band I've never heard of]. Do you like them?
Me: Who?
Kim: She likes [some band I've never heard of].
Me: I have literally never heard of them.
Kim: That's weird. You used to, like, know everything about music.
Me: Yeah. That's kind of gone. My musical brain stops around 1990 or so.
Kim: What happened?
Me: Kurt Cobain shot himself. Then my radio station went country overnight without telling anyone.
Kim: Oh.
Me: It was horrible. I woke up one morning, and there was Garth Brooks.
Kim: I understand.

*Google them. They're batshit cool.