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Topics - SuuCal

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1
You know, the Brain Weasels.

The motherfucking rodents that slither around your brain pan, looking for new wires to chew on. Usually, they like to knock the hamster off the wheel, and then just dry hump the wheel until it's covered in rust. And then you sit there, on the couch, crying and laughing and wanting to kill a motherfucker at the same time.  I got a bad case of the Brain Weasels.

Husband says I'll be alright, but I should just relax, but keep myself busy.
Doctor says I'll be alright, just take the pills.

But the pills won't kill the weasels, just make them sleep, you know? They'll find a corner to nest in, and make more weasels for the next round. They'll find new wires to gnaw through then, and skullfuck another poor hamster to death. Hamsters don't breed as fast as the weasels, and the weasels don't run the same as as the hamsters do on the wheel.

How do you stop the weasels, Roger? How do you get these little vermin to quit fucking chewin' on the power cables?

2
You know what I'm talking about. It's the excuse that Easterners who drown in humidity give when they feel bad that the sun is waging full fucking blown thermonuclear warfare on the Southwest.

Dry is relative. "Dry" means that I'm experiencing swampboob and swampass as a less-rapid pace than I would should this be in Providence. Of course, 104 degrees is Providence is guaranteed to carry with it 90% humidity, so you may as well take a hot bath and grow fucking gills.

But it's a dry heat, here. The kind that comes out of a fucking blast furnace.

You see, "San Diego" is not the pretty city on the coast that gets 75 degrees and sunny year round. That is "downtown". San Diego is a million and a half fucking people stuffed into a series of canyons and mountains that surrounds the 75 degrees and sunny. Nobody actually lives downtown. That's where they put the brochures. The people who work downtown all live in on the beach in Tijuana, because it's cheaper by at least half, and because the only people who can afford to live in La Jolla are actually probably invested in something far more sinister to have that much money. Sure, you have to live in Mexico, but there are worse things. Apparently, like living in the canyons. This is where San Diego stuck the Navy. It's cool for the tourists to see the aircraft carriers, but not where they live. So they put us 10 miles from downtown in the desert. 

My house is "lucky" I found out. The rattlesnakes and the tarantulas don't like the baseball field behind my house. Or the brick wall. Or the fact that my side of the canyon drops to the freeway, versus the other side, which drops into a wasteland of "do never go there, Simba" part of San Diego. On the other side of the canyon, they gave the houses a wire fence, a view of the mountains that are on fire, and a fucking prayer. The fire won't get here, though. The coyotes will. Don't put your cats and dogs outside. Or kids, for that matter.  Some kid got run over on the main road before I moved here. She was on the sidewalk, and it was deliberate. Some local saw a brown kid and decided he was doing the neighborhood a favor, but she was some master chief's daughter, and now the asshole isn't going to see the light of day for the rest of his life, which is probably a more humane treatment than what the Navy was going to give him. The glittery pink shrine reminds me of the graves on the roadside in Arizona, but under the shade of irrigated palm trees and thorny bougainvilleas. 

I've been here for 2 weeks, and already decided I don't like irrigation, because it's nothing more than a fucking lie. Farms? Sure. Grow shit, but lawns are a waste here, Roger. They water my front lawn once a week at 11:30pm, and tell us we can only put approved decorations out front. Meanwhile, my backyard is sharing traits with the Serengeti, but we can make it look like a small carnival as long as it's not seen from the front. Some people have fire pits, which sounds like a great fucking idea considering the grass itself is kindling. This seems to be a thing in California so far. Everybody is intelligent, progressive, and kind, but without a shred of common sense, which can be overlooked for opportunities to have great conversation. I had a great conversation yesterday with my manicurist.

...But then there's the fairly large amount of creationists out here, which is alarming. Apparently they moved here because they wanted to prove that paleontological findings in Southern California are all evidence of the Great Flood and that the La Brea Tar Pits is proof. Somehow. They're angry that San Diego won't let them put their museum downtown with the other museums in the park, such as the Natural History Museum, and the Museum of Man. They feel like they're "obligated to fit in." But the city keeps telling them to cop a walk. So, they're stuck in Santee, which is "That" suburb that all cities have. The one that the city limits just completely bypass and go around, despite devouring everything else around. The creationists are so gung-ho on their cause, that they put a selection of petrified wood in the gem show at the San Diego County Fair this weekend and used it to "prove" their theory. I never heard my husband "GUFAW" so loud in my life. He shot water out of his nose and had to go clean himself up.

It actually drizzled for 45 seconds at the fair. People ran for shelter, Jeff and I ate a funnel cake and watched them. I felt like an anthropologist. Jeff said I was mean.

Back East, I would comment on how I hadn't seen the sun in a week. I haven't seen a cloud here now for 3 days.

Now I understand why you hate nature so damn much.

3
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / McConnelling.
« on: June 08, 2016, 04:22:10 am »
So I broke Roger with this internet gem.

For those that don't know about this, go to Youtube, search "McConnelling." Enjoy.  :horrormirth:

Here, I'll start: (Videos are typically safe for work, music/overlay may not be.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA-RlW2Mm6E

4
Literate Chaotic / And the Mountain Never Got Closer
« on: June 07, 2016, 04:10:03 am »
This is a cautionary tale about what lies beyond Tucson.

The desert itself is an interesting place, and we knew it wouldn’t disappoint.

“We”, being myself, and my copilot on the cross-country roadtrip, Magister Normannorum. Magister is not my husband, the husband is somewhere playing Navy out in the ocean, and hence why I needed a copilot. My initial plan was for a .45 to ride in the passenger seat, but the Navy Guy thought this would be a bad idea. I digress.
There’s nothing to say about escaping the Northeast. We were in a veritable wall of population from Boston to Kansas City. The real fun didn’t happen until New Mexico, when the Kind and Benevolent Rain God appeared above the mesas as the two of us barreled down I-40 head-banging to motherfucking rock and roll. New Mexico exists on a higher plain of existence than Arizona, spelling intentional. The majority of the state alternated between 4000 and 7000ft, and was somewhere between 50-70 degrees Fahrenheit. It was lovely. Colorful and vibrant. The colors of the sandstone mesas and mountains reminded me of a sunset, and it was everything we expected the Southwest to be.

Then Arizona happened.

You see, New Mexico is “the Land of Enchantment” for a reason. It casts a spell on you, an illusion, a veritable mirage that paints the image of what we want our American Southwest to be.

Arizona is none of these things.

We should have known, really, as soon as we crossed the Continental Divide and stopped at a rest area. It wasn’t bad, only like 95 degrees or so, but as ironically as the most bearded hipster would deploy, a tarantula hawk flew by the sign that warns about venomous creatures.

The Magister blinked, “Well, that looks like it could hurt a bit.” He said.

Me? I was already running back to the car.

Two hours later we rolled into Tucson. I think I must have folded space, but in reality, Arizona thinks Daylight’s Saving Time is for pussies, so we gained an hour.
Nurse Jen fed us our first home-cooked meal in a week, and Roger and I talked about the old times. And Science. Motherfucking Science. All the goddamn Science. The next morning he took us up the Mountain Where Science Lives, but we couldn’t stay long, as I needed to get into San Diego by the evening.

This is the part where the Weirdness happened.

Elevation and I don’t get along, and I learned this very quickly driving through the high ranges in New Mexico. This is because I grew up practically below sea level, and I’m simply just not able to adjust easily. So, dropping from 7000ft to 2000ft makes me feel like shit. Unfortunately, Magister beat me to the punch.

“I need to take a nap, I feel sick.”

And just like that, I was left alone.

We were already low on water, but I’d be fine until the next gas stop. Where ever that was. I felt a bit parched, probably from drinking my New England amount of coffee in the morning, and polished off a water bottle as I fixated on a mountain in front of me, and thought to myself how far it was, and how I could gauge the distance based on the current visibility.

But the mountain never got closer.

The road went on forever. A side road, really, one that we needed to get our way from the Mountain Where Science Lives to the highway, but it was still a state highway, one that would arguably have amenities dotting the tribal nation we were passing through. The next gas station, I would stop anyway.

But the mountain never got closer.

There were graves on the side of the road. Graves. Not just cross markers, not memorials, actual graves. Some in small makeshift cemeteries, some just marked off by rock borders or a mound of soil above where the body lay. The temperature was 105F. These poor souls tried to cross a fence to a better life, and never found it. They succumbed to the elements before the Rent-A-Nazis known as Border Patrol could reduce them to subhuman animals in sweltering detention centers wrought with razor wire. Perhaps after seeing the detention centers, I almost felt these bodies under the earth were in a better place. The natives saw to it as well. Somebody had to be burying them, and it sure as hell wasn’t the border Nazis.

I was on the Mexican Appian Way. Just as the Romans did, the Natives buried the dead along the road, outside of the towns. It was a miserable experience. Magister Normannorum was still sleeping.

But the mountain never got closer.

I passed through the reservation, and was reminded on how badly we treat our natives. Shacks. Trailers. Junk heaps littered with liquor bottles, lost causes, and broken dreams. 
The mountain was mocking me. I was out of water.

I found a gas station attached to a casino. The temperature was still 105. Magister woke up and I pumped the gas. We used the restroom and got shitty hot dogs for lunch. Native women walked around the casino, which was the size of a convenience store, dressed in their finest cocktail wear, and hoping for a sign. An escape. Anything to free them from the hell they were tied to.

“How far do you think that mountain is?” I asked Magister.

He shrugged, opening his water, “Maybe twenty minutes or so?”

“It hasn’t moved in an hour.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, passing me my own bottle.

“Maybe it’s just the heat.”

My GPS lost its bearing. It was trying to put us into Mexico. I blamed Tucson. Bad idea.

I turned the car around on the dusty two lane road, and the mountain was back. My GPS tried to put me back in Tucson. We ignored it and opened the paper atlas.
Once we got to I-8, the GPS remembered we were going to California, and at least set us on the right path. The mountain had joined other mountains. Jagged, nasty looking mountains. It was suddenly 112F. The air was a blast furnace.

Dry heat? Humid heat? It doesn’t matter. Heat is heat. I felt every ounce of moisture being leeched from my body. It was so hot it hurt. It physically hurt. You know the feeling you get when you take a hot bath, or go into a hot tub, and it’s too hot but you endure it anyway? That hot. You think you’re going to adapt, but instead you feel pain as you’re starting to be cooked alive. Sweat cannot save you. It’s evaporating as fast as you can release it, and you were just low on water for an hour. Your car is solid, though. You had all the fluids flushed before you left New Hampshire for this reason.

That mountain is an asshole.

We crossed the Colorado, and fell below sea level. That mountain was still there will all of his buddies. Waving in the distance.

We had to stop for gas, because we didn’t plan well enough to get it in Arizona where at least wouldn’t be priceraped. Priceraped: Paying stupid extra tax on gas because you crossed a fucking border. Connecticut does this. Connecticut can go fuck itself.  I took a tanktop inside, because we had resorted to wearing thin flannels IN the car so the sun wouldn’t murder us through glass, but the combination of t-shirt and flannel was still too much with the AC. The clerk was some old fucking hippy who tried to sell me a dune permit instead of water, I wasn’t amused. I was even less amused when we drove down the street and couldn’t make a U-Turn, and instead found a gas station for 50 cents less. Priceraped.

I blamed the mountain. The Magister looked at me funny. He had just gotten off the phone with his wife, and found their cat was sick. He was bummed out so he gave me back the keys. Now I had to stare at the mountain again, and I never got my fucking nap like he did.

Back on the road, here comes the mountains. There goes my thermostat. Windows down, heat on, AWD locked in at 50mph as we shot up from below sea level to over 4000ft in 7 minutes or something, and we screamed horrible things at the sun and the rocks. They weren’t listening. I swear I could still see that goddamn mountain in front of me. Through these mountains, through the next desert. Because in New Mexico, we learned that the Desert (capital D) is a series of little deserts of varying deserts: Sometimes vegetation, sometimes mountains, sometimes nothing but fucking sand for miles. “Desertception.” It was maddening.

These mountains were like driving on Mars: stark, rocky, red, and air unable to breathe. Then the temperature broke like a fever, and started going down. Before we got back to sea level, there were hardwood forests and 80 degrees. This range was the natural barrier that kept the sea breeze locked away from the previous desert. There was still no moisture. The trees were mostly dead. Just another desert.

The mountain was gone. Somewhere behind me, laughing at the madness it had bestowed upon me for the last six hours. It won, I’m trapped here, as the only way out is back through that range.

A desert by the ocean is still a desert.

Everything here is dead.

5
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / The Berlin Wall.
« on: November 09, 2014, 01:28:41 pm »
I know it's still early in the day, but I'm finding a considerable lack of posting on social media on what today IS, and why it's important.

25 years ago, I was in 2nd Grade. My teacher, the very awesome Mrs. Melanik, rolled the TV out, and we sat there in awe as we watched the Berlin Wall being ripped down by Germans from both sides. I went home, and continued watched the coverage with my parents. And I still, clear to this day, hear my mom's voice, "Suu, this is history, and you will remember this day for the rest of your life."

If this was 9-11, there would be NEVER FORGET OMG!!! Littering the internet, but it's not. Why is there no 11-9-89? What is so wrong with our society that we need to celebrate tragedies over victories? It wasn't just a momentous occasion for Germany, it effected the world as a whole. It was the end of the Cold War, the collapse of the Iron Curtain, and a shockwave that disrupted the maps of Europe for a decade. Is it not relevant because the Millennials weren't born yet and aren't chatting it up unlike how they were 5 during 9-11 and remember oh-so-much about it?

Maybe now, because the world is on a brink of yet another Cold War, leaders have their heads so far up their asses that they can't even pay attention to the milestone we already had to overcome to get where we are today. Maybe they don't want us to remember that yes, it is possible to make people come together, and not fracture. Maybe they want us to forget.

Or maybe, I'm just too emotionally attached to the Berlin Wall as my Generation's momentous event. As something that changed the massive Mercator Projection maps across my classrooms through Middle School as I watched the USSR dissolve and the Balkans violently shatter. Maybe it's just because my mom told me not to forget.

Meh.

6
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Indecision 2014
« on: November 04, 2014, 11:19:50 pm »
After months of slanderous ads and smear tactics, the midterms are finally fucking over.

I have 3 tabs open for 3 different state results, because I'm a goddamn election junkie.

Shit to follow for those interested:

New Hampshire, especially the Scott Brown Carpetbagging Affair of 2014: http://livewire.wmur.com/Event/Election_Day_2014_in_New_Hampshire

Florida, the Usurpation of Voldemort by Leatherface: http://www.baynews9.com/content/news/baynews9/politics/results.html

Rhode Island, because re-electing a convicted felon as mayor of Providence is what they do, and Massachusetts, the land of Democrats as far as the eye can see, which is why Scott Brown crossed the border to Tijuana: http://www.baynews9.com/content/news/baynews9/politics/results.html

Post your links as you wish.

7
Aneristic Illusions / Shootings in Canada
« on: October 22, 2014, 04:07:44 pm »
I'm busy at school right now, but here is a link with a news feed:

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/breaking-news-oct-22/article21217602/?click=sf_globe#dashboard/follows/

I'm not hearing shit on the American media.

8
Well, not really Providence, but it's related to Providence, it's in Johnston, the town I worked in for a while. Also, this is the funeral parlor that took care of my ex-father-in-law. I'm skeeved.


http://wpri.com/2014/08/14/police-medical-examiner-at-johnston-storage-unit/


Quote
OHNSTON, R.I. (WPRI) — Three badly decomposed bodies were discovered inside a storage unit in Johnston Thursday – one being the body of an infant.

Eyewitness News was first on scene as the state Medical Examiner and law enforcement from Providence and Johnston investigated at United Storage on Putnam Pike late Thursday afternoon.

Major Joseph Razza of the Johnston Police Department confirmed for Eyewitness News one of the bodies was in a coffin, another was on a piece of wood with cardboard over it.

The Medical Examiner left the scene around 5 p.m. and was transporting the bodies to the M.E.’s office. Razza said the remains appear to be those of two adults, because of the size.

Razza said the bodies were connected to the now-defunct Pennine Funeral Home in Providence.

He said the unit was initially rented to the late Alfred Pennine. However, due to non-payment, the unit was auctioned off. Razza said the person who bought the contents of the unit discovered the remains inside.

Last month, the Rhode Island Health Department forced the Pennine Funeral Home to close after six bodies and the cremated remains of two others were discovered in the Grove St. business following Pennine’s death.

9
I lost my grandmother 3 weeks ago. The timing couldn't be worse, I mean, not that it's ever GOOD, especially when it happened out of the blue with no warning. Nevertheless, I had to prepare myself to see my immediate family for a reason NOT Christmas for spring break, and north of the Mason Dixon line to boot. They hate coming up north, especially after last summer's vacation when Long Island was topping the 100s in July, and mom was ready to kill dad for wanting to come up into the land of no central AC to "cool off" for a couple of weeks.

Hearing my dad sobbing uncontrollably on the phone was probably the worst experience in my life. At least with my grandfather, we had warning, we knew he was going to go and mom was ready for it. Gramma was my dad's life line. He lost his father when he was 17, and for the most part, we assumed she was going to out live us all.

Gramma still worked part-time as an activities coordinator for a senior citizens center in Babylon, on top of that, she was also an event coordinator for her apartment complex. She never stopped. Ever. She had called my dad 2 days before she passed to tell him that she won a whopping $120 in Atlantic City, and wasn't planning on spending it all in one place. This is the type of woman she was. They found her on her couch, in her pajamas, holding the remote. She went peacefully in her sleep with no pain. It was just her time. I wouldn't have wanted her to go any other way, despite the total suck it had thrown at us all.

Arrangements were made very fast, because she was to be buried in the military cemetery near Pinelawn next to my grandfather, so we had to book it to Long Island, fully packed 2 days early for Pennsic War. It was damn near killing me. My body hurt, my eyes hurt from crying, and despite the fact I somehow managed to get everything done that I could and packed what I still needed to work on, there was no way I felt ready for anything.

We left New Hampshire at 3am, and I put on my makeup on the Bend of 95, between Stamford and New Rochelle. Mr. Suu would say, "Bump." Every time he saw one coming so I wouldn't poke my eyes out with the liner. I know he was doing it to make me feel better, but his words became grating after a while. I just wanted it to be over with.

We make it to Babylon within a reasonable time, and everyone is at the funeral home still. I was told that we wouldn't have time to get there, so we make it to the church ahead of everyone, and, well, change in the parking lot out of our comfy road trip clothes.

...Yes, you heard me, I dropped trow in the back lot of the very sanctuary where I was christened. This is when the fun begins. My dad calls, and tells us that there's still time to get to the parlor, and that all of the kids and grandkids had limos waiting for us. So, I wince, and we head over. My brother is the first to meet me outside, knowing that I was probably going to snap, and he grabs me tight.

"We got this shit." He says.

My cousin and her husband come out, "Oh good, you still have time to see her!" She says. She's a psychologist. She has no fucking emotions, I swear. I love her to death, and I'm going to miss drinking our way across Manhattan now that she's decided to procreate, but I digress.

I hate funeral parlors. I hate wakes and viewings. That's not the person you loved in the casket, it's a fucking shell made up to look like someone you once knew. Ex-Mr. Suu's father didn't look like himself, and I was scared to death that my grandmother would look equally as horrible. I refused to go up there. Flat out refused...So I got dragged by my brother eventually.

Each grandkid was given gaudy old lady pins to wear. I picked a woman's face wrapped in obnoxious friendly plastic, and my sister, very loudly, goes, "HAH! I knew it! Christina (shrink cousin) owes me 20 bucks!" My other cousin, Danielle, facepalms and goes, "Shit!"

Welcome to Long Island, Mr. Suu. This is my family. Swearing like sailors in front of my dead grandmother.

But wait, there's MORE.

My dad and aunt were, naturally, a mess. But what I saw in their eyes wasn't their grief, it was my own future, freaking out over their caskets. Life is finite, I'm going to lose my parents some day, and now I was dealing with my parent losing theirs as a warm-up. Fuck this. I wanted to leave...but I get dragged up to the casket. My mom and dad had it all planned out. They left all sorts of goodies in there for her:

A bottle of Dewars to drink with my Grampa Sal.
A bottle of Johnny Walker to drink with my Pop, my mom's father. They were buds.
A deck of cards to play with my Uncle Happy.

My brother kept patting her body on the head. She was tiny, he's very tall. This was a joke for a while, and she couldn't stand it. It made him laugh, and as far as I know, he hadn't cried at all yet. That's usually not a good sign. By this point, my sister is force feeding me tissues and Mr. Suu was shanghaied by my uncle, talking Bubblehead shit, since well, here he is, walking in to a funeral home, wearing a Navy uniform, hell of a first impression for the extended family who hadn't met him yet. Mr. Suu lost both his father and his stepfather before he was 18. He's a funeral pro and can hold his shit together well. I'm not so good at this thing yet.

They call us back to our seats to get ready for the services. I sit next to my brother, and my sister walks by us. My brother reaches out and punches my sister in the stomach, making her go, "UNG!" very loudly. Mom facepalms, dad laughs.

Once that's over, the majority of the grandchildren go in one limo, but Danielle and her fiance manage to escape into the "grown-up" limo. So I'm crammed in with Mr. Suu, my brother, my sister, the Shrink Cousin, and her husband. I should mention that putting me and my siblings in a confined space for any significant amount of time is probably a bad idea. I'm pretty sure the limo driver thought we were all psychotic. Seriously, it turns into an episode of the Three Stooges, and I was at least thankful...kinda, that Mr. Suu was separating my brother and I. He could still reach for the noogies, though, totally unfair.

So, back to the church, remember the church? I got naked in the back parking lot of said church. There's about 500 people there waiting for the full Catholic service. Mr. Suu was picked as a pallbearer, along with my brother. My dad couldn't do it, mostly because it's not supposed to be immediate family, but also because he had polio as a child, and limps, badly. My sister and Danielle immediately start imitating my dad trying to carry a coffin and Gramma falling out. We are terrible fucking people.

This was probably the worst part emotionally. Here I am, walking into a large Roman Catholic Church, the one my brother and I were  actually baptized in, seeing faces that haven't seen me since I was an infant (how did they remember me?!)

...This was also when my brother decided to pick his time to cry. And cry he did, the minute they put the pall over the casket, I guess the reality of it all sunk in, and he exploded emotionally. This created a chain reaction back to my sister and I. She grabbed my hand really tight and we processed in with my family to the front row pews, collectively losing our shit and receiving tissues from random folks on the aisle.

And then the eulogy started thusly,

"A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar."

Nope, not kidding. The priest actually started it like that.  The entire church erupts with laughter, and he continued, making it as lighthearted as possible. Come to find out, we were sitting where she normally sat, and made faces to the choir during mass every weekend. So we all decided to make faces at the one cantor who attended, and she started laughing at us. At one time, my mom and sister started to discuss making a batch of gramma's cream puffs, to which I over heard, and said, "Oh hells yes!" In church. IN CHURCH, IN THE FRONT ROW DURING MY GRANDMOTHER'S FUNERAL, I SAID, 'OH HELLS YES!'  :kingmeh:

They did have us take communion, and my brother's wafer got stuck on the roof of his mouth, so there he was, getting over his emotional outburst, making funny faces as he tried to pry the thing off of his palette, and my sister and I are trying not to lose it. However, this guy at the service was wearing a really bad toupee, REALLY BAD. That Danielle immediately pointed out, which made my sister snort audibly. We also meet my Gramma's "companion" who was 65. She was 87. so I blurt out loud once we're outside of the actual sanctuary, "Dude, Gramma was a cougar! Fuck yeah!"

Service was over...back to the limo and off to the cemetery, which was a good 20 minutes away at funeral speed. We get there, and there's 2 services ahead of us. They weren't actually going to inter her on the spot because there's just no room and we would be walking on other graves, so they have these, well, picnic shelters to do the final farewells in. However, we had to wait. And wait. Like 45 minutes worth of waiting. Christina and her husband start dozing off in the backseat, and my sister decides that this would be a great time to put her feet up on the back of our seat right into my husband's face. He takes her shoe, and she jumps at him to give it back. He passes it to my brother, who, no shit, opens the limo door, and goes to throw it at the other limo in front of us.

Judgment gets the best of him, and he sits back down, then says, "I forget we're in a cemetery. That would be kind disrespectful. But if we had a moonroof in this, it would have been in dad's lap by now!"

The limo driver at this point has chosen to ignore us and get out of the car. Probably for the best, because my sister claims her shoe back, puts my brother in a headlock from behind him, and proceeds to shove her shoe in his mouth as he was trying to talk. He starts gagging, and remarking that it's salty. I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe, and my cousin, who had been quiet, goes, "You know, if Gramma was here, she would have thrown the damn shoe and blamed it on someone else."

...So my husband and my brother decide to hold my sister down in attempts to get the shoe back, but the limo driver comes back in, totally ignoring us, and drives us up for the interment service. Once last goodbye. This wasn't easy either, but we all got roses, and said our Psalms. We head back to the limos, and my parents' limo driver had a bottle of rum he started passing around to everyone. Apparently mom came prepared, and we all stand there in the cemetery, hitting the sauce. We drive back to the funeral parlor to get to our respective cars. Our limo driver told us that we were the most fun he's had doing a funeral in years, and that he was glad that we could at least still have some laughs, and wishes that he knew our grandmother, since we apparently know how to have a good time. 

We go to the afterparty, we're Italian after all, at Gramma's apartment complex, and we're haunted by her, since there's pics of her everywhere, and her handwriting, and everything. This sucked, so, we put on the disco ball, and us 5 grandkids started dancing like idiots to no music in the middle of the floor, and did the electric slide, which she taught us all when we were younger as we sang it badly. This got an applause from all her friends, who got up and joined us.

Of course this is when the divine interventions start happening. Danielle trips over a bingo chip that wasn't there before, and then when we get back to my aunt's house with all the leftovers, engaging in a drunken game of Cards Against Humanity, the "Grandma" card pops out. So we dealt her in. This is also when I decided it was a great time to run with a meatball and sprain my ankle.  :kingmeh:

The next day, we had to run to the mall so Christina could get something for a wedding registry she was bitching about. So us 4 girls go into Macy's, and sing a song Gramma taught us years ago, "I won't go to Macy's any more more more, there's a big fat policeman at the door door door. He pulled me by the collar and made me pay a dollar, so I won't go to Macy's any more more more." The store manager was unamused, so we book it back to the aunt's for dinner. This is when Christina announces she's having twins, and I proceed to scream and yell and hoot and holler that I get to make blankets. It's the little things, I guess. It made me happy. Later we went to my Gramma's apartment, and decided to play dress-up with her clothes and take what we wanted. I got a couple of scarves and a sign for my kitchen that says, "Never trust a skinny cook." My husband, who loves playing closet archaeology, found the dress she wore to my aunt's wedding in the 70s, as well as her wedding pictures to my grandfather which I have never seen in my life. I think even though she had a strong exterior, she was forever heartbroken at the loss of my Grampa, and just couldn't bring herself to show them off.

We left the next day for Pennsic, and I wore my pins almost the entire war. At least I know now, that it's okay to throw shoes at funerals. I'll keep that in mind for the next one.


11
So once upon a time, I was really athletic. I competed in volleyball and swimming in high school, made all-state twice in volleyball, started Taekwondo when I was 10 and received my black belt when I was 18, while often competing in colored belt nationals and attended one international competition in Brazil. I detested running with every fiber of my being, mostly because my instructor used to grab me by the collar and drag me to keep up with everyone, no matter the fact that I was asthmatic. I eventually forced myself out of that, would run 2-3 miles every day on my own accord, hit up a couple 5ks each year and even completed 2 triathlons....

...Then I went to college.

During College Mark I, I was at least still able to go to my old TKD school, just not as frequent, because I was working.

...Then I moved to Rhode Island. And for whatever reason, my weight shot up. Probably because I was eating mom's cooking again. I got back into TKD up here, tore my MCL, and that was that. I gave up. And despite what people think, SCA combat in no way shape or form can compare to what I was doing. No way.

So despite diets and trying to stay "thin", I fell into disrepair. My weight ballooned in 2009, which may actually be because of my thyroid come to find out, but I chalked it up to stress, and did what I could to try to drop it. And failed. I started a low-carb diet over a year ago, this has helped, but the weight started to peeter back on, so after much protest to my husband, I finally conceded to start a workout program.

30 Day Fitness Challenges are a godsend. So far I've completed the ab challenge and the Little Black Dress Challenge, and after I get back from Pennsic I'm going to do the Beach Body Challenge, which just looks evil. However, I got talked into trying the Couch-to-5k program from Cool Runnings, which is a free schedule of runs designed to get you off your ass and completing a 5k without stopping in 9 weeks. I just completed week 4, and I have not died yet. It is not easy. In fact, considering the last time I ran, willingly, on my own in a race I was 19 years old. In Florida, where it is le'flat. I'm in New Hampshire now, and my apartment complex has 20 degree grades, and I'm in the flat part of the state.  :lulz:

The goal is to run a pink out race at the end of September to benefit breast cancer here in Portsmouth, with a couple of my girl friends, dressed in pink viking dresses and looking like idiots, but since race costumes are all the rage now, we figured we need to go for it. Right now, my fastest pace before I gas out completely is about a 10 minute mile. I need to shave another minute off before I can race.

Either way, when I started this shit last year, I had a 38" waist, and 52" hips. I am now down to a 33" waist, and 44" hips. My goal is a 30" waist, and 42" hips. Back to a size 10. I'm not far off, but I can't stop the disco, so to speak. I'm not weighing myself. It's too much grief for a number when my muscle mass just shot up.

I don't know if I'll ever get back into triathlon shape. There's a huge difference in 32 years old and hypothyroid versus a teenager, but I want to start swimming laps again as well at the local Y. Military families get free memberships, so may as well.

12
http://www.turnto10.com/story/26044240/official-malaysian-plane-shot-down-over-ukraine

Oh this is going to be a shitshow if it's actually true and not the media spinning it.

13



Seriously? A hurricane for the 4th of July? What the hell did the Colonies ever do to you? We gave you the goddamn independence you have this in this great nation, and now you're trying to take off our nose with the first storm of the season? John Adams is rolling in his grave.

14
http://www.boston.com/business/news/2014/06/30/justices-can-make-employers-cover-contraception/wQJYhgQf3Jg5e4x5HXeLmM/story.html

That's right, SCOTUS ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby. So not only are they not required to provide affordable birth control and abortion options under federally mandated ACA, this just opened a can of worms for other religious exemptions. Like, I dunno, vaccinations.

We're all gonna have lots of babies and then die of Smallpox, thanks to Jesus.

Fuck this country.

15
Apparently this ISN'T the free market they wanted. You wanted the fucking cops to be privatized? This is the result, pencilnecks.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-watch/wp/2014/06/26/massachusetts-swat-teams-claim-theyre-private-corporations-immune-from-open-records-laws/

Quote
As it turns out, a number of SWAT teams in the Bay State are operated by what are called law enforcement councils, or LECs. These LECs are funded by several police agencies in a given geographic area and overseen by an executive board, which is usually made up of police chiefs from member police departments. In 2012, for example, the Tewksbury Police Department paid about $4,600 in annual membership dues to the North Eastern Massachusetts Law Enforcement Council, or NEMLEC. (See page 36 of linked PDF.) That LEC has about 50 member agencies. In addition to operating a regional SWAT team, the LECs also facilitate technology and information sharing and oversee other specialized units, such as crime scene investigators and computer crime specialists.

Some of these LECs have also apparently incorporated as 501(c)(3) organizations. And it’s here that we run into problems. According to the ACLU, the LECs are claiming that the 501(c)(3) status means that they’re private corporations, not government agencies. And therefore, they say they’re immune from open records requests. Let’s be clear. These agencies oversee police activities. They employ cops who carry guns, wear badges, collect paychecks provided by taxpayers and have the power to detain, arrest, injure and kill. They operate SWAT teams, which conduct raids on private residences. And yet they say that because they’ve incorporated, they’re immune to Massachusetts open records laws. The state’s residents aren’t permitted to know how often the SWAT teams are used, what they’re used for, what sort of training they get or who they’re primarily used against.

Apparently privatized civil service is only okay if they're government controlled, which defeats the purpose of "small government" amirite?

LOLOLOLOLOL.

This is what happens when Massachusetts tries to be Rhode Island and fails. YOU NEVER GET CAUGHT USING A 501C3 FOR PROTECTION FROM THE GUBMINT!

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