Home Alone 3: The Quest for Answers

Before we get to the meat'n'potatoes of today's whimsical journey, let me preface by saying that I know there was actually a Home Alone 3 (and even a dreaded Home Alone 4,) but that I choose to ignore its existence. Home Alone 3 is as much a part of the Home Alone series, in my mind, as Halloween 3 was a part of the Halloween series. In a word: getthisgarbageoffmytvandbringmeamartini.

Anyway, Home Alone!

Home. Freaking. Alone. Home Alone 1 & 2 are both huge traditions in my holiday season. The music, the shenanigans, the nostalgia... it's just not Christmas without little Kevin McAllister overcoming the odds and learning valuable life lessons about family, responsibility and dental hygiene.

To be honest, I've watched both of them an embarrassing number of times over the past several weeks. In doing so, I've noticed a few things between the two movies that don't quite add up for me. Let's observe, shall we?

#5. How much frickin' pizza to you people need?

In the early scenes of Home Alone 1, the McAllister clan is bustling around getting ready for their trip to Paris. They've ordered pizza, which is sensible, since they have likely used most of their perishables in preparation, and who wants to cook and clean with an early flight in the morning?


There are 15 people in the house. 4 adults, 4(ish) teenagers, and 7 children. I'm guestimating here, since they never really disclose anyone's age but Kevin's.

Regardless... while teenagers can certainly pack away the pizza, and Uncle Frank presumably goes ape shit over free food.. 10 pizzas for 15 people seems a little extreme.That's almost a full pie for each person.

Math time!

It doesn't sound like a lot at a glance, but when you reflect on the characters, most of them don't look like they regularly consume 5.3 slices of pizza at one sitting.

 I said most of them.

The parents are fit, and most of their skinny children look under the age of 14. Some of them are even downright tiny, and have presumably filled themselves up on Pepsi to begin with.

This is way too much pizza, McAllisters. You look like you can afford to waste it, what with that big fancy house and whatnot, but since Catherine O'Hara was bitching about several ounces of milk going bad, it just seems a bit contradictory and hypocritical. There are starving people sitting in front of my computer typing this blog who could have eaten what you undoubtedly threw out.

Speaking of pizza...

#4. What the fuck, Pizza Guy?

This one really doesn't take a lot of explanation. In fact, it can be summed up with a simple quiz:

You deliver pizzas. You arrive at a house where you are verbally threatened, and are seemingly fired at with an automatic weapon by a deranged pizza customer. He laughs maniacally as you run for your life. Do you,

A.) Call the cops.
B.) Call the cops.
D.) Run away and never speak of this again, despite the fact that aforementioned deranged pizza customer knows where you work, and possibly what you look like and drive.

Before you pick the obvious one... pick one of the other three. The cops never came to investigate the disturbance/assault, so it's safe to assume Derp the Pizza Guy never reported it, which makes no fucking sense.

Then again, it wouldn't have necessarily mattered if he had reported it....

#3. The worst police department on the planet 

Having never been on "The Force" myself, I can't say that I'm terribly familiar with all of the ins and outs of police procedure. What I know about cops, generally speaking, can be counted on one hand.
1.) They like donuts.
2.) The cars they drive are getting sneakier, and I don't appreciate it.
3.) They love pepper spray.

However, despite my limited knowledge, I feel comfortable in my assertion that these cops are fucking terrible.

Lack of social skills and sensitivity training aside, there is not a police scene in the whole movie where the cops in the McAllister neighborhood aren't dropping the ball. Even at the end, when they catch the bad guys, they fail to question, or even locate, any of the neighbors or witnesses. This really isn't surprising, considering how they reacted to the request depicted above.

Definitely some holes in that procedure, Sarge.

But before we go blaming the police department for all of these shenanigans, let's not forget the real culprit:

#2. The magical bond between mother and what's-his-face.

Aside from the fact that she lost track of her son, during the holidays, twice, after taunting and provoking him into wish for that very fate, Kate McAllister isn't really a bad mom. She is (supposedly) very conscious about wasting milk, provides for all her children in a beautiful home, attends their school concerts, and frequently takes (most of) them on extravagant vacations. In fact, she cares so deeply for her children that she can sense their thoughts and feelings in an almost supernatural way.

So... you have this incredible mother-son bond... and yet, you didn't notice until somewhere over the Atlantic that you left your son at home? And the second time around, you didn't insist to the flight attendant that you supervise everyone getting onto the plane, because you learned your lesson about terrible parenting last year? I'm calling shenanigans, Kate. I think the only incredible bond you have with your son lies within the fact that you still have custody after all of this. 

Oh, and I know I keep coming back to the milk thing, but it's not just because she cried about it pre-vacation. Let's take a step back to the first movie, when everyone's reunited. Not even two minutes after the entire family is home again, what does she do?

The last thing on my mind after a reunion like this would be milk.... but not Kate McAllister. It's bizarre enough that part of me wonders if this was all intentional, just so she could have her son's face on her favorite dairy product.

Last, but certainly not least:

#1. So, about those plane tickets....

Aside from bungling burglars and wacky Christmas capers,  another big plot point in the first Home Alone movie revolves around Kate McAllister's inability to book a flight back to Chi-town to reunite with her son. Pretty solid plot, considering typical travel difficulties during the Christmas season. The lack of available flights eventually lands her in a 12-hour, Scranton to Chicago van ride with a gaggle of traveling polka hobos, which, in my humble opinion, isn't quite the level of karmic payback one deserves for stranding a child home alone. It's a good start, though. 

So riddle me this: If it took ol' Kate McAllister the whole freaking' movie to book a flight -- a flight which could only get her within 703 miles of her home, mind you -- Then how the fuck did they manage to book not one, but fourteen flights at the drop of a hat in the second movie? 

Now, don't get me wrong-- None of this is going to make me stop loving the crap out of Home Alone, shameful though this love may be. I just couldn't resist pointing out some of the inconsistencies and shortcomings. Call it a Christmas gift from me, to me. 

Anywhoser, I'm off to the whimsical land of Parents' House for the next week or so. Here's hoping your holidays are merry and/or bright! Thank you for reading, and I'll see you in the New Year! (Or maybe before, if I'm not sluggish with Christmas cookies, which I probably will be.)


Taking a Holly Jolly Sleigh ride...

...Straight to hell.

I couldn't help myself.

(By the way, the site I used to make that snowflake is in the link below. It's super fun! Go try it!)


Not really what I expected from a Fox News affiliate...

..Am I right?

Look me in the eye and tell me there's not a better title for... whatever this is.

Can't do it, can you?


Happy Thanksgivemeafrickinbreak

And we're back! Did you miss me? I missed you! *huggles*

Now begins the struggle with Post Turkey Depression Syndrome. Don't get me wrong-- I'm super stoked for Christmas, as is most likely evident by this spiffy holiday blog makeover. But man oh man... so much food has been consumed over the past week. I shall miss thee, oh mighty turkey, and cranberry sauce, and pies, and cakes. Mostly, I'll miss the cran-sauce. I have an unhealthy obsession with it.

Like, a really, really unhealthy obsession.

I spent most of my Thanksgiving in a drugged-up stupor because I still had (and still have) bronchitis. It was a unique experience. It's a little fuzzy, but I feel like most of the dinner probably went like this:

If this was indeed the case, either a) I apologize, or b) you're welcome, merry relatives.

As my parents did not have any cransauce, we stopped at a couple Walgreens on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner, so I could further my lusty affair with that gelatinous Jezebel. The first was completely out, obviously, as it is the best side dish known to man. The second, however, had many cans. So I bought them all.

I would never forget you, little one.

As for travel, Mr. Biffles was surprisingly docile on the drive to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. On the drive back up, however, he was a holy terror.What made it worse was the fact that it was pouring down rain for my entire journey. I made a few more pit stops on the journey back home than I did on the way down, to try to placate him.

I failed.

I decided to make a mega pit stop halfway through the drive, which turned out to be a terrible move. Because it was there, at the half-way point, in the coldest rain of the season, with the most annoying cat in the world, traveling alone with my bronchitis, that my car died.

I sat back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I was determined to keep my cool and just work through this horseshit. I was too angry to cry. "I'm an adult," I told myself. "I can deal with this." 

But, I decided... maybe just one quick call to mommy... couldn't hurt. Just for... moral support.

The quickest train to Weepytown is to call my marmie when I'm upset. Even by my normal standards, I was surprised at how quickly my resolve to be a grown-up faded.

Usually, it takes me at least a couple minutes to get from lip quiver to full-blown break-down, but not today. I was tired, annoyed, sick and stranded. I could only manage loud, vague statements of discontent.

And that, of course, rapidly progressed into an indecipherable string of yowls that sounded like a mix between a mourning hyena and a frightened opera soprano.

Now usually, I'm not big on perfect strangers witnessing my total psychological melt-downs, but it proved useful in this instance. A fantastic maintenance man at the gas station noticed me losing my shit, and tapped gently on the window. He actually said "Don't worry, ma'am. I'm one of the good guys, and we're going to help you out." It was like a movie, except I was having absolutely no fun, and I didn't have any fucking popcorn.

He and his friend saved me unfathomable amounts of time, tow truck money and tears. After they got me running again, we were back on the road. Biffles seemed to sense I was flustered, because he stayed quiet for a whole four minutes. Beyond that, apparently, he owed me nothing.

Anyway, that was about it for my Thanksgiving. And while I mourn its passing... now it's Christmas Time! (Or, you know, Hanukkah time, whatever floats your goat. We don't discriminate here. I'll even throw a menorah and a dradle in the header for you. But as for me, it's Christmas, motherfuckers!) A time for shopping,

Yeah... to my friends outside the US.. unfortunately, this is a real news story. We suck.

a time for decorating,

Why my employer continues to trust me around our front desk decorations, I'll never know.

and a time for festive arts 'n crafts! My sister made this one last week:

Jk. She made it when she was 8, or so she claims.
I really don't know whether to call an exorcist or the Betty Ford clinic about that one.

Oh well. Happy Holidays!

Thanks for reading! :]
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Turkey Tuesday


This will be my first blog post heavily medicated, so strap up and enjoy the Turkey-tastic ride!

Maybe don't strap up. That sounds weird.

Mmm, yeah. Now show me some ankle, baby...

Quite the eventful week we've had, Mr. Biffles and I. I've been under the weather with bronchitis for the past week and a half, (you know, for a change of pace, also, hence the medication,) and Mr. Biff has been on the mend from his manhood removal surgery. Additionally, what with the impending holidays, there have been a million chores and errands, all of which, surprisingly, seem to be getting done.

The best errand by far has been shopping for Mr. Biffles.

You see, Mr. Biffles hates his carrier.

Whatever you've envisioning of his carrier temperament, amplify it by a million. Seriously. He really, really, really, really hates his carrier.

The morning of Snip Day, he used his polydactyl thumbs and know-how to reach outside the carrier, open the effin' thing, and bolt. While we were outside in the dark, wee hours of the morning, no less. During the drive, he would grab the cage with both hands, and his teeth, and rattle it like those freaking apes at the beginning of 28 Days Later.

The last straw came the other day when, on the way to the vet for a follow-up, he pressed his adorable kitty face against the cage so hard that he actually injurred himself. (His nose, specifically; He pressed it too fiercely against the metal cage door.) :c

No one made you do it, Marsha Brady.

It was just far too stressful for him and for me. So, I did what any normal person would do. I decided Mr. Biffles would be trained in the art of leash-walking.

So far, it's gone about as well as you'd expect.

Oh well. Even if I have to carry him to and from the car when we travel, it's still not as stressful for either of us as that carrier. And while he hates the leash, he doesn't really mind the harness itself. Although, come to think of it,  he has been particularly aggressive to his toys since he began wearing it...

I may or may not be sleeping with the door locked for a bit.

Among other holiday preparations, I decided to put up my Christmas tree a little early this year. I know, I know. Give Turkey Day it's due. And I usually do, I swear. This year is flying by, though, and I want to be able to return from Thanksgiving and just chill. So, up the tree went, much to the delight of one Mr. Biffles.

I almost didn't put the tree up this year because I assumed he'd make it impossible, but so far, there haven't been any inciden.....

Oh, so that's what instant regret looks like.

...No. NO! No nibbles!

Okay, so maybe I just won't plug it in. *sigh*

Another big part of holiday prep for me this year has been budgeting and cutting costs. I decided one area where I really needed to be a grown-up and sacrifice was in the TV department. So, I called my old pals, Comcast. Considering we were now "forever friends," I assumed the experience would be a pretty smooth transition.

But then again, I also forgot that Comcast is rated worst customer service in America. For many reasons. Including the following:

I called to downgrade the package. The first gal I spoke with (let's call her Fannie) told me the price I saw online was an online special only. She advised that I place the order online, and finish the order by talking to their live chat team. Fine, Fannie. I shall do just that.

Upon finishing my order online, I pulled up the voice chat and talked with a guy (we'll call him Stoolie) who said the order could only be placed via phone. "But Stoolie," I appealed... "I was on the phone for almost 45 minutes, only to have Fannie tell me I must complete my order with you. Now, I've taken additional time online, and you'd like to send me back to Fannie?" Stoolie typed some gibberish about valued customer and blah blah blee blah and basically yes, I had to call back in.


This time, I called in under the cancellation line, because, as I had remembered by this point, the only way to talk to someone who a) speaks English and b) gives a shit is to threaten to cancel. So I talked to person number three (Fart. His name was Fart.) and got things straightened out. Now, Ol' Fart seemed like he knew what he was doing... but given all the confusion, I decided to live chat later that night. Just to make sure.

The following chunks of conversation are verbatim, from that live chat. I copied and pasted it to Word, for ease of reading, since their transcript button sucks almost as much as their customer service.


So.... What? What, now? My question to you is "Can you please verify what you see there," and your answer is, "Could you please tell me what I should be seeing here, so I can tell you what you want to hear?"


And at this point, he disappears for another five or ten minutes... I'm not entirely sure. I know I got a couple rounds of Plants vs. Zombies in while I was waiting, to quell my anger at the fact that the 6 month cut-off for this price was not mentioned to me online or on the phone, with any of the three people I'd spoken to that afternoon.

After a more than reasonable amount of waiting...

 ....Go back and re-read my question. Now re-read his answer.

My patience is wearing so, so thin, Michael John....

What kind of black magic is this?? So not only was I not informed about the initial price hike, I was not also informed there would be a second price increase? Sigh.

By the way, if you're wondering why I haven't scribbled all over these pictures, it's because the comedy really writes itself, doesn't it? If you think there's any room to disagree with me on that, prepare to find yourself corrected in three... two.... one....

And that was the end of my patience.

Now... Now, it was Michael John's turn to be on hold for a moment, so I could gather myself. I took a couple deep breaths, closed my eyes, and clawed for the moral high road. I tried not to let my frustration at his complete incompetence get the better of me, and to unleash a firestorm of snarky comments at him.

I tried.

I failed.

I finished typing in an irate frenzy, and hit that last enter key with a triumphant smirk that would make even Alex Trebek proud.  My prize? Seeing this on my screen for the next few minutes, while Michael John tried to formulate his reply:

 (And yeah, my Plants vs. Zombie's handle is Mr. Deez. Actually, most of my gaming handles are Mr. Deez.)

He eventually came back and said "Amanda, I am sorry for the experience you had with the bakery," and proceeded to ramble for a paragraph or two about service and quality and what makes it all worth it and other bullshit which is fantastic to preach, but apparently, not to practice.

Having acquired what I wanted, namely, account information and a small, meaningless victory over a corporate giant, I decided to wrap up the conversation.

But there was, however, one last burning question on my mind:

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'll say that I'm so grateful that I won't have to deal with them again for, hopefully, another 6 months, when the price inevitably goes to something other than what we discussed. C'est la vie.

Oh, right. Thanksgiving. This is Turkey Tuesday, and here I've been gobbling on about Comcast and my cat and whatnot. Hmm.... Hey, I know! I'll share the hand turkeys I made this year:

Don't fucking judge me. You are just jealous that you don't have any hand turkeys.

I call this one, Space Helmet Dradle Turkey Commander

He wears two hats. One is a birthday cake.

 And this one is titled, TurkEyVIL (Subtitle: I Will Gobble, Gobble, Gobble Up Your Soul:)

Not to be confused with "Turkeyville," which is probably adorable.

 And lastly, Hank, the Hanksgiving Squidopuss:

Long story.

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I should mention that I will be off in the booniest of boonies, visiting my parents, and completely cut-off from all communication until Sunday. Which means it'll probably be at least a week until I'm back. Don't you weep too hard, fellow Meteoroflgists. I'll be back with tales of travel, turkey and tomahawks.

Maybe not tomahawks, but I'm still medicated, and I like alliteration. Plus, the Indians probably brought tomahawks to the first Thanksgiving, so it kind of works, right?


...Okay, I have looked all over and I cannot find a picture of an Indian wielding a tomahawk. So.....

Good enough.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks! And don't get your pretty faces trampled on Black Friday, either.