Adventures in Spookiness

Happy Halloween! Warning: I will be using sporadic ORANGE text and excessive SPOOKY language.

This October had been unusually anti-climactic and lack-luster in the spookiness department. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and do some Halloweening this weekend. Nothing too spectacular, just a few spooky errands.

My first unexpected spooky encounter happened at my friend Sara's house. (Sara, of Srosscoe fame.) She's chilling in front of her somewhat broken window, while I go ape-shit over her puppy. Upon glancing up... I see something terrifying.

Me: Gasp!
Sara: Oh... heh. Yeah. That? *points to broken window pane.*
Me: No. *dramatic pause; strides with purpose toward window.* That
Sara: Ffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu..................

What was I pointing at?

That motherfucker.

The good news? At a closer glance, we realized he wasn't actually down in the basement waiting to assassinate Jeff Daniels. He was just there to make a friend.

 And given the timing, it's also possible that he just wanted help with his Halloween costume.

As for my Halloween costume, I decided to be Hagrid for Halloween. That said, my next spooky errand was to Halloween Express (or Halloween City or Halloweentown or some fucking thing, I don't know...) It was a pretty standard experience, except for the fact that an employee, after he approached me and offered help, was pretty judgmental when I asked where the beards were. It's Halloween, you work in a Halloween store, and you're dressed like a mango or Rob Schneider or whatever, and you're giving me attitude?

After leaving the Halloween store, I was a little parched, and decided to get a Happy Meal. I almost got into a SPOOKY accident with a GHOULISH redneck and flipped him the HAUNTED bird at an intersection. Yes, I had the right-of-way.

... Not spooky enough.

That's better.

Moving on, I needed to hit Goodwill, which, in itself, is pretty spooky.

I don't so much hate Goodwill as I hate every single person inside Goodwill. For one, it smells like forgotten dreams and nursing homes. And secondly, every Goodwill I've ever been to leaves me more jostled than a prostitute at Charlie Sheen's house. And since I'm naturally very claustrophobic in stores anyway... I usually leave feeling like a sole survivor from The Decent.

Last stop: Kroger. On my search for dish soap, I walked by an item that inspired an epic double take, which, as the lady trying to walk by me learned, is a little more dangerous whilst steering a shopping cart. I'm not saying I knocked right the fuck into her, with force, with my cart, but that's exactly what I did.

Sorry, but if you saw this, you'd do a double take too, no matter who was in your way:

Really? Why do I feel like Taylor Swift's publicity team came up with the name for this (useless) item? Sacsoc? We're not allowed to have Schweddy Balls on the shelf, but we're allowed to encourage the masses to shove their "sacks" into something called a Sacsoc? I call shenanigans. SPOOKY SHENANIGANS, I say!


Back home, it was time to drink cider, carve pumpkins, and visit with the ghost of Devon Sawa's career.

Mr. Biffles was a little less than impressed with my carving skills. Fair enough, since I am, admittedly, no wizard when it comes to pumpkin carving. He did, however, offer his assistance by batting at the pumpkin guts as I was attempting to hollow them out.

He was such a good little helper that I decided to immortalize him on a pumpkin, complete with his top hat, monocle, and mustache. I also made a spooky face. It's not an official Halloween without one.

Here are the results:

Not too shabby, if I say so myself.

And those were my adventures in spookiness for this year. Happy Halloween, friends!


I did it all for the dookie

If there had been a steady decrease in common sense and common courtesy in the workplace bathroom, and you walked in to see the following sign, would you be offended?

I spent tens of minutes on this baby, and it didn't even last a full business day! Someone tore it right the eff down!

Now, let me back track a minute, and say that I've never made a bathroom sign. I am not that woman in the office (and there is one in every office) who puts a new sign on the microwave or fridge or some other appliance every other day, being condescending over the littlest things.

Borrowed from the appropriately-named

So, that considered, and also considering what I had to deal with which prompted this note... I'm a little surprised it didn't survive more than a couple hours.

In the interest of not being revolting, I won't go into graphic detail about what I dealt with. And I know that poop jokes are well below the level of quality you've come to expect from this blog. (Shh...) But you really need to understand the terror. To give you an idea, it was bigger than all these things:

Who's ready for Halloween candy?

I'm lucky enough to have a witness.

Anyway... I think you get the point.

I'd like to note this had been preceded by other unnecessary bathroom encounters. (Like locked stalls? I haven't done that since 6th grade. Granted, I remember it being super fun... but still.)

So I made the sign. You saw it. I think it was funny and informative, but apparently, aside from the turd with which I did battle on Friday, there was also a turd hanging out in the punch bowl somewhere, because it's gone now.

I miss it. :{

Despite the fact that I was completely justified in hanging my sign, I decided to let it go. To move forward with maturity. And I'm glad that I took the high road on this one.


I am happy to report, that a full 24 hours later, my missing sign sign is still in place! Apparently, someone learned to take a joke. Maybe, just maybe, in time, they can learn to take a deuce like an adult as well.


Fuck Yogurt

Also, I love my boss. Also, I'm going home to sleep now.  

From: Amanda K
Sent: Monday, October 24, 2011 11:57 AM
To: Kacey R (my boss ♥)

Dear Kacey,

Enclosed, please find a dramatic reenactment of last night’s activities, and the consequences produced as a result.

Umm… I know the timing isn’t ideal, but I am really hurting. :c If I a) get everything scanned, saved, in the cart, etc. can I b) go home and barf in my own toilet, and then c) make up the time this week? If it’s a problem, let me know, and I will like… nap in my car at lunch or something.

I ate the yogurt last night and
then checked the date. This is a cautionary tale.

Thank you!

Best regards,

Amanda K 


From: Kacey R
Sent: Monday, October 24, 2011 12:25 PM
To: Amanda K
Subject: RE:

a)      Yes
b)      Please
c)       Yes

Thanks for the giggles at your poor tummy’s expense. Hope you get to feeling better.

Kacey R


Mr. Biffles' Big Day

I've learned quite a few things since becoming the proud owner of my fancy feline friend.

I've learned that yes means yes, and no means yes. "Get down from there" means "stare defiantly," and "Ow, those are my veins" means "bite harder." The most important lesson I've learned, however, is that this:

Actually means this:

That said, I've decided it's high time for Mr. Biffles to have that very special vet appointment.

After shopping around, I have decided to take him to a place in town called Pets Alive. Over all, I was pretty impressed with their services and prices, and they seem to genuinely care about the critters, which is always a plus. Admittedly, though,  I did find some things on their website that kind of... just....


No, I did not photoshop this. This is the banner that slapped me across my chow hole when I first entered their site. I'll go ahead and link it, if you happen to think I'm lying.

I mean... I get what they're trying to say. But all I could really think after seeing that was something along the lines of

My favorite part of this is how I didn't even have to alter his face. He just... looks like the kind of guy who's fully able to support this claim.

I assumed that they just snuck in a funny slide in their welcome slide show and was fully prepared to forget about it. Until I saw the next one.

In other words, "This blog post basically writes itself, because come on. Really?" And in other other words:

I continued my pet ownership education on their website, reading up on everything I'd need to do to take proper care of Mr. Biffles pre- and post-op. It seemed mostly pretty standard,and potentially hilarious. Just think of the fun faces and pictures I could draw on an Elizabethan cone, should one be required. I know I am.

Oh, like you wouldn't.

Dare I dream. It's been way too long since I've had a good excuse to play with pipe cleaners and googly eyes.

There was, however, one bit of information that I was not expecting, which caught me off guard.

Um... say what, now??

I'm sure there's some logical explanation, and that it's beneficial in one way or another, but I'm not exactly thrilled about it. Hell, I don't even have a tattoo, and my cat is going to get one? Is my cat officially cooler than me? Don't answer that.

I wonder if they take requests.... Maybe something in a nice tramp stamp. Or perhaps something to make him seem like less of a mama's boy, should he ever find himself in the great outdoors. Something tough.

Oh yeah. That's the stuff.

Oh well. Whether or not they take requests, I'm sure they'll do a bang-up job destroying my cat's manhood and liveliness. And while I sincerely hope and pray that he emerges a more compassionate and calm soul... I hope he doesn't end up with this expression embedded permanently on his cute little furry face.

Seriously, who chose the pictures for this website? It's like I designed it or something.

(And no, I didn't.)

((But maybe I should have.))


I'm a creep

I have many redeeming qualities. And, like everyone, I have my flaws, too. But I also have these other... let's call them, "tendancies," to be, as the French would say, "weird as fuck."**
**I don't speak French. Leave me alone.

For example: Let's say you have an adorable kitten. And your friend says to you,

While some kind souls, like my sister, might see this request, and respond on my behalf by posting something adorable like this:

My typical reaction would be... something a little different.

Let's just say that if the last thing on your list of reactions to this request would be "photoshop Jennifer's face onto Mr. Biffles, making a terrifying cat-woman hybrid," then we are on two different wavelengths, my friend.

And, the close up:

No punchline. No explanation. It's literally, for whatever reason, the first thing that came to mind.

You got lucky, Jenniffles. Because if you're unfortunate enough to be acquainted with the likes of me on Facebook, and you're not careful, you could very well find yourself in an entire album like this:

And straight up, being careful can't even spare you. This came out of the blue for my friend Sara, and her cute pup Roscoe. I was just bored.

And I saw her pictures.

And I was feeling creative.

And by creative, I mean creepy as fuck.

For a couple days, she'd hear me giggling to myself. And she'd know it was time to go to Facebook, to see my latest abomination of her face and the things she loves. It's really summed up in the only comment on the album:

I don't act any more normal outside of photoshop, either. That said, I'm not entirely sure how I've survived 26 long years with any friends at all. But I did. (Hooray!) But make no mistake, friends: Even though I'm grateful for your loyalty, with great friendship comes great tolerance.

Thanks in advance.


A.D.D. Wednesday

Heads up: I'm all over the place today.

It could be that extra large cup of coffee I had for breakfast his morning, and the fact that we were out of creamer, so I just dumped in a shitload of hot cocoa. Don't judge. It was delicious. Diabetically delicious. I've decided to call it, "Hot Mochoa". It's pronounced, hot moh-coh, and rhymes with cocoa. You know... like... a combo of mocha and cocoa?

Shut up. It's brilliant. Just like all of the other words I invent which no one can seem to pronounce.

Sound it out, bitches.

Or maybe I'm just feeling hyper because today finally looked, smelled, and felt like fall is supposed to, instead of this prolonged summer crap. Gtfo, sunshine. We've had enough of your 90 degree bullshit.

Or perhaps, it was the fact that my previous once-in-a-lifetime experience has turned into a twice-in-a-lifetime experience. Yes, that's right, folks. Today, I received yet another... siamese McNug. I'm convinced that I'm some kind of Nugget Goddess at this point.

Dramatic reenactment

Whatever the cause, I have some serious ADD today. That's probably why all I could see out of this:

Was this:

At least I already have something at the ready for him to snack on.

Life isn't fair, weather guy. Unless you get double siamese McNuggets, and get to wash it down with some delicious hot mocoa. Then it's totally fair. At least for a minute or two.


I'm the best sister ever

And the most modest. But mostly, the best.

Some people get their sisters a manicure, or a bracelet, or some shitty gift card for their birthday. But not this Meteoroflgist. No, sir. My gifts come from the heart. Right from the heart, and right onto Facebook.

My logic:Why buy a cardigan? She has clothes already. What she doesn't have is a Facebook wall flooded with images that represent how I really feel about her.

How much I enjoy having her as a sister.

All of the fun times we've had together.

Or those wild parties we attended, before the spiders came.

It's from Arachnophobia. I sincerely hope no one besides my sister understands this photo.

And the lessons we've learned along the way, like never to arrive too early to a party.

And you thought Facebook was stupid and pointless. Poppycock, I say to you. Poppycock.

So yes. Happy Birthday, dear sister, and may these images be embedded in your Facebook archive and subconscious forever.

And on an incredibly related note, this is what you get for having a birthday in October in my world.