Monthly Archives: July 2013



So I’ve got two posts nearly finished and waiting to be posted, but they both need some more work.  One is about Introverts and the other is about “Good Words/Bad Words.”

To be honest, the words post is closer to finished.  But the post on introversion is gonna be cool.

So which do you want to see? ‘Cause I know you guys don’t come here for the startlingly witty prose or the terribly deep thoughts.  If that were the case, you’d be hanging out on my OTHER blog.  I’m pretty sure it’s all about the stick figures and snark here.

But seriously, if you have an opinion and want to let me know, that would be awesome because while WordPress tells me that you people exist and are actually reading stuff, none of you ever SAY anything and I’m beginning to wonder if WP isn’t just trolling me because it’s a brat like that.

(It is a brat.  I’ve got a double post here and a double post in the OTHER blog and I can’t delete either one because they both got linked by people elsewhere and deleting them would cause confusion and meh. But WordPress barfed them up twice and I still have no idea why.)

So wordpress trolling aside, do any of you actually say things?  Or are you spectres from the great beyond?  If so, can you please settle a debate for me? Because think Casanova was exaggerating and I think the rules are pretty clear that you have to fess up in the Great Beyond.  So if you could figure that out and then, I don’t know, text a priest or something, that’d be great.



I’m usually smarter


A couple of weeks ago, I entered an argument with a wall about who had the right of way.  Physics decided to back up the wall because physics is a jerk. The results of this miscarriage of science were several very mean thoughts, a ridiculous headache and a pair of broken specs that I could not locate.

See, I’m extremely nearsighted. Legally blind, in fact.  If you take away my glasses, the world disappears.  This doesn’t make you David Copperfield, though; it just makes my eyes pretty useless without adequate backup.  Did I mention this whole thing happened during an attempted potty break at 3 a.m.?  That might be TMI but it also kind of explains that it was dark and I didn’t shout words of anger at Newton just because it would have woken people up.  Because I’m considerate. Unlike science.  (The Jerk.)

I keep an emergency pair of older Rx glasses in a place I can reach even blindly because there are times I didn’t put my actual glasses where I thought I did when I fell asleep and therefore cannot function until they’re found.  But this happened on the other end of the house.  I had to navigate the entire obstacle course between my broken and unlocateable glasses and my not-broken, but not-particularly-useful glasses without any optical enhancement. In the dark.  I broke a toe.

I eventually located my old glasses, put them on my face and cursed because everything was only somewhat less blurry.  So this time, I hobbled half-blind, injured and cranky back across the dark house to locate broken glasses, assess the damage and attempt to fix them.  (I just really want to point out the jerkishness of science since I feel it played a vital role in making the night so miserable. Sorry all you science-lovers, but really, science is a jerk.)

If you cannot see, you should not attempt to glue things with any sort of permanent fixative.  Because due to the continued mean-spiritedness of science, they not only attach acetate earpieces to the rest of the frame, but they also attach your hand to the frame.  Possibly twice.  (Shut up.)

When your newly detached-from-your-hand glasses finish drying, you will put them on and realize that you have obviously done a very bad job.

Then you get to wait for almost 2 weeks for new glasses because science is a jerk and hasn’t invented teleportation yet.

So remember:  I’m not clumsy. Science is just a jerk.

It made more sense in my head….


So there’s not really a post today, as you can tell because it’s all dark outside and I usually have a post up around lunchtime. But sometimes life demands that you take a day off.  Or possibly three.  And then life will troll you and you will accidentally have an allergic reaction, take a grown-up dose of benedryl by taking several pediatric melty tabs of benedryl and when your BFF wonders why you’re so out of it, you’ll tell her with a meaningful look, “ALL MY SKIN IS BEES” before falling dead asleep again.

Probably you didn’t have a stroke.  At least if you’re me.

And that’s a good thing. Which is really the lesson to take from this.  Not how to OD on baby benedryl. Because that is almost never a good idea.

Prosopagnosia sounds like something you order at Olive Garden


But it’s a thing — it’s a real, neurological thing.

I actually almost called this post, “No, you all really DO look alike to me” but I’m already going to the special hell for working on a stick figure tableau of the crucifixion….

Look, if we ever meet, chances are even if we meet several times, I will not know your name or know by sight that I’ve ever met you before. Even if you wear a nametag, I might be all “oh, hey, I know someone else with that name!” I suck at this.  It’s not that I’ve got a bad memory, it’s that faces don’t register in my brain for some reason. Probably, and this is my personal theory, it’s because God likes to troll me.

So faces don’t imprint.

I should never be allowed to be in charge of children. (I should never be allowed to be in charge of anything, really.  Me in charge of things is likely going to end in disappointment and alcoholism for everybody, so it’s better if it never happens.)

Jenny Lawson said all babies look alike to her and I’m so with her on this. But so do all toddlers, all adolescents and all adults. I might recognize a particular sparkly headband or remember that so-and-so has purple hair that is too anime to function, but faces are floating parts that fail to assemble in my long term memory. (This is why I draw stick figures, y’all….)

It's like this, but with more colours. Usually.

It’s like this, but with more colours. Usually.

But then I feel bad because somebody I’ve met 12 times in casual settings is offended when we have to go through that whole introduction ritual again because it doesn’t register that I’ve ever met this person before.  Seriously, people; if you want me to know you on sight, wear the same clothes all the time and never, ever cut your hair differently. Don’t change anything. Don’t even wear a ponytail.  And maybe on, like, the fifteenth meeting, I’ll know who you are.

So if we ever DO meet for the 37th time and I still don’t register that I’ve met you and just kind of look at you with a blank stare, it really is me, not you.  I’ve been this way my whole life; I called the wrong person dad more than once in the store and almost left a family get-together with the wrong nuclear unit. Mostly, I’m just gonna go around looking like this:

Note the blankest of stares.

Can you all just wear nametags or something?

And I’ll smile and hope I’m not offending you again for the billionth time and that this really is the first time I’ve asked you what your name is while you stare at me like I’m from an alternate dimension. But it’s not even limited to random people in my everyday life, either.  I can’t figure out actors, either.

I have a list of 3 actors that I recognize in everything and all three are Samuel L. Jackson. That’s why my movie reviews are full of stuff like “Brunette FBI guy #2” or other random nicknames I assign.  I can’t even recognize the same actor in a different role.  I was actually kind of freaked out when I learned that David Tennant (10th Doctor) was in Harry Potter (Barty Crouch, Jr.) and that Rory Pond’s Dad is Arthur Weasley.

So it’s not personal, I promise.  My brain is just broken in weirdass ways.


Twitter Hates When I Tweet About Movies


No, really.

All I did was queue up a movie and when Netflix trolled me with every damn tearjerker from my childhood, I fought back.  (By the way, Netflix?  I NEVER WANT TO WATCH OL’ YELLER OR WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS!  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??)  *ahem*  I fought back, by an overwhelmingly unanimous 2 – 0 vote with watching and live tweeting Hellboy.  Yes I did.

I had never watched Hellboy.  No, you can’t have my geek card. I had to give it up when I admitted I hadn’t watched BSG until this year either.

Anyway, every time I try to do something FUN or AWESOME, Twitter flings me in Twitter Jail because Twitter is a jerk. I may be anthropomorphize the media platforms in my life, but WordPress doesn’t seem to mind so I don’t think I’m gonna stop any time soon.

If you haven’t seen Hellboy (which has been out for 9 years now, so shut up) probably stop reading about ….here.  ‘Cause I’m going to summarize everything about that movie and probably spoiler the hell out of it.

The story (according to the movie, not the comic; quit being pedantic and try to remember this is a humour blog, okay??) is essentially that during the fall of the Nazis and the end(ish) of WWII, there’s an island in the middle of nowhere that has nothing but bad weather, angry Germans and nervous sheep.  The angry Germans are screwing around with paranormal shit as they apparently did all the damn time because why not? Somehow, they implode some kind of intergalactic space anus and it shoots out a demon baby.  Then everything gets explodey and people start sprouting blades.  It’s really only one guy, but he moves pretty fast, so it seemed like everybody….

So when you’ve exploded all the Nazis, what do you do with the recently expelled space demon?  Keep him, duh.  And just so he doesn’t grow up with a complex, you feed him candy all the time and call him “Hellboy.”

Then there was blah, blah, blah romantic sub plot and Agent Sparky McBoyScout who basically got on everybody’s nerves by almost never being a compelling character.

Oh. There’s a lot of Rasputin and some aquatic variant of Sammael all mixed in here and an aquatic mutant called Abe Sapien who should really rule the world by now since he’s pretty brilliant, amphibious and basically the most British mutant possible.  But I digress.

What with all the Rasputin-ing going on, of course everybody ends up in Moscow with explosives and the bossy agent no one likes whom I’ve dubbed Agent Asshead.  He mostly exists to whine about things.

Hellboy straps a talking dead guy to his back to use as the creepiest GPS ever and they go look for Rasputin’s tomb because reasons. And of course it’s boobytrapped and full of things that murder in a really flashy way.  Everybody gets separated, nameless agent #1 dies pretty much immediately, Agent Asshead whines about things. Hellboy gets cranky.  Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame Chick (Liz) go traipsing through a tunnel with Agent Nameless #2.  (He dies. FBI agents are like red shirts in the movie).

Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame chick find a den of Aquatic Sammy demons and have a mild panic with Sparky apparently forgetting she can toss fire all over the place and that the aquatic demons aren’t flame proof.

Hellboy breaks stuff, Agent Asshead disappears without explanation and isn’t ever really addressed again. Sparky flames all the demons and passes out. Agent Boy Scout gets a hammer to the face, Sparky gets her soul ganked out by Raspy and Hellboy has to say his name so he can open the space demon hell gate and let all the evil through.

He half unlocks it, remembers he’s not a bad guy, Rasputin gives birth to a squid demon, Hellboy explodes it and then whispers Sparky back to life while Agent Boy Scout gives Significant Looks to the camera.

The end.

Terrible Lessons I Learned From Children’s Lit (part 1)


Sorry for the rerun, but I want to pick this theme up again and figured a refresher was in order.  Also, I had to write another thing for a thing, so here’s an older thing that’s hilarious (promise!). Forgive me? Also, Mara Wilson (Matilda) is on Twitter and you should probably follow her because she’s hilarious and awesome.  @marawritesstuff.  Go. Follow. Yay.

So in re-reading and re-watching some of my favourite children’s/YA books/movies, I’ve realized some really disturbing things.  In fact, I figured I’d share them here so you can all see exactly how my demented mind works.

Let’s start with Mathilda, shall we?  I’m gonna talk about the movie ’cause it’s what I had handy and when you’re dealing with Roald Dahl, the book and the movie are very different things. (Hint: the books are even more terrifying.)  But don’t worry; he’ll turn up  again.  I learn lots of terrible lessons from the film adaptations of his books particularly.  This is what I learned from Matilda:

•If you want a child to grow up intelligent and independent, you should absolutely neglect them, thoroughly. It will make them smart and strong.

•If you are that child, your life has been crappy enough that while you’re generally a good person, you have a free pass to act like a sociopath at least once.

•Acting like a sociopath will get you the life you always wanted.

Some of you are probably wondering if we watched the same movie.  We did.  I’m just more warped than you are.  Still, it’s all there.  Matilda’s parents neglect her from the day she’s born, bringing her home from the hospital in the back of a station wagon and then forgetting her there until, presumably (we’re never told in the movie) she can walk herself in.  Because of this neglect, she learns to take care of herself, cook for herself, navigate a metropolis and manipulate the adults around her.  Oh, wait. We’re not to the sociopathy yet. Forget that bit.

Actually, let’s go ahead with the sociopathy:  If you’re Matilda and you’ve grown up in that atmosphere of neglect and indifference your entire life, you learn to play by a different set of rules and that’s okay in fiction but doesn’t play out well in the real world.  But in fiction, if your parents are “bad,” you can punish them.  In the movie, this takes the form of pranks, mostly, from replacing dad’s hair tonic with mom’s peroxide to gluing his hat on his head.  (Interesting, mom is never punished for her indifference and shallowness. But that’d be another bullet point and in preaching class, I learned 3 points are plenty, thanks.)

Anyway, apart from punishing her dad in order to get her way (which was to make him allow her to go to school), she finds that the principal at her new school is also bad and therefore can and should be punished.   I should probably point out that this is about the time that Matilda learns she has superpowers.  These are important because that’s what she uses to punish the bad adults at that point, through trespassing, theft and vandalism on the principal’s private property on the hunch that it was wrongly obtained (because 7 year olds are notorious for knowing the complexities of any given situation).  Later, she uses those same powers to physically assault the principal.  Trunchbowl is no peach and she definitely is a bully, but thanks to this movie, I learned that bullies just need someone to bully them back with supernatural powers.

In the end, this scares the bad principal while her parents get some federal justice aimed at them. Her parents flee the country, however, but Matilda, who apparently thought about this well ahead of time, had adoption papers prepped so that she could ditch her bad family, have her favourite teacher adopt her and they lived happily ever after in the house that had belonged to evil Ms. Trunchbowl.

So in the end, kids, remember that if you are smarter or more talented than someone else, it’s totally okay to use that to your advantage to manipulate the people around you into doing your will — as long as you have an adorable lisp and an exit strategy.

Join us next time on Auntie Hazard’s Story Time  to find out why it’s okay to take candy from strangers in pimp suits!

What now?