Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: Social Page

Day 6.1–It {was}’s My Birthday and I’ll Post If I Want To

Well, it was yesterday, and I didn’t want to. Plus, I was severely indisposed for the last hour of it. Let’s just say amine intolerance (which I decided to develop, because food intolerances are so fashionable these days, and lactose and gluten are so overdone) + stromboli sausage = a lot of bathroom time. The more distressing because the strombolis were an annual rite to celebrate meeting Rom in 1978. Of course, Rom can’t eat ice cream, and misery loves company.

Many thanks to D. (henceforth to be called Trex, for T. Rex, because Rom thinks she has really short arms), for the gift of a MARCASITE NECKLACE. I love marcasite, but my previous experience with it has been 2 Avon rings, one with black plastic rose center, and one with hematite center, which eventually turned my finger green, as cheap rings will. (I HOPE I’M NOT SUED BY AVON FOR THIS STATEMENT.)





“Every beat of my heart belongs to you.” Looks like that “Every Breath You Take” guy finally found his ideal woman.

“We’ll be together forever like Bonnie & Clyde.” You do remember how that ends?


My RETIREMENT PARTY will be June 14 at Hacienda on 1st Ave. Here I am, blithely inviting my entire FanBase, even though I’m not the one organizing the affair. Just show up and pretend you just happened to be sitting at the bar.


The latest plan for my Last Day Of Work is to show up drunk and naked. Although that will lead to difficulties walking there.

–Bumper sticker: “She Reads Truth.” Alright, then. Must be some hipster cultural thing I’m not aware of. Rom always says, “Ignorance of your culture is not considered cool,” but since when have I cared about being cool? Well? Which reminds me of the time I said to A Certain Person, “You know me, keeping a low profile,” and she said, “Since when?”


There was a children’s book, “Time To Sleep–A Touch and Feel Book.” It had something soft to feel on every page. I thought, Oh! I’d have loved this as a little kid! Did I pick it up and touch the furry spot on every page? Of course not, why would you think so? I promise I didn’t sweat on it. This is, by the way, the other side of having sensory issues.

It’s still hard for me to believe I soon won’t be working. I keep thinking it must be some mistake, and I’ll find myself with no job and no money.


When I got back home today, Rom was napping. I went in and said something so he’d know I was home, and he started violently, which startled the cats, so they both exploded off the bed. He said, “My first thought was, Did one of the cats just speak?”




The Small and Silly

Need a laugh? Watch this. It’s never failed me yet.

Well, now I’m experiencing technical difficulties–user error, no doubt–so you’ll probably have to wait till the end for the video. Maybe I should have waited till I finished the post to embed it. The featured bird can also Walk Like an Egyptian, but you’ll have to find that out for yourself.


It’s been a long time since we checked in with Archer & Fiona, who are now 5. Each made a statement today that really tells you what kind of person they are:

Archer: I was showing them the very video displayed in this post, and then they asked me what was in the 2 little boxes on the bookshelf. Hoping this was a one-time thing–if I had to explain everything in my office, we’d be there a very long time–I opened the boxes and showed them the cute little cobra that wiggles when you touch it, and the cute little ladybug whose legs wiggle. Then I put the boxes away, and Archer said, “But do they move when the boxes are closed?” Whoa. Zen tree in the forest, man. Shades of Schrodinger’s cat (who I sincerely hope is not dead).

Fiona: I got in the car with the twins and their mother (she was giving me a ride down to St Joe), and we said farewell to Rom. He told Fiona “Have a good day!” and she said, “I will. You know I always do.”


3:26 and All Is Not Well

“…I was up till 3:30 last night,” says Stephen Colbert, as if there’s something unusual about that. I cannot rest until I write. I’m like Cat Esmerelda with petting–“I’VE DONE WITHOUT IT FOR DAYS, BUT NOW I MUST STAND IN THE HALLWAY AND YELL, AND GET IN FRONT OF YOU WHEN YOU TRY TO LEAVE THE ROOM, AND COME BACK AND GET YOU WHEN YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO HAVE IT NOW NOW NOW–”

Ahem. Anywayz, the 28th was Rom’s birthday (he’s 65! how did that happen?), and we went to Turoni’s with D. It’s a good thing I remembered what I wanted (3-cheese/chicken/broccoli pizza, yum!), because their current menu struck me like a blow (albeit a very minor one–unlike their bathroom, which thanks to their mid-century modern decorating scheme reminded me of the restrooms of my childhood, so I expected their toilet to do likewise, and instead it was a supersonic TOILET OF THE FUTURE, and startled me when I flushed), because the menu was an over-crowded BARRAGE OF WORDS, and I was momentarily overwhelmed. (The accompanying illustrations did not help. Pictures on a menu should be of food, not cartoon characters.) I had been thinking I might like an alcoholic beverage (or 2, or 3, or 4), but that required a separate menu to present their hellish profusion of beers, so that was Not Gonna Happen. By the way, the pizzas of my table companions were overly colorful. A pizza should not look like it has confetti strewn over it.

This post is reading like a grab bag of World Leader Edicts. And I’ve only just begun.


You didn’t know I had one, did you? Neither did I.

Nothing like a letter from that source which cheerily begins, “We’re NOT accusing your of identity theft!” Oh?

“…but you need to go to our website, and pass a quiz to verify your identity, which will only take a few minutes, and we’ll give you 3 chances to pass it, and then we’ll send you your refund, if you first tell us the exact amount of the refund you were claiming.”


I grumpily went to my pile of leftover tax documents. Well, guess what? After doing the taxes, I had separated the paperwork into 2 piles–one to toss and one to keep–and guess what I did. That’s right, I threw the wrong ones away. Stuff like this would make me think dementia is setting in, except that I’ve been doing stuff like this my whole life. It’s a wonder I can even feed myself. Oh wait, I don’t, Rom feeds me. Well, not by hand, because I bite.

Soooo…I don’t have the paperwork they require, so I need to call them, at their non-toll-free number. How can I prove I’m not the identity thief they’re not accusing me of being? Maybe they’ll tell me to come up to Indianapolis with my state I.D. (it’s like a driver’s license, except that it says Don’t Let This Person Drive) to get my refund.

You know, I carefully arrange my life so I seem normal, to myself and others. But going to a city I’ve never been to, where I know no one, and try and find a building I’ve never been to? That is so Not Gonna Happen. They can just keep my refund, paltry as it is. Identity theft has claimed another victim.

Even More Stuff

…mostly stuff I forgot to include last time. Speaking of which, scrolling through old posts (because I saw someone had read an old one titled “I Am the Carpet Queen, I Can Do Anything,” and I wanted to see why I’d come up with that {stolen from Jim Morrison/the Doors, and not for the first time, I bet}) (OK, I just had to go back up to the top to remember what my point was) (I’m not drunk, by the way), I was struck by the fact that–wow, old posts used to be long. (“And more frequent, too,” they observe tartly.) Yeah, this paragraph was a lot of buildup for little payoff. Please don’t say that old posts also used to be better.

My arm continues to get better, thanks for asking. Especially since I had to perform amateur surgery to remove a piece of sweater fuzz that had become embedded in the wound, ew ew ew. My stoicism in doing this makes me like to think I could cut off my foot to escape a trap if I had to. And I probably would  have to, because avoiding the trap in the first place doesn’t seem to be an option.


Actually, I was paid to write a review once in the 80’s. That wouldn’t look great on a resume (along with having a short-short story published in a magazine with a circulation of 200 in 1995), but since I’ll never have to write a resume again, I don’t care.

Anyway, I saw the Jungle Book with Rom and D., and I can recommend it to all who enjoyed the books. Unfortunately, it included a couple of musical numbers left over from the Disney cartoon, for which I did not care, but they were brief.


First off, call me old and prudish (I dare you–DON’T MAKE ME PICK LINT OFF YOUR ARM!), but please don’t cuss in front of the customers. Apparently they think they’re OK as long as they don’t cuss at the customers. Perhaps I am stodgy about this because my job does involve people cussing at me. (“They cuss at you even though you’re providing the emergency help they’re requesting?” they ask. Yes, FanBase, yes.)

Second off, a co-worker who was not present was spoken of thus: “Right now she’s literally walking on eggshells.” No wonder she couldn’t make it to work.


I’m toying with the idea of reinstating the Post-A-Day rule, perhaps starting on my upcoming birthday. That gives me several weeks to, you know, brood over why I couldn’t stick to it the last time.




sorry (removing caps lock). Doesn’t it seem like I’m always apologizing for not posting? WELL, DOESN’T IT??

You can just blame Redd’s Hard Mango Ale for everything, which I am on my 2nd can of at the moment. I was going to ease into it gradually, but what the hell.

I have never had one of their “HARD” (sorry, hit caps lock again) ales before. I don’t really know what 8% alcohol content means, since I don’t know the alcohol content of their previous efforts, but what the hell.

This stuff is great. I mean REALLY great (caps lock intended that time). It tastes just like the mango perfume I wore in the early 90’s smelled. (Said perfume courtesy of the lovely Noelle, one of my favorite former co-workers, so called by me because she was born on Christmas Day.) “Wicked Mango” would be a great name for a perfume–actually the body oil Noelle gave me was called “Mango Peligroso,” which means about the same thing. I know this because I got A’s in Spanish in my 2nd attempt at college. I KNOW THE PREVIOUS SENTENCES SHOULD HAVE BEEN PARENTHESIZED DIFFERENTLY, BUT I DON’T CARE.


My lips are getting numb.

I was going to explain about the demise of the post-a-day project, but that all seems so conceptual at the moment. So what the hell.


More Raspberry polish. I can only hope that it looks as good tomorrow as it seems to today. It will be on display in all its dubious glory on Christmas Eve.

Good thing I’m safe at home, because otherwise I might become naughty 2 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, and wouldn’t that suck? Well, St. Nick knows if I’ve been naughty or nice, right? This knowledge on his part is disconcerting.

I just said “suck.” How unimaginative of me.

It is 2 days before Christmas, right?

What are people on Facebook saying now?? I must find out. (Still sober enough to hit “Save Draft” before exiting) (But is this draft worth saving, really?)

Oh, they’re not talking about me. How dare they?



OK, I just ruined my manicure, and I don’t even want to say why, so let’s just not talk about it. This is depressing. I may do it over again tomorrow. If I feel like it. Hopefully before I drink anything with the words “Redd’s” on it.

Nick, I sense that you are frowning disapprovingly, so STOP IT RIGHT NOW, OK? I would fight you if you were actually here.

Rom will be back in here in a moment! Hurray!



Day 27: I’m Not There

I dreamed I had my retirement party on the back lot of a bar, on a warm sunny day. Lesa drove me there, and RaBecca gave me a redneck t-shirt, with the sleeves cut off, and the hem slashed into ribbons as far as the law allows. Nick had to work 2nd shift that day. He said he would stop by if he could, but questioned the wisdom of showing up at a bar in uniform. And I wore Mitsouko perfume. I could smell it, just like I could see the sun and hear the music of the bar band. See, I can do party planning in my sleep! Unlike Nick, who can’t do party planning in my sleep–if he couldn’t be bothered to take the day off, maybe he shouldn’t have been invited.


A screaming female wanted to make an official report (which, like many people, she thought she could do merely by calling 911 and screaming “Oh my God!” intermittently) because the officer who pulled her over had gotten fingerprints all over her car window. She forgot to add that she had closed her window on his fingers.

I won Employee of the Day by saying, “Ma’am, your breast size is irrelevant” on the phone. I also attracted comment for my Raspberry nail polish, a rather startling shade of pink.

S.G.’S 27TH POST, 5/7/13: It’s Good to Have Fans

–Someone reported a board lying in the middle of the highway, and she thought it might have a nail in it!

–Nick said I was “spreading a web of terror,” and someone said they loved me because I used the word “dystopian” in the post.

Day 25: I Resent Robot Restrooms

It’s beginning to look like you need to give me money if you expect me to show up regularly. (They caught onto that at my job.) But I gratefully thank hard-core FanBasers Nick, D., D.T., and of course Rom, for keeping me going. I suspect I’m not cut out for this writing business, not least because of the constant encouragement I apparently require.

But enough about me. Time to address the restroom at Bob Evans.

I have mentioned before my dislike of automated bathroom facilities, such as the new one at Thornton’s. I hadn’t been to Bob Evans for some time (it’s still freezing in there, though, whatever the weather–makes me feel like I’m at work), but now they’re part of the Brave New World of Bathrooms, too. They have a new twist (so to speak)–YOU CAN’T CONTROL THE %&*! WATER TEMPERATURE! There are no faucets, just a spout. At least they let you flush the toilet yourself, unlike Thornton’s. I’LL FLUSH WHEN I’M READY, OK? STOP SPLASHING ME!


Speaking of bathrooms and their main (non-bath) function–when I was a little kid, I used to think that when you flushed the toilet, the stuff you’d flushed went down to a big white porcelain-walled room, where it would make friends and socialize with all the stuff everybody else flushed. I also thought that people were hollow inside, and the food you ate went all the way down to your feet, and piled up inside you through the years. When it got up to your head, sometimes you puked when it reached your mouth, but it eventually piled up all the way up to the top of your head, and that’s when you died. I also thought the grown-ups turned into skeletons after I went to bed.


“She’s Not There,” because of the current Chanel commercial for Coco Mademoiselle perfume. It’s one of the rare instances where the commercial is actually making me want the product. I always liked the song, since I liked to think of myself as the kind of beautiful elusive bitch they were singing about. Apparently I am not alone in this, since Chanel is betting their vast advertising budget on it.

S.G.’S 25TH POST, 5/4/13: All the News That’s Fit to Eat

–There were 13″ of snow in May ’13 in NW Wisconsin, where my sister lives. I myself was born in SE Wisconsin, but even that is too snowy for me.

–May 2013 featured 27 posts–the most numerous month in S.G. history! Not only were posts longer in the early days, there were more of them. I guess I did peak too soon. The figures for the month were skewed by this idea I got that I needed to post every day of my vacation, which, as I recall, led to some boring posts. And yet now I’m doing it for a whole year, hmm…

The Sin of Sloth in Action

…it sounds like a contradiction in terms, but I have made it come to pass.

The other day a man gave me his seat on the bus. I congratulated myself on my devastating femininity. Then I realized I was sitting under a sign saying ‘PLEASE OFFER THESE SEATS TO THE ELDERLY OR PERSONS WITH DISABILITIES.”


One of my Numerous and Aggressive In-Laws, Sister Catherine, posted a video made by a teenage boy, demonstrating how his mother freaks out while getting the house ready for guests. (No, I can’t link to it; you should realize that by now.) The resemblance to my in-laws was, in fact, eerie, complete with dialogue like, “If you kids haven’t made your beds by now, throw them out! It’s too late!…No one should think we sit!!…I need a bird feeder at every window!…Somebody stick seashells on all the doorknobs!”

It’s not exactly like that at our house, even though I’m married to Sister Catherine’s brother. The only holiday we are responsible for is July 4th, because our house is so small that we can’t entertain when it’s cold and people can’t overflow into the yard. (Digression: commercial for WFIE weather: “Sometimes cold weather isn’t pleasant.” Sometimes?) Here, at any rate, is how clean up for guests. I’m counting on everyone forgetting I said all this by July 4th.

BATHROOM: Remember that Rom said he’d take care of it. Breathe sigh of relief.

HALL: Surely a hall doesn’t need cleaning? Note dust on baseboards. Resent its presence. Reflect on the need to do something about the hall closet so I can actually locate something when I need it. Then realize I don’t even remember exactly what’s in there anymore.

BEDROOM: Remove obvious dead leaves from large houseplant. Cat Esmerelda strolls in, hoping I’m doing something interesting, realizes yet again that it’s something boring, leaves. Cat Glamour resents that I’m removing the things she most likes to noisily eat on Sunday mornings when I’m trying to sleep because I have to get up early for church. Dust all the stuff on my chest of drawers. Wish I had less stuff. Note that Ez’s toy mouse is on the floor again, toss it up on top of my clothes chest (yes, I have two chests full of clothes, plus one closet) where it belongs. Realize there are spiders under the table with the houseplant on it, resolve to finish the rest of the job at some hour when spiders are less likely to be active.

MY ROOM (office? study? den? lair? guest bedroom, although it has no bed and rarely contains guests?): Become dismayed by all the books I own that I haven’t read in years or at all. Discover that there are silverfish behind some of them. Decide that taking them all out and dusting behind them would take too long, and no one’s likely to look closely at them anyway. Dust bric-a-brac, wonder about the derivation of the term bric-a-brac. Light scented candle, get paranoid about leaving it unattended, as all candle labels warn you not to do. Note profusion of perfume samples, resolve to find my signature scent, as I have been trying to do since 1969.

LIVING ROOM: Another large houseplant with dead leaves. This one exudes droplets of sticky fluid that won’t wash off. Weigh merits of taking everything off the coffee table first or just dusting around it all. Decide there’s no time for the former option because I put all this off until July 3rd anyway. Dust every small decorative item on the shelves, curse each one individually. Remember that I actually alphabetized my CD’s this year, proving that I can finish something that I start. Worry about the younger generation thinking, “You still have CD’s?”

KITCHEN: Attack kitchen table, to make room for large quantities of food. Discover that the stack of magazines next to my place at the table contains the Walgreen’s ad from six weeks ago. Peruse it and attempt to determine the frequency with which items I need go on sale, taking a long-term view. Note that Secret Romantic Rose deodorant is featured in the illustration, feel reassured that it hasn’t been discontinued. Discover there is cat hair on the table legs, become irate because vertical surfaces shouldn’t need dusting, because of gravity.

I can’t remember who it was who said our housekeeping resembles the Addams Family’s, but there you have it. The weird thing is that I am actually capable of laser-like focus (capable of it? more like, incapable of anything else), under the right circumstances. “Right circumstances” = “something I want to do.”


After vowing that he would never do it, “for the sake of my sanity,” Nick looked in my window–“to my everlasting horror,” he said. What horrifying thing was I doing? Reading the Bible. I knew he was coming by, to pick up some table scraps we’d decided to toss him, but since he hadn’t texted me yet, I wasn’t expecting him right then. So there came a furtive tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my chamber door, and I am pleased to report I didn’t jump. Because I’m not the nervous, twitchy type.


This blog still gets intermittently investigated by people who Google Halle Berry, just because I did one post long ago that mentioned her. So…HALLE BERRY HALLE BERRY HALLE BERRY. That’ll triple my readership!

Social Page: This Is Not Nick

Allow me to explain. {Reactions are evenly divided between “Who’s stopping you?” and “As if anyone could stop you.”} {Ooh, using non-italics as italics! Triple points!}

I attended the birthday party of Nick’s younger cub, who we pretended had just turned 2, even though he will not actually do so until tomorrow. (Is it really right to lie to a child?)

This was held at Nick’s new house. Yes, he left his plague of frogs behind, doubtless to the dismay of whoever purchases his old house, if anyone ever does. {“And now no one ever will, thanks to you,” he growls.} After my own 750 square feet (I believe I have the second-smallest house in town, since I knew someone who lived in one that was only 500), Nick’s new house seemed overly large to me. I myself would be able to live in his basement, although Nick would be unable to sleep at night if I did, in fact, live in his basement.

The family cat, newly transplanted and un-thrilled with large social gatherings, had retreated to the farthest corner in the farthest closet of the farthest room, with the unerring instinct of his kind. I could probably have talked him out if I’d been alone, but we were in the midst of a Grand Tour.

…”But wasn’t there a point you were getting to?” Nick inquires pleasantly. Yes, well…

I owe my host an apology. I think. Possibly.

“Could you put that in the bold-face capital letters?” Nick wants to know. “Maybe some italics, too?”

I…no, you don’t get any italics, you miserable beast. 

In fact, Nick may owe me an apology, for wearing shorts with loose strings dangling from the hem, which bothered me whenever I caught sight of them. But I did not have to put up with them for long, because…

This party was advertised as featuring “water games,” which sounded scary but fascinating, which is pretty much the relationship I have with water anyway. I cannot swim, and cannot be taught to swim, because I won’t put my face under water. But I love playing in the hose, and splashing around in shallow water–as long as no one thinks it would be fun to shove my head underwater. Or knock my feet out from under me. Or similar possibilities too horrible to contemplate, which Nick is probably contemplating at this very moment. Or there’s the possibility of Making a Fool of Myself, which is almost as horrifying.

So they had one of those bouncy houses with a slippy-slide water-shower-type thing, and our host stripped down to his swim trunks. These seemed a bit too big for him–they rode so low, they looked about to fall off at any moment. But, as if this were not suspense enough for one afternoon, he learned that I had actually brought my swimsuit just in case I decided to join in the fun.

I had been observing carefully–testing the water, as it were–to see if any other adults were joining in the aquatic frolics–any adults, that is, other than our host, who doesn’t count because he has no dignity. There were none–not even Sam, for whom I’d had high hopes. But Nick, undeterred by the overwhelming odds against it, decided that me going down the water slide was what he wanted most in the world at that moment (having abandoned all hope of our ride-along ever coming to pass). Or perhaps he was just morbidly curious about seeing me in a swimsuit. He turned on all his boyish charm. “I’ll write about it, and you can put that in the blog–how about that?” I was beginning to think…it would be fun…surely I would enjoy it if I just forgot about Making a Fool of Myself…and it might be interesting to read what Nick wrote about it… until Officer S.H., standing next to the also-expectant Sam, said, “And we’ll take a video of it!” At that point negotiations broke down.

Perhaps now I should have a poll:

–Did I narrowly escape a blackmail scheme? (When you’re World Leader, you have to think about these things.)

–Or will I someday turn to Nick, who is weeping at my deathbed, and say, “The one thing I regret in life is not going down that water slide when you asked me to.”?


Back With a Vengeance

“The blog seems to be back with a vengeance,” observed Nick, and, as a frequent target of my vengeance, he should know.


I went to see the Minions movie with D., who shares my longtime interest in these lovable animated Twinkies.

Not everyone can dress like a Minion, but I happen to have a yellow shirt and denim overalls, so there you go. I sent a picture of this getup to Nick. “Do I look like a Minion?” I asked. “Yeah. Kinda.” he responded, obviously not sure which answer would get him in trouble. I should have asked, “Do these overalls make me look fat?”

First we went to McDonald’s, which featured giant Minion cutouts which D. longed to take home and add to her decor. This was not my regular McDonalds, which I’m guessing hasn’t changed since the 70’s. This was the fancy establishment at Lloyd/Rosenberger, nearer the theater. It looks like something out of the Matrix, with weird corners and glossy surfaces and ever-changing screens. I was so rattled at being in an unfamiliar setting that I forgot to specify no tartar on my fish sandwich, which then required a mopping-up operation involving 3 napkins. I resolved that the next time I was in some strange McDonald’s, I’d order nuggets, which require no special instructions on my part.

We proceeded to the theater, and parked under a sign saying Occupancy Assembly Point, which puzzled us greatly. I mean, we were assembled occupants, but still.

The last time I saw a movie in a theater was for Oliver Stone’s Doors film. I checked Google and found out this was in, um, 1991. When a theater had only 4 screens. In contrast, the current theater looks like an airline terminal (although, at our time of day, curiously unoccupied). The main difference is that there is absolutely no place to sit in the lobby. They strongly discourage sitting. Don’t even think about sitting until you get in the theater, or screening room, or whatever the young people call it nowadays.

We then went down a long creepy hallway, and into the theater proper. We were so early that there was no one else there. It was like a private showing. So we had a nice conversation in the dark. We also learned why not to arrive early–the pre-movie-trailer barrage of unrelated ads, which can be summed up as, “Use Your Cellphone To Get A Bunch Of Cheap Crap!”


–D. pointed out that in the caveman period, the Minions’ goggles were made of wood, I suppose because it’s not as heavy as stone.

–The Mystery of Evil: Why are the Minions always looking for an evil master? They’re so friendly and cute! Yeah, that’s pretty much the definition of overthinking something.


–Screaming female: “THIS GUY WAS GONNA GIVE ME A RIDE, BUT WHEN I COULDN’T SELL THE PILLS HE GAVE ME TO SELL, HE SAID HE WOULDN’T GIVE ME A RIDE UNLESS I GAVE HIM SOME P*SSY!” Really?? I even said, “Do you realize you just admitted being involved in a narcotics transaction?” and her only response was to yell “YOU GONNA GIVE ME A RIDE NOW THAT I GOT THE COPS ON THE PHONE?!” and hang up.


PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: When you text a wrong number and say “U got smot?” (I was tempted to reply, “Tell me what it is and I’ll tell you whether I have it”–instead, I just said “U got the wrong number”), and I am told that it means pot (although who could imagine anyone on the Urban Dictionary site making stuff up?)–have you considered the possibility that your text might go to someone WHO WORKS CLOSELY WITH THE POLICE DEPARTMENT? I plugged the number into Facebook–turns out she’s a nursing student at UK, with a seriously redneck boyfriend.


Someone tried searching for Spankey’s Pizza online. She misspelled it, and the web blocker primly informed her, Access Denied–Adult Content. No, there is no spanking at Dispatch. (“There should be,” Nick growls.)

ANOTHER PSA: If you call 911, and we tell you your situation is not a police matter, don’t ask to speak to someone “qualified.” Figuring out who and whether to send someone is kinda central to the job, so yes, we are qualified. (File under “911–Why We Ask All These Questions.”)

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