Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Nick

Don’t Fear the Reaper     

I think everyone knows who this title was stolen from, but YOU CAN’T COPYRIGHT A TITLE!


I was sent out of the house so I wouldn’t get in the way of preparation. (All hail to Rom and D., who did everything.) Rom had planned to put those number candles on my cake (said cake being a pan of brownies, so dark that their batter looked like asphalt), but was thwarted because $ General was out of 0’s. (Or they figured people with “0” in their ages don’t want anyone to know their age.) I did find 0’s at Walgreen’s, but by then it was too late, and he had committed to candles which spelled out “Happy Birthday.”


The last time I’d been by My Shelter House, as I now think of it (hey, it was our polling place for many years, too), I disapprovingly noted the peeling paint, and hoped it would be spruced up in time. Apparently we were the first people to reserve it this year (hey, it’s not even Memorial Day yet!), because they called Rom and asked when we intended to get started (our rental fee entitled us to occupy it from noon until midnight, although Nick ordered us to be out by 11, so he wouldn’t have to deal with us professionally), so they’d know when to be done painting. So you can thank me for the beige paint with dark green trim.

I had been starting to think, “A party! What was I thinking?” and getting panicky, but I thought, You have several bottles of sedative on hand, so chill. “Only 3 bottles?” I asked Rom, checking the fridge once we got there. “I don’t want to see you after more than 3,” he responded grimly.

I was delighted to see some former co-workers I seldom get to see, as well as current Tolerable Co-Workers, as they are known, as well as my Numerous and Aggressive In-Laws, as they are properly called. I must mention the brilliant collection of cards,  including 911 references (how common are these among the ranks of greeting cards, really?), and one with actual Scratchy Glitter on the front, which, for some reason, although I loathe it, I feel compelled to touch every time I encounter it. Ew ew ew ew ew, as Eminem said about certain strange and disgusting sexual practices involving tubing.


Yes, there were some, even though I hadn’t asked for any. I didn’t refuse any either, though.

Today I used my gift card for Thornton’s. I figured it was the perfect excuse to try the dreaded Roller Grill Item, which actually turned out to be pretty good. Since there’s no place to sit down in Thornton’s, I took my Item and my drink and trundled across the street to Walgreen’s, where I had a little picnic on their bench under the awning, safe from both the blazing sun and the giant storm cloud, which for some reason were both in the sky simultaneously, and neither of which I wanted to be under.

I received gift cards for Walgreen’s! and for Barnes & Noble! and for Canton Inn! and will report back on what use I make of them, and, for that matter, how I manage to get to Canton Inn, which will probably be a story in itself.


I was solemnly presented with a creepily natural-looking crow, which has been handed down to several people celebrating significant birthdays. We proceeded to argue about whether it was taxidermy or not, and whether it had actually made a noise, or whether we’d just imagined it. I thought it should croak “Nevermore,” or, as one of Rom’s nieces once thought it was, “Quoth the Raven, ‘Never mind.'” Puts a whole different spin on the poem, doesn’t it? At any rate, the Old Crow now perches above this computer until I can figure out who else to bestow it on.


A couple people asked if the fabled Nick (one person actually called him that) was going to make an appearance. I was even asked if he was a real person or just a fictional character. The latter theory was gaining credence as a couple hours went by without him. After 2 1/2 bottles of apple ale, and a little too much food, I started thinking I might be about to be sick. I headed for the bathroom in case this happened, but luckily the crisis passed. And who should I see when I came back out, but the said beast himself, proudly carrying a 12-pack of ale, in case I needed more. He was duly inspected by the gathered FanBase. His lack of fire-breathing ability was deplored, but the length of his fangs and scaliness of tail were much admired, until all the attention made him slink back into the outer darkness, though not before grabbing a quantity of brownies.

While Nick was out of the room, Rom thought it would be fun to play with Nick’s younger cub, who had been gleefully running around up to that moment. So Rom charged at the cub while making a monster noise, causing the poor thing to flee in a panic, squealing in terror and flapping his tiny wings.


I include it here because we had it at such a polite volume that probably no one could hear it.

–Bruce Springsteen, “Darkness on the Edge of Town”–because I walk streets of fire, obviously!

–R.E.M., “Out of Time”–That’s me in the spotlight, that’s me in the driveway, losing my religion…

–the Doors, “L.A. Woman”–I had to include some Doors, and this one doesn’t have any songs that are 20 minutes long and involve screaming.

–Blue Oyster Cult, “Agents of Fortune”–this features “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” which Sister Elizabeth told me she considers my theme song. So I’ll just have to have it played whenever I walk into a room.



Nick wants us to know that he has escaped the basement and is limping about freely, although I imagine the only prey he can pull down at this point is slow-moving insects. (He is welcome to all he can eat of the stink bugs at my house, which sneak back in as fast as Rom can escort them out.) In view of Nick’s boasting, I feel compelled to point out that Rom walked around on a broken leg for the better part of a day before he knew it was broken, and still cooked Thanksgiving dinner even so. I’m just sayin’, as they say.

Remember the pens given to me by that strange old man at McDonald’s? Their package says, “Bic for Her–A fashionable accessory for personal expression. Elegant silhouette and jeweled accents add style.” A lot to ask from disposable pens! I used them at work and someone must have thought the jeweled accents were real jewels, because the pink one is missing in action. I’m keeping a close eye on the purple one.

Break On Through to the Other Side


Stinky (Photo credit: mrapplegate)

Well, I’d been contemplating continuing The Storied Origins of Central Dispatch, but thinking, does anyone really care at this point? Most of my current colleagues weren’t around then, and maybe those who were would rather forget about it. (Anyone who knows me at all well knows that I’m prone to brooding. “And sulking! Don’t forget the sulking!” I imagine Rom saying.) Then I noticed the blog had a new comment. Odd, I thought–it’s someone I don’t know. Odder still–she’s commenting on a very old post. Idly, I glanced at the Bar Graph o’Stats at the top of the page. Now, normally when I hover over it, it says something like 14 people visited the site, as it did last night. 20-23 on a good day. Today it said 174. That can’t be right, I thought, and switched over to the real-time display. And it wasn’t right. It was up to 343. By mid-afternoon, it was 350. I checked a few minutes ago, and it’s 363. So  I’m now literally an Overnight Success! Canada, the United Kingdom, Ireland, Australia, and Finland all represented! I extend an over-enthusiastic welcome to all of you. I’m feeling positively giddy, and wish I could give all of you a big hug! (“Don’t! I’ll shoot if I have to!” says Nick, who is feeling a bit giddy himself, having gotten a perfect score on his firearms qualification.) World domination is becoming more and more feasible! At the risk of wasting more of your time, I encourage you to explore the archives, which will enable you to make sense (well, more sense, anyway) of what I’m talking about here, since this blog doesn’t have a “topic” in the normally-understood sense.

I’m feeling too scatterbrained to offer any type of sustained content right now, but instead of just dissolving into a puddle of autistic inertia,  how about if I give you some scattered observations:

–What could be better than sending an officer to investigate a subject dancing in the street wearing a cape? The officer wearily sent me a message, “Last week it was Batman.” Batman, na na na na, etc.

Oh, and how about a game? Let’s play Street Name Challenge:

Often a 911 caller, asked if they know the name of a suspect, will say, “I only know him by the street name of–” fill in the blank–Punkinhead, Puddin Tane, Stinky, etc. Now, it is a general rule that you don’t get to choose your own street name–at least, I assume that no one would willingly be called Stinky. (Although, since people get tattoos saying Thug Life, you can’t be sure–I never thought being a thug was an actual aspiration. I figured thugging was just something you blundered into, kind of like my career in government service.) I know I’d rather be called Cobra Rose (a name I actually use in a couple of online groups) than Powder Fresh. But anyway, in the spirit of Eminem calling himself Slim Shady (or calling himself Eminem, for that matter), or Rabecca calling herself Foxy Lady, I hereby, by the authority vested in me as World Leader, allow any of you to choose your own street name! Let us know what you pick! Make it as self-aggrandizing as you like–hey, we’re all anonymous here! I promise to call you by it if you’re a recurring character here, unless I come up with something I like better. (This is known as the Blog Owner’s Prerogative. Eventually, every person on earth will have a blog, so this will be a democracy. That is, unless the BabyCorn/UnionSuit Conspiracy gets underway.) (By the way, the cans of baby corn deployed against me were Dynasty brand. Think of it! A dynasty of baby corn! OK, don’t think of it. But don’t say you weren’t warned.)


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