Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Thanksgiving

Day 8: I Did Not Spend Thanksgiving In My Bathrobe

…I dressed up (cocktail ring encrusted with opals and a paisley shirt from the mid-70’s, made of magical polyester that’s equally uncomfortable in any weather) to go to the $ General, because we needed toilet paper.

Speaking of the calendar, there is a World Leader Edict in effect: Non-Catholics cannot put up Christmas decorations until the day after Thanksgiving. Catholics have to wait until Advent begins on Sunday. This evens out at the other end of the season, when Catholics have until Epiphany on January 6 to take stuff down–everyone else, out by New Year’s. Thank you.

I had THE BEST THANKSGIVING DINNER EVER CREATED. After creating it, Rom did the dishes while I ate, and he picked at the food while still standing up. You know, you don’t hafta live like a refugee. (DISCLAIMER: THE PREVIOUS IS A SMART REMARK COURTESY OF TOM PETTY, NOT A POLITICAL STATEMENT OF ANY KIND.)

To tide me over this afternoon (since we eat dinner around the time I come home from work), I had beast stew, courtesy of Nick. Their meat is actually quite tasty, once the scales are removed. NICK, IT WAS JUST A SMART REMARK, STOP WAILING!

He tries to wedge himself under my couch, but only the head will fit, and only by folding his ears flat. “Get out of there,” I say, in my best beast-controller voice. I’m sure he’ll eat any cat toys he finds under there. Esmerelda is sure he’ll eat any cats he finds, too, and stays safely in the bedroom.

“No,” he says, in a muffled sort of way. “I don’t want you to see me cry.”

“I don’t think you can cry.”
I get up and try to pull him out by the tail. Of course, that only makes him dig his claws into the carpet and growl. I’m tempted to swat him on the rump, but don’t want to hurt my hand. The only alternative is to spoil him further (seems like that’s always how it ends up), so I unwrap the bread Rom made and toss him a chunk. Naturally, he hears it, retracts himself from the couch and snaps it up in one fluid motion.

“That bread goes great with beast stew, you know,” I observe. He glares at me, then crouches for a spring…


{I’m using the editorial “we,” since I act as my own editor. And it shows.}

I would like to thank the people who expressed their appreciation for S.G.’s new daily format. I couldn’t do it without you. Well, technically I could (I think–does WordPress throw out bloggers who don’t have any readers?), but it would be pathetic and sad.


S.G’S 8TH POST, 3/21/13: Crisis in Progress: Location, Location, Location!

–I lecture you on telling us where you are when you call 911. That is still necessary, in case you thought there’s been a technological advance since then that spares you the trouble.

–A caller says that someone needs to be “cemented.” He meant “committed.” I think. Maybe he was a Mafia guy who wanted us to do his dirty work for him. DIRTY DEEDS, DONE DIRT CHEAP. I said “dirt cheap,” not “free.”

–Lisa is called A Certain Person for the first time, because she impersonated me on Facebook.


Day 7: The Search For the Forgotten Title

know I thought of one earlier–what could it be?


“Caller found what appears to be a human limb in the alley.” It turned out to be a deer limb.

“Caller reports seeing a man wearing sunglasses write something that wasn’t in English on a bus stop bench.” She called back to report that he wrote it in red (apparently thinking red would cause a quicker response time than other colors). The responding officer reported, “There was something written on the bench, but I couldn’t read what it was.” Well, of course you couldn’t! It wasn’t in English!


According to Channel 14, the night before Thanksgiving has become “the biggest party night of the year,” which is saying quite a lot. If so, it’s only in the past year, since this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I am a regular consumer of Channel 14 news.

Last night I dreamed my house was overrun by big pinchy bugs. Hey, that would have made a good title!

S.G.’S 7TH POST–3/19/13: Theater of Cruelty with the Infamous Nick

I refer to him as a beast for the first time, but do not elaborate on his bestial qualities. I accuse him of misspelling “abominable,” and he accuses me of patronizing him.

Hey, would any of you pay money to see him and me get drunk? Just a thought. (“And not a good one,” he growls.)


The Thanksgiving Message You Were Expecting

Right? But first…

Last night I took an alarm call where the location of the alarm was “the door to the robot shop.” Really? Some place in town makes robots? “What kind of robots?” A.J. wanted to know. Killer robots, surely! Aren’t they the only kind worth bothering about? Well, maybe the kind of robots that take your job also deserve our concern. Especially if they take your job by killing you. And what do robots need jobs for, anyway? They don’t need to eat. (Was the Thanksgiving message you were expecting about robots, by any chance?) Anyway, the alarm was canceled, presumably by robots.

A.J. last night: “If I ever become a serial killer, I want the media to call me the 911 Hangup Killer.” How about the 911 Hangup Killer Robot? I know, the 911 Hangup Zombie Killer Robot!

Note to Mercenary Mike, henceforth to be known as Spider Man: That’s the bonus of a spider attack–you can’t just brush them off. Does whatever a spider can….


Pain pills, presumably. Yes, he had to undergo a small….procedure. The first step involved a tranquilizer dart–always necessary when dealing with an attack-trained beast of this sort. (Beforehand, he told me, “I’ll dream of our ride-along in my drug-induced state.” Rom said, “The only way he’ll get you to go on a ride-along is in his dreams.” Rom knows what he’s talking about, so I’m glad that’s settled.) But Nick’s brain on drugs started with a grandiose fantasy of dragging me out of the squad car by the hair, and ended up with a paranoid delusion that his owner was plotting against him, which led to his huddling under his bed with the family dog. Very sad. But never fear, the scars will eventually fade, and he’ll be back to guard duty, preparing meals, etc. By the way, Rom had surgery right before Thanksgiving 2 years ago, and he MADE THANKSGIVING DINNER ANYWAY, so don’t let Nick be a slacker. Of course, Rom was on drugs at the time, too. I remember after my surgery 10 years ago, I argued with the nurse that I wouldn’t pass out the first time I tried to get out of bed like she told me I would. I turned out to be lying. It also goes to show that I can argue even when I’m on morphine.


–the opportunity to be in my bathrobe all day. Of course, this isn’t the only day I do this all year.

I Am Not a Serial Killer

I Am Not a Serial Killer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

–an interesting job and entertaining co-workers

–a couple of cuddlesome cats, especially my Funny Valentine, Esmerelda (born on Valentine’s Day!)

–and the AMAZING ROM.

Enter Title Here

McDonald's Holiday Pie Innards

McDonald’s Holiday Pie Innards (Photo credit: theimpulsivebuy)

I will be brief, since brevity is the soul of wit. Right? Sure.

A           N         Y         W         A          Y,

{I suspect those letters are not evenly spaced. This troubles me, but I’m too lazy to change it.}

There were pizza wars on St Joe Ave. today. Across the street from each other, employees of Pizza Hut and Domino’s were on the sidewalk, waving signs for identical deals. I brutally ignored them both and headed for McDonald’s, only to discover my beloved pumpkin pie has been discontinued–and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet!–in favor of a so-called Holiday Pie, filled with vanilla custard. Unfortunately, it too proved to be addictive. I’m lovin’ it, and hatin’ my waistline. I’ll be joinin’ the legion of January dieters, I’m guessin’. OK, now I’m even annoyin’ myself.


Nick has been working 3rd shift a lot lately. Besides the unnerving knowledge that such a beast is sleeplessly prowling the streets, there is the disturbing possibility that, should unscheduled overtime be needed, he would be sent to break down, I mean knock on, my door and tell me I’m being forced to work. “I. Would. Love. That!” he said, squirming with excitement. “He only thinks he would love it, and you can tell him I said so,” responded Rom. Apparently waking me up is kind of like giving a cat a bath.


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