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April 30, 2003
First Kill of the Season.
Last night, on my way to bed just moments after Josh had left for some after-hours mixing time in the studio, I was confronted with an ambush attack by the enemy: a large, disgustingly hearty-looking centipede was clinging to the ceiling above the bed, gazing at me with contempt. It didn't even scuttle away when the light came on, the cheeky little bastard. I ran for the broom and returned, adrenaline coursing through my gears. The centipede was still there, and if it had fingernails I am pretty sure it would have been filing them, just to show me how much it thought of me and my broom.
Whack! I whacked away at it, slapping the ceiling tile up into the air a good six inches in my frenzy. The centipede fell onto the bed.
Smack! I slapped it off onto the carpet. It lay there. Dead? Hard to tell, until you see the little bastards in pieces. They're resilient foes.
The men of the house were not up to snuff this evening; not only had Josh abandoned me to fight the good fight, but Murray, when I dragged him into the bedroom, had no interest in disposing of the remains(?) by eating them. Instead, he sniffed the corpse(?) once, decided it was time for a rousing game of chase, and dashed off into the living room.
Armed with gardening gloves and paper towels, I approached the scene. I picked a couple of legs - shudder - off the bedspread, and leaned in to ascertain the damage. It was then that I realized that the beast was still twitching! It was not dead, but just stunned!
I had come too far to give up now. A shoe was handy for finishing the job, and with curled lips and hands held out as far from my body as possible, I swept up the used-to-be-a-centipede bits and threw them away.
It's going to be a long summer, folks, but I'm getting stronger. Let the beasts know: you can scare a robot, you can terrorize her with your scuttly grossness, but you can't keep her down so easily! I am normally a peaceful person, but if they want trouble they know where to look. I'll be there with waist-high waders on.
Now, if you need me, I'll be off sanitizing the bedding.
Posted by hilatron at 08:07 AM | Comments (14)
April 28, 2003
Country Western Soundtrack for a Monday
1) The Fluffy Hair Blues
2) Can't Take No More Centered Images Over Center-Aligned Text (The "Graphic Designer's" Lament)
3) I Don't Know What That Is On the Toilet Seat, and I Have To Pee So Bad I Don't Care
4) 'Please' and 'Thank You' Never Killed a Man, But an Underappreciated Assistant Might
5) 20 Ounces Does the Deed, But a Liter's What I Need (Caffeinated Beverage Song)
6) Lunch, You've Been True, But I'm Tiring of You
7) When You Can't Get Off the Couch
8) TeeVee, Why Do You Hurt Me So?
9) Nothing in the Cupboard and No Way Am I Going to Stop & Shop
Posted by hilatron at 10:24 PM | Comments (2)
Humility Is...
Nothing brings a girl down to earth quite like the combination of low-cut pants and high-cut panties.
*hitch*
Can I get an amen?
Posted by hilatron at 10:27 AM | Comments (6)
April 27, 2003
The reason I should not be a parent is:
When I read a story about toddlers on a rampage (April 26), I do not shake my head and say "tsk, tsk" and think of the property damage.
No, instead I laugh, and a little voice inside me says something like "You go! Don't let the Man get you down, babies. Show them who's in charge."
Karma is surely out to get me.
Posted by hilatron at 12:04 PM | Comments (4)
April 25, 2003
Not Nearly Enough
Confidential to the person led here by a search for "starting pay for a grocery bagger:"
I'm sorry. I mean, we all have to do what we have to do to get by, and I respect that. But, dude, I'm so sorry.
Posted by hilatron at 08:36 PM | Comments (1)
April 24, 2003
Pigeonhole Me, Baby!
Sour Bob had a good idea, told the world about it, and now he is a publisher.*
Julia noticed an opportunity, made the next move, and now she is courted by the Washington Post.**
It's my turn. I've hit upon the perfect way to turn this thing into an instant fame and fortune generator:
I need a new catchphrase.
Let's face it. "The observations of Hilatron, a space-age robot sent to study the Earthlings...by living as one of them?" It's cumbersome. It lacks pizazz. It's not going to bring in the kids, or the wealthy eccentrics who will decide to be my patrons, or the publishers aching to exchange cash for my writing.
I need something new, a daring catchphrase that will prove irresistible to anyone who happens across it. I tried to think of one of my own, but "Like Andy Rooney. Only With More Gears." just doesn't cut it.
Thus, I turn to you, dear readers, for help. Announcing the Hilatron Needs a New Catchphrase Contest!
Please e-mail me your suggestions for a stunning new slogan. I will review the entries, looking for those that are sexy, sum up the basic space-age-robotitude of blogatron, and promise to attract love and success. Three lucky winners will receive special surprises, and one will have the great honor of being selected as my new catchphrase.
Those are the rules, folks. I look forward to seeing all of your entries. Beep beep and thanks a million!
*Please make him a successful one by buying his book. I'm sure it will be good.
**Deservedly so, of course.
Posted by hilatron at 08:00 PM | Comments (1)
April 22, 2003
The Dog Lady
Please indulge Blogatron while we serve up a helping of total fiction! Read on...
"Sometimes, the most innocent actions are the ones that lead to years of therapy bills." Was ever a truer sentence spoken? With this adage in mind, huddle round the fire, children, and let Grandma Hilatron relate the tale of The Dog Lady.
It was on a bright autumn day that I set out with my mother and a high school friend on what was supposed to be a lighthearted junk store excursion. I was just a young slip of a robot then, innocent to the ways of the world, and painfully unaware of how easy it is to slip off the path of sanity and into a dimension of surreality, terror, and Stephen King cliches. However, the veil was soon to fall from my sensors...
Laughing and chattering, my friend Nora and I were excited to be getting away from our boarding school for an afternoon jaunt. Adolescent power struggles with my mother were left behind as she joined in the conversation, and all seemed right with the world. Our first few stops were uneventful: experienced junk-store shoppers both, my mom and I were quick to spot the likeliest prospects by their dusty windows, dim lighting, and physics-defying ability to stack vast quantities of broken oddities. The beginning of our trip seems so distant, given what followed, that it's hard to recall what our purchases were, but I believe I picked up a nonfunctional fountain pen, while Nora considered and rejected several tailcoats in an attempt to complete her winter ensemble, the fashion in our circle being a sort of "Mad Max meets Cabaret" look at the time.
It was after our third stop, I believe, that we spotted the first sign. We had been considering heading back into town for an afternoon snack, but when we saw the weathered wooden board which read "DL Collectibles - 1 Mi." in faded, wobbly lettering, we decided to investigate further. Innocent actions, remember.
We saw the second sign shortly thereafter, directing us to turn onto a slightly less well-traveled road. Strangely, this sign also told us that we had but 1 Mi. to go. Filled with the spirit of adventure, we were happy to take the scenic route: the foliage was beautiful, the day was young, and we were full of vigor.
We passed sign after sign for "DL Collectibles," each more faded than the last, each promising that we would arrive in just 1 Mi. The adventure was becoming less fun and more damaging to our old station wagon's suspension with each turnoff, as our route led us from paved road to neglected rural route to, finally, a hilly, swerving dirt road that hadn't seen a maintenance crew in years. But, like burgeoning cult members, we had come too far by now to give up. Surely, sometime soon, we would traverse that last 1 Mi. and reach our destination.
Then we saw it - the next sign we passed promised "DL Collectibles Next Right!" A few more spine-jarring bumps and curves, and we spotted the turnoff, marked by the biggest, oldest, least legible sign yet:
LOVERS
COLLECTIBLES
We were somewhat taken aback, having assumed all this time that the "DL" stood for the owner's initials or something equally innocuous. But perhaps this was a small business which donated its profits to the ASPCA, or the like. It seemed plausible. And so we carried on, still in good spirits, if somewhat tired from our long journey.
The drive was narrow, and the overhanging autumn trees seemed less vibrant than those on the main road, giving it a dark, oppressive quality. We quieted, perhaps sensing that we were entering a dim, claustrophobic kingdom. The silence of the countryside grew charged; no longer peaceful, it seemed instead to be waiting. The crunching of tires over gravel was shockingly loud. "They might not even be open anymore. Those signs looked pretty old," said Nora, and it was hard to say if disappointment or hope was the dominant tone.
The relief we felt upon emerging from the driveway into a small yard evaporated as we took in our surroundings. The overhanging trees receded only slightly, admitting a wan light that filled the clearing with a sickly orange glow. We were in a dirty, unkempt lot filled with odd bits of junk, a rotting car or two, and a sad enclosure bordered in half-demolished chicken wire, which might once have housed dog kennels. Clearly Dog Lovers Collectibles had seen better days. To the right, across an expanse of mangy lawn, a one-story white clapboard house moldered in the dampened sunlight. At the end of the cracked walkway, a wooden pole held the final "DL Collectibles" placard. Below it, a red and white store-bought "OPEN" sign dangled from a nail.
Warily, we opened the dusty screen door and peered into a dim cavern filled from top to bottom with stuff. We stepped into the overheated room, wrinkling our noses at a smell that was both musty and strangely feral, and called "Hello?" uncertainly into the crowded darkness.
There was a rustling from the back of the house, followed by a series of scrabbling and thudding noises. We might have heard someone say "Shush, now." A door slammed. Finally, from a dimly glimpsed doorway at the back of the room, a figure emerged. Short and fragile, clothed in fuzzy, shapeless shades of brown and gray, she seemed to have been overtaken by the same dry decay that affected the house and grounds. But where her presence was unimposing, her voice cracked sharply across the room. "Let me get a light on for you," she grated, switching on a lamp that bathed the room in the same sickly pallor cast by the trees outside.
We took in our surroundings. The front room of the little house had been converted into a serviceable junk shop by the addition of several rickety old bookcases and a mammoth glass display counter that stood between us and our proprietor. Behind her, a long hallway led off to the rest of the house. All around us were the usual items: an umbrella stand with canes and parasols, piles of cracked old books, prints and memorabilia jostling for space on the walls, luggage leaning in precarious heaps on the floor.
Leaning over, I peered into the display case to examine a pin adorned with a silver Scottish terrier. Next to it was a medal: Best in Show, Dartmouth, NH, 1969. My mother examined the canes; all had handles shaped like dogs' heads. Nora flipped through a shoebox of old postcards. They all pictured dogs. Gazing around, we realized that each and every item in the shop was dog-related. The three of us looked at each other, telegraphing "This isn't for us, let's go now." It was then that The Dog Lady spoke.
"You folks like dogs?" She didn't wait for an answer, but started on a nonstop monologue about the wonders of dogs, her favorite breeds, the strengths and weaknesses of each. Greyhounds were beautiful but too fussy, only good for showing or racing - "not that I approve of that;" retrievers were a good breed, easy to train, real people dogs. But The Dog Lady's favorites were the small dogs - terriers, toy poodles and the like.
If only we had listened to that key piece of information.
As we listened and nodded, adhering to the junk store tenet that you must listen to at least five minutes of soliloquy if you enter a place of business, we continued to browse. As I wandered deeper into the room, the finds got stranger, and more ominous. An ancient stuffed Snoopy, stained, one ear chewed off. Creased, obviously used wrapping paper adorned with cartoon poodles. A wicker dog bed, one side crushed, with coarse white fur still covering the flannel blanket inside. A newspaper article about the best food for your dog's teeth and nails, in a broken frame. What we had here was not a collector, but an obsessor. Clearly, this woman had saved every single dog-related item that had ever entered her possession, and she was not capable of judging what was saleable and what was junk. To her, it was all precious.
We tried not to show fear. As normally as we could, we made polite noises. "Gee, we should really be going" had no effect; "Well, thank you very much for your time" prompted The Dog Lady to offer to open up the display case so we could get a better look at her collection of leashes ("Real leather!"). The more we pressed to leave, the sharper her voice got, the brighter her colorless eyes gleamed. The heat and smell in the room seemed to increase with each minute that passed, and a buzzing noise in my head drowned out everything but The Dog Lady's voice, going on and on. I heard Nora gasp, "I think I'll just wait outside," and then the door slammed and my mother and I were alone with The Dog Lady. It was then, in a last-ditch effort to extricate us both, that I made my mistake.
"You know, I'm really more of a cat person, actually..."
The Dog Lady, who until now had taken little notice of anything we said, fell silent. She looked sharply up from the box of unlabeled dog show videotapes she had been offering us for $0.50 apiece. Her eyes glowed with a new alertness, her head cocked to the side, and she considered me like a new and interesting kind of dinner, teeth bared slightly. She breathed in, deeply.
"Uh - that is - I mean, I like dogs. I like them fine. It's just that I've always had cats, you know, and -"
"Cats!" she retorted. "Can't train cats, can't even get cats to answer to their own name!" She was edging closer to me now, her sharp little nose thrusting toward me, as I tried to unobtrusively get a large brass sculpture of a Doberman between her and me. She was smiling incongruously, but looked at me with dead eyes as she continued her anti-cat monologue. Backpedaling as fast as I could, I tried to placate her.
"Well, they always say you don't own the cat, the cat owns you, ha ha ha, no accounting for taste..." The cliches spilled out of me as I made a panicked retreat towards the door. From the other corner of my eye, I saw my mother making for the exit as well. My technique was doing little good, as every time I said the word "cat" I could see The Dog Lady flinch and stiffen a little more.
Then suddenly, just as I was ready to break into a full run, manners be damned, she stopped. A genuine smile appeared on her face and she seemed to relax. Wary, but hoping that the storm had passed, we paused in our surreptitious flight.
"You know, I bet you like dogs more than you think you do," she grinned, her manner suddenly coy and conciliatory. "I'll bet I can change your minds." My mother and I glanced at each other - no idea where this was heading. The Dog Lady started heading toward the back of the room, maneuvering behind the counter as she talked at us over her shoulder. "If you just see how cute they are -" she opened a door and disappeared into the darkness "- you'll find out you're dog people after all. Wait till you see -" a light switched on in the hallway "- my babies!"
From the depths of the house, we heard a scraping noise, and then a repeat of the thudding and skittering from earlier. There was movement in the dark room beyond the hall. Then, they came.
I don't know how many there were. My horrified eyes took in what looked like a sea of bedraggled fur, brown and black and gray and white, knee-high and moving toward us. The scrabbling noise we had heard was hundreds of little nails on the hardwood floor as The Dog Lady's "babies" - dozens of lapdogs of all varieties - ran full-speed across the room. The thudding was their little tails whacking each other and everything else in sight in their overwhelming excitement. Upon rounding the counter, they sighted us. They paused for a second, then let out a yipping, howling racket that could probably be heard out on the main road, and headed straight for us. I don't know how long they had been locked in the dark recesses of that house. They were terrible in their joy.
To this day, I don't know what would have happened if we'd stayed there. I can't say for sure that we would have disappeared forever, smothered under a damp blanket of canine exuberance, our last earthly sight the gleaming teeth of The Dog Lady as she crowed, "See! I knew you were Dog People." But at the time, I saw good reason to fear for my life. Judging by the way she set the land speed record in grabbing me by the elbow and making for the car, my mom felt the same way. Shouting for Nora to "hurry up dammit," we piled in and wasted no time in peeling out of the dreary yard and back towards civilization. As we left, I looked back to see The Dog Lady waving and shouting, surrounded by a leaping, wiggling heap of dogs. Maybe she said "Thanks for stopping by!" Maybe she said "Sic 'em!" I'm not certain. All I know is, I feel lucky that I'm here to tell you about it.
Oh, and be careful around Nora - she doesn't respond well to the phrase "let's go antiqueing" anymore.
Posted by hilatron at 05:11 PM | Comments (4)
April 21, 2003
Gonna Miss Her Song, Yeah, Gonna Miss Her Smile.
R.I.P. Nina Simone.
Damn. We won't see her match again.
Please listen to "I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl", if you haven't heard it before. It might not end up being your favorite of her songs like it is mine,* but if it doesn't make you melt, then I just don't know about you.
Here's hoping she is where chilly winds don't blow.
This is a more interesting article than that Yahoo obit, by the way. (Via Metafilter.)
*Well, a close tie between that and "Feeling Good." And her arrangement of "Mood Indigo." And "Mississippi Goddamn." And "Ne Me Quitte Pas." And her spine-tingling version of "Don't Explain." Not to mention her "I Put a Spell On You." Or her virtually unbearable "Strange Fruit." Oh, never mind 'favorite.'
Posted by hilatron at 10:58 PM | Comments (1)
So. Full.
Dear Visitors:
I'm back. (Did you notice I was gone? I'll bet not; after all, you have things to do with your life.) Anyhow, I have not been in some sort of not-famous-enough snit or anything, but rather visiting not-quite-inlaws for Easter celebrations. I am eager to return to regular posting, but that's not going to happen tonight, because every pore, every nook and cranny, and surely every fold and dip in my circuitry is full of food. I've spent the last three days eating like it was a contest, or like I was preparing to hibernate, or like someone was paying me to outgrow all my pants in the shortest amount of time possible. Oh, my. I certainly hope my writing bits have not been permanently damaged. The only things there are room left for in my brain are the memory of spotting a real-life bunny hopping around the suburbs Friday night, and the damn bunny hop music, which has been stuck in my head all weekend.
More tomorrow, I hope. And I hope you had a happy spring-fertility-ritual-adapted-for-the-religious-path-of-your-choice. I'm off to embark on a contest of wills with the leftover candy. If you need me, you can find me in the dictionary under "sure to lose."
Posted by hilatron at 06:10 PM
April 17, 2003
Mystery solved.
Harrumph.
In a fit of entitlement inspired by Julia's April 16 entry, just last night I was asking, why aren't I popular yet? I mean, come on people. Compared to certain other sites out there, my stats are just pathetic. Inconsequential. When it comes to the numbers, I am a loser. What is the deal here? Surely, it cannot be a lack of brilliance...
Thanks to referral tracking, I believe I may have a clue as to the reason for my failure to achieve worldwide recognition, a stalker, or even one poorly spelled hate mail. It's harsh, but I've got to face the reality put forth by Tim: "Sadly, she doesn't discuss sex or violence, so there really is no reason to visit."
Ouch. That's no way to make a girl's morning bright and shiny. Where's the care? Where's the concern for a fellow blogger? This business is cutthroat, I tell you.
Posted by hilatron at 12:00 PM | Comments (10)
April 16, 2003
Taking the Robot Down a Peg
Hello! I hope you are all getting nice big refunds. As you may recall, I did my taxes about a week ago (I hope). Lest you all hate me, let me hasten to assure you that I have many other weaknesses to make up for my lack of last-minute tax preparation humor. Here are some of the things currently keeping me humble:
-Spend at least twenty minutes per day thinking very mean thoughts about Mari Winsor.
-Hamstrings unnaturally inflexible.
-Not unable, just unwilling to seek treatment for thrift store addiction.
-Singlehandedly set gender politics back 25 years by screaming, fleeing the bathroom, and demanding that boyfriend kill centipede last night.
-Hardly ever do any work at all anymore (guess where this was written?).
-Got a stellar evaluation anyway, causing feelings of guilt and deceptiveness.
-Would rather spend time building portfolio on Blogshares than do anything productive.
-Actually caught self thinking, "Hey, this is easy! I should get some money together to play the stock market for real."
-Looking forward to the summer's trashy blockbuster lineup a little too much.
-Still measuring self-worth almost exclusively through site stats.
-Daffodils not tall and in radiant bloom like the neighbors'.
-Despite being a functional(ish) adult, still intimidated by "the cool kids" at the elementary school next to work.
-Now inarguably a member of the "plans life around prime-time TV schedule" camp.
-Cannot figure out where the HELL the good tweezers went.
-Patented "brightly cheerful, with all hostility and resentment carefully masked from mortal ears" phone voice has edged over into just plain hostile for no readily apparent reason.
-Although perhaps this has something to do with the fact that brain has left body behind, to frolic merrily in the sun, while body slaves away indoors.
Posted by hilatron at 11:07 AM | Comments (4)
April 12, 2003
The Theme Dinner Roulette FAQ
1. Who created Theme Dinner Roulette?
Hilatron and Josh created Theme Dinner Roulette because they love you.
2. What was the first Theme Dinner Roulette Dinner?
The first Theme Dinner Roulette Dinner consisted of �small multiple things,� realized by a meal of Spanakopita, non-chicken nuggets with peanut sauce, and tiny cheesecake. The Dinner was consumed to great acclaim on April 11, 2003.
3. How does one select the Theme in Theme Dinner Roulette?
In order to follow the �Roulette� spirit of Theme Dinner Roulette, it is best to have a way to select the attributes at random. One way to do this is to write a number of attributes (such as �square dinner,� �dinner with holes,� �stick dinner�) on slips of paper and keep them in a jar. The Chef can then select a slip of paper and create a Theme Dinner based on the attribute chosen.
4. Must one use only ingredients found in the house at the time that the Theme is chosen?
This should be decided by the participants before the attribute is selected. Beginners may wish to allow themselves the opportunity to go shopping for materials once they know what the Theme is to be. However, ultimately it�s up to the Chef whether he or she is willing to go to the grocery store.
5. How often should one play Theme Dinner Roulette?
As often as you like! Some people play on a regular schedule, while others choose to play spontaneously whenever they can�t think of what to have for dinner.
6. Is the Chef obligated to provide dessert in Theme Dinner Roulette, a la Iron Chef?
Yes.
7. Are participants required to eat all components of the Theme Dinner?
Yes. Participants should note any allergies or dietary restrictions before the game begins, and the Chef should honor these. Otherwise, as in roulette-with-a-gun, participants must accept what the fates deal them � in this case, a Theme Dinner rather than a bullet to the head. Really, it�s not that bad, when you think about it.
8. Are there any dangers in Theme Dinner Roulette?
One must be careful in selecting participants. Use your judgment � avoid inviting pranksters who are likely to propose inedible attributes, such as �metal dinner� or �scratchy dinner.�
9. How does one win Theme Dinner Roulette?
One must ensure that the entire Dinner adheres to the Theme. Dinners should consist of, at the minimum, one entr�e, one side dish, and one dessert item. All participants are free to lodge complaints about a breach of the Theme. If a complaint is disputed, a vote should be taken to determine the outcome. In the event of a tie, the situation can be resolved through thumb wrestling, a hot dog eating contest, or some other meaningless competition.
We hope you enjoy Theme Dinner Roulette!
Posted by hilatron at 03:08 PM | Comments (2)
April 10, 2003
Amy Island
I have been clearing out the mailing list at my workplace, marking the addresses of people whose mail comes back stamped "UNABLE TO FORWARD RETURN TO SENDER." It's been a long time since this was done; of the 5,000 mailing addresses, fully 1,000 of them are no longer correct.
However, a statistically unusual number of Amys seem to have moved. Where the general population sports an error rate of about 20 percent, close to half of the Amys on the list are no longer at the same address.
What could this mean? Are Amys a particularly nomadic people, flitting from house to house at their whim? Do they tend to get evicted a lot? Or is something more sinister going on?
I think I may have uncovered a mass migration, an Amy Exodus, if you will. Where are the Amys going? Perhaps, somewhere, there is an island. There they gather, trickling in from all over the world, slowly building an Amy Army. There they train; there they prepare for Operation Amy Takeover. One day, they will return in violet-hulled warships, flying a flag adorned with a single cursive A, to conquer us all. The world will fall to its knees, trembling before the force of the combined Amys.
Amys will take over every branch of government. Non-Amys will bow before them, and let them go first in line at Starbucks. Perms and French manicures will become courtly privileges afforded only to the Amys.
The Amys will select their mates from among the Brads and Brians of the world, creating an elite race of the fortunately named. Only Amys will be allowed to name their children Amy, of course. The rest of us will have to stick to inferior names that relegate us to the lower castes.
Kellys and Debbies will become the Amys' seconds-in-command, hated by the lower class, clinging grimly to the power and the tanning salon coupons that come down from on high. The Amys need not fear rebellion, for their generals will be too busy crushing the Henrys and Susans and Peters, fearful of usurpment. The less fortunate will slave in misery, dreaming of a day when one of our children might be named Amy, knowing in our hearts it will never come to pass.
But there are so many Amys. How will they unify their leadership? What will prevent them from splintering and infighting?
I haven't told you the whole story. You see, all of the three Aimees on the list are missing in action. With their relative rarity and exotic twist, I�m sure they�re prepared to lead the Empire of the Amys into the dismal, post-apocalyptic future.
Posted by hilatron at 10:07 PM | Comments (2)
April 08, 2003
My Client Pleads 'Better than Thou.'
A serious case of the Monday Blobbies (symptoms: paranoia, despair, the sense that one is an octagonal peg in a round hole [I'm too complex for you and your round holes!], unjustified self-righteousness, tummy-ache) can only be cured by chewing on the bitter marrow of injustices long past. It makes the present seem more bearable, until it is so. For therapeutic purposes, I present a brief, incomplete list of false accusations made against me through the years:
Daycare, year unknown: Left alone for too long with a few other kids, a game of barber went horribly awry when a certain tattletale realized that her ringlets could not be reattached. Frenzy ensued, and when my mom came to pick me up she was told in no uncertain terms that, as the new kid, I had been marked as the instigator and would not be welcomed back. Well. As I recall, Miss Banana Curl 1980 wasn't crying when she showed us where the scissors were.
Springtime, 1983 or 1984 (1st or 2nd grade): After receiving a ride to school with a friend, I embarked on my customary struggle with a strange car door. Noticing my failure to spring readily from the vessel, friend's father made haste to open the door from the outside, remarking "Well, aren't you the little lady." Although at the age of six or seven, my grasp of gender politics was shaky, it was impossible to ignore the sneering insult in his tone. Implicit: 1) to be a lady is to be helpless, needy and demanding; 2) I was further proof that such qualities are innate in the female. Equally impossible was the task of defending myself for the crime of little-ladyhood.
1986 or 1987 (5th grade): A ten-year-old cannot respond to the query "Do you want to tell me who helped you with this report on the Grand Canyon?" without seeming like a liar and an idiot. The revelation that my mom sure as hell didn't help me with it, as I wouldn't have dared tell her that it was due today and I was just starting it the night before, would not have gone over well. My skill in regurgitating encyclopedia text had already brought out Mrs. Welch's most wolfish smile; that it was also a rush job would only have compounded the sin of overcompetence.
1988 (6th grade): Unprovoked, Schlub 1 pointed at me and remarked to Schlub 2: "She looks like she's tight." I am now sure they were just parroting concepts gleaned from older brothers or illicit R-rated movies, but at the time I was convinced that some secret was apparent to all the world but me. The snickering made it clear that whatever it was, it was Very Bad. This case marks one of the first instances of the icy glare that later made me infamous and generated the new accusation, "Scary!"
1992 (sophomore year of high school): While running as part of my sports requirement, I felt an unpleasant "ping!" in the area of my left heel. Having always ascribed to the "No Pain, The End" philosophy of exercise, I hied myself to the sports doctor people* to get excused from running until the ping went away. After examining me and listening to my sincere description of where the pain was, what made it worse, and how much it hurt ("Not too much, as long as I'm not running"), the sports doctor person announced that I had pulled my Achilles tendon "...but I'm sure you already knew that." The implication of premeditated faking was clear.
The reason incidents like these still rankle is that the Hilatron reflected back to me is someone I don't accept or recognize: an upstart, a cheat, a useless girl, a barely comprehended sex object, a layabout. The ugly vision of others was forced upon me, jarring the sense of self I was busy creating, and I resent the intrusion.
It's time to balance the scales. Just for today, I proclaim that no one is qualified to pass judgment on me. I cling triumphantly to my delusions of grandeur. I reserve the right to remake myself, ideal in my own mind. I declare crimes real and fabricated to be stricken from the record. To all who have dared to speak out against me, I cry: Beware! Before you stands PerfectTron, and you shall bow before my flawlessness! Resist and face the terror of the look dubbed "Demon Stare" by Mrs. Hathaway's 7th grade homeroom!
*Snooty prep school facilities alert.
Posted by hilatron at 12:19 PM | Comments (2)
April 06, 2003
Where do I deduct the psychological damage?
A word of advice: never, ever, move from one state to another in the middle of the year. It's just not worth the agony. State tax forms are clearly designed for the sole purpose of keeping entire vast departments of pallid, cackling, subterranean accountants employed, checking line after line of typo-ridden and archaic instructions to see where you messed up and then sending out bizarre and incomprehensible forms which never quite make clear the nature of your transgression, but which are very, very explicit as to the torments that await you should you fail to correct it.
Massachusetts: �From Line 18 and write the greater amount here� is not a complete sentence. Nor does it quite convey what one might be expected to do. One could, of course, consult the lengthy instruction booklet to get more information, were it not for the fact that the instruction booklet skips every single line about which there is the slightest confusion, confining itself instead to repeating the instructions for filling items out completely in black ink, signing every page (the better to convict you with, my dear!) and affixing the proper mailing label.
Oh, and New York State? I figured out your little game. You know, the one that goes:
Form 1, line 45: fill in amount from Form 2, line 50...
Which can only be figured once you get past Form 2, line 12...
Where you have to fill in amount from Form 1, line 45...
Which depends on Form 2, line 50...
Which can only be figured once you get past Form 2, line 12...
Where you have to fill in amount from Form 1, line 45...
Which depends on Form 2, line 50...
etc.
Well played, both of you, but I've beaten you at last! I have finished my taxes and (knock on wood, turn around three times, spit on a virgin goat), if I did indeed fill out all my forms and schedules correctly, I can expect a nice refund come August 2004 or so. Because, you know, it takes time for them to process your dreadful, messy tax form. What�s wrong with you? Why do you want to make trouble for the nice accountants?
Posted by hilatron at 03:58 PM
April 04, 2003
B-r-r-r-r-ing it On-n-n-n.
Attn. Weather:
Do your worst. My winter coat is staying in the closet.
Posted by hilatron at 05:57 PM | Comments (1)
Congratulations! It's your turn to clean the bathroom, by the way.
Everyone say hurray: Josh is off the crutches!
Posted by hilatron at 12:14 AM | Comments (7)
April 02, 2003
When I Raided the Discarded Mail Pile.
It's official: time to start rocking the low-rent Norma Desmond look. Who's with me?
Posted by hilatron at 11:24 PM | Comments (2)
April 01, 2003
Important Announcement
Before we return you to your scheduled reading, won't you take the time to wish my mom a very happy birthday? Yay mom! It's your birthday!
Posted by hilatron at 10:34 AM | Comments (8)
Well, you have to admit they do kind of ask for it.
Dear Telemarketer,
I'm sorry you had to work on April Fool's Day. They should really know better, but then clearly "direct marketing" (check that euphemism, folks!) managers have little grasp on reality, and you were the one who had to suffer the consequences.
When I heard that telltale mechanical pause...click that signals a paid invader of my time has come calling, the sound triggered some sort of date-related response system that I didn't even know I had.
"... Click Is Josh [last name] available?"
"... Blip No. No. No, I'm...sorry, he isn't."
"Okay, well -"
"May I take...a message?"
"Oh, no, I'll just call back at a better -"
"There IS no better time."
"?"
"There IS no better time, you see, because his time, HIS time, the time he used to spend with me, is now spent with that SLUT Crystal who works at the salon."
"Um -"
"She used to do my hair, now she's doing my MAN, can you believe that? Ha ha, good joke, huh? That's the one I'm going to use in court."
"--"
"I'll tell you one thing - I canNOT beLIEVE that he can stand being with her when he had a chance to be with ME. That girl smells like perm! I mean it comes out of her pores. She is trouble with a capital T - but hey, if that's what he wants, I'm not going to stop him. I've got some pride. Not to mention a nice nest egg, now that I drained the savings account and sold his truck."
"Muh -"
"Anyway, I should go, the fire's starting to really build now. You can take this number off your list, since it'll be burnt to the ground by tonight. Hey - what do you think, should I let the dog out or not?"
"Click"
So, I'm very sorry, Telemarketer, if I alarmed you. I hope you understood that it was all in fun. I assume you did, since the cops have not shown up yet. But I have to say...
Neener neener, I made a telemarketer hang up on MEE-ee!
Yours,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 10:29 AM | Comments (7)