phosfate

So when I was on vacation, I bought too much crap and ( needed another carry-on: )

Me, I dreamt of real cream and tried to ignore the guy across the aisle with the sandals and itchy feet. I don't mean metaphorically itchy.

cybertardis has been reading classic Fantastic Four on her iPad's nifty Marvel app, which inspired this year's paper roll door drawing, done with a pack of Rose Art crayons and a Sharpie.

"You made the Thing look really gay," she complained, and I cannot disagree.

I didn't realize that drawing with crayons on a vertical surface becomes more difficult as you work your way down, so Wolverine and Iron Man look like the work of a mildly gifted five-year-old.

(cliquez-vous pour more biggerness)

Red Heel socks (they come in blue as well as brown), microfleece dishtowel uniform, wool felt details. Rag and poly stuffed for weight. The background is the perfectly revolting Lansing Days Inn, which, I am happy to say, we were able to vacate after the first night. I tried to straddle the Nimoy-Quinto line with the face.

Crown for broken tooth = $700
Plane ticket for mediaWest = $350
Timing belt, etc. for car after it suddenly expired in the middle of 48th Street = $500

I'll be under my desk.



Also happy late birthday Dr Tectonic.

Laundry, packing, etc. All a massive pain in the hinder until Mr Foot heals up. God, man, you know I don't ask you for stuff much, but if I could please not have to negotiate three airports and a Holiday Inn with this fucking cane, I would be mighty grateful, and totally owe you a solid.

Until then, I will never stop whining.

I can smell summer coming. I bought two SF novels last night.

Cell connection seems to be thoroughly cocked up, so if you've called or texted and haven't had a reply, it's because I hate youVirgin Mobile blows goats. Or, in Susan's case, I was stuffed in the back of a small car with Jennie and Bea and couldn't get to my pocket.

Have conned, er, invited Gretchen and Sharon to Hot Fuzz tonight, at the cool old theater in Ann Arbor. New souls for the faith, or I will be found beaten to death behind the Pringles auditorium at UMich.

Went to Vault of Midnight, where we found designer vinyl and action figures. No Shaun 'n Ed two-pack yet, but at least this time the store had a clerk who knew what the fuck I was talking about. Sharon has a wodge of Star Wars books, so she's happily reading out on the deck.

MediaWest report later. Gretchen is showing me how to use a hammock.

You remember our second or third MediaWest, when I accidentally locked the keys in the rental car? And I had a total crazy-ape-batshit hysterical squealy must-eat-planet-of-the-asparagus-people fucking meltdown and cried like Gloria Bunker until the AAA guy showed up? Well, listen to this:

Yesterday morning, when I was leaving the house, I fiddled with the key that's supposed to work the deadbolt lock on the back door. It didn't, as near as I could tell, actually do anything. I made a note to work on it when I had actual time, because it would be nice if I could make it go from the outside.

I got home last night after a couple hours' fooling around (needed matboard, valet hook, new issue of Newtype, etc.), got out the key to let myself in the back door, unlocked it, and...kunk. So, I tried the key again. Kunk kunk.

Well, I thought, I musta locked the deadbolt after all. I got out the deadbolt key, put it in the lock, and...no turny.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fucksticks on a fuck.

Went around to the front door. I have a key. Works fine. Unfortunately, the steel storm door with two layers of glass, a layer of screens, and a decorative grille displaying the house number were all between me and the front door.

I went back to the back door and tried the keys again. And stared at it. Then I went round to the front door, and stared at it. There's a police substation across the street, but the most they can really do is help me break a window safely. Perhaps later. I could call a locksmith, but that's like a hundred and fifty dollars, and I would prefer to spend that on, like, food. Plus who knows when he'd get there. And Lost is on and I already missed one because Mom was selfishly kicking it and I'm not missing another in the same month. 'Cause it's Lost for Christ's sake.

I look at the hinges on the storm door. I try a dime on one of the screws, but this isn't an episode of that other great Wednesday night drama, Search, and my confidence in American currency is not justified.

So I pad across the lawn to Chris and Nina next door, and ring their bell. Nina comes up, all cute in lavender jammies and unidentifiable accent. "Blah blah locked out," I say. "Blah blah borrow screwdriver? Blah Lost." "Of course!" she says. "Philips or the other thing?" "The other thing." "Be right back." So she brings me a screwdriver. "Call if you need Chris to lift anything heavy!"

It's kind of a pussy compared to my screwdriver, which I have just now decided is called The Widowmaker, but it gets the job done. In ten minutes, I've got the door off its hinges and am inside my house. In five more minutes, I've got the power drill out of the kitchen and have re-hung the door. Which is good because it's getting fucking dark out. Return screwdriver, wash feeeeelthy hands, etc. Call sister to tell her how much I fucking rock. Watch Lost. Frame vintage V for Vendetta comics poster. Completely full of self, because I am Q.E.D! I am MacGyver! I am Jerry fucking Robinson!

I still have no idea how to break into a rental car, but now know that's AAA's job anyway.

Love,

Ann