Ice, moobies and how batteries are ruining my quailty of life

I realize nobody will read this because it's long. We don't get on the Internet to be annoyed by reading, do we? Hail no. Tough, I feel like talking and the only one talking here this morning is Curious George. I like George, he doesn't really talk, he just makes joyful monkey sounds as he saves the world around him while being extremely polite. I find it refreshing. What I don't find refreshing is how we buy kids tons of expensive DVDs and then have to replace the fookers the next week because they're all screwy and covered in instant oatmeal, which I know is actually a space age cement compound disguised as a nutritious breakfast food. If you say, well, then don't let your kid touch the DVD's (which are technically known as "moobies") then I will know..you don't have any kids.

We had an ice storm yesterday which shut off power for awhile..long enough to kill all the batteries in the house and I forgot to get new ones so I have to get up every five minutes to hit "search" because the moobie is stuck. The buttons on the DVD player are the size of dust mites and I wonder if other people without remotes end up in lunatic asylums ranting about being on their hands and knees with Dollar Store reading glasses perched on their noses trying to find cute icons some tech idiot thought were innovative while a child screams that Curious George is stuck in a neon palm tree wearing a sombrero? The same thing happened to Britney once, I think.

Moobies leave me to finish that book by L. Ron Hubbard I started last week and decided he was more dangerous than Tom Cruise on a spring loaded couch and a crappy writer to boot. If you're a shitty science fiction writer AND a nut job, the logical thing to do is start your own religion. So, I sip my coffee and stare out the window at the neighborhood. It's a colorful place. Handicapped Chick is navigating the leftover ice on her walker. She has to walk a block on a curved sidewalk with a treacherous hill to get there (who designs these places?)..she finally makes it to the lot only to find out Fat Chick (with the kids) is in the spot we all know is her handicapped spot even though it's not marked. Fat Chick (with the kids) has six children under the age of six and she's not the worst mom in the neighborhood. She's teaching them independence, I think. They're all nice kids and easy to tell them apart because they're all different colors. The smallest one cracks me up, I just call him Little Dude. I think he's a dude, he dresses like a boy, but, always has a pink pick in his afro so I'm not for sure. I asked him once, but, he can't talk yet, all he can say is "HOME!" when I give him a ride. You'd think someone who rides a big wheel 10 hours a day could get himself home from uptown, even in wet diapers, but, he gets worn out so I stop and pick him up on my way back from work. Then his mom comes out and yells at him about the price of gas..I don't know why, it's not her gas.

Handicapped chick has now seen the Fat Chick (with the kids) boy friend has taken up the next two parking spaces. I think he may be Little Dudes daddy because he also wears a pick in his afro though I'm not clear if this is a genetic trait or a cultural thang. Anyhow, Maybe Baby's Daddy has a Cadillac and a motorcycle so Handicapped Chick trucks past the dumpster which is attractively surrounded with what looks like a permanent snow fence painted that lovely poop color I now know from QVC is this seasons hottest neutral. Chocolate gold technibond..there will be many pissed off women this Christmas, but, that's another post. Anyhow, it makes the dumpster seem to smell better in August. Fat Chick (with the kids) waves at me from her stoop where she goes to smoke. She doesn't smoke in the house and I used to find that admirable until I realized it's the only time she has to get away from her rainbow of children. It's like Angelina Joile only no money and none of them are adopted. I know this because she favors tube tops in summer. She smokes a lot. I don't blame her. Little Sissy Lou or Missy Poo can watch her brothers and sisters, she's six after all. Like I said, the moms a real educator.

I hear "Moobies stucked!" again and I haul ass to save George and some small peace of mind with no commercial interruptions..at least. I haven't had this much fun since last night when Lissa discovered the atheistic value of melting crayons on the "radiant" heat in her bedroom. Who the hell puts a separate thermostat in a kids room?? If designers would have thought that out, I wouldn't need six smoke alarms in an apartment the size of my Aunt Edna's underpants. Back to the window..

Handicapped chick and I both admire The Neighbors On The Hill who have a festive display including a giant blow up Santa and a giant blow up snowman. The snowman isn't anchored right so every time the wind blows, it looks like he's giving Santa a frantic blow job. I see it as a sign of brotherhood and tolerance for the season. Hey, at least someone's jolly.

I would have taken a picture, but, the kid took the last living batteries out of my camera to light the Christmas tree in her Fisher Price Princess Palace. But, she says I can play too and I'm taking her up on it. I even get to be a plastic person stolen from my now wrecked holiday village. It beats being a crayon....again.