7 Days

They're watching Mass in the living room. And I feel like a bad person because I'm in here blogging and, well, not watching Mass.

I'm evil.

The second one is incorrect (it should be whom), which is usually enough to get an icon banned from my blog to the fiery depths of grammatically incorrect hell forever, but I liked it too much.

Worked last night. Ugh. So. Not. Busy. At. All. Somewhat thankfully, Pam was having a slight existential meltdown upstairs because the store kind of hasn't recovered from Harry Potter yet, and there are piles of books waiting to be reshelved, and nowhere near enough people to do it, what with the contingent that must be in the cafe AT ALL TIMES OMG. So I was recruited to help.

First I got to put CDs in those little anti-theft thingies, which is massive amounts of fun. I highly recommend it if you ever get the chance.

Then I was handed two baskets full of overstock and told, "Oh, yeah, they go up there somewhere *gestures vaguely towards the ceiling*". So I got to play on the ladder by the overstock shelves. And let me tell you, not so easy to balance twenty-eight copies of Tim Russert's book that IS NOT SELLING AT ALL while perched somewhere over the music secion.

Very dusty. And hot, what with the being right under the lights and all. I don't recommend this
so much.

Finally, the children's section. *organ music plays*

Reason #438 Not To Have Children: Those little buggers are MESSY. Seriously. I'd clean up the spinners, and then go over to the actual shelves to put away some books. Five seconds later, the spinners would be DESTROYED again.

Pam actually called them "little bastards". I found that rather amusing, whilst suggesting that she not refer to them as that in front of their obnoxious parents.



While I was waiting for Mom to be off the phone yesterday (I don't remember why. I'm sure I had a good reason, though.), I started going through her pictures, from the 1970s.

I'll spare you all the customary lecture on Why White Men Should Not Have Afros and Porn Mustaches Actually That One Applies To All Races, Creeds, and Colors Because It Is Not Of The Lord, Y'All. You've all heard that.

I shall instead comment briefly upon my mother's absolutely gut-wrenchingly deplorable taste in men, at least until she met my father.

Shall we begin with Chet? Who had the same creepy-ass smarmy grin under his porn mustache in every picture? The pictures that spanned like then ENTIRE decade, because again, DEPLORBLE TASTE!!! One should not look the same in 1978 that you do in 1975. It's not right, y'all.

Also, why was she at so many damn Democrat functions? I mean, I know she was dating him, but couldn't she have been like, "Um, you know honey, I'm gonna sit this one out. I don't feel like KILLING BABIES TONIGHT!!!" Sheesh.

Or the bastard whose name she didn't even remember, but the mere memory of which sent my aunt into hysterics?

Not quite the hysterics I was in when I saw a picture of her (My aunt, not my mom. Don't worry, Dad.) old fiance. They looked like a very typical lesbian couple. My mom was trying to explain that he was considered attractive back in the day. Um. Yeah. If you like chicks.

(Also got the actual story on my mother's retarded friend who apparently didn't realize that she was having sex. It was gross. But intriguing.)

Finally arrived in the 1980s, when my Daddy showed up. Accompanied by Baby Mr. Mickey, and several overweight friends in short-shorts. I'm not sure that I'll ever feel clean again.

Still better than Chet. *gags*

Nobody expects spanish inquizishun.

Oh, good. I like them. I was worried I'd have to stop watching in order to quell my feelings of homicidal rage towards Barbara Walters.

Speaking kind of of The View, well, duh. How stupid did she think we were???