More Lessons Learned…

… from “The Last Ship.”

Yeah, it’s been awhile, but hey, most of the funny/fucked up shit that happens to me has to do with The Concubine (without her knowledge), and I almost feel bad shaming her on Teh Interwebz.  I know, weird, right?  Me feeling shame.  But anyhoo…

LESSONS LEARNED FROM “THE LAST SHIP”

Episode 1

• The CDC is never here to save YOU, dumbass.  They’re here to save other people. FROM you. (Actually, I already knew this.)
• Jason Dean is still smokin’ fuckin’ hot.  My argument:

And still WAAAAAY too hot for Phoebe Halliwell.

• Don’t even fucking THINK about killing the dog, inexplicable Russian ninjas.  I WILL CUT YOU.
• Two words:  JAYNE COBB! That is all.

The Hero of Canton

• Jason Dean and Jayne Cobb manage to make up for that actress who looks like she smelled a fart.
• We are, at this moment, potentially 2 months away from President Boehner.  Wait, wait, stop cutting yourself, I said POTENTIALLY.
• Radio silence is NEVER for your own protection.
• When all else fails, fucking do it yourself.  Fear of electrocution is for PUSSIES.
• If you fail to answer your phone, I’m totally allowed to come over to your place and steal your popcorn and mac n’ cheese.
• We get issued protective face shields for a reason.  DUMBASS.

(although you did make the right choice, ma brotha.  ain’t goin’ out like that.)

BONUS:  Having kids and a wife is NOT. FUCKING. WORTH IT.  The Night’s Watch has the right idea.

AND ONE CAVEAT:  Naming a character “Dr. Scott” makes me want to throw toilet paper.

I love you, my Hooligans.  And I’ll try to do better!

HH

The Wonderful World of Broadcasting, Episode II

As promised, here is “the rest of the story,” when it comes to the truth behind my ostensibly-glamorous career path.  Let’s see, where were we…

5.  I am essentially slave labor.

Yes, I do get paid (the aforementioned no money)… for my regular job.  But as anyone who has ever been referred to as “talent” can tell you, it don’t stop there.  For example, when I was a TV producer (NOT an on-air job, mind you), I was frequently dragooned into “voicing” in-house commercials and PSAs… for no additional money.  Which translates into “fo’ free.”

All the ads you hear on the radio?  The DJs did them… fo’ free.  Voiceover work is a PAYING job, yo.  But once The Man owns you, sure ain’t he gonna use you.  FO’ FREE.

6.  I have almost no goddamned privacy.

Like it or not, once strangers know your name (even if it’s fake, as mine is and most are), you’re at least a quasi-public figure.  This means your every move – even in your so-called “real” life – can be subject to public scrutiny.  Case in point, I myself have been arrested.  For a nonviolent, victimless misdemeanor that, while infinitely stupid, most of YOU could chalk up as a lesson learned.  But MY mugshot was on the motherfucking teevee… because I was a “public figure.”

Further point, the infamous Chuckweasel and I were once at a baseball game in another fucking state, when someone recognized him by voice alone.  My day-to-day “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” quotient is ABNORMALLY high, mostly just from my voice.  Of course, it gets much worse for my brothers and sisters who are actually on TV – I’ve had friends harassed and even stalked, one to the point where the cops had to come walk her to her car every night.  And you wonder why my avi is a fucking cartoon???

7.  I am consistently undateable.

Yes, yes, part of that is my charming personality.  Bite me.  But a fairly large part of it is the horrible hours I work – part of the appeal of goddamned Chuckweasel was that we had the same butt-crack of dawn shift.

Another part is what the job – the news part – does to you.  I’m fairly callous and unfeeling about just about everything now, and apparently potential partners like someone who at least PRETENDS to have human emotions (huh.  Pussies.).  Fine, Sonny Jim, you watch live Ground Zero feeds all by yourself in the middle of the night for over a week straight and tell me you have fuck one left to give about people’s petty fucking problems.

But I do have some, emotions, that is – which generally come pouring out in an awful cathartic flood when some major can’t-take-this disaster becomes the lead story.  The only way I’ve found to deal with this is to date people who are also in the industry (See Gilbert, the Evil Ogre, and CW).  But this produces its own problems, in that A) You both work ridiculous hours and never see each other; B) You end up in competition for the same jobs and/or C) Your general self-protective disdain for all of humanity extends to each other.

Or you’re just a total bastard who bolts when shit gets real, like someone this blog used to know very well… but I digress.

So, E-Harmony, Match.com… um… J-Date? (note: not Jewish but fascinated by the whole Orthodox thing).  Huddle up, you guys.

I’m a 37 year old news professional who will never work normal hours, make any goddamned money, or give more than half a fuck about #FirstWorldProblems.

A life with me will mean an endless cavalcade of “real” FB pages versus “professional” ones, and even so, strangers will masturbate to the sound of my voice.

Get used to being alone (again) at important family gatherings, and embrace the fact that, while I will seldom shed a tear in relation to our own crises, I am extremely likely to start hysterically bawling over a mine disaster or similar.

I will know the names of our state and local lawmakers better than your family’s.  And I’ll have their cell phone numbers.

 

Best of Bad Choices

So, the office today was full of Cub Scouts on a tour or something (“Explore the exciting world of radio, kids!  Now, quick, tell Mommy you’ve decided to go to medical school after all!”).  At least, I assume they were Cub Scouts – either that or a pack of midgets in creepy outfits… Cub Scouts is a better option.

As if I hadn’t already been exposed to more children than is clearly outlined in my contract, I was then confronted by a confusing situation at the Tar-jay.  Not being a parent myself, I’ll throw the question open to all of y’all:

Question:  You are teaching your tiny child how to walk.  Do you do this:

A.  At home.  Your nice, safe home.

B.  In a park or other lovely outdoor setting filled with soft, cushiony grass to fall on.

or C.  Back and forth across the aisles of a busy Target filled with self-absorbed Saturday shoppers wielding carts at dangerous speeds, not to mention one Hoody on a mission for Lobster Bites.

You can probably guess, today I was confronted by C.  And I almost ran the little fucker precious snowflake down, because I am operating on about 2 total hours of sleep. And it’s not even good sleep, it’s sleep filled with dreams about The Evil Troll, whom I’ve probably conjured up by writing about him, and who is interfering with my regularly-scheduled dreams of a certain Viper pilot.

So I wake myself up thrashing every hour or so (and NOT in the good way), which sucks… and double-sucks when you get up for work at 3am.  TIRED, yo!

Still staying up watching “Charmed” instead of sleeping, though.  Priorities, Hoody haz them.

The Husbands of Hoody

Okey-dokey, so we all know Hoody is… shall we say, getting up in years… and still single.  So it stands to reason she has had at least SOME opportunities to change that status… but perhaps, MORE than y’all might think…

I’m really good at this, yo.  Or perhaps, really BAD at this…

THE (POTENTIAL) HUSBANDS OF HOODY

1.  We’ll call him “Angel” (’cause he’d like that).

                    Hoody was 17 and so, so stupid innocent…ish.  And so when Angel asked Hoody to marry him, Hoody said yes without hesitation… without really thinking of what that REALLY meant.  So things were great for awhile, but the minute things got tough, Hoody bailed… and bailed FOR…

2.  The Evil Troll (because, like life, he is nasty, brutish and SHORT)

                    The ET seemed meant-to-be at first — our mothers grew up together, our parents were friends in college, etc.  BUT… turns out he was a complete and total bastard who broke up with Hoody by the simple expedient of BLOCKING HER NUMBER.  Which didn’t prevent quite a bit of stalking on Hoody’s part (including some involvement of firearms… ‘nother story) and furthermore didn’t prevent her from going back a couple years later for…

ET:  ROUND 2:

                    The ET tracked Hoody down through a friend and tricked convinced her to meet up with him again.  Long story short, all appeared well for long enough that she did indeed accept when he asked her to marry him… only to have him FLAKE COMPLETELY OUT while she was at work one night and DISAPPEAR.  Yes, disappear.  In that he did not come home until his daddy made him.  Oh, yeah, and he absconded with the ring.  So yeah.

But yes, she was stupid enough to go back to him YET again, many years later… but not before:

3.  Gilbert

                    Yes, that Gilbert.  And yes, I should have actually married this one.  Have we not already established that I’m retarded?  So I ran screaming from Gilbert to end up with:

4.  The Evil Ogre (sort of like the Evil Troll, but taller and fatter)

                    The EO was actually one of those “no-ring” fiances – you know, they say you’re going to get married but no bling is ever produced?  Shoulda fuckin’ known… (and that’s actually what led us back to Evil Troll Round 3)… and also:

5.  Chuckweasel

                    Yes, you all know Chuckweasel.  And yes, things were great, as evidenced by this blog… until they weren’t.  As the poem says, “And when she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.”  Suffice it to say, when Hoody got sick, shit got horrid, and things fell apart.  No harm, no foul… except the karmic version, of course.

There’ve been others in between, of course — Hoody is nothing if not a loving and generous soul, don’tcha know!  For instance, even before #1, there was the gal who left me for Jesus… and in between #2 and #3 there was an interesting group marriage possibility with a very dear friend (we’ll call him “Cannonball,” ’cause he’d probably like that better than “Coltrane,” or definitely “”Kenny G”) and… well, a very crazy bitch (there was ring shopping involved, it was at TIFFANY’S, but then the CB showed her crazy, so, uh… no.).

But suffice it to say, Hoody has been around the block as far as potential partners, so:

6.  NOW

                    NOW I know I’m worth more than the amount someone chooses to spend on a ring for me (which I mostly gave back, by the way).  NOW I recognize that I’M the point of the relationship — not what I can get/give/represent for someone else.  NOW I accept that MY happiness is at least as important as my partner’s, and is MUCH MORE important than anyone outside the relationship’s.

NOW  I realize what I’ve done wrong.  And what I’ve done right.

When Hoody Ain’t Happy…

…ain’t NOOOOOBODY happy… So, in the interest of everyone’s happiness (it’s a public service, really), here’s a few things that have made me happy lately:

1.  These:

OH… MAH… GAWD…

Those right there are Archer Farms Lobster & Cheese Bites, available at yer local Target, and they are the best thing I have ever put in my mouth (SHUT UP).  And no, Target did not pay me for this endorsement, but if they DID want to pay me, a dump truck filled with these little balls of Elysium would not go amiss.

2.  This:

 

Oooooh, YEEEEAH…

As y’all may know, I’ve been holed up in my room watching Battlestar Galactica (2005 version) and this is why.  Jamie. Fucking. Bamber – best Apollo ever and not too shabby as a detective, neither!  But alas, he never writes, he never calls…

On a side note, I’ve been trying NOT to watch BSG over again (again) quite so back-to-back, so first I watched Caprica again, then I tried to watch BSG: ’78 again again again (but I just can’t — the hair, ye gods, THE HAIR!) (plus who can trust the actor who used to play Apollo now?  I ask you!).  So I was delighted to find…

3.  This:

OK… I can deal…

All 8 seasons, fo’ free on the OnDemand.  That should keep me busy for awhile, especially if I don’t fast-forward through the Paige episodes this time around.

I’ll be in my room if y’all need me.

Finger Chickens

As opposed to Chicken Fingers… mmmm, chicken…

SCENE:  Hoody and Dear Sweet Mama are watching the New Year’s Resolution episode of “American Dad,” in which Deputy Director Bullock wants to chop off someone’s finger (don’t worry, no spoilers).

DSM:  So, what finger would you pick?

HH (without missing a beat):  Well, it can’t be my left hand, ’cause I might get married someday and I don’t wanna fuck up the pictures. (You know, the one where it’s both your hands with the bling showing?  I love that).

DSM:  But then it’s your RIGHT hand… and that’s gonna be creepy for handshakes.

Hoody and DSM proceed to shake each other’s hands with various fingers held back, testing for creep-factor.

DSM:  But wait, is it the whole finger or is there a stump?

HH:  I don’t want a stump, I think that’s somehow more creepy than just not having an entire finger.

The outcome of this discussion was the decision that the right pinky finger would be the way to go.  However, after further consideration, I must withdraw my vote for the right pinky, because I hold it out while sipping beverages in order to appear fancy (yes, all beverages).  So, to preserve my fancy, if I ever get married, the poor schmuck other person will just have to hold their hand over mine in such a way as to hide the fact that I have no LEFT pinky.  If I’m ever in a finger-cutting-off dilemma, that is.

That’s love, right there.

Spacing Is Important

Okay, so it’s always struck my inner Beavis as inappropriately hilarious that “therapist” and “the rapist” are just a misplaced space away from a Monty Python sketch.  But now I’m paying the price (as usual):

I may have inadvertently hit on my counselor.

See, the time before last, she had her hair down and I complimented her on it.  I hadn’t seen it down before and I was raised to say nice things to people (to their face).  Then this LAST time, she had her hair down AGAIN… and SHE complimented ME on my shirt.

Now, I’m fairly sure one should not date one’s mental health professionals, plus I’m REALLY sure no one who’s seen into the cobwebby corners of my psyche should be even remotely interested in the enormous inevitable train wreck that is a relationship with me.  We should also probably mention that I think EVERYONE is hitting on me — self-image was never my problem!

Maybe it’s like Poor Ol’ Dad always says:  The hotter a woman is, the crazier she is.  So I suppose the reverse is also true:  the crazier a woman is, the hotter she is.  Plus this foil hat really brings out my eyes.

And by the way, when asked if the Poor Ol’ Dad Corollary of Hotness vs. Craziness applies to Dear Sweet Mama, POD had only this to say:

“Your mother has always been very hot.”

I rest my case.

Veni, Vedi… Just Me?

Trapped on the couch, watching crap TV while DSM and the Concubine carry my head cold germs to the rest of the family, I have discovered something potentially disturbing about myself, dear Hooligans.

I have never seen a Saw movie… ’cause that shit seems logical to me.

The series is all about, “I locked your dumb ass up and fed the key to this motherfucker right here and you have to cut him open to get free,” right? That type of shit?  See, I’m fine with that.

I was just watching the true crapfest that is American Horror House (horribly acted, horribly scripted, but nice sfx and good that Morgan Fairchild got some work) and it occurred to me that I would never end up like Stupid Girl Trapped On The Third Floor With Stupid Boy.  Y’see, they only had 10 feet of rope, so they were all, “Oh, noes, we can’t get down with that!” But I happen to know that human intestines are MUCH longer than 10 feet… in fact, you could probably double those suckers up and rappel like a Green Beret!

Plus, Stupid Girl had only just met Stupid Boy, so he’s nothing to her.  Well, nothing but a Meat Ladder (patent pending).  It might be harder if you actually KNEW Stupid Boy, but I doubt it… he is, after all, STUPID.  And my sense of self-preservation is finely-honed, y’all — if ANYBODY’S takin’ this bitch out of the game, it’s gonna be me… and I ain’t nowhere NEAR done yet!

Problem Solved Part II

I can’t believe I spent yesterday’s post outlining my marvelous plan for saving the economy AND the planet by employing hobos to push me around in their shopping carts, yet somehow FORGOT this happened:

Scene:  Hoody is on the phone to Dear Sweet Mama

DSM:  Hello?

HH:  I’mma go down the hill and round me up a passel o’ ho’s.

DSM:  Ummmm… why?

HH:  I’mma make them bitches clean this house.

DSM: Oh, okay then. (see where I get it???)

HH:  See I figure the ho’s would prolly rather not ho, but they ain’t got no other skills.  So, I can pay them to clean the house, so I won’t have to clean and they won’t have to ho.  Win-win.

DSM:  You’d probably have to train ’em…

HH:  I figure ho’s are pretty good at learning new things.

DSM:  And they’d probably try to steal your stuff…

HH:  I ain’t really got all that much worth stealing.  Them ho’s prolly ALREADY got a better TV than I got.

DSM:  Sounds like a plan, then.

(Editor’s note:  Yes, my accent did get that bad… I had been cleaning house all day with a kerchief on my head and I was channeling Prissy from Gone with the Wind.)

Then, just when I thought the plan was perfect, Jana suggested we get the tweakers and other assorted speed freaks to clean the windows since they’re all jumping around anyway (for which she has earned a promotion to the Royal Court as Official Tweaker Wrangler).  I am also going to train them to get the dust bunnies out of the corners of the ceiling, because the ho’s probably can’t do that.

Ho’s tend to have back problems, you know.

Problem Solved

I am all crippled-up from my fit of house-cleaning yesterday (yeah, I let it get AWFUL and then basically murder myself in a big long marathon of cleaning — I feel better when I can see results, I guess!).  So anyhoo, I was commenting to Chuckweasel that I was glad my therapy appointment is on Thursday instead of Tuesday this week, since I don’t think I’d be able to hobble my busted ass around downtown.  Then it hit me:

MISS HOODY’S PLAN FOR SAVING

THE ECONOMY

I said to CW, “If I had to go today, I’d have to pay a hobo to roll me around in his cart.”  Then we fell to discussing how that’s probably okay, since hobos need money for booze and…. well, booze.  So, the benefits of my plan are as follows:

• By paying a hobo $5 to push me around in a cart, I am providing gainful employment for hobos — job creation, bitches!
• This of course will stimulate spending, especially in the Mad Dog and Baked Beans sectors
• It will also keep hobos outta trouble, thereby freeing up police resources previously dedicated to breaking up Hobo Fights
• If the hobos DO fight, they will be in better shape from pushing me around in the cart and will therefore be less likely to be injured
• And best of all — IT’S GREEN.  A hobo pushing me in a shopping cart produces MUCH less greenhouse gas than a car… mostly the only gas is bean-related

I’m awaiting my call from the Democratic National Committee.  Hoody Hoo in 2012!