Month: November 2003

By the time I finish writing this, it’s possible that Michael Jackson, that perfectly normal, boring “King of Pop” will be in police custody. Again. Forget Iraq, this is shock and awe, baby.

Okay, maybe not. I thought he should have had his butt tossed in jail for good the LAST time we were forced to listen to newscasts about his man-stick having “distinctive markings”. Please God, spare us those kinds of details when it comes to this humanoid.

I swear to God, I have never ever seen a bigger bunch of people in denial than his supporters, unless it’s the worthless parents who let their sons hang around with this pervert.

Being talented shouldn’t give you a free ride. Being rich shouldn’t either. But apparently fame and fortune have blinded people so much that they’d sacrifice their children with a “oh, he’s just misunderstood. He’s a sensitive soul.” Well he’s a sensitive soul with a preference for pre-pubescent boys. If a guy who looked and acted like MJ lived across the street from you, you’d never let your kids play out in the front yard unsupervised. Face it.

Anyone can “seem” like a really nice guy, but in the meantime, when you aren’t there watching, he could be doing coke, beating his children and cheating at Scrabble. Oh, so just because he never did this stuff in front of you it never happened? He’s a great guy so his kids must be lying?

We won’t even get into the story about that couple who fed their daughters and natural son but fed their foster sons pancake batter and nothing else. Oh, the 16 year old only weighs 40 pounds and hasn’t been to the doctor in over four years? All the kids weigh less than half of what they should even at the low end of the scale? They’ve all got stunted growth? Well, see, the KIDS have eating problems. This is from their Church pastor! Can’t be that the foster parents are evil spawns of Satan who got off on not feeding four innocent children (who didn’t have the strength to pull a trash barrel on wheels from the house to the street without stopping to take a rest). Funny how this was JUST the foster sons, who came from different families, but apparently all have the same eating disorders. I didn’t realize being systematically starved to death was considered an eating disorder.

Do I sound bitter? I am. As the mother of an almost six-year-old son, I’m furious that people like these are allowed to walk the streets because they seem nice. And now I can’t wait to see the hysterical fans of Michael defending him because he’s “misunderstood.” Let me just say that YOU, dear fan, are the one who misunderstood.

That’s the high-end estimate for patching the roof. The roofer mentioned that the builder should have put that black felt-stuff up on the roof first, which would have helped keep them in place. He also noticed that where there should have been tar on the back side of the shingle I found, there was none. Which may mean that the roofers who did the house in the first place didn’t do great work. Super.

He also said he’s done a few houses in this development already, which makes me feel like calling the builder to let him know. Not that I expect him to do anything, I’m not stupid, but it would probably be in his best interest to not use those roofers on any of his other projects.

Anyway, they are 25 year shingles, which is good to know, but I hate to think I got 25 year shingles and a ten year roofing job.

Okay, Miffy got the last laugh on me. Fine, Miffy. You win. Forget the rootbeer, forget the Tostitos (if THAT were at all possible). But forget all the teasing and snacking, because what it all comes down to is something horrible and terribly painful to me: Miffy cost me money.

You see, Saturday morning when I woke up I saw something odd in the back yard, so I wandered out there to check things out. And to my utter woe, I realized it was a shingle from my roof. Miffy ripped a couple of them off the roof, front and center where it was pretty noticeable. Which means I need to actually find someone to fix the problem and then PAY them because quite frankly, I’m not up to roof repair. Of course rain is predicted all week and you can actually see wood where the shingles are gone, so I cannot even put it off for a few days. Ratzen Fratzen windstorm.

Miffy, I hate you.

Remember the scene in High Anxiety where Dick Van Patton’s character is killed by being trapped in a car with a very loud radio? His ear drums apparently burst and we know he’s dead because there’s a little trickle of blood coming out of one ear. Getting beyond the “is it possible for a standard-issue 1970’s car radio with speakers in the dashboard [only] to get loud enough to cause damage, because, after all that was the point of the scene, I’m wondering if I was taking my life in my hands on the way to work today.

You see, I have the latest Josh Groban CD and I had it turned up to window-rattling levels – which for a vocalist is probably not as much a threat as say, Megadeath. Or any of those banks with the screaming lead singers. Or maybe Sousa marches (my dad had an album called “Brass Band Bash” and it was my sister’s favorite album for quite a while. I need to remember to tell her kids that in a few years.).

Anyway, I survived the ride in, and I’m happy to tell you, there was no ear bleedage. Run out and get the new CD, by the way. More good stuff.

Guess what they have at the Solomon Pond Mall in Northboro? A Lego Store. Guess who had to restrict herself to ONLY buying one of the small containers from the “fill it from the bins” section?

Oh good gravy, the colors! To DIE for!