The Catalogue Conspiracy

Wallowing in the temporary throes of being on hiatus, napping like a polar bear in hibernation under the coolness of my air conditioner and all around generally giddy that I have the rare luxury of a wee bit of time to myself away from work, I was feeling like a care-free teenager.  (Shhh, don’t tell my parents, but I even slept until 5:30 in the afternoon one day!)

And when I got hungry, I cooked!  Well, I boiled water, and nuked some Al Fredo sauce from a jar in the microwave.  But I made a whole plate full of cheese-filled spinach tortellini without scorching my eyebrows!  And it only took me THREE tries to nail the timing!!! 

(BTW, 20 puffy pasta thingies nearly put me over the edge.  Should you choose to don your own imaginary chef’s hat, I, the Temporary Dark Priestess of Kitchen-y Paraphernalia personally recommend a more modest yet satisfying 16 puffy pasta thingies to prevent belly-plumpage as well as the immediate desire to flop on the bed and sleep like a bloated tick.)

Shake your head all you want to in utter disbelief at my on-going inner teenaged Genius-ness, but occasionally, I have my moments:

Still hoping to achieve my riches in Hollywood, looking forward to buying my first mansion in the secluded Hollywood Hills and planning to sloppily apply all manner of extreme black eye liner whilst wearing a creepy tattered wedding gown and occasionally burying small treasures under the full moon in my gated community (guarded by magnificent gargoyles), I plodded to my current apartment mailbox (guarded only by my Crappy Son of Crappy Deceased Landlord) to discover the following (which has nothing to do with Crappy Landlord; but my faithful gargoyles could surely have prevented this):

I am now officially on the Geriatric list of mail order catalogues!

Apparently, having made the semi-comforting slash somewhat creepy purchase of a “Perfect Petzzz” Arctic Fox (an animatronic stuffed plushy faux animal that appears to breathe with a small motor inside its belly to simulate a furry napping companion as a transitional experimentation to learn to sleep without my heroic feline sidekick Pretty), I’ve unwittingly opened the window to massive solicitations; all of which are supposedly addressed to my new level of Senior Needs.

I suppose it’s comforting to know that at a certain age, we have the ability to order a high-rise toilet seat:

But we can also stuff a Glock into our slimming waistband:

Yet travel around freely:

And also pack a rifle!

But hey…  If the sequence of catalogue arrivals is correct, at the end of our weary gun-toting potty-trained fiasco, we eventually get to put together a happy puzzle of kitties and puppies!  (Well, you know if we haven’t already accidentally shot off our hands.)

Meanwhile, as I’ve apparently been categorized as “elderly” (Dude, I’m only 46!  And I probably shouldn’t be using the term “dude” as yet another catalogue has offered me an extendible tool should I be unable to, uh, well, let’s just not even GO there), I looked forward to tuning into the Opening Olympic Ceremonies that I’d TiVo’d the night before.

I was hoping to grasp some Universal sense of “belonging”; a twinge of purpose, a sense of Worldwide Unity and perhaps even a tiny glimpse of the magnificent aspirations of a teenaged girl competing in gymnastics as I had done in my youth!

Hmm…

Really???

I’m admittedly one of the first to burst into stupid chick tears at anything remotely patriotic; but staring at the peasant people traipsing about with smoke stacks and eventually mentally torturing small children with nightmares and a 100 foot tall blow-up statue-floppy-doll of Lord Voldemort?  
Hmm…

(Take that whichever way you want to.  If you hadn’t noticed, I have a dark side.)

>>><<< 

Meanwhile, back at the bat-cave, Crappy Son of Crappy Landlord posted a new notice next to the mailboxes (where I am cursed with a continued scourge of multiple catalogues crumpled into a two inch square box), all residents have now been advised that as of nine o’clock next Saturday morning, our apartment building will be having some “much needed landscaping, and all bedroom and bathroom windows must be closed in what is expected to take no more than four hours.”

Well THERE’S a happy day off for everyone who was looking forward to sleeping in late!!!

Hmm…

Perhaps the catalogues were rightfully designated…
Perhaps I had become a crotchety old lady…

But never, EVER discount the mental acuity of the so-called “elderly”!!!

Already perturbed by my next door neighbor who has zero control of his ankle-nipping yappy dogs that bark incessantly outside of my bedroom window, my inner teen angst got the better of me after three days of listening to home improvement buzz saws and miscellaneous wood thumping that could have competed in the Olympics should snarky four inch tall canines ever vie against lumberjacks for disobeying a noise zone.

Take your time – I’ll wait whilst you weigh the scales (as it were).

Meanwhile, something had to be done…

Strapping on a hoodie, I contemplated my approach to the house. 

Sure, I could pretend to be the exasperated student trying to finish a term paper stomping unpleasantly on the porch in juvenile defiance…

But sometimes (as I’ve learned as an Actor in Hollywood) you have to play against the words.

“I’m supposed to be on vacation” I apologized, ever so weakly; “I live next to you, but I’m just getting over the flu” I fabricated.  “Can you tell me how much longer you’re going to be with all the power tools?  Between the noise, and my stomach, and I just need to sleep a tiny bit…” I pleaded with all due appropriate elderly weariness.

“We’ll clean up everything within the hour!” I was reassured.  “We’re sorry for the inconvenience!” my neighbor stammered regretfully.

“Thank you ever so” I smiled frailly before tottering back to my bat-cave, to theoretically curl up with the creepy Arctic Fox which I have knighted “Cousin Itt” (title courtesy of “The Addams Family”) and order more tortellini. 

AND THE AWARD GOES TO…

 

 ~Blanche (?)