Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Twelllllllve Minutes.

Roll that off your tongue, 'k? Twelllllllllllve minutes. You can do a lot in twelve minutes. You can paint your toenails, walk a mile (give or take), get a good jump on supper, or, if you're me, try to hang yourself with the telephone cord.


Because I worked at the Codger Corral today. And I got the phonecall from The Pink Panther today.

The Pink Panther used to live at the Corral, and is so named because she always (always, allllways) wore the same. Pink. Sweater. Every. Damned. DAY. Every day. And Elvis forbid you take the damn thing to wash it and not have it back by the time she got dressed the next day. Every. Day. And she was a talker. At great length. And not an interesting "here are neat stories about my wild life and childhood, and did I mention that I slept with Douglas Fairbanks Junior?" talker, but a "I could whine the enamel off your teeth, if given enough time" talker. She moved in March, and I know it's mean, but there was indeed a countdown for when her last day was. Aaack.

Where was I? Oh. Pink Panther Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

So she's been gone for a few months. Lives with her daughter now. Her daughter? Just as barmy as she is. And they're all super religious. (And fucking CHEAP too. "Mom just got her hair done six months ago, what does she need it done for again now?" Cheap.) Anyway... Apparently the Pink Panther calls in on a semi-regular basis to bend the ear of whomever answers the phone. Today's conversation started with her asking about the multitudes who have died over the past month or so. And included "How many people do you think died since I started living there?" "Oh, panther, I couldn't say for sure, but quite a few- given the place we are and all." and eventually segued into a ten minute discourse on her husband, brother, General Macarthur, World War II and the gem of the week from her daughter- "Mom, you're the one who killed Daddy." (Which sure, she may have talked the man into an early grave, but you don't actually say that to your own mother. You just don't.)

By minute 5 I was trying desperately to catch the attention of my mom or Superdonna, to no avail. By minute 9 I was softly beating my head against the desk. By minute 11 I nearly managed to get the phone cord around my neck, until I finally broke in with "Gee Panther, it was really great to talk with you, but there are people up here at my desk, and I've got to take care of them!" (Which there were- employees, who were trying to get me off the phone) And she STILL wanted to keep chatting.


(And I know. Someday I am going to be that woman, and pester the living shit out of anyone who will answer my calls, which is WHY I let her ramble as long as she did. But guhhhhh. Enough!)

And apparently a new boy is moving in next door. He pulled up all Clampett Style with his shit strapped to his truck. We're establishing a pool to see how long he lasts. I'm betting till the back rent is paid, then he'll split/get kicked out. Actually there was a posse of "rent boys" (well, if the term fits in the literal sense...) and connections tonight- makes me ever so glad I'll be in the house alone tonight. Fie. (Though I wouldn't want to leave the house alone either, lest they decide to test their screen slashing and electronics boosting prowess.)


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