mojo's blog

Fans of the Craptacular have known for some time--due to Mojo’s incessant whining about it--that Mojo and her well pump have, shall we call, A History. A history that has yet to involve personal injury lawyers and expensive litigation, but she's not quite ready to close the door on THAT path. But for now... well, they say one should keep one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Looks like I have to move my bed down into the cellar and sleep near the well pump.

But first, a technical primer for those who live where there is REAL water service, and not out in the sticks where one must pray to the Evil Rain Gods for the privilege of having wet stuff come out of the faucets on a semi-regular basis. You see, unlike you citified "Just shut up and call a plumber already" sorts, Mojo has a well. Granted it is one step up from the hang-a-bucket-on-a-rope-and-twirl-it-down-to-the-water well, but the principle is the same. Instead of having picturesque rock-wall sides and a mossy wooden roof, Mojo's well is the more modern kind--essentially a big ol' pipe that got hammered into the ground until it pierced the water table, and then connecting the pipe to the side of the house.

INSIDE the house is where the fun begins.

Greetings, earthlings, and welcome!

My name is Xbrlsqy9~%. (FYI, in our language the tilde after any positive number is silent. You can Google it if you don’t believe me—although on our planet we say “&Kq-3nix it” instead. The &Kq-3nix domain name, you can plainly see if you &Kq-3nix it, was purchased on February 5, 1997, a full SEVEN MONTHS before those yahoos at Google thought they were so smart. But I digress. I’ll start again.)

Greetings, earthlings, and welcome!

As I have said many times before, I'm sure it is a sad commentary on Mojo's life that, when faced with some minor anecdote or happening, sooner or later I am bound to say something along the lines of "That reminds me of that scene in THE SIMPSONS where..."

Naturally, I have been watching THE SIMPSONS--albeit with dwindling enthusiasm through the years--since they were interstitials on Tracy Ullman's show. Even the hit-or-miss episodes of today have at least one line that will make me smile, or at least mildly smirk--which puts it far above most commercial television--but they do not begin to approach the genius of the Glory Days of the first ten seasons or so. There were just too many quotes ("Marge, it takes two to lie. One to lie and one to listen.") that the Favorite Husband and I immediately co-opted as our own. And Homer, of course, was blissfully stupid, before it became a cliché.

When I was a wee, wee lass, maybe five or six, I had two goals in life, and they both revolved around a localish ice cream/burger chain called Friendly's (though back then it was just called Friendly). Friendly's was known primarily for their ice cream, and my family could eat ice cream like there was no tomorrow. When we kids were very little (and there was only three of us at the time; the Favorite Younger Sister didn't come along until I was six and a half) the Big Event was going out to eat, and with three obnoxious young children the safest place to eat was Friendly's. It was basically a diner that served lots and lots of ice cream, or an ice cream shop that sold burgers and hot dogs. Very low-key, kid-friendly, no dress code. (Back then, some restaurants had dress codes. No, kids, I am NOT kidding.)

In an effort to control their darling little angels, my parents always sat us in a booth, much to my chagrin. *I* wanted to sit up at the counter, on the spinny stools, with the bums and derelicts and sad, lonely singletons that also sat at the counter. But no--we ALWAYS had to sit in a booth, no doubt to corral us kids against the wall with a sturdy adult guarding the only exit. We would then gorge ourselves on hot dogs and burgers and fries and ice cream, while I would cast wistful glances at the spinny stools at the counter. I *so* wanted to enjoy an entire meal on one of the spinny stools, and I did not understand why my parents were so utterly opposed to the idea. So while other children were perhaps starving to death in some city ghetto or third world desert, I would eat my hot dog and ice cream and pine for the spinny stools that mocked me from just a few feet away. We all have our crosses to bear.

But our childhood was not entirely one of TOTAL deprivation, for eventually my father had to pay the bill, and the cash register was at the end of the counter. So during the two minutes or so of financial transaction, we kids were given the run of the spinny stools nearest the register, and we made the most of those two minutes. So while I never actually got to sit and enjoy a meal on a spinny stool as a child, I *did* have that small concession at the end of every meal at Friendly's.

Another thing Friendly had was what was called a Fribble. A chocolate Fribble, to be specific. A Fribble was this HUGE ice cream milkshake, probably around a quart or so, that came in this tall, large glass. I loved chocolate Fribbles more than life itself. My Favorite Father could eat (drink?) his entire Fribble, and still have room to steal from us smaller kids. It was the mark of a True Adult, I soon realized, if you could eat an entire Fribble by yourself. So back in the age when I could barely form thoughts, one of my earliest--aside from my unrequited desire to sit at the counter with the bums and derelicts--was to consume an entire Fribble all by myself.

Or, Christmas in May.

So Mojo hasn't bragged lately about the idyllic life she leads out here in the sticks, far away from the likes of you. Recently she has had to leave her mold-infested hovel and interact with people, since taxes are due and in the three states she is financially involved in (yes, THREE, count 'em!) she owes money to two. And while Mojo demands her refunds as soon as humanly possible, when SHE has to pay rest assured she waits until almost the Very Last Minute.

For some reason that was not adequately explained to me but Heck, It's Too Late Now, the new accountant e-filed everything, but set it up so I have to MAIL PAPER CHECKS in to those I owe. I don't know why this is, so please remind me next tax season to ask why it can't be e-filed, which is how the OLD guy did it. In fact while we were going over my finances I made the charming observation that, back when I had to mail paper checks, my taxes to one state was all of TWO BUCKS, yet to send my check registered return receipt mail cost me WAY MORE than the taxes did. We both chuckled warmly over this, and then I was given my packet of tax papers which I did not bother looking at until nearly a month later. Which was when I discovered I had to MAIL IN MY PAPER CHECKS LIKE AN ANIMAL. But I digress.

Anyway, so Mojo being the charming lass she is, guess who shows up at the post office window about TWO MINUTES before they wish to close? Yeppers, it's our old pal Mojo.