I did something last week, and I've been ashamed ever since. It has been preying on my mind. It was one of those impulsive, spontaneous things--you know, the sort of thing you just sort of *DO* without thinking, and then when you do think the enormity of it all slowly dawns on you.

Unlike my usual stammery attempts to find someone or something else to blame, I must take full responsibility here. It is yet another illustration of Mojo's storied laziness, this time carried to such an extreme I must now suffer the consequences in a very real and humiliating fashion.  MORE Mojo! »

As many people already know, Mojo screens her calls. I don't like the phone. Never have, never will. Childhood trauma. I have Caller ID (the best invention EVER!), I have an answering machine. If I don't know the number, I don't pick up. If I don't know who the person is on the other end, I don't pick up. The innate understanding here is, if you wish to speak to Mojo, you leave a message and SHE will decide whether or not she wishes to speak to you. Usually not, especially if she can fob you off on her Favorite Husband, or if she can just ignore you as the telemarketing SCUM that you are.

(And if you ARE a telemarketer, you should get down on your bony knees and THANK your particularly third-rate God of All Losers that Mojo DOES ignore you, because you do NOT want to get her on the phone. Especially if you use LYING and FALSE INSINUATIONS to do so. Mojo doesn't like the phone, and Mojo doesn't like liars, so when you combine the two of them together it just creates this Perfect Storm of intolerance and the carefully hidden Irish Fishwife Temper comes out. Let's face it: while Mojo usually assumes a Benevolent Love for All of God's Creatures, if you are a telemarketer I WANT YOU DEAD before I even pick up the phone. Yes, you and your whole spawn of Satan family. Can I POSSIBLY be any clearer? Telemarketers are SCUM who serve NO PURPOSE in Mojo's otherwise blissful life. You need a job that badly? Work at McDonald's.)

The other day I got a message on my answering machine along the lines of THIS:

"Oooh, Mojo, this is a really IMPORTANT ISSUE that MUST be taken care of IMMEDIATELY!!! Pleas call me at MY BUSINESS NAME and ask for MY NAME. It's REALLY IMPORTANT!!! PLEASE call us back as soon as possible!"

Yeah, okay, so that's Lying Telemarketing Scum Ploy #352. But it sounded vaguely like a business I HAD done business with in the past, so I called them. It was, as it turns out. And almost immediately upon receiving my call, said person starts off by kind of ripping me a new one, thusly:  MORE Mojo! »

Someone somewhere else in my life recently brought up Alexander Pope, which--combined with other events in Mojo's fascinating life--got Mojo reminiscing about her high school days, which she remembers fondly enough, and in particular the Giant Specter that was British Lit. British Lit was an elective course, but not if you were an intellectual honor roll grade-grubbing snot like Mojo. No, for me and all my friends it was not IF you would take British Lit, but WHEN.  MORE Mojo! »

...so the other day my Favorite Husband came home with two more movies. I try and try to tell him that I can bring home just about any decent movie he could want through the library for FREE, but I guess the key word here is DECENT.  MORE Mojo! »