[R] [85:Grandras-Den:5]: Hey noxxis mind waiting before pull?
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: no
[R] [85:Kahlli-Ice:3]: No you don’t mind? lol
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: people can stop waisting time
[RL] [85:Adieoda-Ary:1]: mass rez inc
[R] [85:Iolnikki:4]: In that case you’d say ‘yes’, then
[R] [85:Kahlli-Ice:3]: ^
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: actually i would have been no i dont mind
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: by me simply saying no
[R] [85:Iolnikki:4]: It sounded like you were annoyed at people wasting time so you said no, you won’t wait
[R] [85:Grandras-Den:5]: yuup
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: ^^
[R] [85:Iolnikki:4]: So you do mind
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: i wont wait
[R] [85:Arthir-Alt:2]: so what you’re saying
[R] [85:Arthir-Alt:2]: is that you’re a douchebag?
[R] [85:Iolnikki:4]: Right
[R] [85:Arthir-Alt:2]: cuz thats what im hearing
[R] [85:Arthir-Alt:2]: common courtesy is hard
[R] [85:Noxxis:5]: Raid finder is hard >.<
[R] [85:Kahlli-Ice:3]: Apparently so’s the english language for you

Most internets go like this: “Alright, connect things, there you go.” Occasionally a problem here and there in a storm, but that’s to be expected.

And then there’s Frontier. We had Verizon for something like ten years, and it wasn’t anything special even then, but then they were bought out. I was almost positive that I wasn’t the only one that feels the way I do about them, so I went over to the almighty Google and did a search:

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That’s pretty accurate. A couple of months ago abouts, was the biggest issue we’ve ever had with them, aside from having to reset our router twice a day as it was. It just…went out. No storm, no power outage, just gone. We lived without it for a day, and as the next day rolled around, we realized it was still out. We figured that might be a real problem. So my neighbor called them and had someone come out to fix it. They did something that worked, and she was back on by Day 2. Cool, right? Just call them and have them send someone here too, right? Sure.

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By that time the next day, no one had showed up at all. We called and I guess they’d never put the ticket in for it. ….Alright. So put one in now, right? Done.

The day after that, no one came again. Called back and we were told that the ticket had been closed, as if someone was here and fixed the problem already.

This happened for the next three days. There ended up being a lot of yelling over the phone that I was excited to listen to because I get absolutely giddy when I see/hear someone getting in trouble, a bad pleasure of mine.

The last time they promised us a ticket, it was apparent that they’d been getting a lot of calls around that time, because they “would have someone out here by the eleventh” which was a week and a half away.

We ended up getting half of our bill comped, and it was back on by Day 8-9. I’m not sure what all that threatening-to-switch-to-another-provider was all about, because to this day, they are still who we use.

My favorite part is that it still goes out on an average of 9-10 times a week, and simply resetting the modem does nothing at all. Just have to wait it out and get onto my neighbor’s internet that has 2/5 bars at all times.

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This guy Blake from my job was telling me that he used to use them, too. He had an issue and used his own computer knowledge skills to come to the conclusion that he needed a new modem. It was unnecessary, but they sent someone out to install it for him. Someone that doesn’t own a computer. He ended up doing it himself and showing the guy how. They could probably let me run the company and have a better happiness-per-customer ratio.

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All I have to say is, if this IS what you use, if you’re in the middle of nowhere where no one else is in range or what-have-you, you’d better not ever have anything important to be doing while you’re online or you’re pretty screwed. If this isn’t what you use, stay away from these clowns at all costs.

I had to attend a funeral for our next door neighbor and old family friend, Pete, today. It wasn’t anything too big, just some pictures and veteran memorabilia. It started out really nicely, lighthearted and fun. Fishing stories from friends, from one guy being in the middle of the bickering between Pete and another old friend, to another guy talking of remembering the first time going fishing with him and being smacked over the head with a fishing rod for crushing a can under his foot on the floor of Pete’s boat.

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The guy was our first friend here when we moved into this house. When I was nine he paid me five whole dollars to feed his cats for a week while they went on a trip, and he was the one that laughed at me for screaming and throwing a bowl full of fish while we were cleaning our tank out because one of the goldfish had hopped out into my lap and started flopping around. It was nice to remember fun stories like that.

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But then the woman warned us that it was about to get serious and proceeded to read Catholic prayers, then called out two uniformed military officers to fold an American flag and present it to his kids, which in turn made everyone start to cry. I’m glad they didn’t make it super depressing on purpose, though, it was just right.

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When I die I won’t be requiring much grieving. I want it to be more of a celebration of a life well-lived. I want people to be happy to have known me, and have a good time that they’ll be sure to remember me by, a reflection of who I am. I don’t want there to be any, “It’s nice to see you again, despite the circumstances.” No. It should be more of a “What a great day to bring together old friends” type of thing.

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None of this weepy-eyed ceremony stuff. I want a party, with balloons and cupcakes and various decorations. Music and photo slideshows and souvenirs that aren’t pamphlets with generic sad poetry written in them. Men with no pants and embarrassing underwear, women with silly hats. Bright colors and games to play. When someone asks, “How was the funeral?” I don’t want anything like, “Oh, you know, it was nice as far as funerals go,” to come out of someone’s mouth. I’d like to hear, “It was a lot of fun, the fireworks and laser tag were really neat.”

So creative.

First off, this:

The wonderful childhood memories of these. I don’t know what’s so appealing about that terrifying rattling that sounds as if the machine is about to explode, the smell of a box of crayons being left on a radiator, or the scorched fingers when you try to prematurely remove the mold from the tray before it’s finished cooling off and drying. I want to make a collection of these. I want every dinosaur there is to have. I used to have a bright red T-Rex that got lost somewhere between the ages of four and twelve. Who knew a machine developed in the fifties would still, unchanged, be so fantastical today?

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I was thinking about it today. I saw a picture of one of these animals a while ago, and the smell is lingering in my memory.

“A Mold-a-Rama machine injects a molten concoction of polyethylene plastic into a mold, hits it with a blast of air to make the plastic conform to the shape of the mold and then opens up the mold to drop the figure into a bin where you can retrieve it.”

Polyethylene. I realize that it’s one of the most common types of plastic product in the world, but something about the word makes it seem toxic. Especially after the words injects, molten, and concoction. But then…the smell is so warm and inviting, I’d probably want to eat it.

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I want to visit all of the zoos and museums that still have these now. I just discovered they have a Weinermobile version too!

I don’t care what this looks like, who wouldn’t want this? Also available at the Henry Ford museum are the heads of Presidents Lincoln and Washington. I need to make a trip to Michigan.

I’m glad I’m not Mormon.

Perhaps that isn’t a good introduction to a post, because it sounds like I’m just being an asshole. I can assure you, no. When someone brings up Mormons, apart from them being generally crazy (YouTube the cartoon called The Secret World of Mormonism for reference), my very first thought is, “Those poor souls aren’t allowed to drink coffee.”

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I love coffee. I can drink it until I’m shaking. It’s probably one of the most amazing things to ever be thought of, next to giving people the choice of using any web browser that isn’t Internet Explorer, and the idea that velociraptors can open doors.

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I’ve delved into the world of coffee and have been very privileged to be able to try beans of all sorts- instant, exotic, ones with names that I’d never figure out why it’s called that, some that are rightfully expensive and others that I wouldn’t tag as worth that price unless the Queen of England herself spit into the grinder they came out of. Sometimes I’m just attracted to the name or the packaging alone, with no indication that it will even be all that great. That was the idea with this:

The whimsical font of the word Cappuccino implies that it will absolutely be a fancy party in your mouth. And then that hypnotist-like swirl in the cup that makes your eyes fixate on how “sweet, creamy and smooth” it will be and before you know it, it’s in your hand and you can’t bring yourself to put it back.

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It’s a mixture between delicious and actual caffeine-laden instant coffee. Right? Not so. There IS caffeine in it, and you can clearly see in the mixture that there is a bit of instant coffee there.

But not enough. I tried it twice yesterday, once cold and once hot. It just didn’t cut it. It tasted like some kind of watered down vanilla milk-juice hybrid, and I don’t know about you, but that is one of the last things I would associate with said Mouth Party.

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So this morning I had a spectacular idea. Maybe I could still use this. Maybe I could salvage the nice vanilla part and cover up the plain milk-juice taste with something wonderful. Something pure and good in the world. Real coffee!

(I take no ownership of anything in this picture except for the beverage-related items in the forefront, especially the cows. Extra-especially the cow jars. Ever since I was shorter than being able to see over the counter top I’ve wondered what was supposed to be in those ceramic sacks. Flour? Sugar? I don’t know, they aren’t labeled with anything but hearts. Another thing I don’t know is why there are cow asses in the supposed foodstuffs. One day while my grandmother was babysitting me, she fell asleep. I used a chair to climb on top of the counter in hopes that one of them would be a treasure chest. Treasure being a jar full of sugar, and at six years old it should be treated as such. With slight trepidation I removed the lid…flour in one! On to the next, beaming with excitement of what I would uncover…and there was a set of keys and some batteries. Then I tried another- various coupons and receipts. I had been foiled. Disheartened, I made my way back to the floor and continued to play with my miniscule Polly Pocket doll in her over-sized lego mansion of which I take full credit on being the architect and constructor. Unfortunately I did not own an iPhone, nor did they exist, so there is no photographic evidence. I apologize.)

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I’m almost through my second cup of coffee-and-vanilla-milk-juice-instant-caffeine.  In case it’s not already blatantly obvious, the concoction was a success.