Tag Archives: energy

Whack a Mobster, Waste Some Time. It’s Fun. Really.


 Add to Technorati Favorites

Elizabeth Williams Bushey is officially addicted to Mobsters

Elizabeth Williams Bushey is officially addicted to Mobsters

I am now officially addicted to Mobsters.

 

At least that’s what it’s said on my “status” indicator now for weeks on my “myspace” page. “Elizabeth is… “officially addicted to Mobsters.” Mood: “intense.”

This is NOT my fault. It is totally and completely the fault of Peter’s son, who sent me an invite to join the game. Ordinarily I avoid computer and video games like the plague, having once thrown my back out and been couch-ridden for two months. I became so obsessed with SuperMario Brothers that upon my recovery, I nearly had to join a 12-Step Program.

I tossed the Nintendo® and never looked back. I won’t even let my daughters have a PlayStation, or a Wii, or anything that connects to the television.

(They watch too much as it is; TV’s another problem of mine to avoid. I don’t watch TV – not out of snobbery, mind you: more like the 12-Step thing.

ANYTHING – no matter how stupid, like “America’s Top Model” – will suck me in and mesmerize me, so better that I never turn the darn thing on in the first place.)

My kids are lucky to own Nintendo® DS thingies, upon which they play games where they train pretend robot puppies, or inhabit virtual cities with avatars of themselves with blue or pink hair.

One game they play cracks me up – they HAVE to own a house, and they HAVE to pay a mortgage on it, so they HAVE to have a job. THERE’S a game worth playing, I think.

But Mobsters? I dunno.

 

My stats on Mobsters

My stats on Mobsters

My accomplishments on Mobsters are dubious. I received one badge for achieving Level 3 in one day. I shuddered; how much time was I spending on this addictive game, anyway?

 

Another badge I received was for growing my mob size to at least five members (we’re now 18 and growing.) Wasting my powers of charm and persuasion on a myspace game? When I’m collecting quarters for a loaf of bread for sandwiches?

Is this stupid?

Definitely.

Am I still playing it everyday?

Definitely.

 

My vehicles on Mobsters

My vehicles on Mobsters

In real life, I am mostly broke, being an artist who is a lot more concerned about the art than the business.

 

On Mobsters, I am rich. I own several vehicles, including three armored cars and some Bentleys. In real life, I have a minivan.

In my Mobster arena, I own all the weapons – in multiples – that it is possible to own.

In real life, I abhor the very thought of guns (although Dad, before he died, DID teach me how to shoot straight, and I

My weapons on Mobsters

My weapons on Mobsters

just learned that both my wacky sisters – and my far wackier Mom – are getting hardcore into weaponry; one sister is now collecting shotguns. Shudder.)

 

In general, I am a peaceful person. Wait, I take that back, in case Peter should read this. Okay, well maybe not totally peaceful – but when I DO get angry, I get over it very quickly, and in general, I always look for the gentle solution to any problem. Not only that, but I have very little tolerance for injustice, and both Peter and I tend to uphold the

More weapons on Mobsters

More weapons on Mobsters

rights of the underdog.

 

On Mobsters, I not only LOOK for fights, but I absolutely pick on those littler than I am. I seek them OUT.

Even my very Mobsters name is unlike me. I prefer to be called “Elizabeth” – when folks attempt to shorten it to “Liz,” (which makes my face want to scrunch up as if I’ve eaten vinegar-soaked lemons), I politely let them know my wishes: “It’s a few more syllables, but I’m worth it.”

In Mobster-land, I’m “lizrox.”

It all sort of reminds me of this one leather jacket I have. It’s my favorite, actually. For some reason, whenever I wear it, I feel just like Kate Beckinsale in the movie “Underworld” – you know, the one where she’s this really sexy, really tough superhero vampire?

I’m not a vampire. Or a superhero. But the jacket – especially when I zip it all the way up to the neck – makes me feel really sexy, and really tough – and although I’d never try to leap off a tall building or anything, or jump into a moving convertible, it kind of makes me feel as though I could.

Mostly, I just like to wear it on cool evenings when I’m out walking my big black dog, Tucker. Cool black leather jacket, cool black dog, cool chick.

Cool Mobster.

Guess you’re never too old for a little play pretend. And it’s not TOO much of a waste of time. After all, you run out of “stamina” and “energy” and “health” – and I, personally, tend to run out of money after just a few minutes of play at a time, and have to quit.

So since I’m not ACTUALLY whacking anyone really…

If you want to join my mob, add me as a friend.

http://myspace.com/lizwb 

Advertisements

2 Comments

Filed under confidence, family, humor, life, satire, self-image

Secrets from the Closely-Guarded Girl Manual


Add to Technorati Favorites

what's left of the rosebushSure. I could pay a tree service. Or whoever you hire to take down a massive rose bush with thorns the size of my thumb that one neighborhood kid has already gotten himself snagged on.

This rose bush – less than a foot tall when I naively planted it – has mushroomed to mammoth proportions, as if some evil fairy I neglected to invite to a party has cursed me and now is attempting to surround my house like Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

The leviathan is, now nine feet tall, extending numberless barbed branches like seven foot-tentacles, searching for victims as it waves in the wind like deadly chimes.

We’re all afraid of it.

It’s already injured a neighbor’s kid. Diving for a stray ball, this 11-year-old boy slid like a prince diving for rescue under the horrid brambles. Got snagged by these malignant, inch-long thorns. On his face, no less. Nice kid, too. Even nicer parents.

“Don’t worry about it,” they said, blithely attributing his carelessness for throwing himself into what is obviously a Hansel-and-Gretel child-catcher.

No roses on the diabolical thing, either.

Really. No roses. Well – it actually DOES blossom – tons of them, white, perfect, with a fragrance that would make you lift off the ground with pleasure. It would be a stunner, except for a beast more evil than the rosebush.

Deer – actual, living, tick-infested deer, in this actual city.

These skinny, spindly-legged monsters flock the very day the roses bloom, devouring every one right down to the petals, save for a few lonely, lingering blooms teetering at the top to taunt us.

Fearless, despite their flinchy reputations, nervy enough to high-step their pointy little hooves right up to my front porch and munch their wicked little hearts out.

(So that makes, what? Kittens and deer that I don’t love? Wait, who’s the monster? I really AM much nicer than I sound, I swear.)

So: here I am, facing this titanic mass of thorns, a menace to the neighborhood, which attract even more menacing deer, dropping ticks on my lawn for my children to contract Lyme disease.

At last I find the hedge clippers, which is a small miracle of hope in itself, since Peter won’t be back for another two weeks.

Despite my nine-year-old’s frantic warnings for me to stay the hell away from it – after all, if I am successful in chopping the damn thing down, think, woman, think! It will fall on you, stupid – I nevertheless am desperate enough to try, even though all I am wearing is a tank top and short shorts.

Ow. Ow. Yikes, ow. Now I am bleeding. “You’re right,” I agree. Not only am I stupid, this is not working. Hedge clippers are not the thing. I need a chainsaw.

And Peter.

But since Peter is not here, and neither is a chainsaw, I need to rely on the only tools I have.

The tank top and short shorts.

Hence, The Closely-Guarded Secret Girl Manual, given out in the nicotine hazed girls’ rooms in every middle school across the country, filled with secrets like: Never Call First; Don’t Tell Him Why You’re Mad; It Drives Him Crazy When You Won’t Talk To Him; The Less You Seem Interested, The More He Will Want You; etc.

There’s a whole chapter on how to get work done for you.

It goes sort of like this:

You have a rosebush you hate and want to get rid of, but the thorns are really sharp, and it’s going to be a real pain in the ass.

And Peter is away, or he would totally do it for you, because he has the energy of a small steam locomotive, and besides, he would probably simply pull out his Leatherman, take two swipes at the thing, and it would be gone, leaving you feeling both foolish and full of admiration at the same time. “Rosebushes?” Peter would say. “Easy! You just do this.”

If his arm was hanging off when he was done, he’d just snap it back into place and sit down for dinner without another word.

Instead, I see, far up the street, jogging along, at a nice little amble, my kids’ dad. My head flips through its mental rolodex and I rustle up said chapter in The Closely Guarded Secret Girl Manual, and I begin hacking away at the rosebush randomly, violently, and with some bloodshed on my part. Within minutes, my lawn is covered with thorny stalks.

He stops. Anyone would, really. I look like a madwoman, my shirt half up my belly by now. This is intentional. A pretty, blonde, madwoman.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I can’t stand this rosebush any longer. I have to get rid of it.”

“Do you need some help?”

“I really, really do. I think I’m overheating,” I say.

I hand him the hedgeclippers, and head into the house, where he, at least, manages to get rid of most of the stalks I left on the lawn, and defenestrate the bulk of the bush.

He doesn’t complete the job, of course – I know him too well to expect miracles – but Peter will be home soon.

“What the hell happened to the rosebush?” he’ll ask.

“I tried to get rid of it,” I’ll say.

“Rosebushes? They’re easy,” he’ll say, and in a fit of testosterone, he’ll whip out his Leatherman, and take care of the rest of it for me.

And I’ll put away The Closely Guarded Secret Girl Manual until I need it again.

(photo © elizabeth williams bushey. it’s what’s left of the rosebush.)

Leave a comment

Filed under family, humor, life