Unfortunately, this is becoming a common pastime on my blog. But this is too delicious to pass up! In all its glory, feast your eyes on The 50 worst haircuts ever.

Again, this beauty comes to us courtesy of good friend BA.

Which one's your favorite? I like #37.

Would you trust this guy to teach you about religion?

Because Uberdilf was out late last night, smoozing with Sysm and some integrator salesman, I went to bed alone last night. I couldn’t sleep without his big heavy ape arm around me, so I started surfing through the TV channels to find something to send me to dreamland.

I found myself on the far end of the channel listings, where I rarely go. There’s nothing but educational programming, infomercials and religious shows up there. I spotted something on Trinity Broadcast Network, which features Evangelical Christian programming, that made me pause. Kirk Cameron now appears on Christian TV.

For those of you lucky enough not to recognize the name and visage of Kirk Cameron, he was the star of an 80’s sitcom so nauseating that no one dare show it in syndication – the abomination known as “Growing Pains.”


Despite a 7-year run and a made for TV movie, Americans seem eager to forget it existed. In fact, at least one of its stars, Tracey Gold, suffered mental illness. Whether or not that had anything to do with appearing on the show has not been confirmed.

Now Mr. Cameron, who frequently appeared in such teen rags as “Tiger Beat,” is dispensing Christian knowledge.

I can just imagine God, who I am convinced looks and sounds like Samuel L. Jackson, saying “Oh, HELL no, that fool’s not gonna speak for me!”

Something like this could lead to the apocalypse.

It appears I may have been to harsh to my friend Nick.

I compared his naked body, which I have not even seen, to a cherub lawn ornament.

I said he could dress as Princess Leia in Jabba's lair by stringing two garbage can lids together to form a bra and sewing two bedsheets together to make a skirt.

These were very unkind things to say to anyone, let alone someone who has been killed by penguins, lived briefly as a ghost, and been resurrected by a mad shaman in the course of two days. Thus, I sincerely apologize for any pain I may have caused my friend Nick. I hope he forgives me.

An apology, in haiku form:

Nick, I was cruel
I insulted your physique
That was uncalled for

July Fourth is Independence Day here in the United States. To celebrate fully, Uberdilf and I will don patriotic costumes. I've decided an Evel Kneivel theme would suit us well.





Of course before arriving at this decision, I came across some interesting patriotic clothing. I was gratified to learn that Jewish people can also confuse God with country, as do Evangelical Christians.

And I encourage anyone to find a more disgusting patriotic image than this:

I am eagerly anticipating the release of the next Harry Potter book. My excitement is twofold: one, I enjoy fiction that spurs me to imagine that I have hidden mystical powers that I just haven’t discovered yet; two, my little downtown is going to be transformed into Diagon Alley to celebrate the book release on July 15 at midnight!

To get details, I visited my shopping district’s website at http://www.downtowndownersgrove.com/. It failed to mention it. The bookstore in my downtown is a locally-owned independent Bookstore called Anderson’s; I checked their website and Voila! I found it! Or so I thought.

Certainly, it contained a link to the Harry Potter release party. But it focused on its location in … Naperville. Naperville!

Naperville, the evil titan of Chicago’s western suburbs! Naperville, with its Riverwalk, national chain stores, and Carillon! Curse you and your broad tax base, Naperville!

Downtown Downers Grove is also transforming into Diagon Alley and having a party. But it only rated one sentence in the announcement. I don’t care what Naperville is doing! I’m going to be loyal to my little downtown and Naperville can stuff it up its overrated, overcrowded, overindulged fat ass! Damn Naperville.

Thanks to the endless net surfing and generous goodwill of good friend B.A., we are warned of an impending attack.

Bill O'Reilly has amassed an army of killer robots and intends to destroy or conquer us all!

Have a nice day.

Did you hear something? I thought a heard something. Sort of a rhythmic marching and a series of metallic shrieks? No? It must be me.

I did go to bed on time, and I was dozing off when Uberdilf left the Uberboudoir and woke me up.

When I didn't hear him go to the bathroom, I went to find him. Sometimes, Uberdilf sleepwalks, and I have to get him back into bed.

But he wasn't sleeping. He was in the living room with his laptop, because work was bothering him. He was also looking at SOMEONE'S RESUME. I'm sure SOMEONE will be hearing from Uberdilf soon, with some helpful hints. Anyway. We were both awake at this point.

When we headed back to bed, we decided to flip on the TV to see if it would help us sleep. It did not. The Gay Pride Parade was on our local ABC afffiliate, which I thought strange since there is not much about the parade that can be viewed without pixillation. There were an awful lot of men dressed as women, which got me thinking.

Gay men quite often dress as women; the more feminine, the better. But women don't dress as gay men. Why not? So I decided to dress as Liberace on Halloween. And then, I decided to empty this idea out onto my blog so it wouldn't be cluttering up my mind, preventing me from sleeping. Not that Gay Pride or Halloween costumes keep me up at night.

Despite my earlier disillusionment, my family and I attended Heritage Fest and had a lovely time. Those Darn Accordions played a mix of polka songs, classic rock covers, and original compositions. Remarkably, Uberdilf did not attract any weird people, which is odd considering the crowd drawn by Those Darn Accordions. Of course, we weren't by the beer tent stage, which could be where the more unique fest-goers congregated. The Ubergirls, by contrast, did attract an odd middle-aged woman in a sequined tube top, mini skirt and orthopedic shoes who was dancing with them. I wish I could've snapped a picture, but I couldn't do it without being obvious. Here are the ubergirls dancing:



Ubergirl Elder amazed me by taking a picture of me, using the digital camera:



I also must share the Ubergirls enjoying the merry-go-round (or carousel, whatever they call it where you live):

Tonight, at the Downers Grove Heritage Festival, Those Darn Accordions will appear onstage at 8:30 p.m.

Initially, I was quite happy. The first time I saw them was on a show called "Wild Chicago," produced by the local PBS station. The show was great; it reported on all the odd and kooky things that went on in the city that mainstream media ignored. It included coverage of local bands. Or did it????

In the course of my extensive research, I discovered that Those Darn Accordions are not from Chicago at all. They are from San Francisco. The lies, the lies! First my "farmers market" tomatoes come from Florida, now my "Wild Chicago" -ans come from California! I don't know what to believe anymore.

I don't know if I feel like going tonight. Okay, maybe one ride on the Tilt-O-Whirl.

Ubergirl Younger swallowed a plum pit. She didn't choke on it, which is good.

I need to watch her for an hour, and feed her bread and milk. That's how long it should take for the pit to pass through the stomach to the small intestine. If, after an hour, she does not vomit and cry, it means she successfully passed the pit. It will safely wind up ... well, ... um... I vote Uberdilf changes diapers for a while. Who's with me?

Good friends Melanie and LoLo were recently discussing the role scent plays in memory, and how smelling an old boyfriend's cologne can bring up thoughts of him.

Interestingly, when I try to remember my ex-husband, all I can think of is Paul Lynde.

But I think TEO's hair was darker.

Fontella Bass was wearing it when she sang "Rescue Me" in 1965!

The Fashion and Shopping Editor of the Chicago Tribune wants you to e-mail her at shopellen@chicagotribune.com with your favorite summer fashion faux pas.

I, of course, have some favorites:



and who can forget my all-time classic:
(This is in honor of Cheyenneway, who obviously has never seen it before. Enjoy!)

But they're not what you think.
"Hilarious Fundies Undies are the ultimate
gag gift, great for almost any occasion!
'Fundies'...The Underwear built for Two.
Twice as Much Fun. Half the fun
is getting in, the other half is up to you!"

Finally, a chance to put George W.'s brain right where most of us do our thinking anyway. I have found Karl Rove thongs and manpanties
available for purchase.

The website suggests that you "... just flip your RoveThong printed side in so he can directly address the heart of the matter ... And I suppose if you're a gent following the same methodology with the official Rove Manpanties, if things were properly arranged, you 'n Rovey could go head to head."

We live in a great country.

My park district has installed Thor Guard, which emits a series of 15-second air horn blasts whenever his presence is detected. I live adjacent to McCollum Park. It is very annoying. But I guess it's better than risking an encounter with Thor.

I proudly triumph the underdog. I enjoy nurturing and supporting people when they are down. I like sticking up for people that other people gossip about behind their backs. I encourage the weakling and invite the unpopular to join the party. That's my good side.

But when I am depressed, the dark side of that trait emerges. I sullenly mock the popular cheerleader. I hate people in luxury cars, especially SUV's. I despise the rich and beautiful, unless they have struggled and suffered to get where they are. I hate privelege. I hate popular music. I hate Banana Republic. I hate the top movies and the people who star in them. I could easily don a black wig, go goth and start sneering at my upper middle class neighbors at any moment.

I especially revile the women with "PGS" -- pretty girl syndrome. The world should step aside because they won the genetic lottery and were born with small noses and big boobs. Or at least daddies rich enough to buy them for them. They turned in their homework late and pouted their way out of receiving a lower grade. They got the job over more qualified candidates because they "knew someone," and then stuck their coworkers with all the work because they were both lazy and stupid. Self-absorbed useless wastes of human existence.

Ah, I have let the evil out. Muscles are relaxing. Goodness and kindness are returning to my heart. I am getting a little sleepy.

The magic of blogging.

I missed one dose of Zoloft and I've gone insane. Or it could be the full moon. It's gotta be something. I'm nuttier than a can of Planters.

I hope I can sleep tonight. I hope I can think tomorrow. I hope my padded cell has a nice view.

Uberdilf wants to help me, but it's hard to explain to someone who doesn't have a disorder like depression or bipolar or ADD. I just feel my brain not working; the loss of concentration, the dwelling on past sadnesses, the disinterest in things I normally like, the inability to get into gear. I'm not trying to be worrisome. I don't know what's triggering this episode but I'm calling the doctor on Thursday if it's not better. I'm trying, people. Really.

I am so jealous of that Wichita-dwelling, Jayhawk-loving, pie-eating bastard that I am NOT going to tell him about the National pie-making contest in Celebration, Florida. I will also neglect to tell him about this nice lady who has a pie of the month club. I'll just let him nap in peace. Asshole.
Instead, I am going to make myself a nice frosty root beer float and relax until I feel better. Maybe a brain freeze will help numb the pain.

"Teletubbies" pops up on the television screen. Two-year-old Ubergirl squeals with delight. Four-year-old Ubergirl groans, "No!"

I reach for the remote to find a compromise; Two-year-old spots me and shrieks, then wails, "No, Mommy! Me watch! Tubbies!"

Four-year-old buries her head in a blanket and rocks back and forth, moaning, "It burns! IT BURNS!" in regards to the image on the television screen.

Sigh.

At the end of the month, we’ll be celebrating one year in our house. This also means that a few weeks past that, I’ll be remembering my miscarriage.


I’ve actually had two miscarriages, also the same number of vasectomies my husband has had. The first one occurred after my husband’s first vasectomy. Months after his first vasectomy. In fact, it was months after his last test deemed him to be sperm-free. It should have read, with an asterisk, temporarily sperm free.

Anyway, that time I was pregnant but a few weeks. I miscarried in the doctor’s office. I was disappointed, but somehow it felt like that pregnancy never really “took,” as if the process began but then ended without a real life forming within me.
The second time was different. I literally conceived the week my husband went in for his second vasectomy.
We were also anticipating our upcoming move to a new house. We laughed about how we really must be meant to have three children. We thought about which room would be the new baby’s.

I really don’t want to calculate how far along my pregnancy was when I started to have problems, although it would be really easy to figure out. I don’t want to think about it. But soon after we moved, after telling all the new neighbors we were expecting a third child, I started to cramp and bleed.

The doctor started me on hormones immediately after taking a blood test that pinpointed the problem, but it was too late. I tried bed rest. I tried everything. But it got worse and worse, and I lost the baby. It was horrifying, to watch the signs and know what was happening, without being able to do a damn thing about it. Childbirth was painful, but this was unbearable. Why was I losing a baby I was so ready to love and so able to care for?

I dreamt about it, probably six or eight months later. In the dream, I was picking up my oldest daughter from a swimming pool. I said, to someone unseen, "No. I have more children." I was screaming, “Where are my babies? I have more babies!” But some unknown woman sadly shook her head and said, “No. They’re dead.” And in my dream I ran to my youngest daughter’s crib, relieved she was still alive. But I grieved for the two that weren't there.

It will soon be a year since it happened, and it's been a happy one. I’ve been enjoying being able to do more and more with my girls as they get older, as well as enjoying more and more freedom. I look forward to potty training; no more diapers! I do not in any way regret the success of the second vasectomy. I feel "done."

But for some reason I can’t explain, I am crying tonight for a baby I never had.

I didn't work on my summer project this weekend. Just like Canadian boy toy Dash Bradley, I am using my drunkeness and the resulting hangover for my negligence.

However, I came up with an idea: I will pit last week's top contenders against one another:

vs.


I will watch them both, and compile a comprehensive report that compares/contrasts them. Next week, I am looking for movies you guys truly enjoy, but that were either ignored by the public or panned by critics. For instance, I quite liked:

Someone needs to call the White House and tell them that Republicans do not own Christianity (or follow it, for that matter, but that's a blog for another time.) In fact, America does not own Christianity! (Do I hear a gasp coming from the red states?) This guy amply proves that point.

My new friend Trustable Teacher brought this website to my attention. Thank you, J.D.!

So I went to see Los Borrachos. It would seem that I was una borracha grande. After reading about how Chaser (the anti-hangover drug) works on Mr. Underhill's website, I tried to self-medicate on the way home. Since Chaser is basically activated charcoal and vitamin B, I ate a Whopper (activated charcoal) and a vitamin (I'm sure it included B vitamins) before I went to bed. I succeeded in making my pee neon yellow and throwing up a Whopper at 5 a.m.



This is me captured at a very unflattering moment, talking to Miss Abby, who is luckily more photogenic than I at the moment. Thank you, Miss Kathy! But I must say, the alcohol loosened up the dancing hips and I had a very wonderful time. I even got my friend Chris to dance with me! That's right, Miss Amanda, you read that right. After you left, I got stodgy Mr. Chris to dance with me. I believe it was my magic hips! I left a drunken comment on LilRed's blog at 2 a.m. CST testifying to the enormous amounts of fun and alcohol I had.

But as bad as a bad photo and throwing up a Whopper might be during a night of carousing, Uberdilf has it far worse than me. He always, ALWAYS, wherever he goes, captures the attention of the wierdest person around. This person always tries to communicate with him. Sometimes the communication is nonverbal, like in the parking lot following a Notre Dame football game when some random drunken fan came right up to my husband, roared in his face and stuck his tongue out, then continued on his way. Or, as in our outing last night, that person will initiate odd verbal conversations.



My husband is the one NOT wearing the shiny silver shorts and the fanny pack. He claims he merely kept this highly intoxicated man from careening into us dainty ladies at the bar. This is true; I remember this guy lurching unsteadily toward us and Uberdilf stopping his downward fall. Unfortunately, this guy interpreted his actions as proof of deep and abiding friendship, and followed Uberdilf around for most of the night. Ah, memories.

I need to make a cathartic list of things pissing me off right now. I'm not mad at any particular person, I'm not blaming anyone, I'm not even claiming that I'm entitled to be pissed off. But making a list makes me feel better, so here it is, in no particular order:

1. Some of the "farmers" at my Farmers Market are actually re-selling produce grown in Florida or other states.
2. The Propellerheads song "Bang On" is mislabeled in my I Tunes library; thus, when I included it in both my "cleaning music mix" and on my I Shuffle workout music, it is not the frenetic energy song I wanted but a slow funk song instead.
3. I made homemade whipped cream and sliced strawberries for dessert at lunch, and Ubergirl Elder turned up her nose at it and demanded chocolate instead.
4. Ubergirl Younger keeps demanding a new DVD every time the story on the one she's currently watching becomes even slightly stressful.
5. I don't like the Downers Grove library .
6. The toy room I just organized last weekend is totally destroyed.
7. Laundry
8. I have no appetite; I think my tummy's upset. Yet the people I live with insist on eating. In fact, they look to me to be the lead in this area. And when I do... see #3. They want ME to guess what THEY want to eat. And then shop for and prepare said delicacies.
9. People can't read my mind, or guess what I want before I actually know it myself. That really bugs me.
10. Greedy-ass selfish bastards who think they're above the law, or even simple social courtesy.

Whew. I feel better now. Thanks.

Between Memorial Day and Labor Day (that's the last Monday in May and the first Monday in September, respectively, for our International viewers) my husband gets what they call "Summer Hours." He works a half day on Fridays.

When he came home early today, he did two things: bribed Ubergirl Elder to let me nap; bought a coffeemaker.



He bought a coffeemaker.

God, I love that man.

Previously on my blog, I demonstrated how an Ubermilf fends off a would-be rapist. Now, thanks to good friend B.A., we find out how an Ubermilf responds to a robbery attempt.



According to the story, "An armed robber brandishing a revolver and some tough talk entered Blalock's Beauty College demanding money Tuesday afternoon.

He left crying, bleeding and under arrest, after Dianne Mitchell, her students and employees attacked the suspect, beating him into submission."

He had a gun; they had "curling irons, chairs, a wooden table leg and clenched fists." Ladies, I salute you.

We've suffered through "From Justin to Kelly", born witness to Paula Abdul's drunken stupidity, and lived through Clay Aiken's assault on our senses. What further evil could this juggernaut spawn? I have three words for you: Downers. Grove. Idol.

This is my town:


Downers Grove, Illinois. Location: Roughly 20 miles west of the Chicago city limits. Population: A lot of people like this guy:




Now, don't get me wrong. This is a nice place to live and I'm glad we picked it. It's got great schools, a great train line into the city, convenient access to highways, a cute little downtown, and a beautiful park just a few doors down from us. But I do not envision much talent arising from the ranks. Denise Richards included.

My coffee maker is not functioning. Words cannot capture the distress I am feeling. If my heart stops beating, you all know why.

Check out Uberdilf's post on the upcoming Los Borrachos show.

Note that he used this picture:


A classical painting by renowned artist Velasquez, titled "Los Borrachos"; while I used this picture:



which more closely captures their essence.

Again, The details:
Los Borrachos w/ The Drastics
Saturday, June 18th 10pm
Martyrs - 3855 N Lincoln