I've posted many a bad music Thursday, and while I have found each and every song bad for one reason or another, I could see how somebody could listen to it.

For kitsch value. For nostalgia. For laughs.

But this week's song is the most horrible song to ever reach any sort of popularity. It is incomprehensible to me how anybody could listen to it, at least with a straight face.

Would you like to know what it is? Click below:





The most positive thing I can come up with to say about this band is that they're playing this year's Bratwurst Day Festival in Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

That's because I like Bratwurst. And Festivals. And Wisconsin.

Drunkenness is no excuse for this.

When Dilf and I made plans to stay at the Sheraton Hotel and Towers after Ms. Amanda's wedding Sunday evening, we had no idea we'd be sharing the hotel with a herd of Moose. Yet, that's what happened, and the results were less than ideal.

The trouble started as soon as we walked in the door. Theme park-sized lines at the check-in stand indicated that something was amiss. That "something" was an impatient, angry herd cycling and recycing through the line because there rooms weren't ready due to another convention's late checkout, but instead of simply waiting the 30 minutes hotel staffers told them it would take to ready their rooms, they preferred to get back in line. When they got to the front to be told the same news, they would argue for 10-15 minutes per Moose. This caused quite the backup.

While I sat in a lobby chair with our luggage watching this debacle, I noticed many Moose grazing about wearing brightly colored coats like this:


I wish I had known the secret color coded system at the time, because I would have approached the Alpha Moose to suggest that he restrain his subordinates. Alas, I did not have the magic of the internet at my fingertips at that time.

The Moose also clogged the elevators. Similarly impatient with the elevators, they were not content to wait for the next "down" elevator. They would get in the "up" elevator, only to ride back down. Thus, they stuffed the elevators full of moose for an eternity. It's a miracle we made the boat for the reception.

Some friends joined us at the hotel bar following the reception, where dozens of moose cows had obviously recently returned from Dick's Last Resort, since they were wearing the large paper condom hats as pictured at the start of the story. None of the Bull Moose were to be found; I assume they were still out at the watering hole. No Chicago resident ever goes to Dick's Last Resort, by the way. But the Moose seemed to have a good time.

That's laxITY, not laxaTIVE. Although if that's the effect my blog has on you, I apologize for that, too.

No, I've been lax and remiss in my posting because I started another blog to use as a tool to get a job. Or, jobs, actually.

I want to produce newsletters (online and/or paper versions) for business districts. I used to have a job doing that -- among other things like event planning and kissing the smelly infected asses of the various ill-tempered and socially retarded store owners who made my life a living hell -- for one particular business district. I won't identify that business district, since I've just identified them as ill-tempered social retards with smelly infected asses, and as I've stated I want to get a job.

I want to be an independent contractor, though. I don't want to go into an office, or do anyone's filing, or cover for any coworker who's cheating on her husband. Not that I've ever done that before. Ahem.

It's been nearly 7 years since I've had an employer, though; when ÜberElder was born, I went back to work as a temp and hated it so much I came back home to figure out what I could do that wouldn't cause me to get on the roof with a semi-automatic weapon and start killing people. Since I've gotten a handle on that, I am writing the blog as a sales piece to showcase my writing.

I can't stand grovelling or snivelling for a job. I'd much rather march in with work samples in hand, say, "This is what I can do. If you like it, pay me. If not, I'll go elsewhere or learn something new that people WILL like." I detest all the political bullshit and lying and conniving that goes on in the typical work environment. I know I won't be able to totally avoid it, but if someone's going to reject me, I'd rather have them reject me for what they know about me rather than what they assume about me because I've been a stay-at-home mom for 6 years.

Because if I suck at something, I can either improve or toss it aside to try something else. But if I'm good and someone just won't give me a chance, there's little I can do about that.

So, I focused on that blog today instead of this one. More about the Loyal Order of Moose and their impact on the City of Chicago at a later time.

And I'm too pissy and impatient to fix them at the moment.

So, you'll just have to wait to hear about the crapping sea gull, the weird speech and the Loyal Order of Moose.

Also, Cowboy Nick has been spotted but can't be transmitted to my screen at this time. Hold yer horses, pardners!

Just in case anyone besides Carl Spackler is interested, all three days of our weekend are filled with events.

Tomorrow we go to Irish Fest all day and possibly all night. (I would ask Sysm and Family to join us, but he's rebelling against his Irish heritage, which I find hysterical because rebelling against your Irishness is about as Irish as you can get. Oh, the irony!)

Sunday, Dilf's grandma's 90th birthday at the pants-popping Buca di Beppo, where afterwards we will hand off the ÜberGirlies to my parents while we attend Miss Amanda's wedding in the city. The reception is on a boat; Über overboard! We are getting a hotel room. (Ooh La La!)

Monday, we return to the western 'burbs for my dad's birthday barbecue, and to pick up our girlies.

I may become an alcoholic this weekend. How typically Irish of me!

I've got a busy weekend ahead, so I'm early with my Weekend Pinup. Enjoy your long weekend, my fellow Americans! And between bites of your barbecue, try to think about the people who put their asses on the line for their country. No matter what your opinion of violence for nationalism's sake, those people sacrificed their lives for what they believed in.

I realize I neglected to post a Freak of the Week, so enjoy this picture of a creepy clown:

Tits, Fritz and Miss Kendra have decided to break my heart. But I don't need them! There are more than three fish in the sea!

Okay, ladies, who wants to date me? Pants? Brooke? Mel and LoLo again? I could meet Loz and Miss Knit in Australia.

I'm not going to let this get me down. Now that I know I don't look like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, the world is my oyster.

Who wants to date the Übermilf? Don't be shy!

I was waiting interminably in line at the grocery store today, which forced me to read the magazines on the sale rack. I chuckled to see Women's World Weekly touting its "DaVinci Code Diet!" I thought it was just another cheap magazine ploy, until I found this. Now I know it's an expensive book ploy.

I've never read the DaVinci Code, mainly because I am what sociologists call a "reverse snob." If everybody else is doing it, I automatically DON'T want to do it. Plus it has a "Ripley's Believe It or Not!" sensationalist feel to it. But I've read many a trashy novel myself, so I'm not judging. Except when it comes to BELIEVING this book is REAL. That's irritating. Yet it's encouraged by the publishing world, because it's a great sales tool for history, art and travel books relating in any way to the plot of The DaVinci Code

Now, book sellers are combining two of their biggest con jobs into one: DaVinci plus weight loss equals publishing gold, people! And the best part is, if they don't lose weight, they can feel stupid AND fat, having been unable to crack the code. And buy more books in a vain attempt to solve both problems! Cha-CHING cha-CHING cha-CHING!

Am I being too cynical here? Nah. Not me.

Ah, Clarence Carter's masterpiece, "Strokin'". Never before has a black man led more white people to dance more horribly. Don't remember "Strokin'?" Do you mean to tell me you survived the late 1980's through the 1990's without experiencing a lame wedding reception, pathetic suburban dance club or frat boy's keg party? Lucky, lucky you. The rest of us might remember these lyrics:

Clarence Carter -
Strokin'

When I start makin' love
I don't just make love...
I be strokin�
That's what I be doin', huh
I be strokin'

I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best
I be strokin'

Let me ask you somethin'...
What time of the day do you like to make love
Have you ever made love just before breakfast
Have you ever made love while you watched the late, late show
Well, let me ask you this
Have you ever made love on a couch
Well, let me ask you this
Have you ever made love on the back seat of a car
I remember one time I made love on the back seat of a car
And the police came and shined his light on me, and I said:
"I'm strokin', that's what I'm doin', I be strokin'�"

I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best
I be strokin'

Let me ask you something...
How long has it been since you made love, huh?
Did you make love yesterday
Did you make love last week
Did you make love last year
Or maybe it might be that you plannin' on makin' love tonight
But just remember, when you start making love
You make it hard, long, soft, short
And be strokin'
I be strokin'

I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best, huh
I be strokin'

Now when I start making love to my woman
I don't stop until I know she's sas-ified
And I can always tell when she gets sas-ified
'Cause when she gets sas-fied she start calling my name
She'd say: "Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter
Clarence Carter, ooooh shit, Clarence Carter"
The other night I was strokin' my woman
And it got so good to her, you know what she told me
Let me tell you what she told me, she said:
"Stroke it Clarence Carter, but don't stroke so fast
If my stuff ain't tight enough, you can stick it up my..." WOO!

I be strokin' Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
I be strokin'

I stroke it to the east
And I stroke it to the west
And I stroke it to the woman that I love the best, huh
I be strokin'
I be strokin' Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
I be strokin', Yeah!
I be strokin'

I stroke it to the north
I stroke it to the south
I stroke it everywhere
I even stroke it with my... WOO!

I be strokin'
I be strokin' Ha! Ha!
I be strokin'

I can see the white man's overbite now. Ah, memories.

There are countless versions of the "Co-Ed Naked..." themed T-shirts available. I would hazard to guess that one exists for every sport and every occupation and every pasttime in the U.S. of A.

They all contain some sort of tiresome sexual innuendo.

Neither buy nor wear such a garment, unless you are attending a costume party dressed as an asshole.

Does anyone really think that members of the opposite sex will find them attractive and/or witty for donning such clothing? Perhaps. I guess if people will buy a Budweiser toilet seat, anything is possible. Actually, a Budweiser toilet seat sounds kind of fun...

The most ridiculous example of a "Co-Ed Naked" T-shirt was this one:



I suspect Dilf likes it, but is afraid to admit it to me.

Okay, forget Prince. He's creepy to me, not so to others. I certainly don't hate him; I just don't want him in my sugar walls.

But someone does irritate me to the point of madness. A thorn in my side, a pain in my neck, a boil on my ass. That person is the ÜberFriend who lives across the street.

She's a grade ahead of ÜberElder, and comes over nearly every day after school to play. She's been forbidden to play inside, due to my intense dislike of her, but she still manages to be my undoing.

For example, I am getting ready for a garage sale, and have separated items to be sold. One huge pile is toys the Übers have outgrown, another is old holiday decorations I no longer want. It took me an entire afternoon to segregate these items.

It was undone in a matter of minutes by that dreaded beast of a girl.

The Girl's outdoor toys are located in the garage, in a specific area, on shelves. I opened the garage so the girls could play with these items. But ÜberFriend decided she didn't want to play with those toys. Instead she waded into the sea of sale items located in the garage's center and pulled out every fucking baby toy, plastic pumpkin, and discarded stuffed animal she could find.

Now, if she were sweet and demure, I would be slightly irritated. But she's not. She whines, complains, bosses, and plots evil. When she speaks to adults, she is either demanding as if she were a superior or baby talking. BABY TALKING. I fucking hate that. She won't eat anything but peanut butter and jelly or chicken nuggets (I'm not exaggerating. No hot dogs, no mac n cheese, no hamburgers, nothing.) Yet every day she asks what we're having for dinner just so she can grimace and say, "Yuck." She constantly challenges my authority. She's unsuccessful, but it still bugs the piss out of me. Her vile nature makes her transgressions all the more grating on my nerves.

EVERY OTHER FRIEND Elder has brought home has played nicely with Younger; she's continually nasty to her. I want to forbid her presence, but I fear that will make her yet more appealing.

And somebody bought her a recorder so she can be shrill and unpleasant from her own yard. Thanks a lot, unknown person.

I don't need this kind of stress in my life. She's gotta go, people, she's gotta go.

Vegans have voted Prince the Sexiest Vegan Male.

I beg you to reconsider, vegans. Prince may or may not be a male, but he is most assuredly NOT sexy. I submit the following reasons for my argument, in no particular order:

• He is a has-been

• He wears high heels, ruffled blouses, halter tops, and other articles of women's clothing, some of which don't even look good on women

• He looks utterly ridiculous on a motorcycle; it is WAY too big for him

• He never smiles

• He exudes creepiness

• His hair is ridiculous

• He makes weird noises

• He's a pompous ass

• He's getting pretty old, isn't he?

• His pants are too tight, and often shiny

• He wears doilies

• He's whiny

• Ewww. Just, ewww

• He keeps changing his name. What's up with that?

Really, people. Was this the best you could do? You're not going to win converts to your lifestyle by offering up Prince as your sexiest male.

Previously, I've introduced you to two of my family's special code phrases, the Meat Dream and the Big V. Today I will teach you a very specialized term, Apple Haus Explosion, or, simply, Apple Haus.

This is a long explanation, so pay attention.

The Apple Haus is located in Long Grove, Illinois, a quaint and picturesque village filled with stores selling beautiful and unique items. We call perusing such stores "frou frou shopping," a term you might want to add to the lexicon. (If you mention Long Grove to Dilf, he will begin babbling things like, "Oh, you go on ahead I'll watch the girls no really I insist oh please let me stay home or I might have to stab my eyeballs out with rusty farm implements if you take me back to that horror show of antique shops and dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off")

Back to our story. My mom, my sister and I went frou frou shopping in historic Long Grove, Illinois one day. My mom said, "Park by the Apple Haus." Mmmm, okay mom.

As we exited the car, my sister asked, "What store do you want to see first?"

My mother answered, "I don't care, as long as it's near the Apple Haus." Now, the Apple Haus is fun, it sells yummy treats, and it used to process its own apples on site in an apple press until some whiny North Shore asshole sued them because he got stung by a wasp (true story.) Anyway, the Apple Haus is a wonderful place, but my mother had never expressed that much affection for it before. Mmmm, okay mom.

So we commenced to frou-frouing. All of sudden, my mom stopped dead in her tracks and said, "We have to go back to the Apple Haus." Okay, we said, but continued our leisurely admiration of useless things. "No, NOW!!" she hissed.

As we rushed to the Apple Haus, my sister and I kept asking, "What's at the Apple Haus, mom? Why do you need to go there?" She wouldn't answer the first few times, then she turned and growled, "There's -- a -- nice -- public -- BATHROOM -- there!!!!"

Oh.

My sister and I waited for my mother in a (surprise) gift shop. We giggled to ourselves as we found a shelf lined with squatting frog statues that made us think of our mother's current plight.

And from then on, "Apple Haus explosion" became code for diarrhea.

After mysteriously disappearing when a maniacal David Soul stole his horse, Cowboy Nick has heroically returned to save me from my trash-filled doom!

Thanks, Cowboy Nick! Now everything can get back to normal.

I haven't kept pace with the ÜberGirls and now I have to dig myself out of piles of laundry, toys, papers, dishes, cups, more toys, coloring implements, trash, TOYS, and dirty laundry.

I hope to see you all again someday; I'll remember all of you fondly. If I don't make it, please tell Dilf I love him.

I'm going in.

CLICK HERE
O dear God, please click

when this on B.A.'s site pushed me over into a full-fledged mouth-foaming rage.

I just came home from Target. When ÜberYounger and I entered the store, it was springtime -- sunny, 72 degrees, beautiful.

Somehow, although it seemed but 40 minutes or so had passed, we emerged into a frightening Halloween-like world full of biting sleet, dark gray skies and what the man on the radio said was now 59 degrees in temperature.

We dodged wind-blown garbage cans and idiotic drivers to arrive safely at home (and close all of the open windows). Then, I sat down to read this:

The 31-year-old Van Horne Street mom said her sons attacked her about 11 a.m. because she refused to give them cash to buy expensive clothes, Martinez said.

"They didn't even say 'Happy Mother's Day' that morning," she said sadly.

"We were sitting there watching TV and they started asking me for $100 sneakers, jeans," she said inside her apartment yesterday. "When I said no, they started cursing me, telling me they hated me. Then they 'mushed' me into that wall."

The boys then punched and kicked her, chasing her and continuing the attack even after she fled into the hallway, she said. The beating stopped when a concerned neighbor called police and the boys fled.

Understandably, when police offered to release the boys to her custody, she refused to take them because she has a five year old at home.

But here's what pissed me off the most:

The teens are now staying with their father's sister (the father of all three boys is in prison for aggravated assault for beating her, as well as drug charges), who said she hopes to take custody of them.

"They didn't punch her, they just pushed her," the aunt said. "She didn't give them anything. They didn't have their own TV, nice clothes."

There you have it. If you don't buy your kids enough stuff, you deserve to be beaten.

I would think, nay, hope dearly, that people would recognize Richard Simmons as a Don't Wear Wednesday icon. Consider the evidence:


The hair

The polyester workout wear, often shiny


The vests


Whatever the hell this is supposed to be

Sadly, too many people have failed to heed the fashion warnings. Observe:





Don't let this happen to you.

I cleaned up a scene of unimaginable horror and unbelievable gore this afternoon. I can only imagine it was karmic payback for the time I had food poisoning in the Kentucky Fried Chicken off the Damen exit of the Eisenhower Expressway, only to find the toilet was out of order.

Believe it or not, it all started three days ago. That's when ÜberYounger stopped having bowel movements. While she's mastered "number one" quite well, she's still working on getting the toilet in time for "number two." I believe she'd chosen to hold it until she could hold it no longer.

That day was today.

We were supposed to be napping, she and I. It's always naptime at 1 p.m., a good hour and 45 minutes before ÜberElder and her snotty friend come through the door. I fell asleep, and I thought Younger had as well. Perhaps she did, for a time. But she escaped without my knowing, to create the worst bio-disaster I have ever had the misfortune to experience firsthand.

After she had unloaded on the bathroom floor, evidence suggests she tried to scoop it up and put it in the toilet, dirtying her hands, which she wiped across her abdomen to "clean." She obviously couldn't think of a way to clean her feet, so she left tracks instead.

Then, she played with my nail polishes, and left one bottle on the side of the bathtub while she considered how to turn on the faucet to clean off the bottle. When she couldn't get a good grip on the faucet, she left the bottle where it was.

She then came into my bedroom to wake me up, bare naked, with a smear of what I hoped, vainly, was chocolate syrup across her tummy.

I cleaned everything up (twice, actually. Once to remove debris, again to disinfect.) Little Über was wiped with moist wipes, sprayed down with shower nozzle, bathed, rinsed again, dried and re-dressed. I threw everything involved in the episode away, including my rubber gloves.

I then searched the house for evidence she'd been elsewhere. Since we had made chocolate chip cookies the other day, there were some chocolate smears that I had to sniff to be sure they were chocolate. They were.

I think I'm taking us out to dinner tonight.

But they must've exercised some sort of mind control on me. I found myself ordering this from Netflix this morning.

Somehow all of the chocolate chip cookies are gone, too. And both Girlies were snuggled in bed with me this morning.

I haven't given away my cookies and woke up unexpectedly next to people I didn't remember getting into bed with since my '20's. And I didn't even consume tequila last night.

Dilf is going on a week vacation to San Francisco starting tomorrow.

Sure, if you were to ask him, he'd say something about training this and client visit that, but it seems like a vacation to me.

Especially since I'm going to be a single parent next week. I don't like that at all, because all of a sudden I'm outnumbered, and the enemy is cunning and relentless.

Normally, I use my size and terrifying demeanor to subdue them, but I don't know if I'll have the energy for it next week. Dilf may return to find me catatonic on the floor, tied up, with suction-cup arrows stuck to my head and a week's worth of dirty dishes and debris piled up around me ... ÜberGirlies performing a triumphant victory dance, naked, around my prone form.

Then again, I could rally... especially if it's nice outside and I can shove Girlies out the door to play. Let's look at next week's forecast.

I'm doomed. DOOMED!

You don't have to be anyone's mother to be loved.

Instead, in honor of Mother's Day this weekend, I give you:



Understanding

When it comes to fetishes, foot fetishists are pretty mild. It's pretty common and usually harmless. With some sort of hygiene standards, that is.

Meet Joseph Weir, a 23-year-old man who, in a written confession to the New York Police Department, admitted to trying to kiss, fondle and lick the legs and toes of more than 70 women.

On the New York City Subway system.

"Weir said his motivation was to get to know the women, but he recalled that often they would move away when he tried to 'taste and touch them'."

I have news for you, Mr. Weir. If you licked those women's feet, you'd be tasting not only them, but also dog crap from the bottom of someone's shoe, some frat boy's stale vomit, and the urine of countless homeless men.

Please, all of you foot fetishists out there, enjoy your feet responsibly.

In other news...

My local news just did an in-depth investigation into the nutritional value of fruit snacks, while glossing over today's tax cut and illegal wiretapping news. More tomorrow; I can't upset myself before bedtime.

I believe Nick is on to something. Home Depot is clearly evil. How do I know? They are deliberately attempting to lead scores of innocent men to their deaths through this ad:


That is blatant false advertising, and I strenuously urge my readers to disregard it for their own safety.

Unless this gift card is $12,000 or so toward a complete kitchen remodeling, giving it to mom will send the following messages:

• I was shopping for myself, then suddenly remembered something about "Mother's Day" while I was waiting in line. I saw this display next to the register with gift cards, so, here you go.

• I don't like shopping for "girl stuff." Here you go.

• I have no idea what you truly need or what interests you. Here you go.

• You're not going to use it? Okay, I'll take it, then. Love ya, mom. Oh, and thanks for lunch, but I've got to leave now. I need to go buy a new power drill.

These messages might make mom a tad angry, especially after the 8 hours of pushing, years of laundry and that one incident in your teens that we don't want to mention. Death and/or dismemberment are likely outcomes.

So, again, I must warn you against buying the Home Depot gift card for your mom on Sunday. The life you save may be your own.

Another Bad Music experience took place while I worked at Sears. This time, it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college – 1988.

I had taken my lunch break at Wendy's, across the parking lot from Sears. As I made my way back to Sears, a slow-moving car inched up behind me. I paid it no heed, as I assumed it was simply someone looking for a parking spot.

The car pulled up alongside me, slowly. Again, I wasn't alarmed; I thought he was simply passing me. But he didn't pass me; instead, he was keeping pace with me. His window was down, and I could hear the music playing on his car stereo: Rock Steady, by the Whispers.

I looked up, thinking he needed directions or to know what time it was or something. Alas, no.

His bright yellow shorts and dingy tighty-whiteys were down around his ankles, and he was masturbating while leering at me.

Since these were the days before cell phones, I ran inside the store. I considered calling the police, and I should have. But I thought he'd be long gone by the time the police came, so I didn't think there was much point to calling. And I was embarrassed. And I was a stupid 18-year-old.

But this wonderful memory comes back every time I hear the haunting strains of "Rock Steady":

And we begin to rock steady
Steady rockin all night long
And we begin to rock steady
Rockin till the break of dawn

A quality memory for a quality song.

It's one thing to coordinate colors for a photo, or formality when appearing out in public or attending an event. But to wear an EXACT REPLICA of your daughter's clothing is disturbing. Either you will look sexless and dowdy, or your daughter will look like Jon Benet Ramsey.

No one wants to see that, does one?

I found the most heinous examples of this fashion concept on a site called Lydia of Purple, a purveyor of "modest Christian apparel." It includes a page for "Christian Lingerie." We'll get to that later.

I find it difficult to believe that anyone could wear these clothes and consider themselves to be heeding their God's command to "Be fruitful and multiply." If a man could see his wife and daughter arrayed in such a way and still get it up in the bedroom, he must be one sick bastard. Observe:


and


Also, for a group of people obsessed with the evils of homosexuality and transgendered individuals, they seem awfully cavalier in their attitude toward dressing their sons like their daughters:



Finally, we have the "Christian Lingerie." Now, I've read the Bible. I go to church. I've never once heard Jesus or any of the Old Testament prophets encourage women to wear the drabbest, ugliest, least appealing robe ever created. This picture is not meant for our more sensitive viewers, so if you're easily upset, please avert your eyes before you see this:



I'm sorry about that, folks. But people must be warned. For the record, I don't think Jesus likes these clothes.

As ÜberYounger creeps closer and closer to school age, I more and more seriously consider rejoining the paid workforce.

Admittedly, I'm a bit frightened. It's been years since I worked in the marketing/advertising/public relations world, and since I don't want to go back there anyways, there's no point in brushing up on those skills. I like writing. I'd make a good administrative assistant, but only for someone I like (otherwise I'd directly sabotage the person's career.) I don't want to stand on my feet all day, so prostitution is out. Where do I turn?

Obviously not to this book. Comeback Moms talks about women hesitating over leaving six figure jobs, worried about choosing a nanny, and married to evil men who will attempt to coerce them into either staying home or going back to work, whichever suits their fancy.

None of this applies to me. I never "reached a high point in my career"; I just want to pick up a little extra income. I'm hoping to avoid expensive or extensive child care; more like a good pre-school for Younger (not that that's cheap, but it's still not a live-in nanny.) And Dilf is not a self-centered asshole whose first thought is "What about me?"

These people live in a world where people have advanced degrees, own their own companies and vacation homes, and have servants. I don't live in that world. I don't live in it on purpose.

Dilf and I don't seek material trophies, although we do like comfort and having fun. If we use boating as a metaphor, we are neither the speedboat agressively passing the other boats, nor the lazy drifter allowing the current to just take it wherever it may. We are the party barge pontoon boat with the keg and the comfy lawn chairs aboard, put-putting along at our own pace and having a good time.

So, this book wasn't for me. Unfortunately, it was the only book on the topic I could find in Barnes and Noble. I'm always open to advice if anyone has any. Meanwhile, I'll try to forge a new path. If I find it, maybe I'll write a book about how I did it.

Some might claim the suburbs are a cultural wasteland, a barren landscape dotted with Chili's restaurants and Blockbuster Video stores.

Clearly, these people have never visited the high point of western civilization – Downers Grove, Illinois.

Not only did Dilf and I partake of fine theater Friday night (at Lincoln Center, no less!), but our burb houses a sculptor of unrecognized genius. Feast your eyes on what I choose to call "The Lady."



As you can see, The Lady is two stories high and perches proudly in the artist's front yard on Fairview Avenue. When we passed it on Sunday, we noticed the sign offering The Lady for sale



Undoubtedly, the genius feels selfish keeping such beauty to himself; after all, that's why he put her in his front yard on a busy thoroughfare in the first place. But she's too special, too splendid, to keep locked in Downers Grove. Like Denise Richards, we must share her with the world.

I just hope her loyal canine companion isn't too lonely without her.



Of course, someone as passionate about art as this man is would likely accept a two-fer offer. But that's just a guess.

I didn't make it to 750 posts in time, but I'm celebrating one year of ranting into cyberspace just the same.

Thank you all for traveling with me. I read and cherish all of your comments, even if I don't have time to respond because potty-training toddlers just wet their pants or tyrannical kindergartners are demanding lunch.

So, Happy Anniversary to you! I love you guys!

if you need me, just yell out the window.

I'm leaving it up as long as possible; screw the 750. Or maybe not. I change my mind often.

The year was 1987. I was in college and working at Sears for extra money. I was the “department coordinator” at night, which translates to “We need someone to be in charge, but we don’t want to pay you a manager’s salary.”

One of the girls in my department was a headbanger’s dream girl: rail-thin body topped by an oversized head crowned by an elaborate cloud of teased-up, sprayed-up hair. I believe she violated some laws of physics just by walking upright each day.

Now, this girl knew she was a commodity in demand. Perhaps her brief foray into the retail world taught her something about product lines and marketing segments and such. Whatever the case may be, she was shrewd in trading her services for goods.

Like some heavy metal girls, she was also nasal and whiny. One December evening, she was complaining to me about her boyfriend. “I want to break up with him,” she said, “But I want to get my Christmas present from him first.” She said this plaintively, as if she were the wounded party.

I listened in rapt attention, because this girl was so very different than me and I found her fascinating. Not pleasant or admirable, mind you, but fascinating.

Anyway, after cleaning up with gifts of clothes, jewelry and more on Christmas, she dumped the hapless young man in question. I believe he was given the heave-ho sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

But a guy doesn’t give up on a precious gal like her. Every night, as we closed up shop, a midnight blue sparkle-coat I-Rock Z was parked outside the store’s glass doors, blaring Poison’s “Every Rose Has It’s Thorns” from its opened T-tops. He would gaze mournfully at her as she walked to her car.

Some girls would’ve called the cops to report a stalker. But apparently he, like she, knew his audience well.

They were back together by Valentine’s Day. Just in time for her to get more presents.

It brings a tear to the eye, does it not?

Tired of corporate vipers being the only ones who can buy our politicians? Now you can, too!

This article attempts to add up what a stay-at-home mom would earn if she were paid for the various duties she performs. They left out a few, but I'm not going to quibble over details. The thing is, if I wanted money I would take a paying job. I don't want money, and I don't want a guilt-ridden acknowledgement once a year that I'm over-worked and under-paid.

How about this: instead of making a show once a year of appreciating your mom, why don't you do something to ease her burden instead? Throw your own wrappers away when you open something. Empty the dishwasher. Put your dirty dishes in it. Help chop the vegetables for dinner. Take out the recycling and/or the trash without being asked. Go grocery shopping. Put your crap away. If you misplace something, find it your own damn self without bothering her. Fold your own laundry and put it away. Better yet, fold the ENTIRE FAMILY'S laundry and put it away. Give your mom a break. Don't take advantage of your mother's lower tolerance for mess, knowing that she'll clean it up before you get around to it. Keep things the way your mom likes it, not the way you feel like making it.

Call her. Visit her. Take her out to lunch and shopping. Bring over a movie and watch it with her. If you don't know what she likes or what she thinks, start by talking to her for once. Let her know you realize she's a person, a real human being, not just another fixture in the house for your own convenience, like the water heater or the plumbing system.

Put yourself in her shoes. What would you want, if you had her job? What would make your life easier, more enjoyable? Maybe one grand gesture is not nearly as important as a thousand little ones throughout the year.