It's not my fault I get irritated; I don't seek it out. Annoyances search me out. Today, I found one in my E-mail inbox.

What has my cupcake wrappers in a twist today? This. Apparently spending tens of thousands of dollars on higher education isn't enough, you need the proper accessories. Am I just a crabby old lady, or is this appalling?

The answer can be both, you know. I'm not afraid of the truth.

If this keeps up, this will be our new national anthem. It is more danceable than the current one.

We went to the DuPage County Fair yesterday afternoon, a delightful melange of petting zoos, cotton candy and carnival rides which wouldn't normally cause someone to remember how she wishes she would've punched that one guy in the face. But, since neither I nor the circumstances surrounding the much-deserved, yet-undoled-out-face-punching are normal, it's hardly surprising that it would stir such emotions in me.

It all began that year I worked at the Sears Catalog Surplus Store -- 1987 to 1988, I believe. While I was but a lass of 18, I was still a high school graduate, which made me a woman of the world to the high school students who dominated the roster of sales associates. As such, they often came to me with tales of romantic woe. Most were the garden-variety tales of heartache, but one girl had serious issues.

She looked like a china doll or an angel, delicate and petite, with a cloud of curly blonde hair and deep blue eyes. Her boyfriend was not nearly good enough for her.

She was dating a football player, who imagined himself quite the star of the athletic field. No doubt he thought of himself thusly, when in reality he was thisly. I wish I could remember his name so I could hunt him down and deliver his 10-years-in-the-making face punching, but all I remember now is his first name: Bill.

"Angel" would arrive bedraggled and soggy to work, and when we'd ask why, she'd say, "Bill didn't want to get his jersey wet, so he had me pump the gas." We'd look at her with raised eyebrows. "I know," she'd say sheepishly. "But I really don't mind..."

Bill would show up to harrass her at work. Bill called all the shots in their dating life. Bill had an opinion on everything. Good Lord, I hated Bill. But if I knew what he did to her the previous summer, I would've taken a baseball bat from sporting goods, and...

One late fall evening between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Angel's coworker approached me and said that Angel needed me in the ladies' room. Grabbing a quarter from my purse, (you gals know why), I hastened into the restroom only to find Angel sitting on the sink, sobbing. She fell into my arms and choked out, "I had an abortion."

"Go home sick!" I said. "Gloria can cover for you..."

"No, not ... like now. In the summer." FUCKING BILL! I thought. But she wasn't finished.

Through clenched teeth she said, "I HATE Bill. I've hated him for months and months. I tell my friends I want to break up with him, and they all say, 'Why? You two have been together forever!' But they don't know what he did to me."

"After I had the abortion, I wanted to stay home and rest. I had cramps, and I was upset, and the doctor told me to take it easy. But Bill wanted to go to the DuPage County Fair, and he kept yelling at me ... and I couldn't tell anyone why I didn't want to go ... and so I walked around in the heat, and the dust, and I was so tired and miserable..."

She started crying again. I sat with her while she pulled herself together. I told her to call her parents to pick her up (of course, Bill drove her to and from work). She knew she was dumping Bill; she wanted someone to know why. I told her to tell her parents that she was scared of Bill and didn't want to see or even talk to him again. She didn't have to go into details.

Later that afternoon, Bill came to pick up his punching bag, but she wasn't there. Gloatingly, I told the imposing 5'4" terror that she had gone home sick. "Oh, didn't she tell you?" I asked with a wicked smile. He kicked the wall on the way out.

That was the last I ever saw of him, thank God.

While we wait for the Muzzy edition of my family's secret language to become available, I will provide you with some definitions just in case you are thrust into the middle of one of my family's parties. Previously, we have learned the phrases "the big V", "Apple Haus Explosion" and "the Meat Dream."





Let's continue on our learning quest:

• shzim shzim: "chilly", in reference to the temperature outdoors. Frequently used as a warning: "It is shzim shzim out there!" "Put on a [coat, sweater, hat], it's shzim shzim out there!" Origin: Grandma, aka buschia.
• shooshoo peepee: Inadequate for it's purpose, and/or cheaply made. "I can't see my cards under this shooshoo peepee light!" "Your aunt has corns on her feet because she buys shooshoo peepee shoes." Origin: Grandma, again.
• schlocka malacka: similar to shooshoo peepee, only can also apply to ideas. Can also indicate an intended scam. "George Bush is a schlocka malacka president." "That's a schlocka malacka excuse!" Origin: unknown.
• Roy Dubay: A person who emits a noxious cloud of odiferous gas. Origin: one day in church, a very, very unpleasant smell lingered in the air; poor Roy Dubay (a schoolmate of my older sisters') happened to be sitting in front of us and received the blame. His name has become synonymous with smelly flatulance every since, although it's never been proven he was at fault.
• Hoosie MaBooble: an object whose actual name eludes the speaker. "Could you hand me that hoosie mabooble? .... no, not that one... yeah. That one. Thanks." "Did you call the plumber and tell him the hoosie mabooble is leaking?" Origin: unknown.
• Lie like a fishcake: to utter outright falsehoods. Origin: unknown, suspected Dad saying.
• Big bazoo: a sassy mouth. Can be used to indicate either the mouth specifically, or indicate the person herself is snotty. Both "Shut yer big bazoo!" and "YOU...BIG...ba-ZOO!!!" are acceptable. Origin: definitely dad
• Tough bonza beans: too bad. Suspected bastardization of "garbanzo beans." "Dad, I don't want to clean my room..." "Tough bonza beans. Get in there." Origin: Dad.
• Walkin' ain't crowded: if you don't like it, do it yourself. Origin: when my father was in high school, only one of his friends had a car and would drive everyone to school. One person complained about the crowded conditions in the car, to which his friend replied, "Walkin' ain't crowded."

That's all I can think of for now. Some of those are potentially life-saving, though.

Terasita hates the Cougar/Cougar-Mellencamp/Mellencamp man. I hate bad lyrics and monotony. Combined, we hate this song with heat and intensity:

That's when a smoke was a smoke
And groovin' was groovin'
And dancin' meant everything
We were young and we were improvin'
Laughin', laughin' with our friends
Holdin' hands meant somethin' baby
Outside the club, cherry bomb
Our hearts were really thumpin'
Say yeah yeah yeah
Say yeah yeah yeah

So many sins in these lyrics. What is a smoke now, if it is not a smoke? And rhyming groovin' with improvin'? I protest in the strongest terms. Also, was the club named "Cherry Bomb?" Or were they drinking Cherry Bomb outside the club? Why were there hearts thumpin'? I find it difficult... nay, impossible to imagine a young girl's heart "thumpin'" over a teen John Cougar Melloncamp, white t-shirt with sweat-stained armpits worn under a pair of threadbare overalls, a cigarette dangling from his yellowed teeth, smelling of Indiana manure and stale Falstaff beer. I realize it was a small town, but pickin's could not have been that slim.

And then, the greatest lyric sin of all, the "yeah yeah yeah" repeated for two lines! Lazy, lazy lazy!

So, Terasita and I agree: this song is BAD MUSIC

I am going to post things that make me happy until I am fit for human interaction.

I was perusing the Discovery Channel website trying to find information on a tantalizing new show they've been advertising ("Can We Control the Weather?"), but I couldn't find it. Instead, I happened upon this story about rat brain cells flying fighter jets.

I can't fly a fighter jet; can you? You're dumber than a petri dish of rat cells, too? At least I'm not alone.

It wasn't an April Fool's Day joke, either. It was confirmed by here. Not only can a dish of rat brain cells fly a plane, it can do so while facing hurricane-strength winds.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time a dish of disembodied cells became highly advanced:



Life imitates the Simpsons once again.

We're about to lose a national treasure, folks.

August third of this year will mark the last edition of The Weekly World News.

How can this happen? People just can't handle the truth of "The World's Only Reliable Newspaper," I guess. Where is the outrage? Would a public outpouring of support save it, the way it tried valiantly to save the lives of others?



Who else has the courage to run stories like this?

Or this:



No one, people. The answer is no one.

Weekly World News, you will be missed.

I will begin my life as a troubled recluse later. Today, I will entertain some interview questions from Todd. They are:

5. Which of your children do you love best?

A. You're a jerk.

Okay, just kidding. Here are the real questions:

5. What is your favorite thing about living in the Chicago metro area?

There is diversity and culture without it being overwhelming. Being by the Great Lakes is the next best thing to being by an ocean. We have great universities, hospitals, restaurants, museums. I love the neighborhoods, and the different flavors they have. Even a lot of the suburbs have a certain flavor to differentiate them. People here are feisty. I like feisty.

4. What is your least favorite thing about living in the Chicago metro area?

Naperville. Schaumburg. Housing's expensive.

3. Which is your favorite kind of cupcake to make? (i.e. yellow cake, chocolate icing)

This is difficult. I do like to make fancy ones, but they're a lot of work, so they're not my favorite. Opening a box of cake and a can of frosting is the easiest, but it's not fulfilling and homemade frosting tastes better. So, my favorite cupcakes I ever made were dark chocolate fudge cake, chocolate frosting, and spiderwebs I made with white icing on top. They were fun, easy AND tasty! Also, one of the guys Dilf used to work with said they cured his hangover.

2. Are you still finding Nick's body hair in your guest bathroom?

Nick actually endeavored to stay quite neat when he stayed here. The only hairs I found were from his head, which he shaved while he was here. Does this disappoint you? Were you looking for something with which to fashion a voodoo doll? Ask his sister. She might have some nail clippings or something you could use.

1. Describe the best concert you've ever seen. Give us names, times, places, etc.

It's hard to say "best." My favorite was on Halloween night, 1996, when Los Borrachos opened for Eulailai (a defunct band) at some bar I can't remember. I was with tons of friends, I had just gotten rid of The Evil One and I was having the time of my life. One of the Borrachos performed on roller skates.

I don't really enjoy big venues and big names. I like smokey bars and blues joints and jazz clubs and such. A favorite of Double Post's and mine is the Harlem Avenue Lounge.

If anyone would like to answer five questions from me, send me an email.

I will be spending the weekend with Harry Potter.

When I come back, I expect you all to become expert yodelers, just like me, your queen.



That exercise promises you can hypnotize yourself into becoming a yodeler. So no excuses, people. This Oktoberfest, we're going to rock the Brauhaus. Especially you, Double Post.

At first I thought, "No, it's like shooting fish in a barrel! And they're only amateurs. Should I make fun of them?"

Then I thought, "It would be wrong NOT to post it. It's so delicious!"

So, there you go.

I just started reading this book. While some things she says are downright bizarre, I am taking away something valuable from it: what I am doing with my life right now takes skill and art, and I should be proud of myself.

It is very difficult to be proud of my job. People sneer about "the oldest profession, with motherhood being the second oldest profession," as if I'm some kind of whore because I don't get paid for the work I do. Of course, this is patently ridiculous; if I worked in an office and paid for child care, wouldn't that child care provider be considered as holding a job? So, if I not only do that, but plan meals, clean the house, do the laundry, manage the finances, cook, shop, teach, provide basic primary health care, feed and care for pets... wow. I am SO not a whore. And actually, isn't being a whore a job, too?

All of this is a rehash of what overly defensive stay-at-home moms have been saying for years and years. My concern is the rapid deterioration of the skills required to run a home and raise children well. Not perfectly. That shiny-granite-countertop-having, straight-A-student-star-athlete-raising, pilates-class-attending bullshit has got to go. I'm concerned about the disappearance of some basic mommy skills.

For instance: cooking. Hamburger Helper is now considered a home-cooked meal and Rice Krispie treats are considered baking; ordering take-out is taking it easy; what is downright laziness? Letting your children starve? My mom used to give us one cooked vegetable and one uncooked (salad, usually) with dinner. How many people do that anymore?

(Please note that I am not insulting the wonderful Rice Krispie treat. In fact, I want to make these really, really badly.)

When it comes to the kids, there isn't enough "punting." Not enough just getting down on the floor and playing with babies. Too much using "manuals" and magazines, not enough trusting inspiration. Not enough "knowing" the children as individuals. How the hell can you discipline your children if you don't know what makes them tick?

I have more to say, but I have to take care of the kids.

I know I've done dog dresses before, but I had to feature a yorkie poo. In pink tulle. With jewels.

There are starving people in this world. I thought I'd mention that.

I took my dog to obedience class on Friday. There were only two other doggie/owner teams there ("Oliver" was missing); Moxie was a giantess among her classmates. One was a miniature pinscher, and the other was a "Yorkie Poo."



What a brilliant idea! Take the belligerence and foul temper of a miniature poodle and combine it with the greasy hair and nippy-ness of a yorkshire terrier! How could you go wrong?

I don't believe this woman for a moment. Little Darlin's my sweet ass.

I have known miniature poodles; one horribly misnamed demon named "Precious" springs to mind. Double Post knows what I'm talking about. They are floor-befouling, growling, spoiled monsters whose only use is for punting practice.

I have also known Yorkies; when I was growing up, my neighbor at the top of the hill had one. Every day, my dad would walk home from the bus from the train past its house, and every day it would emerge from its lair, growling and snapping, and hurl itself at my dad's ankles, madly trying to sink its tiny fangs into my father's suit pants as its clueless owner would wail, "Peeeeeeanut, noooooooo!"

So I was not predisposed toward finding this dog a valuable member of society. But, I kept an open mind and talked to its helmet-haired, pallid, sewing-circle-ish owner.

"Oh, how cute!" I lied. "How old is she?" The thing cowered and shook in the lady's ample lap.

"Seven months," she curtly replied, pursing her lips. "She's very frightened."

"Oh, I'm lucky that way," I said affably. "Moxie's only afraid of fireworks and the street sweeper."

"Well," sneered old lady YorkiePoo, "I think I'll take up a career as a street-sweeper then."

I took that as a cue to sit on the other side of the circle of folding chairs.

The trainer showed up and cheerily asked, "How is everybody today?"

"Fine," came the chipper response from the young girl with the pinscher, and me.

"We were fine," answered the matronly needle-pointer with the quivering mass in her lap, "until that big dog showed up." She gestured disdainfully in our direction.

I don't think I like that lady.

Of all the bad children's music, I believe Strawberry Shortcake is the worst.



I was forced to endure a 45-minute CD of this music at 2 a.m. the other night, when a tearful Younger awoke and couldn't fall back asleep after a nightmare. For some reason, she wanted her Strawberry Shortcake music to lull her back to sleep.

Perhaps this music was worse than any ogre or phantom who could penetrate her dreams, or she feels, correctly, that it would drive any underbed monster or closet-dwelling creature screaming into the night in terror. Whatever the case may be, it worked its magic.

According to New York Fashion Show's Runway Search Results for 2007 Fall Fashion Influences, the 1980's have finally surpassed the 1970's as a source for style ideas, by a score of 118 to 111. The 1960's still beat them both, with 263 items bearing a style imprint from that decade, but this is still a victory for the "Family Ties" decade over the "Welcome Back Kotter" decade. A small victory.

We ladies fared pretty well, with a few notable exceptions:



Alas, gentlemen, the decade is not nearly so kind to you:







Of course, Doctor Sardonic is happy. He doesn't need to go shopping, just remove some plastic dry cleaning bags from the clothes in the back of his closet.

I got this news where I get most of my news.

"A Chewbacca impersonator is accused of sexually assaulting a Marilyn Monroe impersonator in front of the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood in June. The wookie then reportedly evaded arrest, police said...Chewbacca, whose real name was not available, fled before police arrived, Torres said."

I hate to nitpick, but wouldn't he be fairly easy to spot? And how do they know his name's not really Chewbacca?

Sadly, this isn't the first time Chewbacca's been in trouble with the law for unruly behavior.

I blame drugs.

There's been a lot of talking and precious little action surrounding our nation's health care, and lack thereof. Despite the fact that I am a total idiot, I want to talk about it, too.

I will be the first to admit that I am not a business-minded person. Economic theories and such make my eyes glaze over. However, despite my simple-minded approach to the subject, I have been able to stump those who consider themselves smarty-pantses on it.

For instance, I took a debate class my freshman year of high school. Along with us puny, insignificant freshman, there were smug seniors who knew everything. We covered many topics, of course, from solutions to world hunger and the benefits to various political systems to allowing cameras in the courtroom, which sticks in my brain for no particular reason.

Anyways, I wondered aloud why we paid farmers not to grow crops and to dump their milk instead of taking that food and/or those cows and giving them to starving African nations. A sneering senior debate god replied, "It would interfere with their economic systems."

I replied, "Their economic systems can't be working all that well if everyone's impoverished and starving, so what's the big deal about that?" He just rolled his eyes at me, but he didn't respond. And he was supposed to be there to HELP me.

But back to health care. It would seem to me that instead of arguing endlessly about only two choices, we could implement some smaller changes to take some baby steps toward, well, not killing our fellow citizens while we stand around and argue.

Take drug costs, for example. No more advertising to lay people on the TV and whatnot. Drug companies take their ad budgets and put it toward reducing prices for people. What the hell? I can't prescribe medicine for myself and I don't understand what most of them are for, anyways, because once they tell you what the medicine is for they're legally bound to tell you the possible side effects, which often include "anal leakage" so they don't want to mention it. So, no more advertising, money goes to reduced cost for consumers.

Also, return to health care to non-profit status across the board, the way it was prior to the late 1980's. No more paid positions for marketing and all that crap, no more reducing care and services for patients or cutting back on the cleaning staff to increase the board of director's yacht fund. For-profit medicine is a failed experiment, admit it and move on already.

Third, take a long, hard look at the insurance industry. I suspect they're a bunch of crooks, taking money for nothing. Every time I get a bill, it seems they balk at paying for something. Then, it's my job to a.) pay the doctor anyways, 'cause that's the deal, and b.) call, write and fight until they pay what they should've paid in the first place. Because medical procedures are so much fun, people use it as a form of recreation these days. I know there are kinky weirdos out there, but trust me, I didn't want a mammogram, they forced me in there kicking and screaming. Now you need a couple of months to think about whether or not I really "needed" it? What if Dilf's employer took a couple of months to pay you? Motherfuckers.

So there are three things to start with, before taking on some mammoth change like switching to socialized medicine. If it works, you don't even have to worry about it.

but I'm a bit hung up at the moment.

I went to a party and I came back drunk.

The dog was alone for hours and ate a box of kleenex in retribution.

He also tore out one of the Gingerbread Man's eyes.

Oh, the humanity!

Also, I went to a party and drank too much.

Double Post is on vacation getting harassed by her in-laws in Wisconsin, so she likely will not read this. That's okay, it's written in the Big Book of Life, so she will hear it again when she arrives at the Pearly Gates. But for your entertainment, and a window into my tortured soul, I will hereby describe but one instance (okay, two) of my abuse at the sadistic hands of Double Post.

Some of you may recall that I am the youngest of four children, two sisters and a brother. Double Post is the second oldest, nine years older than me. I often sought out the company of my older siblings when I was little, because a childlike mind cannot sense or anticipate evil as a more experienced, mature one.

Once, when I was in kindergarten or first grade, I wanted Double Post to play with me. She said, "No, you're not cute anymore." As deeply as that cut me at the time, it was nothing compared to the frequent "appearance" of "Airie."

Actually, I'm not sure how to spell it, because I only heard it spoken when I wanted my sister's time and attention. She'd say, "I can't play with you; I'm playing with Airie." She would then commence to showering affection and offers of treats onto "Airie" in a sugary sweet falsetto.

"Airie, come play Barbies -- we can use Ubie's. Airie, do you want a popsicle? Airie, do you want to play hide and seek?" I'm sure Airie would win at that last one, because she was invisible. Then, after she was done torturing me thus and so, she'd say, "I'm too tired to play with you now. I played with Airie." This happened ALL THE TIME.

I haven't even touched on the "Crazy Joe" incidents.

You can't call DCFS anymore, people, but I will accept sympathy.

According to voters on onepoll.com, the worst song ever is James Blunt's "You're Beautiful."



The public has spoken.

No matter which one you are.

I read this story in one of my two local papers last week, and it brought tears to my eyes.

Tears of joy, to be delivered a blog post on a silver platter. This stuff writes itself, people.

It seems one Lanny Poffo, known as "The Genius" in wrestling circles, grew up in Downers Grove. He will be leading our Independence Day parade this year. And reading a poem from atop a crane. More on that later.

This is him on the cover of WF Magazine:



His brother, Macho Man Randy Savage,



must've been unavailable.

According to the article, "The Genius, who wrestled in the WWE in the 1980's, used to compose and recite a poem before each bout." To quote Mr. Poffo, "I like to do poems about something, and you can't stop me."

Here's the ode the unstoppable Mr. Poffo wrote for our parade, which he will recite from the top of a crane:

Pierce Downer made his pilgrimage
In 1832
He found his grove of destiny
Where mighty oak trees grew

He was a native of Vermont
Then drifted to New York
Moving westward through Chicago
Till the trail made a fork

Then at the age of fifty
Pierce Downer staked his claim
And built the first log cabin
On the land that bears his name

His daughter came to join him
Followed by his wife and son
Together on a dairy farm
Their new life had begun

When the Black Hawk War had ended
Other settlers arrived
They came to sow the fallow soil
And most of them survived

The Potawatomi natives here
Were always treated well
It was a peaceful co-existence
As our history will tell

When Lincoln went to Washington
The Civil War began
Downers Grove was with the Union
And the brotherhood of man

Israel and Avis Blodgett
Owned a blacksmith shop and farm
They led the abolitionists
To keep the slaves from harm

They inspired friends and neighbors
To be vigilant and brave
In the aiding and abetting
And the freeing of the slave

The Blodgetts' home and artifacts
Should always be preserved
To show future generations
How humanity was served

Downers Grovians were active
In the War Between the States
They suffered many casualties
As history relates

Captain Walter Blanchard
Led one hundred nineteen men
As they battled into Ringgold Gap
Ne'er to return again

In the Main Street Cemetery
Our Captain's name is there
Along with certain pioneers
Whose victories we share

In eighteen hundred sixty-three
Pierce Downer passed away
After his wife, Lucy Downer,
Died before him, just a day

Then came the mighty Burlington
The famed CB&Q
It pierced the heart of Downers Grove
But helped our dreams come true

It turned our bedroom village
That fed Chicagoland
Into 50,000 citizens
Pursuing what they'd planned

I studied at Pierce Downer School
And Herrick Junior High
Then took four years at DGN
Before I said "goodbye"

But I remember Downers Grove
As something very good
With lots of friendly faces
In my peaceful neighborhood

There may have been some negatives
Now where shall I begin?
Our winter months get pretty cold
Our Cubbies seldom win

But 60515 or 6
Or sometimes even 7
On a scale from 1 to 10
Our village scores 11

I thank you, Mayor Sandack
And the Village Council, too
Here's to progress and tradition
Downers Grove ... we all love you!

Tony turned around to wait for his companion, only to find that an enormous bear, drawn by the enticing garlic sausage aroma of Joey's sandwich, was lumbering menacingly toward Joey's log.

Tony opened his mouth to shout a warning, but he was... tongue-tied. Nothing came out. Instead, the bear came upon Joey with a roar, and sank his fangs into Joey's shoulder.

"Shoot him, Tony!" squawked Joey. "Shoot the bear!"

But Tony hesitated. With Joey gone, the entire bag of loot was his and his alone. That bear had just doubled his take.

"Tony!" screamed Joey, as the bear dragged him away. "Tony!"

"Bye, bye, Joey," replied Tony with a sinister smile, waving patronizingly at his now-limp friend.

Tony continued into the woods, intent on finishing his task. As he dug, he thought about Sally. He could just leave her there and escape with roughly a day's start on her before she realized what happened. But that was still risky, and if she found out he had let her beloved Joey die, she wouldn't rest until she'd had her revenge. No, he had to kill her. He decided to do the dirty deed and return to finish burying later.

Tony snuck back to Hemlock, and shot Sidearm Sally in the back before she knew what hit her.

He then returned to his shovels, only to find a mangled, but very much alive, Joey waiting for him. Tony drew his gun, but Joey drew his first. They both shot, and they both found their mark. They lay dead beside their unspent hidden fortune.

Sally, meanwhile, doesn't know she's dead. In fact, her ghost continues to haunt Hemlock cabin, and every night, she faithfully leaves the light on in the cabin, waiting for her Joey to return to her.