It's been a long time since I've talked about my brother and/or Cuntzilla. That's mainly because I thought they were finally learning some life lessons the hard way. (excuse me while I choke back some bitter, cynical chuckles) Yeah, that didn't happen so much.

Earlier this year, my brother and Cuntzilla declared bankruptcy. Normally, this would serve as a sobering wake-up call; to Cuntzilla, it meant, "Yay! The nice judge made all the bad bills go away, so I can spend money again! True, it's cash money instead of the pretty shiny credit card money, but ... Yay!"

For example, Runtzilla's 3rd birthday is upon us. For most people, that means three candles on a cake. To Cuntzilla, it means three entire parties. Themed parties. One in a restaurant. One with her little "friends". One big family party. All for a child who screams and runs away from anyone besides her mom and dad, and I am not exaggerating. Double Post will back me up here -- as would Dilf, if he still read my blog.

And Sunday was my dad's birthday. My brother and Cuntzilla stopped by, after their restaurant Runtzilla celebration, to drop off Runtzilla. So they could go to the movies. Happy Birthday, Dad! Thanks for the free babysitting. We would've come for your birthday dinner, but... we already ate.

Oh, yeah, they did drop off a present for my dad -- a book of soduku puzzles. The kind you'd buy at the grocery store. Because they're poor!

And this Sunday will be Runtzilla's third third birthday celebration, in a park. The whole family will be there, including Cuntzilla's clan. I'm picturing something like this:



Yeah, the Cuntzilla family doesn't get along very well.

I haven't bought a present yet. I think it's psychological. I can't bring myself to shop.

I'm going to try to get my hands on the bigtime freelance money some people have been raking in.

I updated my resume and I'm working on my website.

I'm sure the offers will start rolling in, which is good because I want to update my house and take my family to the Wisconsin Dells. Brothers and sisters, too. And friends! Maybe even Nick.

All of these things require money. So, start sending me some work.

I waited and waited and waited but the professional organizer and the maid never came, so I guess I've got to do it.

I'm having a garage sale.

Lots of work.

No time to blog.

Sometimes, Alice in Wonderland makes me think. Today, I was thinking and it reminded me of Alice in Wonderland.

Fundamentalists are all the rage these days, it seems. There is only one right way to do, think, feel, or look, if pop culture and pop thought were to be believed.

But I don't believe it. Even math has different paths to the truth.

Are we all that insecure that we can't countenance ideas, beliefs, or customs different from our own? Do we have to dig to find reasons why those who feel or believe differently from us are not only horribly mistaken, but downright evil? What about, "Okay, let's see how we can get all these pieces to fit together nicely?"

It's not easy to fight the human tendency to want to feel "right" and powerful, so when like-minded people get together and massage each others' egos and reinforce each others' stereotypes of the "others," it can be dangerous. Don't think you don't fall victim to it; we all do.

But while it feels good and can be good for us to surround ourselves with people who accept us because they share the same mind-set, how much better does it feel to have someone accept and love us despite differences? Are we nothing but slices in a marketing segment or political ideology pie chart, defined by our opinions and consumer choices?

I do believe in "right" and "wrong," but I don't think there's only one way to get there. Even if you feel someone is lost and confused and not heading in the right direction, is mocking them, shunning them or cutting them off the right way to help them? Maybe stumbling around and exploring dead ends is their way of traveling.

We're all just stumbling around trying to find our way. When you come across a fellow traveler, do you offer light, warmth and companionship? Or spite, suspicion, and derision?

By the way, while I love the Disney version, I love this one, too. I hope this doesn't spoil the magic for me.

All I want to post today is a happy picture of the ÜberGirlies from Disney World.

Younger is headed to kindergarten next year, so her preschool is holding a "moving on" ceremony for her and her fellow four-year-old classmates. I wisely avoided volunteering to plan the festivities (although I'm bringing individual ice cream cups and lemonade; I'm not a total deadbeat!)

One of the key reasons I hid from this responsibility is that the planner was required to coordinate volunteers from two classes: the morning class, to which my daughter belongs, and the afternoon class. I have no idea who those clowns are.

The woman who wound up throwing herself under the bus has a daughter in the morning class, like me. While she put out a sign-up sheet for volunteers, only parents from the morning session signed up to help, despite the fact that the afternoon class was double the size of the morning one. Thinking that perhaps morning parents signed up because they could put a face to the name on the sheet, having met her at pick-up time, she showed up in person at afternoon pickup to drum up willing participants. She found the afternoon parents to be ... um, different.

My favorite conversation (as related by her) went like this:

Volunteer Lady: We still need volunteers and treats for the "Moving On" ceremony.

Bitchy Mom: I'll bring a treat. What should I bring?

Volunteer Lady: Well, no one's bringing cupcakes...

Bitchy Mom: (sneering) Really? I was thinking more along the lines of fresh fruit. I believe strongly that we should be setting a good nutritional example. I don't think cupcakes send the right message.

Volunteer Lady: Okay, bring fresh fruit, then.

Bitchy Mom: (appalled) Fresh fruit is expensive!

Witness the joys and satisfaction of lending your time.

I have Hashimoto's disease. I've known about this for ... a year and a half? Two years? Don't worry; it sounds worse than it is. Well, except for the part where "[my] immune system inappropriately attacks [my] thyroid gland, causing damage to [my] thyroid cells and upsetting the balance of chemical reactions in [my] body."

But they make medicine for that. Just ask Double Post. Or my brother. Or my aunt. Or... yeah, it runs in my family. Only, standard practice is to wait until my thyroid is eaten away to the point function is impaired severely enough before I can get this medicine. My thyroid is still teetering along.

So, I'm suffering the effects. I'm just not suffering enough. (Don't feel too sorry for me -- I have a good excuse to avoid tofu now!)

However... after an especially shitty health week, I looked again -- and some doctors think they should actually help me before one of my most important endocrine glands is destroyed!

Things are looking up after all.

Stupid Dr. Zaius is making me do a stupid meme and I'm supposed to post the stupid rules. Here they are:

• The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
• Each player answers the questions about himself or herself.
• At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

I'm only going to follow rules one and two. What are you gonna do about it, Zaius?

1. Ten years ago I was:

A newlywed desperately trying to come to terms with Titanic's multiple Oscar
nominations.

2. Five Things on Today's To Do List:

• Figure out why my stomach hurts
• Vacuum dog hair
• Feed family
• Laundry
• Do Dr. Zaius's stupid meme

3. Things I'd do if I were a billionaire

Pay my bills.

4. Three Bad Habits

• Letting the world's sorry state get to me
• Procrastination
• Allowing Dr. Zaius to boss me around

5. Five Places I've lived

I've always lived within 25 miles of where I was born. I am depressed now.

6. Five Jobs I've had in life:

• Pizza maker
• Sales clerk
• Writer (newsletters, press releases, advertising copy, research and development reports, manuals ... nothing exciting like a novel or a movie script)
• Mommy
• Oh yeah. between "sales clerk" and "writer," insert "bank teller."

Stupid smelly orangutan.

I'm writing this post with a particular person in mind, but it could be for anyone -- male or female.

When you have your first child, it's like being dropped into a foreign country with limited instruction, a substandard field manual and with nearly no grasp of the language.

On top of learning an entirely new culture, new parents have a completely helpless, dependent life attached to theirs, whose survival depends upon them adapting to and thriving in this unfamiliar territory. Some people enter into this terrifying yet exciting venture on their own. Some people choose the "buddy" system. Unfortunately, sometimes those "buddies" let them down.

Imagine turning to your travel buddy (who has vowed to be with you every step of the way) for help or support, and hearing "I think I'd rather just do this part-time. I'll be back on Saturday. See 'ya." Or, alternatively, "You learn the language, handle all the financial exchanges, learn the local customs, and I'll just go sightseeing with you. I just want the fun stuff. It's much too hard work for me!" Or, "I'll sit here on the couch. TAKE MY MOTHER WITH YOU."

Or, when the stress of the culture shock, made all the more difficult to manage by sleep deprivation and disorienting frequent changes to the local code of conduct to which you must adhere, causes you to turn to that partner for comfort or relief, do you want to hear, "I don't know what you're making such a big deal about. Can we talk about this later? I'm busy ... in my native country. In which I'm very comfortable, and don't want to leave."

Consider: which type of partner do you want alongside you? Which type of partner do you want to be?

What kind of travel partner are you, right now?

Take your time to decide; you have your whole life to consider it. Just don't expect anyone to be there beside you if you choose the selfish course. Eventually, your partner will become acclimated to the new culture, and will live their permanently. If you don't change alongside, you will be left behind.

I hate to jump (or continually re-jump) on bandwagons, but I have to bash the patriotic t-shirts and the jerks who wear them. I know Bush's approval rating is in the toilet, so piling on his administration feels a little like bullying, and I don't like bashing anyone's religion (particularly the farther-out branches of my own, however easy they make it), but the yahoos who purchased and proudly donned this horrible shirts were so proud of themselves... I just can't pretend it's okay.

When I was in Disney World in April, the more patriotic the t-shirt someone was wearing, the less proud I was that the person wearing it was a fellow American. By far, the most bothersome were those who combined jingoistic love of America with self-assured images of Jesus blessing them.

The worst one to me was the "American by birth, Christian by the Grace of God" shirt. I don't want to overthink a message that probably wasn't too carefully considered in the first place, but it seems to be in bad form on several levels. Take the first part, for instance: "American by birth." Most people throughout the world realize that many ignorant, arrogant slobs are enjoying a considerably higher standard of living than most, not due to any hard work or wisdom or anything related to merit, but just because their moms gave birth to them in North America. The fact that the man wearing this shirt obviously had considerable access to food and drink while he lolled about one of the most expensive places in the world would testify to that. Rubbing that unpleasant truth in other people's faces seems to be rather rude, like a kid with a lollipop waving his good fortune in the faces of his candy-less colleagues.

Then, you follow it with "Christian by the Grace of God." Really? God doesn't like those other billions of people, so He doesn't "let" them be Christians? He only selects a few... and he chose... you? A bit presumptuous, don't you think? See, I've been laboring under the delusion that He loves everyone. Maybe, just maybe, you're Christian because that's what everyone else in your family and your town happened to be, and your religion had more to do with sheer laziness and desire for conformity than any mystical hand of God figuring into the equation? It's just a question.

If you should want to purchase shirts like the one I mentioned, or like this, you can find them here.

As for me, they don't make a message with the statement of my choice, so I'll have to settle for a magnet or bumper sticker:

Here's what's happening across the pond:
Item!: England is an irritating and insular country full of overweight, binge-drinking, reality TV addicts, a new guide warns tourists. Those jerks stole our cultural identity!

Item!: Man jailed for dropping apple. Thank God he didn't bend over to pick it up!

Item!: Darth Vader invades, attacks England. He found their lack of dental care disturbing.

Item!: Award-winning British art.
Yay! It's not just OUR culture heading into the toilet.

Next week: news from Australia.

My delicate sensibilities were assaulted in this week's coupon section, as picnic-food purveyors have stooped to embarrassing lows to sell their products.

For instance, Claussen pickles (which I happen to love) featured an ad I would expect to see as a spam in my email inbox:



Notice the way the thermometer below seems to "measure" the pickles. Notice the firm, rigid Claussen pickle "proudly standing" while the flaccid, limp shelf-safe competitor sags sadly. Looks like someone's pickle could stand to "gain inches" and use some vi4gra. But, since I use them regularly and they're giving me 55¢ off on any ONE jar of pickles, I will ignore their sexually suggestive ad.

Meanwhile, French's lives up to its name with a saucy mustard menåge a trois:



Hot dogs may love French's mustard, but apparently they still need to spice things up between the buns once in a while. Isn't one mustard enough for a sausage these days? But they're offering me a free bottle of classic yellow mustard with a purchase of honey mustard, so I will set aside my offended sense of morality. I sell out rather cheaply, it seems.

But while I can turn a blind eye to the sexual proclivities or inadequacies of my sandwich fixin's, I cannot countenance the continued assault on the good name of pierogies.

I've dealt with my righteous indignation toward this woman in the past, but apparently she's JUST NOT LISTENING.

This week, her advertisement urges people to grill pierogies. (I'm just glad my buschia didn't live to see this.) As if this abomination were not enough, her website not only continues the sacrilege, but takes it to levels that make me cringe for the future of humanity, were anyone to take up any of her blasphemous suggestions.

"Jamaican Spiced Pierogies with Island Dipping Sauce"?!? "Pierogies CON QUESO"?!? "Pierogi Pot Stickers with Orange Soy Dipping Sauce"?!? Is there no end to her cultural devastation? And her coupon requires you to buy two boxes of her frozen villainy. I HATE when coupons require you to "buy two."

I declare a housewife fatwa on Mrs. T. No, don't try to talk me out of it; my mind's made up. She must be stopped.

Look upon the face of evil, people:

Miss Dizzy Von Damn has given me the wake up call I've been needing. I've been mistakenly trying to be this:



When I should've been aiming for this:



Yessss... this town, this neighborhood, this school needs a shake-up. And I'm just the woman to give it to 'em. How long does it take to grow a beehive? Maybe I'll just get a wig. In different colors! And hot pants in different animal prints: leopard, python, zebra, tiger... And rhinestoned cats-eye glasses! I'm already mouthy, but I need to practice being loud and mouthy, instead of quietly mouthy to those around me. I'm gonna start aiming for belly laughs instead of snickers.

Also, I've decided I hate nannies. Not necessarily in theory, but in practice. Maybe that's a story for another day.

In my constant search for life's true meaning, I have tried becoming more active in the PTA at Elder's school.

So, I made this year's yearbook. I procrastinated about making it until the last minute because I was afraid of the software, only to find it was a piece o' cake. I put it together in time for the publisher's deadline, and it was mostly okay... except for the fact that the SIXTH grade went away to camp this past (and every) year, as opposed to the FIFTH grade, as I had written.

Also, I rushed them to the school in time for open house, only to find the principal (and teachers) don't want them distributed until the last day of school. (That was only partially my fault; the PTA president thought it was a good idea, too.)

When I hesitantly began to tell one of the other moms that I made the 5th grade/6th grade mistake, beginning, "I think I made a mistake with the yearbooks..." She jumped in and said, "I KNOW, you distributed them too early!"

I didn't finish telling her my shame.


Additionally, when I told the company to include pictures of teachers AND staff, I thought they'd post the teachers' pictures, then another page of people like the secretary, librarian, school nurse, etc. Instead, they duplicated the teachers WITH that second group of people, so the teachers are featured twice.

Also, because the school changed yearbook and school picture companies, I didn't have the 6th graders' kindergarten pictures to add at the end, as they had in years past. Also, I eliminated the scanned-in images of handwritten notes to the 6th graders, because I thought it looked cheesy. Apparently, other parents loved them.

I don't think I'm fitting in very well. This must be why I'm not invited to Bunco.

And next year, I'm taking over the newsletter. I hope I don't continue down my road to failure.

Plus, this morning I pulled up to drop off muffins for Teacher Appreciation Week; I was met by two suspicious and irritated women who asked, "How did you just drive up here like this? You're not supposed to drive up here when the students are outside!" As I meekly held up my muffins, one of the ladies said, "Are those for Teacher Appreciation? I'll take them inside for you. What's your name, so I can say who these are from?" (I know very well she was making a note of me to put in the "troublemaker" file.) I mumbled it and got back into my car to drive Younger to preschool.

Maybe I should just stay home from now on.

I couldn't decide what direction to take this week's Bad Music Thursday, so...

until I come up with anything better, here's Ann Murray trying to be sultry:

Although I'm a big fan of ice cream novelties, I am not a fan of novelty underwear. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of "novelty;" I like frilly, retro-inspired stuff, or boxers with fun prints on them, like dancing robots or whatever. It's the stuff that looks like you bought it at Spencer's Gifts that I'm talking about.

For instance, why would a man put on a g-string that makes his penis turn into a flamingo? Is he going to play the "Miami Vice" theme song in the bedroom and start calling his manly bits "Crockett and Tubbs?" No, sir. There is a line between fun and ridiculous, and flamingo undies crosses that line.








Not to pick on the aviary selections available, but this one takes the (birthday) cake. It's a stork, and it's musical. It plays "Rock a Bye Baby." And the vomit-inducing ad copy encourages you to spring it on your "baby daddy" (gag...I feel it rising in my throat...) or "grandpa" (sorry... it's coming out now...!)

...


There. All better. Where was I?









Finally, I do not recommend making your genitalia resemble googly-eyed cartoon characters. Is laughter the response you want to your manhood? Maybe it is. If you're looking for hooting laughter or disgusted rolled eyes when you take off your pants, by all means, buy and wear this underwear. If you'd rather avoid that reaction, take a pass.

The mustache is a nice touch, though.

Many stupid, inconsequential things bothered me today, so I won't bother you with them.

But, to the people who will inevitably say, "Quit complaining," I say, "Fuck you." To the people who think no one should ever lose their tempers, I say "Fuck you, too." It's true that it's best not to dwell on the little irritants in life, and they don't really matter in the long run, but you know what? I can fucking be fucking irritated once in a while, and if I just want to whine and complain a little bit, you can either fucking deal with it or go watch "Oprah" or whatever it is you do.

Or, for the men out there who can't handle a woman's anger, I really don't care what you do to cope with your mental inabilities. Go be like sissy boy Bill Maher who is a-scared of real women and date a barely legal stick figure. Just don't bother me with your insecurities, because if I wanted to deal with pathetically immature sexual attitudes, I'd teach a 7th grade health class.

I guess I did bother you with my crankiness. Sorry, and all that.

See this guy? He's wondering, "Now that I've wasted $4,500 on a stack of rags, who else has garbage for sale? I have gobs and gobs of money burning a hole in my pocket!"

(According to this article, it costs $4,600; maybe that's if you provide your own rags to "personalize" it.)

Yes, the Droog Rag Chair by Tejo Remy uses fabric most of us would use to wipe our floors or clean up dog vomit to create a chair. I don't have a problem with the concept itself; re-using something that might otherwise go to waste is a good idea, not a bad one. Also, it may very well be comfortable, although I can't picture someone like Dilf's grandma or my own father getting into or out of it. It might even be pleasant to look at, from someone's point of view.

But we're talking $4,500 (or $4,600) for a chair made of garbage. It's not even historically relevant garbage. So, in my opinion, anyone who buys it is too stupid to have that much disposable income. Their money should be confiscated and redistributed.

Hey, they won't mind -- they're into reusing found objects! We'll just find their money and reuse it to fund schools, museums, parks -- hey, we'll find dozens of ways to reuse their money! Obviously, they are improper stewards for it.

In fact, we can set up stores to find and trap these people who have too much money. That Tribune magazine from Sunday was filled with good ideas for bait, like a gardening trowel for $200. We can easily find, trap, and liberate funds from these people quickly and neatly.

Not fair, you say? Redistribution of wealth is wrong? Well, I think it's wrong, and offensive, that someone has a spare four to five thousand dollars to waste on waste.

Don't ask me why, but yesterday YouTube brought me Bowie Gnomes, and today NetFlix recommended this movie to me.

Gnomes. Twice in two days, people. I have gone years without someone thrusting gnomes in my face, and now they are springing up everywhere.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Also, the oompa loompa has an axe to grind...

I am starting in a new direction, here.

I'm not deleting this one; yet.