Übermilf

Writing Tools: Idiots Who Think They're Great Because Other Idiots Respond to Them

2011-08-19T10:47:00.004-05:00

I write for my local Patch*, a fun diversion that also pays a bit of extra pocket money so I can get my eyebrows threaded and keep Dilf in bon bons**. Fortunately, a lot of other talented people contribute as well. Unfortunately, this guy does, too.

I hate that guy***. He mines old, tired controversies so he can collect old, tired, belligerent comments on them and, I don't know, sit on top of them like Yertle the Turtle and be King of All He Surveys. Or at least Geneva, Illinois, where I'm sure his neighbors are sick of him by now.

Let me state his crimes against writing:

One, remember the old saying? "Dog Bites Man" isn't news, but "Man Bites Dog" IS news, because it's unusual. So, Wheaton College, an Evangelical Protestant Christian University whose motto is "For Christ and His Kingdom," and where dancing and alcohol were banned until 2003 isn't gay friendly? You don't say? See, here's what would've been worth talking about: Wheaton College secretly sponsors midnight all-gay orgies in the Billy Graham museum. Or, that Berkeley carries out pogroms against gays and ships them off to Michele Bachmann's husband's summer camp. To sum up, his columns not only don't reveal any new information, they don't even say anything interesting. They repeat conventionally-held beliefs.

Two, his writing is lazy and derivative. Writing a column about someone accused of sexually abusing children? By all means, mention Catholic priests. Everyone will titter at your edginess and insight. 8,000 Jay Leno jokes dating back a decade or so can't be wrong, right? And hey, make sure you talk about wimmins gettin' cranky when they has their periods, amiright, fellas? That one dates back, as far as I can tell, to the days of the Red Tent before the twelve tribes of Israel were formed, but hey, I'm not saying it's old or anything.

Three, as I already stated above, he repurposes old controversies to blatantly pander for comments. In this column, he admits to reusing an issue raised in March on July 29 just because of the many comments it caused. Hey, maybe I'll try that, too. David Soul is ugly and untalented! David Soul is ugly and untalented! David Soul is ugly and untalented! (Is it working yet?)

Four, he insists on telling people over and over and OVER how he drives a motorcycle and plays an electric guitar so FOR GOD'S SAKES people, despite the fact he looks like Michael Gross from Family Ties in his picture (since taken down), he is cool cool COOL like Fonzie. I bet he has the leather jacket and Rush t-shirts to prove it, so don't even THINK he's not hip.

The worst thing is, I can't even call this guy out without commenting on his articles, which is exactly what he wants! Instead, certain other Downers Grove-based writers and I resort to snarky comments amongst ourselves on Facebook. No, the worst thing is, this guy is syndicated across several Patch sites as if he is worthy of mass-distribution. I can't wait until winter so he can write about shoveling snow again.

God, I'm a bitch sometimes.

*I actually write for a couple of Patch(es)

**It's actually Irish whiskey, but I prefer conjuring up Dilf wearing a see-through dressing gown lined with maribou feathers while he watches "his stories" with his sling-back mules propped up on an ottoman

***I don't hate him so much as I hate his writing. I've never actually met him. He could be a rather nice guy. I have my doubts, however.

You Know What? I'm Back, Bitches.

2011-08-15T21:11:00.002-05:00

I listened to this today, and I'm re-fired up:

I'm a'gonna get me one of these, too:

Viva la revolution, babies.

Why Do I Do These Things Again?

2011-03-25T09:07:00.003-05:00

If we are going to continue to be friends, I must know now: how do you feel about Downers Grove's stormwater abatement activities? Please include the words "foot capacity" in your answer.

Sadly, I have become more and more aware of local politics, since writing for my town's Patch website. I now have Facebook friends whose status updates include spine-tingling committee meeting reports and indignant responses to outrageous budget line items. I know you wish you were me.

Back to the stormwater question. It's actually a topic of hot debate with bitter accusations thrown back and forth. Seriously. Because I have learned that every single thing in the universe is a divisive, contentious issue in this town.

I have also learned that every inch of my town is crawling with dangerous, homeless felons who have turned entering any public place a life-risking proposition. Going to the library? Please wear a bullet-proof vest. The bowling alley in the theater building? Have you no sense of self-preservation whatsoever? And don't get me started on the roving gangs of teenagers who will tag you as soon as look at you with their cans of spray paint, which they are undoubtedly huffing when they aren't defacing public property. It's true! My neighbor's cousin's friend said she saw gang symbols painted all over her neighborhood. Also, I saw a guy with rumpled clothes and a scruffy beard walking around downtown. It's not safe anywhere!

Of course, none of that scares me because I live on the south side of Downers. Which explains why I am so gangsta.

Some Parasites Suckling at the Taxpayer's Teat Cleared My Street at 2 a.m. What Assholes.

2011-02-28T13:05:00.002-06:00

Some guy stealing well-deserved wealth from our industry leaders cleared up our streets after the ice storm last night. Did you hear the sucking sound coming from your wallet? Oh, that's right, you were sleeping. You earned that sleep by working hard. Unlike that dumb slob who was out there in the cold in his snowplow making sure the streets were drivable in the morning so you didn't wrap your Lexus around a light pole. He's a leech.

How does he sleep at night, knowing he's stealing money from hard-working taxpayers? When there's not a snow or ice storm, I mean. Because he's not sleeping then. He's out collecting more money than he deserves. From the taxpayers.

You know who would do it better, cheaper, and more efficiently? A private company. I mean, I have no direct proof of that. But I'm guessing it must be true, because every time a private company has taken over for a public service provider, it's worked out really well. What, you're concerned a private company might cut a few corners to increase profits? Well, they should. If you want quality service, you'll have to pay for it.

If you can't afford high-quality service providers, you deserve to die in an ice storm. It's a simple as that. If you insist on being poor and lazy, you deal with the consequences. That's your personal choice.

What's ruining this country is people thinking they deserve as much as their betters. I think it all started when we spoiled people with a public sewage system. Once the poor stopped emptying their own (and rich people's) piss buckets, they got all sorts of crazy ideas.

I long for the good old days, when a good cholera outbreak could wipe society clean every now and again.

Evil Things in My Head

2011-02-14T12:59:00.005-06:00

Here are some evil things I've thought/said today*:

Since you assume all children misbehave at all times, I'm going to go ahead and assume you're a hateful, prune-faced old crone at all times. You're right sometimes, I'm right ALL the time.
I want to push Guy Fieri in front of a bus
You already proved yourself too stupid to read correctly. Why would I respond to you in writing this time?
Really? You're an Ayn Rand fan eagerly awaiting the release of the new "Atlas Shrugged" movie? Because recent events haven't proven rich industrialists are not only NOT the smartest people in the room, but actually the cause of everything coming crashing down around us while they mewl for bailouts instead of taking responsibility? I hope you choke on your popcorn when that piece of crap comes out. See if Rand Paul gives you the Heimlich. ("What does his choking have to do with ME?")
Conway Twitty (inside joke)
Look, shut up about the fucking Romans and fucking Hallmark or whatever the fuck else you're on about. February is a fucking shitty month and I need a few conversation hearts and some roses and some motherfucking chocolate to cheer me up, so leave me the fuck alone about Valentines Day, okay? Now eat the goddamned heart-shaped mini cake I made you. Happy fucking Valentines Day.
Do people really find your inept repetition of other people's tired old observational humor circa 1956 to be clever? They do? Good for you. Most people seem kind of scared of my writing, so maybe your warmed-over plagiarism is the better plan.

If I think of more, I'll let you know

*The the only I actually said, of any of these, is "I want to push Guy Fieri in front of a bus." I don't actually want to, but I am sick of seeing him every time I turn on the TV. Also, I doubt he would find my comment amidst the torrent of "I HATE GUY FIERI" posts on the internet, so my chances of actually hurting his feelings is practically nil. Oh, and I did say "Conway Twitty" but only one person even knows what that means.

Crapping on the Normies

2011-02-11T11:57:00.002-06:00

Okay, I know I promised via the nabalapambo thingie to blog every day this month, and yes, I do see the irony of breaking that promise during a month dedicated to CHARACTER, and yes, it is the shortest month and all, but... just shut up, okay? I'm very very busy. You're lucky I talk to you AT ALL. Especially you, Randal.

But I became inspired to write because there is a vocal, simpering, whiny, unable-to-take-criticism minority in this country that every media outlet kowtows too and who is over-represented in every sitcom and commercial on TV.

I am talking about normal people.

Now, not all normal people are normal people. A lot of people are just PRETENDING to be normal people. I hate that, too.

Which is why, even though I don't have a child with autism, I completely relate to this lady. She overheard some nauseating blowhards being annoying at the library, and when she wrote about it, a lot of "them" complained. (I picture them looking like a bunch of Thurston Howells, sitting in their living rooms with laptops on their laps, spitting out their pineapple drinks to snivel, "Lovey! Did you SEE what that horrible woman said about us??"

Well, we're sick of you. We're sick of your lack of empathy, we're sick of you walking around like your shit doesn't stink, we're sick of your smug sense of self satisfaction (sorry for the plagiarism, Todd.) We're sick of you not caring we don't have health insurance or that we lost our job or our house. We're sick of you not understanding how hard it is for a lot of us in one way or another, and for thinking that it's all our fault/problem, and that you think we should just shut up, because frankly we're ruining your good time with our complaints.

I will end with this video from someone who DOES get it, and who is NOT on my shit list, Louis CK:

I'm Stretching My Muscles. Stop Staring, Perv.

2011-01-31T09:26:00.003-06:00

Since I've deluded myself into believing I'm a writer again (much less dangerous than some of my other delusions, although potentially more annoying to the general populace), I've decided to get a workout every day. A nablopomo workout. This week's theme: character. So I must insist you read every post with Donald Duck's voice inside your head.

It's not February yet so I've got to save up some writing fodder. This is all you're getting.

Oh, and I know the picture attached to this post has nothing to do with the content. I just found it representative of my worldview.

When You're Hot You're Hot

2011-01-27T11:18:00.003-06:00

I accompanied a busful of fifth graders on a field trip to a super secret location yesterday, which is something I can do now that I'm unshackled.

It was lovely riding three to a seat. I think this is a good time to mention, we should be checking to make sure our children actually brush their teeth.

Anyway, I shepherded my little group of 2 girls and 4 boys around the place, making sure to hit the three MANDATORY exhibits while also keeping the children from either wandering into Lake Michigan or breaking off a souvenir piece of Colleen Moore's Fairy Castle, which every parent seems to think kids want to look at, but no one over the age of 5 ever does. (That's because they can't get close enough to peer inside or even listen to the recorded information on the headsets, because 38-year-old balding men with long greasy ponytails hanging down their backs are hogging it up. I wish I were making that scenario up, but I regret to say I am not.)

I took the kids to see the trains where a developmentally-disabled young man told me I was nice looking ("I don't want yer phone number or nuthin', but you are nice lookin'), which all the kids found monumentally more interesting than the elaborate, painstaking display of rail travel between Chicago and Seattle, proving once and for all that my beauty regimen of tucking my hair behind my ears and pulling a pair of jeans out of the laundry is finally starting to work for me.

Then I had my lunch out of a paper bag, and it wasn't even in bottle form this time. Afterwards, the boys went insane for some reason, got yelled at by a museum employee, we looked at some hatching chicks and some cloned mice without reading the accompanying wall-mounted plaques explaining about DNA and genetics, got back on the bus and came home.

Who wants to sign me up for a reality show?

Why Does Everyone Think the Antichrist is a Dude? Because I Think It Was Ayn Rand

2011-01-24T10:13:00.004-06:00

I know all the cool kids are atheists these days, and I wish I could be, too. I'd have more free time and I wouldn't have to cringe as often. However, that's not who I am, and I'm at peace with it.

I'm trying to figure something out, though. If someone calls him or herself a Christian, I'm assuming that means a follower of Jesus Christ, right? From what we have of what he said and did on file, I mean. It takes a lot of study and research and understanding or Jewish life at the time to understand what the guy was trying to say, and the stuff we have has been translated and edited through the years, so different interpretations and misunderstandings have arisen through the years, but... some things are pretty clearcut. Like, not getting all focused on material possessions, and not hating anyone, even your enemies. Stuff like that.

So someone explain to me how anyone professing to be a Christian can espouse the philosophy of Ayn Rand? Oh, and they do, even when they aren't using her name. I don't want to point any fingers, but the political philosophy matching Rand's rhymes with bright bring.

The Bright Bring may call Obama a Socialist. I am calling them Satanists. Anton LaVey, the founder of modern Satanism, said his religion was 'just Ayn Rand’s philosophy, with ceremony and ritual added.'"

Just read this. Go ahead, I can wait. Did you catch the part where they distribute Atlas Shrugged like Gideons distribute the Bible?

Also, "In “Atlas Shrugged” Ayn Rand’s hero purposely collapses the economy to show the evils of government regulation." (from the article I wanted you to read. You did read it, didn't you?) Right wing hero! In 1966, Frances Fox Piven wrote about bringing about social change by overwhelming the welfare system, and now she's getting death threats from Glenn Beck listeners. Left wing villain! Do they even try to be consistent?

When someone hands me anti-tax, anti-poor literature from now on, I'm going to cheerfully say, "You know this makes you a Satanist, right?"

Let's Play Catch-Up, Shall We?

2011-01-21T09:22:00.003-06:00

In a colossal demonstration of how little I value financial stability, I quit my job. My last day was the Tuesday before Christmas. Now, my monetary contributions toward the household treasury will come from a hodgepodge collection of odd jobs and freelance writing opportunities. Do you find my recklessness refreshing, or perhaps even titillating? That's why I did it. To titillate you, the reader.

Titillation aside, feeling has returned to my brain. I mean, besides dread and hopelessness and uncertainty. I kept feeling THOSE things while taking two buses and a train each way, every day. But now, I also feel things like pride and contentment and sheer, unadulterated joy when, from my living room window, I watch the commuter heading to pick up Nick in below-zero weather while I stay home snug and warm. Suck it, Kansas!

Anyways.

I am definitely writing again. Both here, just to irritate Randal, and on the Downers Grove Patch, to irritate my entire town. I'm rusty, though. I need to crank back up into production mode.

Only The Spectre of My Own Mortality Makes Me Write Again

2010-09-24T11:09:00.003-05:00

Okay, not really. But my birthday was last week, reinforcing the fact of my own increasingly rapid physical deterioration. To celebrate this continued decay, my family bought me sapphire jewelry and the first two Hunger Games books.

I have already read the entire trilogy, and my eldest has started to read the first book. I am thrilled beyond belief, because the dystopic view of the future presented in the story will help prepare her for adult life. I also hope it will inspire her to take up archery and thereby provide food for the family when I inevitably collapse into a useless, depressed heap in the corner of my hovel just like the mom in the book.

It's a bit of a survival manual, actually.

As you can tell, I am brimming with optimism.

So, how's the job, you may be asking. At least, that's what you would be compelled to ask if we were at some sort of forced social gathering where people engage in inane, meaningless conversations and eat dips on crunchy starchy things while waiting for the sweet, sweet alcohol to dim our senses. But something meaningful DID happen the other day -- I saved someone's life.

Well, gave the appearance of it, anyways. My desk is closest to the kitchen, and one of the coworkers still filled with youth and promise was choking on a Dayquil. So I kinda sorta gave him the Heimlich maneuver, and then another taller, stronger, more capable guy gave him the Heimlich maneuver, and he survived. So I actually did something of real value at work one day, which I did NOT see coming.

Mostly, I do things like order supplies, which resulted in the following conversation one day:

(ring)
Me: "Good afternoon, [Ubermilf's Employer]"
Some Guy: "Yeah, someone there ordered some supplies online yesterday."
Me: "Yes?"
Some Guy: "You ordered the [supplier brand] paper."
Me: "Yes?"
Some Guy: "You can't do that."
Me, irritated and snarky: "Why? What happens?"
Some Guy, surprised at the question, and also irritated at my ignorance/irreverent attitude toward copy paper: "It's stored in the LOCAL warehouse, and doesn't get shipped from the same place as the other stuff."

I am thinking two things simultaneously. One, the website says nothing about this. Two, why the fuck do I care what warehouse they keep things? Just give me my damn paper!

Me: "What are you going to do about it?"
Some Guy, amazed at my impertinence, snaps:"I'll give you another brand!"
Me, snapping back: "Then, do that then!"

I'm thinking I made a mistake, going back to the workplace. My temper is not suited for the office environment. Paying bills on time is overrated.

So Now I Have New Things to Complain About

2010-07-14T12:25:00.003-05:00

Before I begin to complain about the things I came here to complain about, I would like to complain about my local paper -- there were three important port-a-potty related incidents in the print version of the Downers Grove Reporter, yet only one appears on the website. What gives, Reporter? The people have a right to know about exploding portable toilets!

But that concern is minor compared to the disgusting woman who sat next to me on the train during this morning's commute. I can forgive her for eating breakfast on the train, even if it was a crumb cake that made a mess while she slurped her chocolate milk (seriously, what is she, five years old?). I can even look past her putting her big ugly yellow purse on the seat next to her in a vain attempt to keep me from sitting there (did you pay for two seats?). But what was inexcusable was her picking at her face and then flinging the particles on the ground or wiping them on her pants.

I didn't want to stare (which in retrospect seems a bit odd; I was worried about appearing rude to someone who smears her secretions around and sets her skin flakes afloat in the enclosed shared atmosphere of a train compartment?), but I couldn't help but notice part of her "grooming" regimen involved her eyebrows. What, praytell, do you dig out and dislodge from your eyebrow and throw on the floor? On second thought, don't tell me.

I have another complaint.

Because life is a series of cruel ironic punishments, I am forced to interact with other humans in the course of my job. Specifically, I answer the phones and forward on calls to the people who actually work here. Inevitably, I get at least a call or two a day that goes something like this:

Caller: "Could I speak to (insert important person) here?"

Me: "I'm sorry; she's (in a meeting, on a call, at lunch). Would you like her voice mail or would you like me to take a message?"

Caller: "That's okay; I'll just send her an email."

What I want to say: "Then why didn't you do that in the FIRST PLACE, instead of fucking calling here and fucking interrupting my very important letter typing or mail opening or Facebook checking or whatever the hell else I SHOULD have been doing while you WASTED my FUCKING TIME with your USELESS FUCKING PHONE CALL you stupid lazy ASSHOLE?"

What I actually say, in my syruppy, chirpy, cheerful business persona: "Okay, then. Have a good day!"

So, in essence, I'm complaining that I'm forced to be nice to other people. It's really rather grating.

Not you guys, though. I LOVE you guys.

Okay, then. Have a good day!

That was a dick move.

2010-07-07T12:26:00.003-05:00

I've been ordered to blog by one of the vice presidents here at work, and to angrify me she suggested I rip on Whole Foods. But I haven't been to Whole Foods lately, so I won't and she can't make me.

There has been blog fodder around, mind you. I can't believe that another Downers Grove pervert in the news failed to bring me 'round. "Hey baby, bring me some blog."

I blame my failure to retool this blog to better reflect my current circumstances; I'll work on that later. But right now I will tell you an asshole story. It's about an asshole.

The Ubergirls, Dilf and I recently attended the Downers Grove Fourth of July Parade. We had an extra sittin' blanket, so when I saw a wee girl of 3 or 4 sitting with her bare legs on the hot concrete sidewalk next to us as we sat along the parade route, I offered her our extra blanket. Her dad thanked us, then proceeded to set up camp on our blanket. The parade started.

And they started throwing shit. Like candy. Or in the inexplicable case of Congresswoman Judy Biggert, sponges. Because she sponges off the taxpayers? Good job being honest for once, Bigot. (That's what my dad calls her.)

Anyways.

Allstate comes by throwing Frisbees out to the crowd, and UberYounger holds her little arms up and joyfully squeaks, "Here! Frisbee!" The insurance agent tosses one to her, but it slips through her fingers and lands next to her.

Where the guy to whom I generously offered a blanket STEPPED ON IT and WOULDN'T GIVE IT BACK. UberYounger began to well up with tears, not just because she wanted the Frisbee, but because she couldn't understand why an adult would do that to her.

I guess a Frisbee is a pretty cheap price to pay for life knowledge like that -- some guys are just dicks.

I turned to Dilf and said, "That was a dick move." (Hence the title of this post) I'm actually surprised Dilf didn't say something to the guy. He normally would. But I think he was nearly dead from heat exhaustion at the time, combined with the fact he didn't feel we needed another piece of plastic crap cluttering up the garage. Although, oddly, we really don't have a frisbee.

So, wherever you are, Mr. Dick Move, I hope you're enjoying the frisbee, even if it's not jammed horizontally up your ass like I would like it to be.

2010-06-12T10:13:00.002-05:00

Today's WXRT Flashback year is 1993, and it's dredging up some long dormant thoughts and feelings. Specifically, a Nirvana song reminded me of how I can't get behind moral absolutism, brought into focus by Kurt Cobain's suicide.

At the time, I was working for a fire district, planning special events and writing newsletters and press releases and other impertinent stuff. When Cobain killed himself, a disgusted firefighter/paramedic remarked that suicide is the most selfish thing a person could do.

And I understood why he said that. He had to clean up the aftermath, to see the anguished family members and friends leftbehind, to witness the pain and mess that resulted from a suicide. So, what he said wasn't "wrong."

But I also understood why somebody would do something like that. I understood how the pain of living could be so excruciating that a person couldn't bear it any longer. So, I could sympathize with Cobain as well.

At the time, I found it difficult to fathom that the firefighter didn't understand why Cobain did it. We all knew Cobain was a heroin addict; didn't he see how that was self-medication? Didn't the firefighter deal with that level of pain? Didn't everyone? It didn't occur to me that a person could be content, to not feel a stabbing pain every day, that for some people life didn't consist of swallowing degradations and having pieces of your soul ripped away on a daily basis? At the time I assumed everyone felt the way I did.

What amazed me about myself today, is that I could remember those days without either reopening wounds or re-immersing myself in that sea of pain. I could think about it without wallowing or forcing myself to look away to avoid wallowing.

I'm glad I could remember without re-living, because now I can empathize with a person like that without succumbing to the same feelings. I've always wanted to help people in the situation I had been in, to give back because people helped me when I needed it. But I never could before, because if I tried, I knew I'd start drowning along with the people I was trying to help. But now, maybe I'm finally healed enough to do it.

It's something to think about. And finally, thinking about it doesn't send me back to where I was.

I Fucking HATE Cub Fans

2010-04-12T10:28:00.002-05:00

I would like to declare from the outset that I am baseball-neutral. I will weakly root for a Chicago team over a non-Chicago team out of civic responsibility, but I don’t get bent out of shape about it.

What I DOES get me bent out of shape is when someone (actually a group of someones) steals my parking spot, is incapable of operating the parking garage kiosk, fills the Metra train to capacity so that I have to stand, blocks foot traffic, stops in the middle of a heavily-traveled bridge to take a picture, and otherwise disrupts my morning compute with their incompetent jack-assery.

In short, I hate Cub fans on opening day.

Oh, I hate Sox fans, too, in all their mulleted, gnarled-tooth, senselessly-violent glory. But they get plenty of derision hurled their way without me adding to it, and they also didn’t get in my fucking way today. So I’m not going to rail against them. It’s all about Cub fans for me right now.

It all started when I pulled into the public parking garage near the train station where I park every work day. I consistently park in the same spot, and it’s always available because it’s a little out of the way and nobody wants it but me; I like it because it’s number 551, which I remember by singing it to the tune of “Bye Bye Love.”

But today, TODAY, I had to park in number 549 which has absolutely no pneumonic properties to it whatsoever, because a CUB FAN parked in MY SPACE. I should be able to have his car towed away, but the Obama administration is anti-freedom Socialist Commies, and say the parking garage is “Public Property.” I bet Sarah Palin would let me shoot out all their windows and leave a bloody moose head in the back seat.

Then, at the kiosk where you key in your parking space and insert your payment, there was a line where there normally is no line, because Cub Fans are illiterate. Or, they can’t read digital screens. Maybe if a teeny tiny little man was inside, manually changing the letters, they would have had an easier time. Also, if the kiosk was covered with pretty ivy.

THEN, there were no seats on the train. I had to stand in the vestibule with the people who ALWAYS stand in the vestibule (I call them Vesties. Nick was a Vestie.) They smiled politely at me, but they knew I didn’t belong there. I was the licorice cow of the vestibule, and I stood by myself trying not to eavesdrop on their private conversations.

AND THEN, when the train got to the station, the assorted maturity-stunted ex-frat boys and stodgy, thick-calved early retirees in their Cub regalia impeded the natural flow out of the station by standing still trying to figure out how to get out of the station, or which exit they should choose, or should they buy a Cinnabon, or some such nonsense. I neither know nor care WHY they were frozen in place; all I know is they were fucking ANNOYING. Also: no stopping on the bridge to take pictures during rush hour, assholes!

In conclusion, Cub fans need to stay out of my fucking way. Plus, adding the suffix “-ies” onto your team name is ridiculous and wrong. Does anyone say “The Bearsies” or “The Bullsies” or “The Hawksies” or “The Soxies?” No. Fuck you and your “Cubbies.”

I need more coffee.

Lots of Thoughty Thoughts in My Noggin

2010-04-10T08:01:00.002-05:00

Okay, clearly there's been a backup -- not a sewage backup, but the comparison is certainly apt. No, this has been a backup in blog posts since I no longer have the free time to spew my ill-conceived and baseless opinions out into the world, whining and grumbling like a slightly younger and less eyebrow-laden Andy Rooney. With boobs.

So, the thoughty thought I am releasing today actually came to me on March 20 at a post-St. Patrick's Day party, where I met a nice Lithuanian man whose parents had immigrated to the U.S. just as the Soviets were taking over their country.

He said, "My dad told me that when the Russians came in, they didn't haul away the political leaders, the people who were 'in charge' at the time. They took away the teachers, the engineers, and the doctors."

So, tea partiers may look at that and say, "See? SEE?? Obama wants to take over! He wants to control health care and public works and education, JUST LIKE THOSE DAMN RUSSKIES! I TOLD YOU he's a Communist!"

But, I look at it differently. This health care bill is the first inch away from privatization and corporate takeover of formerly public services since St. Ronnie Reagan came to town and saved us all from all evil. This move away from corporate control, however slow or incomplete, was met with such a shrieking and wailing and gnashing of teeth from the would-be overlords that it's making me re-think my disappointment in Obama. If he can make them THIS MAD, he must be doing something right.

Now he should focus on education and getting our teachers back.

Irrational Pet Peeves

2010-04-07T13:07:00.002-05:00

Volume 12, Issue 386. Or something.

Commuting has aroused an entirely new set of passionate, irrational dislikes in me. Would you like to hear about them? Of COURSE you would!

In no particular order, I hate:

Skinny, bow-legged women in leggings or black polyester pants. They're seemingly everywhere and I always seem to be walking behind them.
The guy who wears so much cologne I can smell him from a block away. Now, that sounds like a figure of speech, but I mean literally FROM A BLOCK AWAY.
The construction workers building that one building near the train station. I don't like those big scary metal rods they carry around. Rebar? Is that what's it called? I don't like it. It's all wiggly and floppy and dangerous looking and those guys don't look too responsible.
This frilly raincoat this one woman who rides my train wears. She also wears flats with big floppy bows on them. Also, the way she wears her hair irritates me. She's not 12 years old! She's in her 50's or something. She thinks she's the prissy English cousin from the "Patty Duke Show."
Anyone who sits next to me.
People who walk too slowly, especially when they walk two abreast so they can chatter inanely to one another while blocking the sidewalk with their big butts. Because people who plod along and talk usually have big butts.
People who stand in the middle of the sidewalk.
People who are too afraid to cross the street.
People who block the crosswalk with their big stupid cars. When the "walk signal" is on, it's not your fucking turn! Encroachment would result in dings from my briefcase, if I had one. Damn this soft tote bag!
The intersection of Ohio/Orleans.
Wind.
The profound lack of bakeries on my route.

I'm sure I have more but that's all for now.

I'm Back; I've Been Fighting the Good Fight

2010-04-06T09:36:00.003-05:00

I apologize for my prolonged absence, but I’ve been shocked by the horrors of war. A battle has been waging in the office I now call my work home, a battle which began long before I stepped through the door, and yet the combatants have forced me to take sides.

What divisive issue could force these otherwise gentle people from their important work of promoting public parks and publicizing the comic exploits of Morgan D’Organ?

Flavored coffee.

On my first day, the young lady who had been temporarily filling my position was showing me the ropes. Toward the end of that day, she decided to show me how to order supplies. She mentioned, in low tones, that we needed to order… coffee.
Despite her attempts to keep the topic private, one of the young people who work here came bounding down the hallway from across the office, barely rounding the corner to the reception area in his haste to make sure he caught us before we hit the “send” button on the online order form.

“As representative of the flavored-coffee drinking contingent,” he regally declared, “and there are more of us than you realize,” he added conspiratorially, looking around to see who was listening, “I demand to have my opinions heard!*”

With a resigned sigh and a slight eye-roll, she turned the screen towards him so he could view the flavored coffee offerings. He rubbed his chin, considering his options, and finally decided on Gloria Jeans hazelnut. Satisfied that he had done right by his constituents, he then turned to me and asked with hope in his voice, “Do you like flavored coffee?”

“No,” I said. “But I support your right to add flavorings to your coffee.” His eyes darkened a bit; apparently, the flavored syrups had been tried and rejected by the flavored coffee brigade. My comment had reopened an old wound. He stepped away, warily eyeing me as he headed back to his desk.

So far, peace has prevailed so long as the flavored fans put their coffee in their own, labeled carafe. But the long-unused bottle of toasted-marshmallow syrup sits on the counter as a reminder of past unpleasantness.

*I don’t remember exactly what he said. Something more like, “I want to pick something, too.” I don’t remember.

Vomit, Busted Heads and Root Removals

2010-03-19T10:05:00.002-05:00

That's just what happened on St. Patrick's Day!

Seriously, I have only one more day of freedom before becoming re-entrenched in the world of paid employment. What will happen? Will I become re-acclimated peacefully and quietly? Will I become overcome with anxiety and self-doubt and run out the door, sobbing? Will I break off a pen nib in someone's ass after he annoys me? Time will tell.

Those who've switched between worlds know what I mean. Make no mistake -- there are parallel worlds existing side by side every day: the working world, and the non-working world. I'm going to have to adjust to a schedule, to putting on clothes with non-elastic waistbands, and re-joining a herd -- especially since I'll be taking public transportation. I'll be loaded onto a cattle car, move down the sidewalk in a herd, cross at the corner when my herd receives an electronic prompt from a flashing light, then sit in a pen for 7 hours.

I don't know about this.

Of course, the one good point is I'll still have Fridays to be a free-range human. Weekends don't count as freedom, because the herds are still herds, only they're herding into grocery stores and movie theaters. No, only when you're free during a weekday are you truly free.

Take the grocery store, for example. During the weekday, you don't get amateurs or exhausted, brain-dead workers or pathetic divorced 40-year-old men loading cases of beer and frozen pizza and Oreos into their carts. No, you get the professionals. The people who know how to choose a cut of meat and a carton of eggs and fresh produce. They don't waste time aimlessly walking the aisles, at a loss as to what to make and forgetting exactly how to make chili and leaving their carts in inconvenient locations. They have their money ready and their groceries loaded onto the conveyor belt in the order in which they'd like them loaded into the bags and aren't confused or distracted by the celebrity magazines at the checkout aisle. These are my people. And I'm being exiled from them. Except for Fridays!

I'm secretly in love with the grocery store. I love commercials that include shots of grocery stores, like the ones with the M&M's trying to run backwards on the conveyor belt to avoid being put in the shopping bag, or the Dunkin Donut's coffee one where the housewives get magically pulled to the grocery store by their coffee cups. I tried to find that commercial on YouTube, but I couldn't find it. I did find THIS Dunkin Donuts advertisement, however, and while it has nothing to do with grocery stores, it amused me nonetheless:

What happened to mini donuts? I want some!

Happy St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T08:38:00.001-05:00

May those who love us love us,
and those who do not love us,
may God turn their hearts,
and if He cannot turn their hearts
may He turn their ankles
that we may know them by their limping.
~Irish Prayer

Flash Fiction Friday

2010-03-16T08:17:00.002-05:00

From here, starter sentence in blue:

A kiss as sweet as syrup and as light as whipped cream landed on my cheek as they pranced past me on their way out the door.

"Thanks, mom!" "Bye, Mom!" they called out before the door slammed shut behind them.

And then there was silence.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's all I can come up with. My feelings are just blunted today, for whatever reason. Not in a bad way, not in a good way... I'm just at cruising altitude.

Speaking of cruising altitude, Dilf flew out to Seattle yesterday and had a screaming baby/loud bloviating blowhard/puking fellow passenger trifecta on board. The puker had to strip off his shirt and take a half-naked walk of shame down the aisle to the lavatory in vomit-covered pants. If exciting things like that happened to me, I might have something to blog about.

As it is, I'm just sitting in my living room chair, the faint musky odor of skunk spray slowly dissipating into the near-spring air, a snoring dog at my feet, staring at the left behind boxes of Gorilla Munch and Maple Pecan Clusters on the breakfast table. That's if I turn to my right.

If I turn to my left, I look out onto my front yard, with the maple tree's red buds contrasting against a robins egg sky, the grass just starting to turn a mossy green, and a bright yellow fire hydrant saluting me from across the street. A lady in a striped sweater is walking a small fluffy white dog of indeterminate breed. There's always someone walking down my street on the way to the park.

I hardly ever saw anyone when we lived in Texas. First of all, the main living areas were at the back of the house rather than the front. Is it telling that a house like mine, built somewhere mid-20th-century, faces out into the world, while the Texas house built in 2006 or 2007 or whatever, was turned away? Is that meaningful?

Second, people here bike and walk and take public transportation to places. There's often a purpose beyond their own exercise involved. They're not just jamming themselves into lycra this-or-that and making a loop around and back to their own homes. Of course, sometimes they are just going for a stroll around the park. But there are buses to catch at the park entrance and stores to walk to and things like that, too. Why does that matter to me? I think it's that my neighborhood is connected to the larger world, where that other place I lived was more like a compound.

I'm not sure there's a third. Well, there's likely a third and perhaps a fourth, but they escape me at the moment.

On a more (possibly) alarming note, I have not seen twelve pack since we moved back. Did he get his license back? Did he get a different job? Is he carpooling? Did someone steal his bicycle? Did he move? I wish I knew... I wish I knew. Oh, twelve pack, will you ever cease to be a mystery to me?

That is all for today.

So, Randal, Here's the Deal With the Girl Across the Street

2010-03-13T09:22:00.002-06:00

Since I seem to be writing primarily for Randal these days, I might as well address this to him.

Hey, Randal. Know how I twittered about the annoying girl across the street and you said, "You can here her from your house?" Well, the answer to that is "sometimes," but yesterday it was because she was in MY yard, poisoning my children with her bad habits and attitudes, and driving me to insanity with her whiny, self-absorbed patter and selfish behavior.

First, let me describe her vocal patterns. She has two: complaining, or baby-talk. She's 11 years old, so the baby-talk thing makes me want to bash her head in with either my potato masher (inside) or my gardening trowel (outside.) But I don't hear the baby talk thing often because she's ALWAYS COMPLAINING. And when she's complaining in her whiny, nasal voice, she ends every few words in UH. As in, "Meghan-UH, I wanted to use the scooter-UH." I have actually heard her use/create the word, "Ewwww-uh!" when she was drawing with wet sidewalk chalk on my driveway.

This situation is my own fault, by the way. It was my pathetic soft heart getting in the way of my cold, hard reason again. I felt bad for her dad, because he's a single guy whose wife left him for another woman and who has nothing but bad luck with... anything. Cars. Jobs. His lawnmower. You name it. I have become de facto after school care for her while he "works from home," even though it was never discussed and I never agreed to it. It just sort of... happened. (Side note: when my husband isn't traveling, he also works from home. Somehow her shrill harangues shouldn't bother him? Again, my fault. I shepherd and correct and otherwise keep order.)

I also fed her. Another mistake. What began as an act of hospitality has become expected by Queen Nuisance. I often hear her whisper in my daughters' ears, "Go ask your mom if you have ice cream (or some other treat)." I used to feed her dinner as well, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Especially because she eats exactly and only these things: chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, french fries, grilled cheese, raw baby carrots, bananas. Oh, and peanut butter and jelly. If you try to give her anything else, she complains. "It's slimy-UH." "It feels weird-UH." "Can't I just have a cupcake-UH?"

I have many more complaints and stories about Queen Nuisance, which I often thought of capturing in a blog called, "(Girl's Name) Go Home!" -- a phrase I use on a daily basis. Instead, I will leave you with a story that came from the back seat on the way to see "Alice in Wonderland" last night. ÜberGirls were in the backs seat doing... something, I forget, when their dad and I said, "Could you please stop that? It's annoying." ÜberYounger piped up, "We're annoying you on purpose; Queen Nuisance does it all the time. She says it's fun."

My husband replied that the consequences for that are NOT fun, and I replied, my eyes slitted and my lips pursed, that Queen Nuisance wouldn't do that if she was MY kid.

"Would you whip her?" asked Elder, who, like her sister, has never been hit by her parents in her life, but who has been reading Laura Ingalls Wilder.

"No," said Younger. "She'd throw her out the window!"

Yep.

Bad Music Thursday

2010-03-11T12:41:00.001-06:00

I feel bad about making fun of a non-professional band. Again. I've made fun of them before -- here. But they came to my attention again as I was looking at coming musical attractions at some local bars, and I couldn't believe my eyes. They're still AROUND? Well, maybe they became a little more human, a little more humble in the intervening years?

Or not. Please read how he complains about having to load his own equipment on stage. I forget what entry it is; I understand if you can't get past the powerfully moving poetry in the first post.

Through the miracles of modern technology, you don't need to frequent the greater Chicago area bar scene to hear them; you can just go here.

Or just turn on a classic rock station and wait until this comes on.

On second thought, I don't feel bad about making fun of them. Or him. Is it mostly the one guy who's an ass? I can't tell.

What to Wear Wednesday

2010-03-10T09:56:00.003-06:00

I accepted a job offer yesterday, which means my blog's tagline is quickly becoming obsolete and I must just as quickly learn what people wear "to work" these days.

For help, I turned to Google, the repository of all knowledge. It told me I shouldn't wear this:

Or these:

Or any of these:

to work.

Dammit. Now I have to go shopping for clothes; they just excluded my entire wardrobe.

Friday Flash Fiction: I Want My Babies Back

2010-03-07T08:19:00.007-06:00

My Friday Flash Fiction, starter sentence in blue:

She had to kick out the back window to escape. It took her longer than she preferred, but still, she'd have 8 hours before the scent trail turned cold. That was far less than she'd need to find and disembowel the kidnappers.

Nobody messes with Moxie's human puppies. Nobody. Those bastards were going to taste doggie justice, and they weren't going to like the flavor.

Moxie saw her two human puppies get pulled off the sidewalk and shoved into a car as she watched at the window for them walking home from school. She had done this every day for the past three years, when her family had brought her home from the shelter. Little did they know she had been a CIA-trained assassin dog, before she was found wandering and disoriented in the southern Illinois forest preserve. The blast from the bomb she had had safely disposed of in the remote woods had affected her more than she had planned.

Nevertheless, it had worked out. She loved her new family with a ferocity and intensity these pieces of human slime were about to feel as she rended their flesh from their bones. She hadn't realized how much she missed the delicious snap of sinew and tendon.

She went swiftly to work, sniffing the ground. She found Meghan's dropped mitten and growled. The Mother said mittens must be worn in the cold snowy times! They will pay dearly for letting the little one's hand grow cold! The scent of her beloveds ended and the smell of car tire and exhaust picked up. It was distinct enough to follow. And follow, she did.

She found the car parked outside a neglected, ill-kept human dwelling. She heard voices coming from the lower level of the home. She peered in the window and saw two evil-smelling adult human males setting up a video camera. However, she had no sight of her own cherished human girls. She ran around the back of the house to see them bound and gagged in a cold, gray room with a cement floor. Moxie could smell their fear and see their tears. Rage caused her lips to curl up over her fangs. She was going to enjoy this. She ran back around to the front of the house. She readied herself, her muscles recalling their training as she burst threw her second window of the day.

The adult males were frozen in terror and confusion, but even if they had been prepared for her attack, she would've made short work of them. Amateurs. She butchered them quickly and effectively. She rubbed her muzzle against their shabby couch to get their blood and bits of connective tissue off her before rescuing her girls.

She broke down the door to the utility room, then bit through the ropes that held her precious puppies. They ripped off their gags and borrowed their faces in her warm, golden fur. A door led to the back yard from this room; it was good they didn't have to see the carnage in the next room. It was time to take her puppies home.

She led them through the neighborhood, stopping only to pick up the mitten and their backpacks, which had fallen to the ground when they were snatched. As they rounded the corner to their home, Moxie ran ahead, jumped the fence and re-entered her home through the downstairs window she had busted for her earlier escape.

The hastily climbed the stairs to their home, where the anxious Mother stood at the door.

"Where have you been?" she exclaimed, taking their jackets and backpacks. "You're more than 15 minutes late!" Moxie crept up from behind Mother and sat on her haunches. As the girls spilled their tale of near disaster while enjoying a cup of hot chocolate and cookies, Mother smiled and shook her head. "Where do you girls get your imagination?" she asked.

Later that night, when the girls were in bed reading, Mother went downstairs to get a nearly-forgotten bundle of laundry out of the dryer for folding. She should've seen broken glass and a busted-out window, but she didn't.

King Muffin the cat had taken care of it. His paws were small and agile enough to dial the phone, and he had connections.

Bad Music Thursday. Seriously Bad.

2010-03-04T08:38:00.002-06:00

I feel bad about ripping this guy, because he passed away a couple years ago. I don't like picking on dead people. On the other hand, this guy has somehow escaped the curled lips of contempt or mocking laughter evoked by the mere mention of certain artists, like Air Supply or Barry Manilow. His songs are not not synonyms for cheese, like "The Piña Colada Song" or "Wildfire." But I assure you, his stink bombs of musical aggression are no less potent or ubiquitous.

I will mention his name, and (unless you are Sysm, who remembers all things music-related), you will scratch your head, quizzically turn your head to one side, squint your eyes and mutter, "Who?"

Paul Davis.

Who?

Paul Davis:

Who?

THIS Paul Davis:

Sorry, who?

FUCKING PAUL DAVIS:

Oh, THAT Paul Davis.

Yeah, him.

I don't know why sappy love songs bother me so much. Is it my musical sensibilities that are offended, or do I just have difficulty giving and receiving love?

What We Wear Wednesday

2010-03-03T10:27:00.004-06:00

I used to write "Don't Wear Wednesday" post every week, and then include a picture of someone looking ridiculous. Something like that "Look at this (bad word) Hipster" blog, only more far-reaching and including dog sweaters. I abandoned that daily blogging regimen, with its assigned days, and haven't really been thinking about clothing lately.

But this morning, as I lay in a Nyquil haze somewhere between the waking and dreaming worlds with Devo's (not the Rolling Stones) version of "Satisfaction" playing in my brain, I was thinking the 1970's and three-piece suits.

What? That's not what you think about at 4:27 a.m. when you're too congested to sleep and your head hurts but you have to wait a half-hour before you can take any ibuprofen because you just took your thyroid medicine? Well, I guess you're just weird, then.

I was thinking about how people who didn't live through it think of the '70's. It wasn't nearly as marijuana-steeped and laid-back as some imagine. Despite it's bell-bottoms and t-shirts and terry cloth rompers and shorts with piping up the sides and striped tube socks, the 70's still had a lot of conventional dressing going on when it came to going out to restaurants or going to work or church or to the theater. Even on airplane travel required a certain level of dress. Men still wore the aforementioned three piece suits and hats and women wore dresses or dress slacks. I do not remember my mother owning a pair of blue jeans until the 1990's.

And that's when it happened: the 1990's. Suddenly, nobody wore ties or jackets, much less suits anymore. People wore jeans and hooded sweatshirts everywhere, even (in one sad example) to weddings. The dreaded flip flop became a shoe rather than beach attire. How did that happen almost universally and almost overnight?

Now people watch "Mad Men" and long for that elegance again. I'm pretty sure that period wasn't all that great, or my great aunt wouldn't have wound up popping Valium. Maybe, just maybe, what we're longing for is not the formality of attire, but the sense of rules and decorum that come along with it.

With all the screaming "discourse" and volatility and endless choices in our world, maybe we're looking for structure anywhere we can find it, a firm footing that brings us a refreshing sense of order. Maybe it's time to differentiate between "this is what we wear to work, this is what we wear for a night out, and this is what we wear while shoving Doritos in our mouths as we watch "The Hangover" on blue-ray and lay on our couch" clothes.

Or not. I don't really know what I'm talking about most of the time. Except when it comes to salting your pasta water, which you really should do. Unless you like really bland pasta. Which is okay, too. I don't really care as long as I'm not eating it.

Yeah, I'm a crabby old lady. What's it to you?

2010-02-25T17:21:00.006-06:00

I was listening to public radio while driving to my job interview in "The City" this week, I heard something that irritated me. I know what you're thinking: "But Übermilf, you're NEVER irritated!" Well, exceptions prove the rules, don't they?

Anyways.

What irritated me was a "Stories on Stage" reading about a young guy who finds out his girlfriend (with whom he lives) is pregnant, and after initially telling her he's happy and wants the baby, skips out on her. And, presumably, we're supposed to feel for his predicament. Without, presumably, feeling for his girlfriend's predicament, because if we felt HER predicament, we wouldn't feel like listening to his escape story, we'd feel like telling him to TURN HIS DAMN CAR AROUND, MISTER, and FACE REALITY LIKE A REAL ADULT.

Anyways.

Yes, so the whole premise irritated me, that we were supposed to empathize with Peter Pan. Even if I felt like playing along, which I never do when the fate of babies is involved, I would still have gotten pissed off, because he leaves because he doesn't want to (horror of horrors!) "settle down and live in the suburbs."

He doesn't even explain what is so horrifying about that prospect, we presumably know, as if "settling down and living in the suburbs" is akin to "catching leprosy and having your face fall off."

Then, predictably, on his travels he runs into an older married empty-nester couple who hate each other and are miserable, instead of a happy family that makes him change his mind and return to his girlfriend, or even a wise Yoda-like grandma who tells him he's got to go back and at least be honest with her that he doesn't want the baby. No, instead, the unhappy, unfulfilled but still attractive MILF/cougar tries to have sex with him. Because all unhappy women really need is to have sex with a troubled 20-something guy; that will solve ALL their problems! And of course, if we're in our 40's and married, we ALL must be unhappy, right? From living in the suburbs!

Anyways.

I want to know what's so f-ing attractive about the alternative to "settling down" (which has been known to occur in urban and rural areas, not just suburban ones). Dying alone? Being, as Chris Rock says, the guy who's "too old to be at the club?" Waking up Christmas morning to ... cold and silence? Or, alternatively, to the latest temporary bed-warmer to whom you have no real, deep connection?

This myth that getting married and having kids and settling down is the death-knell of your personhood and individuality was, if not started by, certainly nurtured and spread by, the Baby Boomers. Without going into the depth and breadth to which I despise certain Cialis-chomping, true-age denying, self-indulgent Baby Boomers, I'm going to be generous and say it's a reaction to the former myth that settling down and having kids was the ONLY path to happiness. Of course, that's not true either. But here's the thing: every person is different. Every family is different. You can't say, "I don't want to settle down in the (sneer) suburbs, because you know how that is."

As a matter of fact I do know how that is. I have friends and neighbors and a husband I adore. I have someone to talk to and share life's difficulties and delights with, someone I can trust with my life. I have 2 daughters who make me smile and laugh every day. My town has a film discussion group and book clubs galore and (for now) a ballet and 2 theater groups. We have a beautiful park and a nature center. We pull together when there's a tragedy.

Some people aren't cut out for married life or raising kids. If you aren't, I hope you find happiness in your own way. Just don't make assumptions about me or my life, or expect me to nod knowingly when you bemoan middle-class existence. Because I happen to like it.

And also, from a writing standpoint? I hate predictable, clichéd scenarios. That irritated me, too.

Stellar Moments in Parenting, Part I

2010-02-23T15:58:00.002-06:00

I went to Trader Joe's today. I hadn't been there since we got back from Austin (and they don't have Trader Joe's in Austin, so it had been awhile.

It occurred to me that I hadn't been in my local Trader Joe's since the "Roger incident."

Last June or so, I was in the store while the parents AND grandparents of a very ... um, HIGHSTRUNG 3 or 4 year old boy attempted to grocery shop. They entered at roughly the same time as me, which I remember because all of the child-sized shopping carts were either in use or otherwise unavailable for use by said boy. He did NOT react well.

It took all four adults to get him into the shopping cart seat. He flailed and wailed and twisted and contorted his body like one of those inflatable advertising noodle people. He screamed and shrieked and carried on for the entire time they were in the grocery shop. He was vile and cruel and nasty as they come, biting and spitting and shouting all manner of hateful epithets at the adults in his life.

In response, this is what they kept repeating, over and over. And over. In sappy, sing-songy, pleading voices. "What's wrong with Roger?" "What's wrong with Roger?" "Do you want a balloon, Roger?" "What's wrong with Roger?"

They got into a checkout line. I got into one, too -- far away. They finished before me, and the entire store breathed a collective sigh of relief as the automatic doors closed behind them. That, I thought to myself, is that.

Until I also exited the store. That's where I saw Roger, spreadeagled in the parking lot, having a full-body temper tantrum on the ground. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARKING LOT. They let him flop around and kick while traffic ground to a halt around them, all the time repeating (you guessed it) "What's wrong with Roger? What's wrong with Roger?" in that same babying voice.

I put my groceries in my trunk and exited out the back side of the parking lot.

I do NOT want to see how Roger turns out. It's too terrifying to contemplate.

I have performance anxiety

2010-02-17T19:51:00.002-06:00

And I'm still on a borrowed laptop.

I wonder if this has anything to do with the fact that internet commentors now casually throw out the phrase "go kill yourself" over something as trivial as this (5th comment down.)

That is all.

Since I've already missed No Pants Day and all. I guess there's always next year.

More Notes from a Foreign Computer

2010-02-08T14:11:00.002-06:00

I'm still writing from a borrowed computer.

So, I was watching a "Sopranos" rerun today, like I do every weekday at 1 p.m. CST. Tony is in psychiatrist Dr. Melfi's office, where he tells her, "life is nothing more than a series of distractions until we die." I agreed with that in my head.

Then Dr. Melfi said, "That's depression talking." I have now been diagnosed with depression by a fictional character on a TV show that ran several years ago.

That's my day. How's yours?

Bad Jokes from my Dad

2010-02-05T09:13:00.001-06:00

I am living on a borrowed computer. My laptop is in the iHospital. I hope surgery is successful, because my novel is on that thing's hard drive, and I may never be able to type those two pages again.

Because my time is limited, I shall save it by simply repeating bad jokes my father has told through the years.

For instance, when speaking of the neighbor down the street, who he personally despised but with whom my mother was friends, he'd say, "She has everything a man could desire. Big thick mustache, stocky shoulders, tattoos..."

They aren't all that short. Some are painfully, tragically long. You'll see.

That's about it for today. I have dragons to slay.

And Here Is Why I'm Pissy Today.

2010-02-01T08:15:00.003-06:00

I likely have ADD. I've discussed that before and that's not why I'm pissed off. Today, I am half pissed off at an article in Woman's Day (or Family Circle or Good Housekeeping or one of those) that I read in the early-mid 1990's. Also, I am half pissed off at myself for taking in to heart. (Does that seem irrational to you? Thinking about an article written more than 15 years ago and getting pissed off about it? What's your point? Shut up.)

Anyways.

I'm thinking about this today because I have a zillion things to do. (So why am I blogging, then? Didn't I just tell you to shut up?) So, I started on my zillion things to do, and like so many things to do, there are steps involved. For instance, sort the laundry into baskets, take it downstairs to the laundry room, put it in the washer, etc. And in the kitchen, I have many things to do. In between taking one load downstairs and putting it in the washer and getting the other load to bring downstairs, I decide to take the recycle down into the garage because I spotted it as I was headed back into the bedroom.

As I empty the recyclables into their bin in the garage, I feel a pang of self-chastisement because I started a new task before I finished the old one. I feel bad about myself. Why? Because of that stupid article in that stupid magazine.

ADD and ADHD were new back then, and they were describing the "symptoms" of this "disorder." And how horrifyingly disorganized the thought processes of such individuals are -- for example, starting new tasks in the middle of old ones. I did that all the time, and now I knew I was a horrible person for doing so. I must fight my instincts in order to correct myself into how I "should be." I have spent my whole life doing this. There is something wrong with me, and I must fix it or no one will love me ever ever ever!

Here's the problem: there was nothing wrong with me before; I always wound up finishing my tasks. I just did them differently than other people. Some people leave half-finished tasks lying around, which I can see is a problem. I never used to do that -- I always got them done. UNTIL I TRIED DOING THINGS ACCORDING TO THAT DAMN MAGAZINE instead of what felt comfortable and natural to me.

All of a sudden, tasks overwhelmed me because I didn't see them in bits and pieces anymore -- I only saw the big, scary whole. Because now I was forbidden (in my mind) from doing one piece at a time. IF I STARTED, I HAD TO FINISH! IN ONE FLUID MOTION!

I just realized that today. I have been limping along for more than 15 years because of a stupid magazine article that made me feel "wrong" and "bad."

We Aren't Raising Kids, We're Raising Adults

2010-01-28T11:38:00.002-06:00

I think the dreaded Dr. Phil says that all the time. I know he's an officious windbag, but he's right. Our goal as parents is to somehow avoid scarring our offspring emotionally while teaching them how to become positive members of society one day.

That's why I read two things today that upset me as a parent. One just made me shake my head, one made the pit of my stomach hurt.

The one that just mildly upset me came from one of Downers Grove's three blogs. (Hint: I commented, and my name ain't Chad.) I would like to publicly sympathize with any teacher who has ever taught the children of parents like that, whose children can't receive the mildest of reprimands or consequences. I would like to extend my sympathy out into the future, to anyone who has to deal with these people as adults. And, I would like to express my future sympathy to the children themselves, who may find themselves shocked and traumatized to find out that they DO TOO have to pay that speeding ticket/parking ticket/late fee.

Now, onto to more serious and egregious subject, brought to me by Fran via Facebook. In another tragic bullying story that ended in the victim's suicide, we find another group of kids walking around without any consequences attached to their actions. Are sociopaths born, or made? Isn't there some sort of baseline for decent human behavior that parents should have been enforcing since the age of two? What amazes me is to what degree these cruel, antisocial dictators are allowed to get their way, or at the very least remain unscathed. Is this what passes for a "winner?"

(A lot of attention has been paid to the "mean girls" phenomenon, and "queen bees" and such, but we all know this isn't limited to girls, so don't think if you have boys you're off the hook. Of course, if you have boys, you know this already. I'm not being patronizing, sorry.)

The older kids/people get, the more difficult it is to get them to change. I know the native Americans used to put people on islands or isolate them away from camp when they proved themselves incapable of acting in the best interest of the tribe instead of themselves. I guess that's what prisons are supposed to be for nowadays, but I think they're locking up the wrong people a lot of the time. They put people who grew up amidst poverty and violence away -- people who are acting in response to their environment. Much more frightening and threatening to me are people who grow up in comfort and opportunity and still choose a wanton disregard for other people.

Maybe they all just need a unicorn collection to set them on the right path:

You should totally do this one thing.

2010-01-26T09:56:00.004-06:00

My (quasi) friend Nick, whom I used to torture until I found Randal, blogs approximately twice a year. Which is good, because that's probably how often he has an idea.

One of the times he deigns to descend into the fetid pit of blogging is Superbowl season. He always has squares available, and all you have to do is offer some random piece of crap you have lying around the house or useless skill you might pretend to have.

Please prayerfully consider participating in his Superbowl Squares. He has very little else in his life, as evidenced by the fact he comes over to my house to hug stuffed animals for fun and excitement:

It might be interesting to note (and frightening, for Randal) that Nick and I started as blog buddies. He lived far away in Wichita. Then I collected him, and now he lives RIGHT DOWN THE STREET FROM ME.

We have libraries here in Downers Grove. We even have a university. It's small, but I'm sure they could use a librarian...

Welcome to the Most Depressing Day of the Year!

2010-01-25T08:16:00.002-06:00

Yes, cats and kitties, that despair you feel in the pit of your stomach is currently residing in the pits of your friends and neighbors, too. Hooray for human misery!

Speaking of which, I can't get a certain historical period out of my head. I first read about it last week via BlueGal via some other people, but I can't find that particular article referenced by them. Basically it was about this, a period of time from the 1800's to the early 20th century, when women could be committed to an asylum just for being depressed or angry.

Every female relative I know would have been institutionalized.

I believe that this could possibly be one of the worst times in history to be a woman. You can point to the middle ages and stuff, but even then you had some pockets of niceness (or at least a stab at being fair) in places like the Visigothic Code. But the 1800's? You had Chinese foot-binding and African slavery and colonization of your homeland in some places, and this asylum business and lack of property and other human rights in others. I'm talking world-wide yuckiness here. That's why when people focus like a laser on the Magdalene Laundries, I'm a bit perplexed. I mean, yeah, that sucked. Things like that existed all over the place, though. Including the good ol' U.S. of A. Although this book says they weren't all punitive and mean; some were shelters in the true sense of the word.) But anyways...

I'm finding it hard to feel depressed today, not living in a cage in an insane asylum and all. Even if I'm supposed to.

My Flash Fiction Friday Fairy Tale

2010-01-23T10:41:00.002-06:00

My Flash Fiction contribution for today. Starter sentence in blue, as always.

"As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for." I picked up the gas can, sprinkled around the local branch of my bank, tossed the gas can through the window, lit every match I had and and flung them here and there along the trail of gas, hoping for the best. Or the worst, depending on your point of view. I heard the alarm going off behind me, but I didn't care anymore. Let them throw me in jail; at least I'd have a roof over my head and something to eat. I had nothing left to lose.

**************************************************************************

Sandy Partridge was working the night shift at the 9-1-1 response center. When she saw the alarm call come in, and where it came from, she disregarded it and turned it off with glee. No people would be hurt, and the branch was a stand-alone building so no neighboring businesses would be affected by the bank's destruction, so her conscience was clear. Fuck them and their late fees.

**************************************************************************

The firefighters and paramedics at Station 5 smelled smoke. Was it someone's fireplace, they wondered? It couldn't be someone's outdoor fire pit; this was the middle of winter. Why was there no alarm sounding? They told the newbie to look outside. He saw the glow, he heard the alarm, and they hopped into their engine to take a look. Upon seeing the bank in flames, they stood by to make sure no spark traveled to cause problems for anyone else, and waited while the building turned to rubble. They felt no reason to save it.

**************************************************************************

When employees showed up to open the bank the next morning and found it destroyed, they just turned around and went home, grateful to escape another day of screaming customers. They were relieved not to be justifying their employer's outrageous abuses toward its customers for one more day. The bank didn't pay them a living wage, anyway.

Nobody showed up to arrest the arsonist. The police were done protecting the predators who destroyed their friends and neighbors for their own enrichment. As news of the bank's demise spread, and the apathy with which it was met, copycat arsonists took down banks everywhere.

People turned to bartering as a means of exchange. Everyone was happy except the lazy rich people, who had no known skill and thus had to rely on the charity of others. Although, the guys who made silk top hats and monocles weren't too happy at first, but they learned to make other stuff and survived just fine.

********The End************

Clearing my name. Not my reputation, but my name.

2010-01-22T09:48:00.003-06:00

I would like to state what should be obvious to most people, yet still seems to be causing some confusion: I am NOT the woman in this news story.

For one, unlike some people, I am not 43. I am ... less than that.

Two, I would never drive drunk. That is much too ambitious for me.

Three, I don't drink until late ate night. At least dinnertime. Most days. Unless it's summertime. Or some sort of holiday. What time is it now?

Four, I do not live in Florida.

So, the only thing I have in common is wearing my pajamas all day long and getting drunk. Hardly enough to cause confusion, one would think. And as long as I don't live in China, no one is going to arrest me for wearing my pajamas all day. So GET OFF MY BACK already.

I have to go grocery shopping. We're out of milk. Lousy kids. Can't I just water down the half and half I put in my coffee?

You know who pisses me off? Europe.

2010-01-21T10:02:00.002-06:00

They went around subjugating and pillaging and colonizing for a few hundred years, left behind entire continents and portions of continents in abject poverty, and now sit around smugly calling themselves "enlightened" because they have gay marriage and legal prostitution and can smoke marijuana in coffee shops.

You know what? Screw you, Europe, you condescending windbag.

Flash Fiction Friday: No Title and Very Little Story

2010-01-19T09:08:00.003-06:00

Flash Fiction Friday, starter sentence in blue. My apologies to all other participants (except Randal) for its total shittiness. You all deserve better. Except Randal. I just haven't been feeling my muse lately.

"I am not supposed to remember any of this." At least, that's what the soap operas tell me, and they don't lie, right?

Okay, all I have to do is smash my head somehow, and I will forget all the events of the past 72 hours. I will pass out, and when I wake up, I will assume a new identity.

In just a little while, those pictures won't matter a bit. Even if they DO show up on the internet.

First, I ditch my purse in a dumpster. I take the cash.

Second, I start driving. I dump the rental car.

I hail cab. I tell the driver to take me as far as $60 will allow.

I get out.

I walk into alley. I start hitting self with bricks, bottles, various bits of debris.

I fail to accomplish anything other than pain, blood and dirt on my face.

I sit on the ground and sob.

I don't know who's fault this is, but I'm sure it's not mine.

Thursdays with Ubie: an Interview with Max the Drunken Severed Head

2010-01-14T08:07:00.003-06:00

Please welcome special guest Max the Drunken Severed Head as I get up close and personal with some questions:

Q0: Do you still get hangovers?

Well, sometimes my wife hangs me over a clothesline. By my ears. You don't wanna know why. Otherwise, no.

Q1: What is that thing you're sitting in? A cookie sheet? A bedpan?

It's a dissection pan that no one was using at the time. Has a nice alcoholic smell. (I'd like to tell you it's a cupcake pan, since I love your blog and your profile pic, but I cannot tell a lie.)

At night, I have my own bed--got it from Petco.

Q2: Who changes your fluids?

Anyone nearby will do when I'm a quart low. "Hey, can you switch out that bottle of Dewar's to some Gray Goose?"

Q3: Where's the rest of your body, and how did you become separated from it?

This is something I don't remember and I've heard different accounts. My ex used to "tear me a new one" a lot, so I suspect her.

Maybe it's a family thing. A genealogist in a turban once told me the Headless Horseman was a great-uncle on my mother's side. But he also said my Moon was in Pisces and that I'd marry a squat Lithuanian, so who knows?

You'd think I'd really want to know, but I don't feel that way. Just detached.

Q4: What is your favorite liquid to float in?

I love floating in my tequila pool. If I start to sink, I just dissolve more salt from around the rim.

Q5: Since you can't change the channel, what would be the most torturous thing to force you to watch on TV? What would you find most enjoyable?

Most tortuous? Watching Susan Boyle with the sound turned off, or Jerry Lewis on his telethon with the sound turned on. (Or off, for that matter.)

Most enjoyable? I'm waiting for AMC's HEAD marathon: Head, The Man Without a Body, The Brain that Wouldn't Die, The Head, They Saved Hitler's Brain, and The View From Pompey's Head. Cameron Mitchell had a great cranium.

Q6: Do you miss having a body?

Oh, I'm resolved to my fate. Sure, when a woman cuddles up to me, it'd be nice to have something hard other than my skull! But I'm past the point where I cry myself to sleep singing "I Ain't Got Nobody."

Q 7: My dad used to say, "Want to lose 10 ugly pounds? Cut off your head!" How much does your head actually weigh?

A gentlemen never talks about the amount of head he has.

But do you like it?

Q 8: How do you sleep? Do you just close your eyes? Do you fall over on your cheek? If you fall over, how do you get upright? The same person who changes your fluids?

Sometimes someone will throw a pillowcase over me and I'll nap. But I don't sleep much. My doctor--Dr. Vinnie Boombotz--wanted me to start sleepwalking, for the exercise. It was an idea I tried to roll with, but it didn't get far.

I pass out from lack of air for short periods, sometimes, when my dog curls up around my face. Don't mind it, as long he's turned the right way. That's about it. You can't drink unless your conscious!

Once, I passed out into my soup. Oh lord. My ears stopped up, and I spent the next day feeling like my head was coming in for a landing. And I thought I was deaf, too. But it was just pinto beans in my ear canals! My wife said the oregano made me smell better, but what does she know? I could smell fine.

Hey, with no hands or fingers, my other senses are all much, much keener. I can even see in the dark, when the lights are on.

Since then, I always wear a Med-Alert around my neck which sends a message in an emergency: "Help! I've tipped over and I can't get up!" But I think being on the level is overrated. The world is far more interesting at 45 or 90 degrees. Anything over 90 degrees and I start to sweat.

Thanks for taking an interest. Come over sometime for a cocktail!

Why the Leno vs. O'Brien Thing Matters

2010-01-13T09:35:00.002-06:00

If you don't know what I'm talking about, this isn't about a court case (yet). Please use your search engine in the off chance you don't watch TV/Twitter/Facebook/talk to other human beings.)

Oh, I'm not talking about the wounded pride or career aspirations of one millionaire performer or another. Conan O'Brien himself told all of us earthlings not to feel sorry for him. Instead, this story resonates for me because it is another example of the corporate-favored screw-up getting preferential treatment while the competent employee gets the shaft.

From the very start, NBC promoted the hell out of Leno's new prime time show. O'Brien's "Tonight Show" takeover? Not so much. Despite all the marketing behind it, Leno's show sucked so badly that affiliates squawked about the damage to their 11 p.m. (10 p.m. central) newscasts. In fact, they led what has been called "a revolt." Do you remember affiliates reacting to a low-rated show in such a way before? Do you remember a show having such a disastrous, dramatic effect on the newscast before? I don't.

O'Brien's "Tonight Show" suffered a bit in the ratings, too. Let's use common sense and logic here -- Leno caused people to stop watching NBC affiliate news, so that also dipped O'Brien's ratings as the show that FOLLOWED the news. But who gets punished? Conan O'Brien. Who gets rewarded? Jay Leno, the man who ruined the network.

To me, that's what this story is about. This is why America continues a downward slide unless we do something. Jay Leno getting a new show during the "Tonight Show"'s opening time slot for collapsing NBC = our financial institution leaders getting huge bonuses for collapsing our economy.

Good job, one and all! Keep heaping rewards on your dangerously incompetent "Golden Boy" buddies as the rest of us poor schmucks keep doing our jobs and getting shit upon!

Lucky for Conan he can tell the NBC jerks to stick their peacock up their asses without exposing his family to poverty. But I'm glad he could take a very public stand against what so many of us face in private.

Not Feeling Too Optimistic

2010-01-12T10:07:00.002-06:00

I'm not feeling like anything good lies in the future. And here's the thing: a line a mile long could form of people shouting, "Quit your whining! You think you have problems? Listen what happened to me!"

But that's the thing. I'm not depressed for myself. I'm depressed for us all. I'm not saying "poor me," I'm saying "poor us."

I used to be able to snap myself out of it by saying, "things might not be the greatest right now, but they'll get better." I don't think so anymore. I really don't bother looking forward to anything anymore.

Maybe I should bake a batch of oatmeal scotchies.

Local Irritant Heads North to Annoy Wisconsin; Please Accept Our Apologies

2010-01-07T16:09:00.004-06:00

A while back, my park district board aroused my wrath. Once aroused, they flamed it higher. Their decisions continue to haunt me.

Luckily, my fellow residents agreed, and voted out incumbents, including one guy who went on to Wisconsin to enrage people there.

I am hereby apologizing to Wisconsin on behalf of all Downers Grove residents. It was not our intention to inflict that guy on anybody else when we kicked him out; we just wanted him to stop bothering us. I am sorry he and his equally obnoxious family members are wreaking havoc up there. Please do not send your sausage-laden Wisconsin warriors down here to extract revenge; we meant you no harm.

Oh, and by the way: God didn't grant you "property rights." If He was in the business of granting property rights, you might check the Oneida tribe to have them sign over the title to you, because they were "granted" it first. And claiming "anti-Christian" bias? Wisconsin is overwhelmingly Christian.

Off the Wall Wednesday

2010-01-06T09:38:00.002-06:00

I will try to display my weirdness every Wednesday. I will blurt out things I'd be too embarrassed to bring up at Bunco. If I was ever invited, which I am not, because, as some of you might remember, I am the Licorice Cow. But if the normals ever DID invite me somewhere, I would know better than to bring up some topics.

Like horror movies. And how hilarious I think this is. And how no Saturday night is complete without watching Son of Svengoolie. And how I actually think about what movies I haven't seen on Svengoolie, but which I wish I did.

In that vein, I would like to address Mr. Son of Svengoolie directly, here, if I might.

Dear Son of Svengoolie:

Please find and broadcast the movie Killdozer. Produced in 1974, the golden age of made-for-TV movies, this masterpiece has developed a cult following, inspired musicians, and influenced tragic real-life events. You would be remiss -- nay, NEGLIGENT -- were you to ignore a cultural powerhouse of this magnitude.

I submit for your consideration:

As you can see, you must rectify this situation immediately.

Sincerely,
A Crazy Old(er) Lady from the Western Suburbs.

Flash Fiction Friday: Sweet, Sweet Revenge

2010-01-04T08:44:00.006-06:00

Flash Fiction Friday, starter sentence in blue:

"She saw the orange Necco wafer on the counter top and started to cry." After weeks and months of being told she was imagining things, that she was crazy, she thought she might feel vindicated to find proof her suspicions were correct. Instead, she felt a crushing grief that momentarily paralyzed her.

Until it was replaced by insane rage. She hadn't planned anything beyond following her husband; she wasn't sure where it would all lead. Now that she knew exactly what the situation was, she knew exactly what she would do.

After a quick stop at the refrigerator, she gathered her resolve and pushed forward, letting her fury guide her steps.

She followed a trail of sweets down the hallway, finding a gumdrop here and a bit of licorice there. When she heard giggling and cooing and a familiar murmur, her insides turned to ice. She hesitated outside the door a moment, just to be sure...

Then she burst in and unloaded the carton of milk on the two of them, squeezing it with all her might, aiming the straw at her husband's legs.

"You're not running, anymore, motherfucker!" she shrieked. "I CAN catch you, Gingerbread Man!"

"Baby, don't do this," he pleaded, the frosting smeared all over his face adding to his wife's wrath. "I can explain..."

Next to him, the Barbie cupcake screamed incoherently. "Shut up, you high-fructose corn syrup whore!" She roared as she unloaded tablespoon after tablespoon of milk onto her rival's denuded, unprotected cake. It dissolved, sending the now lifeless plastic upper torso pick clattering to the floor below.

"No, no..." moaned the Gingerbread Man.

"Yes, yes!" gleefully shouted the Gingerbread Lady, as she emptied her milk carton onto the cheating bastard's face. As he melted into oblivion, she smiled triumphantly. They couldn't convict her without a corpse.

Perhaps a Better, or Maybe Just Another, Example

2010-01-01T08:48:00.003-06:00

"Well, the world is full of people walking around with a notepad and a pencil looking to be offended at something," quoth Doc.

I will tweak Doc's comment a bit: the world is full of people walking around with a head full of nasty opinions and vitriol they just CAN'T WAIT to express.

I can hear Dilf's voice in my head admonishing me for even reading the comment section. And he's right -- but I can't help it. But in another example of people flinging acrimonious, hateful words at each other for absolutely no reason, I present...

A completely inane and typical and boring story on weight loss ideas.

I wouldn't have even noticed that story if Blue Gal hadn't gotten all excited about the knitting suggestion and pointed it out to me. And I know, I know... if I don't like the comments, don't read them. But...

It bothers me that that many people have that degree of nastiness in their heads about their fellow human beings. Just because it's not news doesn't mean it isn't disturbing to me.

And they just HAVE to express it. Because they're SO SURE they're SO RIGHT that it's worth humiliating and diminishing someone else.

But First...

2009-12-30T12:14:00.006-06:00

I've been acknowledged by an alcohol-soaked disembodied head who lives in a bedpan. Apparently, there are sorts of rules and conditions attached to accepting the award he has nudged in my direction with his forehead (not having any hands, you see), and I can't deal with all of that falderal right now. So I will give you another example of how America continues to sabotage itself.

This story, on its surface, appears to be a feel-good success story. And it is! A heartwarming tale of near-tragedy, ending in happiness for everyone. It would've ended there in an earlier, simpler time; but we live in the age of the internet, when everyone with an opinion can't help but express it. Whoever invented the "comment" section should be ashamed of him/herself.

The problem? The use of the word "miracle" in the title.

Now, I don't take the word "miracle" literally. To me, when someone uses the word "miracle" to describe a narrowly-avoided catastrophe, I think of it more in terms of "Isn't it amazing that things worked out okay when so many things could've gone wrong? That Murphy's Law for once didn't prevail? Isn't it awesome when a plan comes together?" I don't picture a giant Monty Python-esque finger descending from the sky and touching the people involved. That so many things can go wrong in a situation like that that it's pretty remarkable when things turn out okay. In fact, maybe the whole sordid comment-mess could've been avoided if the writer had just used "Remarkable!" instead of "Miracle!"

But he didn't. And so instead of rejoicing in the fact that some poor guy in Colorado Springs isn't crying his eyes out during the winter holidays and that two little boys haven't lost their mother, people are debating the existence of God and insulting each other over it.

You know what? Your opinion really isn't that important. Let it go. For your sake as well as ours. Is this proof that God has a "special purpose" for that mom and her baby? No. And thanks for the pressure to perform, jerk. Do you have to overreact to the word "miracle" and use it as the chance to make sweeping generalizations about religion and people who believe in God? No. And this is why nobody invites you out anymore, too.

What should've been an opportunity for EVERYBODY to agree, like when we all got together to hate Kanye West, that this was a GOOD THING that happened. We don't get happy endings very often. Can't we just relish it without fighting?

All That Time Off and All I Came Up With Is THIS?

2009-12-29T11:48:00.002-06:00

I do have a piece of news: my niece is now engaged to marry this one fireman/EMT guy who's shown up for Thanksgiving and Christmas a couple of times, and managed not to run away screaming for some reason.

I picked out a wedding band for them. Not the kind you put on your finger, the kind you drunkenly dance to and hope your pants don't fall down in the process. Since they are "A Hillbilly Tribute To AC/DC" (example:)

they will play "Shook Me All Night Long". This means Dilf will be able to perform his legendary "leg as a guitar" dance, which he only performs at weddings and only to that particular song. I have a picture of said leg dance, but I cannot for the life of me find it.

I know the picture came from this wedding, which remains the only wedding I have attended that ended with a trip to a bowling alley. Maybe if I moved to Cleveland or Milwaukee, that would change. (You can also see honest and for real pictures of me in that post, with my head attached and not wearing a cupcake apron.)

Whenever I search through my archives, I am reminded of what a good blog I used to have. Maybe my New Years Resolution will be to return to my previous glory.

2009-12-24T14:34:00.001-06:00

My Neighborhood is Truly Awesome

2009-12-20T16:39:00.002-06:00

We got back home late last night.

This morning, we found out a neighbor on the next street's house burnt down last night. They have a sixth-grade boy and a fifth-grade girl. They do not have relatives in the area.

Their dog, a beautiful springer spaniel only 2 years old, died from smoke inhalation. The boy was beside himself with grief, blaming himself, because it was his boy scout wreath that had caught fire from the fireplace. The dad was badly burnt on his hands -- he instinctively grabbed the wreath to get it off the wall so he could extinguish it. He's supposed to start a new job tomorrow.

All of this is very tragic, but it could've been worse. It could've happened in a different neighborhood.

I walked over to where the family was staying, another neighbor's house. (I was a little nervous; I'm a sympathetic crier and I had a feeling there would be tears. Even when I'm not feeling it, like when some stupid sappy movie is deliberately manipulating me and I DON'T WANT to CRY, if the person onscreen is crying, I will cry. I HATE THAT!) I was coming to offer to replace the Christmas gifts lost (I have to do all of my shopping in the next couple of days anyway.) I was also coming to tell them ANOTHER neighbor who was in Michigan for Christmas had offered their house to them.

Seated at the table was the highly organized and very capable Vice President of the PTA, who had already sprung into action and mobilized the neighborhood. Clothes, transportation, food, help with paperwork, advice about dealing with insurance companies, even taking over the mother's volunteer obligations -- all taken care of ALREADY. New rental housing within the neighborhood was being found by another neighbor who was a real estate agent, so the family would be disrupted as little as possible.

To give you an idea of this neighborhood's attention to detail, when the mother was out in nothing but her nightgown as the sirens wailed and her house was up in flames, someone threw a Chicago Bears sweatshirt on her. Another neighbor ran in his house and threw another on top to cover it up.

See, she's a Packers fan. The situation called for a PACKERS sweatshirt. And he just happened to have one for her.

Dear invading armies: I wouldn't suggest trying to take us over. We have our shit TOGETHER.

If I was an invading army, I would think twice about trying to take us over.

ReBlog: SOCIAL ZYMURGY: THE CULTURE OF BEER: We Three Kings

2009-12-17T09:20:00.000-06:00

I am busy in a tizzy. Please read Doc's Christmas tale in lieu of my usual crap.

SOCIAL ZYMURGY: THE CULTURE OF BEER: We Three Kings

This totally sucks. You probably shouldn't bother reading it.

2009-12-15T08:37:00.004-06:00

My Friday Flash Fiction is a bit abbreviated due to the fact I am moving on Friday and better have my ass in gear. Which it is most definitely not. In gear, that is. So, I just re-used an idea and slapped something together. The picture has very little to do with the story; I just liked it.

Starter sentence in blue, as usual.

"As the rumble receded westward, a fine layer of dust settled on the tall stack of vintage condom boxes." The people inside the decrepit 7-11 scrambled for the exits. They streamed out of the doors, if 2 customers and one store clerk can be considered a stream, at record speed.

It turns out they escaped just in time, as the Ghost of Christmas Disappointed reconsidered and decided that a 7-11 was, in fact, worthy of destruction. They screamed as the giant velvet foot crushed the building in which they had been standing moments before. Their relief and gratitude to be left alive caused the Ghost to shrink slightly, but then he expanded again when the skater punk mourned the loss of his beloved Slurpee machine.

Despite regaining his momentary loss in stature, the Ghost vowed not to be so sloppy in the future. Gratitude was one of the few things that could destroy him.

And Now, For Something Completely Self-Indulgent

2009-12-14T10:38:00.001-06:00

Just because it makes me happy.

A Virus! A Deadly Story Virus!

2009-12-12T08:40:00.007-06:00

Splotchy started it. Cormac continued it and tagged me. Here's my contribution.

Splotchy's initial paragraph is first, Cormac's comes next separated by three asterisks, and mine comes after his, separated by the second set of asterisks.

The story:

The mall was crowded. There were happy people, angry people, people in a hurry, even a few people sleeping on benches. To the security guard, they were a blur of coats, hats and scarves. He was just beginning his second eight hour shift. He yawned, leaning against a pillar in the food court, the aftertaste of terrible mall cookies lingering on his tongue. His eyes abruptly snapped open with the loud sound of glass shattering behind him.

***

The glass landed on the main concourse floor and the strung Christmas lights around the mall made the floor glitter like a field of glittering gems. Out of Hot Topic came a huge tasseled-shod foot and the glass cracked like ice under the foot's immense weight. Above that antiquated shoe was a massive muscular leg, clad in green tights.

The elder Mrs. Hajba knows what this creature is and she screams out its name, yet no one understands her. Mostly because everyone else is too busy screaming, but also because the only person would understand, her daughter Anastasia, is across the mall at T.G. McFunster's...trying to find husband number four, lest her, and her mother be deported.

This being that apparently is unknown to America, stands some sixteen feet tall in bright green and red clothing that would be more suitable to the Renaissance. The brute is muscular and misshapen, with veins that bulge and throb at a preternaturally speed. Its skin is bright white, and its teeth silver and black like tinsel. The eyes of the beast have no pupils or irises to speak of. They could best be described as giant red, opaque Christmas ball ornaments.

Mrs. Hajba summons every brain cell that American TV soaps haven't manged to destroy yet and she yells at the security guard, "It's Ghost of Kreestmass Disappoint-ted!"

***

The towering figure grew larger and more robust whenever a fresh wail of despair rose from the crowd. With their purchasing power diminished as each mighty footstep destroyed yet another retail outlet, the people were beside themselves in grief and misery. The creature fed on it and grew larger and more resplendent as he crushed the materialistic hopes and dreams of everyone present.

After every last boutique, kiosk and anchor store had been reduced to rubble, the monster turned his attention to the town outside the mall. By now deafening strains of Andy Williams singing "It's the hap-piest feeling of aaaaalllll" and Lena Horne's bastardized version of "Jingle Bells" and countless vapid holiday screechings by Celine Dion and Mariah Carey were being broadcast through the curled-up toes of the monster's immense velvet slippers.

His glittering grin expanded as he smashed the BMW dealership. He became incandescent when he demolished the upscale cigar lounge. When he took out a strip mall containing both a Whole Foods and a Costco, he grew at such an exponential rate that his red stocking capped-head was no longer visible from ground level. Still, he moved on.

Until he came to the town's hospital.

He shrank a little when he heard the Girl Scout troop singing to the senior citizens at the assisted-living facility located on the grounds of the hospital. His grin disappeared when a woman handed a plate of homemade cookies and brownies to the emergency crew who had shown up to help her when her car spun out on the ice and crashed into a pillar.

But he knew he was doomed when he felt a woman getting wheeled into an elevator on the fourth floor, her newborn infant in her arms. She was heading to the sixth floor, where her grandmother lay in recovery from colon cancer surgery.

He plummeted down when the women laid eyes on one another and wept, each grateful for the gift of life. As the new mother gently laid her infant in her grandmother's arms, the tiniest wail of defeat could be heard from the crack in the sidewalk outside, if you were close enough to hear it. But he was not dead yet. Oh, no.

I tag Todd, Nick, Darth Roker, CTK and Dr. Zaius. And anyone else who read this.

Pierogi Post -- Just Under the Wire

2009-12-09T22:20:00.002-06:00

I am trying to get my grandma's pierogi recipe back. I vow to make them for Christmas.

I have officially blogged today.

Fa-La-La-La Flash Fiction

2009-12-08T08:40:00.002-06:00

As usual, found here, starter sentence in blue:

"She was always threatening to punch someone in the face, but this time she meant it." If she could only lift her hand, ball it up into a fist, and apply the punitive force necessary to convey just how enraged she was... but she couldn't.

She lay there, trapped in unspeakable torment, unable to give voice to the soul wracked in agony that lay inside her broken, useless body. How long had she been here, she wondered. She assumed she was in the hospital, from the medicinal, chemical smells and cold, clinical light that filtered through her bandages. She could see... oh, yes, she could see... but that was more curse than blessing at this point...

Her head was held upright, facing forward, in a locked position. Her limbs, which were outside of her limited line of vision, were immovable. But she could wiggle her fingers and toes... she was not paralyzed. Her physical pain was felt in temporary bursts, then eradicated by a soothing drip into her veins. No, her misery was not physical in nature. Her very mind and spirit were being excoriated...

How did she wind up in such a state? The last thing she remembered was ... the dentist. She was going to the dentist! It was icy... she must've had an accident. Why the karmic punishment? Did she kill someone? Is that why she was being punished by all the imps and demons of hell? Wait... she could hear them talking... no, her car skidded and smashed into the guardrail... no one else injured...

Why, Lord, why? Why then am I made to suffer so? Please, make it stop. I'll do anything, anything if you take away the terror, the horror...

She emitted a low moan through her wired-shut jaw. The people in the room snapped to attention. "She's awake!" one unknown voice triumphantly announced.

"I think she wants something," added a concerned, tender onlooker. Could this be my savior, I thought? The one who brings an end to my suffering?

"She's looking at the TV," noted a familiar voice. Joe! My husband! He was there, in the room? I was at once relieved and outraged, that he would have allowed this situation. Perhaps he was too dismayed at my condition to realize... "I think she wants us to turn it up," he concluded.

Of all the times for him to be clueless, unaware of my deepest held convictions. Joe, Joe, how could you do this to me? I tried to scream, but all that came out was the thinnest of squeaks. "Yeah," he said, proud of himself. "She wants us to be quiet so she can watch the movie!"

Someday, I will be well again. I will go through painful yet effective sessions of physical therapy. I will come back stronger than ever, with one goal in mind: I will strangle my husband WITH MY BARE HANDS.

All voices in the room fell silent as the most dreaded words known to mankind came floating out of the television, carried upon the breath of Satan himself: "We now return to the 36-hour FaLaLaLa Lifetime movie marathon!"

Screw You, White-Lights-Only Snobs! Kiss My Colorful Ass!

2009-12-07T09:45:00.002-06:00

That's right, you heard me.

Now, I'm not a complete hardliner. If you just prefer white lights, but have a live-and-let-live philosophy, but can ENJOY all sorts of lights, then you're cool with me.

I'm talking about the Judgy McJudgypantses out there who are so eager to develop a caste system based on Christmas lights. I put out colored lights ON PURPOSE just to PISS THEM OFF. And I make sure some of them blink, too.

Although the white is pretty, too. Except the new LED white ones; those have a bluish tinge. They're like powdered skim milk, a little too weak and watery and unnatural.

But I will defend to the death people who want to put out giant colored bulbs, bubble lights, and any and all manner of novelty lights in the pursuit of happiness. This is America, not Stick-Up-Your-Assland!

In other news, I do not live in a neighborhood with a homeowner's association. Duh. I'm not writing this from jail, am I?

I almost forgot to post today!

2009-12-06T17:50:00.000-06:00

Please enjoy drunky Sandra Lee's Christmas Tree:

Video Magic

2009-12-05T10:09:00.000-06:00

Finally! Something Christmas-Related to Excite Me.

2009-12-04T08:25:00.002-06:00

No, it's not this.

Instead, I am making progress on a personal quest of mine, and that quest is to find this one Mac Davis Christmas special I remember seeing when I was little. I have been trying to find it since 2000 or so, when early attempts ended with unclicked links to nude Mac Davis pictures.

Every year I've tried unsuccessfully, instead finding things like this, and we all know how I feel about David Soul. The last David Soul Christmas story I remember is this one.

But this year -- THIS YEAR -- is different. I actually discovered the correct name and year of the special I had in mind. I still can't find any actual video of it, and that paltry description does nothing to capture how deliciously terrifying that episode was.

If Mac Davis is the prophet and visionary I've always thought him to be, in 2010 thought police will arrest you for remembering Christmas. Christmas has been replaced by "Commerce Day," when you top your tree with a glittering dollar sign. Mac Davis's character suddenly had a flash from his childhood, where he remembered something about a Nativity scene or some other religious artifact, and these silver-clad stormtroopers burst into his house and threw his whole family in jail! Why are all policemen in the future wearing aluminum foil suits?

Anyways, the "Christmas is too commercialized" theme is done to death, but I really liked the whole police state violence aspect from this show. If anyone knows how I could get a copy of it, I'd be very grateful.

It's Only Day Three and I'm Already Sick of Talking about Christmas

2009-12-03T08:17:00.003-06:00

I'm just having a difficult time lately getting pissed off about things. I don't care anymore. Outside of the Gap commercial, I mean. Is that bad or good? I'm not even interested in going off on Cuntzilla and this totally insane tea party she's having on Sunday. I regret that I will miss her homemade marshmallows this year, as I am down to my last couple of weeks living out of state.

I am not excited at all about anything, although I did momentarily almost enjoy my hot bath last night. Does this mean I'm depressed? If so, why? Is this just a brain chemical thing? I thought they fixed that with my thyroid medicine?

In conclusion, I don't really care about anything, even the History Channel's latest "Nostradamus" nonsense claiming the Egyptian Book of the Dead corroborates 2012 as Earth's swan song. Their refrains of "some people claim" and cut-ins to crazy half-baked "authors" did cause some brief stirrings on my bullshit detector, but even that didn't rouse me from my stupor.

I guess I'll make meatloaf for dinner tonight.

The Gap is Stupid and Annoying and Christmas Makes It Worse

2009-12-02T08:07:00.002-06:00

I'm not a historian or a religious scholar so let me just repeat two things I've read/heard that make sense to me:

* Early Christians decided to celebrate the feast day for Christ's Birth (that's right; no one ever claimed it was his ACTUAL birthday until fairly recently. Apparently morons can't wrap their tiny brains around a symbolic celebration, only a "birthday") around the winter solstice because they could party at the same time as every one else (in the Roman Empire) without standing out and getting their heads chopped off/fed to the lions/heads chopped off then fed to the lions;

* When the Roman Empire turned Christian, they adopted many of the pagan celebrations and just assigned them Christian justifications so people didn't have to give up the fun stuff.

Because the earliest mentions of December 25 as the feast day precede Rome's acceptance of Christianity, it's probably some combination of 1 and 2. Or maybe some other stuff. Like I said, I'm not a historian. But all this discussion is only secondary to my primary point, and that is The Gap is so vapid and useless they don't even know how irrelevant they are and I want to puke in one of their blue drawstring bags and mail it to the president of the company with a note attached that says, "You are so stupid you make me vomit."

Because of this commercial (and this one, but that's more about the horrifying little spoiled rotten snots in the video. If that's what the Übergirls have as future sorority sisters, I better start training them in armed combat now.):

Here's why the early Christians were smarter than The Gap (I'm using them as an example here of Corporate America, because Commerce is in the midst of taking over Christianity (other major religions to follow) and adapting it to ITS message. That is a post for another day.) The Christians took the pagan stuff and gave another set of meaning to the symbols and practices in place. Commerce wants us to keep up these rituals because it feeds its gaping maw of insatiable greed, but isn't offering us any real reason to do it other than... fun? But soon enough, they will become empty gestures and die out, because materialism is ultimately unsatisfying.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, you can't "86 the rules" without replacing them with something. Well, you can, but it's not going to work very well.

Don't Blame Christmas on Religion

2009-12-01T07:51:00.003-06:00

Of all the misery-inducing, stomach-churning, ear-splitting nonsense that assails us at this time of year, none of it is actually driven by religion.

Think about who lies to you and tells you this is "the most wonderful time of the year." Is it the Bible? Or ultra-conservative sweaterphile Andy Williams? Who insists this is the "best time of the year," your local preacher/priest/rabbi or fascist corporate sell-out Burl Ives? (Later, I will discuss how Rankin Bass's holiday classic "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer", featuring Mr. Ives, is a right-wing propaganda piece. I got that lecture every year from my dad.)

Instead of promising you perfection, leading you to crash and burn when nothing meets your artificially-raised expectations, religion tells you that in all likelihood your life will include some bossy Caesar-type forcing you to fill out paperwork in an inconvenient place at an inconvenient time, and when you show up, the hotel will have lost your reservation and you'll be screwed. Just because you might win one once in a while despite the odds doesn't mean all the crap flung your way disappears.

To explore the myths of the holiday season, I am making up my own nablopomo theme this month called "My Love-Hate Relationship with Christmas." And Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. Because we can't forget to include the forced celebrations of other cultures that nearly escaped without their marketing segments being exploited.

News of No Interest or Use to Others

2009-11-27T12:28:00.005-06:00

Every year, I get a nutcracker or nutcrackers for Christmas. I have almost all of the ballet characters themselves, plus some others. They all have the year painted on the bottom, and most of them come from Target.

I have already decided upon this year's. To commemorate our stay in Austin.

I will also be purchasing Austin-themed ornaments for the tree.

That is all. I apologize for this useless and boring post.

Me, Me, Wonderful Me. Don't You Want to Read about Me? I Thought So.

2009-11-23T07:14:00.002-06:00

As evidenced by the utter crap that has appeared on this blog, I obviously don't care WHAT you want to read, so I'm going to write about me today.

I have gained valuable insights about myself since living in Austin and returning home (however briefly.) For instance, it's entirely possible that I am part Hobbit. And it's not just my hairy toes.

I am a sentimental, nostalgic homebody who enjoys the occasional adventure but longs to return to my cozy nest. Don't get me wrong -- I don't think that my way of looking at things or living is the BEST, it's just the way I am happiest.

I am eternally grateful for the explorers, adventurers and scientists out there. Somebody needs to forge those new paths and develop those new ideas. I am glad people like that do it happily and lovingly, not begrudgingly or forced self-sacrifice.

But when those people need a little rest and a comfy cushion and a cup of tea and a piece of apple pie, they can come to my house and regale me with their tales of conquest. I, myself, prefer to keep the home fires burning.

In short, I am thrilled to be in my own humble abode back in Downers Grove. It's not that there's anything WRONG with Austin; it's a lovely city with its own wonderful traditions and culture. But those are THEIR traditions and culture. And they're great. I don't feel any ownership for them, however.

I have my reasons for loving my home town.

My Body Hates Me.

2009-11-19T09:03:00.004-06:00

I will be getting too personal in the post but I will not be getting disgusting. This isn't about grossing anyone out with descriptions of my bodily functions. This is a self-pitying diatribe with some vitriol not aimed at anyone in particular thrown in for flavoring.

My period was supposed to start last week. It kinda did. I had the headache, and the nausea and cramping, but it gave one weak BLURT and then stopped. The last time(s) it did that I was pregnant.

So, despite the fact that Dilf has already had TWO vasectomies, I sent him to Walgreens to buy me a test to see if he a.) has some sort of super-healing vas deferens, like Claire on "Heroes" if she was a nearly 40 year old man; and/or b.) was going to have to start looking for a bigger house once we get back to Chicago, which by the way will be after February 6 unless something major changes. Actually, for those who need things spelled out for them, it was a pregnancy test. It was negative.

Despite the lack of babies inside me (I was assuming it was twins), the rickety old machinery inside me never did crank into production.

Until today. It's starting. And do you know why? DO YOU??!! Because my body hates me, and wants me to suffer as much as possible. I hear evil laughing echoing from down there. Because...

TOMORROW WE EMBARK ON AN 18-HOUR CAR TRIP BACK TO CHICAGO. For Thanksgiving.

That's right. Why have a period in the comfort and safety of your own home with a sanitary and readily available bathroom handy, when you can be stuffed into a car seat and be subject to truck-stop restrooms instead? Why have nice things like chamomile tea and a warm compress when you can have ... no nice things? No nice things at all... cramped, with cramps... probably forced to endure hour after hour of "This American Life" on CD because Oklahoma only broadcasts Evangelical preachers and music by guys with "Travis" somewhere in their names.

Also, my body must hate Dilf. Because is it not unpleasant enough to endure an 18-hour car trip with me on a good day? Must he suffer, too? (Yes. But part of that is brought on by his own weird obsession with "This American Life.")

I feel like ripping out my ovaries with my bare hands. And if I meet the asshole who thought it was a good idea to write, "Have a happy period!" on my sanitary napkin wrapper (in both English AND French, by the way), I will stuff those ovaries down his throat until he chokes.

What's Wrong? I'll Tell YOU What's Wrong...

2009-11-18T08:29:00.005-06:00

If you Google Image "What's wrong with America?" you'll get images like this, this, and, for some reason, this.

But for my money, not that I spent any, I vote this story as a prime example of how we've gone from this:

to this:

in about a generation or so.

I don't care what political or economic system you pick, it breaks down under the weight of cheaters and schemers and selfish jerks who game the system. Like this woman.

People are driven by compassion and the desire to help others, until they get ripped off by someone taking advantage of their better nature. Like this woman.

Human relationships should be the stuff of love, understanding, empathy, shouldering good times and bad, sharing laughs and sorrows -- unless they are reduced to a crude commodity. Like that woman did. (He'd stay for the chance to touch some big boobies...)

This woman has singlehandedly demonstrated how to take down the basic building blocks of society through her ridiculously selfish and short-sighted actions.

That's pretty impressive, actually.

Flash Fiction Friday

2009-11-17T07:55:00.003-06:00

I am cheating just a little with my Flash Fiction Friday this week. It contains elements of actual events. Is that okay? Cormac? JJ? Anyone? As usual, starter sentence in blue.

"The old camera had been in a box for decades, the pictures never developed, and now with the prints in his hand his blood ran cold from looking at the images that came from it."

He was staring at the image of a woman he had seen just days before... and she looked EXACTLY the SAME. Same frizzy bleached hair. Same crazed look in her eyes. Same drawn-on eyebrows. Only her clothing had changed; she had traded the trampy 1960's era mini skirt and go-go boots from the picture for tight jeans and a mini-shirt. But it was her, all right. How could he ever forget?

But what was her photo doing inside Grandpa's camera?

Grandpa wasn't around to ask. He had died in the 1960's. Well, that's when he disappeared, anyways. Did that lunatic-fringe drunk woman he met the other night have anything to do with it?

That evening he had met up with some friends from high school at an Austin, Texas rooftop bar. They were laughing about old times and new ideas when she sashayed past them with a brawny, mulleted man who was way too young for the likes of her. She was odd from the very beginning, with the monkeys hanging off one of her two large handbags, and her obviously inebriated state. But she got odder.

When Brawny stepped away to get a drink or use the men's room, she surveyed her fellow bar patrons, then stood up in the aisle between the tables. She stood painfully close to him, HIM of all people, and started to do calisthenics. Calisthenics, in the middle of the bar. She bent at the waist so her abdomen was nearly touching her face, its flesh taut, but not supple and luscious like a University of Texas cheerleader. Instead, it was dry and papery, like one of Ed Gein's lampshades. He sat absolutely still, suppressing a shudder and keeping his eyes straight ahead at all costs while his friends laughed.

When she failed to get a reaction out of him with her sexy moves, she sat back down and proceeded to take pill bottle after pill bottle out of her purse. The non-monkey purse. By that time, Brawny had returned.

More people sat down, and she got up and flitted from table to table, before returning to her seat to rifle through several wallets filled to bursting with untold numbers of credit cards. Finally, she and Brawny left.

The waitress came over and apologized to him and his friends, saying the drunk woman had unfairly monopolized her time, and had given her numerous credit cards that all were declined, and then accused her of stealing one of them. They all had a good laugh over the silly woman. The waitress left, and he and his friends resumed their earlier conversation.

Until she returned. Sans Brawny. This time, after sitting down heavily and noisily in the seat at the adjoining table, she jumped back up and began spinning a tale about how Brawny was supposed to be her knight in shining armor, but had left her instead. And the bar had lost her ATM card, so she had no way to get back to the airport. So could he please, please give her a ride to the airport?

Luckily, his friends rescued him this time and they extricated themselves from the crazy drunk woman. He thought that he had seen the last of the woman. But now this photo...

The day after he found his grandfather's old camera sitting in a box and had the photos developed, he was enjoying the newspaper with his morning coffee. The police had found an unidentified man's remains. It was difficult to determine exactly how long the corpse had been in the dumpster behind the Iron Cactus bar and restaurant, since it was mummified and drained of all its fluids. Atop the skeletal remains was a glorious mane of brown hair. Mullet-style.

__________________________________________________________

(This is hastily written and probably crappy. I wrote it in 20 minutes so I can go meet some friends for coffee. I apologize.)

While I Think Important Thoughts...

2009-11-14T12:44:00.001-06:00

Please contemplate upon this picture:

Bad Music Thursday: Shut Your Stupid Mouth, Diana Ross!

2009-11-12T08:49:00.002-06:00

You wanna know what's worse than a bad song from the 70's? When someone takes a bad song from the 70's and puts it to a techno beat:

Here's why I hate this song: it's about a stupid woman romanticizing the fact that she's being used for sex by some jackass.

Look, if someone wants to have a one-night stand or get involved in some mutual "sex-only" relationship, that's up to her (or him). But then don't pretend it's something more! If you want something more, don't let Mister "too cheap to spend a few bucks on a hooker" come over and take advantage of you. Or, if you're just looking for a flesh-and-blood alternative to your vibrator and you're using him just as much as he's using you, then be happy with that and don't subject the world to your delusional sappy "love" song.

Either way, shut your stupid mouth Diana Ross!

Flash Fiction Friday

2009-11-09T08:44:00.003-06:00

Friday Flash Fiction, as it is now erroneously termed, has switched things up this week. Instead of an opening sentence, we were given four words we needed to include in the story. They are in blue.

"You understand, of course, why I must appear in disguise," said the woman from behind her rubber mask.

Actually, I understood nothing about this situation, but sometimes it was better to not to ask a crazy person anything. I just stood behind the counter, waiting for the insanity to spill forth. I didn't have to wait long.

"I need to know I can trust you," she said, conspiratorially, looking over her shoulder and to the left and to the right, to make sure no one was listening. At 1:30 a.m. in the Kinkos on Broadway, that meant the one college student sitting at the PC with his earbuds in and his iPod cranked up. I think Crazy Lady was safe. For now!

"If they knew I was here, revealing all their lies, it would be the end of me. AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?" she hissed between clenched teeth, grabbing my apron to pull my face closer to hers. Or, rather, the fake rubber one. "I don't have much time," she continued, slightly more calmly, yet no less unbalanced. "I need you to make 500 copies of this." She handed me a piece of paper.

It was blank.

I looked up at her. "You can't see it, can you?" She said, pityingly. "Only the Chosen Ones can read it. But we will spare you innocent bystanders when the time comes."

"Thank you. You're very kind," I replied. "Do you want this on white or colored paper?"

I couldn't see her face, but from the tone of her voice, she must've been looking at me like I was a brain-damaged cocker spaniel. "Dear," she said, patiently. "Do you think that message would show up on colored paper?"

I retreated to the storeroom, where I opened a fresh ream of white paper, put her sheet into an "originals" folder, waited a few minutes, and returned to the counter. I handed her the stack and cheerily announced, "All finished!"

She looked at the crisp white bundle, then at me. She pointed a manicured claw and me and spat, "You are one of THEM! You are trying to TRICK ME!" She backed away from me, shaking. She was seriously unglued.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to trick you. I ... just thought..."

"That I am crazy? That there is nothing on the paper?" she finished. "I assure you, young man, the future of the human race could very well depend upon you doing as I ask."

"Let's compromise," I said. I'll run this paper through the copier, but I'm only going to charge you for a ream of paper. It would soothe my conscience."

She nodded, so I took the papers back from her. "Uh, which side is...?" She pointed to the side facing me, to indicate where the message appeared. I dutifully performed my service, and handed everything back. This time, she was visibly relaxed.

She paid, of course, in cash.

As soon as she left, the college student jumped up from his seat and ran after her. Dismayed, I raced after them. I found the "student" on top of the masked lady, snarling at her in an unknown language and choking her in an alley. I pick up a metal garbage can lid and smacked him across the back of his head as hard as I could. He fell off and released his grip, but dashed away carrying as many papers as he could from the scene. Only about half of her order lay scattered about the alley, some in puddles of dank water.

"Are you all right? I asked her, panting. I helped her up, and began collecting whatever papers I could find. "Do you want me to make some more copies for you?"

"Yes," she croaked out from her damaged windpipe. "You have achieved redemption!" she announced, with a triumphant gleam in her eye.

Just then, we heard the explosion. I didn't need to look; I knew it was my store. The Kinkos had gone kablooey. But even before the blast had taken my livelihood, I knew that I was now part of something much bigger.

The Beauty Parlor and Shoe Shopping Can Wait! It's Lady Day on AMC!

2009-11-06T10:17:00.004-06:00

Blue Gal alerted me to a disconcerting film lineup on American Movie Classics: The Prince of Tides followed by Bridges of Madison County.

If you don't understand why that is nauseating, I can't explain it to you. If you understand, I don't have to.

Barf.

Moxie Blogged

2009-11-05T12:12:00.002-06:00

I don't feel like it, but she does. She wrote about Halloween.

Temporarily Out of Order. Please Check Back Later.

2009-11-03T08:43:00.001-06:00

Halloween Wrap-Up*

2009-11-02T07:40:00.003-06:00

*not you, you stinkin' mummies.

When you live in a neighborhood where someone owns a margarita machine and every Halloween involves a block party, "things" happen. And by "things," I mean I get tipsy. So tipsy that I believe I drank beer from a CAN. Of course, I've been drunker on Halloween, but anyways...

Überdilf, the girls, the dog and I stumbled home around 10:30 p.m. with the remains of my spiderweb 7-layer dip, 1/5 a bag of Fritos Scoops, our soft-sided cooler (empty), and the happiest hot-dog-and-potato-chip-laden dog in the world. We scrape off our Halloween makeup, put on our jammies and fall into bed. We all fall asleep immediately, including the comatose dog who accompanied the trick-or-treaters leash free and, as I mentioned before, consumed every bit of food that dropped from the drooping paper plates of drunken Halloween revelers.

That explains why she didn't bark when the doorbell rang at 12:30 a.m. (old time. New time: 11:30 p.m.) I was briefly roused from my fog, but thought I was hearing things, because Captain Food Coma the Wonder Dog didn't bark.

At 4:20 a.m. (3:20 new time), I swear I heard a mans voice calling, "Hello. Hello. Hello." from the foyer. Our foyer has a certain echo to it. I sat up. Again, the dog said nothing. I really WAS imagining it this time, but it was a great time to get a tall drink of water and some Tylenol, so I did. As I was about to climb back into bed, the doorbell rang. I KNEW it was for real this time. And the dog finally barked.

Dilf even woke up, which is really saying something, considering he could sleep through an atom bomb WITHOUT tequila being involved. We both went to the door, Dilf opened it and there was A., the ten-year-old girl from two doors down. Crying. She was locked out of her house ALL NIGHT. No one was home. We quickly let her in, put her in the guest bedroom, I rubbed her back and comforted her for a little while, then we went back downstairs (oh, the master bedroom is on the main floor in this house) to bed.

It seems she was supposed to spend the night at a friend's house and her mom took this opportunity to stay out all night. A. tried to call her mom using a neighbor's phone, but when mom saw an unfamiliar number, she didn't pick up. I don't know why A. left the friend's house (she said she was "tired" and wanted to go home.) I don't know why the mom didn't check her messages. I don't know anything other than the fact a 10 year old girl was left outside on her porch on a cold night and I WISH I would've answered the door the first time.

Just stopping

2009-10-31T19:58:00.002-05:00

for a phrophylactic glass of water before heading back to the halloween block party because this shit is OFF THE HOOK

It's a Tradition

2009-10-30T08:06:00.001-05:00

Like "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," I must watch (and post) this classic every year.

I can watch this over and over and over and over...

An Inconvenient Truth

2009-10-29T08:27:00.002-05:00

Despite our contentious political climate, you will find Godless immoral sodomite Commie abortion-lovers who want to deprive hard-working people of their rightful wages working right alongside hateful Christofascist capitalists environmental rapists who want to deprive hard-working people of their rightful wages.

In fact, they are often working hand-in-hand at food pantries, recycling centers and other community-minded charitable organizations. They are patrons of the arts, show up at their kids' schools, and coach youth sports. They visit their grandmas and oppose domestic violence.

I guess I'm confused; who exactly is telling us the "other side" is evil, and why? Are they so afraid we might start talking to each other?

Buzz, Buzz, Buzz

2009-10-28T08:30:00.004-05:00

Terribly important things are buzzing through my head. Some of them are quite depressing, like this.

Actually, a lot of trivial things are stuck in there, too.

But I have only a few more days of Nablopomo, so... today shall be bad haiku/poetry day.

my dog is smelly
but she hates to take a bath
and she weighs a lot

oh, potato chips
why must you be so tasty?
you are bad for me

Fritos are the devil's toenails
I hear Satan's laughter in my head with every crunch
Lured to our demise by delicious madness
Will this foul temptation never end?

Thursday is garbage day
no matter where I roam
it seems the trash cans must go out
whether rubbermaid or chrome
what strange coincidence compels
that every home I seek
the garbage sits nightly upon the curb
in the middle of the week

Things I need to buy include
pumpkins
votive candles
bags of candy
something for dinner tonight

Lastly...

Stop bothering me, dog!
I'm not walking you in the rain
Stop bothering me, dog!
You really are a pain
Stop bothering me, dog!
You had something to eat
Stop bothering me, dog!
I'm not giving you a treat

(oh, alright...)

Flash Fiction Friday: A Minnesota Mystery

2009-10-27T08:43:00.009-05:00

This week's Flash Fiction Friday entry, starter sentence in blue:

"The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana." In any other bar in the United States, this might have been noteworthy, perhaps even extraordinary. But here, at Pete's, this same guy has walked into the bar every night for the past 3 and a half years, at PRECISELY 8:37, and demanded an answer to that very same question.

Night after night, month after month, year after year the man had mysteriously appeared. Despite the bar being located in the relatively small city of Duluth, Minnesota, where it was difficult to remain anonymous, no one knew the guy at all. Why he chose this small local tavern was beyond anyone's speculation. Where he came from was utterly unknown. Whether the hypothetical iguana ever existed in the first place was the subject of debate. Yet because he was such an entertaining diversion and quickly becoming a local legend, he always drank for free.

While he never varied from his 8:37 arrival time (making the necessary adjustments for Daylight Savings Time), he had never once duplicated a costume. He didn't stick to a particular theme. He didn't always cross-dress. He didn't even stick to a particular species to represent. In fact, the very first time he entered the bar, he was dressed as the beloved pet Iguana he had christened "Clunky." Confused customers mistook him for an insurance company mascot until he explained himself.

The man (who only identified himself as "Clunky's dad) had appeared as Batman, a jar of peanut butter, the Jolly Green Giant, Penelope Pitstop, Millard Fillmore (he had to explain that one), a bulb of garlic, Elizabeth Taylor (as she appeared in "National Velvet"), a pine cone, and once appeared in nothing but his underwear and a moose head. They didn't know it was him until they heard a muffled "Ooo tuk ny et iwanna" from inside the moose's head.

Pete's would become very crowded every night around 8:30, as patrons flocked to see what the man would be wearing next. As he'd come through the door, he'd be greeted with applause and free drinks. He'd stay until 10:30 or 11, and then he'd disappear into the night. People tried to follow him home, to learn who he was or where he lived, but no one had ever been successful. They could only assume he lived nearby, because he always arrived and departed on foot. But it was a near impossibility that someone could be living nearby undetected, considering the small, tight-knit community surrounding Pete's.

Soon enough, the bar's patrons decided that some mysteries were never meant to be solved, and they simply accepted and reveled in the stranger's nightly appearances.

Until the night he failed to show up.

He simply stopped coming. Unsure of what to do, Pete presided over a tear-filled memorial service for the man, and everyone raised a glass to their strange and mysterious friend, whom they assumed had met a tragic end.

The truth was much less dramatic. The truth is, he had simply found his pet iguana. He and Clunky were last seen bicycling toward the great state of Wisconsin, but without any of his outrageous costumes, no one recognized him.

So, Anyways, About That One Thing That Happened That One Time

2009-10-26T10:45:00.003-05:00

I have to blog something and I haven't figured out what to write for Flash Fiction yet, so I will tell an embarrassing Halloween story about my sister instead.

When my sister was in junior high (or "middle school," as it's now called), she and her best friend (whom I'll call Shmudy Shladniak for anti-Googling purposes) on Halloween to commit devil damage upon their real and perceived enemies.

On their enemies list was one Mr. Savage (his real name) who was not the friendliest of sorts, if neighborhood lore is to be believed. As my sister and Shmudy were tossing rolls of toilet paper into his trees, a bellowing Mr. Savage emerged from his home and started chasing them down the street. Unfortunately for Shmudy, her Hunchback of Notre Dame costume was much more cumbersome than my sister's court jester one, and she got nabbed by the Savage and hauled back to his lair, where he telephoned the local constabulary.

My sister did not stick around for moral support.

This was how at the tender age of 13, Shmudy the dangerous malefactor found herself loaded into the back of a police car by Mr. King, for whom she babysat. Mr. King did not let sentiment stand in the way of performing his sworn duty of protecting the fine citizens of Woodridge against such a hardened criminal; babysitter or no, he was taking her in.

(Mr. King would've done better keeping a better eye on his own son, who was my age and who had already pulled the school fire alarm twice, and that was just in first grade. Mr. King also had the flightiest, most scatterbrained wife in the village; she named their dog "Grandpa" and often spoke in her falsetto-sounding sing-song voice about how Grandpa broke through his chain again and was running loose in the neighborhood, to the horror of those who overheard her.

Mrs. King worked with my mother, and Mr. and Mrs. King went out for a drink with my parents exactly once. Mr. King's intense Republican politics and anti-union attitude irked my father, but it was his order of Mogen David and 7-Up that my dad found most unforgivable.)

Anyway, Shmudy and my sister were never close again after that. My sister further exacerbated the situation by sending Shmudy information packets in the mail. For instance, she told the Army Shmudy was interested in enlisting, prompting them to send her countless promotional packets including a 45 recording of the "Reveille" bugle call. But that was nothing compared to the birth control information she requested in Shmudy's name, prompting a concerned Mrs. Shladniak to confront Shmudy after school -- "Shmudy, is there something you need to tell me?"

All in all, it's amazing that Shmudy even spoke to my sister.

What Happened in the '80's, Taylor Hackford? Why Did You Do It?

2009-10-25T08:38:00.005-05:00

In my endless and senseless pursuit of all things terrible, I happened upon this:

which made me think of this:

Which made me think of the terrible movies from whence those two terrible songs came, White Nights and Against All Odds. I came to the terrifying realization that both movies were wrought by the same hand: Taylor Hackford.

Why, Taylor Hackford, why? What happened to you in the '80's? Did Crystal Pepsi drive you to it? The prevalence of electronic drums in pop music? Was it the omnipresence of suspenders (they're not suspenders! They're braces!) Was it Howie Mandel??

Please tell us so we can avoid doing whatever it was that drove you to punish all of mankind in the mid-1980's. We cannot weather this sort of storm again, not while we're still reeling from Twilight and Nickleback and Two and a Half Men.

I Was Depressed Until Yesterday, Lunchtime.

2009-10-24T12:55:00.003-05:00

Then I was happy, because I caught a rerun of City Confidential, narrated by the dearly departed Paul Winfield. A&E used to run back-to-back episodes of City Confidential and American Justice at lunchtime every day, and the 2-hour-block of murder and mayhem and grisly dark humor used to fill me with such unspeakable joy.

Then, they replaced it with fictional crime shows, which are never as delightfully unbelievable as real life crime stories. When someone writes a show, they try to make it "plausible," something that real-life criminals don't burden themselves with. But the Biography channel brought back my favorite lunchtime ritual, and for that I am thrilled.

Yesterday's episode was titled "Green Bay: Terror in Titletown." Some genius murdered his soon-to-be-ex-wife by strangling her and lighting her house on fire, which no one would ever guess could have been done by him - what with all their frequent public battles, her refusal to show up to court to grant him a divorce which was causing his girlfriend to leave him, oh, and the fact he was THE ARSON INVESTIGATOR. And lived five minutes from her house. And had been seen going into her house the night of the fire. But other than having motive, opportunity and the specialized knowledge necessary to commit the crime, NO ONE COULD EVER HAVE GUESSED it was him. Yet, they still needed his ex-girlfriend to trap him in a Las Vegas hotel room, wearing a wire, and get him to confess.

What I love most about the show is its ability to capture the character and feel of the communities in which the stories take place. It's like a travelogue and a crime show all in one. They don't just focus on the story's main players -- they interview the town gossips, the people who sit around in the sports bars, and (in the case of Green Bay) the guy who runs the local sausage shop. Then, they make the worst entendres and innuendos imaginable ("his story had more holes in it than the Lambeau Field parking lot had empty beer cans)and deliciously inappropriate jokes.

Why can't all shows be like City Confidential?

With thoughts of Carmen Miranda and Iguanas floating through my mind...

2009-10-24T10:33:00.002-05:00

Incubation period in process.

I Am Taking a Mental Health Day

2009-10-23T08:21:00.002-05:00

Today, I am forcing myself to avoid bad news, disagreements and general unpleasantness. (Except for Randal. His general unpleasantness amuses me.)

Instead, I decided to look for happiness. And how else does someone look for something in this day and age? I Googled it.

I found a TV show called Happy Town! That should be good, right? Let's see, it's about... unsolved kidnappings...dark truths revealed...a murder... gee, another town (family, school, workplace, zzzz) that looks happy on the outside, but in reality, ISN'T AT ALL!!! I am shocked an amazed, because that is such a new and unique twist. Wait, don't tell me... is someone a vampire (or werewolf or space alien or some otherworldly creature) too? Once again, television dazzles us with its innovative approach to programming. Next.

Ah, a movie called Happiness. That ought to be it, right? Hollywood doesn't call something "Happiness" and then have it not be happy at all, right? They wouldn't resort to such obvious irony, would they? What's it about? "Three middle-class New Jersey sisters all have their problems with their families and sex lives." And Philip Seymour Hoffman's in it. No movie with Philip Seymour Hoffman in it is happy. Next.

Finally, I find The Happy Guy. He's not even some wry hipster being ironic! He ACTUALLY believes happiness is possible! Here is his actual picture, to demonstrate how happy he is!

And despite what other people might say about money not buying happiness, The Happy Guy says happiness has a $59 value! But he's not going to charge you that; he'll give it to you for free if you give him your email address! So he can send you his happy poetry!

I think I'll keep looking. If anyone besides The Happy Guy has any happy suggestions for me, please leave a comment and I'll be happy to read it.

Things that Make Me Cry

2009-10-22T08:30:00.002-05:00

I don't get the daily newspaper. I get a weekly, local paper tossed at the end of my driveway on Wednesday evenings. I didn't open it until this morning, and when I read about this, my heart nearly broke in two and I started to cry.

I don't think I need to explain to anyone why this is heartbreaking.

This whole swine flu thing is just so maddening and confusing; some kids in my neighborhood have it/have had it, and it resulted in a fever, listlessness and coughing. They were fine in a week. Some people, who suffer from weakened immunities or other underlying conditions, have found it much more debilitating or, sadly, fatal. Why would it kill an otherwise healthy five year old?

I can't stop thinking about those poor parents.

You Can Tell Me Honestly: Is My Brain Damage Reversible?

2009-10-20T20:44:00.007-05:00

I have in my possession a copy of Body + Soul, A Martha Stewart Publication, because I am physically incapable of leaving the grocery checkout aisle without purchasing a volume of delicious, delicious self-improvement information. Each one promises to solve one of my many, many MANY problems and shortcomings. You would think I would be perfect by now, yet somehow the solutions evade me, making me all the more desperate to FIND THE ANSWERS.

(Sometimes I even grab the wrong thing by accident in the fevered rush to feed my addiction, which explains the copy of Cooking with Paula Deen that somehow wound up at my house, which is primarily used to freak out my husband. "She's looking at you," I say to Dilf, waving the offending periodical at him. "Her eyes follow you WHEREVER YOU GO.")

But back to my Body + Soul magazine, which contains an article on being an introvert. I have read muchos factos about the whole introvert/extrovert brain construct. Like a lot of things involving humans, there isn't a black or white introvert/extrovert dividing line, but it's a spectrum. We all have degrees of inward/outward focus, sometimes it's even situational. It's interesting if you like studying psychology and human behavior, which I do.

One paragraph from the article summed me up pretty well:

"...introvert types go through much of their lives feeling like something's wrong with them. As a result, many learn to adapt -- some so well they may even begin to believe they're extroverts."

Things are easier when you're an extrovert. Most people are extroverts, so that's how we're "expected" to be. The world rewards extroverts. Introverts want to be loved, accepted and to succeed, so they often force themselves to change. Freud is also to blame, because he was an extrovert while Jung and Adler were introverts, and because Freud was a dickhead he portrayed introverts as "having something wrong with them." Once again, the extrovert came out on top.

The problem is, you get older and (one hopes) wiser, and realize it's bullshit. Like when you join the workforce and realize that hard work and brilliant ideas are often nothing in the face of cronyism and nepotism, and you get a little more jaded with each passing year. That's why introverts like Emily Dickinson wind up sitting in an attic writing brilliant, tortured poetry. (side note: while researching for this post, I came across this that makes me feel all stabby-stabby. That can't be the work of the Holy Spirit, can it?)

I think I've always struggled with this, but I didn't become conscious of it until my own children started school, and I saw them dealing with it. That paragraph I quoted above? It started out "The challenge essentially begins when she is launched into the educational system, which favors students who speak up and find stimulation in groups. The scenario continues to play out from there..."

Until you find yourself grappling with your issues at age 40, I guess. While I once asked myself, "What's wrong with me? Why can't I just be normal?", I am now yelling like Al Pacino in "And Justice for All", "I'm not out of order! You're out of order!"

I really must make my peace with the world, so I stop feeling like this.

Maybe I should buy this book today.

Flash Fiction Friday: Working Title

2009-10-20T09:06:00.002-05:00

I don't have much this week. I have cramps. Anyone want to talk about it? I didn't think so. Anyway, starter sentence in blue:

"You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong."

There was no reply.

"Javier?"

Javier didn't hear, because he had stopped two blocks back.

He was sitting in a street side cafe with a girl in a red dress, drinking a glass of wine.

The End.

Complaints? Do you want me to tell you about the cramps again? Yeah, I didn't think so.

People Who Shouldn't Have Children

2009-10-19T09:18:00.003-05:00

Whenever you hear people mutter "There ought to be a test before they let you be a parent" or some similar sentiment, it's usually in response to some news story about an abused or neglected kid -- typically at the hands of some poor, ignorant rube.

Well, listen up over-indulged, "self-actualized," cashmere sweater-wearing, Interlock driveway-having, Frontgate catalog-shopping, pampered, self-absorbed pea brains -- I don't think you should have kids either.

I have been thinking about this since my sister gave me a copy of More magazine as a joke for my 40th birthday. In that, the September issue, was a story titled "The Mommy Mavericks: Are they trailblazers? Rule breakers? Stamina queens? Maybe a little bit crazy? Six women's stories of having a baby (or three) over 50."

It contained the single most hilarious statement I have ever read, anywhere, regarding parenthood, from one Miss Aleta St. James, aged 61:

Eye-opener "I never thought I'd be bossed around by toddlers. I figured if you gave them a beautiful environment, they wouldn't have tantrums. Surprise, surprise!"

I will give my fellow parents reading this a moment to recover.

Now, I don't want to sound judgmental here but I can't help myself (nor will it be the first time.) Nobody is "owed" a child because they "want" one. You can plan for one, hope for one, and try to have one. You can adopt one. But if you do those things, it should be because of what you want to GIVE to a child, not what YOU want to experience. Most (not all) of the people in the aforementioned article became a mother because of what THEY wanted for THEMSELVES. If that's why you're becoming a parent, please don't. (I realize nothing I say will have an impact on someone like that, but, hey, it was worth a shot.)

Now, another group of people that might not necessarily need to be barred from reproducing, but who should get some sort of training first, is a relative to the previous example: people who have had too much therapy and want to encourage and nurture their children the way they wished they had been encouraged an nurtured.

Now, of COURSE I am not advocating against encouraging and nurturing; what I have a problem with is when parents PROJECT their needs onto their children, and instead of providing the child with what he or she needs, or even UNDERSTANDING WHAT the child needs, coach them as if they were adults.

For example (and teachers, listen up, because this might explain some behavior problems in the classroom), I was dropping ÜberYounger off at her classroom last Friday morning, and I overheard another mother say to her first-grade son as she dropped him off, "You are AWESOME! You can DO ANYTHING YOU WANT TO DO!" then kissed him on the forehead and sent him off into the classroom, where some poor, bewildered teacher was left to deal with a kid who refuses to follow any of the rules or participate in classroom activities, because he doesn't WANT to.

When you have children, you need to re-learn the childhood brain. You simply cannot tell a 6-year-old he can "do whatever he wants," which in your mind means he can become an astronaut or president of the United States, but in his mind means "I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT," because 6-year-olds take you literally.

If you cannot or will not throw off the adult mind-set to fully understand your children, you should not have them.

So, in conclusion, there are prosperous, well-educated people who shouldn't have children, either. Not that my opinion matters much outside of this blog.

So anyways...

2009-10-18T17:00:00.002-05:00

Blah blah Oklahoma Sucks beer blah blah went to see Zombieland blah blah babysitters charge half down here what they do in Chicago blahblahblah have to peel potatoes for dinner blah blah and so on.

I will have time to post tomorrow. Maybe. Probably. Get off my back already!

I've Seen Football Rivalries; We All Have. This One Tops Them

2009-10-17T08:52:00.002-05:00

You'll have to wait for this story because I have things to do.

What "things?"

Just "things." Jeez.

Haunted by Ghosts of Tiger Beats Past

2009-10-16T08:09:00.004-05:00

I plan on reading this book soon, so I can regurgitate her wisdom and present it as my own. Until I can reflect the intelligence of someone else onto my blog post, I will frighten you with tales of television has-beens from the 70's and 80's.

I will NOT start with Kirk Cameron, because it is far to easy to mock him. In fact, I've done it already. So I'm not going to aim at the ridiculously easy Kirk Cameron target.

Instead, I will turn my attention to the outrageously pompous, politically ignorant Scott Baio. Actually, B.A. turned my attention to him. It seems he turned into quite the prick. I blame Joanie for not loving him enough. It embittered him and clouded his judgment. On the bright side, he seems to have a lot of free time on his hands to engage in Twitter-based disputes with complete strangers.

Then, someone who's been on my radar for quite some time, but whose special blend of crazy I've been unable to weave into a blog post before now: Dirk Benedict. I know that's a long, rambling treatise; I bet you have neither the time nor inclination to read it. Let me just tell you that Mr. Benedict believes feminists ruined the new "Battlestar Galactica." (Because, if there were ever a genre aimed squarely at the female audience, it is science fiction.) It seems he was quite upset that StarBUCK became StarDOE:

"Women are from Venus. Men are from Mars. Hamlet does not scan as
Hamletta. Nor does Han Solo as Han Sally. Faceman is not the same as
Facewoman. Nor does a Stardoe a Starbuck make. Men hand out cigars.
Women `hand out' babies. And thus the world, for thousands of years,
has gone round."

Unfortunately, the fate of some stars falls more under the category of "tragic" than "mock-able." For instance, Willy Aames. Or his fictional little brother Adam Rich, who "from October 1990 to January 1992, ... was variously accused of drunken driving, sock-stealing, breaking into a hospital in search of Demerol and throwing himself down a flight of stairs during rehab in order to score painkillers." (Sock stealing?)

I hope the parents on "I Know My Kid's a Star" are paying attention.

In other Hollywood news, Scarlett Johanson is some sort of replicant.

Haunting Revelation

2009-10-15T08:44:00.002-05:00

Tracy Morgan has just released an autobiography, and while recording the audio book version, he extemporaneously added some commentary not originally included in the published version.

Specifically, he reports that Cheri Oteri and Chris Kattan are assholes.

Now, this doesn't entirely shock me. Especially Chris Kattan, who tried to have a "serious" career with dramatic roles. (Emphasis on the "tried.")

And it's not entirely inconceivable that Oteri is a total bitch. But ... here's the thing. Comedy lends itself to poking holes in pomposity. By its very nature, it encourages you not to take life or yourself too seriously. If you are willing to put on a loincloth and stuff apples in your face and act like a monkey, I don't know where you get your sense of superiority from.

This is changing my opinion of comics. I thought they were immune from snobbery, but I guess I'm wrong.

Haunted by the Ghost of Blog Posts Past

2009-10-14T10:32:00.002-05:00

I have written a couple of blog posts that, even years later, inexplicably bring people draw people to blog. Consistently, these posts have included this post about Carrot Top (some people even continue to leave comments), and the David Soul series, with follow-ups here and here.

This seems to indicate my blog peaked some time in 2005.

But out of the blue, with no forewarning or explanation, this post has been drawing numerous people to this blog. I don't even know where they're coming from, because nobody linked to the story (and who would link to a story from more two years ago? Besides David Soul fans, I mean). They appear to be coming from "Google Images." What these people are Googling is beyond me.

But there you have it. Maybe I should go back to me old format? People seemed to like it better.

Flash Fiction Friday: Leaf It Be

2009-10-13T08:22:00.008-05:00

Flash Fiction Friday continues. Starter sentence in blue.

Come with me, if you want to give... happiness a chance," said the small gnarled man bent nearly in half, as they waited at the crosswalk for the light to change.

"Excuse me?" said Jim, unsure if the man was talking to him or to some unseen entity in the man's own mind.

"Before you take you own life, let me show you something first," said the man. Jim gaped. "We need to get on the bus to the train station, then catch the train out to Stiles, then take another bus to the arboretum," the man continued.

"Why would I go anywhere with you? You're nuts," Jim said.

"Because you hate your life as it is. You have nothing to live for. You want to die. What's your fear? That I will waste the time you are already wasting yourself by living in misery, or that I will harm you when you already are thinking of harming yourself?" the man replied calmly, looking up into Jim's astonished face with his tiny clouded eyes.

Jim had no argument. Bewildered, he followed the man onto the bus, then into the train, then onto the next bus as the man had described. They arrived at the arboretum, where the man paid both their admission costs.

"Seven bucks to look at a bunch of trees?" snorted Jim.

"You didn't pay for it, yet you're still complaining?" asked the man. Again, Jim had no argument. Bypassing a school field trip congregated at the front entrance, Jim and the man headed into the stillness of the trees. They were marked with their species name, and native soil. The man did not speak as they navigated through this zoo of trees, gathered together where nature had never meant them to be gathered together, but somehow it didn't seem to bother the trees.

He stopped in front of a rather short, squat tree, whose trunk looked twice as thick as it need be for its stature. "Astrophllicus Magesteria -- Tibet" read the card. Jim scoffed, "That's nonsense! They just made up some vaguely Greek or Latin-sounding words and stuck them together!" The old man just looked at Jim pityingly, and said, "Shall we go in?"

"Go in? what the fu..."

"Please! No swearing in front of The Tree!" the man admonished sharply. Then he walked toward the tree, and disappeared into it.

Jim just stared for awhile. He could get back on the bus to the train to the bus and go back to work. Maybe this was all some sort of delusion on his part. After all, the man was right -- he was suicidal and mentally unstable. Then again, what would he lose by walking to the tree? Even if he smacked into it, and, hopefully, back to reality, no one was around to see his (potential) humiliation.

As he approached the tree, he felt his legs moving beyond his control, pulling him closer and closer like the Millenium Falcon caught in a tractor beam. He felt no impact with the rough bark of the tree when he came face to ... trunk with it; one minute he was in the arboretum, the next he was... inside. With the old man.

Like a Tardis from the science fiction show "Dr. Who," the tree was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. Specifically, it was immense. Actually, it was infinite. "What is this place?" Jim asked, when he was finally able.

"You've heard of the Tree of Knowledge? The Tree of Life? From the Bible?" asked the old man. "This is the Tree of Happiness."

"Those weren't real!" retorted Jim. The man just shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. I've never actually seen them myself. But I do know there is such a thing as the Tree of Happiness, and you're sitting in it right now."

It was true. Jim was no longer standing, but sitting in the most sumptuous, comfortable chair he had ever imagined. Just as he was thinking, "too bad I can't put my feet up," the chair reclined and his feet were up. Unseen hands were giving him a scalp massage. Whenever a desire popped into Jim's head, it was supplied. A sense of wonder and well-being filled him. Jim noticed the man was no longer stooping, his eyes were no longer clouded, and he had a big grin on his face.

"How did you find this place?" Jim asked the man.

"That's a long story, of course," he said. "We have a long time to tell it and hear it."

"Wait," said Jim. "There are a lot of suffering people out there. They need to know about this place!"

"True," said the man, a look of worry beginning to cross his face, "But..."

"Don't tell me you're going to be selfish about this!" said Jim, becoming indignant.

"It's not that. I would share it with the world if I could. But you have to be careful, you have to choose wisely..." the man said in a pleading tone.

But it was too late. Jim was out of the tree, making the reverse commute into the city. He ran out of the train station, grabbed the most grieved-looking person he could find, and told her the story of the tree.

And that is how Jim wound up in a mental health facility, getting force-fed pills to control his suicidal thoughts.

Did I Say I Would Lay Off Politics? What Was I Thinking?

2009-10-12T08:15:00.004-05:00

Okay, this is only partially about politics. This is about how far America has sunk in terms of critical thinking skills. I mean, we've almost reached Pythonesque proportions here.

Now, I'm not the biggest, most loyal Obama supporter out there. I mean, I voted for him because I thought he was the better of two candidates, but I have some complaints.

However, this guy sums up my feelings on the anti-Obama camp pretty well. (Note: not all conservatives or Republicans fall in this camp, nor do I consider all Obama critics in this camp. People who have legitimate, well-thought out criticisms of the president don't seem to get nearly as much airtime.)

It irritates me when people defend their irrelevant commentaries about Obama by saying, "Well, what about what THEY said about GEORGE BUSH!" What? That he attacked Iraq under false pretenses? Authorized torture? The economy tanked on his watch? These are legitimate complaints that can debate, if you want. But at least they are based on his Presidential actions (or inactions.)

Yes, Bush was the butt of jokes and complaints about his smirk and claims of his stupidity (which I do not buy, by the way. For a "stupid" guy, he sure managed to get his way) fall into this same "I just don't like him" level of "criticism," BUT...

Obama's critics (the ones I'm talking about here) blow innocuous or meaningless things out of proportion. They take rumors (or lies) and present them as fact. Or at least turn them into a "what is he hiding?" moment. They use innuendo to provoke consipiracy nuts. I'm not saying Bush didn't inspire his own conspiracy nuts, but they didn't have national media figures like Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh to spread "the word" on a mass scale.

Other examples of insanity can be found here and here.

Haunted by my laundry

2009-10-11T09:36:00.001-05:00

I have to post but I have neither the time nor the desire to do so.

I will tell you that I left my laundry in the dryer, that it had not dried completely, and that I hope it doesn't smell.

That is all for now.

Please try to carry on under the weight of that devastating news.

Barf Me Out. Totally!

2009-10-10T08:41:00.002-05:00

I'm seriously considering avoiding all news I don't hear by word of mouth. I know I have a duty to be an informed citizen, to vote, to help steer elected officials with my incisive opinions (which I never send to them anyways.) But it's starting to totally bum me out. Totally. Why am I putting myself through this?

I have stated before that I believe the government, on the federal level certainly, is completely unconcerned with what normal people want or think. We elect people based on their promises, but with few exceptions, they cater to lobbyists once they get in office. I have given up my childish beliefs that anyone goes vies for public office with the intent of actually improving their town/county/state/country. And the few that do, can't get anything accomplished because they are a tiny, powerless minority. Even my park district board is that way.

So why should I torture myself, twisting myself into knots by listening to and caring about what these people do? It reminds me of an episode of The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, when he talks to a Mexican peasant who says (I'm paraphrasing), "The government came through my farm, and they stole my chickens. Then Pancho Villa and the rebels came through and they stole my chickens. No matter which side it is, they steal my chickens."

I'm just going to bank on people stealing my chickens. I'm just going to work on a hiding place for SOME of my chickens, so I don't get totally wiped out.

Bad Things I've Done That I Don't Regret

2009-10-09T07:44:00.005-05:00

I used to be really cute. Like, getting checked out and getting phone numbers and getting offered drinks cute (I never accepted a drink from someone I didn't know, though.) Of course, this is no longer the case. And it wasn't always the case (I was a dork in high school). I had a brief period of hotness in the mid-to-late '90's and have been heading steadily downhill, rapidly, ever since.

So what did I do with my hotness? Did I use it to attract rich guys? No. (Although, ironically, guys named Rich...) Did I slut it up around town? No. (Too afraid of diseases.) Did I attract a collect a set of sexy boy toys for my own amusement? Not exactly.

I did amuse myself -- but by torturing the meathead douchebag idiots other women seemed to fawn over. For example... (cue wavy picture, flashback music)

When Dilf and I were dating, he worked with a douchebag that other women swooned over but who was basically Joey from my last post. I was meeting up with Dilf and his work buddies for a drink, and this man who we'll call "Joey" was there -- with his cousin.

His cousin was not at all fashion-conscious, a little paunchy, and sort of shy. I knew right away he was "Joey's" wing man, and served to provide contrast to Joey's obvious handsomeness. I knew immediately what to do.

Of course, I struck up a conversation with the cousin. I hung on his every word, which were nearly all about hot-air ballooning, because this cousin was really passionate about his ballooning hobby. In fact, he was in town from New Mexico.

Well, douchebag Joey was not having any of this. His world was in turmoil -- how could his dumpy cousin, who was supposed to be the pathetic one, be monopolizing the attentions of a cute girl? He attempted to butt in the conversation with a condescending, "Yeah, yeah, yeah... so, (insert moronic attempt to impress me with something. I forget what he said, exactly.)" He tried to put his arm around me and steer me away from his cousin, and toward him.

I stiffened and said, stony-faced, "Excuse me, we were having a conversation," and, wriggling out of his grasp, turned back to his cousin. "So, the last time you were ballooning..." I said, sweetly and pleasantly and oh-so-attentively.

Joey was aghast, and more than a little miffed. I was crowing inside. Jerk.

And here's the thing. I wasn't using the cousin to make a point (well, maybe just a little.) I was more interested in hearing about New Mexico, which I still haven't visited, and hot air ballooning, which I've never done, and it was heartwarming to see how much he loved his hobby. I wasn't pretending to prefer a conversation with the cousin; I did prefer it. What was Joey going to contribute to the conversation? That he liked beer and sex with hot chicks? If I wanted to hear from someone like him, I could just tune in to "Beavis and Butthead," which was still on the air at the time.

So, maybe I was a little mean to Joey. I was even meaner the next time we went out, and he was trying to hit on the waitress by grabbing the check and cooing, "Is it $5,000, sweetheart?" And I interjected, "He wants to know if it's more or less than his current yearly salary." Which made the straight-edge punk rocker guy who worked in the same department laugh, but which did NOT make Joey smile. I shouldn't be mean to anyone; that's not right. But if I have to mean, I choose to be mean to someone like Joey.

The world is mean enough to the non-Joeys.