You Can Go Home, But You'll Sometimes Find Assholes There

Went back to my Alma Mater for homecoming yesterday.  It's been 9 years since I graduated, leaving behind the tiny college I called home for four years. Four long years of debates in the class room, thousands of hours procrastinating writing papers, and scrubbing toilets to pay for my tuition.

Got all dolled up in my Red Dress of Courage.  It has been 8 years since I saw many of these people, almost 7 years since I gave birth to my son.  I needed something to make me feel wonderful, proud of myself, and all the achievements I have made in the last 9 years of my life.  

Was asked by a former classmate if I enjoyed being raped. 

Was too shocked to come up with a good reply, but wish I had retorted, "Of course, why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

I noticed many nasty glances and pointed fingers but didn't care.  Was ignored by people who were my friends when I was engaged but who didn't even bother to call when my fiancee left me at the alter.

I went for me.  I went to prove that I could go back there and not be ashamed of who I am, of the path my life has taken.  I'm not ashamed of my blue hair, of my views on the world, of the fact that I write openly about my rape, struggles with depression and anxiety, or the fears that run around my head.

I went because I am so my bigger than all the nonsense that use to keep me down.

And for all that I say with a smile on my face, I might not be the best Catholic out there, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.  And I can live and strive to do better than that.  

The Road To Parenthood Is Paved With Good Intentions

When I was the little Diatribest, my parents did what they could to protect me from what they deemed too mature or inappropriate by heavily restricting what I viewed on TV or listen to on the radio.  I didn't view one-eighth of the movies that may classmates saw (Willow? Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead?) and I wasn't allowed to listen to modern music, so I grew up on the classics, the oldies.  Yet somehow I managed to view The Graduate before I was 11 (which I didn't and still don't understand).  Also, it turns out hearing a little girl belt out "Brown sugar, why do you taste so good, brown sugar, just like a young girl should" is a bit disturbing.

And I respect that.  I hated them at the time, but I understand now what they were attempting to do.  As a parent I attempt to do the same for the Kiddo.  There are some things that I won't let him view because I find them to be downright disgusting, inane, or insulting to children viewers and the adults that created them.

For instance, my parents wouldn't allow me to watch the Chucky Trilogy. (clip NSFW).  So what I gathered about the movies from my classmates was that a little boy had a doll that came to life and killed everyone.  Sounded creepy, but I could separate fact from fiction.  I wasn't afraid my Cabbage Patch doll, which lay on the end of my bed every night along with 30 other stuffed animals, was going to wake up and kill me. 

Then Playschool came out with My Buddy and Kid Sister.  And I confused the murderous doll with a lame doll aimed at friendless, siblingless children.  The kids across the street had a My Buddy, which I swear would follow me around the house.  And it didn't help that the older girl told me her visiting cousin was possessed and would kill all the newborn kittens if I didn't sit on the bed and be quiet.

I'm almost 31 and over-sized dolls still scare the crap out of me.

Somewhere, Someone Is Laughing

January is named after the Roman god Janus, know for having two heads so he could look forwards and backwards at the same time.  If Janus was so good at seeing forward and backward, then it would have been nice if I'd gotten a heads up that I would want to drink away memories of today. 

Tuesday 3, 2012--You suck.

• The Kiddo can't return to school today because he is still, still, still sick.  His illness has not resolved itself in a month and since a momma knows her kid best, I knew something more than just a 'viral infection' was up at this point.

• Made a fortuitous call at 7:45 this morning to discover that there was an opening at 11:30 at the pediatrician's.  Perfect. 

• Did a work assignment only to discover that the email address I was attempted to reach was coming back as undeliverable.  WTF?  I've done work for this person for the past 5 days.  I'm expecting my first paycheck on Sunday, small tho it is, it'd be enough for half a tank of gas.

• I try calling this client.  Contact him at both numbers.  Realize that both numbers are forwarded to the same mail box.  No big deal, right?  I have to get the Kiddo ready for the appointment, return a few emails, and put out a few new feelers.

• Arrive at the doctor's 15 minutes early.  After 45 mins told that the doctor is on call at the hospital.  That's okay because I can just enjoy the honky-tonk Ebola reunion that's going on in the waiting room.  Every boot wearing member in the county walks through the door smelling of stale cigarettes and Super Gulps.  There is much hugging, number swapping, mucousy smokers coughs, and promises to get together.  The tiny infant two chairs away is covered in such large spots that I can only hope the family dog has a bad case of the fleas. 

• At quarter to 1, doctor arrives, chats with us for a few minutes, calls out a prescription, and we're back out the door.

• Grab a $2 Happy Meal for the Kiddo, pick up a few groceries and off to Wal-Mart to pick up the meds.  

• Stand in return line for 10 minutes.  Discover toy did not originate from Wal-Mart but SUPER Wal-Mart.  They won't accept it.  ~~~Sigh~~~~

• Wait at pharmacy window. 12 minutes til their lunch break is over.

• Window opens 5 minutes late.  They haven't filled the prescription.  Told it will be ready in 30 minutes.  Know this is a lie because the same damn line is being spoken to 5 other customers.  And there is only one pharmacist.  I can do the math. 

• Decided to go home and eat lunch.  Having passed up high fat, high calorie Micky D's I am now so ravenous that I eat a monster roast beef sandwich, a bag of salt and vinegar chips, AND a dill pickle.  

• Drop a tomato, squat to pick it up.  RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  I am now the proud owner of fully ventilated jeans.  

• Try to call the client who owes me $$ a call.  Once again, I get creepy, crappy voicemail.

• Do a bit of work, bundle the kid back out to the car.  It's been 3 hours, the medicine must be ready by now.
• First and only person in line at the pharmacy and it's still ANOTHER 20 MINUTES!  They have to mix the medicine.  For the love of cheese and crackers!

Time to close the curtain on this day.

Next Time on House: Dr. Chews Gum While He Amputates Leg

I'm damaged good.  Naturally all women want to hump me.

Search engines, all I have to say is what the hell?  How to you explain that two people searching for "Can Dr. House amputate his leg" and another searching "Why do I chew gum daily" land on my site.  I find it hard to believe that terms like Dr. House's leg has been so underutilized that my page pops up first in Google results.  I don't know if I should be flattered or irritated.  Maybe I should start throwing out random words and see what happens next.

Burbank, California!
Kittens
Old Spice (just cuz I luv the dreamy man your man could smell like man)
The Book of John
Ice Cream Cones

I'll let you know what that brings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 I'm going to introduce you to a new segment of my blog I'd like to call "News that Pisses Me Off (Because It's so Fucking Dumb.)" So without further ado:

News That Pisses Me Off  

(Because it's so fucking dumb)

• First up, Bolton, England where a British whorehouse fitness group is offering a pole dancing class. FOR SEVER YEAR OLD GIRLS!  I understand the way capitalism works.  You make a product, no matter how dumb it is (see truck testicles below) and the consumer will by it, thereby you laugh all the way to the bank.  Now here's what really pisses me off.  It's not the "gym" that is offering the classes.  It's the PARENTS that are allowing their pre-prepubescent innocent girls to attend these classes.  I mean for Gods sake, why don't you just pimp them out of the street for an honest dollar if you want your child to have a career in pole dancing.  That's every pedophiles wet dream come true.  I'm not for Big Brother stepping into peoples lives, but in this cases, I'd be all for it.  Do these assholes even realize what they are doing to these babies, turning them into sex on a stick when most of them can't ride in a car without a booster seat?  For you parents in Bolton, England--You are sick fuckers!
• Apparently a cop in Bonneau, North Carolina had nothing better to do than to hand out a $445 ticket to a woman who had 'truck nutz/bull balls' hanging off the back of her truck.  Here's the thing, personally I find those things juvenile, disgusting, and frankly, if you have to hang fake beanbags off your truck to prove something, you're overcompensating  (i.e. men who drive fast, red sports cars).  Citing an obscure public decency law, her trial is set for August 1.  If he wants to play fair, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, why doesn't officer jackass pull over semis with naked lady mud flaps.  Oh, that's right.  Because he'd be too scared to do that.  

It's late now, I've finished my rants.  I should finish up a page I've been working on for The Band, but I think I'll make some cinnamon and sugar toast. 

Skechers Shape-ups for Girls, Now In Bruised Ego Blue!

Maybe I'm a little behind on product commercials.  Being without network or cable TV for over a year, there are things that have been out on the market for months that I am just finding out about.  Never realized there was a Popsicle maker that didn't utilize the freezer compartment and a sluggish one hour wait, but the Zoku Quick Pop Maker exists for the ADD driven adolescent who won't be made to wait.

Maybe you've already seen this product out there, maybe your darling prepubescent daughter, niece, babysitter, or your best-friends-10yr old-step-sister-from-Daddy's-mid-life-crisis is caterwauling about how the lonely and miserable their existence is because they don't yet own Shape-Ups XF High Kix by Skechers.  If you've missed the commercial here it is off of Youtube.

My favorite part?  I'm not sure if it's the depiction of boys struggling after the girls like they are a pack of beaten dogs or if it's the line "looking good and having fun."  I love, love, love the dual dejecting message that the commercial sends out.  First, boys are out of shape idiots, dressed up as junk food.  Obviously, the aren't cool nor smart enough to be fit.  Secondly, the girls wear these shoes because "they're everything a girls wants!"

Not to mention that a pair of these shoes cost 50 bucks and in this shitty economy $50 won't get you a full tank of gas.  Are you as a parent willing going to shell out for shoes that the kid will outgrow by the time they sneeze? 

What really get's me pissed off the most, and I've written about it in a prior post, is the there seems to be a subtle message aimed at girls that even at an age where they should be running around a playground during recess time, they need to be concerned about their looks. 

Just look at the adjectives used as write up for these style shoes: FIRMING, TONING, LIFTING. Okay, if you are 20-30-40 something and insecure about your ass looking too droopy, go ahead a shell out the money for these shoes.  But to we really need to be putting the idea into our girls heads that they need to be concerned about the state of their ass and thighs at the tender age of 8?

Nothing's Wrong, Unless You Count Ice Cream Cake as an Emergency

2:30 Saturday afternoon.

~Down in the dumps after receiving some disappointing news but decided I was going to rally myself and not get the waterworks on. 

 ~Loaded the Kiddo into the car, intending to purchase necessary groceries for the week, possibly picking up something fun/yummy/not entirely healthy for dinner.  Ice cream cake for dinner sounded really appealing.

$50 at the pump last night didn't fill the tank.  Anyone care to trade for a horse?

~Decided to make a stop at the post office to retrieve mail that had been stacking up for several days.  Pretty sure I'd have three different charities asking for money (I use to donate before I went broke), a bank statement reminding me of how little I have, a reminder that my car payment is going to suck another $312 away from me (didn't realize that I could have re-financed two years ago; not so much now that I'm kinda/sorta unemployed because some people don't believe writing is a job), and a catalog showcasing darling clothes obviously made of hand-spun gold.  Because who in their right mind would pay $53 for an undershirt?

~Hand the mailbox keys to the Kiddo and realize that I have dialed 9-1-1 on speakerphone when I hear the nasally operator, "911, what's your emergency?"
Shrieking "OH CRAP!" I frantically paw at buttons to turn off the phone.
"Crap is a BAD WORD!" the voice from the back scolds.  "You get a bad mark!"  Elated that his Momma will have more bad marks on the bad word/bad temper chart than he does, the Kiddo scampers out of the car.

~30 seconds later, the treacherous phone rings.  "Ma'am, this is the police.  We received a call from this phone indicating an emergency.  Are you alright?"
"Yes.  I am so sorry!  I didn't mean to call you!"
"Ma'am operating procedures state that we must make contact with you.  What is your location?"

At this point, my brain shuts off and I develop a Tourette-like babble.  "I'm not at my phone.  I mean, I'm not home, not phone.  I'm talking to you on my phone.  I'm over at the Post Office because I wanted to get my mail."

"Alright Ma'am.  We need you to stay there.  What type of car are you driving?"
"I'm in a small SUV by the Post Office, not my house!"
"Ma'am, what color is your car?"  At this point Officer McFriendly was probably expecting to find me all drunky-drunky.
"Blue!  It's a blue Honda. . ."
~The Kiddo returns, mail in hand, sighing as he re-buckles his car seat.  "Momma, we have a Hyundai."
"It's a Hyundai," I yell into the phone, only to realize that Office McFriendly has hung up and is parked alongside me.

Now here's the thing.  I haven't been on a date in over four years.  I would hope at some point in the (nearer rather than later) future to go on a date/find Mr. Right/get married/live happily ever after until one of us forgets to put the cap on the toothpaste.  And seeing as I work from home(!!!) I don't get my mingle on that often.  Meeting Officer McFriendly as awkward as it is seeing as I've stammered like an idiot might just be the start of a beautiful thing.

Except I'm wearing a stained shirt.  And my hair is clipped up in a manner only described as water-logged rats nest.  And my bottom lip is swollen because I bit a nickle sized crater into my mouth while I was ravenously chowing down on cold seafood salad. 

I tell myself that batting my eyes and a wonderful smile will go a long way to make up for the stammering and train-wreck that I must look like.
"Hi, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay Ma'am.  Just wanted to make sure that you were well."
"I'm fine.  Well, okay I guess.  Actually, I'm having a crappy day."
"CRAP IS A BAD WORD!  YOU GET ANOTHER BAD MARK!"

My life.  It rocks indeed.

Would You Like a Side of Crack with Your Crack?

For the record, I've never done drugs, others than those prescribed for me. 

Though many question the truth of that statement.

As a child, I was sick far too often and was usually on some type of drug that made me a trippy, high-strung motor-mouth or a depressed, weapy insomniac.  So the idea of partaking in 'recreational' drugs has never appealed to me.  Why get trippy or stoned when I had spent a good portion of my childhood in that crappy state?  Plus I had the absolute fear of my father to dissuade me from getting high. 

For example, when I did the typical 'rebellious' act of piercing my navel, after getting into an argument over how I contracted mono (my roommate had it, and NO, we did not have THAT type of college experience), I was so scared my father would come after me with a pair of pliers if he found out.  (Note: I was 21, not living at home, paying my way through college).  So much for me being a bad-ass rebel.

On top of the illness and sheer terror of my father, I know a lot about the ingredients that goes into drugs.  Somehow the idea of paying good money to purchase a cocktail of battery acid, drain cleaner, and Epsom salt (meth) or baking soda/baby powder, water, and ground coca (crack) doesn't appeal to me.  Really, if I wanted to play Russian roulette with my body, I could go down to the dollar store and huff some White-out  or I could 'chase the dragon' and mix up a cocktail of bleach and ammonia to see how long I can inhale the fumes before I pass out.  

And no, I don't want to hear about how weed is a perfectly natural substance and doesn't hurt anybody.  I find that statement to be complete and utter bullshit.  I had two friends from childhood who started with pot and moved onto heavier things.  One did a combo of speed and an 8ball, broke into a house, and beat up 2 cops who showed up to arrest him (several years in jail) and another did a B&E on a pizza joint, shot and killed a few people, and is in jail for the rest of his life.  (He taught me how to shoot a layup when I was 6th grade).  So much for a harmless drug.

But when the Kiddo goes to school in August, I have the perfect deterrence to keep him from EVER wanting to get involved in drugs.  The simple argument is that when you purchase your drugs, there is a good chance it was already in your dealer's butt.  Don't believe me, check out The Smoking Gun and keyword search "butt" and "drugs." As of today's search I found six articles on this site alone, three of which involved idiots from Florida.

And it's not just the male dealers who utilize this hiding places.  Ladies have their own special spots.  I even found a website with helpful hints.  I can save you the trouble and curiosity, there weren't any pictures (thank you!) but the descriptions were far too um, explicit.  

So my idea for the war on drugs isn't to pump millions of dollars into anti-drug campaigning.  It should be a sign that is hung on hallways of every school:  "Want to experiment with drugs?  Stick your finger in your poo-hole and sniff.  If you don't gag and vomit, there is something completely wrong with you.  Go to the nearest hospital have have your olfactory senses tested." 

I think that would convince a few hundred million children to avoid drugs.  Now I just need to get a really popular actor/actress to address Congress and run this campaign by them.    Angie, Brad, Ashton?  Any of you up for a trip to DC?

The Search for the Maimed Parrot

And what sort of thanks do I get?  The bird destroyed one of my few remaining 'good' towels and crapped all over the laundry room floor.  Good thing it was outside.

It's Like Walking the Wire Without a Net

That's what I'm feeling right now.  Not exactly scared of falling because I am concentrating on walking.  But I know that if I look down, I will fall to my death.

I really want to make this work.  I know I can do it.  I realize that I don't have much too say tonight, as I've been up until 2AM the past few days talking to a friend who is going through a very difficult time.   There's this really funny post that I have all done in my head, and 1/4 done on 'paper,' but I keep losing my train of thought.

I walked around in the sun for 2 hrs today chasing after an injured Congo gray parrot.  One of the neighbors called out to me, as I traipsed through yards suggested that I should keep the bird and resell it.  Making $500 on a bird whose medical bill are sure to be at least $400 doesn't make a great profit.  Beside, the Kiddo is already afraid of butterflies, do I really need him to be frightened of birds that look like the have survived a garroting?

And now my computer won't comply with me.  I wanted to upload a picture of the stupid bird, but it's not working.  This is one for the crappy record books. 

The Finer Art of Sales

To the young women who barged into my house today,

In the future, should you continue to solicit door to door in hopes of winning a college scholarship (which I highly question its authenticity even though you mentioned Oprah's name) allow me to give you a few pointers that might boost your sales or at least prevent you from losing your foot in a slamming door.

First, dress up for grits and gravy sake!  I understand going door-to-door means that you might want to be a bit more casual.  I'm fine with the jeans.  What I find appalling is that I know you store your Marlboro Reds in your ample bosom because your shirt was low cut and stretched out of shape.  I remember trying to pimp my Cutco knives (oh, the horror!)  to pay for another semester of college and I never went on a call with out looking like I was going on a job interview because you know what?  No one wants to buy goods from a salesperson that looks like a Jerry Springer cast member. 

Secondly, slow down when you speak.  You claimed to be from Kentucky, but the only time I've heard someone speak that fast was watching Gilmore Girls.  Personally, I can't stand the dialogue on speed approach when it comes to conversations (unless it's along the lines of "Run!TheKillerIsHeadingThisWay!HolyShit!Run!).  Southerners tend to be a bit more laid back and our drawl occasionally causes one syllable words to elongate to three syllables.  (Ask a Southern boy to say shit and you'll hear "Sheeyet," no fooling.)

Third, don't ask demand, "Do you have something to drink other than water, 'cuz I don't drink that stuff."  And if I offer you OJ just to get you to shut up because I am trying to be polite, don't ask "Is it disgusting?"

Fourth, DO NOT continually high-five the person you are attempting to sell you products to.  I don't care if I went to college (High 5!), read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (High 5!), studied history (Fist Bump!), do yoga (High 5!), my kid is watching a science movie you watched in high school (High 5!) or am raising my son alone (High 5!).  I can guarantee you the next High 5! you attempt will probably aimed at your face.  I was only too kind because my child was watching me and the train wreck you were driving. 

Fifth, don't curse like a sailor straight from the docks.  Yes, I have can have a foul vocabulary, but I have the common sense to speak like that in front of my friends who know me well enough and NOT in front of my child.   One possible reason my neighbors are "jackasses" is because every time you opened your sewer mouth, they decided not to give you the time of day.  Plus trying to convince someone to purchase a magazine because they'll get one thousand dollars (!!!!!) of coupons, because "who fucking doesn't like coupons?" is not a high selling point. 

Good luck in the future!  I can only imagine what the halls of higher learning has in store for you.

Sincerely and High 5!
The Diatribest

I Think the Term I Am Looking for is Operator Error

I love technology.

What did we do before the advent of the mobile phone, when you couldn't tell mom to pick up some more milk while she's at the store because your baby brother (who you were supposed to be keeping an eye on and not dancing to Amy Grant's Baby, Baby) pulled the gallon out of the fridge and onto the floor?

I have two different remotes that allow me to switch functions on my TV/DVD without having to leave my chair.  (I can just image the conversation with the Kiddo. . ."when I was your age, you had to walk across the room to change the channel, and cartoons were only on Saturdays."  I'm sure that will go over as well when I tried to explain to my little brother that 'the giant CDs out in the garbage can' were actually LPs.  Much confusion ensued.)

I can order books off of the Internet, request prayers or encouragement through various social networking sites, find delicious recipes without having to paw through a stack of unorganized, stained, chicken-scratched papers, and discover just how little I have in my bank account. 

But this love of technology is a bipolar love, for there are times (tonight most notably) that I HATE technology. 

See, I'm going to a college baseball game on Saturday with the Kiddo and his 'favorite' uncle/the youngest of my younger brothers which will be located in St. Pete.  You would think that a city built on a grid would be easy to navigate.  That's not what I've found out on most of my adventures to the other side of the Bay.  Last time I tried to drive from a bookstore to my therapist's office which Google Maps assured me was only 15 minutes away, I got lost for an hour!  In rush hour traffic!  On a Friday! 

Which was not fun, to put it mildly.  Profanity, crying, and running a STOP sign (accidentally!) may have been involved.

So I broke down the other night and purchased a GPS.  It came well-enough recommended, got some good on-line reviews and my research showed that for the price Wal-Mart was offering, I couldn't get it any cheaper unless I stole it.  (Which I totally didn't). 

Tonight after watching the download timer tick from 97 minutes on and not wanting to run any other programs, an error message occured in the remaining 4 seconds of downloads. 

Reason being: I forgot to disable to the firewall before downloading began. 

Hard Times + Drugs=Death....Not a Very Good Equation

Reading the Sunday paper this past weekend, I happened upon an article about an American facing the death penalty for participating in a drug smuggling ring.  Frank Amado lives in Jakarta, Indonesia where he decided to turn to drug trafficking when his business went belly up and his girlfriend left him. I admit, it is a sad story especially when I read about the Frank's mother using up most of her savings to try and hire a lawyer to defend her son. 

But, and I know this sounds harsh, I don't have any pity for Frank.  His mother, yes, for she will have to live the remainder of her life knowing that her son was executed millions of miles away from her and that she couldn't do anything to change that.  A parent's worse fear is that their child will die before them.  In this case, Frank could have spared his mother an future filled with sorrow and anger, but instead, he acted like a selfish prick.  I know, I sound like a heartless jackass.

Hear me out. 

First of all, Frank chose to live in a country, beautiful though it is, has very harsh laws against drug use/selling/trafficking.  For Indonesia to take such a hard stance against drugs, they do have lower crime rates than many of their Western counterpoints.   (Charlie Sheen, Lindsey Lohan don't plan on visiting Jakarta anytime soon.  I can guarantee you won't see the light of day again, no matter how good of a publicist you have.)

When Frank fell on 'hard times,' rather than dust himself off, work one or more jobs to cover his living expenses, or even call mom and ask for air fare back home, he decided to take a short cut.  The saying when you play with fire you'll get burned isn't a joke. 

This is why I have no pity for Frank.  I, along with millions of others in the US today, have fallen on 'hard times.'  When I lost my job back in June, I was devastated, but I began scrounging around to find any work I could.  I cleaned a few houses, babysat, moved furniture, and sold some of my meager possessions.  In addition to my own personal expenses, I am raising a child which adds a whole other layer of complexities.

But did I decide that it would be a better choice to run drugs or turn tricks at the local strip bars to support me and my child?

Ummmmm....NO.

Granted, my ego has taken a huge bruising at times, having to ask the landlord if I can split up my rent payments throughout the month, relying on the generosity of others to help make ends meet when the crops froze up for three weeks, and asking to eat at my parent's house a few too many times because I didn't even have milk in the house. 

The point that I am making here is that I didn't wimp out.  And I've still survived.  Certainly more humbled than before and more understanding to the plight of others who are in far worse condition than me.  Frank Amado, sorry as he may be for his crime, screwed up in the first place by trying to take the easy way out and secondly choosing to live in a society knowing fully well of the consequences he might face. 

Things You Don't Say To Me

Fact: I am single.

Fact: Some days I will have more stress in my life.  I may be cranky at moments, but I will be able to function just fine. 

Fact: I will think you are a rude, insensitive, crude, and lowbrow troll if you dare to make nasty remarks about me needing a sex life.

Do not ask if I was up all night with B.O.B. when I yawn.  (I was so embarrassed when I realized it meant battery operated boyfriend.)

Do not tell the 19 y.o. who works in the afternoon that I will be a happier person if he "slings some my way."

My lack of marital/dating status does not give you a carte blanche to openly mock me.  I have standards, I have feelings, and I am more than a impulse driven being.  Impulse control separates man from the beasts.

I'm so pissed.   

(This is day 2 of 21, but I don't feel like this is a victory on my part.  I may have written for 30 mins but I don't have any real direction.  Tomorrow, I write when I am less cranky, more rested.)

Day 1 of 21

I'm supposed to be writing for 30 minutes each day.  It's a bet I made with my shrink.   But I've got nothing so far.  I have no idea what to write about.  In fact, I've already trashed a piece that I worked on for about 20 minutes b/c I felt that it rambled.  Much like this. 

Probably watching Arrested Development in conjunction with attempting to make sense of my drek-like ramblings tonight is not going to help.  So I'm off to bed.  Day one, points go to the shrink.  Maybe I'll have more in me tomorrow.   

I wish AD was still on the air. Stupid Fox. 

WikiLinks: Gossip Girl Meets The Tattler

Dear Julian Assange,

You.  Are.  An.  Asshole. 

I am not against exposing corruption, but please change your forum.  Using the Internet as your bathroom wall has got to stop.  In my opinion you are less of a whistle blowing vigilante crime fighter than you are a flat out bitchy gossip.  Your latest round of news, if that's what you call it, exposes political figures personal opinions outside of the bargining chambers.

Seriously?  Grow up!  I feel like I am listening to a bathroom break at a highschool:

"OMG!  Did you see Becky's shirt?"
"I know!  Total slut."
"Trying to get back at Brandon for dumping her at prom."
"Whatever.  By the way, did you know that Prince Andrew 'cockliy' at a 2008 brunch with British and Canadian businessmen in the country's capital, Bishkek, leading a debate that 'verged on the rude."
"Really, who gives a shit?  Why did you even bring it up?  It was prob his time of the month."

 To me, you are nothing but a shit-pot stirrer.  Like a gossip, you hide in the shadows, too afraid to speak up.  I think you are a "L, 7, Weenie!"  If you really stand behind what you say, then show your face.  Stop moving around, moving from house to house like the rat you are.  If you have something useful to say, grow a pair, and man up.  

Pictured: A D-Bag  Not Pictured: Rat Tail

If You've Ever Felt Fat. . . With Absolutely No Apologies to Maura Kelly or Marie Claire's EIC Joanna Coles

Dear tactless Maura Kelly and her questionable editor Joanna Coles

Ladies, have either of you ever woken up in the morning and felt like it was going to be one of your fat days?  You know instinctively that none of your clothes will look right on you, you assume everyone at work will see the cellulite on your legs, and your raging PMS hormone-addled body is screaming for chocolate, salt, or a combination of the two.  (French fries dunked in a chocolate shake?  Why, yes I will!)  So when I came across this drivel, I'm sorry, this blog post which masquerades as a piece of freelance writing worthy of monetary compensation Should Fatties Get a Room? (Even on TV?), I am happy to say that I could care less about your ignorant, C minus creative arts class assessment on fat/big boned/obese people.  (And really, if you took out the word "Fatties" out of the title and inserted a different age/social/religious/ethnic group, for example, Welfare Recipients, Blacks, Mormons, Hasidic Jews, there would be one hell of a lawsuit and boycott on your hands.)

It's taken me almost 30 years to realize and understand what the ever witty Jen Lancaster says in her book Such a Pretty Fat, "I'm tired of books where a self-loathing heroine is teased to the point where she starves herself skinny in hopes of a fabulous new life.  And I hate the message that women can't possibly be happy until we all fit into our skinny jeans.  I don't find these stories uplifting: they make me want to hug these women and take them out for fizzy champagne drinks and cheesecakes and explain to them that until they figure out their insides, their outsides don't matter."  (Emphasis mine)

See, my body type tends to be more like this:

She is so gorgeous!

What's not to like?

                         Instead of THIS:

I've seen healthier legs on a stork!

I want to scream, "Eat a damn sandwich!"

And I'm not going to apologize for my curves, I'm gonna embrace them!  Do you know how much women pay for a set of D-D-D in hopes of raising their self-esteem and garnering more looks from the male population?  I got these babies for free!  Should I apologize to you because my thighs touch when I stand up or that "Baby Got Back" by Sir-Mix-A-Lot celebrates women like me and not you?  Are you that unhappy in your love/emotional/physical life that you find it revolting to see an overweight person in love and enjoying life?  Do you somehow feel better knowing that the thousands of people who don't have this gift of understanding and security that I have so lately received are going to cry into their pints of ice cream while they mentally scourge themselves for being viewed as disgusting?

And while you think that your half-assed attempt of an apology (I'm sorry your feelings got hurt for what I said, even though what I said is right, and I'm actually a victim too) is going to cut it, don't count on it.  We live in a day and age where cell phones post videos directly to YouTube, blog posts can go viral in a matter of hours, and talking heads love to comment on 'controversial' topics (Joanna's words, not mine).  This isn't going to be swept under the rug that easily.  My mother said that when you say a word in anger, once it's out there, you can't take it back.  The damage has already been done.  So Ms. Kelly let this be a lesson to you, never trust an editor who goads you into writing on a topic that you have no real clue about, and understand when you piss off one friend, you've lost one friend.  When you piss off a large (pun intended) contingent on the internet, you're screwed.

Now Boarding....Wanna Be Faux-Celebs

Apparently Lady Gaga's doppelganger was traveling through Chicago too. Note the lovely fringed boots and the non-existent shorts . Blah!

Like a Remote, I Need a Pause, Rewind, and Volume Control

In childhood my siblings tagged me with the moniker "Doc," which has stuck til this day.  Not like 'You're so smart, like a doctor,' or Bugs Bunny-esque 'What's up Doc?'  No, I got the nickname Doc for one of the Seven Dwarfs; you know the one that sounded like he had Tourette's syndrome when he got excited?

Hmmm...is it open foot, insert mouth?  Or is it open mouth, insert foot?

Sometime, okay, a lot of times, my brain fires too fast for the cerebral links to hook up properly and before I realize it, my mouth has gotten involved, so I wind up saying something entirely backwards.  But I'm not the only one to do these types of things.

Take Brain Regan  for example.  (Note: this guy is totally family friendly and totally funny).




So you'll (hopefully) laugh and excuse/understand what I'm about to admit.

Not too long ago, I was at a very crowded, un-named mega store looking for everyday low prices on all the everyday items that I need or think I need depending if I've read the ad flyer.  (Look, a microwaveable egg poacher!  I don't eat poached eggs, but what if I have a guest someday who would request a poached egg! Then I could use my egg poacher!  And it's only $2.50!) (NOTE: I do not own an egg poacher, but I know someone who did.)

Anyways. . . I was just about to turn down the cutesy Hallmark card aisle when I noticed a man in a wheelchair trying to do the same.  I pulled back on my cart and motioned him to pass.  He smiled and said "Thank you."

And what did I say?  "YOUR PROBLEM!"

Yes, somewhere in that misfiring brain of mine I couldn't decide if I wanted to say, "You're welcome" or "It was no problem," so I came out with that darling gem.  (IT'S YOUR PROBLEM THAT YOU CAN'T WALK!  YOU'RE CRIPPLED AND I'M NOT!  SO IT'S YOUR PROBLEM!  NOT MINE!)

There was no recovering from that; mortified, I walked away. 

Parenting for Dummies: Part I

I try not to be too judgmental when it comes to parenting now that I have a child of my own.  I readily admit that during my pre-child-rearing days I was a judgmental snob; my list of "things my kids will never do" was extensive, pretentious, and down-right obnoxious.  For example:

• My child will watch educational shows only, and then only in moderation. 
• My child will eat a wide variety of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.
• Organic meats or nothing at all. No processed foods.
• My child will have the classics for bedtime stories; plenty of A.A. Milne and Aesop's fables, none of that Pat the Bunny crap.
• I will never raise my voice, spank, or yell, but will have reasonable yet firm discussions with the Kid.  I will never say, "Because I'm the Mother.  That's why," as my mother said to me.
• And on and on and on. 

Oh, the irony.  I make plans and God laughs at them.  The reality is:

• The Kid's favorite TV shows are Sponge Bob and The Penguins of Madagascar.
• The Kid enjoys vegetable as much as a hole in the head.
• Chicken nuggets are his favorite food.
• He (and I) laughs hysterically each time we read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie and Fox in Socks.  (But thank God no Pat the Bunny). 
•  "BECAUSE I AM THE MOTHER!  AND I SAID SO!"
• And on and on and on.

So while motherhood has certainly relaxed my judgmental snob factor about the ins-and-outs of properly raising a child, there are some absolute standards that I will not relax, give a free pass, or ever change my mind.  Never.  Ever.  Even if I got beaned by a baseball.  Or really drunk.  Or brain dead. 

#1: Basic Parking Lot Survival
A child is auto-tuned to ignore every third word spoken by a parent, so this necessitates a parent to mimic an auctioneer when children climb out of the car: "We're in a parking lot, hold my hand.  There are lots of cars, give me your hand.  We are not moving until you give me your hand.  We're in a parking lot, with lots of cars, GIVE ME YOUR HAND!"

This is what I consider to be a good rule, an important rule, especially if you'd like to see your children grow up.  As most children are the size of garden gnomes and the distracted soccer mom in her behemoth Flex-Fuel SUV is not going to see your offspring, it's your job to hang onto their sticky hands.

What's a good example of NOT practicing parking lot safety with your child?  How about you standing by your car, hands on your hips, yelling at your child to not walk in front of a car?  While the child is three car lengths away? And is maybe 16 months old!!!!!

This is what I would consider to be an EPIC FAIL in car safety parenting.  

#2 Crash Test Dummies 
Car safety has come a long way since I came home from the hospital.  I rode home in a Moses basket set on the floor boards of my parents car.  While I had Mom's outstretched arm to prevent me from bashing my head into the dash when we stopped suddenly, today's car seats have built-in side air bags, juice cup holders, and designer colors.  So it always simultaneously baffles and pisses me off when I see a child riding around either in mom's arms or bouncing along the back seat.

For instance, yesterday while I was out running errands I happened behind a shiny silver compact.  And bouncing in the back window, like a bobble-head figurine on crack was an irritating troll of a child.  Now before you think I'm an ogre, can I say that the brat was picking his nose while making horrid faces at me, WITH his parents approval?!!!  Yea, I watched mom and dad turn and laugh at his hi-jinks.  Oh, my evil, dark side thought, "I'd love to tap the bumper of that car and watch the monster hit the headrest."  Which I'd never do because I'm not a psychopath, but still. . .  .I bet you've had that feeling too.

In all honesty if I hadn't been paying attention, say I was texting OR mobile blogging (which I just mastered) OR singing along with 3OH3(feel free to mock me), and I rear-ended the car, that kid was in the perfect spot to be hurled out the windshield.  I didn't like the kid, I didn't like the parents apathy towards their child's safety, and I didn't like the color of their car, but that didn't mean that I wanted their child to wind up as a crash test dummy.

While I'm sure I will have future posts on PARENTING FOR DUMMIES, I'm through with the lessons on car safety.  So parents out there, while I promise not to foist my particular brand of (ever-evolving) parenting rules onto you, I do demand that you adhere to the most basic of child and car safety. 

Word of Fashion Advice--A Public Service Announcment

Dear Local Wannabe Gang Member,

You are under no obligation to take fashion advice from me, as my daily wardrobe consists of jeans and a graphic tee-shirt.  If I am feeling in a particularly festive mood, I'll gunk up my eyes with mascara before I plunk down to write, drop by the Post Office, or run to the local grocery store for milk, eggs, and Tastykakes!  (My addiction to the Koffee Kake CupCakes has been triggered by a recent marathon of reading many Stephanie Plum novels).  In short, I don't fancy myself being queen of the runway, however I am able to garner a few double takes as I am va-va-voom curvy. 

Thug life is hard, I am assuming.  Listening to my favorite rappers (yes, I listen to rap) if I understand correctly, thug life means that you have to fight your way to the top, letting nothing stop you, even though you had an emotionally-crippling childhood, full of drugged, deadbeat parents, with your best friend/brother/uncle/woman dying on your kitchen floor and never getting no respect cuz you were the smallest dude in the hood.  You survived because of your skills and raw talent; you are the fiercest, baddest, mutha-fludpucker around Thug Town.  

That being said, I appreciate your attention to detail.  I had a very mundane upbringing compared to you, and yet I can't coordinate/accessorize to save my life.  I applaud the flipped, stiff-brimmed baseball cap, the multiple golden chains of various lengths, the rock-sized faux diamond earring stud, the exceedingly large sports jersey and jeans, which apparently you borrowed from Andre the Giant.  (He called and would like his clothes back).  The fact that you are unable to walk two steps without having to hitch up the crotch of your pants should be an indication that you either need a belt or stop shopping in the Big and Tall section of the store.

To finish off the ensemble of bad-assness you have a mean scowl and children's rubber bands dangling from your wrist telling the whole world, "Watch out, don't mess with me.  I'll cut you!"

Yes, the Silly Bandz that encircle your wrists really strike fear and terror into my heart.  But instead of thinking, 'Oh my, maybe I should lock my car doors!' instead, I fear I will crash my car into a stop sign because I have just laughed myself into an asthmatic coughing fit. 

So Local Wannbe Gang Member, a piece of advice as you continue your bad-ass rise in Thug Town; if you are looking to strike fear into the hearts of people do yourself a favor and give the Silly Bandz a rest.  What you do with them behind closed doors is fine by me, but if I come across you and see you still wearing them, I can't promise that I won't laugh at you.