Prayers for Japan

Japan is hit by another earthquake and expecting another tsunami.  May God have mercy on them!

A Day In the Life of this Writer

Each morning I wake up bright eyed, excited to grab the reigns of a new day, another chance to make my mark on the world around me.  Refreshed and relaxed I jump out of bed, whereupon I throw open my heat-reflecting curtains and smile benevolently at my fellow apartment dwellers as they make their way to a more traditional job working for the man every night and day.  With a content sigh, I dress in my stylish clothes, scrunch my hair into a darling, touchable mess of curls eschewing any makeup as it would detract from my natural dewy countenance.

Mornings are the best time of day.

For the birds.

And over-Botoxed anchorwomen

But never for me.

Nada.

Instead, what usually transpires is the Kiddo jumps on me long before I've gotten the bare minimum 6 hours of recommended sleep because I'll have been up until 2AM writing or reading.  (Although some evenings I get a crack-like addiction for Scrubs, Bones, Arrested Development, or The Closer).

Kiddo commences with the morning wiggle/snuggle/kick routine punctuated by commands of "Get me a little breakfast, but not too much, and a fiber gummy.  Fiber gummies help me poop!"  Sufficiently annoyed,  I stumble on osteoarthritic knees to the kitchen where upon I dispense the cereal o' the day and fiber gummies to the overstimulated Kiddo while I await the almighty coffee maker to brew my drug of choice, usually Brother's Havanna blend which reminds me of Ybor cigar shops. (Never Folgers or Maxwell House).
 
This morning somewhere between cup number 1 and 2 I thought that a change of scenery for the day would be a good thing for me and the Kiddo.  He could run around at my parent's house and I could concentrate at the library down the road.  As I imagined myself pounding out inspired works, I tossed on my far-from- glamorous-but-totally-comfy gray yoga pants and a holey t-shirt.  Easter-egg-hued plaid socks and beat-up sneakers complimented the half-assed pigtails and Nike cap jammed on my head. 

Fashion nightmare, why yes I am? 

The way I see it, if the rich and famous movie stars can dress like a thrift-store-scavenger/nuclear-war survivor while they are trying to hide away from the press, why can't I do the same? 

I could totally rock those outfits.

I'd like to pretend that people will think I'm famous when I'm dressed like a color blind bum but I'm not that delusional, nor do I take myself that seriously.  Honestly, you can't really pull of being famous and mysterious when you are writing in a library that reeks of despair and stale farts. 

 

Can You Make a Citizen's Arrest if the Citizen is an Asshole?

Seriously, how does Terry Jones get to walk around?  Two weeks ago he burned the Koran.  Results?  Angry Muslim stormed a UN compound and reportedly killed 20 people, beheading 2 of them.

Now, Reverend Crazy and his fucked up followers are going to put the Prophet Mohammed on trail.

I can only imagine the shit that's gonna hit the fan when this gets more press.  Honestly, does he think that burning the Koran and prosecuting Mohammed is the best way to engage angry jihadist?

I'm thinking that since Rev. Jones is so eager to stand safely a million miles away from any actual fighting, we should get together and send him on a one way trip to the front lines.  While he's there if he survives the beatings that he rightly deserves from the men and women on the front lines who he is putting in greater danger, he should be handed over to the Muslims who will punish him accordingly.


Honestly, I'm so angry. 


This alleged "man of God," disgusts me.  To throw so much gasoline on a raging fire and then refuse to accept any role in the after-effects is so cowardly. 

How is this man allowed to still walk around?  Are his actions really protected by the freedom of speech? 

Rev. Terry Jones--The Lady Macbeth of Christianity

I am so angry right now, my sailor mouth couldn't be any dirtier.  Thank God I'm at my computer in Panera, and not at home in front of my Kiddo. Most of the things that are running through my mind, I won't type down for once you say something out loud, in print on the internet, you can never take it back.  And on the off chance that I ever get a bigger fan base than 28 people, I can't have 3/4 of my fury coming to bit me in the ass.

What the fuck did you do, you fucking asshole Terry Jones?  Are you happy now?  You've got a lot of blood on your hands now that 20 UN workers are dead.

And don't try to turn this bullshit murder into Christian 'they were martyred' crap.

I'm a Catholic Christian, ready to live and die for my faith, even when it comes under fire.  But NEVER in my life would I knowing goad assholes into so much anger that they decide to take their vengeance out others.

How do you tell the families of the murdered men and women that because of your arrogant, dumb-shit, child-throwing-a-temper-tantrum spectacle that you are at the root of this?

Fuck you! 

Laughter Isn't Always the Best Medicine in the Kiddo's Case

This week has been a bit of a down for me. 

 I've been struggling with writer's block, bad moods due to massive amounts of rain, and two bouts of food sickness (word to the wise: if you are eating out, never eat a salad!  Restaurant Salads = E.Coli!).

But on the up side, I made a UK DJ laugh, my honesty and openness made 2 authors cry, and I got caught in a violent rainstorm while out on a walk with the Kiddo.  I wish I could have had a camera to record that moment.

As I child I grew up playing in the rain.  If there was a rain storm and no lightning, I would be outside swimming in the neighbor's pool , bouncing on a trampoline, or walking in the gutter pretending I was Laura Ingalls Wilder playing in the creek.  When I went off to college, my love of the rain didn't abate and that hasn't changed since I hit 30. 

So yesterday when the Kiddo and I were walking back from the Post Office and the rain started to pelt down and I mean REALLY nail you in the head hard, I started to laugh.  The Kiddo, on the other hand, freaked out.  He was a good two house-lengths ahead on his bike and froze in place.  By the time we got to the house, we were SOAKED!  Me still laughing, him quite hysterical. 

When I got him inside and into dry clothes, he looked at me with his great big eyes and said, "I'm not having a really good day."