Shameful Excess

Last night, I was flipping through channels and came across a show called Outrageous Kid Parties. This show is just another in a long list of TV shows whose sole purpose seems to be to celebrate greed and selfishness and brattiness in both children and their parents. We’ve all seen or heard of (and most likely been disgusted by) shows like Toddlers & Tiaras, Dance Moms, and My Super Sweet Sixteen. And while some of the kids in these shows are pretty unappealing, it’s the parents who are truly heinous.

Outrageous Kid Parties is no exception. The basic premise is that the parents (usually the mother) of a child decide to throw a party for their child’s special day – whether that be a birthday, bar mitzvah, whatever. But the one that I found the most disturbing was a preschool graduation. No, really – preschool graduation party! Perhaps I’m a negligent mother for taking my preschool “graduates” to McDonalds & the like, because this mother spent almost $32,000 on a “Candy Fantasy Party” for her little 5 year old genius. He must be a genius, right? I mean – he graduated preschool! Only the super smart hard workers accomplish that and therefore deserve a party that costs more than most weddings.

I mean – it’s a tough job, that preschool. There’s coloring and circle time and songs and snack time! Oh wait – even the stupidest kid in the preschool gets to graduate. But they still deserve a party for their 300 closest friends! And don’t forget the $8,500 rock climbing wall as a “graduation” gift – every five year old you passes not shitting their pants 101 needs that, right? And professional dancers and an original song and multiple bouncy houses and $1000 of candy and circus acts and a mother that dresses in fishnets and a whore skirt & climbs the rock wall. Or in the case of the 6 year old’s birthday party, horses and petting zoos and a dog show and a specially designed tattoo and a monster truck limo and more professional dancers and a goddamned ferris wheel!

People - this is why the world hates us! I know there are times when I go too far and spend too much on my kids. I think we all do. But a trip to Build-a-Bear or a new Xbox game is a world different from what amounts to more than the median individual income. And in some of these examples, more than the median household income. The excess seen in these shows is disturbing and shameful. So very shameful.

The US economy is in the shitter. The unemployment rate is out of hand. People are losing their houses, their cars, the lives due to poverty. And around the world, famine is killing children - babies! And these people having $30,000+ parties because Junior graduated from preschool is like a slap in the face to all those people.

Commemorative, My Ass

There is a commercial I keep seeing more and more lately that is really bothering me. Or actually – it’s not the commercial that’s bothering me; it’s the product that is being advertised. It’s an ad for a commemorative September 11 coin.

Admittedly, I’m not really into collectibles or “commemorative” items, but even if I were, I think I would still be bothered by this particular one. It’s a gold(ish) coin with little silver(ish) cutout pieces that can be pulled out and “stood up” on the gold coin base. And supposedly, it is made from silver recovered from ground zero. WTF? Why would I want that? First off – where did that silver come from? Or actually, never mind – I don’t even want to know. Regardless of where it came from, I really don’t want a piece of anything pulled out from the site of thousands of horrible deaths.

And all this “commemorative” shit. I’m sure I’d be called unpatriotic by those behind this (or actually, not so much those behind it – they are just insensitive money grubbers, but by those who are actually buying this stuff), but I just don’t feel the need to commemorate 9/11. Or not commemorate it exactly, but commemorate it in this way. I believe that tragedies like this one should be commemorated with meditation or prayer. Or through education, so new generations can learn our country’s history. Or by kindness and good will for our fellow man, so we can move on and be a better human race for it. NOT by opening our wallets and spending money on some bullshit commemorative product. A product possibly made from materials that were looted ”recovered” from the very place where nearly 3,000 human beings were brutally murdered. And if you’re falling for the “approved” and “official” FBI insignia line, then have I ever got a bridge to sell you.

I don’t need a coin to commemorate 9/11. I even watched it all from the safety of my own office and home, 350 miles away and yet almost 10 years later, I can close my eyes and still see those planes crashing into the towers. I can still see the impossible happening and they collapsed in on themselves. I can see the people hanging out the windows in terror.

I can hear it, too. I can still hear the screaming, the crying, the groaning of burning, melting steel getting ready to give in. I can still hear the horrible, unthinkable sound of bodies hitting against nearby rooftops and pavement.

But mostly, I can still feel it. I can feel the way my pulse raced and my stomach churned and my heart broke. I don’t need a coin.

I think the most offensive part of it is that it is a fully “for profit” venture. None of the money is helping families of victims, or memorial funds, or the rescue workers who are suffering with medical problems after giving their time, their blood, their strength, their tears, and now their health to try to save as many lives as they could. No, instead, the company behind this crap is happily fleecing anyone willing to pay $20 for “a piece of history”. Meanwhile, people are carrying on about how building a Muslim-based community center near (not on as the misinformed are wont to believe) Ground Zero is a sacrilege, while this sacrilege is going on right before our eyes. Wake up, America.

Just call me Sherlock Holmes

I saw a story on the news today that said, "Police are investigating to find out why a woman left her young child home alone. Neighbors called the authorities after they saw the two-year old playing in the hallway with crack."

Um...OK. I didn't realize the police were so hard up for detectives, but I'll be glad to help them out:

Dear police: She left her child home alone because SHE IS A CRACKHEAD.

I should totally be a detective.

RSVfreakingP!

When did RSVP-ing become optional? I mean – I didn’t know that it did, so someone needs to educate me. Here I am, still calling and letting people know I will (or won’t) be in attendance and I had NO IDEA that I am so out of touch! But clearly – based on approximately ten years of throwing kids’ parties – either a) RSVP is totally optional, or b) people are TOTAL FUCKERS.

Go ahead and guess which one I am going with.

Every year I go through this. I invite a bunch of kids to a party. I practically beg people to PLEASE RSVP (seriously, I actually put the word “please” on the invitation in a larger font, bold, underlined, you name it), I give multiple contact options – phone, text, email, and then I wait. And people prove to me that they are – as I said – total fuckers.

And since I never know how many are coming, I have to plan for the maximum number of kids. Which means more food, more cake, more treat bags, and MORE GODDAMNED MONEY!!

And then people don’t show up and I am left with too much cake, too much food, too many treat bags and an empty wallet. Oh – and a delightfully bitter, spiteful, judgmental attitude that I have a hard time keeping in check.

So educate me – when did RSVP stop meaning Répondez S'il Vous Plaît and become RIYFLIOBIOSICSABOMBIHTPFTMNOPSIDKFSBDWAMALAYHBTATMYSF (Respond If You Feel Like It Otherwise Blow It Off So I Can Spend A Buttload Of Money Because I Have To Be Prepared For The Maximum Number Of People Since I Don't Know For Sure But Don't Worry About Me As Long As You’re Happy Because That’s All That Matters You Stupid Fuck)?

People? Total fuckers.

Halloween is scary for many reasons

Last night, we went to our small town’s Halloween Parade. Before it starts, the local businesses hold a Trick or Treat and the library has activities, so my friend and I headed down early to the girls could enjoy themselves before meeting up with their cheer squad to ride along in the float.

There is nothing like Halloween to bring out the crazy. We saw our fair share of skanky costumes, pushy parents, misbehaving kids, and general impoliteness, of course, but the kids had fun. At one point, as we were making our way down a crowded sidewalk, we noticed a woman standing there wearing the most hideous, pants that you have ever seen – they were possibly pajamas – pink and furry and tight. We saw her a few times over the course of the evening and every time, she looked crazier and nastier than the last. But when we passed her on the sidewalk, she was talking – both to the person on her cell phone and a person standing next to her and taking up valuable space on the already crowded walk. I remember thinking that people without kids should really try to get the hell out of the way and let the kids through.

Shortly after we passed her, I noticed a little boy walking very close to me. It was so crowded that I didn’t really think anything of it – just assumed his parents were behind me. That is, until we walked about a block further and away from the main area. We went to sit down on a bench and noticed that Buzz Lightyear had joined us. I realized that this little boy had just sort of attached himself to me. I asked him if he was lost and he said yes. He told me his name was Andrew. He seemed a little vacant, but I assumed it was because he was scared. So I asked him who he was there with and he didn’t answer. I asked if he was with his mom and he said no. The same for his dad. I asked who he was with again and he said his dad. It became clear pretty quickly that this little boy was special needs. So I took his hand and led him back into the fray, hoping to find a frantic parent looking for him. Otherwise, I figured I’d pass him on to the first police officer I came across.

He wasn’t afraid of me at all – he willingly took my hand as we walked around. Because he wasn’t able to communicate much, I had no idea of a last name, who we were looking for, what they looked like. I tried to jest walk slowly to give the parents a chance to spot him. And hoo-boy, did they. I heard a screeching, “Where were you!?! “ and looked up to see none other than Miss Crazy Playboy Bunny Pants heading towards us.

I could tell that she was CRAZY AS SHIT a little upset, so I tried to greet her kindly and say that he got mixed up with our group, but she cut me off by screaming at the poor thing about how he’s “not supposed to run away.” I spoke up and tried to shoulder the blame, claiming that we had stepped between him and her as we walked by and he got pulled along with the crowd (which isn’t really what happened, but I was trying to divert her ire a little). But it took everything in my power to not scream right back at her and tell her 1) that he ended up separated from her while she was completely distracted and talking on the phone, 2) that while we teach our kids not to wander off, when they are that little, their safety is ultimately OUR responsibility, and 3) that as a special needs child, he obviously needs even more supervision, especially given his trusting and willingness to take a strangers hand and walk away with them. Not that I would have had a chance to say all that anyway, since she grabbed his hand from me (the poor thing was hanging on to me for dear life) and dragged him away, still yelling. People really suck sometimes.

Oh – and totally unrelated, but I have to share: When I went to meet up with the boy after the parade (he marched with the band), he was holding hands with a girl!!!! And I don’t care how much burghbaby hates multiple exclamation points – sometimes they are needed. Like when your baby boy is HOLDING HANDS WITH A GIRL!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vagina!

I can’t stand Leah Remini. I was never a fan, and then a few years back when she jumped into the Tom Cruise Crazy Scientology Postpartum Kerfuffle, I decided she was an idiot. Or an asshole. Or both. Her unkind and downright nasty criticism of Brooke Shields was insulting and dangerous, not just to Brooke Shields, but to all women. But like any other annoying gnat flying around your face, I soon forgot what and irritating idiot asshole she is. Then this week, she reminded me again.

On Monday, I got a call from the school nurse to pick up the girl. I brought her home, got her settled, and the sat down with my computer to finish my work for the day. The TV was on in the background, and the annoying new show – The Talk – was on. Think The View with more (and more annoying) hosts, one of whom is Leah Remini. They were discussing using the correct anatomical terms for genitalia with children (which, truly, I thought was an issue we figured out sometime back in the 80s). And as soon as the word “vagina” was spoken, Leah Remini opened her big annoying mouth and started screaming. She wouldn’t let anyone else talk, and every time they tried to defend their reasons for not using cutesy little words (she prefers “cupcake.” WTF?!?!), she yelled, “That’s DISGUSTING!”

Personally, I think Leah Remini is disgusting. But I do know that she is not alone in her demeaning, sexist opinion.

Vagina. Why is that word so intimidating to people? Nobody flinches when they hear penis. But vagina? Wooo, that can set some folks off. I’m getting so tired of people reacting to that word like it’s something dirty. It’s degrading to those of us who actually have them. Vaginas, that is. I mean, when it comes to the male anatomy, penis is pretty acceptable. In the mid-eighties or so, when popular opinion changed about using the proper terms for our genitalia, we all felt a little silly at first, but soon penis became a household word. A non-offensive, easy to say, completely correct term. But vagina? Vagina never totally caught on. It was definitely used more, but penis went mainstream and vagina kind of stayed indy. Thus, it’s 2010 and the same person who could work “penis” into a sentence without flinching would blush and stammer and get all tongue-tied at the mere thought of the word vagina.

I was in the hair salon recently (my friend Tee’s place), and a few of us were talking about childbirth and teaching hospitals. I was saying that I don’t mind letting students, etc, in, because they have to learn somewhere (of course, as soon as they find out that I am pro-student, they had half the medical school in with me. It was like a big party that had the bonus of freaking my mother the hell out. Anyway, a few of the women were saying no way, they don’t want all those people in there. In typical fashion, I said, “eh, what’s the difference? By the time you make it to labor, you don’t even care anymore. I let them all in, like ’welcome to my vagina.’” Well, one woman in there got a look on her face like she just smelled shit. The word vagina was so distasteful to her that she looked liked she was about to choke. So of course I said it as many times as possible after that. Vagina. Vagina. VaginaVaginaVaginaVagina. I know, I’m non-confrontational and sensitive to people’s needs like that.

I just don’t get the VaginaFear. I think it stems from the bajillions of years of female inferiority. Before men caught on to their part in conception, women were revered for our childbearing ability. The vagina was a magical, a life giving, mysterious treasure. But as soon as the cat was out of the bag that we didn’t do it alone, the vagina became dirty and shameful, something we didn’t talk about. Back in biblical times, women had to live outside the group in the red tent (if you haven’t read The Red Tent, you should) when menstruating. It was unclean. The bible, written by men (after the realization of their part in conception, of course), has passages about the uncleanliness of women, based on what makes them women: in Leviticus, we are told that menstruating women are unclean, as is anything they touch, and anyone that touches them. In particular, one verse tells us that on the day after her bleeding ends, a woman must take a sacrifice as a SIN OFFERING, so the priest can make an atonement for her.

So, the bible, this book that so many folks use as a guide to life, is telling me that I am a sinner simply because I am a woman (and I know, supposedly, we are all born sinners - whatever. But I have a problem with being somehow more of a sinner simply because I was born with a vagina). And then we have another passage in Leviticus which tells us that after childbirth women are dirty. And if she has a boy, she is unclean for 7 days and must purify for 33 days. But if she has a girl, oh boy, she is unclean for 14 days and must purify for 66 days. And again, a sin offering must be given. Of course, Leviticus is also cited by the crazies when they carry their “God Hates F*gs” Picket Signs of Idiocy and Hate, so you know what? Fuck that noise. And you know what else? Vagina. VaginaVaginaVAGINA!!

And so here we are, thousands of years later, throwing out “cock” and “dick” and “wang” and “schwartz” and “dong” and “prick” and “schlong” like nobody’s business, but let someone utter “vagina” and Aaaccckkk! For Pete’s sake, we’re women. Not demons, not aliens, and certainly not second-class citizens. We’re not dirty or nasty by nature. There’s nothing inherently dirty about a vagina. If a vagina is in fact nasty, it’s directly proportional to the nastiness of its owner. It’s not nasty simply because it is a vagina. And I’m sure there are eleventy-million or so skanky penises out there, too, so shut it.

I’m not saying we have to talk about our vaginas ad nauseam. We don’t have to share vagina stories with everyone we meet. I have elbows and toes and armpits too, but I don’t talk about them constantly either. But we should be able to say the word - “Vagina” - without someone blushing or cringing or wrinkling their nose. It’s not a bad word and yet there are people out there who would rather their kids say shit or damn or fuck than vagina.

And tell me - what are we suppose to say instead? Genitals? Too clinical and non-specific. Pee-pee? I think not. Forget about the cutesy shit – cupcake? Come ON - it’s ridiculous. Somehow I don’t think that the people that are offended by vagina want to hear pussy, cunt or twat, either. It’s a vagina and all women have one and it’s not dirty and it’s just as special and important as your penis and I will be calling it by its true name and GET OVER IT, VAGINA-FEARERS!!

As for male vagina-fearers, suck it up, bitches. It’s the thing you want over all others and you can’t even fucking say it? But somehow, I don’t really expect much more from you. But female vagina fearers (like Leah the asshole Remini)? What in the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A name for something that you and every other woman have. It gives you pleasure, it brings life. It makes you special and you still can’t speak its name?

IT’S A VAGINA, NOT VOLDEMORT!!

Jackhammersasses

You know what can ruin a perfectly delightful evening at the theater? A shitload of jackhammers that’s what!

I took The Girl to see The Wizard of Oz at Heinz Hall last night. She had no idea what we were doing, but she was thrilled to just go to Lulu’s for dinner. Then to follow it up with her favorite movie live on stage? Wooo, was she a happy girl. We had a great “girl’s night” as she calls them.

After the show was over, we made our way down to the lobby and as soon as we got near the front door, we heard it. TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!! (I don’t know how to represent the sound of a jackhammer in text – that’s the best I can do. But you know what I mean). And it was LOUD. Louder than any jackhammer I had ever heard. Not only could you hear it, you could feel it. It was so loud that you couldn’t hear each other talking. So loud that people were looking around for the mysterious invisible jackhammers and covering their ears. We couldn’t wait to get to the car and get our of there.

We got into the parking garage and headed fore the stairs, since we didn’t want to wait for the elevator. It became immediately clear that the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad noise was coming from inside the garage. And it got worse as we neared our floor. And wouldn’t you know it, we opened the door to discover the loudest, most horrifying construction site ever. Right there on the floor where we were parked, right near our car where six (SIX!) guys running jackhammers.

It was, by far, the loudest, most annoying sound I have ever heard. The girl immediately started crying because it was hurting her ears (even though she had them covered). And the other charming effect of jackhammering? The dust. The nasty, thick, not-exactly-healthy cement dust was so thick, you could hardly see. Even though a parking garage is technically open-air, without any type of exhaust system, that dust just hung there in the air.

I wrapped my sweater around The Girl’s face to keep her from breathing it in, but I didn’t have any way to protect myself. It not only burned my eyes and my throat – I could actually taste it and feel it in my mouth and nose as I breathed. It was gritty and nasty. We were both coughing, trying to hold out ears, and she was crying, and the douchebags just kept on with their TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!!

We finally got to the car (it took longer than it should have because carrying a bunch of stuff, including a six year old while coughing, blinking, and trying to hold your ears will slow you down), only to find that it was completely covered in a thick layer of the devil dust. By the time we pulled out of our spot, The Girl was complaining of a headache and a stomachache. I had a headache. And since I have been suffering from asthma-like issues ever since I had the flu, I woke up this morning feeling like there was a cinderblock on my chest. My throat and chest hurt and I have a terrible cough/irritation in my lungs. Isn’t that nice?

I can’t being to tell you how pissed off I am about this. I understand that they need to get this type of work done and it can’t be done during working hours. But considering that this is the closest garage to Heinz hall, perhaps they should rethink the idea of doing it just as a show is letting out. Especially a show that will attract a lot of children. If they have to do it, they should have at least stopped for 30 minutes or an hour after the show was over to give people a chance to get out of there without putting their health at risk.

At the very least, there should have been signs before you entered the garage letting you know that this was going to be happening. And why in the HOLY BLUE FUCK wouldn’t they shut down parking on the floor it was happening on? FUCKING IDIOTS!
Thanks a lot, Alco Parking, for being the Douchebag of the Day!

Ten Things Tuesday

Ten Eleven Twelve Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off.

1. The media reports about Ben Roethlessberger’s accuser. OK, look – I don’t know who is telling the truth. This girl may have been assaulted or she may big a big lying liar who lies. But the media repeatedly talking about her blood alcohol level just smacks of blaming the victim and it is unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE! I had been drinking way back in 1985 when it almost happened to me. And you know what? Having a blood alcohol level below the legal limit would not have changed his intentions. It would not have made me capable of fighting off a larger, stronger person. It would not have given me eyes in the back of my head to see him silently stalking me, grabbing me, and trying to force himself on me. So, FUCK YOU, MEDIA!

2. Santonio Holmes and his stupid behavior and his even more stupid twittering.

3. The health care debate. I support health care reform, but I know there are many who don’t. And that is their right. But if you are going to oppose it, oppose it for intelligent reasons. In the past couple of days, I have heard so much nonsense. One person in particular is vocally opposed to HCR not because it affects him in any way shape or form – he won’t lose coverage or pay more money. No – he opposes it basically because it will be helping people NOT LIKE HIM. He doesn’t like the idea of health care being provided for poor people. Or sick people. Or immigrants. Nice, asshole.

4. And while we’re on the topic of health care reform – can’t we all play nice? How on earth people can call themselves “pro-life” and then call for the killing of children of those who voted for the bill, or throwing out racial slurs, or any other number of horrible, vile things? I read this recently and my head exploded.

5. A soda tax. That’s what the city is considering. A two cents per ounce tax on beverages sweetened with sugar. That would add 40 cents to a typical 20 ounce bottle and almost DOUBLE the cost of a 2-liter. This is the stupidest idea since the bajillion dollar trash cans.

6. My six year old daughter asked me if she was fat the other day. I can be self-deprecating, but I don’t do it in front of her. I don’t talk about being fat, I don’t call people fat, I don’t ask if I am fat. I blame our fucked up society.

7. People who don’t stop at stop signs. What? The? Fuck? Every single day, I see someone cruise right through, or slow down, but not stop. Seriously – how much of an effect are those four seconds really going to have on your day? And what makes you feel you are entitled to just ignore the laws that are there to protect me and my children? I swear, if any of these assholes cause me or my family any harm (or even near-harm), I will be dragging them from their car and beating the living shot out of them. I hope I can count on one of you to bail me out.

8. And while we’re on the subject of entitled assholes, what on earth makes people feel they have the right to litter? I can’t even grasp the train of thought that tells someone it is OK to just throw their trash wherever they want. When I see someone do it, I will pick up their litter and stop them, pretending to be helpful: “Excuse me – you dropped something.” I generally keep the “asshole” part in my head, so I don’t get MY ass kicked.

9. Re: Number 8 – this goes for cigarette butts, too! Why do people who wouldn’t consider throwing their (potentially highly taxed) Coke bottle out the car window not hesitate to throw their cigarette butts out? Ignoring the huge risk of fires, if every single one of the approximately 45 million smokers in the US threw out even one single butt (probably a low estimate) every day for a year, there would be a pile of them the size of over 11,000 (potentially highly taxed) 2 liter pop bottles. And since they don’t easily degrade, that pile would grow and grow. Stop it, people!

10. Facebook. I like facebook for a number of reasons. I want to punch it in the nads for even more reasons. I am sick to death of fan pages. I mean – there are a few that I find humorous, interesting and/or useful. But most fall into the categories of either a teenage fan girl (OMG, I LOVE whatever thing/person/band/etc sooooo much) or mean girl (so and so is a douche). I’m sick of looking at them.

11. And while we’re on the topic of facebook and mean girls, those fucking QUESTIONS! You now the ones – you get a notification that someone has answered a question about you and then you need to earn “coins” to see who. I hate those. For the record, friends: I have never, EVER skipped on a check, I am not tone deaf, I am aware that I need to lose weight, ditto on the shitty clothes I wear, I don’t think boxed wine is classy but that doesn’t mean I won’t drink it, I’d never pull a fire alarm as a prank, and I don’t want to hook up with YOU, either! If you are wondering about something, formspring me.

12. I was going to bitch about education (yet again) but I think that warrants its own post. I know, you’re all a-tremble with anticipation.

So - what's pissing YOU off?

Census Schmensus

It’s Census time! Are you excited? Yeah, me neither. Not that we have received our census form or anything. I think we’re on the census shit list since the last time around. I refused to answer a question, and they sent the Census Police to my house. If that conjures up images of a big, scary, official in a suit, let me pain a clearer picture for you – it was an old lady. An old, frail, persistent little bugger.

The question in…um…question was ethnicity. And I refused to answer it. Because there is no need for it. I’ll answer sex and race and income and education, but not ethnicity. We’re a long way off from Ellis Island and I can’t see why anyone needs this information. Or even how most anyone can answer it correctly. Mainly because they only give you one option – you have to pick ONE. And while there are some people out there whose entire family tree may have come from only one country. But most of us? Heinz 57.

And while I respect my heritage, I don’t identify with it strongly enough to pick any one over another. Do I say Italian because my maiden name ends in “-ini?” I loved my pap and his Italian swear words. But then I am turning my back on my Welsh grandfather. And my English relatives and a bunch of other ethnicities I don’t even know about. And my Argentinean grandma. OK, she wasn’t really from Argentina, but my Pap told me she was when I was little and I believed everything he ever said. So I spent years of my life telling everyone my Gram was from Argentina – using it in school assignments and everything. And I got really mad when someone didn’t believe it – being from a small town where everyone knows everything – and I complained to Gram that no one believed that she was from Argentina. And she said, “That’s terrible. But I’m from Louisiana.”

But aside from the fact that I could never in a million years narrow it down, I consider myself to be American. Not Italian-American or Welsh-American or Belgian-American or fucking Venution-American. AMERICAN. So the little old lady census police came to my house because they wanted an answer. I refused. I am an American, I said. American Indian?, she asked me. No, American. Honey, we just want to know what your background is, what your parents are, she whined. They’re American. Well, where did your grandparents come from? Same place all babies come from. And then they lived their lives in America. And my grandfathers went to war. For America. They were American. I don’t care if somewhere along the line a Scottish sperm met and Irish egg or a Spanish X met an Inuit Y. I am American. So SUCK IT, Census Police!

Random Crap

Patience may be a virtue, but it is a virtue that I have never quite managed to master. Case in point: This morning, I got in the car and my windshield was frosted over. The wipers didn’t help and being decidedly impatient, waiting five minutes for the defroster to do its job just wasn’t an option (in my head). Also not my strong suit? Resisting the allure of blaming mr b for things. I was using mr b’s car today. And a couple of months ago, I had bought some de-icer wiper fluid about for both cars. I took care of mine, but he failed to fill his. And somehow the entire bottle has turned up missing. I know! So anyway, clearly, this was ALL HIS FAULT.

So I’m all irritated, blaming him, looking for something to scrape the windshield, which I can’t find because we don’t have an actual scraper (see: de-icer), and we no longer have cd cases in the car (which work great) since it’s mp3 capable. And even though a couple of minutes had passed and it wouldn’t be long before the defroster did its thing, I COULD! NOT! WAIT! So I did what any calm, patient, totally not-crazy person would do – I opened the door and stood next to the windshield, grabbed an old chik-fil-a cup filled with melted ice and coke from the cup holder and THREW IT on the windshield.

Did I mention that I had the wipers on? Yes – in my irrational fury over the stupid frosty windshield, I failed to see what a terrible idea this was. I figured it out just as 20 ounces of stale, watery Coke Zero hit me in the face, hair, shirt, coat, and went down inside my sleeves. The little that stayed on the windshield immediately froze and made things worse than when I started. So five minutes turned into ten. This was also clearly mr b’s fault.

Man, I am SUCH a catch.

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I read recently about some study that showed that when people find an old love, they don’t really care how they look – that when the feelings are strong, you remember the person that they used to be and it overshadows the person they are now. That would explain why I still feel nostalgic for a few old flames, despite the fact that they all seem to look like K-Fed now.
It doesn’t, however, explain why the holy hell all my old boyfriends look like K-Fed now. I imagine that it says something about me, but I’m not sure I want to know what exactly.

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Here’s a little known tip to help you be a good friend: Always have an embarrassing story on hand.

No, really. When something particularly humiliating happens to your friend in your presence, help them out by sharing something even more humiliating that you have experienced.

I save my Pooped in a Bag story for just this purpose.

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How is it that no one has killed that hatemongering cocksucker Fred Phelps yet? I mean, really. It’s not that I’m wishing for his death (though it wouldn’t upset me), I am just amazed that someone as vile as he is still walking around spreading his crazy and NO ONE HAS KILLED HIM! If the Supreme Court rules that he has a right to do what he does, I swear, when someone finally does kill him, I am totally getting a group of people together, renting a bus, and showing up at his funeral with the biggest, billboard-sized picket signs all depicting HARD CORE GAY PORN. Who’s with me?

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The girl sat in the bathtub last night, singing her head off. She is always singing – pop songs, country songs, Grateful Dead songs, kid songs, songs of her own creation – so it took me a few minutes to hear what song it was. It was a song about how she is “A ten year old woman.”

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Oh, and in addition to being a Ten Year Old Woman, she is also apparently Cinderella. She works and works and has to do everything and no one even likes her and why can’t people get her what she wants RIGHT NOW and Oh My God, she just cleaned her room like, two weeks ago – why does she have to do it AGAIN and why am I forcing the HORROR of (her previously favorite) jammies on her when I know that anything other than her Jonas Brothers nightgown will surely KILL HER!

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I saw a headline today that said, “Wine may be good for women’s waistlines.” I clearly don’t drink enough. I’m going to get started on that right away.

Teach Your Children Well

Yesterday, a friend of mine checked her 13 year old daughter’s text messages and was shocked to find some sexually explicit texts from a boy. Apparently, he had broken up with her and it started with him basically saying that he just “didn’t want a relationship”, etc, and her not really understanding why. But then he told her he would still be “friends with benefits,” but it had to be a secret – she couldn’t tell anyone. Now here is where the rest of us (not being a teenage girl in this horrible-to-girls society) start hearing the DING DING DING of warning bells going off. Because if a guy wants you to keep your relationship a secret for ANY REASON – he is not the guy for you. But she is a teenage girl, and sadly didn’t tell him to fuck off.

He went on to say that if she didn’t keep it a secret, he would “spread some dirty secret around school that will make everyone hate [her] guts.”

Next, the conversation turned to pretty sexually graphic (especially for 13-14 year olds), and included him trying to pressure her into doing things she clearly is not ready for and that her mom was shocked to read.

Delightful kid, huh?

But the big issue her (for me, at least) is not how much of an asshole this kid is (for the record – big, HUGE asshole), but why on earth would a smart, cute, nice girl like her not see how much of an asshole this kid is? And I think the answer says a lot about teenage girls (and boys).

Teen boys are desperate for sex. Teen girls are desperate for love. This is a dangerous combination. All peppered throughout this conversation was “I love you.” He said it in nearly every text. I love you babe. You can’t tell anyone about us. I love you. I’ll make everyone hate your guts. Baby, I love you. I want you to [insert city sexual act here]. I love you. And sadly, a teenage girl will rarely ever see the threats and pressure and cruelty because they are so blinded by the “I love you.”

And when she put herself down, calling herself fat and ugly, he didn’t tell her she was thin or pretty. He said “I love you.” Which translates to teenage girl speak as “You ARE fat and ugly, but I love you.” Which translates into teenage girl thoughts as “I can’t do better than this guy, so I’ll put up with anything (or DO anything) to keep him. And this makes me so sad.

This kid isn’t bright enough to even realize what he’s doing. Sure – he must know that he is being cruel to her, but I don’t think he could even begin to hatch a plan that involved answering her self-deprecating comments with I love you instead of reassurances, and yet he somehow knows to do it.

Where do boys learn it?? I might be in the dark here, but I am pretty sure there’s no Academy of Manipulation and Cruelty for Teen Boys. And actually, that idea is less offensive to me than the reality – that it comes naturally.

My own Asshole Teenage Boy Story ended OK – but only because I had luck (mine), drunkenness (his), and anger (mine) on my side. But I know that there are many, many girls who have similar stories that didn’t end so well.

Everyone’s first reaction on hearing this kind of stuff is “I’m locking up my daughter!” and understandably so. But what about our sons? Maybe because I have a son this age it hit me, but my first thought was, “I need to talk to my son about this.” We have talked to him about sex, but we need to do more. We need to teach him to be respectful and kind. No matter how uncomfortable it may be to do, we need to teach him whatever it takes so that he is never EVER that kid.

Patriotism My Ass

Six years ago, I received a forwarded email (one of many, sadly) that was one of those rotten, hateful rants disguised as patriotism. It pissed me off so much that I had to respond to it on my blog, hoping and dreaming of the day when we could grow learn to love instead of hate. And yet here we are SIX YEARS LATER and we haven't grown a goddamned bit.

A blogger I adore received this same email all these years later, and being a good, kind person, it outraged her as much as it did me. And I feel the need to re-post what i wrote all those years ago:

I received an absolutely OFFENSIVE email yesterday. I am SO SICK of hateful diatribes being sent around via email, thinly disguised as patriotism. The people who start these things need to think a little harder about the meaning of patriotism. As far as I know, it doesn't include hate and bigotry. In fact, for those too stupid to look it up, here's the dictionary definition:

"Love of country; devotion to the welfare of one's country; the virtues and actions of a patriot; the passion which inspires one to serve one's country"

Love of country. Hmmm, I don't think that requires hating others based on their religion. Devotion to the welfare of one's country. These assholes may think they are devoted to our welfare, but if you ask me, hate really isn't good for the country as a whole. In fact, I think that hate and prejudice will do the exact opposite. They'll tear this country apart. So stop it. Now. Anyway, for your reading displeasure, here is the email:

USPS New Stamp

Looks pretty doesn’t it? Pretty deceiving….
PLEASE, DON’T USE THESE STAMPS! NOT FOR VALENTINE’S,
NOT FOR ANY MAIL!!

USPS 44-Cent Stamp Celebrates Muslim holidays Eid Al-Fitr and Eid Al-Adha .

If there is only ONE thing you forward today… let it be this!

REMEMBER to adamantly & vocally BOYCOTT this stamp, when you are
purchasing your stamps at the post office.

All you have to say is “No thank you, I do not want that Muslim Stamp
on my letters!”

To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those AMERICANS
who died at the hands of those whom this stamp honors.

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of PanAm Flight 103!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the Marine barracks in Lebanon!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the military barracks in Saudi Arabia!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the American Embassies in Africa!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the USS COLE!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM attack on the Twin Towers on 9/11/2001!

REMEMBER all the AMERICAN lives that were lost in those vicious MUSLIM attacks!

Now the United States Postal Service REMEMBERS and HONORS the EID MUSLIM holiday season with a commemorative first class holiday postage stamp.

REMEMBER to adamantly and vocally BOYCOTT this stamp when purchasing your stamps at the post office. To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those AMERICANS who died at the ands of those whom this stamp honors.

REMEMBER to pass this along to every patriotic AMERICAN you know and get the
word out! Honor the United States of America!

Lovely, isn't it? Now I feel the need to respond to the ASSWAD who wrote this hateful, racist, bigoted, small-minded FLAMING BAG OF CRAP:

I DO remember the many atrocities committed by MUSLIMS. And by CHRISTIANS. And JEWS. By CATHOLICS and by PROTESTANTS. By WHITES and by BLACKS. By MEN and by WOMEN.

And I also REMEMBER the JEWISH boy who was the son of God. He told me to love, not hate. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a BAPTIST minister who had a dream. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a BUDDHIST monk whose struggle remains "non-violent and free of hatred". He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a PROTESTANT woman who devoted most of her short life to helping those of all religions and backgrounds. She would not approve.

I REMEMBER a HINDU man who died for his unwavering belief in religious freedom. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a CHRISTIAN man who spent 27 years in prison fighting for freedom and equality. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a CATHOLIC nun who gave up all she had to live among and help the poor, the sick and the "different". She would not approve.

Neither do I.

Now go read what Mrs. Chili has to say.

Veteran's Day (I know, I'm way late here)

So I’m a little late with this, but I have to tell you about my experience at our local Veteran’s Day ceremonies. I say ceremonies because our town is made of several small communities and five of them have memorials, so every year on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, a group of folks, including veterans from the American Legion, VFW, Biker Vets (I don’t know what they’re called but that’s what they are), Rifle Squad (or whatever they’re called – I suck at this), ladies Auxiliary groups, and boy and girl scouts make rounds to each of the memorials for a ceremony. Since the boy is a scout, we always go.

Four of the memorials are smaller, and the ceremonies go pretty quickly, but the “main” one in town is generally a little larger. Usually I enjoy the ceremonies – the laying of the flags, reading of the names, and the 21-gun salute are touching. Taps makes me cry every time. But it can be a little boring after you hear the same prayers, the same speech, the same poem at each and every ceremony. But you suck it up and pay your respects. This year, however, it was a little irritating.

The lady who read the poem started off by giving a little speech about honoring veterans. It was mostly nice until she started bitching – I mean raised voice bitching – about the low turnout. She went on and on about how years ago more people turned out and now it’s sickening that people don’t. I have a couple of problems with this. First off – years ago, it was a big deal – I mean – there were bigger ceremonies – they were publicized. Now, unless you’re in the groups that are a part of it, you don’t even know about them. And if you don’t know, you can’t come. Two – with Veteran’s Day especially – people work. I am lucky enough to be off that day, but I know plenty of people who couldn’t come if they wanted to because they are working. And finally – hello? Preaching to the choir! We’re here. Don’t bitch and yell at us about apathy because each and every one of us dragged our asses (and often our kids’ asses) out of bed at the buttcrack of dawn, got dressed and ready, and stood outside in the cold listening to the same speeches over and over again. Don’t bitch at us! Write a letter to the editor or something, but please – shut up.

But the thing that really pissed me off this year was the main speaker at the “big” ceremony. We got done with the 3^rd one and it was early, so I figured we had plenty of time to attend the 4^th one (the “big” one) and still make our plans for the day. It was only about 10:00 when we headed out on the less than 5 minute drive to the next memorial. It got started about 10:30, and went through the same speeches, prayers and poem, and then they had a speaker. And I wanted to punch him in the face.

He started off talking about honoring veterans. It was nice. And then…oh, and then he got political and religious. He started going on and on about what a terrible country we have become and how all the veterans who gave their lives were rolling over in their graves over what was going on in this country. That they would be so disappointed in our leaders, and so on and so on and holy fucking shit, he is still going on. Rush Limbaugh couldn’t have done a better job at being an asshole.

I was absolutely offended. And not because his politics clearly differed greatly from mine – I would have been pissed if he agreed with everything I believe, too. I was pissed because this was supposed to be about honoring veterans. This was not mean to be a political rally. And it’s offensive that you should assume that everyone in the audience agrees with your views. It’s a slap in the face to the men and women who have served and/or given their lives for this country to use their day to do this. I have known a lot of veterans in my lifetime, and at least half of them would have vehemently disagreed with his political views. And it is incredibly ignorant to claim that they are or would be disappointed in this country currently. I’m getting awfully sick of the assumption that Conservative=Patriotic and Liberal=Country-hating, veteran-mocker.

His speech went on and one and on. At this point, it was at least 30 minutes – 25 of which had nothing to do with Veteran’s Day and everything to do with watching Fox news too fucking much. And just as we thought it was going to end ( he kept saying, “in conclusion” and then going on and on some more), he decided to shift from what a commie pinko country we have become and focus on what godless heathens we are. He talked and yelled and railed on about the loss of God in public schools, the lack of mandatory prayer, the abandonment of Jesus.

Again, this was a huge slap in the face to the many, many men and women who have fought sacrificed for our freedom – for his freedom who are and were Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and atheists. Does their sacrifice mean less because they didn’t die praying to the same god? Or any god?

I walked way at this point. I know it wasn’t the most respectful thing to do, but I couldn’t take any more. I was so offended I was actually in tears. I was just waiting for the god hates fags chorus to kick in and I didn’t want to be there to hear it. By the time he was done, he had spent 45 or 50 minutes raining his fire and brimstone down on us and maybe five to ten minutes had anything to do with the actual purpose of the day.

When he finally did finish spewing his nonsense, both he and the man who took the podium after him offered information on his youth group, inviting people to join. Yeah, I’ll get right on that, hater.

So, a little late – I want to say that I have a huge amount of respect and awe for the people who have served this country. I am not nearly as brave. I am not nearly as noble. They may not all be perfect, but they are willing to defend me and this country and for that, I honor them. They make little money. They don’t get nearly enough respect. They spend time away from their families and homes. They lose hope and limbs and precious, precious time. And for those who gave their lives – there is nothing I could do that could equal that sacrifice. Even when I don’t support the war, I always, ALWAYS, support the soldiers. I don’t care who they pray to, or if they pray at all. I don’t care who they voted for. And I hope that next time, the town finds a speaker who doesn’t care either.

Plagiarised AGAIN!

Once again, some fucking thief on myspace has stolen one of my posts.

Here is my post, from June 30th

Here is hers, from July 7th

Do me a favor - if you have a myspace profile, send this person a message and tell them what you think about plagiarism.

Thanks.

Fuck-Me Cheese

On Sunday, the girl had a birthday party for a friend. Thank goodness it was a late afternoon party, since we had mr b’s 50th birthday party the night before and there was some serious ass-dragging going on. But we somehow managed to get ourselves to the party on time, and I managed to stay upright, and not punch anyone the entire time. What’s that? It doesn’t seem like an accomplishment to not punch anyone at a child’s birthday party? Well, I forgot to tell you the party was at Check E Cheese.

Ahhhh, now you understand, don’t you? Hungover at Fuck Me Cheese: not so fun.

The party was for a friend from day care. She is the daughter of an old friend’s sister. I’ve talked about my friend Tammy before – she died in 1992 of a brain tumor. I usually re-post my story of her every year on her birthday and this year, I was in the middle of my own crazy and I missed it – I thought about it a few days before and then forgot. I was on my way to the party when I remembered. I felt bad, though I guess it’s more about not thinking about her that day than an actual blog entry. It happens, though – she’s been gone almost as long as she was alive. It’s hard to imagine what she’d be like today. I’d like to think we’d still be friends, that we’d have kids who played together.

I got to the party and saw her sister, and then her mother, and then another sister and a cousin and it hit me. They all look so much alike. I can look at them and imagine what Tammy would look like today. I had to fight back tears. It’s a weird thing to feel grief for someone and then think, damn, I can’t let myself show it, because who am I to grieve - my grief can’t compare to theirs. But it’s still there. It’s still mine.

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OK, on to other things – like the assholes at Fuck Me Cheese. Good lord. I understand that your kids drive you crazy. I understand that you need a break. Believe me – I UNDERSTAND! However, just because the insane mousehouse has the hand-stamping kidnapping prevention does NOT mean that your child should just run around completely unattended. There was one little girl who latched onto the girl in the games area. She only had a couple of tokens left to the girl’s full cup. When she ran out, the girl was giving her some (because she is a rocking, make-your-mom-proud, OMG-my-kid-is-awesome sharer), but this kid wouldn’t quit. She wanted tokens, tickets, whatever. She wanted to play this game, not that game. When the girl had finally had enough and wouldn’t give her more tokens, she looked me square in the face and demanded more. “I need more tokens!” I told her she needed to go ask her mom or dad. She said, “They don’t have any” Well, I’m sorry then kid. Where the fuck were her parents? This went on for over an hour and I never once saw an adult anywhere near this kid. Not once.

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And let’s talk about the hand stamp system. When the girl and I left, you couldn’t even read the hand stamps anymore, after washing our hands a bunch of times. And yet, they let us out. There was no way they could tell for sure that the girl belonged with me. So Mr and/or Mrs. I Need A Break From My Kid need to step up their give-a-shit a little.

And she was the only one. During my two and a half hours there, I had to help a kid get strapped into a ride, help a toddler off of another ride, get an employee to fix a game for another kid, stop not one, not two, but THREE insane children from throwing skee balls instead of rolling them. Also - seriously – skee-ball for toddlers? Worst idea ever. I watched multiple children almost get their skulls cracked open by the flying spheres of death.

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Sadly, Fuck Me Cheese wasn’t the worst experience of my weekend. No, that would be reserved for the girl jumping on me and knocking my camera to the cement floor. The lens popped off and won’t stay on properly. Awesome. I’m heartbroken over it. I love that camera. I mean LOVE it. It’s not the best camera, but it’s the best one I can afford, and I saved and bargain shopped for a long time before I got it. And I’m not sure I can afford to have it fixed – or if it’s even possible. I know I can’t afford a new one. But damn it, I need to do something, because it’s my one “thing.” I don’t like fancy jewelry. I don’t buy designer purses or shoes. I don’t spend money on clothes. I’m not a gadget lover. I get my books free from the library. I don’t care about new, fancy cars. But I ADORE my camera.

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I can’t wait to get some photos up from the party (pre-camera/heart break). I didn’t take any candid or party photos, but I did take ones of every guest wearing a special Make Fun of Mr B Getup. It was awesome. More on that later.

Kids are Assholes

Recently, someone I like very much took a hell of a beating for calling her daughter an asshole on her blog. It was an amazing yet typical example of holier-than-thou bandwagon jumping that resulted in her being accused of being a bad mother, a bad person, not appreciating her kids, not loving her kids, and escalated into predictions that her kids were growing up damaged. Damaged! Not only is this absolute fucking nonsense, it’s grade-school name-calling, character assassination, and completely distasteful bullshit.

And it pisses me off.

Because if any of these shit-throwers would bother to a) take the sticks out of their asses, and b) pay attention to more than one word in one post, it would become absolutely clear that she is a smart, caring, funny, devoted mother who obviously loves her children. And even though I’m a little late with this and it’s probably been practically ages since she said, “eh – fuck it,” I still feel the need to defend her. Because seriously.

First off, she is funny. She writes funny stuff. Tongue-in-cheek stuff. She rants about kids and a husband she clearly adores. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty – a lot of us are. And we’re also adult enough and intelligent enough and laid back enough to overlook the potentially offensive because we know it is said in jest. Dude, if I got uptight over that shit, I would not know the total awesomeness that is Eddie Murphy Delirious. I’d be too busy bitching about the poor welfare kids and alcoholic dads and abusive moms and hairy-ass bigfoot aunts, all “That’s not funny!”

Loosen up and give me a break. She didn’t day it to her daughter, she said it about her, and there’s a difference. Although, really, there’s a certain age at which it wouldn’t bother me if she did because sometimes they need to called on it. I tell my son not to act like a jackass all the damned time – don’t like it? I couldn’t give a fuck. And let’s be honest here – kids are assholes. That’s why God (or Buddha or The Flying Spaghetti Monster – child assholery crosses many boundaries) makes them so cute – to balance the assholery.

Case in point:

I was at the Salvation Army store the other day (shut up- I once found a $400 Lladro for $12). Anyway, I was trolling for bargains when I heard a blood-curdling, “DAD…DAD!!!” Again and again and again this kid screamed “DAD” at the top of his lungs. I walked over to where he was and asked if he was lost, and he scoffed (actually scoffed) at me and said, in the snottiest voice ever, “NO! I just want him to come look at something!” and stomped off, still screaming (and I mean SCREAMING). A minute or two later, I heard a man scream from the other side of the store, “WHAT?” They proceeded to carry on a screaming conversation for the next five minutes.

Then, the kid moved on to running around the store like a maniac, making loud sound effects, grabbing things off shelves, ripping open sealed packages, crashing into things, sliding across the floor, and pretty soon, just screaming at the top of his lungs for fun. I couldn’t wait tot get the hell away from this kid, and as I was checking out, a woman came up and got behind me in line. Just then, there was an announcement over the PA system asking that parents please keep their children with them, and not leave them unattended in the store because packages were torn open and items were damaged. And then, as the announcement was still going on, this kid walked up to the woman next to me and called her Mom. And she never said a word, made a face, gave any indication that she gave a shit that HER KID IS AN ASSHOLE. Because he is. Not only that, he’s a FUCKING ASSHOLE!

So I say we lay the hell off my friend who jokingly calls her kid and asshole, motivated not only by humor, but by GIVING A SHIT about her kid’s behavior, and let’s put our snooty disapproval where it belongs – on the actual ASSHOLE parents of actual ASSHOLE kids, who perhaps need to call their kid an asshole once in a while.

Assholes.

To my friend – My asshole kids and I love you and your asshole kids.

PS. I’m not linking to her because I don’t want to send any more shit her way.

And yet again, the school district gets a big WTF???

So, I went to a meeting at the school on Friday, to meet with the girl’s kindergarten teacher, see the classroom, etc. And they were giving us The Rules. There have been quite a few changes in The Rules since the boy was in kindergarten. Most of these rules revolve around snacks.

Now, I will admit, I am all for healthy eating (I know, not that you’d know it to look at me). I used to complain when the girl was in preschool and parents took turn bringing a snack. Some of us brought healthy stuff, like yogurt and fruit and veggies. But most brought cookies and donuts and crap. I don’t really have a problem with cookies and donuts and crap, but for the kids’ daily snack, empty calories are a pretty shitty choice. The whole point of the snack is to hold them over through lunch or dinner. Yogurt will do that. A donut will not.
So anyway, The Rules say that grades K through 2 are allowed to have a snack in the afternoon in class. But the snack must be:

1: The first ingredient must not be sugar.
OK, I get this one. I just talked about this in the preschool snack issue. But I still get a little, “Duh - I don’t need to be told” about it.

2: They can’t have peanuts or peanut butter.
Again, I get it. Peanut allergies are evil. My kid can live without the peanut products for afternoon snack.

3: They can’t be more than 200 calories.
OK, I get it. But I’m getting a little squirmy about the telling me what I can do for my own kid. I know there are some parents that don’t care and there are plenty of obese kids. I know. And I wouldn’t likely send a snack more than 200 calories. But it’s bugging me a bit to have The Rules.

4: They must be individually pre-packaged.

DANGER DANGER DANGER!! What the FUCK???

So, let me get this straight: it’s OK for me to send my kid an individually pre-packaged fucking Twinkie (1st ingredient: who-the-hell-knows, calories: 150, fat: 4.5, cholesterol: 20mg, sodium: 220mg, carbs: 27, calcium: 20mg, god knows what other kind of processed, preservative laden shit is in there), but NOT OK for me to send her some celery and carrot sticks that I put in my own goddamned baggie (1st ingredients: fucking fresh vegetables, calories: 39, fat: 0, cholesterol: 0, sodium: 0, carbs: 9, calcium: 52mg, not to mention all the good vitamins and stuff)? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t get it. I really, truly don’t get it. I mean, I can understand that if I were sending a snack for the whole class it needs to be pre-packaged because of cross-contamination or dirty ass kitchens or whatever. But for my own child? Bullshit is all this is. And anyway, I wouldn’t be sending a snack for the class ever, since for parties, there are no edible items allowed, period. Last year, it was no candy – this year, nothing edible at all. Not for birthdays, not for anything.

I can live with the sugar thing and the calorie thing and the no-edible treats thing. But this pre-packaged thing is nonsense. And you want to know the biggest fattest nonsensical part of it? The fucking school cafeteria sells cookies, ice cream and fruit snacks (which - despite their name - resemble fruit only in the most basic of ways) every day to anyone with money in their account. And it gets better – in high school, they have all that, plus vending machines selling Coke and Mountain Fucking Dew and the like.

Hypocrisy, much?

I think I may officially be "Team Kate"

There is an interview in the latest InTouch magazine with mid-life crisis victim and douchebag extraordinaire Jon Gosselin. Now, I have already gone on about the whole Jon/Kate thing and why I think it’s bullshit that everyone blames Kate, but now that the King Douche himself is blaming her I just have to respond to a couple of things in the interview:

Did you want to work it out?

Yes, I asked, What do I have to do to mend the relationship? What did I do wrong? I was beating myself up about it. So I read a lot of books about personalities, like The Five Love Languages. Throughout the marriage, I felt like my personality had changed a lot. In December, I went to therapy. I asked Kate to come, but she did not want to. She said, If you have a problem, go fix it.

OK – I am clearly not a relationship expert, but “What did I do wrong?” Are you fucking kidding me?? The man (allegedly) was having an affair. An affair with a near-child. While his wife was home with their eight (EIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER) kids. Even giving him the benefit of the doubt and saying he was not having an actual physical relationship with her, he was still seen out with her, all chummy, at inappropriate times and places (including on a vacation), all while his wife was home with the kids. I don’t care if she is the shrewiest shrew or the harpiest harpy, his behavior is wrong. And asking, “what did I do wrong?” is fucking ridiculous.

As for him “wanting to work it out” – fuck that noise. He made his bed, he can damned well lie in it. It’s insulting to act like a complete douchebag, cheat on your wife, basically flaunt cheating on your wife (with who you have eight (EIGHT!) innocent children, and then when you split up, claim it’s all her fault because she didn’t want to “work thing out.” Boo Hoo, Motherfucker!

What was your first relationship?

Hailey it started around May. She is the polar opposite of Kate. It’s really different. I feel good about myself and people see my good qualities. I am not being put down. If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, first of all, I am calling deep, deep, steaming, runny BULLSHIT on the “it started in May” business. He was photographed skanking around well before that. And don’t give me that bullshit about them just being friends either. I do believe that men and women can be friends, but when a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids and a much younger woman are spotted alone together in the wee hours while his wife is out of town, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is spotted at a college sorority party, playing drinking games with the co-eds, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is seen sunbathing with a much younger bikini-clad girl in her backyard while his wife is not in attendance – it is WELL out of the normal boundaries of platonic (or at least respectful a spouse) male/female friendship. So bullshit.

And finally – let me review my favorite part of that last answer:

If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, parents out there – parents with only one or two or three children, much less eight (EIGHT!) – join me:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHee Hee heh ho!!!

Seriously? I’ll ask you parents out there – how often do you get to “go out with your friends?” I’m guessing not very. I don’t either, because I have these two things called CHILDREN, and they are demanding little buggers, what with all the “we want food” and “tuck me in” nonsense. So let’s imagine together what having eight (EIGHT!) kids would do to your social life. Are you seeing it? Yeah – I thought so. Poor Jon - his mean, old, harpy, shrew of a wife won’t let him go drinking with the college girls because he has to help with his eight (EIGHT!) children. What a terrible cross to bear.

So Jon - take your “breath of fresh air” and go blow it out your ass.

Have I got a "job" for you...

I know! I totally suck. I haven’t been able to come up with a damned thing to write about lately. Things have been pretty stressful in the b house lately – financial worries are taking over, and it’s hard to think about anything else.

And work has been making me crazy. As always, I will say how much I love my job and love Awesome Company, but I have recently been given a new task and I hate it. No really, I HATE IT. As in, makes me sick to my stomach with dread hate. As in finding 100 other things to do instead of this task hate. As in, if they gave me the choice of scrubbing the building’s bathrooms or doing this task, I’d be all, WHERE’S THE BUCKET, BITCHES??


So anyway.


Oh, get this. Mr b has his resume out on monster, etc. The other day, he got an email from some bullshit company (I am not saying the name), about a job. The job title was an acronym that had something to do with construction (I can’t remember), so he thought it was legit and checked it out. It was clear from the first look that it was bullshit – mainly because it went on about how much you can earn and no real job does that shit. But we read it anyway, because we’re easily entertained. He ignored it and then they contacted him again, with more information about “the job.” I use quotes because…well…you’ll see. It said that they were an “organization” (no type of organization, nothing about what they are, what they do, etc, just an organization), and they deal with “donations.”

They said that the position they were looking to fill was made up of “tasks.” These “tasks” would be emailed to him. The “tasks” would involve processing “donations” to their organization. And by processing, they mean picking up the “donation” and if it is in check or money order – are you ready? – CASHING IT AND DISTRIBUTING THE CASH TO THEIR “SPONSORS!!”

Do you now understand the need for all the quotes?

Once we got done laughing, we searched for the “organization” online – nothing. Not one search engine was able to locate anything about this “organization” - and we tried them all and tried every variation of keywords you can think of. And yet, in their email, they included a link to their site – it’s a generic website claiming that they are a nonprofit, nondenominational housing organization which provides low cost housing around the world to low-income people and people who have been affected by disasters. Now why would nothing come up in a Google search? Perhaps because they don’t want to be found? What donation-accepting, non-profit, charitable organization doesn’t want to be found??

Mr b just deleted it, but I wanted to send a reply thanking them for their interest, but declining their generous offer of employment in their MONEY LAUNDERING ORGANIZATION.

Oh, also? They misspelled “travel.” That would have been enough even without the illegal activity.

Walmart is a Dick

We are having a big party this weekend for my grandma’s 90th birthday. It’s going to be huge, since we have a large family and she has lots of friends, plus we have invited lots of people from “the old days.” She used to own a bar, and people came from all over to hang out and have a good time. Her customers ranged from just local folks, to politicians, to professional athletes. Not many of them are around any more, but those who are, are coming and bringing their families. Even after she no longer had the bar, she tended bar elsewhere for year, so she’s got a large social circle.

Anyway, in addition to food and alcohol and bingo and cards and fun games and prizes for the kids, one of the things we wanted to have was a slide show of photos through the years. We changed our minds, though since it will be sunny (the party is at a local park) and we won’t be able to see it so I decided I would do a photo board and an album. I gathered up old photos from everyone in the family and intended to scan them and make multiple prints, so anyone who wanted a copy could have one.

My scanner at home was broken (I used the wrong power cord and it smoked and popped), so I figured it would be faster t take them to #Wal-Mart anyway and do them on the machine there. Oh how wrong I was. First off, it was actually slower than using a home scanner. Each photo took about 2 minutes to scan. And I had a ton of photos. I sat there for 2 ½ hours scanning. Two and a half hours! All the while silently cursing Wal-Mart, Kodak, Wal-Mart employees, other customers, the PA system, the PA system announcer, stupid cell phone ringtones, Phil Collins, and myself (for being so stupid as to think that Wal-Mart would be anything but hell on earth).

But finally, I was done scanning. Then, of course I had to go through each photo and select my number of prints, plus do any editing, cropping, etc. Which was another million hours. But I got that done and was ready to print. When I started, I saw the sign on the machine that said, “After you print your photos, get them on a disk.” I figured I would do just that, since there were some I wanted to restore, plus I’d have them for future prints if anyone wanted them. But when I tried to order a dick, it wouldn’t let me. I asked the woman working there about it and she snottily told me that I had to do the disk first and that I would have to scan them again is I wanted one. I pointed out the sign that said “After you print your photos, get them on a disk,” and she sighed like I was such a terrible inconvenience to her and said (even more snottily), “You should, have asked me before you started. You’ll have to scan them again!” Ummm…No thanks.

I figured I’d just print them and worry about scanning them again later, once I had a scanner that doesn’t smell like electrical fire. So after another 17 hours of waiting for my prints, I was finally done. I took the photos up to the counter with my charge slip (the machine prints one telling the number of prints), and the woman working there (the first bitch was on her break by this time), takes my photos and proceeds to go through all 110 prints, one by one. I was wondering what she was doing, since normally, they throw them in an envelope and ring you up. Turns out, she was pulling out all the “illegal” photos.

You are probably already aware that you can’t take your photos from a studio and reproduce them on a machine. I knew that too. I wouldn’t dream of taking my kids’ photos from Picture People and getting cheap copies made (well, I’d dream of it, since they are so freaking expensive, but I wouldn’t do it because I know I am not allowed). The one time I had a photo I needed a copy of, it was one that was actually taken at Wal-Mart. It was my favorite photo of my son and mine had gotten damaged. Since it was 9 years old, the studio didn’t have it any longer, so they gave me a release form and I was able to copy my mother’s. No problem.

But these photos? These illegal, professional, studio photos that she refused to let me print without a release form signed by the photographer? Were from 1935 to 1945. Nineteen motherfucking thirty-five!!! How in God’s name do they suppose I am going to get a release form? I mean, if my 90 year old grandmother was a teen in these photos, I think it’s a pretty good bet that the photographer is dead by now (not that I would have any idea who he was anyway). I should go back with a fucking Ouija board.

Of course she gave me the spiel about how it’s not her rule, but Wal-Mart’s rule, blahblahblah, but give me a break. Also? Wal-Mart is a dick.


Anyway, I got a couple of the professional ones scanned on my cousin’s scanner and have started working on restoring them (which OMG takes forever).

This is the one going on the cake (I didn’t get it restored yet):




Here is gram with my mom and Aunt Twin:




And here it is before I started restoring it: