A Small Victory

so, does anyone else collect chicken broth?

I have a shopping problem. I like to buy in bulk.

It's not even one of those Costco/Price Club bulk binge problems. Because I don't buy the bulk all at once. I just collect items until they become bulk quantity.

I've been this way since I was little. I was a hoarder. I would take canned goods, candy bars, those little boxes of cereal and put them under my bed. I once packed a suitcase full of silverware, napkins, canned fruit and, of course, a can opener. I hid it in my closet, sure that one night a hurricane or earthquake or tidal wave or alien invasion would necessitate my having a suitcase full of sliced peaches ready to go. I was always prepared for the worst, ready to stave off starvation by just reaching under my bed. Eventually my mother realized what I was doing and took all my supplies back, muttering something about therapy.

This quirk persisted into high school and beyond, when I would buy pot in mass quantities and store it away in my nightstand in case there was a nuclear war and I was the last one standing and needed to spend the rest of my lonely days in a hazy oblivion.

Eventually my pack rat sensibilities crossed over into other areas. I saved months worth of Creem magazines to read when I was under quarrantine when the inevitable plague arrived. I bought loose leaf paper by the box, sure that I would need it all to write down my memoirs when I was the sole surivor of an asteroid disaster. At some point, I was able to keep my hoarding impulses under control and I stopped collecting things for future disasters.

You can never keep a good quirk down. A few months ago, I went into the pantry to get hot cups. I stared at the shelves in horror. When did the uncontrollable urge to buy uneeded items in bulk strike me again? I didn't even realize it had started up. But there lining the shelves was the evidence. 6 packages of hot cups. 4 packs of styrofoam bowls, 100 to a pack. Enough paper plates to take down the entire rainforest. I walked around the house in a daze, opening cabinets and drawers and cupboards. 4 Economy sized boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups. 12 - yes 12 - cans of coffee. 5 lbs of butter in the freezer. 7 boxes of Success white rice. And somewhere along the line, I must have developed a chicken broth fetish without realizing it. Justin took out the calculator and did a quick survey. All together, in a myriad of cans and those stay-fresh-forever boxes, was 293.5 ounces of chicken broth.

The sad thing is, the compulsion to overbuy doesn't end with food. I have 3 100 count boxes of CD-Rs in my closet. 6 packs of blue Sharpies. 10 marble notebooks. And tampons. I could plug up the Mississippi River with the amount of tampons I have.

Am I subconciously getting ready for a nuclear winter? Am I preparing once again to be the last person standing on earth? Or do I just have really bad buying habits?

Gotta go. ShopRite is having a sale on plastic forks.

Posted by at 09:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (20)

ribbit

I won a Froggie! Fredo has given me an award for being the best Motherblogger! Hah! I won something Wil Wheaton can't!

Thank you Fredo!

Posted by at 07:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (13)

fear, loathing and self esteem

I laid in bed last night thinking not about the usual things like money and death and how much I want a cigarette. I was thinking about my self-image, which goes hand in hand with self-esteem.

Do you ever wonder how people see you? If what you see when you look in the mirror is what everyone else sees? If what you see when you look in your soul is at all in tune with how others see that part of you?

We are reflections of so many things; how we dress, how we talk, our family, our schooling, our jobs, our accents, the car we drive, the music we listen to. We are lumped and categorized and labeled until perhaps we happen to believe the label ourselves, no matter if somewhere inside, we know it is the wrong one. We become what others imagine us to be.

Esteem and image are such arbitrary things. You can have a great self-worth one day, and then an offhand comment meant as a joke can send you reeling to a place where it is hard to get up from. People pick away at the skin of your image and they don't even realize they are doing it. What some people view as jest or humor can be deadly blows to the esteem of people with fragile egos.

It's easy to come off as if you have a big ego. As if your self-image and esteem are intact and running high. A few well-chosen words or outfits and you can almost feel for that moment as if you are not living a lie. Who will know that when you go home and are in the privacy of your dark bedroom that you loathe yourself and your body and your very own soul? It's easy to ride the crest of high self worth when one hundred people tell you that you are beautiful, but when that one person you admire points out one of your flaws, all those compliments cannot hold you up as you falter.

Our egos and self identities are fragile systems. They are held together with tape and glue and string and all it takes is for one person to comment on your dress, your hair, your project or your attitude in general - just one person, one tiny comment - and it all breaks apart so easily. Then you stand in front of the mirror, stripped naked and sobbing, wondering what it is that people see in you anyhow. Wondering if anyone really sees what's in there or if they are just scratching your surface and being content with that. Wondering if you can keep up with the image others have set for you, knowing full well that most of that image is kept up with smoke and mirrors and something up your sleeve.

You really have no way of knowing what lies deep inside of a person's heart. You don't know what thoughts are behind the ones they actually speak, what past actions guide their present words, what they really honestly see when they look at themselves. You don't reallly know unless you ask. Unless you take a friendship or a relationship and go beyond the skin and into the soul to find out. Do you think anyone is really the exact way that you see them? Do you think that everyone you know who comes off as strong and capable and smart and sexy really thinks that about themselves? Or do they go home at night and think about that one slight, that one remark, that will make them feel worthless and empty?

It takes years to build up your image and esteem to the point where the your inner sense of worth meets your outer sense. Where what people see and what you actually are form into one, where you are so comfortable in your own skin that you can't imagine wearing anything else. And all it takes is one instance, one phrase, one time being told you aren't good enough/pretty enough/thin enough/smart enough. One time to erode a lifetime worth of praise.

Don't be one of those image-crushing people. Don't be the kind of person who never stops to think about the consequences of their words. Or worse, the kind of person who doesn't care. I understand some people trample on the egos of others to make themselves feel bigger and stronger and better. And no matter how low I get, no matter how far my self image sinks, I would rather be me than be the person who broke me. I can live with myself. Can you?

Posted by at 06:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

congrats

Congratulations to my friends and the owners of those sites I read who have won Bloggies. The people who won really deserve the accolades. So congratulations to them, for a well-deserved day in the sun. And to those who I thought should win but didn't, you have my undying admiration and really, what better award is there than that?

Don't answer that.

Now, let the anti-bloggies begin.

Posted by at 05:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

diary of a mad blogger

The day was better; still no cigarettes, still haven't killed anyone. And when the day goes buy with clean lungs and a clean record then it can't be all bad, can it? So despite a few odd emails and the simmering desire to claw Scott Stapp's eyes out, I'm doing ok.

I would like to thank everyone who sent Happy Birthday wishes to DJ. You all are too kind. And this is the extent of my posting for the rest of this day because we are having a houseload of people over in about 3 hours and it's going to be hard to get rid of them once we open the PS2. And someone is going to have to referee the fighting over the controls.

Relatives. You can't live with them, you can't shoot them. Well, you can, but who needs that on their conscience?

Posted by at 03:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

don't make me hURL a stone at you

Could everyone who hasn't already done so please update their links to reflect this URL? I moved my stats tracker over here and you all are severely messing with my numbers by linking to the former page.

Not that I care about that stuff. Nope, not at all.

Posted by at 08:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (22)

when i say happy, you say birthday!

Happy Birthday, DJ!

DJ is: smart, funny, sweet, empathetic, a perfectionist, short-tempered, a good reader, ambidexterous, manipulative, sympathetic, affectionate, emotional, full of energy, always the best baseball player on his team, a very picky eater, obssesive, a video game addict, a stellar recorder player, quiet and shy in school, loud and obnoxious at home, appreciative, cuddly, handsome, interesting, and my son. Today he is 9 years old and most importantly, to him at least, he is now the proud owner of a Playstation 2.

So where did those 9 years go? Was it that long ago that I was strapped down to a hospital bed screaming for an epidural and kicking anyone that came near me?

I gave birth to DJ in the evening. I was tired. I was ugly. I told everyone to please visit me the next day, I just wanted to sleep. So they peeked at the little red-faced baby who looked somewhat like ET, and they went home, promising to return the next day. But you know what? The next day was Super Bowl Sunday. And nobody came to see me, except for my best friend Barbara who brought me McDonald's and ice cream and stayed to watch the game with me, because she felt so bad that I had been abandoned by everyone, including my husband at the time. But that's ok, because the joke was on them. It was the worst Super Bowl in the history of time. The Cowboys beat the Bills 52- 17 and I laughed and laughed at the family members who spent money to sit in a bar and watch that crap when they could have been hanging out with me and the newborn DJ, eating ice cream and laughing at the Bills.

But we weren't talking about me, were we? This is about DJ. Happy Birthday, DJ. Now go finish your homework.

Day 2 of the great smokeout and I can see this one is headed in the same direction as yesterday. I woke up from bizarre dreams (where Wayne Brady was directing traffic and he had a raging hard on), only to realize my edginess has not subsided. I want to have a good day. I need to have a less stressful day. But I know what's going to happen. I am going to get pissed off about the coffee today. I am going to finally go on a bloody rampage in regards to the fact that at least 5 people a day, the same people every day, come in my office and drink my coffee and use my sugar and milk and cups and never, ever ever offer to contribute anything towards the purchase of any of the items they use daily. I've had it. It used to be just one guy (remember my Mr. Coffee Guy rants?) but he must have spread the word about my supposed caffeine generosity because it's five people now. I will no longer stand by while my coffee resources are depleted by those unwilling to drop at least a fucking quarter on my desk in gratitude. It's not the money. It's the principle.

Must control spork of death. Must not kill coworkers. Must remain calm.

Oh yea, I was saying, Happy, Birthday DJ. And happy birthday to that other odd yet endearing Aquarian, Mr. Davezilla.

Added shortly thereafter: I AM ADORED! That's right. Who's bad? Uh huh. Jerwin is rockin my world today, because he put me in his little adored box, proving once again that I am loved by gay males everywhere. Damn skippy I'm proud of that.

Posted by at 05:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (24)

you cannot silence me!

And then....there were news headlines.
Jeb Bush daughter in drug bust
Town banishes Satan
3.5 ton satellite to fall from sky
WTC victim credits god with his escape.

Did I accidently click on the National Enquirer?

I could go into a long rant here about the man who thinks god saved her from dying in the World Trade Center, because wouldn't there be something inherently wrong with a god that would save one person but not about 3.000 others? And honestly, if god was going to take the time out of his busy schedule to perform personalized miracles honey, don't you think he would have just stopped the whole thing from happening? If he was that kind of god, ya know?

Ok, I'm done. I see some hot steaming java with my name on it

Posted by at 09:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

remains of the day

The only word that can begin to describe this entire day is surreal. You already heard about the first two parts of the day; allow me to elaborate on the late afternoon/evening portion.

The rest of the morning and afternoon went pretty much the same as the day started. Everything had this weird feel to it, as if the world was suddenly off kilter by just a fraction of an inch. I think I walked around with my head tilted all day, as if I was listening for a sound no one could hear but me. The call of the aliens, perhaps.

I managed to keep my sanity during the afternoon, even though I had downed about 3 pots of coffee and I was being tested by the mail gods, who kept making our elderly, evil mail tag-team known as Ren and Stimpy come back to my office asking "anything going out?" six trillion times. I smiled politey each time and told them no, nothing ready to go out since the last time they asked me, oh....ABOUT 3 MINUTES AGO! I think my smile may have been too broad, my teeth a bit too clenched, because after their last quest for outgoing mail, when I was grinning and carving a pentagram into the desk with a letter opener, I never saw them again.

I finally, finally make it home. I pick up Natalie so we can go shopping for DJ's birthday present, and make a pit stop to drop my sister off at the gas station to pick up her car (with it's new radiator hose). We get around the block and meet head on with a horde of fire engines parked in front of a house. Ambulances, cops, nosy neighbors, everyone is there. And so are about 100 firemen, all milling around this person's lawn, non-chalantly drinking soda and talking. I got one of those looks from a fire police type guy, the stare that says "These are not the droids you are looking for. Move along." So we moved, figuring it was one of those false alarms, where the wife was cooking dinner and the smoke alarm went off and the kids called the fire department. What? That doesn't happen to everyone?

So anyhow, we get to the gas station, my sister picks up her car, and the mechanic is looking at my car now, looking at it quizzicaly and sniffing the exhaust and he says it smells funny. No, no that's not what smells funny. It smells like..like..a house fire! And sure enough, rising from the sky down the block from my house is a small, but stinky plume of smoke. Guess someone really did burn dinner!

And then....Natalie got lost in the bathroom at Target, like she had been vacuumed up into a time warp and then dropped back down again, right in front of the soap dispenser.

And then....it was 70 plus degrees outside, at night, in January, in New York. And when I got home from Target, my lawn had been taken over by several small boys playing football, all of them in shorts. In January. In New York.

And then....I still hadn't had a cigarette, I still hadn't punched out a co-worker or murdered a random stranger or drove my car up on my neighbor's lawn in an effort to stifle their windchimes. And I am still sane.

Relatively speaking.

Posted by at 08:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

(expletives deleted)

I picked a bad time to stop smoking. Let's have a recap of this day so far, ok?

DJ wakes up in a grumpy mood. It's now a battle of the grumpies, me and him. He's fighting me tooth and nail on everything I tell him to do (or not do). Finally, we come to a battle royale about ten minutes after we should have been out the door. I say something to him, he says something incredibly sarcastic back to me. I lean down to within an inch of his face.
"You want to get sarcastic with me?"
"Yeah!" he snarls.
"You do NOT want to get into a battle of sarcasm with me! I will wipe your ass with my sarcasm!"

What? What the hell did I just say to him? I have no idea where that came from or what it meant, but I give DJ a lot of credit for not laughing in my face.

So finally, after a battle over sock that didn't feel right, we get out the door and over to my mother's. Mom is an antagonistic mood today. She questions everything. Why is DJ wearing those pants to school? How come his hair doesn't looked combed? Didn't I realize that Honeycombs was not really a full breakfast for a growing kid? So now not only am I late for workm but I'm slowly moving from feelilng edgy to homicidal.

I walk out the door, but I still can't head to work yet. I have to drop my car off at the gas station for an alignment. My sister is meeting me there. Ten minutes ago. I get to the station, give the guy my keys, get all my belongings out of my car, and get into my sister's car. Two blocks away from the station, her check engine light goes on. The temperature needle moves all the way to Hot. I tell her to turn around, go back to the gas station, and we will switch cars. My alignment can wait another day. She says no, it's just a quirk. The car is fine. Mmhmm.

So we get to the babysitter's house to drop off my nephew. As soon as she turns off the engine, the car seems to expload in a hiss of steam. We jump out of the car, only to hear the sound of rushing water. Or anti-freeze. It's pouring out of the engine. Hiss. Splash. Hiss. Splash. Fuck. Bastard. Hiss. Splash.

Now the babysitter has to leave all the kids with her husband and drive us back to the gas station. I tell the guy I want my car back, and he should send someone to pick up my sister's car. And then, finally we are on our way to work. I kept reaching for my cigarettes, forgetting that I didn't have any.

The ride to work took about 15 more minutes than it usually does. Every idiot on the road was out, and they were all surrounding me. Finally, we pull into the parking lot. I am carrying my pocketbook, my backpack full of crap I take to work with me, my jacket and a bag from the store with water, milk and lunch. I struggle into the door. They ask me for my ID. The people I see every day, twelve times a day, the people who know my name and my kids' names and way too much about me need to see my ID, which is at the bottom of the backpack. I put everything down, rummage around until I find the ID, and when I dangle it in front of me to show that I have it, the actual person who asked to see it is walking down the hallway, completely uninterested in the identification he just asked for. I pick everything up again and then wait ten minutes for the elevator.

Finally, in my office. Turn on the computer. Put everything down. Go through mail. Make coffee. Sit down and breathe for a few minutes before I begin working. No. They are everywhere, on the phone, standing in my doorway, sending me email. Missing files, adjourned dates that no one knew about, conferences that never happened, misnumbered papers...it wouldn't end. And it's only 10:00 at this point. The whole day stretches out before me like hell before Dante.

I did not cave in. I did not smoke. I have eaten a whole box of Triscuits. I have had 16 cups of coffee. I have said words that would make Chris Rock blush. But I have not smoked.

Yet the questions remain: Are clean lungs and a fatter wallet worth my sanity? And who suffers more when I quit smoking, me or the people around me? Will someone get sick of my bitching and general crankiness and kill me before I have the chance to murder a random stranger who is making a left turn without using his blinker?

Answers? Anyone? Bueler?

Posted by at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (26)

the no smoking sign is now lit

I woke up in a decent mood, despite the series of nightmares I had last night, most involving dark, deep water, some involving Corey Feldman. I think when I wake up in a good mood, the last thing I should do is read or watch the news.

Do you know what our president is up to now? According to CNN, Bush is proposing to spend tens of millions of dollars in a campaign to urge single mothers on welfare to get married. (no story yet, just a blurb)

I'll stop a second while you pick your jaw up from the floor.

Does this man not have advisors or as they all as brain dead as he is? How can you validate spending the nation's money on this kind of program, especially when we are in the throes of a recession? (of course whether we are in a recession or not depends on who you listen to)

I'm am going to reserver further judgment until I get the entire story, but I will say that if Bush thinks marraige solves problems, or that making people get married is a good way to reduce the welfare rolls, or that money can keep a relationship together, or that a child will benefit from a marraige that comes from anything but love..if he thinks any of those things to be true, he is a fool.

Anyhow, I am quitting smoking today. Again. I've been through a series of starts and stops with this. Last May, I quit and it lasted until September. The pressure of the world at large got to me, and I succumbed to the nicotine towards the end of that month. I quit again in November when I got pneumonia (as if I had a choice) but went back as soon as I felt better.

Last night, I laid in bed thinking about the ways that smoking has effected me. I wake up coughing almost every night. I can't walk across the street without feeling winded. And at a pack a day, 4 dollars plus change a pack, it's a very expensive habit. I felt so good the last time I stopped. I felt clean and healthy. I can't think of any good reason in the world why I should be smoking, but I can think of a million reasons not to be smoking. I will have to find another way to relieve that stress, maybe punching out a co-worker or throwing my neighbor's wind chimes across the lawn will help.

So please, bare with me while I attempt to not smoke. I will be cranky and bitchy and perhaps a bit hostile. Sort of like I am now, but worse.

Posted by at 05:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)

red, red wine

A glass of wine sounded really good late last night. Watch Project Greenlight, make fun of everyone on the show, and sip wine. Except there was only red wine in the house. I haven't had red wine in many, many years. I just can't drink it. I pour it anyhow, desperate to make the day go away, and take a sip. And then I remember why I don't like it.

My grandfather was big wine drinker. A wine connoisseur, he was not. Just a drinker. He kept his wine in jugs; glass gallon sized jugs that he hid all over the house. My grandmother would snoop around each day, opening cabinets and moving books to see if she could spot the hidden wine. I think almost every fight they had, and we are talking daily, was over the wine. Grandpa drank it morning, noon and night. Befor lunch, with dinner, sitting in the yard, watching Lawrence Welk - any occasion called for a glass. Every memory I have of him, he is holding a glass in his hand. Grandma hated the drinking. She hated the singing that came with the drinking. You could hear her from outside screaming something in Italian, words that I didn't understand but my mother told me to never repeat.

Grandpa shared his love of wine with his grandchildren. From the time we were little, he would pour us small glasses with dinner, mix it with coke, and then whisper in our ears to never ever tell our grandmother that their was wine in the glass. We drank the whole glass down each time, and even though there was barely enough to get us the least bit tipsy, we would run around for the rest of the day like we were drunk.

One day, me, my sisters and a bunch of cousins were sitting at the table after dinner. Grandpa had his jug out and, per usual, poured us each a small glass. Grandma walked into the kitchen and saw us sitting there, ready to drink. She glared at grandpa, a long, evil stare and he acted quickly. Picking up the peaches he had been slicing, he dropped one slice into each of our glasses. "It's just fruit. They're just having a treat," he protested. He gave us a nod and we all dipped our fingers into the glasses, pulled out the wine-soaked peach, and ate it. Grandma went ballistic. She took his jug off the table, and while we all watched with horror, she poured his wine down the sink drain. Then she turned on us. "Now you will drink every bit of that wine in your glasses," she yelled. This was some sort of punishment, but I don't know if it was directed towards us or Grandpa, whose glass was empty, with no chance of a refill. We all drank the wine down, afraid of what grandma would do if we didn't. And then we all went into the living room, feeling a little bit drunk for real this time.

A couple of months later, after a severe dry spell of no drinking with grandpa, came over to babysit for me and my two sisters. I must have been ten at the time. Grandpa brought over his jug (what kind of parents let a man with a jug of wine babysit?) and sat down to watch tv with us. Ten minutes later, he and my youngest sister were sleeping. I don't really know what transpired after that, or whose idea it was, but family lore has it that one of us took the jug of wine and the other sister and headed for the bathroom. Several hours later, after a few unanswered phone calls to the house, my parents came home frantic. They saw grandpa sleeping on the couch, my little sister on the floor, but no site of the their two other young daughters. Finally, my father looked in the bathroom. And there we were, sprawled out on the bathroom floor with an overturned wine jug next to us. Our speech was slurry, our eyes glazed and our lips stained with wine. We spent the rest of the night alternating between throwing up and laughing hysterically. My mother says the next day was spent in bed, doses of St. Joseph's baby aspirin doled out periodically. And that is why, to this day, I cannot stand the taste of red wine.

When grandpa died in 1991 we sat around his yard after the funeral. There were gallons of very cheap wine, peaches to put in the glasses, and a round of Perry Como songs. And the story of the day grandpa babysat. A family legacy that lives to this day, in the form of my aversion to red, red wine.

(this story inspired by a conversation with jonno)

Posted by at 08:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

monday musings on the triumverate plus one

No matter what I go on to say about Rumsfeld and Ashcroft and the rest of satan's minions, rest assured that they pale in comparison to the evil, heartless prime minister of Australia. Keeping asylum seeking detainees in a camp under a baking sun, in horrid conditions is bad enough. But when told of a suicide pact among the children detainees (none of whom have parents with them) PM Howard blew off the report, claiming that people in that situation always make threats, and its up to people like (Howard) to know when they are bluffing. While Australians are mounting protests against the treatment of the refugees, and the refugees themselves are resorting to self-inflicted violence to get attention, Howard says they are being treated fairly and it's not his fault if they die.

And really, the only thing that sets Howard apart from Rumsfeld in the issue of holding detainees, is that Rumsfeld won't come right and speak his crazed mind like Howard. He's a bit more evasive when asked about the treatment of his prisoners of war. Oh, wait, they aren't POWs, are they? It must be nice to be a position of leadership where you can determine the outcome of events by changing some words around. You don't want them to be POWs because they would have to be treated according to the Geneva Convention? Fine! Let's call them something else and then we can call them guilty and be on with the inhumane treatment.

And then there's Ashcroft. Our beloved, insane Attorney General Ashcroft. He has ordered $8,000 drapes to be used to cover up statues that have appeared in the Great Hall in the Justice Department for over 70 years, because they are partially nude. Nevermind that these statues represent justice; I want to know what kind of filthy mind Ashcroft has when everyone else sees the statues as art, and he sees pornography. It takes a certain kind of mind to view all nudity as something dirty. A very Jerry Falwell type of mind.

And I would remiss if I didn't include a story about the third part of the evil triumverate, Mr. Cheney. Ok, so I don't really feel like picking this story apart right now. I just want you to look at his face in the picture. Is it me, or does he look like he's about to flick you away like a bug on his windshield?

So I think this is a long enough post to test out my moveable type skills. So far, I like it, I just don't know how to get the title to appear. Oh, and for now I am using what is mostly and MT template, but I will have a redesign as soon as I stop frustrating D and come up with something.

Posted by at 06:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (33)

welcome

You know that story about the shoemaker and the elves? The shoemaker and his wife went to bed one night, worried about how all the shoes would get made, and when they woke up in the morning, all their work was done. Some elves had come during the night and took care of everything for them.

That's a bit how I feel this morning. I went to bed thinking about the 8 hours spent trying to get this blog to move to Moveable Type yesterday, and I ended up right back where I started from. I assumed today would be another day of frustration. But when sat down at the computer and went to look at the blog, there was a post saying I had moved. My own personal elf had come during the night and fixed everything up for me. So not only did Candi spend her entire day yesterday figuring out my server issues and moving my entire blog for me, she also managed to get up her own new, sexy redesign. I don't know how she does it, I'm just glad she does.

So I am going to spend a few minutes poking around MT here, pushing buttons and whatnot, and when I figure it all out, I'll get to the regular morning post.

Posted by at 05:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

sister, sister

I'm officially out of the closet.

Both my sisters now know about this blog. I had managed to keep this place secret from everyone in my home life except for Justin. And now, almost a year later, I've decided to go public. Both my sisters had a small inkling about the blog. They knew I kept some kind of online journal, but a personal one that no one saw but me. I just got to the point where I didn't mind if they knew. Sure, I can't talk about them here anymore. But that's ok, because I'd rather just call them bitches to their faces.

I love my sisters. Yes, we have our differences, we have our fights. What siblings don't? At some point in your life you need to put aside your differing opinions and ideas and just love each other. We did enough squabbling when we were younger. I'm talking about name-calling, hair-pulling, teethmarks in your arm kind of fighting. We fought over doing the dishes, taking the garbage out, whose turn it was to watch a tv show. We rolled around the kitchen floor, throwing punches and crying over who started it while my father shook his head in disbelief. My poor, poor father. Having to live in a house with 3 girls. Not to mention my mother, who is a story unto herself.

Oh, we had our good times. The fun we shared was endless. Like the time they locked me in the closet to test out my claustrophobia. What a riot my sisters were. Ok, I was no angel. We did hide our infant sister in the toy chest once. And no matter what my middle sister says, I did not push her down the stairs when she was in her walker, and I did not try to suffocate her in her bassinet on her Christening day. Want to know what kind of people they are? Whenever I tell the story about being eight years old and saving my little sister's life when the car door opened as my mother drove like a speed demon (no one used seat belts or car seats back then), they will automatically launch into the story of how I almost became road pizza when my uncle drove too fast around a turn and I nearly fell out of the car when the door opened. They laugh when this story is told. They think it's funny.

I love them despite the way they tortured me. Despite the fact that being the oldest, I should have garnered some respect from them growing up instead of always being the victim of their practical jokes and mischevious behavior.

We are three entirely different people. We have different values, different tastes, different lifestyles. Yet when we are together, just the three of us, it's like we are one. I have never doubted once in my life that if I needed my sisters to be there for me, they would. They have both held my hand through some very trying times. They have given me comfort and support and guidance. They have yelled at me when I needed to be yelled at, and picked up my slack when I was in too much of a funk to be a good parent to my children. They tolerated my ex-husband, even though he treated them like shit, because I asked them to. They have no problem telling me when they disagree with my choices, yet they accept those choices because they accept me.

We have been through some rough times in the past few years. We have had arguments and issues and periods of not talking. I'd like to think we are in a place now where we are past that. We have our own lives separate from each other, and there is no reason our choices in those lives need to interfere with our love for each other. We have always accepted our differences. Why change now, when we are older and should be more mature than to let those things put a wedge between us?

Life is short. I do not want to waste it in petty arguments. I don't want to look back at my life and realize that I let the spaces between us get so far that we couldn't cross them.

So to my sisters, should you be reading this, I love you. I may bitch about you and call you names right to your face and question your sanity sometimes, but I love you and my children love you and sometimes, love is all you need.

Posted by at 06:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

letters to inanimate objects, part 3

Dear Hormones:

This letter is to inform you that you have ten (10) days from the date of this notice to pack up your belongings and get out of my body. A warrant of eviction has been served and unless you can show just cause as to why you should be allowed to remain, you may commence with the leaving.

I have put up with your nonense for way too long. The way you control my emotions is no longer going to be tolerated. I will no longer allow you to cause me to cry over Kleenex commercials or weep like a baby when someone makes an offhand comment about the way my hair looks today. One minute, you want me to be full of simmering anger. The next minute, you expect me to turn around and hug everyone in sight. I just can't keep up anymore.

It's not just my emotions. It's my entire life. It is your fault I spent two hours at work yesterday organizing my desk drawer. It is your fault I put my canned goods in alphabetical order. It is your fault that I watched an episode of 7th Heaven.

Let's talk physical factors, ok? I'm 39 years old. I do not need to have zits appearing on my face monthly. I certainly do not need water retention. My hair? My god, what have you done to my hair? Every 28 days it turns into a rat's nest of horror. And the food. Do you not have any sense of decency or fair play? Must you further contribute to my already deflating ego by inflicting a constant desire for chocolate upon my senses? Salt, ice cream, cake, candy....can't you have me crave grapefruit instead?

It's just gotten to the point where I feel you have outlived your usefulness. I can't take it anymore. We had some great moments together (remember that time I listened to that Stabbing Westward song on repeat for 2 straight days?), but it's run it's course. You have become a burden and a major source of annoyance.

So if you would kindly take your things and go, we can part ways with a certain sense of comradery. If you stay any longer, I will be forced to take drastic measure to rid myself of you.

Thank you for your service the past 39 years. Your certificate of appreciation is in the mail.

Posted by at 08:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

same as it ever was

Saturday morning routine:

get up at 4:30

turn on computer

make coffee

check mail

check blog for comments

drink coffee

check stats

go outside and smoke, stare at stars, enjoy the silence

get more coffee

write morning post

And that's where I am at now. Every Saturday is the same damn thing. It's the one day I have some time to myself. The kids are at their dads. Justin sleeps til 11 on Saturdays. Here I am with several hours to do what I want, and I do the same thing each week. In about one hour there will be laundry done. Water changed in the frog tanks. Dishwasher emptied. Blog reading. Today I actually broke with tradition and put on the NIN DVD instead of listening to Incubus's Morning View for the 8.000th time. I feel out of sorts now. I am a creature of habit.

And really, what else is there to do so early on a weekend morning? It's not like I can go anywhere. I could read, watch a movie, clean out some closets, work on the school reading project. I could, but I won't. I'll sit here in front of the computer, getting up only occassionaly to refill the coffee or put some dishes away. Justin will get up eventually and we will clean up a bit more, shower, get dressed and go out. We will spend money on toys and games and unhealthy food and come home around dinner time. We will watch a movie together and then I will go online and do all the checking of blog related things and make another post. I will pass out on the couch before Saturday Night Live gets past the monologue. At some point in the evening there will be sex and cigarettes and perhaps a few glasses of wine. Maybe the wine comes before the sex.

Tonight I get to break with routine. I'm going to a wake. Woohoo! There's living it up for you. There's a bar next door to the funeral parlor and maybe I will have a drink with my sisters or cousins. Maybe.

I want to do something different. I need to do something different. There are always chances to break the cycle. We should go visit Justin's mother in Pennsylvania one weekend. We should go to a movie instead of watching one at home. We should go to the city for comic book shopping. But every time the situation presents itself to do something different, I think of reasons not to. Let's face it. I'm a homebody. I would rather sit here in my comfortable clothes and play video games and watch cartoons than have to put on something decent and hop on a train. My weekdays are a blur of work, kids, cleaning, cooking, homework, projects, school functions, more work. The days fly by. I want to do nothing on the weekends. Yet I feel guilty for doing nothing. I feel like I should be living it up, having an exciting life.

I'm going to make more of an effort to make today different than all the other Saturdays before it. We will go somewhere different, try a new restaurant, have sex in the living room instead of the bedroom. Maybe go out tonight instead of the afternoon. Maybe we will buy something besides movies and video games and comic books. Maybe we could go out east and stare at the water and the boats and walk along the shore or go to the aquarium. Maybe we could invite my sister and her husband over for dinner. Maybe. I'll think it over.

Damn, it's 6:30. Time to put the laundry in and feed the frogs before 7:00 gets here and I have to empty the dishwasher.

Posted by at 05:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)

London calling

So Melly and I made our way around London today. That is to say, cardboard fascimiles of us made their way around London. From what I hear, I had a good time hanging out with some very interesting people. I seem to have gotten my leg caught in a drink at some point and hey....that's Jessica Alba's body I'm wearing! I heard that Melly and I made our way back to Miguel's hotel room. What he was doing with two pieces of female shaped cardboard I don't know. And I don't want to know.

And who needs the bloggies? My dear friend Shel has given me one of the first every Bobupndown.com Memorial Awards. Yes, I was pleased and honoured (spelled with a "u" just for Shel) to receive The Separated at Birth/Favorite Fag hag award. Yea, so what if 90% of my weblogging friends are gay males? Think of me as a gay male trapped in a woman's (or Jessica Alba's) body. Hell, I don't know who I am. Somedays I want to be Bill. Somedays I want to be Choire. Today, I want to be Meg from Tech TV. But most days, I'm this guy (on the left).

Posted by at 08:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

back off my ovaries, bitch!

What is it about reproduction that makes people think it is a subject that is open for discussion? Nobody has the right to question your plans for having or not having children. Nobody has the right to question your decision to have a baby, how you are raising that baby or what you are naming that baby. Yet there are people who believe it is their god-given right to know everything about your reproductive system and what you are doing with it.

Today, it's someone wanting to know if Justin and I plan on having kids of our own. We don't. I have two children and frankly, it's all I want. Justin does not want any more than what is already in our household. He does not want a baby, he is not concerned about carrying on the family name and I really do not have to explain the myriad reasons to anyone.

Both times I was pregnant, I had to put up with nine months of advice from strangers. And it wasn't just advice, it was judgments. I was stupid for having a baby so soon after I got married. I was hurting my baby by working through my pregnancy. I wasn't eating enough. I was eating too much. I was eating the wrong things. I worked too hard, I didn't get enough exercise, and what did I mean that I wouldn?t name a boy after his father? How ridiculous of me to even think otherwise!

I was actually pregnant a third time, in between Natalie and DJ. I had a miscarriage at 6 weeks. I heard all kinds of things then. It was the moisturizer I was using, it had bad chemicals in it. I stretched too much at work. I shouldn't have been working at all. I ate the wrong foods. I took toxic vitamins. I shouldn't have taken that long car ride out east. Everyone knows better than you. And they are not afraid to tell you what they think they know.

So now that my kids are older and the people who feel proprietary over babies have lost their desire to give me sage advice, they have had to come up with new and improved ways of sticking their noses into my ovaries. It always comes back to Justin and the emptiness he surely must feel because his sperm will never amount to more than jizz. I've been told I'm selfish. But these people never think to ask Justin how he feels. Is there some unwritten law that everyone must want a baby at some point? I know plenty of couples who are childless by choice, and will remain that way. Justin was very happy to come into a ready made family where the kids were already past diapers and baby food and potty training.

It's all come to a boiling point because we have been talking about getting married this year, maybe in August for my birthday. The assumption is that once we get married, we will think more "seriously" about having more children. You know, I'm going to be 40 in August. My kids are finally at an age where I can take them to a restaurant without dragging along 25 accessories for them. They can get their own food and make their own beds. I'm not about to start over again with an infant. I don't have the time, the money nor the patience it would take. I'm going to be totally honest here. I barely have the patience for the two kids I have now. A third would just about kill me.

So if you are one of those people that dispense advice to every mother or pregnant woman you see, please stop. You are invasive, annoying and mostly full of shit. Your advice is almost always wrong, and 90% of the time it is based on some old wive's tale. Eating strawberries while pregnant will not cause your child to be born with a strawberry shaped birthmark on its forehead. Putting Jack Daniels in your kid's bottle is not really a good idea. You child cannot catch AIDS from playing in the ballpit at Burger King. You cannot tell what sex your child will be by dangling a thread over your belly. If you are not going to offer encouragement or a kind word, please don't say anything at all. Our ovaries, our children and the way we raise them are none of your damn business.

Posted by at 01:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (21)

the blame game

I'm trying to put myself in the place of John Walker's parents. I imagine myself, standing before the press, facing hundreds of questions about my son's life and motives. And while I don't think I would stand up there and villify him, I can say with certainity that I would not be deflecting responsibility or making him out to be a good guy who just made a mistake. I cringe every time I hear his parents speak. They call him a patriot. They call him a good kid. They evade direct questions by bringing up the issue of Walker's treatment while he was detained.

I'm not coming out either way on what should be done with him, or what he should be tried for. Whether or not his civil rights were violated while he was being held is not really what concerns me. What does is the total lack of acknowldegement on the part of the parents that their son was a member of a terrorist organization. Even if it was not his intention to kill Americans, he still belonged to a group of people that terrorized women, children and other countries. They held mass executions for live audiences. This would not be ok with me as a parent. I would not be looking into a television camera calling my son misguided. Am I the only one who thinks these parents have to accept a certain amount of responsibility for their child's behavior? Or is it just easier for them to pass the blame? They will blame society and the United States government. Years from now Walker will blame his parents as he goes for jailhouse therapy.

The whole issue of passing the buck and not accepting blame could not have been clearer as when I was watching the Enron hearings on C-Span last night. Is it me or is this guy David Duncan being railroaded? He cannot possibly be the only person in all of Arthur Anderson to know that these documents were being shredded. His bosses sat on their fat asses, telling the panel over and over that it was all David Duncan's fault and they knew nothing. This guy is being hung out to dry. There is no way you could ever convince me that none of the in-house attorneys at Arthur Anderson knew of the shredding. Hell, they probably ordered it. And then they picked this one auditor who could be their fall guy. So while Duncan is sitting in the hot seat, pleading the fifth on every questions, all the other Arthur Anderson employees better be sweating under their white collars, because I'm rooting for Duncan to get tired of holding the bag. I'm waiting for him to name names and bring everyone down with him. I'm not saying the guy was right in what he did. He just should not have to have all the blame passed on to him. And for the big guns in that company to think that the panel and the public would believe that only one person shredded these documents, well they either think we are very stupid or they are just monumentally stupid themselves. Then again, if they were smart, they wouldn't be in this mess, would they? Smart people don't leave trails of evidence.

I hate when I get so irate at 5am. It sets a tone for the whole day.

Do me a favor while I'm at work? Go check out D's new digs. The bulletproof punk has risen from the ashes and is currently residing in Acerbia. The new place looks fresh and exciting, which bodes well for me, as D will be doing a redesign of this site. And speaking of redesigns, the bizarre and lovely mecawilson has fixed his place up. Same sick humor, new things to look at. And I am switching to Moveable Type this weekend. I don't know what happened. One minute I'm talking to Shel, the next he's installing MT. I think he brainwashed me. I have this sudden desire to dance to Robbie Willilams. Or with Robbie Williams.

I keep feeling like there was something else I was supposed to say....eh, it's Friday. I have all weekend to bug you.

Posted by at 04:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (21)

sick with guilt

A bus driver takes his cargo of little kiddies and drives them over 100 miles from their destination. He has a sawed off shotgun in the bus and ends up in a completely different state with 13 distraught children. So is anyone else thinking it's somewhat ironic that the driver's name is Otto?

So I spent the day being sickly, and I don't think it was the dreaded stomach virus. See, yesterday I met a friend for lunch. I had this huge ass sandwich that was stuffed with a million different things. I had a giant basket of fries. And then we had dessert. Something called Strawberry Tallcake. This wouldn't be so bad, as I usually don't eat that much in a sitting. But when I got home, Justin had obviously spent all day slaving away, making a 3 course dinner. I had to eat it. Even though my stomach was complaining about lunch and I felt like I swallowed Rush Limbaugh whole. Even though I had never been so un-hungry in my life. Because that's the kind of girlfriend I am. The kind that would not want to hurt someone's feelings when they devoted an entire day to making you dinner. I ate. And ate. Because he is the kind of guy that will stand there watching you eat if he cooked dinner. He will interpret your gestures and the faces you make, he will ask a million times if you like it and he will pout if you add salt. So I just smiled and chewed and swallowed. Now I felt like I had swallowed both Rush and Drew Carey.

So it's no wonder I woke up feeling like I had Operation Enduring Freedom going on in my body. And I had to spend all day pretending to Justin like I had a virus because I didn't want to tell him it was his dinner that caused me to heave all over the house. He pampered me as he always does when I'm sick and waited on me hand and foot and now I feel so overwhelmingly guilty that I'm just going to pack it in and go to bed before he says "are you ok? do you need anything?" one more time.

Posted by at 08:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

random musings in between vomiting

I spent an hour writing a post about this and it was all sarcastic and snarky and I was very proud of it. Then my computer had a fit when I tried to listen to the new Nine Inch Nails cd and fritzed out on me. I don't have the mindflow to rewrite the whole thing, so let's just say it was funny yet meaningful and quoted Kermit the Frog and leave it at that.

Someone offered to buy me a Free Winona t shirt but I'll have to pass because a) I really don't like her and b) my time is better spent working on freeing ODB.

Someone came here looking for michele+justin+a small victory and I have an idea who it was, so please make yourself known, it's ok. I erased all the posts where I called you a whore and a bitch.

So am I reading this whole thing wrong, or should Patty Hearst just shut the fuck up and thank her maker that she's not rotting behind bars?

Rapper C-Murder was charged with murder. Go figure.

And lastly, I really thought That 80's Show would, at the very least, make me chuckle wryly and nod my head while I relived all those crazy moments from my early 20's. But there was no self-destructive speed-freak girl who hung out in seedy night clubs and dated ex cons. I just couldn't identify.

That is all I can muster for now. It's one of those blog for the sake of blogging moments.

Posted by at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

who is wil wheaton and why does he have a weblog?

I had been watching a rather nasty stomach virus make its way around town here. Schools, my office, my relatives...I thought I would get through it unscathed. Not so. It's here and it's vengeful. I'll be spending a good portion of my day in front of the computer and the rest...well you really don't want to know that, do you?

The 2nd Annual Bloggie Award nominees were announced today. I would like to congratulate some really wonderful, talented people who deservedly got bloggie nominations. I won't say anything about the people who got nominations that were totally uncalled for, but the evidence of a popularity contest is overwhelming when Fark gets nominated for best political weblog and photodude doesn't. I just hope the people who really deserve the awards come out winners. You can say "it's just a dumb award" as much as you want to, but there are some people who deserve to be recognized for their efforts, and I'm very happy for them.

I am now going to pray in the altar I constructed for the pepto bismol god.

Posted by at 07:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (19)

curse of the civil servants

I work with cretins. Maybe it's a requirement of government agencies that 90% of the workforce has to have IQs lower than that of a turtle. And of those 90%, at least half of them must have no common sense, no sense of decorum and no class.

There's the two mail people, one older than time itself and the other a portly, greasy slimeball who stands in my doorway and strikes a pose as he asks if I have any files going out. Together, they look like Ren and Stimpy and I giggle whenever they walk past the door. The woman is a crotchety, belligerent drunk who probably was a whore at some point in her life. She tells me graphic stories of sexual abuse in her family, even though I am wearing dictaphone headphones (I don't really do dictaphone, but I put the headphones on when she comes in as a defense).

Most of the women here are over 60 and do not dress for success. They wear the badges of civil service; brightly colored polyester slacks, sweaters embroidered with uplifting sayings or holiday emblems, beehive hairdos and garish lipstick that is mostly worn on their teeth.

Is this my future? At some point, do all civil servants become freaks of nature? Will I start wearing polyster and washing my hair only once a week? I'm afraid, very afraid. I try to envision myself here, at this desk, ten years from now. I don't like what I see. I have this vision of myself, sitting at the computer, reading glasses perched on nose (glasses hanging from a chain of course), saying something like "Damn this newfangled technology! I could be home watching my stories on the tv!" It's not what I want to become, but I think it's written in the by-laws of career choices somewhere that I have no choice.

Ian came up with a list of career options, but unfortunately, I am not qualified for my number one choice of rock star, and street performance is out. I believe I am chained to a job where some days the most challenging thing is getting the New York Law Journal to fold back into the shape it came in.

I like my job, I really do. It's the company I'm forced to keep here that I can't stand. They probably don't like me much either, but that's mainly because of the Bible Pamphlet incident.

So I guess I'm stuck here, but I sure would like to have some kind of guidance as to how to prevent myself from becoming the stereotypical government employee. As it is, I've spent this whole day printing out Boondocks strips and covering my whole bulletin board with them. I've already mastered the "evade real work at all costs" law of goverment work. There has to be an antidote to the civil servant curse. Garlic cloves, wooden stakes, holy water - someone give me a clue as to how to combat the evil that is getting ready to plague me.

Posted by at 10:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (24)

you've got to be carefully taught

Natalie saw a movie on the KKK in school yesterday. She came home with a million questions, most of them sounding very much like "what the hell is wrong with people?"

She has known of the existence of the KKK for a while, ever since she was six and asked if she could wear one of those "white-hooded costumes" she saw on CNN for Halloween. When I explained what those costumes stood for, in the best way you can explain such things to a six year old, she cried. She spent the next several days fearful, looking over her shoulder at every corner. She was afraid the KKK was coming to get her. She couldn't justify this fear, it was just there.

So six years later, she wants to talk about it again. She is no longer afraid, she is just angered and bewildered. She hears other kids in her class talking in a way that scares her, and I explain that they are probably just emulating what they hear from older siblings or, sadly, their parents, and hopefully they will change their tune one day. "People never change," she says to me. "I think once you grow up like that, to think that, you believe it your whole life." She then asks about the children of racists, if they are taught to believe the things their parents do. Most children are brought up to believe the things their parents do, I tell her. If a parent believes they are absolutely right in their belief, they pass that belief on to their children. It's how some kids learn to hate rather than love.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that I got into a fight today over it." I say nothing. She interprets my silence as a cue to go on. "Danny Avery said that white people are better than black people."

"Didn't Danny Avery also say that last year, in 5th grade?" I ask.

"Yea, but I didn't say anything to him then. I just walked away."

"So what did you do this time?"

"I told him to prove it to me. And he just stood there and looked at me funny. And then he just repeated himself, like, (she makes herself sound like a slightly stupid 12 year old boy here) ohhh white people are better, just know that, ok? and so I said if he thinks that then maybe he should take off the Bernie Williams shirt he was wearing and get like, a Chuck Knoblauch shirt."

"Chuck Knoblauch??" I say, incredulous.

"It was all I could think of. I know, lame."

"So what did he say?"

"He called me an idiot and then he like, got up off of his chair and it looked like he was going to come after me but he was faking me out, and then I just said he had a lot to learn about life and I left to go to band."

"Good, you handled it ok, Nat."

We drive in silence for a few more minutes. Then I hear her say something.

"What, I didn't hear you."

"I said I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For that time in first grade when I wanted to be the KKK for halloween. I didn't know."

"It's ok. You know now. Even better, you understand." I think how proud I am of her for going from fearing racists to wanting to fight them. Dangerous, yes. But in my own strange way of parenting, I'm proud of that.

Sometimes I look at her when she is acting like a true pre-teen girl, whining and crying one minute and screaming in anger the next, dramatic and annoying and so self-involved it's scary. I think about the other moments, the moments like the above conversation and it makes me think there's hope. That she won't always be this gum-cracking, smartass girl who thinks the world revolves around her. Somewhere in there, is a really good hearted young adult waiting to get out.

Posted by at 05:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (23)

B to the Ling

I come out of work today and head towards the parking lot. As I'm about to open my car door I'm accosted by a rather haggard looking man. He grabs my shoulder and speaks animatedly, but I have no idea what language he is speaking. I'm trying to make out at least the last word, which sounds like either schwing or bring.

"Excuse me?" I say. "Bring?"

I notice he has no teeth. He may be speaking English for all I know, but it's hard to sound coherent without teeth.

"mumblemumble ling ling"

"Ling?" I think maybe he's asking me for money, but I can't be sure. He's exasperated.

"mumblemumble bling"

I look at him quizically. "Bling bling?" I ask.

He stares for a moment, his hand still on my shoulder. Then he breaks out into a wide, toothless grin.

"Bling Bling!!!" He says, excitedly.

He then reaches into his sweatshirt and pulls out a gold chain. At the end of the chain is a large, plastic, gold colored dollar sign. He tilts back his head and laughs.

"Bling Bling!" he cries, and walks away.

Posted by at 03:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (24)

here's the mail...

Last night dreams involved driving a wooden stake into a large china doll, which then spewed blood; being nine months pregnant and sucking on a helium balloon while riding in the car with that idiot from Project Greenlight; being an undercover agent, forgetting my gun at home and trying to apprehend a suspect (a 15 year old girl who stole and was in a public bathroom taking a pee when I tried to arrest her) with a cooler bag - the kind you would stick a six of beer in before going to the ballgame. It worked. So it was a long night of complicated dreams with sub plots and recurring characters and lots of action. That said, I'm tired this morning. And a bit bemused.

I've been getting email lately, more than my usual share. Generally, my email, besides notes from friends and dirty jokes from my mother, consists of a lot of empty promises of bigger breasts, smaller waists, fatter wallets and a bigger penis, which I have no use for. Or maybe I do. If they could send me just the giant penis, with no person attached to it, it could save me a whole lot of batteries.

The past week or so I've seen an increase in blog related mail. I occasionally get mail from readers, most wanting to take me to task for being "Anti-American" i.e., speaking out against our country's policies on various issues. You know, practicing my freedom of speech. Sometimes I get mail from extremist religious people who think I should go to hell. Go to hell and die. In that order. There's the sporadic marriage proposal, one from a woman even, the offers of wild monkey sex and people who want me to be their mom. And then there's the people who want me to be their mom during wild monkey sex. We won't go there.

I find most of that mail amusing. What I find not so amusing is the mail from people who demand things of my weblog. I've talked about this before; the people who get tired when I write about my kids and the people who want to hear less about my kids and more about politics, or more about my kids and job and less about Rumsfeld being the anti-christ, etc. etc. I tend to not reply to people who want to limit what I should or shouldn't write about. If you are going to send me an email to that effect, at least try to be funny, then I'll write you back.

Meanwhile, I will answer some of their burnign questions here. These are from the past few days:

You haven't talked about politics or George Bush in almost a week. You didn't even say anything about the pretzel. Have you gone Republican?

There's more to life than my hatred for Bush and Rumsfeld. I was on a mini-hiatus when Bush choked on the pretzel. Don't read more into that than necessary. I've already been questioned and released.

How come you only talk about the two kids, the boy and the girl? You said once you had like 5 kids. So where are the other ones? Boarding school?

I have two children. If I have more than that, then it must have been like Gremlins, where they mutliplied by being dipped in water or something. I keep them locked in a closet and only take them out when I need someone to help me hand out subversive literature to Young Republicans.

How come your link too so many blogs by gay people? Are you really gay? Do you want to be gay? Do you dream abou tbeing a gay guy? what with your fasination with that? Do you hang out with gay people or do you have any firends that are more like you? Admit it you are really a gay guy and you are fooling everyone." *grammar and spelling left in original condition

I link to many blogs by married women, too. Does that make me really a married woman? Or mean that I want to be one? If I linked to a Christian blog would that make me a Christian? If I link to blogs by tall people does that make me tall or mean that I want to be tall or am I fooling you all and I really am not 5'2"? Do I hang around with people like me? How fucking boring would it be to hang around with only people that are just like you? How much of a sheltered life to you lead to think that people should only be in a circle of friends that think alike? Is there any diversity in your life? Or are all your friends shallow, dull, dim witted, ignorant assholes?

And that's the mailbag for today. At least the ones I felt were coherent enough to repeat.

Posted by at 05:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (24)

meat product game of the day

Anyone remember band sausages? Back when this blog was on Freeservers, I used to have all sorts of games and contests. One was band sausages, which is where you take two or more bands and combine their names together to make a whole new band. Example: The Beastie Boyz II Men, The Crystal Methods Of Mayhem, Grateful Dead or Alive. Get it? There's no real hardcore rules. Be creative. Squeeze as many bands as you can in, like this person did the last time I played this game: Shakespear's Sisters of Mercyful Fate's Warning . If you played the last time, feel free to repeat your answers, as I did not archive that page.

*I originally got the idea from this site but I can't seem to find the original page this was on. Just wanted to give credit for the name of the game.

Ok, pack some band sausage!

Posted by at 05:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (37)

straight up

I had a dream I was fly fishing with Paula Zahn, and when the sun set, she turned into Paula Abdul.

Today we honor Martin Luther King, Jr. We take these holidays seriously in my house. My children are both history buffs (which explains the whole Ethan Allen thing), so when a presidential or famous person holiday comes along, we talk about that person. Last year on this day, Natalie recited the "I Have a Dream" speech for us. And then we talked about what it means, and what each of us can do to help that dream along. Which, whenever this is discussed, leads me to tell this story:

This was many years ago, right about this time of year. Natalie must have been in kindergarten. She was doing something to annoy me. It must have been very annoying because I remember chasing her through the house, yelling at her. Finally, she ran into her room and hid under her bed. I was still yelling. She peeks her head out and screams:

"How are you going to keep Martin Luther King's dream alive if you keep yelling at me like that??"

Yes, my children learned at an early age how to combine their home life with what they learn in school in one big, manipulative package. But I suppose she did get the point of the lesson, so it's all good.

-the golden globes of blogs-

I would like to welcome the visitors who have come here today from Francis Strand's My Way Blog Awards. I wasn't going to say anything, so as not to seem self-serving that this blog was mentioned, but I've been enjoying Francis's blog for a while now and I think you would too. The big winner was, deservingly, East/West , and Nancy received a fluffer certificate of merit.

Congrats to the winners, and thanks to Francis for putting the awards on and giving me oh so many new blogs to read. It's a wonder I ever get anything accomplished. Hmm. Have I gotten anything accomplished?

Posted by at 05:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

the agony of defeat, the moral dilemma of playstation

Bah. Damn.

I had a feeling they would lose. But not this big. I'm consoled, however, by the fact that I bought DJ his Playstation 2 today. Now for the moral dilemma...His birthday is not until the 30th. How rude would it be of me to open it up and play with it when he's sleeping and then put it back in the box and wrap it next week?

Posted by at 07:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

fumbling towards the superbowl

Maybe putting this image here last week was a good luck charm. Who am I to mess with luck? As hopelessly devoted to the Pack that I am, I realize that The Rams are a formidable opponent and today's game may not have the happy ending that last week's did. Either way, I'm proud of The Pack and I have once again spent a season watching Bret Favre have the most fun anyone has ever had playing football. How can you not love this guy?

I dozed off towards the end of the Pats/Raiders game last night. It was a fun game, played in the snow the way football should be played. But when I woke up several minutes after the game ended, I did a what the fuck happened?? double take. From all accounts, Brady fumbled. Dodd is none too happy about the turn of events, and who can blame him? This non-call will rank right up there with the Jeffrey Maier fiasco, or the Jerry Rice fumble that wasn't. I would rather the Raiders won, given my disdain for the Pats, but that's sports. You are always at the whim of officiating, even with instant replay.

Getting my cheeshead out. Got my jersey ready. Got a nice bottle of wine, and we will see whether it will be used to celebrate or to drown my sorrows in.

Posted by at 07:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

for the birds

Early yesterday morning, before the snow, before the clouds even, there were birds. There are always birds here because we have so many trees, but this was different. It wasn't just the throng of the little brown guys that hang around the bird feeder all winter fighting with the squirrels. It was all kinds of birds. Swooping and diving over the house, calling to each other, making a racket and having a big old bird get-together.

[story continued here]

I had my camera out, like I do every morning. I have yet to get a picture of the birds by the feeder; it's like they can feel my presence even when I am quiet and barefoot, and they flutter away before I am within six feet of them. So I was trying once again to get a photo of them. Then I noticed the cardinals. There were two of them, bright red and looking out of place, sitting on the telephone wire. I was so startled to see them, I fumbled for my camera, making a whole lot of noise in the process. The brown birds glanced at me, annoyed yet again, and flew off with a racket. The cardinals took flight and headed towards the backyard. I followed their path and ended up in my aunt's yard, where two more cardinals were resting on the stone statues in the garden. The other two joined them, one perched on angel and one on the eagle. The other two had been sitting on my aunt's virgin mary statue (doesn't every Italian aunt have one of those?) and they took off as the other two cardinals came down and stopped on the cement brick fence behind them. I took several pictures in quick succession, afraid the birds would scurry away before I could get a good shot in. But they stayed there, looking at me and almost preening for the camera. A squirrel came along, balancing himself on top of the fence, quietly approaching the cardinals. I snapped a pictures just as the squirrel leaped and the birds flew away, leaving the squirrel pawing at air.

I was about to head in when I heard the screeching. Not the sound of one bird, but the sound of many. Seagulls. I recognized the screech immediately. I walked around the front of the house in time to see about forty seagulls land on my neighbors roof. They would perch there, look around and then swarm through the sky, making a complete circle, and land on the roof again. Then, as if they had choreographed it beforehand, one seagull at a time would take off from the roof, circle above my house, and land on the telephone wire above me, making that irritating noise the whole time.

The arrival of the flock of seagulls brought out the curious. First the squirrels, who stood on the branches of the oak tree in the front of the yard, facing the seagulls and perhaps staring them down. Then the two flocks of small brown birds, maybe about 100 to a flock, one coming from the left and one from the right. They would fly, grouped together in the shape of a diamond, all coming out of one tree in a cacaphony of chirping. Swoop up, swoop down. All harmonized and synchronized. They would come down low, brush by the squirrels, and then head up again with a furious flapping of wings, past the seagulls on the wire, higher and higher until they were pinholes in the sky. Then they would dive back again with a furious speed, making the seagulls and squirrels take off, all the running and wing beating and screeching and chirping making a soundtrack for this wild scene.

Meanwhile the cardinals sat there like the cool kids in school, the ones who couldn't be bothered to join in whatever game was going on in the parking lot. If they had cigarettes, they would have been smoking them. The four of them stood there, watching their fellow birds, and I could almost swear they were shaking their heads in disdain.

It started to snow then, little, sproradic flakes at first, and then a bigger flurry, until it was really snowing hard. By now my hands were frozen and I had finished the film, taking two complete rolls of nothing but birds and squirrels. I stood a few seconds longer and watched the seagulls disappear into the snow, their screeches getting dimmer and dimmer until it was all quiet again. The brown birds must have vanished into their trees, away from the snow, and the cardinals were gone. Only the squirrels remained, still on the branches of the oak tree. I'm sure they were gloating that they had won, for once I disappeared into the house, they were the last ones standing in the yard.

Posted by at 04:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

News at 11...or not

Big storm on the way. I'm mostly excited, I like the first snow of the year. But I would much rather have it during the week so I can get a day off from work.

So I went to the grocery store this morning - not in anticipation of the weather, I'm not one of those "prepare for the end of the world when a storm is coming" people - but because I had the urge to make steak tonight. I get to the store and there's a local reporter out there, questioning everyone about the snow, because you know how those news people love a good storm story. He was asking shoppers what they were buying, what were they stocking up on (come on people, it's 6 inches, not 3 feet!) and asking how they were getting ready for the weather. I see him approaching me as I walk towards the entrance. I'm not in a very good mood. Traffic was bad, I'm tired and cranky. I do not want to be on the news talking about buying toilet paper and water. So he stands in front of me, cameraman in tow, and throws the microphone in front of my face.

"So," he says, "What are you buying today m'am?"

I say nothing but this does not deter him.

"Are you stocking up on necessities for the first storm of the year?"

I look straight into the camera and grin.

"I'm buying Tampons," I say.

His jaw drops, the cameraman giggles and I brush past him and head into the store. Let's assume I will not be on the news tonight.

Posted by at 01:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (26)

The killer bunnies are coming!

I was reading a lovely post about B-movies over at houseogroove this morning. And it got me started.

My mother loved to take us to see horror movies. I was ten when she took me to see Asylum, the movie that started me on my love of horror. The real cheese came later, when I was about 14 years old and she took me to see Food of the Gods, an eco-thriller with mutant animals (based on the H.G. Wells novel).

So thinking about that one reminded me of another eco-thriller funfest, Night of the Lepus. You never heard of it, did you? It's a great mutant animal movie, starring giant killer rabbits. No, let's rephrase that. Killer bunnies. They weren't even mean looking rabbits. They were cute and fluffy. The special effects in this movie were horrible, laughable even. There's one part where you can actually see a guy in a bunny suit, and when they are burning bunnies (yes, burning bunnies), you can easily see that one is a stuffed animal.

When I was little, there was a 4:00 movie every weekday on channel 9, before talk tv and court shows took over that time slot. It was there that our family viewing led us to such wonderous films as Empire of the Ants, starring Joan Collins. Many of those 4:00 movies were of the horror nature, and I only wish I could remember them all. Probably the scariest was Devil's Rain, not only because of the face-melting scene at the end, but because it starred Ernest Borgnine, who was scary in his own right. It also featured a very young John Travolta and church of Satan founder Anton Lavey. For those that take pleasure in such things, Travolta meets a horrific fate in the film.

It seemed that most of the films shown on the 4:00 movie involved evil towns. There would always be a stranger moving into the town, and he/she would discover a horrible secret that the townsfolk had kept hidden. The stranger would then be chased, antagonized, stalked and threatened, and ultimately either meet his maker at the hands of the evil townsfolk (the creepy ending) or save the day by brandishing garlic or burning down the town (the heroic ending). There was this one movie about a town full of witches. I can only remember that they were dressed sort of Amish-like and the creepy ending had the nosy stranger laying in a freshly dug hole in the ground, while the witch-like neighbors took turns throwing dirt on top of her/him. I can still see that scene vividly in my mind, yet I can't recall anything else about the movie, including the name.

Then there was Thriller Theater, or Chiller Theater, or Chiller Thriller theater, I cannot for the life of me remember. It was on mostly late at night, but would sometimes appear on a Saturday afternoon. The opening credits had a hand raising out of a grave, and the hand had six fingers.

Keep in mind all of the above was required family viewing. The family that watches horror movies together, grows up weird together, as the saying goes. It's all my mom's fault. I used to get out of school at 3:20 and she would practically throw me in the car and do 90 all the way home because Dark Shadows started at 3:30.

Anyhow, the point of this post (if there was one..I started writing this an hour ago but got distracted with all the horror movie links) was to see if anyone out there can help me remember some of those really cheesy made for tv horror movies from the 70s. Or just tell me what your favorite campy horror movie is. Or anything. Anything to keep from doing all the things I am supposed to be doing but can't seem to bring myself to do.

Posted by at 07:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (39)

thinking and linking

You know what kind of day it's going to be when you are listening to Atari Teenage Riot at 4:30 a.m.

So I've been sitting here for an hour staring at my links. They are out of control. I weeded a little, took out some things I haven't read in a long time or that haven't updated in a long time. I've been afraid to weed for a long time because I do not want to insult anyone. Let's be realistic, folks. I do not read every blog in that sidebar every day. In the words of Ralph Wiggum, that's umpossible! But I leave them up there not because I am saying I read them every day (though there are a select few I never miss), I'm just giving you some options if you are looking for new blogs.

The sad thing is, I was able to take some links out, but I added even more than I deleted. I can't help it. I love blogs. I love reading other people's thoughts. I love the humor and warmth and intelligence I find on other blogs, the differing opinions, the personal sagas and triumphs. I may get swiffered some day, but I know I will just add the links back on. So today I added leuschke, freedexter, surblimity, houseogroove, luminescent,the other side, digital nap, interesting monstah and jonno (just go to the sidebar and click. Don't make me put in all the links right here).

Some day I will put them in some kind of order. Or try to figure out how Chris does the rotating link thing. I could put all of them on one page and just have 5 at a time up there. Or I could just go with the status quo and leave it be. Keep adding and deleting and adding and deleting and maybe update the diversions page to reflect any blog that has been in my sidebar. Oh hell. Why am I even spending my Saturday morning agonizing over this? I have things to do. Places to go. People to see. Blogs to read. Coffee to drink.

Oh, and I am going to have drinks with Baz next weekend. I am ultra excited. So I will be in Manhattan swilling alcohol and Baz and I are going to take over the city that night. If anyone wants to join us, let me know. Especially you. We are practically insisting you come.

Posted by at 04:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

you tell me...

I tend to say the phrase "what does that say about me" a lot. Especially after conversations involving sex and/or personal hijinks. So, while waiting two hours in a doctors office today for DJ to get his sore throat checked out, I thought about all of the others ways in which I could bring that phrase up.

what does it say about me that I noticed my shampoo and body wash have the exact same ingredients, right down to the dye color, yet I would never use the body wash on my hair or the shampoo on my body even though they are the exact same thing?

what does it say about me that when I go to a friends house and they show off their Lladros and Hummels I tell them how proud I am of my comic book and action figure collection?

what does it say about me that I think nothing of going into a store and dropping over 200 dollars on video games and accessories, yet I agonize over half an hour over buying a 26 dollar bra for myself?

what does it say about me I told my eleven year old daughter that it was perfectly ok if she did not want to join in the pledge of allegiance in school, and was even proud of her for standing up for that right?

what does it say about me that I bought my daughter a new jacket because the one she had seemed to be worn by just about every other girl in school and she looked like a sheep?

what does it say about me that I would rather take a vacation that involved going to a Comicon rather than heading for a romantic island or Disneyworld?

what does it say about me I have 89 channels on my digital cable yet all I seem to watch is Tech TV?

what does it say about me I think Red Meat and Captain Ribman are hysterically amusing, yet I think that Family Circus is utter evil?

what does it say about me given the choice between eternal youth or an eternal pot of coffee, I would choose the coffee?

what does it say about me I would rather listen to the screeching sound of cats in heat than be subjected to Creed?

what does it say about me one year after starting to blog, I am still obsessed with my daily stats?

what does it say about me that I get up at 4:30 a.m. every day, even on weekends?

what does it say about me that I actually sat here for an hour writing these things out?*

*actually twenty minutes, but over an hour with a break for personal hijinks

Posted by at 05:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (26)

more stuff you didn't want to know about me

Blogger Insider, Part 4. Courtesy of Manuel.

1. Would you agree that the only way to move on from old experiences that are keeping you down is to replace them with new things?

Absolutely not. While it’s good to move on from old experiences, it also helps to never forget them. That’s how you learn and grow. Always remember the places you have come from.

2. Complete this sentence: Being a parent has made me realize it's a lot more __ than I thought it was.

Frightening. I always new it would be rewarding, aggravating, hard and gratifying. I never thought it would be frightening, though.

3. Elvis or the Beatles?

The Beatles are the most overrated band in the history of the world. Elvis brings up all kinds of wonderful memories of my childhood. And he could shake his groove thang like nobody’s business.

4. You seem