A Small Victory

Below. * ^{Just a disclaimer that this was a Halloween picture of DJ. Allah thought it might be a bit frightening without an explanatory note. I don't dress my kids up like this all the time. Mostly.}

Posted by me at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (4)

It has been my experience that the best New Year resolutions to make are the ones that are easiest to keep. This way, you don't disappoint yourself by failing to keep to a diet and you don't hear it from your family that your resolution to be nicer is obviously not holding up. Making easy to keep resolutions is a great way to keep your self esteem from deflating. Remember, keep your expectations of yourself low and you will never be disappointed. 2005 List of Resolutions That I Vow to Keep: * Play Star Wars Battlefront at least once a day * Fill up all 20GB on the iPod * Never go on a diet * Eat more steak * Worry about things I have no control over * Be a disappointment to my parents * Complain about the weather as if there was something anyone could do about it * Embrace lack of impulse control; buy Keurig coffee machine * Be more apathetic * Learn how to curse in Japanese * Floss at least once a day * Make fun of Motley Crue at least once a week (just to piss off my sister) * Avoid social gatherings and large crowds * Become a hermit There. I think I can safely say I'll keep all my resolutions this year, with the exception of the last one, which I will need to become independtly wealthy to achieve. But there always has to be at least one resolution unkept, so as not to upset the delicate balance of my low self-expectations.

Posted by me at 10:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (6)

I told this one last year, but being that everyone seems to be on vacation this week, who's going to notice a little repeat? Besides, I need time to work on my annual "resolutions I can keep" post.

Worst New Year's Eve EVER

New Year's Eve, 1992. I'm eight months pregnant with my second child. The first child, almost three years old, has a raging fever and sinus infection. My then husband has chosen to take the overnight shift at his job, leaving me home to take care of the sick child on a holiday evening. I make little snacks for myself and the daughter to eat while we wait for midnight. Of course, there is no way I'll make it to midnight because I'm suffering from exhaustion, plus the only way to forget that I am so huge that I waddle instead of walk and it takes me about an hour to tie my shoes is to sleep. Forget the daughter. She's on some mixture of antibiotics and cold medicine that knocks her out for hours at a time. After an hour of coloring and making silly little crafts, I decide to turn the clock ahead, pretend it's midnight, celebrate the new year with a toast of sparkling grape juice (white grape juice and seltzer) and go cry myself to sleep while thinking about the misery that is my life. Daughter has other ideas. She decided that what she really wants to do is to vomit up a pile of medicine, snacks and chocolate milk all over the living room floor. I try not to cry as I attempt to clean up the floor, my very pregnant belly pressing against the rug as I'm on my hands and knees scraping puke from the carpet. The daughter has passed out on the couch. I pick her up while she's sleeping - no small feat for a pregnant woman with sciatica - lay her on her bed and change her out of the vomit-covered pajamas she was wearing. I wash her up and tuck her in and she never flinches, never wakes up even once and I wonder if maybe she's gone into a coma and she's suffering from some terrible strain of the flu or a virus that the doctor overlooked, so I stay in her room and make sure her breathing is even and that she responds - even in her sleep - to a pinch on her arm. She does. I feel bad, but love hurts sometimes, you know? I go back to the living room and clean up the crafts. It's only 8:00. I call my husband at his job to tell him how this night is going but he says he's busy, can't talk and as I go to hang up the phone I hear the sound of a merry party going on in the background and I yell into the receiver I hope you're having fun! Slam the phone down. Go on the couch and pout. I flip through various rocking and rolling New Year's specials. I'm bored. I'm lonely. I wonder what kind of husband Dick Clark would make. I wonder if his wife gets pissed that he's out every New Year's eve, but then I figure that she's probably in the ABC green room munching on caviar and sipping champagne and saying, Yes I'm Dick Clark's wife. I'm soooo lucky. I fall into a light sleep, sitting up with the remote in my hand, and I start to dream about the ghost of New Year's past, when midnight meant giant swigs of Boonesfarm wine that someone stole from their father and a joint passed around with Pink Floyd playing in the background and maybe a stolen kiss, even an attempt to get under my shirt, which I respond to with a kick in the shin. If you're not Dick Clark rockin', don't come knockin'. Yea, I always had a thing for Dick. Clark. 10:00 on this miserable New Year's Eve. I decide to go to bed. I call my parents to wish them Happy New Year and I sneak in a few well-placed twinges of self-pity, hoping they'll tell me to pack up the kid and come on over to celebrate with them. But my parents had a long-standing tradition - since all of their kids were old enough to be out without a curfew - that New Year's Eve, being my father's birthday, is their special night and no one is allowed to interfere with it. My father makes lobster and shrimp and he and my mother sit in front of the fireplace and sip wine and enjoy the evening alone. We all comply with their wishes because it's our understanding that this is the only night of the year that dad scores with mom. At least that's what he tells us. So I get on the phone and whine and cry and tell them I'm going to bed because I just want this year to end and they wish me a Happy New Year and I hang up with my bottom lip trembling as I try to keep from exploding in the biggest fit of self-pity my family has ever seen. I put on my pajamas. I settle into bed with Dick Clark and the remote. And then I hear the sound of little feet and they aren't pitter pattering, they are running. Full steam. And they are accompanied by the sound of a three year old girl screaming Moommy! I can't stop the poop! It won't stop! Oh lord. I get up and catch her just as she's about to slip in whatever she's trailing behind her. Oh, yes. Diarreah. Bad, bad diarreah, most likely a result of the antibiotics that I assumed she lost with the vomiting episode. Her jammies are brown and drooping. It's running down her legs. I scoop her up and run into the bathroom, throw her in the bathtub. It takes about an hour to clean up both of us, the kitchen floor and the bathroom. She falls asleep on the living floor, I just fall to the floor in tears. Dick Clark stares at me from the tv. Stop your crying, woman! Get up and make the most of what you have! Right. I go back into the bathroom to wash my face and see that the daughter, who insisted on helping me clean the tub and the floor, threw some of the used baby wipes in the toilet. I flush without thinking. The toilet overflows. And overflows. I try to stop it. I use the plunger to no avail. I call my father. The...toilet...won't...stop! He thinks I've been drinking. Or smoking. He has no idea what I'm talking about and I take his questions as a sign that he doesn't care. I want my sisters to come take care of me, but they both have plans. Sorry, you've got to deal with the toilet on your own, sis. There is no way I can convey the misery of my evening to them. I call the husband while I'm cleaning up the toilet overflow (I finally got the water to stop pouring out) and he asks why I can't take care of anything myself. I hang up. I cry again. My mother calls to see how it's going with the toilet. I break out into a long, wailing cry, the kind that Italian grandmothers invoke over the coffins of their husbands (whom they hated while they were alive). Nobody loves me! I'm now sobbing and my breath is coming in deep heaves. No...body....loves me! I'm all alone and the toilet won't work and Natalie is losing her lunch from both ends and the baby is kicking me and I smell like poop and vomit and my husband is in New Jersey having the time of his life and I bet Dick Clark would never, ever do this to his wife! When I'm finally done, my mother heaves a heavy sigh. Fine, come on over. I wrap the daughter in a heavy blanket and we walk across the street to my parent's house. It's 11:00. I fall asleep at 11:10. I miss Dick Clark ushering in the New Year and when I wake the house is dark and my parent's bedroom is closed so I assume that my dad got his yearly present anyhow, which makes me want to throw up just thinking of it and thinking of throwing up makes me relive the whole sordid evening in my head. I curl up next to my daughter, in the room where I used to sleep back in the day and I wish a whispered new year greeting in her ear. I silently make some resolutions, some that take years to complete, but I do eventually complete them all. Except for marrying Dick Clark. Who, it turns out, is really a robotron. So I hear.

Posted by me at 07:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1)

My iPod arrived today and man, is it beautiful. Thanks to Jonathan at Jittery for enabling me to win this prize of all prizes. I've already loaded up a few thousand songs and I'm not nearly done. 20GB, baby. That's a whole lot of music. I tested it out already by taking it food shopping with me. It was kind of nice to be able to roam through the aisles knowing that I had a vast collection of "damn, people, you are in my way" songs with me. That Wu-Tang sure came in handy in the frozen foods aisle. A nice, if frivolous, feature of the of the iPod is the ability to name it. I christened mine Matilda. At least one of you will figure out why. Speaking of winning iPods, my husband is thisclose to winning his contest that I blogged about here, thanks to you guys. If you could all go back and click again I'd be really happy because I don't share well and it would be nice if he had his own. He'd name it Léon. I've got lots of gigabytes to fill. Back to work.

Posted by me at 09:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (1)

This is another one of those short-short stories for the fiction for charity thing that ended up being longer than I intended. So much longer, in fact, that it's become a work in progress. In in the interest of getting these stories up in a timely fashion, I'm going to post Part I of Death Has No Name )tentative title). To be continued.

This one is for Dorkafork, who has unfortunately stopped blogging.

383 Hillside. 383 Hillside. Danny kept looking at the card and then looking at the house and each and every time, they matched up. It didn’t look like a temp agency. All the agencies he had been to before this were housed in brick buildings, except for the one that was in the sub level of the mall. That was the last one he had been to, and they had sent him here because they were closing up for summer vacation. What kind of business goes on summer vacation? Well, no matter. At least they were kind enough to send him somewhere else. Maybe he looked desperate. Maybe they could smell the Eu de Loser that seeped from his pores. Sure, yea. They felt sorry for him, what with the joblessness and the hopelessness and penniless, pitiful state of his wallet. So they sent him to....this house. Which was supposed to be a temp agency.

Danny knocked on the door. Sort of. What he actually did was brush his knuckle along the wood, so as not to make too loud a sound so when no one answered the door he could walk away and not be berated by Dina later on for not trying, because he did. They just didn’t answer. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t knock. There was knuckle meeting wood and as far as he was concerned, that was a knock and not a lie.

Too bad for Danny that someone inside that house had really good hearing because just as he was about to turn around and head back to his car, the door opened.

“Good day.” A middle aged woman with large breasts and a high, tight ass stood in the doorway. Danny didn’t mean to notice her breasts and ass. That is, he intended to look her in the eyes and say hello, but his brain pulled a fast one on him and directed his eyes towards first the breasts - which looked firm and full and encased in a push-up bra - and then to the woman’s ass, which was heart shaped and rose up in just the right spot and which Danny imaged he could bounce a quarter off of.

“Good day,” she said again.
“Uhh.. Good day. Indeed.” He struggled to stay focused on the woman’s face, without exactly focusing on the way her freckles seemed to form into a kiss. “Is this uhh...,” he glanced at his card and again at the house.
“Forrester Temp Agency. Yes.”
“Yes.”
The woman opened the door a bit more and Danny took that as a sign to enter, even though the woman never actually said come in or do you want a job or would you like to bounce a quarter off my ass?.

It really was a house, with a welcome mat in the foyer and a living room that opened into a kitchen, where children’s drawings hung on the walls, hundreds and hundreds of drawings all taped and curled and faded and torn. Danny got his bad feeling, the one where his skin got all itchy and he automatically reached his hands up to his neck, where he began to scratch until he realized the woman was watching him, head tilted.

“Everything ok?”
“Yep, yep. Ok.”
“Ok, because you look uncomfortable.”

Well yes, Danny thought. I’m uncomfortable because your ass is making me sweat and your wall homage to decades old children’s art is making me itch and oh, I just got this fleeting feeling that the worst decision I ever made in my life was to walk into this place.
“Oh, no. Just a little warm, is all.”
“Well, take off your coat. Mr. Forrester may be a minute, anyhow.”

The woman waltzed over to Danny - no, really, she waltzed - and deftly grabbed the sleeve of his jacket as she swung her arms out and over and the jacket waltzed away with her to the other side of the room, where she tossed it on a wall peg.

"Please, sit." She motioned to the couch, which was olive green stitched with a gold design, which made Danny think of the early 70's, which made him look at the drawings again, which he was sure was from the same decade as the couch. He sat straight upright, spine perfectly aligned, fingers folded together in his lap; a gentlemanly pose. The woman stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, sizing up Danny. She was actually hmmming and mmhmming as her eyes traveled up and down his body and Danny started scratching his neck again and he knew that under his gray turtleneck, his skin was now blotchy, welted and pink.

Her hmmms and mmmhms were strangely musical, making Danny think of violins and concertos. When she spoke again, only to tell him to sit still, her voice had taken on a quality Danny didn’t notice before; sweet and light and not unlike a flute. This woman was a veritable orchestra! He started straight ahead at her as she continued to tilt her head and sway her hips and hmm and mmhmm and her breasts and ass moved in time with the her musings. He found himself thinking of a quarter rolling down the woman’s left breast and up the right breast and down her sides and hips and over her ass, where it deposited itself in her crack, where it developed an eye, which winked at Danny as if to say, come on over and fish me out of this bitch’s ass.

Danny was alarmed at the raciness of his thoughts, as his mind very rarely traveled in that direction. But alarmed as he was, that did not stop him from feeling a pleasant, warm sensation caress his body when the woman suprisingly touched his cheeks and kissed his forehead. He closed his eyes and embraced the moment - sure, Dina would kick his ass if she ever found out about this, but there was no way he was going to spurn a woman with a body like that, especially when her lips felt like fire and her hands like a hot bath running over him and yea, he had lost all control of himself.

Later, he found himself laying prone on the green and gold couch and the woman nowhere in sight. He had no idea what happened after she had touched him with hands that seemed to melt his skin right off. Did he do it with her? Did he make out with her or get his hand up her sweater or pull a quarter out of her ass? Oh jesuschristalmighty. He made it, did it, got down with a gorgeous babe and he had forgotten the whole thing. She must have drugged him. He immediately searched his pants pocket for his wallet, sure this whole thing was just a ruse to rob him, even though he was broke and there wasn’t much to rob. But his last dollar bill was still folded up in the wallet, his last two pennies tucked in the bottom of his pocket and his over extended credit cards still in place. Something was very, very wrong here and Danny knew that he knew the wrongness of the whole scenario the second his knuckled refused to knock hard on the door, because his gut feelings were always right in the end. If only he had learned to heed those feelings. If only the woman wasn’t so perfectly shaped. If only his head didn’t ache like Daffy Duck had just dropped an anvil on him.

He ran his hands over his body, from top to bottom and side to side, making sure that all his extremities were still intact. Yea, they were all there, even that one. And then he unbuttoned his shirt and checked for the tell tale scar of kidney removal. Danny believed that all urban legends were based on real events and even though he didn’t wake up in a bathtub filled with ice, he wanted to make certain that the woman hadn’t removed any of his vital organs while he was passed out.

When he was sure that he was as complete a human as when he entered the house, Danny sat up slowly and decided to make some decisions. That was the way Danny always did things - first he would decide upon what he was going to do - and actually say to himself, ok I have decided to do such and such - and then he would make the logical next set of decisions. Here, it meant sitting very still on the couch until his head cleared. Then he would grab his jacket, go out the door, get in his car, dig his cell phone out of the glove compartment, call the police and smoke a cigarette while he waited.

And what would he tell the police? Oh, yes. This beautiful woman with a killer body seduced me by humming at me and then I woke up. Well, yes, I guess you could say she molested me. No, I’m not quite sure if she did more than kiss me because I was passed out. Yes, officer, I still have my kidneys (because surely they, too, would suspect kidney thieves) and my $1.02 is still mine and so I’m not really sure what they did with me. And then he made the decision to not call the cops at all because somehow Dina would find out and then he’d be really, deeply screwed.

After a few minutes, when Danny’s head had gone from throbbing with pain to dull ache, he made another decision, this time to walk around the room and observe. And then he would leave. He would need to be able to describe his surroundings in great detail when he told this story at the Friday poker game. Details made a story believable and this one was not believable by any stretch, so he would have to bring in as much minutiae as possible.

He tiptoed into the kitchen, so as not to disturb the woman, who was probably lurking in a bedroom somewhere down the hall. Danny realized he knew the layout of the house. It was a cape, the same kind of house Dina’s mother had. He peered down the short hall which was off the kitchen and nodded to himself when he saw the familiar set up. Bathroom on the right. Closet, basement entrance and small room on the left. Another room straight ahead. At Dina’s mother’s house, the room on the left was the tv room and the room at the end of the hall was Dina’s childhood bedroom, left intact with the purple curtains and Cabbage Patch dolls and wicker laundry basket, in much the same way parents of dead children often left their bedrooms untouched, unmoved, like a forever shrine to their child. Danny wasn’t stupid. Well, not that stupid, anyhow. Dina’s mother was waiting for her to come to her senses, leave that no good husband of hers and come back to her purple room and Cabbage Patch kids. Forever 12. Dina once told Danny that when she got her period at 13, her mother cried for two days straight because it meant Dina wasn’t “her baby” anymore. Danny probably should have run at that point, but it’s kind of hard to run when your fiancé is holding your balls in a death grip.

So there he was in the hallway of this strange yet familiar house, having just woken up from a forced nap that might have been two minutes or two hours or a Rip Van Winkle amount of time. He touched his hand to his chin and it was still smooth and hairless, so he knew it was probably still the same day as when the woman kissed him. God, I hope I felt her ass before she knocked me out.

He turned around again, back into the kitchen and faced the wall of children’s art. The first one he examined was by Ezekiel, age 6 ½, who scrawled a picture of what appeared to be a caped mean with giant head and sticks for legs. Underneath the drawing, Ezekiel wrote: Dear Mr. Death, thank you foryur vizit and for beeing so nise. Luv, Ezekiel. The boy had dotted the drawing with tiny X’s and O’s all around Mr. Death, a hailstorm of love raining down on his big head.

Danny looked at a couple more drawings. Some of them were dated. Love, Andrew, July 1976. Kisses, Bettina, 1982. There was one on blue construction paper, a yellow crayon/white chalk masterpiece with the big headed guy front and center, standing in a garden of daisies, a crowd of stick figure kids gathered around him. Dear Mr. Death, you are cool. Thanks for the gum and stuff and I hope I can work for you some day. Love, Jaime, age 12.

Danny was about to let his imagination run away, far, far, away, when he heard a small, feminine cough behind him. He spun around and she was there, the woman, her breasts and her ass. Danny was torn between screaming and staring. He chose staring, as it presented less of a problem. The woman smiled at him.

“The kids just love Mr. Death. Such a shame he has to retire. They’ll miss him so.” Her voice was lilting and wistful and nearly rocked him into a state of euphoria.
“Yes. Yes, they’ll m..m...miss him. Mr. Death. Y..y...yes.” Danny silently admonished himself. Stupid Danny. Stupid Danny. You sound like a blithering idiot, a starstruck school boy, a damn bedwetter. The more coherent side of Danny’s mind quickly reminded him that they were faced with a rather strange situation and it was ok to stammer, even in front of a beautiful woman who may or may not have molested him while he was passed out.
“We’ve done the necessary study on you, Danny. We’d like to hire you.”
“Excuse me?”
“For the Death job? Hire you?” The question marks in her voice made Danny feel like an idiot. And perhaps he was, because he had no damn clue what she was talking about.
“I was looking for a temporary accounting job. I think I was sent to the wrong kind of agency.”
“Hmm.” She put a finger to her lip, her hmmm still sizing him up. “No. Joe never makes that kind of mistake. Or any mistake. No. No. No. Joey sent you to us for a reason, I’m sure.”
“Joey?”
“From BestTemps?” Again with the questioning tone. This time the woman raised her eyebrows, which only added to the effect of her speaking to a retarded person. She sighed. “The agency. In the mall. That sent you here.”
“Oh, yea. That one. But I applied for an accounting position, not an acting job.”

The woman laughed. She threw her head back, her red ringlets dangling in the air, and she opened her mouth wide and laughed. Her hands were on her hips and when her head leaned back like that, her breasts pointed straight at Danny. He thought of a display in a hands-on museum and for a brief second he imagined a “touch me” sign on hanging off the woman’s sweater. She was still laughing and leaning as Danny shoved his hands in his pocket, forcing himself to control his impulses. He always had a hard time with that. Dina told him he had ADD, but he shrugged it off as Dina’s way of saying “you don’t pay attention to me.”

The woman stopped laughing abruptly and faced Danny again. Her look was serious, nothing like the playful amusement that he had seen on her face since he first arrived. Her eyes were hard, her lips pursed and her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“This. Is not. Acting.”

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

to be continued.

Posted by me at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

This is the first day since way before Christmas where we have no plans, nothing to do, no obligations. I'm not even going to clean today. In fact, I think I'll just sit here at the computer, listening to my Launch station, playing games and catching up with various things. If all goes well, I'll have my last two pieces of fiction for charity up today. Meanwhile, I'm getting busy with the 500 songs annotation thing. I take on the uber-sentimental Manhattans hit, Kiss and Say Goodbye today. Check it out, yo.

Posted by me at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Oh, 2004, I hardly knew you. Twelve months isn't a lot of time to get to know someone (some year) but let's just say I'm glad - for the most part - that we got to spend some time together. Sure, our relationship was somewhat rocky and there were times (as in all my past relationships) I wished you would just die already, but we saw it through to the bitter end. As our time together winds down, it would only be right to take a scrapbook trip down memory lane. Actually, no. I don't have the self-indulgent will power necessary at the moment to go through a year's worth of posts and rehash the whole damn thing here. That might change, of course, as self indulgence is one of those things that comes in waves. The tide is out right now. I will say this: The best and worst thing to happen to me this year was becoming a homeowner. It's a joy, it's a tax write off, it's an investment, it's the most wonderful feeling. And it's a lot of work. Home ownership will suck your bank account dry like nothing else. You start off with all these grand plans and realize soon enough that you will need ten years and fifteen side jobs (this one sounds interesting) to finish off those plans. So you end up living in a place of halves - half finished bathroom, half finished office, half the moldings need replacing, half the hallway floor is warped, the previous owner had only half a brain, hey, can we pay half the mortgage this month? But it's my home, mine all mine. It may be a crap box, but it's a decent crap box and I'm (mostly) proud to call it my own. So that was the standout moment from 2004, which wasn't really a moment, but more like an eternity from the first day we looked at the house, right through the buying stage, the packing, the moving and the moving in, which, six months later, we still feel like we're doing. The move has consumed my year. I suppose this is a good thing, as previous years have been consumed by things like poverty, divorce, , really bad football teams and who can forget 1997, which was consumed with buying vintage Star Wars figures? How times change. This year I was consumed with not buying anything George Lucas related. I think this was the first year I really started feeling my age. It wasn't turning the ripe old age of 42 that did it for me - no, it was when the Beastie Boys released their lastest album. To quote myself (here comes the self indulgence!): Listening to middle aged white men rap is sort of like watching a 70 year old clown tell fart jokes to a room full of kindergarteners. Something about the gray hair and Geritol coated voice shouting All you klingons in da fuckin' house really set me off. Once Ad Rock and the crew are old, you're old, man. Talking to myself here, not you. 2004 was a mean mistress in that respect. It forced me to relive my youth again and again, shoving the idols of my teenage and young adult years down my throat, forcing me to puke up memories that were best left dormant. Duran Duran. Dio. Europe. Heart. Motorhead. They all released albums this year. Can't these people just let it go, already? Why must they hang on to the frayed ends of their careers like that? Live off the past accolades, guys! That's what you're supposed to do. I'm talking to you, Motley Crue! At least when Danzig hangs around, he knows how to make it interesting. I'm gonna be eatin' my cereal out of the bottom of your fucking skull. Verständlich? You know what else aged me? Natalie started high school this year. That's like taking a poison tipped arrow and sticking it in the heart of my inner child. It wiped the youthful glow right off of my face and, I swear, two days into Nat's high school career, I had wrinkles, a full head of gray hair and I was saying things like "when I was your age...." I'm not supposed to have a child in high school. I listen to heavy metal! I watch cartoons! I'm only 18, I swear... damn, you, chronological aging. Oh, the hell with this recap. It's too painful. I started off the year full of vim and vigor and I'm ending it hoping that my company leaves at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve so I can get to bed at a reasonable hour. What the hell happened to me? Damn you, 2004! I shake my fists in fury at your cruel, cruel, aging mechanism. Anyhow, you just knew where this was headed. Below, a list of my favorite posts from 2004 which, while a somewhat rocky year, was a pretty decent year for me, writing-wise. Salad blogging obsessive compulsive zombie disorder Ben Franklin and the Magic 8 Ball All I Want For Christmas - A John Kerry Adventure George Lucas Almost Ate My Soul (in which I fend off the power of the dark side with the help of Green Day) Channeling Grandpa Simpson Culture Wars: Disco Sucks! Babies, Songs and Stepford Mommiesl Stay gold Dissecting Popeye on the Occasion of his 75th Birthday Happy Birthday Donald Duck, You Dirty Old Man There's probably more that I liked enough to put on this list, but I'm too damn lazy (or old and tired) to go through the year in posts. If you've got a suggestion to add to the list (surely you have memorized each and every thing I wrote, no?) feel free to add it. And that was the year that was. Unless something of great magnitude (my breast suddenly lift up again, the wrinkles disappear, George Steinbrenner retires, Motley Crue cancels their reunion) happens in the next day or so to make me feel like this wasn't The Year I Got Old.

Posted by me at 05:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

After dealing with the Worst. Waitress. Ever. at a diner today, I complained - vociferously - to the manager, he said "What do you want me to do, take her out back and kill her?" Well, now that you ask...

Posted by me at 08:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Present to my father. Message to my mother. There are few things more annoying than a kitchen buddinsky.

Posted by me at 06:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Now I remember why I stopped doing serious/politically charged blogging. DOH! ^{Sorry if you came here from a link looking for a post that has vanished into thin air. What you're looking for can most likely be found here.}

Posted by me at 07:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

First bit of news: I AM TEH WINNER!!!11!! If you look over to the right, you will see an ad for Jittery. Jittery runs Blogpoint, which I am using (also over on the right) to sell some stuff. Jittery, bless their little souls, had a contest to give away an iPod to one of their users. And YES, I am that user! I won something. Not just something, but a freaking iPod! At least one of my technological dreams has come true. Thank you, Jittery people! Second bit of news: I will be hosting the Storyblogging Carnival on January 3. There are so many great storytellers in the blogosphere. Thanks to Donald Crankshaw, who started the carnival, you can share your fiction with the blog world and all its readers. If you'd like to particpate, all the info you need to know (and I need to know) is below). Spread the word! [Instructions from Mr. Crankshaw] The next Storyblogging Carnival will be here on Monday, January 3, 2005. If you have a story on your blog that you’d like to have included in the Carnival, please e-mail me at karlrovesbrain-at-gmail.com, including the following information (and title the email STORYBLOGGING): * Name of your blog * URL of your blog * Title of the story * URL for the blog entry where the story is posted * A word count * A suggested rating for adult content (G, PG, PG-13, R) * A short blurb describing the story * Author’s name or pen name The post may be of any age, from a week old to years old. The submission deadline is 11:59 PM Eastern time on Saturday, January 1st. If I don’t reply to your submission within 24 hours, please try again. I’d hate to miss anybody. Will include up to 20 submissions. More detailed information follows: 1. The story or excerpt submitted must be posted on-line as a blog entry, and while fiction is preferred, non-fiction storytelling is acceptable. 2. The story can be any length, but the Carnival will list them in order of length, from shortest to longest, and include a word count for each one. 3. You may either send a complete story, a story in progress, or a lengthy excerpt. By lengthy excerpt, I mean that it should be a significant portion of the story, at least 10% of the whole thing. You should indicate the word count for both the excerpt and the complete story in the submission, and you should say how the reader can find more of the story in the post itself. 4. If the story spans multiple posts, each post should contain a link to the beginning of the story, and a link to the next post. You should submit the first post to the Carnival. 5. The host has sole discretion to decide whether the story will be included or not, or whether to indicate that the story has pornographic or graphically violent content. The ratings for the story will be decided by the host. I expect I'll be pretty lenient on that sort of thing, but I have some limits, and others may draw the line elsewhere. Aside from noting potentially offensive content, while I may say nice things about stories I like, I won't be panning anyone's work. I expect future hosts to be similarly polite. 6. The story may be the blogger's own or posted with permission, but if it is not his own work he should gain permission from the author before submitting to the Carnival. Previous carnivals can be found here.

Posted by me at 03:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (3)

All you people - from both sides of the political alley - who are using the disaster in Asia as a springboard to frothing at the mouth about people/politicians/religions/organizations you hate - are big, giant, fucking assholes.

HOW YOU CAN HELP

Please click the above link for a long list of organizations that are seeking donations for the relief effort. The list will be updated during the day.

Posted by me at 01:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBacks (7)

I am no longer going to update the How to Help post here - it is already time consuming trying to keep the post at TCP updated. Please check this post at TCP for ways to help - the list is constantly being updated and includes local as well as national agencies, in addition to smaller charities and organizations that are starting relief efforts. Also listed are numbers to call if you or anyone you know is searching for friends or relatives missing in the area. Tsunami Help Blog has been a tremendous source of links, news and charities, as well as emergency phone numbers.

Posted by me at 08:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (1)

I fell in love on Christmas Day. Deep, lustful, head-spinning love, the kind that takes your breath away and makes you drool like a slobbering idiot every time you gaze upon your new interest. I have dreamed about my new love. I have fantasized. I have concocted all kinds of ways in which I would be able to snatch this love away from its current possessor. I have pined. Oh, how I have pined. It happened at my father's house. It was a magical moment, a love at first sight occurrence that swept me off my feet. I literally swooned. I touched my new friend surreptitiously, feeling the sleek contours, taking in the warmth that exuded from my object of affection. As often happens in life, I have fallen hard for the unattainable. Why do we seek that which we can not have? Why do we reach for the stars, knowing damn well that the stars are not ours to be had? Why, oh, why, did I have to fall in love with a $250 coffee machine? It's name is Keurig . It rolls off my tongue, it does. Do you have any idea what a machine like this means to a coffee lover? Oh, I'm sure by now you've all heard of pods, the latest trend in coffee making, but have you seen a pod machine up close, in someone's home? Do you have any idea what it would be like for me to wake up in the morning and have a steaming, fresh, frothy cup of coffee twenty seconds later? And I could choose which of several blends I wanted? I mean, I could have a breakfast blend at 5am and a cup of Columbian at 5:30 without having to make two different pots of coffee! I could have tea in the afternoon and hot chocolate at night! Hazelnut after dinner! This beautiful, sexy machine could feed both my need for delicious coffee and my need for instant gratification. It is, without a doubt, the greatest invention of our time. Right now, at this very second, I am trembling with the thought of sticking a pod in its receptacle and making it foam. Alas, I cannot spend that amount of money on a coffee maker. In the true tradition of unrequited love, I will settle for something less, something not as spectacular, something that doesn't give me the same thrill when I come in physical contact with it, but nonetheless offers some of the same qualities. It will be a constant reminder of what I could not have and I will spend many a moment staring at whatever lesser machine I can latch on to and wondering, what if.... Sometimes I will yell out Keurig! YES! in the midst of making a cup of coffee, letting my fantasies slip out while I'm fondling my cheap, not nearly as lovely coffee pod machine. But that is love, isn't it? Settling for second best because the first best is a snobby, stuck up bitch who wouldn't give you the time of day. Well, it's love in the time of coffee pod machines. Oh, Keurig. Some day. Some day I shall grip you in my arms and never let you go. For now, I will just visit the object of my lustful desire at my father's house, where I will build up a feverish envy and simmering hate toward my parents for being able to obtain the one thing I want and can't have. Anyone know a good coffee therapist? Update: Thanks to Keith, I found this blog entry on the Senseo. Guess I won't be buying that cheap imitation. Time to find another not-as-great-as-the-real-thing machine. Update 2: I may be obsessive about coffee, but at least I'm not crazy about cookie jars.

Posted by me at 07:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (38)

NOTICE:

I am no longer going to update this post - it is already time consuming trying to keep the post at TCP updated. Please check this post at TCP for ways to help - the list is constantly being updated and includes local as well as national agencies, in addition to smaller charities and organizations that are starting relief efforts. Also listed are numbers to call if you or anyone you know is searching for friends or relatives missing in the area. If you are linking to this post, please link to this one instead.

* India: Prime Minister's National Relief Fund, by bank transfer, or by credit card * Sri Lanka: Reliefweb (United Nations office) * The Canadian Catholic Organization for DEVELOPMENT AND PEACE (CCODP) is accepting funds to aid victims * Sustainable Development and Ecological Development Society seeks to raise $100,000 for affected population in India. * Canadian Red Cross is calling for cash donations To be updated - if you know of any rescources for sending donations, please leave a link in the comments. * Red Cross/Red Crescent is accepting donations * Via Tim Blair: Jay Manifold has a list of relief organizations you can donate to; Indian blogger Chanakya has some links, also. Updates - 12/27 7am EST * Here's a list of banks in India that are taking donations * Oxfam is taking donations * Save the Children is creating an Asia Earthquake/Tidal Wave Relief Fund * CARE Australia has launched an earthquake appeal * From the TCP Forums:

Thai Red Cross Siam Commercial Bank - Red Cross Branch Acct: 045-248899-3 Swift: SICROTHBK Have your bank use the note section to note that the donation is for Relief in Phuket. The Thai Ministry of Health is the lead agency, and they are looking for volunteers, especially those who speak Italian, French or German. There is a shortage of medical supplies and storage facilities for bodies. All donations are appreciated.

* AmeriCares is accepting donations Update: Local residents have set up the Southeast Asia Earthquake and Tsunami Blog, which has lots of information on how to help the victims and important phone numbers, as well as updates on the situation. ---Updates 12/28 6:30 am EST----- * Oxfam donations page * Mercy Corps * Singapore Red Cross * Indian Red Cross * AID India * The Tamil Association of Colorado is collecting relief funds. Make checks out to: Tamil Association of Colorado. In the memo, write "Tsunami Relief Fund." Send to: PO Box 270243, Littleton, Co 80127. The organization's e-mail address is: tamilcolorado@yahoo.comTo donate to the International Red Cross, call 800 HELP NOW, or log onto DenverRedcross.org and designate funds for "International Response Fund." [via TalkLeft] * Stand Up For Penang relief fund * Indian Association of North Texas Religious Charities: [List via Ilyka] *Christian Aid * American Jewish World Service * Catholic Relief * American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee * International Orthodox Christian Charities * Islamic Relief

Posted by me at 07:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (43)

We've got fresh, sparkly snow out here this morning and even though it's only a few inches, we're going to pretend it's a major blizzard and we're snowbound. Why? Because there is no better way to spend the days after Christmas than stuck in your house with all your new toys/games/DVDs. Christmas was good. A healthy mixture of mudslides, karaoke, board games, too much food, wine, weird relatives and the slight buzz one gets from opening presents all made for a very merry Christmas. And how was yours? What did you all get? [I'll post some holiday photos - and get back to more regular blogging - later on today]

Posted by me at 06:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

After spending all day covering the earthquake for TCP and trying to dig up news and updates, I have to say I am really, really disappointed in the network coverage US) of this tragedy. 11,000 people dead in one day and they give the same, if not more, coverage to the Michael Jackson trial. Is it because the dead aren't Americans? Or is it because the networks think no one will care? Or do they just really believe that we are all more interested in who was hot or not in 2004 than 11,000 fellow humans dying in one day?

Posted by me at 07:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (29) | TrackBacks (5)

Reggie White is dead. Back when I worked in a record store in the 80's, I had this friend Kevin, a Cowboy fan, who was fond of saying "Damn, damn Reggie White!" Every time I see Reggie's name, I can hear Kevin saying that. Damn, damn Reggie White. One of my football heroes is gone. RIP, man.

Posted by me at 02:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (3)

Post-Christmas blogging on delay, as I spend some time over at Command Post, covering the devastating story of the Southeast Asia earthquake. 4,000 dead from the quake and resulting tsunamis, floods, etc. The death toll will surely rise today. I'm collecting links for relief efforts and emergency numbers (there are a lot of western tourists in the are this time of year) - if you know of any, please drop a link in the comments. 4,000 dead. Hard to fathom. Today happens to be the one year anniversary of the Bam earthquake that killed over 4,000 and devasted the area.

Posted by me at 08:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

With the exception of a post or two here and the possibility of finishing his short story today, this will be my final ASV post until the day after Christmas. I leave you with an open thread by the fireplace. I left some hot cocoa and the liquor cabinet is open. There are freshly baked cookies. Talk about anything. Gather round the fireplace and tell stories. Let's talk - talk about your holiday food and holiday traditions and whether or not you think Christmas tree Peeps are overdoing it just a little bit. Tell me your holiday horror stories. Paste in the lyrics to a South Park Christmas song. Give me a recipe. Throw me some links. Drop a link to your own posts about the holidays. It's an open house, write anything you want. Thank you all for all the comfort and joy you have brought me this past year(s). May all your days be filled with good cheer and may your holiday season be merry and bright.

Posted by me at 08:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (43)

Circa 2002, my action figure nativity. That's all I got for this morning. Oh, and this: Download - Weird Al/The Night Santa Went Crazy(MP3) Ho, ho, ho!

Posted by me at 08:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (1)

I was not planning on blogging tonight because I'm up to my ass in wrapping paper and Scotch Tape (c). Being the world's worst wrapper (not to mention worst rapper), it's a frustrating experience. However, my husband has pleaded with me to post this link, which you will click, which will enable him to win a free iPod, which I will usurp from him. I do it because I love him. And because he bought me this and this for Christmas even though we said we weren't exchanging gifts this year. So maybe if he wins an iPod I can say it was because of me, because I got you all to click that link for him. And then I won't feel so guilty about having only bought him this. You don't have to do anything but click and close. What a great Christmas present - you can help relieve me of gift guilt! Back to wrapping. And rapping. ^{[What am I rapping? Anyone else seeing those annoying, east side, west side, where you at commercials? Yea, that.]}

Posted by me at 08:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Tomorrow begins the great holiday of Festivus. Festivus begins with the airing of grievances. Please feel free to use this space to do just that - air your grievances, whether they be toward me or your spouse or the creators of the horrid new shows on Adult Swim or your local radio station or Ben Stiller or your neighbor's dog or what have you. You know you have been aggrieved this year - now is the time to let it all loose. When we are done with our grievances, we shall challenge each other to feats of strength. As I said last year: So join me in celebrating Festivus. Air your grievances. Share your disappointments. Make challenges you would probably never win if you had to actually perform them. There's a whole world out there just chock full of crap for you to carp about. Now's your chance. Take a whirl around my Festivus pole and let loose a torrent of atrocities. Trust me, it will make you feel better in the long run and it will empty your soul of all the darkness living inside of you so you can enjoy the rest of the holidays in peace. Serenity now! When you think about it, this is the perfect holiday for me. Festivus rocks.

Posted by me at 10:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (7)

* We've finally added something to Command Post that people have been demanding (and I mean demanding) for some time now. So go ahead and get your feet wet in the Command Post Forums. Lots of hot topics and a chance to have interesting, informative and polite discussions on gentle topics like war and terrorism. * Have you been reading Sheila O'Malley? If not, you are missing out on a great thing. Start at the top and scroll down and do not miss the Jewel poetry as well as the comments on this post. * To some, Xmas is about coke, whores, and ruined dreams. Yep. Download some songs that show the dark underside of Christmas, at one of my favorite recently discovered blogs. * My newest blog crush has the lowdown on tacky Christmas decorations. I've sort of abandoned my tacky Christmas project this year, due to lack of interest on your part. Maybe it's all that "missing Christmas" stuff going around blogs. * Treacher. Need I say more? Scroll down as well. * Another new favorite of mine, ProSound blog, tells the tale of The Smithereens are Cokeheads. Ya think? * I need to do a 500 songs post today (at the rate I'm going, it's going to take two years to complete). Pick a song, any song. * The Storyblogging carnival is over at Dodgeblogium this week. Check it out.

Posted by me at 09:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (1)

An emailer asks: Why do you hate Christmas so? I don't. I know it may come off that way but I don't hate Christmas, per se. Christmas just happens to entail my least favorite activity ever, shopping. And I don't particularly hate shopping as much as I hate shopping in person. I could spend all day browsing Amazon or Think Geek, but put me in a mall or department store and you've thrown me into my own personal hell. Ok, so it's not really shopping I hate. It's people. Let's face it, I'm not a people person. As I mentioned yesterday, I have some kind of crowd phobia. More than two people is a crowd to me. I'm not much of a socializer and I'm one of those crazy people who values their personal space. If I could build a four foot invisible wall of solitude around me, I would do it. I even mentioned to someone the other day that it's a good thing I'm not independently wealthy, or I would be a recluse by now. Sometimes I just have to cast my phobias and hatred of humanity aside and venture outside of my home. Work is fine. I have my own office, I'm by myself most of the day and not in some cubicle where I have to listen to other people chatter away or hear their phones ring or listen to their music. My job is solitary and I like it just fine. It's when I have to do anything that involves being with people other than myself or my immediate family that everything falls apart. So I've made three trips to the mall this week, plus two to Best Buy and two to Target. I make these sacrifices so my son can have his electronic dart game and my daughter can have her Hot Topic clothing and the rest of my family can be all smiles and happiness when they unwrap their Christmas gifts. I broke out in hives at Best Buy last night, which is a good indication that Christmas is just a few days away. Sunday's trip to Broadway Mall had to be the worst experience ever. From the woman in Target (yes, there is a Target in the mall) who kept ramming my ankles with her cart, to the overbearing, aggressive salespeople in that gadget store (no, I do not want a sheep with a clock in its stomach, thank you), to the girl at the Taco Bell in the food court who did not understand that in English, two burritos means TWO BURRITOS and not one taco supreme, to the laughing, smiling little children playing in front of the escalator, it was a day that left me sympathizing with people who climb water towers armed with machine guns. By the time I got to the escalator kids, I was already jumping out of my skin. My poor daughter, who swore that she would never, ever ask me to take her shopping again, was hiding behind her packages because I was snipping at every person who rudely bumped into me. Just let it go, mom. No. I will not let it go. Is it really that hard to watch where you are walking? Is it really that difficult to put the cell phone down for just a minute or two while you are navigating through a very crowded mall? Is it asking too much for people to apologize when they hip check you into the wall? So when the time came to flee the mall and we walked over to the down escalator only to be blocked by three little kids playing precociously in front of it, I lost it. No parent in site. Just these little tikes, maybe six or seven years old, blocking my path and playing a game of chicken with the escalator steps. Their shoe laces were untied and I think they were attempting to test out the age old theory that if you get your lace stuck in the steps, the escalator will drag you downward to certain death. So I waited a few seconds for them to move. They didn't. That's when I leaned down so I was eye level with each of them. I put on my best "this woman is psycho" smile, stared straight at them and said in a voice tinged with a growl "Are you going down or are you just playing?" The three kids just stared at me and one of them giggled and turned back towards the escalator, putting her foot down on the first step. She said "We're playing." So I looked right at her and said "Santa's not bringing you anything for Christmas." She stared a me for a minute, grabbed the other two kids and ran off to find their parents, I presume, who left them there to play by this mechanical monster while they sipped lattes in Starbucks. Anyhow, what I started off wanting to address was not malls or bratty kids or rude salespeople, but the perceived absence of Christmas in the malls. Maybe I didn't see any life size nativities set up in the center square, but I certainly saw my share of Christmas-y decorations, heard my share of "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas" and saw enough people waiting in line to greet the somewhat disheveled and tired looking Santa to know that Christmas was, indeed, present. As I drive down my local equivalent of Main Street, I see wreaths and garland hung from the light fixtures and banners proclaiming Seasons Greetings, said banners adorned with angels (who I assume you have heard on high). As an atheist who has already proclaimed that I am not offended by depictions of the holiness of the day on public property, I have to note that I am also not offended by the more secular greetings of Happy Holidays that adorn many stores. I take Happy Holidays to mean Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, not to mean Happy Non Religious Winter Days To You. No matter. Tis the season regardless of how many decorations are strung in its honor, right? We all know it's Christmas, the scrooges and grinches all know it's Christmas and the cash registers at the mall all know it's Christmas. And I know it's Christmas because I'm sucking down Benadryl to get rid of these anxiety hives on my neck and chest. Maybe if I wear a low cut green sweater, I'll look like a Christmas tree. A walking holiday decoration! How's that for Christmas spirit? Well, I have one last shopping trip to make today and providing that I don't go on a murderous rampage before it's all over, I will finally be able to relax this evening and enjoy the remainder of the week for what it truly is to me: a time to spend time with my family, eat like a pig, drink like a fish, play stupid trivia games that always result in a thrown game board, give, receive and take a week long forced vacation from work in which the building is closed yet I have to use my own vacation time. I'm trying here. Really. I want to enjoy it. I think I'm just too high strung to ever really look past the aggravations and see the genuine warmth and love that pervades our culture during this time. Hey, I said that with a straight face. Maybe this will help: Download - Blink 182 - I Won't Be Home For Christmas [Sorry, download has expired] Lyrics below (Deck the halls with boughs of holly fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la) (Tis the season to be jolly fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la) Outside the carolers start to sing I can't describe the joy they bring Cause joy is something they don't bring me My girlfriend is by my side From the roof are hanging sickles of ice Their whiny voices get irritating It's Christmas time again So I stand with a dead smile on my face Wondering how much of my time they'll waste Oh God I hate these Satan's helpers And then I guess I must have snapped Because I grabbed a baseball bat And made them all run for shelter It's Christmas time again It's time to be nice to the people you can't stand all year I'm growing tired of all this Christmas cheer You people scare me Please stay away from my home If you don't wanna get beat down Just leave the presents and then leave me alone. Well I guess it's not cool to freak on Christmas Eve Cause the cops came and arrested me They had an unfair advantage And even though the jail didn't have a tree Christmas came a night early Causes a guy named Bubba unwrapped my package (hot damn) It's Christmas time again It's time to be nice to the people you can't stand all year I'm growing tired of all this Christmas cheer You people scare me Please stay away from my home If you don't wanna get beat down Just leave the presents and then leave me alone I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas (please post my bail) I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas (please post my bail) I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas (please post my bail) I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas (please post my bail) I won't be home I won't be home for Christmas

Posted by me at 06:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

The deal is dead. Which is just fine, as I wasn't that thrilled about it, anyhow.

Jason didn't like the deal, either, so I'm not alone in not mourning the passing of the Randy Johnson as a Yankee dream.

Besides, if I really wanted a big unit, I'd ask Santa to bring me one of these (NSFW).

^{[it does occur to me that non baseball fans may be wondering what the hell the 'big unit' thing is all about. I'll let them wonder, it's more fun that way]}

Update: Baseball Crank writes:

So, after all the speculation about Javier Vazquez not being able to pitch in New York, Vazquez apparently scuttles the Randy Johnson deal by refusing to report to the Dodgers for a physical.....he seems to have decided that he'd rather try to make it here, and prove he could make it a-ny-where

And Ed in the comments says:

And if it turns out that Javier Vazquez was in any way responsible for the deal falling apart, he has as much future in New York as Jason Giambi, anyway

.

The plot thickens.

Posted by me at 05:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1)

Like a stocking stuffed with goodies. That turn out mostly to be crap toys made in a third world factory and some stale candy. Little to no blogging today. Work is kicking my ass, we have a holiday obligation with friends tonight, both my kids have huge projects due tomorrow, I haven't finished my Christmas shopping yet and I haven't even wrapped one single present and I still have to figure out a way to get my kidney out of my body so I can sell it in order to afford the rest of my holiday shopping - or I'll be forced to dig those red fishnet stockings and green bikini out of the closet. Money, cash, hos, baby. I did get one blog thing accomplished and that was to start using Jittery/BlogPoint, an adverstiser of this blog. If you'll notice on the right sidebar, I am using it to sell a piece of my husband's art (and lo, did we learn our lesson last time about shipping/packing). I'm thinking of this as a blog yard sale. We have tons of stuff around the house (including unopened video games) that we'd like to get rid of and what better place to sell it then right here? If have a blog you've got some items you'd like to depart with/make cash off of and you can't be bothered with the whole eBay thing (BlogPoint gives you much more control), then you might want to look into this. And that ends today's commerical portion of ASV. I will no go back to working/printing out items for a timeline of space travel. Which leads me to a question: Do teachers ever take into account that a child might have projects going on in other classes as well? How hard would it be for the teachers to get together and say, hmmm...do you think giving the kids four projects to complete in one week, in addition to regular homework, tests and quizzes would be too much? This is where I usually end up doing half a project, more out of pity than anything else. Also (trying to cram everything into this one post) it has come to my attention that nobody outside of Long Island knows what a Dairy Barn is. This is a Dairy Barn. It's a small store that looks - you guessed it - like a barn. It is specifically a drive through store; you can't walk int (unless you're buying beer, then you have to get out of your car). Not only are these stores wonderful in cold weather when you don't want to leave the warmth of your auto, they are also a boon for lazy people who just don't feel like walking the ten feet from parking lot to front door of the 7-11 and for people like me, who realize they are out of cigarettes/coffee/ice cream and can get into their car in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, no bra or shoes, and no one will be the wiser. I think that's everything. I'm going to test my anxiety levels by braving Target during lunch hour. I would say wish me luck, but you'd be better off wishing luck to those who come in contact with me. I have not had good shopping experiences lately, which can be attritbuted to my psychological shortcomings, my fear of crowds and my hatred of humanity, but a girl's gotta shop when Christmas is coming (online shopping just wasn't happening this year for various reasons). I think I picked a bad week to be out of Xanax.

Posted by me at 10:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (1)

I'm going to have take a pass on any lengthy morning blogging until it warms up around these parts. We still haven't replaced the windows in our home office - that home improvement money sure does run out fast. Maybe we should have waited on fixing the bathroom. I mean, what's more important, a decent toilet bowl and shower or a warm office? Anyhow, it's about ten below in here (give or take a few for the wind chill factor) and the space heater isn't really helping. So I offer you a timely repeat until I can get to the cozy confines of work. Update: Wind Rider, having seen my home office up close and personal, has taken pity on me and is trying to collect $345,273.47 (Lawn Guyland rates) for my new windows. The $273.47 cents is for parts. The rest is for labor. ---- Before you all go grab your latest issue of TV Guide and start circling the various holiday specials you intend to watch (A Kid Rock Christmas, anyone?), I'd like to talk to you about something. Rudolph. Is there a creature so beloved as that red-nosed reindeer? Is there any stop-motion animated movie that tugs at your heart more? No, of course not. You will gather - and by you I mean everyone, Christians, Jews, Atheists, Satanists - in front of the tv with your children at some point in the next month to watch this time-honored tale. Well, I'm here to put a stop to that. Rudolph is not a cuddly, warm, fuzzy story. Rudolph, in fact, is a tale of pacifism and appeasement and mental abuse. When Rudolph is first discovered to have the light bulb nose, his father is appalled. Ashamed, he tries to cover up his son's nose. What kind of father is that? He is telling his kid right off the bat, kid, you're ugly and you embarass me. Diguise yourself in public. Right then and there someone should have called social services to tell them that there was a brute of a stag emotionally damaging his child. I mean, the poor kid has a disfigurement. They should have been helping him, not making him feel even worse about it. So everyone eventually finds out about Rudie's nose anyhow. The kids torment him and pick on him and turn him into an outcast. He's not allowed to join in their games because he is, gasp!, different! So what happens? Rudolph goes off on an adventure (where he comes upon the Island of Misfit Toys, but that's a whole other dissertation), where it is discovered that his nose can actually come in handy. Hey, the kid is a freak, but he's a useful freak. The rest of the reindeer gang find out that Rudolph is going to lead Santa's sleigh through the snowstorm. You know what happens. They suddenly love him. He's a hero. Even though he's been scorned and ridiculed and isolated, the other reindeer discover that they can use Rudolph's disfigurement to their advantage, so now they'll let him in their little club. And what does Rudolph do? He leads the damn sleigh and saves the day. Now everyone in this movie, from Rudolph's parents to his girlfriend to Santa, the other reindeer and the Yukon guy mock him throughout or at least make him feel like crap. Apparently, Rudolph has no balls. This is all his father's fault. Dad turned Rudolph into the reindeer equivalant of a nerd when he taught Rudie to just take the abuse from his neighbors and classmates because he deserved it. After all, he was hideously deformed. In essence, he taught his son not to stand up for himself. If Rudolph learned anything at all on his great adventure, he would have turned around and said fuck off and die you miserable bastards. Find some other sucker to save Christmas for you. And then he would take out his AK-47 and turn the whole crowd of miserable reindeer into a carnivore's dream. Then he would go back to the Island of Misfit Toys, become their ruler and plot to take over all of Rankin-Bass land. So parents, don't let your babies grow up to be Rudolphs. Don't watch the show. Or it could be your kid standing in the middle of the forest one day, gunning down all the kids who wouldn't let him play their reindeer games. This has been a public service announcement.

Posted by me at 06:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (3)