12 Things That Mildly Suck

1. Pimple in the ear canal
2. All these idiotic shows about bounty hunters (which, by the way, cops make fun of, especially Dog the Bounty Hunter, which, who wouldn't? It's blatantly obvious that they're all hamming it up for the camera)
3. A 500+ piece puzzle nearly completed with one piece missing from the box
4. 35 minutes for lunch, 20 minutes of which are spent waiting in the lunch line
5. Being hungry and having no idea what snack to fix
6. Insects destroying the last of my summer crop, thus eliminating the kids' hopes for a "Giant Vegetable Competition"
7. Screwing up a sudoku puzzle . . . in pen
8. Bunk-ass rhymes get featured on CSI: Miami, when people with better flow go unnoticed
9. A MOUSE!!!! EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!
10. David Blaine and all the other Houdini wanna-bes (I'm looking at YOU, Criss Angel) who basically do nothing of use and get paid for it
11. Five-year-old daughter has barely been at school a week, and already there's some boy poking her shoulder softly in the lunch line and pressing up against her in a weird little "I want to hug you but I can't so I'll just not use my arms" way
12. Having to wait ten years before I can use the traditional threat of Mexican mothers: "Touch my daughter and I'll hang you by your balls in my front yard"

Edgy Mommy

You know that feeling you get when you're nervous about something but you're trying not to show it, but it keeps on popping out anyway?

That's what I'm like today, on my oldest child's first day of school.

There were no tears, just a few moments of agitation when I realized that my daughter was listed as a car-rider instead of a walker, at which point I began to freak out just a little bit at the thought of my poor five-year-old being left to wander in a sea of car-riders at the front of the school, doing battle with traffic and older kids all alone. I tend to exaggerate negative scenarios when I'm nervous.

Walking home after dropping her off this morning was sad. Little Sia, who wanted to wear her backpack just like Gina, got upset with us for not letting her stay at school. This made me even more freaked out, until she started asking us to carry her on the way back, and I realized she's still got some baby left in her.

My mom, who lives across the street from me, "just so happened" to be out mowing her ditch as we trudged home. When she saw us pass by, the mower magically disappeared and she walked over to inform me that she'd already cried this morning and that my daughter now belongs to the school district, not me. I don't know why she keeps telling me this. Maybe because that's how she felt when my brother or I started school. Or maybe she just always felt that I didn't belong to her because I was a Grandma's Girl, and she wanted me to know what that felt like (i.e.: rub my nose in it). I get paranoid about the intentions of others when I get nervous.

As a nice surprise, we brought over the old-fashioned desk from Grandma's that I used for my homework when I was in elementary school.

Solid wood and metal construction, with a swivel seat and a hinged desktop that opens to storage space. Notice the black circle in the top right corner. That's not a painted-on circle, my friends. It's a hole. For an inkwell.

I focus on something minute when I'm nervous.

Mom stayed with me for part of the day, doing me the favor of distracting me with unrelated subjects, like income tax evasion. The rest of the day, however, dragged on like a recital of the first nine chapters of 1 Chronicles. And Azariah begat Helez, and Helez begat Eleasah... I had to do something with all that time and jittery energy, so I made a coconut pie. Yes, that's right, I have turned into Kitty Forman.

Every time the phone rang, I thought it might be the school and jumped about six feet in the air (a feat to be applauded, as I am less than five feet tall). Fortunately it was always a family member calling to ask a question or keep me informed of good news. For once I am thankful that my sister-in-law is an active busybody with so much influence in the school, because it means she was allowed to go check in with my daughter's teacher without needing to make an appointment first. Turns out I gave birth not to a girl, but to a Chatty Cathy doll.

Finally, thank Father Time, 3:00 rolled around and our whole family once again made the trek to the school. And waited. And waited. And stood around waiting some more. It is apparently school policy to wait until ALL the cars picking up their kids are gone before dismissing the walkers. We were there for a good half an hour.

And what happened when they finally let my baby out of there? First of all, she walked out into 90 degree weather wearing a sweater, because it was so freaking cold in that school. And then they made her go the long way around to the small gate (about 40 yards away) instead of bringing her to the main gate (where the cars would be entering, if there were any cars left, which there weren't, because they waited FORTY YEARS to make sure there were no moving vehicles). But my poor Gina, she was having none of that. She caught sight of us as I was trying to take her picture, and she wrenched herself away from the older girl holding her hand and came running to me in tears. I rushed out to meet her. It was just like on TV, when you see two people running to each other across a field in slow motion, only the grass wasn't as high, and her father was yelling "Go back! Go back!"

As I walked her back to the rest of the kids (after all, she must get used to going the right way, no matter how stupid it is), I found out why she's so upset.

"Mommy, they took away all my school surprise!"

"Your school supplies?"

"Yeah, I lost them, they're missing! I want my school sur-plies, Mommy. I let them down."

Cue Bizarro Dad and me trying very hard not to laugh and failing.

I would post a picture of her highly upset face as she told me "We'll talk about it later," (which, by the way, when the heck did she start saying things like that? What are they teaching her in that school?) but the picture contains too much private information. Apparently on the first day of school, they not only put your name on your clothes, but also your grade level, classroom number, lunch card number, how you get home, favorite ice cream flavor, and the names of the last five places you used a public restroom. Paranoid much, Principal Geometry?

Well, at least it's over. And at least I got to tease my mom by telling her that since she's the first of three generations of our family to attend this school, that means Gina is referring to her when she says "My ancestors went to this school."

Oh, hell. I just remembered: I have to get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

Ridiculous Commercials about Private Products

Quilted Northern
A mother and her 7-year-old daughter emerge from the shower, towel off, and begin their daily beauty regimen. A narrator blathers on about the way we take care of ourselves and the people we care about. Random shots of packages of Quilted Northern toilet paper are woven in with shots of Mom and Girl using every hygiene and skin care product known to man EXCEPT for toilet paper. Girl carefully takes note of how Mom applies lotion. My problem: Where does the toilet paper come in? Obviously they don't need toilet paper to comb their hair. Was there a cut scene riddled with toilet conversation?

Mom: Oh Sweet Pea, are you ready for Mommy to wipe your ass?
Girl: No thank you, Mother, I think I've got that part of the bathroom routine down pat. Let's move on to moisturizing, and then I have to do my multiplication tables for school tomorrow.
Mom: (tearful) My baby's growing up!

Hanes, featuring Michael Jordan and Cuba Gooding, Jr.
Okay, I have to admit, I am a major fan of Michael Jordan underwear commercials. (Yes, I know all my readers are men and you don't want to hear it. I dig bald dudes in drawers. Deal with it.) But I can't say I'm liking the addition of Cuba. For some reason his behavior in these ads mirrors the type of buffoonish characters he's been playing in film lately. It's annoying, and it distracts, nay, detracts, from anything good I might otherwise have gleaned from whatever he's appearing in. Seriously, would you (if you're straight) yell across a crowded room of people (with cameras) to a member of the same sex, "I'm wearing your underwear!" Nice to know he's putting that Academy Award winning talent to use.

Then again, we should perhaps call into question Mr. Jordan's initial action of leaving Mr. Gooding a gift basket full of boxers. With a bow on top. And a hand-written card. I'm willing to accept that guys talk about which underwear are comfortable (although that might be a stretch of the imagination bordering on foolishness), but giving them as gifts? And not as part the obligatory Christmas gift swap that invariably includes a pack of socks, cigarettes, and a bottle of Jack Daniels? Oh, Michael, how could you betray me for the other side!? I defended your baldness as sexy for YEARS.

Viva Viagra
The only pill Elvis never took, and they use the tune of his song, "Viva Las Vegas," to promote the damn thing on TV. Curiously enough, I don't ever recall seeing this commercial, but I always hear it loud and clear from the kitchen, just as I'm getting ready to start preparing food. No wonder I keep skipping meals. Can you imagine trying to handle a package of meat (heh) and hearing this crap? And Bizarro Dad is confused as to why I've stopped cooking the sumptuous meals.

ExtenZe
I would like to thank Bizarro Dad for staying up late one night and calling me over specifically to laugh at this strange infomercial. A product is discussed (is it a pill? a cream? a machine? what? oh, it's an herbal supplement), the results of use being the lengthening of "his special place," "his certain body part," "his pathetically small penis," etc. Someone with a microphone and a cameraman randomly walks up to couples in the street and asks if they've used this product, and whether it's effective. Oddly enough, several people of many ethnic backgrounds (and even a foreign couple with an exotic accent) all admit, ON CAMERA, that they have not only heard of this stuff, but they've used it and had noticeably effective results. Most, if not all, of these people were on the same street. Must have been an International Mangina Maintenance convention in town.

I can't watch any further than that without cracking up or changing the channel in disgust, so I couldn't tell you all the statistics and test results, none of which I'd believe anyway, since I already don't believe that many people on the same street have tried the same penis-enhancing herbs and admit it. In front of their women. And total strangers. ON TELEVISION. In the interest of thoroughness, I found that you can buy a 3-pack of 180c bottles of this stuff. In the product reviews, a self-proclaimed professional nutritionist declares (in nearly all caps) that this product is unsafe for human consumption due to both absurdly high levels of some herbs and the presence of a known toxic herb. Too bad Greg "Dr. Safe" wasn't on the same street as all the ExtenZe users getting interviewed. He might have injected some much-needed reality into the proceedings. Then again, judging by the body of his comment, perhaps he was listening in on the "Surgical Enhancement" lecture.

For those of you who think the rodeo has nothing to offer...

I present to you:

Celebrity Bull Riding

No, seriously.

Sadly, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton will not be part of the spectacle, nor will Dr. Phil or that asshat from Grey's Anatomy.

Dude, St. Gabriel and I need to have a conversation very soon. I fear he has been neglecting his post.

St. School House Rocks

Even with all the wacky saints in the Catholic church's saint index (St. Eligius, patron saint of cab drivers), it's nice to know that there are still some saints who you can pray to (if you're so inclined) for something that makes sense. If I were the type to pray to a saint (which I'm not), I'd be directing my prayers to St. Martin de Porres, patron saint of public schools.

I count myself fortunate that my daughter is enrolling in one of the highest-scoring elementary schools in the state, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about sending her to a school that relies on the local property taxes of a poor neighborhood for its funding. They've been using the same trash compactor for 20 years (yes, I did recognize it), and who knows if that thing's going to explode and shower all the children with mystery meat and chocolate milk?

Of course, this may all be just my delusional, insomnia-driven brain ramblings, brought on no doubt by receiving a phone call this morning telling me that my daughter has to come in for a test next week (two weeks before school actually starts). At first I thought it was a placement test. Silly me, thinking that just because my husband, who took the call, SAID it was a placement test, he would continue to say the same thing eight hours later. He's changed his story to "They didn't SAY what kind of test it was, I just THOUGHT that might be it, but I never SAID THAT."

Which I countered with, "Dude, I WROTE DOWN WHAT YOU SAID. Are you saying you MADE IT UP?"

Now for all I know it could a freaking TB test or something. That's all she needs, for the school nurse to stick a needle in her arm and inject her with fluid. I'm sure Gina will LOVE going to that nurse for her scrapes and cuts after that.

And can we talk for a minute about the paperwork I had to fill out? I know the school system has to be thorough, what with all the crazy allergies kids have these days and trying to make sure you actually live within the proper district boundaries, but you just KNOW they aren't handing that Migrant Worker Survey to the white families. The last time anyone in our family did migrant farm work was sixty years ago. That's why it didn't even occur to me to fill it out, and I had to stand there stupidly in the office and answer the questions verbally after handing in the 40 tons of papers I had to fill out and sign. Surely they saw the paper I filled out that said my daughter already HAD a TB test, right?

And will somebody please tell me why I can't pick up my five-year-old directly from her classroom? I'm walking the child to and from school, so why do I have to wait out in front, at a distance? I'll tell you why: two years ago there was a sudden surge in the number of divorces among this school's parent pool, and suddenly dads were walking in and picking up children even though it wasn't their assigned custody day, and by law the school had to allow it because both parents were listed on the registration card. But the moms were getting all pissed off, with the "Why would you let my child be picked up by her own father on the fourth Tuesday of the month, don't you know the intimate details of our private custody agreement?"

So the principal (who I really do admire, as she was my high school geometry teacher AND my husband's guidance counselor later on) said "To heck with this meshugas, I'm not having our classes disrupted because these people can't handle their own private affairs. Everybody wait out front for their kids, and there are no more after-school conferences. If it's that important that you tell the teacher what's going on, you have to make an appointment during the day, and if there's a problem with your custody agreement that doesn't involve having your ex removed from our registration card, tell it to the family court." To which I say rock on, except for the part where I can't go stand outside her classroom door and make sure no strangers try to take her before she makes it all the way to wherever I'm allowed to wait, if she even remembers where that spot is.

Then, of course, there's a whole set of papers you have to clear if your child was born in a foreign country, particularly if s/he's not a citizen of THIS country. Thank God my kids weren't born any farther away than North Carolina. I kind of feel sorry for the children of undocumented workers. Heaven knows what kind of lies those poor kids have to tell in today's anti-immigration political climate just to keep from being deported back to a country full of drug lords and mara salvatrucha.

Wow, they really have to deal with a lot at that school. Maybe if I have any Catholics in the readership, you could say a prayer to St. Martin for my school, that the teachers and administrators not go postal just trying to keep things running smoothly. I'll just be standing over here in the parents' waiting area with Gabriel the Archangel, patron saint of postal workers, radio, and television. Apparently he knows why FOX cancelled Firefly, and what better place to learn of the mysteries of fate and television workers than in the nearest House of Learning?

For the Firefly lovers

Best fan-video EVER.



I don't know about you, but I feel immensely cheered up after watching this.

Please direct me to any fun videos you know of. I just went and registered my baby for kindergarten in the same school as her ancestors (by which I mean myself, my husband, and both our mothers), so I could do with some laughs to make me not feel like such an old fart.

My Popo

Eighty-two years of living. Fifty-nine years of marriage. Laboring, sweating, building, repairing, fighting, sailing, fishing, hunting, teaching, swearing, holding, talking, loving, breathing.

Years of suffering.

Done now.

No more struggling just to breathe.

No more arguing over who did what to whom.

No more fear.

No more pain.

Rest now.

Float on the lovely ocean in my dreams.

Goodbye, Popo. I'm sorry I can't cry, but I really do love you.

Inappropriate yet commonplace comments

• So, the girl we're having this baby shower for, does she have a boyfriend or a fiance or something?
• Your daughter's pregnant? Better get out that shotgun.
• Oh, you're a single mom. Do all your kids have the same father?
• Oh, you're a single mom. Are you ever going to get back together with your kid's father?
• I know she's married, but do all her kids come from the same daddy?
• How long after you got pregnant did you get married?
• She has a figure like you used to have.
• Pregnant? You should have got her a dog.
• Are those kids mixed? What is their father?

And yes, I have heard every single one of these comments, either to me, about me, and/or about family or friends.

What is wrong with society today? I know the modern human family is being redefined daily and women don't have to walk around with a scarlet "A" on their chests anymore, and certainly people are more open about what they do. But seriously, have we fallen so far that we assume promiscuity at every turn? Are we so low that we don't even have manners anymore?

Happy Birthday Daniel Radcliffe

Now that you're 18, I'm breaking any laws when I find and stare at this:

I am now accepting members for Future Wives of Daniel Radcliffe (Anonymous).

Deathly Hallows Predictions

Avert your eyes if you must, but I am putting my predictions about the seventh Harry Potter book here, on the internet, before the book is released, so that when some of this stuff actually comes true, I have it on record that I saw it coming.

1. Percy Weasley will betray his family, friends, and even the ministry; in his ambitious pursuit of power, he will become a spy for Voldemort, who after all is a very powerful dark wizard.
   
2. Ginny Weasley will be an Animagus, and will transform into a cat of some kind. She will also be proven to be one of the most powerful witches (meaning the strength of her magic, not authority) of the age, and certainly the most powerful of the Weasley clan.
   
3. Peter Pettigrew, a.k.a. Wormtail, will betray Voldemort in an attempt to repay the life debt he owes Harry.
   
4. The Blacks will turn out to be descended from Slytherin himself.
   
5. Harry Potter will destroy all the remaining Horcruxes. He will find the Slytherin locket among the Black heirlooms.
6. Harry and Ginny will get back together at least one last time.
   
7. Harry will die to save other people. In doing so, he will leave the same magical love protection on others that his mother left on him.
   
8. The famous prophecy, which states "neither can live while the other survives," will be proven to have a different meaning than previously understood. Clearly both of them are already alive and surviving at the same time, so the prophecy must have another interpretation. (This goes back to my previous belief that the prophecy was no longer worth guarding once Voldemort had already succeeded in fulfilling it by "marking" Harry "as his equal" and making the transfer of power. Voldemort already wanted to kill Harry Potter, and Harry already wanted to kill Voldemort. Dumbledore knew all of this, and yet he still put all those lives at risk guarding useless information? No, there would have to be something else to the prophecy for it to have been worth the trouble the Order went to to guard it.)
9. Someone else will have a scar upon them from surviving the Killing Curse.
10. Hagrid's brother Grawp will come into play as an essential part of bring the rest of the giants over to the good guys.
11. Somebody will knock boots. It will not be described, because Scholastic is still marketing this as a children's book. But someone is going to get some.
12. We will find out what is behind the veil in the Department of Mysteries.
13. Bellatrix Lestrange will die. Personally, I hope it's at the hands of either Neville Longbottom or the Dark Lord himself. Either would satisfy my sense of poetic justice.

Most women, at one point or another in their lives, will be heard uttering something along the lines of "Men are such pigs," or "All men are dogs," or "Men are disgusting, with the burping and the passing gas and the general uncleanliness." Mostly these are reactions to something occuring at the moment or to an annoying habit. But today I am determined to find out: just how disgusting in general are men, really?

It began when I sent Bizarro Dad out to feed our puppies (now five weeks old). I prepared their mash of puppy formula and canned Iams in a bowl and sent the husband out with instructions to give them their food in THIS bowl and retrieve the OTHER bowl from yesterday so I could wash it.

Bizarro Dad stared at me for 30 seconds with wide, incredulous eyes.

Me: Have I given you instructions that you don't understand?

Him: You feed those puppies... in our SOUP BOWLS?

This is, of course, absolutely ridiculous. I don't drop the puppies in the bowl to feed them. They eat FROM the soup bowl. But "soup bowl" is the material point I must address.

Me: I wash the bowls, dear. With soap, even. It's fine.

Him: (beginning to smile) But they use their TONGUES.

Me: (smiling back) Their mouths are probably cleaner than ours, honey.

Him: I doubt that. They lick themselves.

Me: So what? You'd probably lick yourself if you could.

At this the husband stops, turns, and looks right at me.

Him: No. I would NOT lick myself. That is disgusting.

Me: Don't be silly. Any man would lick himself if he could.

Naturally a brief fake argument ensued, interrupted when I shut the door between us so he would go feed the ass-licking puppies already. But it made me wonder:

Would men actually lick themselves if they could? Even once, just to try it? Anonymous replies are welcome.

Hatchling Unmutated Non-combative Chelonians

Bizarro Dad told our daughters that if we couldn't take them to the beach this weekend, we'd get some new fish for the fish tank (45 gallons, and we only have two algae eaters and one very aggressive cichlid who eats any other fish we introduce).

Bizarro Dad then remembered his final exam is on Monday, and if he passes THAT, the state exam is two days later. All his spare time (when he's not watching Black Snake Moan, apparently) is devoted to study and making flashcards. Guess where we're not going this weekend?

Knowing this would be the case, my darling husband went to a nearby fish store, presumably to get some more cichlids or a betta, something we're already equipped to take care of.

It was so simple. I thought it would be safe. He went alone.

He came back an hour later with two Red Ear Slider turtles and a floating faux log.

Most of the stuff they need, we already have, like a filter and an aquarium heater. The pet shop guy gave him a little bag of turtle pellets, so they've got food. And of course there's the log, so little Crush and Squirt have a place to climb up and rest themselves. Even the cichlid, Nemo, left them alone once he realized he can't bite them into submission (those darn hard shells). Turtles are completely compatible with our tank.

But uh-oh. Pet Shop Guy neglects to inform us that we also need a "basking area" for the turtles, a place where they can climb up and sun themselves under the vitamin-enriching rays of the UVB lamp.

Husband goes out and gets ANOTHER floating thing, one that will remain stationary, and cuts a hole in the tank hood so the light from our lamp (repurposed from our garage lighting) can get through. The turtles love it! Except that we don't actually have a UVB bulb, and they're just making due with a 60 watt.

Oh, and it turns out Crush has an open wound where his tail used to be. This is especially bad, since all his peeing, pooping, and sexual activity will take place from one location: the cloaca, located in (you guessed it) his tail. Bizarro Dad has to take him back to Pet Shop Guy for an exchange. Oldest Daughter, who is now sobbing about Crush's departure, is told that Crush is getting his tail fixed. She moves on to sobbing about missing Daddy, and when is Daddy coming home?, and I lost my Daddy and miss him so much, can I see a picture of Daddy?

My research also indicates that we should throw away the pellets Pet Shop Guy gave us and get some high quality stuff, in addition to calcium supplements, aquatic plants, red-leaf lettuce, that UVB bulb I mentioned, the occasional live prey, a vet that can handle exotic animals, and a home improvement loan.

Wait, what? Oh yeah, you read that right. Two adult Red Ears require two hundred gallons of water, and if either of them are females then I have to provide a nesting area as well. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to build a two hundred gallon pond complete with filtration, nesting area, basking area, shaded area, unclimbable border (to prevent escapes), and protection from predator animals?

The best part, though? Captive Red Ear Sliders have an average lifespan of 40 years.

Forty. Years.

I will be 68 years old. My children will be middle-aged and have their own grandchildren on the way before these turtles no longer need me to care for them.

Don't get me wrong, the turtles are very cute, and I look forward to enjoying their presence. But I wasn't expecting a 40-year commitment to drop in my lap because my husband promised to take the kids to the beach the day before his final exam and then suddenly remembered he had to STUDY!

Next time, I don't care if it's raining, exam time, or two days before my due date, I'm taking those girls to the beach. That, or making sure I don't send Bizarro Dad to the pet shop alone. God help me if he brings home a pet that requires I name one of our great-grandkids its legal guardian in our Will.

Fourth of July

One block.
Three houses.
Forty or more adults.
Fifteen to twenty children.
Two hundred burgers and hot dogs.
Ten ice chests.
Numerous beers, waters, and sodas.
Unknown quantities of mixed drinks.
Five trays of red and blue Jello shots.
Fifty lawn chairs.
Four police officers and three EMTs, all of whom showed up for the food.
Eight hundred pounds of hardcore fireworks (retail value $6000.00), including 8 boxes of "Sexual Fantasies."

The best Independence Day block parties are the ones hosted by a cop. Except for one little thing:

Burns acquired due to improper spacing of fireworks by drunken, overzealous idiots, resulting in the still-burning and whizzing embers landing directly beside my chair:

• Two on my neck
• One on my arm
• One unfixable hole on the leg of my favorite spandex sexy-pants.

Ya gotta love stupid MySpace surveys

You know the usual MySpace survey questions: "What's your middle name?" "What were you doing last night?" "What's your favorite color?" "When are you going to be out of the house for longer than three hours?" "Where do you keep the spare key?" It gets weird. Here are some sample questions from an actual survey, along with my answers, all of which are true. (Yes, this is in fact a fluff post. Fuck off.)

1. When was the last time you shaved your legs?
Trust me, you don't want to know, and I can't really remember anyway. I've had a rough week, dammit.

4. What are you wearing?
After the leg shaving question, are you sure you even want to know? I didn't know you were into fuzzy-legged women. Should I get out the lingerie?

9. Do you have a crush on anyone?
Yeah, that hot guy from Supernatural, Jensen Ackles. If I had a list, he'd totally be on it. At the top, even.

10. Do you know the words to the song on your MySpace profile?
What kind of un-American asshat could love rock-n-roll and NOT know the lyrics to "Carry On My Wayward Son?"

11. Do you have any famous relatives?
No. Wait, yes I do! Wow, I forgot he was even famous. Man, I suck. Here he works so hard and travels all over the country, and I continue to think of him as the little boy who I used to get into fights with over nothing.

12. Have you ever had sex in a public place?
Why yes I did. And you know what? It was better AFTER his goods were stung by the jellyfish.

13. Have you ever made out in a public place?
Why does this question come AFTER the public sex question? Okay, here's a list: public library, movie theater, beach, by the pool table at a bar, arcade/go-kart place, park, another park, by a pond, zoo, in the street in front of my best friend's house, church parking lot, another church parking lot, a third church parking lot, Whataburger parking lot, museum parking lot, mall parking lot, Toys R Us parking lot, parking lot outside my boyfriend's apartment, parking lot of a chemical company, inside the building of the same chemical company, on a Metro bus, on a school bus, at a rodeo, in a pool, in the band hall, outside the band hall doors, outside the cafeteria doors, outside the door of my algebra class when I was supposed to be on a bathroom break... I think that's it. No, wait...

17. Are you good at math?
I'm a math genius, bitch!

19. Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
Clearly I am otherwise occupied at the beach. (Meaning I am busy chasing the kids around. Get your mind out of the gutter!)

20. Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
I think my record is 60 hours.

21. Do you like the ocean?
I've never been happy unless I've lived within an hour's drive from the sea. Which explains why the college years sucked.

22. Do you stay friends with your exes?
I never really see any of them. I'm not even sure where most of them live. And even if I did see them, there's only one who I straight up refuse to speak to. Even Notorious D.I.C. and I are on friendly, if guarded, terms.

25. Are any of your great-grandparents still alive?
Nope. The last one died years ago, may he burn in hell, that fucking pervert.

26. Where do you keep your change?
I KNEW you were trying to rob my house. I keep my change in the BANK, ASSCLOWN!

27. Who is the most awesome person in your life?
My kids are the two most awesome people in my life. Anyone who warns you that while you're driving you should be careful for other cars and ostriches is AWESOME.

28. Would you rather sleep with someone else or alone?
I'd always rather sleep with my husband. Unless he's in the doghouse. Then I like having the girls next to me. I miss the warmth of another person. Of course, in my husband's case it's more of a heat generator, but you get the idea.

Morbid

Here's my cadaver value:

$4765.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth

Mingle² - Online Dating

And this one is my Popo's:

$5530.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth

Mingle² - Online Dating

However, I think perhaps his may be inaccurate because, although he no longer smokes, drinks, or eats anything that isn't piped in with a tube, he once did all those things, and for many years.

Here's to my Popo, the man who refuses to die, no matter how many chances he is given.

My favorite song, now on video!

Check him out at www.myspace.com/coastspace and buy his CD! You won't be sorry.

Happy Father's Day

http://www.guyznite.com

If this doesn't boggle the mind, nothing will

If we destroy our planet or just ourselves, the universe won't give a shit. Just like we don't care about a random ant colony on the other side of the world.

Explain to me how our problems are supposed to be solved by talking to the sky? Clearly the sky is full and has infinitely greater things going on than our petty grievances or even than our legitimate concerns.

We only have one tiny part of the universe to use. If we're going to continue our existence, we need to stop relying on an invisible hand to bail us out of our own mistakes at the last minute and instead just fix things ourselves. Even if God does show up, He'll certainly be happier if we get our act together and behave like rational creatures than if we just make a mess and wait around for Him to clean it up. If He's up there, He is clearly busy.

Heart attack on a bun

Last weekend, six different kinds of animals died for our dinner:

1. Shrimp
2. Catfish
3. Pig (bacon for the shrimp, plus hot dogs and sausage)
4. Cow (beef fajitas and hamburger patties)
5. Chicken (chicken fajitas)
6. Turkey (turkey patties and grilled turkey breast, which was supposed to be turkey fajitas but in reality was turkey jerky)

Also giving up the ghost were several mosquitos, which were not used in food prep but unwillingly gave their lives when burned by the massive fire erupting suddenly from my dad's BBQ pit.

But don't worry about our health, good people. I also made some white rice.

My New Hero

When I gave birth in a military hospital, I had a private room all to myself (well, if by "private" you mean "sixteen different nurses, doctors, midwives, medical assistants, orderlies, and various emergency pediatric personnel." Sterilized equipment was used, along with monitors for both my contractions and baby's heart rate. Someone even came in with a what looked like a really REALLY long plastic crochet hook and burst my water for me. I'd taken classes on childbirth and how to take care of a real live baby. I had blankets and pillows, a bed that converted into a birthing chair, an bassinet with a warming pad inside it, oh and drugs (not an epidural, because I'm not a wimp, but a form of Demerol, because I'm not insane, either).

This evening my dog gave birth under my house. In the dirt. In the dark. By herself. With no prior experience, no instruction in what to do or how to do it, and no one to help her. (I didn't know what was going on until I heard the tiny cries. They sounded like cats.) The only way I can see them is to stick my camera under the house and aim it into their little hollow.

My dog is officially my new hero. Mother and babies (number unknown) appear to be doing fine, although I hope to take them to the vet this weekend if possible.

Congratulations to Xanga the Wonderdog!