Letter to a skank

Dear Whore-y Bitch,

That security guard you asked to walk you out to your car in the parking lot? Yeah, he's married.

Flirting with him was not a good idea.

Nor was hugging him.

And especially not the part where you shook your ass near his face three times when he bent down to turn on the escalator. Three times.

By the way, that last part was caught on tape. And replayed for everyone in the office to see.

Back the fuck off. Seriously. Back. The fuck. Off. Girls like you are the reason so many women hate each other. Girls like you are also the reason I keep bricks in my purse.

Yours,
The Wife

How To Annoy Your Loved Ones and Make Them Not Want to Help You

1. Get into a relationship with and eventually marry a loser who lies, cheats on you, and makes you feel bad about yourself.
2. Move this loser in with you, into a home that your family is providing for you.
3. Keep having kids with the guy, even though he obviously doesn't really want to help you take care of them.
4. Don't give him any real consequences when he stays out until 4 in the morning.
5. Keep asking your family for money the whole time, since he obviously isn't providing enough.
6. When your family does give you money, spend it on stupid stuff that you don't need.
7. Lie unconvincingly to everyone, including yourself, about the loser's nocturnal habits.
8. Accumulate tons of circumstantial evidence that he's cheating, and talk about it with friends and family, but never do anything about it.
9. Tell him you're kicking him out, but let him back into the house anyway because you're too busy trying to be civil to realize that what you need to do is let your anger work for you and make him understand that you're serious.
10. Keep having sex with him, even though you suspect he's cheating.
11. Do this for five years.
12. Kick him out when you finally have "concrete" proof of infidelity (as in a third party calls your house asking for his mistress, preferably over a legal matter).
13. Now that you're a single mother, don't even start looking for a job for at least two months.
14. Complain that you have to be in the MOOD to find a job.
15. Tell your parents not to give you any money so that you'll get off your ass and get a job, and then complain when they won't give you any money.
16. Rely on your parents for everying that food stamps won't pay for, like electricity and toilet paper.
17. Complain that you can't get a job unless you get a car.
18. Complain about why public transportation is a terribly inconvenient way to travel, and that you'd be able to do everything you need to do if you just had a car.
19. Forget that when your parents gave you money before you kicked your husband out, you HAD enough for a used car. In fact, forget that they gave you money.
20. Beg your sister to buy things for your kids or to move in and help you with bills, even though she's told you "no" many times.
21. Ask for free babysitting from your sick mother, your friends with kids of their own, and your in-laws. Ask for it all the time. And during the time they are babysitting, use that time to search for jobs you know you don't want and can't (or won't) accept.
22. Don't make up your mind about whether you want your husband to come home or not.
23. Take FOREVER to file a child support claim against him. In fact, wait until he's not working anymore. Because then you'll get some money.
24. When you speak to your husband, demand that he buy you a car. Because that's going to happen when he's not working. (He may buy a car, actually, but I promise you that his mistress is paying for it.)
25. Complain to your friends and family that he won't hurry up and buy you a car, and that he should be buying you a car.
26. Act like you're the only single mother of three in the world, when in fact you're not even the only one in your neighborhood.
27. Yell at your children constantly, and then complain to your would-be babysitters that the two-year-old is always screaming.
28. Act surprised and upset when your mother doesn't want to babysit your hellcat children after being hospitalized for heart problems.
29. Ask people for favors that you know PERFECTLY WELL conflict with their own schedules.
30. Interrupt your friends and family with constant phone calls, also during times that conflict with their routine.
31. Cry that you need help and you don't understand why nobody wants to help you.

Do Some Good and Win Some Prizes

Want to give to a charity but don't know which one to choose? Wishing you could get something in return for your donation besides a tax deduction?

Try the Tomato Nation Fall Contest! Simply donate to one of the charities listed in the TN challenge on DonorsChoose (any amount is fine, seriously, even if it's $5), and forward your e-mail receipt to Sars (webmistress of Tomato Nation). You'll have a chance to win fabulous prizes, including books, Glarkware merchandise, My So-Called Life DVDs (autographed by Claire Danes, who is donor-matching), gift certificates, a Wonderfalls script signed by Tim Minear, and other great prizes. Only one entry per person, not per donation.

Currently the challenge is in Bonus Round II. If this is completed by the time you're ready to donate, please glance to the left and see if a new round has begun on the General Blog Leaderboard. As of this writing, over $47,ooo has been raised for charities and schools across the country!

For contest rules and questions, and to find out what kind of self-humiliation Sars will be displaying before an unsuspecting public in return for our donations, please visit Sars at TomatoNation.com. Contest runs from now until October 31st.

Memo to Good Morning America

Dear GMA,

I know we've grown into an increasingly voyeuristic culture. With little starlets running amok every time you turn around, and millions of people desperate for any shred of evidence proving that they are in fact better than highly paid celebrities, it's easy to see why the media business is booming and the paparazzi are even more in-your-face than ever before.

But please, GMA, you don't need to feed the beast by making it a point to ask excessively private questions when you interview Brad Pitt. The man is an actor and an activist. That's all I want from him. I couldn't give two shits about what his bedtime routine is with his little bundles of joy. Let him talk about his new movie or whatever cause he's supporting. If you really feel like putting him through the ringer, ask him how he can claim to be some big eco-warrior and yet still use massive amounts of air-polluting fuel when he takes private jets all over the globe.

To repeat: I don't care about Brad Pitt's personal life and what he does with his kids. When he starts actively seeking a new wife, then maybe let me know, because I have several beautiful single cousins who would LOVE to be Mrs. Brad Pitt. Other than that, leave it alone. I can see the neatness and symmetry of displaying a loving father who behaves responsibly opposite a rehab-happy white trash pop star who can't be bothered to learn how to operate a car seat (yes, I mean Britney, and no, I don't want to hear about her either). However, I'd really rather hear about what new projects Brad's working on that might actually have some kind of impact on my life. If I want parenting advice, there are magazines, websites, books, teachers, pediatricians, and veteran mothers across the street. I don't need Brad Pitt to set an example for me.

So, Good Morning America, please go back to your exposes on why everything is the government's fault and your cooking demonstrations. Otherwise, I'm just going to do what I did this morning: change the channel.

All the best,
Me

"How To" Series

I'm pleased to introduce a new feature here at "Sleep? What's That?" Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the How To series, in which I discuss creative solutions to problems both abnormal and mundane.

Today's topic:
How To Get a Glue Trap Off a Toddler's Bare Foot

1. If the trap is also stuck to something else, get that thing off first. Rip that sucker off, but be sure not to yank the child's leg when you do this. Also, if the glue trap is also stuck to the floor, please remember to maintain a firm grip on the toddler's ankle, but DO NOT pull by the leg. Pull from the edge of the glue trap.
2. Carry your toddler to the kitchen sink. No, not the bathroom, trust me on this, everything you'll need will be in the kitchen. Sit your child on the countertop with his/her feet in the sink.
3. Press record on your video camera.
4. Pour some cooking oil (preferably the cheapest stuff you have) onto the foot. Using a back and forth motion with your finger, work the oil between the sole of the foot and the glue trap to separate them. Be gentle, and do not try to yank the trap off, lest you take some of your child's skin off. Continue applying oil as needed. Once you have completely removed the trap and discarded it, there may still be a large amount of glue remaining on the foot. Proceed with steps 5 through 9.
5. Using a clean hand or utensil, scoop out a handful of smooth peanut butter and apply it to your child's foot. Using your hands only, rub the peanut butter onto the glue. You may need to scrape some of it off, so use either a fingernail (please not a sharp one) or a spoon.
6. If the peanut butter method still has not removed all the glue, move on to very warm water and dish soap. Be careful with your water temperature, lest you cause skin burns. Once again, scraping will likely be necessary.
7. If, after the soapy water method, you still have not removed all the glue, just use a DRY spoon and fingernails.
8. If you still cannot get all the glue off, you might try rubbing the glue with an ice cube. Be aware, your child will scream. Once the glue is hardened by the cold, it should respond to scraping with more of a flaking reaction.
9. If that doesn't work, please take your child to the emergency room. Don't forget to take the video camera.
10. Call your exterminator and demand a refund, especially if you noticed teeth marks or rodent hair but no actual rodents on the glue trap in the first place.

Best. Prison. Ever.

Dude, if I ever commit a crime and must be incarcerated, deport me to the Philipines and send me over to THAT prison. Reformation never looked so fun.

Traits

I enter the bedroom, plop down on my husband's stomach, and start kissing his face.
Me: *smooch smooch smooch*
Bizarro Dad: Okay, okay, I get it. You love me.
Me: Of course I do.
BD: It's all a front.
Me: What is? My kissing you?
BD: Your loving me. You only love me because you love my beautiful-baby-producing ability.
Me: So you're saying I only love you because I... love you? And because we made pretty kids?
BD: Yep, that's right. You said, "I think that's the one with the right genes."
Me: (giggling) You got me honey. I sat down and made a Punnett square and determined that all your most desirable features that I liked would be dominant, and all the ones I didn't like would be recessive to my dominant ones. Thus we would reproduce highly attractive offspring.
BD: I knew it.
Me: Unfortunately, Sia accidentally inherited your tiny-butt gene.
BD: Well, they can't be perfect.
Me: And it's probably better that way. Can you imagine how much trouble we'll have with her as a teenager if she has a big ass?
BD: Terrible, I tell you.
Enter Sia, who climbs onto our bed.
Me: Hi sweety.
BD: Poor baby, what did I do to you? You don't have a butt.
Sia: (putting hand on her butt) It's right here, Daddy.

Hamburger Hinderer

I hate Hamburger Helper.

The smell of it cooking makes me want to vomit. Its lumpy, slimy texture in my mouth makes me think I am vomiting. Besides which, cheeseburger and macaroni together are just unnatural.

I used to love the stuff.

Cheeseburger Macaroni was probably the last meal I fixed for my ex-fiance. In this very kitchen, no less. He was ecstatic. He said it was his favorite. He told me I was "such a good wife for making it."

The following week he started complaining about our weekend routine (I drive an hour to spend the weekend in the same town as him, we hang out, we have dinner and watch a video, we make out on the couch, he goes home and I drive an hour back to my college town). Then he started complaining about a lot of other things, all of which he insisted were my fault. Then he said he wanted to date a fifteen-year-old girl. She was a plus and I was a minus.

I hate Cheeseburger Macaroni Hamburger Helper.

My husband loves it, and insisted on buying a package last time we went grocery shopping.

I can't even stand looking at the box. It screams at me silently, and I can hear it in every room of the house.

"You are inadequate!"

Lex Luthor: Moron

If you've ever wondered what it would be like to see Lex Luthor:

• Wear a track suit instead of Armani suits
• Talk like some kind of VJ
• Look like he's obviously uncomfortable talking like a VJ, but do it anyway
• Not know the socially acceptable behavior for any given situation (i.e. whether or not he should remove his shirt in a parking lot in the middle of someone else's face-off)
• Make up stupid answers to direct questions and expect to be taken seriously
• Not be able to hang on to everything he wants just because he has money
• Get served
• Get told that he has a small dick
• Have hair

Please rent Kickin' It Old Skool, starring Jamie Kennedy and featuring Smallville's Michael Rosenbaum (a.k.a. Lex Luthor when he was young and handsome and not played by an old fart).

Photos courtesy of about.com. Apologies to Michael Rosenbaum, who is totally hot in real life, ESPECIALLY when he's bald!

Grammy Mammy Pants

There are two things that run in my family along the matriarchal line: diabetes, and storing all our fat in the front of our stomachs, resulting in that six-months-pregnant look throughout the year.

Grandma, a diabetic of many years and a great lover of Dr Pepper and Mexican pastries, has finally reached the point of requiring insulin shots. It's kind of sad, but at least it's a tiny needle attached to a self-measuring device that looks like a pen, rather than the giant nail stuck to a glass tube her sister and mother used back in the day. Naturally Grandma has to worry about the usual related ailments, like slow-healing cuts and bug bites, shakiness, confusion, hypertension, and those whacked-out mood swings. Perhaps the strangest symptom of her diabetes has been her constant annoyance at anything squeezing her.

I wish I could count the number of times she's repeated "Diabetics don't like having anything pressing on us." She means things like the shoulder straps of purses, anything with a tight waistband, and overly tight socks (you've not been truly disturbed until you've seen a centenarian in leg warmers and flip-flops). But most of all, she can't stand to wear pants. In fact, I think it would not be a stretch to say she's probably never worn a single pair of pants in all of her 78 years. Elastic waist, jeans, slacks, belted stuff, things held up by suspenders, it doesn't matter, if the thing has a separate hole for each leg and is not a skirt or dress, she won't wear it, clamoring "It hurts, it hurts, I know it hurts, even though I have never tried it on, ever, I know it hurts."

However, for reasons that are bathroom related and are too gross to share with you, my grandma has now been forced to wear pants when she visits doctors' offices and labs.

Just as Grandma was worried about the possibility of giant needle-nails big enough to crucify with, she's also been concerned about the vice-grip waist of the slacks of yesteryear. She seems to forget that modern weighty women do not bother with the girdles and pointy bras of 50 years ago or, so help me, corsets. We would rather buy a larger size with a smaller number and feel comfortable while they trick ourselves into feeling thin.

Be that as it may, Mom and I were still worried that the elastic waistband of some stretch pants might still be too tight for my delicate little old flower of a granny. In fact, I thought it very likely that she'd let my mom buy the pants and then just not wear them. And of all the things that run in my family, the most powerful is the sense of pissed-offed-ness that comes from spending good money on something that isn't going to be used at all.

And then inspiration struck.

Since I inherited the looks-like-a-beer-gut gut, I've found that the easiest way to be comfortable without tossing on sweats is to put on my old maternity jeans. The elastic is a good two inches wide, so I don't have a narrow piece of rubber slicing into my belly, and it rests higher up on the abdomen. There are no drawstrings to stand there and mess with before I sit on the Throne. And the pants actually look nice while still being designed to expand as I need them to. I told Mom all about it.

I wonder if Grandma knows that she and I are basically wearing the exact same preggo pants without either of us actually being pregnant?

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.