tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58834202024-03-19T02:18:47.234-05:00SLEEPING UGLY: The Life and Adventures of Zelda and JethroZeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.comBlogger860125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-64898503221561068582013-12-07T11:19:00.002-06:002013-12-07T12:40:01.434-06:00Post On Which Twerking Seems To Be An Overriding ThoughtNever thought I'd say this, but I'm tired of the internet. Well, not the entire internet. I still like to look up recipes and watch twerking harlots set themselves on fire, but definitely some of the internet. Actually, I think it's just facebook.<br />
<br />
If you ever feel that your particular house of worship is not providing you with enough advice, lecture, or judgement, then facebook is the place for you.<br />
<br />
Now don't get me wrong. I love a lot of things about facebook. I like seeing cute pictures of friends' babies and puppies. I like . . . no, that's about it. I think that's all I like. Oh, and I like chatting with my friend about who on facebook is annoying us. I excuse my gossipy behavior as venting to only one person, in private, so that I don't make an ass of myself in public commenting on stupid things that have no meaning whatsoever to my real life, thereby sparing everyone embarrassment and hurt feelings.<br />
<br />
But it isn't terribly healthy. And I find myself getting more and more annoyed with what is being posted:<br />
<br />
Be Aware of Breast Cancer! Stop Being So Aware of Breast Cancer! It's nice that you post about veterans, but what about the tsunami? It's nice that you post about the tsunami, but what about the animals? Save the Tigers! Save the Trees! Donate! HOW CAN YOU BE SUCH AN ASSOLE BY NOT DONATING!!! Science is fucking awesome!!! Scientists are trying to genetically engineer our entire food supply and kill us!!! Buy organic pumpkins! Buy organic turkeys! Buy Girl Scout Cookies! STOP ABSORBING NEGATIVE ENERGY!!! STOP BUYING SO MUCH CRAP, YOU CONSUMERIST PIGS!!! Here's a coupon! Groupon! PIIIIIIIIIINTEREST!!!<br />
<br />
I think I'm overwhelmed. Taken all at once, I am bombarded by conflicting messages every day. This isn't anyone's fault. Everyone has opinions and it's nice to share them. I've always enjoyed sharing mine because I'm a goddamn genius and everyone should be lucky enough to know what I think about anything I take my precious time to think about. But since the dawn of facebook, I have discovered that I don't have as many opinions as I thought, and even more shocking, I don't actually want to.<br />
<br />
Now I will list 3 things about which I have no opinions:<br />
<br />
<b>Miley Cyrus</b> - "But the CHILDREN!" you say. "She's a terrible example for them! You have daughters. Why don't you care? Care, damn you, CARE!!!"<br />
<br />
Here's the truth: My daughters aren't twerkers. It's not because I raised them well or sheltered them. It's because that is not what they want to do. I don't know why. I don't care why. My job, in that regard, is easy. To other parents who have twerking daughters, all I can say is good luck, and maybe it's nice to be a grandparent before the arthritis sets in. Also, if you don't want them doing it, start doing it yourself. It's good exercise, and it will turn them off. Big time.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Christmas Displays Before Thanksgiving</b> - Yeah. Don't care. I'm feeling ever increasing twinges of agoraphobia when I go to stores. It's not that I don't like people. I do. I just don't want to touch them or look at them or have any contact with them other than what is absolutely necessary to facilitate as fast a release from their presence as possible. So the store can display a full size, stark nude, anatomically correct, animatronic, Santa Clause jerking off to the horror of traumatized reindeer and cringing elves in the middle of summer, and the dread of human contact will override the timing of it upon my senses. Am I lucky? You be the judge. <br />
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<b>People Who Use Their Cell Phones In Public All The Time</b> - It's very simple. If they are on their cell phones, they are not interacting with me. Also, it's very funny when they walk into building support columns while texting.<br />
<br />
In a way, it's a relief. You want to be knowledgeable. You don't want to be one of those people on camera who don't know who the Vice President is. And the quickest way to display your knowledge is to form an opinion. But it isn't necessary. You don't have to know everything. You don't have to have all the answers. No one does. I don't.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-1394059249779691182013-10-01T09:08:00.002-05:002013-12-07T11:23:27.900-06:00Memory Motel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/bE96fz6BWqk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
I think this is my favorite by the Stones. I couldn't figure out why it always makes me cry. I don't have any one-night stands or unrequited loves to feel regretful or even nostalgic over. For years I've been chalking it up to crippling sympathy for others on my part and if the song has that bad an effect without a reason, God forbid I should ever have a reason. But as it turns out, the explanation is far simpler. It makes me think of my father. He's been gone over half my life now.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it's a good song. Definitely on my top ten list. Maybe top five.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-15182660168062453152013-10-01T08:59:00.000-05:002013-10-01T08:59:39.040-05:00Where I Complain and Jethro Does Something About ItTwo teenagers I have now. I know, I know. I had to drop both of them off early at school this morning, one for a test and the other, I highly suspect, to meet a boy. The traffic was bad, it was foggy, and I made sure to complain about it to Jethro who had gotten to spend those extra minutes all cozy in bed with the baby.<br />
<br />
"Awwww," he said, sympathetically. "You deserve a reward." And proceeds to whip it out.<br />
<br />
Is it weird that kind of thing works on me?<br />
<br />
In other news, I would like to stop nursing the baby. I am pretty much over it. I've bonded. I swear. But I'm a little afraid she's going to be one of those nursing 6 year olds. She likes it so much. One glimpse of boob and she claps her hands and growls, "NUMEH!!!!" Which is, of course, hilarious.<br />
<br />
She says lots of words now, and not all of them swear words! Actually none of them are swear words, but they do sound like them. For instance, "Whats that? sounds very much like "Oh shit!" And "fish" is pretty much "bitch."<br />
<br />
She's a fun baby. Demanding, but fun. She thinks she's Miss America. She smiles and waves at everyone who looks at her and says "Hi!" in a charming little baby voice. She does this at the clinic with every patient who walks in. That can't be bad for business.<br />
<br />
She's also kind of small for her age. She's not scrawny, just short and light. Her baby fat is fluffy, not dense. She also doesn't have a lot of hair which makes her look like a very dexterous, articulate infant instead of the wobbly, almost toddler she is. But she's fun. Her sisters are very proud of her. Their cell phone cameras are filled with pictures of her. No selfies, just Charley. It's sweet.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-71467288765115214802013-08-21T00:12:00.000-05:002013-12-07T11:52:25.023-06:00YogurtHeidey Ho, I'm back again. I've decided to discuss limitations. Everyone has them. I have them. You have them. We all have them. We've all heard the expression, "Know your limitations." The problem is, we've also all heard the expression, "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."<br />
<br />
So which is it?<br />
<br />
Recently, I've figured out that I have been an incredibly optimistic person. Incredibly. And I use that word in the fullness of it's literal meaning. There is nothing in life that I cannot accomplish. It's just that I haven't decided what I actually want to accomplish. And why should I limit myself?<br />
<br />
So my plastic craft drawers are overflowing with paper and paint and brushes and glitter and popsicle sticks glued to dirty socks. Yes. I saved dirty socks because somewhere I read that you can make things out of them. I don't remember what now. This was before Pinterest.<br />
<br />
My bookshelves are stuffed with books and magazines and binders full of Information. And some pots and pans I can't seem to find a good place for. And a pile of things people have dangerously left at our house. I even have a binder containing the 1997 financial records of a company I used to work for - saved deliberately because someday I might want to know how to write an annual report.<br />
<br />
My Inbox is deluged with coupons and groupons and unbelievable deals and jobs and pretty, pretty things to buy. And I may just do that someday. If the deals haven't expired, which they all have.<br />
<br />
Then a couple of weeks ago, I was leafing through a magazine I was seriously considering buying and I found a recipe to make your own homemade yogurt. I love yogurt. In one of my earliest photos, I am gleefully covering myself in yogurt out of a cute, little, triangular, plastic bowl.<br />
<br />
I thought, "Well I'm definitely buying this magazine now. A great chicken salad recipe AND a yogurt recipe! I could probably put the yogurt in the chicken salad. Totally worth it."<br />
<br />
Then I began to read the yogurt recipe. First you have to buy some yogurt from the store. And not just any yogurt. It had to be a specific yogurt with the live, active cultures, and not just any old live, active cultures, but cultures from as unpasteurized a product as possible. This annoyed me unreasonably. I do not want to buy the product I'm making in order to make it. This seems unreasonable to me. But this was the easy part. Then they said you had to get a cooler and fill it with water that was 165 degrees. I'm now forgetting some steps. But basically, you had to keep the water temperature at 165 degrees. For a whole day. In a cooler. On the kitchen floor. For a batch of yogurt that would have to be eaten in less than a week. And then there was optional straining through cheesecloth for Greek or desired thickness. And I do like my yogurt thick.<br />
<br />
So I stopped and thought about it. I actually had a minute to do that because Jethro had dropped me off at the store while he was getting a haircut and a beer, and he wasn't there yet to get me. So I asked myself, "Am I ever going to make yogurt?" And the answer came back to me as clear as a glass flute on a cold day. "No."<br />
<br />
I am never going to make yogurt.<br />
<br />
"But what about accomplishing anything you put your mind to? Where's your optimism? Where's your sense of adventure? Where's your love of yogurt?"<br />
<br />
None of it mattered. I tried to cajole myself in 100 different ways to buy that magazine and save the recipe "just in case." But no. The Answer was Final. Irrevocable. The sentence was handed down with kryptonic rigidity. You. Will Never. Make. Yogurt.<br />
<br />
I laid the magazine down on a table, turned around, and walked out the doors.<br />
<br />
Some hours later, I was going through some recipes I had bookmarked. I came across three for homemade yogurt. I deleted them all.<br />
<br />
I'm at peace with this, and yet I am a little ashamed. It turns out that I am a terrible hoarder. I am a hoarder of ideas. It's a very, very bad thing. But now I know.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-25800949766438830212012-07-13T11:47:00.000-05:002012-07-13T11:47:05.878-05:00THE GRAND ENTRANCE (OR MAYBE I SHOULD SAY EXIT)The newest addition arrived in fine style on Memorial Day. We named her Charlotte Bernadette for our friend, Charles Bernard Kitowski III, who was killed in Afghanistan in 2007. The circumstances surrounding her name are remarkable. A boy would have automatically been named Charles since all of our departed male relatives now have namesakes, but a girl presented a little bit of difficulty in terms of namesakes because women in our family simply don't die.<br />
<br />
One name at the top of my girl list was Ann-Charlotte, but since Charlotte is the female derivative of Charles, we began thinking we might name a girl for him. I'd never considered Bernadette, but I thought it was pretty so that name combination quickly rose to the top. I'm kind of ashamed to say that I didn't think about her being born on Memorial Day. Her due date was June 5th and I was consumed with worry that she was going to be born on the birthdays of two relatives I dislike (missed both). There were a few other names I was considering including the original Ann-Charlotte, but when she was born on a beautiful Memorial Day morning, there was simply no other option. You don't ignore the signs.<br />
<br />
And now for the gory details. Gentlemen, you have been forewarned.<br />
<br />
My mom and stepdad made an impromptu trip to see us, only planning to stay for the day. Somehow I convinced them to spend the night and leave in the morning. 4:30 am, I woke up with those strange slightly burning contractions that everyone will tell you to go back to sleep for, but which Jethro and I know could very well Mean Something. <br />
<br />
"Jethro. Something's Happening."<br />
<br />
"Mpff Mpff. Ok. Let me know."<br />
<br />
I went to the restroom to pee and felt somehow drippier than usual. It seemed to be a little blood and some clear fluid. CLEAR FLUID???!!!<br />
<br />
"Jethro. Jethro. JETHRO!"<br />
<br />
"Mhhh? Huhh? Huuh? What?"<br />
<br />
"I think my water broke. I'm calling the midwife."<br />
<br />
"Ok. I'll get the bags."<br />
<br />
I called the midwife and told her everything. She asked about contractions and I said they weren't bad but that didn't actually mean anything the last two times I gave birth. She said she'd head right over.<br />
<br />
I went to go wake up Gwennie and Emma. They scrambled around like newbie firefighters at their first big blaze.<br />
<br />
I went to wake up my mom and stepdad. Turned out I only thought my water had broken. <i>Woosh.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
"Ok. Let's go. Nobody panic. BUT STOP WASTING TIME!!!! WHERE IS GWENDOLYN???!!!"<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
With Gwen finally on board we set off.<br />
<br />
Jethro was the picture of calm. But he did turn on the hazard lights.<br />
<br />
THE BIRTHING CENTER<br />
<br />
We got to the birthing center and it was quite dark. I'd been afraid we'd beat them there. But the student midwife arrived within minutes and we got settled.<br />
<br />
The main midwife arrived and checked me and I was only 4 cm dilated which surprised me a little. I thought I would have been further along. But I was actually pleased because I hadn't missed my window of opportunity to have a water birth. <br />
<br />
They said they'd start the tub when I was around 7 cm. I said fine, but to check back fairly often since I go quickly. I know they didn't quite believe me since I wasn't having terribly strong contractions, but they humored me. I surprised them by being at 7 cm about half an hour later.<br />
<br />
THE TUB<br />
<br />
While the midwives may not have considered them strong contractions, I did. As soon as I hit 7 cm, they got much harder. I can't even begin to describe how good the water felt. All that pressure that had been on my back was lifted. The light was dim, everyone moved slowly and softly. Jethro sat beside me, quietly holding my hand. Muscles relaxed, I almost fell asleep. The contractions stopped for a little while, but soon picked back up again. They were painful, but not unbearable. I breathed through them easily, giving the impression that I was good at this kind of thing and not the deranged hysteric I was about to become.<br />
<br />
THE BIRTH<br />
<br />
The contractions got harder and I asked to be checked again. I was at 9.5 cm and completely effaced. She was still a little high up and they said if I pushed a little I'd dilate the rest of the way. <br />
<br />
I did.<br />
<br />
Oh fuck.<br />
<br />
I don't like pushing. And then I couldn't stop pushing. And then I couldn't get her head out.<br />
<br />
It wasn't that long. Maybe half an hour. But during labor and delivery you are just not moving in regular time. The labor was about 5 hours long, but seemed to take minutes. The delivery was 30 minutes long but seemed to take hours.<br />
<br />
I kept screaming that I couldn't get her head out. I prayed and thrashed and yelled and begged, probably just like a man if men could give birth. Finally the midwife told me to sit up and hyper extend my legs. I panicked some more because usually they don't tell you what to do. But I did what she said and the baby's head finally popped out. As soon as her head was out, I knew it was over. Nothing is as bad as a head. She was born right away after that and they gave her right to me.<br />
<br />
I was still crying from trying to get her head out, but it turned right into crying because she was so sweet. Her eyes were open and she just cuddled softly right into my arms with her little face pressed softly against my neck. The water was still warm over both of us and we just sat and rested for a few minutes.<br />
<br />
THE AFTERMATH<br />
<br />
Maybe the third baby is different. I was overcome with love for her immediately. With my others I guess I was too panicked or maybe even too young for that feeling to overshadow me completely right at birth (it did eventually, accompanied by much weeping and feelings of inadequacy). But at a birthing center where everyone is concentrating on this moment and not worried about other things going on at a hospital, it was amazing. The pain was real and terrifying, but once it was over, there was nothing but a sweet little baby to be cuddled and loved by everyone.<br />
<br />
I did need a couple of stitches which were taken care of fairly quickly. She came out face up, shoulders out, which, while not technically breech, is a position that is not optimal and the midwives said is the most painful. I said, "Good, because that's what I'm telling everyone anyway."<br />
<br />
The student midwife was so cute. She told me how nice it was that I kept reaching down to feel the baby's head and how encouraging that must have been for me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd been trying to rip her out with my bare hands. You just can't know some things unless you've been through them yourself.<br />
<br />
But Baby Charley is a joy and a love. I have a million nicknames for her and her sweet sisters are besotted. Even Jethro, stoic that he is, is enamored. He asks to hold her and I'm reluctant to let her go, which I must say is new for us. I thought she would be the last, but she makes me want another. And I think that's high praise for any baby.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-32557860071975509382012-03-27T11:21:00.000-05:002013-12-07T11:22:28.664-06:00When a human being takes up residence in your body, it's hard not to let them take up most of your mind too. So I'm not really going to try.<br />
<br />
Jethro and I went to a crawfish boil in Houston last weekend. It was a lot of fun. I didn't get to eat much because most of my stomach is smushed up with baby, but it really was a great time. <br />
<br />
While there, I was accosted by an girl who seemed quite interested in my pregnancy. I've met her before and she's kind of an odd, spastic, hippie type, not without charm, but whom I can tolerate for about 15 minutes before I go nuts. When I told her I was going to a birthing center and using midwives for the delivery she had a little bit of a nervous breakdown and started reciting all her holistic bonafides to me while she chain smoked.<br />
<br />
I was bewildered for a few minutes, then I figured it out. She thought I was going to judge her. Now I knew nothing about her, but I found out during the course of the evening that she'd had a c-section with her one and only child, in a hospital, surrounded by glorious technology and drugs. It's taken me a few days because my reaction time, while never swift, is even less so lately. But I started feeling terribly sad. I hate what we've become. When did we get so insecure? I've never considered myself a strong-woman type - able to withstand all manner of criticism and judgment and hurl it back with aplomb. In fact, I distinctly remember being exactly the opposite - very unsure of myself and willing to listen to whatever idiotic advice anyone cared to give me. I don't even remember when that changed. I don't remember anything much at all. I just have the hazy impression that I haven't been criticized for years.<br />
<br />
But then, as I am wont, I thought about it some more. I think I do get criticized. I just don't take it as criticism. For example, at the same crawfish boil, I was engaging in some slight self-deprecatory humor (or at least what I'd like to consider humor) recalling a Mardis Gras in New Orleans where I put my 20 year old bosoms to good and efficient use in the difficult work of sparkling bead collection. I'm not proud of this. It's kind of embarrassing now. But it does give you the ability to laugh at yourself and that's not always bad. <br />
<br />
However, I was relaying the story to a friend of mine whom I've known for years and she made a comment along the lines of "I've never been the type of person who felt the need to flash my goodies for cheap beads." <br />
<br />
I said, "Oh sure. I felt that way too until I had three Hurricanes and a frozen Tang and vodka they were calling a Spanish Fly and selling in yard long plastic glasses with yard long straws. But after that it was all "Oh look! Those beads have troll heads!" and "Oh look! the way the paint has chipped off those beads make them look retro!" Besides," I grinned. "I only did it once."<br />
<br />
She laughed and the night meandered on. I suppose I could have felt criticized, but I didn't. No point. No point at all.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-13952878093287477042012-03-11T23:20:00.000-05:002012-03-11T23:20:40.261-05:00The Immortal God-KingSo the mildly hoped for son and heir is not to be. Unfortunately the news coincided with the death of our last male rabbit leaving Jethro once again, the sole representative of his gender in the family. This resulted in a night of heavy drinking culminating in a rather stunning display in his underwear at the top of the stairs during which he beat his chest, did a couple of interesting squats, and proclaimed himself the immortal god-king who, in his generosity and benevolence, would spare Mother Earth of any male descendants so as not to overwhelm her with the sheer potency and so end the human race in a fiery explosion of quivering lust. Whereupon he collapsed in a sweaty heap of sobs and scotch, a shard of my cosmetics mirror clouded with a faint dusting of mysterious white powder, and an empty bottle of Zyrtec. I'm not saying he did and I'm not saying he didn't, but the allergies are bad this year.<br />
<br />
And the immortal god-king is not getting much in the way of carnal satisfaction either. Because, you see, I vomit every time I come. Except for once when I cried. Really cried. Big, hot, wet tears. He said he thinks he prefers it when I throw up. It's really very weird, because I can't <em>not</em> come. So now instead of witty repartee, or at least some well-timed <em>Dumb and Dumber</em> quotes, foreplay consists of me vigorously massaging the muscle that aches the most, which coincidentally runs right through my left labia, and his eyes glaze over at the memories of our odd but robust sex life, and he says hopefully, "Kick his ass, C-Bass?" And I say, "Shut up, your child is killing me, and if you come anywhere near me with that minty, meaty smell of yours I'm going to rip out your jugular with my teeth," to which he replies, "You only live once."Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-3934964608273086412011-12-20T10:29:00.000-06:002011-12-20T10:29:35.189-06:00Warning for the Gentlemen: Pregnant Lady Stuff In Which I Mention Vomit and Urine. Like That Would Stop You Pervs.Well when it rains...<br />
<br />
I can't seem to catch a break. In spite of living in a hermetically sealed cocoon for the past three months due to the fact that if I move or think about moving I vomit outrageously, I've managed to catch a cold. I do not enjoy being sick (not that anyone does) but being sick when I'm pregnant makes me extremely anxious. I do not like to take medication when I'm pregnant, and I'm forced to if I get a headache because if it turns into a migraine, I will end up in the hospital on <i>their</i> medication. Bear with me. I'm miserable.<br />
<br />
On the plus side (kind of), I went to the midwives for a monthly check up and they called me back after they checked my urine sample and said I needed to come in for an IV because I was extremely dehydrated. I knew I wasn't quite up to speed, but I was in denial since I was still actually able to pee (albeit in only trace amounts). Last time I'd stopped entirely.<br />
<br />
But that brings me to the plus side which is the midwives. I don't think I mentioned it, but I'm going to a birthing center instead of a hospital. With my first two, I didn't have time for an epidural or medication, so honestly, what's the point? If I'm going <i>au natural</i> anyway, I might as well be able give birth on all fours in a swing if I take a mind to. They're very tolerant. And so kind and sympathetic. When you are just perfectly miserable and even blinking makes you sick, it helps to have someone who simply understands and does whatever they can to make you comfortable. When I went for the IV, they put me on a comfy couch, got me three blankets, a fluffy pillow, and a bunch of magazines along with snacks and juice, and they just stayed and talked with me. It was almost fun. We tossed around ideas as to what was causing my incessant nausea, and I made them laugh, which is always nice. The midwife that day said she wanted to be the one to deliver my baby which I took as a compliment.<br />
<br />
At the birthing center, they have 8 or 9 midwives and you try to see every one of them before you give birth. If you establish a special rapport with any of them, you can request them for the birth. Other than that, it's whoever is on call. With how fast I deliver, I know better than to pick favorites. But so far it's even. Every midwife I've seen has been an angel.<br />
<br />
So things are chugging along. I'm 4 months in. I've probably lost some 20 lbs, but I had it to spare (and then some). I'll probably lose a bit more, but that will only be a silver lining at the very end. A new baby plus hotness. Pretty cool.<br />
<br />
I'll update again when I know what the baby is. I'd love to be all secretive and surprisey but that ain't happening. I have too big a mouth.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-63097539145911283782011-11-14T23:41:00.000-06:002011-11-14T23:41:24.103-06:00Big NewsSo finally something to blog about.<br />
<br />
I'm pregnant.<br />
<br />
And almost on purpose this time. Jethro and I had been talking about trying for a boy for years. Recently, the talk became a little more proactive, and God said, "That's it! They said yes!" And boom. Here we are. Expecting a sweet little baby sometime in June.<br />
<br />
We won't know if Jethro will have a son and heir until February, but as he said on his facebook status, "May the third child be a masculine child." We are going to hope that translates into a boy and not a lesbian.<br />
<br />
So that's the good stuff. Now the bad stuff. I'm sick as a freaking dog. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I handle pregnancy about as well as an Occupy Wall Street protester handles baths. Among other unpleasantries, I am nauseous constantly and I throw up so hard and often that I worry about detaching my retinas (hypochondriac that I am). I've always wanted more children, but I just didn't have the strength to be pregnant, especially after Gwen and Em being so close together. And I was young then.<br />
<br />
But after a 10 year hiatus, I've worked up the nerve to have another go. And it's just as bad as I feared, so this will have to be the last even though I wanted 4. I just can't do it.<br />
<br />
But it will be worth it. I don't even have to just tell myself that. I know it. Gwen and Em are proof. They are so helpful and sweet and excited, I could cry. I'm a horrid bitch from the belching depths of hell when I'm sick, and they have been so patient and good. They must have really, really wanted another sibling.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-63148501284842835382011-09-16T23:35:00.000-05:002011-09-16T23:35:40.258-05:00Catching UpWell yes, it's been awhile. Not too much in the way of news, except that the swinger couple broke up in dramatic fashion, which was fairly predictable. She was a diabetic who would have weird, blood sugar related outbursts flinging wild accusations of physical and sexual misconduct and vile profanity. The swinger gentleman decided that the opportunity to stick his dick in a cage containing the volatile creature was probably not worth the potential of having it bitten off. In jail. <br />
<br />
Other than that, things are going well. That's good for me, but obviously terrible for the blogging.<br />
<br />
But as Jethro says, "I've got a beautiful wife, adorable children, a great house, a great career, my dream car, and Gears of War 3 is coming out next week. Can't ask for more than that."<br />
<br />
And should I be content? Yes. I should. But as usual, I'm not. I'm trying to take credit for my kids who are quite lovely, but they were pretty much just born like that so I want a career of some kind to take credit for and make a little scratch at. Yes, I help Jethro at the clinic, and yes, I do graphic design on the side, but I really would like to make either of them just slightly more lucrative. What's that you say? The economy is shit? All the more reason to suck it up and do something. I am ambitious for both of us, but I don't know how to take the first step in really launching either of us. It's annoying. But enough of that. This is boring.<br />
<br />
So what else is new? Oh yeah. Jethro bought a car. A blue 2008 Audi A5. We can't afford it, but we did it anyway because he was driving a beater and it didn't make him look successful. Or competent. Or sane. So we will continue our diet of beans and gruel cooked on an increasingly hostile stove for a little while longer. Not that we're that poor. We just have a lot of debt that we would like to pay off sooner rather than later.<br />
<br />
In other, not so pleasant news, both of Jethro's parents have suffered strokes. His mom had one over a year ago and refused to get diagnosed for over 6 months. Now she is continuing to refuse to go to physical therapy, so she is getting weaker and weaker and there is nothing we can do with her unrelenting stubbornness. It sucks. Jethro's father is almost as bad, but fortunately his stroke, while not as serious, had more obvious side effects so he went to the hospital and got treatment. Unfortunately, while there, they discovered his platelets are low and his white cell count is high, so they are trying to figure out what unknown condition he has on top of having had a stroke. And it would not be an exaggeration to say that he is a reluctant participant in his own healthcare.<br />
<br />
Jethro, confronted with the genetic red flags of stroke, has begun a rigorous exercise regimen and I offer him thoughtful and well-timed encouragement from the couch while drinking a nice red wine with cocoa undertones and eating Dryers French Silk ice cream. I'm nice like that.<br />
<br />
Now for anyone who has read me for a long time, this is going to blow your mind. My eldest is 12 years old. She was 4 when I started this horror show. She is everything a 12 year old should be. Insecure, awkward, sassy, and beautiful. So much of a child still, thank God, but darting towards a womanhood she greatly anticipates and utterly fears. Boys are complete mysteries to her, but she knows she kind of likes them. Her heart is kind. Dogs and babies love and obey her with complete devotion. She geeks out on anime, but loves playing basketball. I look at her all the time and still can't quite believe that this spunky, delicate little creature is mine to love with all my heart.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-22558021093439036152011-06-02T11:37:00.000-05:002013-12-07T11:53:51.270-06:00Love Wins The Day<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
A military friend I've flirted, argued with, and defended for years in the comments section of <a href="http://www.blondesagacity.com/">Blonde Sagacity</a>, lost a friend of his who had served two tours in Iraq to suicide a few weeks ago. I can't adequately describe how good his writing is on the subject, so I'm just going to link it.</div>
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<a href="http://free0352.blogspot.com/2011/05/on-friday-13th-may-2011-my-friend-scott.html">Here it is.</a></div>
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This is real life. It's not a screenplay. It's not politics. This is the ugliness we all fight to keep at bay. It's why we stay up until 3 am playing video games. It's why we inject poison into our faces. It's why we email pictures of our junk to 21 year olds. Sometimes we're stupid. Sometimes the ugliness wins. But we fight on. We mourn the ones who make it real and we fight desperately on.</div>
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When Charles died, I thought the ugliness had won again. It had snatched the best of us. Someone brave and strong and joyful and good. I felt the same way after my father died. But I was weak then and young and stupid. Too much responsibility and no skills for it. Circumstance after circumstance seemed to set me back more and more until finally I met a nice guy named Jethro and made a couple of babies.</div>
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When Charles died, I found myself pounding the stairs in anticipation of that great and terrible pain that was sure to follow. I ran out the door and into the street because I knew what that pain was and how much it was going to hurt. I tried to cry and get it out of the way before that searing, tearing agony reached my lungs. Dry sobs that felt like the desert. The ugliness.</div>
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Then I found Jethro. Again. I stopped and the pain came. But gently this time. We held each other. We still loved each other. We went to see our friends. The barrier our love created for the two of us expanded. We still loved our friends. They still loved us. We beat back the ugliness. We beat it away from each other. We beat it away from our memories of Charles. We held onto each other and wouldn't let the ugliness in.</div>
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I remember once when we were freshmen in college. It was the end of our first year and we were all gathered in Charles' dorm room to drink the horrible wine made by the chemistry majors for one of their projects. 20 people in a little bitty dorm room is not going to go unnoticed by the powers that be and we were interrupted in pretty short order by the glorified hall monitors. We'd had a small practice drill at Charles' urging and we collectively managed to hide the bottles on our persons so that they could not be found. The glorified hall monitors searched every place they were allowed to and found a small bottle of Everclear and 2 cans of beer in the tiny little dorm fridge. Everyone stayed completely mute and let Charles do the talking, since it was his room. After they left with their sad little confiscations, we were exuberant. Giddy, even. We still had the goods. Charles looked admiringly at the group of us and complimented everyone on their presence of mind and coolness under pressure. I like to think he would have felt the same way if he could have seen all of us at the funeral and other events that have taken place since. Not that we were cool, exactly, but we stuck together. We wouldn't let the ugliness take our wine, and we wouldn't let the ugliness take our love.</div>
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And this was the great difference. When my father died, I had no one except histrionic relatives, younger sisters who believed our father would come back to life, and a mother who had just had her world destroyed. The ugliness had easy targets.</div>
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But love is the bayonet and we all became stronger.<br />
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Things are better now in my family simply because we love each other and it's amazing. I never thought it would be good again, but it is. It was a struggle, but we all kept bayonetting and now things are beautiful. Imperfect as always, but beautiful. </div>
Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-56817657274597500342011-05-01T19:58:00.000-05:002011-05-01T19:58:46.858-05:00Swinger WeekendI have had an interesting weekend. A friend of mine from Houston came to visit with his girlfriend. They are swingers.<br />
<br />
It seems we had a miscommunication somewhere. When I say I'm open minded, that means I'm not going to judge you too harshly to your face about anything short of child-molestation. That doesn't mean I want to make out with your girlfriend or watch you feel her up or see a picture of her clitoral piercing, much less a live view.<br />
<br />
And when we discuss your swinging lifestyle and I say "The only way I would do that is if I paid someone," that literally means I WOULD ONLY DO THAT IF I PAID SOMEONE. That does NOT mean I am toying with the idea of having fun sexy times with people I actually know. When discussing the idea with Jethro (and I do this only to string him along the rocky trail of holy matrimony), it is always with the understanding that I am not interested in some broke, schizophrenic college student with daddy issues. I want a professional who will do whatever I say, in a place so far away that I would never have to make small talk with them while having flashbacks to their sex noises if they cough in a funny way.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I know I can talk, but that is all it is. I am ALL TALK. No action. Never have been, never will be. Most people understand this and humor me as long as I amuse them.<br />
<br />
Now I'm not really mad at my friend. They're new at it, and it's very very exciting to them. I wasn't interested, but if I had been, I really would have needed some warning. Because my bedroom was nowhere near orgy-ready. And I was on my period - something I did not plan on announcing.<br />
<br />
But I am loathe to make people uncomfortable in my own home, so I found myself politely commenting on the photographs of the clitoral piercing, the cage in which girlfriend was stripping awkwardly with the friend's penis thrust encouragingly through the bars...<br />
<br />
I smiled and yawned when girlfriend asked me to come lay down by her so she could play with my hair, which was actually tempting because I love to have my hair played with. Fuck, I have no balls.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-65006749867469604382011-04-19T00:46:00.000-05:002011-04-19T00:46:44.212-05:00Some MoviesI tried to watch an old movie on Netflix called "Those Redheads from Seattle." <br />
<br />
My family has a thing for old movies, probably because we only had a VCR growing up (no tv) and our mom would rent old, silly movies so as not to warp our morals. Fat lot of good. But in spite of us now practicing all manner of heathenry, she did manage to instill in us a love for old, cheesy films and their accompanying soundtracks.<br />
<br />
The description was mildly intriguing:<br />
<br />
<i>Determined to reunite her scattered family, Mrs. Edmonds moves her daughters north to the Yukon to be with their father. But the man's been murdered, and now the penniless women must make ends meet while finding the killer.</i><br />
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It sounded a little noir-ish with the twist of a mainly female cast. But it's a damn musical. And it's horrid. They are going to find their father's killer and do a very modest can-can, exclaiming all the while about how daring they are to let anyone catch a glimpse of their bulky pantalettes. I haven't finished the movie, and I doubt I will, but I have no doubt the killer will be drawn in some way to those bulky pantalettes. They always are, you know.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to another movie I watched earlier today. It was a very stupid French film called "Emmanuelle." I'd never heard of it, but I feel certain it is well known among connoisseurs of early 70s erotica.<br />
<br />
Not being a connoisseur of early 70s or any other kind of erotica, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I thought it would be stylish, I guess. But it wasn't. It was about a wealthy, hedonistic band of white people upholding the dignity of their respective countries by screwing around Thailand; and Emmanuelle, the nice French girl they wanted to corrupt for their own gratification. For a film which contained a sex act in nearly every scene, including a young girl masturbating to a picture of Paul Newman, and a flexible Asian chick lighting a cigarette with another cigarette from the part of her anatomy you'd expect her to light it with if you were in Thailand, it was boring as hell. <br />
<br />
The last quarter of the movie had Emmanuelle, at the insistence of the hedonists, being escorted around Bangkok by a patriarchal old pervert attempting to rid her of her inhibitions and convince her to accept the tenants of eroticism by making her smoke opium, having her forcibly taken by natives in the opium den, offering her as the prize to the winner of a very lame Thai boxing match (which the winner, remarkably free of bruises or cuts, gleefully accepted on all fours in front of the entire gathered assembly), and then giving her a new dress. All the while, the pervert remained clothed in a dark, somber suit, and lectured constantly as to what she should be thinking. It was like being raped to a sermon. <br />
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I guess it was supposed to do something for you, or at least make you uncomfortably sure that you'd be heaped with scorn by the sexual sophisticates for thinking Emmanuelle looked kind of silly with her skirt over her head for most of the film. Mostly what I took away is that hedonists are just as humorless about sex as puritans.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-45904609434280720742011-04-15T18:48:00.001-05:002011-04-15T18:49:48.666-05:00Oh For The Love Of...I visited the eye doctor yesterday and got the spankiest new pair of eyeglasses.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1CNFqsHsL3JbdIl5DMrk9lZeU1H1LWk43yXoWNmI1sEYK6OwP8ToscitLIUKYLEa2SnKeTRjfwgI-SA61_Z2MIIijiRYBl3QSzIVYonq8twCKK3hmgvREQKF-_d2oycLP6Pq8/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="95" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1CNFqsHsL3JbdIl5DMrk9lZeU1H1LWk43yXoWNmI1sEYK6OwP8ToscitLIUKYLEa2SnKeTRjfwgI-SA61_Z2MIIijiRYBl3QSzIVYonq8twCKK3hmgvREQKF-_d2oycLP6Pq8/s320/glasses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also found out I have something called <a href="http://www.glaucoma.org/glaucoma/pigment-dispersion-syndrome-and-pigmentary-glaucoma.php">Pigment Dispersion Syndrome</a>, which is where the pigment in the colored part of your eye flakes off into the fluid which can clog in the drainage ducts of your eye which increases pressure and can lead to glaucoma.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now of course, the second I get the news, my hypochondria kicks into hyperdrive and I'm convinced I have blind spots and I feel like my eyeballs are about to pop out of my head.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And even more pathetically, I'm worried slightly less about the glaucoma and possible blindness than I am about having a milky eye. I don't want a milky eye. I may not win the blue ribbon at the county fair, but I'm a little vain about not having a milky eye. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I just don't know how I'd handle being introduced to people and having them not look at my milky eye. I'd probably do something awkward like say, "Hi, my name is Zelda. I have a milky eye, and I'm totally fine if you want to stare at it. Or not. I'm cool. Just because I have a milky eye doesn't mean I'm not cool. Fucker. You try living with a milky eye and see how you like it."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But it might be totally worth it if I get to look at Jethro seductively through a colored contact and ask "with or without?" That poor man. I'll have him up to his eyeballs in midgets and glue (and chocolate for me) yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And to top it all off, doing anything that jiggles your eyeballs around can cause more pigment to dislodge, so I was told that I am not supposed to exercise. I have been waiting all my life to hear those words, but of course they come just after I find an absolutely flipping fantastic sports bra </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSiJ2PzHbBNJyl4hOd3xTRHy5CCeqnhENXi7SKqsy5TlTJivpek49N2FOI7aP5mVCG5RJV1hpGzvQJfsvvV-rUdeCY03BhX-lIKP9OsvRRhk8DUvoVE8jCjj0gvecilU1evjzF/s1600/freyabra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSiJ2PzHbBNJyl4hOd3xTRHy5CCeqnhENXi7SKqsy5TlTJivpek49N2FOI7aP5mVCG5RJV1hpGzvQJfsvvV-rUdeCY03BhX-lIKP9OsvRRhk8DUvoVE8jCjj0gvecilU1evjzF/s320/freyabra.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and began draggin' my wagin around the block so I can do a <a href="http://www.warriordash.com/">Warrior Dash</a> in November. It really is almost epically bad timing.</div>Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-2976324073561614112011-04-11T22:24:00.000-05:002011-04-11T22:24:36.683-05:00Ok so the new blog was short-lived. It gave no more incentive than the old one, so back to the devil I know.<br />
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It seems <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yz82TRMbNJg/TZ09kkw0VLI/AAAAAAAAMNY/hzIvInbn5Ro/s1600/chrisnothass.jpg">Chris Noth</a> has some stern, meaty thighs. NSFW in case the adjectives weren't enough of a clue.<br />
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So how is everyone else doing? Anyone out there?Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-64912643796354827292011-02-22T13:36:00.000-06:002011-02-22T13:36:57.811-06:00Fresh StartI think I need a new start. I'll still post here, but I must have something completely narcissistic to write quickly. Like facebook. But not.<br />
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<a href="http://thingsiwontsayonfacebook.blogspot.com/">Things I Won't Say On Facebook</a>Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-72239004020852423072010-12-09T01:35:00.000-06:002010-12-09T01:35:19.224-06:00GoldiggerI have this friend - well not friend exactly - but a friend of friends who I liked well enough in the past along with her husband. They are now divorced along with the friends who knew them in the first place. Do you now have anger towards me because I confused you?<br />
<br />
Anyway, this chick divorced her husband - a nice enough fellow - and married an older man with what appears to be enough money to support the lifestyle she craved desperately, but couldn't have with her much younger ex.<br />
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Now having an thoroughly developed sense of justice, I think it's only right to hate her. I feel morally obligated to hate her. And yet I don't. I don't know why and it has been bothering me ever since she friended me on facebook and I accepted. I can't stand gold digging. On the ladder of contempt, I find it to be a rung lower than prostitution. <br />
<br />
And I liked this girl's husband. He had a decent desk job with plenty of room to move up and quite comparable to other guys his age. He was a bit dorky, but endearingly so, and he was a good father to their two kids.<br />
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She, on the other hand, was a profligate spender. Back when credit was easy, she racked up over half a mil in bills. They bought a house they absolutely could not afford, she decorated it within an inch of it's life, and she bought a horse so she could travel the rodeo circuit giving exhibitions with a bunch of other cute girl riders. And I'm pretty sure this is what led to the downfall of her marriage. I don't think they could buy one more thing with their utterly destroyed credit, and her ex couldn't support the debt they had. So she divorced him, stuck him with the house (a $300,000 debt) and some of the credit cards, and found herself a sugar daddy.<br />
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Sounds horrible right? So why can't I hate her? <br />
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Firstly, she has personality. And I'm a sucker for charm. Male, female, canine... make with the laughs and the good times and I'm in, however unwillingly.<br />
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Secondly, she was no good for her ex. And there is no way on earth she was ever going to change. As sucky as it is for him, and I'm sure he's bitter, he's better off. He might even have gotten off lucky. But I'm sure it isn't fun to be in love with someone who is no good. My sympathies lie with him, certainly. If I was a judge (and I'm imagining myself to be an older male judge who smokes a pipe and thinks up interesting sentences for juvenile offenders for some reason), I would saddle her with all the debt, but then after it was over, I'd ask to be her escort for an evening of steak and big band at the Elks Club.<br />
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Thirdly, she has gotten what she wants out of life. Rotten as she is, I have a sneaking respect for shredding your reputation and dignity, and risking everything for a chance at getting what you want. No, it isn't fair to her nice ex. But she did it and seems happy with the outcome. Also, her new husband seems happy with the outcome. And maybe he deserves it even if she doesn't.<br />
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I think the last one gives me the most satisfaction with my odd feelings. I don't know that her new husband is miserable and until I do, I don't think I can judge her as harshly as I would like.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-48683275147890850552010-10-13T10:47:00.000-05:002010-10-13T10:47:20.142-05:00A Little Trip and a Little NephewI'm so busy. Like a little worker-bee buzzing, buzzing, buzzing except that while he is part of a well-organized colony of like-minded individuals, working at maximum efficiency until he dies, I am more like one who has had his head bitten partially off and been unceremoniously booted out of the collective.<br />
<br />
But I did want to blog a little. It's fun. It helps me get organized. No, not really.<br />
<br />
But we went on a mini vacation this past weekend, and it was so great I just have to tell. We went to Port Aransas, TX, which was so flipping fun. The day we got there, we just threw on our swimsuits and went down to the Gulf. Jethro and I had some nice drinks and watched Gwen and Em play in the surf. They love the beach, but we haven't been for a long time. And when we used to go, it was down in Galveston, which is a little yucky. Port A was much nicer. I'm not sure if it was just the time of year, but the water was clear and not brown, and the beaches were white and gorgeous. It was the most relaxing thing we have done in years. <br />
<br />
Gwen and Em woke us up early on Sunday, begging to go back down to the beach. We did, and managed to cram a whole lot of interesting stuff into 3 hours. The tide was crawling back out leaving tide pools and sandbars all over. We watched little crabs swimming around, saved a minnow from death on a sandbar, Gwennie found a shark's tooth, and we saw a water spout far out over the water. In spite of the fact that 90% of my nightmares involve tornadoes or snakes, I was not frightened. It was pretty far away. <br />
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It was over too quickly and I want to go back. And I think I might want to live there one day when I'm old. I guess we'll have to see.<br />
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And now for a slight change of subject. I don't know if I've mentioned it here, but after years of being the only producer of offspring in both our families, Jethro and I are now the proud Aunt and Uncle to 3 nephews. Here is one of them, just to make your day a little brighter. Tell me he is not adorable. Please. I'm just dying to prove someone wrong today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-0xU4ZLEIvB5Y-bKaPtB2Jigq2znXgWtnn1RePACiRinQ4GBZgSykxjOCeX-ZfJ0IV6-pOnDdpdj2CcnyQbXoFtEtsTNXqJEVbp5Ix-hHLXk1FsirQdEVIENirI7_RZT6nyg/s1600/CMonster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-0xU4ZLEIvB5Y-bKaPtB2Jigq2znXgWtnn1RePACiRinQ4GBZgSykxjOCeX-ZfJ0IV6-pOnDdpdj2CcnyQbXoFtEtsTNXqJEVbp5Ix-hHLXk1FsirQdEVIENirI7_RZT6nyg/s320/CMonster.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-21412349272605426952010-10-06T13:06:00.001-05:002010-10-06T13:06:24.324-05:00I Accidentally Touched A Man's Penis The Other DayThe odd event took place at Emma's school. I was walking in, and there was a man right behind me whom I never saw. I was opening the school door and in a way that can only make sense to me but that I couldn't accurately explain in a million years, my arm swung behind me and my hand gently touched the front of his pants where I felt his penis. I think he was trying to open the door for me. Do you think I thanked him properly? A little excessive, maybe?Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-49235630251616243762010-09-13T21:16:00.000-05:002010-09-13T21:16:06.495-05:00Thoughts on Current AffairsJust some thoughts on the battle of the extremists in the Muslim world and ours.<div><br />
</div><div>We are embroiled today in the weirdest of controversies. Muslims want to build a mosque uncomfortably close to Ground Zero, in a building 2 blocks away, but close enough to where a piece of one of the hijacked planes tore through it (which, as far as I'm concerned, makes it Ground Zero). And they do this in the name of tolerance and peace, which it would seem, yet again, must come from the side of non-Muslims. They want to build a 13 story monument to their religion which inspired the murders of 3,000 innocents. For us. To tolerate. No really. It's generous.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The man behind the project did an interview on Larry King and threatened us with the unleashing of more radicals if the mosque was not built. I'm beginning to see how this goes. Muslims will do whatever they goddamn want, and non-Muslims will tolerate it - with their buttocks spread helpfully apart - or Muslim basket cases will start killing people. Again. So there you go. A cup of infidels causing problems for a Muslim investor, a quiet teaspoon of threat, a dash of spittle-flecked Islamic insanity and voila: Instant Tolerance. <div><br />
</div><div>Meanwhile, back at the ranch... we have a whackjob preacher in Florida who wanted to burn Korans as a symbolic...I don't know. Something. This irritates me to no end. Burning something - anything - in a symbolic gesture is the way of those who lack the ability to argue. They're slow of speech and slow of tongue, so they burn things. It's like monkey sign language instead of human speech - impressive the first time you see it, but in the long run, what? We know monkeys don't like poo in their food without them making hand gestures. And in this case, we know whackjob preacher and his miniscule congregation have problems with Islam. So they want to burn something. </div><div><br />
</div><div>It's not a rational argument. It's not even original pointlessness. It's been done to death. And what is setting the Koran on fire really saying? You burned our towers and killed 3,000 people, so we're going to burn your book? If you're going to compare the two in terms of shock value, the deranged Muslim primitives fucking win. They've flung their poo the farthest.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And if I may digress somewhat, how about reading the Koran? I promise you won't be swayed by the text to become a Muslim. Parts of it are pretty, like the bible, but basically, it's the 10,000 extremely confusing commandments plus bonus war manual and additional revisionist history. I don't think it would be terribly inspiring unless you live in a backward, superstitious culture. Maybe that's harsh, but as a member of the most advanced culture on the planet, and having been forced to observe large bits and small chunks of almost every Western religion, I simply can't see the appeal of Islam. It's cruel. And it's especially cruel (and worse - arbitrary) when it becomes the law. So read the Koran. We live in a free country. It isn't a banned book. If you've gotten some nutty urge to engage Muslims on the subject of their religion, at least know what it says and use that knowledge to your advantage.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But that was a digression. Back to the point. I think.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The whackjob preacher, at the gentle yet insistent request of our Dear Leader (who can expound with eloquent, pointless redundancy on the legality of building of a mosque at Ground Zero by a bunch of foreign investors, but not so easily defend the right of a citizen to be an idiot), eventually decided against burning the Korans, saying his point has been made. The Muslim investors did <i>not</i> decide against building a mosque at Ground Zero and instead, Muslims in Afghanistan, upon hearing the rumor of the Koran burning, went insane for the seventeenth time in an hour and ended up burning American flags in a highly agitated, monkey sign-language protest. So, in the battle of the extremists, what do you know? The whackjob preacher actually made a point by keeping his poo where it belonged. Lesson? Probably not.</div></div>Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-22297877425808067382010-08-17T16:21:00.000-05:002010-08-17T16:21:02.560-05:00I Am Not Dead. Again.Yeah, I know. I don't want to talk about it. To be fair, I'm trying to do too many things at once which ends up being nothing at all, and earn money from not doing them. You know how it goes.<br />
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It's been an interesting summer. I spent two weeks in Houston which were so nearly insufferable that I went again for another week; Jethro nearly murdered my sister and one of the pale, slender youths she's sleeping with, and I discovered that I am a 15 year fugitive from justice. <br />
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I will just say because the red tape has had that long to entwine itself around my out-of-state warrant, you can imagine how supremely difficult it is to refrain from saying swear words to people who could extradite me. I'm trying not to let it get me down, but the way I found out caused an almost out of body experience of humiliation. Here goes:<br />
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I tried to renew my drivers license online, but discovered I could not. All it said was that I wasn't eligible. Fair enough. I've changed my address plenty of times and renewed it once online before, so it seemed reasonable that I'd have to go to the DMV so they could make sure I hadn't lost an eye or something.<br />
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So knowing the state of most DMVs, I decided not to go to the one in the city but opted instead to make a slightly further drive to a small town DMV where hopefully the lines would be shorter and the establishment cleaner. I knew I was taking a chance since the likelihood of a DMV being a DMV regardless of location is very high, but in this case my instinct was quite happily justified. While it wasn't the most stellar model of efficiency, it was clean and there were places to sit. I struck up a conversation with a friendly older gentleman sitting beside me, never letting on that I wasn't the most upstanding and wholesome example of wife/mother/small business owner. <br />
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Finally my name was called and I daintily trotted up with my unusually organized folder of personal information. This must have deceived them because they never guessed for even a second that anything might be wrong. They looked at my birth certificate and my old drivers license, administered the eye test and took my picture while I grinned like a vapid, aging debutante. I had just handed over my cash for the fee when the DMV employee took a second look at a paper that had printed up. She looked at it, blinked, moved it further from her eyes and squinted. "Have you ever been to the state of New Hampshire?" she asked confusedly.<br />
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Now right there, the wee demon who is currently renovating his hip urban loft on my shoulder gave me a sharp poke with his little pitchfork and said "LIE. IF YOU HAVE EVEN THE MOST PRIMITIVE BRAINSTEM AND AREN'T THE MOST USELESS CREATURE TO EVER WADDLE THE EARTH, YOU WILL LIE."<br />
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I figured he probably had good reason, but before I could get a good, firm bite on it, my morally over-trained tongue blurted out the truth.<br />
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"Yes. I went to college there," I said while mentally grabbing the invisible pitchfork and aiming it at my eye.<br />
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"Hmmm. It says here that you have some kind of restriction on your license in New Hampshire."<br />
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"But I never had a license in New Hampshire," I pleaded uselessly.<br />
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"Well, I'm not sure what the problem is, but it says here that you are ineligible to drive in the state of New Hampshire, and Texas has reciprocity with all 50 states."<br />
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"But I've renewed my license before and I've never had any problems. I haven't been in New Hampshire in 15 years." I was whining a little, mostly because the devil was slapping me in the face with his dick.<br />
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"I'm sorry. We'll give you your money back," she said appeasingly.<br />
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"Will you? Oh <i>will</i> you? Oh <i>thank</i> you for letting me keep my money. No really, you are too kind," I said sarcastically in the vain hope of cobbling together a few shreds of dignity. Not my finest hour.<br />
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Long story short, I'm still driving (carefully) with an expired license and have talked to the police prosecutor who said the warrant (which stemmed from a citation for possession of alcohol as a minor) expired in '96, but had somehow never been cleared off the books. She seemed to think this explained things perfectly, but it doesn't help me at all.<br />
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Hopefully I won't be so long in posting again. I'll whore for comments and see if I can't stimulate a blog recovery.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-83167202376818053792010-06-13T10:54:00.000-05:002010-06-13T10:54:17.537-05:00I Am Not DeadI'm just horribly busy. I'm trying to organize my house which anyone who knows me knows requires herculean effort on my part. Plus we've been back and forth to Houston for various family events like weddings (down to <s><sl>6</sl></s> <s><sl>5</sl></s> no 4 eligible Zelda sisters. I forgot one was sort of a lesbian) and a baby shower for my second youngest sister who is about to make me an aunt of a nephew for the third time.<br />
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And Jethro and I have decided to get us some business coaching so we can make some money, and my mind is full of things like "Stop Making Excuses" and "Why are you telling people what insurance you take when you should be telling them they need what you are selling?" All good things to have in your head if you are trying to run a clinic, but very bad for blogging.<br />
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Plus, I have been crippled with envy of <a href="http://texas-music.blogspot.com/">Jack</a> and <a href="http://tinyhands.blogspot.com/">tinyhands</a> who are visiting or have just visited amazing countries with significant others or mysterious companions.<br />
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I am looking forward to two weeks in Houston without my significant other. I'll probably take up reading and calisthenics.<br />
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But I hope everyone else is having a nice summer, and I mean that far less bitterly than it reads.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-74706597892657617262010-04-12T19:18:00.000-05:002010-04-12T19:18:34.895-05:00Mounting the Ever Increasing Crescendo of CrazyThe A/C puffed out it's last wheezy breath just as the weather turned warm enough to need it. So I'm drinking a cold beer and doing a little blogging. It's too hot to do much else. It's too hot to do this, but I will anyway.<br />
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My temper tantrum over Obamacare has abated and now it's just business. It's a silly bill. Obama has no idea what he's doing.<br />
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My massage classes are almost done, but due to more tardies than I care to detail, I have about a month's worth of hours to make up. I don't care. Once the class is done, I can make up hours any time I want and they will just happen to coincide with the times when the Round Instructor is not there. I have so dreaded his class that I am chronically late. It's usually almost half an hour into it before I can psych myself up enough to go. Suddenly anything becomes more interesting - washing the windows, scratching that impossible spot between one's shoulder blades, seeing how far one's spit can dangle before one loses control of it...<br />
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Some funny things have happened in class, though. We were doing some role playing the other day (shut up, pervs) because at some point we're going to have to massage the general public and we need to be able to tell them to take off all their clothes without laughing or throwing up - two actions to which I am quite susceptible. I'm nervous around naked, unattractive people. Or even attractive people. So I muddled through my lines without too much trouble, but the same could not be said for one of my classmates. <br />
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What you are supposed to say is, "Please disrobe to the level you feel most comfortable. Down to your underpants is best for us, but we will work with whatever is most comfortable for you." Or something to that effect. This poor girl was so flustered, she blurted out, "Please take off everything from your underpants down." My partner and I had to hold onto each other we were laughing so hard.<br />
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And Round Instructor has continued to make a fool of himself. You can tell he's very insecure and unsure of himself by the way he brags of things he can do that cannot be proven, such as channelling the healing power of Christ into the bodies of people he touches. He tries to refer to himself as a 'conduit' but when he says it, it comes out 'condit.' It causes me to doubt. Of course one wonders why the healing energy he channels can't dissolve the vast, quivering amounts of fat from his own body, but I guess he doesn't think anyone would be indelicate enough to raise the question. And I'm not. Yet.<br />
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But things are degenerating quickly. His crush on one of my classmates reached a crisis when he corrected her Spanish. She is Mexican. Spanish is her first language. He is white. He can barely speak English. Don't ask me what he was trying to prove. Maybe he thought she liked assertive men and has no idea how to be assertive. Honestly, he's the type to leave a dozen roses and a picture of himself whacking off to a picture of you on your car while you're at the grocery store or some place that he would have had to have followed you to in order to know you were there.<br />
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But his crush was understandably offended, and she let him know it in spite of her very sweet nature. He turned about 40 shades of purple and began apologizing (and sweating) profusely, which only made it worse. Finally one of my other classmates told him to shut up and he did. But it made him aware that 5 people had witnessed his humiliation and he decided he doesn't like us anymore, especially his former crush, which really is unfair. All she did was not love him. <br />
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So he is trying to make the last few classes a nightmare and it's a testament to his chronic failure as a human being, that no one cares in the least. He is openly mocked by my classmates and he has no skills to wage a good comeback. And while it's somewhat awkward, it's better than squirming through his tasteless jokes and mispronunciations in silence for fear that he'll take it out on only you. He can't fail all of us.<br />
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I know I sound like I'm complaining, and I am a little bit, but it is actually really funny. I'm trying to think of an actor who he's similar to. Maybe Ned Beatty in Deliverance right after the squealing scene and if he'd had his balls cut off. Not great, but that's the best I got.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-5164065071226433922010-03-21T16:25:00.002-05:002010-03-26T00:08:28.943-05:00Embracing the SuckI'm not going to lie. I hope this healthcare bill passes. I'm ready to embrace the suck just for the pure, evil pleasure of reveling in the agony of the blighted morons who voted for Obama, and the lazy-eyed douchebags who stayed home because McCain wasn't "conservative" enough. I'm going to enjoy watching your suffering, and you <i>will</i> suffer.<br />
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In a loosely structured order, here's what's going to happen:<br />
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1.) Nothing. For 8 years, nothing at all is going to happen, at least not in terms of tangible benefits. That's because the government is going to tax you like you've never dreamed, in ways you have never dreamed, before anyone will receive any benefit at all.<br />
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2.) In the meantime, the cost of private insurance will rise dramatically. If insurance companies are going to be forced to cover those with pre-existing conditions, you will pay mightily. Then you're going to waste all kinds of time trying to get government coverage that doesn't even exist. Then the feelings of dread will set in when you realize how utterly fucked you are.<br />
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3.) This monstrosity cannot be funded no matter how much they tax. The profits of every insurance company, including bonuses for their bigshots will fund this massive abortion of a plan for about 30 seconds. And if there are no profits, there are no insurance companies. So after paying exorbitantly for years, say good-bye to your private insurance. And in an economy that will continue to suffer, don't look to other businesses to take on the burden. And if there are no businesses to tax, say good-bye to the government plan. Get ready to be taxed for nothing, and then to pay out of pocket for your medical care.<br />
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4.) You will <i>never</i> qualify for the government plan. If they decide you can afford private insurance, you will not be able to get government insurance in 8 years. You're going to pay for it, but you will never benefit.<br />
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5.) Doctors will leave general practices for fields of specialty. There is no money in general practice. They already can't afford to take Medicare/Medicaid. No matter what insurance you have, you will have to wait months for an initial diagnosis and only then will you be allowed to see a specialist. God forbid you have cancer. You have my full sympathy unless you voted for Obama or stayed home. Then I hope you don't ask me to care.<br />
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So there it is. You can make your O faces and scream "Yes We Can" while you whack off to the Dear Leader's picture, or you can prance around with your conspicuously displayed firearms declaring you're gonna take back your country from fucking pussies like McCain. Meantime, I'm going to sit back and enjoy the ass-pounding you all are going to give each other.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5883420.post-29286787752720518982010-03-09T13:21:00.000-06:002010-03-09T13:21:18.093-06:00Jack's Back...and he's responding to comments! Bloggyworld just got a little more interesting. Again.<br />
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School is still occupying my time, but I'm almost done, at least with the classroom portion. In the continuing, dimwitted saga, the round instructor's wife is leaving him, which is no surprise to me, but might account for the Inappropriate, which increases with regularity as does his lack of grooming. His head is shaved now and he looks like an escaped convict-monk. He's coming on to one of the ladies in my class with such zealous desperation and lack of skill that I am constantly reduced to a cringing mass of unwilling sympathy. I can't even look him in the eye anymore, although I did the other night when he suspended class so we could all have the opportunity to consult with his 12 year old psychic. I was furious, but held my temper in check so at least I could leave early.<br />
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On the plus side, I'm designing all my classmate's business cards. I'm doing it for free as a graduation gift, but hopefully they'll tell people about me. And it's fun. I'm having more fun with that than I am with massage.<br />
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But I did get to utilize my massage skills on Jethro's and my eleventh anniversary. We booked a hotel room and spent a lovely evening together. We brought the portable massage table we use at the clinic, and I did all the naughty things that massage therapists are never supposed to do. I don't like to brag, but Jethro said my $5,000 tuition was totally worth it.<br />
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So that's what's going on here. Not too much. But if anyone still reads this blog, go leave a comment on <a href="http://texas-music.blogspot.com">Jack's</a>. He's in Iraq, so you're doing it for your country.Zeldahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13057183557031707514noreply@blogger.com6