Monday, February 28, 2005

Run Me Through...One Last Time

Elliot wrote something the other day that gets funnier and funnier each time it crosses my mind.

Remarking on the death of Hunter S. Thompson and his wish to be cremated and his ashes shot out of a cannon, our intrepid white guy reveals his last request:

"... when I die, ... cremate me, mix my ashes up in a douche bag and, run me through that one last time. Hell no, I'm not joking."

And neither am I. I've been giggling over that for 3 days.

I'm Too Old For This Shit

I honestly never thought I would utter those words but I did. And I meant them.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was descending in torrents in downtown Houston, where a few of us had gathered to celebrate a friend's birthday. We went to Slainte Irish Pub where the beer flowed like wine. I don't like beer so I had a long island iced tea which sucked. Our dear friend became completely inebriated as the night wore on. After making a half-hearted pass or two at me and lewdly and rapidly rubbing his pool cue in my general direction, he passed out. He was sitting almost straight up, pants unbuttoned.

I was talking with a few other guys when we saw Drunken Birthday Boy give a slight heave. It wasn't an eruption, more of a steady trickle. Unfortunately, it landed all over Jethro's leather jacket and our umbrella. I paid him back though. Most of the patrons (when directed by me to observe the situation), thought it was pretty funny and made for their camera phones. The manager, failing to realize the lucrative potential in Drunken Birthday Boy having vomited all over himself (i.e. propping him up outside and selling photo opportunities), gave us the boot (which we had given ourselves already, I might add).

We hauled him through the establishment and sat him down at one of the tables outside, which was only partially sheltered from the rain, while we waited for someone to take him home. He began making spasmodic jerks again and we dunked his head in the outdoor trashcan just to be on the safe side. Further photo opportunities ensued. I called over the waitress he had a huge crush on and got her to pose with him. The bouncers loved it, so hopefully we're not permanently banned.

Moral of this story: Do not pass out in my presence. I will fuck you up.

I'm not an entirely bad person though. I did help him to his car, taking the vomit encrusted side because none of the brave lads I was with would do it. The were content to drag him through the rain puddles by his legs. I figure I've dealt with enough puke that I don't have to be a pussy about it. But it wasn't pleasant.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Altra Roma (More Rome)


All the news coverage of the Pope has made me think of Rome. And Rome invariably makes me think of Becky. Becky's father was a doctor, so she wasn't exactly poor like me. She was also the youngest of five children with a very large gap between her and the next youngest, so she was a little spoiled. She wasn't a raging brat, but she was just used to getting her own way and she was a terrible listener.

I said before that Becky's international goals could be achieved by the single act of getting spanked by an Italian. I wasn't kidding, and neither was she. Immediately, she set out to conquer Rome.

There was a coffee shop where the locals would hang out just down the street from the convent called Cafe Settemiano. After class, we'd go down there and study. Becky cast her eye immediately on Danilo, the handsome young man behind the counter. All things being equal in most civilized countries, Danilo, of course, was a flaming homosexual. Well-dressed and limp wristed, earring in the wrong ear (for straight people); even if you couldn't speak Italian, you could hear the lisp.

This type of sexual nuance was completely and utterly lost on Becky. She insisted that he was straight, that earrings didn't mean the same thing in Italy as in America, and that he was dying to get her on the back of his moped. There was absolutely no dissuading her from this. Her aggression surprised me a little. Back in NH, she was they type who if she liked a guy, would set up elaborate and largely unnecessary sting operations to find out if he was interested.

I watched in horrified fascination as Becky marched up to the counter, English/Italian dictionary in hand, to make a date with the gay coffee shop employee. I don't know what she said, but I saw him roll his eyes and shake his head "no." She came back to the table smiling. Fearing the rejection had caused her to lose her mind, I asked her what happened.

"Danilo said great and he would meet me at the bridge at 8:00."

"No he didn't. He rolled his eyes and said no."

"You don't speak Italian. You don't know."

Deciding it would be useless to tell her that I was exceptionally well-versed in Italian head gestures for "there is no way I'm having sex with you, you stupid fat American chick," I let it go. Some people just have to learn the hard way. Besides, why deny myself a chance to be amused?

It was the next day before I would find out what transpired. I was sitting in my usual corner of the cafe, when Becky came storming in, dictionary in hand, eyes ablaze. In a stunning turn of events, it was apparent that Danilo had stood her up. She rushed up to him and began yelling at him in incoherent Italian and nearly incoherent English. The one phrase she uttered that was understandable was, "IO PAZZO, IO PAZZO!"

I cringed in humiliation as I realized what she was saying and why. 'Pazzo' means crazy. She had looked up 'mad' in her dictionary and it had given her the translation for crazy.

When the tirade was over, and the coffee shop workers had picked themselves up off the floor after laughing their asses off at a completely bewildered Danilo, she stalked over to the table and sat down.

"So how's your boyfriend?"

I thought she was going to hit me.

"Shut the hell up. I think he's gay."

Wednesday, February 23, 2005


I updated Payasita, so if you are in the mood for a rant filled with advisory content, pay me a visit.


Jack had to hang it up. I think he was/is my favorite blogger. His content was always interesting and he was one of the few bloggers I stalked at least twice a day and not just because I had a teensy little crush on him either. Okay it is. But I'm pretty much inconsolable.


I finally got to see Kill Bill II. I liked it. I like everything of Tarantino's. His movies are like Cheetos. You forget how much you like them until they're right in front of you. But they do leave a residue. I think people got familiar with his style and it became fashionable to underrate him, but I still like him. I know he's a big lib and if he could perfect the art of sucking his own dick, we'd get no more movies out of him, but I still like him.

Two lines I loved from the movie:

"She deserves her revenge, and we deserve to die."


"There are consequences to breaking the heart of a murdering bastard."

On their own they seem kind of silly, but in the context of the movie, they are pretty cool.


I am sitting here commando as I type this. This is one of the perks of working at home. I don't particularly like being commando, but it's great to know that I can do it if the need arises. Like the time my phone was ringing nonstop and I accidentally spilled a whole bowl of chicken soup, thorougly drenching that part of my anatomy which keeps Jethro's nose to the Chiropractic grindstone. It was quite a relief to just take it all off and wait for the phone lines to settle down. I don't know what my excuse is today. Laziness I guess.


Gwennie is learning how to write and has started writing rhyming words. Yesterday she was doing i-t words and there came the inevitable. l-i-t, b-i-t, t-i-t. It amused us all in ways we ought to be thoroughly ashamed of.


Emma called out Jethro. It was so funny. Let me preface this by saying that every time I swear in front of the girls, Jethro says sternly, "Don't say that word." When I swear while we're in the sack, Jethro slaps my ass and says, "Take it, bitch." But I digress.

Anyway, I take the reprimand like a man because I don't really want my girls imitating me. But last Sunday we were driving to go eat dim sum and Jethro cussed at a driver in front of us who wouldn't go. Emma said, "Don't say dat word, Daddy." Sternly. I haven't laughed that hard in forever. She so nailed him.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005


First thing, I want to thank Magz, Jethro, Trashman, Misfit Moonchild and especially Seven for taking on the Assholes. I have given them the title Defenders of the Blog.

Now for Mojtaba and Arash. They are two Iranians. Arash is being held by the Iranian government and the Mojtaba has been released from a prison in Tehran but is still facing charges. Their crime? Blogging.

For anyone who isn't aware, Iran is ruled by fanatical mullahs who are oppressing the young Iranian population who yearn for freedom and democracy.

Something with which to equate this situation is if Jay's loony preacher man was multiplied by the thousands, armed, and had trained a police force to arrest and murder anyone who said complained about the government, or said the fuck word.

Hat tips to Michelle Malkin and Committee to Protect Bloggers. They are asking that all bloggers make a reference to it today and show their support for the freedom of the Iranian people. You can also email Dr. Mohammad Javad Zarif who is the Ambassador and Permanent Representative to the Permanent Mission of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

This transcends liberal and conservative. Both sides can agree that oppression by any state is unconscionable. All you have to do is post FREE MOJTABA AND ARASH somewhere on your blog. There are banners you can download as well.

It isn't much, but let's do what we can.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Hate Mail

As an opinionated woman of color (pasty-pink to be exact), I've gotten a few hate emails since I've started blogging, from psycho-Christians who insist I'm going to hell because I fuck my HUSBAND and write about it, to left-wing moonbats who in the name of tolerance and diversity also insist I'm going to hell as soon as they fuck me in the ass and slit my throat.

The decent folks with talent, intelligence, and other skills (not that I'm including myself, necessarily) must not be intimidated by these wastes of skin and air. I know Kristin has other reasons to stop blogging (namely that it has become tedious for her) and that is fine. No one should feel pressure either to blog or not to blog (Shakespeare anyone?). But it makes me angry to think that some one-hand typing, mouth-breathing freak with his dick in his hand (male or female) can intimidate a good writer and intelligent person into stopping something that they love.

No matter what our race, religion, politics, etc. I would stand up for any blogger who has been respectful, regardless. We're a self-policing society, so to speak - we make our own justice. We are also on the forefront of an amazing time brought about by an incredible medium - one where the average person regardless of his personal beliefs has a real voice that can be heard without censorship. So in that spirit, I say we post our hate mail and let our community render judgment. For what it's worth, I will never let the toe-sucking morons have the last word. It's in our hands folks.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Interesting Developments

I'm eating the strawberries I bought for Valentine's Day (but never got to eat because romance is lost on me) at the speed of madness. I do that whenever I get excited, nervous, or angry. I suppose I should be grateful all of the V-day candy had already been consumed.

I got a phone call from my sister who lives in NYC. She is an interesting girl. She "freelances." I'm not sure who or what exactly she freelances for, but she usually ends up as a production assistant of some kind. She has her finger in about a million little interesting pies, most of which don't exactly pan out, but enough do for her to keep paying the minimum payment on her credit cards, which (to me) defines success.

Anyway, she called and told me that a friend of hers asked if she would be interested in hiring on to write a blog on an issue that means a great deal to both of us. I don't think she likes to write much so she referred him to me! She told him that I was already writing a blog and knew how to do it, and that I felt strongly about the issue at hand. He is supposed to call me tomorrow.

Now I know better than to expect anything to come of this, but I can't help but allow myself one small tendril of hope that I might be able to blog about something I care about for a living. I honestly wouldn't ask for anything more out of life - except for maybe a little bigger house, a few more kids, a housekeeper, and thinner thighs. But I'd even give up my American Idol and/or Jack fantasy.

(It begins this way: The lights are low and I start singing my beeeautyful song. I reach the crescendo and the the lights go up but it isn't a microphone I'm holding...)

Where was I? Oh yeah. If this endeavor pans out in any way, I'll have to stop writing smack about my sisters. Or at least this one.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Well I turned down some hot buttery sex this morning. I can't believe it either. I love having sex in the morning. But I was right in the middle of having a dream that I was Imelda Marcos (courtesy (I believe) of Jay's girl/boyfriend) which is ridiculous because I am barefoot 99.9% of the time. In my sleep-addled mind, I decided that it would be undignified to have sex while wearing my expensive, non-existent shoes. So now, I'm all nervous and er... antsy. JETHRO COME HOME!!! I'm sorry I didn't give it up this morning.

Okay. I'm through begging for sex. I think I'll give that up for Lent.

Johnnie Walker writes of a girl who wants to take him to dinner and may or may not want him to fuck her brains out. How does that happen? Most guys I know would give their left nut to go out to dinner with a girl who may or may not want them to fuck her brains out. They'd risk rejection and humiliation just to give it a shot. Have I mentioned that I like guys? They are so adorably transparent. Don't ever play mind games fellas. It's unattractive, you don't have the skills, and thank God for it.

I saw The Notebook the other day. I'd been avoiding it ever since my sister-in-law told me it was good, but I went to visit my pregnant friend who had rented it and her husband took advantage of my being there to not watch it.

She loved it. And cried. I was mortally embarrassed. I can't stand watching people have sex. Let me rephrase. Porn I can do, but I absolutely hate watching people who look like they ought to care about each other "make love." It is so personal. I feel like I'm minding their business. But I don't think most chicks feel this way. I was squirming the entire time because her husband (the big pervert) only came out to watch the sex scenes. To me sex is fun. Or funny. I just don't think of it the same way cheesy moviemakers do with long somber looks riddled with romance. To me that's corny and unrealistic. Maybe I'm just unromantic, but I find sex a really great way to pass the time, or set our marriage on the right track without using up a whole lot of useless words, but mostly just to get off. It's fun. And funny. And I'm going to quit talking about it now.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Nothing Coherent

I'm with Jay. I also don't love scary movies. Loathe them, despise them, detest them. People are always telling me I have to see the Sixth Sense or The Others or something else equally terrifying, to which I reply, "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, please attach your oral orifice to my rock hard derriere (hat tip to Jay's ass there). Thank you. Maybe you enjoy lying in bed, stiff as a board, with wide, bloodshot, staring eyes wondering just how you are going to meet your demise, but personally, I'd rather masturbate myself to sleep." Was that too much information? Lick me.

My problem with scary movies isn't gore or even ghosts. It's Entities That Move Or Make Sounds In Ways They Ought Not. Nothing creeps me out more and I don't enjoy it. But I know so many horror movie addicts that love that feeling. Personally, I think it's a substitute for religion. DEAR GOD LET ME FEEL SOMETHING EVEN IF IT IS HORROR AND FEAR.

New Topic:

That song Third Grade Romance by Kenny Chesny makes me laugh. I never paid any attention to the words until recently. I don't know why I didn't, but it's funny. However, like anything I pay attention to, it made me think. Take cover.

I wondered if I would ever have had the guts to have an illicit, single-evening affair if I hadn't hooked up with Jethro. Somehow, I don't think so. The only sexual courage I have is derived soley from being married. Lucky Jeth. Other than that, I'm petrified (sexually) of people I'd only want to fuck for a night.

Okay. Dangerous subject. I don't want to talk about it anymore. But feel free to discuss.

New Topic:

Not to be viewed at work of if you have a weak stomach or are a straight man who has intentions of ever fucking a woman again (or for the first time if you should be so unfortunate). BUT. If you can ignore what is so extremely wrong with the picture, I think the outfit is kind of pretty (hat tip to Spare White Guy). A large (1024 x 768) version of this picture is available for premium members.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Cheap Cinematic Tricks

I hate movies where they kill kids. I consider it to be the lowest, cheapest, most degrading dramatic trick - completely and utterly unjustifiable from an intellectual standpoint. If you can't evoke emotion from the audience without murdering a child, then your movie is pathetic and should cease. I just thought I should make that known.

One movie specifically that makes me wildly angry is Terms of Endearment. How can you create a character like Emma and then kill her? It makes no sense. If moviemakers put half as much into their characters who live, movies might be worth watching again. Yes, I know Terms of Endearment was based on Larry McMurtry's novel. Don't argue with me while I'm trying to make a point.

Is it bad manners to take your kids to a restaurant with you for Valentine's Day? It is? Too fucking bad. They're coming.

I have no idea why I'm so angry. Let me direct you to last year's Valentine's Day post which was way funnier.

New Topic:

Emma sings Kung Fu Fighting. It is really funny. I may do an audioblog of it if I can get her to do it.

Friday, February 11, 2005


I can't remember ever being this sick. The fever won't quit and the cough is merciless. And now I can't talk at all. All that comes out are throaty squeaks.

A combination of the fever and some groovy cough syrup have made for some tripped out dreams. I've been trying to tell Jethro about them for two days now, but my lack of vocal ability has rendered it nearly impossible.

The first was kind of funny. It actually involved Jack. It seems that I deleriously dreamed that he met a Bank Robbing Bitch. She talked him into quitting law enforcement because it wasn't lucrative enough and she made him buy her tons of stuff and she didn't put out. I don't know why I was aware of that, but somehow the information was made known. The blogosphere was inundated with comments from Trashman and all Jack's friends trying to convince him to ditch her, but the more fuss people made, the more stubborn Jack became until he was totally broke. He tried to get his job back and they said they'd consider it, but he still couldn't give up that woman. It was really kind of terrible.

The second dream was much more paranoid and had nothing to do with bloggers. Jeth and I were in the middle of a war zone in a place that was a cross between the U.S. and Haiti. Due to our recent political activities, we were on an assasination list. We had to give the girls to his cousins who were going to take them to Vancouver to hide. Jeth and I went on the run. It was a god-awful dream. We tried to get away together, but we were too easy a target and we knew we'd have to split up. We were in this crazy hotel and we heard Them coming for us. Not to be cheesy, but we made out like crazy in the lobby bathroom, before we split. I woke up sweating and crying. I think those psychos who pushed me into traffic frightened me worse than I thought.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005


Sick as a dog. I tried writing something, but it's all incoherent. It could have something to do with the fever. I normally get sick once or twice a year. I've now been sick twice in two months. It's vicious. Everyone - wash your hands, and take your vitamins. This thing is nasty.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

*Cough, Cough*

All four of us have nagging coughs. It is pure torture. If you want to irritate someone into a murderous rage, cough all night. It makes for angry, hacking sex in the morning too.

"I'll give you something to cough about, bitch."

I'm trying to think of something interesting to write. I went out with two girlfriends Saturday night. It was pleasant, but mellow. Nothing exciting to note except that we got out of the house without our kids, and we all seem to make each other laugh. Oh, and one guy came up to us and asked to sit down. He was nervous as hell, possibly a little drunk and wearing a sweater vest. We put him on the spot immediately.

"Amuse us," one of us commanded.

"Tell us some pirate jokes."

"Do you like guys?" (Zelda the Wise)

The poor guy turned about 5 different colors and fondled his beer in a desperate sort of fashion. He was too shy to amuse us, he didn't know any pirate jokes, and he said, "Yeah, I like guys a lot. They're loads of fun."

He also had a great deal of trouble swearing. Every time he would try to say "fuck" or "fucking," he would glance around and lower his voice. Even then he mumbled it - "fckng" - no vowels. He was definitely awkward. I lost interest in him almost immediately.Unfortunately, he was the highlight of the evening as far as other people went. The real highlight was amusing conversation amongst the three of us.

New Topic:

Jethro and I just finished watching Super Nanny. It's the first time I've seen that show. I honestly have no idea how these parents let their kids get that out of hand. The one tonight was kind of sad, though. There were three kids in the family, one little boy about 6 or 7 and two extremely bratty 4 year old twin girls. The boy was a really sweet kid, but his mom was always yelling at him because the girls would do something bratty to him and he'd yell at them. The girls were nightmares. They would cry and scream if they didn't get their way, but they would also use insulting potty language to their parents and kick and bite and slap them. I was really shocked. If I had ever said "butt pie" to my parents, I shudder to think of the consequences. If I had slapped my mom across the face, I am very serious when I say that I would not be around blogging. If they hadn't killed me, I would at least be severely damaged.

As lax as Jethro and I are with our parenting, the girls have never struck us. Both girls bit me once each when they were breastfeeding and I slapped their little mouths as hard as I could. It wasn't out of anger though. Getting one's nipples chomped on when you're not expecting it can lead to temporary loss of even-temperedness. They never did it again, though. I remember reading some rubbishy parenting book and their tip was "try and work your finger between your nipple and their teeth, and stop breastfeeding them for awhile so they the "consequences." Fuck that. I dare anyone to smile and say "open up sweetie" when their nipple is being being severed by the sharp little incisors of an evil grinning infant.

But back to Super Nanny. I usually have no sympathy for the adults. I'm a fairly harsh judge of parents who spoil their kids. But this time, I couldn't help it. Their son was so good, so I knew they had it somewhere to raise their kids right. I guess the stress of twins just got to them and they lost control. Plus the girls were so so cute. But I can assure you that if my girls pulled even a fraction of the stuff they did, their tushies would be too red for the "naughty corner."

But everything the Super Nanny suggested seemed to work out pretty well, although not very swiftly. And the kids loved her including the bad little twins. The boy took her leaving especially hard. Anyway, it was a cute show, and I actually approve of it. I know some people think it's undignified to have someone come in and teach you how to raise your kids, but I think it's more undignified to have a four year old beat you up and call you a "butt pie."

I wonder why so many families have spoiled children. Zelda, the ever opinionated, has no clue. I mean, our parents did it and seemed to be at least mildly successful. Why are we having so much trouble? Is it that we are still immature and blame our parents for the mistakes they made, so we reject every parenting tool they gave us just to stick it to them? I don't know how many people cringe when they hear themselves say something their parents used to say to them. But was it really that bad? I'm not talking about abuse or alcoholism, just simple ways of instilling some respect in them. I mean Jethro and I work to feed and clothe and house them, I think they owe us a little respect and cooperation, and besides, how are you doing your kid any favors by letting them do and say whatever they want? If it's bad when they're four, think of what they'll be like when they can actually use real sentences. The horror. And I love them too much to let them make other people dislike them by bad behavior.

The only thing I can think of is that we are over analyzing the situation. I think a bunch of crackpot psychiatrists, no psychologists, decide that the market was ripe for capitalizing on the insecurities of new parents. People (usually bewildered fathers) always say that kids should come with instructions. They freakin' do. Just go to a Barnes and Noble and you will find every instruction you think you need. It's insane. But in relying on these impersonal books, we may suppress our natural parenting instincts which may be perfect for our individual kid.It's a complicated subject, and I'm not saying that you shouldn't read up on ideas for raising your kids, but I think we should come to a point where we start using the books as door stops. My moment came when the Eldest bit me for the first time. I just realized that they didn't know what they were talking about.Anyway, this is what the comments are for, so have at.

Friday, February 04, 2005

A Moment of Zen for the Crotchless Panties

Random Observation: Pantyhose render crotchless panties entirely useless.

I was at my parents' house the other day for my stepdad's birthday. They are odd people and they have odd friends. I'll just leave it at that.

One of their odd friends is a lawyer - good lawyer who makes a very decent living. They just built a house close to my parents house. Tragically, his wife and kids were in a horrific car accident. The kids were ok, but his wife suffered a severe brain injury. The swelling was so bad they had to remove part of her skull. Come to find out, this well-off lawyer had neglected to purchase any health insurance for his family. They were not at the party for obvious reasons, but everyone was talking about them.

Just for reference, people of all religious persuasions, particularly the born-again, tongue-speaking, religious...shall we say, enthusiasts, seem to gravitate towards my folks.

I won't lie. These people are very sweet, but they make me feel incredibly awkward. I don't know how to convey that while we have much in common, I don't care to go around vocalizing it incessantly. There are other things to talk about.

There was one couple there at the party who were of this particular ilk. They are very involved with televangilism, being rather nice looking. The wife sings and he preaches about how the amassing of wealth is a Christian value. Hey, I didn't say we had everything in common. I'll call them the Photogenics. I don't like them much. Can you tell? They are kind of fake. Make that extremely fake. It's as if they feel they must be kind to all the heathen even if it means oozing quarts of fake sincerity. For God's sake, be a little snarky. I'd respect you more for it.

Anyway, they were the last to leave the party, and they asked my parents if they would like to pray for lawyer and his family. Then they asked my sisters and I if we would like to pray also. DOH!

I really didn't want to pray with them, but I couldn't think of any way to get out of it without looking and feeling like a prick. My other sister who was local felt the same way. The other two who live in Austin, were fast enough to grab empty plates and the trashcan thereby looking enterprising. I forced Jethro to go with me. He is a dignified person, and I knew I could count on him not to disgrace us. Another sister joined us and we all went into the media room.

My hand was grabbed by Mrs. Photogenic and she started asking all of these very specific questions about Mrs. Lawyer's condition. Detailed medical analysis. She picked Jethro's brain dry as to what the medical procedures were.

Finally they started. Let me just say that I'm no stranger to the ways of the born-again. My parents tried their best bring us up in the tradition, but all of us, without exception, rejected it out of hand. It just wasn't our thing, even though we were exposed to nothing else until Catholic school. I can't tell you how bad it is when Catholics seem normal. But I digress.

Mrs. Photogenic had my hand and started praying. Mr. Photogenic took up this chorus of groans and chants to Jesus. I'll try to write what I remember.

Mrs. P: Dear Jesus we ask that you would smite the demons swelling Mrs. Lawyer's brain.

(So much for the medical information)

Mr. P and the parents: *Groan, groan* "Thank you Jesus, Amen, Thank you Jesus. You are Lord."

Mrs. P: "We ask that you come down and heal this woman. Speak to the doctors, speak to the nurses, speak to that brain."

Mr. P and the parents: *Longer and longer moans* "Praise you Lord Jesus, Praise you Lord, Amen Lord.

My sisters, Jethro and me: "???!!!"

You can't just say "speak to that brain" to a bunch of born-again novices. I immediately bit my tongue nearly in half to quell the tide of panicked laughter welling up from my gut. I felt my sister pinch my hand urgently. I pinched it back. We pinched each other until the blood came. No good. Down my face went into my lap, my entire body convulsed with silent laughter. And you know the harder you try to stop the harder you laugh. My sister Rochelle, was in the exact same position. Jethro remained stoic throughout. He is a rock.

FINALLY the ghastly prayer was over. I picked my head up from my lap and hoped the tears would look sorrowful.

Family Stuff

Not to brag or anything, but Jethro is going to be a very very good chiropractor. He just gave me and adjustment and I actually feel two inches taller. I have a constant nagging pain in my back because of the Gs (it always comes back to that doesn't it?), so I force Jethro to keep the table up and I make him give me adjustments every week (at least). There is a muscle in my back right along my spine on the left side that always hurts and there is always a huge knot under my left shoulder blade. It's as if all my stress is deposited right there. Jethro did some digging while I groaned in agony, but it actually feels much better. He says he is going to have to use massage oil to really work it out, and it will be excruciatingly painful, but it'll work. I wonder where my stress will go when the knot is gone...

In other news, the girls are cranky and whiny, so I know they're better. It is days like today when I want to leave them on someone's doorstep, but I know they won't stay put. They'll both start bawling and grabbing my arms and legs until I'm covered in snotty crying babies. It's no wonder every vertebrae is out of whack.

Gwennie did something funny though. She is extremely self-confident, but extremely clumsy. Somehow this doesn't in any way dampen her enthusiasm. Today she came to me crying and angry. When I asked her what was wrong, she said bitterly, "I fell off the potty and I hit my head on the waaaaalllllll." She was so annoyed about it I had to laugh.

Emma has been a little shit all day too. She, my angel baby, has been a little monster. She wouldn't let me get any work done, she wouldn't eat anything except waffles and ice cream - this child - who will normally eat everything on her plate no matter what it is and ask for more. I hope this is just because she's sick and she's not developing brat syndrome. I tried to spank her today because she wouldn't put away any of the toys she pulled out. I asked her if she wanted a spanking and she nodded her head. I figured she had misunderstood me, so I put her in spanking position so she would get it. She just lay there over my knee waiting for it. Well I can't spank her if she's not struggling. Either the child is slow, or she's extremely smart. She totally won that one. She half-heartedly threw a few toys around and I let it go. She's a strange kid.

Gwennie, on the other hand, has no real conscience to speak of and has no scruples whatsoever about cracking Emma one if she feels like she needs it. I looked over just in time to see her clock Emma in the head with the broom. Emma started crying and I asked (yelled at) Gwennie what she did that for.

Gwennie's eyebrows knit into a V and said, "Emma is not putting her toys away and you didn't spank her when you said you were going to."

She looked like a tiny little Carrie Nation. She's going to break my heart and convert to Protestantism one day, I just know it.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Food and Babies

I must have some kind of good metabolism because if the gods were fair, I would weigh something like 400 lbs. I like creamy things. Not to be Freudian, but I don't care if it's sweet or tart. If it's creamy and runs to the back of my throat, I'll swallow it. I feel hollow and my mouth waters just thinking about it.

Gwennie and Emma are sick. Emma has had a fever for a few days, and Gwennie just came down with it yesterday after school. I should have known something was amiss when her daily behavior chart had all smiley faces. I guess sick and lethargic makes for a better behaved Gwennie. Her teacher was so happy about it, I don't have the heart to tell her it was because she had a 103 degree temp.

Gwennie pretty much went straight to bed. I heard her crying a few hours later. She had fallen on the floor of her room and she kept saying, "I don't know what I'm doing." I figured she must be delirious since she has never displayed a lack of self-confidence in her life. I held her on the couch for awhile and she told me that her "brains" hurt. She's so sweet when she has no energy.

Sorry for the short post, but I have to go make some chicken soup. Later