The Aftermath

Well, the aftermath is nasty, folks.  

I'm so mad at my family for not evacuating, I find myself fighting to not wish them as much discomfort as possible so they will not be so stupid the next time around.  I told them to come, I thought they would be coming, I went and drove all over New Town trying to find hotel rooms, since I had plenty of floorspace, but few actual beds (I was miraculously able to find one of those rooms you can rent at a weekly rate, which I went ahead and did). And I cleaned my house!!!  For anyone who knows me, they know how much that put me out.

But no family.  Two of our friends, being sane, came up with their two kids and stayed with us for a night.  They had a hotel room for the next night and this evening, but depending on the power situation in Houston, they may end up staying with us for another night or two.  And they are welcome for as long as they need, as is anyone else.

The main problem is the lack of power.  4.5 million people are without it and everyone I talked to is in the dark and heat and humidity, just thankful it wasn't any worse.

The main reason I made Jethro leave for Rita was because I didn't want to be stuck for weeks without AC.  I don't do well in this climate.  I can run around in freezing weather, but the heat just kills me.  I'm a white girl with a genetic history that is just screaming for peasant work in the frozen hinterlands of Eastern Europe.  Mmmmm..... potatoes......

And boy howdy do I digress.  

Everyone I talked to seems to be okay for now, but the damage is extensive.  Some had their windows blown in, some are flooded, my sister-in-law's fence blew over, and everyone is hot.

I'm thankful everyone is safe.   They are welcome to come up here, but I am not going back to Houston until the power is on.  I will help clean up then, if they still need it.

Personally, I'm exhausted from worrying and a headache I always seem to get whenever there is a low pressure system hovering in the Gulf, so I'll write more when I know more (if it's interesting).

y-IKE-s

There has been no mass exodus from Houston. The government seems to be concentrating on getting out people from the lowest lying areas. But Jethro and I are still housing people anyway.

This one makes me a little nervous. It seems to be heading right up the Houston ship channel which will be disastrous even if it's not a CAT 3 or 4. All I know is that I would have gone. I don't fancy living without electricity for 2 weeks or stockpiling groceries or anything else. And if it shifts to the north or east, at least I got a few days vacation out of it. I don't really care what the government says. Ultimately I'm responsible for myself and my family.

Anyway, say a prayer for Galveston/Houston tonight. I know I will.

I managed to catch both the major speeches at the Republican Convention, but I haven't been able to write about them because of the busyness.

First, I just wanted to say that I thought Sarah Palin's speech was electrifying. She is so bright and spunky and funny and awesome. And I know I'm diving head first into a fondue pot here, but I've never felt this way about a politician before. I guess I just don't feel like she's a politician. She's seems like more of a regular person who's had it with politicians. And I don't blame her, and I'm really excited to vote for her.

But it was John McCain who really did it for me. I know most of his speech was utilitarian and somewhat lackluster compared to his opponant's and even his running mate's. But at the end, when he talked about his love of our country and our how his many years of service have been in gratitude for our country, I actually teared up. No. More than teared up. And I've never done that before.

I watch all politicians with a very cynical eye. Even the ones I vote for. I defend their policies if I agree, and eviscerate them if I don't, but I don't care much about them as people. Why should I? They don't really care about me. Why should they? I've watched the political scene for far too long. I know the policies I want, I have a pretty good idea of most of the major players (I even knew about Sarah Palin, who wasn't) and while I have no real hope of seeing the policies I want enacted, I know who I have a slightly better chance of getting them from. I listen to their speeches, not to hear what they have to say, but to see how they're selling themselves to people who may not know exactly what they want. I watch to see if they fuck up and hope that the uninformed will see it as more than a gaffe or just a gaffe, depending on the candidate. It's all a game to me now. A game that I claim to love, but it's more of an addiction than anything else.

But McCain really gave me something to consider in his speech. It's been the theme of the Convention and I hadn't given it thought as much more than a slogan. Country First. But as I listened to him speak, I thought about it quite a bit. There is no one on this earth who is more qualified to speak to that theme.

Anyway, I will end before I lose all objectivity. But I'm pleased with my Republican choices in this election.

A Moment For The History Books, Indeed

And the slightly longer version is even funnier because he's waxing so lyrical.



"Heart and soul, and the muscle, and bone and sinew?" Not original, perhaps, but definitely lyrical. I expected him to don a tutu break into song right up until he revealed that Barack's biological parents were interracial gay men pioneers of science.

But that's what you get when your feeeeelings to overtake your journalism.

Congratulations to Sarah Palin

John McCain's nobody's fool. Sarah Palin is an phenomenal choice. Frankly, I wasn't sure he would have the guts, but I should have known better. John McCain has never lacked for guts.

I heard about Sarah Palin a few years ago as one of the few Republicans who retained a governorship for the party. But she didn't retain it as an incumbent. She ran against the corrupt former Republican governor as a Republican and secured the nomination. Then she went on to beat the Democrat nominee. What really stood out about her though, was that she refused federal money for an unnecessary bridge project in Alaska. Politicians talk about reducing spending, but put her money where her mouth was and actually did.

I'm so excited. There is a very good chance McCain could win. This isn't a nomination made in an unwinnable election to throw a bone to a particular voting block like Geraldine Ferraro's was. This is the real deal. And the best part for me is that she got the nomination based on her qualifications as a leader, not her gender. But I am going to thoroughly enjoy voting for the ticket with the girl on it. More than I ever thought I would.

Meet the Principal or "That was some mighty fine a pickin' and a singin'"

I took the girls to their school for "Meet the Teacher" night, and we ran into their principal.

I don't remember if I've blogged about their principal before, but I have the biggest crush on him in the entire world.  He plays banjo in a bluegrass band.  I don't think I need explain myself further.

We saw him play once last year at this little restaurant.  It was so very cool.

He remembered Gwennie and Emma and even remembered what grades they were going into.  I asked him, giggling (and managing to refrain from rubbing myself salaciously) if he was still playing the banjo.  He said he wasn't playing as much, but he was still playing once a month at the little restaurant where we saw him last (which he remembered).

I giggled again and said we would be seeing him there and left with the girls before I started shining his shoes with my nether regions.  I think it would have set a bad example.

And a former blogger with whom Jethro and are are friends told me about a band called "The Gourds" who have done a cover of.... well see for yourself.

Apparently it's been out for a couple of years, but I hadn't heard it.

Another One

One of My Projects

One of my better ones, I think.  Keep in mind, I only have a few days and a limited amount of time within those days to get these projects done.

This one was an ad for a spa.  I made one up.  There's an odd white square at the top under the first diamond that isn't supposed to be there, but other than that...

So if I have any readers left, I'd be happy for opinions.

Update: There are also lines between the diamonds that weren't there originally either.  I'm guessing when I go from format to format things get a little skewered.  Basically the green square and the surrounding white is supposed to be solid.

I thought I've done a pretty good job informing my children about the various parts of the body. Even the naughty parts. We call them "the naughty parts."

But I was listening to them the other day playing a video game where they have to shoot paint at a gorilla tied to a wheel that spins (don't ask). After awhile, I heard Emma cackle and announce that she "got him in the vagina."

It seems I haven't done a very good job. But I did shriek with laughter.

The Vastness of Possibility

So let me just tell you about my husband and why he is going to get the best blowjob my small jaw, jagged teeth, and hyper gag-reflex can manage.

He bought me a MacBook. It is the sweetest little laptop in the entire world and I love it like a puppy.

But even better, he got me all the programs I need for my classes so I can do my work anywhere. The possibilities are limitless, especially after the girls are back in school.

I can go to Barnes and Noble. I can go to coffee shops. I can go to a hookah bar that offers free wifi. I can go to the gym and hang out by the pool. I can now even go to the clinic all day with Jethro.

The reality, however, is that I am probably now going to open my eyes in the morning, hoist up the Mac and not arise until I am at least 15 minutes late for class. And on my days off, I might make the extra effort of venturing from my bear cave of a boudoir to sit with it in front of the television in my new round chair.

Ennui and all.

Two Americas: Those Who Have Fathers and Those Who Don't

So while I will maintain there is a slight possibility this is all a ploy to make John Edwards appear to be heterosexual, it seems he did, indeed, make time with the ageing social climber and novice filmmaker, Ms. Rielle Hunter.

However, he denies fathering her child even though he hasn't taken a paternity test.

Now this is not smart on his part. He cheated on his cancer-stricken wife, lied repeatedly about the affair, damaged his political party, and destroyed his chances for the VP slot (not that I care remotely about the last two).

The only good thing to come out of this is the baby. And he takes the lowest of all possible roads by denying paternity without taking a test. What a leader. What an example for all the young men out there who find themselves in similar circumstances.

The only thing that could have redeemed him (given that an admission was necessary) was if he waited until he had DNA evidence one way or another, admitted the affair, and claimed his child publicly if it was positive. If he is not the father, then at least he would have proven that he did the responsible thing.

Fathering a child outside of your marriage is not recommendable, but it's not the worst thing in the entire world. Being a worm and not bothering to find out if you are the father, or denying paternity when you know, is exponentially worse. And still worse would be to let someone else cloak your sins (Andrew Young, a former campaign aide, who is married with 3 of his own children, has said he was the father).

He really is a scumbag. A pretty, fluffy little scumbag, but a scumbag, nonetheless.

H/T: Blonde Sagacity (who smelled the news story when it was just a twinkle on the pages of the National Enquirer, and the MSM was reaching new levels of journalistic depravity by demanding it not be investigated).

School Days

I take a class on Friday mornings now beginning at 8:30 am. It's a little exhausting because I have a class on Thursday evenings until 10:30 pm. But I like the class on Friday mornings. There aren't many people around and the atmosphere is much more laid back.

However, there is a guy in the class who I kind of want to destroy. He is really irritating. I'll call him Fess.

Fess started school the same term I did, and annoyed me the first minute of the first class I ever had with him by asking to partner up with two of the smart guys for one of the group projects, leaving me stuck with an ignoramus and a pothead. The only good thing about it is that I wasn't stuck with him.

He's a goofy looking white guy who wears a baseball hat constantly, has bad teeth and something like 13 dogs. He's married to a woman who was kicked in the head, and fancies himself a photographer. He is always interrupting class to talk about his photography, which isn't good. I want to brain him.

Once he had a hacky sack thrown playfully at him by a kid in the class just because he was talking so incessantly. The instructor was not pleased by the incident and severely reprimanded the kid who threw it. Instead of being a dude and telling her it was no big deal, Fess started making pouty faces and rubbing his head, trying to elicit more sympathy.

Another time, I was having trouble with the computer I was on, and he, unasked, came up and tried to give me advice, even going so far as to TOUCH MY MOUSE!!!!! I realize I am not a fast user of Photoshop yet, but I still manage to do better stuff than he does. He has no artistic talent at all, not even as a hack, and he's really the last person I want advice from.

Unfortunately, he is in my Friday class and bothers me constantly because I'm the only girl.

Slight digression: What is it with guys compulsively trying to impress women? None of the guys in that class ask what any of the other guys think of their work. They ask me. Or rather, they demand that I come look at their stuff and praise it. I wish I could say they were barking up the wrong tree and that I'm honest, but I can't. I usually just say 'very cool' and walk away, even when I hate it. Boys are weird.

Anyway, the project for this class is a package design. We start out with a template for a box, and then design the logo and label for the product package. I haven't decided what I'm going to do, but I made a great template for the type of box I want - an elongated trapezoid. I had just finished, when Fess wandered over after talking at great length about doing box for birdseed in the shape of a birdhouse. "Oh! Cool box! Would you email me that template? I have an idea for it."

"I hope it's for another class," I said apprehensively.

He grinned sheepishly. "Well, I can't find a template for a birdhouse."

"Have you googled 'birdhouse template?'"

"No....."

"Well might I suggest you try? I don't want you doing the same one I'm doing. At least not for this project."

"Okay."

He shuffled off.

But of all the nerve!

On break, he went to go find me to tell me how tired he was, and when I asked him why out of pure etiquette, he told me that he and his wife had engaged in extra-marital activities until midnight the previous evening.

I was pretty sure he was trying to mimic my unusual turn-of-phrase, which sometimes leads to uneducated people saying things like 'extra-marital activities' when they just mean regular old sex with their spouse.

"Midnight, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, chuckling foolishly.

"You better take it easy there, cowboy. You need your beauty sleep. Badly."

He then proceeded to tell me about how most men's sex drives wither after they turn 23 (23?), but how he's goin' strong.

Now I'm not squeamish about sex, but thinking of him in his goofy hat, making love to a woman who was kicked in the head gave me funny feelings that might, in weaker people, lead to a desire for humiliating and deviant acts of sexual congress and cravings for canned meat. Or something equivalently uncomfortable.

Anyway, he is a weirdo, and a hack, and a total annoyance, but as I've just discovered, kind of fun to blog about.

18 Years, 18 Years.....

I have completely ignored the rumors of John Edwards fathering a love child with some ageing Hollywood groupie because frankly, I will never be able to believe that he enjoys the type of intercourse necessary.

But a few folks on the internet have taken notice, one of them, my friend ALa from Blonde Sagacity, remarked on it months ago.

And Jim Treacher has committed a series of jokes, each one special.

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

I'm so worn out. I think it might have something to do with driving down to Harlingen, TX on the hysterical request of my mother this past week to rescue one of my sisters from what was the impending Hurricane. And while this might sound exciting, it really wasn't. We were the only ones moronic enough to be driving toward the storm, but when we picked up my sis and turned around, we were the only ones driving away.

There is a trick to long car trips in order to make the time go faster. Argue. Frequently and about everything. Not the kind of arguing that makes you want to render each other sterile, but kind of a running banter on subjects inconsequential, yet interesting. If you don't get into the groove right away, you're in for a looooooooong drive. And the drives from New Town to Houston or Harlingen are quite boring. In fact, driving anywhere in Texas with the exception of the hill country is boring. You can only marvel so much at cattle, cacti, and oil rigs, dilapidated honky-tonks, grain storage facilities and grass.

You can tell it's the summer if I'm blogging about boredom.

The Clinic

I'm working at the clinic for the next three days. Jethro gave the front desk girl some time off for vacation. Today was interesting. We have a patient who had only visited the doctor we bought the clinic from once before we came.

The poor man drives a lot for work and was in severe pain from only a 3 hour trip. He says he would stagger into his hotel room and just lie on the floor for a few hours before he could even get up.

He started seeing Jethro when the former doc left and has improved quickly - so quickly that he thinks Jethro is something of a miracle worker. He's such a sweet man. He said he'd been praying for someone to help him with his back problems and then he started seeing Jethro and said his prayers were answered. He has referred numerous patients now and he just can't stop marvelling at his progress. His referrals seem to be happy too, so it's all very good.

This whole venture has been remarkably gratifying so far which I am thankful for.

New docs, and it doesn't matter what field they're in, want to bring patients in the door. There are any number of marketing groups you can pay a lot of money to in order to help you achieve this goal. They usually want you to advertise heavily and find a gimmick that brings people in the door.

We've had discussions with several of Jethro's classmates about these companies and it's disheartening to hear their ideas. So much of it revolves around scare tactics and false advertising in order to bring you into a clinic that is more like a factory doing the same therapies on every patient.

Jethro and I had a discussion about it when we were first talking of opening a clinic. As much as I disliked the idea, I wondered whether or not we should go to a marketing company simply because I didn't want all the other doctors snagging all the patients before we got a chance.

Jethro, smart as ever, didn't think it was necessary. And now I see why. He has done so much better just by doing a good job.

As it turns out, you don't really need a marketing company if you are really good at what you do. So far, we have advertised in one little magazine and that was only because the lady who owns it is part of our BNI group. It hasn't brought in any patients. So far, Jethro has quadrupled the patient load from in-house referrals and that's it. No gimmicks, no advertising, nothing but good work and good results.

One other thing he has done in order to get more PI cases (which are really bread and butter for most chiropractors) was send out letters to attorneys along with samples of a PI case he treated. That way the attorneys can see how thorough and detailed he is, and as a result, how much more likely they are to win their cases. So far we've gotten a few attorneys to refer which is just fantastic.

I know it will be a few more years before we are really making any money (we have a lot in school loans) but so far we seem to be on the right track. And I'm really glad we've come here. It's not that Houston was a bad place to be, and it's not that we couldn't have done really well there, but there were too many chiropractors because of the college being so close by, and while Jethro eventually would have risen to the top, it would have taken a lot longer. In New Town, the chiropractors are old and they all do pretty much the same things, so Jeth has been able to capitalize on the fact that he is up-to-date on the very latest techniques and theories.

I don't want to be premature and say this is the best move we ever made, but I'll be guardedly optimistic and say it's looking that way so far.

Joker, Joker, Joker

Jethro and I took my two youngest sisters and Gwennie and Emma to see The Dark Knight on Friday. After reading this article, It appears that Jethro and I are Bad Parents.

I wonder if we are redeemed at all by the fact that Gwennie and Emma fell asleep 15 minutes in?

Anyway, it was a great movie. Heath Ledger was absolutely fantastic and I actually felt a slight twinge that he was dead. He didn’t make any of his innocent, wide-eyed, puppy dog faces that I so dislike. He had a habit of doing that in some of his other movies and it always annoyed me. I was like, “Stop looking like a priest is touching you in the bad places and be a man.” But he kicked ass in this role and if I were an actor, it would be one that I’d be proud to go out on.

We've had a crazy week. I had my two youngest sisters visiting us for two weeks. It was a lot of fun having them. They even watched the kids a couple of times so Jeth and I could go out. We met these crazy patients of his for sushi one night and former blogger Jack for drinks another. Both nights were fun and much needed.

An Update and A Request

First off, I want to thank everyone for their prayers, kind words and well-wishes. My sis is doing much better and while she is still sad and hurting, I think she will get through this just fine.

Something I wanted to make clear which I wasn't aware of when I first wrote the post: She and her husband both told the guides that she was pregnant and they told her it wouldn't be a problem - that they had never had any trouble on the particular trip they were taking. Her husband was still worried, but she reassured him that it would be okay. It was just horrible luck all the way around.

Anyway, on to happier topics:

I started classes again this week, one of which is web design. I was feeling burnt out, but I'm all excited again now. This is cool stuff. Granted I'm coming at it from the point of view of a complete novice, but I wasn't the only one who was excited. One of my classmates called someone on the first break to tell them excitedly that he was about to design a web site!!! The guy sitting next to me and I mocked him a little, but his enthusiasm was kind of cute.

Brief digression here: My instructor intrigues me. When I think of a web designer, I think of a weird, artistic, socially inept young guy who is probably just starting to make enough money to get laid maybe once or twice a year. Or maybe a smart, artsy girl who is a little pissed off at the world.

I don't think of a 60 year old biker chick who sounds like she's been smoking since she was 4.

But she's cool. I want to be her one day except without the cancer she is inevitably going to acquire.

So back to the subject. Our first assignment is to find 3 websites we like and 3 that suck hairy balls.

It's certainly not a difficult assignment, but I am hoping to find some really great examples of each. If anyone has any ideas I would be grateful if you would post them in the comments. I'll let you know the ones I pick. The bad ones are the most fun, but they are a dime a dozen so I'd be even more grateful for examples of a good website. Many thanks (in advance).

Helpless

I was in class Monday morning when I got a call from my new brother-in-law. He and my sister were at Lake Tahoe on vacation and had been in a terrible, freakish boating accident the day before. My sister was 8 weeks pregnant.

They had been rafting down a very gentle part of the river when something bumped their boat into a suicidal fork of the river where it capsized. They were both thrown into the water, my sister was hit in the head with an oar and the boat landed on top of them.

They somehow managed to get out and it is a miracle they are both alive.

My sister went to an emergency care clinic right away and everything seemed okay, but the next day started bleeding, which was when I got the call from my brother-in-law. He put her on the phone and she was beside herself crying. I tried to calm her down and reassure her that there most likely wasn't a problem, and that she needed to go back to the clinic and get an ultrasound to make sure.

Things weren't okay though, and she had a miscarriage later that day.

I am devastated for their loss. It is so horribly unfair. They are two of the nicest, funniest people and they were so happy to be having a baby. And on top of that loss, they are dealing with the guilt of having gone rafting in the first place.

What was at worst a mildly imprudent decision (one that I might have very easily made myself when I was pregnant, if I'd had the opportunity) is now going to haunt them and they don't deserve that at all.

If you are so inclined, I'd appreciate any prayers for them, specifically that they will find strength in each other and that any guilt they have will be eased. I would give anything if I could take this hurt from them, but I can't and all I can do is ask God to give them the strength to get through this and thank Him that their lives were spared.

Happy Birthday, America

Picture courtesy of Blonde Sagacity

Cake courtesy of her husband Tesco who won a contest with it last year.

Hair

Anyone who knows me in person, even if only for 5 minutes, knows that I hate my hair. I know all ladies say they hate their hair, but mine is truly detestable. I don't have bad hair days. Once in awhile I have a good hair day. That's it.

If torching it wouldn't mean that I would end up in a burn ward in excruciating pain, I'd do it. And it is actually conceivable that I may come to the point one day where I will shave it all off and take as huge a crap as I can muster right on it.

My hair is baby fine - the kind that when it gets cold outside or even if I go into cold air-conditioning, it looks as if I'm putting my hand on that globe like thing they have at children's museums that electrifies and makes your hair stand straight out. Then the baby-fine strands get into my eyes and mouth and they are too thin to pull out, so I end up looking like a meth addicted cat, clawing repeatedly at her face and spitting.

In theory, there is a hairstyle that will minimize this irritation and probably look quite decent on me. But finding someone who will do it has been an excercise in the most extreme, wrist-slitting futility. No one listens to me. And I'm starting to become rather frantic.

Every hair-stylist I go to insists on putting layers around my face. Not only is this look dated and unbecoming to me, it exacerbates the static effect. So I don't want it.

Here is what I want. I want my hair cut evenly all the way around. I don't want it shorter in front and I don't want it shorter in back. I want it even. I repeat this about 900 times to every hairstylist I go to and they all nod their heads as if they understand.

Then I tell them I want them to razor the ends. It gives my hair some depth without making all these insane layers that I can't manage.

Everyone acts as if they understand what I'm talking about, but they don't. Every time, I end up looking like a very pissed off soccer mom.

Every time, they all say, "You like? It look so much better now." And I respond politely that it looks much better, but next time I don't want layers.

And every time they look at me uncomprehendingly and I know they're thinking, "Why not? You look just like Jennifer Anniston.

I'm really starting to get angry in that frustrated way that makes women cry against their will. It's so silly and weak and unimportant, yet here I am fighting back tears over my stupid hair which I had cut today.

I'm getting it colored tomorrow. Pray I don't go insane. Last time I had it colored it ended up bright orange.

I don't ask for much in the way of fashion or beauty, really. I'm content to capitalize on having large breasts and don't make much fuss about my clothes or make-up. But my hair. Please let me find someone who can help me with my stupid ugly fucking hair.

What I'd Do With My Panties In A Moment Of Weakness

I just completed a big art project and my relief is profound. I'm still not done with the class and still have several more projects, but at least the big one is out of the way. I thought I was getting off easy by doing something that didn't have to be drawn, but it was every bit as time-consuming.

I think it went off alright, though. I made a great big noise and didn't hurt myself too badly so all in all, success.

I've been working out more lately too. And it's been good. I don't think I'll lose much weight, but I will probably get stronger which couldn't hurt. I can barely open doors right now. I've been concentrating on my pecs and back. I need them to keep the twins aloft.

And with all the stress of classes and my procrastination habits, I haven't gotten enough sleep so I have this great scratchy voice, which I kind of like. I sound a little bit like Steven Tyler. And what is it with him, anyway? I pride myself on not succumbing to the lure of celebrity. I can usually acknowledg their talent without turning into a screaming mass of hysterical pudding, but Steven Tyler makes me want to hurl my panties and whatever other undergarments I could manage to disengage and hump his scrawney leg. I don't get it.

WHY?

My next door neighbor-lady when we lived in Houston called me yesterday telling me she was leaving her sick, abusive, little-girl molesting husband, taking her two sons, and moving up close to New Town to live with her mother.

Her mother called me this afternoon asking if I had heard from them. She was waiting at their house to take them all up to New Town, and they were supposed to be back from a Dr.'s appointment, but were an hour late.

I thought she was being paranoid until she told me that Molester had insisted on going with them. Then I didn't blame her for being nervous.

Anyway, long story short, I told Neighbor-Lady's mom to call me no matter what.

I did get the call, and Neighbor Lady did not leave with her.

Why? Why? Why?

I know, I know.

I still can't stand it. I'm not a very good person, but I am not above helping someone out when they're in an unacceptable situation. I told Neighbor-Lady that yesterday (that I would help her, not that I wasn't a very good person.)

Part of me is trying to be relieved that she won't be near me and that I won't have to deal with her problems. But I can't. I genuinely like her and she's never done anything to me or my family. A little inconvenience here and there doesn't bother me at all.

And her kids. Her poor fucking kids. They are too young to know what their dad is doing to them psychologically, but they are both medicated up to their poor little eyeballs - the only reason being their home life is so shitty. They behave horribly because no one teaches them any better. And I think it's probably too late. I think the pathology brought on by such neglect means that anyone who tries to correct them is in danger of being stabbed in their sleep. Life is going to have to kick their asses now.

Her mom asked if I would call her and just let her know that she could leave anytime she wanted, but not to tell her that she (her mom) and I had been in touch. I called Neighbor-lady a few hours ago. She said she's not leaving and her answers to my other questions were terse. I could hear molester asking her who it was in the background.

I don't know that I'm not expecting to hear of a triple murder/suicide in the next month or so.

Twaddle

3:30am

I can't sleep (obviously). My arm is hurting like a bitch. I was playing catch with Jethro over the weekend and I managed to catch a baseball with my wrist and forearm, sending shock waves through the nerves which then exploded like nanotechnological fireworks all the way to my fingertips. You'd think that would be enough to render my arm useless for at least a day or two, but no. I kept an ice pack on it from Houston all the way to Austin (where we dropped off one of my sisters) and the ultrasounded it at the clinic yesterday and it was mostly normal, just a little sore. Then last night, my other arm started hurting for no reason I could remember. I didn't think much of it, but I had a lot of trouble sleeping.

Jethro checked it out at the clinic today, using the opportunity to feel me up unexpectedly, and said it was thoracic something-or-other and it was quite serious. I bit my lip a little and asked him what the hell he was talking about, and then he laughed at me for believing him which seemed premature. I hadn't actually bought it completely yet. But I do hate it when he knows words that I don't. It isn't right. English isn't even his first language.

So, the problem, apparently is tha my right pec and shoulder muscles are constricting an artery which is affecting circulation to my right arm. Not serious, just annoying. I probably worked those muscles playing catch. Damn baseball. Why do I love it so?

In other news, it has been a stellar week for Jethro and me, extra-maritally speaking. On Saturday I received a call from my friend Joe from school. He was at a swingers club and after some brief perfunctory conversation, he said Jethro and I needed to get a babysitter and come on down to the VIP room where we could do whatever and could even kick him out if we wanted.

He texted me later and said he was on a head full of turkey (does anyone know exactly what that means? Urban dictionary has failed me, unless he was talking about the opposite of a virgin, which would be interesting but, I think, inaccurate).

And as flattered as I am that while he was in what I am assuming was a state of complete inebriation and possibly something more, he wanted to watch Jethro and I get it on, I just don't see us succumbing to that type of temptation. I suppose I should feel insulted that he thinks I'm that type of girl, but I'm not. Insulted.

If you can believe it, I'm actually a little shy about sex outside of a strictly marital context. Sex is a really really really big scary deal to me when I don't have the safety net of a sweet, hot, funny guy who would never break my heart. But in that kind of relationship, sex is amusing, fun and interesting (if innappropriate) to discuss. And of course it's fascinating to hear about others' exploits. Just because I would never be brave (or stupid, yes I said stupid) enough to engage in them doesn't mean I'm unwilling to be entertained by the courage/absurdity of others.

And in keeping with the current theme, I was working the front desk at the clinic today, and I got a call from Jethro's wannabe girlfriend. I answered the phone and she, without identifying herself, asked to speak to Dr. Jethro. I had no idea it was her, but he was with another patient and I told her so. I think she was expecting the regular front desk girl to answer because when I asked her if I could take a message she babbled weirdly about her nervous system and how she needed someone knowledgeable to answer some questions.

Now I know my husband is knowledgeable, but he isn't a psychic and I kind of need to have a name and number so he can return the call. I had to ask her twice and she finally mumbled it rapidly. It all clicked then. Jethro has himself a chubby little stalker.

I think I should have a polite conversation with her. I can tell her about this club I know where we can get the VIP room, stuff our heads full of turkey, and do whatever....

What's In A Thumb?

Did you ever do something so stupid it made you seriously wonder how you came to make it to your 30s?

I just sliced open my thumb with a paper cutter. If I told you how I did it, you'd think I was challenged. If I told you what I was cutting with the paper cutter and why, you'd think I needed institutionalization. And you're probably right.

Now to change the subject, Gwennie remarked to me in the midst of a complaining marathon about the heat and the fact that she was out in it, she remarked that she was "hotter than 'the core'" meaning the earth's core. I thought that was a unique way of putting it.

And have I mentioned lately how sweet my Emma is? She's the kid who will just come up and give you a hug and kiss for no reason at all, just because she's sweet. And she unloaded the dishwasher without anyone asking her to the other day. She really is gold.

Little Boy Blue

I guess the summer slump hit me a little early this year. That or the fact that I've been so busy I forgot to put anti-perspirant on one armpit which resulted in some interesting looking (and smelling) designs on one of my tops.

I have so much to write about I don't know where to begin.

My grandfather has decided to hold a contest which would reward the first of my sisters and me to biologically produce the first male in our family.

He says he only has a short time left and he wants to see a boy in our family before he goes.

I'd say he is a misogynistic old bastard, but he does have a point.

The only rules are that the son must be legitimate and he can't be adopted. The reward is at least $1,000 possibly more if his stocks are doing well.

Since only one of my sisters is married besides me, that puts her and I ahead of the others. She texted me the other day telling me the game was afoot.

So to sum things up, I am considering having another baby, not for the money, but because I want another one anyway and it would be nice for Grandpa to meet another great-grandkid before he must depart.

And of course if I have another one, I would then like to have one more fairly quickly just to even things up.

So we'll see how it works out. Jethro needs some convincing and I don't hold that against him. I'm a horror when I'm pregnant. Although I look fantastic after I have the kids. I lose weight instead of gaining it. I know. Don't hate me.

Bit o' This and That

Jethro decided he needed my help this afternoon. The front desk girl leaves early on Fridays and he had a whole slew of people scheduled for the evening. I got here with the girls and the door was locked and the whole clinic was dark. I knocked frantically because if things don't go according to how I've envisioned them in my head, I start to panic and imagine all manner of grisly horrors. Then I hyperventilate a little and it's all I can do not to wet my pants in hysteria. I have a small bladder.

Jethro came to the door momentarily with a confused look on his face. I thought he was going to ask why I was late (I was a leeetle teeny tiny bit late), but somehow he'd forgotten that he'd asked me to come in.

So everything's good and I want to smush my bosoms in his face later.

And speaking of bosoms, I had become somewhat easy with drink a few Fridays ago. Not drunk exactly, but with somewhat lessened inhibitions.

I was in the loveliest of compromising positions, trying to wriggle coquettishly away from Jethro while he had my nipples captured in his fingers when Gwennie appeared right beside the bed asking for something insane like a magic potion that would make her fall asleep instantly and give her dreams of bejewelled elfin unicorns frolicking down sturdy opaque rainbows. It was around 2am, mind you. I was so mortified I hid under the covers (actually it was just my head because as long as that's covered no one can see you. What?! WHAT?!!) and laughed like a crazy person.

The next morning, I told her that she better knock if she wanted to come into our room especially at night.

"I didn't see anything," she responded instantly.

"Yes, you did." I wasn't fooled for a second. "And that's your punishment. When you don't knock, you end up seeing things you really don't want to see."

She grinned. "I'll give you that," she said.

Memorial Day

I would have written this post yesterday, but we were in Houston over the weekend and didn't get back until late last night.

My grandfather had surgery for his throat cancer which he came through amazingly well, telling the nurses a short time after the anesthesia wore off that "getting old ain't for sissies."

He had his surgery at the VA hospital in Houston which is pretty magnificent. Grandpa is a veteran of WWII, although not a terribly heroic one. Oh my god. My grandfather is Harry Flashman. Kind of. I'm pretty sure he never raped anyone. Pretty sure. Like 85%.

We spent Memorial Day at my parent's house. It's only a few minutes from the cemetary where Charles is buried, so Jethro and I went to pay our respects. So had many others. We ran into the parents of one of our friends. He was one of Charles' roommates in college and Charles was very close to that whole family. They said their son was having a very hard time with it and couldn't visit the cemetary or even talk about him. I know how he feels. He may never visit the cemetary. It was good for Jethro and me to visit, but I don't think I could have ever gone without Jethro.

I know Charles' girlfriend has been many times. She always leaves a message in the stones that cover the ground. It's really heartbreaking, but she has been a faithful comfort to his family and I really love her for that.

Jack be Nimble Jack be Quick

I had no idea there was a video for this song. But there is and it's great. The blond at 0:37 just cracked me up.

Picture Day

I don't usually link to pictures of my friend's kids for safety reasons, but these are not to be missed.

The first is my friend Jen's little girl in gymnastics. I want to squish her.

The second is our friend Brighton's daughter going to prom. So sweet it will make you cry.

And since I'm all about pictures today, here's one of my new round chair that spins. (I say it's mine like that actually means something. I picked it out and I've managed to sit relaxedly in it once in the store.)

It's Gwennie's fault we have it. She destroyed our couch with a pair of scissors, only escaping me destroying her heinie because she seemed properly humble and repentant and accepting of alternative punishment. She's sulking in the picture because I wouldn't capture her mooning the camera.

Emma is the one posing. It's not a sexy pose. It's actually her dead fish pose. She also does a dead fish dance which is the grossest, creepiest thing I've ever seen in my life. I have no idea where she came up with it.

This is Gwennie in her imaginary world of Pokemon. No one really knows what goes on there. The other girl is one of my sisters who is being annoyed by the imaginary world of Pokemon.

Emma with a puppy. Need I say more?

Gwennie with another puppy.

Emma and Zelda's boobs both learning to swim on their own. Look carefully. I think you can see aureole(s?)(i?).

Jethro after a hard day of cuteness.

The Birthday

I was in class all day on my birthday, so I didn't have a chance to post about how great it was.

First off, Jethro got the girls to school in the morning so I could sleep a few minutes later.

After morning class, I met him for a hurried lunch at the Indian buffet by the clinic because he had a patient.

Then I picked up the kids and dropped them off at the clinic so I could get to my evening class.

I got a call from Jethro while I was on break telling me to come down to the entrance. I walked down and there was Jethro, Gwennie and Emma with a huge vase of roses and a Happy Birthday balloon. I kissed them all and went back to class, carrying my flowers.

One of the girls asked me who "that guy" was with the flowers.

I said he was my boyfriend.

She asked if those were his kids.

I said I'd never had the paternity test done, but I was pretty sure they were.

She looked confused.

I told her he was my husband and those were our children.

She looked at me as if I was weird.

I didn't blame her.

I got out of class at 10:30 and started calling all the people who had called me who wouldn't mind if I called that late. I got home and I was still on the phone with one of my sisters. I walked inside and stopped in mid sentence. Jethro had made a lobster dinner which he had timed perfectly with my arrival.

It was delicious. And he got some. Actually I think I got some. Whatever. It was a great birthday.

A Moment

I am currently taking a Typography class which I'm finding quite interesting. We're studying the history of different typefaces and doing related projects.

One of our projects is to collect samples of different fonts from anywhere and make a scrapbook of sorts.

There are several new strip malls that have gone up fairly close to where we live, and some of the stores have some interesting lettering in their signs, so I went with Jethro on his lunch break to go take pictures of them.

Without stopping to consider things all that carefully, I took a picture of a jewelry store. Probably not the best idea I've ever had. I was in the middle of photographing the shop next to it when the manager came out. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was in a typography class and was taking pictures of the lettering of the different store signs.

He said it wasn't a good idea to be taking pictures of a jewelry store.

When put in that light, I agreed that it probably wasn't a terribly good idea.

I figured he was just feeling out the situation to make sure I had no nefarious intentions, so I tried to pleasantly ease his concern.

But then he got a little nasty. He said if his store got robbed the police were coming after Jethro and me, and that he wanted copies of our id's.

He was talking to me, not having the balls to talk to Jethro who observed the whole thing bemusedly from the sidewalk. I just laughed and told him I wasn't going to do any such thing.

He then demanded that I erase my pictures.

Now if he had asked me politely to erase them just for his peace of mind, I would have done it gladly. I'd hate to think of anyone wasting their time worrying about something so unimportant all day long. But he just kind of inspired obstinacy. I told him I had every right to take pictures if I wanted, and he could go ahead and call the police and ask them himself if he had any doubt. I would be happy to wait for them just so I could have the last word.

He abandoned that line of reasoning and told me that I was rude for taking pictures of the store. I told him it was actually a compliment that I wanted to use his sign as an example of good typeface for his particular business (which it was).

He told me I should ask before I did anything like that again.

That wasn't unreasonable and if he had started off with that instead of accusing Jethro and me of casing his joint in broad daylight during lunch hour, I might have been more acquiescent. But that's us, Bonnie and Clyde...

So as it stands, I got my way entirely. I just wish I felt a greater sense of satisfaction.

The Rules

Gwennie has formed a Gwennie/cheerleading club with Emma as the solitary, and most unwilling participant.

Emma's reticence might have something to do with the Book of Rules, which I will post here for your amusement. I won't change the spelling or grammar.

Rule 1:

listen to the master

(And beneath the rule, she has drawn a picture of herself saying "Go get me a glass of water please," and Emma, drawn significantly smaller, saying "OK.")

Rule 2:

go to the bathroom befor practice/meeting

(underneath she drew a picture of herself waving cheerleader pom poms in front of a crowd of cheering minions and beneath that, she drew a picture of a toilet and Emma washing her hands at a sink with a paper towel dispenser beside her.)

Rule 3:

have fun!

(She drew a picture of herself smiling on a trampoline and Emma on the roof of a house preparing to jump onto the trampoline. Underneath that she drew a square in which she wrote note: most important rule.)

Rule 4:

haircuts will make your points go higher also ponytails.

(Underneath she drew a scoreboard with scores for various criteria, and underneath that, she drew another picture that I can't decipher. It has two girls facing backwards, and a devil with a pitchfork with an unhappy expression who looks as if he is falling down.)

Rule 5:

if you lose all your points you are out of the team

(underneath she drew a group of girls smiling and pointing at another girl who is crying and waving goodbye.)

Rule 6:

Go with the masters choises

(the artwork seems to degenerate from here, but she drew a figure which she labelled as herself and two other smaller figures who look as if they are about to do whatever she says.)

Rule 7:

only the master can go get snack. unless she says so.

(underneath she has a picture of someone reaching for snacks and not quite getting them. or possibly someone who has gotten snacks without permission and who has been kicked from behind. I can't tell.)

Rule 8:

keep pillows on heads at all times in the room (closet)

(Quick note: Gwen and Emma have turned Gwennie's closet into their club room. Gwennie even sleeps in there sometimes. Underneath the rule, she drew Emma with a pillow over her face.)

Rule 9:

only go outside when you have a pass

(underneath she has drawn a figure with a hall pass.)

Rule 10:

do not embaress the master

(underneath, she drew a picture of herself with an angry expression and what actually looks like a blush - two round circles on her cheeks - and Emma with something on her head and a black eye.)

Rule 11:

Do not hurt anyone

(Underneath, she seems to have drawn herself punching Emma. Not quite sure what this means.)

Rule 12:

do not hide Passes

(Underneath, she drew herself yelling at a tiny Emma who has a pass hidden behind her back.)

Rule 13:

if you are not the master do not Write/Draw on Journal

(no picture)

Rule 14:

No Pets allowed exept dogs.

(no picture)

Rule 15:

Do not make the Master mad/sad/upset.

(underneath she drew what appears to be a minion in some kind of prison and the words "Go away get a warning" right next to the picture.)

Rule 16:

Do not steel anything from anyone

(underneath she drew a blond with evil looking eyebrows stealing a marble from a weaker looking figure who is sad or angry. She labelled the marble.)

Rule 17:

Do not trick master

(This is one of my favorite pictures. She drew herself with a long arm and hand with the index finger pointing straight up and an angry expression and Emma cowering beneath her.)

Rule 18:

Do not rip papper

(no picture)

Rule 19:

Do not ignore master.

(no picture)

Rule 20:

Do not brake any rules

(Underneath she drew a square in which she wrote note: another important rule)

Cynicism

Gwennie: "Mom, Bella and I decided to be friends.

Zelda: "That's good."

Gwennie: "Yeah. She said she was friends with Mary first and that I was trying to steal her away. But we decided that since Mary likes both of us, we should all be friends."

Zelda: "That sounds like a good idea."

Gwennie: "Mom, is Mary's party really at Girly Party Place and did they change the time to 4:00?"

Zelda: "Yeah. I spoke to Mary's mom yesterday and she told me they had to change the time."

Gwennie: "So Bella was telling the truth and it wasn't a scheme to keep me away from the party...."

The Five or Six (Known) Wives of Old G-Pa

The best way to describe my grandfather is that he is a living, breathing reincarnation of W.C. Fields.

He came to town a week early for my sister's wedding, and I was privileged to have an interesting conversation with him. It began with a discussion of the Eliot Spitzer affair.

For an elderly gentleman, my grandfather has quite a libertarian view of prostitution.
He declared that if he was in Spitzer's situation, he would never resign. I told him (jokingly) that if he was in Spitzer's situation he would probably have been impeached upon ascending the office based on his past alone.

He recounted the various women of ill-repute in his small Ohio town, some of whom had gone on to become quite successful in more legitimate businesses, or who had married prominent members of society.

This led to him reminiscing on his ex-wives. I'm not sure of the exact number, but he's definitely in Elizabeth Taylor territory. However, I don't think he counts the ones annulled by angry fathers brandishing various loaded weaponry. If my grandpa is to be believed, he's had his life (deservedly) threatened more than anyone I know.

I don't remember offhand the name of his first ex-wife. He's told me, but I can't remember. She was before my grandmother's time and they were hastily married during WWII when he was 18 and she was somewhat younger. I believe this was the cause of the first loaded shotgun being thrust into his face.

His second ex-wife was my grandmother. Two more incompatible people never forged a union. I do believe, in the finest of my family's tradition, there was some urgency to the nuptials as well.
My grandfather talked for some time about my grandmother. By this point, I'd stopped talking and just listened.

My grandmother was quite pretty and had been the toast of a nearby army camp along with her four sisters who would go and sing harmony for the boys before they shipped out.
She and my grandfather met after the war. He had spent the duration in the navy cruising the South Pacific on a supply carrier visiting the foreign ports and the ladies who passed their time there. She had spent the duration politely rejecting the advances of a hundred soldiers, holding out for Cary Grant.

No doubt he seemed a worldly, sophisticated young man in the small-town, mid-western eyes of my grandmother. And no doubt she seemed quite the trophy gal to my grandfather who possesses, if nothing else, a passive aggressive sense of competition.

To sum things up in a contemporary vernacular, he tagged her. And so began a life fraught with violence and upheaval.

Their first child was dropped on his head by a drunken OB, causing him a brain injury that resulted in mental retardation.

The fact that my grandmother was chronically and compulsively jealous (due to her father leaving her mother for a younger woman in an age where that kind of thing simply did not happen), and my grandfather was chronically and compulsively cheating (due to the fact that he was a man) did nothing to calm anyone's nerves.

And it was on this situation that my grandfather dwelt when talking about my grandmother.
"I had to step lively to avoid the butcher knife more than once," he said placidly. "She'd get herself all worked up about something, and she'd come at me. But then the damnedest thing. She'd be at me with the knife and I'd have had to bang her head on the ground to get her to let go, but when it was over, she'd want to have sex. I couldn't go from A-Z just like that. My nerves were a wreck after 4 years. I had to join the Merchant Marines just to calm down."

His third wife, Maryanne, was a nice lady from Kentucky. She took good care of him, his son, and my mother whom she didn't like much, but did her duty by.

"I really messed that one up," said my grandfather. "It was all my fault. I just couldn't stop the running around."

Maryanne divorced him in fairly short order.

His fourth wife was a rich widow from Arizona. Her name was Goldie. I actually remember her. She was a nice lady. She was about 30 years older than he was, but she kept him well clothed and well fed, and he kept his philandering to a minimum. Her family hated his guts (and not without reason).

When she died, she left him everything with the caveat that he was never to marry again. Her family naturally contested, and he, believing that he had no chance of ever getting the money, began keeping company with the most terrifying woman.

She was about 6 feet tall, of mixed Mexican and American Indian and European descent. She was absolutely wild. I remember my grandfather bringing her to visit us before they were married. My sisters and I just stood there with our jaws hanging. Even by today's standards she was just a little bit past exotic. To say that she was a gold-digger is not quite accurate. She was more of a gold-carnivore. And she voraciously gobbled up Grandpa. They were married shortly after their visit.

A few months later, the judge ruled that Goldie's will was valid and that my grandfather was entitled to her estate. But it was too late. Goldie's family had been proven right about Grandpa, and they had her money on top of it. Wild woman left him in pretty short order and Grandpa swore off marriage for awhile.

After settling in Florida and indulging in several interesting flings that may or may not have entailed a few wild trips to Vegas, Grandpa cast his eye on Katie, a sweet little old divorcee whose husband had left her for her best friend.

Katie had a stroke a short time after they eloped and her sons, thinking Grandpa might in the will, had the marriage annulled. My mom tried to defend him and the marriage, but she kept laughing and had to grudgingly admit that there was the slight possibility that Katie's son's had a point.

It seems that Katie was the last of the wives. Even though the marriage was annulled, Grandpa kept her company in the assisted living facility where she was residing after the stroke.

Recently, he moved in with my parents. He's been diagnosed with throat cancer. I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left, but I can't help hoping that they'll be able to keep him around for at least a few more years. His faculties are charmingly intact for an 83 year old man and his wit is not dulled.

He has a plethora of interesting expressions. And I'll leave you with his favorite:

"First your money, then your clothes, then only God in Heaven knows."

Stink Butt. Objectively.

I have a decent vocabulary.

And I realize everyone who has muddled through the gross misuse of some fancy word on my blog probably justifiably wants to punch me in the nose.

But I do have a fairly good vocabulary and I put it to use often. The downside is that my children hate me. The upside is that I can intimidate administrators easily. And also, my kids learn things. Both their teachers have told me they have a great vocabulary. Except that Emma doesn't talk much.

I took the opportunity this morning to elucidate to them the words 'objective,' 'subjective,' and 'empirical.'

Gwennie concluded before embarking on their school day that "Emma has a stinky butt" was an objective statement and was indeed supported by empirical evidence. Emma demurred, insisting that it was subjective because her butt smelled like roses.

Lord love 'em.

"[They] Can't "Swift Boat' Me,"

says Barack Obama in response to questions about what is turning out to be many shady associations.

To which I say:

Yes. We. Can.

h/t: LGF

“I have always had a negative opinion of those who, with their snotty noses and their erotic fantasies, meddle in other people’s lives...”

...said Vladimir Putin, former KGB member and current Russian President, when asked to comment on rumors of divorce.

H/T: Protein Wisdom

Frickin' Ouch

I'm brazenly displaying a bit of my bra to demonstrate the exquisite amount of discomfort I am feeling at the moment.

Apparently visiting the Poteet Strawberry Festival has colorful consequences.

I'm going to go wallow in aloe and misery for awhile.

A doctor's rep took Jethro and I out to lunch today to thank us for some patient referrals. I was at the clinic at the specified time and ran straight into Fat Whore as she was getting ready to leave.

She and Jethro were bantering about movies (she was berating him for not having seen all the movies she's seen). I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing cool would come out, so I closed it and observed her silently.

I marvelled at myself and how much I wanted to punch her in her fat face. I'm not usually jealous or violent. I sat there analyzing my feelings and decided that it isn't jealousy. Frankly, and I'll always be honest about this, she's got nothing on me at all. 1.) She's unattractive bordering on repulsive. 2.) She came on to Jethro, which is not the way to pique his interest. 3.) She does not converse nicely.

It is just the fact that she knew he was married (she's seen me before), and even more importantly, that she tried to get him to do something that is illegal and could get him in trouble.

I came to these conclusions as I watched her. I did observe that she wouldn't look me in the face. She knows I know. This amused me.

My goal is to eventually say something nice to her. I think that would be far better than giving her dirty looks.

Maybe I'll ask her if she's interested in three-way or something. Put her on the spot and see how she likes it.

God, I have to quit. Jethro is going to have the most uncontrollable ego and all my years of hard work cultivating indifference to his getting hit on will be wasted.

Conversation At Night

Zelda (to a Jethro who is snoring away in a fetal position at the end of the bed with his laptop blazing: "Jethro, honey, lie down the right way. With your head on your pillow. Come on. Close the laptop and put it away."

Jethro: Okay, okay.

some light snoring.

Zelda: "JETHRO! Wake up! Come on. Turn off the light."

Jethro: "Do you mind?"

Zelda: "What are you doing?"

Jethro (haughtily): "I'm trying to relax!"

Zelda: "Do you think I'm talking for my own amusement?"

Jethro: "Yes."

Zelda (looking around for the heaviest portable object in the room in order to smash it into his forehead): "You're being ridiculous. Put the laptop on the floor, turn off your light, get under the covers, and then you can relax."

Jethro (sternly): "Listen. I run down all the animals and you just......

some more light snoring.

Zelda: "JETHRO!!!"

Jethro (condescendingly): "You're just jealous because I'm living the dream. AND. YOU'RE. NOT."

Between the snoring and the sleep arguing, Jethro will be lucky if he's not missing an appendage within a year.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr

Go read Jethro's post. Jethro told me about it right away, which I appreciated.

I tried to be all cool about it and laugh it off, but it rankled a little bit. I finally lowered my defenses a little, and what do you know! I'm a jealous bitch just like anyone else.

It wasn't this particular situation, either. It's just that I'm spoiled. For nine years, I've never had a reason to worry. Not that Jethro isn't hot and hasn't been hit on, but it hasn't been very often. Face it. Men don't get hit on the same way or as often as women. I know I've given him moments of anxiety which I have always thought were completely ridiculous because, quite frankly, no one has ever made me an offer that comes close to what I have (well, except for the guy who promised to give me 5 orgasms then take me to Neimann's in the morining as long as I promised never to call him again).

But now I understand a little more. It's not as if this silly girl was offering him anything better. It's just knowing that someone could. The reality of that has never fully hit me before.

Anyway it doesn't really matter. I allowed him to service me during his lunch break and I'm going to go back to cleaning the house now. Top that, bitch.

And upon re-reading those last two sentences, it seems kind of pathetic that I've never had a better offer.

Rage

I'm in somewhat of a dilemma.

The school I'm attending isn't very organized from an administrative standpoint. It's mostly run by women who spend more time on coffee breaks and playing hostess than actually taking care of the details of running an institute of higher learning.

For example. Every six weeks we take up valuable class time to have an assembly. During this assembly, the students with high GPAs receive kindergarten style certificates of recognition, along with recognizing the students with perfect attendance. It is quite embarrassing. The rest of the time is spent socializing and eating whatever food local vendors have been conned into supplying.

This is all well and good, and if my class schedule weren't such a mess I'd have no complaints.

However, every time I try to go to the registrar to ask if they've gotten my transcripts or if I have a class schedule, I am told they are extremely busy and I will have to come back another time.

On my third attempt, I went to the lady in student affairs to complain. As luck would have it, the registrar (about whom I was forcefully voicing my displeasure) came up behind me in the doorway and heard everything. She then announced her presence and assumed I would be embarrassed that she'd heard. I wasn't. But I was even more angered by the fact that she thought she had the upper hand.

Normally, I'm a pretty laid-back, diplomatic person. But the second someone decides it's a good idea to be condescending or insinuate that their incompetence is justifiable and must be respected by me, I speak to wound.

It's a family characteristic. In these situations, we don't yell. We get very calm and slowly and deliberately humiliate the person who has roused our wrath. I don't say this with any pride. It's a very ugly thing to witness and rarely never solves the problem.

So after calmly and methodically eviscerating the registrar, I departed the school in a white hot rage.

Now I have to deal with the fact that I have insulted and alienated the only person who I can speak to regarding my schedule.

I'm considering finding another school, but I have a feeling most are like this and I didn't care enough to notice before.

The Scramble

It's been so long since I've really blogged about anything that I actually feel a little rusty. Or maybe it's the fact that there are so many ideas in the pipes they feel a little clogged.

Since my sister's wedding, we haven't had a minute of extra time. And it's been good. We've had good weeks at the clinic, I've been swamped with work for school, we've been invited out quite a bit, and every other moment we've been doing stuff with the girls.

One of Jethro's patients is a VP at Sea World and gave us tickets two Saturdays ago. We got there at 8:30 in the morning and for a house full of night owls, that was really really really early.

But we were the first ones there and considering there were 30,000 people at the park that day and we stayed until 6:00pm, we did a lot.

I got sunburned in patches and had to buy a new pair of shorts because my pants got wet on one of the rides. It was the weirdest thing. I was dry everywhere but my crotch. It was as if the waterfall had one singular intention. Yeast infection.

You'd think we'd have been exhausted by the time 6:00 rolled around, and you'd be right. But my sister called and said she, her new husband, and his family who were still visiting from the UK were going to a rodeo a few miles outside of New Town, and asked if we wanted to go too. Since we were already in the car, we thought, "why not?"

I'm so glad we did. It was probably the most fun I've ever had. It was especially fun to watch it with the Brits. The bull-riding is usually pretty exciting, and their stoic faces actually grimaced a couple of times. I think they enjoyed it.

I was kind of in heaven. Cowboys, beer, cowboys, more beer, a pretty lame band, beer...

And I found out the type of girls Jethro goes for. I was always under the impression that it was the cheerleader types. And that was close, but not quite. He likes country girls. The girl who was taking our money at the entrance was prettier than a speckled pup. Cowgirl-Angel-on-the-Christmas-tree kind of pretty. I took note, as I usually do when I see someone or something beautiful, and then noticed Jethro's voice as he handed her his money. Everything suddenly made sense.

I called him on it (naturally) and he grinned sheepishly. "The FFA was really really big where I grew up," was all he would say on the subject.

Anyway, we had so much fun that my sister and her new husband brought their Scottish Friend up this past Saturday and we all went again. There were also a whole bunch of kids from Wisconsin on their band trip. They didn't know how to do the Cotton Eye Joe which baffled, confused and mildly upset the natives who had to inform them about hollering "Bullshit" which baffled, confused and mildly upset the Wisconsonites. But it was still fun.

I guess the bulls had their balls wrapped a little tighter this time, because they were a little more pissed off than last time. One clown was tossed straight into the air and did a few cartwheels before landing on his face. I felt we'd gotten our money's worth on that one.

And it seems that Gwennie at least has not inherited her mother's weakness for cowboys. No. She digs the rodeo clowns. One of them took down his overalls to moon a bull with his red underdrawers. Everyone was chuckling while he was putting his pants back on except Gwennie who screamed, "TAKE 'EM OFF!!!" to my consternation.

Gwennie and Emma both did the calf scramble. Neither of them have any sense of strategy.

Emma also rode the mechanical bull with her little arm way up in the air. Everyone watching just melted. It was so cute to see her do it because she is usually way too shy to be the center of attention like that.

Jethro, New Husband, and Scottish Friend also rode the mechanical bull with hilarious consequences. But I'll let Jethro tell that one.

Anyway, that doesn't even begin to cover our week, but it's a start.

Miss Saigon

I remember when I listened to the soundtrack of Miss Saigon for the first time. It was Easter Sunday and we were driving down to Galveston. Jethro had the CD. He'd seen it twice and it was part of his repetoire of seduction, It was so amazingly beautiful and sad. I fought to hold back tears because I didn't want Jethro thinking I was some kind of nut. To cover it up, I started asking him questions about the play. I never thought I'd see it, so he told me every detail. He has an insanely good memory.

Then, for my birthday one year, he got me tickets to see it in Austin. I was ecstatic, but I secretly wondered if it had been ruined for me since I'd listened to the soundtrack many times and knew the whole story.

Oh. My. God.

I've never cried so hard in all my life. The fact that I knew everything that was going to happen made it exponentially worse. I pretty much started crying right after the opening number and didn't let up until we were well on the road back to Houston.

And of all the songs in Miss Saigon that make me cry, this one makes me cry the hardest. Every time.

Of course if the emotion is too much, you can always watch the high school version of The Heat Is On In Saigon. It's not good, but it is pretty funny, especially the last 10 or 15 seconds. If I were her I just wouldn't bother to get up.

Bits 'n' Pieces

Haiku:

I just discovered
My panties are inside out.
It's not a big deal,
But now that I'm alerted,
It will annoy me.

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

I'm finishing up my last week of classes, but I'm off next week completely, so I will hold a veritable blog fiesta. One post for each day I'm off, perhaps not counting weekends. Or perhaps counting weekends. I don't know yet. The possibilities are endless.

I want to post some of my projects, and I think I might just do that before I submit them. It would help to get some feedback from honest people who don't want to keep me down because I'm white. And old.

Just kidding. My last project was skewered mercilessly by the cholos, but that was because it was good. I don't think it was because I'm white.

Anyway, I must be off. My next project is a Bauhaus poster. It was either that or Russian Constructivism. My instructor is a commie who thinks it's a shame that Bob Dylan is not considered the ideal man. I mean I love Dylan, but there's Dylan, and then there's firefighters.

He Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Politickin'

I have a few posts in the pipe about the wedding and my relatives, but I'm going to wait on them so I can post about The Politics.

I've actually thought I might die laughing over the past two weeks.

First came Eliott Spitzer and his Jersey 'ho. It was hilarious to read the lib blogs who insisted that he shouldn't have to resign because Democrats have no moral standards to which they can be held accountable. "They don't judge other people on issues like that, so you can't hold them accountable when they fuck up." To which I reply, "Oh yes, I fucking can. Spitzer took oaths on more than one occasion to uphold the law. He's prosecuted others for breaking the law. I'm going to judge the mother-fucking hell out of him."

Mark Foley sends dirty messages to some pages and Republicans (most correctly) kicked his ass to the curb along with Hastert just for knowing about it.

But Eliott Spitzer, prosecutor, pays $1,000 per hour to bareback a hooker, and he shouldn't be held accountable? Right.

Then came The Racial Controversy.

I have to say, Obama's pastor is one crazy sonofabitch. Jethro and I have been having a contest to see who can imitate him saying "a Black Maaaayaaaan" better. Jethro has a deeper voice, but I have depth. And soul.

I'm going out on a limb, but I think Obama's done, if not in the primaries, then most certainly in the gen election. I appreciate the fact that he's been searching for his black identity given the fact that his black father abandoned him, but to sit your ass for 20 years in Wright's church and then try to claim you want to unite the races? Sorry, bud. Not happening.

I was greatly amused by the controversy until he tried to compare Wright to his little white granny. That was kind of sad. Wright is a psycho who thinks the CIA infected black people with AIDS. His poor granny was afraid of black men walking down the street. Speaking from personal experience, I'd say the latter, while a bit offensive, is not without basis in reality. But Wright has taken a triple Gaynor off the Cliffs of Insanity.

Anyway, the controversy doesn't mean a whole lot to me. I'd read about Obama's crazy church months ago and had already decided not to vote for him because I disagreed with every vague stand he'd ever taken and disliked what I considered his condescending platitudes.

But I am enjoying sitting back and watching the libs scramble to loosen the racial standards which they have tuned to the highest pitch over the past decade. It's too late, though. The string snapped.

"No, I Haven't Dropped Dead" or "The Bloody Pianist"

No, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. I have been hosting relatives for my sister's wedding, participating in said wedding, and recovering from said wedding.

It was a great time bordering on fiasco. I have so much blog fodder I don't even know where to begin.

Both of my grandparents (from opposite sides of the family) had heart issues, the rehearsal BBQ was a wreck, a fire alarm went off at the hotel, the limo took the wedding party to the church and forgot to return for the bride necessitating her to run from the hotel to the church through crowds of spring breakers, and the elderly pianist for the ceremony fell on the way to the wedding and busted her head open. She showed up all cross-eyed and covered with blood, but insisted she could play. Jethro took a look at her and decided that she could probably last through the ceremony, so she played. She did pretty well, all things considered, but I was frantically practicing "Edelweiss" and "Ode to Joy" in my head just in case.

The reception was a blast. Everyone danced until the DJ quit in exhaustion, then we went down to the hotel bar to drink some more.

Jethro and I eventually left, went to our hotel room, then returned the next day to drink still more. It was a blast. The Brits were hilarious, they seemed to like us, and we all had a pretty good time. They are staying for a week and I'm hoping we will get to see more of them.

Anyway, I must run. I still have school this week, and I want to be all caught up by tomorrow morning. I will post more this week while the events are still fresh in my head.

Lest I forget, I'm reminding myself to write about an interesting discussion I had with my grandfather, my grandmother's hypochondria, my sister's toast, and The Worm.

While American feminists are contemplating their vaginae in endless, agonizing minutiae and trying to get them to talk, Wafa Sultan channels a bit of Ayn Rand and reduces her deranged male opponants to screaming imbecility.

Ms. Sultan and Ayaan Hirsi Ali are probably the two bravest, most intelligent women alive today, yet the average woman has no idea who they are.

Yes Trashman, The Coffee Break's Over

Because it is Jethro's and my 9th anniversary.

I've now been blogging over half my marriage.

Happy Anniversary darlin'

The sex will be...sexual.

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

Anyway, I'm taking a break from my housecleang to write a quick little post. I'm in something of a quandry.

I have to pick one of three graphs which I think best depict how humanity will be punished for our reckless abuse of the Mother Nature.

The problem is that I have no opinion. I simply don't know enough to make even an educated guess.

Just wing it, you say?

I can't. I can't put forth an opinion in which I have no confidence. I don't even know how to begin.

Will we run out of renewable resources and be punished with an unprecedented dieback of epic proportions with the future marked by drastic increases and decreases in the population? I don't know.

Will we correct our greedy, shameless ways and experience only a minor dieback still of epic proportions, but still able to sustain human life at a few billion below the current number? I don't know.

Have we raped the earth to such an extent that recovery is now impossible and we will reach population 0 in 500 years? I don't know.

I'm a fetishist for disaster scenarios, so I'm tempted to pick the last one and go nuts. But it would be like writing fiction, and I have no proof of anything with which to back my most dire fantasies.

I am considering writing a paper in place of this which details my ignorance on the subject while demonstrating that I have the capacity to learn it should he be so kind as to teach it.

I don't want to hurt his feelings though. He is such a nice, nice man.

Coffee Break

Coffee is like crack to me. I've written before of the effects in has upon my person. I probably shouldn't drink it, but I can get a nice, large, hot, foamy cup at my school for $.50 as opposed to $1.25 for a soft drink, and it keeps me awake until the end of class at 10:30pm.

The downside to this is that it makes me a little chatty. During one of the breaks last Thursday, after having just consumed my usual Amaretto Cappuccino, I rushed outside in a frenzy of caffination. A couple of of my classmates were having a smoke and a conversation. I was frantically whistling "Dueling Banjos." I interrupted them to tell them about Deliverance which for some reason had been on my mind most of the day ever since I had the bright idea to look up Dueling Banjos on YouTube...talk about genetic deficiencies...(but seriously, if you have a moment, click the link and read the comments. The best are the folks making fun of the "imbreds").

One of the classmates was a nice Hispanic guy, very very handsome, quiet and artistic. I call him "Sonny" in my head. The other was a gal with whom I have quite a bit in common. She's about my age, doesn't finish things easily, and has a very pervy sense of humor. Try sitting next to her in Environmental Science and watching a documentary in which someone at some point decides to manually beat a wheat stalk until the kernels drop off. You wouldn't necessarily think that's perverted, but it was. I'll call her....Mandy.

I finished discussing Deliverance complete with audial and visual accoutrements which included simulated, bare Ned Beatty chest rubbing, a little squealing, and some air banjo.

Luckily, I don't care about popularity this time around. Mandy was staring at me with fascination, and Sonny with abject horror. Man-rape, as I find out, is nothing to make light of.

I tried to make myself look less insane by relating the story of the rapist's audition with the director of Deliverance. He wasn't a professional actor and upon being apprehensively informed by the director that his character would have to rape a man, his calm reply was, "I done worse."

The story did not help, but break was over so we all went back up together.

I Have No Idea What I Was Talking About In That Last Post

I know I haven't been around lately, but honestly, you wouldn't have wanted me. A raging case of extended PMS just ended, and I'm somewhat sane again.

I'm actually getting excited about my sister's wedding. She's having it in New Town. No one outside our immediate family lives in Texas, so it would be just as easy for them to fly here as Houston, and her fiance's family is flying in from the UK, and she would prefer them to see the scenery around New Town, than Houston. Houston isn't known for its scenery.

But I bought a dress which I love like anything. I'm like a kid. I keep peeking at it just to make sure it's as pretty as I remember. And it always is. It's sleeveless, ivory colored on top (plunging neckline, naturally) with a green band around the empire waist, and a black skirt and seems as if it's made out of some jersyish sort of material. It's a miracle my boobs fit into it. But it's very simple, which is just my style. I don't like fussy clothes with weird contours and complicated decorations. But I don't want to look frumpy either.

Gwennie and Emma are going to be flower girls and they're wearing the dresses my sisters wore as flower girls in my wedding. My mom never throws anything away. She gets it from her mother, and I get it from her. The Depression had longlasting effects.

Anyway, Gwennie tried on her dress at my mom's house and pronounced it "comfortable." You have no idea how profound this assessment is. If Gwennie deems something "uncomfortable," she is not going to wear it. I could beat her, bribe her, or lock her out of the house. My will would break first.

Emma is a completely different little person. If you told her she looked pretty, she'd wair a hairshirt and a crown of thorns. Must be very careful with that one. She's delicate and easily injured.

Conversation at Jethro's Parent's House After a Night of Somewhat Heavy Drinking

Zelda: "That chicken was pretty fucking good."

Jethro: "What chicken?"

Zelda: "The chicken... you just... gave me a bite of. That was fucking chicken, right? Please tell me that was fucking chicken."

Jethro: "Yeah, that was chicken. But we've eaten a lot of chicken today. I wasn't sure which chicken you were talking about."

Zelda: "Oh thank God. It was dark down there and I could have been eating anything."

Jethro: "You were eating cat. No actually, you were eating mole. And not the little burrowing kind, but human mole...."

Zelda: "How do you expect to get a blow job if you make me dry heave?"

Jethro: "I'll just wait til after you're done retching. You're usually good for it."


Which brings me to why I'm blogging at 3:00am after Saturday night...

Indian Buffet

All you can eat but
the diarrhea gives you
spasmodic Tourette's.

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

I'm being forced to take Environmental Science this session. Somebody shoot me. If it wasn't illegal to drink and fondle oneself in public, the class wouldn't be a total waste of time. But since we are a repressed and prudish society, no such luck.

It isn't that I don't care about the environment. If I could talk Jethro into it, we'd live on Walden Pond. However, many of the statement in the textbook make no sense. I made the mistake of raising my hand to ask for clarification of a few points, and the professor (who is probably the sweetest, kindest propagandist on earth) went off on a tangent that didn't help clear up a thing.

I've taken 3 science classes during my illustrious academic career, none of which will transfer because I wasn't indoctrinated into the ranks of the blindly acceptent environmental drones. And this is for an associates degree in graphic design at trade school!

DILF

Air Force Dad picks up

his kids same time I get mine.

I think he works out.

Jethro's parents were robbed by two black male teenagers with guns the day before yesterday. They didn't tell anyone until last night. I didn't find out until about 1:30am this morning.

They're fine, but rather shaken, as anyone would be.

Jethro's going to give his dad "my" gun.

Anyway, if anyone was reading my blog at about 1:30am, there was a post up using the fuck-word and the nigger-word in the same sentence.

I took it down.

I am torn as to whether that was the right decision. This makes the fifth time either me or someone in my very close family has been robbed/peeped at in the shower by members of a Certain Race. And we've never been bothered by anyone else.

The reason I took the post down was NOT because I am concerned with being labelled a racist. Because, as it turns out, I'm not actually the one with the problem. I'm not the one stealing people's money and threatening their lives. And I think I'm entitled to some pretty blistering contempt for anyone who would do that, complete with calling them the most insulting thing I can think of.

However, while I reserve the right to be extremely pissed off and to use whatever words I want to vent that righteous indignation, I also wish to rise above the situation. I don't want to take the low road and fester in the self-indulgent swamp of hatred and victimology.

But I will say this. There are many Black People who need to get a fucking handle on their lives and the lives of their children. They are robbing people and threatening to kill them, if not actually killing them. And the victims span all races.

So who are the racists now?

Just because all the robbing and killing isn't improving their status in the world doesn't mean these aren't acts of racism - black supremacy even. The fact that they are unsuccessful even with all the entitlement programs, thuggery, and and excuses being made for them is irrelevant.

When people of other races commit the same crimes, no one makes the same excuses. Everyone just agrees they're assholes.

I'm sure I could go on for hours, but anything more I have to say on the subject will just degenerate into pure anger and loathing, so I'll stop now.