I'm liking my blonde highlights and I think my hair has grown out to a pretty sexy length. If I could just get it to look thicker, I could forego the hair transplant and cut my imaginary plastic surgery budget to about $200,000.
Coversation with someone at the tax department research center:
Moron: Tax Reasearch
Zelda: Hi. I'm having a little problem regarding my HOA and my fence. I need to know exactly where my property line is.
Moron: We don't have that information here. They'll probably tell you that you need to get another survey done.
Zelda: Who are "they?"
Moron: I don't have the information.
Zelda: But you just told me "they" would probably tell me that I'd need to get a survey. Who are "they"?
Moron: You are calling the wrong office. We don't deal with property lines or numbers here.
Zelda: I'm not asking you to give me the specific information that I need, I'm just asking you where I could find the specific information that I need. You said "they." Who are "they?"
Moron: Let me explain, you are calling a department that only collects taxes. Trying to find out from me where your property line is, is like calling Burger King to ask what kind of hamburgers they have at MacDonald's. Do you have a question about fees?
Zelda: Yes. I have a question as to the exact property upon which I am actually paying taxes.
Moron: I don't have that information.
Zelda: Look. It is obvious that my excessive tax dollars are somehow insufficient to hire someone with a brain for your position. I won't take up any more of my valuable time.
Moron: Whatever.
Zelda: Prick
Moron: *Click*
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Warning for Gentlemen: Lady Stuff Ahead
Did you ever forget you weren't wearing a tampon? It makes for an interesting couple of minutes, let me tell you.
I won't be around much today. I must do battle with the Homeowners Association and the tax office. I'd relay the details, but they are so boring that I can't even spice them up with 300 references and make it interesting. But the fact that there are about 300,000,000 raging, crazy-woman hormones coursing through my body ought to give both organizations the lingering impression that this will not be over quickly and they will not enjoy it.
I won't be around much today. I must do battle with the Homeowners Association and the tax office. I'd relay the details, but they are so boring that I can't even spice them up with 300 references and make it interesting. But the fact that there are about 300,000,000 raging, crazy-woman hormones coursing through my body ought to give both organizations the lingering impression that this will not be over quickly and they will not enjoy it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Vacation Parts II, III & Conclusion
I really want to finish blogging about our trip. I'm afraid I can't do it justice, but I will give it a shot anyway.
After meeting Angi's family, we breezed on up to Virginia to meet a classmate of Jethro's from Chiropractic school. He and family were so sweet. They showed us their adorable little town and the office where both he and his father practice. It gave us some great ideas.
Then we drove up to Philadelphia, PA (yes, we're quite mad) to meet the one and only ALa of Blonde Sagacity. I know it's a cliche, but I really felt like I'd known her and her friend Liz for years - almost since childhood. Maybe it's growing up on the east coast and having religious, altruistically-minded parents. Anyway, Jethro and I had such a good time shooting the breeze with them that we eschewed the tourist sights in Philly, so we could hang out and try scrapple - a fried meat product native to the area. It wasn't bad. They bought Philly cheesesteaks the night we got in (which are fantastic, incidentally) and then took us to a Jewish diner where I got the dairy plate plus the order of scrapple. It was mostly carbs. But it was all delicious and ended up being my meal for the 12 hour drive back to Charlotte.
The wedding was fantastic. I went to get my hair done in the morning. Only gay men are allowed to touch my hair from now on. The dude did my hair for two and a half hours and it looked fantastic. It's a shame I was late to the wedding and had to tear across the church lawn like a demented, chronic, late-comer. My hair did not quite look the same afterwards. And I cried. I couldn't help it. I never know if I'm going to cry at weddings or not. Sometimes I think I'm going to be fine, and then it just comes upon me. One thing did make me laugh though. The brides mother was my elementary school principal. When she got up to do one of the readings, I had an immediate flashback and braced myself to hear "SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET! LUNCH TIME IS QUIET!!!"
The reception was awesome too. One of the bridesmaids was a friend of both mine and the bride from grade school. We were talking and she told me that our friend was so excited she was squealing. The bride is usually a very calm, wise person, but the thought of her squealing in excitement to get married was the nicest one to cross my mind at a wedding ever.
The reception was at a very cool place called The Big Chill. They had a great house band which made for some great dancing, not that I am much of a dancer. Jethro isn't either, but when he drinks he thinks he is which is awesome.
One interesting thing was that there were three couples at the wedding, including us, who were white/female-Asian/male. It's not the usual combination and was too interesting not to take note of. We ended up drunkenly calling ourselves the Fortune Cookie Club and someone suggested tattoos. I suppose it's funnier after a few drinks.
Anyway, it was a great trip. I was so happy we went.
Now back to the regularly scheduled blogcast.
After meeting Angi's family, we breezed on up to Virginia to meet a classmate of Jethro's from Chiropractic school. He and family were so sweet. They showed us their adorable little town and the office where both he and his father practice. It gave us some great ideas.
Then we drove up to Philadelphia, PA (yes, we're quite mad) to meet the one and only ALa of Blonde Sagacity. I know it's a cliche, but I really felt like I'd known her and her friend Liz for years - almost since childhood. Maybe it's growing up on the east coast and having religious, altruistically-minded parents. Anyway, Jethro and I had such a good time shooting the breeze with them that we eschewed the tourist sights in Philly, so we could hang out and try scrapple - a fried meat product native to the area. It wasn't bad. They bought Philly cheesesteaks the night we got in (which are fantastic, incidentally) and then took us to a Jewish diner where I got the dairy plate plus the order of scrapple. It was mostly carbs. But it was all delicious and ended up being my meal for the 12 hour drive back to Charlotte.
The wedding was fantastic. I went to get my hair done in the morning. Only gay men are allowed to touch my hair from now on. The dude did my hair for two and a half hours and it looked fantastic. It's a shame I was late to the wedding and had to tear across the church lawn like a demented, chronic, late-comer. My hair did not quite look the same afterwards. And I cried. I couldn't help it. I never know if I'm going to cry at weddings or not. Sometimes I think I'm going to be fine, and then it just comes upon me. One thing did make me laugh though. The brides mother was my elementary school principal. When she got up to do one of the readings, I had an immediate flashback and braced myself to hear "SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET! LUNCH TIME IS QUIET!!!"
The reception was awesome too. One of the bridesmaids was a friend of both mine and the bride from grade school. We were talking and she told me that our friend was so excited she was squealing. The bride is usually a very calm, wise person, but the thought of her squealing in excitement to get married was the nicest one to cross my mind at a wedding ever.
The reception was at a very cool place called The Big Chill. They had a great house band which made for some great dancing, not that I am much of a dancer. Jethro isn't either, but when he drinks he thinks he is which is awesome.
One interesting thing was that there were three couples at the wedding, including us, who were white/female-Asian/male. It's not the usual combination and was too interesting not to take note of. We ended up drunkenly calling ourselves the Fortune Cookie Club and someone suggested tattoos. I suppose it's funnier after a few drinks.
Anyway, it was a great trip. I was so happy we went.
Now back to the regularly scheduled blogcast.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Vacation: Part I: The Stud Farm
We're back. As much fun as we had, I was very glad to sleep in my own bed.
The whole trip was fantastic. Every part of it was special and unique and interesting.
We met Angi, Tommy and their boys on Tuesday. They are such a nice family. They are always laughing at something, and are a generally riotous bunch. They live on the side of a mountain amidst some interesting characters, one of whom has had loud relations with someone other than his wife on the front porch of their trailer and who had to be told by said wife to keep it down. They pointed out the gay bridge, where homeless/gay men exchange favors for cash. And we saw their church. It appears to be needed. I played their piano a little too. And aside from crack whoring, it seems as if I have a job if I ever move to Asheville.
I want to take a minute to give you my impression of her sons individually. They're quite an accomplishment.
Noah, the youngest, is a sweetheart. Among his many talents is a penchant for calling road kill, both type and which body part has been eliminated. He can also dig a mean hole with a stick. I was impressed.
Jamie is the next up. He's sweet too. He showed me Noah's Hanna Montana posters and convinced me of the vast superiority of his Dale Earnhardt poster. And while I didn't actually witness the event, I have been led to believe that he is an expert in the art of passing gas with spectacular reverberations on the wood living room floor.
Will is right in the middle. I get the feeling that no one has quite gotten used to how tall he is. I can't remember if it was his or Casey's pants that Tommy had accidentally put on, but it was pretty funny. He can tell a good joke, and just in case his family is unaware, I think Will is going to be pretty good-looking. Now I'm wondering just how much hell he's going to be in for because I wrote that.
Casey is the second oldest. He looks nothing like the last picture I saw of him in that he's now sporting some facial hair. He's outgoing and funny and he also looks pretty good in baseball pants.
TJ's the eldest. He had his birthday while we were there and turned 17. He looks at least 21. He reminds me so much of myself at his age (except that I didn't have a penis) it's scary. I didn't get to talk to him much and I would have liked to. But I enjoyed watching him play baseball, and I hope he still has a crush on me, at least for a little while longer.
Angi and Tommy were both great. They showed us around their town (without complaint) which is absolutely gorgeous. I'm a sucker for artsy-fartsy. I fight it, but I can't help it. I just am. As long as it isn't too pretentious, and it really wasn't for the most part. I could see the city encroaching on the country though, and that would be a bit irritating. Fortunately for Tommy and Angi, they really do live in the hills.
I'll direct you to Angi's posts to find out about what all we did. But I did want to sincerely thank them for the wonderful time.
The whole trip was fantastic. Every part of it was special and unique and interesting.
We met Angi, Tommy and their boys on Tuesday. They are such a nice family. They are always laughing at something, and are a generally riotous bunch. They live on the side of a mountain amidst some interesting characters, one of whom has had loud relations with someone other than his wife on the front porch of their trailer and who had to be told by said wife to keep it down. They pointed out the gay bridge, where homeless/gay men exchange favors for cash. And we saw their church. It appears to be needed. I played their piano a little too. And aside from crack whoring, it seems as if I have a job if I ever move to Asheville.
I want to take a minute to give you my impression of her sons individually. They're quite an accomplishment.
Noah, the youngest, is a sweetheart. Among his many talents is a penchant for calling road kill, both type and which body part has been eliminated. He can also dig a mean hole with a stick. I was impressed.
Jamie is the next up. He's sweet too. He showed me Noah's Hanna Montana posters and convinced me of the vast superiority of his Dale Earnhardt poster. And while I didn't actually witness the event, I have been led to believe that he is an expert in the art of passing gas with spectacular reverberations on the wood living room floor.
Will is right in the middle. I get the feeling that no one has quite gotten used to how tall he is. I can't remember if it was his or Casey's pants that Tommy had accidentally put on, but it was pretty funny. He can tell a good joke, and just in case his family is unaware, I think Will is going to be pretty good-looking. Now I'm wondering just how much hell he's going to be in for because I wrote that.
Casey is the second oldest. He looks nothing like the last picture I saw of him in that he's now sporting some facial hair. He's outgoing and funny and he also looks pretty good in baseball pants.
TJ's the eldest. He had his birthday while we were there and turned 17. He looks at least 21. He reminds me so much of myself at his age (except that I didn't have a penis) it's scary. I didn't get to talk to him much and I would have liked to. But I enjoyed watching him play baseball, and I hope he still has a crush on me, at least for a little while longer.
Angi and Tommy were both great. They showed us around their town (without complaint) which is absolutely gorgeous. I'm a sucker for artsy-fartsy. I fight it, but I can't help it. I just am. As long as it isn't too pretentious, and it really wasn't for the most part. I could see the city encroaching on the country though, and that would be a bit irritating. Fortunately for Tommy and Angi, they really do live in the hills.
I'll direct you to Angi's posts to find out about what all we did. But I did want to sincerely thank them for the wonderful time.
Monday, March 19, 2007
North Carolina: Day 1
We are here in beautiful North Carolina. Our trip was uneventful. Everything was on time, no one fucked anything up, and the drive to Asheville was fantastic. I don't know why but I seem to lose my mind in airports. I only have a few things I need to carry on, but everything just seems to fall apart whenever I get to the security check. Everything I own just kind of flies in all directions. Pens I didn't realize I had in my hand, I suddenly find I have no idea what to do with. I always lose my i.d. at least once. I count myself lucky that I didn't end up throwing all my shit in a pile, stripping naked and screaming at it to go away.
But we're here and aside my scatterbrainedness, everything went wonderfully. We just finished our evening with Angi and her Studman. We made them eat at a fancy schmancy bistro and then forced them to go watch 300 with us. They're probably cursing our names right now.
But speaking of 300, I loved it. Lu-hu-hu-hu-huved it. I'm not much of a fan of war movies. I was unmoved by Gladiator, I prefered the Elven storyline in the LOTR trilogy, and Braveheart was very dramatic, but I lose my enthusiasm for a movie when they slit women's throats (or kill off children). But 300 was fantastic. I realize it was mostly CGI, but the artistry itself was amazing. They drew the most beautiful muscles on the male actors. My biggest gripe was how much of it was in slow motion. That particular trick lost it's impact after awhile. Other than that, it was so so cool. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it, so go see it.
I'm going to head off to bed since we'll be seeing Angi, Tommy and their boys tomorrow.
But we're here and aside my scatterbrainedness, everything went wonderfully. We just finished our evening with Angi and her Studman. We made them eat at a fancy schmancy bistro and then forced them to go watch 300 with us. They're probably cursing our names right now.
But speaking of 300, I loved it. Lu-hu-hu-hu-huved it. I'm not much of a fan of war movies. I was unmoved by Gladiator, I prefered the Elven storyline in the LOTR trilogy, and Braveheart was very dramatic, but I lose my enthusiasm for a movie when they slit women's throats (or kill off children). But 300 was fantastic. I realize it was mostly CGI, but the artistry itself was amazing. They drew the most beautiful muscles on the male actors. My biggest gripe was how much of it was in slow motion. That particular trick lost it's impact after awhile. Other than that, it was so so cool. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it, so go see it.
I'm going to head off to bed since we'll be seeing Angi, Tommy and their boys tomorrow.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
File It Under Flotsam
This is sure to provoke some outrage. But don't be intimidated by the flying camel fuckers. Report anything that looks suspicious. It's always better to be wrong than killed. And if you're worried about looking stupid, just remember how people look when they're dead. Pretty stupid.
-------------------------
Yesterday was Steak and BJ Day. If you can ignore the pussy-ish whining on the website, it's a great idea.
I like steak.
--------------------------
I am now in the final stages of packing for our week in North Carolina. I reserved the rental car yesterday. I think I have all the clothes I want to take. Now I just have to dig out all my pretty panties. I don't think poor Jethro even knows I still own them.
But as much fun as we're going to have, I am going to miss Gwennie and Emma. For so long now, I haven't considered anything to be restful or relaxing if it involved them in any way. Kids are just not zen. But now that they are older, it's so much more fun to have them around. They're funny.
Last night, I made spaghetti for Gwennie and Emma and lamb for Jethro and me. Emma ate all her spaghetti and veggies, but then decided she wanted some of mine and Jethro's dinner too. (The kid eats almost without ceasing). I told her that she'd already had hers and that she could have some salad and potatoes, but the lamb was for Daddy and me. I relented before the words were even finished coming out of my mouth. I can't look at those big, liquid, brown eyes and say "no." Jethro and I put some of the lamb on her plate. She pumped her fork-holding fist in the air and gleefully shouted, "VICTORY IS MINE!!!"
We're doomed.
---------------------------
Update: I want this toilet.
-------------------------
Yesterday was Steak and BJ Day. If you can ignore the pussy-ish whining on the website, it's a great idea.
I like steak.
--------------------------
I am now in the final stages of packing for our week in North Carolina. I reserved the rental car yesterday. I think I have all the clothes I want to take. Now I just have to dig out all my pretty panties. I don't think poor Jethro even knows I still own them.
But as much fun as we're going to have, I am going to miss Gwennie and Emma. For so long now, I haven't considered anything to be restful or relaxing if it involved them in any way. Kids are just not zen. But now that they are older, it's so much more fun to have them around. They're funny.
Last night, I made spaghetti for Gwennie and Emma and lamb for Jethro and me. Emma ate all her spaghetti and veggies, but then decided she wanted some of mine and Jethro's dinner too. (The kid eats almost without ceasing). I told her that she'd already had hers and that she could have some salad and potatoes, but the lamb was for Daddy and me. I relented before the words were even finished coming out of my mouth. I can't look at those big, liquid, brown eyes and say "no." Jethro and I put some of the lamb on her plate. She pumped her fork-holding fist in the air and gleefully shouted, "VICTORY IS MINE!!!"
We're doomed.
---------------------------
Update: I want this toilet.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I Think He Was Picked On A Great Deal As A Child
I can hear his petulant, insistent, voice - slightly higher pitched than most other males - demanding the personal information of his fellow citizens.
Let's dissect the first paragraph.
Today is the start of Sunshine Week, the annual week in which we reflect on the importance of open government and public records. To mark the occasion, I want to take you on an excursion into freedom of information land.
An excursion into freedom of information land? Are we going to discover which lobbyists are paying which politicians for favorable legislation? Are we going to discover which politicians have taken which journalists on lavish holidays to remote locales? Will there be cookies and kool-aid?
No.
We're going to find out who in the New River Valley has a concealed handgun permit.
He claims he "...can hear the shocked indignation of gun-toters already: It's nobody's business but mine if I want to pack heat."
Really? He can't think of any other reason why a gun-toter might not want their personal information published? Maybe we can break it down for him.
First question: why might an individual become a law-abiding gun-toter, complete with training and full governmental compliance? They're not all duck hunters and personal defense is a very real concern for those individuals unfortunate enough to have aroused the wrath of a psychopathic stalker. Women in particular.
Second question: why might an individual not want his personal information published? It couldn't possibly be because their first line of defense (so they hopefully NEVER have to fire their weapon in the direction of another human being) is anonymity.
He then responds to his surly, imaginary, gun-toting adversary with the following virile argument.
Au contraire. Because the government handles the permitting, it is everyone's business.
He then goes on to list the types of people upon whom you may wish to spy. Your neighbors. Your carpool. Your employees. For what purposes, he mysteriously doesn't specify.
He then (laughably) insists "[t]his is not about being for or against guns."
Then he writes the the first of the two most disgusting sentences in the entire editorial.
There are plenty of reasons people choose to carry weapons: fear of a violent ex-lover, concern about criminals or worry that the king of England might try to get into your house.
Disgusting because he acknowledges all of the very good reasons private citizens have to utilize their CONSTITUTIONAL right to bear arms, but equates all of them to the bizarre worry that the king of England might try to get into their house.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the essence of propaganda. He is taking legitimate concerns and attempting to reinvent them as paranoid delusions to suit his own agenda (which I would think by now would be quite obvious despite his protestations to the contrary).
He goes on for awhile about the different tactics he employed and the money he had to cough up to get the goods on his neighbors.
Then he writes the second of the most disgusting sentences.
A state that eagerly puts sex offender data online complete with an interactive map could easily do the same with gun permits, but it does not.
Folks, he actually has the gall to equate legal, constitutional gun ownership to sexual predation.
Comparing law-abiding citizens with no criminal backgrounds to sex offenders is insulting, but it is that upon which we should focus in order to destroy his entire line of reasoning. Legal gun owners are not criminals. No amount of wishing and hoping and praying on his part is going to make this so. They are not criminals. Their desire to possess firearms is for self-defense only. I'm going to go out on a limb and argue that this simply isn't the case for sex offenders.
He closes with an insinuation (and notable lack of evidence) that the elected officials who have concealed handgun permits might use them in a violent manner if they are annoyed. And then, without further ado, presents us with the "gift" of his neighbors' personal information. Name, Address, Issue Date, Expiration Date and Jurisdiction. [The list has now been belatedly removed.]
In the editorial and subsequent comments, he conveniently avoids discussion as to whether the government has any Constitutional right whatsoever to keep a list of law-abiding citizens, much less demand concealed handgun permits of it's citizens in the first place (Hint: it doesn't), but he does not hesitate to state in his comments that he would not support the government compiling such a list if the list consisted of gay men. (See comment #17).
So now we have a little something with which to work.
He does not believe that law-abiding gun owners have the same rights as gay men.
This might seem a little silly, but it's a powerful insight into his personal prejudices. And the fact that he published the names and addresses of law-abiding citizens shows that he is willing to subject innocent people to dangers that even he admits exist. Why? Because he can? This does not seem like a terribly good reason.
One of the strangest things about this is that the very gun-owners he maligns are not put in the hot seat by having their names and addresses published. They're not going to care if someone decides not to carpool with them. The ones he puts in danger are the ones who have a palpable, external threat against them. FBI agents for example. Many of them live in VA and have made enemies while in service to their country. Victims of domestic abuse are another. Mr. Christian seems to live in a dream world where women are damsels in distress with no will or ability to protect themselves. Or maybe the threat of physical harm just isn't a problem in "freedom of information land."
Normally, I don't approve of people having their personals published in retaliation for something.
But I make an exception in his case. I hope it causes him a few sleepless nights, but more importantly, I hope it causes him to reflect upon the nature of wisdom, and I'll even settle for common sense.
Hat tips to Big Dick and The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler
Let's dissect the first paragraph.
Today is the start of Sunshine Week, the annual week in which we reflect on the importance of open government and public records. To mark the occasion, I want to take you on an excursion into freedom of information land.
An excursion into freedom of information land? Are we going to discover which lobbyists are paying which politicians for favorable legislation? Are we going to discover which politicians have taken which journalists on lavish holidays to remote locales? Will there be cookies and kool-aid?
No.
We're going to find out who in the New River Valley has a concealed handgun permit.
He claims he "...can hear the shocked indignation of gun-toters already: It's nobody's business but mine if I want to pack heat."
Really? He can't think of any other reason why a gun-toter might not want their personal information published? Maybe we can break it down for him.
First question: why might an individual become a law-abiding gun-toter, complete with training and full governmental compliance? They're not all duck hunters and personal defense is a very real concern for those individuals unfortunate enough to have aroused the wrath of a psychopathic stalker. Women in particular.
Second question: why might an individual not want his personal information published? It couldn't possibly be because their first line of defense (so they hopefully NEVER have to fire their weapon in the direction of another human being) is anonymity.
He then responds to his surly, imaginary, gun-toting adversary with the following virile argument.
Au contraire. Because the government handles the permitting, it is everyone's business.
He then goes on to list the types of people upon whom you may wish to spy. Your neighbors. Your carpool. Your employees. For what purposes, he mysteriously doesn't specify.
He then (laughably) insists "[t]his is not about being for or against guns."
Then he writes the the first of the two most disgusting sentences in the entire editorial.
There are plenty of reasons people choose to carry weapons: fear of a violent ex-lover, concern about criminals or worry that the king of England might try to get into your house.
Disgusting because he acknowledges all of the very good reasons private citizens have to utilize their CONSTITUTIONAL right to bear arms, but equates all of them to the bizarre worry that the king of England might try to get into their house.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the essence of propaganda. He is taking legitimate concerns and attempting to reinvent them as paranoid delusions to suit his own agenda (which I would think by now would be quite obvious despite his protestations to the contrary).
He goes on for awhile about the different tactics he employed and the money he had to cough up to get the goods on his neighbors.
Then he writes the second of the most disgusting sentences.
A state that eagerly puts sex offender data online complete with an interactive map could easily do the same with gun permits, but it does not.
Folks, he actually has the gall to equate legal, constitutional gun ownership to sexual predation.
Comparing law-abiding citizens with no criminal backgrounds to sex offenders is insulting, but it is that upon which we should focus in order to destroy his entire line of reasoning. Legal gun owners are not criminals. No amount of wishing and hoping and praying on his part is going to make this so. They are not criminals. Their desire to possess firearms is for self-defense only. I'm going to go out on a limb and argue that this simply isn't the case for sex offenders.
He closes with an insinuation (and notable lack of evidence) that the elected officials who have concealed handgun permits might use them in a violent manner if they are annoyed. And then, without further ado, presents us with the "gift" of his neighbors' personal information. Name, Address, Issue Date, Expiration Date and Jurisdiction. [The list has now been belatedly removed.]
In the editorial and subsequent comments, he conveniently avoids discussion as to whether the government has any Constitutional right whatsoever to keep a list of law-abiding citizens, much less demand concealed handgun permits of it's citizens in the first place (Hint: it doesn't), but he does not hesitate to state in his comments that he would not support the government compiling such a list if the list consisted of gay men. (See comment #17).
So now we have a little something with which to work.
He does not believe that law-abiding gun owners have the same rights as gay men.
This might seem a little silly, but it's a powerful insight into his personal prejudices. And the fact that he published the names and addresses of law-abiding citizens shows that he is willing to subject innocent people to dangers that even he admits exist. Why? Because he can? This does not seem like a terribly good reason.
One of the strangest things about this is that the very gun-owners he maligns are not put in the hot seat by having their names and addresses published. They're not going to care if someone decides not to carpool with them. The ones he puts in danger are the ones who have a palpable, external threat against them. FBI agents for example. Many of them live in VA and have made enemies while in service to their country. Victims of domestic abuse are another. Mr. Christian seems to live in a dream world where women are damsels in distress with no will or ability to protect themselves. Or maybe the threat of physical harm just isn't a problem in "freedom of information land."
Normally, I don't approve of people having their personals published in retaliation for something.
But I make an exception in his case. I hope it causes him a few sleepless nights, but more importantly, I hope it causes him to reflect upon the nature of wisdom, and I'll even settle for common sense.
Hat tips to Big Dick and The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Instep vs The Arch
The pollen-laden air beckoned deceptively. I felt the call.
I mined out my running shoes from the dank depths of my closet and tied them on. I found some old jogging shorts and squeezed myself into them. Then I googled 'how many minutes should you stretch before running?' The answers varied. I touched my toes a few times.
I couldn't find my sports bra and I hate it anyway, so I mined a rather constrictive minimizer from the dank depths of my closet and tied it on.
I set off.
I returned home and peed and drank some water.
I set off again.
I decided that I would do some fast walking through my neighborhood until I got to the lake, whereupon I would commence the running.
I clipped along through my neighborhood, the very picture of a fast-walking, motivated, soft-bodied suburban mom until I got to the lake.
There is nothing like running to make you realize just how much unwanted jiggle you have been totally and blissfully unaware.
I jogged a few steps and became acutely aware of my love-handles. I jogged a few more and realized that a constrictive minimizer that's just a little too small was NOT going to serve me well.
I crossed my arms over my chest in hopes of curtailing the frenzied bouncing which was starting to seem pornographic.
I jogged haphazardly onward, rapidly metamorphosing into a jiggling, bouncing, panting, red-faced abomination; single-mindedly careening toward a vague destination on the other side of the lake. Dogs were barking, children were crying, ducks were quacking and waddling frantically but wisely out of the way of this heaving monstrosity who, at this point, couldn't have stopped herself from running them ruthlessly over even if she'd wanted to.
The Burning. The Burning.
I eventually had to stop so I could assess just how much air I wasn't able to take into my lungs due to the constrictive minimizer. I also discovered that my running shoes are not really designed for those unfortunate individuals with pronated feet. I was sweating mysteriously harder under one armpit than the other and the pollen-laden air which had chirped so seductively to me had now deposited its allergens directly into my sinus cavities.
No doubt serious runners will give me their spastic, cheerful encouragement (while admiring their taut, toned buttocks in their special mirrors), but I will stoically ignore them and plod on at my own bitter pace.
I mined out my running shoes from the dank depths of my closet and tied them on. I found some old jogging shorts and squeezed myself into them. Then I googled 'how many minutes should you stretch before running?' The answers varied. I touched my toes a few times.
I couldn't find my sports bra and I hate it anyway, so I mined a rather constrictive minimizer from the dank depths of my closet and tied it on.
I set off.
I returned home and peed and drank some water.
I set off again.
I decided that I would do some fast walking through my neighborhood until I got to the lake, whereupon I would commence the running.
I clipped along through my neighborhood, the very picture of a fast-walking, motivated, soft-bodied suburban mom until I got to the lake.
There is nothing like running to make you realize just how much unwanted jiggle you have been totally and blissfully unaware.
I jogged a few steps and became acutely aware of my love-handles. I jogged a few more and realized that a constrictive minimizer that's just a little too small was NOT going to serve me well.
I crossed my arms over my chest in hopes of curtailing the frenzied bouncing which was starting to seem pornographic.
I jogged haphazardly onward, rapidly metamorphosing into a jiggling, bouncing, panting, red-faced abomination; single-mindedly careening toward a vague destination on the other side of the lake. Dogs were barking, children were crying, ducks were quacking and waddling frantically but wisely out of the way of this heaving monstrosity who, at this point, couldn't have stopped herself from running them ruthlessly over even if she'd wanted to.
The Burning. The Burning.
I eventually had to stop so I could assess just how much air I wasn't able to take into my lungs due to the constrictive minimizer. I also discovered that my running shoes are not really designed for those unfortunate individuals with pronated feet. I was sweating mysteriously harder under one armpit than the other and the pollen-laden air which had chirped so seductively to me had now deposited its allergens directly into my sinus cavities.
No doubt serious runners will give me their spastic, cheerful encouragement (while admiring their taut, toned buttocks in their special mirrors), but I will stoically ignore them and plod on at my own bitter pace.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Howdy
Jethro and I will be headed to beautiful North Carolina in 8 days. I'm thrilled. A friend of mine from elementary school is getting married. She came to my wedding, so I am ecstatic to return the favor.
We'll be meeting Angi, her Preacherman, and possibly the rest of her clan while we're there. That should definitely give me something to blog about.
And since I'm running low on things to blog about, I'll go ahead and let you in on a little joke that was played on me by none other than Big Dick and his gal, Evil.
Awhile back, he posted a picture of some man panties bought for him by his Beloved. I posted the following comment:
"True story.
My sisters and I were accustomed to sharing panties simply because there were so many of us. My stepdad's mom sent him some packages of men's bikini underpants. Long story short, he was always complaining that his underwear was disappearing. After some months, we figured out he'd throw them in the wash and they'd end up in the panty pile. Gross I know. But that thong is pretty. I'll wear it since I'm now used to pretty man-panties."
I didn't expect to receive them in the mail, but I did. It was a good joke.
But since I am of a slothful nature particularly regarding laundry, I inevitably ran out of underwear probably a week or two later.
Somehow I'd forgotten that Dick said he threw them in the trash. I thought, "What the hell."
I donned them.
To say they were uncomfortable would be a gross understatement. And I do stress the word 'gross.' I was chaffing pretty much on contact. I can only imagine how they'd be for someone with actual protruding junk.
We'll be meeting Angi, her Preacherman, and possibly the rest of her clan while we're there. That should definitely give me something to blog about.
And since I'm running low on things to blog about, I'll go ahead and let you in on a little joke that was played on me by none other than Big Dick and his gal, Evil.
Awhile back, he posted a picture of some man panties bought for him by his Beloved. I posted the following comment:
"True story.
My sisters and I were accustomed to sharing panties simply because there were so many of us. My stepdad's mom sent him some packages of men's bikini underpants. Long story short, he was always complaining that his underwear was disappearing. After some months, we figured out he'd throw them in the wash and they'd end up in the panty pile. Gross I know. But that thong is pretty. I'll wear it since I'm now used to pretty man-panties."
I didn't expect to receive them in the mail, but I did. It was a good joke.
But since I am of a slothful nature particularly regarding laundry, I inevitably ran out of underwear probably a week or two later.
Somehow I'd forgotten that Dick said he threw them in the trash. I thought, "What the hell."
I donned them.
To say they were uncomfortable would be a gross understatement. And I do stress the word 'gross.' I was chaffing pretty much on contact. I can only imagine how they'd be for someone with actual protruding junk.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
I Had Anniversary Sex Before I Realized It Was My Anniversary
Zelda: "....but if you open at This Place, another chiropractor might open at That Place and might give you some competition.
Jethro: "But This Place is still a better location. Better location, better doctor...I'm not worried about competition."
Zelda (admiringly): "I'm gonna suck your toes. I love it when you get all cocky."
[I didn't actually say "toes," but since I'm repeating the coversation verbatim, I feel a little shy about repeating what I actually did say. I did, however, say "cocky."]
We were married 8 years yesterday. Can you tell?
--------------------------------
As if I didn't have enough to think about, two of my sisters and I have decided to form our own real estate business. We have decided to target young employed men with disposable income. We feel it's an underserved market.
Winnie: "Since we're all relatively good looking, we need to have our pictures on all our advertisements.
Zelda: "Yeah. And I have really large bosoms. Men love that."
We just need to come up with a name. My brain is so fried with all these important business details that I was actually considering some of Zoolander's patented looks. I had it narrowed down to Blue Steel and Le Tigre before I came to my senses.
So I am appealing to the collective wisdom of the blogosphere (that sounds almost religious, doesn't it?) for ideas. I need a name that is classy and slightly masculine. Something that evokes chrome and martinis without sounding like a gay bar. I'm off to collect information on small businss loans.
Jethro: "But This Place is still a better location. Better location, better doctor...I'm not worried about competition."
Zelda (admiringly): "I'm gonna suck your toes. I love it when you get all cocky."
[I didn't actually say "toes," but since I'm repeating the coversation verbatim, I feel a little shy about repeating what I actually did say. I did, however, say "cocky."]
We were married 8 years yesterday. Can you tell?
--------------------------------
As if I didn't have enough to think about, two of my sisters and I have decided to form our own real estate business. We have decided to target young employed men with disposable income. We feel it's an underserved market.
Winnie: "Since we're all relatively good looking, we need to have our pictures on all our advertisements.
Zelda: "Yeah. And I have really large bosoms. Men love that."
We just need to come up with a name. My brain is so fried with all these important business details that I was actually considering some of Zoolander's patented looks. I had it narrowed down to Blue Steel and Le Tigre before I came to my senses.
So I am appealing to the collective wisdom of the blogosphere (that sounds almost religious, doesn't it?) for ideas. I need a name that is classy and slightly masculine. Something that evokes chrome and martinis without sounding like a gay bar. I'm off to collect information on small businss loans.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Fragments
"It was a dark and stormy night and I was drunker than Cooter Brown. I was with what I thought was a woman...."
And so began the story of a native Texan on why he doesn't drink anymore.
---------------------------
I know posting has been light, but trying to get one's life together will, on occasion, come into direct conflict with blog posting.
I wish I wasn't such a procrastinator. I put off everything including getting a clue as to how to help Jethro. He is so ready to go out on his own, but I don't know the first thing about starting a business and he is so busy with the job he has now and his various marketing events that I feel quite frustrated that he has to do all the business planning as well. I try to help from the real estate aspect, but aside from contacting people to go look at different properties, there isn't much that I can do.
So I guess I'll just fluff. I'm fairly talented in that regard, or at least I like to think so.
---------------------------------------
Gwennie is so funny. She has a little boyfriend that she won't admit to. I found out yesterday from his mom that they almost kissed a few weeks ago when she and Emma were playing at their house. When I talked to Gwennie about it, she said they were playing shark (apparently he was the shark and she was the fisherman). They both fell off the bed and she said they almost kissed then. She said she didn't know they almost kissed until the little boy told her about it later. The little boy told his mom that they were about to kiss and Gwennie put a stop to it.
And Gwennie's so cute when she's around him. My wild little nutball becomes girly and flirty. I watched her eating pizza with him yesterday. She sat straight up and had her legs crossed while she took little dainty bites of her pizza. This from the kid who slouchily destroys her food, the kitchen, and most of the living room at one meal.
They're both such sweet kids that I don't really worry. It's more cute and funny than anything.
---------------------------------
In world news, it would seem that Scandinavia is not the Great White Utopia. Good health, low unemployment, generous welfare, stellar education and free healthcare don't seem to be enough anymore. They call themselves anarchists, but they can't seem to wean themselves from the milky milky free stuff. IMHO, they need to learn to change their diapers before they start flinging the contents in support of a governmental absence for which they are clearly not ready.
And so began the story of a native Texan on why he doesn't drink anymore.
---------------------------
I know posting has been light, but trying to get one's life together will, on occasion, come into direct conflict with blog posting.
I wish I wasn't such a procrastinator. I put off everything including getting a clue as to how to help Jethro. He is so ready to go out on his own, but I don't know the first thing about starting a business and he is so busy with the job he has now and his various marketing events that I feel quite frustrated that he has to do all the business planning as well. I try to help from the real estate aspect, but aside from contacting people to go look at different properties, there isn't much that I can do.
So I guess I'll just fluff. I'm fairly talented in that regard, or at least I like to think so.
---------------------------------------
Gwennie is so funny. She has a little boyfriend that she won't admit to. I found out yesterday from his mom that they almost kissed a few weeks ago when she and Emma were playing at their house. When I talked to Gwennie about it, she said they were playing shark (apparently he was the shark and she was the fisherman). They both fell off the bed and she said they almost kissed then. She said she didn't know they almost kissed until the little boy told her about it later. The little boy told his mom that they were about to kiss and Gwennie put a stop to it.
And Gwennie's so cute when she's around him. My wild little nutball becomes girly and flirty. I watched her eating pizza with him yesterday. She sat straight up and had her legs crossed while she took little dainty bites of her pizza. This from the kid who slouchily destroys her food, the kitchen, and most of the living room at one meal.
They're both such sweet kids that I don't really worry. It's more cute and funny than anything.
---------------------------------
In world news, it would seem that Scandinavia is not the Great White Utopia. Good health, low unemployment, generous welfare, stellar education and free healthcare don't seem to be enough anymore. They call themselves anarchists, but they can't seem to wean themselves from the milky milky free stuff. IMHO, they need to learn to change their diapers before they start flinging the contents in support of a governmental absence for which they are clearly not ready.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Do They See Themselves As Pan Or Hook?
The Boy Lovers are back with their unique combination of self-pity and Peter Pan obsessions. I linked to them almost a year ago and joined a campaign to have their blog taken down. If you don't spew whatever meal you may have just consumed immediately upon viewing, you might want to take note of their attempts to pretty themselves up with the pedantic language of college sophomores. It's still a pig in lipstick. And I hope that phraseology doesn't turn them on.
But I have news for you fellas. No matter how many big words you use, no matter what your sparkling fantasies of Ancient Greece are, and no matter how many youth league soccer games you have been allowed to coach, no one sees you as healthy or sane. Sure, you may pick off the odd Democrat like John (my daughter's godfather touched a 14 year old) Kerry, and Jimmy (let's pardon the sexual offender) Carter, Gerry (I'm going to screw a minor on the taxpayer dime and get re-elected. Take that homophobes) Studds, and the entire Kennedy (do we really want to go there) Clan, but the rest of the world, including the most irritating, sanctimonious, soy wallowing liberal types, believe there is something wrong with you. Basically, nobody likes you, everybody hates you, and you should go eat worms. From e-coli laden dirt. And you should stop thinking about young boys. They don't want you to think about them. All the abuse that children suffer at the hands of sexual predators begins with a desire to have sex with them. That means you. So pardon the ignorant, church-going breeders for their caution.
However, I have changed my mind about wanting your blog removed. I think that when you inevitably convince yourself that a troubled boy, starved for affection, actually desires your sexual advances, law enforcement needs to be able to find you as quickly as possible. So blog away.
I'd also like to take a minute to remind you of what happens to child molesters in prison and to point out that prison inmates are the least likely individuals on the planet to make a distinction between "boy love" and "child rape."
But above all, you need to recognize that you are ill and find someone to help you. We all have burdens to carry in this life, and your burden is that you can never, EVER touch the object of your affection unless they are over 18 and consenting. The liberty of "just being yourself" does not extend to you when your desires have such great potential to harm the most innocent of human beings. It's a heavy cross to be sure, but you have no choice. We have willed it thus.
But I have news for you fellas. No matter how many big words you use, no matter what your sparkling fantasies of Ancient Greece are, and no matter how many youth league soccer games you have been allowed to coach, no one sees you as healthy or sane. Sure, you may pick off the odd Democrat like John (my daughter's godfather touched a 14 year old) Kerry, and Jimmy (let's pardon the sexual offender) Carter, Gerry (I'm going to screw a minor on the taxpayer dime and get re-elected. Take that homophobes) Studds, and the entire Kennedy (do we really want to go there) Clan, but the rest of the world, including the most irritating, sanctimonious, soy wallowing liberal types, believe there is something wrong with you. Basically, nobody likes you, everybody hates you, and you should go eat worms. From e-coli laden dirt. And you should stop thinking about young boys. They don't want you to think about them. All the abuse that children suffer at the hands of sexual predators begins with a desire to have sex with them. That means you. So pardon the ignorant, church-going breeders for their caution.
However, I have changed my mind about wanting your blog removed. I think that when you inevitably convince yourself that a troubled boy, starved for affection, actually desires your sexual advances, law enforcement needs to be able to find you as quickly as possible. So blog away.
I'd also like to take a minute to remind you of what happens to child molesters in prison and to point out that prison inmates are the least likely individuals on the planet to make a distinction between "boy love" and "child rape."
But above all, you need to recognize that you are ill and find someone to help you. We all have burdens to carry in this life, and your burden is that you can never, EVER touch the object of your affection unless they are over 18 and consenting. The liberty of "just being yourself" does not extend to you when your desires have such great potential to harm the most innocent of human beings. It's a heavy cross to be sure, but you have no choice. We have willed it thus.
Monday, February 26, 2007
More From Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Listen to this woman. She is brilliant.
But better yet, she makes Bill Maher look like the smarmy, cheap, sophomoric little asshole that he is. And the two morons sitting on each side of her are priceless as they wallow in their complete and utter ignorance.
*Background: Ayaan Hirsi Ali was a Muslim woman who immigrated to Holland to escape an arranged marriage. She was one of the victims of female circumcision, and saw firsthand how Arab Muslims treated black Africans (Muslim or not). She apostatized from Islam once in Holland and became a vocal opponent of the intolerance and violence of Islam especially against women. This earned her a death sentence from the mullahs across the Middle East and Europe. She collaborated with Theo van Gogh (descendant of the famous painter) on a documentary detailing the abuses women suffer under this oppressive religion. He was slaughtered by a Muslim fanatic on the streets of Amsterdam. She was forced into hiding.
Our own media does its level best to ignore her, which is all the more reason we need to pay attention to what she has to say.
H/T: Little Green Footballs
But better yet, she makes Bill Maher look like the smarmy, cheap, sophomoric little asshole that he is. And the two morons sitting on each side of her are priceless as they wallow in their complete and utter ignorance.
*Background: Ayaan Hirsi Ali was a Muslim woman who immigrated to Holland to escape an arranged marriage. She was one of the victims of female circumcision, and saw firsthand how Arab Muslims treated black Africans (Muslim or not). She apostatized from Islam once in Holland and became a vocal opponent of the intolerance and violence of Islam especially against women. This earned her a death sentence from the mullahs across the Middle East and Europe. She collaborated with Theo van Gogh (descendant of the famous painter) on a documentary detailing the abuses women suffer under this oppressive religion. He was slaughtered by a Muslim fanatic on the streets of Amsterdam. She was forced into hiding.
Our own media does its level best to ignore her, which is all the more reason we need to pay attention to what she has to say.
H/T: Little Green Footballs
Thursday, February 22, 2007
I'm Not A Racist. That's What's So Insane About This.
Yeah I know it's been awhile. I've been working on my real estate classes. They are extremely boring, but now, thanks to the ethics portion, I am able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Except when a non-white person complains. Then I become automatically wrong and I need to shut the fuck up and be grateful that I'm white. This is going to make arguing with Jethro somewhat less fun than it has been in the past.
Now I'm not one to quibble, but I am really getting tired of being called white. I am pink. PINK, dammit. And red in some places. With blue and green poking through. Acknowledge.
Now I'm not one to quibble, but I am really getting tired of being called white. I am pink. PINK, dammit. And red in some places. With blue and green poking through. Acknowledge.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Hey There
I've come to the conclusion that I am tired of tickling balls for nothing but debt. I'm no knock-out, but I have huge tits that can defy gravity with the right amount of sturdy, underwired encouragement, and that has to count for something.
So I've decided to whore myself in a constant, persistent, hopefully non-homicide-inducing fashion to the idea of Jethro's Practice.
We can bitch and moan all day about his boss and her inconsistencies, tirades, baffling business decisions and utter lack of fashion sense (three words: Pleated, Tapered Pants. Belted far above the waist. And when I laid that line on someone, Jethro muttered, "That's nothing. You should see her Pleated, Tapered Jeans). But when it comes right down to it, it's her business, and she can call all the shots. If she wants to alienate her employees, inconvenience her patients, soak Jethro for as much work for as little money as possible, and dress as if she drives a Delorian [updated link]; it's her incontrovertible right, and I will not dispute that.
As we say in blogworld, "If you don't like it, start your own."
------------------------------------------------------------
So everything else is going well. I am in a very upbeat, positive place. I think I might be on the cheerful side of a manically depressive mood swing. Or maybe I'm just feeling better from my kidney infection.
So I've decided to whore myself in a constant, persistent, hopefully non-homicide-inducing fashion to the idea of Jethro's Practice.
We can bitch and moan all day about his boss and her inconsistencies, tirades, baffling business decisions and utter lack of fashion sense (three words: Pleated, Tapered Pants. Belted far above the waist. And when I laid that line on someone, Jethro muttered, "That's nothing. You should see her Pleated, Tapered Jeans). But when it comes right down to it, it's her business, and she can call all the shots. If she wants to alienate her employees, inconvenience her patients, soak Jethro for as much work for as little money as possible, and dress as if she drives a Delorian [updated link]; it's her incontrovertible right, and I will not dispute that.
As we say in blogworld, "If you don't like it, start your own."
------------------------------------------------------------
So everything else is going well. I am in a very upbeat, positive place. I think I might be on the cheerful side of a manically depressive mood swing. Or maybe I'm just feeling better from my kidney infection.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Dribs and Drabs
I have a kidney infection. I could probably use that as an excuse for not blogging, and in fact, I think I will. It hurts to sit up for too long and it hurts to lie down for too long. If I curl up a certain way on the couch, it doesn't hurt quite as much. I am taking antibiotics, but they make me nauseous, so I just have to suck it up (or down as the case may be).
I've also been tied up with family. I've come to the conclusion that I can't really do anything for my mom, but I can work on my relationships with my sisters. Now that we're all in the same state it should be easier. I feel as if my relationships with them have really suffered throughout the years and I see more hope in repairing those than I do in repairing my mom's life. One sister in particular is going to be a challenge. She has been severely damaged by events in the past and I am hoping she is not too bitter to help repair our family.
Anyway, none of this is life-threatening, but it does put a damper on my blogworld. So to tide you over until my next riveting post, check out this website courtesy of Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.
hotchickswithdouchebags.com
Methinks Gooch will particularly enjoy this concept.
I've also been tied up with family. I've come to the conclusion that I can't really do anything for my mom, but I can work on my relationships with my sisters. Now that we're all in the same state it should be easier. I feel as if my relationships with them have really suffered throughout the years and I see more hope in repairing those than I do in repairing my mom's life. One sister in particular is going to be a challenge. She has been severely damaged by events in the past and I am hoping she is not too bitter to help repair our family.
Anyway, none of this is life-threatening, but it does put a damper on my blogworld. So to tide you over until my next riveting post, check out this website courtesy of Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.
hotchickswithdouchebags.com
Methinks Gooch will particularly enjoy this concept.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Because You Need To Know
I was tagged again (in the bloglical sense) to name some more weird things about myself. Happily, I have a limitless supply.
1.) Fairly recently, I realized that I'm in the habit of holding onto my earlobe while I sleep. I sleep with my face on my hand and my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I don't know if this is recent or if I've been doing it for years, but I noticed it just after I posted the last list of weird.
2.) Since we're on sleeping arrangements, I must also confess to sleeping like Peter Pan, with one knee raised almost to my chest and the other leg flung outward. I'm a weird sleeper.
3.) When I was pregnant with both girls, I had a bizarre craving for foam. I didn't want to swallow it, but I would take bubble baths with a lot of soap and swish the suds around in my mouth. The foamier I got the better I liked it. Brushing my teeth was almost orgasmic. I would sit in the bathroom and scrub my teeth, making sure to generate as much foam as possible. I'd lean over the bathtub and let it drool out, but I wouldn't stop brushing. One time I brushed my teeth for over 30 minutes.
4.) I have a very hard time standing up and speaking in front of a group of people, even if they're all my friends.
5.) I used to claim I didn't like cauliflower when I was in grade-school because I thought I was weird for having almost no distaste for any kind of food. I figured I could give up cauliflower for the sake of appearing normal - a completely useless endeavor, I might add.
6.) I told my sisters an ongoing story when we were little. It was about 3 sisters and their little brother. The oldest girl was named Wendy and she was the hero. The second sister was named Clara and I made her such a priss, much to my second sister's irritation. The third sister was named Anastasia. She was kind of whacky. I didn't really have the stamina to develop her personality very well, so I made her a combination of first two to the point of schizophrenia. Three and a half days a week, she would be an adventurous tomboy just like Wendy, and precisely at 12:00 noon on Wednesdays, she would transform into a snooty little goodie-two-shoes just like Clara. The little brother was named Thomas and he was borderline psychotic. I didn't have any brothers, so I didn't really know what boys were like. I went with evil and violent.
1.) Fairly recently, I realized that I'm in the habit of holding onto my earlobe while I sleep. I sleep with my face on my hand and my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I don't know if this is recent or if I've been doing it for years, but I noticed it just after I posted the last list of weird.
2.) Since we're on sleeping arrangements, I must also confess to sleeping like Peter Pan, with one knee raised almost to my chest and the other leg flung outward. I'm a weird sleeper.
3.) When I was pregnant with both girls, I had a bizarre craving for foam. I didn't want to swallow it, but I would take bubble baths with a lot of soap and swish the suds around in my mouth. The foamier I got the better I liked it. Brushing my teeth was almost orgasmic. I would sit in the bathroom and scrub my teeth, making sure to generate as much foam as possible. I'd lean over the bathtub and let it drool out, but I wouldn't stop brushing. One time I brushed my teeth for over 30 minutes.
4.) I have a very hard time standing up and speaking in front of a group of people, even if they're all my friends.
5.) I used to claim I didn't like cauliflower when I was in grade-school because I thought I was weird for having almost no distaste for any kind of food. I figured I could give up cauliflower for the sake of appearing normal - a completely useless endeavor, I might add.
6.) I told my sisters an ongoing story when we were little. It was about 3 sisters and their little brother. The oldest girl was named Wendy and she was the hero. The second sister was named Clara and I made her such a priss, much to my second sister's irritation. The third sister was named Anastasia. She was kind of whacky. I didn't really have the stamina to develop her personality very well, so I made her a combination of first two to the point of schizophrenia. Three and a half days a week, she would be an adventurous tomboy just like Wendy, and precisely at 12:00 noon on Wednesdays, she would transform into a snooty little goodie-two-shoes just like Clara. The little brother was named Thomas and he was borderline psychotic. I didn't have any brothers, so I didn't really know what boys were like. I went with evil and violent.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
You're Such An Idiot, Dad. God.
I never dreamed I would feel in any way badly about the death of a person such as Anna Nicole Smith. But to my utter astonishment, I do. I'm going to miss all the crazy. She made me laugh if at nothing else, then the utter inanity of the human species. Sometimes we take ourselves too seriously.
---------------------------
Anyway, we finally got to have a little birthday party for Emma. Oh. My. God. This is the last birthday party I'm having for them. I'm no stickler for etiquette beyond just a general sense of politeness and tact, but I'm going to have to bitch for a second.
We had Emma's birthday at a little pastry shop close to our house. It's has a very cutesy decor with a giant inverted cupcake on the ceiling, and some very professional decorating. All the kids get to make their own cupcakes, which is cute. It's a great place for a little girl's birthday party.
A gentleman dropped off one of Emma's friends from school, then proceeded to tell me that the place was not very manly and he was going to take off and do manly things for awhile. Then he asked if he could leave his older daughter there. I wasn't terribly happy. First he insults the party and then he wants me to pay extra so he can leave his other daughter there and go pretend he's a man? He lives in the suburbs. It's not like he's going to suddenly grow a pair.
I'm not one to be rude in front of children so I smiled and said that I thought we had an extra place for his daughter and if we didn't she could share with her sister. He eventually ended up taking his daughter, but not after saying that the party wasn't really her thing. No duh, brain surgeon. She was in 4th grade and the party was for Kindergarteners. But what a thing to say.
I saw him again today while we were picking our kids up from another birthday party for another kid in Emma's class. He had managed to dump his older daughter off successfully at this one. I noted with a sense of smug satisfaction that he had food all over his face.
Good manners aren't for ladies and little girls. It doesn't make your dick shrink to act like a gentleman. And just because fathers/husbands are portrayed as fat, slow, simpletons in pop culture, it doesn't mean you are required to enforce that particular stereotype.
------------------------------
Anyway, that's about all. There is something wrong with my computer, so I have to use Jethro's laptop and I'm still congested from my cold, so it's difficult to give him the blow jobs that are required to use it.
---------------------------
Anyway, we finally got to have a little birthday party for Emma. Oh. My. God. This is the last birthday party I'm having for them. I'm no stickler for etiquette beyond just a general sense of politeness and tact, but I'm going to have to bitch for a second.
We had Emma's birthday at a little pastry shop close to our house. It's has a very cutesy decor with a giant inverted cupcake on the ceiling, and some very professional decorating. All the kids get to make their own cupcakes, which is cute. It's a great place for a little girl's birthday party.
A gentleman dropped off one of Emma's friends from school, then proceeded to tell me that the place was not very manly and he was going to take off and do manly things for awhile. Then he asked if he could leave his older daughter there. I wasn't terribly happy. First he insults the party and then he wants me to pay extra so he can leave his other daughter there and go pretend he's a man? He lives in the suburbs. It's not like he's going to suddenly grow a pair.
I'm not one to be rude in front of children so I smiled and said that I thought we had an extra place for his daughter and if we didn't she could share with her sister. He eventually ended up taking his daughter, but not after saying that the party wasn't really her thing. No duh, brain surgeon. She was in 4th grade and the party was for Kindergarteners. But what a thing to say.
I saw him again today while we were picking our kids up from another birthday party for another kid in Emma's class. He had managed to dump his older daughter off successfully at this one. I noted with a sense of smug satisfaction that he had food all over his face.
Good manners aren't for ladies and little girls. It doesn't make your dick shrink to act like a gentleman. And just because fathers/husbands are portrayed as fat, slow, simpletons in pop culture, it doesn't mean you are required to enforce that particular stereotype.
------------------------------
Anyway, that's about all. There is something wrong with my computer, so I have to use Jethro's laptop and I'm still congested from my cold, so it's difficult to give him the blow jobs that are required to use it.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Back In The Saddle
Okay, Phlemfatale beat me to all the funny observations, but this has to be the best story to come down the pipes in years. I mean it has it all: love, obsession, attempted murder, travel .....diapers?! I mean, if I was going to murder the lover of my obsession, I'd want to do it after I'd soiled myself. I'm just sayin'...
----------------
I've been sick again, so I haven't felt like doing anything except feeling sorry for myself lately. I still have a bad case of laringitis. Even Bobcat Goldwaithe has abandoned me to dulcet tones of a dying seal. It makes for an intersting love-making experience. I sounded like a badly dubbed anime porn character - male.
Perversely, I've needed my voice more than ever these last few days.
Jethro's job situation is looking tentative. I refuse to see this in a negative light. He needs to go out on his own. It is time.
My family situation, to which I have been alluding, but haven't actually blogged about, came to a head also. My mom, after many agonizing months and mind-numbingly excruciating thought processes (sparing me exposure to not the minutest detail), has finally filed for divorce from my Stepdad. Whether she will go through with it remains to be seen.
I have a million things to blog about, not the least of which is a little gift I received in the mail from a total pervert and his total pervert fiancee. But I outperved them. Oh yes I did. The details will have to remain forthcoming until I find the time to do them justice.
----------------
I've been sick again, so I haven't felt like doing anything except feeling sorry for myself lately. I still have a bad case of laringitis. Even Bobcat Goldwaithe has abandoned me to dulcet tones of a dying seal. It makes for an intersting love-making experience. I sounded like a badly dubbed anime porn character - male.
Perversely, I've needed my voice more than ever these last few days.
Jethro's job situation is looking tentative. I refuse to see this in a negative light. He needs to go out on his own. It is time.
My family situation, to which I have been alluding, but haven't actually blogged about, came to a head also. My mom, after many agonizing months and mind-numbingly excruciating thought processes (sparing me exposure to not the minutest detail), has finally filed for divorce from my Stepdad. Whether she will go through with it remains to be seen.
I have a million things to blog about, not the least of which is a little gift I received in the mail from a total pervert and his total pervert fiancee. But I outperved them. Oh yes I did. The details will have to remain forthcoming until I find the time to do them justice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
