Like Drunken Monkeys
Let me start by saying that I have three young children ranging in age from three to nine. My kids are precious to me, and I cannot imagine my life without them. How could I live without having known their sweet laughter, their gentle natures, and their inquisitive minds? I take great joy in their triumphs and simple pleasures, and I feel their struggles and pain like a knife in my heart. I am lucky since I have not made any choices on my children’s behalf that I regret, so far. But none of them are teenagers yet, so I’m sure I’ll be changing my tune in a few years. As much as my children have been a source of fulfillment, I have discovered that my little crew can be enigmatic.
For instance my daughter, (whom I will call Julie at her request) is a vivacious nine-year-old who can make grown men weep as she plows through the Halo universe on Xbox. She cackles maniacally and throws down some shocking trash talk as the digital bodies pile in her wake. She frowns on public dancing and condemns it as silly and too sexy. Meanwhile she thinks nothing of breaking wind in the food court of our local Mall and calling it humor. Julie can clean a kitchen until the chrome sparkles like the sun, but I need hip boots and a snake bite kit to walk through her bedroom. Julie is often found trying to interpret Homer’s “Odyssey”, but can’t seem to spell ‘tree’. Julie is adored by all who meet her, but came home one day covered in cuts and bruises. She explained to me that these injuries occurred when she looked the neighborhood bully in the eye and asked, “Does it hurt to be so dumb?”
My oldest son Kwiss (the name he requested for this article) is a quiet and reserved child with a significant speech impediment. So when my sweet natured boy goes off his nut, my husband and I often so flabbergasted by it that we cannot bring ourselves to punish him. Several days ago, our family woke to find the spare bathroom completely flooded. The water that covered the floor was two inches deep, and it poured through a crack in the floorboards to the laundry room below. We raced downstairs to find the cat box overflowing with…stuff. Harvey the cat was tip toeing about and looking perplexed. Kwiss readily admitted to the flooding with a confident frankness uncommon in six-year-old boys. He explained that the flood was achieved by plugging the overflow hole in the sink with toilet paper and covering the drain with a cup. When I asked him why he would do such a thing, Kwiss replied in quite a matter-of-fact tone, “It was an espearamint in gwabbitty, Mom! An’ I was bowed.” I still haven’t figured out what he said, but it sounded reasonable at the time.
Sonic (again the name suggested by the child in question) is my youngest and has the nastiest case of the ‘Look at me!’ syndrome I have ever seen. He insists on wearing all of his pants backwards and spikes his hair with Vaseline. He has never taken a picture with his tongue in his mouth, and likes to ‘die’ when total strangers point at him and tell him he’s cute. He leaps out of closets and screams, and then he laughs when mommy falls down the stairs. And it is not just my pain that Sonic takes delight in, but the pain of his siblings, friends, and himself. He cackled when he threw a baseball at Kwiss and hit him in the head. (Kwiss is fine; he has a head like a cinder block). He roared with laughter when his ‘girlfriend’ from down the street stubbed her toe running from the ants. And he nearly passed out with hilarity when I found him with his head buried in the drywall. My husband is considering a career change to home renovations due to all the Sonic sized holes in our walls. Meanwhile, the Pediatrician is confounded by Sonic’s odd behavior.
While I wait for my children to break new ground in the next stage of their childhood, I have learned that I need precautions. I’m stocking up on home repair tools and sheet rock. There’s always band-aides and antiseptic ointment in the first-aid kits. And I’m always on the look out for helmets to protect the children’s heads.
The upside to the downturn
Being broke is not the same as being poor. Simply defined, "broke" is an economic state in which and individual's debt meets or exceeds his income. It's a matter of money management, not tax brackets. That said, there are a number of benefits to the lifestyle of the perpetually broke that are rarely considered.
Long term goals
No one has much to say about this particular virtue. Fact of the matter is, long term goals provide a number of advantages. They provide hopes and dreams to those who might otherwise live without those luxuries. They help move the economy, and put a hop in your step and whistle on your lips. Goals provide sweet dreams to the sleepless, and allow couples to communicate without choking each other. It is true, the dreamer is often 80, wrinkled, ugly, bent, and broken before he can bask in the warm Caribbean sun, but at least he got there. In the wise words of Miley Cyrus, "...it's not what's waiting on the other side, it's the cliiiimb!"
Reasonable expectations
Only the rich and vapid (you know who you are) can afford to have psychotic and convoluted standards. To be fair though, they don't have anything better to do. However, hard working, salt of the earth men and women of smaller means, have a more realistic view of reality. None of these hardy souls care if their spouses are fat and ugly; so long as they warm the heart and bed, and aren't the fattest and ugliest around. It matters little to them that they don't have the biggest or fanciest house in the world. They are just grateful to have a roof over their heads that doesn't fall down on them. So what if the kids aren't Kobe Bryant, Einstein, or Megan Fox? There is meaningful satisfaction in knowing that the under-achieving little monkeys will eventually move out.
Entertainment
A man doesn't need a fancy car or loads of money to have a good time. All a person needs to do is regress back to toddler hood, and dumb down the IQ to that of a howler monkey. In this state of mind, a person can truly appreciate the value of a good fart joke, and watching people fall down has been the universal favorite for eons. If all else fails, there's always Bubba. Many a happy evening has been spent watching the village idiot attempt to teach his equally addled child to use an air rifle. Sure it's a little dangerous for anyone sitting in range, but hey, it's all part of the fun.
Educational opportunities
The chronically broke always has a new opportunity to expand their education. Many a man and woman has learned home repair, car repair, lawn maintenance, first aide, and survival techniques; all without the benefit of a teacher, or in the case of Bubba, half a brain. Sure a man might occasionally lose a limb, but hey, chicks dig scars. And while the heap they drive does smoke enough to keep the fire department on speed dial, and people can hear you coming for miles, at least there is the satisfaction of being able to do it yourself. Not to mention, there is the added bonus of expanding a person's (expletive deleted) vocabulary you (expletive deleted)!!!!
Undead love
With the popularity of Stephanie Meyer's 'Twilight' series, HBO's 'Tru Blood' and the CW's 'Vampire Diaries' (premiering this fall), America's renewed love affair with undead blood-suckers has been rekindled into a blazing bonfire. Everywhere I look, I see pale, beautiful young men smiling fangily at me while they embrace a chronically anemic young woman. And there isn't much that is very inventive about these stories either. They are as formulaic as the recipe for dynamite. Basically, a lovely young and virginal woman becomes infatuated with a handsome and morose vampire. After a few tedious (and damn near fatal) encounters, the vampire finally succumbs to the woman's charms. At which point, the sex and angst flows freely with just a splash of gore for flavor.
These two characters are quite possibly the stupidest figures in the gothic horror genre. And here's why.
Lets start with the vampire. If you are a vampire snogging a human, you have two major problems. A) Your mortal lover is suicidally stupid, and B) other vampire's homicidal disdain for your newly developed food fetish.
If there's anything vampire stories have taught us, they have shown that any woman willing to spend a large portion of her personal time with the undead, is completely out of her mind. These chicks are flaky, prone to life threatening accidents and mishaps, and have absolutely no sense of self-preservation. These daffy creatures don't even display the brain capacity required to listen to a 300 year old dead guy when he gives her advice. Then there is the constant temptation to eat your one true love. And don't even get me started on what the religious fanatics would like to do to you.
And while you are trying to keep your human lover out of her grave, you have to consider the disdain of your peers. Simply put, no one likes the guy who diddles their steak before he eats it. It's kinda gross and there are precious few who can appreciate the tendency. There are even fewer who even want to. Think of it this way: humans don't doink their cows or their pet pigs. So its easy to see why vampires might get all worked up about it.
If you're a human, you have plenty of problems of your own. Besides the brutal hickeys that appear in the oddest places and the lag of chronic blood loss, you would have to contend with becoming a social outcast when your neighbors call you a necropheliac. Your taste for danger and damaged undead people keep you hospitalized often enough that the doctors keep your room open. Your health insurance premiums are through the roof, and no insurance company will sell you a life policy. In the end, you're stuck spending your days, lethargic from blood loss, and alone because your smart friends won't have anything to do with you, and your dumb friends are all dead.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the appeal of the tortured soul who longs for love. I get the allure of the overpowering demon lover, and I definitely appreciate how immortality can be sexy. But as I examine the situation, I find the idea extremely impractical. Especially when there are more than enough human men around who are more than happy to make my life miserable, without the threat of wanting to eat me.
The questions asked of me
Let me start by saying that I love my husband with all my heart and soul. For the last 13 years, he has been a good provider, a dear and loyal friend, a pillar of strength, a wonderful father, and a faithful and considerate lover. He has been a true and genuine partner in my journey through life, and I pray everyday that I do as much for him as he has done for me.
But I'll be damned if the man doesn't insist on asking me the most annoying and jaw-droppingly dumb questions. Just minutes before I sat down to churn this bit of fluff out, my darling beloved dropped this nugget of intellectual fodder on me:
If I had two choices, would I :
A) Take Ryan Reynolds as my super secret lover for 10 years without the option to unload the man should he turn out to be a jerk, or:
B) Become his red carpet arm ornament with no other contact for ten years.
I assume that this question was posed to me under the delusion that Mr. Reynolds would bother to give me the time of day, or that he would be willing to ignore his spectacularly hot wife for the 5 seconds it would take to give me the accurate time. (Of course he wouldn't! No man in his right mind would ever take his eyes off of Scarlett Johansson for any length of time, if he was married to her! She might escape!)
As amazing as this particular question was, I have to say, there have been dumber. Let's explore a few, shall we?
1) Who is scarier? Darth Vader or Hannibal Lecter; and why?
Hannibal Lecter. With the clothes and breathing apparatus, Vader is
a lot easier to avoid.
2)If I could only have one food to eat for the rest of my life, what would it be?
I don't know, wouldn't they all suck after a few days?
3)Who would I rather be married to, Tony Stark (Iron Man) or Bruce Wayne
(Bat Man)?
No brainer. Tony Stark, he's a super hero, has a drinking problem and he has a heart condition.
I'll get the widow pay much faster.
4)Would I be willing to stand nude in traffic, for a million dollars?
Well Duh!
Thankfully, this is not the only things my husband talks to me about. We do have conversations that are both entertaining and intellectual. But they aren't as funny.
The squirrel mafia
t was a warm summer say in Cartersville. The sun glistened on the emerald leaves of the dogwood trees lining my yard. A warm breeze lifted, making the trees wave and sing their summer song. Next door, the neighbor was mowing his yard for the second time that week. I settled into my favorite patio chair, a thick book tucked into the crook of my arm. I opened the book and began to read, immediately becoming absorbed in the language of a story. Suddenly, violence broke the serenity of the day. I looked up, searching for the source of the commotion. My eyes were drawn to the top of an aging and twisted oak that grew mightily at the side of my yard. I didn't know it at the time, but I was witnessing the beginnings of the Squirrel Mafia, a gang of rodents that will strike fear in the hearts of small mammals for generations to come.
As I watched, gangs of large squirrels scrambled down the trunk of the oak led by a much larger, more imposing creature I could only assume was the Godfather. Then, a smaller squirrel climbed timidly up the tree and met with this vicious gang. I could see its small brown body tremble with fear as the gang slowly approached him. Then as a single animal, the gang jumped on him and began to beat the snot out of the little bugger. They all tumbled en masse to the ground, where the gang continued their abuse. With his beady black eyes gleaming brutally, the Godfather squirrel supervised the beating. The gang removed themselves from their victim, and joined their OG (Original Gangster). The littlest squirrel staggered to his feet. The Godfather made a loud chattering sound and all the squirrels, including the battered one, ran back up the tree. Ah I thought, so this is a jump in, the gang's rite of passage. The Squirrel Mafia jumped in a few more member into their organization, and then the real mayhem began.
The squirrel hit man was the first to become identifiable. He was a lean and ragged looking creature, his tail short and droopy with his fur matted and patchy. He slunk from branch to branch, seeking his marks. Once in a while he would disappear into a leafy branch. Birds would suddenly raise a racket, and fly off in every direction. Then a blue jay would drop to the grass with a dull thud, and lay there stunned for several minutes. Soon after the unfortunate bird hit the ground, a nest would fall in wispy clumps followed by two or three eggs. The eggs splattered hideously as they landed around their helpless parent. Eventually, the blue jay got up and let out a little birdie cry. Then with its home in tatters, it flew away in despair.
Meanwhile, the brutes began to stalk the chipmunks and finches. They traveled in groups, and spent their time roaming across the yard to pounce upon their victims and intimidate them. They collected tribute from the smaller animals, and sent the smaller of their brotherhood off towards the oak tree with their cheeks full to bursting with nuts and various other foodstuffs.
The Squirrel Mafia had a gambling racket too. Acorns dropped from the oak tree, and a collection of chipmunks, birds, and squirrels, chattered and chirped as a pair of scrawny mice ran for them as fast as they could. The winning mouse would return to much celebration, while the loser was knocked to the earth from the top of the oak tree.
I can only imagine what the Squirrel Mafia has in store for the future. Surely the neighborhood will fester and go bad. I expect to see strung out chipmunks and blue jay prostitutes turning tricks on my front lawn. Certainly home invasions will become more frequent. There will be a day when I come home to find all my candy stolen from the dishes and my husband's favorite mixed nuts heisted. The rise in kidnapping will have to be dealt with. After all, what's to stop the Squirrel Mafia from absconding my children's beanie babies and holding them for a king's ransom in pistachios? What will I do when these conniving little rodents start flinging themselves at my windows in an attempt to vandalize my home? How worried should I be on the day I wake up to find a decapitated Eeyore head in my bed?
As the days pass, the Squirrel Mafia's power grows. My yard will never be the same. There is no happy chatter between the birds. The chipmunks can no longer dig holes in the flower bed without fear. Above it all, high in the oak tree, the Squirrel Godfather reigns supreme.
The murder tax
The NRA, weapons manufacturers, and hunters all proclaim, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people!". Meanwhile, lobbyists, social reformers, and the media all scream, "Guns Kill!". Well, I think both are wrong. Guns and people don't kill, bullets do!
Who can argue the fact that a pointy lump of metal, ejected from a long tube at 4,000 feet per second (for rifles) and then slamming into a body, is not the major cause of death in firearm related fatalities? Without these explosive little cartridges, a gun is little more than a paper weight that looks redneck chic hanging over the fireplace.
Rather than continue with the currently futile exercise in gun control, I propose that a Murder Tax be implemented. Simply place a hundred dollar tax on each bullet, and sit back and let everything adjust around it. (This plan exempts the armed forces and law enforcement, of course.)
The result is rather predictable. Rather than pay the tax themselves, manufacturers will simply pass the cost along to the consumer. With a box of 20 bullets now running with a 2,000 dollar price tag, most people will simply quit buying them. Others will think twice when pulling a trigger, and everyone's aim will get a hell of a lot better. After all, who wants to miss their target and waste 100 dollars a literal pop?
I doubt that murder will be any less frequent than before, but at least innocent bystanders and deer everywhere will breathe a whole lot easier.
Grandchildren of divorce
Both my husband and I are children of divorce, a fact that has escaped my son Kwiss for quite some time. It was yesterday when the subject of my biological father was brought up for the first time in a private conversation between me and my second born. I quickly noticed his confusion, and explained to my 7 year old that the man I was speaking of was not the same man he knew and loved and lived in Florida. Immediately, he came to a stunning conclusion, Mom had 2 dads!
True to Kwiss form, he wandered off to play video games and contemplate this new insight to his mother's life. About an hour later, there was a thump in the living room as Kwiss threw the controller to the Wii on the floor. I went to see what the noise was about, and found myself privy to the following conversation between Kwiss, and his older sister, Julie.
"Julie! Did you know that Mom has 2 dads?" Kwiss demanded with the relish of someone with really good gossip.
"Duh!" I could just hear Julie roll her eyes. "Of course I know that. I've known that for years."
"Oh." Kwiss was clearly disappointed. He hadn't been the first to know.
"Guess what else, Mom's real dad died." (Note: My father passed away February, 2008)
"Really?" there was a note of fear in his voice as Kwiss' thoughts went to my step-father, whom he knows well and adores.
"Yep. Grandpa in Florida is Mom's step-dad," Julie explained with the confidence of an older child with superior knowledge. "We never met Mom's real dad. He lived in Omaha."
"Wow," Kwiss murmured relieved and thinking what a magical place Omaha must be. He never met anyone from there, that he knew of.
"Yeah. And guess what else. Daddy has two dads too."
"Really?" Kwiss squeaked in disbelief. "Who is Dad's other dad?"
"Grandpa in Colorado is Dad's real father," Julie explained patiently. "Papa is Daddy's step-dad."
Kwiss was astounded.His mind boggled. "When did that happen?"
"Forever ago."
"How?" Kwiss was very alarmed now. He had never heard of such a thing. I felt somewhat encouraged that my 7 year old had not been regaled with tales of divorce from his friends, which meant that none of them knew divorce either. Julie began to explain, badly and awkwardly, the events that followed a divorce. She really had no idea what went on either. At that point, I entered the kitchen to soothe Kwiss and explain the situation, before the two talked themselves into nightmares.
Kwiss looked at me with wide eyes, and opened his mouth to ask a question. Then he closed it with a snap. His shoulders sagged and he let out a heavy sigh, then shook his head in frustrated confusion. Finally, he trudged toward his room with his hands jammed into his pants pockets.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm going to my room and lay down," Kwiss said wearily. "All these dads make my head hurt."
Home Alone
The first day of school is always a manic and bitter sweet time. And no first day is ever quite like the one which the youngest child is sent into the world and Pre-K. Many parents endure this milestone with tears, while others celebrate with margaritas. When I left my little man quietly and calmly taking in his surroundings, I found that I was confounded. For the first time in ten years, I was going to be alone. What was I going to do with myself?
Once I returned home, I stood in the middle of my quiet, empty house and wondered, "What now? What could I possibly do with 6 hours of pester free time? What could I accomplish?
Several things leaped out at me all at once. The carpet needs vacuuming and the kitchen floor needs scrubbing. There are juice and jelly stains on the kitchen wall just begging to be wiped clean. The bathrooms require straightening and wiping down. And there are at least three closets that need to be cleaned out before a poltergeist moves in and starts eating the children. Of course, I could sit down at my computer and work on the pair of novels I'd been plotting all summer.
Of course, there are errands to run too. I am now able to buy groceries in record time, now that I no longer have to explain why we don't need three pounds of chocolate, or run screaming through the store when one of my boys announces that he has to make poopie dirt. I could go to the gym and enjoy an aerobics class uninterrupted by pee-pee breaks and temper tantrums. It is now plausible that I could do volunteer work, or get a paying job.
Yeah, right.
The martians are coming!
Approximately 75 years ago. the radio broadcast of War of the Worlds sent its audience into a panic. Written, directed, and produced by Orson Wells, no one thought that the listening audience would believe that there was a Martian invasion of Earth had occurred. They thought that people would take it for what it was, entertainment. Three generations later, we laugh as we regale each other with stories about the panic our great-grandparents flew into, and we feel superior in our greater sophistication.
Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back. In a few decades, our great-grandchildren will be laughing at us, and recommending heavy medication. Here are two gems of idiotic gossip will have our descendants rolling in the aisles for generations.
Government Death Panels
This rumor surrounds Health Care Reformation. Basically, it claims that the government will set up a council who will decide which senior citizens are worthy of Medicaid benefits. Should some poor soul not meet the rigid standard, than the poor old coot will be left to die of whatever disease gets them first.
I don't know who the delusional freak show that started this one is, but clearly the dude is more interested in being on tv than the facts. Does this turkey actually expect me to believe that the men who run my government are stupid enough to propose such cruelty, much less turn it into law? That's a ridiculous notion, among the dumbest I've ever heard. Politicians are interested in exactly the same thing everyone else is; keeping their jobs. And they know that they aren't going to be able to do that (what with the untaxable incomes and perky benefits) if they let dear old granny drop dead of something stupid like a cold.
The Swine Flu shots will contain 5 times the mercury as regular inoculations
Well, at least no one will die of the swine flu. They'll go barking mad and die of mercury overdose before that happens. All kidding aside, I was so disgusted by this rumor when I heard it that I had a brain fart that lasted for hours. What threw me more than the rumor itself, was the fact that there are people who actually believed it! Never mind that there have been reports about the clinical trials on pregnant women and children, and that there have been no fatalities from it, by mercury poisoning or otherwise. Besides which, any pharmceutical company that produces inoculations with a high mercury content will quickly find themselves bankrupt and brought up on criminal charges.
The conclusions I made are not the result of weeks of research and interviews. They aren't the product of my highly developed mind. It is simple common sense, a virtue I am finding in diminishing supply in today's America. However, if you should choose to believe every tale of the strange and fantastic that comes your way, by all means believe it with all your heart. All you'll do is prove that Darwin was right after all.
Halloween
Halloween began some 2,000 years ago by the Celtic peoples of Ireland, U.K, and Northern France. In those early days, it was referred to as Samhain (Pronounced sow-in), and was observed on November 1rst as a new year festival and an effort to keep the dead in their graves and out of trouble. These festivities began October 31rst, with everyone extinguishing their hearth fires, and going a little bonky from there.
The days between the harvest and the first freeze was an anxious time for these guys, and they had a few things to be worried about. There was always a chance that the crops would get moldy (producing psychotic hallucinations in the populace) and the possibility that the neighbors would turn hostile and make off with all their food before burning the place to the ground. Then, just to add some spice to the paranoia they suffered from, the Celts decided that this was the perfect time for the dead to come back and cause all kinds of trouble for the living. So, they did what any self respecting pagan did. They made a serious effort to appease their absent-minded and morally ambiguous gods.
On October 31rst, the day when the boundaries of life and death were at their fuzziest, the Druids gathered the average Celtic villager to their town square/open field/convenient spot, and lit a big ole bonfire. The villagers brought forth sacrifices of crops and livestock and tossed it into the fire (or community pot, depending on where they lived). To make certain that those pesky dead people didn't cause any problems while the living were out having a good time, they donned creepy costumes of animal skins and heads to scare them off. Through out the night, they laughed, they danced, and they made merry, while the Druids made prayers and told fortunes. At sunrise, the Celts re-lit their home fores with embers from the bonfire before going to bed, feeling hung over and pleased that they'd managed to make the gods happy for the next year.
Then, those bothersome Romans showed up and started conquering everybody. By 43 A.D, they had almost every Celtic region subdued, and to make the locals feel better about it, added a few of their traditions to Samhain. The first was Feralia (Roman Memorial Day), which was also held in late October. The second was the festival of Pomona, goddess of fruit and trees. Her particular symbol was an apple, and so that fruit became a staple of Samhain and harvest festivals all over Europe. It is from those days that the tradition of bobbing for apples began (probably).
At some point around 800 A.D, the Christians decided to get involved. For years they had been trying to convert the troublesome and stubborn pagans to their faith, with little luck. The Pagans simply couldn't join up with a bunch of uptight monks, who couldn't see the value of keeping the dead in the ground where they belonged, and the joy of a really good bonfire blow-out. The monks finally caught on to this, and so they bent a little and combined pagan tradition with Christian beliefs. They declared October 31rst All-hallows Eve, and November 1rst All Saints' Day. Eventually, because the Church loves it when things happen in threes, they tossed in All Souls' Day on November 2nd. And so, a good time was had by all; minus the fortune telling and pagan worship, of course.
As the centuries rolled by, the practice or carving scary faces into vegetables and gourds to scare off demons became another way to decorate the family home. Adolescents who dressed up in costumes to vandalize their neighbors and frighten the dog evolved to something that was more often practiced by smaller children to be cute and have fun. Even the call of 'Trick or Treat' became less about extorting protection money from perfect strangers, and more about indulging strange costumed kids willy-nilly. And now, the adults are less afraid of ghosts and ghoulies, and far more interested in being the things that go bump in the night.
A wormhole to Tennesee
No one can get lost like me. I can leave the house, confidant of my destination with careful directions in hand, and still manage to find myself crossing the Tennessee border a half hour later. I don't know how this happens, it just does. When this occurs I am forced to pull over at a seedy roadside gas station, where a gap toothed attendant knows my name, and call my husband so he can guide me home. Then, for the next few weeks, my husband gets the joy of relating yet another amusing tale about how I got lost going south and wound up north in Tennessee.
I am convinced that my accidental trips to Chattanooga and Chickamauga Lake is the result of a traveling wormhole. I live in north west Georgia, in a small city a full hour south of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Most trips require that I get on the interstate and go south before getting off and taking long and winding roads to my goal. Inevitably, once I begin the last leg of what should have been a short errand, the wormhole swoops upon me and swallows me up, car and all. It always drops me in Tennessee, and I always arrive in thirty minutes, leaving me wondering what had just happened, and boggling the minds of any of my passengers.
Most recently, I once more encountered the wormhole on Marietta Highway in Canton, Ga. Last week, as I was helping out my brother, I found myself cruising up and down a five mile stretch in a desperate attempt to avoid getting sucked in and spat out a hundred miles from where I wanted to be. My flight lasted more than 45 minutes as I searched for my brother's address and fled the press of the strange phenomena pursuing me with cosmic malice. In the end victory was mine as I made a sharp left hand turn by the church, and sped down the narrow gravel road littered with rednecks.
If only I could learn to harness and control the power of this wormhole. Imagine the green benefits that could be discovered through study and use of phenom of quantum physics. There would be fewer carbon monoxide emissions from cars, and the use of fossil fuels would be diminished. Even better than significantly lowering my carbon footprint is the huge gobs of money I would make in the tourist industries. Even if the wormhole could only go to Tennessee, there are still people who want to go there to see Dollywood, the Smokey Mountains, and Appalachia.
Now if only I could figure out a way to make the bugger do what I wanted it to do...
War!!!!
It was a Wednesday evening when it began, and I had decided that it was a good time to do my weekly shopping trip. I headed down to our local Super Wal-Mart to purchase the various things we would need for the next seven days. My daughter Julie decided to come along so that we might enjoy some "girl time" without the interference of her Dad and brothers. We arrived in high spirits and full of girlish glee, happy to be out and about together. We wandered the isles, picking up the things we needed, gossiping about Julie's school friends, and doing our best to stay out of the way of other customers.
As we were contemplating the virtues of light ranch dressing versus the regular stuff, a middle aged woman covered in designer labels entered the isle, pushing her cart like a NASCAR driver. We ignored her as she approached, our shopping cart was parked flush with the shelves, and Julie and I stood as close to the salad dressing as we could without actually climbing onto the shelves. We were confidant that we were well out of the way, and Designer Labels would be able to go about her business without incident.
Suddenly, Julie squealed in pain and grasped at her ankles with tears springing to her eyes. Startled, I looked down at her feet and saw that her slender ankles had been scraped and were bleeding profusely. As I hurried to my 11 year old daughter's side, I looked around for the cause of her injury. My eyes locked with Designer Label's cold gaze, and her heavily lipsticked mouth curled in contempt.
"Well, why doesn't she just watch where the f*** she is going!" she snapped haughtily. I admit, her response had me floored. It took several seconds for me to wrap my brain around the heartless assault on my daughter's ankles, and the remorseless reaction of the perpetrator. Then my brain snapped like a tightly coiled string, and I let out a series of profane curses that silenced Julie's cries of pain and left Designer Label speechless. Enraged, I continued my tirade, calling the awful woman every name in the book, and then creating a few new ones. By the time I had expelled my anger, Designer Labels was in tears and running for cover.
While this is the worst incident my family and I have endured, this was not an isolated event. Since then, I have had my backside striped with bruises from being raked by shopping carts driven by little old ladies, I've been stalked (using the loosest definition) by lewd college boys, and I have been forced to fling my children and myself out of the way as shiny new cars sped the wrong way through the parking lot while someone's grandparent gave me the finger. My husband has been caught in the crossfire of lover's quarrels and come close to being struck by flying beer bottles, and nearly run over by cars backing out of parking spaces.
Therefore, I have declared war.
From here on out, I declare that any individual twelve years of age or older, and in otherwise good mental health, will now be subject to a calling out, verbal assault, or outright humiliation whenever they do something rude. Rude is defined as inflicting physical pain upon my children, my person, and my spouse; as well as destruction or theft of property. Foul language that is directed at me and mine and blocking traffic will be met with as much embarrassment that is required until such behavior is ceased.
I will also report a casualty list once a week at the end of every blog. This week's casualty list include:
8 teenagers- humiliated for blocking exit and ignoring three polite requests to move their conversation aside to allow me to pass.
1 woman, approximately 80 years old- assailed with my horn as she drove nearly 40 miles an hour in the wrong lane in the parking lot. One finger salute returned.
Why I haven't been blogging
I have to admit it, I've been neglecting my blog. There has been months and months of time to go about looking for the strange and goofy things that people do. In that time, I could have written, perfected, and found a punchline for all 12 people who read this blog a dozen times over. I suppose you're wondering why I didn't do my job.
I could tell you that I've had migraines for the last 10 months, but I've been posting regularly on Facebook during that time. I could tell you that Kwiss and Sonic have been causing too much trouble and I've been too irritated to be funny. I could even complain that I got leprosy and my arm fell off. But that would be lying, and the 6 of you who love me don't deserve that kind of treatment. (The other 6 who hate me, can kiss my butt.)
The real reason for my laziness, my deficiency of humor, and my general lack of anything intelligent to talk about can be blamed on one thing, video games. I have been seduced by the flashing lights and bright colors moving across the screen. I am hypnotized by the soothing sounds of gunfire and the screams of the digital dying. Certainly with such amusing distractions so easily accessible, I am not to blame. How can I be?
I have sat hunched on the floor in front of the T.V. until my back grew a hump. My fingers which were once so manicured, are now cramped with the tell-tale calluses of junkies on each thumb. My brain no longer functions in the real world; all that it can think about is finding a way to splatter my husband with a rocket launcher. I wander through the house with my trigger finger twitching and yelling "BLAM!" whenever one of my children turn a corner. Every time I hear music I expect to be eaten, shot, or blessed by a scantily clad fairy. I drive my car gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles strain under my skin in desperation as I struggle to make it to the finish line first.
I have not showered or groomed myself. The five-year-old will not come near me. I have shadows darkening the flesh beneath my eyes. This morning Sonic screamed in terror when I tried to feed him breakfast. Later on he told his Pre-K teacher that there was a flesh eating zombie living at his house. I arrived at his school to pick him up and was confronted by his teacher.
"Did you know that your son thinks that there are monsters in your house?" she asked.
"Really?" I gasped, uncertain of where my son could have gotten such idea in his head. "He hasn't said a word to me. He just sits on the couch and plays video games with me."
The teacher eyed me judgmentally. "Sonic told the entire class about it and none of them would sleep at nap time. Then they all made shanks at arts and crafts then assaulted the lunch lady."
Needless to say, that conversation didn't end well for me.
I can no longer make decisions for myself. Yesterday I stood staring hopelessly into the refrigerator for several minutes. My husband then appeared.
"BLAM!" I yelled.
He gave me an annoyed look and asked, "Why are you standing in front of the open fridge?"
"Seems like I should be doing something." I muttered. My husband glances at the clock.
"It's almost time for dinner, why don't you make a nice salad?" He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.
"BANG!" I yell, trigger finger twitching.
I barely slept all month. Indeed, I am so sleep deprived that I've begun to hallucinate. I see barbarians traipsing through my living room. Elves work side by side in the kitchen with genetically enhanced soldiers of the future.
"Hon, why is there chains wrapped around the toilet?" My husband asks.
"Because there is a gnome living in it," I reply, not looking away from the T.V. where my battle against dark gods is playing out to a gory finale.
"A gnome?" My husband repeats, scratching his head in confusion.
"I was worried that it might attack the children, so I locked it in."
"Well, could you take the chain off? Julie has to use the bathroom."
How can I possibly blog under such harsh conditions? How can I be expected to be funny and intelligent while their are gnomes living in my toilet? What is to blame for the fiasco that is now my life? Video games of course!
Invisible people
I began this blog early this morning, intending to state my views on illegal immigration with dignity and intelligence. I wanted to take a journalistic approach, educating myself on the subject, presenting the facts from both sides, and presenting credible sources so that everyone who read it would be better informed so that they could form a better opinion for themselves. Four hours later, as I was flipping from the New York Times, the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the Commission for Illegal Studies websites, I realized that there were about three guys in London who actually read this thing, and I decided that it wasn't worth the sweat and anxiety.
So just let me just state what I think of illegal immigration and let you three English guys get on with your day.
Everyone knows why governments dislike illegal immigration. It raises taxes on their citizens, wreaks havoc with the health care system, and much of the money meant to stay in the borders is mailed to other countries to support those economies while contributing to the economic collapse of the host country. Of course there is always the "Job Issue". Illegals do get jobs, and they do them for less pay. However, I will never understand why anyone would bitch about foreigners 'stealing' that career in fruit picking. Maybe its more glamorous than it looks, because I've seen the benefits package and it sucks.
Anyway, there are definite drawbacks to being invisible in America, the greatest of which is that there is almost no justice for you. If some psychotic jumps on you and cuts you up into little bits, the cops don't know who you are. They don't know where you came from, and they don't know who your family is. Without knowing the answers to these vital clues, finding leads to the murderer is three times more difficult than necessary. Often, these murders go unsolved, and the unfortunate victim, who had once nurtured hopes of a better life, is resigned to a pauper's grave with a cheap plague engraved with the surname Doe.
The Invisible also run the risk of becoming slaves, indentured servants, and prostitutes. Usually this occurs in the course of being a victim of human trafficking and smuggling, and individuals caught in this web will often stay tangled in it for years. If they are rescued, deportation is a relief after a decade of torture and rape that had become their fate.
Try as I could, I could not locate consistent statistics on any of these crimes. The reason is that the people who should know when and why these things happen don't have the information. I wish I could say that it is simply a case of incompetence, because if that were the case, then it could be easily repaired with hiring and firing. But the real reason why there are no true statistics is because they don't know. The few people who know the names of these lost souls are very often invisible themselves, and they don't want to be deported. So the survivors and the sufferers linger in the background, allowing these hideous injustices to go on, and permitting the killing and enslavement of more innocents.
I do understand the desperation that drives people to slink across borders in the shadows of night. I understand what crushing poverty, lack of health care, and corruption in government can do to the human soul. I also understand that there are vicious predators in every country, including my own. If a person wants a better life, keep your visibility at all costs and go with one of these two options:
1) Immigrate legally. Yes it's a pain in the ass, and you have to jump through hoops and red tape until you're fingers bleed and your eyeballs drop out. At least your new home knows you're here and can help you when you need it, and people will admit to knowing you.
2)Stay home and change things there. Sure your government may be full of homicidal despots, and the guy over seeing water purity is the retarded son of the local jackass governor; and it's true that they have more guns and a meaner temper, but that doesn't mean you can't get a group of your best buddies together and resolve things without blood shed. Yes it will be very difficult, and it will take a very long time, and you will probably learn to play "Kick-A-Thug", but it can be done. Nothing worth having is ever easy.
Want to give me crap regarding my views? Great! Before you open your mouth and talk through your butt, check out my sources.
www.nytimes.com
www.cis.org
www.ice.gov
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Casualties this week: 0
I'm trying very hard not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The Last Week of summer
The last week of summer vacation is always a time of high anxiety in my house hold, and we all have our ways of coping. For my part, I run around like a chicken with my head cut off making sure that the kids are ready for their first day of school. I buy school supplies by the truck load (thank you to my in-laws for the help!) I move the house hold budget from summer to school year, and I start clearing away the assorted fire hazards that have developed behind the television and in closets. There are school orientations to attend, teachers to meet, and daily recitals from my children about the proper behavior in the classroom.
For my eldest child Julie, this year was especially nerve wracking. She is starting the sixth grade and that means Junior High. She was delighted when I told her that she may wear a little bit of make up, and after hours of contemplation of the cosmetic department at Wal-mart, she settled on a lip gloss the exact same shade as her lips. She also decided that clothes were something she wore so she won't be naked, and chose clothing with patterns and colors so painful that they induce migraines. She discovered that her curly blonde hair had become curlier so that it sprang from her scalp in long spirals in what has been affectionately called a 'Euro-fro'.
Kwiss discovered a new skill. While sitting at the kitchen table playing games with Sonic, Kwiss picked up a butter knife left from lunch and chopped the head off of a nearby fly, impressing everyone. In the following days, Kwiss has made his rounds through the house, decapitating flies with ever increasing ease while venting his spleen. At the end of every day, he announces the number of flies he has killed, and informs me that the green ones are the easiest to destroy. I respond by telling him to put the knife in the dishwasher, and sweeping up the evidence of an insect genocide occuring within my house.
Poor Sonic is entering Kindergarten and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He is excited about the prospect of riding the bus with his brother and sister, and getting to do all the things that he's been hearing about his entire life. On the other hand, he's fearful of being without Mommie for a long period of time. To cope, he has taken to turning off video games while Kwiss is still playing them and provoking his brother into chicken mode. He tumbles along the furniture, hides in the hall closet so he can leap out and scare anyone who walks by, and he follows his brother EVERYWHERE.
As for my husband, he deals with the changing season the same way he always does. He works hard, pays the bills, and hands over the money. Then he just sits back and watches the show, ready to sooth hurt egos and frazzled nerves whenever possible. When it isn't possible, he sends us all to our rooms so he can enjoy some peace and quiet.
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Casualty list: 0
People actually managed to be nice this week. Happy day!
The great and amazing Kwiss
Of my three children, I have to say that my middle child Kwiss, is the most out going and adventurous. He is a rambunctious 8 year-old who is always on the move...fast. Whether he is going to his best friend's house, or just going down stairs, Kwiss does it as a dead run. As a consequence, Kwiss gets hurt quite often. Since he has learned to walk (or is it run?) he has fallen onto furniture, down the stairs, over rocks and tree roots, and more often than he is willing to admit, nothing at all. We have watched in open astonishment many a moment as our sweet son sails through the air with greatest of ease, like a superhero making his rounds through my living room. Due to the risk of serious head injuries, we no longer keep a coffee table.
Walking and running is not the only thing Kwiss does quickly. He speaks quickly too, and with his speech impediment, it makes for some strange conversations. There has been many frustrated talks where Kwiss bursts into my office in full "chicken mode" to announce that a meteor is dancing with the roof, or gleefully relating a tale of intrigue and mayhap that involves a, "Pwerpl neena and a specowd mows". I still don't know what he was talking about there.
On occasion, Kwiss does take the time to just sit still and think. I have passed by the open door of his room and saw him sitting on the floor, chin propped in his hand and thinking. I consider him for just a moment as I wonder what is rolling around his brain before I continue on my way. I know that it won't be long before he reveals the things that weigh heavily on his mind. For instance when he was 5, he once flooded the bathroom in an experiment meant to save water. Apparently it needed rescuing from the drain. The experiment failed as the water escaped into the laundry room downstairs.
We have also learned that batteries rust when you pull the plastic labels off of them, and once they do, they can set a Wii controller on fire. On the day that occurred, Kwiss presented me with the offending devise; holding it out at arm's length while it sparked and smoked at the connectors. Apparently, the battery had corroded to the point that some of the contents leaked out of the seal making the whole thing flammable. There was much squeaking and shouting as Kwiss hit chicken mode and I pried the battery out with a chopstick. Oddly enough, the controller survived. Go figure.
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This week's casualties:
1 Man in India- called me twice a day for a month to ask me if Dorothy Matteson is here. Cannot seem to understand the words, "You have the wrong number." Understood the word "lawsuit" just fine. Hasn't called me since.
2 Driver who got all up on me (southern for tailgating close enough to read his text messages) while on HWY 41- Ignored driver and continued at 5 miles over speed limit until I reached construction zone. I slowed to 25 mph. Driver freaked out and brained self with cell phone.
Old enough to know better, too young to give a crap
A few days ago, I turned 35. Ordinarily, I greet each birthday with nonchalance as I go on with the certainty that the change in my age will have little to do with my status in the world. For the last 14 years, I have been defined as a young, married mother of three, and as someone who defines herself within those boundaries. Most of my time is spent in the tasks of housekeeping and child rearing, with little thought to how the passage of time will change my perception of myself and my reality. Over the weekend, as I was stuck in grocery store traffic, I allowed my mind to wander far enough to contemplate my age.
To my utter amazement, I realized that a few definitions of myself had changed, quite literally, over night. For instance, if I was eaten by a bear tomorrow the newspaper reporting my demise would describe me as "a mother of three young children", rather than my accustomed "young mother of three". According to the E! channel, I am now old enough to move from the pert and perky status of "kitten" and onto the somewhat more predatory title of "cougar". And according to my OB/GYN, I have taken those first tentative steps toward the the title of "Pre-Menopausal Female". When I say something stupid, people no longer look upon me kindly and tell me that I'm too young to know better. Now I'm just a moron.
I have also achieved new status within the realm of commerce. In the 5 days since my birthday, I have been bombarded with advertisements announcing the newest technologies invented to help me fight the free radicals conspiring to destroy my skin and my precious beauty. Who are these free radicals? Are they some new kind of fascist terrorist group bent on world domination? Is there some kind of Siolent Green conspiracy I need to warn my mother about? Why is Oil of Olay the only group fighting this battle? I try not to worry. Any terrorist group that can be foiled by a heavy lotion can't be all that dangerous.
I have noticed some physical changes as well. My youngest son hugged me yesterday and informed me that my boobs smell funny when I'm sweaty. A push up bra is no longer something that enhances my cleavage, but rather an industrial strength garment I stuff my ta-tas into after I roll them up in the morning. I tried on a pair of cute low rider jeans and discovered that I could achieve a taut, flat stomach if I tuck my belly skin past the waistband. While my butt seems to have escaped the ravages of cellulite and sagging, (so far anyway) I do possess an impressive set of stretch marks that make me look like I've been mauled by something big and hungry.
Not everything about 35 is bad. I learned yesterday that my auto insurance premiums will lower temporarily. For the next 5 years, after which my eldest child will turn 16, I will enjoy a responsible driver discount because I am now a fully developed adult. Sadly, In May 2015 I will lose that benefit. Research done by my insurance company shows that a 16 year old daughter will render me too mentally impaired to operate a vehicle safely until 2027, when my youngest child graduates from college. My opinions are considered now, so I have to go and get some. And according to latest economic research, I am now a member of the most powerful consumer demographic in the country. If only I had the cash to exercise that power.
Time marches on, and it takes me with it. I am now growing in wisdom, but still expected to be spritely and energetic. I am to pick my battles, and deal with conflict in a reasonable manner. I am responsible and fully functioning, but still loads of raunchy fun. I am old enough to know better, but still to young to give a crap.
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Casualty list: 0
Becoming paranoid.
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.06.2011
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