Taking Care Of Business, Part 2

I got my first complaint letter. Over a toilet seat, no less.


Dear Madam,

I am urinated off. On your toiletetty essay, I asked a legitimate question. To wit: Why don't women put the seat up for US? You ignored it and made an alternative smart-ass remark.

My complaint is this. I have asked the same legitimate question of other women AND I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN AN ANSWER. You FEMALES refuse to answer it. Every one of you pushes your IGNORE button.

So who died and made YOU the Queen of the Bathroom?

Signed,

I took a squirt on the lid again



Dear Sir Squirt,

It's my blog. I can make any kind of alternative smart-ass comments I want. So there.

I will however, turn off the mute button for a moment to answer your questions.

1. Toilet seats have lids for a reason. They're not there to decorate the front of the tank.

2. My husband aims quite well. My sons aren't so great at it. Unless you wipe the rim after each use, others risk having to view stray drops or even worse, a stray drop with a pube stuck in it.

It's especially nasty (and embarrassing) if it's in a bathroom that guests also use.

3. Lids keep pets from drinking toilet water, especially if someone hasn't (gak!) flushed, or if you use those fizzy blue tablets with bleach in the bowl. And they keep small children from falling in.

4. It's common sense. You turn the light on, you turn it off when you're done. You open the door to go out, and close it behind you. You lift the seat/lid up, you put it down when you're done. What's so hard about that? Were you born in a barn? Huh? Were ya?

5. Women use the seat down to do #1 and #2.

Men (hopefully) use the seat down to do #2 and usually do a #1 when they do a #2, because it would be pretty freaking stoopid to drop a load and then stand up and turn around and lift the seat to make one's bladder gladder, now wouldn't it?

But then again, you're men. What do I know?

So theoretically, 3/4 of the time the toilet seat is used down. Why subject someone you love to pure inconsideration for the other 1/4?

And I bet dollars to donuts that the next time you race in the bathroom after eating one of Bubba's Belly Buster Burritos, you'll be happy we don't leave the seat up for ya.

6. My husband hopes to have sex with me sometime in the next century. Damn right he made me Queen.

Smooches,

Attila the Mom

Taking Care Of Business

This week marks the end of Spring Break. My oldest is home from his first year at college, and my 14-year-old nephew came to visit. We watched movies, went 4-wheeling, ate out, went shopping for cds and big kid's first tailored suit.

I get 2 more days to bask in the delightful companionship of four of the most important men in my life.

I just have one complaint.

Would it kill any of you to put the @$#&*@$%!! toilet seat down once in awhile?


Ode de Toilet (The Toilet Song)
By Brad Paisley

She says not to buy her flowers
Or big expensive gifts
She says she don't want jewelry
And she doesn't need another dress
If I want to show her how much I adore her
The best way that I've found
Is to make sure when I'm finished
I put that toilet seat down

Brad, if this keeps up, I'm ditching the guys and moving in with you.

Let's Just Have a Big Book Burning And Get It All Over With

During the late 1990's, in the New York Central Park Zoo, two male penguins who were a "little bit different"--meaning they built a nest and tried to hatch a rock together--were given an abandoned egg to nurture.

Adoption isn't an unusual occurrence in the animal world, and male penguins incubating eggs and taking care of offspring certainly isn't a strange phenomenon either.

Adelie penguin pairs take turns incubating, and take turns feeding and guarding for predators. Gentoo and Pinstrap penguins have similar breeding habits.

The male Emperor Penguin, on the other hand, takes over all incubating duties and warms the single egg between his feet and his belly for around 2 months. Now THAT'S a daddy!

Authors Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson wrote a book about the New York city penguin adoption called And Tango Makes Three.

Predictably, two libraries (both in
Missouri) pulled the book from the children's section and put it in the "non-fiction" section, because some parents were "concerned" that the book "has homosexual undertones" and as an obvious correlation, promotes "homosexual adoption".

Before I go on, I need to put something out here first and foremost.

In my opinion, there is so much soul-eating malignant hate in this world---cultural, racial, religious, etc---that I sure as hell don't have the time or inclination to get my panties in a twist over who people love.

It's my belief, and the belief of many, that we are all God's children, and He has plans for each and every one of us.

That said--the uber-religious-right believes that homosexuality is a human choice, and not a biological trait some are born with or something that God planned.

So I wonder...if that's true, why worry about gay penguins? If homosexuality is a conscious choice, do we really believe that same-sex animals are checking each other out and saying "hmmm...I want to get me some of this!"?

Why not reasonably surmise that this instinctual nesting and adoption behavior in penguins is hard-wired into them for the survival of their species?


Ok, yes, once when I was a kid, we had an aggressive Lhasa Apso that we thought was gay, because he tried to hump every dog he came in contact with and once climbed up and humped my brother's head while he was taking a nap on the couch. We later learned that it was an alpha dog thing, kind of a dog version of a Napoleon Complex. The goal wasn't sex, it was domination.

This whole mess also makes me wonder how many of these "concerned" parents park their kids in front of Sesame Street each day.

I mean seriously. Bert and Ernie are 3 years shy of their 40th anniversary together--
which is longer than most marriages have lasted nowadays.

Anyone who hasn't considered that maybe the Rubber Duckie has "two daddies" needs to pull their head out of their butts.

As far as the worry about "gay adoption" goes, as an adoptee, these are my sincere thoughts:

According to the Evan B.Donaldson Institute, which is widely considered to be the leader in adoption statistics and information, in 1999 (the latest year stats were available), there were about 127,000 kids in the foster system free for adoption.

In some states, like Florida, they don't care if gays are foster parents, but God Forbid! they should be allowed to adopt the kids they are raising.

The uber-religious-right talks a good talk. I even grant that they are sincere in their beliefs.

But if they are so intent on banning gays from adopting (ala the recent Catholic Charities decision to end their adoption services rather than place a child who has special needs in a loving home with parents who might be--gasp--queer!), then they better be willing to open their homes and provide loving and safe "forever families" for every single one of those available kids who are languishing in foster care.

Because it's all about the children. Right?

Why am I not convinced?

Parents On The Verge....

Our youngest, who I first wrote about in My Husband The Hemorrhoid, isn't a big TV watcher. He has a few inexplicable favorites, like Charmed and The Golden Girls which he prefers to watch on DVD over and over again, but he has always found commercials and infomercials (current favorite is the Magic Bullet) more interesting.

He's also big on "following the rules". Whenever he's in a new situation--a new class, a new game, a new activity, he's uncomfortable until the rules are spelled out in black and white--to help him understand what is expected of him.

So when the "nanny shows"---Super Nanny and Nanny 911---came out, he was in hog heaven. Shows where nannies set codes of conduct and restore order in chaotic homes. Nannies make angels out of bad boys and girls. Oh Bliss!

Hubby and I aren't fond of reality shows. Watching people in real life humiliating themselves and/or the people they love isn't entertainment for us. It's torture.

But since little guy found a couple of shows that he wants us to watch together as family, we've decided to grin and bear it.

I just gotta say it...

Holy shit!

Where do they find these people?

Last night on Nanny 911, Nanny Stella was treated to a family of 5, with a 6-year-old who bit her, pinched her and spat in her face (and tells his bus driver to "eff-off").

Meanwhile, slovenly Mommy--who has her ample spandexed ass permanently welded to the couch while she shovels pizza into her maw and ignores her kids--tells the camera how much she resents Nanny coming in and critiquing her parenting skills.

What parenting skills? And how much is the show paying you to display what a grotesque pig of a person you are to a national audience? While you're at it, take a shower for Chrissakes!

On one hand it's easy to feel superior when watching these shows.

On the other, it's appalling to witness some of the parenting faux-pas I have made over the years being re-enacted on the screen. I find myself sneaking looks at my family wondering if they too have recognized some of my early blunders.

Looks like I'm going to have to be on my toes from now on!

Just Can't Take My Word For It....

That silly man Sven read my previous post about Bertie Bott's and wrangled his whole fam damily into participating into a taste test of their own.

You can read all about it here at: Sven The Culinary Sadist's Memos .

I Guess I'll Go Eat Worms

Since I already stuck my toe in the grossology pond with boogers yesterday, I thought I'd risk one more little foray before backing out of the topic completely (at least for the time being).

So again, a warning. If you're easily grossed-out, run away. Run far, far away. No mercy if you stick around.

My family loves Harry Potter. Yes, I know that puts us in the "Sheeple" category, but we just don't care.

Who wouldn't find a mystical world--where some of life's problems could be solved by a potion or a wave of a magic wand, appealing---at least in fantasy?

If that makes us Satan's Spawn, then so be it.

A couple of years ago during the holidays, my nephew was visiting, and I bought all the guys Bertie Bott's Flavor Beans from a big display at the grocery store.

For the Muggles who must live in caves and aren't up on Potter-lore--in the books and movies--Bott's Flavor Beans are jelly beans that come in surprise flavors. They range from the sublime (Toasted Marshmallow) to the grotesque (Vomit).

Jelly Belly, the company that reportedly was the favorite jelly bean brand of former President Ronald Reagan, got the contract to produce Bertie Bott's Flavor Beans in the US.

Ok, call me naive, but I thought that the gross flavors would really be like lime flavor masquerading as "spinach", or licorice disguised as "black pepper". I know I was brought up in the era of "Slime" and "Garbage Pail Kids" trading cards, but those weren't actually items that were meant to be consumed.


Slap me upside the head with a cluestick for being such a dumbass.

The flavor guide doesn't actually encompass all of the available flavors. There are more, such as earthworm, rotten egg, soap, spaghetti and bacon.

A jelly bean with the essence of smoked pork. Oh joy.

So, silly Moi, I ate a vomit-flavored bean.

Yes. It tasted like a tiny, chewy nugget of barf.

Not your "I had one too many tequila shots with lime and salt" kind of hurl, but more like your garden variety "I was just minding my own business, had a bit of fettucine, and some inconsiderate ass who was hoarding his sick days came to work ill and infected me with the stomach flu and I projectile vomited for 24 hours" kind of ralphage.

I even tried a soap-flavored one, which brought back childhood memories of getting my mouth washed out when I dropped the f-bomb. Blech.

I didn't have the guts to try anything else.

And neither did my guys. Wussies, every single one of them.

So, as a Bertie Bott's veteran, what I want to know is:

How in the HELL do they know what ear wax and dirt is supposed to taste like, and who in the HELL do they get to do the taste testing?

I'm serious. Are there professional taste-testers for this kind of thing?

"I don't know about you Chuck, but I think these vomit beans could do with another flavorful squirt of stomach acid!"

What about earthworms? Is some guy
(because I doubt a woman would ever be stupid enough to take this job, sex discrimination bedamned!) comparing a plate of the real thing against the product?

"Gee, this earthworm-flavored bean just doesn't have the same smoky, piquant and mulchy taste as these squirmy little guys right here!"


And now we've come full circle--back to boogers.

Since mucus--and boogers--are products of our bodies, wouldn't they (in theory) be affected by our personal environments and what we eat?

You know what I mean. If you eat garlic, your breath secretes a garlic odor. If you eat burritos or cabbage, the rambling pandambling phaduckas that fly out of your butt have your own special joie de vivre.

To me, the logical conclusion would probably be that the Bott's booger bean taste tester is prolly working off his own samples.

At least I would sincerely hope so.

"Mmm, yeah, that tastes right!"

So in effect, those who dare to eat Bertie Bott's Booger Flavor Beans are probably partaking in a taste of someone else's snot.

Don't get mad at me. I'm just taking this to its ugly, inevitable and obvious conclusion.

I think I'm going to fast for a week.

Want to join me?

A Booger a Day....

This post comes with a warning. If you're easily grossed-out or offended, hit the back button NOW. I mean it.

Let me start off by saying that I didn't begin the day with the intent on writing about boogers.

I know I wrote about schnozzes a couple of weeks ago, but it's not a fetish. I just read a lot of news and sometimes topics seem to well--you know--jump up and bite me on the nose.

I was reading some "Top Ten Lists" yesterday and came across one about "10 Weird Science Facts", which included a factoid about how eating boogers can be good for you.

No way. This has got to be a joke. Eww. Double eww.

At the risk of embarrassing my big kid, who is now in college and has a girlfriend--when he was a little boy, this used to be one of his more disgusting habits.

Once I remarked, "You know, I don't imagine I'd like to eat something that came out of my nose."

He said, "You should try it! It's good!"

So this morning I decided to google Mucophagy (betcha didn't know there was a name for it!) to see if there was more information than just an anecdote on a Top 10 List.

I found this on Ananova:


Top doc backs picking your nose and eating it

Picking your nose and eating it is one of the best ways to stay healthy, according to a top Austrian doctor.

Let's stop right there and put this into a little perspective. This doctor comes from a country that has a village named F*cking.

Innsbruck-based lung specialist Prof Dr Friedrich Bischinger said people who pick their noses with their fingers were healthy, happier and probably better in tune with their bodies.

Dare I say it?

You could probably say the same about people who aren't afraid to masturbate as well.

He says society should adopt a new approach to nose-picking and encourage children to take it up.

Take it up? Like soccer? The chess club?

Dr Bischinger said: "With the finger you can get to places you just can't reach with a handkerchief, keeping your nose far cleaner.

That's what they make those plastic squirty bottles for, Buster!

"And eating the dry remains of what you pull out is a great way of strengthening the body's immune system.

Dry remains? On the gross-out scale, this ranks up there with living with a corpse for 2 1/2 years!

"Medically it makes great sense and is a perfectly natural thing to do. In terms of the immune system the nose is a filter in which a great deal of bacteria are collected, and when this mixture arrives in the intestines it works just like a medicine.

Sounds like you can achieve the same end by licking the floor of a bus station bathroom. And it's just as appealing.

"Modern medicine is constantly trying to do the same thing through far more complicated methods, people who pick their nose and eat it get a natural boost to their immune system for free."

I guess it would be cheaper than Flintstones vitamins.

He pointed out that children happily pick their noses, yet by the time they have become adults they have stopped under pressure from a society that has branded it disgusting and anti social.

Yeah, as if anyone would like to kiss a person who has booger breath.

He said: "I would recommend a new approach where children are encouraged to pick their nose. It is a completely natural response and medically a good idea as well."

And he pointed out that if anyone was really worried about what their neighbor was thinking, they could still enjoy picking their nose in private if they still wanted to get the benefits it offered.

I'll be back later.

I need to get some Lysol and scrub the visuals from my brain now.

The Sporadic Gasbag Review---Artificial Intelligence

It's time for the Sunday Trumpet!

The ever-fabulous Rhonda stepped up to the plate and agreed to write our very first Sporadic Gasbag Roundtable review!

If ever there was an expensive, high-tech, and craptastic waste of three hours, I think we could definitely put Artificial Intelligence in the top 10.

You can catch Rhonda's review on her blog: Rhonda's Ruminations .

If you're interested in joining our Sporadic Gasbag Roundtable review team, you can find the rules and sign up here!

Lookie Loos Gone Wild

Spring is in the air. It's almost time for little birdies to start building their nests and the crocuses to push their leaves and blossoms through the snow to say hello to the sun.

Soon the kids will be on spring break. It's almost the time for Easter eggs and bunnies.

...And it's almost the time for Lookie Loos Gone Wild.

When I was a kid, there used to be a Realty commercial that featured "The Lookie Loos".

Cartoony-Ziggy-ish characters poking their enormous noses into every nook and cranny of open houses with no intention to buy. If I recall correctly, they never spoke, but grunted a lot.

Now with spring comes the dreaded Lookie Loo season.

Let me explain.

We live in one of many mountain communities that abut national forests.

The entrances to our developments are clearly marked with kitschy monikers like "Seven Lakes Homesteads" along with "Private Drive" and "No Outlet" signs.

Which means there is one way in and one way out. This road isn't a thru-way to anywhere.

Each lot is around 2 acres, so although we're a bit spread-out, it's not like we're living in the wilderness. We're within screaming range of our nearest neighbors--if say--there's a bear in the garage (true story!).

Every spring, during Lookie Loo season, carloads upon carloads of people drive up and down our road.

Who the heck knows where they come from.

Garden groups? Realty investors? Mom and Dad piling the kids in the car to spend a day driving around looking at houses? I've heard tales of cults that do that.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not an isolationist. It's a road. You have a right to be on it. I don't have a problem with it.

But just stay in your freaking car!

You see, a LOT of Lookie Loos seem to confuse private yards with public parks. Maybe a lack of oxygen in this high altitude is affecting their brains.

While some people would never dream of driving to a suburban neighborhood and picking flowers out of the gardens of absolute strangers--they don't seem to have any problem doing it to mine.

I'm serious.

Our home is only about 50 feet from the road. Yes, we have some trees, but no---you can't miss us.

I'm an avid gardener. Up here at 9000 feet, the growing season is very short, so the flowers we plant have to be chosen carefully and nurtured to thrive in this climate. We put a lot of time and work into it.

Seeing some lady and her daughter get out of their car and pull them out by the roots while their leashless dog is running around crapping in my yard does not make me a happy camper.

Early one Sunday morning, my husband got up, made some coffee and stood in front of our large picture window in his undies.

A woman was looking in our window and waved at him. He nearly plotzed.

One of our neighbors is fortunate enough to have a small pond in the middle of his property. His lot is heavily forested--and the only way to get to the pond is by a little path that runs from his driveway alongside his house into the woods.

Over the years, from time to time, he's found garbage by his pond. It could have been from people. It could have been from bears or raccoons.

He was a little worried that maybe some neighborhood teenagers were using this spot as a party place at night and was concerned about the liability (drunken drowning) issues, so a bunch of years ago, he put up warning signs. Everywhere.

A few years ago he was on his deck and heard voices. He smelled something burning. He went to investigate.

He found a family. Picnicking in his back yard. With beach chairs. Cooking hot dogs on a portable grill. Mom, Dad, Snotleigh and Spot.

They were bewildered when he rousted them. Apparently this had been their picnic spot for years. They had "no idea" it wasn't open to the public.

You mean the "Private Property/No Trespassing signs that were posted all along the path that runs next to his HOUSE weren't clues?

Sheesh.

And people wonder why Colorado has a "Make My Day" law.

It's because of the damn Lookie Loos.

Introducing The Sunday Trumpet

A couple of weeks ago, I was poking around in Charlie Callahan's attic (where I must say, he stores a lot of really oddball stuff) and came across a book review he had written a month or so back.

Of course, being me, my first thought was "Why in the world is Charlie Callahan reading romance novels?"

The second thought was, "Oh my God, I think I wet myself!"

It was brilliant!

It was the kind of review I'd love to read every day. Not one of those sycophantic slobbering types--the ones where after you read the book/see the movie/watch the TV show--you're left scratching your head--wondering "What the hell was so great about that?"

It was catty. It was rude. It was enormously hysterical.

I started thinking about all the really wonderful and humorous writers I've been fortunate to meet in the last couple of months (and even those I haven't met yet) in blogland. Why not invite them to vent and write stinker reviews of their own?

After talking it over with Charlie and a couple of other people, we figured that a team blog wouldn't work, simply because it wouldn't be inclusive if only some people had passwords.

So we put our silly little noggins together and came up with (thank you Rhonda for the fabulous graphic!):

Anyone can join, as long as they follow the rules (or else it would be anarchy, I tell you! Anarchy!)

The Rules:

1. Sign up in the comments section on this entry.

2. Everyone who signs up will be given a date (a Sunday) to supply a review. First come first served.

3. It has to be a review of a movie, a book or a television show you hated.

4. It has to be popular media---nothing really obscure, preferably within the last 5 years, exceptional exceptions accepted. ;-)

5. On Sundays, when the new review comes out, everyone on the list MUST write an entry on their own blogs with the logo (you can copy it from here) and a link to the reviewer's blog. You can write comments about what you thought of it, etc, on your entry if you choose.

Don't be shy! We'd love to have you join us!

So without further delay, I introduce our first official Sporadic Gasbag Roundtable review, courtesy of Mr. Charlie "I'm-not-too-macho-to-read-romance-novels" Callahan.

Roll Me Over, Royce, In My Rolls Royce, review of The MacGregor Brides by Nora Roberts.

Mummy Dearest

I love my mom. She's a wonderful woman.

But if she asked me to prop her corpse up in front of the TV after her death and live in the same house with her until she resurrected herself, I'd take her on a vacation to a nice soft hotel room with a complimentary robe that ties in the back.

A Cincinnati family and caretaker honored Johannas Pope's "wishes" by leaving her dead body in front of a running TV and air conditioner in an upstairs bedroom for 2 1/2 years. The caretaker "visited" Johannas daily, spraying her with air freshener and insecticide to deter maggots as the body decayed and then mummified.

When friends and relatives came to visit, they were told that the corpse was "too ill" to see them. The air conditioner broke 2 months ago, and old Johannas started to get a little stinky. A suspicious relative finally called the police to do a wellness check, and upon investigation, they found---well---Mummy!

No charges have been filed. The county coroner determined that Johannas died of heart disease, and there is no law in Ohio that requires the reporting of a body.

There is just so much wrong with this that I have no idea where to start.


How could any reasonable person live in a house with a decomposing corpse upstairs?

Did any of them ever manage to get a wink of sleep? Every creaking board at night would scare the crap outta me.

If I managed to snooze, I think I'd have nightmares of waking up to see a progressively decaying Mom (ala American Werewolf In London) sitting by my bed waiting to have conversations about Brad and Angelina's latest escapades.

Beyond the "ewww--dead body!" factor, you simply cannot convince me that even with the air freshener and insecticide, there was NO odor up until the time the air conditioner broke down.

How the hell could anybody eat in that house? Is that smell my roasted pork sammich, or is it eau de Mom? Yuck!

And what's with keeping the TV on all the time? Worried that she might miss the latest episode of American Idol?

I wonder if Johannas' house was paid off and caretaker and daughter were living there rent-free. I wonder if some pension or disability check cashing went on there as well--which required a living, breathing Mom to collect.

For the very life of me, I can't think of any other inducement (and even that wouldn't be enough for me!) to live in a house with a corpse.

Then again, maybe they're ALL crazier than sh*thouse rats.

So Mom, it's not that I don't love you dearly, but I hope this dispels any notion of a future move to our spare bedroom.

You might have luck with one of the siblings, though. ;-)

Think Outside The Bun

Since I'm pretty new to the blogging culture, I've been spending some time "sampling" other blogs. It certainly is a smorgasbord out there.

Whether you like your fare spicy, exotic, conventional or comforting, it seems like there's something for everyone. I'm not really a natural writer, but I can lay claim to being a thoughtful and expert reader.

Personally, I don't care for blogs that are daily diaries. Although blogging in itself is essentially a self-indulgent endeavor, I have been amazed at how many people take the self-indulgence part of it to heart.

Good God---other than your mother, do you think anybody else gives a rat's ass that you went to have a wart removed, then came home and watched Dr. Phil?

Your description in the blog directory says "Quirky and unique observations on life, love and parenting".

Ok. So the wart was on your eyeball, and that's mildly unique, but Dr. Phil? That's SO 2004!

I guess I could consider myself a meat eater in the blog buffet. I like blogs that give me something to chew on. But I'm not really a plain steak and potatoes kind of girl. I want some spice as well--something zesty (to make me laugh), something hot (to provoke me), and lots of garlic and onion (to make me cry), if you please.

And some cheesecake smothered in chocolate for dessert. That's just because I was an abandoned child and I think I'm entitled to it.

Recently I was noodling around the Blogger profile links (doing searches on Colorado, where I live, movies I like, and other things that are of interest to me) and found a really great blog at Did I Miss Something?.

The author mixes personal anecdotes, astute and ironic observations, news articles with commentary, and an impressively diverse and interesting array of links. It probably would have taken me months to find "Bitch Ph.D." on my own.

To me, this blog is a truly a satisfying 3-course meal. With dessert.

One totally undiscovered web publication on her link list that has flown under my radar is The Ragged Edge Magazine. For those who have disabilities, or for those who have children who have disabilities, it's a virtual mine of information.

I strongly suggest that every person who has a soul take a minute to read Little Acts Of Degradation, and its companion follow-up Project Cleigh: Dare To Resist.

It's not pretty, but it's powerful.

I've got some personal observations about it and will write about it at a future time.



IMFUNNYTOO---I don't know your name, but I have to say thanks. Your blog is like the cherry on top of my chocolate cheesecake.

Yum!

All I want for Christmas...

...is a cage of my VERY OWN!!

So claims Sharen Gravelle on the witness stand Wednesday. She and her husband Michael are on trial for caging some of their 11 adopted children, all of whom have varying degrees of disability.

"After the Gravelles built wooden and wire enclosures for some of their adopted children, those who were left out clamored for their own, Sharen Gravelle testified Wednesday.

"The boys saw them and went absolutely nuts," Gravelle said in a custody hearing in Huron County Juvenile Court. "They wanted it."

I can't figure out if this woman is greedy, evil, delusional or if she just got hit with the stupid stick one too many times.

"Sharen Gravelle testified yesterday that her husband was ''good with kids,'' then denied knowledge that he was forcing one of their adopted daughters to sleep in their bed when she was out of the home."

Uh huh. Like this (below) never gave her a clue:

"Sharen Gravelle said she met her husband in 1986 at a dinner for a child sex abuse support group. She said she was attending because a relative had been molested. Michael Gravelle was there because he was accused of inappropriate touching, a charge he denies. The couple married two months later."

Two months?

How in the world did Stoopid and the Sex Abuser manage to pass a homestudy?

How did they get approved to house and care for 11 vulnerable children who have special needs?

"The Gravelles are charged with child endangering, falsifying adoption applications and lying under oath when becoming qualified for adoption funding. If convicted, they would face one to five years in prison and a maximum $10,000 fine for each of 16 counts of felony child endangerment."

There ought to be a special circle in hell for these two cretins. And for the social worker who rubber-stamped them.

The Crack Epidemic; Just Say No!

I got up early this morning to catch up on some of my reading. My friend Rhonda wrote a fabulously funny entry regarding the trauma her daughter suffered when she accidentally caught a view of her teacher's fanny floss.

If her teacher looked anything like MY 7th grade teacher--holy crap!--I feel her pain. I would have ripped out my eyeballs and run screaming from the classroom.

I spent a couple of hours doing housewiferly things and thought about all the buttofuoco sightings I've had over the last few years.

Every spring, my husband goes back east to visit his parents for a week to ten days. It gives him a chance to do any heavy home-repair work that needs to be done, and gives his mom a chance to baby her little chick.

Coincidentally--every year until last year--this was also the time any major construction he had planned to our property was scheduled.

First we had the back yard terraced (we live on the side of a mountain), and a basketball/tennis court put in for the kids. The next year a new roof. Then a pool. Finally we had to have the court resurfaced because of a crappy concrete job.

So while hubby is dreaming of the joys of Mom's crabcakes every spring, I'm having nightmares about acres of ass crack.

Tall cracks, short cracks, hairy cracks, skinny cracks, wide cracks and once a disturbingly reverse tanline crack (did the guy commune with Mother Nature wearing nothing but a belly-shirt ala Donald Duck on his down time?).

One spring I complained to my husband long distance over the phone.

"I can't walk past the window without seeing bare buttage!"

So don't look out the window.

"I can't help myself. It's like rubbernecking at a train wreck. Do you think they'd be offended if I ran down to Penney's and bought them some belts?"

Honey, they CAN'T wear belts! Then they won't be able to bend down and do the job!

"Do you think you could call their boss and request that they--um--face AWAY from the house when they bend down?"

(Sounds of husband ripping his hair out and beating his forehead against the wall)

Obligatory Norge Refrigerator Repairman jokes aside, how on earth did crack become the new cleavage for the rest of us?

Anybody catch our guys trying to keep their pants up mid-air while snowboarding in the recent Olympics? Such a performance enhancer!

Now it seems that buttocks are such an accepted fashion "accessory" that even teachers are sporting it at school.

What's next? Nuns wearing pasties?

Fancy Meeting You Here

A couple of days ago, I got a really nice comment on my entry "It's a Dog Meet Dog World" from a guy named Charlie Callahan.

Speaking as a newbie blogger, I'm sure all you veterans know that every single scrap or drop of positive attention via comments is a Godsend when you're just starting out. Or even negative comments. At least it means someone is reading and paying attention.

I love the way Blogger has everything set up with profile links. That way I can try to analyze and figure out what brought someone to my blog.

Was it a similar taste in music? Books? Movies? Advocacy issues?

Sometimes I recognize a contributer from the comments section of a blog I left a message on. Sometimes the person I commented to comes back and responds to something. Sometimes someone is really nice and has posted a link to my blog in their sidebar.

What's great is when I go to comment on a blog I regularly read, and see a comment from someone who I had left a comment for in a totally different venue. That usually means that they came to my blog, clicked on one of my favorite authors and agreed with my good taste.

It's neat. Kind of wildly incestuous, if you think about it, but neat.

That said, sometimes you get a comment from someone and you have no idea where it came from, or how they found you.

And that brings me back to my new friend Charlie.

He wrote something complimentary about my entry. I clicked on his profile, and read it. Didn't find anything close to my own profile, or anything I've written about.

So I wondered. He says he found me on a "blog ring", but as far as I know, I don't belong to any blog rings. Unless someone added me to the "Posting in My Granny Underpants" ring behind my back.

Did he do a blog search on "Charlie" (the name of my dog) or "poop"? Since his profile says he's interested in Philately, and all.

Whoops! I mixed up philatelist with crapophile. Hate when that happens. My bad.

Almost immediately I was hooked on his blog. He's a hoot in a John-Irving-on-ritalin-meets-George-Carlin kind of way. Literally gifted. Absolutely hysterical for the rude well-read reader. And very gracious to other writers, which is something you don't find too often.

So to continue the good example that Charlie Callahan sets, I want to thank everybody who visits my blog and encourage you to check out the links in my sidebar. Whether you're looking for something funny or sarcastic or deep or delightful, the blogs posted there are ones I enjoy and visit often.

Hope everybody has a great day!