Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Bad Idea Number #37--Hooking Up With the Psycho From Hell

Ok, I'm not going to be sexually biased here, because the Psycho From Hell stuff goes both ways (believe me, my younger brother, who is the nicest guy in the world, is really really hot, has a good job and owns his own home--ok I'll stop trying to get him a date---is a freaking psycho magnet) .

You'd think there would be a couple of warning flags thrown up at least in the first few dates.

Forget about trying to get laid. Think about the long-term and rational.

Do whatever you can to protect yourself from the bunny-boilers.

Does he/she let you go into the bathroom by your own bad self?

Does he/she talk about the ex and add "rest in peace"?

A 32-year-old woman in Corpus Christie apparently missed all the warning signs. I don't know if the police are not releasing names in fear that other psychos might see the report as a "vacancy" sign and decide to move in or what.

I sure wish they'd release HIS name to warn any future objects of his affection.

I'm not trying to blame the victim, but really---I don't subscribe to the notion that "he/she was the best partner in the world and suddenly one morning out of the blue he/she just snapped and became a raving lunatic!"

After a previous incident of domestic violence this month, the woman obtained a restraining order against her boyfriend.

Psycho Ex From Hell's response? He gave her the finger.

A reasonable person might say, "whoopdedo".

Small price to pay to get a jackass out of her life.

Except he literally gave her the finger.

He sent her a severed finger in the mail with a note that said, "This is my last chance to touch you."

Since police are unable to locate him, they can't determine whether the finger was actually his. It was a clean cut and it was washed, from the reports.

I think there should be a standard short-form questionnaire that every sane (operative word) person carry in their purse or pocket before hooking up with anyone from the bar/the gym/the church social.

With questions like:

Have you ever owned any pets? How old were they when they died? What was the cause of death?

Ever have a restraining order taken out against you? If so, what were the circumstances?

Were you adopted?

Sorry, I couldn't resist a little adoptee humor there.

Please feel free to add more questions to the list....

Monday, June 26, 2006

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

Starting on July 1st, TNT is airing 8 1-hour shows adapted from Stephen King's Book Nightmares and Dreamscapes, a collection of short stories.

In my opinion, most of King's work hasn't translated well to film...usually because it's really hard to capture the nuances that make his novels feel "real" in unreal situations within a 2-hour framework.

As far as mini-series go, I don't think It was scary enough because it was made for network TV (although Tim Curry as the monster was an inspiring bit of casting), and Rose Red was a total piece of crap. I did enjoy The Stand, however.

I'll be interested to see how these come out.

Why am I babbling about this?

Because Hubby was talking in his sleep again last night, and it got me to thinking about dreams and nightmares.

Although he isn't anything like an old elementary school friend of mine named Simone (she was a huge hit at slumber parties--would carry on conversations for HOURS while dead to the world, as long as someone was willing to pretend to be her mom and kiss her once in awhile), Hubby and I have had a couple of interesting conversations.

Scottish Cheese! he once bellowed.

"Cottage Cheese?" I asked stupidly, more than half-asleep.

No, you idiot! Scottish Cheese is from Scotland! Go open the gate already! Chop chop!

Last night he insisted I relinquish the blue blanket.

"Ok" I said, an old hand after 14 years. "Here you go."

Thank you. Then he turned over and farted. Pardon me!

At least he's polite. Even in his sleep.

How do I put up with it?

I put up with it because I'm actually worse than he is. I guess you could say he puts up with ME.

I'm what is called (so I've been told) a "lucid dreamer". Sometimes I sleep with my eyes open, and I think I'm awake. I guess I'm half-awake. I can see inside my room, but I'm dreaming of things that are going on outside the bedroom door (like burglars, or a fire) and I'm powerless to scream or reach out to wake Hubby up. It's terrifying.

Every so often I have a dream that is so sad I wake up crying. And I'll cry for another 20 minutes. I know consciously that it was a dream, but I have a hard time separating my emotions.

Sometimes I'll wake up absolutely furious. Many a time I've shaken Hubby awake shouting things like, "How dare you sell our children to a traveling circus!" Or "If you were boinking that cow down the street why did you have to compound my humiliation by making me go to her f*cking Tupperware party!"

I've been pissed at him for HOURS after dreams like that, even though there's no logical reason.

At first he would try to defend himself.

It wasn't me! It was just a dream!

Or he would accuse me of eating cheese before bedtime. Or put on his Yosemite Sam hat. No more hasenpfeffer for you!

Now he just apologizes. I'm sorry! I didn't know that the headless Barbie in the pencil case was our newborn child when I threw it in the trash!

Smart man.

I once had a creepy erotic dream about Louie Anderson in Spongebob shorts. Except I think I remember him looking like Ricky Martin. For a couple of days I kind of had tingly feelings for Lil' Louie. How scary is that?

The most recent big freaky dream I had was last year. Hubby belongs to a volunteer service organization and they were working non-stop for months on a project for a big anniversary. In addition to his regular job, he was spending about 20 more hours a week on this and we hardly saw him here at the homestead. His stress was affecting all of us.

In my dream the project bottomed out, so they decided to make a big splash by donating organs.

Starting with mine.

He cut my head off and put it on the counter. Of course, I was dreaming, so I could still holler at him.

"What in the hell are you doing?" I shouted.

I'm sorry, he said, as he wrapped my bits in foil (which looked like the steaks we wrap to age in our freezer). I can't ask anyone else to donate if I'm not willing to make a sacrifice myself!

I woke up ready to kill, and stumbled out of bed on my way to the bathroom.

Are you ok, honey? he asked sleepily.

"You cut my head off, you son of a bitch!" I snarled.

I'm sorry. Was I a king?

Anybody else got some weird dream stories to tell?

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

The Continuing Adventures of A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us

The first time I brought you the story of A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us was in a post about condoms.

Since then, a couple of things have happened--he messed up his medications in college and came home a bit of a wreck.

Things have been progressing in a positive direction, but he's still having some anxiety and extreme obsessiveness about his health and every little ache or pain.

Luckily it's not a daily crisis any more, but it certainly has its moments.

Like last night.

This morning I had an email exchange with my friend Admiral Pooper, where I gave him a rough description of the event, and half-heartedly threatened to write a post about it.

He wrote back and said, "I think you just did. Who ELSE could this happen to?"

So below is a FICTIONALIZED account about A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us (aka AKWINR):

I've sunk to a new low. Last night I actually had to examine an ingrown hair next to a AKWINR's anus to reassure him it's not a tumor.

AKWINR: Mom, would you please please look at it?

Me (horrified): "No. Oh hell no! It's probably just a pimple."

AKWINR: Are you sure? Can you swear to me that it's not a tumor?

Me: "Of course not. I'm not a doctor. We can call HIM in the morning and have HIM look at it."

AKWINR: That's just great, Mom. I could die from this tonight and you don't even care. That's not good parenting.

[10 years of therapy and all he got out of it was the catchphrase "That's not good parenting".]

...Another 15 minutes of this back and forth...the kid just wore me down. He is absolutely relentless when he gets like this.

AKWINR: Mom, please, just look at it. I'll never get to sleep tonight because I'm scared.

Me (realizing that I'm in Borgland and resistance is futile): "Ok."

AKWINR pulls his pants down, IN THE LIVING ROOM, IN FRONT OF THE PICTURE WINDOW, IN FRONT OF GOD AND THE NEIGHBORS, bends over and sticks his Po-po in my face.

Me: "Jesus, when did your butt get so hairy?"

AKWINR: Moooooom! Can you see it?

Me: "No, I don't see anything. It's probably an ingrown hair. Your dad's butt was never this hairy. Maybe you're the undiscovered missing link!"

He pulls his cheeks apart: Well look closer!

Me: "Am I being Punk'd? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Are you going to let off a howler in my face and run away laughing?"

AKWINR: Mooooom! Can you see it?

Me: "No."

He lets go of one cheek and points: It's right there! Can you see it?

Me: "No. Are you sure you're not going to fart on me?"

AKWINR: Feel it, it's right there.

Me: "I AM NOT going to stick my finger up there! Are you out of your mind? Whoops, let me rephrase that...There is NO freaking way I'm going to spelunk your butt!"

AKWINR: Moooom! It hurts. Just tell me it's not a tumor!

So I take my finger and jab it into his butt cheek--NOT his crack--and say in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice: "It's not a toomah!"

AKWINR: Did you feel it?

Me (lying my head off): "Yes. It's a pimple. Go take a hot bath."

AKWINR (greatly relieved): Thanks Mom. Love you.

I bet Carol Brady or June Cleaver never had to do this. Bitches.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Opening Up Another Can of Whup-Ass

I love those guys at AutoZone!

You can get your plugs sparked, your battery charged, and your knobs polished, but they don't do too bad in the Ass-Whupping Department either!

Now I'm not into vigilantism by any means, but if a guy walks into YOUR place brandishing a semi-automatic weapon while trying to ROB you, where's "the crime" in disarming him and beating the snot out of him?

Last summer in Rochester, New York, Dana Buckman tried to rob a local AutoZone with a gun. Two employees overpowered him, disarmed him, and whacked him around with a lead pipe. He escaped and was apprehended a week later.

He pleaded guilty, and as a repeat violent felon is now serving 18 years in prison.

This week he has filed a civil suit against AutoZone and its employees for getting his ass kicked.

Note: No criminal charges were filed against the employees who gave him the whuppin'. This is purely a civil suit against a big company for money.

Buckman's claim is that he is "entitled" to compensation for the injuries he suffered and "emotional distress".

No way.

Now I know most of us in the US learned in our 9th grade Civics class about the robber who broke into a house, tripped over a table/an ottoman/the family dog and broke his leg, and successfully sued the intended victims' insurance company for damages. The laws have tightened up since then.

And "what" emotional distress?

"I was ready, willing and able to waste you if you didn't give me your hard-earned money, and I'm 'distressed' that you beat me down and prevented me from doing it?"

Oh please.

The extra-special Richard Cranium award goes to his attorney, Phillip R. Hurwitz for taking the case.

His quote to the press:

"The danger was past," Hurwitz said. "These two employees took it upon themselves to go after Mr. Buckman after he left the store."

So chasing him when he escaped caused Buckman "emotional distress"?

My heart bleeds for him.

I'm going to send those AutoZone guys some cookies. Sending a nekkid picture of myself in appreciation would prolly scare the hell out of them.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Mixing it Up and Making a Mess

Since I wrote about Macaroni and Feet the other day, I thought I'd add a few more things that have been grossing me out lately.

What is it with the recent mixing it up of foodstuffs? Is there a new kind of "fusion" cooking in the wind?

We used to give a friend of mine crap about Poutine. Apparently it's a popular comfort food or fast food or both (I'm easily confused) in Eastern Canada. They even serve it at McDonald's and Burger King.

For those south of the border who have absolutely NO idea what Poutine is---it's French Fries and fresh cheese curds smothered in brown gravy, preferably beef or pork.

Well I like French fries. I like cheese curds too. And I guess I like gravy on roast beast. But all together?

No thanks. Thinking about it makes my colon sqwinch up in horror.

The other day, I read an article about a company in Du Bois, PA that has taken on the task of developing Peanut Butter Hot Dogs after a desperate mother appealed to them for help.

Apparently Snotleigh refuses to eat anything that isn't covered in peanut butter, and she was at her wit's end.

(I'm using the term "wits" loosely. To be perfectly honest, those kind of parental shenanigans annoy the hell out of me, and after looking at a picture of the poor kid, I'm convinced that the last thing he needs is more peanut butter. He needs a bicycle!)

And now comes along KFC with their "Famous Bowls". If they're famous, how come I'm just hearing about them? I'm pretty sure I'd remember something so--uh--hurlworthy.

First is a layer of mashed potatoes. Then Corn. Then chicken gravy. Then fried popcorn chicken. Top it off with a nice helping of their Three Cheese Blend!

For cripes sakes, you might as well give it all a good twirl in the blender and suck it through a straw.

Better yet, you could even skip that part and mainline it!

Throw in a biscuit and honey butter for good measure!

Last but not least, we come to the Gateway Grizzlies in St. Louis.

They may never be known for their baseball skills, but they certainly are getting some notoriety for a snack they're serving in their concession stands.

Bacon cheeseburgers.

What's so bad about that? you might ask.

Like the burger. Like the cheese. Love the bacon.

Nestled in between two halves of a Krispy Kreme donut.


What's next?

Philly Cheesesteaks dipped in chocolate?

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Gag Me With a Spoon!

I've got my bitchypants on this morning.

Hang on, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Sunday night, little guy complained of having a sore throat.

Rut row.

He has sensory integration issues, so usually when it gets to the point where he says he's sick, it means he's really really sick.

Number One son woke up Monday morning, and he was ill as well. I called the doctor.

I'm amazed that nowadays in a doctor's office you can get a strep swab and have the results in 15 minutes. Even a short few years ago, we'd have to wait for a couple of days for lab results.

Yes. They have strep. Happy summer vacation!

Our nephew, who is visiting, was fine the last time I checked. I locked him in a closet to keep him away from contagion and have been slipping him peanut butter sandwiches under the door.

Just in case someone from Child Protective Services is reading this---I'm kidding. Really, I am!

So last evening I decided to make comfort food. The guys didn't feel sick enough to require soup, they wanted something more substantial. Chicken wings and macaroni and cheese. Okey doke.

I got the expensive stuff with the creamy sauce. Nothing is too good for my sick guys.

Hubby came in from work and saw me flopped on the couch.

Can I help? Did I ever mention I was married to a fabulous man?

"Would you drain the macaroni and put the sauce together? And pull the wings out of the oven?"

We fed the sick guys first, because frankly, none of us wanted to sit with them and it would be rude to spray disinfectant in their faces while they were eating.

Number One took a bite. And pushed his plate away. There's something wrong with the macaroni and cheese. Did Mom buy that generic stuff again?

Believe it or not, there are macaroni and cheese snobs. He lives in my house. It's Kraft (the Cheesiest!) or nothing.

No, she bought the expensive stuff for once, said Hubby. You're just used to the day-glo kind.

The little guy cleaned his plate, but didn't ask for another helping on the mac, which is amazingly out of character. Usually he'll check the level in the pot over and over to make sure there's enough for seconds. Boy, he must feel terrible!

I went in the kitchen and looked at it. It looked ok.

I got a spoon and tasted it. WTF?

Hubby came in the kitchen.

"Did you taste this?" I asked. "It's revolting! It tastes like feet! It's even...garlicky!"

He looked sheepish.

"Don't tell me. You put GARLIC in the macaroni and cheese? What in the hell is wrong with you?"

He got a little indignant. But I always put garlic in!

Since when? I would have remembered macaroni and feet! And while we're at it---if you're going to screw it up, why not add some salt and pepper to even it out? Why just...garlic?

I thought back. I can't remember the last time Hubby actually made macaroni and cheese. I've seen him obliviously trip over the boys while they were on their knees begging him not to put garlic in their mashed potatoes, but macaroni and cheese?

What kind of person desecrates the sanctity of comfort food?

When I let the nephew out of the closet to eat, he ate the mac and cheese. Even asked for seconds. Raved about it loudly.
A little too loudly, if you get my drift.

Which has led me to a couple of conjectures.

The nephew is eternally grateful to eat something that doesn't have salsa in it (he lives at Grandma's house, and she puts salsa on everything).

Or that really was five bucks I thought I saw hubby slip to the kid when he thought I wasn't looking...and we already know that he'll eat anything for money.

Hope everyone has a happy and healthy day!

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Soylent Greenies---Is It Peeeeple?

When he took the Yorkshire Terriorists to the vet earlier this year, hubby got some disturbing news.

We have to brush their teeth every day.

Hubby couldn't have been more shocked if the vet had sprouted a third eye on her forehead and asked him to touch it.

Are you serious?

One thing about our terriorists is that they don't like to be man-handled. Petted and patted, yes. Fiddled around with--no.

Oh, HELL no.

Unlike The Noodle Dog who would let you set fire to her tail if she thought it would make you smile, the Yorkies always seem to sense when it's time to have their nails clipped or their butt-glands seen to. Then it's impossible to get within 5 feet of them.

They taunt us and run under the bed. Kind of like in a Monty Python movie.

So we pay other people to do that stuff. And we don't ask how it went when it's over.

How were we going to brush their teeth every day? It takes an army just to get them into the bathtub!

Well, said the vet, You could always try Greenies.

What are Greenies, you might ask (we did)?

They're green toothbrush-shaped dog chews that are supposed to "brush plaque and tartar away!"

They also cost an arm and a leg, so they better be good!

The only problem we could forsee was that the Yorkies really weren't "chew" dogs. While The Noodle craves her rawhide every day, the only thing the terriorists were ever interested in treat-wise was cheese and each other's food.

But if it meant not having to chase them under the bed with toothbrushes, we were willing to try anything.

They loved them. Absolutely loved them.

We were amazed.

Nowadays---even if they are asleep halfway across the house---if anyone so much as crinkles a plastic bag within the vicinity of the kitchen, the three dogs race in like it's a 10-minute only 75% off sale at Shoe Carnival.

It's like doggie heroin, I tell you!

What the hell is in this stuff?

I looked at the ingredients list: Processed wheat gluten (wheat protein), glycerin, natural flavor, powdered cellulose fiber, monosodium phosphate, monoglycerides of edible fatty acid, magnesium stearate and chlorophyll.

Natural flavor? I looked up their website. "Natural Flavor: The ingredient used for the natural flavor is proprietary. However, we can tell you that it contains no beef protein and a very small amount of natural flavor is used."

I decided to put on my Mythbusters hat again.

I made a list. What are the flavors dogs love most in the world?

Peanut butter, bacon, cheese, dead squirrels, steak and other dogs' dookie.

My nephew, the Happening Dude, is visiting us this month. I had an extra victim to experiment with.

Since I'm the one who actually ate the vomit-flavored jelly bean the last time we were experimenting with questionable foodstuffs, I asked for volunteers.

Would anybody be willing to taste a greenie?

My husband shook his head. You have GOT to be shitting me!

It will probably give me cancer, said Number One Son.

The little guy was horrified.
I think that's child abuse!

How much would you pay me? asked the Happening Dude--a kid after my own heart.

I offered him a dollar. But I was willing to go to five. He took the dollar.

I've eaten dog biscuits before, he shrugged. They're really not that bad.

I decided that it was safer NOT to ask the obvious question. Even 14-year-olds deserve a little privacy.

He smelled it. It doesn't smell like anything.

He licked it. It doesn't have a taste.

Maybe you have to chew it a little bit, I suggested.

But don't break your tooth! Hubby warned.

He gnawed on it a bit. It tastes kind of sweet, he said.

Like candy? No.

And that was it. No bacon, cheese, dead squirrel, steak or doo-doo taste. It's just kind of sweet.

Later, I started thinking.

What if Greenies are like the food supplements in the movie Soylent Green?

What if that "natural flavor" taste is people taste? What do dogs love better than their peeps?

I mean, how would the buying public really know? Anybody gnaw on a person lately?

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Asshat of the Week---Politicos in Weld County

Wouldn't you know it.

Take a couple of days off and the Asshats multiply faster than rabbits!

Everyone knows that politics is a dirty business.

Well in Colorado, it just got a lot--uh--dirtier and stinkier, thanks to Kathleen Ensz, who heads up the Weld County Democrats Get-Out-the-Vote campaign.

On Thursday, she was "written a citation by Greeley police on suspicion of criminal use of a noxious substance in connection."

In English?

She allegedly delivered a big load of dog crap wrapped in a congressional mailer through Rep. Marilyn Musgrave's (R) mail slot.

Musgrave's staff offered an opinion that Ensz must own a very large dog.

Ensz told The Associated Press she left the envelope at Musgrave’s office but said it “wasn't in the office doors, it was in the foyer.” She declined further comment.

Now I get a snicker out of verbal shit-slinging as much as the next immature person, but c'mon, even this crosses a line.

To equal out the Asshatism (politicos never seem to let an opportunity go by), the Musgrave camp gets the Oliver Stone Conspiracy Cookie in an effort to link the dookie delivery to state Rep. Angie Paccione (D), who is running for Musgrave's seat in the next election.

On Thursday, knowing that police were writing a citation, Musgrave’s campaign office sent out a press release linking the two.

Their proof? Rep. Paccione is the Democratic candidate, and Ensz is an active Democratic supporter.

Please remind me the next time I write a check to the Springs Rescue Mission that I'd be wiser to send anonymous cash.

Just in case some Asshat comes to the brilliant conclusion that because the Mission is a Catholic charity, my donation is to support pedophile priests.

Our tax dollars at work, folks.


Previous Asshats:

May 24th's Asshat

May 8th's Asshat

April 25th's Asshat

April 10th's Asshat

March 28th's Asshat

Thank You...

I just wanted to thank everyone for all of your supportive emails and comments during our rough time.

You've been so kind, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

A Reality RX

Most of my posts have been written with the intent to be fun, funny, and indignant about public issues with some personal anecdotes thrown into the mix.

I didn't plan on ever posting about the following until I recently talked to a couple of other parents who are/have been in the same position.

If you're looking for fun or funny, this isn't the post for you. And it's a bit long.

I've posted a little bit about my oldest son, who just completed his first year of college. I've been allowed to mention the fact that he suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, only because the TV show Monk has made it sort of "cool".

I've tried to respect his privacy by not mentioning any of the other additional problems he has.

Please don't send me information on herbal remedies, or noni juices, or Christ-based-whip-him-with-a-switch cures. I'm completely and utterly uninterested. And I'd be offended that you'd think I was so ignorant.

Been there, done that (except for the whipping). I got the damn T-shirt already.

I wasted the first 6 months of Number One Son's life after he was diagnosed in Kindergarten (and no, not by a family practitioner, but by a team at a nationally-recognized developmental disability center attached to our Children's Hospital) by resisting any kind of pharmaceutical help.

I was an idiot, and I regret the wasted time.

He was on the barest minimum of meds for school until he reached puberty, and did very well.

Then he started scrubbing his hands until they were bleeding, and thought he heard us laughing at him through the walls, and plotting against him.

Turned out that the last was a reaction to the meds he had been taking, which were no longer effective. It took a while, with the help of a neuropsych, to find a new combination that worked for him.

Fast forward to this past year.

He was nervous about college, but excited and confident in himself.

Hubby and I are both realists, and we've both been to college.

Parties happen. All over the damn place.

We could say: "Don't EVER drink!!!" "Don't EVER try drugs!!"

Yeah. Sure. On our parental planet, maybe. At least we got him the industrial-size box of condoms.

We see it in the news---drinking, drugs, overdoses of alcohol, etc, on campuses everywhere.

We tried to enlist our family doctor, who would only say, "You're underage. It's against the law to drink. Drugs are bad. Go to church."

Thanks, Doc.

So we tried to be responsible and prepare him. We went over every med that he takes, with him.

When you're on meds, having one beer is like having three. Moderate yourself, and stay away from the hard stuff. If you plan on drinking, it might be a good idea NOT to take your night meds (Which aren't like Wellbutrin which has a cumulative effect. It wouldn't hurt him to skip one night's dose). Don't drive with anyone who's been drinking. We put extra money in your account for cab fare.

Had a friend who works for the pharmaceutical industry explain to son that with the combination of meds he takes, even trying Ecstasy might kill him. Thank heavens we had an "expert" tell him, since his dad and I are such relics that we can't be trusted to wipe our own butts even with a compass pointing the way.

Last month, I made a post about son's calling wondering if he had scalp cancer. With his OCD, it's not unusual for him to wonder/obsess about strange and unusual medical symptoms he reads up on when surfing the web. I put it down to stress from finals. And thought it was a bit humorous.

Then he called and wondered if he might have asthma. He was having trouble breathing.

He called and complained about a bump on his head.

Next he called wondering if he might have early-onset Parkinson's disease at 19, because he was having "happy feet".

I said, "write it all down, you've only got a week left, and we'll see the doc when you get home."

He got home and had a total mental breakdown. Complete with the screaming meemies.

He came bolting out of the shower because he was convinced that the bump on his head was a brain tumor that he could feel boring into his skull.

Panic attacks, paranoia... Pounding heart, trouble breathing, cold sweats....

As it turns out, this last semester, son "decided" that his meds exacerbated his normal shyness, and tried to wean himself off of them to feel more social.

Of course, home at spring break, he took his meds faithfully under the eye of his watchful mom. Then when he went back to school, he stopped taking them.

When he got home for summer vacation, he started taking them again, and completely freaked out.

So...on, then off, then on, then off, then on. It messed up his brain chemistry.

It's been a hard month for all of us. I've had to sleep on the living room floor next to him because he's afraid that he might die and be all alone.

We've had to have almost every test known to man performed, because he's convinced that he has cancer/a heart blockage/cystic fibrosis/an aneuryism/leukemia/an intestinal blockage/tumors/ulcers/absesses---everything except anal warts.

He's off the meds that have been beneficial for so many years.

Now he's only on an anti-anxiety med and an anti-psychotic. Had the bump on his head surgically removed yesterday (it was a sebaceous cyst), and had it dissected and analyzed to prove that it wasn't cancerous.

I thought we were alone in this (although I've had tremendous support from some of my friends). After hearing that this has happened to other students/parents, I felt I had to write something.

If your kid is in college, and responsible for taking his/her own meds for the first time, this scenario is really something that should be discussed. Just wanted to share and give you a head's up.

I'm only keeping this up for a limited time. If anyone wants to discuss this further, feel free to email me.

This is part of the reason why I've been taking a break.

I'm simply wiped out.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


It's that time again---the end of the school year! With the picnics, award ceremonies, and end-of-year parties, I'm going to be away for a couple of days.

Behave yourselves while I'm gone. No parties in the house.

I don't want to have to send you to the naughty corner!


Sunday, June 04, 2006

The Sunday Trumpet---War of the Worlds

The charming Kate over at Itisi has graciously taken on one of the top 5 on my crappiest movie list.

Starring Tom "Crazier Than a Shithouse Rat" Cruise, this is one of the few movies where I hoped the evil aliens would win, if only to shut Dakota Fanning's screaming maw.

At least if the bots ate her, it would have served as a good lesson to bratlets: "See what happens when you're stupid and you don't listen to your parents? Aliens will steal you and suck your brains out!"

Stop by her blog and put your two cents in!
The Gasbaggers are taking the summer off! Visit us again in the fall!

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For links to our previous reviews, visit us at The Sporadic Gasbag Roundtable.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Breaking the Sound Barrier

I know how painful this confession is going to be for my husband and sons. And probably for my mother too. Maybe one day they'll be able to forgive me.

After reading about a gas leak that caused an explosion in an operating room in a recent article, I decided for public safety reasons that it was time to come out of the closet.

I'm a farter.

Yes, that's right.

A pooter.

An ass-blaster.

A master of the one-cheek sneak.

I'm one of those people who are completely incapable of burping without something else coming up with it as a nasty little surprise. I guess the gas has to go somewhere---and apparently it's south.

So instead of being able to cleverly belch out the first stanza of "The Star-Spangled Banner" at drunken 4th of July parties, I have to be content with showing my patriotism with a 21-bun salute.

My friends and family have been sympathetic to my affliction. When Beano didn't help, they tried to make me feel better.

My husband bought me the big bottle of Chanel #5--guaranteed to overpower any accidental whiff of Chanel #2.

Miss Keeks sent me a DVD of the movie Thunderpants for Christmas with a little note that said, "Don't feel bad. It could be worse." She was right. Someone could make a movie about MY ass.

My dogs are even kind enough to take the blame once in a while when someone yells, "What in God's Green Earth was that noise? Has Norad been bombed?"

The rest of the time they run like hell.

So why do I feel the need to confess now?

Because there but for the grace of God...

This poor guy in New Zealand was minding his own business, unconscious and ass-in-the-air, having hemorrhoid surgery. The doctors were using an "electrical 'diathermy' machine - a hand-held tool for cutting tissue and cauterising to stop bleeding."

The patient popped a fluffy and...


Flash fire. Complete with anal burns.

As I age, I have nightmares about having less--uh--control than I do now over these things. Which is absolutely none when I'm asleep. My husband has been spot-welded more times than he can count.

The next time I have my legs up in the stirrups or have a colonoscopy, I'm afraid that I'll be so worried about the escape of the barking spiders that I'll lock up tighter than Ft. Knox.

I've heard you can snap a scope that way.

I've never seen anything about this on medical forms that you fill out before procedures. How do you inform the right people in case of an accident or emergency?

I'm seriously contemplating having a medic-alert bracelet made.

"Lets off howlers when unconscious. Keep away from open flame."

Gotta warn the public somehow. I'm a menace.