A Mighty Wind

Yes, I already know, it's been pointed out to me. I find too much humor in bodily function stories. It's immature. It's bordering on indecent. I snicker at toilet seats issues, arm-penises, boogers, snot storms, butt-tumors, foot-nipples, blue poop and farts.

Especially farts.

I have a lot of excuses. Dr. Phil would love them. I grew up in a household of boys, I'm the mother of boys, my mother was a minister, I have abandonment issues, my parents were divorced, nobody ever understood me, I had to invite my own date to the junior prom, blah blah blah.

Why don't I just come clean and admit that I'm a twisted individual with a base sense of humor?

I wasn't planning on writing another weird biological function story any time soon after that last post about the nippelous foot, but hey, I don't control the news. And when someone is fighting an internal war with the "Puff the Magic Dragon", I can't help but perk up and take notice.

I have problems subduing the Barbarians at the Gate myself.

I broke down and admitted it in this post, which I recommend as reading before you go on. Just so you appreciate how deep my affliction is.

But I think I might actually stick a pencil through my jugular if this happened to me. Would I complain to a newspaper? Hell no! I'd find me some panties lined with odor eaters and walk around with a bag on my head:

Apparently Stewart Laidlaw has now been banned from his regular pub. Since the smoking ban has taken effect, it has become obvious to one and all that putrid and noxious fumes come flying out of his butt on a habitual basis.

He can clear the bar in 5 minutes or less.

According to the proprietor: “It is just disgusting. He revels in this and does it all the time and it’s absolutely foul, it would make you sick.

We are a bus station pub and trying to keep new custom. The final straw was when an old gentleman came in and had his gin and tonic and the old guy was almost sick.

Other people have dropped handbags, shall we say. But when everybody’s choking and I come out with the spray and say don’t do it again, they will appreciate that and stop it."

The Fife License Trade Association agrees with him. “The landlord always has the right to refuse someone and if he feels he has to use that, that’s his prerogative.

You can’t just have one guy sitting there farting his day away and nobody else coming in. If this guy keeps coming and upsetting customers you have to address that."

Now how embarrassing is that???
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P.S. I'm running away for a few days to get a little away time before spring break is over. Unfortunately, the kids have decided that they're running away with me.

I'll post the American Midol results and prize information as soon as I get back. Be good!

Last Shreds of Duty

When my dad passed away almost a decade ago, as an executor to his estate, there was a lot of things that I needed to do. Ends to tie up, last debts to clear, paperwork to finalize.

Dad was a pretty organized guy, so it wasn't nearly as messy as it could have been during what was a really painful time for us.

Some months later, I was contacted by a law firm in Chicago. They had represented him in a criminal matter years earlier (Savings and Loan case), and upon hearing of his death, wanted instructions on what to do with the files they had been keeping for him.

Might as well send them to me, I thought. So they did.

All 15 cases of them.

I never opened them, and they've been sitting in a corner in my basement for almost 10 years.

This week, with the spring break/spring cleaning fever coming over me, I decided to get rid of them.

It's time.

But what could I do with them? I can't take them to the dump. There's a lot of personal information in them about a lot of different people.

We have a woodstove that heats our home. I decided to shred them all and make firestarters out of them.

It's spring break, and the guys can help me. Easy peasy, you would think. Or at least I did.

I didn't count on having to actually touch the papers much. Except then I realized I couldn't shred them with all the paper and binder clips on them.

Then I started finding personal notes from my dad, written in his distinctive handwriting and voice. Some of these were missives from a dad I didn't know---a man who was in trouble---not the confident and enthusiastic dad of my memories.

So I've been a little--ok, a LOT wigged out these past couple of days.

I'm torn. On one hand, it's like hearing a voice I've desperately missed over the years and never thought I'd hear again. On the other hand, it feels like I'm peeking in Dad's underwear drawer.

Hubby has offered to do the job, but I don't think Dad would want him peeking in his underwear drawer either.

{sigh}

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Don't forget that today is the very last day to vote for your favorite Really Bad Poem! Go here! to vote!

Eeny Meemy Miny Moe

Even though I was tagged by the ever fabulous and lovely Queen of the Mayhem for a "Real Mom" meme, I was going to skip it.

First of all, I've been busier than a one-armed paper hanger with school and work.

Secondly, I do everything I can do to beg off memes. I did a few early in my blog-life simply because it relieved me of actually having to come up with a topic to write about on my own (I'm NOT criticizing! I'm talking about ME).

Plus as an adoptee, I've been asked more than once "Why did your REAL mom give you away?"

Like the Mom who raised me is my "FAKE" Mom? Sheesh! It's one of those crazy-making terms that annoy me.

Anyway, I realize that making me crazy wasn't the intent when I was tagged, and that's my personal problem, and it got me to thinking, which I imagine was the point. ;-)

Mrs. Mayhem's post is wonderful. Mine pales in comparison, but here goes:


Real Moms teach their kids about natural consequences.

If the favorite shirt lays on your floor and doesn't get put in the laundry hamper, then it won't be clean when you want to wear it.

If you insist that you don't need your coat, hat or gloves on a day that promises snow, then you're going to be really cold when it starts to snow.

I'm not going to drive this stuff down to the school because you're a dork. And I'm more than happy to instruct the do-bees in the front office at school about the definition of "natural consequences" if they call to tell me my teenager needs his coat, hat and gloves and try to imply that I'm being neglectful by not dropping all of my other obligations to deliver them in person.

Bet you 5 bucks that you don't refuse to wear your coat, hat or gloves tomorrow. What do you say?

Likewise with lunch money. We put a week's worth in the same place for you to take every day. When I ask if you've got it and you snarl at me while walking out the door for being a nag, don't call me to tell me you forgot it. You're not going to starve to death by missing a meal. But you might learn something.

Real Moms remember the ache of teenage angst.

We remember the cliques we were excluded from, the parties we weren't invited to, the embarrassing moments that made us want to die, and the unrequited crushes that consumed our every waking moment.

Although we look back and view our experiences with a mature eye and see the ridiculousness of most of it, we can remember how much we hurt, and put our arms around our child to simply grieve with him over the pain of disappointment. We can have revenge fantasies about the other little snots later on our own time.

Real Moms try to give their children wings.

When you leave our home to be on your own, you're going to know not to flush paper towels down the toilet. You'll know the difference between the hot and cold cycles on the washing machine, and know not to throw the red towel in with your load of underwear and socks.

You'll know how to clean a kitchen until it sparkles, and know how to make something other than PB & J or cold cereal for dinner. You'll know how to change a tire and the oil in your car, and you'll know that if milk smells bad, it's probably not a good idea to drink it.

You'll know how to change a fuse, and where to keep the fire extinguisher. You'll know that deodorant and a heavy splash of Drakkar Noir is not a substitute for an honest-to-God shower. You'll know that you can call us any time when you're in a real jam, and that needing our credit card number for pizza delivery at 11pm is not considered to be a real jam.

You'll know that vacuuming spare change might save time rather than picking it up yourself off the floor, but then you'll have to spend 80 bucks to replace the vacuum. And no, I'm not going to lend you 80 bucks.

You'll know that if you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. We'll be there to help you up if you stumble, but if you stay in the nest day after day, you'll never have any experiences to stumble over.

And you'll know to call first before dropping by, because when you're on your own, Dad and I might be running around the house nekkid and scaring the dogs.

Real Moms Hope you Dance

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes,
I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances
But they're worth taking
Lovin' might be a mistake
But it's worth making

Don't let some hell bent heart Leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out
Reconsider
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance

---Lee Ann Womack


___________________
I'd like to give a shout out to some of the Real Dads I've been so fortunate to run into in blogland recently. You guys are great, and it's an honor knowing you. Reading your views has brought a lot of perspective into my life, and I thank you.

Titillating News

More girl talk here. People of the manly persuasion enter at your own risk---hahaha.

A couple of months ago, I posted about Russian scientists who grew a penis on some guy's arm and made some speculations about it. They were correcting a birth defect with technology, and I thought it was amazing! And yes, funny too.

This isn't about human technology, but human biology. And as usual, inquiring minds and all...

A 22-year-old woman went to see the doctor because she had an unusual growth on the bottom of her foot---close to the arch. She thought it was some kind of lesion.

First of all, before we get started, I have to comment here.

My idea of a lesion is a small sore or irritated spot that won't heal right away. After a week or two of "unusual growth" I'd get it checked out.

When she finally went to the doctors, they found a fully-formed nipple on the bottom of her foot. Complete with areola, glands and hair.

Anybody want to join me? EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

And secondarily, WTF?????

The doctors noted that there were fat deposits growing around the areola, so basically, her foot was going through puberty and growing a boob. There's pictures on that there link!

Apparently, supernumerary breasts aren't incredibly uncommon, although this is the first one doctors have seen on a foot. Usually they pop up on thighs, backs and faces. And uh---it's not unusual for those supernumerary breasts to produce milk.

Chandler Bing jokes aside (TV show Friends character who had a third nipple), this just scares the crap out of me.

An extra nipple on my face? That might be able to produce milk?

Aiiighhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

The thought of extra body things growing arbitrarily has disturbed me for decades.

Anybody see that re-run of the Dick Van Dyke Show where (I think) Rob Petrie has a bad dream that his wife Laura had eyeballs on the back of her head (and parted her hair to show him)? That gave me nightmares for years when I was a kid.

Of course, Stephen King had to go and write The Dark Half....about twins in utero. Originally they're two, and one dies, and one fetus absorbs the other. Then when the surviving twin reaches middle-age, he feels a lump on the back of his head, and there's fully-formed teeth left over from that old-absorbed-twin-fetus tissue that decided to grow somewhere.

I actually personally know a guy---a husband and father of 4 daughters--- who served in the military (you'd think they'd do a lot of physical tests but they never caught it), and when in his forties, started having severe emotional issues about once a month or so. He'd get anxious. He'd fall apart and cry out of the blue. He had a complete physical and they found a couple of masses in his abdomen. Everyone was afraid it was cancer.

They were ovaries. They weren't connected to anything, but he was born with them and they were producing hormones. So suddenly he was having "PMS" every month.

If I had a boob on my face, would I be breaking obscenity laws if I didn't wear a face bra in public?

What would happen if it was cold outside? Would it get all puckery and pointy?

If somebody smacked me in the face would that be considered sexual assault or regular assault?

Could I nurse a baby from the bottom of my foot? I guess it would be handy if I had triplets. Would I have to get special nursing shoes with little pads in them?

And if I had one on the bottom of my foot and it got cancer, could you still call it breast cancer?

Anybody know?

American Midol Really Bad Poetry Contest---Final Round!

Welcome to the finalist round of American Midol; If I'm not Happy, Nobody's Happy Really Really Bad Poetry Contest!

In our last week YOU get to vote for your favorite bad poem in the comments section. Deadline for voting is Wednesday, March 28.

Rules that apply:

1). Each reader vote counts as 1/2 a point.
2). Readers may only vote once this round.
3). Anonymous comments/votes will not be counted and will be deleted unless the author provides their blog url with their vote.

For contestant rules, prizes, and other fine print, go here .

Many thanks to our judges, Mr. Fabulous , Beki, Annie Drogynous and Ma Titwonky for getting us this far!

Now, on to our last round!

Contestant #1

Luin from Faerytale Dreams

The Inner Thoughts...

Some forty miles per hour signs do say
So why does speed elude your fucking grasp???
That's it. You're done. Move out the fucking way.
You've luck. Your neck, in my hands I would clasp.

And where and when where you made fucking Queen?
To sit and act superior to me,
You're lucky, don't you know, that I'm not mean
Polite, a hidden bitch, I'll always be.

Remember when you voice a stupid thought
I'll always think inside that you're a twit.
And when you let a fart, please know you're caught
You're ass, I'll spray it down with reneuzit.

'Cause I am strong, I am invincible
You mess with me you face the crucible.

Total points for badness so far: 31

Contestant #3

From Fatman at NuclearFamily

There was a young lady from Paris
Who said, "Does my bum look big in this?"
Her man was too slow
With his "no, no, no"
And now he's pushing up daisies.

Total points for badness so far: 30 1/2

Contestant #4

From Excited Blutterances

I sat on the toilet
And fell through the seat.
I got water on my hiney
And it dripped to my feet.

I cursed and swore
until you came to check.
You asked what was wrong,
and I punched you in the neck.

Something so simple
should be easy to do
Yet you are a moron
When it comes to the loo.

I called someone
To get you back.
As itt turned out
His name was Jack.

I married a jerk
It is such a bummer.
But I got my revenge,
When I screwed the plumber.

Total points for badness so far: 25

Contestant #6

From Nikki at Everybody Can Just Bite My Ass

Boy, does Post Partum Depression Suck
I wish I could get mad, but I have no truck
with the doctor, that cad
or the ambulance driver that was, to say it nicely, bad

But next time I'll know what to do
when the mailman tells me "The next Publishers Clearing House winner could be you."
I'll slam the door in his face
and put that sneaky sucker in his place

He didn't profess love undieing
nor did he ever stop trying
he looked at me with eyes so innocently
and I hadn't had any carnal attention recently

So I couldn't resist
and before I knew it I had been kissed
and it culminated in urgent lovin'
and putting a bun in the oven

Now what do I tell my husband true
this baby growing inside me belongs to you
never mind about your vascetomy
I know you've been meeting the preachers wife at the rectory.

Total points for badness so far: 29

Contestant #7

Jennifer, at A Rambling Canuck

A Woman's Woe
by Jennifer B.

First comes our little red friend
if she's bad, you'll be wearing depends

monthly, she brings gifts of pain and bad moods
as well as a craving for fattening chocolately foods.

Next comes pregnancy, labour and birth
this is where you really prove your worth

nine months of nausea, aches and swelling feet
never-ending labour that will grind your teeth

Years later when life is getting good
menopause tears away your womanhood

Now it's all about mood swings, hot flashes and low sex drive
weight gain, depression. What's the point in being alive?

With all the issues women have to deal with,
and men wonder why we are so crazy.

Total points for badness so far: 28 1/2

Contestant #8

Beth from Books, Etc.

It’s My Life (And I’ll Cry If I Want To)

The blushing bride — all dressed in white.
The loving couple — their smiles so bright…

Fast forward now — ten years or so
I’m kinda’ drowning — feeling low.

Changing diapers, wiping butts
This is a life? I must be nuts.

I need some sleep, I need a pill
Some time for me, some time to chill.

Cooking, cleaning — God, I’m great.
‘Cause all this crap I really hate.

The spouse comes home — it’s his turn now.
Let’s hit the sack and fake a “wow.”

I’m now in sweats, no stylin’ here
All’s I’m gettin’ is the old Bronx cheer.

The wrinkles come, the boobs hang low
I need a fix. Botox? God, no!

But all in all, despite the hell
I can’t complain — my life’s been swell…

For every crappy job above,
I get back …a whole lotta love…

(With acknowledgement to Led Zeppelin.)

Total points for badness so far: 26 1/2

Contestant #10

Miss Keeks

Hypodermic Needle Blues Haiku

Poor old cat Oscar
suffers from kidney failure
saline injections

Miss Keeks loves him so
she jabs him with the needle
It is really gross

Tragedy occurs!!!
She stabs herself with needle
that was in Oscar

Her finger is numb
from the last joint up, so weird
she has nerve damage

but, worse than that... now
she wants to sleep day and night
and lick Oscar's butt.

note: Miss Keeks doesn't really want to lick Oscar's butt, but she has noticed her two cats licking each other there.

Total points for badness so far: 33 1/2

Contestant #11

Mia, from Mia's Saving Grace

There once was a girl named Atilla,
whose new bathroom smelled like vanilla.

The curtain she hung with such love and care
sporting a bountiful twattish good flair.

The knobs that she chose resembled a tit,
they kept with the theme and were such a good fit!

Aside from her PMS bunny slipper wrath,
theres one thing quite funny about this new bath

I'm sure if you read her hilarious blog,
you may not need a memory jog.

Just to be safe I will tell you for certain,
because it isn't the fanciful x -rated curtain.

Nor the boob knobs that make this new bathroom a hit.
It's the true natural beauty of her Bronco blue shit.

Total points for badness so far: 26 1/2

Contestant #12

Sarala, from Blogaway

Labor

Stick a fork in your eyeball and twist.
Drop a bowling ball on your toe.
Jump out the window stark naked
Not noticing cacti below.

Start a fight with the Terminator,
Swallow red hot lava.
Swim with an angry alligator.
Scald your tongue on java.

Amputate a limb with a plastic knife.
Set yourself on fire.
Have the time of your life,
Chewing on barbed wire.

So if this poem has you annoyed,
Do away with nights of passion.
All the labor you'll avoid.
Nor ever suffer in this fashion.

Total points for badness so far: 32

Contestant #14

WarCryGirl from The Cure for Boredom

Ode to Poop

Oh poop, with your ever changing color, changing like the seasons,
brown, green, yellow and the occasional orange;
Your creaminess and bouquet, sometimes tangy bringing tears to the eyes,
sometimes fruity yet always satisfying.

Poop you amaze me, with your textures, sometimes nutty, sometimes lumpy,
sometimes smooth as ice cream. How I love you, poop, yet sometimes you do not love me back, with the cramps and the ability to clear a room.

Why have you forsaken me, Poop!

And yet and I know no matter how long it has been since I've seen you,
I know you'll be back, making me wipe over and over and over and over,
like slowing down to gawk at a car accident. You don't want to look...and yet you do.

I will always remember you, Poop.

Total points for badness so far: 31 1/2

Contestant #16

One Ear, from Rusty Never Sleeps

Petroleum jelly of mine,
Golly gee you are mighty fine.
I wish I weren’t addicted
To your big, oily honey pot.

I would kill just to have
Your lubricating salve
On my hands that are constricted
On my regions blood-filled and hot.

Total points for badness so far: 25

Thanks so much for everybody who participated!!

Arrggh! Plus a Funny....

I've been trying all darn afternoon to post the finalist vote-off for The American Midol Really Bad Poetry Contest, but Blogger is not cooperating at all.

For some reason, I have some unacceptable HTML while cutting and pasting the poetry and links, and suddenly, not only won't Blogger show me where the errors are, it won't save my post to draft either. ack!

I haven't abandoned you, I promise. I have the list of finalists for the last week of voting, and will try again tomorrow!

That said, I have a funny for you.

A couple of days after the "alien/creature eggs in the digestive tract" episode---yeah that was real---the Big Kid was calmed down, and I had to get him out of the house. I asked him to come to the store with me, and tempted him with a Dagwood sandwich---anything he wanted custom-made from the Deli.

Only had a few things to get, and we could be in and out. But at least he'd be out in the world amongst people.

His depression was such that he hadn't changed clothes or bathed for several days, and though I begged him to shower and change clothes, it was fruitless. I was just desperate to get him out of the damn house.

Again, thinking we'd be in and out, I suggested he--uh--spray some cologne on for a stop-gap measure.

I have a wholesale perfume/cologne connection (remember me, Cheap Doesn't Have to be a Bad Word!), and once a year or so I buy a buttload of "foof" for all our friends and family members, because to get the wholesale price, there's a minimum purchase of $500. So some of my friends get in on it, stock up for the year, or buy Xmas presents for their loved ones and get a deep discount on retail.

This last year, both my guys have been interested in "foofing", and more often than not, have "borrowed" Hubby's stuff, which has made things uncomfortable for me. Hubby has a few scents we've decided were perfect for him over the years (and likewise with me), that we find smellalicious and sexy.

Smelling them on my sons is creepy.

So this year, we decided to expand our horizons on foofy stuff for men. We ordered samples, vials and testers (full-sized bottles that were meant to be testers in department stores and don't have full packaging) of a wide range of designer fragrances. Hopefully each of the guys would find something "non-Dad" that would interest them.

Did I mention in a previous post (Home Makeover) that the boys and I share a bathroom?

Anyway, I was pupping around in the meat department while waiting for the Kid to order his sandwich at the deli. He put it in the cart and stood next to me.

Our store butcher, who is an adorable woman who never fails to greet us and ask us how we're doing when she sees us (we've ordered a couple of special cuts over the years) walked by and stopped.

"Oooh! Jessica McClintock! That's my favorite perfume! You smell so good!"

I looked at her blankly. Huh? I took a shower before coming to the store and put on some deoderant. I hadn't actually foofed. And my clothes were fresh from the dryer.

She continued...."I have some of this at home! It's my favorite!"

I thanked her and looked at the Big Kid when she left. Yeah, I'd noticed the distinctive delicate lilac fragrance in the car, but hey, it's my car, and I often drive it while foofed.

He looked back at me and said, "What?"

What kind of foof did you put on before we left?

"That stuff in the square bottle that said 'tester'. Didn't you say those were for us? I've been using it for weeks. It smells so good. Can you get more?"

Oy!

Gone Fishin'

Well not really.

But hubby's out of town to visit his mom, Big Kid thought aliens or some other creature was in his stomach depositing eggs in his digestive tract, and frankly (NOT going to get into the poop-sifting and "egg"-hunting exercise), I'm beat.

No worries, everything is good. I just need a really long nap. Or four. Maybe a valium.

I'll be back in a couple to catch up with you and your blogs.

Play nice.

ATM

A Different Kind of Anniversary

5 years ago this week, I talked to my mother for the very first time.

I'm sure she talked to me some time during the three few days we had together in the hospital---she was a young woman not knowing what lay ahead of her, and I was the baby she was saying goodbye to.

But that was long ago and buried in memories I can't access.

After 4 years of searching, amidst the fog of the moment during our first conversation, I think I said, "I've been waiting to hear your voice for my entire life."

I'm not sure. I was trembling uncontrollably and a little buzzed, because I had just downed two shots of brandy (in the AM!) and three pep talks (one from a fellow adoptee, one from my husband and one from my Mom) before I actually dialed the number given to me by the intermediary from the agency.

Before I get anybody's panties in a twist over my use of the word "mother", let me assure you that I'm not disrespecting my adoptive Mom at all. This is how she has always referred to the woman who gave birth to me---as my mother. Unlike many adoptive parents from the era, Mom never felt the need to obliterate my mother's role in my life.

She just scootched over on the "Mommy" chair to make sure there would always be a seat in my heart for the both of them.

Those who like to think they are, but really aren't intimately involved in adoption (like friends, neighbors, siblings, people on the street, etc) don't always "get" this.

For many decades, our society has told us that infant adoptees are blank slates---just waiting to be molded and melded into the perfect [koff] two-parent adoptive family. Luckily, in the last couple of decades, practices have evolved to understand that "nature" is as equally as important as "nurture".

Unfortunately, many Muggles (pop-culture term for those who mistakenly think they "get" it) still hang on to the stereotypes.

Let me set them straight.

I had a great adoption. I wasn't looking for a new family. I wasn't searching because I was ungrateful to the family who opened their home and hearts to me. I have a mom, a dad (now deceased) and brothers who I'm pretty damned attached to. They're my family. We have a shared history, and I love them deeply.

Both of my guys were born with "supposed" genetic disabilities. At the time they were diagnosed, genetic testing only identified 17% of known disabilities.

Those of you who have intact families probably never think twice about this. Why should you? I had no problems myself, but on every medical form I've ever filled out, my family history has been a blank. A zero. The more cynical of you might say that adoptees just need to be tested more often for diabetes or breast cancer or heart disease, etc .

Yeah, maybe so.

But it's a bit too little, too late when adoptees have already had children who have inherited something that there's no test for and is practically impossible to diagnose without a family medical history.

Tell me to my face that I should be grateful for the adoption secrecy, especially when my mother tried to alert my adoptive parents a few years later through the agency that there might be medical issues, and the agency told her take a hike.

I'm not kidding myself, and I'm not ashamed of this either:

I had questions I needed answers to. I needed to know if my mother was ok, and I wanted to let her know that her decision to relinquish me was ok. I wanted her to know that I'd had a good life. As a mother myself, I think the question would have haunted me for the rest of my days, and I wanted to let her know that I was well.

I'm not going to get into the Sturm und Drang over emotional issues for pity, but for those who've been raised in their biological families, I can only say this:

I no longer have to consider myself the top and only link of my genetic chain.

I no longer have to look to my children to feel a biological tie, or to find a glimpse of myself in them to see if we share any attributes, just to have someone who looks like me. I now can see that my oldest has inherited his beautiful eye-shape from my mother, and shares a unibrow (there should be two!) with my biological brother.

Ok, I personally inherited her long and creepy toes too.

To my Mother, on our 5-year anniversary.....

Thank you for being so accepting of my search for you.

Thank you for being so open and honest in answering my every question.

Thank you for being so welcoming and paving the way with the rest of your/our family over my existence.

Most of all, thank you--thank you so much for being my close friend!

I can't tell you how much my life has been enhanced since you've become a part of it.

Happy Anniversary!

Extreme Makeover, Attila Edition---Finally Done!

If I've been boring the poop out of you over this, my apologies. Give me my own digital camera for Xmas, and I turn into a photo-freak!

It's finally done! Woohoo!

Here are the before pictures (you can click on any of them to make them larger):














Urk! Ugly peach mosaic tile!











Wood-paneled bathtub circa 1984 complete with sealed-in mold (yes, the previous owners re-sealed the wood without sanding the existing mold), and very shallow, narrow and short kit tub sans sliding glass doors.

Ignore the ugly dirt ring. That's ours, but I didn't feel like cleaning the damn thing out before taking pictures because we were just about to tear it out anyway. I don't think the guy at the dump was going to point fingers!












Top view of shower and linen/utility closet.












Out with the crappy old tub.

Say hi to my lil' brother and bye to ugly old stuff!

Here is the new and improved Attila Bathroom!

Honestly, I don't know why the dark tile looks black on my monitor. It's actually a dark brown granite with tan flecks.

Here's the shower curtain and window treatments I made out of the "tw*t" material. You can sit on the toilet and contemplate it up close and personal.

I gave into kitsch and bought pinecone shower rings. And again with the color! For some reason the material looks pink. It goes from peach to dark orange red. The carpet runner is brown and the shade of green in the curtains.

Here are the new and improved counters!

And another picture of the shower/tub. Isn't it pretty?












Look, no nipple knobs! I picked the flowers! :-)













Here's another view of the counters.

Here's a picture of the lower part of the linen/utility closet. On the left (out of sight) were deep shelves, and this part was used to store mops/vacuums and stuff. A lot of wasted space. Now there are new shelves, and yippee! A laundry chute! After 10 days of using it, I keep kicking hubby for not getting one 10 years before!

We'll have to paint the whole closet, but that will wait until summer.

So what do you think?

American Midol Bad Poetry Contest/Week 3

Welcome to Week Three of the American Midol---If I'm Not Happy, Nobody's Happy Really Bad Poetry Contest!

3 New Entrants stepped up for the last round. Thank you all!

Next Monday, the top 10 finalists will battle for prizes. For rules, prizes, and other fine print, go here.

Vote for your favorite bad poet! The comments section is open until next Monday for audience participation in this round. The rules are as follows:

1). Each reader vote counts as 1/2 a point.
2). Readers may only vote once each round/week.
3). Anonymous comments/votes will not be counted and will be deleted unless the author provides their blog url with their vote.

A special welcome to our judges!


Mr. Fabulous

from

Pointless Drivel

Annie Drogynous

from

It Puts the Lotion in the Basket...




Beki

from

Backwards in High Heels





Ma Titwonky

from

Enema Portal for Groan Ups

Now, on with the show!!

______________
Contestant #14

WarCryGirl

at

The Cure for Boredom

Ode to Poop

Oh poop, with your ever changing color, changing like the seasons,
brown, green, yellow and the occasional orange;
Your creaminess and bouquet, sometimes tangy bringing tears to the eyes,
sometimes fruity yet always satisfying.

Poop you amaze me, with your textures, sometimes nutty, sometimes lumpy,
sometimes smooth as ice cream. How I love you, poop, yet sometimes you do not love me back, with the cramps and the ability to clear a room.

Why have you forsaken me, Poop!

And yet and I know no matter how long it has been since I've seen you,
I know you'll be back, making me wipe over and over and over and over,
like slowing down to gawk at a car accident. You don't want to look...and yet you do.

I will always remember you, Poop.

Ma Titwonky: This person has, with mere words, captured exactly the essence of Fuzzlenuts' eyes in line two. Add to that the powerfully odious imagery (it's almost like the writer is squatting next to me), and I give this one an 8.

Annie: Oh. My. Elvis. I can honestly say this is the shittiest poem ever.
My gag reflex was triggered several times while trying to read this. The
fact that you tried to compare your turds to wine make me ill. I'm giving
you a 9 because you made me lose my appetite not once, but many times today.

Mr. Fab: I don't think I want to know what someone has to eat to make them poop orange. If I'm being honest, this entry made me squirm. Ugh. I have to give it a 9. Wretchedly scatalogically icky.

Beki:

Your talk of poo
makes me feel blue
and green
Your rhymes are crass
When talking of ass
and out of it
It isn't the worse I've seen
I'm being mean
I give it 5

Total for badness: 31 points

____________________________
Contestant 15:

Leon, Husband of Jennifer at A Rambling Canuck

"Vote for my poem you Limey jerk!
Don’t you have 4 computers at work?"
This is all I hear all day,
"vote for my poem, vote for it now."

Now I’m not one to complain about women and shit,
but just read her poem and you must admit,
it really is a pile of crap...
F#ck, I guess I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.

She thinks its so bad, being on the rag,
you should try being a husband and dad.
I think I may not be that bright,
I'll being the one bleeding tonight.

Anyway, she isn’t winning this contest, not wise,
So vote for me and I’ll give her the prize.
Jennifer from a Rambling Canuck.
And I have to sleep with that at night. F#ck.

Ma Titwonky: This one leaves me cold. Males responding to female angst always use the trite reference to sleeping on the couch. Where's the whining and groaning about the real issues of dealing with PMS AND a bad hair day AND ragged cuticles? This one simply isn't bad enough. I give it a 4.

Annie: Ma, this doesn't leave me cold, it leaves me feeling dry and
irritated...much like a yeast infection would. I'm giving it a 5 because I
just don't see the badness and then I'm taking 2 points away because I'm
tired of men thinking they have it so much worse than women! HA!

Mr. Fab: The best thing about this one is that he's being such a putz that I think I might have a shot at nailing his wife. That makes me happy. Ma's is right about the couch thing. Does that ever really happen? I give it a 6. I'm not a man-hater like Ma.

Beki:

Moaning husbands, what a drag
No wonder she refuses your right to shag
Be thankful you didn't wed another

Or worse still marry her mother
Off with your whining and get back to your work
Who are you calling a Limey jerk?
Men are led by their dicks
I'm giving this one a score of 6

Total for badness: 19 points
_________________________________

Contestant 16:

One Ear

at

Rusty Never Sleeps

Petroleum jelly of mine,
Golly gee you are mighty fine.
I wish I weren’t addicted
To your big, oily honey pot.

I would kill just to have
Your lubricating salve
On my hands that are constricted
On my regions blood-filled and hot.


Ma T: I'm kinda hung up on that "blood-filled and hot" thing. Is this about Bees or a subdural hematoma? I'm thinking the bees and the blood-filled, hot regions would simply get mucked up with the addition of Petroleum jelly. Maybe I'm too old for this one. In any event, I give it a 5.

Annie: One thing about this poem especially bothers me; the use of the
words 'honey pot'. It immediately makes me think of the truck that drains
the port-a-potties of all its "goodies". Because the author didn't know
that Astroglide works SO much better than Petroleum Jelly and forced the
image of poo being sucked out of those johns to be imprinted on my brain,
I'm giving you a 4.

Mr. Fab: Oh baby, now we are talking my language; an ode to a lubricant. This hits me right where I live. I give it a solid 8. Hey, speaking of a solid 8, look what just popped up here...

Beki:

You repugnant jezebel
You cheap flirt
Passing this off as poetry
When it's just dirt
Your filthy mind
Needs occupying
But I'll give you this
At least your trying
Painting a vile image
I'm prone to hate
So have some points
Here have 8

Total for badness: 25 points

______________________________

That's it for Week 3 of American Midol, When I'm Not Happy, Nobody's Happy! Really Bad poetry contest! The comments section will be open for voting until midnight next Sunday----vote for your favorite poem!

This is your hostess Attila the Mom reminding you to help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered. And pick up those socks! And sit up straight! And...

If you're fans of the original Idol, please visit the folks at American Midol the blog---a source for news, gossip and snarky good fun. They were gracious enough to allow me to use the title for my contest name instead of ripping my arm off and beating me over the head with it for not doing a blog search first. Many thanks to them!

The Sunday Strumpet--er--Trumpet: Tease

New Gasbagger Krishanna, from Krishanna dot com---Still Full of Wit loves to watch reality shows. That being said, with all the craptastic stuff out there, if she finds one she doesn't like, you KNOW it has to be especially stinky!

Check out her hilarious review of bad hair and Tease!
________________________________________

If you'd like to join the Gasbags, sign up here!

We're getting to the end of our first review rotation, so now would be a good time to join us!

Previous reviews this season:

The Eleventh

Looking Beyond the Cracked Window

A Droll Way to Look at Things

Miss Keeks

Sven's Personal Memos

My Beautiful Life

Sweet Perdition

Cheaper Than Therapy

Enema Portal For Groan-ups

Basement Epiphanies

Tom's Hideaway

A Tykes Progress

Kate's Itisi

Mamma Loves

Smells Like Bullshit

Dreamers, Liars and Tellers of Tall Tales

Garbage in, Garbage out...

Hey everybody!

I was hoping you'd help me with a project.

As most of my regular blog friends know, my oldest son, The Big Kid, AKA The Kid Who is Not Related to Us, had a breakdown last spring while he was away at college. He came home with the screaming meemies, certain that he had a heart condition, an invasive brain tumor, and butt crack cancer.

Anybody new coming in can read all about it by clicking on my handy dandy new label at the bottom of this post.

He's the main reason I've decided to go back to college (since he doesn't drive) and I've posted about our adventures sporadically.

In October, after extensive evaluations, he was diagnosed with rapid cycling Bi-Polar disorder. We've been working really hard to get him on a medication regimen that doesn't "dope" him up, but as most things neurological, it's an individual thing (no one-size-fits-all cure).

He has OCD and ADHD, and the medications normally used to treat this generally induce manic episodes. So while one medication keeps him from feeling the compulsion to scrub his hands until they're bleeding, he needs another to counter it.

It's been a balancing act, worthy of the Ringling Brothers' and Barnum and Bailey Circus!

Knock on wood, I'm grateful to say---he's doing really well with the online classes we decided to take this semester. He can pretty much work at his own pace, doesn't have to sit through endless lectures, or do BS work that is normally used to fill up space in a 2-day a week classroom setting. The format is helpful with his learning style, and he's gotten A's and B's in everything.

Of course it helps that I'm taking the same courses, keep track of the deadlines and beat him with my Bunny Slipper of Doom to get his assignments in on time. We've only got about 3-4 more classes we can take together before our separate majors diverge (he's going for a Criminal Justice degree, I'm getting my Paralegal certificate).

Which comes to my point.

Big Kid is still suffering a lot of sporadic depression. The meds are working as best they can, but he seems to get himself into a lot of unfortunate situations that would make the most positive person feel like slitting their wrists.

So we're trying to take a more aggressive holistic approach to mind/body/environment.

Last fall, in a class we took together---Public Speaking---we met a very charismatic fellow student who was very open about his struggle with Bi-Polar disorder. We talked with him between class periods in the quad and other times, and he said something really profound to the Big Kid. It flew over the kid's head, but it stayed with me.

And recently both the kid's doctor and therapist mentioned it, but in different terms.

The fellow student said, "Garbage in, Garbage out".

The first couple of speeches and class exercises The Big Kid used as his favorite topics were music. The bands he chose to focus on were beyond hard rock. We prefer to call it "the music of the devil". The fellow student noticed, because he'd been there, done that.

I remember when I was a teen and we waited for the folks to leave the house before blasting our stereos with Van Halen and the second 80's incarnation of the Rolling Stones. And the forgettable hair bands. I didn't want my kid to have to do that. So I allowed him some time to blast his crap in the house, in his room, during the day.

But after listening to 15-20 minutes of Mudvayne and Mushroomhead----I was ready for some freaking Ativan myself. The craptastic shit blasted over and over can induce a panic attack in the most ordinary of persons.

There is no discernable beat. There is no discernable melody. The only people who could dance to it is people who are in the midst of having seizures. WTF? No wonder the kid is feeling scattered!

The good thing is that The Kid actually is willing to listen to other forms of music. He likes Seal, and a couple of other artists. He's tired of feeling bad, and is willing to participate.

I'm trying to put together a disc of positive affirmation music for him to listen to when he's feeling depressed. This is what I've gotten off the top of my head:

Beautiful---Christina Agulara
You Gotta Be---Desiree
I Hope You Dance---Leanne Womack
Rubberband Man---The Spinners
Live Like You Were Dying---Tim McGraw
Thank You---Dido

That's all I got.

Anybody have something I can add?

Thanks!

Oh, the Irony!

Anyone who gets a subscription to Reader's Digest should check out their March edition. I'm still scratching my head over it.

Near the end, in the "Eat Me!" or "Eat This!" section (something like that) a reader wrote in about being bored with winter veggies. The nutrition/recipe guru wrote about cabbage, broccoli and cauliflower. Mentioned how they were great cancer fighters.

Then went on to recommend frying the cabbage in bacon fat to make it taste good!

The cancer won't get a chance to eat you up. Your blocked arteries will choke the life out of you first!!

I'm going to extend the time for the last round of new American Midol entries for one more day---midnight on Thursday. I've been a bad bad host and was too busy to pimp it today.

Don't forget to scroll down and vote for your favorite bad poem for this week!

Stupid for Breakfast

Here's another example of parents who got up and ate a great big steaming bowl of stupid for breakfast. And most likely for lunch. And probably for dinner.

In fact, I think stupid is all they have in their pantry.

A 12-year-old girl meets a 41-year-old man on a "chat-line". Oy.

What in the hell is a 12-year-old doing on a chat-line?

She tells her parents the "boy" she's talking to is much younger. And she doesn't inform them that he thinks she's 19.

They met him in person when he showed up on their doorstep and apparently didn't think that he looked 41.

But obviously he wasn't 14. Or even 16.

Idiots.

Did they think he had some kind of old fart disease that aged him prematurely, or do they normally think someone who looks old enough to be a grandpappy is an appropriate boyfriend for a 12-year-old?

They allowed him to take her out on a date that night (although they just met him) and he did. First to an arcade, and then a motel room. And again on the next day.

Then they permitted him to drive her 600 miles to his home, presumably to "meet his family". More grandpappy sex ensues.

The 41-year-old man---who must also have a fridge full of stupid for snacks---later gets himself busted in a way so asinine that it only gives credibility to his side of the story.

Thinking that she was 19, he called the police in her town to do a wellness check on her, fearing that she might have been raped in her home. The police investigated, the 12-year-old spilled the beans and Kurt Andrew Hakmiller was charged with three counts of committing lewd acts on a child younger than 13.

The dumbutt's defense? "I don't care if she's 12! She's my girlfriend and I love her!" Eww.

The parents' defense?

Could there possibly be one?

No, thought not.