Stuck on Stupid

I know I haven't written anything in the last week or more, but between class obligations, work obligations and life obligations, I've been derailed by stupid. Or just bullsh*t. Take your pick.

First of all, for the last 10 years or so, Hubby and I have been under our own misguided notion that the original copy of our marriage license/decree was in a safe deposit box up in the big city. For reasons I'm going to leave unexplained, I need the original copy for a legal reason. Turns out that the 5 copies we had notarized back when we thought we locked up the original don't count as certified and we now have no idea what happened to the original. Gak!

So I went to an online service that is in our state that I used to get extra certified copies of the boys' birth certificates a few years ago. Otherwise, I'd have to take a trip up to the county where Hubby and I were married, and right now, I just don't have time to spend an entire day going back and forth.

After I put in all the relevant info, declared I was one of the parties, gave my credit card info including my stated and billing address (refused the 19.95 Fed Ex delivery, but accepted the free "regular mail" option), I had to answer some "verification for personal identity" questions.

What other property do I own? It gave 4 addresses plus a "none". I answered it correctly.

What cities in Colorado had I never lived in? It gave 3 cities I'd lived in plus one that doesn't even exist, and I picked the correct option.

What county have I never lived in? It gave 4 counties, plus a "none" option. I picked the correct option.

Have any of these people ever lived with you or lived at your current address? It gave 4 names plus a none option.

Well how in the hell am I supposed to know? I know the names of the people we bought the house from, but they weren't on the list. Do they think we keep a walking pedigree of the previous owners/tenants from the time the house was built? I clicked on "none".

And they rejected my application based on that. How freaking stupid is it?

We went to Little Guy's IEP meeting. Although he is graduating from high school this year, he is going to receive transitional services through the high school until he is 21.

We've been planning a huge graduation "do" for him. We'd already let all the friends/family know when his graduation was taking place, and many have bought plane tickets and gotten hotel reservations in anticipation for his day.

While we were compiling the "official" graduation announcements to send out, we noticed some fine print on them. "By ticket only". WTF?

Turns out that each graduate gets 7 tickets. When deciding on this venue (which isn't actually in our small town, and could have seated over a couple of thousand people if they held it at the high school like normal peeps instead of at some swanky auditorium down in the city) the organizers didn't inform the families that we'd be limited by tickets. Relatively speaking to the rest of the country, it's a very small graduating class----around 120. The rest of the tickets are going on first come, first serve at the front office on Monday. Limit 5 tickets per family.

Little Guy has 5 siblings alone. No, I didn't mistake my vagina for a clown car, but his dad has remarried and has had a second family. Additionally, Little Guy has 4 parents. 5 grandparents. 4 aunts and uncles (out of like 12) who have made plans to come. Close friends who marked out this date and have non-refundable plane tickets.

It's bullsh*t. As I said to the assistant principal at our IEP----"This is Little Guy's Day. The day the 'experts' said would never come."

He isn't going to ever get a chance to graduate from college. This is IT for him. So from out of all our friends and family who have already spent money on plane tickets----we have to decide who gets to go and who not? The rest can sit around in our living room and twiddle their thumbs? I think not.

Stupid. It's stupid.*
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*Yes we've planned a big graduation party for the day after (the graduation is at 7pm), but seriously, people are coming in to be there at his big moment. And he deserves to have them there.

Oh and P.S. I've got to either go up to the county in person to get our decree or apply by snail mail. So snail mail it is. :-)

Speaking of....

Ha!

Panties. Period.

Well since most of the men have been conspicuously absent from commenting (well, not Joe of the Dutch Oven fame, or Tom, who made a brief comment about veggies being evil before getting the hell out of here) on my last post about flatus, I thought I'd take advantage and ask a question that I've been dying to know.

Since it will prolly be a week or so before any of those guys are brave enough to poke their heads back in here.

You chickas have been really cracking me up!


I grew up with two brothers, so I never had a sister to ask. My parents were somewhat "older" when they adopted us---with me they were 35. Nowadays that's nothing, but when I was growing up, that was almost elderly. They were of a completely different generation than my friend's parents.

My dad was near the bottom rung of 10 kids, my mom was a total afterthought baby herself, so they were basically unattached to their parents' generation as well. They were both practically raised in Victorian households.

When I was about 8 my mom was so uptight with the whole sex thing that she gave us a book called "A Doctor Talks to 6-to-12 Year Olds" and said we could ask her questions later. Privately, one on one. Uh huh. Sure. Nowadays, it's easier to talk to your folks and others about this stuff. Hell who hasn't been on Maury? Back then for me? Not.

When I unexpectedly started my period a few years later, I happened to be at a "Dad" weekend (things had changed dramatically since we got the "book"). Dad was an "old" fart and left it all up to young Trophy Wife #1 to deal with.

She, of course, first ran out and bought me OB tampons, and handed them to me through the bathroom door. I was 11. When I wouldn't come out of the bathroom or stop crying (I didn't know what the heck to DO with them), she ran out to probably the only drugstore on the planet that still carried sanitary pads that had to be hooked into a belt. And bought the belt as well. Totally skipped over the shelf that had the ones that had adhesive and could be stuck into your own panties.

When I got home on Sunday night and told my mom, I got the big tearful "now you're a woman!" speech. Which was actually kind of nice. She bought me the right kind of pads, and a funny kind of cloth cigarette pack holder to carry one in. Oh, and she told me that if I got blood on my panties, or my sheets, or my clothes, that I had to scrub it ALL out in the sink with cold water before putting it in the laundry.

Yeah right.

When I think about all the time I spent over those years scrubbing and scrubbing after accidents (like who is regular the first couple of years or so---you usually find out you've started once it's already there? Or what if you roll over in the middle of the night and everything gets bunched up at the front or the back and you leak somewhere?), I started to think my Mom was some evil sadistic menstrual harpy. Really.

Mom was in a natural holistic phase at that point and wouldn't even give me an aspirin for cramps. Now I'm convinced that she was so prissy that she probably threw her own panties and sheets away, bought new ones and scarfed down valium by the bowlful (docs were handing it out like candy in the 70's) but told herself it was theraputic because she had a prescription. Just kidding. Heh. LOL

For those Buffy/Angel fans out there---that episode where Fred was scrubbing and scrubbing Jasmine's sweater until her own hands were bleeding gave me a big "Aiigghghhhh!!" moment. Not pretty.

So anyways, when I became an adult, I was done with all that. Yeah, if I had an accident, I'd do the obligatory soak in cold water, but I'd be damned if I'd futilely scrub and scrub. I'd have a few pairs of panties that had old stains, and instead of wearing pristine ones while on my period, I'd wear the stained ones. Heck, they were already stained, but they were technically clean and otherwise in perfect shape, so what's the big whoop?

That's when I started thinking about them as my Period Pants.

Now other than Hubby (who does his own laundry) the guys and I pretty much throw our dirties down the new laundry chute and do our laundry communally. Except for my Period Pants. I wash them separately with
some of my other stuff, and fold and put them away myself.

Until recently. We've been so busy that I had a load in the dryer when Hubby went to wash some of his own clothes. Sometimes, if there's something in the dryer, he'll bring it up and fold on the ottoman in the living room while we're watching TV as he waits for his own laundry to get done.

So he's pulling all my Period Pants out of the laundry basket (I was in the other room) while they're all watching The Simpsons (I was in the other room JUST to avoid it) and folding them in front of the guys, and they're like---ewwww! Mom!

From the other room, I said "What????"

Your underwear!!!!

That's when I saw what Hubby was doing. Gak!

We had to have a big family conversation about how I bitch at them for leaving skid marks in their undies for willfully not wiping their butts good enough, but I'm not being a hypocrite because sometimes I have an accident and these panties are around 4-6 years old. I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing this was.

Tell me, what do the rest of you do with them? Do you have Period Pants?

I swear, I'm just going to start being my mother and throw them away.

Rambling and Padambling...

A couple of years ago, I confessed that I'm one of those people who are gassy and sometimes inadvertently rips ass at the most inconvenient times. I have difficulty burping, and I guess the gas has to go somewhere, which is usually south. ;-)

Anyhoo, after the first of the year, I stuck ALL of us on Weight Watchers points plan. It wasn't really a New Year's resolution, but sort of a plan to make us all lose some pounds and get healthier.
The Big Kid and Little Guy don't follow it if they're out of the house, but there is no longer ANY processed junk here to snack on. I got one of those "choppers" that cut veggies into little itty bitty chunks and have been slowly replacing meat in low-fat sauces with vegetables, etc (you can hide them better that way).

I've lost 17 pounds since the first of the year (which has hardly made a dent, IMO), Hubby has lost a bunch, and Little Guy has lost a few. It's hard to tell with Big Kid, through all the layers of clothes he wears (his new thing is not to change his dirty clothes, but add a layer of clean on top of the dirty, which is an entirely different story for another day).

Oddly enough, while all the extra fiber in our diet has increased the number of ducks my guys are stepping on, my own barking spiders have inexplicably gone silent. Now I'M usually the one who gets spot-welded in the middle of the night. The dogs aren't afraid of me any more. For the first time, they come running to ME when somebody is blaming them for being the poofter or putting a hurt on their noses.

Except when I'm in the grocery store.

For some reason (maybe YOU guys can help me figure this out), the last 3 times while I was in our local store, my lower abdomen started churning and I had a sudden, painful, and urgent need to cut the cheese. Seriously! I don't think it's like extra walking or anything, because I've been out walking every time the sun is shining.

The first time it hit me, I squinched up my butt cheeks and made it five steps to the organic corner of the produce section (I was across the store from the bathroom and there was nobody around) and totally let fly before scurrying away.

I figured that if anything wilted, it could be blamed on the lack of preservatives or pesticides or veggie genetic engineering. Who knows---the last 3 out of 4 times I've bought organic veggies in a bag, I've found some kind of larvae in there noshing away. The best scenario would be that my natural gas suffocated them so the next person didn't get a live and wiggling surprise.

At least that's what I tell myself. ;-)

During the second visit to the store, the guys and I were standing in front of the Lean Pockets in the freezer section (which was fairly crowded with shoppers), and I was telling Big Kid---"the difference between Hot Pockets and Lean Pockets is the fat content, and no, I'm not going to buy any Hot Pockets, so if you avoid the nasty multi-grain ones, you're not going to find much of a difference in the taste. Pick one that you might eat already or not".

I'd just spent the last 15 minutes fending off loud and public whines from this 21-year-old who doesn't HAVE A JOB or contribute any way to the household, that ran along the lines of, "Why won't you buy me chocolate milk? I have a RIGHT to have chocolate milk if I want it! Why do YOU have to be so cheap?" or "Why can't you buy GOOD stuff like Fried Mozzarella Sticks?" or "You don't expect ME to eat GENERIC BRAND mandarin oranges/oatmeal/kidney beans/whatever do you? I'm not going to eat diet or generic crap! And why are you so CHEAP?" arrggghh

So we're standing in front of the Lean Pockets, he's still bitching and moaning, and I had sudden and massive cramps. The bathrooms were just up at the end of the aisle and over 1.

I took a step in the right direction, but that little solitary step unleashed the butt monkeys from hell. At that point, I figured that trying to rein them in would be futile and just let them run rampant. Prolly hit the Richter scale at about 7 out of 10. In noise, at least.

On to Plan B.

I turned to Big Kid in the middle of his "I'm not going to eat diet food, and why was I so damn cheap" rant and said loudly, "For God's sakes, if you have to fart that bad, can't you at least go outside? What in the heck is wrong with you?"

So while everybody in the freezer section was giving Big Kid the hairy eyeball I took the cart, and Little Guy and I ran like hell (with disgusted looks on our faces).

The 3rd time was just Little Guy and me. Big Kid was too embarrassed to show his face at our store after "his"--ahem--21-bun-salute. Luckily, when the cramps hit me, I was 10 feet from the bathroom. So I left Little Guy with the cart, locked myself in there and farted myself silly. Came out (no fan in there, so I left the door open to air it out) and got hit with another wave of cramps. Went back in and did it again.

Came out, and there was a lady waiting to use the facilities. Boy did I feel bad. Apologized to her in advance.
Since then, I'm sort of afraid to go back. I've been having Hubby drop by and pick stuff up. Is it some sort of psychological trained response like Pavlov's Dog? Any ideas?

The Suckage of Life

I know I haven't been around much posting or commenting lately, and I feel really bad about it. It seems to be my excuse de jour for the last few months.

The last couple of weeks have been particularly bad. You ever have those days when you just feel so overwhelmed by stuff that it's hard to just get out of bed each day and slog through the crap that makes up your life?

A lot of it for me has been the weather. It's springtime in the Rockies, which is the season when we get the most snow days. All the gray makes me feel gray inside too. I suffered from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) a lot when I was in my teens and early 20's, and I think it's just biting me on the butt right now.

I've had a lot of family stuff going on lately that's been consuming me. Not my hubby and kids but some other stuff that I've had to deal with. My dad died a little over 10 years ago, and I'm ready to close that chapter in my life and move on without a "things that ultimately have to be taken care of" list hanging over my head indefinitely. Mostly involving shared assets that my brothers and I put aside to "deal with later". I decided that it's time to finally deal with them now, since most of those "shared assets" have had to be financially maintained by myself (and hubby), and I'm ready to get out.

We're paying for 2 college educations, I'm getting zero return on some of this stuff as is---if I had set aside the "sentimental attachment" (not mine) and insisted we cash out years earlier, I could have even conservatively invested it in CDs or bonds and gotten some kind of return. But I think 10 years is enough for them to get their sh*t together, and I just want out.

So there's been some hard words exchanged, and it makes me feel very very sad and depressed. Hopefully most of it will be wrapped up in the next couple of weeks or so.

Sorry to be such a bummer.

Eyeball Rolls of the Week....

Where to start, where to start?

How about with Lisa Marie Presley. She's suing the Daily Mail for calling her fat thereby "forcing" her to announce her pregnancy sooner than she wanted to (she's due next fall).

Oh please. You're a public figure by choice, so not going to get a lot of sympathy here. You announced on TV that you had sex with Michael Jackson ferpete'ssakes, and THIS bothers you? Heh. You can't chase the dragon known as fame and cry when it turns on you.

The next eyeroll goes to Dr."Do As I Say, Not As I Do" Laura. She says that because Mrs. Spitzer wasn't willing to dress up like Miss Trunchbowl in Nazi boots and spank the Luv Guv with the BIG hairbrush, his $80,000 ho habit is her fault.

Ok, I made up the stuff about the big hairbrush. But Dr. Laura says Mrs. Spitzer doesn't "validate him" enough. Yeah. Validate this, you lying, cheating peckerwood.

Considering what a big crappy mess Dr. Laura has turned out to be as a wife, mother, daughter and talk show host, does anyone even listen to her any more?

I don't know which deserves a bigger eyeball roll....that MSNBC is quoting the National Enquirer as a news source or that the Enquirer is reporting that Star Jones is dumping her husband. Like nobody ever saw THAT coming.....

What's got YOUR eyeballs rolling this week?

Waaah!

Yes, I know, I've been MIA. I'm sorry.

First Hubby was finally cleared by his doctors to fly back east to visit his mom. Yippee! But because they haven't determined the cause of his blood clot, it just ratcheted up my anxiety over the idea that he might fall over the drinks cart on the way to the mini-bathroom with an embolism mid-flight.

He was supposed to fly back in last Tuesday night, but his original flight was delayed on departure for a couple of hours (they didn't have enough crew---believe it or not), so he missed his connecting flight home from Denver. He got there in time to catch the last flight out of Denver, but the airline inexplicably canceled that at the last minute. They said, "well, you can be on stand-by for the first flight out at about 6am", but it wasn't until he raised holy hell that they arranged to put him up at a local hotel.

By the way, he says the "sleep number" beds suck butt. But then again, he probably didn't know what his "number" was. He was able to get a seat on the second flight out in the morning and got home around 11am. Tired, stiff, feeling dirty (he didn't get his luggage overnight) and royally pissed off.
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While he was gone over the weekend we had a big snow-storm which sort of knocked out our cable-broadband-internet connection somehow. Of course, the cable company will never admit that it's their responsibility. Apparently every house in my subdivision has small children and/or dogs that somehow knocked each of our individual cables loose at the same time.

And after checking and rechecking every connection while on the 800 number with some customer service doink from another state (who first insisted we power everything down for 5 minutes as if we hadn't tried that 4 times before calling because this has become a habit), we were put on a list for service by the 1 cable guy who was on call over the weekend.

There is only one provider up here, so it's not like we can threaten to go somewhere else. However, I'm keeping track of the down-time to try to get it pro-rated off our bill, simply because it's happening more frequently.
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Big Kid and I also had mid-terms this week, so we've been studying like crazy. We both think we did well.
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Another Aerogarden Update! I have to get a new memory card for my camera, so there's no recent pic, but at 7 weeks of growth, I harvested about 20 snow peas. The supports that came with the package (weird insulated wires that you're supposed to wind around your fingers and stick into the seed pods) don't do poop to support the plants, so I ended up sticking 12-inch wooden skewers into the back plant pods and draping the front growth on top of the back. It looks ugly, but it's working.

You're supposed to "sex them up" for germination by sticking your hand in there and shaking them all around hokey-pokey style once there are blooms. I didn't even get a chance to do it. One day they had a couple of flowers, and the next they already had mini-seed pods. Since the first harvest, I've picked maybe 5 more pods, and there are another 20 or so buds just waiting to bloom in the next few days. I've got to refill the tank about twice a week now, because boy, they grow fast.

By the way---anybody know how you're supposed to harvest chives? That one pod has a lot of growth, but I've only snipped off a little bit. And how do you store it for future use? Dry it? Freeze it? gak!
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Ok, my personal Waaaah is done. From what I've read in emails etc, a lot of bad stuff has been happening to some friends around blogland this week. I'm so sorry, and will be down to visit pronto. :-(
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As a final note, I really thought that I've seen everything. Silly moi. For the man who has everything:

Here's something new. What twisted mind thought THIS up?


xoxox

ATM

Sh*ts and Grins

I've read some funny stuff this week and I wanted to share:

First is from Special K over at Idle Thoughts of an Idle Person.

I don't know why I find poo humor so funny---8 straight years of changing diapers, having two brothers and two sons, being adopted---take your pick, but I was simply rolling over this. Especially since a very similar situation happened to me in the grocery store the other day. No, I didn't soil myself. I didn't roll the dice. ;-)

Check it out! It's some funny sh*t!

Second came from tAnYeTTa at Tanyettasedit-That's right! Drop by and say hi if you get the chance.

Now you too can be like me and learn how to bounce the "Bunny Slipper of Doom" off the back of your kid's head! You got the powah, baby!

More Things That Make Me Go Aiiigghhhh!!!

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post about things that make me go "aiiigghh", and thought I got it out of my system.

Apparently not. Lately there have been quite a few items I've read that give me the huzz. I've been walking around in a state of constant huzzness.

The first is people who swallow parasitic worms in order to lose weight. I read an article about it, then someone sent me an email with old ads and there was one in there. What the heck? How could anyone be so desperate as to voluntarily introduce a batch of worms that can grow up to 15 inches in your intestines (or pancreas, or lungs)?

I remember a friend whose cat had a bad case of worms. Every time she lifted her tail, you could see them playing peek-a-boo from her anus. They'd pop out and wave "hi" for a second and then pop back in. It took a long LONG time for me to visit my friend's house after that.

Good Lord, my butt is itching just thinking about it. 'Scuse me for a minute.

The second has to do with eyeballs again. I found the commercial that scares the crap out of me on YouTube. They've been playing it a lot lately.




Anyway, I was reading an article about a fisherman in Britain who hooked a deadly giant snakehead fish which is not indigenous to the continent, because they're usually found in Asia. Apparently they eat just about anything (including people), can hop around a bit on land, and live for up to 4 days out of the water. I suppose any "normal" person would say, "Holy Crap, look at those teeth!" when they look at the picture.

Not me. My first words were, "OMFG, look at those EYEBALLS! AAAAAAAIIIGGHHHHHH!!"

This last one is one of those ideas that look good on paper, but freak me out in a "what could go wrong" kind of way. Remember when I wrote about the scientists who grew a replacement penis on some guy's arm?

Scientists in Australia are developing a radio-controlled vasectomy, which involves silicone implants that expand to block the flow of sperm. I guess in theory, it seems like a workable idea, because there really ARE no long-term birth control devices for men.

On the other hand, I have visions of it getting WAY out of control. What if some car manufacturer accidentally programs their remote car key chains to the same frequency? Some poor doof in the Home Depot parking lot could be trying to open the trunk of his Hummer to load it with fertilizer and inadvertently set the weasels jumping in the trousers of half the men in a 3-block radius.

Or what about at the beach? Some kid with a remote-control lil' dune buggy could start a riot. Creepy men who wear speedos is bad enough. Creepy men wearing undulating speedos is enough to make the wimmins race like lemmings into the surf face first to drown themselves. Or make them bleed from the eyeballs.

Ew. Eyeballs.

Gonna go scrub my brain now before it explodes.

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I got my rantipants on about bad parenting over on Disaboom if you feel like stopping by...

The Marital Mind-Meld

I've heard all the jokes about aging, where people laugh a little nervously when they forget things and call it a case of "CRS" (Can't Remember Sh*t)---as if we're giving the stink-eye to the future possibility of dementia or Alzheimer's.

My Hubby, who is probably one of the smartest, most compassionate and most articulate of persons I've ever been fortunate enough to know has the wit of a steel trap. He also has the memory of a steel sieve, for a lot of things (Not according to him, of course). Hah.

Over the years we've been together, there have been multiple times that he's misplaced his wallet, his cell phone, his keys, or certain credit cards. He's insisted that he put them in xxxxx place, and either I, or the kids, or the evil hiding-stuff-just-to-mess-up-my-day genie must have MOVED whatever item because he KNOWS where he last put it.

And of course, I can walk into our bedroom or bathroom, and find the item either on top of his dresser, or in the pocket of the pants he wore the night before. Then he gets pissy and practically accuses me of hiding the item just to mess with him. Hmph. If he wasn't so darn cute he'd be spending a LOT of nights on the couch.

Ok to be fair, yes, once....he left his cell phone at the customer service desk at the grocery store. Couldn't solve that problem. But at least it wasn't caused by me, the kids, or the evil-mess-up-my-day-genie.

But there's another kind of forgetfulness that I never hear that much about. I'm calling it the Marital Mind-Meld. It's when you've been together so long with your partner, or you're so in tune to each other that you start sharing memories even if they aren't yours.

For example: Back when we were living in sin, about 15 years ago, we lived in my little house south of Denver close to a highway which is kind of a back way to get to the ski resorts. One late spring evening I was coming home from somewhere (Hubby-then-boyfriend was at the house watching the boys) and stopped to get some gas about a block from the highway.

As I was filling up the tank, I glanced around. A woman was pumping gas on the other side. I did a double-take. Was it? Could it be? She looked just like a famous international sports star. She had the signature "mulletish-do" she wore back then (except I don't think I knew to call it a mullet), but she was a bit shorter than I had imagined she'd be. I was trying to figure out how to strike up a conversation with her (she was completely oblivious to my presence) because the star had a somewhat distinctive accent, when her companion came out of the convenience store and did it for me.

She asked her if she wanted anything and they chatted for a minute while they were finishing up with their gas. Yes! I was sure that it WAS her! Wow! Her companion gave me a little smile and a wave as they pulled out. I rushed home.

You would NOT believe who I saw at the 7-11! Hubby was excited because he's a huge fan.

We told the "pumping gas across from sports star" story often enough over the years for it to become part of our family lore. One of our very few brushes with fame.

A year or so ago, we had friends visiting that we hadn't seen in awhile. We were chatting about this and that, and in the middle of a story, hubby told them about the time "we" pumped gas across from famous sports star. I raised my eyebrows a little, but thought maybe he was just caught up in the story. I wasn't going to correct him in front of our friends either, because well, I hate people who do that to their spouses. Made a note to mention it later, but never got around to it.

So a few months ago, we were laughing at something on the TV, and Hubby says, "That reminds me of the time I was pumping gas across from famous sports star."

Whhaaaaa??? You weren't even there!

"What are you talking about? Of course I was there!"

No you weren't! You were taking care of the boys and I came home and told you about it!

He was completely befuddled. Disbelieving and disturbed. He clearly has a memory of the incident, although he can't tell you what famous sport star was wearing or what side of the pump her vehicle was on. I can, because of course, I was the one who was there, and got a good eyeball of what she was wearing while trying to figure out if she was indeed, the sport star.

How weird is that?

Parents Behaving Badly

On the days I feel like my parenting skills have crapped the bed, I feel like I need a little dose of smug. At least things could be worse...

This lovely mother (using the term loosely) actually strapped in her case of beer on the front seat, but left her 1-year-old baby unsecured without a seatbelt or car seat in the back. How do you mistake your baby for a case of beer?

And how exactly do you comment on the awfulness of that?
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Two teenagers snatched a 9-year-old girl scout's cookie money bag outside a grocery store. Then they came back the next day to taunt her. That time they got caught.

Any remorse? Oh hell no. In fact they bitched about it on a news program. (if you go the article, click on the "teens rob scout" video link).

"We went through all that effort to get it, we got all these charges and we had to give the money back. I'm kind of pissed."

Huh?

"I'm not sorry, I'm just pissed that I got caught."

You have GOT to be kidding me!

Thankfully, one of the teens had been in trouble before and they were able to slap her with a probation violation on top of all that.

And NOW she's sorry. Boo-freaking-hoo.

Where in the hell are their parents? Stealing quarters from the collection plate?
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This last one really takes the cake.

Elderly homeowners were watching TV one night with their adult son when they heard a commotion outside. 7 people were on their front porch trying to kick in their front door. They dialed 911.

While they were waiting for the police, the would-be "home invaders" kept kicking the door and screaming that they were going to "kill" them. As the door was coming off the hinges, Don Ashby grabbed a shotgun and shot it through the lower half of the door, striking 18-year-old Glen Lilly in the foot.

The suspects fled, but 4 were apprehended.

After the arraignment, Glen Lilly's mother actually had the nerve to call up the Ashbys to tell them that "I don't appreciate you shooting my son in the foot."

Would she'd rather Ashby shoot through the UPPER half of the door and put a bullet in the kid's head?

What an idjit. Sheesh!

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I wrote a little about Little Guy's surgery over on Disaboom. He's just fine. Thanks for all your kind wishes!

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's been a busy week, and I'm so sorry I haven't been checking in.

Little Guy had to have some minor surgery, and I've been all tangled up in taking care of him and other things.

Wanted to pass on a really sweet act of kindness that a friend sent to me the other day.

It's called the Ugly Beard Contest. I didn't get this up in a timely manner (ok, I only received this a week ago, and I've been busy), so the contest is over, but they're still accepting donations.

The male teachers of the Jordan-Elbridge High School started a contest to see who could grow the ugliest beard. They're in a rural school district which serves a lot of families in need. It costs a dollar or a can of food to vote on which staff member is growing the ugliest beard.

Lots of people feel the spirit of giving around the holidays, which is really great, but sometimes we forget that the families who need help often need it all year round. Their food bank is very low, so they're requesting donations.

This seems to be like a great fundraising project for schools! The male teachers don't have to shave for 2-3 months, so it's almost like casual Friday every day!

But it leaves the ladies out. Can't they include Ugly Armpit or Calf-hair contests too?

This and That

Ok, just a few random thoughts...

I've been getting a lot of new readers/commenters lately, and have to go through their profiles to get to a link back to their blogs so that I can reciprocate.

It's been simply amazing how many bloggers are Accountants! I was wondering if they are just really busy between Jan 1st and April 15th so they spend a whole lot of time reading blogs the rest of the year?

Then I happened to look at MY profile. It says that my job description is Accounting. How in the heck did that happen? Yeah, I can balance my checkbook, but....

Do you think it's a default setting? How many of YOU are Accountants by default?

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Ok, this is kind of weird. You guys remember that old sleepover trick/legend that says if you put a sleeping person's hand in warm water, they'll pee their pants? It wouldn't have happened when I was a kid, but I'm not so sure now.

Even if I take a tinkle before turning on the water in the shower/tub, EVERY SINGLE TIME I test the water with my hand, my bladder suddenly decides has to whiz again NOW. And comes up with extra pee that just must have been hiding for the particular moment.

While I was fretting over the fact that maybe I've got some bladder control issues and might need meds or something like that I noticed that it NEVER happens when I'm washing the dishes in warm/hot water.

What the heck is up with this? Any ideas?
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The other day, I was talking to my Mom, and told her it was time to have "the talk" with her. You know...the "sex" talk.

She said, "I thought we had this talk a long time ago. You haven't figured out where everything goes yet?"

I said, well no, I was reading an article about how middle-aged kids should have this talk with their parents, because it seems there is a rise in STDs in the senior community. You are all getting your freak on without protection and spreading crotch-rot willy-nilly!

She laughed her ass off.

But I have to say that my mom has become the hoochie of her senior community. Listening to her, it's almost like re-living high school again. It kind of cracks me up.

After my step-dad passed away a few years ago (lung cancer--never smoked a day in his life, he was one of the eh--what do you call them---downwinders of the nukes---and Alzheimer's), Mom got out and got moving. She'd always been really active, but had spent the last three years of Pop's life nursing him. Immediately she got into the senior scene (and the senior singles scene) and hooked herself a beau. Who was 15 years or so younger.

He'd been going with a gal for 4 years or so, but dumped her for my Mom. She liked him because he'd drive her everywhere, but got a little freaked out when he'd just show up at her house every morning expecting to spend the day with her. She needed space.

My brothers were initially a little worried (they live up there where she is), thinking that he might be some predatory--koff--younger guy looking to prey on an older woman. Even though she looked younger than he did. LOL

He wasn't predatory. He was a really good guy and we all liked him a lot.

He kept asking her to marry him, she kept refusing, and finally cut him loose because she didn't think he was "getting it". They're seniors, and she didn't want him to waste any more time getting his hopes up. I mean, how many years did they all have left? He was looking for a wife, and she doesn't intend to get married again, and besides...he has diabetes that he doesn't take care of and she "isn't interested in taking care of any more sick old men."

LOL You go girl!

Anyway, she can't get away from it. She goes to different senior centers to play cards, or backgammon, or attend lectures or outings, and every time she's friendly with a guy, the gossip mill tries to pair them off. And everyone is always trying to find out how old she actually is in order to categorize her.

Mom refuses to say. She doesn't wear make-up (except for a little mascara, maybe), doesn't dye her hair (gorgeous shade of pure white). She's got good genes, clean living and Oil of Olay on her side, and she's just smokin'!

So in the middle of this "sex" conversation, she told me a couple of things about my dad (TOO MUCH INFORMATION!!!). She also read a couple of years ago that men who smoke in their early years can suffer from impotence even as early as their 40's. Apparently this was one of the problems my dad had when he went searching for younger trophy poon after 24 years of marriage. Again TMI!! TMI!!!

Every time she and her girlfriends get together and discuss the prowess of their "boyfriend of the month" and someone mentions---uh---erection problems, she asks, "did they ever smoke?"

This has become kind of an obsession with her. She gave Big Kid "The Big Limp Penis" lecture last year, which completely freaked him out (she'd already given it to my brothers). Even though she is a retired minister, I think she still has a huge need to illuminate, because she has an urge to stop every male she sees smoking on the street to inform him of the future risks to his schwanging health.

I wonder what would happen if she really did that. I wouldn't put it past her.

She needs to have a special cape. She has a mission. She is The Penis Protector.

Don't you men feel really special? LOL

Pimpin' With the Dogg...

I know I haven't Pimped in awhile, and as always, I so do apologize!!

Lot's of things have being going on in our house that have just taken a lot of time and energy to deal with.

Bad bad me made fun of Hubby and the boys when I was ill and they were sort of sick-by-proxy and demanding mommy-care.

A few days later, Hubby WAS struck down---with a large and painful blood clot. Had to administer shots of blood thinner into his belly every day for 10 days, and now he's waiting for the two weeks to end (have to wait two weeks after the 10 days of shots) to visit a cardiologist.

His elderly mom back east isn't doing that great, and he had hoped to fly down there to be with her until this came up. Of course, he absolutely can't fly, so in addition to the medical stress, he's worrying about her too. Send good thoughts, would you?

This is going to be a real shortie, but I promise (yeah I know, I'm always promising) to do a bigger one soon. I've added a lot of really great blogs to my roll, and every one deserves a look-see!

First off, my good friend Dutchylicious is having a really fun contest. She's had a few (contests, I mean), and from what I hear, the prizes she sends from Holland are to die for! Bow down and worship at the Dutchaplooza!

Jump in and enter!

Miss Litzi arranges pictures like she would flowers in her tearoom chat. Unfortunately, she turns her comments off half the time so I can't tell her how much I enjoy her bouquets!

Funny story. Some months ago, Ashley's Mom at Pipecleaner Dreams wrote a post about a company who is owned/run by a guy who has a disability and does t-shirts, etc for individuals and organizations. He had an "Attila the Mom" t-shirt and she sent me a note about it.

I wrote last month about a really fabulous present we did for our family members and friends.

Little Guy is an incredible artist. His work has been displayed in a couple of shows. He hasn't chosen a specific medium, but he loves to work with fabric and paints. When he was 13 he learned how to sew in school (I remember it as being Home Ec, but they call it Consumer Family Studies now) and made 10 quilts for a local homeless shelter. He saw something on TV about a quilt project, and the thought of people who didn't have moms or dads to tuck them in at night, or even beds touched him.

Anyway, after reading Ashley's Mom's post, I contacted the company about making a t-shirt out of a piece of Little Guy's artwork since he's graduating this year from high school. I thought that all our friends and family members could wear it to his graduation, and we could do a "wave" when he gets his diploma.

The idea grew a bit. The list ended up including teachers, fellow students, paras, bus drivers, doctors, therapists, ladies in the grocery store, and neighbors who have been a part of his "village" over the years. And there were a few extras for special friends.

The most lovely and gracious Beth from Books, Etc. wrote a really nice post about the t-shirt.

Thanks so much, Beth! And thanks, Ashley's Mom!

Language is Powerful

Lately I've been writing most of my posts about disability over on Disaboom, and inviting you guys to check it out if you've got a moment.

But I've been thinking about a couple of things for awhile, and to be perfectly honest, if I was to write it over there, I'd be preaching to the choir, and it wouldn't change a thing. And since today is my birthday, I'm just going to speak my mind.

If you're not interested, please, please back out. This is going to be a bit of a rant.

Let me just start this off with...

Language is powerful.

A couple of days ago, Little Guy and I were in the grocery store. One of his gifts is that he never forgets a face or a name (once he ran out of Great Clips to greet a substitute teacher he'd had in 3rd grade), and he's so sweet and friendly, that he's pretty unforgettable too. So every time we go into town, he probably stops and talks to 10 or so people.

We ran into a lady who worked as a para-educator in his transitions-skills class for several years, but who had left the school system last year. She'd never been his particular para, so I didn't recognize her. They chatted for a minute, and then she asked ME how he was doing. That should have been a clue. I turned to Little Guy, and said "how you doing?"

He told her about his girlfriend, about his classes, and his part-time job doing data entry. He told her about his artwork. Then he told her that his transitions leader Mrs. P. was going on maternity leave and he was really excited about it.

Mrs. B (the ex-para) said to me, "Oh, so SHE'S pregnant? I hadn't heard."

I assured her that Mrs. P was planning on coming back in the fall. Now for a little back-story---this is the 2nd year that Mrs. P has been the transitions leader. Mr. R, who was our first transitions leader and a wonderful, wonderful man moved to a different position. So I guess Mrs. B only lasted one year under Mrs. P, but I'm only speculating why.

Mrs. B continued with some seriously caustic comments on how she thought the severe needs program was going to hell under the direction of Mrs. P. I was neutral (remember I didn't know this woman from Adam) and said, "well it seems to be working out ok for Little Guy."

And my son chimed in, "I like Mrs. P. She's my friend."

Mrs. B. continued on the subject for a little more, and I managed to extricate us. Obviously it was a personal problem. We said our goodbyes and Little Guy and I went on shopping. A few minutes later, Mrs. B circled around and came up to us.

"This was between you and me, right?"

I looked at her in astonishment. As someone who worked with teens in the transitions class for at least a couple of years, did she really imagine that they were invisible? My son was standing next to me during our entire exchange and soaked in every word. If she didn't intend for him to hear it, why in the world did she open her yap?

Did she expect me to sit him down and tell him to keep it a secret? I don't do that with any of OUR family life, good or bad, no matter WHO he talks to (even if it results in embarrassing moments for us), and I wasn't going to start now.

I said shortly, "I'm certainly not going to say anything, but you can probably bet that your views aren't going to be a secret in the transitions class for very long. Little Guy may have autism, but he can hear and speak quite well, in case you forgot."

Many people made New Year's resolutions this year to quit smoking, or lose weight, or stop fighting with their in-laws, etc.

I made one that I admitted to publically. It was to learn how to make the perfect authentic chili relleno. Egg batter and all.

But to be honest, I had another resolution.

In the past, I've read blogs whose authors liberally use the term "fucktard" (which is a ::koff:: "trendy and cool" term, but is really short for "fucking retard") or just "retard". Some make jokey comments about "short bus riders". If I didn't like their blog that much, I just backed out and never came back.

If it was someone whose blog I liked, I wouldn't comment on those posts. But my heart shriveled a little inside. I dropped a couple of people notes, but I wasn't vigilant about doing it with everyone. And I have to say that the people I dropped notes to were completely receptive and appalled at how their language affected me.

My New Year's resolution is to step up and say something. In every case.

I'm not trying to be the language police. Write your blog however you want. But please be aware that to those of us who have friends or family with cognitive disabilities, the terms "retard" or "fucktard" aren't funny or trendy. You might as well be sporting a white hood and using the "n" word. It's as equally as offensive.

So be on notice. I like to think that I've got a great sense of humor, I'm open-minded, and somewhat intelligent.

But language is powerful. And this stuff hurts me. It really really hurts me. If you read my blog on a regular basis you know that my kids have issues, so why put me on your blogroll or elicit comments if you think that these terms are benign or humorous? They aren't. They're like a stab in the heart.

And for everyone who is reading this. I just ask you to notice and let other writers know that you also feel that language is powerful. If you see it, please take a stand.

I don't think these writers are setting out to be hurtful. They think they're being funny. Please let them know that they aren't. My guy isn't "less", and doesn't deserve to be reduced to some trendy word that the "I'm-so-edgy" have adopted.

Last week, Jacqui at Terrible Palsy linked to a powerful post about tone as well. If you don't feel too beat up by my post, give it a look. It really brought tears to my eyes.

xoxox

ATM