ATtending school as an adult

Kim posted a comment on my last posting that made me think, (Hooray for Kim!) something I have been avoiding most of the summer. She wondered about going to school as an adult and if she would like it more than when she was a teenager. My reply? Well, you could go to my previous post and look at the comments, but it boils down to ''no''. Here's why:

Picture yourself in a cramped room filled with desks meant for midgets (excuse me, little people or height challenged) and anorexics. Then fill 95% of these torture devices with 19-21 year olds. The majority of these will be typing into lap-tops, listening to MP3's on those little IPod things, or yawning in vain attempts to remain alert. These same students are also very cliquish, still holding on to the high school hierarchical mores that allowed them to survive those hellish years. These students talk only to those in their sororities/fraternities or people they knew in high school or met at the dorm. They do not become involved in class discussions unless forced and often appear to have brown-bottle flu every Monday, frequently all through the week. The females of this group tend to wear pants so low on their hips that their smiley-faced thong straps show (if they wear undies of any sort) or skirts so short you can smell whether they have a yeast infection or not and come to classes looking like they're heading to the bar any second. The males sport an array of clothing: from gangsta wannabe wear to the typical jock stuff, with a select few wearing band shirts and frat shirts or the ever-popular "Bar Crawl" shirt that has every bar in Iowa City listed on it with boxes for Sharpie marks next to them. These shirts are notoriously filled with checks and stained with various liquors and body fluids. Out of the remaining 5% of the class body, half of these are students that took the class solely for the purpose of having enough credit hours to receive their financial aid rebates and will not be seen after this has been disbursed. One fourth of the remainder will be students who are the brainiacs, geeks, and literati (depending on the subject) that take subject material waaay too seriously. These are the students that have meltdowns during midterms and finals and jump off bridges...or become political leaders. The remaing fourth will be students like me: adults, usually transfer students from a community college or some other university, sometimes single, sometimes with a family, interested in the work but overly obsessed, and looking for a friendly face. We are the ones who pester those around us for missed notes, because it is so rare that anyone befriends us and teachers do not like to hand notes to students who miss class. We are also the ones, though, that often bring a different perspective to the materials. We have varied and great life experiences to draw on and are usually very willing to become active in class discussions. Eventually, we become the students that the others turn to for help: missed notes, syllabus changes, and study partners. We are terribly under-appreciated by the university I attend, horribly abused by other students, and it's all worth it. No matter how much I bitch or whine or have tantrums, I wouldn't change a thing. Well, okay, a great many things. But, I have learned much more by attending college at this age than I believe I would have if I had gone fresh out of high school. I mean, come on...my whole goal as a junior in HS was to attend the college I'm at now, look at the Frat boys, and try to become a sex ed teacher...and not the kind of sex ed teacher most high schools have if you get my drift. Wendy will understand.

At any rate, is it hard? Oh god, words are not enough to describe it. Is it a hassle? Oh yeah. Do the cons outweigh the pros? Often. But I'm lucky. I have a terrific support system: my Mom, Grasshopper, Wendy, my kids, my recycled husband, and several of my instructors are so impressed with me that one of them nominated me to the Who's Who of American Women for my achievements. There are adult students (and the traditional ones too) who don't have the support I do. Those are the ones I feel sorry for. But for the moment, would everyone please feel pity for me? Please? I'd heard rumors that my senior status would be a major ass-ache, but I had no clue it would be like this.

It rained! Yay!

This is weird. It finally decides to rain, right? Fine. We got some much needed rain, even though it dropped our temp by like 40 degrees and lasted all damn day. However, here's the strange part: only half my lawn started turning green. Seriously. If you stand on my front porch and look out toward my road, there are two bushes that divide that part of my yard into near-perfect halves. To the left, greening grass. To the right, brownish yellow grass. Swear to god, I could see the line of division. Weird.

On a different topic, I hate registering for classes! Admittedly, this is partially my own fault, but waiting until so close to time for classes to start is not a good idea. This is my senior year (woot) and I have to have certain classes in order to graduate. I got into two of the three, which is a big deal, but I still have like 18 semester hours of electives to fill. Uh huh. With what? I refuse to take math classes or science or history. I like reading and writing. I like books. I have no artistic talent whatever. So, in order to qualify for my financial aid, I need two more 3 s.h. credit courses for this coming term. Fine. The ones I want, much less need, are full. Arggh!

Screaming Blades of Grass

I swear to god you can literally hear my lawn screaming from dehydration. Over the last two weeks, we've had two ten minute showers. Everything is turning brown and looking dead from the heat and lack of water. When I walk across the yard to the mailbox, I can hear little sighs of gratitude for putting some of the grass out of it's misery. Either that or sighs of happiness for the amount of shade I provide. I'm not sure which. Could be both.

I'm hoping that becoming a member of The Shrinking Yay-Yays (I don't know how to do the link thing) will change the amount of shade I create. God knows, I'm too lazy to make it myself. At any rate, I'm hoping for some much-needed rain tonight and tomorrow...and maybe, just maybe, a break in this tropical heat wave. I'd been hoping the heat would help me sweat off some of this lard, but according to the scale, I was mistaken. One good thing, I'm as brown as my lawn instead of white as my walls. Still as round as a cookie tho. Hmmm....cookies....

Ugh! Damned Heat!

Okay, it's so hot and humid here that as soon as I step outside for three seconds, I feel as damp as if I'd just taken a shower. And the State Fair doesn't start until next month. In summer, we have State Fair weather. In winter, it's Boys & Girls State Basketball Tourneys that fuck us. Heat waves in summer and blizzards in winter. So goes life in Iowa. Heat advisories out all over. Heat indeces (?) over 113, 125 by my mom's, and people insist on going out jogging and shit. At 2 in the afternoon. Uh huh. I'm all for being healthy and active. Really I am. But, I don't want to get that healthy. That is a great way to end up in the hospital. Or coffin. Besides, I am in shape. Round is a shape. I learned that in preschool. I am seriously considering getting into another shape though. I'm leaning towards a triangle, but my friend Grasshopper swears that I'm already shaped like a gourd. The bitch. Actually, I love her dearly, and that was a term of endearment. Of course, she's looking a bit like a gourd herself after this last child. Serves her right. Oh well, with this heat, we'll sweat it off in no time. Yep. We'll be supermodels in no time.

Fucking heat.

Mission Part 2 & Baby Handbooks

Ok. So, the other ex got here right on time, safe and sound. The reason she and her best friend are sleeping in my bed is that she came down to pick up my soon to be stepson. She drove four and half hours right after working most of the night to do so. I understand being tired. Plus, I'm trying to be nice. She was decent enough to offer to go get a room at a hotel for a few hours. My idea is why waste the money? Not worth it. We also do not hate each other. Yet. This is subject to change -- frequently.

On to other things. Now, I started babysitting when I was nine. I have three children of my own. I have been around kids of various ages most of my life. I know there are tons of parenting books out there. I also know, or thought I did, that babies are not born with an instruction manual. Apparently, I was wrong. The State of Iowa now issues these manuals with birth certificates. No lie. My best friend, Grasshopper, got one just recently. Apparently, they also send updates or whatever at certain intervals. It seems that they would rather send smaller installments than print large books all at once. My question and problem is: why didn't I get these things? I'm not exactly sure how useful they are, but I didn't get any and I'm bothered by this. And when did the state start this program? I'd never heard of it before with any one else's kids. Odd. At any rate, in Iowa at least, babies now get issued instruction manuals along with their birth certificates. They do come a bit late, however. Grasshopper and Twitch didn't get their first installment of the manual until the baby was nearly three months old, and the first section only covers until two months. Of course, she just yesterday got the next section. I wonder how long they send them? If she gets one that covers the teen years, I'm filing a lawsuit. I don't have one and I have teens. I think that would be a great miscarriage of justice and an act of malfeasance on behalf of the government. Bet I'd win too. If fat people can sue McDonald's and Burger King and win, I ought to be able to, dammit.

I Must Be on a Mission

My recycled husband's other ex-wife will be arriving at my house tomorrow morning. Early. Like goddamned 7 a.m.! Which means that I will be up at the asscrack of dawn to get ready. Plus, since she is working all night tonight, she will need a nap before she heads back to MN on a four and a half hour drive with her children in the car. Guess where she'll be sleeping? Ummm Hmmm. In MY bed! Yep. Simply because there is no other place to put her that won't involve being interrupted constantly by children. Aside from a shallow unmarked grave. (Did I say that?) Grrr. I'm trying to be nice. She's been decent to me. I just get this roiling wave of trepidation at the thought of her coming to my house. Ugh!

Send valium. Send chocolate. Send sympathy cards. Send...fuck it, send whatever you think will help. For the record, I like chocolate (duh), tea, coffee (especially flavored ones), and carnations. And valium. Well, not sure about valium. Never took it. But I am allergic to the 'ines'...morphine, codeine...so on. Whatever. Just make sure Wendy can raise bail money if I end up in jail for homicide. At least I'm not a flight risk.

More Penguin Stuff

So, March of the Penguins has an official website. I found out there's all kinds of neat stuff on it. Like a sweepstakes/contest for a trip to Antarctica. To see penguins! Guess what? I'm like entering as often as it lets me. Now, if I could just convince no one else to enter, I'd be sure to win. Three problems though: 1) it takes place right around midterms, 2) it involves both a plane and a boat -- not to mention subzero temperatures, and 3) too many other penguin fanatics out there for me to win. Of course, one never knows. I'll keep you posted. Whether you like it or not.

Also, there is a national penguin day. Yes there is. There's on in the Falkland Islands where kids actually get to miss school. (Right on!) Philadelphia uses the name to have a social change forum. Hooray for the birds of change! And, according to http://www.penguin-place.com/ which has everything penguin one could need, the movie gets "two flippers up". New Zealand actually has penguins on its money (I want some!). World Penguin Day is April 25th! Mark your calendars for 2006!

Oh, and if you paid attention to the little animation in the corner of my blog that Kat put there, you will see one Emperor penguin knocking over another one. Kat is the one still standing, if you want to look at it symbolically. I'm the nitwit that got knocked into the water. This is not only funny, but represents her talents compared to mine own.

Power to the penguin!

More Groveling & an Ad

This is so AWESOME! Oh, thank you, Kat, thank you! I love this! See, people...I told you Kat was the shit! I think I need to rethink the amount of the gift card. Either that, or I'll make it like installment payments. I'm sure this won't be the last time I'm groveling to Kat for her profound skillz! And see along the side where it lists Kat as a 'Contributor'? It should read "Managing Editor" or "Mistress of the Blog" or some thing equally suck-up-ish. Plus, it's like, true. I want everyone to know, aside from the posts and a few color suggestions and some clip art sent via email, I have nothing at all to do with the appearance of this blog. Kat is the one who made it look so lovely! God, can you imagine the things she could accomplish if she were a plastic surgeon? I'd want to look like Lucy. As in "I Love Lucy" not Lucy from Peanuts. Or maybe Betty Boop. I'd say Marilyn, but since a dear friend of mine told me that redheads are just blondes that failed the test, I'm afraid of what would happen if I was blonde. But I've digressed...again. Seriously, though, to me, Kat has worked a miracle. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, merci beaucoup, gracias, domo arygato, grazzi, and thank you! Take a bow, take a curtsy, take an encore, take a nap, whatever! I'll get the card in the mail Monday, I promise!

Now for the ad. Has anyone seen the previews for March of the Penguins? I cannot wait to see that movie! Several of my friends saw it before I did, the previews I mean, and were sure to call and tell me about it. Then I saw them. Okay, so I have a penguin fetish. You should see all the penguins I have. And I don't have nearly enough. They all have names, too. The only thing I am lacking is a live penguin...I'm working on it. Honestly, if I were given two weeks to live, and granted three wishes to do before I died, one of them would be to go play with penguins at like Sea World. Yep. Stick me in one of those suit things or parkas or whatever, give me some fish, and open the door. The penguins and I will get along famously, I assure you. Until I try to smuggle one out in my boot. I'm sure that's grand theft penguin and a federal offense. They're just so damned adorable! I wouldn't be able to control myself. It's an illness. So, at any rate, with this movie coming out, my nearest and dearest friends are planning on listening to me rant and rave about the March of the Penguins until we all go see. Yes, the poor things have agreed to go with me to see the movie. The hard part is going to be preventing me from becoming so enamored of the film that I become unruly and get physically removed from the theater. Which will be the only way I'll leave before the thing ends. Even then, they'd better plan on calling out a task force, because I won't go. Like I said, it's an illness. Be prepared. I am herewith giving you fair warning that as soon as I see it, my blog will be filled with talk of penguins. Illness. Just keep that in mind...it's an illness and I can't control it.

Stalker Vibes and children answering my phone

I am very pleased to announce that Kat does not pick up stalker vibes from me. This is a great relief. Makes it much easier to send her the W*M gift card. Which will be heading out via snail mail Monday. I will not disclose the amount. She'll have to wait and be surprised. I chose that kind of card because 1) she suggested it, and 2) W*M or Wally-World as I refer to it, is one of the most excellent places to shop like EVER. And it just got better. The recycled hubby is now gainfully employed there and gets an employee discount. As much money as we spend in that place, it's going to save us thousands. Of course, he thinks I put off stalker vibes. In reality, it's just him wishing I was stalking him...or rather, his body. But, he currently has at least one broken/cracked rib, and that has shut the playground down for the nonce. More on that later.

My daughter loves to talk on the phone. She is a girl after all. Plus, she's eight. She especially likes to be left in charge of the phone, no matter who else is home, if I leave the house. This has good points. Mainly, if she answers the phone, I generally know that someone called and the gist of the message. However, I know like three or four Wendys. Each of them have nicknames that my daughter knows. They seem to forget this, though, and lie in wait using their ESP for me to leave and then one of them will call and talk to my girl only telling them that 'Wendy' called. Since the little Caller ID box thing on my phone is broken, that doesn't help. So, once told that Wendy has called, I usually spend about an hour tracking down the right one. Of course, the alternative -- one of my sons answering the phone -- leaves much to be desired. I'll be home for hours and then the phone will ring and someone on the other end wants to know why I didn't call them back...two days ago. Or my other favorite:

Me: Did anyone call while I was gone?
Son #1: Not sure. I was on the Net.
Son #2: Yeah. Someone called a while ago. I didn't get to the phone on time.
(pause for me to check voicemail)
Me: Time to eat, play, whatever.

The next day
RRR-iiinnnng!
Me: Hello?
Mom: Hi. What's up?
Me: Not much. You?
Mom: Didn't Son #2 tell you I called last night?
Me: Nope. Hey! Son #2!
(distantly) Son #2: Yeah?
Me: Who called for me last night?
Son #2: Oh shit! You're supposed to call Other Grandma!
Me: Yeah, she's on the phone now.

** Kids! Gotta love 'em! One of these days, I'm gonna love their little heads right off their bodies...

Creative Kat, Kids, & a Strong need for Valium

Kat, as in Pryncess, is THE SHIT people. Oh yeah. I worship her computer-talented fingers. I grovel at her feet. I quail in the light of her awesome powers. I .... fuck it, I owe her big time. I know y'all can't see it just yet, but Kat has done some very awesome and wonderful work on a new blog for me. For nothing. Except my groveling, whining, bitching, and thanks. I have offered her Diet Coke and chocolate, but she lives too far away for a prompt delivery. I think. I do not know anything about her true identity. Which poses the problem: how can I deliver so much as a Wal*Mart card to a person I know so little about? I mean, I know that she's funny, smart, witty, a chocoholic, an animal lover, and incredibly talented. Beyond that, no idea. So, calling upon complete strangers to help out, someone suggest ways to show appreciation and/or payment for such excellent work. If anyone reading this knows Kat and is willing to assist in a covert delivery of a gift card through Wendy if necessary, let me know. The woman needs chocolate and diet coke, dammit!

Now, picture this: three boys, one girl, two skateboards, two old washing machine hoses, and one nasty green plastic lawn chair (the kind that lay flat like a cot). Imagine all of these loose on a cement patio together. The older boy manages to attach the chair to the skateboards. He also threads the two hoses through the front to form makeshift harnesses. The folding ends of the chair are folded straight up. Another child then seats him/her self into the middle, grabs the hose, braces for impact, and allows one or two of the others to pull him/her around the patio...usually into a post or wall, occasionally a tree. Yep. Creative. But wait, there's more. This apparently is too slow a mode of transportation and bodily injury, for the eldest child (16) comes into the house, snatches car keys from my purse, and disappears back outside. Now, the recycled hubby is outside watching and waiting for the blood. He continues to watch until the children decide to hook the little cart thingy they've made up to the car to be pulled up and down the driveway by my oldest son...behind the car! At this point, Rat (the hubby) returns to the house, providing few details to me, and denying any part of it and denying seeing anything remotely unsafe...laughing the entire time. About this time, I hear the car head down our gravel road...quickly. The cart and the other kids were left behind, thankfully, but this only encouraged the others to run into the road and wait for Jack to return. Uh huh. Other people drive on this road like it's the Indy 500, and my children are standing on it. It took me 20 minutes of ranting to get my heart rate regular again. And who's side do the children take? That's riiiight...the Rat's. Go figure. Even my little girl did. How rude. God, I need valium...especially since other parents assure me that it only gets worse. I can only imagine. Jack will take his driver's license test next week. Pray for me.

Helpless Men

So, is the phrase 'helpless men' an oxymoron? You know, like criminal lawyer? Or is it just me? Please excuse the rage, but I am beyond frustrated. In fact, I'm nearly to the point that my recycled husband can truck his lily white ass back to MN and I wouldn't think twice about his leaving. The man cannot cook. He can't or won't clean. He cannot remember anything that doesn't directly affect his immediate well-being for longer than 40 seconds.

I am the epitome of lazy. I recognize this. However, I can at least take leftovers out of the fridge and heat them in a microwave by myself. My 8 year old daughter can do it. Not my man. Oh no. Of course, this is the same man who lined one of my cookie sheets with waxed paper, put marinated pork chops on it, and stuck it in the oven. The smell had quills people. He will do things if I ask him to. So far, he's volunteered to put supper remnants away once and to try to bag up garbage in the kitchen once. Other than that, nada. I will admit to a few other improvements. Now, Wendy has seen my old homes and knows how I used to live. Mr. Man's apartment was fifty to one hundred times worse. Popcans and trash and god knows what else all over the place. And he wondered why I wouldn't drive up to visit him. At any rate, he is at least taking care of 98% of his cans and dishes and so on here, so that is some improvement. However, I think it'd cause a thrombosis for both of us if he actually helped finish putting away all of his stuff or threw in a load of laundry or helped his son fix a plate of leftovers or left the house for longer than an hour at a shot. Yes, he is looking for a job, but not energetically. And forget doing things as a family. Or as a couple. Plus, he actually accused me of becoming frigid the other day since he's only gotten sex twice since he moved in. Getoverit! With my stress level, sex is the farthest thing from my mind. Can he keep his hands off my tits? Nope. Arrrrgggghhh!

Sorry about that. Tension breaker. Had to be done.
Thank you for your time. Send me the bill.

Roadkill

Roadkill is everywhere. It cannot be avoided. In the South, I've seen roadkill armadillo. In the mountains, its marmots and those prong-horned elk type things. In the Midwest, it's raccoons and opossum and deer. Well, rabbits and squirrels, too. I don't have a problem with roadkill, as such. It's often icky, but other than that, no big deal. However, I recently realized that some of these animals look surprised. Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I've seen plenty of these critters rush into oncoming traffic for no apparent reason. No forest fires. No wildcats in chase. No hunters. Nope. Just heavy traffic and a suicidal animal. I'm not kidding. I swear to god that some of these animals are actually plotting their own demise. I think that it's rather nervy of them to jump in front of a vehicle in order to end their lives, and then look surprised afterwards when it worked.

I've also seen several apparently uninjured critters just lying along the side of the road. No blood or gore. No look of surprise or pain. Just a dead animal. These are the ones who look relaxed and peaceful. Like they've crawled to the edge of that particular road just to say good-bye to the world or like it's some kind of special memory for them and they want their last moment on earth to be there. I think these ones have returned to the road, glanced around fondly for whatever reason, then laid down and died decently. My question is, why? Most of these roads have been around long enough for most of these creatures to NOT remember anything else being there. Is it some kind of memory of a lost loved one? Maybe an initiation right? Maybe that's the reason some of the other roadkill looks surprised. Ever read The Far Side? The dogs running into traffic with the caption, "Randy's in the club"? Yep. Like that. Some kind of animal fraternity prank gone awry. Other than that, suicide missions and deciding to drop dead at the side of the road for reasons unknown to humans are the only things I can come up with. But, there is only two kinds of roadkill: the ones that look surprised and the ones that look like they belong in a funeral parlor. What's the deal? I'm open to other theories.

Chocolate and Diet Coke for Kat

Jeez! In my ranting, I almost forgot. I need to send chocolate and diet coke and stuff to Pryncess Kat in mass quantities. As computer challenged as I am, she has taken on the not-so-insignificant task of helping me with a better looking blog. So far, it looks wonderful! I can't say thank you enough! Applause around the Net for Pryncess Kat!

Men & Moving Part 3, and For the Love of Girlfriends

Grrr fucking Grrr. So, there's like a gazillion computer CD games running loose in my living room, right? I know I've written about this already. At any rate, in a burst of energy this morning, I decided to put as many as I could into a plastic/resin tower deally that was purchased especially for these things. Fine. Except that, as stated earlier, more than 3/4 of these things are never played...by anyone. When I asked, very politely I might add, why we were keeping all of them, guess what the answer was. Go ahead...I dare you! Okay, since you asked...he said, my beloved man, "They're mine." Uh huh. Riiiiight. Now, keep in mind, we need another tower or two to hold the rest. But, since they are his, there is no reason to get rid of any of these things. Arggh. Now, apply the same answer to my stuff, and it would get rejected. I'm sure of it.

Which leads me to girlfriends. Without my dear friend Grasshopper, I'm sure I'd be in a psych ward or prison by now. Thank god she's always willing to give me an alibi. And to listen to me rant about all my stresses and smart enough to not try to offer too much advice that I wouldn't use anyway and would just piss me off more because it'd feel like a lecture during my rant. Gotta love your girlfriends people. Grasshopper has been there through thick and thin, love and war, children, men, and sickness. In fact, she is one of the few people alive who know the proper was to 'wedge' me when I'm cold from being ill. Wedging is a fine art and not easy to properly accomplish. She even let me shit her bed (not really, but it's an ongoing joke) though she did take a rather vile photo of me on her toilet when I was in super-stress mode after vacating on a boyfriend who had thrown my into my dining room table. If it weren't for our daily, often hourly, chats, my life would be over. I love her more than my luggage and she worships the quicksand I walk on. The feelings are interchangeable, mutual, and completely foreign to our perspective partners. Especially when it's time for smart remarks. One of us will say something, the other will call that one a bitch or wench or whatever. These are terms of endearment for us, and people do not get it. I miss her terribly since she lives so far away, but thank god for unlimited long distance...we can talk as much as we want. Same thing with Wendy. I don't get to talk to her as much, but we can pack a lot into a one hour phone call, believe it. Speaking of, I have drastic news for her, can't reach her, and cannot wait to tell her. Just wish I could see the look on her face. If I could schedule it so there were witnesses with digital cameras, I'd wait to tell her. The look on her face will be priceless! Yes, I'm evil, but so is she. I taught her everything she knows. Just like Grasshopper. Thank god for girlfriends. If they were psychiatrists, I'd never be able to afford them.

Book du Jour or Livre of the Day

I highly recommend reading Undead & Unwed by Mary Janice Davidson if you haven't already. For starters, my interest was piqued when my mother recommended it to me. For those who don't know my mom, she is warped and twisted (you have to be in law enforcement), but not into the supernatural much. So when she told me she found a hilarious and great vampire novel for me to read, I about shit. She read me the little blip from the back cover and I was hooked. I trudged down to my local library, waited two weeks for their only copy to come in, and read it in about 4 hours.

It is really funny! Betsy, the protagonist, reminds me of me. Except she is reportedly tall, blonde, and a former model. I am short, squat, and the one modeling thing I did was when I was like 13 for a plus-size store show. Not one of my high points. At any rate, Betsy is easily distracted and has bizarre trains-of-thought. Sad part is, while these are eminently humorous, they also made sense to me. I could picture myself thinking the same things in the same situations. Yes, I am aware it's fiction. I don't care. That's part of what makes it a good story: the ability for readers to associate with the characters (learned that in a writing course).

I am hunting around for the next book, Undead & Unemployed, as I type. Another thing to spend money on. For some reason, I simply cannot avoid buying books I like. Might take me years to acquire the ones I want, but I do. In fact, it took me over a year to realize that hanging onto my Trixie Belden books and my Meg books, was simply taking up space I needed for other books that I would read more. I actually had chest pains and real tears when I boxed them up and took them to the Children's Hospital for their use. Now, every time I see one at a garage sale, I almost have seizures trying to stop my hand from snatching them out of the hands of little girls.

Okay, I digressed. No shock there. Go get the damned book, already! If you like the slightly weird, slighty erotic, terrificly (that don't look right) funny story, this is one for you.

Wine towels and idle thoughts

I saw an embroidered wine towel today in some artsy-fartsy store downtown. Well, I saw several, but the one I liked best said "Tis better to have loved and lost than to live with a psycho the rest of your life". Funny! My only problem is, what if you're the psycho? I mean, if you are truly psycho, do you know it? What if both partners are psycho? Do they think only the other person is nutszoid? Or, if a person can be psycho and realize it, do they think the other psycho is normal? This are the things that keep me awake nights, my friends. Yes, I have issues.

I've also come to wonder about mushrooms. Apparently, their roots can be like 50 feet long or some such. And, since they can get moldy if left too long in the fridge or on coutertops, do all fungus (fungi) grow fungus? Isn't that rather paradoxical and wrong somehow? Seriously, I accidently forgot about a carton of those giant portobello mushrooms in my fridge once...for like months. When I went to clean out the drawer, I swear to goddess the damn things had toadstsools growing on them. It probably didn't help that the appliance was not working properly and tended to heat the bottom drawers and dump liquid in them, but still. For some reason, I feel an urge to hunt down a science teacher and make them explain to me why fungi can grow fungi. It just seems wrong somehow...against nature.

Another thing, what the hell are wine towels for? At least I assume they were for wine...they were next to a bunch of wine decanters and wine accesories. Do people really need wine towels? I thought you just poured the shit in a glass and drank it. I did not think special equipment was necessary. Or maybe they're for klutzes like me who spill things from football fields away. I'm just wondering. I'm having a hard time imagining a fancy restaurant using embroidered wine towels with witticisms on them...or without wit, but logos. Seems to be tacky and low-class.

Oh and thanks to Queenie's blog, again, I checked into a local pottery place since she gave me a creative compulsion. They too, do a royal night of sorts, only over here it's referred to as Queen's Evening or Diva's Afternoons. They also offer family nights/days. Dammit. Now I'm going to go spend money...and wonder about wine towels and fungus. Who says being bipolar isn't any fun?

Braindroppings, Napalm, Silly Putty, and George Carlin

My man George Carlin! I got to watch a Biography thingy on him the other nite and am more enamored than ever. The man is a genius! And he makes too many good points that aside from being funny are so completely true that it offends people. For example, "why is when it's chickens, it's an omelet and when it's us it's an abortion?" I won't get drug into the whole prolife/prochoice thing because it's no longer about that. It's about who's right. And who's side God is on. As Stephen King's character, John Leydecker in Insomnia put it, "I wish they'd all go get drunk and sing 'We Are the Champions'". I will say this, I don't believe in any part of my cold, black heart that the ones having fits about abortion and making laws to stop them 1) have any right to tell any one what to do; or 2) have ever been in the position to make such a heart-rending decision. Let them take care of a group of AIDS or Crack babies for a year and then tell women what's right or wrong. But, I'm stepping off my soapbox now, I swear.

I deeply admire George Carlin. And agree with so many of his 'ideas'. And, since he is fond of the not-quite-paradoxical query or statement I feel a certain affinity for him. No I am not a stalker. I wouldn't do that. If I met the man on the street, I'd ask him how his day is, shake his hand if he let me, ask politely for an autograph, and flee before I had a fit of hysterics...laughter I mean. Just thinking of his material makes me smile.

Okay, so this is shameless advertising or plugging or whatever, but for people who haven't taken the chance...go find yourself any of his books, CD's, or videos and have great time. Even if you don't laugh (which makes you sick and wrong), you should still get food for thought.

Have a crappy day!

Recycling Husbands and Moving & Men Part 2

Okay. My recycled husband arrived on Friday around 9:30. Within half an hour, my living room was filled to capacity with junk. Well, not all junk, but no one could walk through it. During the mess and hustle, the bunny went MIA. We found it under a console tv in the play room, cowering in fear and attempting to gnaw through electrical wires in a failed attempt at bunnicide. Yesterday, we purchased extra special treats for him to make up for it. Poor little guy.

Also, I am revamping my idea on the recycling of husbands. Anyone seen Snatch? Yep. Pigs recycle too. I know this not only from the movie, but from one of my science courses. It appears that once pigs are done recycling, it is impossible to find DNA or fingerprints. Bone fragments also seem hard to come by. Honestly, though, it isn't all bad. He's actually trying to clean up after himself and to assist with child care. Plus, he spent all of his money on us which is never a bad thing. He is a mite upset that he and I haven't had conjugal time yet. The first night, I was exhausted. Yesterday, he woke me up from a nap and it irritated me and at bedtime, he was too tired. Tonight's the night. It'd better be or think I'll be divorced before we're remarried. Speaking of, was looking at a flyer for Iowa's Renaissance Festival which is only about 15 miles from my house this year. There's a website you can go to if you want to get married at the Festival. $200 plus period costume. You can have this made and purchased for keeps or rent for the ceremony. Lovely thought, not affordable at this time. Plus, the only people I know who would join the wedding ceremony like this live out of state. Hint Hint Nudge Nudge to Wendy. Grasshopper might, but Twitch would have a fit and I'd be forced to kill him and bury him a shallow unmarked grave. Will have to give it further consideration.

Part 2 of Men & Moving: As I stated previously, I fail to comprehend why men think that tossing stuff into boxes willy-nilly is an effecient way to pack and move. I hate moving and packing, but I at least make an attempt at organization. I just don't understand. Of course, I now get to go through two movie collections and dispose of duplicates and weed out ones we don't care for so we can make room for his movies on my entertainment center. I also have to come up with space for all his other stuff. Hell, I don't have room for MY stuff, much less his. I'm not sure is less prepared for this, me or him. Let's say .... him. Yeppers. Sounds good to me. As part of this whole move the recycled husband in bit, I have discovered a long list of things we need to go shopping for. And since they are things we actually need, he can't complain when I spend our (read his) money on all this stuff. Or when I'm weeding out stuff, if stuff of his makes it into the 'go' pile. After all, how many demo discs of games and movies does one need? And there are over 100 computer games here now and I'll bet my left tit that 80% of them never get played...by anyone.

Well, on that note, time to start the ole heave -- ho, search and destroy, out with the old mission. This could take months. If no one hears from me in a week, send a platoon bearing chocolate, sweet tea, and fried green tomatoes to the rescue. Oh, and some pain reliever wouldn't be bad, either. He's going to have an Excedrin headache by the time I'm done.