Arrrgh! Holiday travel!

Okay, so, it's Memorial Day Weekend and I have to travel two and a half hours to my mother's. Not smart. Nope. Of course, if it weren't for my son's turning the big 1-4 today, I might not have gone. Which would have been wiser. The drive on Friday wasn't too awful, until I hit Des Moines (pronounced Duh- Moyne for any non-Iowans) at rush hour. Even that wasn't too painful. However, traffic on the way home was agony! Pure torture. Well, around Des Moines at least. Some moron in some kind of tanker truck decided to come to a near complete stop on Interstate 80 before turning onto his/her exit. Which put me as the middle or third car in line in an "oh fuck, we're gonna crash" almost five car pile-up near the Adventureland/Altoona exit. The minivan and SUV behind me took the shoulder to avoid crushing me. And, as I went past the exit after this near collision, I could see absolutely no cars in front of this truck...not even down at the stop sign at the bottom of the exit ramp. Nothing. No one. Nada. I could have screamed. If it hadn't meant a rather time-consuming detour to go back and hunt this stupid shit down with my three kids and my dog in a non-A/C vehicle in close to 80 degree heat, I would have beaten the driver to a pulp with my T-bar or four-way or whatever that lug nut thing is. I'd sick my dog on him/her, but the dog'd just think it was a cool new ride and hop in enthusiastically wagging his little stubby tail, drooling and huffing his horrendous doggy breath the entire time he waits for the ride to start. The kids wouldn't have helped either...just made faces, swore a few times, and possibly trying to tie shoelaces together...and that would all be aimed at me. The driver's only risk would be ruptured spleen from laughter. And all the RV's?! Whafuck? Who are these people? Where did they come from? Where are they going? Do they even know? I'm all for getting an RV myself after my children have all moved out...makes it harder for them to find me to ask for money or to try to move back in. I just don't understand how these humongous campers can pass me by when I'm going 75...you know, the ones that could house a small military force comfortably for three years?...and these little bitty things can't seem to go over 40 and always manage to end up in front of me. I don't get it. I just don't get it. Oh yeah, and since it's a holiday weekend, there have been all kinds of tv and radio ads all over the place about the massive police efforts this weekend to enforce the seatbelt law and other safety laws. Intimidation tactics so that the State Patrol and local law enforcement agencies that garner major grants from the Feds for seatbelt enforcement can write more tickets and so that everyone drives with one eye glued to the rearview mirror for those lights. Uh huh. I didn't see one officer the entire time. Wait, I lied. I saw two of Perry's finest, at least two of their patrol cars, on two separate occasions while visiting my mom. Other than that, I did not see a single State Trooper or other law enforcement vehicle. I didn't even see one of those strange light blue DOT cars out. And I know why...honestly, this is the absolute truth...it's because of all the damned budget cuts! Nobody can afford to pay these guys holiday pay or for the gas to go cruise the interstates and highways. Which leaves perfectly law abiding drivers like myself surrounded by moronic truck drivers and other idiots to get killed or maimed while traveling. Go figure.

Meatloaf, Family Recipes, & Memory Lane

I was taken on a sentimental journey by reading Queenie's blog again. Of course, I'm also digging through my deep freeze for hamburger now too so I can quench my taste for meatloaf. Thanks, Queenie! Oh well, maybe it'll turn out this time. Any way, it made me remember my gramma's cooking (especially meatloaf). She could cook anything. Couldn't get a recipe from her though. Nope. Like all great chefs, it was "well, I used a scoop of this" or "a pinch of that". Yeah. That helps, Gramma. Unlike you, I cannot cook without explicit directions. Not if people are gonna eat it, anyway. I can bake, usually, and well. Other than that, if it can't go in a crock pot or microwave or Foreman grill, forget it and order take out...it's safer, trust me. I even have a sign in my kitchen that says "Hundreds of people have eaten in this kitchen and gone on to lead perfectly normal lives". It's a lie. 1) I have not yet fed over 50 people in my lifetime...total, not in one sitting. 2) No one I know is normal or leading a normal life whether they've eaten in my kitchen or not, but those who know me well enough to eat my food are doubly cursed and Wendy can testify to that, too. But I am digressing. (Ah ha! Found the hamburger!) Thinking of all the times my gramma fed the army that was my family brought back tons of memories. Making mints with her, learning how to make frosting roses -- I was so proud that she let me and that several of the ones I made went on someone else's wedding cake --her Forgotten cookies and fudge, and calling her in a panic from my first apartment during my first marriage because my in-laws were coming and I had forgotten how to make a roast and what to serve with it. I remember being in 7th grade Home Ec. and having to turn in like 10 recipe cards each week from outside sources and going through her recipe box and cook books. She was always willing to try something new or to play around with old recipes. I remember when a house I lived in had a grape vine in the back yard and her and Ruth (an old family friend) making homemade wine that year. I was like 9 or 10, and they'd let me taste it every now and then to see if it was ready. I know, I know, that was a horrible crime...bite me, I loved it...being considered 'old' enough to try it and giving my opinion. We found 4 bottles of the stuff in her basement four years ago after she died. It was awful, vinegary stuff. I'm almost 35, do the math and you'll see why. Even today, I still find myself dialing her number occasionally, when I miss her terribly or have some kind of sewing or cooking emergency. It doesn't go past the third or fourth number though and I remember she's gone and won't be the one to answer the phone. I know, because I called it once last year in a crying fit and some stranger answered. I hung up immediately of course, but it jarred me out of the bawling jag. I do know that there are some things that never taste the same now that she's not the one to make them: her stuffing, her meatloaf, salmon soup, homemade ice cream, mints. I have all her mint molds and cake decorating stuff now. I can't find the damn mint recipe though. I'm sure it's in her old recipe book or box in my uncle's attic or at my mom's. I take the mint molds down every now and then...I can still smell the mint dough on many of them. When I do, I know she's checking in, making sure I haven't forgotten her and all the stuff she did for all of us, and telling me how proud she is of what I've done with myself. I wish I could find that mint recipe, it was so much fun to make them with her. My own kids can remember making mints with her just like I did, and they ask me now and then if we can. I'll start digging for it again. It isn't often my older two want to do anything with me any more, and they miss her too. Maybe a trip down memory lane is something they need as much as I do. I'll just have to be careful not to cry into the dough too much.

Now, off to thaw my hamburger. I wonder if I'll find her meatloaf recipe anywhere? Probably not. She usually just threw that together. Even if I did, it wouldn't taste the same as hers. Grammas had too many secret ingredients and too much love to put into the things they fed their families...I can't compete...yet.

Never again...I swear!

Okay. The Idylls have stopped. I'm done. I'm not quite sure what came over me -- aside from a gigantic wave of self-pity. My most sincere apologies. I intend to delete the damn things as soon as I'm done with this.

In other areas, I've come up with several options to clear up our country's financial problems, along with several state issues. Since education and social security are such big issues and rightfully so, I think there are some easy solutions that should be put into place immediately. To start with, every major athlete should have a required 5% of their pay taken from them and remanded to whatever state they graduated high school from. In turn, that state is required to put that money into the educational budget. For states that are so unlucky as to miss out on this, any state that has more than 5 athletes contributing loses the other contributions. Those would be routed to states with less than 5, with those having none or one being a priority state. It would even out fairly quickly. That alone would solve the educational budget crisis within two years. On to Social Security. This one is slightly more complex, but still workable. First, we need to abolish the practice of agencies counting gross wages to decide qualification for assistance programs. Nearly one-third of a person's wages is never seen to begin with, even at tax refund time. Second, all income should be taxable. I know this sounds hinky, but it really wouldn't hurt anyone. If all income was considered taxable, earned income, more taxes would roll in, more people would get more in refunds ( mainly from the EIC), and the excess (ha) funds could go straight into the Social Security program. Within five years, Social Security would again be operating the way it should. Figure that if all sources of income count as earned income, students would pay taxes on their financial aid--sort of, since most students would get a refund of some type--which is quite a lot of tax money each year; plus the other sources of income that do not count as taxable income. I know these untaxed sources are supposed to help out the needy and so on, but there are too many loopholes that are benefiting the wrong people. So, remove the loopholes. Also, bring back the tax on food. Everyone uses it, and those who qualify for Food Stamps or the like could receive a waiver on it, since they're obviously in need of it. Still fair, but doesn't hurt anyone. Some of the tax would go to the state and some to the Feds. Split it evenly, except for places that have the local option sales tax (give them their penny on the dollar or whatever) and POOF! Problem solved. Now all I have to do is get an audience with PResident Bush and the other yahoos in power for the nonce and get them to go along with it. Riiiiiight.

Idyll Continues

With the regal bank account protected from the dangerous Overdraft, the Queen had the carriage repaired once again. However, these repair costs had far-reaching consequences. Not only was Her Highness in debt to the Trolls, the Royal Family was in dire need of such mundane articles as soap and (gasp) toilet tissue, and there was not even enough gold in the treasury counting the loan from the Trolls to purchase food for the Royal Canine, or to pay any other of the castle's bills. To top it off, the Queen received further horrific news. Apparently, the Queen, though fabulously brilliant was merely human and prone to the occasional error, had somehow overlooked a paragraph or two in the tax booklet provided to her by the OverKingdom of IRS, to whom each kingdom was forced to pay yearly tribute to. This error, though common according to representatives of IRS, meant that instead of getting a large refund as the Queen had expected, there would be none and the Queen's refund from the previous year was now in question. This would be bad enough news in and of itself, but the Queen had been counting on that refund to repay a major educational debt and fund a much needed and deserved vacation to visit her 'sister' Queen in the Kingdom of Washington over the summer. Losing the vacation was depressing, but now the Queen's journey for knowledge is at a halt until she can repay the institution of higher learning. Panic and mayhem ensued. Neighboring kingdoms the Queen had befriended funded the Queen's needs for toiletries and pet food, saving the Royal asses (literally) and preventing the Royal dog from starving or delivery to a shelter.

**to be continued**

Idyll of the Day

Once upon a long time ago, there lived a fabulously brilliant, chubby, JLo-derriered, crimson haired Queen. She was a curious queen, reading incessantly, and participating in a never-ending quest to gain knowledge. This type of quest is formidable, but far more appropriate than her other choices: the never-ending quest to save her boyfriend or the never-ending quest to define and comprehend the human male. However, the Queen believed deeply in the power of knowledge, no matter how hard to gain. Until suddenly, instead of a productive day of seeking insights, the Queen's chariot decided to fall apart on her. Undaunted, the Queen, though very peckish over the matter, took it in stride, repaired the chariot and continued on with her quest. Within a matter of days, the Royal Coach fell apart again, making the Queen peevish indeed. However, this breakdown turned out to be the fault of the Royal Chariot Repair Elves, who apologized profusely, refused payment, and were promptly executed for their crimes. Feeling much better, the Queen retired for the evening, planning to renew her energies for the next step in her quest to begin the following morn. Lo and behold, when the Queen climbed into her carriage the next day, the carriage was once again broken. Since the Royal Coach is the only one in the Queen's stable, Her Highness checked the treasury and found it severely in deficit from maintaining the royal home and the unexpected coach repairs (elves aren't cheap, you know). This caused the Queen much stress and dismay. Her Knight in Shimmering Armor could not even assist her with this task, and she was forced to seek out the assistance of the Trolls of Paydayadvance, a small, treacherous kingdom nearby. After signing with her own blood an evil contract written in sorcerer's blood on a scroll made from the skin of sacrificial virgins, the Trolls agreed to partially refill the queenly coffers. The required repayment for this deed is so foul that I am afraid to repeat it in public: the odiousness of it would poison the air for centuries.

****Stay tuned for the next Idyll, when all will be revealed****

Blast from the past

So, I called an old friend today. One I haven't spoken to in like 10 years. Just because I'd heard he's gone around to the dark side of the psycho moon. And, because I miss him. Sad, but true. Not in an "oh my god, I had the biggest crush on this guy and I just can't go on without talking to him" way, but an "I can't believe he's still nuts and oh my god, it's been so long...and remember when he..." kind of way. I'm not sure this was a smart move on my part. For one, I have no conclusive evidence either way on his mental state, which bothers me. I hate not being able to psycho-analyze my friends. For another, talk about flash backs! For most of them, you'd just have to have been there. However, at least one person who reads this semi-regularly was there and should be quivering in her pointed shoes right now. Not out of fear, but out of curiosity. And the suspense of plotted revenge.

See, this person has charisma. Lots of it. No kidding. The boy was capable of making people fall in love with him in seconds, become obsessed with his philosophies in an hour, and so on. No kidding. Yes, I was among one of the several who fell under his spell for a time. I was also one of the first to break it, but we still stayed friends. Then he moved away and we lost contact. No big deal until (dramatic music--kidding) I rediscovered my first husband and we decided to recycle our relationship. Again, you had to have been there, right Wendy? All I know is, maybe things don't change as much as we think they do, and all it'll take to prove my point there is a phone call to one of your own old buddies. Go ahead...I dare ya.

Finals Week

Panic. Caffeine. Nicotine. Headaches. Cramped fingers. New ink cartridges. Emotional outbursts. Mainlining of cheesecake. Sucks in the extreme.

How's that for minimalist writing?

Technology Keeps Kicking My Ass

I admit it, I am technologically challenged. Okay? So, whatever techno-gods or powers or whatever that may be, you can stop now! Any time. Really.

Not only does this whole blogging thing fuck with me periodically when I try to do something new, but I cannot work a pre-existing webpage for a class of mine. Whafuck? Supposedly all that is required of me is a few clicks of the mouse and viola! Webpage all complete. Uh huh. What really happens is a few mouse clicks and the whole damn site crashes on me. Not good. Since finals are just around the corner, this should be a relief. However, as part of my final, I have to get this damn thing to work so I can post an essay to this fucking page! If I do not, I get a bad grade. What is really sad is that I am not stupid. I am fairly intelligent. I can read and follow instructions. I do not fear technology. I am not phobic of it. I enjoy the ease (snort!) that technology has given my life, for the most part. I admit that I often think there's too much of it in some areas or too much reliance on it, but I adjust in minutes. So, how come I cannot get cooperation out of a piece of machinery? And don't give me the whole GIGO thing. I'm no longer buying that particular maxim. Anyway, the deus ex machina has it out for me. Literary device, too.

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

Seriously. I want to know where all the cowboys have gone? Well, let me delineate that a bit. By cowboys, I mean the good guys. You know, the people who actually try to rescue damsels in distress? Yes, me being said damsel. I'm a damsel. I was in distress. No knights, no cowboys, nothing. I guess it goes to show what kind of times we live in that on one of the busiest streets in my city, four hundred cars can pass me by (including one police car) with my hazard lights flashing (sort of), seeing me sitting alone...in my car...on the side of the road...just me and my dog. Yup. It took almost an hour before a police car finally pulled up behind me.

Which brings up another question. Since when do they let junior high school students wear a badge?!! Good lord! This very nice police officer who finally came to see if I was alive and well looked about as old as my middle child. Okay, okay. That is an exaggeration. He looked as old as my 15 year old. I'm not kidding. This guy looked like he had barely reached the legal age of consent. And, yes, for the other Wendy, he was definitely an example of Iowa Prime Beef. Just extraordinarily young looking. At any rate, apparently, cops now carry around these little yellow box things called 'jump packs', with which we tried (to no avail) to jump start my car. Since it did not start, I called the towing place back. Said towing place had told me 15 minutes before that it would cost me $45 for someone to come try to jump start it -- whether it worked or not, which would be separate from the tow bill. Right. The nice, young, corn-fed police officer who left his Pampers at home just last year, made the attempt for nothing (pun intended). Nada, zilch. Wouldn't even let me walk over to the Kum & Go across the way and buy him a soda or coffee or anything. He just collected his jump pack, his pliers, and waved at me and the dog and took off. I must say, however, that his gun belt or tool belt or whatever those things are called, did not do a thing for his figure. Made him look an extra foot wide and completely detracted an otherwise very fine butt. Oh yeah, there was a nice shitter on that critter, let me tell ya.

Anyway, so, what kind of world is this that no one cares to even ask through a window if a stranded woman is need of assistance? I can only imagine what it would have been like if I'd have had my youngest child with me. Personally, I'd rather go back a century or two. Cowboys riding the open range...helping women in trouble...hangings...ah! The good ole days!

And now for our next installment of "As the Nose Runs"

Okay, so that's cheesy. I can't help it, I'm sick. Deal.

And, yes, my nose is STILL a mess. In fact, it's even worse. I now have a spreading number of cold sores. I have them at the corners of my mouth, under my bottom lip, the sides of my nose, at the base of my nostrils, and here's the kicker -- INSIDE and UP my nose! That's right, folks, I have cold sores up my nose. They are quite painful and hinder the whole blowing-out-of-mucus process. It is my belief that the ones at the corners of my mouth stem from my inherited reaction to citric acid. I have been consumming mass quantities of orange juice and oranges. My mother is the same way, but worse. One orange, and her mouth is all broken out at the corners and raw for three days. The good news is, according to the doc, all I have going on is allergies. Yep. My seasonal allergies are making me this miserable. And, if I am right, have given me a raging case of impetigo. Time to go buy some Phisoderm and Abreva or whatever it's called.

Moving on to a slightly more entertaining topic. I have been found out! Yes, my hidden identity has been discovered. Curtsies to Q for some devastatingly brilliant detective work! Also, Q, apologize to your hunny for me. I had no idea that one small comment would cause you to wake him in the middle of the night. I would offer to make it up with tie-dye cake shortly after my broomstick arrives in July, but it sounds like he won't be there. Q, you both have my sympathies on that issue. I can't imagine what that must be like.

All righty then. I'm outtie. I gotta try and track down some information on Oscar Wilde's THe Picture of Dorian Grey and Decadance. No rest for the Wicked English Major!

My Poor, Poor Nose

Okay, as perfect as I am (snort!), I made a most grievous error this weekend. On Friday, I thought that my allergies were kicking my ass, as they are wont to do. So, I popped some Allegra stuff and felt a bit better. Until in the morning. I woke up feeling clogged, congested, and otherwise plugged up about the nose and head. Since the pill I took was supposed to be a twenty-four hour thing, I was pissed because I used the generic shit just to save a couple bucks. A few hours later, I was worse...just a bit, but enough to pop another one. Yeah, that worked. It only took me a few more hours to realize that it was not my allergies. I have a head cold. A most truly miserable one. My nose alternates between clogging up so badly that it feels swollen to the size of a tennis ball and doing this dripping thing. I'm not sure which is worse. I hate the clogged up feeling, but the dripping thing...well, it wouldn't be so bad, except it happens while I still feel plugged up, but this drop of clear fluid will just slide out of my nostril with no warning whatsoever. How rude! It's like having some leaky faucet attached to my face. Nothing will happen for hours, then suddenly...plooomp! A dribble of snot lands on my shirt. Whafuck? And blowing is not any help. My nose is so red and raw from constant wiping and blowing that the mere thought of a tissue makes it try to retract into my face. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll only last until tomorrow. Yeah, and my teenage sons will not argue with each other the rest of the day. Right. I may as well plan on sprouting wings by morning.

Another fun thing about the raw nose...putting Vick's vapo-rub on it or violet scented hand lotion on it is not a good thing. Burn! Ohmyfuckinggod! I thought I'd dipped my face in acid! Another brillliant move on my part. I tried Vaseline. That lasted about two minutes until I had to blow my nose again. And since when did they start making tissues that fall apart in the merest breath of air? I have tried those extra strength things and the ones with lotion. Either I am honking at hurricane force or these things are not made like they used to be. And try to find cloth handkerchiefs. Of course, even if I could, I'd be broke in seconds. My washing machine would not be able to keep up, and I'd have to keep buying the damn things.

On the lighter side, a friend of mine told me that he'd do a traditional Native American healing dance for me (him being a Native American). Of course, he also told me that he is clearly out of practice, so one of two things will happen: 1) I'll get well or 2) it's gonna rain like hell in my bedroom. Can't wait to see which one. I hope it's the first, cuz I just don't feel up to mopping right now.

Bicyclists and Pedestrians

I live in a pedestrian town. It's a univeristy town, hence the pedestrians. And bicyclists. Loads of them. It's an ongoing, miniscule version of RAGBRAI (look it up) around here. Fine. Not a problem. It's healthy and it's got to save money on gas. I'm just too lazy to do it myself. And fat. I prefer to think of it as height challenged, but whatever. Living nearly 15 miles from campus doesn't help either. Anyway, here are some myths about Iowa, pedestrians, and cyclists.

#1: Iowa is NOT flat! It isn't full of mountains, but it isn't flat. Nope. Lots of hills. Oodles of hills. Especially on campus. Or any road leading to campus.

#2: Simply being a pedestrian or cyclist does not guarantee your safety. It may grant you the right of way, but there are still responsibilities that go with this. Such as not crossing the road on a redlight or that little 'stop' hand thing. Also, do not walk into moving vehicles. This is a sure way to take an ambulance trip. One of the first things I learned about crossing the street was to look both ways. Do not wait until a car is moving right in front of you then ride or walk right into it. That is assinine. The only real excuse for this is blindness, documented blindness. Drivers around here get used to seeing people and bikes all over the place. We honestly try to watch out for you, I swear. However, follow the laws and use some common sense. Be prepared to stop at uncontrolled intersections, obey traffic signals, and for Goddess's sake, keep your eyes open! The streets around town are heavily trafficked. People driving are in just as much of a hurry as you, and have plenty of things to watch out for. You, being sentient creatures, unlike stop signs or parked vehicles, can take action to protect yourselves.

#3: I also understand that not every person who walks on or near campus lives on campus. There are many side streets and walks that are not exactly hubs of activity. I also recognize that neon yellow or green isn't always fashionable at the local bar. However, if you need to walk or ride in the dark on a place that is not well lit, you need to assume that you are invisible. This is a false belief that will get you another trip in an ambulance. If I cannot see you or some part of you, I will assume you are not there until I have either caught you in my headlights or run into you. By the time I see you in my headlights it may be too late, and I will still run into you.

I am not perfect. I admit there have been times I didn't look as closely as I should have. I have been lucky enough to avoid an accident so far. But, I am not the only lucky one. Each person who was nearly hit by me should also thank their guardian angels or whoever, because one of these days, they may not be so lucky. And it might not be me in my sedan. It might end up being one of the thousand or so semi trucks that go through the area every day. That could be an ambulance trip to the hospital...without any lights or sirens.

Apologies to all y'all

Please forgive me! That last post was not supposed to look that way! I have no idea what I did wrong, but somehow or other, I got this HUGE FONT thing going on and posted it before I realized it. Then, I could not fix it! Then, I tried to put up the picture thing. Oh yeah, that worked well didn't it? NOT! So, please forgive me. I'm trying to get things figured out, but I am apparently technology challenged and unable to discern the finer points of anything that most third graders can do with a computer.

Kneel! For you are in the presence of greatness!

Aaah! The Feminazis are coming!

I refer to myself as a liberated woman. I do not need a man. Anything a man can do, with one biological exception, I can do if I try hard enough. I deeply believe that women have been getting the shitty end of the stick for centuries. I agree in equal pay, breaking the glass ceiling, and all that fun stuff. Really. I usually do not allow men to open doors for me...I am capable of opening most doors for myself. Unless I am in the middle of coitus, no man calls me 'baby'. My opinion on that is: don't let him call you baby unless you want him to treat you like one. I am certainly aware and offended by gender stereotyping, the daycare dilemna, and the way women are treated by healthcare professionals.

However, militant feminists are defeating their own purposes in many ways. I recently read an article written by what I refer to as a feminazi, that excruciatingly examined several songs, one of them being Every Breath You Take, by The Police or Sting or whoever. Now, I am aware that women in media, including music, are not always presented the way they should be. However, trying to start a war against violence against women or against female stereotyping using a song like that is faulty. The few psychopaths out there that would take the lyrics of that song so literally as to turn it into some advocation of stalking are a minority. I'm sorry, but I do not think that refusing to shave your legs or armpits or allowing your breasts to be unrestrained by a bra or dissecting every song lyric, commercial, ad, or other portrayal of women is realistic. Neither will becoming a spiritual lesbian. Oh yeah, that's right. Refusing to associate intimately with a person of your sexual preference out of a philosophical or spiritual bonding/protest movement doesn't do anything but cut the birth rate down a smackerel. Surrounding yourself with other women just for the sake of opposing the treatment that women get, real or perceived, won't solve the equal pay issues or the daycare issues. All it does it make it harder for these issues to become resolved. These actions and any similar ones reinforce the false theory, passed down for generations, that women are hysterical, emotional, and unstable.

Anyway, if you see these type of women headed your way, run! Be a feminist if that is what you truly believe in. Take action! I'm all for it! But do it logically, practically, and with heart and gusto. Through your spirit and nerve into it! But for crying out loud, don't make a situation worse and destroy or delay the action you are hoping to obtain.

Cookin'

Okay, so I'm going to do a bit of advertising. I went and saw a show called Cookin' last nite. It rocks! The advertise themselves as jackie Chan meets Benihana meets the Marx Brothers and they aren't lying. It was hilarious! And the guys are really hot! And the girl/lady is great! It was awesome. Anyway, if you get a chance to go see this, it is well worth the money. I fyou can stand the audience participation, the music, the sharp knives flying all over, and the smell of garlic. I was clear up in the balcony, could see great, and I could smell the garlic (and onions) for 95% of the show. I would have gone again today if there'd been another performance. Go see this!

Capital punishment, The Drug War, & Condom Runs

The state I live in is currently trying to decide whether to bring back capital punishment in light of a recent kidnapping/murder/sexual assault on a ten-year old girl. I'm all for it. Aside from drug addicts, which I will return to momentarily, child molesters have the highest rate of recidivism and notoriously evade their parole/probation officers and refuse to obey the registration laws. I know there is a lot of controversy over 'curing' said criminals. I don't buy any of that shit. Some people are simply born evil. Others have a chemical or other organic reason for their ills. And, yes, I know that victims often become abusers. Whatever. I don't believe that therapy or drugs or whatever is going to cure these perverts of their disgusting urges. And a system that will give a first time drug dealer a longer prison sentence than a child molester has serious issues! It's beyond belief that child molesters can get a five year sentence, be out within two years and first time drug offenders are getting ten or more years. Of course, the prisons are full of drug offenders to the point that no one goes to jail or prison for that right now and they're shoveling inmates back out like a child shovels sand at the beach, but convicted child molesters can walk out of prison and disappear (and frequently do) back into society and continue to harm children. Do drugs harm kids? Yes, they do. They harm adults too. I just think it's a twisted system when something so heinous as sexual assault of a child gets such meager treatment and drug addicts are treated as though they raped a nun. And, while I'm on the drug issue, for any of you who have not figured it out yet, WE HAVE LOST THE DRUG WAR!! We lost it long ago. I'm not saying it's right, healthy, or anything. Nope. But, does anyone realize how much of our national debt would disappear if the shit was legalized, as heavily taxed as booze or (gasp) cigarettes, and fines for selling to minors or not having a tax stamp were imposed on offenders? ALL of it, people, all of it. Also, along with that, if prostitution were legal, drug trade and domestic violence would drop. I'm not kidding, and I have been hearing this from cops for over a decade. Of course, with politicians running the show, the issues will never be adequately resolved until one of their kids gets raped and killed, only then will it be a national issue. Probably wouldn't take as long to get the sicko the shot either. Okay, I'm done with that...for now. Fair warning, it is one of my favorite hobby horses, so it may appear again.

Onto condoms. Prophylactics. Rubbers. Raincoats. So many names for such an ugly little item. Sorry, but they are not attractive. And all these colored and flavored things? Whafuck? Ribbed for her pleasure. Yeah. And so fucking many! Good grief! Different brands. Different types. Different sizes. Sizes? When the hell did that happen? I must not have been paying attention, but the last I knew, they only came in one size. Aren't they supposed to stretch to fit? I know they stretch. I've used several to make terrific water-balloons during my misguided youth. Back then there were like four brands, one size, lubed and non-lubed, ribbed ones, and those silly novelty ones you could buy for three quarters at the local gas station. Those had funny-looking anemone like things on the ends or were otherwise decorated. I distinctly remember looking for them in a store in my hometown when I was around 16. They whole display took up maybe four rows on one those rack things about two feet long. The rest of the area was filled with gels, foams, sponges, and pregnancy tests. Now all of these things are kept in locked glass cases like they're the crown jewels and take up an entire wall! And expensive! Oh my god! Last time I bought some, I paid like $2.50 for a pack. One kind I say the other day was like $10. For little tubular latex shit? I know they're needed and healthy and so on, but $10? For like a pack of four? No wonder these things are all over campus for free in these little baskets. Not only does it promote safe sex, but the damn things are almost prohibitively expensive. I mean, cheaper than a baby or VD, but shit! Now, for those who may be wondering why I am ranting about this, I had to go peruse the damn things for the first time in years. Not for me (don't ask), but for my oldest son. Fine. I'm a liberated woman and a 'cool' mom. I'm also not stupid. Girlfriend of 17 + 15 year old male child = teenage sex. He and I have had several talks, he knows the risks, he's fairly responsible (aside from his room and his mouth), he's smart, and he's a walking hormone. They both are. I know, I've been there. So, when he told me that it might be a good idea to obtain some condoms, I said okay. Outside. I said okay on the outside. Inside, I started crying and wondering when he stopped being three and screaming that I need to go get chains and locks for the basement. Then I quit panicking and went to Wal-Mart. And KMart. Target. Every drug stoe in town. And discovered that what I had believed to be a simple trip for protection for my son is not. I returned home empty handed. Well, without condoms. No chains or locks either. I told him about my journey and offered to take him along. He refuses to go with me to purchase these items. Fine. Tomorrow I will take him to whichever store he wishes to purchase these items from, give him my debit card, and wait in the car...shaking and sobbing, I'm sure. And marking the calendar so I know how long it's been when he tells me his girlfriend needs a pregnancy test. I'm trying to convince him that any part of him that touches a girl before he's twenty dries up and crumbles off. So far, he does not seem to buy it. Damn it anyway.

Save Me from Teenage Angst!

Help! Rescue me! Assistance! No kidding, there ought to be some sort of class (probly is someplace) on dealing with teenagers. And not becoming depressed. I thought only girls went through the whole "I'm ugly. I'm stupid. I'm fat." thing. Wrong! Oh so wrong! Apparently teenaged boys do the same thing, only angrier, and without the tears.

I'm surrounded by testosterone and I'm sick of it. I have also recently discovered how old I am. Not just physically. Mentally. My eldest son has his first girlfriend. Yep. Became official on Saturday. He's going to her prom with her and everything. My mother says he can't, that he's only three, just big for his age, and that three-year-old aren't allowed to go to prom or have girlfriends. He's even kissed her. With tongue, or so I've been informed. Time to go on a condom run. I'm not ready to be a grandma! I'm not ready for my first born child to go to prom either, but he is.

Also, the whole teenage thing is really becoming obvious in the middle child now. He's not vocal about it, but is instead choosing the 'I'm going to hide in my room and you can't make me come out' bit. Arrgh! And he insists on combing all of his hair straight forward. Then complains that he looks funny. Oh, and difference between him and his brother? His brother has a girlfriend, he has "options". Yup. Options. I asked him if these girls knew that was how he was referring to them. He said no. Well, at least he's smart enough not to tell them that. He acted all surprised when I told him that girls generally do not like to be referred to as options and that his dating life would end abruptly if they found out. It was like I'd flown in under his radar and bombed the secret bunker.

To top it all off, my eight year old daughter is wearing those little sports bra-tank top type things. It is't really a training bra, but it isn't an undershirt either. Of course, I then had to do the math and realized that HER hormones should start overflowing in the next 3-4 years. I figure I've got about 2 before she starts the whole training bra thing. Then it'll be real bras and sanitary supplies and THE TALK and oh god, just shoot me!

Handy Tip

Okay. Not sure how many of you will find this of import, but here's a handy tip: if you are a University student whose University library has an agreement allowing you to access indecis such as EBSCOHost, do not, repeat DO NOT add 68 items to a folder for later viewing and attempt to email them to yourself via the proxy server. This will cause your email inbox to become as clogged as rest area toilet during Spring Break. Apparently, the good folks at EBSCO email you each item singly...not in even groups of two or three. It has taken my email three days to load all of them. It just so happens I thought this would actually save me some time, allowing me to peruse the articles at my leisure in preparation for a massive project for class. Instead, I am being forced to wait for these articles and abstracts to sloooooooowwwwwllllllllyyyyy arrive in my inbox. Uh huh. Progress? I don't think so.

Satellite Umbilical Cords

Whoopee!!! I finally broke down and decided to get satellite tv. Now, I can once again, be connected with the rest of the world! Alright! It sounds so mundane, but living where I do, there is no such thing as cable. I'm too far beyond city limits. It's satellite or nothing. Fine. As technologically inept as I am, I was afraid to get it before. I believed that it was permanent, that once I had it hooked up or installed or whatever, that I had to continue my service at that address. I recently discovered otherwise and decided I was tired of network tv that only comes in if it is't raining or blustery. Plus, the house is already wired for it. There's a dish and everything! All the tech has to do is whatever he needs to do with the receivers. Yay! I will again be able to poison my mind with Comedy Central! I just feel so out of it whenever people talk about shows that are only on cable. I have no clue unless there's been something in the paper or I've managed to see it elsewhere. Once this is hooked up, I will be connected again and feeding my cultural self regularly. All with the push of a button. Ain't technology grand?