Justice? Rant/Rave/WTFever!

So I'm watching this show last night called The Dark Side of Parole. On there, some lawyer or deputy or corrections administrator was saying about some murderer that got let go in California who murdered again that 'our system hasn't quite decided how to handle violent offenders; we don't really warehouse them, we don't really rehabilitate them'. He's right. Scarily right. I don't know about the rest of the country, but the prisons in Iowa are so full, there's a waiting list to get in. No matter what you did or were convicted of. I do know that research here has shown that the majority of offenders in the prison system here are drug related. Okay, fine, its illegal. However, where does that leave violent offenders? Out in public? I'm beginning to wonder. I've said here in the past that a first time drug offender can get more prison time than a child molester. It's true. How more violent and sick can you get? Speaking from experience, and it was a mild experience compared to some, being molested as a child can have drastic and long-lasting repurcussions. I'm talking for the rest of your life long-lasting. I've done therapy. I've done all kinds of things. I'm as over it as I'll ever get. I've even forgiven the monster that did it to the extent I'm able. It's a sickness, and I can believe it. I also believe that there are abusers who were abused. Yakkity yakkity yakkity. Doesn't make it right. I also don't buy into the whole 'these people can be rehabilitated' ideal. Nice theory. Doesn't work. And since tattoos can be removed and since some people think that removing these perverts genitalia or branding their foreheads, hands or other body parts with some symbol is cruel and unusual punishment, I have an idea: KEEP THEM LOCKED UP! The rate of recidivism (repeating the offense) among sexual predators is higher than that of a drug addict. They are notorious for not registering with their localities, state, or whatever like they are required to do. They also tend to move themselves into areas where they are around children, like close to schools or daycares, or to get jobs that place them in contact with children, even with all the fancy background checks available today. These people will do it again. I don't mean the 10 year old molested child who lives down the block who decides to share his pain with the neighborhood kids. Yes, that's bad, but he's still young and stands a real chance of being 'cured'. I'm talking about the ones who were doing that and then continued it into adulthood. If the bleeding hearts still want to give people a chance to prove themselves, fine. Give even first time offenders electronic bracelets like Martha Stewart got and monitor them for the rest of their lives. That would be tax money well spent. If they do re-offend, then lock them up for the rest of their lives. Or give them lethal injection. Again, tax money well spent. As a bonus, the latter option frees up space in the prisons for other offenders. One male offender over here used a putty knife to cut open a two or three year old little girl so he could fit inside her (sorry for the graphic detail) and only got 5 or 7 years for his little mishap. Huh? That little girl lived, but her life would never be the same. Why should his ever have a chance to return to any semblence of normalcy? I don't care if he hadn't done the cutting job, in my opinion, any act of sexual activity with a child should be considered a violent offense. Kids are pretty much defenseless. And since child abusers, whether sexual or other, do not walk around wearing signs that say "I'm a pervert" all the talking about stranger danger and good touch/bad touch won't make any difference. These people can be teachers, clergy, doctors, the bum in the park, or the old guy who brings the family tomatoes out of his garden each year. There are women offenders too and they should be treated the same way. I'm sorry but our justice system is failing us, the public. We either need to warehouse these menaces or kill them off. There is no rehabilitation to it. If they insist on that avenue, then these people need a brand on them in some very prominent place that we can teach kids to recognize or some kind of non-removable monitoring device. And don't give me any 'cruel and unusual punishment' bullshit. Children's lives are at stake. Cruel and unusual punishment? Tell that to the 2 or 3 year old girl who was cut open for some asshole to rape her. Or to that girl's parents. Or to my niece who was raped and drowned at the age of 4 by her own uncle, a man who supposedly had never been in 'that kind' of trouble before. Or to me. Tell me how cruel and unusual it would be for the monster who did what he did to me to have been forced to wear a device to track his movements or wear a brand or something after his first conviction. If that had happened, maybe there wouldn't have been a second instance...maybe I would have gone unmolested. And who knows about any other victims? These guys are experts at manipulation. How many didn't come forward for whatever reason...in any case, not just my example? How cruel and unusual is that for a child to live with? I'm sorry. It may be an illness, it may be created through abuse. All I know is that this is an illness that can be prevented...or eradicated...and our justice system? It isn't working.

Beginning of a Bar Joke

While waiting for Mom to get out of surgery, I was sitting with my aunt and her mom, whom I refer to as Gramma, cuz she's just that type, ya know? At any rate, a commercial for March of the Penguins comes on the tube and I'm like, my usual excited, jumping up and down in my chair clapping my hands and squealing like I'm two, self. My aunt knows of my penguin obsession, but Gramma doesn't apparently. So, in trying to explain it to her, I say, "If I was told I only had three weeks to live and was granted three wishes, one of them would be to go to Sea World or somewhere and play with the penguins. You know, give me some fish, a coat, and some penguins. The peguins and I will get along fine, I swear." By this time, she's looking at me very strangely. I ask what's wrong and she says, "What do you want with a goat?" I laughed so hard, I almost wet myself right there in the waiting room. Which had terrible coffee, by the way. I got her corrected and she started laughing too, and goes, "I thought you said you wanted a fish, a goat, and a penguin...and I couldn't figure out what you wanted a goat for. The fish and the penguin I could understand..." and was lost to the giggles. So was I. I mean seriously: a fish, a goat, and a penguin? Sounds like the beginning to a really bad bar joke....

'A fish, a goat, and a penguin walk into a bar..."

You finish it. I'd love to see what you come up with. God knows, I'm trying to come up with some. It's just too good an opportunity to pass up. You know me, I simply cannot walk past an open door. Ask Grasshopper or Wendy. The stories they could tell you...but won't.
]I have too much blackmail.

Instructions for Surgery

This is reality, folks. My mother, who has been extremely afraid of her surgery that took place on Wednesday, has spent the last few weeks joking with me about a variety of things related to it. Such as whether or not a sprained ankle is sufficient injury to allow the docs to pull her life support, organ donation/removal, and euthanasia. All joking aside, she truly feared that she would be cut open and found to be 'riddled with cancer'. Nothing I said made that better. Since surgery was scheduled at 8:30 in the morning, requiring her and I to be at the hospital at 7:30, I went over on Tuesday afternoon. When I arrived, we shared the usual pleasantries, had dinner, and then she handed me the following hand-written instructions for her surgery:

Do NOT Remove

liver
pancreas
heart
brain
stomach
voice box
ear drums
eyes

Can remove if absolutely necessary

1 lung
1 kidney
gall bladder
spleen

They can put me to sleep, but don't let them PUT me to sleep.

If they accidentally suction out some of my fat -- Do Not let them put it back in.

If they locate my bitch nerve, please ask them to remove at least half of it.

Now, these were written by her in her own hand. I have the paper in front of me as I am typing. After surgery, I joked with her a bit in front of the nurse about her fat being suctioned and her bitch nerve. The nurse shook her head sadly about the fat, saying that 'since it wasn't on the release, we couldn't do it', then laughed with me and mom. (Mom laughed very softly and carefully) When it came to the bitch nerve, the nurse told us that she refuses to allow that to be removed from any woman as each of us needs it.

The day before the surgery, Grasshopper and I were talking about it and she came up with the idea of telling my mother, who is at this time very insistent that I not allow the hospital to euthanize her, that as soon as Mom comes out of surgery and is coherent, that the doc wanted to euthanize her and she's lucky we didn't let him. Instead of waiting, Grasshopper called Mom and shared this with her. She still thinks it's funny, but right now it just hurts to laugh.

Also, on a more personal note, while I am truly relieved that the surgery went as planned and that my mother is well and on the road to full recovery, it is fun to watch her flop like a fish out of water when trying to sit up on the couch or bed. It is also fun dealing with my mother on high-intensity pain relievers. She gets her words mixed around, often her thoughts, and this morning when trying to sit up in bed, reached for my hand for support then told me repeatedly that she wasn't ready and didn't know why she wasn't. Neither did I, so I was therefore useless in that regard. I did manage not to laugh where she could see or hear me. For that, I think I should get good-daughter points. Which I'm sure will be taken away as soon as she realizes I've written all this on my blog. Damn. Broke even again. Just when I thought I could get ahead on the good-daughter score, too.

God is coming...and She is pissed!

My friend Wendy posted this as a comment to my last post. I'm repeating it here because it's simply too funny not to! Thanks, Wendy!


One day, in the Garden of Eden, Eve calls out to God: "I have a problem!""What's the problem, Eve?""I know you've created me and have provided this beautiful garden and all of these wonderful animals, and that hilarious comedic snake, but I'm just not happy.""Why is that, Eve," came the reply from above."I am lonely. And I'm sick to death of apples.""Well, Eve, in that case, I have a solution. I shall create a man for you.""What's a 'man'?""This man will be a flawed creature, with many bad traits. He'll lie, cheat, and be vainglorious; all in all, he'll give you a hard time. But, he'll be bigger, faster, and will like to hunt and kill things. He will look silly aroused, but since you've been complaining, I'll create him in such a way that he will satisfy your - ah - physical needs. He'll be witless and will revel in childish things like fighting and kicking a ball about. He won't be too smart, so he'll also need your help to think properly.""Sounds great," says Eve, with an ironically raised eyebrow. "What's the catch?""Yeah, well... you can have him on one condition.""What's that?""As I said, he'll be proud, arrogant, and self-admiring...so you'll have to let him believe that I made him first... So, just remember... it's our secret... Woman-to-woman!"

Consider this...

I am afraid. In fact, I am phobic. I am polyphobic, according to http://phobialist.com. I am/have: Achluophobia- Fear of darkness, Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens, Astraphobia or Astrapophobia- Fear of thunder and lightning.(Ceraunophobia, Keraunophobia), Aviophobia or Aviatophobia- Fear of flying, Coimetrophobia- Fear of cemeteries, Entomophobia- Fear of insects (mainly grasshoppers), and I'm developing Ephebiphobia- Fear of teenagers. A deep fear of teenagers...I'm told this is normal however, and probably healthy.

I am also an arctophile (teddy bear lover), chocoholic, shopaholic, and bibliophile, and obviously a penguin lover. I'm sure it has a more formal name, I just cannot locate it at the moment. At any rate, check out the phobia site, even if you have no phobias, it's amazing what the names are!

Hehehehehehe

Thank you, once again, Queenie! I've taken your suggestion to heart. My book bag (pic of design on right) not only has a picture of a winter witch (complete with penguin familiar) on it, but now both sides are in the process of being decorated with the stickers I mentioned in my last post and assorted painted on pentacles, dripping with blood (I bought some of the puffy paint), and other assorted witchy stuff. I'm also doing it to my notebooks, binders, and so on. This will probably not have the desired effects however, as there is such a strong pagan movement over here that last year a group petitioned (and won) to create a pagan students group. Dammit all. Oh well, I'm sure there are plenty of Christians on campus that I'll be able to offend.

Of course, Batman has me beat to hell in this category. Wendy told me that he actually hissed as some missionaries who came to try to share the gospel or some such with him. Bravo! I'll have to remember that one. I don't get many, but the Jehovah's Witnesses are particulary persistent. Sad part is, they're the only ones to get their religion half way straight. I almost (almost) hate to frighten them. Okay, not really, but I do have relatives that are Witnesses, so I'll try not to give anyone a heart attack. A brief palpitation maybe, but no thrombosis or myocardial infarcts. Not on purpose anyway.

So, Brava, Queenie, inspirator sans match, and Bravo, Batman! Keep up the good work!

Picture above is located on almost any item a person could want through this website: http://www.cafepress.com/shop/animals/browse/OVKEY-penguin_p-2_N-1788+20797309_in~dim~search-1_OVMTC-standard_OVRAW-penguins_nr-1_CMP-KNC%3doverture Sorry, I do not know how to do the link thingy that you only have to put in one word. The site has nearly every animal in creation on it and a few that don't exist any more. It's terrific!

Evilness Reigns Supreme

All right, so I am vile and wicked. I like it that way and so do my friends. Also, to apologize in advance to any readers who are devoutly Christian, you may want to stop here and recognize that this is not directed at you personally.

While signing up for classes, I was looking for classes in the Women's Studies area for filling out elective hours with something I might actually use and/or enjoy. So I began perusing classes that fall into that category. Many of them are closed. More are at night when it simply isn't feasible for me to attend classes. I did run into two classes that piqued my interest momentarily...until I read the online version of the syllabi. One, called Women in Religion was basically a repeat of the other, Women in the Bible, with about three weeks of class devoted to exploring women's roles and so on in Eastern and Native American religions. Based on what I read, instead of challenging or exploring the patriarchical view point of the Bible and how it relates to women or even doing a comparison between treatment of women by different religions, the courses seem to desire to reinforce the Christian view. Uh huh. Not this redhead. I'd end up inciting a riot. Not that this would surprise any one who knows me well. And, since the building my classes are in were built in the 1960's era of violent protests by liberal, philosophy/etc. majors, the place has no windows that open and seems to be made of a strange multi-layered brick compound and bulletproof glass. It wouldn't be any fun. It does, however, sound like something interesting to put on my resume. My mother would be so proud! (sniffle) I just think it would be fun to show up to that class around Halloween dressed like a nun painted all over with voodoo and witchcraft symbols, cackling wildly, shuffling tarot cards, and dragging my broom along behind me...maybe leave shouting, "I'll get you my pretties, and your nutty professor too!" Doesn't matter. I'm headed back to this little store tomorrow called Spellbound to get another 'Blessed Be' sticker, another 'My other car is a broomstick' sticker, and this bright purple one that reads "Sorry I missed church...I was out practicing witchcraft and becoming a lesbian." I think I'll get two of each: cover both sides of my bookbag and one for my car. I know it isn't right...I simply cannot help myself. Everyone has a hobby...mine is to scare people.

I'm good at it.

Now the other side

Since my last rant...er, post, I've thought it over and feel it's only fair to present the good things about my recycled hubby.

He voluntarily moved away from a job he loved and made great money at to come here. He also left two young children from his second marriage in another state in order to move here. If I need money, he simply hands me his entire wallet and tells me to take what I want. I know his ATM pin number. I know all of his passwords to all of his assorted online accounts and so on. He voluntarily went out and got a job making about half of what he made before and goes to work. I know that doesn't seem like much, but some women have bums living with them that won't even contribute financially. He adores me...every inch of me, body, mind, and soul. He willingly watches sports in another room so as not to interfere with my anti-sports mentality. He will pick up after himself so far as dishes are concerned and he at least aims for the toilet if not putting the seat back down. I can carry on an intelligent conversation with him for the most part, though he accuses me of mumbling constantly -- but only when he's engrossed in something else. He's very intelligent, and has reasonable hobbies. He likes model trains, fishing, and reading. He doesn't even force me to listen to his version of music, since he knows I can't stand it. He also likes video games. I could do without that part, but at least he's not neurotic about them. He's also affectionate and not afraid to push a shopping cart around a busy store with my purse sitting in it. He'll even hold my purse for me, though he refuses to dig into it for any reason aside to drag his cigs out of the side pocket -- even if I tell him it's okay to.

Okay, now I've covered everything I can think of that is the opposite of my rant yesterday. I'm still miffed (love that word) about all the stuff I ranted on then, but there are good points to him.

On a side and reallly far away point, I think the animals in my small portion of Iowa have gone crazy from the heat. I'm used to roadkill (see past posting) though I do have a few concerns about it, but the past two days have seen much increased daylight activity from the wildlife. I saw a mama raccoon with at least 6 babies the other day, followed a short distance later by a badger. I have a family of woodchucks (aka groundhogs) living on my property. An entire herd of deer traipsed across my road at 2 o'clock today, apparently headed towards a family reunion across town. I've seen about 10 roadkill skunks, but those may be night kills. There is a plethora of bunnies around, and suddenly I have squirrels. Okay, that sounded like a disease, but last year, I had no squirrels. Now, I have like 4 or 5. Since I live in the middle of nowehere, I'm trying to figure out where they came from. I don't think they lay eggs or grow from seeds, so you figure it out. Which reminds me of a shirt I saw in Hot Topic the other day (love that store). It says, "I have animal magnetism. Every time I go outside, squirrels stick to my clothes." I am going to buy that and wear it to the park. Better yet, to parent-teacher conferences. I like to shake things up. Oh...and back to the animals...there also appears to be a rather smallish muskrat or beaver or some manner of weasel type thing living down the road from me in a brackish creek. It squealed at my daughter when she tossed a rock next to a frog trying to get it to jump. Then it swam away. I only got a brief look at it, but I'm fairly positive that wasn't around last year either. I tell ya, it's like Wild Kingdom aroudn here. Turkeys, pheasants, and other assorted fowl are all over nearby too. I do not live in the woods! The only things missing so far are reptiles. I'm waiting for them to show up tomorrow.

Helpless Male

I love my recycled hubby very much! I love my recycled hubby very much! (I'm hoping that repeating this will help me calm down) I love my recycled hubby very much! (etc.)

Don't get me wrong, it's true: I do love him very much. However, this dependence of his is getting on my nerves. My 8 year old daughter can cook for the entire family on her own and on the stove. Granted, it's only scrambled eggs or cheese fajitas, but she can. He can barely pop corn in the microwave. Maybe I shouldn't bitch since I'm not working right now. He's the worker. But when school starts in three weeks (the kids & I start the same day), what's going to happen? Plus, next week my nother has to have surgery. She lives 2 and 1/2 hours away. I'll be gone, probably with the kids, for at least three days. Two of these are his days off and he is welcome to come with us, but if he chooses to stay home, I understand. However, if he does stay home, I'm not sure he can be trusted to feed the dogs and the bunny much less himself. No kidding, his idea of breakfast is 1/4 gallon of ice cream with 1/2 a container of Cool Whip on it. He's shown no ability to reheat leftovers on his own nor to be able to make his own frozen pizza, even. He cannot brown hamburger, and the one time I asked him to help me cook dinner by lining a baking pan with parchment paper (a gift from the gods) he used waxed paper instead. Silly me, I wasn't paying attention and didn't notice until the pork chops had already started to absorb the wax and the paper almost caught fire in my oven. (There's a Queenie-esque situation for you) At any rate, he is also apparently incapable of doing laundry, finding a hamper/basket, washing dishes, vacuuming, taking out garbage, or other household chores. He will help if I ask him to, which is a bonus, unless it involves leaving the house. Three days ago, I asked him to run into the town for me.

Me: Would you run into town for me?
Him: Which town?
Me: Duh. Iowa City! I need you to go to Fareway for me. I need about three things.
Him: Fareway?
Me: You know where it is, right?
Him: I think so.
Me: Know the movie place we always go to?
Him:Yeah.
Me:It's right next to it. Can't miss it.
Him:For what?
Me:I need a good-sized red onion, a small thing of baby potatoes, aluminum foil, and charcoal. Ok, four things.
Him:I'd fuck it up...You want a red onion, I'd bring back a red radish...
Me:You can't buy a single red radish.
Him:Ok, a turnip then. I'd just fuck it up.

Have you ever heard such drivel? Or such a piss-ppor excuse for not doing something? Grrr. Then he wonders why we aren't bumping uglies that often.

Okay, rant over. I feel better now. Send me the bill, as usual, and thank you for your time.

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.