Kimbabalu

The News is Funnier Than Anything I Can Think Up

2006-01-24T20:02:00.000-06:00

Man charged with indecent exposure

A man was caught jacking off in a department store and this is what the detective had to say,
"I'd hate to have to try to explain that to a 3- or 4-year-old," Shanks said. "His statement was pretty concise, and he never made an attempt to explain himself. He wasn't there to shop. He told me he went to Goody's for that purpose..."

Really, you mean he wasn't there because of your low, low prices???

Teen beats up his grandmother - because she won't buy him beer

Need I say more? Check out the mugshot on this kid. Geez. Someone need to buy him a Jenny Craig membership -- not more beer.

How to know you've been in school too long

2006-01-20T09:18:00.000-06:00

Nothing makes you feel older than walking into a graduate class, looking around, and thinking, "MY GOD! I'm the oldest person in the room -- and I'm not even the teacher!"

That's what happened last week when classes resumed for the spring semester. I walked my happy ass into class, took a look at all the angst-ridden, iPod-wearing, pierced, shaggy-haired students, and turned right around. I thought I must have been in the wrong room. Surely these "children" were mere undergrads, right?

Unfortunately, a quick look through the class schedule told me otherwise. That had been the right room. Those were my peers. And I was going to be late to class. Fuck.

Now they'll know me as the crazy old lady who was so disoriented she didn't realize she was in the right classroom. Getting old sucks ass.

I am THAT woman...

2006-01-16T07:40:00.000-06:00

The woman wandering through the grocery store bleary-eyed and with a look of utter defeat on her face.

The woman with a screaming toddler leaking snot in a foot-long string from his nose to the shopping cart handle.

The woman who absent-mindedly hands her kid a plastic bowl of mangoes to stop the whining (oh, the WHINING!) -- most of which end up decorating said snot-covered shopping cart handle or littered across the frozen food aisle.

The woman who comforts her son by clasping him to her breast and humming a lullabye in the middle of the frozen food aisle only to find that when the pathetic snuffling ends she's left with a Picasso-like snot and booger painting on her shirt.

The woman who is heard screaming the following litany in the parking lot (all the while trying to strap 40 lbs of angry toddler into a Cheerio-encrusted carseat): "STUFF IT IN THE HAPPY BOX!"

Searching for...

2006-01-06T16:03:00.000-06:00

... the best way to begin this post and failing miserably. This happens when I try to write research papers, too. Usually, I sit and stare at the computer while drinking copious amounts of wine and waiting for a brilliant idea to hit me upside the head (or at least something that SEEMS brilliant after all that wine).

Since I'm still at work I don't have the obligatory glass of wine in my hand -- just a Reese's pb cup which I'm finding to be an incredibly poor substitute for alcohol. I mean, really, how witty and urbane can you think yourself if you're forced to wipe chocolate and peanut butter off your keyboard??? Oh well.

This weekend (if I get off my lazy ass) I'm going to finish my Barbie photo essay. Then I'll see if I can get one or more of them into this new gallery one of my old profs is opening. Cross your fingers for me.

HannahLisaCookieYentaEthel

2006-01-02T07:17:00.000-06:00

... is one of my best friends. She's delightfully eccentric and sardonic. Whatever she does she embraces joyously and completely whether it's vegetarianism or motherhood. I love her. If she was a man I'd marry her - except I'd have to divorce my own husband first and kill her husband second. Which would be inconvenient and messy -- not to mention all of the legal ramifications. Plus, there's that sex thing. I love her, but I am SO not into bush - the Republican or the nether orifice. So, I'll settle for being best friends.

One of the many quirks I love about her is how she likes to take on new identities while remaining essentially the same irreverant and wonderful person I've come to love. When I met her almost 3 years ago her name was Hannah. Long before that she was Lisa. Then she became Yenta for a while. Cookie was more of a fad than a namechange. Ethel is just a term of endearment I have for her while her hair grows out.

Did I mention she owns the best dog in the world? Seriously. Her dog Annie is amazingly tolerant and loving. Pets are the most accurate gauge to a person's soul I've ever found. If you own a happy pet, one who is affectionate to you and protective of you then I know you're a good person -- no matter what your arrest record may contain. I knew Hannah before she got Annie so I had to go on my instincts alone as to what kind of person she was. I loved her then, and I love her even more now that she's proven she's worthy of the best dog in the world. Her husband and daughter are pretty awesome, too. But come on, how fucking lame is that to praise someone's family? This isn't a shitty Hallmark card I'm writing here.

[I, of course, own a surly cat who takes great pleasure in licking her butt on my freshly washed comforter (correctly) indicating that I am a horrible misanthrope who will come over to your house and use your last sheet of toilet paper and not tell you.]

I can't possibly go into all of the reasons why Hannah is my best friend in this woefully inadequate blogpost. She's wonderful and delightful and I love to hear her laugh. And the best thing about her? She'll hate what I've written. She'll call me a fucknit and tell me what I did wrong. Now THAT is a true friend -- someone you can call a buttnugget as a term of endearment.

Book Secrets

2005-12-20T14:55:00.000-06:00

Well, not really secrets...more like trivia. I stole this idea from a blog that I clicked on after blog-hopping for quite some time. I started here, then clicked on a link that took me God-knows- where, and then it all gets a little hazy.... So what I'm trying to say here is that if I stole this idea from you, don't get cranky just send me your url and I'll be happy to give you the credit you deserve.

Anyway, since I've turned into such a lazy little bitch of a blogger I thought I needed a little jumpstart. Here goes:

Book Secrets/Trivia of Kimbabalu...

1. When I'm not reading something for school I read sci-fi and fantasy shit. Not total schlock, but stuff that doesn't require a lot of thought and in which the good guys always win. Hey, after reading nothing but Holocaust literature for months at a time I need something a little lighter.

2. The Man and I just had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves installed along one wall in our family room and they're already filled. We collect books like dust-bunnies; we just don't have enough wall space to erect a dust-bunny shelf.

3. I've been reading since I was 2 years old. I don't remember learning to read. My son is now starting to read and he's only 2. Must be genetic.

4. I've always loved to read but it took changing my major 3 times and dropping out of college once before I realized I could major in English.

5. I will read anything that's put in front of me. I'm the type of person who reads the nutritional information on cereal boxes, the warning labels on hair dryers, and the bumper stickers on the car in front of me. This habit has given me such crucial knowledge as Mini-Wheats are packaged by weight not volume, one should NEVER remove the safety warnings from electrical appliances, and the dumbass driving the shit-brown K-Car is the proud parent of an honor roll student.

6. I think Stephen King is horribly overrated. Filthy rich and incredibly successful, but horribly overrated. I also think the Harry Potter books are overrated. Frankly, I could give 2 shits about pre-teen magician angst. Although I'm glad the books are getting people to read more. Hell, anything that gets people to read more can't be all bad.

7. The scariest book I ever read is Phantoms by Dean Koontz. I read it in one sitting when I was about 12 years old and visiting relatives Addy, Washington (population 212). Yeah, you read that right. Addy, fucking, Washington. 212 people. 2 bars, 1 post office, and a couple of toothless guys named Cooter and Bud who sat outside the post office all day on old lawn chairs. I don't know if it would have seemed as scary had I read it at home in my room -- safely outside the reach of Cooter and Bud.

8. I've read the Lord of the Rings trilogy at least half-a-dozen times. After the first time, however, I learned to skip all of the songs / poetry. Tolkien was a genius and all, but geez... enough with the Tom Bombadil crap!

9. While my favorite leisure-time reading genre is fantasy/sci-fi I also like to read mysteries, horror/thrillers, and an occasional romance novel.

10. What I am reading right now... I Am the Cheese, Assassin's Apprentice, and Great Sentences for Great Paragraphs (gee, can you tell which one is work-related?).

'Tis the Season...

2005-12-11T13:43:00.000-06:00

...for toddlers to spread germs filled with noxious, explosive diarrhea!

To celebrate our household's recent victory over said germs I finally decorated our house for X-Mas and I e-mailed the X-Mas cards (how 21st century of me!)! Martha Fucking Stewart's got nothing on me, biyaatch!

Ho, ho, ho...

Driven

2005-11-22T11:46:00.000-06:00

I drive. I am driving. I am driven. It seems that's all I do these days. I drive to work, I drive to school, I drive to the in-laws to foist my kid on them for a few hours of adult conversation with my husband. And when I do get those few kid-free hours? I feel driven to make them count. To not squander them on mediocre food and an insipid rehashing of my oh-so-boring day at work. I feel compelled to be witty and charming (two things I constantly aim for but rarely achieve). Inevitably, though, I'm reduced to a gibbering mass of idiocy with nothing more insightful to say than, "Mmm..this is a good salad."

I am driven to find a deeper meaning in my life than just getting from Point A to Point B. I've seen all the platitudes slapped onto the backs of fuel-chugging SUVs like "Life is not a race to the finish," "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly," and "No Jesus, no peace; know Jesus, know peace." Frankly, I've never read a bumper sticker yet that was so profound that it made me want to rethink my existence -- and if I ever do I've ordered my husband to shoot me dead because if that happens it means there's an alien life form chewing on my brain stem plotting world domination.

So where does one find meaning? In a fortune cookie? I just don't trust them like I used to before they started printing "winning" lottery numbers on the back of the fortunes. Should I go on some Buddhist retreat? Spend a wad of cash for some short, bald fucker to tell me to listen to the silence of my mind and let it guide me? No thanks. I've already wasted about 12 hours of my life watching all the Star Wars movies. I think the little green guy with the big ears and the speech impediment covered most of that.

I guess I'll just have to muddle my way through this existence and hope I don't come back as a cockroach in the next life. That would suck.

Memory

2005-11-14T13:47:00.000-06:00

I remember a time when I wasn't worried about the color and consistency of anyone else's snot. I remember a time when I didn't know there were at least 5 different brands of diapers but only one brand that would be able to contain the aftermath of a dinner of grapes, mangoes, and pizza. I remember being able to sleep soundly until 10 or 11 am.

I remember a life that seems so long ago now but in reality was mine until 3 years ago. Looking back I don't know how I spent all of the hours of the day. Did I waste them in decadently selfish pursuits such as reading (for pleasure - not for class)? Figuring out that chili-cheese fries - no matter how compelling - are never the answer after a night of drinking cheap beer? Or traveling through Eastern Europe by train leaving Prague at night in a dense fog that seemed right out of a film noir?

Now, I find my days and nights filled with worry over green snot, the availability of said super-diapers at my local grocery store, and my inability to sleep past 5:30 am. I am a mom, mama, mommy, nose-wiper, diaper-changer, ear-wax cleaner, Cat In the Hat-reader, label-checker, bottle-washer (turned sippy-cup-washer), and cartoon-critic-extraordinaire - and so much more.

What will the next few years bring as I become less and less of a caregiver and more of a role model (gasp!)? As this tiny person I helped create takes on more responsibility for his daily maintenance?

Springtime for Hitler!

2005-11-09T21:10:00.000-06:00

Alas! Only Mel Brooks has the ability to make the Holocaust funny. I, on the other hand, am lucky if I can make it through this semester without stabbing my eyes out in despair. (editor's note: the writer of this blog has been known to exaggerate in order to get a few pathetic laughs -so don't start sending me those icepicks yet.)

Seriously, though if you haven't read the following books - and you are not taking any unauthorized anti-depressants - I highly recommend them to you. No study of the Holocaust would be complete without them:

Anything (start with Survival in Auschwitz) by Primo Levi
Night by Eli Weisel
Mendelssohn Is on the Roof by Jiri Weil
The Last of the Just by Andre Schwarz-Bart
The Sunflower by Simon Weisenthal
The Journey by Ida Fink
Jacob the Liar by Jurek Becker (the book - NOT the movie)
...and any poetry by Paul Celan, Dan Pagis, Nelly Sachs, Miklos Radnoti, or, of course, Primo Levi.

Read, discuss amongst yourselves, and write 5 page response papers to turn in to me by Monday.

That New Car Smell!

2005-11-07T14:37:00.000-06:00

Sitting in traffic the other day brought to mind one of my biggest pet peeves: super-giganto SUVs -- namely Hummers.

I loathe them and their drivers. There's just something about the whole "fuck you" attitude coming off the typical Hummer driver that infuriates me. I can just tell that they're driven by trophy wives or the guys who married the trophy wives who are now screwing their secretaries in between 3-martini lunches and hair plug surgery.

The only thing that I remotely enjoy about these fiberglass behemoths is their name. Hummer. I get the Beavis and Butthead giggles every time I hear it. Personally, I think more automobiles ought to be named after sexual activities. In fact, I nominate myself to head the next concept-car marketing team...

"Introducing the brand new, fully-customizable... Ford Fellatio!
Come, take it for a test drive and feel the power of the Fellatio's 2 strapping engines as they crank out 300 hp! Plus, you can customize your ride with any number of ~~strap-ons~~ (oops!) add-ons!"

Does Victoria's Secret Know About These?

2005-11-02T16:53:00.000-06:00

This has got to be the best news story - EVER:

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties that may be contaminated with E. coli.

I'm not sure what ground beef panties are - but I'm almost positive they're illegal in at least 17 states.

Overheard at the grocery store

2005-10-31T14:04:00.000-06:00

As we were pushing our cart through the aisles of our local giganto-mart this weekend, The Man and I overheard a lady talking on her cell phone...

"Well, I guess she thinks it's ok to sleep with a guy on the first date, but she can't be bothered to pick up the phone to call her sister?"

Nothing to see here...

2005-10-28T14:33:00.000-06:00

...except my horribly amateurish attempts at changing the template of my blog!

Still slogging along under the weight of grad school, work, family, and assorted household emergencies.

What? There's another fucking hurricane? And Bush is going to nominate another Supreme Court Justice? I gotta get my nose out of these books more often. My new favorite website is Library Thing!

You can view my --very incomplete-- home library here:
http://www.librarything.com/catalog/kimbabalu

Currently Reading...

2005-10-05T15:09:00.000-06:00

Just finished The Sunflower by Simon Weisenthal. If you haven't read this book, READ IT.

Still working on A Double Dying by Alvin Rosenfeld. Addresses the question of how to approach Holocaust literature.

As you can see I am immersed in Holocaust literature. The trivialities will resume when I finish my presentation for class next week. Until then, cuddle with assorted random strangers!

The 2 1/2 minute post

2005-10-03T15:11:00.000-06:00

This weekend I learned many important things:

1) People coming out of a mall CANNOT drive. It's like they're in a consumers' coma or something that makes them feel invincible.
2) Cleaning cat vomit out of a vacuum ranks right up there with scrubbing bus station toilets.
3) I loves me some air conditioning! In fact, I may even be so inspired as to create an interpretive dance to share my love and spread A/C worship to all the unwashed, sweaty masses out there...

How to Piss Me Off (an on-going series)

2005-09-23T13:38:00.000-06:00

Walk (really slowly) up the middle of the staircase while talking on your cell phone and gesticulating like a retarded crack addict - making it impossible for me to get around you.

Call me "persnickety" thinking I won't know that you really want to call me a bitch. Just call me a bitch.

Act like you don't understand English in order to get out of finishing your assignments - when I know you do because I was your fucking teacher ALL of last year.

Charge me $6.00 for a salad -- the exact same salad that you charged me $4.50 for yesterday.

This is what happens...

2005-09-21T19:41:00.000-06:00

...when good blogs go bad!

(particularly when they have to wait for what seems like an eternity while Blogger decides whether or not to upload their photos all the while watching that stupid whirling icon that reminds me of a retarded step-child that just won't stop spinning! AAGGGH!!!)

OCD anyone, anyone?

2005-09-08T14:31:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure that scientists have ever studied if Obsessive Compulsive Disorder runs in families, but it sure does in ours. The Boy has been known to throw amazing body-contorting, rainbow-colored fits if his routine is ever disturbed. For instance, if we suggest to him that it's time to put the Legos away and eat dinner he will make a face and commence crying and wailing in an ear-splitting way until he has managed to turn a brilliant magenta color and has permanently damaged our ear drums.

His daycare teachers have labeled this behavior as "trouble with transitions" which sounds to me like he is dithering between using "however" or "on the other hand" whilst crafting the great American novel. I had always wondered where he got this habit from until I listened to myself one morning while I was talking to The Man.

It was a Sunday morning so that means I got to sleep in while The Man got up with The Boy and made his breakfast. I walked into the kitchen just as The Man was starting the coffee. It must be noted here that he does not drink coffee. He makes coffee for me, and me alone, on Sundays because he's just that sweet. So while my dear spouse is slaving over a hot coffee maker I proceed to berate him for his amateurish coffee-making style:

Me: "You're just going to pour the coffee like that? That's not how I do it."

Him: "Well, that's how I do it."

Me: "But that's wrong! You have to pour the creamer in first, then the coffee. That's the only way it gets mixed properly. Just look at you! You're pouring all the coffee in first! There won't be any room for the cream for God's sake! No cream? Are you kidding? Where is the cream going to go!?"

Him: {sighing deeply} "You know I have been doing this for a number of years now. I think I know what I'm doing."

Me: "No, you obviously don't know what you're doing! Look at the coffee! Look at it! It's not mixed right! There's not enough creamer. It's all at the bottom of the cup - look at the color! That's not the right color. Now you'll have to get a spoon to stir it properly! Why couldn't you just pour the creamer in first? The creamer always goes in first! That's the way God intended it! Not coffee first, CREAMER first! Gah! I can't believe this - my own husband, the father of my child has despoiled my coffee in this foul way!"

Him: "Do you need a time out?"

So, yeah... I'm beginning to see where The Boy comes by his OCD. The Boy and I are available should any psychology grad students need a dissertation topic.

With thanks and adoration to Cookie!

2005-09-06T16:44:00.000-06:00

The topic for today’s post was submitted by loyal ATT reader, Cookie. She writes:

Hey Fucknit!

Post something, dammit! I’m getting tired of re-reading my blog. Write something about female mustaches. We all have them, yet we never talk about them. Oh yeah, and say something about how your 2 year-old son can read and spell.

Yours ever,

Cookie

With encouragement like that how could I NOT post something about the above-mentioned topics? So here it goes…

To all my mustachioed sisters…

Before you click on the Red Cross Donation Button do yourself a favor and use some of the money you were about to donate and spend it on a razor. Remember: Charity begins at home!

Also, as a former member of the hippy-dippy, tree-hugging, leg-hair-braiding left-wing nut brigade let me tell you that I am not (entirely) unsympathetic to the “but it’s all natural” argument made by some women attempting to explain their rather hirsute complexions. Yeah, I used to make that argument, too. You know what, though? That was really just my excuse to cover up the fact that I was too fucking lazy to shave.

This laziness was, in part, exacerbated by the fact that I used to live with my crazy grandmother who got out a stopwatch and timed how long it took me to take a shower. If I took longer than 5 minutes in the shower I got a stern talking to (read: she tore me a new asshole). You try washing, shampooing your hair, and shaving your legs in less than 5 minutes! I tried it once and almost nicked an artery. Seriously, when I got done with my shower it looked like the Bates Motel. But I digress…

Moral of the story: there is no moral – just a hygiene suggestion brought to you by someone who has not only been there and done that, but also someone who during the course of her work day has to interact with hundreds of people in varying states of hairiness. Big, wiry, pubic-looking hairs sprouting from a woman’s (or man’s) upper lip are distracting to say the least. Even delicate rabbit-fur looking mustaches are a bit distracting not to mention disconcerting. So start plucking, shaving, tweezing, waxing, or bleaching! NOW!

Topic #2: My son can spell T-E-A-L!

To all the other parents of toddlers…

Suck it! My son is brilliant and can read and he’s only 2. I’m sure he’ll turn into an angst-ridden twat at some point in his life but right now he’s a fucking genius! So all the moms on that message board (you know the one – with all the cute little teddy bear graphics populated by the Stepford-Wife wannabes with evil hell-spawn named Brayndford, Madysynne, and Skylhyrr) that hated on me for not getting all warm and fuzzy every time one of their little progeny farted, well, you can all bite my flabby ass.

My son is a GENIUS! Genius, I say!

If you’re really nice to me I may tell you the secret to raising a genius. Here’s a hint: massive amounts of Cookie Crisp cereal and VH-1 countdown shows.

Adjunct, Smadjunct! You all look the same with my boot up your ass!

2005-08-25T12:32:00.000-06:00

Before I begin my story I have to define a term that may not be well known outside of academia, so here goes…

An Adjunct (or Adjunct Faculty Member if you want to get all technical) is a part-time teacher employed by the college on an as-needed basis. Some people manage to make a living by adjuncting (and yes, it can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, or whatever strikes your fancy – both the word and the person are passed around like $20 whores at a frat party by academic institutions world-wide) for several different colleges, but most are professionals who teach part-time at night to earn some extra money. It’s a good part-time gig, but in the academic hierarchy Adjuncts rate just above the cockroaches that infest the walls and just below the feral cats that keep the cockroach population in check.

Now on with the story…

As some of you know I work at a community college where I teach English as a Second Language (ESL) and I run our department’s computer lab. Usually, I’m pretty tolerant of non-ESL students using our lab as long as they follow the rules: turn your cell phone off, don’t bring food into the lab, and most of all don’t print more than 10 pages. Pretty reasonable stuff – at least that’s what I thought until about 2 weeks ago.

At 4:15 pm --exactly 15 minutes before I was to start my vacation -- I noticed that the lab printer kept printing, and printing, and printing. So I went to the printer and saw that someone was attempting to print 30 copies of their resume. Now this is a definite no-no. I canceled the print job, and, since there was only one person in the lab at that time, took the stack of resumes over to her and embarked on the following conversation with her:

ME: Are these yours? Because you know there’s a 10 page limit on printing.

Crazy Woman {hereafter referred to as CW}: Well, I didn’t know that. How should I know that?

ME: Well ma’am, there is that sign over the printer, and those 4 signs on the walls, and – oh yes – the window that pops up on your computer monitor as soon as you log in that all say to limit your printing to 10 pages. So, no more copies, ok?

CW: But I’M an ADJUNCT! {said in the thundering tones of a self-righteousness crack-pot}

ME: {trying REALLY hard not to sigh} Well, that’s good, but there’s still a limit of 10 pages.

CW: Well, my department TOLD me I could print here! They told me!

ME: Really, what department are you with? I’d like to talk with them so they’re clear about our printing policies as well.

CW: But I’M AN ADJUNCT! I teach here! My department sent me to this lab!

ME: {again resisting the urge to sigh – working on keeping murderous rage in check as well} Well, no other department has contacted me about using this lab. Which department did you say you were with again?

CW: You know I teach here – I have a degree in English AND a degree in Business! Dr. SO-and-SO told me to use this lab!

ME: Oh, Dr. SO-and-SO, you mean Harry? I’ll have to drop him a line to let him know about our policies. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about the Adjunct Computer Lab in the next building. I’m sure he’d be happy to show it to you – seeing as how my lab is really only supposed to be for students.

CW: What is your name? I’m going to complain to your boss! I AM AN ADJUNCT! I can’t believe the way you’re treating me!

ME: {murderous rage supplanted by almost uncontrollable urge to laugh out loud – really, stop with the “I’m an Adjunct” crap! That carries about as much weight as saying “I’m the Assistant to the Second-String Crack Whore!”} That is your prerogative, ma'am. Let me give you my business card. Now my boss’ name is XXXX, and his supervisor’s name is XXXX. They both office in the next building – here, let me write down their office numbers for you. Would you like me to give you directions to their offices? I’m sure they’d love to hear from you!

CW: I will talk with them. I’ve been watching you, you know. I see that you do nothing all day. Students are always in here talking in Spanish! You’re always in your office! It must be nice to have a job where you do nothing all day! I’m going to talk to your supervisor!

ME: Yes ma’am. Again, his name is XXXX and his office number is ###. He might still be here so if you hurry you might be able to catch him. And yes, it is refreshing to have a job where I do nothing all day – it’s so kind of you to notice! Thanks for stopping by!

At this point she stomped off down the hall. I had high hopes that she might actually talk to my boss because he has even less tolerance for crazy people than I do. Alas, it was not to be because I never saw her again. I guess having a degree in English AND in Business-- and standing in line at the unemployment office -- means she's just too busy to complain about me. Oh well.

Nothing to see here, move along...

2005-08-22T15:03:00.000-06:00

Well, my little vacation is over and now I'm back at work - which means two things:

1) I won't be seeing another movie in an actual movie theater for quite a while, and

2) I'll have plenty of time to blog.

So get ready for oodles of triviality as I assail the internet with fabulous tales of pissy teachers, sadistic veterinary receptionists, and of course my flatulent but fabulous best friend and our gastronomic adventures!

Mark this day on your calendars!

2005-08-11T14:04:00.000-06:00

My blog has officially made it to the big time. I have been comment-spammed! Woo-hoo! My feelings right now are alternating between feeling violated and feeling exhilarated.

What's next? Paparazzi placing mini-cams in my toilets? Hacking into my cell phone to get to my amateur porn videos? I feel a little like Paris Hilton except without the billion-dollar trust fund and the genital warts.

Closing the Gender Gap

2005-08-09T12:21:00.000-06:00

I realized something very important the other day as I was changing my shoes for the third time before rushing out the door for work. Men have one pair of each type of shoe (or at least most of the straight men I know do). For instance, my husband has one pair of dress shoes, one pair of sandals, and one pair of sneakers. He may have a few other pairs of shoes languishing at the bottom of the "give-away" pile - but those clearly don't count.

I, on the other hand, have 1 pair of clogs, 1 pair of keds, 1 pair of sneakers (different from keds - the women out there know this, so I'm just explaining this to any straight men still reading this), 4 pairs of sandals (2 dressy pairs and 2 casual pairs), 2 pairs of black loafers (to be worn with slacks), 1 pair of knee-high boots, 1 pair of low boots, and 3 pairs of "work" heels. Yet with all of these shoes I still find myself trying on at least 3 different pairs each morning before I am satisfied (or at least running so late that I can't waste any more time on finding the "right" pair of shoes) with my selection.

My husband, smart man that he is, has learned to stay away from me during my daily shoe-finding frenzy. My son is too young to understand this yet, so it's my husband's job to ply him with Fruit Loops and grapes until the disturbance has passed and it is safe to re-enter my presence.

This got me thinking that one day my husband will have to sit down with The Boy and have "the talk." You know, the conversation that starts out like this,

"Son, love between a man and a woman is a beautiful thing and the ways of love are mysterious yet delightful. What you need to understand, however, before you can even think about getting past second base is to never, and I mean NEVER, tell a woman her shoes don't match her outfit. As a matter of fact, never say anything about a woman's attire. It'll only lead to heartache and - more than likely - a crushed larynx."

I have no logical explanation as to why women are compelled to find the absolute "right" shoe. I'm 33 years old and still don't understand this phenomenon - yet I engage in this silly ritual each day like a lemming racing over a cliff.

Hooray for Boobies!

2005-08-04T15:18:00.000-06:00

Usually when we take The Boy over to The House of GrandparentsTM he leaps out of my arms, flings a casual wave back in our general direction and runs with utter abandon into the waiting arms of my doting in-laws. The moment he enters their home he knows that he is about to embark on a night-long pudding and Baby Einstein orgy. We, his parents, the people who gave him life (!), are left unwanted and forgotten by the door - like cigarette butts tossed from a moving car. Yes, usually this is the way it goes down.

Yesterday, however, The Boy was feeling a bit clingy. So clingy in fact that he refused to be put down and I had to carry him balanced on one hip into the house. He refused to let go of me -- even when his granddad tried to lure him into the kitchen with the promise of juice and pudding. In fact, this seemed to aggravate The Boy to the point where he grabbed the neck of my shirt and pulled it down over my boob in his scramble to curl into a fetal position while remaining firmly glued to my hip.

Yeah, you read that right. I flashed my father-in-law.

Well, technically my son made me flash him, but it was my boob - not his - so I guess you could say I did the flashing. This is a new low in my tenure as a mother. I just thought the internet should know.

The Most Disgusting Sentence Ever Printed

2005-08-03T09:06:00.000-06:00

"After Jim's teeth rotted to the gumline, he would pop the sores in his mouth with his fingers and rub the pus on his shirt."

followed by this close second...

"In the final year, Jim sat in his chair, naked, a towel draped over his lap, flies laying eggs on his stump."

Read the whole story here about the Wisconsin man (and his father Jim - Stumpy, the fly-loving pus-bucket) who kept his mom's body in his freezer for 4 1/2 years. Is it any wonder that this man kept his dead mother in his basement freezer?

I vow...

2005-07-27T14:21:00.000-06:00

... that I will never hand out methamphetamines and vodka to my son's teenage friends. Even if it means that I am forever relegated to the "totally uncool" category of moms - the category that includes the ones who shriek "Don't forget to wash your hands after you go to the bathroom!" to their kids as they drop them off at school in front of the entire football team.

... that if my 22 year-old son impregnates his 13 year-old girlfriend I will chop his balls off myself. After I drag him home by his ear while wearing a bright pink terry-cloth muumuu and gold house shoes, of course.

...that if I ever see a mug shot of my son like this there will be no bail money coming from me. The phone call from the police station will sound something like this,

Son: "Mom, I need some money. I just got arrested for inhaling paint and-"
Me: "Son? What son? I have no son. Is this a telemarketer? WE NO SPEAK ENGLISH!"

{click}

The weekend by the numbers

2005-07-25T10:45:00.000-06:00

Number of times I said, "NO! We don't EAT the crayons!" ...5.

Number of times I sang "My Hero Zero"... 8 billion.

Number of times I read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom... 8 billion and 1.

Number of times I cursed the authors of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom...I'll let you know when I stop.

Number of times I got to use the bathroom by myself...0.

Man's Best Friend...and then some

2005-07-19T13:26:00.000-06:00

Read this article and then join me in contemplating what a fucked up world we live in. I'm not sure what part of the article I enjoyed the most. Was it the fact that:

1) The dog's name was Lucky. Ah, sweet Irony - you are a harsh mistress!

2) So few states have laws against bestiality - yet they were all rushing to the polls to prevent gays from getting married!

3) Or is it this statement,

Yoder, who lives in a local apartment complex, last month asked a female acquaintance to join him in a sex act with the dog.... She demurred, but later told a friend about it. That person called a social worker, who called police.

Hmmm... Wouldn't you have loved to have overheard that conversation - or any of those conversations?

"Brittney, you'll never guess what my neighbor just asked!"
"What?"
"Well, like I was just carrying my groceries into my apartment when, like, the blind guy next door asks if I want to be in a threesome with him and his dog!"
"No way!"
"WAY!!!!"

Random Thoughts and Musings...

2005-07-14T18:47:00.000-06:00

...as I enter my 13th hour at work and attempt to blog as a way to alleviate the need to set my hair on fire and run screaming from the building.

1. To the lady in front of me at Starbucks this morning: I don't know when, or even if, hot pink, skin-tight capri pants were ever "in," but here's the thing: Please don't assault my eyes with your sausage-esque technicolor-wrapped physique at 7:00 in the morning. If you're a size 20 then wear a size 20 - don't try to butter your ass to squeeze into a size 10. It's cruel and unusual punishment for those of us waiting in line behind you who only wanted to get our morning caffeine fix.

2. To the asshole that tossed a GLASS bottle (from a Starbucks frappuccino - there's the evil influence of Starbucks again!) out of your car window as you pulled away from the intersection this morning: I wrote down a discription of your car and your license plate number. It is plastered to my dashboard so that if I ever see you again I will follow you to your destination and pelt your car (Dodge Minivan) with my son's soiled diapers. And if you think I'm not insane enough to follow through with this threat then you need to call some of my friends from college. If they're not too drunk they'll verify that I can and will follow through with said threat.

Letter to my son,

2005-07-12T14:05:00.000-06:00

Let me apologize. You’re stuck with me and I am weird. This means that in the years to come as you struggle to seem “normal” to all your little friends in middle school and high school you are doomed to fail. As soon as they meet me – and, yes, I will insist on meeting all of your friends – they will realize just how demented I am. So I’m writing this to warn you ahead of time.

For starters, I have an inner monologue going on in my head ALL THE TIME. This means that random phrases and sentences make their way from my brain to my mouth at the most inopportune times. I’ve tried to convince my doctor that I have Turret’s Syndrome (damnit!) and should thus be excused from work. He (fuckface!) isn’t convinced (suck it!).

What does this mean to you? Well, it’s one of the reasons why your dad picks you up from daycare. It’s not that he loves you more than I do (I love you more!! Just remember who carried you for 9 months despite constant constipation and swollen ankles – me or him?), or that he’s any less weird. No, it means that he’s better at hiding his weirdness from other people. It means, for instance, that when he gets into a conversation with your daycare teacher about your fiery 2-year-old mood swings he doesn’t say stuff like,

“Yeah, he DOES react really strongly to changes in routine. It’s, like, he’s either on or off, either ‘you’ve just killed my family and raped my puppy,’ or ‘it’s all cool but any minute now I’m gonna get medieval on your ass!’”

I don’t know why your teacher just stood there with her mouth open and didn’t say anything back to me. It’s like she’d never heard that in the context of toddler behavior modification before…

Aside from this inner monologue there is also the fact that I cannot stop myself from giving you nicknames. It started out innocently enough with names like “Monkey Boy” and “Scooter.” Then came “Prince of Poop” and “Señor Juicy Pants.” There were also nicknames like “Pooter,” “Spud,” and “Nutter-Butter-Punkin-Flutterby.” Some of these names have had a long shelf life while others just match the particular mood of the moment. Regardless, they all share one thing: They will haunt you for the rest of your days. Just think ahead to prom night! When you bring your date home I’ll be ready with the old photo albums so I can launch into a detailed description of the night you earned the nickname Señor Juicy Pants.

Don’t worry, your father and I have been putting money away in a college fund for you. I’m sure you can dip into it to pay for the therapy you’re going to need.

Above all, I love you nutter-butter-punkin-pooter-spud! Don’t forget that when you turn 13 and start down the road of teenage loathing. Oh yeah, your dad loves you too (just not as much as me!).

Love, Mom

This Post Sucks

2005-07-11T09:42:00.000-06:00

...just wanted to say that at the outset so no one gets his / her hopes up.

I've been taking an "art" class this summer, and the reason I call it "art" all in quotes is because I'm not really sure what to make of it. I'm (supposedly) working on a creative project with very little in the way of guidance from my prof. Big mistake. The first night he gave us an assignment to "be creative!" This phrase sends shivers down the spine of anal-retentive Literature majors like myself. I read creative shit - I don't produce it!

Anyway, I decided to try my hand at photography because, well, I don't really know why other than the fact that I just got a cool new camera and this seemed like a good excuse to try it out. Plus, the bootleg -- uh, I mean examination -- copy of photoshop was just sitting at home getting dust on it so I thought I'd try that out, too.

(Just as a side note: photoshop is a real bitch. They should pay ME to use it. How fucking counter-intuitive can it be? I was this close to getting an aneurysm from trying to figure out what all the little tool icons were meant to be.)

So, for lack of anything better to post here is the latest photocrap masterpiece to entertain and delight all 6 of my internet stalkers:

Oh...and if you're with the Legal Department of Mattel, Inc. you can contact me here and I'll be sure to get back to you.

Calling All Catholics

2005-07-08T14:41:00.000-06:00

...and all of my fellow lapsed-Catholics!

When is the holy war going to start because of this desecration? Why isn't Newsweek covering this? Shouldn't there be some world-wide protest? Or at least a bake sale and cake-walk?

And where the fuck was my invitation to Benny 16's inauguration, or coronation, or whatever the hell you call it! I was a good Catholic for about 2 years, dammit.

Ah Sweet TV!

2005-07-08T14:19:00.000-06:00

Thank god for crappy channels like VH-1! How else am I supposed to get my daily intake of inane pap?

Case in point: Strip Search
Not only do we get to see some truly fine looking men, but we finally get to see what bitches men turn into when they're competing against each other.

"Oh, I know my body's better than his. He is not walkin' around saying that!"
"You can just look at him to see he needs to be working out, like, a lot more!"

All that was missing was a box of tampons and a few Kleenex and I'd have sworn I was watching a Lifetime Original Movie.

Sorrow

2005-07-07T16:54:00.000-06:00

All my inane ramblings got put on hold today so I could curl up in a fetal position, emit a high-pitched keening sound and mindlessly click the Refresh button to see the latest death toll - all as I thought, "god, not again."

Sorry, I got nothin' but maudlin thoughts, so in the tradition of failed writers and high school hacks everywhere I will offer up someone else's words in place of my own:

Sorrow

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, --
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's a Quickie!

2005-07-05T13:53:00.000-06:00

..."Erection Symbology 101*"

So the end of the Summer semester is fast approaching and that means it's bitching season. Yep, this is the time when students descend on my office like locusts, whining and bitching about their about-to-be-posted grades. Having been both a student and a teacher I think I'm qualified to offer a few pointers on how to complain about a grade...

1) Wear deodorant!

2) When I ask you if there were any extenuating circumstances that prevented you from turning in your work on time think VERY carefully before you launch into the story of how your family MADE you go on a week-long trip to the Bahamas with them.

3) Please don't pick your nose in my presence. I'm begging you. I have a two-year-old so I'm no stranger to boogers, I just don't want to be confronted with any more boogers than I already am.

and finally...

4) Even though a raging erection may impress some people in some other venues - Oaklawn after midnight comes to mind - it does not belong in my office. Please control your moderately-sized schlong so it doesn't intrude on our conversation like some overly-excitable miniature poodle constantly jumping up and down for attention.

*I have to give mad props to my friend H. for coming up with the name for this post. Please visit her new blog - and worship her for the blog-goddess that she is (or will soon be).

Macaroni Grill - why go anywhere else?

2005-07-01T07:44:00.000-06:00

I mean really, where else can you have so much fun fucking around with the waitstaff? Except for Denny's -but screwing around with the poor waitress working the 11:00 to 7:00 am shift at Denny's is just beyond cruel - doesn't her life suck enough?

What I like about Mac Grill (and I think I've been there often enough that I can go all informal and just call it 'The MG' cuz, you know, we're tight like that. Word.) is that they hire pimply-faced, sub-moronic, junior-college drop-outs and then they try to teach them to write their names upside-down in crayon. How fucking cruel is that?

That's where my friend Jess and I come in. Our own lives have been transformed into snot-covered, germ-tastic suburban wastelands by our children so we feel justified in making other, less-fortunate, people feel even worse about their lives -- and there's nobody around who's less fortunate than the poor trainees at The MG.

A typical visit starts out innocently enough. We get shown to our table by the perky hostess who smells like an extreme fruit salad because she has apparently just plunged herself into a pungent mixture of every product that Bath & Body Works ever made. She informs us that Micah will be our waiter.

Micah is in training. He is wearing the "I'm a Trainee So Feel Free To Fuck With Me" button on his shirt and is followed by a bored-looking senior-waitress, or maybe she's his Dominatrix I'm not sure. She looks ready to yank him back by his nipple clips and give him a good spanking at any moment.

As a good little trainee Micah gives us the opening speech welcoming us to The MG and asks us if we've ever been there before. We say no, of course, just so he can demonstrate his full knowledge of the goods and services offered by his employer -- and please his Mistress at the same time. At the end of the speech he writes his name in crayon on the paper, however he has forgotten the crucial element of writing it upside-down. Mistress is displeased. She chastises him in front of us for his egregious error and he visibly shrinks under her glare. I can almost feel his nipples tingling in anticipation of the sweet torture that awaits him back in the kitchen.

They leave us to look over our menu and Micah returns a few minutes later with our drinks. He asks us if we're ready to order or if we need a few more minutes. Jess and I look at each other and decide that, yes, we are ready to order.

Me: "OK, Micah, first let us introduce ourselves. I'm ...." As I'm talking I start drawing my name on the table like so...
Micah: "Oh, ok. uhh...hi LeKim."

Me: "No, the L is silent. It's just Kim."

Micah: I thought...well, there's an L."

Me: "I think I know how to pronounce my own name. It was my grandmother's name. She died of lung cancer last month and I'm still dealing with it."

Micah (desperately looking around for his Mistress who has slipped out back for a smoke) "umm... ok. Can I take your order?"

Me: "Why don't you start with my friend Jess? She's a deaf mute so she's going to have to write down her order. That's ok, isn't it? I mean you ARE A.D.A. compliant, right? This isn't the 1950s, you know, when the disabled had to hide their disabilities! This is the 21st century!"

Micah: "I think so...yeah, I mean of course. Go ahead."

Me to Jess (speaking really loudly): "NOW GO AHEAD AND WRITE YOUR ORDER ON THE TABLE, DEAR. YES, THAT'S IT. WRITE IT DOWN FOR OUR FRIEND MICAH."

Here's what she writes:

Me: "Did you get that? And I'll have the Pasta Rustico. Thanks."

It's at this point that Micah's head started to spin around and blood shot from his eyes.

Aaah. Good times.

Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song

2005-06-28T08:10:00.000-06:00

...Every Rose Has It's Thorn.

ahhh, sweet, sweet Poison. Back in high school, their lyrical stylings taunted me much like Double-Stuff Oreos taunt Kirstie Alley today. I wanted to love them, but I knew no good could come from our joining.

It's Flashback Tuesday!

I remember sitting in Geometry class and mooning over this guy named Alex who sat across from me. He was, to put it in the teen lingo of my youth, like totally boss, ya know? Alex loved Poison and drew their logo on his trapper keeper a gazillion times trying to get it just right. Anyway, brilliant little geek that I was I figured if I professed an interest in skanky no-talent hair bands, then maybe he'd like me. Maybe he'd see past the glasses and braces! Maybe he'd ask me to the Prom! Oh rapture!

Little did I realize back then that not all hair bands are alike - at least not to their fans. So you can imagine how badly my first attempt at flirtation crashed and burned when I innocently asked him if he'd heard the new Bon Jovi album, Slippery When Wet, and didn't he think it was as good as Poison?

How was I supposed to know that there was an underground war being waged between Poison fans and Bon Jovi fans? Who knew that comparing Poison to Bon Jovi was tantamount to committing a mortal sin and was enough to get me sent to Teen Angst Hell for the rest of my sophomore year?

Needless to say Alex and I never hooked up. He found some skanky ho who would take her top off at concerts and I drifted deeper into nerddom.

Now all I can do is re-live that agonizing time through inane blog postings. Thank god I still have Bon Jovi, though: (lighters up, y'all!)

"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame,
darlin' you give love a bad name!

An angel's smile is what you sell
You promise me heaven then put me through hell"

I Like the Night Life, I Like to Boogie...

2005-06-23T10:30:00.000-06:00

Halloween 04
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.

...and so it's time to start thinking about this year's Halloween costume!

I know it's early but I like to be prepared - besides the Halloween Party that The Man and I go to is pretty cut-throat. People start making (yes, I said "making" as in needle, thread, hot glue, papier-mache mock-ups of the White House - the works!)their costumes months in advance for this thing! Of course, when you go to a Halloween party where most of the guests are drag queens you're bound to see some pretty spectacular costumes...

Last year I met a guy who was dressed up as the Wicked Witch of the East - he looked exactly like her right down to the warty nose! He painted himself green and made his own nose, people!!! He even made a broom because he didn't think any of the store-bought brooms looked authentic enough! Now that's dedication to one's art!

So last year I went as the battered housewife - complete with a black eye, a baby attached to my leg, a stomach that made me look about 12 months pregnant, and a pack of smokes in my bra. Now I have to come up with something to top that. It has to be good - but not too good otherwise some of the pissier drag queens will pull my hair and stomp on my feet with their stilleto heels. Ouch!

Any ideas?

You might think I'm delirious, When I Run You Down...

2005-06-22T14:59:00.000-06:00

Why is it that I can think of 100s of things to write about while I’m driving in to work, but my mind goes blank whenever I sit down to type? WHY???

…and speaking of driving to work let me hep all of you out there to some of the unwritten rules of driving in Dallas:

1) 60 mph is the default speed limit on every street. I don’t care if the sign says 35 mph, it’s 60 -- trust me.

2) There is a Starbucks on every corner so don’t slam on your brakes and cut in front of me just so you don’t miss the entrance to that particular strip mall. Your double-venti-mocha-triple-piss-cup will be waiting for you at the next corner, bitch.

3) If you’re going to drive like an asshole, don’t put your name and phone number on your back windshield. I don’t care if you CAN sell my house in 90 days – you still can’t drive for shit and you need to be dragged out of your minivan and beat upside the head with your Jesus Fish. And now that I have your name and number I just may call you up at 2:oo AM to verbally beat you to a pulp.

The First Rule of Mouse Club...

2005-06-17T14:52:00.000-06:00

mouseclub
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.

...make lots of money so you can be the horrible skank you were destined to be and take over the world!

I can just see the line outside of Best Buy when this comes out on DVD on July 12: teenage girl, teenage girl, pedophile, teenage boy, teenage girl, Catholic priest, teenage girl, Girl Scout Troop Leader, teenage girl, Rosie O'Donnell, teenage girl, teenage boy...

It's too bad they couldn't time the release date to coincide with the Michael Jackson verdict - pedophiles and pop-tarts of the world, UNITE!

You Oughta Know...

2005-06-14T09:25:00.000-06:00

...that you're a has-been so don't charge me $75 for a ticket!

I used to really dig Alanis. I loved Jagged Little Pill, I got a perverse kick out of her playing God in Dogma, and I enjoyed Under Rug Swept (not as great as JLP, but what is?), and was pretty neutral towards So-Called Chaos. Her slide into mediocrity happened pretty gradually but now, at least to me, she is firmly entrenched in the has-been rocker category.

To mark the 10th anniversary of JLP she's putting out a "new" album full of her old songs. But get this - they're all acoustic! Wow! How original! How bleeding edge! Really, how many acoustic / unplugged versions of her old shit can she expect us swallow? Isn't there a statute of limitations on re-releasing your old songs? If there isn't there should be.

Meh. Maybe this is just a sign that I'm getting old and curmudgeonly. Maybe these darn kids today really like acoustic versions of old crap.

Our legal system may not be perfect...

2005-06-14T08:39:00.000-06:00

...but at least it beats the "justice" meted out by a Pakistani tribal council.

Things that really piss me off...an on-going series

2005-06-13T08:25:00.000-06:00

I'm starting to believe that those little push-through plastic drug packs, like the ones encasing Sudafed, are made by evil underground gnomes who want nothing more than to incapacitate us surface-dwellers so they can finally realize their dream of world-domination....

Or maybe they're made by Chinese prison laborers who don't give a fuck that some bourgeois, running-dog, capitalist lackey like myself can't open them. Whoever the hell is in charge of making them just know that I've contacted Satan and reserved a special place in Hell just for you.

More Clever Advertising

2005-06-10T14:32:00.000-06:00

a1959
Originally uploaded by whisperingibis.

I think the photo in this vintage drug ad says it all. Take a look at the rest of the ads in the slideshow, and then mellow out with a little thorazine...

ahhh! sweet candy!

Oh, the fucking irony!

2005-06-09T09:57:00.000-06:00

I remember the first time I surfed the net - oh those many moons ago - on an Apple with a 14.4 kbps modem. Unlike my sullen and silent DSL connection, that modem hummed and clicked and made little rubber-band tweaking noises that let me know that it was really WORKING, dammit!

What I remember thinking that first time was, "Jeez, what's with all the ads?" I felt bombarded by flashing, poorly-designed graphical ads that left me with a headache and a desire to crawl back into my cave and communicate via smoke-signals to my neo-Luddite pals. I was so naive back then.

Now I barely even register the ads that infest commercial websites. (I use Firefox as my browser so that helps, too. Using Firefox also has the added benefit of making me feel all geeked-up and cool in a wannabe-techie kind of way - but I digress...) There are times, however, when a website ad catches my eye. Sometimes I'm attracted by the ad's design, sometimes by its flashy graphics, and sometimes by its text.

I have to say that Google has some of the more ironic - and head-scratching - ads I have ever seen. I love their little in-text ads that purportedly pertain to the content of the site. I know they have their dirty little crawlers picking through websites (and now e-mail) searching for key words and phrases much like a mama gorilla picking through her offspring's hair for bugs. I'm sure there's some technical marketing term for what they do, I just don't care enough to look it up - besides I'm pretty happy with the image of them as flea-picking apes.

Every time I go to the Blogger log-in page I am reminded that I could make money with my blog - if only I would allow them to infest my little piece of cyber-heaven with their insidious little ads. For the $0.05 a week that advertising revenue might generate, however, I'm never tempted to take them up on their offer.

So I blame Google for the infestation of tiny text ads that "sponsor" parts of websites. The ad on this page, I think, sums up everything that is wrong with advertising. (If you need a log-in use bugmenot.com) Look closely at the small box to the right of the picture.

The NY Times story on the unwritten policy of gang-rape in the Sudan is sponsored by Kinsey.

Define irony.

Oh Heavenly Potato Chip!

2005-06-08T15:12:00.000-06:00

Ok, so I'm still baffled by all of the divine food products that have suddenly started showing up. The latest apparently is the visage of Jesus Christ gracing a potato chip:

One Valentine's Day, her brother found a heart-shaped potato chip, but no one in the family had ever seen what emerged from a bag of Lay's sour cream and onion potato chips a couple of weeks ago: an oval measuring roughly 1 1/2 inches in diameter, in which Rosalie Lawson saw the image of Jesus Christ.

First, there was a grilled cheese sandwich with the likeness of the Virgin Mary, then there was a pretzel in the shape of the Virgin Mary cradling baby Jesus, and now this. Do I really want my divine savior showing up on snack food? What's next? I wake up one morning to Lord Ganesha staring at me from my pop-tart? Oh wait, is that Poseidon I see peering at me from the putrid curds of month-old milk turning into yogurt at the back of my fridge?

Maybe I'm crazy, but I expect more out of a deity than random sightings in snack food. For crap's sake, Elvis has been sighted more often and in more dignified surroundings than Jesus! Maybe I should take Elvis as my personal savior.

OK, y'all get out of the gene pool!

2005-06-07T14:23:00.000-06:00

Some people should just voluntarily take themselves out of the gene pool...

1. This story makes me want to scrub myself with Lava soap, fumigate my office, and light my computer on fire just to make sure none of the "white, wet substance" gets through.

2. I just don't even know what to say about these idiots. Hmm..."dude, you're soooo toasted!" might come close to what I want to say, but nothing really seems adequate.

3. And finally, all this stink about Oprah selecting a trio of Faulkner's books for her summer book club not only made my English-major, snotty-ass self want to vomit, it also made me laugh when I read the last paragraph (which I will quote in full because...well, because I can!):

Mr. Howarth [the mayor of Oxford, MS] said he imagined a repeat of a recent incident in which Oxford tried to lure gamblers from Tunica, the Mississippi gambling haven, to tour the town. When one tourist bounded off a bus, Mr. Howarth said, she said she could not believe she was finally going to see the home of William Shatner.

"Which One Is Your Wallet?"

2005-06-02T14:45:00.000-06:00

"...it's the one that says Bad Motherfucker."

That's right, I said it. I must be one bad motherfucker for all the trouble I just caused the maintenance morons and their mulleted contractors. You know, I hate my job just like everyone else. I don't expect much. I DO expect, however, not to have to dig through an inch of ceiling grit that has taken up residence on my desk. I also expect to not have to vacate my office on a minute's notice because their dumb asses can't figure out how to pick up a god-damned telephone to let me know when they'll be working in my office.

I was especially pleased to note that they covered approximately half of the lab computers in plastic - the other half apparently had some major karma to work off so they were left to fend for themselves against the ceiling grit. And, of course, my office computer - with the shiny new flat-screen monitor - was apparently a sacrifice to the HVAC God, Mulletar, as it was left naked and staring at the gaping hole in my ceiling while grit and other noxious stuff fell on it.

With all this, why was the maintenance department surprised when I did the modern-day bureacratic equivalent of flinging plague-victim's corpses over their castle walls? I sent an e-mail to people with much more clout than me and copied damn near everyone just to make sure they all were aware of my displeasure. Plus, I pulled the academic trump card by bemoaning the fact that "my poor students won't be able to use the lab when the summer session starts next week unless all of this is taken care of before Friday."

And that, my friends, is the only way to get things done in the hallowed halls of academia. You either play the trump card of "My students will suffer!" or you have to sleep with someone. That would violate my #1 rule of never encountering anything turgid / swollen / engorged while at work so I'm reduced to whining about students.

So yeah, "I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch the keyboard I'm SUPERFLY T.N.T, I'm the GUNS OF THE NAVARONE!"

HVAC this!

2005-05-31T20:37:00.000-06:00

They've been working on the HVAC system in my office for about 2 weeks now. This means that there have been a lot of mulleted men in hard hats with OSU tattoos working in the building - EVERY. FUCKING. DAY.

This shouldn't be a big problem as it's in between semesters so there are no students. The problem (well, ok, ONE of the many problems) is that our esteemed leaders -probably figuring that everyone important is on vacation- have seen fit to schedule every major repair job at the same time. This means that not only the HVAC technicians, but the electricians, the plumbers, the painters, the carpet installers, and the landscapers have descended on our campus like a swarm of hungry locusts so that there is no place I can go to get away from the cacophony of medieval torture devices otherwise known as "facilities improvement."

The mullet parade notwithstanding, the repairs were going along just fine until Friday. That's the day I learned that not only were they going to rip the ceiling out of my lab - and my office - but that they were going to do it slowly and torturously over the course of a week.

Today when I opened the door to the lab there was a fine layer of grit covering the floor, electrical wires hanging down from the ceiling, and plastic wrap covering most -but not all- of the computers. I felt like I had walked onto the set of CSI and at any moment I would step on the dead body that had been dismembered and left in the lab to serve as a warning to all who might dare enter. Yeah, if only.

Instead, I was greeted by the maintenance head honcho who seemed way too excited about the installation of new HVAC units. I didn't look down just in case he was that excited - I've always abided by the rule that anything turgid, swollen, or engorged should be avoided while at work. It's just too awkward and icky.

So now I am reduced to roaming the halls in search of an empty office while trying to steer clear of the over-stimulated, HVAC-aroused, ass-hat in charge.

Revenge of the Chihuahua, part 2

2005-05-26T09:44:00.000-06:00

tink2
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.

Just to prove my point (see last blog entry) about Yoda looking like a "hoary old chihuahua" here's a pic of "Tinkerbell" Hilton. I think they're related.

Yoda to Tinkerbell: "MMMMM....Strong in the force someday you will be. Get rid of clap-ridden ho-bag, you must!"

Revenge of the Chihuahua, part 1

2005-05-26T09:41:00.000-06:00

yoda2
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.

Well, I just saw Revenge of the Sith and all I really have to say about is: meh.

Special Effects: Good.
Dialog: Bad.

Demented muppet who looks like a hoary old chihuahua flying through the air like Jet Li: Just plain silly.

I paid $6.50 to see this movie. If Lucas will mail me a check for $1.50 we can call it even.

If you want a more definitive review of Revenge of the Sith, check out The Man's blog.

Be All You Can Be...

2005-05-25T10:15:00.000-06:00

...subtitled: The Diary Entry Detailing the Morning From Hell

1. Late for work... CHECK!

2. Wait in line behind the only guy on the fucking planet who writes a check for $3.88 for a bagel and coffee... CHECK!

3. Greeted by Roach-zilla upon unlocking office...CHECK!

4. Scream like a sissy and spill coffee on self while running away from Roach-zilla...CHECK!

5. Find co-worker with cahones big enough to step on said sasquatch-like insectoid (thanks Shirley!)...CHECK!

6. Use up the last of the Lysol disinfecting everything in my office that might have been touched by Roach-zilla...CHECK!

7. Am told by HVAC contractors that everything "of value" in my office must be removed by tomorrow morning so they can make big holes in my ceiling...CHECK!

...fuck the ARMY, I get more accomplished by 9:00 am than they do!

A Sign of the Impending Apocalypse

2005-05-24T08:04:00.000-06:00

The wedding registry of Mary Kay LeTourneau and Vili Fualaau.

Why Do They Name Bras?

2005-05-23T14:40:00.000-06:00

...because it's really freaky and I wish they would stop.

I was shopping online for a bra and noticed that now all bras come with really bizarre names like "Eyelash Galoon" and "Body Beware." {{Ed. note: No links as I'm sure the internet provides enough whack-off material for 13 year olds without me adding to the mix}} When did this happen? It used to be that only Victoria's Secret named intimate apparel. Those were some great names, too. I always felt like I was visiting the nasty twins of the Bronte sisters whenever I shopped there - "hmm...should I buy the Emily bra with the black lace or the Charlotte in hot pink?"

Have regular-buy-them-at-Target-bras always had names? I never noticed this phenomenon. Who comes up with these name anyway? Frustrated romance novelists? Demented monkeys farting on snare drums? Because I think those are the two types of names out there now.

Frustrated Novelist Bra Names...
1. "Jasmine"
2. "Isadora"
3. "Angelique"

Demented Monkey Farting on Snare Drum Bra Names...
1. "All the Right Moves" (I think I saw this exact same product name while shopping for a laxative)
2. "Body Beware"
3. "Eyelash Galoon" (I don't even know what this means)

Freaky Friday #1

2005-05-20T13:29:00.000-06:00

Since I'm a lazy little twat who can't be bothered to write anything original on a Friday I've started the first of many "Freaky Friday" posts in which I troll the internet for freakishly weird happenings around the globe.

1.
Note to self: Leave the vibrating panties at home! I never want my 15 minutes of fame to be because my Pleather Panties of Pleasure knocked me senseless in the middle of the frozen food isle.

2.
Following the panties debacle, I found this story about a mobile phone thief with a rather unique escape plan. According to the story, however, hiding a stolen mobile phone up your coochie is not as unique as one would think. Which makes me wonder... why did I just spend $20 bucks on a new wallet when I could just stuff all my credit cards up my ass and keep my checkbook up my twat?

3.
OK, I can't be the only one bothered by this Silver Ring Thing being touted by some evangelicals (oh - right, they're not just right-wing Christian loonies, they added some secular bullshit so they could keep getting funded by George W and his cronies ON MY DIME). I find them mucho creepy.

I do, however, covet mightily this SRT water bottle - maybe it's just the pedophil-icious picture they have advertising its wonderful dick-dousing effects....

Not So Trivial

2005-05-19T10:03:00.000-06:00

***This is not the original post I had planned to write. I tried to edit the original for typos and Blogger ended up eating the entire post - typos and all. Which is probably ok, as the original post sucked anyway. I just didn't expect Blogger to be so editorially aware.***

Well, the final essays have been read and graded. Whenever I grade the final essays I always reminisce about my early days of teaching and why I chose to get into this field. Although, the fact is this was not my first, second, or even third choice for a career.

When I started college I had these heady visions of a career filled with political intrigue, foreign diplomats, and exotic locales. I thought I would major in International Relations, get a job doing something vaguely James Bond-like and well, do other...international-type stuff.

I majored in International Relations for about a year before I had the sense to get the hell out. Most of my professors were so deep into theory and divorced from reality that they couldn't name the capital city of Canada. They weren't interested in real-world events. I, on the other hand, had no interest in theory. It took me a year to figure this out and when I did I wasn't very happy.

To illustrate just how dissimilar my take on International Relations was from my professors I offer up a brief episode from my freshman year - oh so many moons ago...

One of my first assignments in my World Politics class was to find and interview someone who worked in the arena of - you guessed it - world politics. Considering that I was going to school in Washington D.C., it wasn't that difficult to find someone who fit the bill. In fact, my roommate at the time knew the ambassador from Paraguay and got me an interview with him. I thought I was the mother-fucking mack daddy of international politics for scoring that interview. I just knew that CNN would be calling me up for a job once word got out that I had interviewed the Paraguayan Ambassador! That's right, you read it correctly: Paraguay. (I'll pause now so y'all can look up Paraguay in the Wikipedia to find out just where it is.) Those professional journalists had nothing on me! Barbara Walters? Fucking amateur! Larry King? Imbecile!

So I met with the ambassador - who was an extremely nice man by the way - and I learned a lot about the current state of Paraguay. This was in 1990 right after Stroessner was ousted and the government was still in turmoil. Paraguay stood at the cusp of democracy after years of authoritarian rule.

I wrote my paper and turned it in expecting accolades and quite possibly a Pulitzer nomination (silly girl that I was). About a week later I got my paper back with a big fat "C" on the front and a note saying that while my paper was well-written it completely lacked any information on "networking." Networking?! Yes, networking.

When I asked my professor about my grade he told me that he wasn't interested in reading about revolutions, civil wars, and the like. He wanted his students to learn about the "networking" associated with the "average" players in the realm of international politics like a secretary working at the Red Cross, or the accounts payable clerk for a multi-national oil drilling company. "Your paper would have been much better had you explored the role of the ambassador's secretary in coordinating travel plans for the embassy staff."

Huh?

Soon after that conversation I started looking for a new major - right after I let one of my drunk friends vomit all over my prof's car.

The Soundtrack in My Head

2005-05-17T08:28:00.000-06:00

The soundtrack of my childhood (as with many other Gen Xers) was a montage of "adult-contemporary" and "easy listening" stab-yourself-with-a-fork-to-drown-it-out LPs. You would think, judging by my mom's record collection, that there were only 4 recording artists in the 70s:

1. Kenny Rogers

2. Barbra Streisand

3. Barry Manilow

4. Neil Diamond

Out of the Unholy 4 I think Neil is the least likely to make me lose my lunch. The other 3, however, are the reason my eye starts to twitch whenever I step into an elevator.

So, where are they now?
Counting their money and sipping champagne aboard their yachts while getting refreshing colonics from their personal astrologers/life-coaches with names like Makzumeeh of the 4th Dimension of Infinite Light.

Lucky for me they all have websites, such as...

The Neil Diamond Fan Poetry Site!
Do I even have to make a snarky comment about this? Do I even have to suggest that most of these people submitting poetry live alone with their 35 cats?

Check out Streisand's official website for her "Truth Alerts." Poor Babs, it must be a constant struggle to stay out of the National Enquirer - what with BrittKev and Bennifer pregnant, Martha out of jail, and Les Farts d'Al making it's European debut.

My wardrobe will finally be complete once The Man buys me this for our anniversary (you are reading this, aren't you honey?). Then to complete the outfit I can buy this Manilow en Mexico t-shirt!

...and finally, the MWLLKR, or Men Who Look Like Kenny Rogers! Further proof that there ARE aliens living among us - and they've shrewdly chosen to clone Kenny Rogers so they can live among us undetected until the time comes when they begin harvesting us for food. You didn't think that the failed Kenny Rogers Roasters Restaurants were meant to actually make money, did you? They were just a front for the aliens...

The Label Didn't Say Anything About Porcelain-Hugging Diarrhea

2005-05-12T13:11:00.000-06:00

Anybody seen these new coffee "pods" by Senseo? They're the latest shit for coffee-chugging, caffeine junkies like me -- and I do mean "shit." I had one cup of espresso-via-pod this morning and since then I haven't wandered 10 feet from my bathroom.

I checked out the FAQs on their website just to see if they included anything about this phenomenon and here's what I found...

What are the differences between the seven coffee varieties? (my interpretations follow each definition)

The Mild Roast is a lightly aromatic blend with a taste that is mild and delicious. -- accompanied by a mild burning sensation in your rectum.

The Medium Roast is more aromatic and rich; and very appropriate for the morning, as it is characterized by a balanced, harmonious and natural taste -- don't schedule any important appointments for the next 6 hours (because you have a date with a hunky block of porcelain that goes by the name of American Standard)

The Dark Roast is robust and full-bodied, yet surprisingly smooth -- yeah, umm... enough said.

The Decaffeinated variety has the same fine taste of Medium Roast, only without the caffeine -- for when your colon needs a little r&r.

The Paris Roast is a simply sweet French vanilla, caramel flavored blend -- "ooh la la mon ami! my ass, she eez on fire!"

The Vienna Roast is a smooth flavored dance of hazelnut, vanilla and mocha -- "Auf Wiedersehen colon!"

The Killarney Roast is an enchanting flavored medley of Irish cream and vanilla -- "That's no Lucky Charm! There's a leprechaun flying out of my butt!"

Oh yeah. The shit just never stops here in Tex-ass.

Which is more pathetic?

2005-05-10T10:30:00.000-06:00

Ok, here's a deep philosophical question for you...

Which of these stories is more pathetic?

1.
Man had 10 beers, blew up house
Apparently the combination of alcohol and fireworks can be quite dangerous, hmm... that's a new one. I bet the cops were rolling their eyes when they got called in to investigate this one. Too bad he lived, otherwise I could nominate him for a Darwin Award.

2.
Tara Reid horses around at Kentucky Derby bash
Tara Reid is quickly becoming the poor-man's version of Paris Hilton (as evidenced by frequent flashing of boobage to prop up her declining celebrity and still inexplicably popular despite amazing lack of talent).

I liked her in American Pie - but the movie would have been just as great without her. I know I'm not her target audience being that I'm not a 12 year-old boy looking for his first masturbatory pin-up, but really is there anyone out there who takes her seriously-as an actress?

Not the Mental Image I Needed

2005-05-05T15:19:00.000-06:00

That's me you hear screaming, "EEEEWWWWW!" at the top of my lungs.

Thanks to this site I found the link to this story about Bruce Springsteen's new album. Nothing too bad so far, right? I mean, I'm not a big Springsteen fan or anything, but in general there's nothing about him that makes me lose my lunch. Until now.

The song, “Reno,” is in part about an encounter with a prostitute. Springsteen includes a description of anal sex, including the price she charges for the act.

OK, the last thing I needed today was a mental image of The Boss banging a hooker in the ass while belting out his lastest attempt at a Top 40 single. Not pretty.

This now replaces the other unwanted anally-themed image floating around my brain- that of Billy Bob Thornton doing the brown-nasty to a hooker in Monster's Ball.

I'm not sure, but I think I speak for most women (at least over the age of 30, reasonably sane, and those not under the influence of mind-altering drugs) when I say that singing/writing/ yodeling / etc. about anal sex with a prostitute is a definite turn-off.

So Sayest Kim...

2005-05-03T11:47:00.000-06:00

And Kim, the mother of one toddler spake these words, saying...

1. In the first year (infancy) thou who hast procreated shalt appreciate the value of birth control --even more so than thou didst during thine hedonistic college days.

2. If thou workest outside the home and useth the services of a babysitter / nanny / daycare thou shalt alternately love and despise said babysitter / nanny / daycare. On days which have a "d" as their third to last letter thou shalt love thy babysitter, whilst on days which end in "y" thou shalt despise her and curse her name.

3. Thou shalt bribe thine child with french fries and other such cholesterol-enriched foodstuffs when thou art weary and heartsick of thine offspring's wailing and lamenting.

4. Seven days and nights shalt thou labor - and then labor some more in thine house of bondage (and not the fun, kinky kind either!)

5. Thou shalt not commit adultery - really, who has the time?

6. Thou shalt raise a might cry and shout, "STUFF IT IN THE HAPPY BOX!" when thine offspring beginneth to whine after thou hast told him he cannot watch Shrek for the 11 billionth time.

7. Thou wilt pour lavish praise upon the head of thine toddler when he learneth to use a fork.

8. Thou wilt pour thyself a drink of the sacramental wine (sacrificial gin and tonic may be substituted) for every day that thou stayest sane.

9. Thou shalt raise Hell with parents of other children who do not respect thine offspring and layeth the smack down on all those who do not bow in awe at thine offspring's beauty and intelligence.

10. Thou shalt have no other offspring for thou art too tired from the first one. "One and done" shall be thy motto to be repeated to the insensitive louts who keep asking, "so when are you going to have another baby?" Thou canst also substitute, "When Hell serves freezy pops!" to the most oustpoken of the lot and thou mayest ask me to smite them.

So it is written, so it shall be done.

(I'll reserve my first-class ticket to Hell now and avoid the rush.)

Cult Films I Never Thought Would Achieve Cult Status

2005-05-02T09:45:00.000-06:00

The Goonies

If you don't believe that this has achieved cult status then visit this site. Even I'm not this geeky. Although I have to admit that I do own this movie.

The Shining

Having never liked Stephen King, I guess I'm not an impartial judge when it comes to his movies. This one had all the subtlety of flinging a flaming bag of dogshit at unsuspecting pedestrians. Only the pedestrians were those of us who were unlucky enough to sit through this entire movie without the benefit of alcohol.

I know a lot of people liked this movie. I'm not one of them. This was grossly apparent when it came on tv the other day and I ended up shouting, "Oh for fuck's sake, just go crazy already!!! You're married to Olive Oil, your kid's a whiny little freak, and you're a total fuck-up who's stuck in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere! Now start the killing spree you big pussy!"

Next Blog...

2005-04-29T14:59:00.000-06:00

Stealing an idea from SJ, I've decided to check out the Next Blog button at the top of the screen just to see what comes up:

1.
"I'm probably going to have a hard time tonight when I'm allowing God to mold my heart and slap me in the face because reality is trying to give me a wake-up call. I've known that all along. I just hope and pray that I really will get everything out of this weekend that God has called me to."

2.
"I am a woman who acts like a girl, looks like a woman, feels like a child yet thinks like a man. Am I suffering? Not really, it's normal for me, you see, I am D.I.D. Meaning that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, a multiple, as in Multiple Personalities. Not like that Sybil movie but kind of."

3.
"Finally a policy I can get behind. The Portuguese beermaking industry has hit the streets and handed out flyers at Portuguese gyms describing the wonders of beer as part of a good diet and this humble blogger says that it's about damn time that beer got its rightful place within the food pyramid I mean it helps prevent dementia! "According to them" what more could you want? If you watch the news or if you are watching Bush's news conference "On as I type" A beer might be just the thing to keep your head from exploding so go ahead and drink a tall frosty one to your health."

"Blinded by the Light, Wrapped Up Like a Douche..."

2005-04-29T09:17:00.000-06:00

yeah, I know... the lyrics are supposed to be, "wrapped up like a deuce" or some such nonsense. Personally, I think it sounds better (and is SO much more memorable) my way. Of course, "wrapped up like a douche" is so memorable that it blocked out all of the other lyrics to that song. Now if I hear it those are the only words that stick in my head, spinning through the void that used to house my deep and important thoughts.

I was reminded of those same lyrics the other day as I was trying to clean my car.

You see, 3 days ago I spilled about a half-gallon of milk in my car as I was driving my son to daycare. Whatever milk didn't get soaked up as The Man and I frantically blotted the floor with paper towels before we had to rush off to work, was left to simmer all day in the Texas heat. Note: this is a bad, bad, thing. Sour milk turns into the most vile smelling substance known to man. It surpasses baby vomit, brussel-sprout-enhanced diarrhea, and Cousin Zed's body odor as the most deadly aroma ever. EVER. By that evening I wanted to kill myself. I was praying that I didn't get stopped by the police for violating whatever environmental statutes we have left in Texas.

So that night I scrubbed the floorboards of my car with carpet cleaner. That didn't work. Then I tried the "tough" carpet cleaner that said it would take out pet odors and assorted nasty-smelling things - you know the one with the skull and crossbones that has the Poison Control Center number in big red letters? It didn't work either. In fact, I think it just made the sour milk mad. It became incensed that I was trying to obliterate it and fought back with an even more stomache-churning stench.

I left my car windows open all night hoping the smell would dissipate. Or maybe that someone would steal my car and I'd be rid of the devil-stench one way or another. However, much like the Seinfeld episode on the same topic, I had no such luck. My stinky car was still there in the morning. Stink and all.

Finally, I remembered some Hint from Heloise I had read long ago. Vinegar cures everything. If you want to clean your garbage disposal - use vinegar. If you want to clean your carpet - use vinegar! If you want to fight off alien invaders who are trying to enslave humanity - use vinegar! (I'm sure Heloise said that in one of her columns - if she didn't, well, she should have!)

I put some vinegar in a spray bottle with some water and sprayed the crap out of my car. I let it sit in my car over night. Now my car smelled like a douche bag - but at least the sour milk smell was gone! I never thought I'd say this, but I'll take douche bag smell over sour milk any day. 3 days later: the vinegar emerged triumphant!

The sour milk smell was vanquished back to the hell it came from and the vinegar faded away - lifted up to Heaven on little angel wings for its good deed.

Hallelujah!

Movie Review

2005-04-26T12:35:00.000-06:00

It's time that I get to what's REALLY important in this blog: Movie Reviews.

Because I strive for triviality and insipidness I won't review "good" movies. Hmmpph! Anyone can do that. I'll only review bad movies. As in "le bad." Really, really, really bad movies. Movies that make you question your very existence while you run around the room tearing your shirt and screaming, "Why God, why!?!?"

Because I am a completely anal-retentive dork I have instituted a number of categories with which to, well, uh...categorize the bad movies. Today's category is: TRILOGIES.

I would start my list with the new Star Wars Trilogy (Phantom Menace, et al) but I'm afraid of George Lucas and his team of attack-lawyers stalking me and slapping me with some ridiculous lawsuit for saying anything mean about his work. So I'll just have to mention it {subliminally}. So if anyone were to Google the phrase {I've farted better movies} or {I can't believe I wasted hours of my life with this donkey-dick-sucking crap} then they might happen to find my blog (or worse) and see said phrase in the same paragraph as the names "George" and "Lucas." By that point if they can't put 2 and 2 together then I can't help them.

Next on the list (or rather "First" because that first paragraph was just an example) is Jurassic Park. The first movie was great. Lawyers getting eaten by dinosaurs! The plot of the second movie (The Lost World), however, had more holes than homecoming week on fraternity row.

*Spoiler*
I would have loved to have been in the room when the writers were trying to figure out how to make gymnastics a central plot device. I've always thought that there just weren't enough films featuring gymnastics. After Gymkata came out all the gymnasts in the world were probably thinking, "Now's my chance at a lucrative Hollywood career!" Unfortunately, Hollywood let that opportunity go to waste -- until Jurassic Park II! Who would have thought that gymnastics could save you against bloodthirsty velociraptors? (If you're one of the 4 people alive who have actually seen Gymkata then you know that gymnastics will save you from crazy people, but dinosaurs? I don't think so!) I'm sorry, this movie didn't just ask me to suspend disbelief, it bitch-slapped my disbelief until it was nothing more than a terrified, drooling sack of rocks ensconced on the couch consuming large amounts of alcohol in an attempt to dull the pain.

My review of Jurassic Park III will have to wait until tomorrow - off to the dentist now! At least I can console myself with the fact that a visit to the dentist is better than having to watch Jurassic Park II again...

Fart Nostalgia

2005-04-20T13:22:00.000-06:00

Long ago, when I was a starving college student, I shared a house with 3 other people. Two of those people were great - I married one and the other ended up being my bridesmaid. The other one, however... well, where do I start?

For one, Pam was extremely uptight and you could tell she resented the fact that she had to share a house with a bunch of college students. She had graduated and was -ostensibly- in the "real" world (as opposed to our drug- and alcohol-induced technicolor dreamland). Yeah, right. She was "really" fucking poor and couldn't afford a one-bedroom apartment in DC.

Pam also did NOT belong in an urban area such as DC as she was terrified she was going to get attacked by the homeless guys panhandling near the subway entrance. She was also convinced that the above-mentioned homeless guys were actually gang members who were conducting illegal drug operations out of their shopping carts. She deduced this by the fact that one of them had red shoe laces - and we all KNOW that red shoe laces are a sure sign of gang membership, right?

Also, we had to hear about her long-distance boyfriend - Carlos. ALL. THE. FUCKING. TIME. He was from Cuba. He loooooooved her. He worked in New York. He was rich. Blah, blah, blah. I just tuned her out most of the time. It was annoying kind of like a fly that gets caught in the house and flings himself against the windows thousands of times. It became really fucking unbearable, however, when Carlos came to visit for a weekend and ended up staying for 8 (yes, EIGHT!) days because he had the mother-fucking nerve to come down with chicken pox while he was there.

The most annoying things about her though were her noxious farts. She may have acted like her shit didn't stink, but I'm here to tell you she was wrong. So utterly wrong. Yes, I will have my vengeance for all of her inane blatherings about Carlos, and about how she thought the homeless guys in the subway were gang members, and her constant complaints about having to live in a crappy house that was in slightly better condition than the frat house at the end of Animal House. It's never too late for revenge.

I will tell the Internet about how her farts nearly lit the house on fire. How we couldn't venture into the bathroom after she had taken a shit for at least 8 hours. Luckily, we didn't have a gas stove or the combination of the natural gas and the lethal fart-juice ekeing out of butt might have caused an explosion. My other roommate, Staci, said it best when she muttered, "Did the gerbil up her ass finally die of shame and now she's extruding it one gruesome fart at a time?"

Vengeance is mine saith Kim.

Why Must the Chickens Suffer God, Why?

2005-04-18T09:04:00.001-06:00

I have so many questions about this story and so little time to ponder them.

1. Why did PETA send these poor Yankees to Texas? Do they hate them? Are they trying to get rid of them? 'Cuz ya know, Brownsville is a border town and it would be SOOOO easy to get "lost" down there and never return.

2. Shouldn't we be targeting that scary mother-fucking Burger King monstrosity instead of the innocent purveyors of poultry over at KFC?

3. One of the protesters was quoted as saying: “We’re out here today to raise awareness about the chickens. All we want them (slaughter houses) to do is gas the chickens instead of killing them.”
So, does that mean we'll be eating LIVE chickens - chickens who are just high from the gas fumes?

Like I said, so many questions, so little time. {sigh}

That Primal Scream You Heard Was Me

2005-04-15T11:49:00.000-06:00

This is Day 7 of the Parental Visit. One more day until I can get back to living my regular crap-ass, crackers-on-the-floor, alcohol-guzzling life. Actually, this visit has been pretty uneventful. There was only one occasions when I thought about ripping my fingernails out with the pliers...

The Seatbelt Battle:

Two nights ago as we were leaving the local pizza joint, my mom became confounded by the seatbelts in my car. She couldn't find the clasp. A discussion between her and her husband ensued which I will now quote in full:

Mom: I can't find the thingy.
Mom's Husband (MH): Do you want me to help you?
Mom: No. I can do it myself.
MH: Are you sure? Cuz I'll help you if you want.
Mom: I CAN DO IT. I just need to find it. Where is it?

{At this point The Boy starts to get anxious and starts to wail so from here on out the conversation is punctuated by 2-year-old screams}

MH: Here, let me help you.
Mom: I can do it. It's got to be here. Where is it?

{Insert Screaming}

MH (getting out of the front seat to check on the situation in the back seat) Here, do you want me to do it?
Mom: Fine. Maybe YOU can do it.

{Wailing and lamenting from The Boy continues}

MH: Well, where is it? Are you sitting on it?
Mom: I'm NOT sitting on it. I'll do it. Just go sit down.

{Wailing increases to siren strength}

MH: It's got to be there somewhere. We just have to find it.

{Wailing has reached the 100 decibel mark.
The Office of Homeland Security has been called in.}

Mom: I've been looking! What do you think I've been doing?
MH: Are you sure you can find it? Oh wait... there it is.
Mom: I told you I'd find it. Now go sit down.
MH: You got it? Do you need my help?

{At this point The Man starts to gun the engine in case he needs to outrace the police who are surely on their way by now.}

Mom: Ok. We can go now.

Is it any wonder I'm as fucked up as I am?

Things I Loathe...

2005-04-13T13:27:00.000-06:00

1. The hundreds of inane e-mails I get at work. Work-spam. Every day some perky marketing person spams me with dozens of invitations to events I have zero interest in attending. Exhibit A:

{XXXX} College’s Center for Studies in American Musical Theatre is busy rehearsing for its upcoming spring musical production of “Guys & Dolls!" Come see this classic performed Friday, April xx, at 1:00 pm.

Yes. You read that correctly. All of us involved in higher education should be shot because we even HAVE a "Center for Studies in American Musical Theatre." You mean to tell me there are people - young people - that actually WANT to study musical theatre???? Sure musical theatre is nice -- for me to poop on!

2. People who flick their cigarette butts out of their car windows. I don't care if you smoke or not, but take your nasty, sucked-on, spit-covered, cancer-bits with you. C'mon, your car doesn't come with an ashtray? Ditto for people who open up their car door to spit on the road. I hate traffic as much as the next person, but you don't see me decorating our nation's highways with my phlegm.

3. Daycare centers that have French names. Look, you change shitty diapers all day while trying to keep the little germ-monkeys from eating the cigarette butts some fuck-tard just flung from his car window. Don't get all fancy and delude yourselves into thinking you're a snooty invitation-only society catering to the world's elite. Whether you call your center "Un Petit Academie" or "Ecole Creme de la Creme" it's not going to make zucchini- and pickle-speckled poop smell any sweeter so just get over yourselves. (and don't make me laugh by quoting me a price of $1115 per month to wipe my son's ass 5 days a week)

What Others Are Saying About Blogs

2005-04-12T09:07:00.000-06:00

I'm always interested in reading articles about blogs, blogging, the blogosphere, etc. This article peaked my interest because he explores some of the issues of why people (like me) blog -- and why we don't blog. Why are some bloggers compelled to explain to their readers why they don't blog every day? Why must we offer excuses for not posting witty (or not-so-witty) remarks each day? Who cares anyway? It's not like we're submitting this for a grade. No one is paying me to write this stuff. Anyway, I can't imagine what sick fuck would pay for this dreck.

Blogging to me is a form of mental masturbation. I get off on it. Notice I didn't say it's like sex. That's because it's all about me. My needs. My words. My bizarre thoughts. Me. Me. Me. Get it? If it were like sex I would ask what you as a reader wanted. I might even make you breakfast or send you off with cab fare after each post - depending on the quality of the post and the comments, of course.

That being said, however, I do like knowing there are people out there who read my posts and care enough to comment. I like to know if what I've written makes you laugh / cry / spew milk through your nose / etc. (You don't have to tell me, however, if my prose bores you to tears because that's a blow to my fragile ego, ok?) Does this make me a closet exhibitionist? I dunno. I'm just asking the questions, I don't know the answers.

What I do know is this beats the hell out of e-mail or text messaging. Don't even get me started on letter-writing or Christmas card-writing - two forms of interpersonal communication that I haven't even attempted in years! As long as Blogger continues to function - at some level - I'll continue to offer up trivialities and trifles.

Euphemisms, anyone?

2005-04-11T11:08:00.000-06:00

There are always little ideas and questions roaming around in my head. They occasionally surface and end up here in this blog. Usually though, they pop up when I'm in the middle of a thought and fuck around with my mind until I lose track of whatever it was that I was originally thinking. Like today, for example, when I was walking to lunch. I was thinking about something - God knows what now - and all of a sudden I started wondering: Why is it ok to excuse yourself from a conversation by saying 'Excuse me, I have to go,' but it's not ok to say, 'I really gotta pee. Can you excuse me?' And it's definitely NOT ok to say, 'God, I gotta take a shit. Can we continue this conversation later?'

These are the things that are occupying my little gray cells.

Mental Masturbation for the Cunning Linguist

2005-04-08T11:46:00.000-06:00

In one year I can officially start calling myself a Cunning Linguist - something I've been aching to do for most of my adult life. In one year all of the torment and agony of writing papers about morphemes, syntactic structures, and assorted linguistical hoo-hah will be over and I will have that little slip of paper with the words Master of Arts enscribed over my name. HAH! Take that Chomsky - who'll be the bitch then???? Huh?

In the meantime, however, I am still academia's bitch. Paper-writing season is in full-swing. I have exactly 11 days, 5 hours, and 59 minutes to finish my paper or die in the attempt. About 9 days will be spent whining about not having enough time to finish the paper and the remaining 3 days will be spent cursing at the computer as I attempt to vomit all of the knowledge I acquired this semester into a presentable 20 page research paper.

I shall bless you all with a sampling of my linguistic aptitude right now! As you may know there are various ways that new words can gain entry into the English language (unless they're shot at the border by overzealous "Minutemen"). Some are borrowed from other languages, while others are home-grown. By far, my favorite way for new words to enter our language is through blending. Blending, linguistically speaking, occurs when two words are smashed together in such a violent way that some of the extra letters get knocked off. For instance, "smog" is a blend that comes from "smoke" and "fog." Nifty, huh?

Blending also brings us such linguist gems as "cranapple," "urinalysis," and "skort." No other language has so embraced this practice. It makes US special (get it? US = U.S. = United States! Get it now?!? Spiffy, huh?).

So the next time one of those "cheese-eatin' surrender monkeys" goes around talking trash about America, or one of those "tortilla-eatin', soccer-watching mexi-can'ts" starts cheering for Osama you just tell 'em, "Look pal, I don't see you coming up with words like urinalysis or skort! No sir, you have to come crawling back to the good ol' U.S. of A. for words just like you do for Levi's and Nikes!! So suck it!"

Signs That I'm Getting Old

2005-04-07T09:09:00.000-06:00

1. The Spam in my inbox is more likely to be of the "Philips Home Defibrillator - NO RX Required!" type than the "Sexy, Hot S_l_u_t_s!" variety.

2. The 16 year-old behind the register at Starbucks asks, "Can I help you, MA'AM?"

3. I am no longer welcome in the Junior's Department of my local department store and am now advised by the hyper-perky sales associate that I "might find more of what I'm looking for" (read: old-lady clothes that are baggy enough to hide my Depends undergarments) in the Misses Department.

4. Coloring my hair is no longer about deciding which shade of purple or red I want, nor is it an excuse to get together with my girlfriends to bitch about men. It is a necessity and is attended to by a professional.

5. Compound words such as "bar-hopping," and "binge-drinking" are no longer part of my vocabulary. They have been replaced with words like "dependent-care" and "control-top."

I'm Illin'

2005-04-06T14:18:00.000-06:00

This article certainly made me think. Do we live in a society that is "health-obsessed?" It certainly seems so judging by the growth of "organic" and "low-carb" items in my local grocery store. A few years ago you'd have to travel to a hippie commune to buy soy milk. Now my local Albertson's has a whole isle devoted to the stuff.

Diet has become a bad word. Now people have "programs" they follow to "promote a healthy lifestyle." The other day I had a conversation with my friend in which she uttered the phrase,

"I'm really trying to stick to my program and I think it's working."

Huh? I thought she was talking about a state of "extra-terrestrial" meditation or something suitably new age. I got worried for a minute and asked if she had been offered any Kool-Aid from a nice man named Mr. Jones. DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID! DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID!

My Life Is a Bad 80s Song...

2005-04-05T10:53:00.000-06:00

"Went to a party last Saturday night
didn't get laid got in a fight, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing
Late for my job and the traffic was bad
Had to borrow 10 bucks from my old man, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing."

...well, the last part is true. The first part about going to a party is more like wishful thinking. I guess 80s hair-metal-rockers probably weren't too interested in writing songs about laundry or how to remove vomit stains from carpet. Although with the amount of vomiting some of them did after long nights of partying maybe they should have included that in their lyrics.

No, if my weekend were turned into a Lita Ford song it would have gone something like this,

"Went to the store on a Saturday night
Didn't have milk or food-that-my-toddler-would-actually-eat-rather-than-
spitting-out-like-a-crazed-llama, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing
Late for work cuz my cat threw up
Had to spot clean the rug and clean up poop, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing."

(Sounds like a gold record to me. Quick! Someone call K-Tel records!)

People Who I Wouldn't Trade Places with for $1 Million

2005-03-31T13:26:00.000-06:00

A man went on a business trip without his wife and decided to call a hooker to help him ease the stress of being in away from his friends and family...and that's when things went horribly wrong!

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

A couple are suing their home-builder for allowing subcontractors to habitually urinate in the $300,000 home they were building.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

If it smells like shit, it probably is shit - unless it's a Fecalgram!

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

...it's fun to laugh at other people's misery!

Duh! Most American Adults Sleep Poorly...

2005-03-30T14:06:00.000-06:00

So now on top of everything else I have to worry about, I have to worry that I'm not getting enough sleep! I didn't need a multi-million dollar study to tell me this. The hefty bags under my eyes tell me this every time I look in the mirror.

What I want to know is why I practically fall into a coma every time I go to sleep? When I lay down, I can feel myself sinking into the bed and becoming heavier as I drift off to sleep. Once I'm asleep I am dead to the world -- except to the cries of my son. There could be a massive thunderstorm shaking my house into tiny splinters and I wouldn't wake up, but if my son starts to cry in the night I leap out of bed like I was fired out of a cannon. Well just to clarify, it used to be that I'd leap out of bed at the slightest peep from The Boy. Now that he's a bit older, however, I've learned to differentiate the "I'm just rolling over" cry, from the "AAAHH! Cobras are trying to eat me!" cry. Needless to say, the first cry doesn't disturb my slumber anymore.

More Incredibly Inane Things to Ponder...

2005-03-29T15:47:00.000-06:00

...while I waited in the Line of the Damned at our local sandwich shop that's just too convenient to where I work that I put up with the inexplicable lines at 3:00 in the afternoon. You know the one, it's name starts with S and ends in Y and the inside is painted a yellow so bright it will make you sterile if you stare at the walls for more than 15 minutes?

Well, as I stood in line between the crazy artist type and a nursing student who was about to leap over the counter and strangle the hapless trainee who couldn't keep our orders straight to save her life (believe me she almost died this afternoon amidst the shredded lettuce and 4 different kinds of cheese), I had plenty of time to ponder one of the more puzzling news stories I'd run across earlier in the day:

I heard on the news this morning that Scott Peterson has been receiving quite a lot of marriage proposals whilst sitting on death row. Yes, you read that correctly. Scott Peterson, the man convicted of murdering his WIFE and unborn SON and who has been sentenced to die by lethal injection, has been getting proposals from women who have read about him or seen him on TV.

I know, I know, this happens all the time to death row inmates. Crazy women write to them and want to marry them. I'm sure there's a whole field of psychology that deals with this issue. I have a name for this particular psychosis that I came up with all by myself - no psych degree for me - it's called: Really Fucking Stupid or RFS for short. It's not new. I'm sure it's been around for thousands of years - maybe even millions of years. That's it! Maybe these "death-row groupies" are throw-backs to the Neanderthals and they're not RFS, they just never evolved enough to develop a regular brain like the rest of us. Of course, I'm aware that I may be offending the various Neanderthal Rights groups by lumping them in with these crazy bitches. If so, I apologize.

It boggles my mind how any sane woman would offer herself like a salb of meat to this butcher. Because let's face it, that's what he is. He murdered his pregnant wife, hid the body, fucked his mistress, and blithely carried on with his life. He seemed genuinely shocked when the police started to suspect him. I was pregnant at the time this case was all over the news so I admit that this became way too personal to me, but it still turns my stomach when I think of what he did. I find him so repulsive that I'd like to see the old "death by firing squad" method brought back for one special encore performance.

I.H.O.P.

2005-03-28T13:22:00.000-06:00

International House of Pestilence, that is.

First The Boy came down with something, then he passed it on to The Man, and then The Man passed it on to me. Whatever it is, it's ruthless and taking no prisoners. Snot has been a daily visitor to our house for the last two weeks and I'm really tired of it. So if you were wondering why I haven't been posting anything in the last two weeks, that's the reason.

In the immortal words of that big blue superhero, The Tick:

"Eww... mucus, the scourge of mankind!"

"You just can't trust these hired killers. You never know when they're FBI agents!"

2005-03-16T13:11:00.000-06:00

WTF?

Read the whole story here. I don't know if I can do justice to this sordid little tale, so I'll just leave you with this quote from the original story:

"She didn't want to share custody, for whatever reason. Now she's looking at some serious stuff here. I'm happy nobody's dead."

mommy's little redneck

2005-03-15T14:12:00.000-06:00

mommy's little redneck
Originally uploaded by Chai Goddess.

This is the toddler I took into work today. Do you see the trouble he's contemplating even here??? Ishould have known this was a doomed effort and started drinking heavily as soon as I got to work.

Bad Idea #3,458,998

2005-03-15T10:50:00.000-06:00

I have no babysitter today and no minions to take my place at work until 11:00 am. So for almost 2 hours now my son has been with me at work - destroying my office, running down the hallways, and scaring all of my childless co-workers. Alert Tim LaHaye - the end of the world is nigh.

I've almost given up hope. The DVD I brought doesn't work, the plastic Lego train lasted about 25 minutes before it was thrown across the office, and now he's playing with my keys. I gave him my keys fully cognizant of the fact that "keys are not toys!" Hey, as long as he keeps the roach traps out of his mouth I'll be happy.

Sanity, you are a harsh mistress!

701 days!

2005-03-14T14:57:00.000-06:00

The Boy is 701 days old. He is 1 year, 11 months, and 1 day old - that's got to be of some Kabbalistic significance, right? Anyone have Madonna's number so I can check on it?

Before you have a baby you have all these ideas in your head of how your life is going to change. Well, I did, anyway. I thought about the sleepless nights, the diapers, that special bond we would share, the diapers, the cute little outfits he would wear, the diapers, etc.... Do you see a trend? You see, I can count on one hand the number of diapers I changed before I had my son. Now, of course, I'd need one of those super-computers at MIT to compute how many dirty diapers have passed through my hands. It's funny, though, how little that phases me anymore. I used to think that would be one of the worst things about having a baby (other parents, please insert your hearty laughter here!).

As soon as he was born, however, all of my previous worries about having a baby flew out the window. I no longer fantasized about cute little outfits. I was suddenly a Parent (note the capital P). I had in my possession a squawling newborn who was intent on making his presence known to the world -or at least to the entire maternity ward. All of the pain of labor vanished. No really, I'm not kidding, it vanished. When the doctor handed me my son everything I had ever done or experienced up until that point in my life just vanished. It was like I had suddenly developed tunnel-vision and the whole world had become a blurry background for this one small human being.

It seems like I've been trying to redefine my world vision ever since. The Boy remains at the center of my universe. The fuzzy edges of the universe, however, are beginning to coalesce into vague shapes. Right after my son was born I became severely depressed. I didn't know what I was doing. I kept looking for advice on the "right" way to parent. I read books, I asked friends, I scoured the internet looking for information that would unlock the secret of "good parenting." Up until this point I had been a reasonably well-adjusted adult. I had a wonderful husband, a college degree, a good job, and a nice house in the suburbs. (Of course, so does every other psychopath you read about in the papers!) Why couldn't I figure out how to soothe an 8 lb. baby? Why was I having such a horrible time breastfeeding? Why wouldn't he go to sleep when I put him down? Why did I feel such anxiety and loathing whenever my son started crying?

What I finally figured out - and this took far too many tear-filled nights and painkillers for me to piece together - was that there wasn't anything to figure out. There was no answer to why my son didn't want to sleep on a schedule or why he cried at certain times. He was a baby and babies don't follow anyone else's rules - not even Dr. Spock! I know, I know, this isn't exactly rocket-science. Even though I had read about these things happening to other parents, it just wasn't real to me until I had experienced it myself. There is a certain level of ambiguity and tension that parents have to learn to deal with on a daily basis and nothing can prepare you for it - at least nothing could have prepared me for it! I will never have a definitive answer as to why my newborn son could be soothed by the sound of the computer humming, but NOTHING ELSE could soothe him. I will never know if he would have been free of jaundice had we been able to stay in the hospital one more day. I will never know if he meant to smile and grab my hand that first day or if it was just an involuntary reaction. You know what? I don't care. I had to let go. I've finally become ok with the uncertainty of parenthood (well, for the most part) and the blurry edges around my universe.

Road Rage

2005-03-11T15:44:00.000-06:00

It's come to my attention that I carry around a lot of rage within me. Most of the time my rage reaches its peak while I'm driving. Just this morning I caught myself about to unleash the f-bomb on some unsuspecting (althought thoroughly deserving) ass-wipe who couldn't figure out which lane she wanted to be in. I carefully avoided that trap by substituting "frick" for "fuck" so those little ears in the backseat wouldn't be burned off.

Where does this rage come from?

I've always thought of myself as a pretty mellow person. While I've been known to mutter "ass-hat" under my breath after certain unpleasant encounters, I've never been one to pick a fight or verbally abuse someone (to his or her face, at least). The Man, on the other hand, could deliver quite the verbal beat-down in his day. That was one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place. He had earned a place in history before I even knew him for delivering the infamous "Turbo-Bitch" speech - which quickly became known as one of the nastiest, and funniest, verbal beatings to ever take place in our dorm. In fact, I believe the subject of his venom, the actual "turbo-bitch," moved out of the dorms shortly after that speech.

I, on the other hand, have never been very good at expressing my rage verbally - unless I'm in the car. It's kinda' like people who can't sing unless they're in the shower. Put me face-to-face with someone who has been annoying me all year and I'm more likely to clam up and glare at them than I am to say anything. Put me in a 4,000 lb hunk of metal hurtling down the road at 60 mph, however, and I'll let the profanity fly. There's something about being in an automobile that unleashes my inner Andrew Dice Clay: "Ay! I'm talkin' to you, you fuckin' dickwad! Do ya' think I want you ridin' my ass like a $20 whore? Why don't you come a little closer, huh? I'll butter your fuckin' popcorn! OH YEAH!"

PDAs

2005-03-10T15:36:00.000-06:00

...no, I'm not talking about the yuppie-swine-loving"let's do lunch"-type Personal Digital Assistant. I'm talking about Personal Displays of Affection, you know, the behavior that got you detention in high school when your guidance counselor caught you making out with your boyriend before homeroom. Or when your little brother spied on you for hours trying to get a glimpse of you lip-locked with your boyfriend just so he could shout, "EEEWWWW!" Ahh nostalgia! Now I'm the one shouting "EEEWWW!" and shaking my head in disgust at those young whipper-snappers engaged in public tongue orgies.

Today I was forced to witness two young lovers exchanging wet, sloppy kisses in front of my office building. Now, I know that passion can just overwhelm your senses (and good judgment) at any time! Boy, do I know that! Why the fuck do you think The Boy looks like the mailman? (Just kidding honey!) Is it really necessary, however, to proclaim your love / lust to the whole world by slobbering all over the newspaper stands in front of the main entrance to my building? Geez, if this is what's going on outside the building I REALLY don't want to take the stairs anymore.

Is that your crotch I smell, or are you just happy to see me?

2005-03-08T15:31:00.000-06:00

OK, let me premise this bizarre post by saying that I am - and have always been - VERY sensitive to odors. The Man can testify to this fact as I have on numerous occasions been alerted to the fact that The Boy has a poopy diaper way before he notices. This can either be a gift or a curse. With my built-in "poop-early-warning-system" (or PEWS) I can discreetly sniff the air and, should I smell something amiss in the diaper, make a hasty retreat leaving The Man with poop-disposal duty. That is truly a gift!

Of course, being super-sensitive to odors has its downside, too. At my job I interact with over 100 different students a day - from various hygienic backgrounds. Some (bless them!) think of showering as a daily ritual, while others (curse their filth!)... don't. Let's just say they view bathing as an optional activity. Unfortunately for me it's usually the unbathed ones who are the close-talkers. These are the students who like to get up close and personal when they talk and have little understanding of personal space. Today, for instance, I had the pleasure of talking to a female student of the latter category. Luckily I hadn't had lunch yet or I might have thrown up and I don't know about your job, but here throwing up on your students can be seen as a career-ending move. Crazy, huh?

Now there's b.o. and there's B.O. This was screaming, eye-watering, sterility-inducing B.O. with a little crotch funk thrown in for good measure. Let me tell you it's hard to keep a blank face with those kind of smells threatening your very existence. Some smells are so strong they start to take on physical shape. (These particular smells morphed into minor demons from the Seventh Circle of Hell.) I managed to keep it together, though. I helped her figure out her class schedule and sent her on her way with a smile. Do I get karma brownie points for this? I certainly hope so because I don't remember reading anything in my job description that mentioned having to put up with crotch funk smell. EWWW. So, gentle reader, if I can teach you anything it's this: WASH YOURSELF. EVERY. DAY. Please don't expose others to your funk. Thank you.

Happy, happy, joy, joy!

2005-03-07T14:49:00.000-06:00

If you've ever been to a toddler's birthday party you know what I mean when I say that kids' birthdays are freakishly funny - especially toddler birthdays.

Q: What do you get when you mix 8 toddlers, their parents, grandparents, and a few single people who still think they'd like to have kids in a small room for 3 hours?
A: Instant birth control.

People laugh when I tell them I only want one child. They always say, "Oh, you'll change your mind" or "Children are such blessings! Of course you'll want more!" To which I say, "What a load of shit." I have one child. Yes, he is a blessing and I love him more than I ever thought possible. He can, however, be a tremendous pain in the ass, a drain on my pocketbook, and a whining/screaming/shitting ball of pure rage (all at the same time!). I applaud folks who have 2, 3, 4 or even 10 kids. More power to them! It's funny how people think it's perfectly all right to tell childless couples and couples with one kid how much better their lives would be with more children, yet those same people would never dream of walking up to a woman with five or six kids and telling her how great her life would be if she just got rid of one or two of them! Maybe I'm wrong - maybe people do walk up to large families and tell them they ought to "thin the herd" a bit. Lord knows I've heard people say stupider things.

Anyway, the birthday party we went to yesterday was interesting in a "watching a car accident happen" kind of way. With 8 toddlers there was always at least one having a meltdown. This then led to the parents swooping in on their respective progeny and trying to over-analyze the problem which inevitably led to more meltdowns as the kids picked up on the worried tone in their parents' voices and responded with histrionics of their own. Note: Toddlers melt down for no apparent reason- usually in public where they're more able to embarass their parents. They could be happy and laughing one minute, then "BAM!" their whole world comes crashing down. There is no warning. There is no cure. There is only endurance. The Boy maintained his composure reasonably well. He only had one meltdown towards the end of the party and by that time The Man and I were barely able to hang on either. For the most part The Boy was happy as long as there were trucks to play with and an empty space to play in. He didn't really care if there were other kids around him or not just as long as they didn't interfere with his study of the trucks. "All hail the Playskool Truck and bow down before it's magnificence!"

Tampons Are Satan's Cotton Fingers!

2005-03-04T11:37:00.000-06:00

There are just WAY too many appallingly funny things on this site!

"A Godly woman is only to use a Maxi-Pad," Mrs. Crockett stated. "Why, they even have them with little angel wings now!"

Is it lunchtime yet? After a hard morning of internet-surfing and instant messaging I'm all tuckered out! This whole "work-thing" is for shit.

A Pic of Me in the Morning

2005-03-04T09:42:00.000-06:00

Thanks to this awesome chick for the morning mental masturbation - I created a lego version of ME!!!!!

"...and a liter of cola!"

2005-03-03T15:00:00.000-06:00

If anyone other than The Man gets this movie reference I'll be pleasantly surprised! Here's another hint!

More Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm..."

2005-03-03T10:41:00.000-06:00

Almost every morning I stop at the local bagel place to get my usual 9-grain bagel smothered in low-fat cream cheese - and if that doesn't scream "YUPPIE SWINE!" I don't know what does - and, as usual, there's this strange man sitting in the corner huddled over his notebook. Why is he strange, you ask? Well, pull up a chair while I recount the many 'weirdnesses' this guy possesses.
Whenever I walk in I see him scribbling in his notebook, head down, eyes glazed over, humming to himself. On the table next to him is a cup of coffee (because, you know, he's not wired enough as it is), a mini-Bible (like the ones they give away outside the mall sometimes), and some notebook paper that he's torn out and crumpled up into little balls. I can only guess that he crumpled them up because they contained some heretical thoughts transmitted to him by one of Satan's minions through the microchip in his brain. If I had to describe him in one word I guess I would say he's "intense." Although that falls a teensy bit short of the hee-bee-jee-bee vibe I get whenever I look over at him. Which might explain why I try to NEVER establish eye contact.

I keep thinking that one day he's going to fly into a rage, hurl his notebook at me, and start screaming in tongues. At least I hope that's all he does, because in the other scenario that runs through my brain he pulls out his AK-47 (while screaming in tongues) and starts spraying the bagel place with bullets. In which case my ass is dead - shot dead in a bagel place by a lunatic whose non-fat latte was too foamy for his liking. Of course, this IS Texas so the odds that another patron of the bagel place is packing heat too are pretty high. In which case my odds of survival increase as long as I stay out of the line of fire.

"Don't You (Forget About Me)"

2005-03-02T09:47:00.000-06:00

I am not ashamed to admit that I OWNED this particular soundtrack (on cassette no less -back in my day we didn't HAVE CD's sonny!). I probably still have it somewhere under the piles of mix tapes I made as a moody teenager with a dual-deck cassette recorder and too much time on her hands. Yep. Angst-ridden dweebs like me had a LOT of time on our hands to make brooding mix tapes filled with spoken word poetry interspersed with saccharine-filled pop songs by such stunning lyricists as Simple Minds, Howard Jones, and OMD.

Anyway, this particular song has been playing in my head all morning as I wait for word from our tech guys about the fate of one of my computers. One of the computers in the (EXTREMELY) busy lab I run as my karmic penance for some past-life misdeed has been in their tender care for over a week. I keep calling them to check on it, you know, to see when it can come home. The tech guys don't care, though. I think they fixed it long ago, and now are just hiding it in their office to torment me. Evil, evil tech guys. Now I must torment YOU by leaving 1,000s of messages on your voicemail with The Breakfast Club soundtrack in the background! Muhahahahahaha!

Why George W. is a Good President...

2005-03-01T14:04:00.000-06:00

..."for me to poop on!"

"The Man" (just to clarify: MY man, not THE MAN) has started his own blog! It's fantastic! It's magnificent! I laughed, I cried, I saved $10! To quote from the master:

Mental masturbation at its finest since the odds than any other human on the planet ever reads this are slim and none.

Please visit and comment (all 3 or 4 lonely souls out there who might be reading my blog!) - just so he'll be proved wrong!

What's Another Penis Story Among Friends?

2005-02-25T09:45:00.000-06:00

This had me giggling like a 13 year old girl who just learned what a blow job was! Apparently there has been a great artistic debate raging for 500 years over the size of The David's schlong.

"But according to a study to be published at the end of this month by the Dutch Institute for Art History, in Florence, David's genitals are anatomically correct for a male body in a "pre-fight tension."

Phew! I'm glad that's settled. Isn't there more important news to report on? Like who the Bush twins are screwing or something?

Where was Cialis when they needed it?

2005-02-24T14:19:00.000-06:00

Those poor Norsemen and their flaccid members! Just think, one tiny man with a prescription for Cialis could have changed world history...

Tiny Viking about to board a ship for Greenland: "C'mon Leif, why should we freeze our 'nads off sailing to some Thor-forsaken island out in the middle of nowhere? We're PLAYAHS, dawg! With this stuff we could be knee-deep in hot Viking ass!"

Small Talk

2005-02-23T13:45:00.000-06:00

As you might have guessed I spend a lot of time surfing the internet - I mean A LOT! I also spend a lot of time (probably too much) thinking about my role as a mother. I wonder if I'm doing a good job, what I could be doing differently (read: better), and most of all I think to myself, "who thought it was a good idea to give ME a child?" (Oh, and by the way, whoever it was forgot to include the fucking instructions.) So naturally I was intrigued when my web surfing led me to this blog and the recent post about the mother drive-by phenomenon. Saying it struck a chord with me would be an understatement! Not only have I been a victim of such "drive-bys," but I've also (unwittingly!) given them too. It was never my intention to make other moms feel bad, sometimes I just lose control of my larynx and all sorts of strange words come out. Really. I mean it.

You see I'm terrible at small talk. Eye gouging-ly, stomache heaving-ly bad. I know that and accept it. Just the thought of going to a party where I hardly know anyone is enough to make my insides twist like a truck-stop stripper around a pole. One time when I was at a baby shower for a friend of mine I got stuck between two MILFs that had obviously spent more time on their hair and make-up to go to this shower than I had spent getting ready for my own wedding! Then of course once that thought pops into my head other, even more inappropriate, thoughts follow on its heels: "How long did it take her to get ready?" "Are those REAL?" "I wonder if she thinks the term TROPHY WIFE is pejorative?" "Can she even spell pejorative???" and so on and so forth.... You can see where this leads me conversation-wise. Yep, uncomfortable silence.

Add to that fact that I absolutely despise talking about the weather and you get a recipe for small-talk disaster. Which is probably why I end up sticking my foot in my mouth by spouting inane compliments that sound snarky such as when I was trying to compliment the receptionist at my dentist's office:

Me, looking at photo of her two kids: "Wow, you look way too young to have school-age kids!"
Her: "Yeah. I am." (followed by stony silence in which I'm sure she's putting a note in my dental record to schedule 5 root canals)
Me: *vacant smile* "Oh." ... note to self: shut mouth, open only to drink massive amounts of tequila. How the fuck was I supposed to know she got knocked up at 17!?

I'm an idiot. Don't worry because karma's a bitch. I've been the recipient of more inane / stupid comments than I can list here.

You canna' change the laws of physics, cap'n!

2005-02-17T19:11:00.000-06:00

Oh, but you CAN Scotty! Well, YOU can't, but a toddler with a shitty diaper surely can. I know this for a fact because of what happened yesterday:

Yesterday afternoon I picked The Boy up from his sitter's house and buckled him into his carseat in preparation for the 30 minute drive home. At about Minute 10 The Boy unloads what can only be described as a 'dirty bomb' (bin Laden's got nothin' on him!) in his diaper; the smell of said diaper began to permeate the car and threatened us with sure death if I ddn't get the windows rolled down in time. So a commute that normally takes about 30-35 minutes ended up taking at least an hour -- surely proof that the space-time continuum was ruptured by one toddler's colonic blast.

Take that Stephen Hawking!

More Mushy Stuff

2005-02-14T11:18:00.000-06:00

Or Why I love The Man, Part II

(attention Christians, members of the Kirk Cameron fan club, and others who who might take this post too seriously: this WILL offend you. I would be highly disappointed if it didn't so be warned.)

So The Man and I watched Left Behindover the weekend - yes, you read that correctly not only did they make a movie of that hideously-written-wouldn't-pass-my-10th-grade-English-class-no-talent-"novel," but they also shrewdly cast KIRK mother-fuckin' CAMERON in the lead role! How awesome is that? The Man and I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to see yet another movie that was made to be serious and thought-provoking yet ended up stinking worse than a broccoli-induced diaper.

Be it known that The Man and I are probably the least religious people on the planet (and we're definitely the least religious in this part of the country) so why were we watching this movie? Well, for one thing it stars Kirk mother-fuckin' Cameron - I mean seriously could YOU turn it down? For another thing, The Man and I have always been drawn to bad movies (as in "stinky bad" or "geez that really sucked donkey dick, didn't it?") such as Starship Troopers, Striptease, Glitter, Honey, Bats, and any made-for-Sci-Fi movie that we happen to flip to after The Boy goes down for the night. So how could we resist adding Left Behind to our Netflix queue?

How bad was it? Well, if you had the same reaction to the book that I did (namely you vomited a little in your mouth every time the authors described 'Captain Rayford Steele's' spiritual agony) then it'll come as no surprise that the movie sucked just as hard - perhaps even moreso than the book. Just picture, if you will, Kirk Cameron as the plucky (but Godless) reporter who unwittingly delivers the world into the hands of the Antichrist. Add to that fact that when he finally does find God it's in the men's room of the UN.

So, the premise (for all my pagan brethren) is that when the world's about to end then all the saved will get taken up to Heaven (aka The Rapture) while the rest of us languish about on Earth for 7 years waiting for the final battle between JC and the Antichrist. I know, I know, there's more to it than that but for the sake of this puny blog I think that's sufficient. Anyway, when the saved get zapped up to heaven they leave everything behind - clothes, jewelry, cell phones, spouses, etc. Well, when this happens in the movie you see all kinds of close-ups of clothes and wedding rings that were left behind and it's supposed to be moving and poignant but to me it was just a reminder that people in movies don't have to wear retainers or girdles or anything else like that. The Man was obviously channeling my thoughts because his response to this was, "So, if you're on your period would your tampon be left behind, too?"

Yep, I LOVE this man and he LOVES me! Which is good because it means that whichever of us gets to Hell first can save the other a seat!

This just ain't right...

2005-02-10T14:28:00.000-06:00

These are the reasons I spend WAAAAYYY too much time on the internet.

I don't get the paper so it's the only way I can read earth-shattering stories like these -

Rugby Fan Cut Off His Own Testicles

My Life as a Phone Sex Operator

Gator-Tossing Mom

Then you throw in ebay and craigslist and, well, I'm swamped!

I also surf several dozen blogs a day. I start at one, click on some of the links, then click on THOSE links, and so on, and so on. After a while I have no idea how I ended up reading somewhere that Joanie 'Chyna Doll' Laurer has a 3.5 inch clitoris....

Need I say more?